I knew the end was near and, almost involuntarily, I did that which I had not done since childhood — I prayed. After that I felt better.
I clung and waited, but the water rose no higher.
Instead it receded. Now the top of the conning-tower received only the crests of the higher waves; now the little triangular deck below became visible! What had occurred within? Did Benson believe me already gone, and was he emerging because of that belief, or had he and his forces been vanquished? The suspense was more wearing than that which I had endured while waiting for dissolution. Presently the main deck came into view, and then the conning-tower opened behind me, and I turned to look into the anxious face of Bradley. An expression of relief overspread his features.
“Thank God, man!” was all he said as he reached forth and dragged me into the tower. I was cold and numb and rather all in. Another few minutes would have done for me, I am sure, but the warmth of the interior helped to revive me, aided and abetted by some brandy which Bradley poured down my throat, from which it nearly removed the membrane. That brandy would have revived a corpse.
When I got down into the centrale, I saw the Germans lined up on one side with a couple of my men with pistols standing over them. Von Schoenvorts was among them. On the floor lay Benson, moaning, and beyond him stood the girl, a revolver in one hand. I looked about, bewildered.
“What has happened down here?” I asked. “Tell me!”
Bradley replied. “You see the result, sir,” he said. “It might have been a very different result but for Miss La Rue. We were all asleep. Benson had relieved the guard early in the evening; there was no one to watch him — no one but Miss La Rue. She felt the submergence of the boat and came out of her room to investigate. She was just in time to see Benson at the diving rudders. When he saw her, he raised his pistol and fired point-blank at her, but he missed and she fired — and didn’t miss. The two shots awakened everyone, and as our men were armed, the result was inevitable as you see it; but it would have been very different had it not been for Miss La Rue. It was she who closed the diving-tank sea-cocks and roused Olson and me, and had the pumps started to empty them.”
And there I had been thinking that through her machinations I had been lured to the deck and to my death! I could have gone on my knees to her and begged her forgiveness — or at least I could have, had I not been Anglo- Saxon. As it was, I could only remove my soggy cap and bow and mumble my appreciation. She made no reply — only turned and walked very rapidly toward her room. Could I have heard aright? Was it really a sob that came floating back to me through the narrow aisle of the U-33?
Benson died that night. He remained defiant almost to the last; but just before he went out, he motioned to me, and I leaned over to catch the faintly whispered words.
“I did it alone,” he said. “I did it because I hate you — I hate all your kind. I was kicked out of your shipyard at Santa Monica. I was locked out of California. I am an I. W. W. I became a German agent — not because I love them, for I hate them too — but because I wanted to injure Americans, whom I hated more. I threw the wireless apparatus overboard. I destroyed the chronometer and the sextant. I devised a scheme for varying the compass to suit my wishes. I told Wilson that I had seen the girl talking with von Schoenvorts, and I made the poor egg think he had seen her doing the same thing. I am sorry — sorry that my plans failed. I hate you.”
He didn’t die for a half-hour after that; nor did he speak again — aloud; but just a few seconds before he went to meet his Maker, his lips moved in a faint whisper; and as I leaned closer to catch his words, what do you suppose I heard? “Now — I — lay me — down — to — sleep” That was all; Benson was dead. We threw his body overboard.
The wind of that night brought on some pretty rough weather with a lot of black clouds which persisted for several days. We didn’t know what course we had been holding, and there was no way of finding out, as we could no longer trust the compass, not knowing what Benson had done to it. The long and the short of it was that we cruised about aimlessly until the sun came out again. I’ll never forget that day or its surprises. We reckoned, or rather guessed, that we were somewhere off the coast of Peru. The wind, which had been blowing fitfully from the east, suddenly veered around into the south, and presently we felt a sudden chill.
“Peru!” snorted Olson. “When were yez after smellin’ iceber-rgs off Peru?”
Icebergs! “Icebergs, nothin’!” exclaimed one of the Englishmen. “Why, man, they don’t come north of fourteen here in these waters.”
“Then,” replied Olson, “ye’re sout’ of fourteen, me b’y.”
We thought he was crazy; but he wasn’t, for that afternoon we sighted a great berg south of us, and we’d been running north, we thought, for days. I can tell you we were a discouraged lot; but we got a faint thrill of hope early the next morning when the lookout bawled down the open hatch: “Land! Land northwest by west!”
I think we were all sick for the sight of land. I know that I was; but my interest was quickly dissipated by the sudden illness of three of the Germans. Almost simultaneously they commenced vomiting. They couldn’t suggest any explanation for it. I asked them what they had eaten, and found they had eaten nothing other than the food cooked for all of us. “Have you drunk anything?” I asked, for I knew that there was liquor aboard, and medicines in the same locker.
“Only water,” moaned one of them. “We all drank water together this morning. We opened a new tank. Maybe it was the water.”
I started an investigation which revealed a terrifying condition — some one, probably Benson, had poisoned all the running water on the ship. It would have been worse, though, had land not been in sight. The sight of land filled us with renewed hope.
Our course had been altered, and we were rapidly approaching what appeared to be a precipitous headland. Cliffs, seemingly rising perpendicularly out of the sea, faded away into the mist upon either hand as we approached. The land before us might have been a continent, so mighty appeared the shoreline; yet we knew that we must be thousands of miles from the nearest western land- mass — New Zealand or Australia.
We took our bearings with our crude and inaccurate instruments; we searched the chart; we cudgeled our brains; and at last it was Bradley who suggested a solution. He was in the tower and watching the compass, to which he called my attention. The needle was pointing straight toward the land. Bradley swung the helm hard to starboard. I could feel the U-33 respond, and yet the arrow still clung straight and sure toward the distant cliffs.
“What do you make of it?” I asked him.
“Did you ever hear of Caproni?” he asked.
“An early Italian navigator?” I returned.
“Yes; he followed Cook about 1721. He is scarcely mentioned even by contemporaneous historians — probably because he got into political difficulties on his return to Italy. It was the fashion to scoff at his claims, but I recall reading one of his works — his only one, I believe — in which he described a new continent in the south seas, a continent made up of ‘some strange metal’ which attracted the compass; a rockbound, inhospitable coast, without beach or harbor, which extended for hundreds of miles. He could make no landing; nor in the several days he cruised about it did he see sign of life. He called it Caprona and sailed away. I believe, sir, that we are looking upon the coast of Caprona, uncharted and forgotten for two hundred years.”
“If you are right, it might account for much of the deviation of the compass during the past two days,” I suggested. “Caprona has been luring us upon her deadly rocks. Well, we’ll accept her challenge. We’ll land upon Caprona. Along that long front there must be a vulnerable spot. We will find it, Bradley, for we must find it. We must find water on Caprona, or we must die.”
And so we approached the coast upon which no living eyes had ever rested. Straight from the ocean’s depths rose towering cliffs, shot with brown and blues and greens — withered moss and lichen and the verdigris of c
opper, and everywhere the rusty ocher of iron pyrites. The cliff-tops, though ragged, were of such uniform height as to suggest the boundaries of a great plateau, and now and again we caught glimpses of verdure topping the rocky escarpment, as though bush or jungle-land had pushed outward from a lush vegetation farther inland to signal to an unseeing world that Caprona lived and joyed in life beyond her austere and repellent coast.
But metaphor, however poetic, never slaked a dry throat. To enjoy Caprona’s romantic suggestions we must have water, and so we came in close, always sounding, and skirted the shore. As close in as we dared cruise, we found fathomless depths, and always the same indented coastline of bald cliffs. As darkness threatened, we drew away and lay well off the coast all night. We had not as yet really commenced to suffer for lack of water; but I knew that it would not be long before we did, and so at the first streak of dawn I moved in again and once more took up the hopeless survey of the forbidding coast.
Toward noon we discovered a beach, the first we had seen. It was a narrow strip of sand at the base of a part of the cliff that seemed lower than any we had before scanned. At its foot, half buried in the sand, lay great boulders, mute evidence that in a bygone age some mighty natural force had crumpled Caprona’s barrier at this point. It was Bradley who first called our attention to a strange object lying among the boulders above the surf.
“Looks like a man,” he said, and passed his glasses to me.
I looked long and carefully and could have sworn that the thing I saw was the sprawled figure of a human being. Miss La Rue was on deck with us. I turned and asked her to go below. Without a word she did as I bade. Then I stripped, and as I did so, Nobs looked questioningly at me. He had been wont at home to enter the surf with me, and evidently he had not forgotten it.
“What are you going to do, sir?” asked Olson.
“I’m going to see what that thing is on shore,” I replied. “If it’s a man, it may mean that Caprona is inhabited, or it may merely mean that some poor devils were shipwrecked here. I ought to be able to tell from the clothing which is more near the truth.
“How about sharks?” queried Olson. “Sure, you ought to carry a knoife.”
“Here you are, sir,” cried one of the men.
It was a long slim blade he offered — one that I could carry between my teeth — and so I accepted it gladly.
“Keep close in,” I directed Bradley, and then I dived over the side and struck out for the narrow beach. There was another splash directly behind me, and turning my head, I saw faithful old Nobs swimming valiantly in my wake.
The surf was not heavy, and there was no undertow, so we made shore easily, effecting an equally easy landing. The beach was composed largely of small stones worn smooth by the action of water. There was little sand, though from the deck of the U-33 the beach had appeared to be all sand, and I saw no evidences of mollusca or crustacea such as are common to all beaches I have previously seen. I attribute this to the fact of the smallness of the beach, the enormous depth of surrounding water and the great distance at which Caprona lies from her nearest neighbor.
As Nobs and I approached the recumbent figure farther up the beach, I was appraised by my nose that whether or not, the thing had once been organic and alive, but that for some time it had been dead. Nobs halted, sniffed and growled. A little later he sat down upon his haunches, raised his muzzle to the heavens and bayed forth a most dismal howl. I shied a small stone at him and bade him shut up — his uncanny noise made me nervous. When I had come quite close to the thing, I still could not say whether it had been man or beast. The carcass was badly swollen and partly decomposed. There was no sign of clothing upon or about it. A fine, brownish hair covered the chest and abdomen, and the face, the palms of the hands, the feet, the shoulders and back were practically hairless. The creature must have been about the height of a fair sized man; its features were similar to those of a man; yet had it been a man?
I could not say, for it resembled an ape no more than it did a man. Its large toes protruded laterally as do those of the semiarboreal peoples of Borneo, the Philippines and other remote regions where low types still persist. The countenance might have been that of a cross between Pithecanthropus, the Java ape-man, and a daughter of the Piltdown race of prehistoric Sussex. A wooden cudgel lay beside the corpse.
Now this fact set me thinking. There was no wood of any description in sight. There was nothing about the beach to suggest a wrecked mariner. There was absolutely nothing about the body to suggest that it might possibly in life have known a maritime experience. It was the body of a low type of man or a high type of beast. In neither instance would it have been of a seafaring race. Therefore I deduced that it was native to Caprona — that it lived inland, and that it had fallen or been hurled from the cliffs above. Such being the case, Caprona was inhabitable, if not inhabited, by man; but how to reach the inhabitable interior! That was the question. A closer view of the cliffs than had been afforded me from the deck of the U-33 only confirmed my conviction that no mortal man could scale those perpendicular heights; there was not a finger-hold, not a toe-hold, upon them. I turned away baffled.
Nobs and I met with no sharks upon our return journey to the submarine. My report filled everyone with theories and speculations, and with renewed hope and determination. They all reasoned along the same lines that I had reasoned — the conclusions were obvious, but not the water. We were now thirstier than ever.
The balance of that day we spent in continuing a minute and fruitless exploration of the monotonous coast. There was not another break in the frowning cliffs — not even another minute patch of pebbly beach. As the sun fell, so did our spirits. I had tried to make advances to the girl again; but she would have none of me, and so I was not only thirsty but otherwise sad and downhearted. I was glad when the new day broke the hideous spell of a sleepless night.
The morning’s search brought us no shred of hope. Caprona was impregnable — that was the decision of all; yet we kept on. It must have been about two bells of the afternoon watch that Bradley called my attention to the branch of a tree, with leaves upon it, floating on the sea. “It may have been carried down to the ocean by a river,” he suggested. “Yes, “ I replied, “it may have; it may have tumbled or been thrown off the top of one of these cliffs.”
Bradley’s face fell. “I thought of that, too,” he replied, “but I wanted to believe the other.”
“Right you are!” I cried. “We must believe the other until we prove it false. We can’t afford to give up heart now, when we need heart most. The branch was carried down by a river, and we are going to find that river.” I smote my open palm with a clenched fist, to emphasize a determination unsupported by hope. “There!” I cried suddenly. “See that, Bradley?” And I pointed at a spot closer to shore. “See that, man!” Some flowers and grasses and another leafy branch floated toward us. We both scanned the water and the coastline. Bradley evidently discovered something, or at least thought that he had. He called down for a bucket and a rope, and when they were passed up to him, he lowered the former into the sea and drew it in filled with water. Of this he took a taste, and straightening up, looked into my eyes with an expression of elation — as much as to say “I told you so!”
“This water is warm,” he announced, “and fresh!”
I grabbed the bucket and tasted its contents. The water was very warm, and it was fresh, but there was a most unpleasant taste to it.
“Did you ever taste water from a stagnant pool full of tadpoles?” Bradley asked.
“That’s it,” I exclaimed, “ — that’s just the taste exactly, though I haven’t experienced it since boyhood; but how can water from a flowing stream, taste thus, and what the dickens makes it so warm? It must be at least 70 or 80 Fahrenheit, possibly higher.”
“Yes,” agreed Bradley, “I should say higher; but where does it come from?”
“That is easily discovered now that we have found it,” I answered. “It can’t come from t
he ocean; so it must come from the land. All that we have to do is follow it, and sooner or later we shall come upon its source.”
We were already rather close in; but I ordered the U-33’s prow turned inshore and we crept slowly along, constantly dipping up the water and tasting it to assure ourselves that we didn’t get outside the fresh-water current. There was a very light off-shore wind and scarcely any breakers, so that the approach to the shore was continued without finding bottom; yet though we were already quite close, we saw no indication of any indention in the coast from which even a tiny brooklet might issue, and certainly no mouth of a large river such as this must necessarily be to freshen the ocean even two hundred yards from shore. The tide was running out, and this, together with the strong flow of the freshwater current, would have prevented our going against the cliffs even had we not been under power; as it was we had to buck the combined forces in order to hold our position at all. We came up to within twenty-five feet of the sheer wall, which loomed high above us. There was no break in its forbidding face. As we watched the face of the waters and searched the cliff’s high face, Olson suggested that the fresh water might come from a submarine geyser. This, he said, would account for its heat; but even as he spoke a bush, covered thickly with leaves and flowers, bubbled to the surface and floated off astern.
“Flowering shrubs don’t thrive in the subterranean caverns from which geysers spring,” suggested Bradley.
Olson shook his head. “It beats me,” he said.
“I’ve got it!” I exclaimed suddenly. “Look there!” And I pointed at the base of the cliff ahead of us, which the receding tide was gradually exposing to our view. They all looked, and all saw what I had seen — the top of a dark opening in the rock, through which water was pouring out into the sea. “It’s the subterranean channel of an inland river,” I cried. “It flows through a land covered with vegetation — and therefore a land upon which the sun shines. No subterranean caverns produce any order of plant life even remotely resembling what we have seen disgorged by this river. Beyond those cliffs lie fertile lands and fresh water — perhaps, game!”
Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26) Page 503