In another hour the island was in plain sight, a low-lying bit of land, possibly a mile round, covered with a thick growth of palms and vines which ran down to a white beach outlined by the breaking waves. And, standing out sharply from the low island, a mass of rock rose perhaps a hundred feet above the northerly end. It vaguely suggested a castle, which no doubt had led the Spaniards to label the island ‘El Morro’.
Slowly the Lapwing circled round it, leadsmen in the starboard and port chains constantly taking soundings to make sure they kept out of shoal water. From a distance of half a mile off shore, Carroll and Bob examined the island closely through binoculars as they steamed round, while the sailors below lined the port rail and scanned the strange beach curiously.
The lead-lines whistled through the air, splashed into the water near the bow, were heaved up and down. “By the mark five!” varied with the call, “And a quarter five!” came the reports from the chains as the Lapwing at “1/3 speed”, crawled slowly along, the quartermaster standing by the engine telegraph ready to ring up “Full astern” should the water suddenly shoal. Below, Bill Clark, the boatswain’s mate, stood by on the forecastle ready to drop the anchor instantly should need arise.
The ship made a complete circuit of the island. A sandy beach all round, but no inlets, no signs of habitation met their gaze. Back again on the eastern side, Carroll conned the ship in very slowly until the leads showed a depth of only four fathoms, then ordered, “Stop!”
The quartermaster swung over the telegraph, the slow throbbing of the screw ceased.
“Let go of the port anchor!” sang out Carroll.
A sledge in Clark’s hands fell, knocking apart the chain stopper. With a roar, the anchor dropped from the hawse-pipe, the iron cable banging over the winch as the chain links raced out. The anchor hit bottom, the cable ran out more slowly. Clark set up the brake, the winch stopped turning, and a strain came on the cable as the Lapwing brought up slowly on her anchor and came to rest.
They had reached El Morro. The voyage out was completed.
Chapter 11
On the bridge, Lieutenant Carroll, with his sextant to his eye, was carefully measuring the angle between the beach and the pinnacle of El Morro. The helmsman and the lookout had been relieved and gone below; only the quartermaster and Bob remained to assist. Bob jotted down the angles as Carroll took three independent readings, then averaged them.
The quartermaster, with a small range-finder, measured the distance to the rock. “Six hundred and twenty yards,” he announced.
Carroll went to his cabin for his Bowditch, worked a few minutes with the logarithmic tables in it, and gave out the result.
“El Morro is one hundred and twenty feet high. Now let’s see what altitude an object has if it is just visible over it and is seen three miles away from a height of twenty feet.”
He figured further. “Well, it’s a little less than half a degree, but I’m going to use that. It’ll be close enough, since the altitude is small anyway, and a minor variation won’t affect any main problem.” And he plunged into the solution of the altitude azimuth equation, using the declination he had obtained from the observatory, the latitude of the island, and the altitude he had just determined. After a few minutes’ work, he had it.
“On March 18, 1579, when the sun set over El Morro, it was bearing South 87° 23’ West,” Carroll announced. He picked up his parallel rulers, set them to that angle on the rosette, and then shifted the rulers across the chart until one edge passed through the point where El Morro had been pricked. He drew a fine line along the ruler to the eastward, measured out along it three miles, and pricked the chart again. Bob watched him, totally absorbed as he marked and measured.
“There’s the Santa Cruz,” remarked Carroll finally as he drew a small circle round the last point. “Now all we have to do is to hook her.”
Bob clapped him on the back enthusiastically, but Carroll hastened to damp his ardour. “Don’t cheer yet, old scout. We’d have lots of trouble sweeping even if we knew exactly where she lay; I doubt very much if the position we have here is right within half a mile. How do you think Don Jaime knew he was a league away from El Morro? They didn’t have range-finders in those days. He just guessed it, and remember he was guessing in the middle of a battle, with Drake’s ship pouring a hot fire into the Santa Cruz. He wasn’t likely to be any too accurate in his estimate of distances. But we do have their soundings, and we’ll hit it as close as we can before we drag.”
Eight bells struck.
“We’d better let all hands have dinner before we tackle anything else.” They descended to the mess room and seated themselves near the port door, where they could watch the surf foaming up the beach not far off. The dull roar of the breakers came in clearly.
“That’s a soothing sound,” said Bob. “I imagine we’ll have that to lull us to sleep for some time.”
“Perhaps, but if I’m any prophet we’re all going to be so dog tired when each day’s work’s done that we won’t need any lullabies.” The mess boy came in with the dinner. “Hello, Fitz, got your fish-hooks broken out?”
“Yes, suh, Ah’m all set. Does we stay heah long?”
“A while, Fitz; I don’t know how long yet.” He turned to Bob. “We’ll get underway again right after dinner and run a line of soundings out on that bearing from El Morro. Then we’ll run two more lines of soundings on bearings five degrees to the north and five degrees to the south of what we think is the true range, and that’ll show pretty well how the bottom slopes.”
The meal passed quickly, both men being anxious to verify their data. At two bells, the Lapwing heaved in her anchor to short stay and steamed slowly north.
Lieutenant Carroll, at the port, sighted carefully on El Morro until it drew nearly abeam, then gave an order to swing slowly to starboard until the Lapwing, heading away from the island, steadied on a course of E ¼ N, with the pinnacle of El Morro directly astern.
“Quartermaster! Take the quadrant now and see the helmsman holds that rock dead astern as we run out. I’ll man the range-finder. Bob, you note down the range I give you each time we get a sounding. In the chains there! Start the leads!”
The captain shipped the range-finder over the starboard quadrant and swung it aft. He leaned over, glued his face to the rubber eyepieces, and started to turn the adjusting knobs.
Bob, notebook in hand, looked over the side. In the starboard chains, the leadsman whirled the sounding-lead three times in a large circle, then, as it came up the third time, he let go of the toggle and the lead whistled forward in a high curve over the stem, hit the water half a ship’s length ahead, and disappeared. The line ran out rapidly for a moment, then, as the chains came up over the spot where the lead had sunk, the leadsman heaved in rapidly until he felt the weight of the lead and slacked out again until he touched bottom once more.
“Eleven fathoms starboard!”
Carroll gave the range-finder a final adjustment and called out:
“Twelve hundred and sixty yards!”
Bob noted down the readings.
While a seaman assisted the leadsman in hauling in the starboard sounding-line, the man in the port chains hurled his lead, and hastily plumbed it up and down as the ship caught with it.
“Thirteen fathoms port!”
“Fifteen hundred yards!” reported Carroll.
The soundings increased steadily until at four thousand yards — two miles out — the leadsmen were unable to run out enough line to get bottom before the ship swept by the up-and-down point.
Carroll jumped to the voice tube and called to the engine-room: “Dead slow speed! Just enough revolutions on the engine to keep up steerage-way!”
The Lapwing slowed, the helmsman had to use wider swings on his rudder to hold the course, but the leadsmen were once more able to get bottom. With the quartermaster at the quadrant conning the wheel, the Lapwing barely moved through the water as the soundings gradually ran up and the ship neared the t
hree-mile mark.
“Twenty-eight fathoms starboard!”
“Fifty-six hundred yards!”
A pause.
“Twenty-nine fathoms port!”
“Fifty-eight hundred yards!”
Bob started a fresh page.
Splash! The starboard lead whizzed out. Carroll started to adjust his range-finder.
“Thirty fathoms starboard!”
A final twist on the wheel. Carroll read the distance carefully.
“Sixty-one hundred yards!”
Bob looked at the skipper triumphantly. “It checks almost exactly at three miles!”
Carroll nodded, his face still glued to the eyepieces: “Yes. Old Don Jaime was a pretty good judge of distance.”
The other lead ran out.
“Thirty-two fathoms port!”
“Sixty-three hundred yards!”
The starboard lead failed to make bottom on the next cast. Carroll stopped the engine, let the ship drift while the lead came in and the port lead managed to sound.
“Thirty-eight fathoms port!”
“Sixty-six hundred yards!” called out Carroll.
“Off the course!” reported the helmsman. “She won’t steer anymore!”
“Still on the bearing!” sang out the quartermaster, whose quadrant showed El Morro still bearing W ¼ S.
“We must be drifting sideways,” explained the captain. “In the chains there, try another cast!” He turned back to the range-finder.
The ship lay practically dead in the water, a point off her course. The starboard leadsman let go his line without the need of heaving it ahead; it ran out rapidly beneath his feet came slack in his hands. He heaved it up and down a second, then called out: “Forty fathoms starboard!”
“Sixty-seven hundred yards!” Carroll looked over the bridge rail. “That’ll do in the chains for a while.” The dripping leadsmen crawled in on deck.
The captain stepped to the engine telegraph and rang up “One-third speed.” As the ship slowly picked up steerage-way he ordered:
“Full right rudder! Head back for the island!”
He moved over to Bob’s side and examined his notes with interest. “No use sounding out any farther. She’s sloping away too fast. The last sounding is only half a mile beyond that league that Don Jaime estimated, but the water’s ten fathoms deeper. Lucky they didn’t blow up there. Thirty fathoms is quite bad enough!”
The Lapwing, heeling slightly in her sharp turn, came about and headed for El Morro. Half a mile from it, she turned once more and headed out again, this time on a bearing half a point to the southward of her first run. As before, Bob noted the ranges and soundings; they were practically the same as the first set, except that beyond the three-mile mark the depths did not drop off so quickly and soundings were taken out to four miles before reaching the forty-fathom line.
The Lapwing swung round from the second run and once again steamed back to her starting-point.
Taking a new departure from the pinnacle of El Morro, the ship steamed out heading E ¾ N, half a point to the northward this time of what was considered the true bearing. The soundings ran nearly as before until the range reached two and a half miles, when the depths increased so quickly that the ship was forced to stop to permit the leads getting bottom, and the lead-lines read forty fathoms a little inside the three-mile mark.
The Lapwing turned to starboard and moved slowly to the southward until El Morro once again bore W ¼ S; then Carroll steamed in on that bearing, taking ranges on the pinnacle as they approached with the quartermaster working the range-finder.
“Forecastle there! Stand by the anchor!” shouted the captain. The boatswain’s mate uncoupled the clutch, and a seaman manned the brake on the wildcat. When the slow-moving Lapwing brought El Morro exactly 6000 yards away, a sharp “Mark!” came from the quartermaster.
“Let go!” The brake was slacked, the anchor chain rattled out. Carroll swung the telegraph to “One-third astern.” With a quiver the propeller reversed and the sea foamed up under the stern; the ship slowed suddenly. Again the telegraph swung, to ‘Stop’ this time, and the Lapwing came to rest. A hundred fathoms ran out on the cable before Carroll ordered it to be secured.
Carroll looked over the side at the sea, still foaming up abeam. He turned to Bob.
“Well, here we are, exactly where the Santa Cruz blew up. And the next job is to find her.”
He leaned over the forward bridge rail. A little group was engaged in putting the chain stoppers on the cable.
“Boatswain’s mate!”
Clark looked up and saluted.
“As soon as you’re secured, lay aft and get both boats cleared away for lowering. When they’re over tie ’em up astern, and we’ll get ’em fitted out in the morning!”
“Ay, ay, sir!” Clark bent again over the task of setting up the pelican-hook stopper, to take the strain off the winch.
Bob looked round. It was late afternoon. The sun, low in the west, hung over the distant island. The Lapwing pitched gently to her anchor as the long Pacific swells rolled by. A few gulls, attracted by the strange vessel, circled round the stern. But aside from them, no ship, no signs of life, showed within the wide expanse of sea, and gazing at the peaceful scene, Bob found it difficult to imagine that once on that spot the Santa Cruz had battled to her death.
Chapter 12
Two bells struck in the morning watch, echoing over the silent ocean. A boatswain’s pipe shrilled, a hoarse voice bellowed: “Lay aft all the boat’s crew!”
A knot of sailors round the coffee pot in the mess room broke up hurriedly; they ran down the starboard passage and over the fantail to the stern, where they tumbled down a short Jacob’s ladder into the boats. The boatswain’s mate followed into the surf-boat, while Tom Williams dropped down to take charge of the larger motorboat. The boats were hauled to the starboard beam by their painters, and the grappling hooks and lines passed over the side, together with several small buoys and anchors.
Lieutenant Carroll gave the final orders: “Bill, you and the surf-boat move four hundred yards off shore from the Lapwing and sweep on an east and west course on our south side, moving away from us about five yards on each swing until you’ve swept a path a hundred yards wide. Tom, you get the motorboat to sweep on the same course, except that you work four hundred yards inshore from us. Plant a marker-buoy, both of you, where you start sweeping, and I’ll plot out the areas you’ve covered as you go along. And if you hook anything, get a buoy over immediately to mark the spot in case your grapnel lets go before the Lapwing gets there. That’s all. Shove off!”
The flywheels on the engines, yanked by ropes wound round them, spun round; the engines sputtered, then started firing evenly. In the surf-boat outboard, the engineer shoved forward his clutch, Clark jammed his tiller down to port, and the surf-boat leapt away in the early dawn. The heavy motorboat got away much slower, but soon straightened out and headed towards the beach.
In the stern sheets of the surf-boat, Clark eased the helm, and, keeping an eye on the small boat compass, ran due east. Meanwhile two seamen seized the grappling-hook and held it poised on the starboard quarter while a third stood by the marker-buoy anchor. The boatswain’s mate looked aft towards the ship.
“We’re far enough. Stand by there!”
“Let go of the marker!”
The anchor splashed overboard, dragging a small line with it; when it ceased running out the buoy was tossed overboard. A few yards beyond, Clark gave the rudder a hard sheer and the boat spun round rapidly. At slow speed, he steered past the buoy headed for the Lapwing, and as they drew abreast of the marker, the grappling-hook was released. The manila line attached to it uncoiled rapidly and disappeared over the stern. When a hundred fathoms of line had run out, Clark belayed the rope on the Samson’s post near the tiller. As a strain came on the line and it tautened out astern, the surf-boat came to a stop as if anchored, the engine laboured, and the propeller churned up a cloud of spray.
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“Give ’er the gun!” cried the coxswain. The engineer pulled his throttle wide open. The line straightened out like a bowstring, stretched a bit, then the grappling-hook broke ground and the boat started slowly ahead.
Gradually they neared the ship, Bill Clark alternating his gaze between the strain on the line astern and the course he was steering. Holding the boat on the right heading was much harder with a long line out, and it took most of his attention; the engineer carefully nursed along his heavily loaded engine; but the boat’s crew, with nothing to do, stretched out on the thwarts.
They came once more abeam the Lapwing. Clark held on until his hook astern was well abreast of the ship, then made a wide turn to port to avoid fouling his screw and started a sweep to the eastward, keeping a little away from the path he had first dragged.
Slowly the morning wore on and the sun grew hotter. Back and forth off the bow and the stern of the Lapwing, the two boats dragged their grappling-hooks over the ocean bottom, gradually working away to the south.
On the bridge, Carroll cut in the ship’s position on the chart, took ranges and bearings on the marker-buoys, and plotted them also.
Bob watched the boats anxiously, especially as they swept near the ship, but as the hours passed and the boats continued their monotonous trips to and fro, he became restless and started to pace the deck nervously. But Lieutenant Carroll, working on the bridge, paid no attention to the boats. He finished the smooth log of the voyage down, checked up the bunker oil and the fresh water on board, and figured roughly how long they could stay at sea before their fuel and water ran out. At anchor, they would use very little power and could cut out one boiler, steaming easily with only one burner on the other. At that rate, they should be able to keep going for three months; if they weren’t through then, he would have to risk running into port to refuel.
He looked down on deck. Hawkins was directing several seamen in stretching the quarter-deck awning; they already had the awnings rigged over the forecastle and down both sides of the deck.
Thirty Fathoms Deep Page 6
