“Can’t get no wetter,” he grinned at his visitor, “but this ain’t nuthin’, matey! These oil fires has made life easy. When we used to hafta heave coal into them boilers, them wuz the days when a stoker had to be a man! Too bad, firm’s such a soft job nowadays a lot o’ these deck-hands are tryin’ to get into the black gang. Times wuz diff’runt when a fireman had to swing a slice bar and heave a ton o’ coal about every five minutes! We wuzn’t bothered with no loafers then!”
“This looks enough like work to me.” Bob wiped off a stream of sweat that was pouring into his eyes. “You’d never catch me advising anybody who’s looking for a rest to ship as fireman, even on an oil-burner. I guess I’ve lost ten pounds already; me for the top side and the ice-box — I’m going to crawl in and cool down!”
He climbed up the steel ladder through the uptake hatches, out on the deck, and up on the superstructure. The fresh breeze sweeping freely across was a blessed relief from the scorching boiler room. For a brief space he revelled in it, then slipped down the companionway to his room. Hastily he stripped off his soaked clothing, seized a towel, and jumped into the shower-bath across the passage. A cooling spray, salty and invigorating, came flying from overhead; Bob leapt about in it, thoroughly happy, feeling that he would never get too much of that refreshing flood. At last he came out, cool once more.
In his room he pulled a fresh suit of whites from the drawers under his bunk and slowly dressed himself as he thought over his morning’s inspection. There was a great deal of special machinery in the Lapwing to fit her as a salvage ship; he could see where all his uncle’s money had gone. Well, it would come back when they got to the Santa Cruz. His eye travelled casually to the shelf in his open desk where his parchment-covered volume reposed. He stopped dressing suddenly, coming out of his reverie with a start, and jumped towards his desk. Yes, he had seen correctly. The book was gone!
Hurriedly he ransacked the desk, spent the brief moment necessary to scan every spot in the tiny state-room. There was no book there. A thought struck him. Perhaps the captain had borrowed it.
Without pausing to finish dressing, he rushed in his bare feet up the ladder to the bridge, and pushed into the captain’s cabin abaft it without thinking of knocking. Lieutenant Carroll, stretched out on his bunk reading, looked up in surprise at the intrusion.
Bob’s eyes swept the desk and the bookshelf in a glance. It was not there.
“Don Jaime’s book! It’s gone! Did you take it?”
Carroll sat up suddenly.
“Gone? No, of course not!” He paused a moment, startled at the question. “When’d you miss it?”
“Just this minute,” responded Bob excitedly, “but I’ve been below all morning, and I really haven’t paid any attention since last night. I don’t know how long it’s been gone.”
Carroll’s jaw squared ominously, his face grew dark.
“There’s some crook in this crew after all. I guess it always happens. But he won’t get away with this. Don’t worry, Bob, he can’t get it off the ship. I’ll get the boatswain’s mate to search every diddy-box and every bag on the ship. We’ll find it. And whoever took it’ll spend the rest of this cruise where he won’t bother us! Come on, Bob!” He started down the ladder. Bob, following him, thought he saw a shadow flit across the cabin door below as they emerged.
Hastily Carroll descended, Bob at his heels. They paused a moment before the open door of Bob’s room, and looked in.
Bob started. There on top of the open desk, in its former position, lay his precious book!
He jumped in, his bare feet trampling the heap of wet clothes on the floor, seized it, and hastily turned the pages. Yes, there it was undamaged, lying as if it had never been touched!
The captain took it from him, and beckoned him to follow to his cabin. They went up more slowly, Bob’s heart beating violently as he climbed.
Above, Lieutenant Carroll closed the doors, looked out of the porthole to see that no one lurked near, and then came back.
“What do you make of it?” he asked.
“Whoever took it felt he’d be caught and returned it before he thought it was missed, I guess.”
“You’re right, Bob, but that opens up a new situation. We’ve got to have secrecy for success on this job; somebody on this ship has horned into the secret. But it can’t do him any good until we’re successful, for on the Santa Cruz the gold’s as safe from theft as if it were in the Mint. Nobody can get it. Now, what’s this sneak after?”
“I don’t know, Captain. It certainly won’t help him much.”
“Still it could hurt us, Bob. If the news got out, the Peruvian government might try an expedition of its own. The Santa Cruz is sunk on the high seas, so anybody’s got a right to salvage her who can. Now if they came out in a warship and started diving, we couldn’t stop them, but they’d probably chase us off by main force. That would be a tough ending for our expedition, wouldn’t it?”
“Can’t you catch him and put him in the brig where he can’t do any harm?”
“I’m afraid not, Bob. The book’s back, and there’s no evidence against anybody. Pretty slick, whoever did it. Now he’s got the story he doesn’t need the book, for he knows we’ll locate the ship for him. No, the thing for us to do is to pretend we never noticed it was gone, just act unsuspicious, and make sure that nobody whom we can’t absolutely trust gets ashore anywhere until we’re back in Boston.”
“Yes, but, Lieutenant, remember that’s a Spanish book. How about Pedro? He’s the only Spaniard on board! Give him the third degree and I’ll bet he’ll confess!”
“Sorry, but I can’t agree. Bob, lots of sailors learn enough Spanish in knocking round the world to read that book. We’ve probably got over a dozen aboard who could; they can get along nearly as well in a Spanish port as back in Boston. No, it wouldn’t prove anything, and it’d let the cat out of the bag. We’ll just have to watch our step, watch the crew, and keep a weather eye open for trouble. We’re lucky to know about it; we can thank our stars you noticed it was gone before the thief had a chance to bring it back.”
He leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on his desk, looked quizzically at Bob, then laughed.
“That’s a new wrinkle, anyway, old man. When we were salvaging subs we didn’t have to worry about anybody trying to steal ’em from us. With about thirty newspaper reporters on deck every day, our doings were just about as secret as the noonday sun.” He thought a moment, then added, “Well, I guess that’ll change our plans a bit. I’d meant to base on Guayaquil for a supply of fresh provisions as we worked, but that’s all off. We keep out of all foreign ports this cruise and make no stops en route. We’ll live out of cans as long as they last, and when they’re gone, I guess we’ll have to go fishing for our grub.”
He leaned back and pressed a button beside his berth. Fitz shuffled in.
“Tell the divers I want to see them in the cabin.”
“Ay, ay, Cap’n.” Fitz went out by the after door on his way below. In a few minutes, caps in hand, the four divers crowded into the little cabin, ranging themselves alongside the chart table outboard, and looking expectantly at Carroll. The captain greeted each by his name as he filed in.
“Boys, a queer thing’s happened. I told each of you when you signed on that we were going out to salvage a treasure ship. I didn’t mention what she was nor where she lay; so far as we’re concerned it didn’t matter. But I warned you that the rest of the crew weren’t in on anything; and none of us would talk about the trip. Nobody did?”
“Only between ourselves, Captain. We ain’t said a word to nobody else,” affirmed Tom earnestly. “We ain’t even talked it over when any other gobs was near.”
“I felt sure you hadn’t. Anyway, the cat’s out of the bag. Sometime last night a Spanish book that Bob had — which contains the sailing-directions for getting to our wreck — was stolen out of his room. He didn’t know about it until just before noon. Of course he came up and reported rig
ht away, but when we started down to search the ship, there was the book back on his desk.”
Hawkins whistled. “You’re bound to get some bad eggs having to ship a whole new crew!”
Tom Williams pricked up his ears: “Spanish book, y’say, Captain?”
Carroll nodded.
“Well, I think that Spaniard Pedro’ll bear watchin’. He ’n that gob Carley have been thicker ’n molasses ever since we sailed, and they don’t look none too good to me! I’d beach ’em, the next port we make!”
“Nothing doing, Tom. Besides, I haven’t really anything to go on yet. Whoever stole it can’t hurt us while he’s aboard; the last thing I want to do is to put him ashore and let him make trouble. I’d like to know who took it, but only to make sure he doesn’t get ashore. And unless we find out, we’re not going to make port anywhere, even at the Canal.”
“This guy won’t jump no ship there,” said Clark. “He’ll stick until we hook the wreck anyway.”
“That’s my idea,” agreed Carroll, “and after that the next port’ll be Boston, so there’ll be no chance for any crooked business. Now I’m letting you in on this so’s you can keep an eye open. If we spot him, he’ll go in the brig to make doubly sure. Now maybe Pedro’s guilty, but don’t let him know he’s suspected. I took him on as interpreter, figuring we’d base on Guayaquil, but I guess that’s off. We’ll have to base on what’s in the hold now. There’s the story, boys. Keep a sharp lookout to see who’s putting his oar into this, and meanwhile we’ll try to steer clear of trouble.”
Chapter 8
The weather continued fine, the sea smooth except for the long Atlantic swell that never dies. The Lapwing steamed steadily southward. The fourth night out it passed abeam the light that marks San Salvador, Bob staying up to catch a glimpse of the spot where Columbus finally bumped into the Western World. Farther south, Lieutenant Carroll cautiously piloted through Crooked Island Passage, taking bearings on his quadrant of each light as it rose over the horizon and plotting them carefully on the chart.
“A navigator can’t be too careful when there’s land about if he wants to stay off the rocks,” he explained. “Mighty few ships ever go aground except through bone-headedness. I was on the battleship Texas when I was an ensign, and the navigator piled her up on Block Island because he casually took a look at the first light they raised and assumed it was North-east Light when actually it was a light on the south end of the island. So he turned to port, thinking he was clear, and he ran the ship way up on the beach. No, you can’t take anything for granted when you’re navigating.”
Next morning they steamed through the Windward Passage between Haiti and Cuba, and entering the Caribbean Sea, changed course a little to the westward towards Panama.
Under the burning tropical sun, they began the second leg of their voyage. The heat was intense.
“Keep out of the sun,” Hawkins advised Bob, as together they stood on the forecastle to get the advantage of the breeze. “You’re not tanned like the rest o’ the crew that’s sailed these seas before. The heat’s diff’rent down here. until y’ get a tough hide, the sun’ll burn right through your skin if you stand in it. Watch out, or you’ll be wearin’ bandages just as if you’d been in a fire.”
Bob moved round to where the bridge cast a shadow on the deck.
“Thanks, Joe. I’m particularly anxious to stay well on this expedition. It’s for a special reason, and I’ve been wanting to ask you about it first; I haven’t mentioned it to anybody yet. Joe, I want to dive on the Santa Cruz!”
Hawkins started to shake his head, but he stopped when he saw the eager face watching him and explained more fully: “I don’t know any reason you shouldn’t make as good a diver as any of us, but it takes a lot of experience before it’s safe to go exploring wrecks. I could teach you to dive all right, but I wouldn’t advise you working on this ship. Still, I’ll teach you how to manage a diving-rig, and if the skipper’s willing, maybe you can make some shallow dips. This is a deep job, and the pressure’s likely to put you away if you try to make the bottom.”
Bob shook his head. “No, Joe, that’s not enough. I’m going to see the Santa Cruz for myself. That’s why I came. If I don’t, the expedition’s a failure so far as I’m concerned, no matter what we recover. You’ve got to help!”
The chief torpedo-man looked carefully over the young man before him. Bob was bigger than he was himself; athletic too, for he had played half-back two seasons running on the Harvard team.
“Well, maybe you could do it. I know several gobs started diving younger ’n you are now. One of ’em worked with me off Block Island; he was a bear-cat too. You don’t look excitable; keeping your head on the bottom’s nearly the most important part of diving. I’ll tell you what — I’ll show you how, and after that it’s up to the skipper. You know, I’ve got a hunch he’ll be O.K. He didn’t know a thing about diving himself when I first met him, but he learned so’s he could get down on the first sub we worked on and not have to boss the job from the top side. And he made a good diver before he got through. I think that’s how he managed to put the job across. They hadn’t had much luck raising subs before. Let’s go down the fore hold. I’ll break out a rig and show you what it’s all about.”
They descended the forecastle hatch, went forward along the berth deck to the hold, where they lifted off the cover. Clark was drafted from the chief’s quarters to help them. Hawkins dropped into the dark hold, armed with a flashlight, and shortly passed up to the two men overhead the various parts of a diving-outfit. They dragged the equipment into the divers’ room.
Martin and Williams, who were stretched out on their bunks, clad solely in their underwear, and each with an electric fan trained on him, looked up amazed as Hawkins started dragging in a helmet. Williams laughed.
“Holy mackerel, Joe, don’t you get your fill o’ that without haulin’ one into your bunk?”
“Pipe down, Tom. You’ve got the wrong steer.”
Then, as Bob entered carrying a lead belt, “Boys, we got a recruit. Bob wants to be a diver!”
Martin leapt from his bunk, grabbed a towel, soaked it in a pail of water, and with mock gravity applied it to Bob’s forehead.
“Get him into his bunk quick!” cried Martin, holding Bob tightly. “It must be the heat! Maybe, when he’s quiet, he’ll come out of it.”
“Aw, lay off that, Frank,” said Joe, pulling the wet towel away. “I mean it. So does Bob. He wants to see the wreck himself, and we’re all going to help him. Of course, nobody’s recommending diving as a safety-first exercise, but if Bob here wants to try it we’ll teach him, and it’ll be up to the skipper whether he goes down or not. Bob’ll have to go up to the mast and get the old man’s permission before he can go overboard. Now the spectators’ll pipe down while I show him what all the gear’s for.”
Martin crawled back in his bunk, and Clark pulled himself into the berth over it, leaving the deck clear.
Hawkins lifted a copper helmet and breastplate up on the table. It had four small glass ports in it — one in front, one on top, and one on each side.
“There’s a lot of machinery to a diving-suit that you’ve got to operate without having to think about it,” he said. “Now we’ll start on the helmet. This connection on the back is where the air-hose screws on to let the air in. Notice there’s a safety-valve on it that’ll let the air blow in but won’t let any blow out. That’s so that if your air-hose breaks or gets cut in half, the air that’s left in your helmet can’t escape. If it did, the sea-pressure would squeeze you to death as I explained the other day. There’s always enough air in the helmet to keep you going about five minutes, so if you lose your air-supply, the tenders can haul you up on your lifeline, and all you have to worry about is getting ‘the bends’ from having to come up without any decompression!
“Notice inside the helmet these four flat ducts that discharge the air right over the glass face-plates. That’s to keep the glass from fogging up from your
breath.
“Now here on the right side of the helmet, level with the neck, is the exhaust-valve. You regulate it with this little wheel outside. A spring holds it shut and keeps the water from leaking in. Whenever the air-pressure inside gets above the point the spring is set for, the air lifts the valve and blows out into the water through this tube leading round to the back of the helmet. That’s at the back so that the bubbles from the exhaust won’t float up over your face-plates and prevent you from seeing.
“Now here on the other side of the back is a connection for the telephone. The telephone-wires are cased inside a waterproof rubber cable that’s also made strong enough to act as the lifeline for hauling the diver up. The end of the cable is screwed into the helmet here at the back, making a watertight joint with the telephone-set inside. This round thing soldered inside the helmet just to the left of where your mouth’d be, is the transmitter. If you want to talk to your tender, you just turn your head and yell into it. A lot of good it usually does you.”
Bob, who was following attentively, looked puzzled. “Can’t he hear you all right?”
“Them telephone-sets are mostly no good,” chipped in Tom, who was the nearest. “There’s so much noise from the air roaring through the helmet that when the tender talks to you, you can’t make him out unless you turn off your air, and you can’t afford to do that often!
“The worst trouble, though, comes when you want to tell the tender something. If you don’t shut off your air, he can’t hear you. And then the chances are that after you’ve shut off the air, he can’t understand you anyway. It’s a queer result of high air-pressure that it mushes up your words and they all sound alike. The air’s so heavy from being compressed that somehow it don’t work right on your vocal cords and you sound as if you’re tryin’ to talk with a mouthful of meal. Whoever’s listenin’ on the top side has to have a fine imagination or he never makes out what yer tryin’ to tell him.”
Thirty Fathoms Deep Page 4