Tom Swift and his Wireless Message
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Victor Appleton >> Tom Swift and his Wireless Message
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"Then what's to be done?"
"Nothing, except to keep on until the gale blows itself out."
"And how long will that be?"
"I don't know--a week, maybe."
"Bless my coffee pot, I'm glad we've got plenty on board to eat!"
exclaimed Mr. Damon.
CHAPTER XI
A NIGHT OF TERROR
After the first shock of Tom's announcement, the two men, who were
traveling with him in the airship, showed no signs of fear. Yet it
was alarming to know that one was speeding over the mighty ocean,
before a terrific gale, with nothing more substantial under one that
a comparatively frail airship.
Still Mr. Damon knew Tom of old, and had confidence in his ability,
and, while Mr. Fenwick was not so well acquainted with our hero, he
had heard much about him, and put faith in his skill to carry them
out of their present difficulty.
"Are you sure you can't turn around and go back?" asked Mr. Fenwick.
His knowledge of air-currents was rather limited.
"It is out of the question," replied Tom, simply. "We would surely
rip this craft to pieces if we attempted to buffet this storm."
"Is it so bad, then?" asked Mr. Damon, forgetting to bless anything
in the tense excitement of the moment.
"It might be worse," was the reply of the young inventor. "The wind
is blowing about eighty miles an hour at times, and to try to turn
now would mean that we would tear the planes loose from the ship.
True, we could still keep up by means of the gas bag, but even that
might be injured. Going as we are, in the same direction as that in
which the wind is blowing, we do not feel the full effect of it."
"But, perhaps, if we went lower down, or higher up, we could get in
a different current of air," suggested Mr. Fenwick, who had made
some study of aeronautics.
"I'll try," assented Tom, simply. He shifted the elevating rudder,
and the WHIZZER began to go up, slowly, for there was great lateral
pressure on her large surface. But Tom knew his business, and urged
the craft steadily. The powerful electric engines, which were the
invention of Mr. Fenwick, stood them in good stead, and the
barograph soon showed that they were steadily mounting.
"Is the wind pressure any less?" inquired Mr. Damon, anxiously.
"On the contrary, it seems to be increasing," replied Tom, with a
glance at the anemometer. "It's nearly ninety miles an hour now."
"Then, aided by the propellers, we must be making over a hundred
miles an hour." said the inventor.
"We are,--a hundred and thirty," assented Tom.
"We'll be blown across the ocean at this rate," exclaimed Mr. Damon.
"Bless my soul! I didn't count on that."
"Perhaps we had better go down," suggested Mr. Fenwick. "I don't
believe we can get above the gale."
"I'm afraid not," came from Tom. "It may be a bit better down
below."
Accordingly, the rudder was changed, and the WHIZZER pointed her
nose downward. None of the lifting gas was let out, as it was
desired to save that for emergencies.
Down, down, down, went the great airship, until the adventurers
within, by gazing through the plate glass window in the floor of the
cabin, could see the heaving, white-capped billows, tossing and
tumbling below them.
"Look out, or we'll be into them!" shouted Mr. Damon.
"I guess we may as well go back to the level where we were,"
declared Tom. "The wind, both above and below that particular strata
is stronger, and we will be safer up above. Our only chance is to
scud before it, until it has blown itself out. And I hope it will be
soon."
"Why?" asked Mr. Damon, in a low voice.
"Because we may be blown so far that we can not get back while our
power holds out, and then--" Tom did not finish, but Mr. Damon knew
what he meant--death in the tossing ocean, far from land, when the
WHIZZER, unable to float in the air any longer, should drop into the
storm-enraged Atlantic.
They were again on a level, where the gale blew less furiously than
either above or below, but this was not much relief. It seemed as if
the airship would go to pieces, so much was it swayed and tossed
about. But Mr. Fenwick, if he had done nothing else, had made a
staunch craft, which stood the travelers in good stead.
All the rest of that day they swept on, at about the same speed.
There was nothing for them to do, save watch the machinery,
occasionally replenishing the oil tanks, or making minor
adjustments.
"Well," finally remarked Mr. Damon, when the afternoon was waning
away, "if there's nothing else to do, suppose we eat. Bless my
appetite, but I'm hungry! and I believe you said, Mr. Fenwick, that
you had plenty of food aboard."
"So we have, but the excitement of being blown out to sea on our
first real trip, made me forget all about it. I'll get dinner at
once, if you can put up with an amateur's cooking."
"And I'll help," offered Mr. Damon. "Tom can attend to the airship,
and we'll serve the meals. It will take our minds off our troubles."
There was a well equipped kitchen aboard the WHIZZER and soon savory
odors were coming from it. In spite of the terror of their
situation, and it was not to be denied that they were in peril, they
all made a good meal, though it was difficult to drink coffee and
other liquids, owing to the sudden lurches which the airship gave
from time to time as the gale tossed her to and fro.
Night came, and, as the blackness settled down, the gale seemed to
increase in fury. It howled through the slender wire rigging of the
WHIZZER, and sent the craft careening from side to side, and
sometimes thrust her down into a cavern of the air, only to lift her
high again, almost like a ship on the heaving ocean below them.
As darkness settled in blacker and blacker, Tom had a glimpse below
him, of tossing lights on the water.
"We just passed over some vessel," he announced. "I hope they are in
no worse plight than we are." Then, there suddenly came to him a
thought of the parents of Mary Nestor, who were somewhere on the
ocean, in the yacht RESOLUTE bound for the West Indies.
"I wonder if they're out in this storm, too?" mused Tom. "If they
are, unless the vessel is a staunch one, they may be in danger."
The thought of the parents of the girl he cared so much for being in
peril, was not reassuring to Tom, and he began to busy himself about
the machinery of the airship, to take his mind from the presentiment
that something might happen to the RESOLUTE.
"We'll have our own troubles before morning," the lad mused, "if
this wind doesn't die down."
There was no indication that this was going to be the case, for the
gale increased rather than diminished. Tom looked at their speed
gage. They were making a good ninety miles an hour, for it had been
decided that it was best to keep the engine and propellers going, as
they steadied the ship.
"Ninety miles an hour," murmured Tom. "And we've been going at that
rate for ten hours now. That's nearly a thousand miles. We are quite
a distance out to sea."
He looked at a compass, and noted that, instead of being headed
directly across the Atlantic they were bearing in a southerly
direction.
"At this rate, we won't come far from getting to the West Indies
ourselves," reasoned the young inventor. "But I think the gale will
die away before morning."
The storm did not, however. More fiercely it blew through the hours
of darkness. It was a night of terror, for they dared not go to
sleep, not knowing at what moment the ship might turn turtle, or
even rend apart, and plunge with them into the depths of the sea.
So they sat up, occasionally attending to the machinery, and noting
the various gages. Mr. Damon made hot coffee, which they drank from
time to time, and it served to refresh them.
There came a sudden burst of fury from the storm, and the airship
rocked as if she was going over.
"Bless my heart!" cried Mr. Damon, springing up. "That was a close
call!"
Tom said nothing. Mr. Fenwick looked pale and alarmed.
The hours passed. They were swept ever onward, at about the same
speed, sometimes being whirled downward, and again tossed upward at
the will of the wind. The airship was well-nigh helpless, and Tom,
as he realized their position, could not repress a fear in his heart
as he thought of the parents of the girl he loved being tossed about
on the swirling ocean, in a frail pleasure yacht.
CHAPTER XII
A DOWNWARD GLIDE
They sat in the cabin of the airship, staring helplessly at each
other. Occasionally Tom rose to attend to one of the machines, or
Mr. Fenwick did the same. Occasionally, Mr. Damon uttered a remark.
Then there was silence, broken only by the howl of the gale.
It seemed impossible for the WHIZZER to travel any faster, yet when
Tom glanced at the speed gage he noted, with a feeling of surprise,
akin to horror, that they were making close to one hundred and fifty
miles an hour. Only an aeroplane could have done it, and then only
when urged on by a terrific wind which added to the speed produced
by the propellers.
The whole craft swayed and trembled, partly from the vibration of
the electrical machinery, and partly from the awful wind. Mr.
Fenwick came close to Tom, and exclaimed:
"Do you think it would be any use to try once more to go above or
below the path of the storm?"
Tom's first impulse was to say that it would be useless, but he
recollected that the craft belonged to Fenwick, and surely that
gentleman had a right to make a suggestion. The young inventor
nodded.
"We'll try to go up," he said. "If that doesn't work, I'll see if I
can force her down. It will be hard work, though. The wind is too
stiff."
Tom shifted the levers and rudders. His eyes were on the barograph--
that delicate instrument, the trembling hand of which registered
their height. Tom had tilted the deflection rudder to send them up,
but as he watched the needle he saw it stationary. They were not
ascending, though the great airship was straining to mount to an
upper current where there might be calm.
It was useless, however, and Tom, seeing the futility of it, shifted
the rudder to send them downward. This was more easily accomplished,
but it was a change for the worse, since, the nearer to the ocean
they went, the fiercer blew the wind.
"Back! Go back up higher!" cried Mr. Damon,
"We can't!" yelled Tom. "We've got to stay here now!"
"Oh, but this is awful!" exclaimed Mr. Fenwick. "We can never stand
this!"
The airship swaged more than ever, and the occupants were tossed
about in the cabin, from side to side. Indeed, it did seem that
human beings never could come alive cut of that fearful ordeal.
As Tom looked from one of the windows of the cabin, he noted a pale,
grayish sort of light outside. At first he could not understand what
it was, then, as he observed the sickly gleams of the incandescent
electric lamps, he knew that the hour of dawn was at hand.
"See!" he exclaimed to his companions, pointing to the window.
"Morning is coming."
"Morning!" gasped Mr. Damon. "Is the night over? Now, perhaps we
shall get rid of the storm."
"I'm afraid not," answered Tom, as he noted the anemometer and felt
the shudderings of the WHIZZER as she careened on through the gale.
"It hasn't blown out yet!"
The pale light increased. The electrics seemed to dim and fade. Tom
looked to the engines. Some of the apparatus was in need of oil, and
he supplied it. When he came back to the main cabin, where stood Mr.
Damon and Mr. Fenwick, it was much lighter outside.
"Less than a day since we left Philadelphia," murmured the owner of
the WHIZZER, as he glanced at a distance indicator, "yet we have
come nearly sixteen hundred miles. We certainly did travel top
speed. I wonder where we are?"
"Still over the ocean," replied Mr. Damon, as he looked down at the
heaving billows rolling amid crests of foam far below them. "Though
what part of it would be hard to say. We'll have to reckon out our
position when it gets calmer."
Tom came from the engine room. His face wore a troubled look, and he
said, addressing the older inventor:
"Mr. Fenwick, I wish you'd come and look at the gas generating
apparatus. It doesn't seem to be working properly."
"Anything wrong?" asked Mr. Damon, suspiciously.
"I hope not," replied Tom, with all the confidence he could muster.
"It may need adjusting. I am not so familiar with it as I am with
the one on the RED CLOUD. The gas seems to be escaping from the bag,
and we may have to descend, for some distance."
"But the aeroplanes will keep us up," said Mr. Daman.
"Yes--they will," and Tom hesitated. "That is, unless something
happens to them. They are rather frail to stand alone the brunt of
the gale, and I wish--"
Tom did not complete the sentence. Instead, he paused suddenly and
seemed to be intently listening.
From without there came a rending, tearing, crashing sound. The
airship quivered from end to end, and seemed to make a sudden dive
downward. Then it appeared to recover, and once more glided forward.
Tom, followed by Mr. Fenwick, made a rush for the compartment where
the machine was installed. They had no sooner reached it than there
sounded an explosion, and the airship recoiled as if it had hit a
stone wall.
"Bless my shaving brush! What's that?" cried Mr. Damon. "Has
anything happened?"
"I'm rather afraid there has," answered Tom, solemnly. "It sounded
as though the gas bag went up. And I'm worried over the strength of
the planes. We must make an investigation!"
"We're falling!" almost screamed Mr. Fenwick, as he glanced at the
barograph, the delicate needle of which was swinging to and fro,
registering different altitudes.
"Bless my feather bed! So we are!" shouted Mr. Damon. "Let's jump,
and avoid being caught under the airship!"
He darted for a large window, opening from the main cabin, and was
endeavoring to raise it when Tom caught his hand.
"What are you trying to do," asked the lad, hoarsely.
"Save my life! I want to get out of this as soon as I can. I'm going
to jump!"
"Don't think of it! You'd be instantly killed. We're too high for a
jump, even into the ocean."
"The ocean! Oh, is that still below us? Is there any chance of being
saved? What can be done?" Mr. Damon hesitated.
"We must first find out how badly we are damaged," said Tom,
quietly. "We must keep our heads, and be calm, no matter what
happens. I need your help, Mr. Damon."
This served to recall the rather excited man to his senses. He came
back to the centre of the cabin, which was no easy task, for the
floor of it was tilted at first one angle, and then another. He
stood at Tom's side.
"What can I do to help you?" he asked. Mr. Fenwick was darting here
and there, examining the different machines. None of them seemed to
be damaged.
"If you will look and see what has happened to our main wing planes,
I will see how much gas we have left in the bag," suggested Tom.
"Then we can decide what is best to be done. We are still quite
high, and it will take some time to complete our fall, as, even if
everything is gone, the material of the bag will act as a sort of
parachute."
Mr. Damon darted to a window in the rear of the cabin, where he
could obtain a glimpse of the main wing planes. He gave a cry of
terror and astonishment.
"Two of the planes are gone!" he reported. "They are torn and are
hanging loose."
"I feared as much," retorted Tom, quietly, "The gale was too much
for them."
"What of the lifting gas?" asked Mr. Fenwick, quickly.
"It has nearly all flowed out of the retaining bag."
"Then we must make more at once. I will start the generating
machine."
He darted toward it.
"It will be useless," spoke Tom, quietly.
"Why?"
"Because there is no bag left to hold it. The silk and rubber
envelope has been torn to pieces by the gale. The wind is even
stronger than it was last night."
"Then what's to be done?" demanded Mr. Damon, with a return of his
alarmed and nervous manner. "Bless my fingernails! What's to be
done?"
For an instant Tom did not answer. It was constantly getting
lighter, though there was no sun, for it was obscured by scudding
clouds. The young inventor looked critically at the various gages
and indicators.
"Is--is there any chance for us?" asked Mr. Fenwick, quietly.
"I think so," answered Tom, with a hopeful smile. "We have about two
thousand feet to descend, for we have fallen nearly that distance
since the accident."
"Two thousand feet to fall!" gasped Mr. Damon. "We can never do it
and live!"
"I think so," spoke Tom.
"Bless my gizzard! How?" fairly exploded Mr. Damon.
"By vol-planing down!"
"But, even if we do, we will fall into the ocean!" cried Mr.
Fenwick. "We will be drowned!"
"No," and Tom spoke more quietly than before. "We are over a large
island." he went on, "and I propose to let the disabled airship vol-
plane down to it. That is our only chance."
"Over an island!" cried Mr. Damon. He looked down through the floor
observation window. Tom had spoken truly. At that moment they were
over a large island, which had suddenly loomed up in the wild and
desolate waste of the ocean. They had reached its vicinity just in
time.
Tom stepped to the steering and rudder levers, and took charge. He
was going to attempt a most difficult feat--that of guiding a
disabled airship back to earth in the midst of a hurricane, and
landing her on an unknown island. Could he do it?
There was but one answer. He must try. It was the only chance of
saving their lives, and a slim one at best
Down shot the damaged WHIZZER like some giant bird with broken
wings, but Tom Swift was in charge, and it seemed as if the craft
knew it, as she began that earthward glide.
CHAPTER XIII
ON EARTHQUAKE ISLAND
Mingled feelings possessed the three adventurers within the airship.
Mr. Damon and Mr. Fenwick had crowded to the window, as Tom spoke,
to get a glimpse of the unknown island toward which they were
shooting. They could see it more plainly now, from the forward
casement, as well as from the one in the bottom of the craft. A
long, narrow, rugged piece of land it was, in the midst of the
heaving ocean, for the storm still raged and lashed the waves to
foam.
"Can you make it?" asked Mr. Damon, in a low voice.
"I think so," answered Tom, more cheerfully.
"Shall I shut down the motor?" inquired the older inventor.
"Yes, you might as well. We don't need the propellers now, and I may
be better able to make the glide without them."
The buzzing and purring electrical apparatus was shut down. Silence
reigned in the airship, but the wind still howled outside. As Tom
had hoped, the ship became a little more steady with the stopping of
the big curved blades, though had the craft been undamaged they
would have served to keep her on an even keel.
With skillful hand he so tilted the elevating planes that, after a
swift downward glide, the head of the WHIZZER would be thrown up, so
to speak, and she would sail along in a plane parallel to the
island. This had the effect of checking her momentum, just as the
aviator checks the downward rush of his monoplane or biplane when he
is making a landing.
Tom repeated this maneuver several times, until a glance at his
barograph showed that they had but a scant sixty feet to go. There
was time but for one more upward throwing of the WHIZZER's nose, and
Tom held to that position as long as possible. They could now make
out the topography of the island plainly, for it was much lighter.
Tom saw a stretch of sandy beach, and steered for that.
Downward shot the airship, inert and lifeless. It was not like
gliding his little BUTTERFLY to earth after a flight, but Tom hoped
he could make it. They were now within ten feet of the earth,
skimming forward. Tom tried another upward tilt, but the forward
planes would not respond. They could get no grip on the air.
With a crash that could have been heard some distance the WHIZZER
settled to the sand. It ran along a slight distance, and then, as
the bicycle wheels collapsed under the pressure, the airship seemed
to go together in a shapeless mass.
At the first impact with the earth, Tom had leaped away from the
steering wheel and levers, for he did not want to be crushed against
them. Mr. Damon and Mr. Fenwick, in pursuance of a plan adopted when
they found that they were falling, had piled a lot of seat cushions
around them. They had also provided some as buffers for Tom, and our
hero, at the instant of the crash, had thrown himself behind and
upon them.
It seemed as if the whole ship went to pieces. The top of the main
cabin crashed down, as the side supports gave way, but, fortunately,
there were strong main braces, and the roof did not fall completely
upon our friends.
The whole bottom of the craft was forced upward and had it not been
for the protecting cushions, there might have been serious injuries
for all concerned. As it was they were badly bruised and shaken up.
After the first crash, and succeeding it an instant later, there
came a second smash, followed by a slight explosion, and a shower of
sparks could be seen in the engine room.
"That's the electrical apparatus smashing through the floor!" called
Tom. "Come, let's get out of here before the gasolene sets anything
on fire. Are you all right, Mr. Damon, and you, Mr. Fenwick?"
"Yes, I guess so," answered the inventor. "Oh, what a terrible
crash! My airship is ruined!"
"You may be glad we are alive," said Mr. Damon. "Bless my top knot,
I feel--"
He did not finish the sentence. At that moment a piece of wood,
broken from the ceiling, where it had hung by a strip of canvas came
crashing down, and hit Mr. Damon on the head.
The eccentric man toppled over on his pile of cushions, from which
he was arising when he was struck.
"Oh, is he killed?" gasped Mr. Fenwick.
"I hope not!" cried Tom. "We must get him out of here, at all
events. There may be a fire."
They both sprang to Mr. Damon's aid, and succeeded in lifting him
out. There was no difficulty in emerging from the airship as there
were big, broken gaps, on all sides of what was left of the cabin.
Once in the outer air Mr. Damon revived, and opened his eyes.
"Much hurt?" asked Tom, feeling of his friend's head.
"No--no, I--I guess not," was the slow answer. "I was stunned for a
moment. I'm all right now. Nothing broken, I guess," and his hand
went to his head.
"No, nothing broken," added Tom, cheerfully, "but you've got a lump
there as big as an ostrich egg. Can you walk?"
"Oh, I'm all right. Bless my stars, what a wreck!"
Mr. Damon looked at the remains of the airship. It certainly was a
wreck! The bent and twisted planes were wrapped about the afterpart,
the gas bag was but a shred, the frame was splintered and twisted,
and the under part, where the starting wheels were placed, resembled
a lot of broken bicycles. The cabin looked like a shack that had
sustained an explosion of dynamite.
"It's a wonder we came out alive," said Mr. Fenwick, in a low voice.
"Indeed it is," agreed Tom, as he came back with a tin can full of
sea water, with which to bathe Mr. Damon's head. The lad had picked
up the can from where it had rolled from the wreck, and they had
landed right on the beach.
"It doesn't seem to blow so hard," observed Mr. Damon, as he was
tenderly sopping his head with a handkerchief wet in the salt water.
"No, the wind is dying out, but it happened too late to do us any
good," remarked Tom, sorrowfully. "Though if it hadn't blown us this
far, we might have come to grief over the ocean, and be floundering
in that, instead of on dry land."
"That's so," agreed Mr. Fenwick, who was carefully feeling of some
bruises on his legs. "I wonder where we are, anyhow?"
"I haven't the least idea," responded Tom. "It's an island, but
which one, or where it is I don't know. We were blown nearly two
thousand miles, I judge."
He walked over and surveyed the wreck. Now that the excitement was
over he was beginning to be aware of numerous bruises and
contusions, His legs felt rather queer, and on rolling up his
trousers he found there was a deep cut in the right shin, just below
his knee. It was bleeding, but he bandaged it with a spare
handkerchief, and walked on.
Peering about, he saw that nearly the whole of the machinery in the
engine room, including most of the electrical apparatus, had fallen
bodily through the floor, and now rested on the sand.
"That looks to be in pretty good shape." mused Tom, "but it's a
question whether it will ever be any good to us. We can't rebuild
the airship here, that's certain."
He walked about the wreck, and then returned to his friends. Mr.
Damon was more like himself, and Mr. Fenwick had discovered that he
had only minor bruises.
"Bless my coffee cup!" exclaimed Mr. Damon. "I declare, I feel
hungry. I wonder if there's anything left to eat in the wreck?"
"Plenty," spoke Tom, cheerfully. "I'll get it out. I can eat a
sandwich or too myself, and perhaps I can set up the gasolene stove,
and cook something."
As the young inventor was returning to the wreck, he was halted
halfway by a curious trembling feeling. At first he thought it was a
weakness of his legs, caused by his cut, but a moment later he
realized with a curious, sickening sensation that it was the ground-
-the island itself--that was shaking and trembling.
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