Читать книгу Captain Fosdyke's Gold - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 7

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Hardly unable to conceal his disappointment, Rob asked the diver if he could shackle the bight of the span to the anchor. Since that object was also a source of danger to fishermen’s nets it was just as well to get it to the surface. Also, its salvage ought to contribute to a slight degree towards the cost of sending the diver down.

At the end of another precious three minutes—for the time available for working at that depth is necessarily strictly limited—Trevarrick reported that the wire span was secured to one of the flukes of the anchor.

“Current getting stronger,” he added.

“Up you come, then,” ordered Rob. “Look out for the decompression chamber.”

On receiving these instructions the diver retraced his steps towards the shot-rope, guiding himself by means of his distance line. Keeping a sharp look-out, as well as his limited range of under-water vision permitted, he espied a second rope, bowed by the tide although weighted at its lowermost end.

To this he made his way. Grasping the rope he hauled himself up with very little effort until he gained the outside of the decompression chamber. Then groping for the door he flung it open.

This would have been an impossible task owing to the tremendous pressure of water, except for the fact that the compressed air within the cylinder neutralized the exterior pressure. The air, subject to several atmospheric pressures, also prevented the water rising in the decompression chamber to any appreciable height.

Awkwardly Trevarrick climbed into the cylinder. Then he waited, sitting with his legs dangling in the water, until Polglaze cast off the diver’s life-line and air-tube and opened the front of his helmet.

The door was then closed and firmly secured on the inside and Polglaze gave the signal for the decompression chamber to be hauled up.

In a few minutes the cylinder was hoisted close up to the derrick and swung inboard. Trevarrick had made the ascent in a twenty-fifth of the time he would have taken had he been raised to the surface by the usual method—being hauled up a few feet and then left hanging by his life-line until, accustomed to the slightly lesser pressure, he was again raised another short distance, repeating the process until the surface was reached.

Instead of thus spending an hour or perhaps two in decided discomfort, the diver, with his attendant, was being “decompressed” on the deck of the Gleaner, although still in a hermetically sealed chamber. The great difference was that this process was taking place above the surface and not in the semi-darkness of the depths of the sea.

While Trevarrick and Polglaze were thus accustoming themselves to the return to normal atmospheric conditions, active steps were taken to lift the anchor which the diver had discovered.

The mark-buoy was left in position, but the ends of the wire span were brought to the “gallows” projecting from the Gleaner’s stern and thence to one of the stern winches.

As the strain increased, the Gleaner’s quarter sunk lower in the water. For some moments the result was anxiously awaited, since it was a question whether the wire might part under the tension. Realizing the danger, Captain Condor ordered all hands to stand well clear. Bitter experience had taught him what might be the result should the wire part and the inboard end, coiling like a released spring, sweep everything before it!

Suddenly the ship trembled under a violent jar. Her stern lifted quite a foot and then subsided with a smack that sent the foam flying from under her squat counter. The anchor had been broken out of the ground that had held it so firmly and for such a length of time.

After that it was an easy matter to bring the object to the surface. With the tackle chock-a-block she hung from the gallows, plain for anyone to see—a mass of rusty iron heavily encrusted with barnacles.

Obviously it had once belonged either to a first-rate man-of-war—one of the old three-deckers—or to one of the famous East Indiamen. No other vessel of that period carried an anchor of that size.

Originally it had a wooden stock, square in section and tapering towards each end; but the timber had long rotted away, leaving the arms, the shank, and the enormous ring to which the hempen cable used to be bent—all deeply corroded after years of submergence.

“Not worth picking up,” declared Captain Condor disgustedly. “Now if ’tud been a decent stockless anchor——”

“It’s out of mischief, anyway,” rejoined Rob. “It won’t foul any more fishermen’s gear, and I dare say some museum will be glad of it.”

“Mebbe,” agreed the skipper morosely. “To us it’s useless junk not worth stowage. And we’re no nearer gettin’ tu the wreck than we were yesterday.”

“I suppose there is a wreck?” asked Rob. “I mean, I suppose there hasn’t been a mistake and the supposed wreck is only this anchor?”

Captain Condor shook his head emphatically.

“No fear!” he replied. “Fishermen on this part of the coast know what they’m saying. If they say ’tes a wreck then a wreck sure well ’tis.... Get that hook shifted for’ard, Mr. Brash. We’m going tu start sweeping again at once!”

Again the motor-launch and the pulling boat were lowered and the span engaged as before. It was hard and slow work for the tide was now running strongly.

For an hour the sweeping operations were continued, but without success. At the end of this time the dog-weary oarsmen were replaced by fresh men from the Gleaner, and the tedious task resumed.

By now Trevarrick and Polglaze were released from the decompression chamber and the diver was asked to make his report.

“There’s not much to say, sir,” he said. “ ’Cept for that there anchor I saw nothing. But what gets over me is the strength of the undercurrent close to the bottom. There wasn’t much of a run o’ tide down to fifteen fathom, but farther down it was runnin’ that strong that I’d all I knew how tu keep my feet.”

“How far could you see?” asked Rob.

“Twenty feet, mebbe thirty,” replied the diver. “Much like starlight it be down there; though when the sun’s more overhead I might be able to see better. If so be——”

“Mr. Wroxall!” shouted Captain Condor, “Brash has reported that the sweep’s foul o’ something big!”

“Then let’s hope it isn’t another anchor!” said Rob, as he hurried aft.

The two boats were now nearly a cable’s length astern of the Gleaner. So fierce was the tide that, straining on the wire rope, they had swung almost side by side. The motor-launch had stopped her engine and the men in the pulling boat were leaning forward on the thwarts in utter exhaustion. They had had forty minutes’ gruelling work under a broiling sun, and now that it looked as if their object were achieved, they were too done up to show any enthusiasm over their success.

Noting the position of the two boats, Rob did not feel very sanguine. Unless the bight of the sweep had caught either the bow or stern of the wreck they would not be almost touching each other. Otherwise, assuming the sunken vessel to be two hundred feet in length, the ends of the span would have been correspondingly spread apart.

“We’d better send either Black or White down,” he suggested.

Captain Condor shook his head.

“Patience, Mr. Wroxall, patience! We must wait till the tide slacks. A diver wouldn’t stand a chance wi’ the full ebb bearing him to lee’ard.”

“I suppose not,” admitted Rob. “But if it’s like this during neaps what will it be like when the spring tides are on?”

The Cornish skipper shrugged his shoulders with a gesture that undoubtedly indicated the presence of Spanish blood in his veins.

“Patience, Mr. Wroxall, patience!”

Rob’s direct question remained directly unanswered. What the conditions would be during springs had to be left to the imagination.

For the next three hours little could be done, although Rob took frequent compass bearings as the Gleaner swung to the tide, and threw chips overboard to test its strength. He made one discovery: that the direction of the tidal stream was not constant during the ebb. At three-quarters ebb it was setting obliquely from the shore—a circumstance that might be of extreme importance to subsequent operations.

At last Captain Condor expressed his opinion that the conditions were favourable, or at least possible, for another descent.

As quickly as possible White was assisted into his diving-dress and was lowered to the bed of the sea.

For nearly five minutes after he had begun to walk the length of his distance-line no report came from the diver. Bubbles were ascending to the surface, but owing to the known existence of a counter-current these gave little or no indication of the direction he was taking. Several times Rob spoke to him, but, probably on account of the hiss of escaping air, his words were inaudible.

“Something’s wrong with the telephone,” declared Rob. “White’s saying something; but I can’t distinguish the words.... Hello! Hello! Can you hear me?”

The diver was certainly speaking.

Suddenly his words came through clear and distinct.

“I can hear you, sir, I’ve been trying to reply. Can you hear me?”

“Yes, yes! Now I can.”

“I’ve found the wreck,” reported White. “I’m under her stern. It’s raised about seven feet above the sand.”

“Can you follow the wire span?”

“No, sir, it must be round the bows; I’ll see.”

At intervals came telephonic reports of the diver’s progress.

“It’s slow going. There’s a strong current against me. It’s stirring up the mud.... I reckon I’m nearly amidships. She’s lying with a list to port.... Plenty of silt this side.”

Then came another long pause, followed by incoherent words from the diver.

“I reckon as there’s a short in the wires, sir,” suggested Trevarrick, who, although off duty, was taking the diver’s equivalent to a busman’s holiday by remaining on deck.

A moment later the fateful message came through with startling distinctness:

“I’m foul of something,” reported White. “I’ve been trying to hack myself clear; but——”

Then an ominous silence.