Читать книгу Captain Fosdyke's Gold - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 8

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“He’s foul of something,” declared Rob, addressing the knot of men standing around. “He is afraid he cannot free himself.”

“I’ll go down, sir,” volunteered Trevarrick, knocking the ashes out of his pipe and replacing it in its case.

“Better not,” objected Rob. “You’ve had one spell to-day already. What about you, Black?”

“ ’Course I’m ready,” replied the man.

“Drat you, Bill!” exclaimed Trevarrick. “I put in for the job first, I did! ’Sides, he’s my pal!”

“An’ mine, too, look you!” declared Black. “Lawks! An’ you’re argufyin’ while he’s stuck down there. The boss said as ’ow I was to go, didn’t you, zur?”

“Yes, you go,” decided Rob firmly, knowing that only definite orders would settle the friendly yet time-wasting argument. “Get busy, Polglaze!”

The attendant held up the stiff diving-dress and assisted Black to don it. Meanwhile two more air-pumps were brought aft and connected up in order to ensure a sufficient supply to the second diver. Others of the crew prepared the decompression chamber, which, even though it could not accommodate two men in addition to the attendant, would be of material assistance in getting one of the divers to the surface.

But which one?

Rob, holding the telephone, was now a silent spectator of the preparations. At intervals he called to the trapped diver, but no message, reassuring or otherwise, came in reply.

“P’raps he can hear but can’t say anything, sir,” said Trevarrick. “Keep on tellin’ him we’re coming to his assistance. Warn him not to cut his life-line and blow himself up.”

Rob did so, fervently hoping that his message “got through”. In a last extremity White might sever life-line and air-tube and “blow himself up”—in other words, trust to the increased buoyancy of his diving-dress under additional air pressure to bear him to the surface. This operation was fraught with danger. For one thing he might be entangled in such a manner that he would be still held a prisoner. If he did rise to the surface the sudden release of pressure would render him insensible even if it did not kill him. If found senseless the only course open would be to lower him again to the former depth and then bring him up again in the decompression chamber.

“All ready!” reported Polglaze.

Rob beckoned to Paul Denis, who had been a rather awed spectator. The apprentice was new to this side of submarine salvage work, and the thought of White’s terrible predicament had shaken the lad considerably.

“Hang on to this telephone, Denis,” said Rob. “Keep calling at about every half-minute, and watch for signals.... Now, Black, directly you have your helmet on we’ll test your telephone.”

The test was successful. Polglaze gave the signal and the diver went over the side on his desperate attempt at rescue.

Descending by means of his life-line and guided by his unfortunate fellow-diver’s shot-rope, Black reached the bottom in record time.

The young flood had now set in, and by a fortunate circumstance the fierce counter-current that previous divers had reported had considerably eased in strength; but the sediment thrown up by White’s boots and also by his efforts to free himself was still in suspension, thus limiting the rescuer’s range of vision to about six feet.

Black switched on the electric lamp attached to his belt, but the result was negligible. Stooping cautiously he picked up the slack of White’s distance-rope, and commenced to follow its direction.

The rope had sagged considerably. In fact one portion of it was actually under the stern of the wreck. The tip of the lowermost blade of a propeller, black but curiously free from marine growth, was almost level with Black’s helmet.

Cautiously hauling in the slack of the distance-rope, and discovering to his intense satisfaction that it had not fouled anything, the diver resumed his way, following the submarine equivalent to the silken clue to Fair Rosamund’s labyrinth.

The current was now with him. He had to lean back as he walked in order to prevent himself being thrown on his face.

Suddenly he stopped. Right ahead was what appeared to be a waving mass of seaweed. Yet his experience told him that it was not seaweed. Even in a slight current marine growth of this description trails almost flat on the ground in long undulations.

On Black’s right rose the side of the wreck, covered with weeds and barnacles. Ahead rose this mysterious barrier into whose ill-defined mass White’s distance-rope led. Obviously this was the entanglement that held the unfortunate diver in its clutches; and since it imprisoned White it was nearly certain to hold a similar fate in store for his would-be rescuer.

Yet, undismayed though well aware of the danger, Black did not hesitate.

Knife in hand he advanced, hacking cautiously and deliberately at the obstruction.

Then he knew.

The dark mass consisted of fathom upon fathom of trawl nets that, having fouled the wreck, had been cut away by the fishermen. Interlocked by numberless mutations of the tide, the nets had formed themselves into an entanglement so formidable that even the lion-hearted diver experienced a sensation of dismay at the thought of the fate of his comrade.

He remembered that the tide had changed. Somewhere in that congested maze of nets, and being forced farther and farther away by the terrific pressure against the barrier, was White. It seemed hardly possible that he could yet be alive. There was no sign either of his life-line or air-tube. The only clue was the distance-line, and it was quite likely that White in his struggle had allowed it to become detached.

The diver hacked away again and again. At each stroke the rolled fabric fell apart, only to be swept by the current to interlock more tightly than ever with the rest of the nets.

A tough fragment of meshed line trailed round Black’s right leg. He stooped and cut it adrift. As he did so he caught a glimpse of a pale-grey line grotesquely distorted in the rays of the lamp.

He stepped back and then took two paces to his right. Grasping the object, he discovered that it was his comrade’s air-tube. A little distance from it was White’s life-line.

Replacing his knife, Black stuck his heels firmly in the sand and hauled gently at the life-line. There was considerable resistance. Thanks be! White had not gone to the desperate extreme of cutting away his life-line and air-tube.

Heaving away strongly Black had the satisfaction of knowing that he was hauling his unfortunate comrade towards him. Then the rope refused to come home another inch. He was pulling against the mass of netting in which White was entombed.

This was against White’s favour, but decidedly in Black’s. The latter was in no immediate danger of being entangled since the trailing portions of the net were being forced away from him by the current.

By the aid of the lamp the diver examined the tangled mass at the spot where the tautened life-line disappeared. There seemed to be a bulge—something of a solid nature. Carefully he probed with his bare hand—and touched the inflated rubber dress of the man he had come to aid!

Even on the very threshold of success Black kept his head. He realized that when he used his knife to cut away the few inches of compressed netting one ill-judged sweep of the keen blade might easily slit the tough rubber and canvas fabric of White’s dress.

So intent was the man upon his work that frequent inquiries on the telephone he completely ignored—not because he did not want to report progress, but simply because, in the intensity of his task, he was oblivious to everything else.

At length he paused.

“Getting at him,” he reported. “Stand by to take in the slack of both sets o’ gear. Is the decompressor ready? It’ll be wanted tur’ble bad in a few minutes!”

Then he resumed his task, cautiously cutting through the numerous meshes and tucking the severed ends aside. His bare hand came in contact with White’s greatly inflated dress. Groping, he found the other’s hand, squeezed it, but received no response.

Five minutes more and the luckless diver—or was it only his corpse?—was released from his flexible and tenacious cage.

“Steady on both life-lines!” requested Black, and as the tension increased he made his way slowly along the distance-line, half supporting, half dragging his comrade to the shot-rope.

“Decompression chamber coming down to you, Black,” announced Rob at the other end of the telephone. “How are you? How’s White?”

“I’m doing well, sir,” was the reply. “Can’t say about White.... Here we are at the shot-rope.”

Glad of the slight assistance afforded by the weighted rope—which should have been vertical, but was considerably bowed by the tide, Black remained supporting his unconscious comrade until a dark object a few feet above his helmet indicated that the life-saving cylinder was within reach.

Fumbling with his disengaged arm, Black succeeded in opening the air-tight door. It was out of the question for him, unaided, to lift the other diver up and guide his massive bulk through the aperture.

Fortunately Polglaze, stationed within, realized the rescuing diver’s predicament. He lowered a rope with a bow-line. This Black slipped under the shoulders of his comrade and gave the customary signal by jerking the rope for the attendant to haul up.

In water the diver’s dead-weight was very little more than that of the volume of water he displaced, but once in the highly compressed air of the cylinder, White, with his metal helmet, and with lead on his chest, back, and feet, was far too heavy for Polglaze to raise. Although the attendant was a powerfully built man that task was beyond him, and White was utterly incapable of doing the slightest thing to help himself. As the unconscious man was hanging half in, half out of the decompression chamber it was useless to attempt to lift the cylinder to the surface; for, if this were done, the compressed air would blow itself out through the open aperture, with dire results to both White and Polglaze.

But the inventors and makers of the decompression chamber had made provision for such a state of affairs.

On the inside of the domed top was an eyebolt. To this Polglaze affixed the hook of a purchase-tackle, engaging the hook of the lower block to the bow-line round the diver’s body. Then, tailing on to the running part of the tackle, the attendant hauled White into safety, cast loose his life-line and air-tube and closed the air-tight door.

Waiting patiently upon the bed of the sea, Black saw the free end of his comrade’s air-tube—ejecting a rapid flow of bubbles—swing clear from the cylinder overhead.

Then, as he watched, the decompression chamber was raised, passing beyond his range of vision.

“Ready to come up, sir!” he reported, and waited for the commencement of a tedious ascent. His immediate task was accomplished; but now came the discomfort of a painfully slow progress to the surface. He knew that an hour and a half must elapse before he would be free to breathe air at normal atmospheric pressure—Nature’s free and wonderful gift that only those who have been temporarily deprived of it can fully appreciate.