THE CRIPPLED SUBMARINE
"BETTER switch off the searchlight," said Gerald. "It's doing no
good, and we must economise the air."
"There's enough oxygen to last for two hours," observed Palmer; "but
we had better try the motors full speed ahead once more. It can't do
much harm, and the longer we remain inactive the deeper the boat will
sink in the ooze."
But beyond a slight pulsation of the hull the submarine remained in
her hazardous position.
"Look here," exclaimed Gerald's companion, hopefully, "why not close
the torpedo compensating tank and discharge all the torpedoes? That
will get rid of some of our gear."
"What happens to the torpedoes when they have finished their run,
provided they miss their mark?" asked Gerald.
"If they have practice-heads they rise to the surface; if provided
with war-heads they sink."
"The same as our Whiteheads: the exhaustion of the compressed air
actuating the propellers opens a valve that admits water into the
air-chamber?"
"That is so."
"Then I'm afraid your plan is useless, for in expelling the torpedoes
we are only getting rid of objects lighter than the weight of the
water they displace."
"You're right," assented Palmer, ruefully.
"Beg pardon, sir," exclaimed one of the seamen, "but are we hitched
up here for good?"
"It looks like it," replied Palmer, almost brutally.
"Then couldn't I go out by the air-lock--I am willing to risk it--and
take a line up with me? We've nearly a hundred fathoms aboard."
"Impossible, man; you would be crushed to death."
"We ought to try something, sir; the oxygen seems to be giving out,
and the mice are getting torpid."
"I thought we had two hours' supply?"
"So did I, sir, but something's wrong with the stuff."
"We will have to rely on the oxygen helmets, then. Serve them out; it
may prolong our lives a few hours, though I know not to what
purpose."
Slowly the minutes passed. Illuminated only by the glimmer of a
solitary incandescent lamp the interior of the submarine presented a
picture of gloomy despair. The crew began to realise that they were
imprisoned in a living tomb.
"We must make some attempt to communicate with the _Olive Branch_,"
exclaimed Gerald, shaking off the growing feeling of apathy and
drowsiness by a great effort. "Why not write a report stating our
condition, enclose it in one of the torpedoes, and fire it to the
surface?"
"To what purpose?" asked Palmer. "They can't help us."
"It will show them that we've done our best."
"All right, then, though personally I think it a waste of time."
Somehow or other Gerald wrote out a brief account of the vicissitudes
of the submarine. This both he and Palmer signed, and enclosed in a
practice-head of one of the torpedoes.
The impulse charge was sufficiently strong to eject the cigar-shaped
cylinder from the tube, though at the expense of another slight rush
of water; then, as there was nothing more to be done, the crew
prepared for the worst.
It was a peculiar sensation that came over the doomed men. Apparently
paying scant heed to their peril they sat down, with their heads
buried in their arms, awaiting the sleep that precedes death. The
white mice--the surest means of indicating the presence of impure
gases--had long since been lifeless; only the soft purr of the dynamo
and the laboured breathing of the men broke the oppressive silence.
How long Gerald remained in a semi-unconscious state he knew not;
time and place were alike forgotten; he hardly possessed the power of
thinking, and, knowing his fate, he seemed absolutely indifferent to
it.
Suddenly a sharp metallic clank caught his ear, but, beyond hearing
the sound, Tregarthen paid no heed to it. Yet something was moving
across the outside of the massive steel shell. Perhaps, he wondered
dreamily, it was one of those enormous submarine animals that exist
only under enormous pressure, and whose bodies have from time to time
been cast ashore, to the wonder of scientific men.
Slowly the bow of the submarine began to rise. Gerald sat bolt
upright; he could scarce believe the evidence of his senses. Higher
and higher it rose till his inert comrades rolled sideways upon the
steel floor, and began to slide helplessly towards the dim recesses
occupied by the motors.
Grasping the lowermost rung of the ladder leading to the
conning-tower, Tregarthen tried to collect his scattered wits in
order to find some explanation for the sudden tilting of the helpless
boat. Perchance her afterpart had rested over a fissure, and the
slimy bed had given way as the hull began to settle down.
Then the sensation of drowsiness began to reassert itself, and the
lieutenant felt his grip relaxing, till, just as he was on the point
of joining his companions who lay in a confused heap--dead perhaps,
but at all events unconscious--a voice exclaimed peremptorily, "Empty
your ballast tanks."
It was through the receiver of the loud-speaking wireless telephone
that the voice came. It meant that the submarine had been raised
several fathoms, sufficiently for the telephone to be used once more.
Staggering up the sloping deck, Gerald grasped the pump lever of the
'midship tank. Thank goodness the pressure had been reduced
sufficiently for the powerful pump to act.
With his last remaining strength Tregarthen plied the lever, till at
length a ruddy sunset glare streamed in through the thick glass
apertures in the conning-tower. The submarine was awash.
Climbing the ladder into the conning-tower Gerald threw back the
double-action lock securing the hatchway, but the task of opening the
massive steel plate was beyond him. The next moment he was drinking
in the pure air, supported by a burly petty-officer who had slid down
from the cruiser to the deck of the submarine.
"Hurry up and pass these men out," he heard Captain Brookes exclaim.
"Perhaps some of them may be still alive."
Half conscious, Gerald was lifted over the side of the _Olive
Branch_, Jack Stockton supporting him with the utmost solicitude.
"A pretty fine pass," he heard Captain Brookes remark. "I did not
think that Palmer would disobey orders. And nothing gained, after
all."
Gerald stopped, just as he was about to be assisted down the
companion ladder, and with a sudden impulse that surprised his chum,
he wrenched himself clear and staggered across to where the captain
stood.
"No, sir; something is gained after all. The missing wireless gear is
strung underneath the submarine."
Then everything seemed to swim around him in a white mist, and but
for Lieutenant Sinclair's prompt action he would have fallen headlong
to the deck.
"We thought you were all done for when you did not return at the end
of the hour," said Stockton next morning.
"So did I," replied Gerald. "But how did they manage to raise the
boat?"
"Mainly by a slice of luck, and also through Captain Brookes's
perseverance and energy, old chap. Directly we felt certain that
something was amiss the captain ordered a couple of hands to the
cable-cutting room. The dynameter detected the presence of a very
weak current----"
"That must have been after we shut off the searchlight and stopped
the motors."
"Well, at any rate, it was sufficient to enable us to fix your
position. Three times the grab was lowered without result. During
these operations a torpedo came to the surface."
"Yes, we discharged it without allowing the propellers to actuate, so
that it would come nearly straight to the surface."
"By jove, it did! I should never have believed it had I not seen the
thing jump. It shot nearly twenty feet in the air, missing the cutter
by a bare boat's length. Then someone suggested unfixing the head,
and within we found your message.
"With that we knew you were still alive, and that the submarine had
not collapsed under the pressure of the water, as Captain Brookes had
feared. Shortly afterwards the grab engaged, and we found that under
a strain of half a ton it was beginning to come home. It was an
anxious time, as the cable was only tested to twelve hundredweights,
but it held, after all, as you know."
"How is Palmer?"
"Bad. The strain coming on top of the narcotic has played havoc with
him. The other men are progressing favourably; but Gerald, old man,
where's your shaving-mirror? Then hold it so that you can see the
back of your head."
Tregarthen did so, and to his surprise he found that on his dark
brown hair was a patch as white as snow, almost the size of a man's
hand.
"That's strange, Jack. I remember putting my hand to my head when the
boat began to tilt. It's a case of utter funk, I suppose."
"You've something to remember the eighty-fathom dive by for the rest
of your natural life."
"I don't want that to remind me," replied Gerald, with a shudder.
"Well, it's all over now, and little harm done; but do you know there
was something very remarkable about that message you sent up? You
gave an account of everything that happened save one thing--the
object of your trip. You never mentioned the missing wireless gear."
[Illustration: chapter XXIV]