Wrecked
The shock of being immersed feet foremost in the water, coupled with
the fact that the night was pitch-black, was quickly followed by a
quite unexpected discovery.
The boat had foundered, but a heavy jar proclaimed the fact that she
had "struck soundings" in about three feet of water. Her crew found
themselves standing waist-deep upon the quivering boat as the bottom
boards writhed under their feet in an attempt to float to the
surface--a feat that had been successfully performed by most of the
buoyant gear in the boat.
For some moments neither Peter nor his uncle could grasp the
situation, until Brian Strong shouted: "We're close to shore; come
on, Peter."
"Don't move!" bawled Peter, for conversation at an ordinary pitch
would be inaudible owing to the shriek of the wind. "Don't move. We
may be on a sandbank with deep water all around."
Uncle Brian saw the force of this assertion. It would be a fool's
trick to attempt to swim, since all sense of direction was lost, and
they were still ignorant of how far it was to the nearest land.
Visions of caymans, deadly eels, and other undesirable denizens of
these waters also served as a deterrent, although, standing
waist-deep, the two men were not less liable to attack than had they
been striking out for the shore.
"I'm not at all keen on standing here till daybreak," remarked Uncle
Brian at length. "It's too jolly moist," he added, with a brave
attempt at making light of the situation.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," decided Peter. "There's a coil of rope
under the fore-deck. Pass it aft and I'll secure one end round my
waist. Then I'll go on a voyage of exploration. If the water gets
deeper I'll come back. If it shelves, we'll move along till we find
a better 'ole."
"Better hump, you mean," corrected Brian Strong. "All right, here's
the line. I'll pay out as you go. There ought to be thirty fathoms
of it at least."
Having made his preparations, Peter stepped off. The ground was
quite hard under his feet and clear of weeds. Nevertheless, he
proceeded cautiously, having in mind the possibility of encountering
a cayman or other ferocious inhabitant of the lake.
He had his automatic, but he was doubtful whether it would be
serviceable. The cartridge in the barrel might be effective, since
the ammunition was guaranteed damp-proof; but there was the chance
of the delicate mechanism of the weapon being deranged by its
submersion. Nor was an automatic of much use against a cayman. The
bullet was not powerful enough to penetrate the creature's
armour-plated body; and unless a lucky hit were made in the cayman's
eye or throat, the odds would be against Peter. All the same, the
possession of the automatic gave him a certain degree of confidence
that would have been lacking had he been weaponless.
He had traversed about twenty yards when he encountered a dark
object that well-nigh capsized him. Visions of an electric eel
flashed across his mind. For a moment he floundered panic-stricken,
striving to break away from the object that was clinging tenaciously
to one foot.
Then the real nature of the thing became apparent. It was the
sleeping-bag that Uncle Brian was preparing as a sea-anchor when the
boat sank.
Disengaging the short oar from the bag and using it as a
sounding-pole, Peter resumed his semi-aquatic walk.
If anything, the water was shoaling. Once or twice it was almost up
to his shoulders, but mostly it was only knee-deep and the bottom
level. For another thirty yards he progressed, and then looming
through the darkness he could discern the irregular outlines of a
rocky coast at a distance of about fifty yards.
That was good enough. Retracing his steps, a feat only rendered
possible by the aid of the rope, Peter communicated the result of
his discoveries to Uncle Brian.
During the last half-hour the wind had veered, with the result that
the waves had died down completely--another indication that the lee
shore had obligingly become a weather one.
"How about our gear?" inquired Uncle Brian.
"What has floated is most likely ashore by this time," replied
Peter. "The heavy stuff can stop in the boat till daybreak. We'll
make fast the rope and take the other end with us. That will help us
to find the boat later on."
This suggestion was acted upon, but when Uncle Brian stepped out of
the boat to join Peter in their walk to the land, the bows, relieved
of his weight, appeared above the surface.
"I say!" exclaimed Peter. "She's almost waterborne. It's only the
weight of the engine that's keeping her stern down. We can drag her
with us."
Each man grasped one gunwale. The "orange-box"--that, but for the
shallowness of the water, might have been a coffin--was moved
shorewards with comparative ease, until the gunwales were awash and
the bottom aground. Exerting all their strength, the two men found
it impossible to move her another foot.
"We're here, anyway," declared Uncle Brian, regarding the rocky
shore with feelings of thankfulness.
"We are," agreed Peter grimly.
"And marooned on an island most likely," added his relative. "S'pose
there's nothing for it but to wait till day."
"To work," corrected Peter. "We must get the gear out of the boat.
The rifle will want drying pretty quickly if it's to be of any use.
And the engine too." They set to with a will. The outboard motor was
unclamped and carried ashore, together with the precious parts of
the secret-rays apparatus, the bedding, and provisions. Several
articles that had drifted ashore were also found and placed in a
position of comparative security.
"Now we can get the boat up a bit higher," declared Peter. "If we
can't find the baler we may be able to cant her over and get rid of
the water."
With a lusty "heave-ho!" the waterlogged boat was dragged her own
length nearer the shore, but all attempts to turn her on her side
were unavailing. So they contented themselves by making the boat
fast and leaving her till dawn.
It was a long, dreary vigil. They were without means of making fire,
since their stock of matches was spoilt by the water. Bully beef and
sodden biscuits provided a sorry meal, and the rest of the night was
spent in constantly keeping on the move in order to mitigate the
discomfort of wearing saturated clothing.
By way of contrast to their previous night's camping-ground, the
place was strangely quiet. No roaring of wild animals or splashing
of caymans disturbed the solitude. The wind had died entirely away
and not even a rustle came from the scanty clump of trees, showing
dimly above the brink of the precipitous rock. At last, to the tired
eyes of the weary men appeared a pale pink glow in the eastern sky.
Five minutes later it was quite light, and the comforting beams of
the rising sun were glinting over a distant range of hills.
Peter and his uncle were now able to take stock of their
surroundings. The gravel beach was piled with their water-logged
belongings. A little distance away was the boat with her nose and
one gunwale showing; beyond, the now tranquil lake with the
furthermost shore hidden in a fleecy mist.
They had come ashore in a sort of shallow bay bounded by bluffs of
iron-grey rocks and connected by an irregular wall of granite-like
stone, averaging fifty feet in height.
"The sun will soon dry our gear," said Peter. "We can make a fire by
means of one of the lenses of our binoculars. Suppose we climb up to
the top of the cliff and see where we are?"
"You can," replied Uncle Brian. "I'm as stiff as anything. I'll stop
here and start a fire. Don't forget to take your rifle."
The rifle had already been cleaned as far as Peter was able to do
so; and for lack of suitable oil he had washed out the barrel,
magazine, and mechanism with petrol.
It was a fairly easy ascent, for the cliff face was covered with
horizontal clefts that afforded a secure hold. Nor was the cliff so
steep as it had looked to be in the darkness.
Peter was but little wiser than before when he reached the summit.
The higher ground farther inland prevented any extensive outlook in
that direction; but beyond the projecting bluffs that bounded the
bay the lake was visible on either side. The land upon which they
had been cast was either a wide peninsula or else an island.
Anxious to settle the question, Peter made his way towards the
highest peak, which was about three-quarters of a mile away. It was
easy going, for, with the exception of a few clumps of trees and
patches of thorns, the ground was bare and sunbaked. For the most
part it consisted of lava-like rock mingled with veins of granite,
but here and there were patches of hard mud intersected by fissures
of considerable depth.
The only signs of animal life that Peter saw were a few
vividly-coloured lizards and an animal strongly resembling a hare;
and although he kept a sharp lookout for snakes basking in the now
powerful rays of the sun, none appeared, much to his satisfaction.
When Peter returned to the beach, he found his uncle busily engaged
in making tea. A fire was blazing strongly, and from a tripod
composed of the oars and boat-hook a "billy" hung over the flames.
"It's a jolly good thing we've still got the boat, Uncle," said his
nephew. "I've been to the highest ground about here and we're on an
island."
"Just our luck," rejoined Uncle Brian. "The boat's got a hole in her
as big as my head. But we can discuss that later. Breakfast first."
Without the shadow of a doubt, Uncle Brian had risen to the
occasion. The biscuits were little the worse for their immersion
and, when flavoured with tinned pilchards and bottled tomato soup,
were eaten with gusto. The tea, having been stored in an airtight
case, was in splendid condition, although Peter deplored the fact
that there was no sugar available, and that the condensed milk was
of the unsweetened brand.
The meal over, the two men settled down to serious business. An
examination of the boat confirmed Uncle Brian's statement. Right
amidships was a fairly clean hole about fifteen inches in diameter.
A blanket had, by some means, got underneath the bottom boards and
had become wedged in the hole, with the result that when the two men
had attempted to drag the boat clear of the water, the fabric
prevented a free outlet. Now that the obstruction was removed, it
was a comparatively simple matter to drag the damaged craft well up
on the beach.
"That's one advantage of not having a keel," said Uncle Brian. "We
can patch the hole from the outside."
"We can," replied Peter, "but----"
"But what?"
"Now that there is a gap amidships why not use it to take the
propeller?" suggested Peter. "It would make the old coffin a jolly
sight more seaworthy with that weight transferred from over the
stern to the 'midship section."
Brian Strong regarded his nephew suspiciously. He was wondering
whether Peter was wandering in his mind, or trying to "pull his
leg".
"I mean it," continued Peter.
"Well, what's to keep the water out?"
"This," replied his nephew, indicating a zinc-lined wooden box in
which the provisions had been stored. "Knock out the bottom and
secure the four sides to the bottom of the boat like a square
centre-board case. We'll have to caulk the joints and stiffen the
box with cross bearers to take the strain of the engine."
"Good idea, that," agreed Uncle Brian. "I shouldn't wonder if we get
another one and a half knots out of her. She won't drag her stern
down so much."
"That'll be something to be thankful for," declared Peter. "That
stern of hers is a positive danger. Let's set to work."
On taking stock of the tools at their disposal, they found they
possessed a hatchet, screw-driver, hammer, mallet, and gimlet. There
were also copper nails and a few brass screws.
By about eleven (judging by the sun, for their watches had been
stopped by water penetrating the cases) the box was in position,
being secured by two-inch screws through the bottom of the boat. For
caulking they used unlaid rope soaked in oil, and clay thinned down
with grease. Strips of wood from one of the bottom-boards screwed
together formed strengthening cross-pieces. Altogether they had made
a sound job in a comparatively short time.
"We'll knock off for a bit," said Uncle Brian, wiping the
perspiration from his eyes. "It's too risky to swot in the midday
heat. We'll make another start when it's a bit cooler."
"Right-o," agreed Peter, throwing down his tools with alacrity.
"If----"
He broke off suddenly and pointed.
Brian Strong looked in the direction indicated by his nephew's
outstretched hand. Then he muttered under his breath, for a couple
of miles away was the misty outline of a Rioguayan flying-boat.