Airship Part 8

CHAPTER XVII.

--A SURPRISE FOR CAPTAIN PROUT.

Captain Abraham Prout, master and part owner of the topsail schooner Myrtle, of 120 tons burthen, came on deck on hearing the mate give the order "All hands shorten sail!"

It was six o'clock in the morning, still dark and very cold, for the Myrtle was on the fortieth parallel of the Southern Hemisphere, and the month being June it was mid-winter. There were flakes of snow flying about. For the last three days and nights it had either been sleeting, raining, or snowing, or else all three together; but the wind was fair, and there was every prospect of the schooner making a quick pa.s.sage from Albany to Hobart.

"There's something behind this muck, Abe," remarked the mate, who, on the strength of being the "Old Man's" brother-in-law, was on familiar terms with Captain Prout. "The old hooker won't carry her topsails with the breeze a-freshenin'. Best be on the safe side, says I."

"Quite right, Tom," agreed the skipper. "New topmasts cost a mort sight o' money in these hard times. Anything to report?"

"Nothin'," replied the mate, laconically.

He shook the frozen sleet from the rim of his sou'wester and turned to inform one of the crew, in polite language of the sea, that "he'd better get a move on an' not stand there a-hanging on to the slack."

"There's some tea a-goin', Tom," announced Captain Prout. "Nip below an' get a mug to warm you up a bit."

The mate fell in with the suggestion with alacrity. The skipper, having seen the hands complete their task of "gettin' the tops'ls off her," went aft to where the half-frozen helmsman was almost mechanically toying with the wheel.

Through sheer force of habit Captain Prout peered into the feebly illuminated compa.s.s-bowl. Even as he did so, there was a tremendous crash.

The Myrtle trembled from truck to kelson, while from aloft a jumble of splintered spars, cordage, and canvas fell upon the deck like a miniature avalanche.

Captain Prout's first impressions were those of pained surprise. For the moment he was firmly convinced that the schooner had piled herself upon an uncharted rock, but the absence of any signs of the vessel pounding against a hard bottom rea.s.sured him on that point.

Although in ignorance of what had occurred, the tough old skipper rose to the occasion.

"Steady on your helm!" he shouted to the man at the wheel. "Don't let her fall off her course."

The helmsman obeyed. It was no easy matter, since he was enveloped in a fold of the mainsail and the Myrtle was towing the main-topmast and a portion of the cross-trees alongside.

Alarmed by the commotion, the "watch below"--two men and a boy--rushed on deck, while the mate, issuing from the after-cabin with a tin pannikin of tea still grasped in his hand, raised his voice in a strongly worded enquiry to know what had happened to the old hooker.

"Get a light, Tom, an' we'll have a squint at the damage," shouted the Old Man. "One of you sound the well and see if she's making any. d.i.c.k, you just see if them sidelights are burning properly."

The mate disappeared, to return with a hurricane lamp.

"Jerusalem!" he exclaimed. "Ain't it a lash up?"

The mainmast had been broken off five feet below the cross-trees, with the result that the main and throat halliard blocks had gone with the broken spars, while the mainsail, with the gaff and boom, had fallen across the deck. The shroud halliards still held, and the wire shrouds themselves trailed athwart both bulwarks. Apparently the foremast was intact, since it was the main topmast stay that had parted under the strain.

This much Captain Prout saw, noted, and understood, but what puzzled him was a telescoped object, looking very much like an exaggerated top-hat, that lay upon the deck between the mainmast fife-rail and the coaming of the main hatch.

"Guess it's a meteorite," hazarded the mate.

"Meteorite, my foot!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Captain Prout, scornfully. "If't had been, 'twould ha' gone slap bang through the old hooker, an' we'd have been in the ditch."

"It's had a good try, anyway," rejoined the mate. "Half a dozen deck planks stove in."

He held the lantern close to the mysterious object.

"Looks like a bloomin' bath," he continued, "and I'm hanged if there isn't a whopping big bird in it. Rummiest birdcage I've ever set eyes on."

The cause of the damage to the Myrtle's top-hamper and deck planks was Z64's observation basket. Instead of falling into the sea and decorously sinking to the bottom, as von Sinzig had hoped, the contrivance had struck the only vessel within a radius of a hundred miles. With its head and neck driven completely through the aluminium side of the basket was a large eagle. The huge bird had struck the suspended basket such a tremendous blow that the impact had wrenched away the metal clips securing it to the bottle-screws.

"Standin' an' looking at the blessed thing won't clear away this raffle," said the Old Man with asperity. "Set to, all hands. Secure and belay all you can and cut the rest adrift."

"Heave this lot overboard, Abe?" questioned the mate, kicking the basket with his sea-boot.

"Best let 'un stop awhile," decided the skipper. "Pa.s.s a lashing round it. Be sharp with that topmast, or it'll stove us in."

Quickly the mate and a couple of hands cut away the rigging that held the topmast alongside. The heavy spar, which had been b.u.mping heavily against the side, fell clear. The Myrtle, no longer impeded by the trailing wreckage, forged rapidly through the water, although she was now carrying foresail, staysail, and outer jib only.

By this time day had broken. The snow had ceased falling, and right ahead the pale sun shone in a grey, misty sky.

The crew, having made all ship-shape as far as lay in their power, were curiously regarding the cause of the catastrophe. They rather looked upon it as a diversion to break the monotony.

"There's a log of sorts, sir," exclaimed one of the men, fumbling with the leather straps that secured the unused petrol bomb. The missile had been badly dented, but luckily the safety cap was intact. Had it not been so, the bomb would have ignited on impact, and the Myrtle, her snow-swept deck notwithstanding, would soon have been enveloped in flames from stem to stern.

"Don't fool around with it, Ted," said another of the crew, who, an R.N.R. man, had seen life and death in the Great War. "It's a bomb."

"Well," observed Captain Prout, "that's more'n I bargained for. I've taken my chances with floating mines, but it's coming too much of a good thing when these airmen blokes start chucking bombs haphazard-like."

"Best pitch the thing overboard," suggested the mate.

"No," objected the Old Man. "If we do, we've no evidence. Someone's got to pay for this lash up. Government broad arrow on the thing, too. That fixes it. When we make Hobart I'll raise Cain or my name's not Abraham Prout."

CHAPTER XVIII.

--UNDER FIRE.

"It's going to be a close race, Kenyon," remarked Fosterd.y.k.e, as Z64 crossed the "Golden Hind's" bows at a distance of less than a mile.

"Guess we're top-dog, though," replied Kenneth. "We've wiped out the Hun's useful lead, and at the half-way point we're practically level."

"Yes," agreed the baronet; "but we must not ignore the element of chance. Let me see"--he referred to the large Mercator map--"according to the latest reports, Commodore Nye's 'Eagle' is at Khartoum. His hop across the Atlantic and a non-stop run over the Sahara takes a lot of beating. I'd like to meet that Yankee. And there's the j.a.p, Count Hyashi. He's at Panama, after having been hung up for three days at Honolulu. If he'd been able to carry on without a hitch, his quadruplane would have won the race. So it appears that all the compet.i.tors have completed half the course at practically the same time."

"Aeroplane approaching, sir," reported Collings.

Right ahead a biplane was heading towards the "Golden Hind," followed at close intervals by three more. Seemingly ignoring the German airship, which was now on a diverging course, the four machines with admirable precision turned and accompanied the British airship.

Two took up station on either side of the "Golden Hind." Each flew the New Zealand ensign. It was Fosterd.y.k.e's preliminary welcome to the Antipodes.

Gliding serenely earthwards in perfectly calm air, the "Golden Hind" entered the big shed prepared for her reception. The civic officials of Auckland turned out in force, supported by crowds of "Diggers" and a fair sprinkling of Maoris.

"We quite understand," was the mayor's remark when Fosterd.y.k.e, thanking him for the warmness of his reception, firmly but courteously refused to attend a banquet proposed to be given in his honour. "This is a race, not a ceremonial tour. The prestige of the Empire is at stake, so get on with it."

Accordingly, the "Golden Hind's" crew did "get on with it." Aided by scores of willing helpers, they replenished fuel tanks, took in fresh water and provisions and necessary stores. A representative of the International Air Board was in attendance to sign the control sheet, certifying that the "Golden Hind" had completed half the circuit, and had touched at a spot within a degree of the opposite point of the globe to his starting-point. Within an hour and a quarter of her arrival at Auckland the British airship started on her homeward voyage.

Although New Zealand had no cause to show any goodwill towards the Huns, von Sinzig had no reason to complain of his reception. He was received coldly, it is true, but the New Zealanders, sportsmen all, were not ones to put obstacles in the way of an alien and former enemy.

Notified by wireless of Z64's impending arrival at Napier, the authorities at that town had cylinders of hydrogen and a large stock of petrol in readiness for the German airship's requirements. Within ten minutes of the "Golden Hind's" departure from Auckland Z64 started from Napier.

The contest had now entered upon a more interesting phase. It was almost certain that the rivals would take a practically identical course, crossing the American continent in the neighbourhood of the Isthmus of Panama. The lofty Andes, extending like a gigantic backbone from Colombia to Patagonia--an almost uninterrupted range 450 miles in length--presented a difficult, though not exactly insurmountable obstacle to the rival airships.

Vainly the wireless operators of the "Golden Hind" sought to "pick up" the Zeppelin. Von Sinzig had seen to that, for directly the German airship left New Zealand he gave orders that on no account were messages to be transmitted, but on the other hand, the receivers were to be constantly in use, in order to pick up any radiograms that might throw light upon the movements of the "Golden Hind."

Apart from the chagrin at the knowledge that his attempt to burn the British airship was a failure, von Sinzig felt rather elated. His deceptive report of the course he had taken from Java to New Zealand had been accepted by the authorities without question; hence no suspicion could possibly be attached to him for the burning of the Fremantle aerodrome. He was also of the opinion that Z64 was a swifter craft than her rival, and possessed another advantage--that of greater fuel-carrying capacity. Even if the "Golden Hind" did possess a higher speed, she would have to alight more frequently to replenish her tanks.

As far as the "Golden Hind" was concerned the run across the Panama was almost devoid of incident. With the exception of a distant view of Pitcairn Island--famous in connection with the mutiny of the Bounty--no land was sighted until Galapagos Group was seen ten miles on the starboard bow.

The "Golden Hind" was now re-crossing the equator. Fosterd.y.k.e, who had crossed the line at least a dozen times, in all sorts of vessels from luxuriant liners to singy tramps, and even on one occasion on board a wind-jammer, declared that there was nothing to beat an airship for travelling in the Tropics.

"For one thing you can keep cool," he added; "another, that will appeal to a good many people, is the fact that an airship is beyond reach of Father Neptune and his merry myrmidons. And the Doldrums, instead of being regarded as a terror, afford an easy pa.s.sage to aircraft of all descriptions."

With the setting of the sun a thick mist arose--one of those humid tropical mists that are responsible for malaria and other zymotic diseases peculiar to the Torrid Zone.

At a couple or three thousand feet alt.i.tude, the "Golden Hind" was in pure clear air, but in the brief twilight the banks of mist as viewed from above were picturesque in the extreme.

But to the crew of the "Golden Hind" the picturesqueness of the scene was in a measure unappreciated. They were nearing land, and a fog was one of the most undesirable climatic conditions. Not only was time a consideration, but the petrol supply was running low. But for this, Fosterd.y.k.e would have slowed down and cruised around until the mists dispersed with daybreak.

"We'll have to risk it and make a descent," he declared. "Anywhere within easy distance of Panama will do, because it is a calm night and there will be little or no risk of the 'Golden Hind' being exposed to a high wind. Thank goodness we've directional wireless."

At length Fosterd.y.k.e felt convinced that the "Golden Hind" was nearing Panama. He had arranged by wireless to detonate three explosive rockets, and the United States Air Station was to reply with a similar signal, while searchlights, directed vertically, would enable the airship to locate the landing-ground.

"Hanged if I can see any searchlights," exclaimed Bramsdean.

"Killed by the mist," explained the baronet. "I fancy I see a blurr of light two points on our port bow. What's that, Truscott?"

The wireless operator had left his cabin and was standing behind Fosterd.y.k.e as the latter was peering through the darkness.

"There's a jam for some reason," announced Truscott. "For the last five minutes I've been calling up Panama, but there's nothin' doin'. A high-powered installation, using the same metre-wave, is cutting in. I asked them to knock off, but they haven't done so."

"Inconsiderate blighters!" exclaimed Fosterd.y.k.e. "Never mind, Truscott, we can get along all right now. I fancy I can see the aerodrome lights."

"Yes, sir," agreed Kenyon. "One point on our port bow now."

"Then fire the rockets," ordered the baronet, at the same time telegraphing for the motors to be declutched.

Three vivid flashes rent the darkness, their brilliance illuminating a wide area of the fog-bank a thousand feet below, while the report echoed over the level line of misty vapour like a continuous peal of thunder.

Within a minute of the discharge of the third rocket two bursts of flame, accompanied by sharp reports, occurred at a distance of less than a quarter of a mile of the "Golden Hind's" port quarter, while after an interval of fifteen seconds three more exploded simultaneously in the same direction.

"Guess Uncle Sam can't count," remarked Kenyon, imitating to perfection the nasal drawl of the typical New Englander.

"Looks to me like shrapnel," added Bramsdean. "Judging by the way the smoke mushroomed, it reminds me of Archies over the Hun lines."

"Good enough, we'll drop gently," decided Fosterd.y.k.e. "Stand by with the holding-down lines and have a couple of grapnels ready."

The amount of brodium necessary to more than neutralise the lifting power of the gas and the dead weight of the airship was exhausted from the requisite number of ballonets, and the "Golden Hind" began to sink almost vertically in the still air.

Within five minutes she entered the belt of mist--a warm, sickly-smelling atmosphere that reminded Kenyon of a hot-house.

"I hear voices," announced Peter.

Not far beneath the airship men were shouting and talking excitedly, but the crew of the "Golden Hind" were unable to understand what the men were saying.

"Ahoy, there!" hailed Fosterd.y.k.e. "Stand by to take our ropes."

Both grapnels were carefully lowered, since there would be grave risks entailed by throwing them overboard. At the same time half a dozen holding-down ropes were paid out from each side of the nacelle. These were caught by unseen hands and the airship was quickly drawn earthwards at far too great a speed to please Sir Reginald Fosterd.y.k.e.

"Gently," he shouted. "Avast heaving."

The response was a terrible surprise. Simultaneously two searchlights were unmasked, their powerful beams at short range punctuating the fog and impinging upon the enormous envelope of the "Golden Hind," while an irregular fusillade of musketry a.s.sailed the airship on all sides.

"Up with her!" shouted Fosterd.y.k.e. "Charge all the ballonets. We've struck a revolution."

CHAPTER XIX.

--VICTIMS OF A REVOLUTION.

Above the staccato of rifle-firing rose the roar of the "Golden Hind's" powerful motors. Volumes of brodium, released from the pressure-flasks, rushed into the ballonets. The airship rose at an oblique angle, her nose almost touching the ground. Then, as the aerial propellers went ahead, the fore-part of the fuselage ploughed over the rough ground.

With thirty or forty men hanging on like grim death to the guide-lines, and as many more tailing on to the grapnel ropes, the "Golden Hind," with gas leaking from numerous bullet holes in her ballonets, was unable to seek refuge in her natural element.

Fortunately for the safety of the airship's crew, the rifle-firing quickly ceased as soon as the attackers realised that they had effected her capture. Apparently it was their intention to prevent further damage being done to the huge airship.

Finding that escape was impossible and unable to offer resistance, Fosterd.y.k.e opened out one of the doors of the nacelle and raised his hands above his head. It was no disgrace in surrendering thus. Alive the crew of the "Golden Hind" could offer and receive explanations. Dead, they could not.

The appearance of the captain of the "Golden Hind" was greeted by peremptory orders, shouted in an unintelligible language. It certainly wasn't American. It seemed to Fosterd.y.k.e that it was a kind of Spanish, and since he was ignorant of that tongue he failed to grasp the meaning of the volume of directions.