“But, Major, while I can’t guarantee success, mostly for the reasons you gave, I can say that if that ship’s there, we’ll find her, and if the gold is in her hull, we’ll get it before we’re done with her!”
“There you are, Uncle,” exclaimed Bob triumphantly. “If Don Jaime was right, we can’t fail!”
“Let’s hope he was,” replied the major. “His account sounds real to me. Odd though, while I’ve had several bibliographers tracing that book, and they assure me that it’s genuine, they say the only other copy they can discover in existence is in the Escorial library in Spain. I’ve had that copy checked and it agrees with ours. For the life of me, though, I can’t imagine how it ever got on that bargain bookshop table. Did you ever go back, Bob, to find out where it came from?”
“Not on your life!” laughed Bob. “I didn’t want any former owners coming in and claiming it. The book’s mine. I paid for it, and I don’t care much how it got in that bookstall on Beacon Hill. It’s safely in my cabin now.”
The meal proceeded in silence, each man absorbed in his own thoughts of what lay in store for the Lapwing. Through the ports came again the rumbling of the winches and the sound of the boatswain’s pipe as the loading of stores was resumed by the crew.
“This is your last night in Boston, my boy. Coming ashore with me to say goodbye at home?”
“No, thanks a lot, Uncle, I’d rather stay on board. My outfit’s here now, and I guess Fitz has got it stowed already. Besides, except for Tom Williams, I hardly know anybody in the crew, and I’d like to get acquainted a bit before we shove off. I’ve said goodbye to everyone in Brookline anyway.”
“As you please,” answered the older man. “Perhaps that’s the best thing, anyway. There’ll be fewer questions. By the way, Lieutenant, I’ve been pestered to death on State Street by my friends asking what the Lapwing’s cruise is all about. Of course, I’ve kept it a secret, except to let them infer that it’s a sort of tropical expedition to explore the flora and fauna of the Caribbean to gather specimens for the museum. That sort of thing has been quite fashionable of late, and somebody from a museum lectured last winter on what he saw down there among the corals. I think they rather believe that’s what the trip is for, especially as my nephew is going along. Has anyone bothered you that way, Captain?”
“A little, Major. A few reporters were curious about our cargo; some of ’em think we’re outfitting a Central American revolution, but I’ve told ’em it’s just a combination of a scientific and pleasure voyage to the tropics. Except us three nobody really knows what we’re going out for; of course our four divers know we’re going after sunken treasure, but even they don’t know what ship or where she lies. A venture like this has to be a secret; we’re bound to have trouble enough without having to bother with the army of cranks that would be swarming over our rail if our real purpose got out.”
“We’re not asking anybody’s help. Why should they take the trouble?” asked Bob.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you why, Bob, but they will. We’d be swamped in a sea of advice. On my last salvage job, I received thousands of letters telling me how to do the job, and the funny thing about it was that most of them were from people who had never seen the ocean, let alone a ‘sub’ or even a diver. And they were the wildest suggestions. The less the writers knew about mechanics or the sea, the more certain they were about the absolute success of their pet schemes. And that’s what would happen here if this got out, except that on top of all the cranks who would be camping on our quarter-deck trying to force us to adopt their inventions, there’d be a couple of regiments of swindlers banked against the rail to get us to invest the treasure in the most fantastic financial dreams. No, I like secrecy and seclusion when I go diving!”
“I see you have a very level head, Lieutenant,” said the banker quietly. “That part about the inventors never occurred to me, but I know very well about the get-rich-quick schemers we’d have to contend with. Not to mention more dangerous scoundrels. You were very careful about your divers, of course. I haven’t met them. Whom did you get?”
“There’s Tom Williams; you’ve heard about him. He used to be a gunner’s mate. Then I got Bill Clark, Joe Hawkins, and Frank Martin. They’re all divers who’ve worked with me before; every one of ’em’s been retired into the Naval Reserve after sixteen years’ service in the fleet. Clark’s a boatswain’s mate. He’s out on deck now, manning that pipe you’re listening to and getting the cargo aboard. Hawkins and Martin were chief torpedo-men. I was lucky to get that crowd; they’re the four best out of over twenty-five divers that went through those two deep-sea operations with me.
“And how do you rate them, Captain?”
“Well, Major, without doubt I think Tom Williams is the best diver in the world. He’s as much at home in a rig under water as we are in our street clothes up here. The other three aren’t much behind him; I don’t know that there’s any choice between ’em except that Martin’s a wonder with the torch and Joe Hawkins is mighty fine with a washing hose. But they’re all men I can rely on; when they look at a wreck and report how she lies, I know I can believe ’em. And that means a lot, Major. You’d be surprised at all the weird things an ordinary diver sees under water that just aren’t so.”
The major pushed his chair back and drew out a cigar case. He offered one to Lieutenant Carroll, who refused with thanks.
“I know you don’t smoke, Bob, since you’re still keen on athletics, but I supposed everyone in the Navy did,” he explained with some surprise, as Fitz held a lit match for him.
“Perhaps you’re right,” laughed Carroll. “but I’m the exception, then. I didn’t smoke before I went to the Naval Academy, and as we weren’t allowed to smoke our first three years there, I just never picked up the habit.”
The banker regarded him curiously. An odd person indeed. Everything about the man’s unusual, he thought to himself, puffing on his cigar. Famous at twenty-eight, with a worldwide reputation for daring, and yet he’s quite unspoiled. Bob will have a marvellous companion. Aloud he asked:
“How about the rest of your crew? You have thirty men, I think?”
“They look all right. I was very careful in shipping the men to take only those who seemed to be steady-going seamen. I don’t think we have any tough cases, and I took special pains to see that all of ’em were Americans. You know that isn’t so easy. Over half the sailors floating round this port are foreigners who have deserted their ships here for a chance to sign on for higher wages on our vessels. But I stuck to that rule. All of ’em, seamen, firemen, engineers, are Americans, and their discharge papers from their former ships all show good conduct. I had to make one exception, however. We’re going to South America and we’ll need somebody who can interpret, so I signed on one Spaniard. I couldn’t find out much about him, except that one of the other sailors, a pretty capable seaman, says he’s been shipmates with him on a Munson liner and that he’s a good sailor.”
“This isn’t like the Service, Captain, where a man enlists for four years and you can pick the best. Here you have to trust your judgment and take the men as you find them. But you’re getting away without any trouble, and I don’t believe there will be any once you’re out.” The major rose; Fitz brought his hat. Accompanied by the others, he went down the starboard passage to the gangway and then shook hands heartily with Lieutenant Carroll and Bob.
“Goodbye and good luck!” He walked ashore, hurried to his car, which was waiting at the head of the pier, and disappeared without looking back.
Chapter 4
Six bells in the mid-watch struck. It was high water slack, and the grey sides of the Lapwing shone ghostlike above the dock in the gleam of her forward searchlight. The last of the heap of cases had just disappeared from the dock into the Lapwing’s hull. The gangway was pushed ashore.
Three hoarse blasts rang from a deep-toned whistle abaft the stack; the seamen on watch manned the hawsers.
Lieutenant Carroll, dim
ly visible, leaned over the bridge rail armed with a megaphone.
“Let go aft!”
The stern line was lifted off the bollard on the dock; it splashed into the water and was quickly hauled in over the quarter-deck bulwarks. The captain looked up at the little platform on the foremast over the bridge.
“Train forward!”
The searchlight beam cut through the darkness in a sweep towards the bow, brilliantly outlining the piles under the dock against the black water below.
“One third astern!” The quartermaster stepped to the engine telegraph and swung the lever over. In a moment, a brass indicator, moved from the engine room below, followed the lever to its new position; then it stopped.
A mass of white bubbles foamed up under the Lapwing’s stern, the ship trembled, the headline tautened under the strain.
“Let go forward!” shouted Carroll.
On deck the bow hawser was slacked out; on the dock, a stevedore cast the eye of the hawser off the bollard. It came in dripping over the bow, as the Lapwing, underway at last, slipped smoothly astern, cleared the dock, and backed out through the night into the channel.
A moment later the ship, shrouded in darkness except for the hooded light over the compass and her running-lights, was steaming out of Boston harbour.
Bob, in the starboard wing of the bridge, felt a warm glow coursing through his veins as he listened to the crisp orders of the captain, heard in the darkness the running seamen casting loose, watched the wheel spinning right and left as the quartermaster manoeuvred the ship out, and finally felt the steady throb of the propeller as they steamed away through the night. Astern there gleamed the lights of Boston, the Custom House Tower a black finger towards the sky; ahead only the dark ocean and the Santa Cruz!
The tide had turned and was running a strong ebb, assisting them. Shortly they cleared Boston Lightship, steered across Massachusetts Bay, and as daylight broke, passed outside Cape Cod and headed southward.
Much excited over his first voyage, and determined to miss nothing, Bob had remained on the bridge even after the morning watch came on. As they made their landfall at the Cape, thoroughly satisfied and very tired, he turned to descend the steep ladder from the bridge. A little knot of men gathered on the starboard beam caught his eye. They were standing rigidly at attention, hats off, gazing to the southward. He looked more closely. The divers. He called to the skipper, “Look!”
Lieutenant Carroll came over from the wheel, glanced down, then looked in the same direction, bringing his arm slowly to ‘Salute’. He held it a moment, then dropped his hand.
“For the S-4, Bob,” he explained gravely. “We’re passing over the spot off Provincetown where forty brave men died. Up here, we on the Falcon clung in a howling December gale, unable to dive, while the last six of them, rapping feebly for air, finally passed out. Those divers had to live through it, listen to their shipmates perish, and later bring up their bodies. They’ll never forget. Joe Hawkins was nearly killed trying to take an airline down to the S-4 in that storm. Tom Williams went down and saved him. Tom’s got a Medal of Honour which he won that night. Maybe he’ll tell you about it someday.”
Bob’s eyes dimmed a little as he watched the group in their silent salute to their lost shipmates. A moment longer they stood, then without a word the knot broke up and the men disappeared below.
Soberly Bob descended the ladder to the cabin, entered his own state-room just under the bridge, quietly undressed, and slipped into his bunk.
Chapter 5
When Bob awoke, the Lapwing was gently rising and falling as she pitched to the long swells of the Atlantic. Looking out of the forward port, the far horizon moved up and down, one moment being at the ceiling of his room, the next vanishing beneath the deck. Bob slipped from his bunk, pulled his sea-going clothes from the closet for the first time, and put them on. A blue flannel jumper, sailor’s blue trousers, an officer’s cap without the insignia, a serge jacket with brass buttons — in a moment he was dressed and out into the cabin.
The captain was there before him.
“Fine morning, Bob. Get enough sleep?”
“Plenty, thanks.”
Fitz brought in breakfast; Bob made short work of it, excused himself, and went out on deck. A fresh breeze from the south-east was sweeping over the port bow, carrying with it a fine spray as the waves broke against their low side. Bob took a deep breath of the salty air, crawled forward over the anchor engine and the chains, ensconced himself in the eyes of the ship. Here the pitching was more pronounced, and as Bob rose and fell some fifteen feet with the motion of the ship, he felt himself really at sea. Below him was the blue ocean; the Lapwing with a bone in her teeth cut through the waves, her sharp bow wreathed in a curling mass of white foam as she plunged through each crest. A thin wisp of smoke, cut sharply off the top of the stack by the wind, streamed off to leeward on the starboard quarter; astern a wide wake of foaming water boiled up to mark their passage.
The decks were clear; evidently the crew, after their arduous labour of fitting out, had been allowed to sleep in. Only the helmsman and the mate were visible inside the pilot-house.
Looking round, Bob saw only water in all directions; the Lapwing seemed a small speck in the wide expanse of sea. He abandoned himself to the spell of the ocean and for over an hour never stirred from his post in the bow, watching the ceaseless assault of the never-ending lines of billows against the stem of the ship.
As the sun rose higher, he began to feel a little queer and decided to seek a quieter spot. He went aft to his state-room and crawled into his bunk, clothes and all. That was nearer amidships, where the pitching was less. Lying down made him feel better momentarily, but soon his mouth began to water again, he felt a strange illness in his stomach and a rising feeling in his throat. He fought it down. Grimly he clenched his teeth, tried not to swallow, stretched himself crosswise in his berth to minimise the motion. He caught his reflection in the mirror; his face was pallid, a sickly colour akin to green. He closed his eyes, the sight of himself made him feel worse.
The bunk rose and fell under him; each time it dropped away, it seemed as if his stomach were seeking escape from his body. Desperately he strove to tell himself it was nothing, but his mouth watered more and more, the rising feeling inside made him sicker. A heavier roll than usual; Bob felt he was lost. Hastily he clapped one hand over his mouth, leapt from his bunk through the door and out to the lee rail. He was barely in time. A pathetic figure, he hung over the bulwark; it seemed to him that everything he had eaten for weeks past went overboard.
At last, slightly relieved, he crawled back miserably into his bunk. As the ship continually heaved under him, he grew sicker and sicker, and made several more trips to the rail, but with nothing left to disgorge, he felt as if his very insides were struggling to come up. Utterly wretched, he lay feebly in his tossing bunk, closing his eyes to shut out that vision through the porthole of the horizon dancing wildly up and down. When he could think at all, he wished dolefully that he had never learned to read Spanish.
The hours went slowly by. Eight bells struck, Fitz tried to tempt him with some broth. The odour nauseated him. He told Fitz to get out; he never wanted to see food again.
Slowly the afternoon wore on; the breeze died down, the sea calmed a little, and the motion of the ship became easier. The feeling of utter sickness all over his body passed somewhat; he had no desire at all for supper, but he was able to smile wanly when Lieutenant Carroll came in to see him.
Carroll laughed at his woebegone expression.
“Cheer up, old man, we’ve all been there. You’ll probably be all right tomorrow. The sea’s not bad at all. I can understand how you feel, though. Don’t look so ashamed of yourself. It’s happened to the rest of us too. When I made my first trip as a midshipman, we went out of Chesapeake Bay headed for Europe on the old battleship Indiana. She was a top-heavy tub and a bad roller. I was a beginner then. The upper-class men had been kidding us about be
ing seasick when we cleared the Capes, but I just knew I wouldn’t be.
“However, when we started to heave to the Atlantic swells next morning, the only thing I wanted to do was to lie down in a quiet spot. But we midshipmen didn’t have bunks, we swung in hammocks, and in the daytime they were all lashed up and stowed in the nettings. So I picked out a spot on the berth deck which was, as nearly as I could figure it, midway between bow to stern, and halfway from keel to superstructure. I estimated that the ship must be moving round that spot as a pivot, and that consequently the motion was least there. I stretched out on the deck athwartship and lay like a log all day. When they sounded hammock-call at night, I didn’t stir, but just lay there all night long. Next morning a sailor booted me in the stern sheets and told me to get out, as he had to wash down the deck. I wasn’t interested. I was going to stay just where I was and I told him not to stop for me. He didn’t. The old saltwater hose was turned right on deck, but there I stayed, and pretty soon they came along with the squeegees and dried down all round me.
“I don’t think I stirred from that spot for two whole days, and I certainly wished I had stayed behind in the mountains where the worst that can happen to you is a landslide, but I got over it at last, and long before we reached Europe I was a good sailor.”
A feeble grin relieved Bob’s worn face as he imagined the wash-deck hoses playing round his seasick friend. He rolled over slowly and smiled weakly at Carroll.
“I suppose I am lucky to have a bunk to be sick in, but I never dreamed that anything’d make me feel so hopelessly gone. An hour ago, if the whole Santa Cruz had drifted by and all I had to do was to stretch out my hand to win her, I wouldn’t have cared enough about it to lift a finger. I just wanted to die and be done with it!”
The captain nodded sympathetically.
“I know exactly, Bob. And it’s just as bad as that, too. But the fact that you can even talk about it now shows you’re getting over it.” He unlaced Bob’s shoes, tossed them into the closet, and pulled a blanket up over him.
Thirty Fathoms Deep Page 2
