THE FIGHT WITH THE OCTOPUS
A few moments later Rawlins appeared with Smernoff close behind him.
“Gone!” Rawlins announced before a question could be asked. “Cleared
out bag and baggage. We went over every inch of the Cay and there’s
not a living soul on it. Just too late.”
“Jove, that’s too bad!” exclaimed Mr. Henderson. “Looks as if they’re
bound to be a jump ahead of us. Lord alone knows where they’ve gone.”
“You’re dead wrong there!” declared Rawlins. “The Lord’s not the only
one knows. We know.”
The others leaped to their feet. “Are you serious?” cried Mr. Pauling,
hardly able to believe Rawlins’ statements. “What do you mean by that,
Rawlins?”
“Where are they?” demanded Mr. Henderson. “_How_ do you know?”
“You bet I’m serious,” declared Rawlins. “Heard ’em talking. Last of
’em was just leaving and I had one devil of a time stopping old
Smernoff from running amuck and doing up the bunch single-handed.
They’ve gone over to Santo Domingo where the Grand Panjandrum stops.”
“Well, for Heaven’s sake, begin at the beginning and tell us what
happened,” cried Mr. Pauling. “First you announce they’ve all gone and
then you talk about hearing them and knowing their plans. Make a
sensible consecutive story of it, Rawlins.”
“All right,” grinned the diver, seating himself. “We got ashore all
right and I called the boys and heard them—say you must have been
shouting, Tom—and then we took off the suits, tucked ’em out of sight
among the brush and started overland, Smernoff leading. Found a nice
spot overlooking the beach and there was a bunch of men standing by a
pile of dunnage and jabbering away to beat the band. Old Smernoff
wanted to butt right in and clean up the crowd, but I managed to stop
him. Thought he’d spoil the game by yelling or something. Well, after
I’d got him quieted down we sneaked in close—they were so blamed busy
gassing away they wouldn’t have seen us if we’d walked in and said
‘how-de-do.’ Got close enough so Smernoff could understand them and
told him not to try to translate, but just to take it all in and tell
me later. I thought at first of coming back and reporting, but I could
see they were just ready to clear out and knew they’d be gone before
we could get over here and back and decided the talk was more
important so hung on. Pretty soon up bobs their sub—I could tell her
by that smashed conning tower—and a boat comes ashore and takes off
the bunch. Then the sub clears out and we are alone.”
“Well, what did Smernoff tell you?” demanded Mr. Henderson as Rawlins
concluded.
“I was coming to that,” went on the diver. “There were so many talking
at once he didn’t get it all, but he got enough. He says they had word
this morning or this afternoon—he isn’t sure which—that their sub
had been attacked and was being followed by a destroyer, and a sub,
but that the sub—meaning us—had been done for. And they were talking
a lot about him—I expect he was so busy listening to that part he
couldn’t get all the rest—swearing vengeance on him for betraying
them. They knew about his getting away and doing up a few ‘reds’ in
New York—though how the dickens they got the news beats me, and one
of the men from the sub—he’d come ashore in a diving suit to see if
the coast was clear—was telling them how Smernoff and his mate had
betrayed the sub in the East River and the narrow escape they’d had.
Funny how they got the idea old Smernoff did that when really they
deserted him. Anyhow they were mad as hornets when their nest’s been
poked by a kid and at the same time they didn’t dare wait for the
destroyer to come up, so all hands decided to pack up and go over to
Santo Domingo. It seems they’ve a place all ready over there close to
the big chief’s and had been planning to move for some time. Now, just
where that is I don’t know, but Smernoff says they talked about a cave
and I heard one of ’em say something about Caña Honda. Over Caña Honda
way there are lots of caves so I’ve got a hunch the whole shooting
match are beating it for over that way.”
“You’ve done a good night’s work, Rawlins!” cried Mr. Pauling. “You
did quite right in listening rather than notifying us. All we wanted
of this crowd was information—it’s the head of the gang we’re
after—and we’ve got what we want, or nearly what we want—without
capturing or alarming them, which is a big point. Always keep the
other fellow guessing in this game is a good thing to remember—let
him think he’s safe and he’ll be less careful. I imagine you are right
about the locality, your hunches have proved very accurate so far, so
let us get under way for Caña Honda.”
“No hurry,” declared Rawlins. “Those chaps won’t be over there until
morning and I don’t want to take any chances of bumping into them or a
reef at night. We can get started and loaf along a little later, but
we want to be dead careful or they’ll hear us. They think we’re at the
bottom of the Caribbean so we’ll let ’em keep on thinking so. If they
are at Caña Honda we won’t have much trouble finding them. We can
either pick them up by radio or spot them by smoke. They can’t cook
without fire and where there’s fire there’s smoke. My plan would be to
wait until nearly daylight and then start and take it easy and
submerge before we get in sight of Caña Honda. Then slip in, find a
good hiding place and do our hunting in small boats or afoot after
dark. A sub’s a mighty poor sort of thing to go moseying around with.
If we locate them we can slip off, notify Disbrow and corral the whole
bunch.”
For a few moments Mr. Pauling was silent, thinking deeply.
“Yes,” he assented at last. “That will be the best plan. No use in
rushing matters to such an extent that we overdo it. And I quite agree
with you in regard to tracing them. As you say, a submarine is too
clumsy and large a craft for scouting—it’s too easily seen or heard.”
Everything being thus arranged, the submarine was raised to the
surface, anchored securely and the occupants retired. The boys,
however, got little sleep, for they were nervous and excited and
filled with expectation of thrilling adventures to come.
As soon as the first faint streaks of dawn showed upon the horizon,
the anchor was hauled in and, swinging her bow towards the dim, black
bulk that marked the mountains of Santo Domingo to the westward, the
submarine slipped silently from Trade Wind Cay.
Hour after hour they moved steadily across the calm blue sea and as
they drew ever nearer to the big island the boys gazed upon it with
wonder. They had never dreamed that an island could be so large. They
had imagined, from the tiny dot that represented Santo Domingo in
their geographies, that it would be a low, flat spot somewhat like the
Bahamas, but a little larger, and now before them, they saw what
appeared to be a continent. As far as eye could see on either hand the
forest-covered hills stretched away. Inland and up from the shores
rose tier after tier of mountains, the farthest nearly two miles in
height and half-hidden in clouds, and between them were immense
valleys, deep ravines and wide plateaus. And everywhere, from sea to
topmost mountain peaks, the vivid green of forest and jungle, broken
only by a few isolated patches of light-green sugar cane upon the
lower hill slopes or in the valleys.
“Jiminy!” exclaimed Tom. “That _is_ an island!”
“I’ll say ’tis!” agreed Rawlins. “Mighty fine one too.”
“It’s beautiful—but awfully wild-looking,” declared Frank. “Is it
full of Indians and wild animals?”
Rawlins laughed heartily. “Wildest animals are the natives,” he
assured them, “and the old Spaniards killed off the last poor Indian
over two hundred years ago.” Then, a moment later, he continued: “By
the way, speaking of Spaniards, that old galleon I told you about is
right over yonder. See that line of reefs? Well, she’s just on the
outer edge of those in about 20 to 25 fathoms.”
“Oh, Gosh! why won’t Dad let us stop and go down to it?” cried Tom.
“Say, perhaps he will!” exclaimed Frank jubilantly. “He wouldn’t
before, but now he’s in no hurry—they can’t go in shore until
dark—and I’ll bet he’d just as lief wait out here as anywhere else.
Let’s ask him.”
At first Mr. Pauling refused to listen to the boys’ pleading, but when
Rawlins pointed out that they had time to kill and added that he
personally would like to have a look at the old wreck, Tom’s father
yielded.
“Very well then,” he agreed, “but don’t waste any time. We’ll expect
you to bring up a fortune, Rawlins. Let us know when you go down so we
can see the fun.”
“And for heaven’s sake take care of yourself,” added Mr. Henderson.
“If anything happens to you where will we be?”
“Oh, I’ll be safe enough,” laughed Rawlins. “I’m safer under water
than on top any day.”
“Come on then!” cried Tom, “let’s get our suits ready.”
“No, boys, you’re not going down here,” declared Rawlins. “Too deep.”
“Oh, confound it all!” cried Frank. “Everything has to be spoiled.
What’s the use if we can’t go down to the old wreck?”
“You can look through the underseas ports and watch me,” Rawlins
reminded them. “Honest, I’m sorry you’re disappointed, but this is
real diving. I’ll have to use my regulation suit here too. Too deep
for those self-contained ones.”
For a time the disappointed boys sulked, but presently, realizing that
there were limits to what they could expect to do and also realizing
that they were more than fortunate to be able to watch Rawlins as he
investigated the old galleon, their high spirits returned and they
became as interested, excited and enthusiastic as ever.
The submarine was now close to the spot where Rawlins stated the wreck
had been before and he busied himself getting out his suit, oiling and
testing the air pump and making everything ready while the submarine
slowed down and came to a stop.
“It’s a heap easier now—with a submarine,” said Rawlins, as he slid
back the heavy metal cover to the thick glass port. “We can look about
a bit and locate the wreck before I go down. Last time it took us
nearly a month to find it. You see, it’s too deep to see bottom from
the surface and—look here, boys—ever see anything prettier than
that?”
The boys crowded to the small port and stared out It was like the
sea-gardens at Nassau multiplied and glorified a thousandfold. The
submarine was now submerged and floating at a slight angle a few
fathoms above the bottom and her powerful electric lights, such as
Rawlins used in his sub-sea photography, were casting a brilliant beam
of soft greenish light upon the ocean floor and the marvelous growths
which covered it. The boys, dry and safe within the submarine, could
scarcely believe they actually were gazing at the bottom of the sea.
It was more like some strange and marvelous painting or, as Tom said,
like the models on exhibition in the American Museum. It was all
unreal, weird, beautiful, unbelievable. On all sides was a dim, green
void, with half-revealed forms, shadowy outlines and indistinct
objects showing through it as through a heavy green curtain, while the
beam of light, stabbing through the water gave the effect of the
curtain being drawn aside to disclose the beauties and wonders behind
it. Back and forth in this light clear space flitted gaudy fishes;
fishes of grotesque form; fishes with long, trailing opalescent-hued
fins; fishes large and fishes small; and once the boys cried out in
momentary alarm and drew quickly back from the glass as an ugly
hammer-headed shark, six feet or more in length, bumped his
clumsy-looking head against the port.
“Gosh! Mr. Rawlins, aren’t you afraid to go down among those fellows?”
cried Tom.
“Not in the least,” Rawlins assured him. “They won’t touch a man in a
diving suit—come up and rub their backs against him or stare at him,
but never anything else. They’re a blamed nuisance at times—get in a
man’s way, but we can drive ’em off by hitting them. Look, there’s a
moray!”
As he spoke, an immense greenish, snake-like eel wriggled past so
closely the boys could see his throbbing gills.
“They’re worse than sharks,” Rawlins told them. “Bite anything and
savage as tigers. Good to eat though.”
But the boys found the other wonders and beauties even more
interesting than the fishes. Gigantic cup-shaped sponges grew upwards
for six or seven feet. Immense sea-fans and sea-plumes formed a forest
that might have been of futuristic palms. Huge orange, green and
chocolate domes of brain corals were piled like titanic many-colored
fruits. There were great toadstool-like mushroom corals of lavender,
pink and yellow and everywhere, above all, the wide-branching,
tree-like madrepores or stag-horn corals of dull fawn-brown. Back and
forth among this forest under the sea darted schools of tiny
jewel-like fishes; great pink conchs crawled slowly about; a little
flock of butterfly squids shot past, gleaming like bits of burnished
metal in the light; ugly long-legged giant spider crabs scuttled into
their shelters among the corals and everywhere the ocean’s floor was
dotted with huge starfishes, brilliant sponges, big black,
sea-cucumbers and crabs and shells by hundreds.
“Jove, it’s the most wonderful sight I’ve ever seen!” declared Mr.
Henderson who, with Mr. Pauling, was also gazing at this wonderland
beneath the sea.
“Yes, simply marvelous!” agreed the other. “Boys, I’m mighty glad I
gave in. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. No wonder you’re
fascinated by a diver’s life, Rawlins!”
“But I want to see that wreck!” cried Tom. “Do you suppose it’s gone?”
“Ought to be pretty close to it by now,” said Rawlins. “Yes, there
’tis! See it, boys? Look, over beyond that big bunch of sea-fans!”
The boys strained their eyes in the direction Rawlins pointed, but
could see nothing that even remotely resembled a wreck.
“No, I can’t see it,” admitted Tom, at last.
“Neither can I,” said Frank.
“Why it’s plain as can be,” declared Rawlins. “Can’t miss it.” Then,
an idea occurring to him, he burst into a hearty laugh. “Why, I
suppose you’re looking for a ship!” he cried. “Masts and stern and
rails and all! Nothing like that, boys. This old hooker’s been down
here a couple of hundred years and more. She’s just a mass of coral
now. See that sort of mound there—that one with that lop-sided
stag-horn coral growing out of one side?”
“Oh, yes, I see that,” declared Tom. “Is that the wreck?”
“I’ll say ’tis,” Rawlins assured him. “Well, we’re near enough. Too
bad we can’t let the old sub down to the bottom, but it’s too rough. I
guess she’ll be pretty steady here though—isn’t any current or those
sea-rods would be waving.”
“But I don’t understand how you can go down with life-lines and things
when the submarine is under water,” said Frank. “I thought we’d have
to be on the surface.”
“And I don’t see why it makes any difference about the suits, no
matter how deep it is,” added Tom.
“I don’t use life-lines and ‘things’ when I’m diving from a sub,”
explained Rawlins. “In the first place they’re no use. When a fellow
goes down from the surface he can’t be seen and so he has to have a
signal line and a rope for hauling him up. But down here I can come
back to the sub whenever I please and just climb into the air-lock on
the ladder, and if I want to signal I can do it without any line—just
wave my hands—as you can see me all the time. The airhose runs from a
connection in the air-lock and I carry a light line along just as a
safeguard and have a man in the air-lock holding it. Of course I
_could_ go down in one of the self-contained suits, but the
pressure’s pretty big down here and it’s no fun working in one of them
when the pressure outside is just about the limit of what I can get
with the oxygen generators. It’s different with the air—I don’t have
to bother with that—the pump looks after it.”
“Oh, I understand,” declared Frank, “but who’s going to tend the line
for you?”
“Sam,” replied Rawlins. “He’s worked with me before and he’s a
wonderful diver and swimmer. You see the pressure in the air-lock is
the same or even a little more than outside and it takes a chap who’s
used to deep-sea diving to stand that. Sam could go down here without
a suit—but not for long of course—pressure’s too great. Well, so
long. Keep your eyes on the wreck and you’ll see me out there among
the fishes in a minute.”
Rawlins entered the air-lock with Sam and presently the boys saw
him—a grotesque, clumsy figure in the baggy diving suit and big round
helmet—laboriously making his way along the bottom almost below them.
Turning, he waved his hand reassuringly and then resumed his way
towards the coral-encrusted wreck.
“Doesn’t he look funny!” cried Tom, “leaning way forwards and half
swimming along, and aren’t those bubbles coming up from his
escape-valve pretty? Say, it must be fun to be way down there. Gosh, I
wish we could have gone!”
“It takes years of practice to enable a man to stand that pressure,”
his father informed him, “and even expert professional divers cannot
keep it up long. If you boys should go down here you’d probably be
terribly injured—your ear drums burst and perhaps your eyes ruptured.
A diver begins in shoal water and gradually goes deeper and deeper and
Rawlins has been at it since he was a youngster.”
“Yes,” commented Mr. Henderson, “and some men never can dive. Divers
are born not made.”
“Well it’s the next best thing to be able to watch him,” said Frank
philosophically. “Oh, look, Tom, he’s nearly at the wreck!”
Rawlins was, as Frank said, close to the mound of coral and sea-growth
that he had told the boys was the wreck of the old galleon and a
moment later they saw him stoop and begin working with the heavy
crowbar he carried.
Breathessly the boys watched, thrilled with the idea of thus seeing a
deep-sea diver at work and speculating on whether he would find
treasure. Then they saw Rawlins suddenly start back, almost losing his
balance and in recovering himself the crowbar dropped to the ocean’s
floor. The next instant Tom uttered a frightened, horrified cry. From
among the mass of corals a long, snake-like object had shot forth and
had whipped itself around Rawlins’ body like a living rope. They saw
Rawlins grasp it, strain at it, and then, before the white-faced,
terrified watchers in the submarine fully realized what was taking
place, another and another of the livid, serpent-like things were
writhing and coiling about the diver.
“It’s an octopus!” cried Mr. Pauling.
“Oh, oh! He’ll be killed!” screamed Frank. “Oh, isn’t it terrible?”
But they were helpless, powerless to aid. All they could do was to
gaze fascinated and terror-stricken at the awful tragedy, the fearful
struggle taking place there at the bottom of the sea before their very
eyes.
And now they could see the loathsome creature itself. Its great pulpy
body, now pink, now blue, now green; its huge, lusterless, unwinking
eyes—an enormous creature whose sucker-clad tentacles encircled
Rawlins in a grip of steel, binding his signal line and making it
useless, reaching about as if to grasp the air-hose, swaying like
serpents about to strike before his helmet. Madly the diver was
fighting for his life, bracing himself against the corals, grappling
with the slimy tentacles, wrenching his hands and arms free. Then the
terrified, breathless watchers gazing at the nightmare-like scene saw
Rawlins lift his arm and through the water they saw the blade of his
sheath knife flashing in the beam of light. Again and again he brought
it slashing down, hacking, stabbing at the clinging tentacles. Bits of
the writhing flesh dropped off at the blows and a cloud of inky water
that shot from the repulsive creature’s syphon for a moment obscured
the scene. But the savage blows, the slashing cuts, the lopped-off
tentacles seemed not to affect the giant devil fish in the least and
slowly, steadily, inexorably Rawlins was being drawn closer and closer
to the cruel eyes, the soft toad like body and the wicked, parrot-like
beak.
The boys screamed aloud, the men muttered under their breath. Members
of the crew, attracted by the frightened cries, rushed to the port and
peered horrified at the terrible scene being enacted under the sea.
Rawlins’ fate seemed sealed, he was now bound fast by the eight
tentacles, even the hand with the knife was wrapped around by the
relentless, sucker-armed things.
And then, from below the submarine, a strange shape darted through the
water—a dark form which, for an instant, the boys took for some huge
fish.
Straight towards the struggling diver it sped and as the light fell
upon it the boys shouted and yelled, the men cheered, for it was no
fish but a man! A man, naked and black, swimming at utmost speed—Sam
the negro hurrying to Rawlins’ aid!
Hardly had those at the ports realized it was Sam before he was at the
scene of battle. For a brief instant he poised motionless above the
diver and his antagonist and then, quickly and gracefully as a seal,
he plunged straight down at the octopus. There was a flash of steel in
the light, the water was blackened with the polyp’s ink. Through the
thick, murky, discolored water only confused, rapidly moving forms
were visible and scarcely breathing, those within the submarine gazed
and waited. Would Sam be able to kill the creature? Could he hold out
long enough to win the battle? Could he free Rawlins?
Then as the water cleared and the light once more penetrated the
depths, rousing cheers went up from the watchers, they laughed
hysterically, tears rolled down their cheeks, for slowly, painfully
but surely, Sam was coming back, while behind him, half dragging
himself along, but apparently uninjured, was Rawlins. Upon the bottom
where he had stood a shapeless squirming, pulpy mass was all that
remained of the octopus and about it, swarmed voracious fishes
snapping at the dying, flaccid tentacles. The battle was over. Rawlins
was safe. Sam had won. Naked, armed only with a knife, he had attacked
the monster of the sea, had literally hacked it to bits and had
returned unharmed.
“Gosh!” cried Tom. “Gosh!” and unable to say another word, utterly
overcome, he slumped down upon a cushioned seat faint from the strain
he had undergone.
Frank swayed unsteadily and sank down beside his chum while Mr.
Pauling and the others wiped their wet brows, licked their dry lips
and grasped one another’s hands in silent thanksgiving, too overcome
to speak.