The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  “We ought not to submit!” burst out Mr. Damon. “Bless the stars and stripes! We ought to fight.”

  “There’s no chance,” said Mr. Sharp. “We are right under the guns of the ship. They could sink us with one shot. I guess we’ll have to give in for the time being.”

  “It is most unpleasant, if I may be allowed the expression,” commented Captain Weston mildly. He seemed to have lost his sudden anger, but there was a steely glint in his eyes, and a grim, set look around his month that showed his temper was kept under control only by an effort. It boded no good to the sailors who had hold of the doughty captain if he should once get loose, and it was noticed that they were on their guard.

  As for Tom, he submitted quietly to the two Brazilians who had hold of either arm, and Mr. Swift was held by only one, for it was seen that he was feeble.

  “Into the boat with them!” cried Admiral Fanchetti. “And guard them well, Lieutenant Drascalo, for I heard them plotting to escape,” and the admiral signaled to a younger officer, who was in charge of the men guarding the prisoners.

  “Lieutenant Drascalo, eh?” murmured Mr. Damon. “I think they made a mistake naming him. It ought to be Rascalo. He looks like a rascal.”

  “Silenceo!” exclaimed the lieutenant, scowling at the odd character’.

  “Bless my spark plug! He’s a regular fire-eater!” went on Mr. Damon, who appeared to have fully recovered his spirits.

  “Silenceo!” cried the lieutenant, scowling again, but Mr. Damon did not appear to mind.

  Admiral Fanchetti and several others of the gold-laced officers remained aboard the submarine, while Tom and his friends were hustled into the small boat and rowed toward the warship.

  “I hope they don’t damage our craft,” murmured the young inventor, as he saw the admiral enter the conning tower.

  “If they do, we’ll complain to the United States consul and demand damages,” said Mr. Swift.

  “I’m afraid we won’t have a chance to communicate with the consul,” remarked Captain Weston.

  “What do you mean?” asked Mr. Damon. “Bless my shoelaces, but will these scoundrels—”

  “Silenceo!” cried Lieutenant Drascalo quickly. “Dogs of Americans, do you wish to insult us?”

  “Impossible; you wouldn’t appreciate a good, genuine United States insult,” murmured Tom under his breath.

  “What I mean,” went on the captain, “is that these people may carry the proceedings off with a high hand. You heard the admiral speak of a court-martial.”

  “Would they dare do that?” inquired Mr. Sharp.

  “They would dare anything in this part of the world, I’m afraid,” resumed Captain Weston. “I think I see their plan, though. This admiral is newly in command; his uniform shows that He wants to make a name for himself, and he seizes on our submarine as an excuse. He can send word to his government that he destroyed a torpedo craft that sought to wreck his ship. Thus he will acquire a reputation.”

  “But would his government support him in such a hostile act against the United States, a friendly nation?” asked Tom.

  “Oh, he would not claim to have acted against the United States as a power. He would say that it was a private submarine, and, as a matter of fact, it is. While we are under the protection of the stars and stripes, our vessel is not a Government one,” and Captain Weston spoke the last in a low voice, so the scowling lieutenant could not hear.

  “What will they do with us?” inquired Mr. Swift.

  “Have some sort of a court-martial, perhaps,” went on the captain, “and confiscate our craft Then they will send us back home, I expect for they would not dare harm us.”

  “But take our submarine!” cried Tom. “The villains—”

  “Silenceo!” shouted Lieutenant Drascalo and he drew his sword.

  By this time the small boat was under the big guns of the San Paulo, and the prisoners were ordered, in broken English, to mount a companion ladder that hung over the side. In a short time they were on deck, amid a crowd of sailors, and they could see the boat going back to bring off the admiral, who signaled from the submarine. Tom and his friends were taken below to a room that looked like a prison, and there, a little later, they were visited by Admiral Fanchetti and several officers.

  “You will be tried at once,” said the admiral. “I have examined your submarine and I find she carries two torpedo tubes. It is a wonder you did not sink me at once.”

  “Those are not torpedo tubes!” cried Tom, unable to keep silent, though Captain Weston motioned him to do so.

  “I know torpedo tubes when I see them,” declared the admiral. “I consider I had a very narrow escape. Your country is fortunate that mine does not declare war against it for this act. But I take it you are acting privately, for you fly no flag, though you claim to be from the United States.”

  “There’s no place for a flag on the submarine,” went on Tom. “What good would it be under water?”

  “Silenceo!” cried Lieutenant Drascalo, the admonition to silence seeming to be the only command of which he was capable.

  “I shall confiscate your craft for my government,” went on the admiral, “and shall punish you as the court-martial may direct. You will be tried at once.”

  It was in vain for the prisoners to protest. Matters were carried with a high hand. They were allowed a spokesman, and Captain Weston, who understood Spanish, was selected, that language being used. But the defense was a farce, for he was scarcely listened to. Several officers testified before the admiral, who was judge, that they had seen the submarine rise out of the water, almost under the prow of the San Paulo. It was assumed that the Advance had tried to wreck the warship, but had failed. It was in vain that Captain Weston and the others told of the reason for their rapid ascent from the ocean depths—that Mr. Swift had been shocked, and needed fresh air. Their story was not believed.

  “We have heard enough!” suddenly exclaimed the admiral. “The evidence against you is over-whelming—er—what you Americans call conclusive,” and be was speaking then in broken English. “I find you guilty, and the sentence of this court-martial is that you be shot at sunrise, three days hence!”

  “Shot!” cried Captain Weston, staggering back at this unexpected sentence. His companions turned white, and Mr. Swift leaned against his son for support.

  “Bless my stars! Of all the scoundrelly!” began Mr. Damon.

  “Silenceo!” shouted the lieutenant, waving his sword.

  “You will be shot,” proceeded the admiral. “Is not that the verdict of the honorable court?” he asked, looking at his fellow officers. They all nodded gravely.

  “But look here!” objected Captain Weston. “You don’t dare do that! We are citizens of the United States, and—”

  “I consider you no better than pirates,” interrupted the admiral. “You have an armed submarine—a submarine with torpedo tubes. You invade our harbor with it, and come up almost under my ship. You have forfeited your right to the protection of your country, and I have no fear on that score. You will be shot within three days. That is all. Remove the prisoners.”

  Protests were in vain, and it was equally useless to struggle. The prisoners were taken out on deck, for which they were thankful, for the interior of the ship was close and hot, the weather being intensely disagreeable. They were told to keep within a certain space on deck, and a guard of sailors, all armed, was placed near them. From where they were they could see their submarine floating on the surface of the little bay, with several Brazilians on the small deck. The Advance had been anchored, and was surrounded by a flotilla of the native boats, the brown-skinned paddlers gazing curiously at the odd craft.

  “Well, this is tough luck!” murmured Tom. “How do you feel, dad?”

  “As well as can be expected under the circumstances,” was the reply. “What do you think about this, Captain Weston?”

  “Not very much, if I may be allowed the expression,” was the answer.

  “Do y
ou think they will dare carry out that threat?” asked Mr. Sharp.

  The captain shrugged his shoulders. “I hope it is only a bluff,” he replied, “made to scare us so we will consent to giving up the submarine, which they have no right to confiscate. But these fellows look ugly enough for anything,” he went on.

  “Then if there’s any chance of them attempting to carry it out,” spoke Tom, “we’ve got to do something.”

  “Bless my gizzard, of course!” exclaimed Mr. Damon. “But what? That’s the question. To be shot! Why, that’s a terrible threat! The villains—”

  “Silenceo!” shouted Lieutenant Drascalo, coming up at that moment.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE ESCAPE

  Events had happened so quickly that day that the gold-hunters could scarcely comprehend them. It seemed only a short time since Mr. Swift had been discovered lying disabled on the dynamo, and what had transpired since seemed to have taken place in a few minutes, though it was, in reality, several hours. This was made manifest by the feeling of hunger on the part of Tom and his friends.

  “I wonder if they’re going to starve us, the scoundrels?” asked Mr. Sharp, when the irate lieutenant was beyond hearing. “It’s not fair to make us go hungry and shoot us in the bargain.”

  “That’s so, they ought to feed us,” put in Tom. As yet neither he nor the others fully realized the meaning of the sentence passed on them.

  From where they were on deck they could look off to the little island. From it boats manned by natives were constantly putting off, bringing supplies to the ship. The place appeared to be a sort of calling station for Brazilian warships, where they could get fresh water and fruit and other food.

  From the island the gaze of the adventurers wandered to the submarine, which lay not far away. They were chagrined to see several of the bolder natives clambering over the deck.

  “I hope they keep out of the interior,” commented Tom. “If they get to pulling or hauling on the levers and wheels they may open the tanks and sink her, with the Conning tower open.”

  “Better that, perhaps, than to have her fall into the hands of a foreign power,” commented Captain Weston. “Besides, I don’t see that it’s going to matter much to us what becomes of her after we’re—”

  He did not finish, but every one knew what he meant, and a grim silence fell upon the little group.

  There came a welcome diversion, however, in the shape of three sailors, bearing trays of food, which were placed on the deck in front of the prisoners, who were sitting or lying in the shade of an awning, for the sun was very hot.

  “Ha! Bless my napkin-ring!” cried Mr. Damon with something of his former gaiety. “Here’s a meal, at all events. They don’t intend to starve us. Eat hearty, every one.”

  “Yes, we need to keep up our strength,” observed Captain Weston.

  “Why?” inquired Mr. Sharp.

  “Because we’re going to try to escape!” exclaimed Tom in a low voice, when the sailors who had brought the food had gone. “Isn’t that what you mean, captain?”

  “Exactly. We’ll try to give these villains the slip, and we’ll need all our strength and wits to do it. We’ll wait until night, and see what we can do.”

  “But where will we escape to?” asked Mr. Swift. “The island will afford no shelter, and—”

  “No, but our submarine will,” went on the sailor.

  “It’s in the possession of the Brazilians,” objected Tom.

  “Once I get aboard the Advance twenty of those brown-skinned villains won’t keep me prisoner,” declared Captain Weston fiercely. “If we can only slip away from here, get into the small boat, or even swim to the submarine, I’ll make those chaps on board her think a hurricane has broken loose.”

  “Yes, and I’ll help,” said Mr. Damon.

  “And I,” added Tom and the balloonist.

  “That’s the way to talk,” commented the captain. “Now let’s eat, for I see that rascally lieutenant coming this way, and we mustn’t appear to be plotting, or he’ll be suspicious.”

  The day passed slowly, and though the prisoners seemed to be allowed considerable liberty, they soon found that it was only apparent. Once Tom walked some distance from that portion of the deck where he and the others had been told to remain. A sailor with a gun at once ordered him back. Nor could they approach the rails without being directed, harshly enough at times, to move back amidships.

  As night approached the gold-seekers were on the alert for any chance that might offer to slip away, or even attack their guard, but the number of Brazilians around them was doubled in the evening, and after supper, which was served to them on deck by the light of swinging lanterns, they were taken below and locked in a stuffy cabin. They looked helplessly at each other.

  “Don’t give up,” advised Captain Weston. “It’s a long night. We may be able to get out of here.”

  But this hope was in vain. Several times he and Tom, thinking the guards outside the cabin were asleep, tried to force the lock of the door with their pocket-knives, which had not been taken from them. But one of the sailors was aroused each time by the noise, and looked in through a barred window, so they had to give it up. Slowly the night passed, and morning found the prisoners pale, tired and discouraged. They were brought up on deck again, for which they were thankful, as in that tropical climate it was stifling below.

  During the day they saw Admiral Fanchetti and several of his officers pay a visit to the submarine. They went below through the opened conning tower, and were gone some time.

  “I hope they don’t disturb any of the machinery,” remarked Mr. Swift. “That could easily do great damage.”

  Admiral Fanchetti seemed much pleased with himself when he returned from his visit to the submarine.

  “You have a fine craft,” he said to the prisoners. “Or, rather, you had one. My government now owns it. It seems a pity to shoot such good boat builders, but you are too dangerous to be allowed to go.”

  If there had been any doubt in the minds of Tom and his friends that the sentence of the court-martial was only for effect, it was dispelled that day. A firing squad was told off in plain view of them, and the men were put through their evolutions by Lieutenant Drascalo, who had them load, aim and fire blank cartridges at an imaginary line of prisoners. Tom could not repress a shudder as he noted the leveled rifles, and saw the fire and smoke spurt from the muzzles.

  “Thus we shall do to you at sunrise tomorrow,” said the lieutenant, grinning, as he once more had his men practice their grim work.

  It seemed hotter than ever that day. The sun was fairly broiling, and there was a curious haziness and stillness to the air. It was noticed that the sailors on the San Paulo were busy making fast all loose articles on deck with extra lashings, and hatch coverings were doubly secured.

  “What do you suppose they are up to?” asked Tom of Captain Weston.

  “I think it is coming on to blow,” he replied, “and they don’t want to be caught napping. They have fearful storms down in this region at this season of the year, and I think one is about due.”

  “I hope it doesn’t wreck the submarine,” spoke Mr. Swift. “They ought to close the hatch of the conning tower, for it won’t take much of a sea to make her ship considerable water.”

  Admiral Fanchetti had thought of this, however, and as the afternoon wore away and the storm signs multiplied, he sent word to close the submarine. He left a few sailors aboard inside on guard.

  “It’s too hot to eat,” observed Tom, when their supper had been brought to them, and the others felt the same way about it. They managed to drink some cocoanut milk, prepared in a palatable fashion by the natives of the island, and then, much to their disgust, they were taken below again and locked in the cabin.

  “Whew! But it certainly is hot!” exclaimed Mr. Damon as he sat down on a couch and fanned himself. “This is awful!”

  “Yes, something is going to happen pretty soon,” observed Captain West
on. “The storm will break shortly, I think.”

  They sat languidly about the cabin. It was so oppressive that even the thought of the doom that awaited them in the morning could hardly seem worse than the terrible heat. They could hear movements going on about the ship, movements which indicated that preparations were being made for something unusual. There was a rattling of a chain through a hawse hole, and Captain Weston remarked:

  “They’re putting down another anchor. Admiral Fanchetti had better get away from the island, though, unless he wants to be wrecked. He’ll be blown ashore in less than no time. No cable or chain will hold in such storms as they have here.”

  There came a period of silence, which was suddenly broken by a howl as of some wild beast.

  “What’s that?” cried Tom, springing up from where he was stretched out on the cabin floor.

  “Only the wind,” replied the captain. “The storm has arrived.”

  The howling kept up, and soon the ship began to rock. The wind increased, and a little later there could be heard, through an opened port in the prisoners’ cabin, the dash of rain.

  “It’s a regular hurricane!” exclaimed the captain. “I wonder if the cables will hold?”

  “What about the submarine?” asked Mr. Swift anxiously.

  “I haven’t much fear for her. She lies so low in the water that the wind can’t get much hold on her. I don’t believe she’ll drag her anchor.”

  Once more came a fierce burst of wind, and a dash of rain, and then, suddenly above the outburst of the elements, there sounded a crash on deck. It was followed by excited cries.

  “Something’s happened!” yelled Tom. The prisoners gathered in a frightened group in the middle of the cabin. The cries were repeated, and then came a rush of feet just outside the cabin door.

  “Our guards! They’re leaving!” shouted Tom.

  “Right!” exclaimed Captain Weston. “Now’s our chance! Come on! If we’re going to escape we must do it while the storm is at its height, and all is in confusion. Come on!”

  Tom tried the door. It was locked.

  “One side!” shouted the captain, and this time he did not pause to say “by your leave.” He came at the portal on the run, and his shoulder struck it squarely. There was a splintering and crashing of wood, and the door was burst open.