THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL
"CLEAR away the cutter; pipe the creeping party. Three grapnels and
the necessary line," ordered Captain Brookes; then turning to his
officers he continued: "Before we take steps to sweep for the lost
gear an investigation ought to be made. Will you, Mr. Slade, inspect
the wireless room and report to me? Mr. White, you will please attend
to Mr. Palmer, who evidently needs your services. Pull him together
as far as you are able, so that he can give some account of this
mystery. Now, Mr. Tregarthen, we'll see what's wrong with the Z-rays
apparatus."
The fault in the conning-tower was quickly discovered. A small hole
had been drilled in the steel column conveying the wires from the
batteries to the indicator-board, and a metal rod had been inserted,
thus causing a short circuiting of the current.
The mystery was as deep as ever, for how did the miscreant find time
and opportunity to make his way unobserved into the conning-tower and
proceed to drill the thick metal standard?
"There's hours of hard work in front of us," declared Captain.
Brookes. "The disarrangement of this intricate mechanism is far more
serious than one can imagine. Whether the ZZ-rays are similarly
affected I cannot tell. We must find a clear field to undertake that
experiment. However, we can do nothing more at present, as far as the
conning-tower is concerned, so now for Slade's report."
"All the reciprocators are missing, sir, except the Plougastel one,"
announced Lieutenant Slade. "That happened to be in the instrument."
"Is the receiver damaged?"
"No, sir; at least, I was able to communicate with Plougastel."
"That's something to be thankful for," ejaculated the captain,
fervently. "Though the loss of these reciprocators is irreparable. It
means that we are cut off from all intelligence except by means of
our Brittany agent. And now to interview Mr. Palmer."
"Mr. Palmer is now in a sufficiently normal state to be interrogated,
sir," said the surgeon. "He is still suffering from the effects of a
narcotic--opium by the symptoms."
"Very good, Mr. White," answered the captain. "I'll see him in his
cabin."
Lieutenant Palmer, looking utterly miserable, staggered to his feet
and saluted as his captain entered.
"Sit down, Mr. Palmer," said the captain, kindly. "Let me hear what
you know of this business."
Captain Brookes took a seat and waited for the lieutenant to pull
himself together, giving a hasty, yet comprehensive, glance round the
room as he did so. The cabin was small and plainly furnished. In
addition to the ordinary "fitments," there was a small indicator on
the wall which at present was showing a blue light. This signified
that the wireless was not in operation, a red light giving the
operator warning that his presence was required in the wireless room.
On the table was a coffee pot and cup and saucer, large draughts of
this beverage being beneficial in the treatment of opium poisoning;
while on the floor stood a galvanic battery that Dr. White had used
to a good purpose.
"Now, Mr. Palmer."
"I'm awfully, sorry, sir."
"So am I, but up to the present you've done nothing to be sorry for
as far as I can see. Pray proceed."
"There is very little to say," began the lieutenant, simply. "The
Yankee came in to my cabin to say good-bye and offered me a
cigarette. I remember taking a few draws, then everything became
misty, though I have a dim recollection of the man lifting me over to
my bunk. How long I lay there I cannot tell, but somehow or the other
I managed to open the port. The cool air revived me, and then I saw
that the wireless indicator light was out. Naturally I looked towards
the place where the key of the wireless room was kept, but the key
was missing. Then I realised that I had been tricked, and rushing on
deck to give the alarm, I found that Flew had already started."
"How were the reciprocators secured?"
"There are four of them, each in a small cylinder, with a steel chain
passing through a ring-bolt at one end of each."
"Could they be concealed on his person without being separated?"
"I think so, sir."
"Then that simplifies matters. If he did not sever the chain--and
most likely he had no time to do so--they might be grappled for, even
if they fell clear during his downward plunge. However, that will do
for the present, Mr. Palmer; I'll see how things are progressing on
deck."
The cutter had already been launched and was running at a slow speed,
barely half a knot, in ever diverging circles around the buoy that
marked the spot where the airman had disappeared. Over her stern
trailed a stout 3in. rope to which the grapnel was secured.
"What's that place yonder?" asked Stockton, pointing to a distant
headland on the Syrian shore, as the two chums stood watching the
dragging operations.
"Tripoli," replied Gerald, "so called because it was built
simultaneously by the Syrians, Sidonians, and Aradians. It's a pity
we can't go ashore there, for the ramshackle old place is full of
historic interest. They say there are traces of the siege by the
Crusaders early in the twelfth century. It is also--hello, what's
happened?"
This ejaculation was occasioned by the sudden stopping of the cutter.
Her crew began to haul in the rope, but as soon as the slack was
taken up the grapnel obstinately refused to leave the bottom.
"She's fouled something, sir," shouted the lieutenant in charge of
the boat.
"What strain have you put on?"
"As much as the rope will stand, sir; we can't get it home another
foot."
"Then buoy the rope and haul up the lead," replied Captain Brookes.
The buoy indicating the lead-line was within a few feet of the
cutter, and with but little trouble the buoy was transferred from the
log-line to the grapnel-rope, and the former was hauled up.
"What have you got?" shouted Captain Brookes, as the heavy weight was
lifted over the side of the boat.
Lieutenant Sinclair examined the "arming," or tallow filling the
hollow in the base of the lead.
"Looks like iron scales, sir, or something covered with rust."
"Strange substance for the lead to bring up," muttered Captain
Brookes; then hailing the boat, "Get out the second grapnel; sound a
couple of lengths further out, and report."
The lead was again sent down. This time the cast revealed the
presence of a dark ooze at seventy-four fathoms. Then the grapnel was
set to work, but after traversing a short distance it became
inexplicably entangled in some object. A third grapnel was lost in a
similar manner.
"There's something out of the ordinary down below," remarked the
captain, as the result of the third dragging operation was announced.
"I'm afraid we're beaten."
"One moment, sir."
Captain Brookes turned sharply on his heel and saw Lieutenant Palmer,
pale yet self-possessed, standing close to him.
"Well?"
"I'm responsible for this, sir, and I hope to be able to rectify
matters. Can I descend in the submarine?"
"The submarine? You must be mad. Do you know the depth? Eighty odd
fathoms, representing the tremendous pressure of 224lbs. to the
square inch."
"The submarine is tested to 230lbs., sir."
"Much as I esteem your devotion, and much as I value the missing
wireless gear, I cannot give my consent."
"Sir, I know the risk, and will take every precaution. With the
electric grab there is no need to descend to the extreme depth."
"Mr. Palmer, I know you to be a levelheaded and calculating officer.
I'm proud of you. If you will give me your word of honour to work
cautiously, I'm willing to withdraw my refusal. Now, pick your crew;
five men will be sufficient, and what is more, they must be
volunteers, fully acquainted with the risk they are running."
"I'm with you," said Gerald, calmly.
"Thank you," replied Palmer, quietly, holding out his hand, which
Tregarthen grasped firmly for a few seconds. It was a simple action,
with a wealth of meaning behind it. Both men understood.
The remainder of the volunteer crew were quickly forthcoming. The
difficulty was to pick and choose, since every man capable of service
in the submarine signified his willingness to take part in the
enterprise; but at length Palmer, Tregarthen, and three seamen fell
in on the quarter-deck as the heroes of a desperate venture.
[Illustration: The searchlight revealed a huge circular turret with
a pair of monster guns. Slowly the submarine swung round, the light
travelling the length of the huge mass of weed-encrusted iron and
steel.]
Captain Brookes addressed them in a few words, urging the men to
carefully consider the step they were taking.
"You will," he continued, addressing Lieutenant Palmer, "descend for
not more than one hour. If at the end of that time the submarine does
not reappear I must take it for granted that some mishap has befallen
you--which Heaven forfend. Meanwhile, all of you will do well to take
a quarter of an hour's rest. Should any man, during that interval,
think better of his decision, he may withdraw."
When the little crew were dismissed Gerald retired to the seclusion
of his cabin. What he did during those fifteen minutes no human being
knew, though many hazarded a guess that was not far from the truth.
Then, having shaken hands with his messmates and received their good
wishes for the enterprise--though the proceedings savoured of a party
of doomed men setting out for execution--the five members of the
submarine's crew descended to the orlop deck and entered the
vault-like cavity of the steel cylinder.
Hardly a word was spoken during the descent, save when, from time to
time, Palmer's voice could be heard speaking slowly and deliberately
into the wireless telephone to acquaint the _Olive Branch_ of the
submarine's downward progress.
Circling in wide curves the steel monster plunged slowly downwards.
Every moment the pale green light that filtered through the sunlit
sea grew dimmer, while as the pressure increased the revolution of
the propeller became slower and slower.
At thirty-five fathoms the wireless telegraphy became useless, while
the darkness became so opaque that the powerful electric searchlight
in the conning-tower had to be switched on. By the aid of its
gradually diverging beams Gerald could see a waste of water,
boundless, trackless, lifeless. Sixty fathoms. The motor was running
most abominably, emitting long sparks as the increased resistance of
the water strove to stop the already slow-running propeller-blades.
"What's that?" hissed Palmer, pointing to a thick, indefinite line
intercepting the rays of the searchlight.
Gerald looked, then thrusting the vessel's rudder over slightly, he
allowed the submarine to glide past the obstruction.
"It's one of the grapnel lines."
"Impossible!"
"Yes, you've forgotten the magnifying power of the water. It shows we
are not far out of our course."
"All right down there, Halliday?"
"Aye, aye, sir."
"Inform me the moment there's any sign of the plates yielding."
"Very good, sir."
The seaman was perfectly cool. Implicitly he trusted the two officers
in the conning-tower, though he knew that now at any moment the
massive steel structure might be crushed like an egg-shell by the
tremendous weight of water without.
Suddenly, at sixty-five fathoms, Palmer seized the reversing lever
and brought the forward motors of the craft to a standstill. Both he
and Gerald saw a sight that filled them with nameless awe.
It was as if the submarine was heading straight for the summit of a
mountain--a mountain of weed and barnacles covering an object that
was not the work of Nature--it was the work of man.
Slowly the submarine swung round, her searchlight travelling the
length of that mass of rusty, weed-encrusted iron and steel. Now the
beams played upon a gaping gunport, its weapon still thrust
aggressively forward, as if to repel an attack from above. Now the
searchlight revealed a huge circular turret with a pair of monster
guns; while beyond towered the fragments of a shattered bridge still
carrying its silent semaphores.
Then, faintly outlined in the feeble ray, could be discovered a pair
of funnels, both tottering through decay and held in position solely
by the stout wire guys; while like a phantom could be traced the
outlines of a mast with two military tops.
Already the submarine had gathered stern-way and was backing away
from the threatening embraces of the shattered gear that surrounded
the wreck, and as the vision faded slowly from their view both
officers exclaimed simultaneously:--
"The Victoria!"
The two men had seen the melancholy relic of a disaster that, though
it occurred twenty years ago, is still regarded as one of the most
terrible that has ever overtaken the British Navy. Hidden from mortal
eyes ever since the fatal day when the Camperdown rammed her, the
Victoria lay in eighty fathoms of water, and now, by the wildest of
coincidences, the submarine of the _Olive Branch_ had descended
nearly on top of the wreck of the ill-fated ship.
"If the reciprocators have fallen amongst that tangle they are
hopelessly lost," remarked Lieutenant Palmer, indicating the position
in which the wreck lay.
"That's what the grapnels fouled," added Gerald. "However, as the
aeroplane sank its planes would doubtless cause it to describe a
spiral-like motion. We may as well investigate all round the wreck.
Have we backed sufficiently to turn?"
"I think so," replied Palmer, and ordering half-speed ahead, he
thrust the helm hard over.
Seventy-five fathoms; only thirty feet from the bed of the sea. The
searchlight was deflected till the lower sector of the ray was
intercepted by the blunt nose of the submarine, while the light was
of sufficient intensity to cast a faint luminosity over the
wilderness of ooze that formed the floor of this marine desert.
"She's standing it all right," exclaimed Palmer, cheerfully. "Not a
sign of a weak spot."
"Yes, it's safe enough, I think. Now, keep a sharp look-out."
The elevating planes were now turned to an almost horizontal
position, barely sufficient to counteract the small reserve of
buoyancy preserved by the submarine; and eddying in great circles the
huge steel craft pursued her voyage of exploration.
The searchlight revealed a place of utter desolation. No trailing
seaweed served to remind the men of the wonderful submarine pictures
that artists love to depict; only a vast field of dark mud,
surmounted by fathoms of practically opaque water.
Gerald feared for the success of their search in that maze of
trackless ooze, for without a mark from which they might take their
bearings the submarine must eventually wander far from the spot where
she had descended. He glanced at his watch, it showed a quarter to
five. That meant that in another twenty-five minutes the submarine
must reach the surface, or Captain Brookes would imagine that some
disaster had befallen them.
"How's the air below there?" sang out the officer in charge.
"All serene, sir; the mice are quite chirpy," replied one of the
seamen.
"You had better be on the safe side and release a little more
oxygen," continued Palmer. "Then stand by with the grapnel."
The grapnel was secured to the outside of the submarine, whence by
means of an electric wire it could be lowered and engaged with the
object to be salved. Its length was not sufficient to allow the
possibility of fouling either the planes or the propeller.
"All ready, sir."
At that moment Gerald's quick eye caught sight of a mass of twisted
aluminium bars and canvas. It was the monoplane.
Wedged between the framework was a long, thin object covered with a
greyish material. The two officers could hardly recognise the body of
the treacherous and ill-starred aviator.
Overcoming their feelings of horror the two men looked for the
missing reciprocators. The submarine was now brought to a standstill,
her keel resting on the ooze, while her searchlight played straight
upon the victim of the tragedy.
"There they are, I believe; do you see those bulges under his coat?"
exclaimed Palmer.
"It certainly seems so," replied Gerald. "Now, what do you propose to
do?"
"Rise right over the aeroplane, engage the grapnel, and blow the
ballast tank."
"Mind you don't overrun it, and get the propeller fouled," continued
Tregarthen.
"I'll try not to. Now, here goes."
Slowly the submarine began to rise; the grapnel was dropped, and with
an almost imperceptible jar the implement became entangled in the
wreck of the monoplane.
"Easy ahead."
The motors, running jerkily in their endeavour to overcome the
pressure of water on the propeller-blades, were gradually advanced to
their utmost capacity, but still the submarine remained anchored to
the bottom of the sea, till with a succession of sharp jerks the
little craft wallowed helplessly in the ooze.
"Blow the for'ard ballast tank," ordered Palmer, calmly. "She'll rise
like a bird."
Two of the men hastened to pump out the tank, but so great was the
outside pressure that they were unable to expel the water. On the
contrary, a slender stream hissed through the glands of the pumps
with terrific force. One of the seamen, struck full in the face by
the jet of water, was hurled against the arched sides of the vessel.
"Belay there!" exclaimed the commander, seeing that more harm than
good was likely to result; then turning to Gerald he whispered, "Now,
what's to be done?"
"Reverse the planes and try running the engine at full speed astern,"
suggested Tregarthen, now fully alive to the seriousness of their
position.
For a few seconds it seemed as if this manoeuvre would prove
successful, though the water hissed through the tightly packed
propeller shafting as the blades went astern. Then, with a decided
swoop, the submarine returned to her muddy bed.
"That's done it!" exclaimed Palmer, gloomily. "We've lost our slight
reserve of buoyancy; don't say a word to discourage the men, but I
fear it's all up."
Gerald did not reply. Mechanically he pulled out his watch; it was
twenty minutes over the hour.
(_To be continued_)
[Illustration: The four men threw themselves on the astonished
foreigners, and a desperate conflict ensued.] [_See page_ 486.
[Illustration: sixth instalment]
BY PERCY F. WESTERMAN
Author of "A Lad of Grit," etc.
_ILLUSTRATED BY E. S. HODGSON_
[Illustration: chapter XXIII]