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Raid of Dover: A Romance of the Reign of Woman A.D. 1940

CHAPTER XVIII. THE WRECK OF THE AIR-SHIP. The little island of Herm possessed only one building of importance, a monastery of French refugees. In the great walled-in courtyard, there was present an object of special and curious interest to the monks. The arrival of the Bladud had been observed with astonishment by all the inmates of the monastery, who naturally associated its coming with that of a certain mysterious visitor—a sun-scorched, iron-grey emaciated man—who had recently landed on the island, coming, it was said, from the coast of France. The visitor, who remained in complete seclusion in the building, sedulously nursed back to health and strength, was treated with extraordinary deference and respect by the Superior. That much the monks could not fail to know; but any sly inquiries and surmises on their part were met with the sternest and most peremptory discouragement. Excitement was quickened, therefore, when, only a few hours after the arrival of the air-ship, preparations were made for the distinguished visitor's departure. Linton stood in the courtyard, glancing anxiously at his watch, while Wilton, the engineer, put some finishing touches to the gear. The little man had proved himself a model of discretion. He asked no questions, but now and then threw quick glances towards the tall, thin stranger, who, at a[Pg 153] respectful sign from Linton, had taken his seat in the stern of the boat. Whether Wilton knew or suspected the identity of Wilson Renshaw, who now calmly waited for the voyage to commence, Linton could not tell. He suspected that he did, and, little guessing what a few hours would bring forth, he registered a mental promise that the silent, faithful little engineer should not go unrewarded. It struck him that there was a good deal of nervousness in Wilton's manner, as he threw upward glances at the sky. While the preparations were being completed, the Superior of the Order stood close at hand, addressing in subdued tones his deferential and earnest farewells to Mr. Renshaw, and Herrick, raising his eyes, saw the peering faces of at least a score of monks at the upper windows of the monastery. Glancing higher still, he noted with some uneasiness that the scurrying clouds, copper-tinged from the setting sun, betokened the coming of a wild and stormy night. Fervently he breathed a prayer that the aerial voyage might have a happy issue. But by this time he knew enough of air-ships to be aware that there were perils which no scientific inventions, and no precautions, can wholly nullify: risks from defects and mishaps with machinery, dangers from both combined, that at any moment might bring about some irreparable catastrophe. Yet, to-night, everything must be hazarded. Not an hour, not a moment must be lost. The time had come. To let it pass unseized would be to miss the tide at the flood, to sacrifice the touchstone of fortune. He glanced at Wilton: "Ready?" The engineer gave a quick nod and lifted a grimy[Pg 154] finger towards his cap. Linton, raising his own cap, turned towards the illustrious passenger: "Shall we start, sir?" "At once, please," was the answer. Linton stepped aboard and grasped the helm. Wilton took his place forward, and the Superior, bowing obsequiously, moved to a safe distance from the aeroplane. The faint preliminary throbbing of the engine instantly commenced. The boat began to rise, slowly at first, then more rapidly, as the elevating power obtained freer play. Every window of the monastery now was plastered with wondering, eager faces, intent on the Bladud as she soared aloft. The Superior made angry and imperious gestures, but the monks did not, or pretended not to, see. This mounting of the aeroplane with such a passenger must not be missed. It was a spectacle the like of which they would not see again. Higher and higher climbed the Bladud, beating the air with her flapping wings. The cold breeze rushed through the wind-harp on the mast with a sighing, mournful sound as the boat swept in swiftly widening circles through the air. The passenger, impressed but not perturbed, glanced sharply round him; then, feeling the growing keenness of the wind, he drew his fur coat across his chest. When they were high enough, Herrick, with one eye on the compass, put the tiller over and gave an order. Wilton lightly moved a switch, and immediately the Bladud headed at high speed for the open sea. <hr class="tb" /> As the hours passed, night fell dark and thick about them; the wind became more violent, and ever and again chilly, sleety squalls affected to[Pg 155] some extent the equilibrium of the boat. No one spoke, except for an occasional query from Herrick, to which Wilton responded by act or gesture only. Not one of the three men on board knew of any definite cause for anxiety, yet in the minds of at least two of them there was a growing sense of tension and disquietude. The muscles of Wilton's face twitched as he sat in silence, his eye watchful and his hand ready. Yet, so far, all went well. To avoid prolonged dangers of the open channel, they tacked northwards towards the coast of France, intending to resume the sea course as nearly as possible above the Straits of Dover. Nearer land the air grew less cloudy. The twinkling lights of habitations far below became visible like distant glow-worms. From the numbers of these lights they could form an idea of the size of the towns and villages over which they passed. Some thirty-five were counted. Presently the silent passenger himself identified the locality and said that they were passing over the highlands between Cape Blanc and Calais. It was time to give the ship a different course; and once again below them lay the wide expanse of sombre, tossing sea. But the Bladud now encountered the strength of a growing gale from the North-East, and soon it became apparent that she was being dangerously deflected from her proper course. It was a discovery silently made, but fraught with the fears of potential disaster. If they should be blown out to sea, there was but one ultimate certainty—death for all on board. The store of motive power could only last for a given number of hours, and already much of the power had been expended. Their hope must lie in reaching dry ground within a period that grew perilously shorter and shorter even while they thought of it. [Pg 156] Entrusting the helm for a moment to the passenger, Herrick crawled forward, and while the rising gale shrieked above them and around them, held a hasty, whispered conversation with the now excited engineer. "We'll never do it, sir, we'll never do it," Wilton said, hoarsely. "St. Margaret's Bay; Why, see! we've left it far behind already. No landing there to-night. What's the best air-ship that ever was built against a wind like this?" "Land us anywhere, anywhere," was Herrick's vehement answer. "Yes, if we can," muttered Wilton, gloomily. "I'm afeard there's something wrong with her, and that's the truth, Mr. Herrick." "Good God!" exclaimed Herrick, with an anxious glance towards the figure in the stern. "See that?" gasped the engineer, as a strong gust from the north drove the bow of the boat farther sea-ward. "See that, sir? I tell you, she can't stand it." Again and again the same thing happened. The gale, so far as it was easterly, drove them westward along the coastline, and ever and again the fierce gusts from the north forced them away from it. Linton crept back to the stern. Thirty minutes passed—minutes of increasing suspense. At the end of that time they had lost their bearings. The Bladud became more and more beyond control. "Is there danger?" Renshaw asked the question very softly. "I am afraid there is, sir," said Linton. The other nodded: "I thought so. What part of the coast is that down there?" he asked after an interval. [Pg 157] Linton peering over, pondered a minute before he answered: "Dover's left far behind by this time. We've passed Hastings. Those must be the lights of Brighton." "We can't get down?" "Impossible at present. We must drive straight ahead. Inside the Isle of Wight there'll be a chance for us—more shelter and more ships. Wilton knows that part." "Can we last as long?" "I think so—I hope so." A long silence fell as the Bladud battled with the wind. Then there came a startling, rending sound that indicated some defect in the machinery. The boat began to veer erratically. "Steady, sir, steady," roared Wilton, making a trumpet of his hands. "For God's sake head her north!" From below there rose a sullen, surging sound, the threatening monotone of angry waves breaking upon a rocky shore. The sound grew fainter. They must be travelling inland—across the Isle of Wight. Now, then, was the time for a descent. Dimly in the forepart of the boat, Wilton's bent form could be discerned, his face peering, his hands at work in the complex box of the Bladud's machinery. Suddenly he threw himself back, sitting on his heels, and Herrick thought he saw his hands raised with a gesture of despair. The Bladud lurched and swayed violently, and for a moment it seemed as if the gyroscope had wholly failed to act. If that were so, in a moment the boat might lose her equilibrium, and all would end. But that was not the trouble. Linton now realised that it was the lowering apparatus that[Pg 158] would not work. The Bladud still rushed madly forward. With unchecked speed, they flew across the island. Another coast line then came into view—the long low line of lights stretching from Portsmouth, across Southsea to Eastney and Fort Cumberland. There was hope, then, or if not ground for hope, at least a fighting chance! But the Bladud now by some inexplicable perversity of the machinery made obstinately for the eastern extremity of the line of lights. That, again, might serve if only they could descend on the wide common of Hayling Island. They were nearing it every moment. Presently from below there rose a new menace, an angry sound—grating and monotonous, that Linton could not understand. "What's that?" he shouted. "The Woolseners," bellowed Wilton, in reply, and made a wild gesture with his disengaged hand. He knew the deadly peril—those shifting banks of shingle churned in the shallows by the ceaseless action of the tides and waves. The Woolseners were as fatal as the Goodwin Sands to every ship or boat that found herself among them. With a desperate effort, aided by Renshaw and directed by Wilton, Herrick forced over the helm. Another ominous crack reached their ears, but for the moment they were successful, and a sudden squall from the east aided their combined efforts. They now were heading straight for Portsmouth Harbour. All might yet be well! Still travelling at great speed, they traversed nearly half the distance, it now being Wilton's design to bring the Bladud down on Southsea Common. Then, suddenly, the horizontal movement of the boat absolutely ceased. All the motive power that was left in her began through some terrible mishap to be[Pg 159] expended in the development of rapid elevation. The frantic efforts of Wilton to check the upward rush were unavailing, the boat went up and up with terrible velocity. This last catastrophe was paralyzing, overwhelming. Climbing higher and higher, the boat would rapidly exhaust her small remaining store of compressed air. Then, in an instant, would commence a reversal, and the Bladud would rush down through space—the end for all on board, inevitable death. Linton again left the helm in Renshaw's hands. It was useless to retain it. He scrambled forward to assist Wilton in his desperate efforts to right the machinery. A dreadful feeling of sickness began to overpower him as the air-ship swayed and waltzed in the upper air-currents, lurching and righting as if struck by successive waves, but ever mounting higher and yet higher. It grew intensely cold. Feathery flakes of snow began to envelop them. Their lungs laboured. It became more and more difficult to breathe. Linton gasped enquiries which either Wilton did not hear or could not answer. He glanced back at their ill-starred passenger, who had set out to recover power and a great position and now was rushing to an awful death. He saw that Renshaw's head rolled limply on his shoulders. Already he seemed to be insensible. Filled with terror and alarm, he shouted to Wilton though the man was close to hand, but his voice, though the effort of utterance was so great, sounded even to himself quite faint and far away. By the light of the protected spirit lamp fixed to the tiny engine house, Linton saw that the recording instrument already registered an altitude of 20,000 feet. A dull indifference began to take possession of his[Pg 160] mind. His faculties were slowly freezing. Even his eyesight now began to fail. He could scarcely see the column of mercury in the glass, or the minute hand of his watch. He felt that consciousness would soon completely desert him. His right hand was resting on the gunwale of the boat; he found he could not raise it. He could scarcely move his lower limbs, and, turning once more to glance at the barometer, his head fell forward helplessly. By a violent exercise of his muscles and his will, he raised his face a little, but for an instant only. It drooped again. He slid down into the bottom of the boat. His fading gaze sought that of Wilton. They looked into each other's eyes, like dying men bidding one another silent, sad farewells. The mists of death already seemed to be closing on them, when a sudden variation of the temperature, or, it may be, some magnetic current partially revived them. But the Bladud still rushed upward, ever upward. They had reached a height of four miles above the earth, and the temperature had fallen to 24° below freezing point of water. To this appalling altitude the Bladud had ascended with almost incredible rapidity. Upward, and upward still, they went, until five miles, then six, was reached above the surface of the vanished earth. Out of the void a muffled voice reached Linton's ears, the welcome voice of a living fellow-creature. It was Wilton trying to rouse him, Wilton speaking with urgency and vehemence. Gradually he came out of his swoon; familiar objects close to him revealed themselves again. Wilton was lying in the bottom of the boat. He was striving in vain to reach Linton. The piercing cold had almost paralyzed him. His hands were freezing. [Pg 161] What did Wilton want? What was he trying to do? As far as could be judged, they had now reached an altitude of 37,000 feet—nearly seven miles. The mists closed in again. The thread of life was on the point of breaking. Linton became half conscious that a thick crust of ice had formed upon his clothes, his breath was freezing on his lips and in his nostrils. He glanced again with an agonizing effort at the moving record of their elevation. Another 1,000 feet, and then 2,000 feet. Needles of ice were pricking at his eyes. Close to him the prone form of Wilton seemed to be covered with minute crystals from head to foot. Linton tried to stretch out his hands to touch him, but found that they were helpless, numbed. What, he vaguely wondered, was Wilton doing now? What mad idea was this? With an exhausting effort the engineer had just smashed the lens of his telescope. Then his hands seemed again to fail him. Watching him helplessly, Linton felt that everything was useless, hopeless, lost. It would soon be over. But Wilton had gripped the broken glass of the telescope between his teeth. What was he doing now? Why was he sawing frantically, convulsively, at that tightened cord? Ah! that was it! Well done, Wilton. But it was hopeless, quite hopeless, after all. Linton rolled his head feebly. They had climbed another 1,000 feet, and they were mounting still. No! What was this? There was a change. Something had happened. Linton was sensible of a strange eddying, a pause, a feebler flapping of the aeroplanes. Merciful God! The boat had ceased to rise. Now[Pg 162] she was sinking, sinking, with appalling speed, yet checked to some extent by the broad aeroplanes, just as a bird would be when, with extended wings, it floated down to earth. He tried to frame some words; tried to touch Wilton with his hand; failed to do either. Wilton lay motionless, with bleeding lips. <hr class="tb" /> Out of the blur of mental chaos, Linton Herrick found himself roughly dragged back to consciousness. Kneeling in the boat, he discovered that he was submerged in water to the waist; flecks of salt water smote him in the face; all around there was a welter of wild, tossing waves. In his ears, to add to his distraction, there sounded a harsh and melancholy bell. It was tolling, tolling, close at hand. The Bladud, water-logged, tossed feebly in the trough of the angry sea. Built on a theory that she could float for a considerable period, it nevertheless rushed in upon Linton's mind that in a few minutes she would sink. He struggled to his feet, grasping the rigging as he did so. Something arrested his attention. What was that silent log-like thing the waves were rolling yonder in the semi-darkness? It must be Wilton, poor Wilton, who had saved their lives—or tried to save them, only to lose his own. Wilton! Dead! A voice hailed him. It came from Renshaw, his companion. He also was on his feet, swaying from side to side as the boat, settling deeper and deeper in the water, plunged and lurched beneath them. "Look!" cried Renshaw, "the buoy! We must swim for it!" As he spoke he plunged over the side and struck out for a towering object that rose and fell in the[Pg 163] waves only a few yards away. Linton realised that that was where the clangour of the bell was coming from—the refuge of the shipwrecked—the bell-buoy close at hand! Before he fully knew what he was about, he, too, was struggling in the waves. He was a strong swimmer, but, clogged with his wet clothing, another yard or two would have been too much for him. He shouted some incoherent words of encouragement to Renshaw, and struck out with all his small remaining strength. The tall frame-work of the Spit-buoy rose out of the sea just in front of him. From its apex came louder than ever the noise of the iron clapper beating on the metal, as the tossing sea roiled the huge buoy this way and that. His hand touched something hard. He grasped an iron rail. Slowly and laboriously he drew his dripping form out of the sea. Then, panting heavily, he threw himself down face downward, full length, on the deck of the buoy, and stretched out both hands to the other swimmer. Renshaw's strength seemed well nigh spent. He was making futile struggles to rid himself of his heavy coat. As he rolled over helplessly, almost swept beneath the buoy, Linton grasped his collar. The next moment he had drawn him to the rail. A breathing space, and then another effort, exhausting and prolonged. Two panting men, half drowned but saved, lay side by side upon the buoy, fenced from the greedy sea by rusty, dripping iron bars. Above them, in the stormy mournful night, ding dong! the bell kept clanging to and fro—this way and that, with every wave and motion of the singing sea. <hr class="chap" /> [Pg 164] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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