His helmet rang against something. He stopped, hauled up the light which was dragging astern of him, and trained it ahead.
For an instant, his heart stopped beating. Clad in a steel breastplate, a skeleton lay before him, a harquebus gripped in the bony fingers of one hand. The whitened skull stood out sharply in the gleam of the lamp against the blackness of the water.
Martin drew back. The sentry in the hold, posted just outside the treasure room.
Must ’a’ been to make sure the crew didn’t bust through, he thought. Tough on him though. No chance to get on deck when she went down.
Martin looked more closely at the grim figure; only some tarnished metal shoe-buckles and the rusty breastplate still clung to the white frame in his path. The ancient musket seemed to be pointing directly at him. The diver laughed gruesomely at the sight.
“Still guarding those doubloons after all these centuries!” He reached forward and seized the gun. The dead fingers broke away and sank towards the keep as the harquebus slipped from their grasp; under the shock, the skeleton fell apart. Martin swung his light for a last look at the bones rattling inside the breastplate and muttered grimly: “Your watch is over, old man. You’re relieved!” Gripping the sentry’s weapon, he crawled cautiously out to start his slow rise to the surface.
On deck, the ancient firearm was scanned curiously as it passed from Carroll to Bob, to the other divers, and round the crew. Martin told his tale a dozen times to awe-stricken groups of sailors. Rumour and superstition swept the ship. Many of the older seamen shook their heads; the ghosts of the Santa Cruz would see that no human hands ever reached the treasure they were guarding; the divers would regret it if they went farther. Throughout the evening, Tom Carley argued vigorously with the croakers, trying to quiet such outbursts.
“What ails you swabs? Sure them divers’ll get the gold. Look how far they’ve gone a’ready. D’ye think them gobs ’re afraid of a few stiffs? They’re used to ’em. Anyway ain’t you sailors got no sense? We’ll all get a cut on what comes up. Belay tryin’ to scare those divers; y’re just cuttin’ y’r own throats!”
While the rest of the ship seethed with speculation, Martin described in detail to the captain the conditions in the hold of the wreck, while the other divers listened. Carroll summed up the situation: “Probably the only entrance to the strong-room was through a hatch in the deck over it; the way she lies now, we can’t get to the hatch, so it’s up to us to break through from that passage in the hold. From what Frank says, we’ll have to rip some of the planks off the bulkhead. That’ll expose the iron; we’ll burn through that and then we’re in.”
The following morning, Hawkins and Williams went over on a two-man dive to tear away the bulkhead; Joe carried a crowbar and a lamp, while Tom dragged after him the devil’s claw tongs and a hawser. On the ocean bed, they dragged their gear to the tunnel entrance, dropped down it, and, with Joe leading, crawled from the bottom of the shaft into the hold of the Santa Cruz.
Shining his light, first ahead and then behind, so that Tom could follow him, Joe crawled on his stomach over the rough planks and eased himself one by one over the square timber stanchions until he had gone far enough to bring him over the strong-room; then he waited until Tom hauled himself and his equipment alongside.
Together they scanned the bulkhead beneath them through their face-plates as Joe swung the brilliant searchlight, but its beam was immediately diffused by the turbid water and they could see only a few feet. It took them ten minutes to make sure of conditions; finally Joe selected a stanchion to be torn out so that they could get at the joints in the planks beneath.
Laboriously the two divers dragged up the devil’s claw and sank the points of the tongs into the heavy timber. The hawser led at a bad angle; it should have led up to get the best grip, but it had to lead out horizontally down the passage to the tunnel. The tongs slipped free several times; the divers replaced them, struggling to bury them deep enough to hold until the strain came on.
Finally Joe dragged Tom’s helmet against his own and shut off his air. Tom did the same.
Joe shouted in his helmet; the sound carried faintly through into Tom’s.
“Tom, instead of gettin’ clear, we’ll have to hold them tongs in place until the ship takes up the slack an’ gets a little strain. Then we’ll jump clear an’ tell ’em to heave round.”
“O.K.,” yelled Tom. The divers drew apart, hastily opening up their air-valves.
Joe placed the light to shine where they worked.
Once more they dragged the tongs up on the stanchion and adjusted them; while Joe held the tongs in place, Tom turned off his air.
“On deck!”
“Hello, Tom!” answered Carroll.
“Take up the slack on the hawser, but don’t heave until I tell you!” Tom turned on his air again.
Lieutenant Carroll signalled the winchman.
“Easy on the capstan now. Take in the slack gently!”
Slowly the line came in over the starboard bitts as the Lapwing rolled and the capstan revolved. Ten fathoms came in over the side, the hawser started to tauten each time the vessel rolled to port, but slacked off again as she rolled to starboard. Carroll stopped the winch, took up his transmitter.
“How’s that, Tom?”
Below, Tom crawled closer, thrust his face-plate against the tongs. They were not gripping yet. Joe struggled to hold them in place.
Tom moved away, sat up, shouted: “Take in a little more!”
Carroll, watching the hawser, slowly circled with his right hand as a signal to heave in; the line came in another fathom and started to strain as the vessel rolled away. Carroll stopped the capstan and lifted the telephone to his lips. The Lapwing took a heavier roll.
On the bottom, Joe had braced himself to hold the tongs round the stanchion while the tautening hawser gradually pulled the jaws together and sank the claws into the timber. At last they started to grip. Joe let go, reached for his air-valve, and shut off his air.
“On deck! Vast heaving. Wait until we get clear!”
At that instant, the Lapwing took a deep roll and the hawser suddenly tautened with a jerk. The huge timber leapt from the bulkhead through the water, hitting Joe, and knocking him flat. The surging hawser slacked momentarily, the tongs jumped free and disappeared down the passage.
Joe, striving to rise, felt his legs pinioned by the beam. He sat up in a daze, felt the square timber resting heavily across both his knees, holding his legs immovable. He struggled for a moment, then sank back helplessly. One leg was broken.
It seemed strangely quiet. He thought a moment. The roar of the air through his helmet had ceased. Ah! He had forgotten to turn on his air again after that last call. No wonder he felt dizzy. He fumbled for his air-valve and opened it wide.
A cold fear seized him. No air came through! He gripped his air-hose, pulled it towards him. He got a few feet of slack, then the frayed ends of a broken hose slipped through his fingers. The flying beam had nipped his air-hose and lifeline against the bulkhead overhead and neatly severed them! His air-supply and his communication with the Lapwing were gone!
He struggled desperately to pull his legs free of the trap; it was useless — he could exert very little power in the position in which he lay. His breath came in short gasps. The small amount of air inside his helmet was quickly being used up.
Painfully he twisted round, looking for his mate. Dimly through the water he made out Tom’s helmeted figure bending over the beam, heaving madly on the crowbar, trying to lift the beam clear. He watched a second, tried to pull free as Tom heaved on the bar. It was hopeless. In the confined space, Tom was unable to obtain a leverage. He failed to budge anything.
Joe’s head started to swim. Despairingly he realised that in a few minutes he would suffocate; even if Tom got him clear, he was still thirty feet inside the Santa Cruz; without air he would be dead long before Tom could get him to the surface. The effort to sit up was too much. Half cons
cious, he slumped sideways, sprawled limply on the bulkhead. The dull light of the submarine lamp started to fade out; he panted for air.
A tug on his helmet. With an effort he turned his head. Faintly he heard: “Hello, Joe. Are you all right?”
Tom’s voice.
Joe gasped out: “Air-hose cut. So long, Tom!” His head drooped, his lungs seemed bursting. For a moment his fingers twitched around his useless air-control valve, trying to open it wider, then let go. He lay quiet.
Tom, who had thought before that Joe was merely foul of the broken timber, was startled to catch Joe’s last message and then see him collapse. Tom took another look at the beam. He could never clear it in time; Joe was already dying.
There was nothing he could do there; unless Joe got air within a minute he was gone. Tom seized the light, scrambling desperately out through the passage towards the tunnel. When he reached it, he saw a mass of bubbles rising from the mud — Joe’s broken air-hose. He seized the hose, crawled madly back into the passage, his lead weights banging against the stanchions as he forced his way through the water.
He reached Joe’s body. No air exhausting from Joe’s helmet; his weighted form lay quietly half covered by the fatal beam.
Hastily Tom dropped his lamp to the bulkhead, unscrewing his diving-knife. He poised it for an instant over Joe’s breast, then caught the point of the knife in Joe’s suit and cut a narrow slit in the canvas, shoved the end of the broken air-hose through the hole, and carefully fed the line in until he was sure the open end was protruding inside Joe’s helmet. Then, gripping Joe’s suit against the hose to prevent it from slipping out, he seized Joe’s helmet, pulled him into a sitting position and propped him against the timber.
A second elapsed. Then Joe’s suit started to bulge over his chest, a trickle of air commenced to bubble once more from his exhaust-valve.
Several anxious minutes went by, while Tom held the unconscious diver upright and wondered. Had he been in time? Meanwhile he pulled towards him Joe’s now useless lifeline, cut away the marline stops which held it to the air-hose, cut off about two fathoms of the line, and took three turns of it round Joe’s chest to hold the hose in place. As a final precaution, he made several half hitches with the slack end round the air-hose to keep it firmly in the hole that he had cut in Joe’s suit.
With a stream of air rushing through his helmet, Joe soon stirred, then gradually came back to life. Tom patted him on the back, pressed his own helmet against Joe’s, and shouted: “You’re all right now, Joe. I’ll clear you!”
Tom recovered the crowbar and carefully shoved it under the end of the beam farthest from the keel. Once more he heaved up on the bar, but the passage was so low that he could not get a full swing. He changed his tactics. Dropping on all fours, he slipped his brawny shoulders underneath the handle of his crowbar, then heaved up with all his might.
Joe felt the pressure lessen on his knees; the beam rose perhaps an inch; painfully he dragged his numbed legs out from underneath it. Tom sagged back under the tremendous load, saw that Joe was free, and let the beam come down once more while he crawled out from beneath the crowbar and moved through the water to Joe’s side.
Inch by inch they wormed their way along the passage, Tom watching the makeshift air-connection like a hawk, while Joe’s useless leg dragged after him, his heavy shoe pulling horribly against the straining flesh. At the tunnel, Tom secured the broken lifeline to Joe’s harness, then crawled up out of the tunnel and pulled Joe up after him.
The two worn divers emerged on the ocean floor. Joe fell in a heap on the sand. Tom, weak and panting from his exertions under heavy pressure, dragged him to the descending-line.
Tom looked him over carefully. Air was leaking out the hole he had ripped through Joe’s suit; Joe’s rig was full of water up to his breast, but that didn’t matter much as he could sit upright while they decompressed and so keep air in his helmet.
At the descending-line, they gave the rising signal and the tenders hauled them up. Tom clambered on the stage and hauled Joe after him.
Not until then did Tom have time to inform the badly frightened deck force of what had happened; why their hawser had suddenly slacked off; and why neither he nor Joe had answered signals or telephone calls.
But in spite of Joe’s broken leg, they had to take their decompression to avoid ‘the bends’.
The rolling of the Lapwing, which had so nearly killed Joe by its unexpected jerk on the hawser, was getting worse as the wind freshened and the seas rose up. The stage, hanging from the ship’s side, swung up and down through the water with every roll. As they reached the thirty-foot point and stopped for their decompression at that depth, more trouble started.
At one instant the divers found themselves forty feet down; the next moment the rolling ship jerked them up to within twenty feet of the surface. To aggravate matters, as the crests and the troughs of the waves surged over their heads, the depth of water also changed. Every few seconds the pressure on them varied from over twenty pounds to less than ten pounds; the ear drums of the divers alternately surged in and out, trying to accommodate themselves to the rapidly fluctuating pressures.
Both men developed violent headaches. Tom felt as if his ears would burst each time he suddenly swung towards the surface; Joe experienced a terrible pain in the sinus passage over his eyes where the trapped air, seeking to expand as he swept towards the surface and the pressure lessened, made him feel as if the top of his head were about to blow off.
A minute went by with Tom clinging drunkenly to the bails as they surged up and down and trying to hold Joe on the stage. At last Tom could stand it no longer.
“On deck! Take us up or we’ll both pass out!” he shouted.
Carroll signalled the time-keeper.
“How much longer?”
“Twenty minutes, Cap’n,” answered Carley.
He would have to risk it.
“Up stage!”
The winch creaked, a moment later the stage jerked through the surface and lurched on board; Joe, helmet down on the platform, was clinging desperately to the iron slats while Tom, astride of him, clung to a bail with one hand and clutched Joe’s lifelines with the other.
Gently the stage was lowered to the deck. The tenders rushed in; lead belts, lead shoes, went flying in all directions. Off came the helmets. Four sailors seized Joe, and hurried him up the passageway into the recompression tank while Tom crawled in after. Carroll and Bob followed. The door slammed, the air-pressure was run up to twenty pounds.
Carefully Joe’s canvas suit was pulled off, his left leg bared. A dark bruise covered his shin where the beam had landed; halfway between knee and ankle a ridge showed where the bone had broken. Carroll felt carefully round it — a clean break, the flesh was not punctured.
While Bob held Hawkins’ knee, Carroll seized his foot and pulled hard. Cold beads of sweat stood out on Joe’s forehead at the wrench, but the ridge on his shin disappeared as the broken ends of the bone slipped into place.
From the medical chest which had been placed in the outer lock, the captain drew splints, bandages, and iodine. He painted Joe’s leg, and, while Bob held the splints firmly in place, wrapped turn after turn of linen from thigh to foot. At last he paused and looked at his patient.
“Well, Joe, the old luck holds. I guess they can’t keep a good man down, not even if a ship falls on him. How you feeling, old man?”
“The leg’s fine, Captain, now you’ve triced it up, but my ears feel awful and another second on that stage would ’ave made me seasick.” He paused, twisting his head to look at Tom, who lay sprawled out on a blanket behind him. “Thanks, old shipmate. I knew I could always count on you.” His head drooped and he closed his tired eyes.
Carroll and Bob went through the outer lock to the deck.
The sea was worse, the waves were rolling up under the Lapwing’s counter and breaking there with sledgehammer blows.
The wind freshened and drove the spray from fly
ing whitecaps in over the weather rail. The ship strained at her moorings.
Lieutenant Carroll looked at the barometer log. It had dropped two-tenths of an inch the last hour; a gale was coming.
“Man the surf-boat!”
Into the boat, tugging at its painter alongside, tumbled Clark and his crew. The boat sank in a trough as the engineer threw in his clutch, then fairly leapt away as the next crest swept by.
Bill Clark steered for the lee mooring on the port bow; the surf-boat rose and fell easily as it ran before the sea. They swept abreast the mooring-buoy; the boat heaved up and down wildly on its windward side as two seamen dug their boathooks into the spar to hold alongside while the bowman, balancing himself precariously in the stern, sought to spear the lanyard on the toggle-pin with his boathook. The flying spray swept over them as they surged against the buoy; at last, leaning far out, the bowman caught the lanyard and yanked out the pin. On the next roll, he hit the locking link with his boathook and drove it clear. The bill of the pelican hook flew open and the freed hawser dropped away.
Clark swung his left arm towards the Lapwing as a signal to heave in, but it was unnecessary. Already there they were reeling in the line.
The port-quarter mooring was let go next; then the surf-boat fought its way against the sea to windward, where the Lapwing strained on her starboard-quarter line. It took all Clark’s skill to hold his boat against the buoy while it jerked violently under the hawser’s pull and barely watched. At last his crew tripped the hook. The Lapwing’s stern, no longer restrained, swung violently down the wind, while the ship tugged on her last mooring. With all the strain on one line, Carroll felt it too dangerous for the boat’s crew to attempt to trip the hawser; the flying pelican hook, when it came free, was likely to brain the man who tripped it.
Seizing his megaphone, he leaned over the bridge rail and bellowed to the boat which was dancing madly among the waves, trying to work its way in a quartering sea up to the last spar.
“Boat ahoy! Belay that! Come alongside our lee quarter!” He turned to the quartermaster. “Keep your rudder ‘Hard left’ and make a lee on our port quarter for the boat.”
Thirty Fathoms Deep Page 12
