Читать книгу Captain Fosdyke's Gold - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 6

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Rob Wroxall’s new floating home was a twin-screw craft of 250 feet “between perpendiculars”, 40 feet in beam, and with a mean draught of 12 feet. She was by no means a chicken, having been laid down in a Clydeside shipyard twenty-five years before as an ocean-going tug. Originally she was “built composite”, that is of wooden planking on steel frames, the timber being teak. Since then her hull had been doubled by fitting an additional outer skin, also of teak, with a massive oak rubbing-strake. Her masts had been removed and two stumpy “sticks” substituted, each with four derricks. Auxiliary engines provided power to the derrick winches and also to the air-compressors and pumps, while full electrical lighting current was obtainable from dynamos. Over the squat stern but under the double towing hawse projected an enormously thick baulk of timber fitted with tackle whereby it was possible to obtain a direct lift of eighty tons. In the davits hung two thirty-feet boats solidly constructed to withstand rough usage, as well as other boats of lighter construction for work of a less strenuous character.

Rob was met at the gangway by a short, thick-set man in salt-stained uniform, whose chief striking peculiarity was the enormous spread of his arms and his disproportionately short and bowed legs.

“This is Mr. Brash, Ben we call him, our Chief Mate, Mr. Wroxall,” explained Captain Condor. “Ben, this is Mr. Wroxall from the Lunnon office, who’s come to take charge of our next job.”

“Pleased tu meet you, sir, surely,” said Brash, tugging at an imaginary forelock; for, with the exception of a few wisps of hair at the back of his head, he was as bald as an egg. “I’ve seen tu it that they’ve fixed you up in a comfortable cabin, proper-like. So be you’m wanting tu see it?”

“Later, when Mr. Wroxall’s gear comes aboard, Ben,” interposed the Captain. “We’ll be having a look around while Mac’s raising steam. See your towing hawsers are clear; we’m taking 18 and 19 lighters, and as like as not we’ll have tu fetch a couple more afore we get a proper lift o’ she.”

“What’s she like?” inquired Ben, referring to the wreck which had to be removed from the sea-bed.

“No one knows for certain,” replied Captain Condor. “May be she’s been there for donkeys years, an’ the trawlers have only just got their nets foul of her. It’s certain sure she hasn’t foundered recently.”

“But surely in a recognized fishing-ground she couldn’t have remained there long without being discovered,” observed Rob. “That’s been puzzling me from the first.”

“Pure chance, Mr. Wroxall, pure chance!” replied the Captain. “A fleet might trawl over the ground for years and miss the wreck every time. That calls to mind a salvage job I took on a couple o’ summers back. A gent with his wife was coming from Helford River tu Falmouth in a motor-boat. Quite a light-built craft she wur, a matter o’ twenty-five feet over all. His missus had a fair amount o’ jewelry with her, which to my mind she didn’t ought tu. ’Tany rate she broke her shaft—the boat, you’ll understand—and down she goes in ten fathom. The owner comes tu me an’ axes for a lump sum contract tu raise her. He was fair sure on the spot an’ gave me the bearings he’d taken just afore she dipped. Like a fool I gave a price on behalf of the firm, thinking it would be a soft job getting her up. Believe me we dragged for four days afore we got the wreck.”

“So Findon & Rayse lost on the deal?” remarked Rob.

“ ’Deed they did!” admitted Captain Condor. “But talkin’ of luck in salvage jobs, I call to mind when I wur a young man an’ workin’ for the Poole Harbour Board. A gent fishing off the quay dropped his diamond ring overboard. That shows again how fullish-like ’tes tu go tempting Daddy Neptune wi’ jewelry. Well, the gent goes to Cap’n Chislett, the Harbour Master as was, and tells him of his loss. The Harbour Master get the grab-dredger alongside the quay, and, believe me, the first lot of mud the grab brought up had the ring lying fair and square on the top!”

“That was luck, if you like,” observed Rob. “Ha! This looks promising!”

He indicated a massive steel, dome-topped cylinder stowed on deck close to the main derricks. It was about twelve feet in height and about six in diameter, and was fitted with various unions and a small door at the base. It was a diver’s decompression chamber of the latest design, and an apparatus of enormous benefit to men making deep descents.

“Almost halves a job, that does,” commented Rob’s companion. “Makes diving like sojering is to-day compared to what it was when I wur a lad. Isn’t that so, Trevarrick?” he added, addressing the diver who had just come on board.

“It’s a sight better bein’ boxed up nice an’ comfy in that than dangling for a couple o’ hours at the end of a rope before you dare be hauled above the surface, sir,” declared the man. “Slow decompression in the old style ain’t exactly honey an’ jam!”

“Your gear’s aboard, sir!” reported the Chief Mate.

“Right!” replied Rob. “I’ll come along.”

The Assistant Engineer had been given a cabin aft on the starboard side of a saloon under the poop-deck. It was spacious considering the size of the vessel, having originally been two cabins, now knocked into one. Against the for’ard bulkhead was his bunk, fitted with a high bunk-board as a silent testimony to the Gleaner’s rolling and pitching proclivities. At the foot of the bunk was a built-in wash-stand with hot and cold water taps. An easy chair clamped to the deck, a wardrobe, book-case, and a large flap-table, big enough to take full-sized plans, completed the fittings. The cabin was lighted in the daytime by means of two large opening scuttles with the usual dead-lights and dark-blue curtains; at night the occupant had the choice of one, two, or three electric lamps conveniently fixed to the bulkheads. Overhead, but now motionless, was an electric fan.

“This will suit me down to the ground, Mr. Brash,” declared Rob enthusiastically, after he had given a brief appraising look round.

“Don’t ee say thet, sir!” protested the Chief Mate. “ ’Tes rale unlucky to talk such of any craft afloat.”

“Then I won’t say it again while I’m on board, unless the Gleaner goes into dry dock,” rejoined the young man laughingly. “All right, I’ll start unpacking and get everything shipshape.”

Left alone Rob set to work to hang his spare clothes in the wardrobe; to place his shaving tackle on a shelf where it was unlikely to be thrown about when the vessel was under way; to stow his books, mostly of a technical nature, in the rack, which was fitted with a batten to keep the volumes in place.

Engrossed in this task, Rob hardly noticed the sudden roll of the ship until a loud blast on a siren made him look through one of the scuttles.

A tramp steamer had just passed within half a cable’s length of the Gleaner. On her stern Rob read the legend: Amilcar—Liverpool. Captain Fosdyke had not lost much time in getting under way.

Rob dashed on deck, hoping to get a glimpse of his former companion in the night-mail, and to semaphore him a farewell message; but the opportunity was lost.

“I hope I’ll run across Fosdyke again some day,” thought the Assistant Engineer, as he returned to his task of unpacking.

“We’re well nigh ready to get under way, Mr. Wroxall!” announced Captain Condor. “I’ve had a careful tally kept of all gear sent aboard, and it fits with the list you gave me.”

With a feeling akin to shame Rob realized that the Cornishman had undertaken a task that by rights should have been his. Captain Condor was responsible for the navigation of the Gleaner to and from the site of the wreck, and for all gear appertaining to such navigation. The plant necessary for the salvage operation came under the young Assistant Engineer’s supervision. It was he who had compiled the list of gear required; it was he who should have seen it on board. Instead he had been attending to his personal effects in his cabin.

However, the mischief, if any, was done. Fervently Rob hoped that nothing essential had been overlooked, and promised himself that in future he would not forget his responsibilities.

Going on deck and making his way to the bridge, Rob found that the Gleaner was all but ready to cast off from her moorings. Captain Condor was on the bridge, together with the quartermaster. The Chief Mate was on the fo’c’sle, superintending the unmooring operation, while the Second Mate, whom Rob had hitherto not seen, was aft directing the bitting of the towing hawser of a large lighter that bore on both bows the number 19.

The other lighter, No. 18—which, unlike No. 19, was fitted with a heavy-oil engine—was already plugging her way at a modest six knots towards the harbour mouth.

Virtually, at this stage of the proceedings, Rob was a mere passenger. He had nothing whatever to do with the navigation or management of the ship, so he was free to look around. What he saw pleased his eyes. Falmouth, in the brilliant morning sunshine, looked a picture of delight. On the one hand the old-world houses of the town, climbing the rising ground from the water front. On the other the wooded heights of St. Just and St. Mawes. Ahead the grim outline of Pendennis Castle on one side of the entrance, with St. Antony Point on the other, the isolated Black Rock showing up midway between the two headlands. Astern, the upper reach of Carrick Roads with its crowd of anchored shipping, and farther away the winding course of the Fal between steep well-wooded banks. Small sailing craft dotted the dancing wavelets of the harbour, while in harmony with the old-time association of Falmouth, two “wooden-walls of Old England”, happily preserved from the ship-breakers’ hands, swung idly at moorings.

“All fast aft, sir!”

“How many fathom?” inquired the skipper.

“Ten, sir!” replied the Second Mate. “We’m ready t’veer out thirty more soon as we’m clear.”

“Good! At that! All ready to let go for’ard, Mister?”

“All ready, sir!” answered Mr. Brash.

Captain Condor rang down for “Half ahead starboard; half astern port,” ported helm and signed to the Chief Mate.

With a rush and a roar the inboard end of the bridle ran through the hawsepipe. The buoy rocked violently as three of the hands heaved at the chain to bring it on board again.

“All gone, sir!”

Slowly the Gleaner swung round, while the hands aft carefully tended the hawser connecting her with the lighter. Gradually the strain on the latter tautened, and with increased speed the towing vessel steadied on her course.

Outside Black Rock, speed was reduced to six knots in order to keep pace with the motor-lighter.

Captain Condor gave the course to the helmsman and, for the first time since getting under way, spoke to his passenger.

“Fair tide, now, Mr. Wroxall. Let’s hope we don’t see Falmouth again until we bring the wreck back wi’ us. Grub’ll be ready at noon, so after that you’d better turn in. You’re looking fair tired!”

Rob agreed that he was tired; but the novelty of a run up Channel more than outweighed his desire for sleep. He was not feeling hungry, although he had had a very early breakfast.

“Then you ought to be,” declared the captain. “Give me a man who knows how to stow his victuals any day. I’ll warrant after a good tuck-in you’ll be ready for sleep.”

Judging by the generous repast Captain Condor was a man who believed in putting precept into practice. He was right, too, concerning Rob’s need for rest. Accordingly the latter compromised by bringing a deck-chair on the lee side of the bridge, where he could be at ease and watch the ever changing panorama of the rugged Cornish coast.

Sleep won! Almost before he had settled himself he dropped into a sound slumber, hardly stirring until Mr. Brash awoke him with the news that tea was ready.

“Two bells, an’ we’m abeam o’ Bolt Head, sir,” he reported.

Rob gazed landwards. Facing him were the tall dark cliffs of Devon, his outlook terminating at Bolt Tail to the west’ard and the low-lying rocks off Prawl Point showing just above the horizon.

“We haven’t done badly,” he remarked. “At this rate we should be over the wreck in another two hours.”

The Chief Officer shook his head.

“Tide’s agen us now,” he observed. “It runs most powerful off the Start. I reckon we won’t get there afore ten.”

Before ten o’clock! And the young assistant engineer, in his zeal, was hoping to be able to commence operations well before sunset.

As a matter of fact it was soon after nine when the Gleaner and the two lighters arrived in the proximity of the wreck. The dumb-lighter’s hawser was trans-shipped from the Gleaner to the motor-lighter, in order to leave the tug unhampered in her attempt to locate the position.

Rob, armed with a sextant, began to take shore angles, Captain Condor took bearings with the compass, the two mates swept the surface of the sea with their binoculars.

Observations showed that the Gleaner was close to the reported position of the wreck, but the buoy previously placed to indicate the exact spot was not to be seen.

Its absence might mean hours, perhaps days of hard work before the submarine sweeps would locate the desired object.

“ ’Tain’t to be wondered at,” remarked Captain Condor. “Like as not some craft fouled the buoy in the dark an’ carried it away. We’m not far off the place. It’s patience, Mr. Wroxall, patience an’ a slice of rale good luck!”

Rob admitted that side of the picture. On the other hand time was money with Messrs. Findon & Rayse. They were paying for the matériel and personnel and paying heavily. Captain Condor, being on a fixed wage, was not unduly perturbed by delays.

“I think we’d better try sweeping at once,” said Rob.

Captain Condor shrugged his shoulders.

“As you wish, Mr. Wroxall.”

As soon as possible a mark-buoy was dropped. The motor-launch and a rowing boat were then lowered and manned. They proceeded in opposite directions, paying out a length of flexible wire until the span rested on the bottom of the sea.

Then, taking bearings from the mark buoy, both craft forged steadily ahead on parallel courses.

Watching from the Gleaner’s bridge, Rob followed their progress with the greatest attention. In the gathering darkness he could discern the outlines of the pulling boat, and the faint gleam of the motor-launch’s starboard light.

Presently, in spite of their coxswain’s efforts, both craft began to swing towards each other.

“Got anything, Ben?” hailed Captain Condor through a megaphone.

“Sure us have, zur!” replied the Chief Mate, holding his hands trumpet-wise to let his words carry down wind. “Sommut girt her be.”

“Belay then!” ordered the Captain. “We’ve got it, Mr. Wroxall,” he added.

The Gleaner and the motor-lighter then manœuvred until the ends of the wire were taken on board. Both forged gently ahead. The strain on the sweep nearly approached working strength, according to the reading on the dynamometer, before the signal was given to stop engines. The spot was then carefully buoyed, and the ends of the span transferred to a floating barrel.

“That’ll do for to-night, I allow,” suggested Captain Condor. “We’m far luckier than I thought. Tu-morrow we start in earnest. Thanks be, glass be high and wind off shore.”

Rob, enthusiastic and energetic though he was, could raise no objection. There were limits to human endurance, and since it was inadvisable at present to work in shifts, the hands must necessarily be given a good night’s rest.

Contrary to his expectations Rob slept soundly. Soon after daybreak he went on deck, threw a chip overside, and watched it drift lazily past the ship’s side. Then, having lowered a Jacob’s ladder, he plunged overboard and enjoyed ten minutes’ hard swimming before returning on board to towel vigorously, and then dress.

“Bless you!” ejaculated Captain Condor when Rob mentioned his swim. “You went overboard from an anchored craft in a tideway? ’Twas rale fulish.”

“Oh, I threw a chunk of wood overboard to test the strength of the tide,” replied Rob. “It was almost slack water. And there were two of the crew standing by.”

“That alters the case,” rejoined the Skipper approvingly. “As I said afore I admire a man who pays due respect to the tides. Now, before Trevarrick has his breakfast, you’d better send him down to see what we’ve hooked.”

Rob readily agreed to the suggestion. It was, he knew, hard lines on the diver to send him down in nearly twenty-five fathoms before he had broken his fast; but he was fully aware—and so was Trevarrick—of the risk of diving directly after a meal.

The diver donned his dress. His attendants adjusted his life-line and affixed the leaden weight to his breast and back. Slowly his heavily soled boots shuffled as he made his way to the side.

Then his head-dress was fitted, air-tube and telephone wires connected up, and the front glass of the helmet screwed down tightly.

Four men, two on each pump, were already impelling air through three hundred feet of armoured indiarubber pipe. It was their task to keep up a certain pressure. Whether it suited the diver or not did not matter; he had the means of regulating the supply.

Trevarrick gave the signal.

Down he went by the shot-line, his descent being governed by the rate at which his life-line was paid out. Bubbles marked the spot where he had disappeared, though at ten fathoms his copper-helmeted figure was invisible to the watchers on the deck.

The diver was lowered with fair rapidity, until the slackening of the life-line announced that he had reached the bottom. According to the position of the mark-buoy, he had to cover only about ten yards before arriving at the wreck.

While the attendants at the pumps were methodically carrying out their duties, there was another scene of activity.

The decompressing chamber was being prepared for lowering. As soon as it was over the side, Polglaze, the principal attendant, entered the metal cylinder, closed the door, which was provided with a lock capable of being operated from either the outside or the inside, and gave the signal for compressed air to be admitted into the chamber.

In a few minutes Polglaze was subjected to an atmospheric pressure equal to that of the diver at twenty-three fathoms. Beyond a slight buzzing in the ears Polglaze felt no inconvenience. The fairly rapid increase of pressure could be borne without danger, provided the man was physically fit. It was the release of pressure that was the danger. Unless it were carried out strictly according to written instructions the occupant or occupants of the decompressing chamber might easily be killed owing to the stoppage of their arterial blood.

“O.K.!” reported Polglaze by telephone, and without delay the dome-topped cylinder was lowered to a depth of twenty fathoms—or about twenty feet above the bed of the sea and close to the spot where Trevarrick was making his investigations.

Rob paid no attention to the descent of that most recent invention. At least, not yet. He was well acquainted with its properties and use, and no longer regarded it as a scientific marvel, but merely as a machine, an instrument, which is to assist the diver in his work. Wroxall’s attention was directed to the telephone between Trevarrick and himself, as he eagerly awaited the diver’s report.

It was not an easy matter to make conversation audible. The hiss of escaping air, the diver’s stertorous breathing, and even the splash of the wavelets against the Gleaner’s sides—all were magnified by the sensitive microphones.

“Very strong current ... making slow headway ... firm, sandy bottom ... nothing in sight,” came Trevarrick’s report. Then, after a long pause—“No good; it’s only a ship’s anchor!”