"Crashed"
Peter had barely resumed charge, when the motors coughed and
stopped. A deadly silence succeeded the purr of the engines, since
the rush of air past the metal planes was inaudible within the
sound-proof compartment.
It was the pilot's chief concern to keep the flying-boat up as long
as possible. It was entirely beyond reason to suppose that the
gliding would be prolonged till dawn, but the longer the aircraft
kept up the better, since there would be more time to make
preparations for the forced landing.
Planing as nearly in a horizontal direction as possible for two
minutes, was followed by a short steep rise until the flying-boat
seemed in danger of "stalling". This manoeuvre Peter repeated,
knowing that for every hundred feet of vertical drop he could knock
off twenty or more by the sudden leap against gravity.
For quite twenty minutes he held on, his hand dexterously
manipulating the controls, while his eyes never left the altimeter
and speed-indicator.
Meanwhile, Brian Strong was busy. Realizing that perhaps the
flying-boat might be able to land on fairly even ground, he set
about to prepare the electric head-lamp which could be trained in a
vertical arc of fifteen degrees--enough to illuminate a sufficient
length of ground before the machine came in contact with _terra
firma_.
The searchlight was of the accumulator type. According to
instructions issued to the Rioguayan airmen the batteries were to be
kept fully charged; but when Brian tested the circuits he found that
the accumulators had completely run down.
There remained the secondary head-lamp--a three-hundred candle-power
acetylene-generated light.
Hoping against hope that this apparatus was in working order, Brian
unfastened the lid of the generator. The acetylene chamber was full
of perfectly dry carbide, but the water compartment was empty.
"How long can you give me?" asked Uncle Brian.
"Five minutes--ten, with luck," was the reply.
Hurrying to the water-tank, Brian turned the tap. There was no flow.
"Has every tank in this confounded contraption run dry?" demanded
Brian. Then the solution of the mystery dawned upon him. The water
in the tank was frozen into a solid block.
Had the motors been water-cooled a way out of the difficulty would
have been simple; but being air-cooled no help was forthcoming from
them.
Seizing a spanner, Uncle Brian vigorously attacked the six nuts
securing the circular plate on the top of the water-tank. The cover
removed, he hacked at the ice until he was able to gather a double
handful of chips of frozen water. These he placed in a can and held
them over the still warm cylinders of one of the motors until the
vessel contained about a pint of fluid.
"Look sharp!" shouted Peter. "We can't be much more than a thousand
feet up."
Working feverishly, Brian poured the water into the generator,
turned on the needle-valve to its fullest extent, and applied a
match to the triple fish-tail burners. With a mild explosion the gas
ignited, and the powerful beam flashed out into the night.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Peter, aghast, for the bright white light
was playing on a solid substance less than four hundred yards
away--the steeply rising face of a formidable mountain peak. Only a
few seconds separated the flying-boat from an end-on crash.
Putting the vertical rudders hard over, Peter literally jerked the
machine round, tilting her to an angle of nearly sixty degrees as he
did so.
Unprepared, Uncle Brian lost his balance and fell violently against
the lee-side of the compartment. Before he could regain his feet,
the flying-boat pancaked and crashed.
Peter had a brief vision of the nose crumpling up and the
under-carriage being forced through the steel floor of the fuselage.
Then the long slender body rose until the tail was almost vertical.
The pilot, hurled against the instrument-board, lost all interest in
the immediately subsequent proceedings.
Brian Strong came off fairly lightly.
Owing to the circumstance that he was lying inertly upon the
floor--for after his first attempt to rise he had philosophically
abandoned further effort--he had escaped being flung headlong
against the bulkhead. As it was, he found himself lying on the
ground with wreckage on either side of him--while within two yards
of his feet were the remains of the acetylene head-light, with a
flare of vivid white light leaping twenty feet into the air.
"Never did think much of those acetylene lamps," he remarked to
himself, and tried to puzzle out by what means he found himself
where he was.
It was indeed fortunate that the fuel supply of the
flying-boat--there were about twenty gallons in the lowermost
tank--was non-inflammable when released from pressure; had it been
ordinary petrol the wreckage would have been a mass of molten metal
and the two airmen would have been burnt to ashes.
Still muttering incoherently, Uncle Brian sat up and rubbed his head
vigorously.
"Where am I?" he demanded.
He dug his hands into the ground. It was fine sand. He sniffed at
it, half expecting to find it salt like the sand of the seashore.
Still puzzled, he watched the strongly-burning acetylene until the
glare was too much for his eyes. He turned his head, but was unable
to discern a single object.
Then he crawled, like a stricken animal, away from the light, until
a mass of twisted steel plating impeded his progress.
"There's been a most unholy smash," he declared solemnly.
Gradually coherent reasoning returned to him. Strangely enough he
completely forgot that Peter had been with him in the crash. His
chief thoughts were for the safety of the essential parts of the
secret-ray apparatus. Those placed in a locker in the flying-boat
were probably smashed, but there remained the most important object
of all--the delicate valve which he had hidden in an empty cartridge
case.
Almost feverishly he tore open his leather greatcoat and felt for
the cartridge-belt that had been his constant companion from the
time he left El Toro. With trembling fingers he extracted the small
glass phial and held it up to the light. Then he gave a gulp of
relief and satisfaction. The delicate filament and the minute and
complex mechanism were intact.
"Hello, Uncle! Taking a blood test?"
Brian Strong turned at the sound of the well-known voice. Walking
unsteadily towards him was Peter Corbold.
His nephew was still wearing his flying-coat and helmet, which he
had put on merely for the sake of warmth. The coat was rent in half
a dozen places, while the left side of his face was red with blood
welling from a cut on the forehead.
Peter's period of insensibility had been of short duration, Thrown
clear of the wreckage after his impact with the instrument-board, he
had got off with a nasty bruise on the forehead. The padded helmet
had saved his skull from being fractured, but the blow had been
sufficient to cause the blood to flow freely. His head was whirling,
he felt horribly sick and as weak as a kitten, yet he could not
repress a facetious remark upon seeing his relative so absorbed in
his precious invention.
"We're here," continued Peter. "But where, goodness only knows.
What's your damage, Uncle Brian? Wasn't it a jolly old crash? It
reminds me of a song we used to yell in the gun-room of the old
_Baffin_: 'She bumped as she'd never bumped before.'"
"And never will again," added Uncle Brian with emphasis. "What's to
be done now?"
"Sleep till the morning," replied the practical Peter. "My head's
buzzing like a top. There's a chunk of the old 'bus that will make
quite a decent bunk. I vote we turn in."
Eight hours later Peter awoke to find the sun shining brightly. His
headache had vanished and--good sign--he felt ravenously and
healthily hungry.
Uncle Brian was still sleeping soundly. Peter let him sleep. It
would give him an opportunity to take stock of the locality.
Throwing off his blankets and greatcoat, for the heat of the sun was
oppressive, Peter emerged from his retreat and stood blinking in
amazement in the dazzling light--sheer amazement at their marvellous
escape.
The wrecked flying-boat was practically in the centre of a circular
patch of sand and gravel about three-quarters of a mile in diameter.
On all sides rose rugged mountains with precipitous faces in places
rising sheer to a height of at least two thousand feet.
The plain was almost dead level and absolutely destitute of verdure.
No sign of life was visible. The flying-boat had struck a snag in
the form of a mass of rock about four feet in height and less than a
couple of yards in circumference. Otherwise, the sandy waste was
free from irregularities. It would have been an ideal
landing-ground, for the sand was fairly hard; and it was certainly a
case of sheer hard luck that the machine should have wrecked herself
on the only dangerous bit of ground in the extensive circle.
On the other hand, it was a rare slice of good fortune that had
accompanied the flying-boat on her downward glide. She must have
skimmed the summit of the encircling mountains with but a few feet
to spare. In the darkness Peter had been in entire ignorance of the
danger. Equally fortunate was the fact that the timely lighting of
the acetylene head-lamp had enabled the pilot to escape crashing
nose-on against the opposite wall of the huge basin of natural
stone.
"We're here," decided Peter grimly. "We're here; but goodness only
knows how we are going to get out. It's been a fine old smash-up.
However, there's some consolation: the Rioguayan air fleet has lost
one unit."
So severe had been the impact that both of the for'ard motors had
broken away and lay quite fifteen yards from the crumpled bows. The
after portion of the fuselage had broken off short, forming with the
buckled 'midship part an irregular, inverted "V". Four of the
subsidiary fuel tanks had completely parted company with the hull,
while the steel water-tank had burst from its securing bonds and now
rested bottom upwards upon the sand. The tank was practically
intact, but, since Uncle Brian had not had time to replace the cover
after chipping the ice, the precious contents had drained into the
parched ground. The outstanding feature was the sight of the two
rear propellers, both intact, standing up like flaming crosses as
the sunlight glinted upon the polished metal blades.
"And we're a long way from the sea," exclaimed Peter aloud.
"Did I hear anyone say 'tea'?" inquired Uncle Brian, from the depths
of his temporary sleeping compartment. "If so, many thanks."
"You didn't," replied his nephew. "There's nothing doin' in that
line, I'm afraid. No water to be had."
"That's a rotten look-out," said Uncle Brian, as he emerged from his
retreat. With his bruised features, torn clothing, and staggering
gait, he looked more like a dissipated tramp than an engineering
expert.
He glanced at the debris, then at the mountain barrier.
"The old horse jibbed at that fence, Peter," he added. "It'll mean
padding the hoof for us, I fancy. Any grub going?"
Scrambling over a litter of steel sheets, Peter dived into the
debris that remained of the 'midship part of the flying-boat. After
hunting about for some time, he discovered the oddly assorted
contents of the provision-room. He managed to rescue a couple of
tins of pressed beef, a loaf made of maize, and a bottle of soda
water--the sole survivor of nearly four dozen.
"Enough here for the present," he announced, as he crawled out. "We
shan't starve if we can carry enough away with us."
The frugal meal was eaten in silence. Uncle Brian produced a spirit
flask, half filled with brandy. Pouring about a couple of
tablespoonfuls of soda water into the metal cup, he handed it to his
companion.
"Your liquid ration, Peter," he said solemnly. "We'll have to make
it last out till we find water."