CHAPTER XXIII

THE CRIPPLED SUBMARINE

"BETTER switch off the searchlight," said Gerald. "It's doing no good, and we must economise the air."

"There's enough oxygen to last for two hours," observed Palmer; "but we had better try the motors full speed ahead once more. It can't do much harm, and the longer we remain inactive the deeper the boat will sink in the ooze."

But beyond a slight pulsation of the hull the submarine remained in her hazardous position.

"Look here," exclaimed Gerald's companion, hopefully, "why not close the torpedo compensating tank and discharge all the torpedoes? That will get rid of some of our gear."

"What happens to the torpedoes when they have finished their run, provided they miss their mark?" asked Gerald.

"If they have practice-heads they rise to the surface; if provided with war-heads they sink."

"The same as our Whiteheads: the exhaustion of the compressed air actuating the propellers opens a valve that admits water into the air-chamber?"

"That is so."

"Then I'm afraid your plan is useless, for in expelling the torpedoes we are only getting rid of objects lighter than the weight of the water they displace."

"You're right," assented Palmer, ruefully.

"Beg pardon, sir," exclaimed one of the seamen, "but are we hitched up here for good?"

"It looks like it," replied Palmer, almost brutally.

"Then couldn't I go out by the air-lock--I am willing to risk it--and take a line up with me? We've nearly a hundred fathoms aboard."

"Impossible, man; you would be crushed to death."

"We ought to try something, sir; the oxygen seems to be giving out, and the mice are getting torpid."

"I thought we had two hours' supply?"

"So did I, sir, but something's wrong with the stuff."

"We will have to rely on the oxygen helmets, then. Serve them out; it may prolong our lives a few hours, though I know not to what purpose."

Slowly the minutes passed. Illuminated only by the glimmer of a solitary incandescent lamp the interior of the submarine presented a picture of gloomy despair. The crew began to realise that they were imprisoned in a living tomb.

"We must make some attempt to communicate with the _Olive Branch_," exclaimed Gerald, shaking off the growing feeling of apathy and drowsiness by a great effort. "Why not write a report stating our condition, enclose it in one of the torpedoes, and fire it to the surface?"

"To what purpose?" asked Palmer. "They can't help us."

"It will show them that we've done our best."

"All right, then, though personally I think it a waste of time."

Somehow or other Gerald wrote out a brief account of the vicissitudes of the submarine. This both he and Palmer signed, and enclosed in a practice-head of one of the torpedoes.

The impulse charge was sufficiently strong to eject the cigar-shaped cylinder from the tube, though at the expense of another slight rush of water; then, as there was nothing more to be done, the crew prepared for the worst.

It was a peculiar sensation that came over the doomed men. Apparently paying scant heed to their peril they sat down, with their heads buried in their arms, awaiting the sleep that precedes death. The white mice--the surest means of indicating the presence of impure gases--had long since been lifeless; only the soft purr of the dynamo and the laboured breathing of the men broke the oppressive silence.

How long Gerald remained in a semi-unconscious state he knew not; time and place were alike forgotten; he hardly possessed the power of thinking, and, knowing his fate, he seemed absolutely indifferent to it.

Suddenly a sharp metallic clank caught his ear, but, beyond hearing the sound, Tregarthen paid no heed to it. Yet something was moving across the outside of the massive steel shell. Perhaps, he wondered dreamily, it was one of those enormous submarine animals that exist only under enormous pressure, and whose bodies have from time to time been cast ashore, to the wonder of scientific men.

Slowly the bow of the submarine began to rise. Gerald sat bolt upright; he could scarce believe the evidence of his senses. Higher and higher it rose till his inert comrades rolled sideways upon the steel floor, and began to slide helplessly towards the dim recesses occupied by the motors.

Grasping the lowermost rung of the ladder leading to the conning-tower, Tregarthen tried to collect his scattered wits in order to find some explanation for the sudden tilting of the helpless boat. Perchance her afterpart had rested over a fissure, and the slimy bed had given way as the hull began to settle down.

Then the sensation of drowsiness began to reassert itself, and the lieutenant felt his grip relaxing, till, just as he was on the point of joining his companions who lay in a confused heap--dead perhaps, but at all events unconscious--a voice exclaimed peremptorily, "Empty your ballast tanks."

It was through the receiver of the loud-speaking wireless telephone that the voice came. It meant that the submarine had been raised several fathoms, sufficiently for the telephone to be used once more.

Staggering up the sloping deck, Gerald grasped the pump lever of the 'midship tank. Thank goodness the pressure had been reduced sufficiently for the powerful pump to act.

With his last remaining strength Tregarthen plied the lever, till at length a ruddy sunset glare streamed in through the thick glass apertures in the conning-tower. The submarine was awash.

Climbing the ladder into the conning-tower Gerald threw back the double-action lock securing the hatchway, but the task of opening the massive steel plate was beyond him. The next moment he was drinking in the pure air, supported by a burly petty-officer who had slid down from the cruiser to the deck of the submarine.

"Hurry up and pass these men out," he heard Captain Brookes exclaim. "Perhaps some of them may be still alive."

Half conscious, Gerald was lifted over the side of the _Olive Branch_, Jack Stockton supporting him with the utmost solicitude.

"A pretty fine pass," he heard Captain Brookes remark. "I did not think that Palmer would disobey orders. And nothing gained, after all."

Gerald stopped, just as he was about to be assisted down the companion ladder, and with a sudden impulse that surprised his chum, he wrenched himself clear and staggered across to where the captain stood.

"No, sir; something is gained after all. The missing wireless gear is strung underneath the submarine."

Then everything seemed to swim around him in a white mist, and but for Lieutenant Sinclair's prompt action he would have fallen headlong to the deck.

"We thought you were all done for when you did not return at the end of the hour," said Stockton next morning.

"So did I," replied Gerald. "But how did they manage to raise the boat?"

"Mainly by a slice of luck, and also through Captain Brookes's perseverance and energy, old chap. Directly we felt certain that something was amiss the captain ordered a couple of hands to the cable-cutting room. The dynameter detected the presence of a very weak current----"

"That must have been after we shut off the searchlight and stopped the motors."

"Well, at any rate, it was sufficient to enable us to fix your position. Three times the grab was lowered without result. During these operations a torpedo came to the surface."

"Yes, we discharged it without allowing the propellers to actuate, so that it would come nearly straight to the surface."

"By jove, it did! I should never have believed it had I not seen the thing jump. It shot nearly twenty feet in the air, missing the cutter by a bare boat's length. Then someone suggested unfixing the head, and within we found your message.

"With that we knew you were still alive, and that the submarine had not collapsed under the pressure of the water, as Captain Brookes had feared. Shortly afterwards the grab engaged, and we found that under a strain of half a ton it was beginning to come home. It was an anxious time, as the cable was only tested to twelve hundredweights, but it held, after all, as you know."

"How is Palmer?"

"Bad. The strain coming on top of the narcotic has played havoc with him. The other men are progressing favourably; but Gerald, old man, where's your shaving-mirror? Then hold it so that you can see the back of your head."

Tregarthen did so, and to his surprise he found that on his dark brown hair was a patch as white as snow, almost the size of a man's hand.

"That's strange, Jack. I remember putting my hand to my head when the boat began to tilt. It's a case of utter funk, I suppose."

"You've something to remember the eighty-fathom dive by for the rest of your natural life."

"I don't want that to remind me," replied Gerald, with a shudder.

"Well, it's all over now, and little harm done; but do you know there was something very remarkable about that message you sent up? You gave an account of everything that happened save one thing--the object of your trip. You never mentioned the missing wireless gear."