CHAPTER XVI.
IN THE GRASP OF CALAMITY.
Once before Tom had faced death in the depths. This was when he had battled with the octopus in the wreck of a sunken treasure ship in the tropic seas. But then he had been fighting for his uncle's life, and his success had been dependent on his own efforts.
Imprisoned in the stricken submarine, however, the experience was far different, and vastly more alarming. In the first place, none of them could do anything but await the result of Mr. Ironsides' hasty efforts to right his craft, and the inaction was as hard to endure as the actual peril.
From a speaking tube close to the helmsman's ear a voice trickled up from the depths of the diving vessel's interior. It was old Sam calling up from the engine room.
"What's happened, sir?"
Tom could hear the words as plainly as one can sometimes hear a voice coming over the phone even when one is at some distance from the receiver.
"We've struck something, Sam. I don't know what yet," shouted back the inventor, in a steady, even tone. "Better stand right by your engines. Are they working all right?"
"Splendidly, sir," came back the response. "Any other orders, sir?"
"No, that's all for the present, Sam."
Tom felt ashamed of himself. With this feeling came a new one of self-possession, taking the place of the deadly, almost nauseating fear he had experienced an instant before. If the inventor and his assistant could be calm, so could he, Tom Dacre, master his terror.
He stepped up to Mr. Ironsides, making his way with some difficulty, for the submarine was still wallowing over on her side. But, in obedience to Mr. Ironsides' previously telegraphed orders, she was backing slowly away from the hidden obstruction she had collided with.
"Any orders, Mr. Ironsides?"
The inventor glanced round. His face was lined and rigid, but he showed no trace of his deep anxiety other than this. For all the excitement he betrayed, he might have had ice water instead of blood in his veins.
"Ah! It's you, Tom Dacre? Yes, I have some orders. I wish you would go forward into the torpedo chamber and see if we are taking in any water. I'm rather afraid that a plate may have been sprung."
"And if there is a leak?" asked the professor, who, like Tom, had succeeded in mastering his first alarm.
"If there is," was the placid response, "we must stop it; or," he paused for an instant, "or remain down here."
Even Tom blanched anew at these words. Death in a watery tomb was staring them in the face. But he hastened off on his errand. Anything was better than helpless inaction at such a moment.
Fortunately, the lights had not been extinguished in the crash, and the metal-walled torpedo room was illuminated brilliantly with a flood of electric light. To his great relief, Tom, after a careful examination, was able to report that there were no apparent injuries to the Huron, forward. She seemed to be as tight as a bottle, thanks, doubtless, to her double "skin."
"I hardly thought that she would be seriously damaged," said the inventor calmly. "See, she is coming up on an even keel, too, now. I guess we'll start a little investigation right here."
"Ain't we a-gwine up to de top?" whined Rosewater, who was cowering in a corner.
"Not yet," was the calm response, "I want to find out just what it was we struck."
"Good heavens! The man must be made of his own metal," Tom heard the professor gasp under his breath. But, excepting Rosewater, none of them remonstrated.
While they watched him curiously, Mr. Ironsides shoved the engine room signal lever over to "Ahead, slow."
The backward motion of the diving craft ceased. She began to creep forward.
All at once, Mr. Ironsides pressed a button at his elbow. A sharp click responded, and the water in front of the Huron became illuminated with a flood of brilliant, blinding white light. Tom could see fish dart off out of the lane of light like coveys of partridges. Some, fascinated seemingly by the rays, flocked about the conning tower, dashing themselves against its thick lenses like moths round a lamp chimney.
"That searchlight is the most powerful I could devise," said Mr. Ironsides, in a tone of quiet satisfaction. "I guess it's doing its work all right."
"I guess so," agreed Tom enthusiastically. The boy had quite forgotten his alarm in the sensation of watching the wonderful illumination of the waters.
"Keep a sharp lookout," urged the inventor. "I am anxious to see what it was that we struck."
Tom found himself wondering over the necessity for this, but he held his peace, and busied himself in gazing out of the conning tower windows. For some time nothing appeared in the field of light but masses of water. The liquid looked greenish and almost solid—like thick glass—in the powerful rays of the searchlight.
"It must be somewhere hereabout," commented Mr. Ironsides, after several minutes had gone by without revealing anything.
He began to move the searchlight about, controlling its shiftings by a worm-gear and wheel.
All at once Tom spied something, a dark, indefinite-looking mass, off to the right.
"Look! Look there, Mr. Ironsides!" he cried.
"Jove, boy, you have sharp eyes!" commented the inventor, turning his gaze in the direction Tom had indicated.
"Is that what we struck, sir, do you think?" asked the boy.
"We'll go closer and see what it is. Oh, don't be afraid, professor; there's no danger this time," he added, for the man of science had begun to protest against what he termed "sheer recklessness."
Slowly, very slowly, the Huron crawled through the lower waters.
It speedily became evident that the indefinite object that Tom had seen, looming up vast and shadow-like in the searchlight's path, was the sunken wreck of some sort of a vessel. As they drew closer, they could make out the masts and see the big black hull.
"Humph!" commented Mr. Ironsides. "It's lucky the sensograph gave warning when it did, or we might not be in as good shape as we are now."
Under the inventor's handling, the Huron was moved slowly round the sunken craft. She had been lumber laden, evidently, for part of her cargo could be seen still lashed to her decks.
As they rounded her stern, Tom saw a name in white paint inscribed on it.
"Mary J. Jennings—Rockport."
"Why, I recall reading about the loss of the Jennings!" he cried. "It was last winter, in a bitter storm, that she was lost with all hands. At least, they supposed she was lost, for she never reappeared. I suppose her load of lumber had kept her from sinking altogether, though she was water-logged enough to be submerged."
"I guess that's it," agreed the inventor. "That craft," he went on solemnly, "is the grave of a crew of brave men."
"And might have proved the cause of our being doomed to a tomb on the bottom of the lake," struck in Tom. He shook his fist at the sodden wreck as the searchlight illumined her outlines.
The inventor turned to him with a smile.
"Makes you feel mad, doesn't it, Tom?" he asked.
"Well, not mad, exactly. I hardly know how to describe it," faltered Tom.
"How would you like to have revenge on her, to put her out of the way for good?" asked the inventor.
"How do you mean?" asked the lad, rather incredulously.
"I mean that if she should ever come to the surface she is a real menace to navigation. As it is, she almost caused the loss of the Huron. I should like to remove her forever."
An inkling of his meaning dawned on Tom.
"You mean that you want to torpedo her?" he demanded.
"Yes. It would give me a whole lot of satisfaction. What do you say?"
"That would certainly be a revenge of a twentieth century character," spoke the professor.
"By George!" exclaimed the inventor, with more animation than he had shown since our party had encountered him, "we'll do it. Here, Jeff, you take the wheel. Keep her circling round the wreck. Tom Dacre, I've a job for you in the torpedo room."
"A job for me?" echoed Tom wonderingly.
"Yes. You are appointed assistant annihilator of the submarine Huron.”