Three bells came and went, four bells struck. A cab rolled down the pier, Lieutenant Carroll and Mr Williamson disembarked. Bob went ashore and was introduced.
The consul re-entered the cab. “I can well understand your reasons for secrecy, Lieutenant. However, you can rest easy on that score. Excepting Dr Estrada and myself, no one in Ecuador will know of your mission. I’ll have a draft drawn on Major Houghton for the oil you had, and I’ll see that your patient has every care.” The cab started up. He leaned out the window.
“Goodbye and good luck!” he called, as Carroll and Bob waved from the gangway. They went aboard.
The gangway was hauled in and the lines cast off; when five bells struck, the Lapwing was standing out of the harbour. Tired as he was, Carroll stood by the pilot’s side until they had steamed clear, dropped the pilot, and were again standing to the westward through the wide Gulf, pointed for the open sea.
Not until then did he answer any questions about Tom.
But when the pilot was gone and everything was safe, he described his vigil at Tom’s side in the hospital. Dr Estrada had administered strychnine to stimulate Tom’s heart and keep him going until his strength returned a little.
“They think Tom’ll come round all right. ‘The bends’ are gone; it’ll take a few days for his heart to recuperate. They’re watching to make sure that no bubbles are left in his spine. Both his eardrums are broken; they’ll heal again, but he’s going to be pretty deaf. I guess we can thank the ‘iron doctor’ for Tom’s life; if we hadn’t been able to jam him under pressure again, he wouldn’t have lived five minutes.”
Dawn broke; the coast was dropping below the horizon astern. Lieutenant Carroll, wan and pale, had been on his feet constantly for twenty-four hours when at last he gave the final course to the quartermaster and went aft to his cabin. Bob saw him safely into his bunk, helped him to remove his clothes, and then, dead tired himself, descended to his own state-room, threw himself into his berth, shoes and all, and immediately dropped off to sleep.
Chapter 21
To Bob, it seemed as if he had hardly closed his eyes when the door of his state-room swung against his bunk with a crash. He sat up startled. Carroll, half-dressed, stood in the doorway.
“Pedro’s gone!” he exclaimed. “So’s Carley!” He let go of the door and ran forward.
Bob leapt from his bunk to the deck and hurried after him. The captain, hampered by his bandaged arm, was climbing down the forecastle ladder in the narrow hold in the bow. Bob followed, careful not to step on Carroll’s fingers as the latter clumsily went down, a rung at a time.
They reached the orlop deck. The iron door of the brig, still locked, was intact. Both Carroll and Porter pressed their faces against the steel grating on the door and peered into the narrow room beyond. It was empty.
Silently they looked at the solitary porthole. The steel bars, which on the outside of the vessel had covered the port, were broken and bent outboard.
“I see what’s happened, I guess,” said Bob, sadly. “That oil-barge was tied up on this side. Pedro must have bribed her crew to twist the bars off with a crowbar, then he and Carley squeezed through the port, and hid inside the barge until she shoved off. The cat’s out of the bag now, all right. What’ll we do?”
Carroll left the empty brig and climbed heavily back on deck. The salt sea breeze swept over the forecastle, hit him as he dragged himself up the hatch, and revived him somewhat. Far ahead, the pinnacle of El Morro was rising over the rim of the sea.
The tired captain sat down on a chain stopper. At last he spoke, his white teeth standing out against his drawn and weather-beaten face.
“You can dive now if you want to, Bob.”
“What’s that?” exclaimed Bob, hardly believing his ears.
Carroll repeated. Bob’s face lit up with a brilliant smile and an involuntary “Hurrah!” burst from his lips. He seized Carroll’s hand, started to give it a vigorous shake, then quickly dropped it as he saw the captain’s shoulders twitch with pain.
Lieutenant Carroll tried to smile at his friend’s enthusiasm.
“Yes, Bob, I’ll have to do it. There’s only a few days left now before we can expect a Peruvian cruiser to come rolling up and make a prize of us. It’ll take those deserters three days to get to Lima, maybe one day to spill their story to the government and another day for a fast cruiser to get up here from Callao. That’s only five days; before that we’ll have to be on our way; so far from El Morro and Peruvian territory that they won’t dare touch us on the high seas.” He heaved a deep sigh.
“And that’s where you dive, Bob. There’s only two divers left, Clark and Martin. They’ll never get the gold up in that time; you can help. If Pedro hadn’t ripped me up, I’d go down too. Blast his hide, why did I ever think I needed an interpreter!”
By the early afternoon, they had arrived, the surf-boat already swinging from the boom, the boat’s crew in it, a new hawser dangling over its stern, and the motor slowly turning over. Hardly had the Lapwing’s engine stopped, reversed, and brought the ship to rest in a wide swirl of foaming water near the eastward buoy, before the boat dropped into the sea and ran out towards the mooring, the long hawser trailing astern like a sea serpent. Quickly the other three new moorings were secured as the boat shuttled back and forth. The ship was centred and the buoyed-off descending-line picked up. Frank Martin, already fully dressed, had his helmet clapped on, seized the canvas bag, and was dropped over the side.
Carroll held the watch. The minutes seemed to fly as Martin toiled below. Only sixty minutes altogether on the bottom at a depth of thirty fathoms — did he dare to stretch it? Carroll shook his head; even that brief time was far over the tabular stay for such a depth. Well, they would do the best they could.
Frank’s time was half gone; the captain motioned Bob to get dressed; he would keep Bill Clark for last in case Bob got into trouble on the bottom.
Bob Porter ran to his room, stripped off his clothes, pulled on a light woollen union suit. He came back to the dressing-bench, hardly able to conceal his joy.
He lifted his legs, shoved them through the heavy rubber neckpiece of the stiff diving-suit. The dressers worked his feet down the legs part way; then seized the suit by the waist and lifted Bob clean off the bench. His legs slid down the rubber-lined suit, his feet felt the deck beneath. Again he sat down.
Bill Clark, who was bossing the job, lathered both Bob’s hands and wrists with soap; Bob shoved his arms inside the suit, down the sleeves. His fingers came to the tight rubber cuffs but would not slide through. A dresser gripped each sleeve at the elbow, pulled vigorously, at last managed to work the cuffs over Bob’s soapy hands.
The boatswain’s mate brought out a pair of wide elastic bands; he slipped one over each of Bob’s hands, fitting them over the rubber cuffs where they gripped Bob’s wrists snugly to make the joint stay watertight.
A copper breastplate was slid over his head, bolted tightly to the rubber neckpiece of his suit. He stood up; a heavy lead-weighted belt was buckled on; a leather harness from the belt passed up over his breastplate and down between his legs to hold the belt up and the breastplate down. The dressers pulled taut on the straps to make sure that his rig stayed in place. Bob thrust his feet into the clumsy leaden shoes; the dressers laced them on with short lengths of signal halyard.
His weights became oppressive, his shoulders started to ache under the load, but still more gear was added by the dressers. Clark slipped the telephone head-dress on, adjusted the receivers over each ear, tightened the cotton strap under his chin. Bob twisted his head to make certain it could not slip down over his eyes. His helmet was held close in front of him, the cord from the receivers temporarily plugged into it, and he tested his telephone set. His telephone man was perched in the superstructure, Bob leaned forward over his helmet and spoke into the transmitter inside it, “Hear me?”
In the rubber-cushioned receivers on his head he heard, “Ay, ay, Mr Porter. Can you he
ar me?”
“O.K.?” asked Clark. Bob nodded. The boatswain’s mate unplugged his receivers and set the helmet down on the deck nearby.
Bob twisted his neck round inside his breastplate and watched the rail. Martin’s time was up; he was out of the wreck and had just signalled to hoist away. The after capstan was heaving in.
The canvas bag appeared alongside, rising to the outside of the bitts as the capstan stopped. A seaman took several hitches round the neck of the bag with the whip from the boom, and the boom hoisted the bag over the rail while the capstan slacked off.
Clark cast off the lines and opened the bag. One by one, the watch on deck staggered forward under the weight of a heavy ingot. Bob counted them as they came from the dripping bag — eighteen bars.
But while this went on, the captain’s attention was riveted not on the gold but over the side where back and forth the signals travelled to the diver below as they hauled in his slack to pull him out of the tunnel, and then started him off the bottom. Overboard went the stage and down to a hundred and twenty feet where Frank Martin clambered on it and started his decompression. Martin was safely off the wreck.
Not until then did Carroll turn to the deck where Bob sat.
“All ready, Bill?” he asked. Clark nodded, lifted up the helmet, and plugged in Bob’s receivers.
Lieutenant Carroll left the rail and stepped to Bob’s side as the helmet rose, poised over his head. He patted Bob affectionately on the back and smiled at him.
“Good luck, old man. Just keep cool, whatever happens.”
Down came the helmet over Bob’s head, the noises of the deck were shut out. A sharp twist and the screw-joint between breastplate and helmet was locked fast.
Bob felt suddenly confined, the air seemed stuffy. He fumbled with his left hand for the control-valve and opened it. A gust of air swept through his helmet and swelled out his suit. He felt blindly for his diving-knife, found it at the left side of his belt. He was ready.
Bob tried to rise, but he sagged under the heavy weights he carried. A tender on each side lifted him erect, assisted him to stagger on to a lifting-stage. He clung to the bails to hold himself erect. Through the face-plates he could see the sailors watching him. They seemed far away, detached.
Faintly he heard the call: “Up stage!”
The platform under his feet lurched, he rose high above the deck, felt himself swinging outboard. A pause, then the stage started slowly down.
The water rose over his feet, covered his breast. His canvas suit suddenly shrank in on him. His eyes looked out along the surface of the sea, then his helmet submerged and he heard air gurgling from his helmet into the water. The load of his diving-rig suddenly vanished as his buoyant helmet floated off his shoulders and tugged against the harness holding it to his belt.
The stage stopped. Over him he could see the surface of the ocean, sparkling in the sunlight like a silvery sheet undulating to the wind. He tested out his exhaust-valve, tried his control-valve, adjusted his buoyancy until his suit swelled away slightly from his chest so that he could breathe.
A jerk on his breastplate where his lifeline was made fast. He seized it, jerked it once, “All right.”
The canvas bag, rolled in a small wad, broke through the surface above and hung in front of him. He gripped the lanyard on it with one hand, wrapping several turns about his wrist.
A strain came on his lifeline. He felt himself lifted from the steel stage. He let go of the bail and stepped off on to nothing. Only the deep sea was beneath him now.
The tenders dragged him forward, he scraped along the red hull of the Lapwing, dangling by his lifeline. A few feet more and he made out the manila descending-line in front of him. He seized it, wrapped both legs round the line, and clung to it with both hands.
A far away sound in his ears; he recognised Carroll’s voice asking:
“All right, Bob?”
Through the roar of his air, Bob shouted, “All right! Lower away!”
Bob’s lifeline slacked. He eased his grip on the descending-line, let it slide freely through his hands and started down.
The surface quickly disappeared, the light grew dimmer. Swiftly he sank through the water, which rapidly changed from blue to grey with a dull light seeming to come from nowhere. His eardrums stretched and started to press in painfully. He gripped the line again and stopped his descent. He must be going too fast, his ears were not equalising. He pressed his nose against his face-plate, swallowing several times as Joe Hawkins had taught him. His eardrums snapped back to normal, the strain passed off. He slacked his grip and sank once more, going a little more slowly.
The water grew dimmer and dimmer; except for the air rushing through his helmet he seemed to be in utter silence as he sank into the depths. The pressure increased, the air felt a little light. Still no bottom. It seemed as if he had been dropping for hours. He bent his head, looked downward as he slid, but except for the stout manila line curving away in a wide bight from between his legs he saw nothing but a mass of water in which distance seemed to fade out as in a fog.
Bob paused again, swallowed hastily to clear his straining ears, then continued his descent. The line started to slope away more sharply below him, the water below appeared suddenly to grow much darker, and then gradually there materialised against a dark background the massive poop of the ancient wreck.
Bob sank a few feet lower until it stood out more clearly, then clung to the descending-line as he drank in the scene; the broken mast, the richly carved ports, the shattered sides where Drake’s shot had crashed through. Bob thrilled at the sight — truly he was in another world, and there, spread out before him in the unearthly quiet and the weird light of the ocean floor, lay the Santa Cruz!
Bob gazed entranced upon a sight which few men have ever been privileged to see; then suddenly started down again as he remembered his mission. He slid down past the hull into the semi-darkness alongside the poop. His feet touched bottom, he let go of the descending-line, he was down at last!
He took one step along the ocean floor, then staggered dizzily and leaned against the hulk for support. His head swam, his chest laboured as he tried to breathe.
The water seemed to be pressing on him with an overwhelming weight. For a moment Bob felt he was about to collapse, and wondered what was wrong. His confused brain struggled to remember his instructions. What was it Joe had once told him? Oh, yes, most new divers never took enough air!
He gripped his control-valve, opened it wider. His suit inflated a little more; a crushing load seemed to rise from his chest as his lungs no longer had to push away the encircling water at each breath. His head cleared somewhat, he steadied himself, and again started for the tunnel. He could see the light gleaming where Frank had left it on the ocean bed.
He reached the tunnel, looked into the dark hole. His heart quailed at the idea of burying himself in that mud-filled trench, but he gritted his teeth, lifted the lamp, and slid down the line into the shaft. Everything went black, he imagined himself sliding into eternity. His feet bottomed in soft mud, he sank nearly to his knees. With one arm he groped round in the darkness, feeling the opening torn through the bulkhead. He dragged his feet out of the mud and crawled into the passage. He rested a brief time, marvelling that the divers had ever had the courage to burrow through that clay. Inside the passage, he could barely see the light. Dragging it after him, he started for the strong-room.
Forty minutes later, with sixteen bars of gold inside his bag, he dragged his panting body once more to the tunnel, signalled to hoist the bag, then had himself hauled up through the mud. Slowly he breasted his way through the water to the descending-line and signalled for a rise.
Grimly elated over his success, Bob watched the Santa Cruz dissolve into the water as he slid up the line.
His ascent stopped, he heard a voice in his ears:
“Look out for the stage!”
Bob looked through the top port in his helmet. A few feet over him the s
tage swung, shackled to the descending-line.
“Take me a little more!” he called.
His lifeline came taut again, he was pulled up until his fingers gripped the stage. “That’s well!” he shouted. The tenders stopped hauling, he crawled aboard the little stage, unshackled the descending-line, watched it swing quietly away through the water, and sat down wearily to rest.
Another call from the topside. He shut off his air. Carroll’s voice: “Hello, Bob! Start your exercises!”
Bob turned on his air again, crawled painfully to his feet, and commenced. He must accelerate his circulation while he rose to ensure decompression. He started to do knee bends, body rolls, arms in circle. Keeping his balance on the little platform was difficult, but he stuck earnestly to his work.
Another call from the topside. “Up twenty feet!” The stage lurched, he clung to the bails as the water streamed downward. The stage came to rest again. He would have to pause awhile at a hundred feet.
Again he started to exercise. The humour of it struck him. A comical figure he must be in a diving-rig doing callisthenics far down in the ocean. He laughed at the thought. His voice sounded queer; he hadn’t noticed that before. He pursed up his lips and tried to whistle. No use — his lungs could not make the heavy air rush out fast enough to make the slightest sound. He laughed again; how strange his voice sounded!
Another call, another twenty-foot rise. Again he exercised, then started to talk to himself to relieve the monotony. He looked round. The quiet water, grey in the dim light filtering down from above, gave him a strange feeling of detachment from the world, its worries, and its troubles. In the bosom of the sea, all was peaceful, man and his struggles far removed. Only the descending-line, swaying gently through the water twenty feet away, reminded him of the surface.
Bob exercised again, trying to cast off the unearthly spell of the deep. He was fascinated by the manila line, floating detached in the water, seemingly coming from nowhere below, fading into nothing above. He watched it as it rose and fell with the motion of the ship on the surface.
Thirty Fathoms Deep Page 16