Thirty Fathoms Deep

by Ellsberg, Edward

  Thirty Fathoms Deep

  Edward Ellsberg

  © Edward Ellsberg 1941

  Edward Ellsberg has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1941 by George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Dedication

  My old shipmates on the ‘Falcon’.

  Chapter 1

  “Yentonces el capitán tiró una antorcha entra el polvorin.”

  Bob Porter read the yellowed Spanish page slowly, translating as he went, “And then the captain hurled a torch into the magazine.”

  Three hundred and fifty years had passed since then, but Bob’s heart pounded as he visualised the scene — the Santa Cruz, her masts carried away, rolling helplessly in the trough of the sea; the Golden Hind, which had just raked the Spaniard with a broadside, coming up close-hauled ready to lay alongside and board; the gallant captain of the treasure ship, all chance of resistance gone, determined to die rather than let his cargo fall into Drake’s hands.

  A volcano of flame rose amidships on the Santa Cruz; spars, casks, men, were hurled flaming into the sea; the hull buckled, the poop rose high above the water, then the ship vanished beneath the waves. A few bubbles and some wreckage, were all that marked the spot as the bow of the dreaded English corsair foamed up, her rail bristling with pikes and cutlasses in the hands of the thwarted boarding party. Drake had been cheated of his prey — the wealth of Peru, the whole year’s hoard from the mines and temples of the Incas, lay at the bottom of the sea. A few Spaniards, terribly burned, were picked up and taken prisoner. Drake continued northward towards Panama.

  And so in the stately Castilian phrases of Don Jaime ran the tale of the fatal voyage which started at Callao and ended near El Morro Island; of his captivity, of his ransoming, of his return to Spain.

  *

  Bob Porter closed the warped parchment covers carefully. Gradually his eyes came back from that faraway episode, glanced round the dusty bookshop, and gazed at the notice pinned up on the wall.

  ‘Your Choice, Fifty Cents.’ Soiled biographies, well-thumbed textbooks, out of date fiction, lay in heaps on the table; nestling among them had lain the frayed book whose title had caught his eye — Un Caballero en Peru. Hastily he fished two quarters from his pocket; in a moment he was threading his way through the crowd on Beacon Hill. Still enthralled by Don Jaime’s adventures, he turned mechanically down Park Street to the subway for home.

  Thankful that his Spanish was good enough to understand it, he clutched his find firmly under his left arm as the milling crowd jostled him in the station. And as he clung tightly to a strap with his other arm while the swaying car jolted its way through the tunnel, a vague thought entered his mind and slowly took form. He was far away from Boston, thinking of the Santa Cruz — three hundred and fifty years ago, four thousand miles away, but vividly outlined before him as in that burst of flame she had vanished forever!

  Forever? Bob wondered. Could he make Major Houghton see what he saw?

  The car reached Brookline, and Bob got out at Washington Square and almost ran until he reached Corey Road. In his room, with a Spanish dictionary to help him on some of the obsolete words, he went once more through the formal Spanish in which Don Jaime described his departure from Callao on the long journey to the northward; the strange sail which had attempted to overhaul them; their flight to the westward and the long chase which ended as they neared El Morro Island next day; the battle; the desperate attempt of their captain to run into shoal water to escape the Golden Hind; the loss of their masts as they approached the island; the destruction of the Santa Cruz to keep her fabulous treasure from falling into the hands of the hated Englishmen. Yes, there it was — the leadsman’s sounding just before they lost their masts — thirty fathoms and shoaling slowly; El Morro Island still a league away with the sun just setting over the northern headland. Don Jaime had carefully noted it down; it was the last thing he remembered until he came to next day, swathed in bandages, a prisoner on the Golden Hind waiting to be ransomed at Panama.

  Chapter 2

  Bob reflected. The idea which had flashed through his mind in the bookshop looked more and more feasible as he pondered it. Divers could get to that ship! He knew one at least who could surely do it.

  The summer before he had spent his holidays in Casco Bay, on the water most of the time. And there Tom Williams, whose boat he had hired all season, had fascinated him with a never-ending string of yarns of his strange adventures as a gunner’s mate in the Navy. Williams was a quiet chap, but he had finally unbent under Bob’s eager questioning, and the thrilling stories of how he had helped to raise two sunken submarines enthralled his listener.

  Bob remembered every word of the stories. One boat, the S-4, had been in a hundred feet of water, the other, the S-51, in a hundred and thirty-five feet. The Santa Cruz was deeper — thirty fathoms, a hundred and eighty feet down. Raising ships from such deep water was nearly impossible, Bob knew, but they wouldn’t have to raise the Santa Cruz. If only divers could reach the treasure room, they could bring up the gold piecemeal.

  A car drew up to the kerb below his window and then stopped. Bob looked out eagerly. Yes, Major Houghton was stepping out of it. Bob closed the aged book, ran down the stairs, and found the banker already settled in an armchair near the library table, unfolding the Transcript. He looked up at his nephew.

  “Hello, Bob.” He paused, noting the flushed face before him. “What’s up? Any trouble in your department today?”

  Bob shook his head vigorously and tried to speak calmly.

  “Uncle, I’ve got a wonderful scheme for making nine million dollars on my vacation!”

  The major examined his nephew a little anxiously, came to the conclusion that he was joking, and then smiled indulgently.

  “All right, young man, out with it.”

  Bob found his uncle strangely attentive as he poured out the story of the Santa Cruz, with its cargo of gold and jewels, his ideas on how to recover the treasure, and the marvellous exploits as a diver of his friend Tom Williams. He rushed upstairs for his book, and watched while his uncle slowly turned the stiff pages, translating carefully as he read.

  Major Houghton sank back in his armchair, closed his eyes, and tried to visualise the story. The clock in the hall ticked steadily. Bob tried to keep his mind on his uncle, on the book lying open in his lap, but a tropical island, gleaming in the setting sun, seemed to blot out for him the room in which he stood.

  The banker opened his eyes again and gazed curiously at his nephew.

  “It’s a wild gamble, Bob, but I’ll back it! It’ll cost – ”

  Impulsively Bob hugged his uncle; then, suddenly remembering himself, he closed the book again and placed it on the table.

  The major smiled, and tried to calm his nephew with the practical details of an expedition.

  “Let me see, Bob. It’ll take a ship, a good captain, seve
ral divers, and lots of money besides that book of yours. It’ll cost at least a hundred thousand dollars to fit your expedition out. Sure it’s worth it?” But the faraway look in his eager nephew’s face was a sufficient answer.

  Chapter 3

  The Lapwing strained at her lines against an East Boston pier while the ebbing tide raced by. A minesweeper once, built during the war to clear German mines from the path of the Grand Fleet cruising in the North Sea, she had lain idle at the Destroyer Base at Squantum since 1919. The Navy had gladly sold her at a slight fraction of her wartime cost. She was now nearly ready to sail.

  A strenuous month had gone by. To Bob Porter, the intense interest which his uncle had shown in the adventure was almost as much a source of wonder as of joy. But it would have seemed quite natural if only it had occurred to Bob that right through the centuries, almost as far back as Mayflower days, the Houghtons had been pioneers in fitting out vessels for what had each time seemed to their staid Boston neighbours to be crack-brained voyages, even if they did not actually savour of piracy. Traders to the West Indies, when all such trade except with Spain was illegal, slavers to the Gold Coast, privateers in the War of 1812, tea-clippers to China — had sailed from Boston to gratify the thirst for adventure of the Houghtons who had gone before.

  And now Major Houghton, standing on the pier, proudly surveyed the latest result of his family’s urge to try its fortunes on the sea.

  Leaning over the Lapwing’s bridge was her new captain, Lieutenant Carroll, watching with Bob at his side, as an endless stream of stores went down into the hold. On the dock near the headline, well clear of the stevedores working on the piles of cases and casks alongside, Major Houghton gazed up at the charthouse, unusually elated as he scrutinised his captain. Getting him had been a struggle. Lieutenant Carroll was captain of the Navy’s salvage ship; it had been his skill and daring which finally had brought up from their ocean graves the two lost submarines on which Tom Williams had worked. To borrow him from the Service had proved a difficult task, and it had taken all the prestige and influence of the major’s bank, together with a personal visit to the Secretary of the Navy, to persuade the Department to grant Carroll a year’s leave of absence. Carroll himself had been eager to go, but in Washington they were quite unwilling to release him; it was only the major’s solemn assurance that if needed Carroll would immediately be sent back to the Navy with no expense spared to ensure his hasty return, that finally secured a reluctant signature by the secretary on Carroll’s request for an extended leave of absence. Well, there he was; the major’s breast swelled with pride at the thought that he had the best salvage skipper in the world to look after his nephew’s search for the Santa Cruz.

  Bob could hardly repress giving vent to the thrill he felt. He glanced admiringly at the bronzed young sailor beside him.

  Only twenty-eight years old, thought Bob, and he’s already got the Navy Cross and the Distinguished Service Medal! He looked sideways at the ribbons decorating Carroll’s blouse. That blue and white one’s for the D.S.M. I’ll bet there aren’t many admirals who have got that.

  Carroll noticed his gaze, and smiled a little.

  “Well, Bob, we’re nearly through. It may sound humdrum, but nine-tenths of success in any expedition consists in being properly fitted out before you start. Now’s when we win or lose. It’s more so when you go diving. It’ll be worth a week’s extra work here, if later that’ll save one diver ten minutes’ work on the bottom.”

  “You’ve certainly put in the work, Lieutenant,” said Bob. “Why, you’ve been at your desk nearly all night each day since you came, making out specification lists and sketches for our supplies and machinery. I should think you’d go to sleep on your feet.”

  “It’s not as bad as that, Bob. Standing mid-watches gets you out of the habit of sleeping all night. And I can’t be too careful about checking our gear. There’s hardly a single item that somebody’s life is not going to depend on before long. You’ll see.”

  A shrill pipe sounded. The main boom swung out and dropped a cargo-net on the dock. Two seamen started to tumble cases on to the net. On deck the boatswain’s mate roared out:

  “Pedro! Carley! Belay that! There’s submarine lights in them cases! Handle ’em like eggs!”

  A swarthy sailor on the dock stopped in his tracks, clung tightly to the wooden case he was about to drop into the net, and swore silently under his breath. Then, assisted by his mate, he placed the box down gently and turned to seize the next one.

  “Sangre de Christo! I sign de article for interpreter, not coolie! Tonight I jump de sheep!”

  “Easy, matey, easy now!” breathed Carley. “Don’t you go jumpin’ no ships. Not after all the trouble I had getting you signed on. You stick by Tom Carley an’ you’ll come out top notch. This ain’t no ordinary cruise. I rumbled that when I seen all them stores. An’ that lootenant, him there on the bridge, they don’t ship skippers like him outta the Navy for no tradin’ voyages. You just stow yer gaff ’n lay low ’n listen to me!”

  The conversation ceased. Both men loaded cases carefully until the netting was heaped up, then hooked the corners and leapt clear as the boatswain’s pipe shrilled and the whip started up. Over the side swung the boom, the winchman lowered gently and dropped the cargo-net into the after-hold where three seamen cast it loose and stowed the boxes tightly against the forward bulkhead.

  All day long to the rumble of the winch, the hoarse cries of the boatswain, and the creaking of the falls the supplies came aboard and disappeared into the hold. Sacks of potatoes, cases of canned goods, crates of eggs, tons of assorted foodstuffs; bales of diving-hoses, boxes of diving-suits, bronze helmets, barrels of diving-gear; steel bottles filled with compressed gases; cases of oil; rifles, machine guns, ammunition — in an endless stream they were discharged on the dock from heavy trucks, whipped over the Lapwing’s side, and stowed in the holds. Deeper and deeper the ship settled into the water as her cargo came aboard, until the lower deck ports were nearly awash.

  Four bells struck.

  In the cabin, Lieutenant Carroll, Major Houghton, and Bob Porter seated themselves for dinner — Carroll at the head of the table, the major at his right hand.

  With a grand air, Fitz, Carroll’s coloured boy, resplendent in a white mess jacket, served the meal in true Navy style. An elderly darky, grown grey on board ship and retired for age, he had seized the opportunity to make another cruise with his former officer.

  The major eyed him curiously.

  “Fitz, you old rascal, do you realise your responsibilities?”

  “Yes, suh, majuh, Ah does. I’se been shipmates with Mistah Carroll on two cruises, and Ah shuah knows how to boss ’im. Ah nevah lets ’im miss a meal, ’n when he’s up late, ole Fitz’s right on deck wid de coffee ’n toast. Yes, suh, Ah keeps ’im in shape. Dat’s how come he gits all dem medals!”

  Carroll laughed.

  “Never fear, Major, we’re all right in Fitz’s hands. Bob’ll come back to you looking as if he’d been living on the fat of the land!”

  A broad grin suffused Fitz’s black face, his teeth gleamed brilliantly. “You shuah am right, Captain. I’se been cookin’ faw dem naval officers ovah forty yeahs, an’ when de wah come, dey jes go out an’ lick de world!” Carefully he backed through the after-door with the soup tureen.

  “I certainly shan’t worry on that score, at any rate,” said the banker. “If your Navy divers are as well trained as your Navy cooks, it’s all over except auditing the returns.” He became serious. “Frankly, Captain, I can hardly say I have much faith in a successful outcome. So far as money goes, I’ve tried to furnish everything you think you’ll need, but I’ve been reading up these salvage schemes since Bob pulled me into this one, and I find that practically all of them have been failures. Of course some were frauds, but many which had good seamen and good divers failed nevertheless. No reflection on you, Captain,” he added hastily, noting that Lieutenant Carroll seemed about to interrupt, �
��no reflection at all! I hardly need to say that it would be quite presumptuous on my part to attempt to instruct you on the difficulties of salvage. I merely mean that you may never find the ship, and even if you do, she may have fallen to pieces long ago, and her heavy treasure chests may be scattered and sunk deep into the mud where you can never reach them. And finally, we have, after all, only an old Spanish tale to guide you. Perhaps it’s false: I hope not. Bob, you remember the night you first showed me that book?”

  “Yes, Uncle, I’ll never forget it.”

  “Well, Bob, I told you then what this expedition might cost. It has cost that, and more — $150,000. I’m willing to gamble that amount, though. Understand now, Captain, why I’m not very hopeful of success. I know how these things go. You and your men are sailing into danger. If it were just for money, I’d not finance it or let Bob go. But there’s adventure in it that’s worth more than the gold. Be careful. Don’t lose anybody. And if you come back without a single doubloon, it’ll still be worth it to me.”

  “Why, Uncle, of course we’ll succeed!” broke in Bob enthusiastically.

  Lieutenant Carroll smiled indulgently at the outburst.

  “I think I understand your attitude perfectly, Major. Before I tackled my first submarine I would have said exactly what Bob here did. Now I think I know better. There isn’t another thing on this earth as heart-breaking and as full of disappointments as fighting the sea for something it has once swallowed up.”

  Major Houghton nodded, and Bob listened attentively. “The one thing we can be sure of,” continued Carroll, “is that disasters we can’t even dream of now are going to occur. I’ve struggled through two campaigns at the bottom of the sea and nearly everything’s happened to me or my crews, but you can just bet that old man Neptune’s still got a few tricks he hasn’t tried out yet.” He paused, while Fitz served the main course.