Tom Swift and His Submarine Boat: Under the Ocean for Sunken Treasure

The Escape

Events had happened so quickly that day that the gold-hunters could scarcely comprehend them.  It seemed only a short time since Mr. Swift had been discovered lying disabled on the dynamo, and what had transpired since seemed to have taken place in a few minutes, though it was, in reality, several hours.  This was made manifest by the feeling of hunger on the part of Tom and his friends.

“I wonder if they’re going to starve us, the scoundrels?” asked Mr. Sharp, when the irate lieutenant was beyond hearing.  “It’s not fair to make us go hungry and shoot us in the bargain.”

“That’s so, they ought to feed us,” put in Tom.  As yet neither he nor the others fully realized the meaning of the sentence passed on them.

From where they were on deck they could look off to the little island.  From it boats manned by natives were constantly putting off, bringing supplies to the ship.  The place appeared to be a sort of calling station for Brazilian warships, where they could get fresh water and fruit and other food.

From the island the gaze of the adventurers wandered to the submarine, which lay not far away.  They were chagrined to see several of the bolder natives clambering over the deck.

“I hope they keep out of the interior,” commented Tom.  “If they get to pulling or hauling on the levers and wheels they may open the tanks and sink her, with the Conning tower open.”

“Better that, perhaps, than to have her fall into the hands of a foreign power,” commented Captain Weston.  “Besides, I don’t see that it’s going to matter much to us what becomes of her after we’re—­”

He did not finish, but every one knew what he meant, and a grim silence fell upon the little group.

There came a welcome diversion, however, in the shape of three sailors, bearing trays of food, which were placed on the deck in front of the prisoners, who were sitting or lying in the shade of an awning, for the sun was very hot.

“Ha!  Bless my napkin-ring!” cried Mr. Damon with something of his former gaiety.  “Here’s a meal, at all events.  They don’t intend to starve us.  Eat hearty, every one.”

“Yes, we need to keep up our strength,” observed Captain Weston.

“Why?” inquired Mr. Sharp.

“Because we’re going to try to escape!” exclaimed Tom in a low voice, when the sailors who had brought the food had gone.  “Isn’t that what you mean, captain?”

“Exactly.  We’ll try to give these villains the slip, and we’ll need all our strength and wits to do it.  We’ll wait until night, and see what we can do.”

“But where will we escape to?” asked Mr. Swift.  “The island will afford no shelter, and—­”

“No, but our submarine will,” went on the sailor.

“It’s in the possession of the Brazilians,” objected Tom.

“Once I get aboard the Advance twenty of those brown-skinned villains won’t keep me prisoner,” declared Captain Weston fiercely.  “If we can only slip away from here, get into the small boat, or even swim to the submarine, I’ll make those chaps on board her think a hurricane has broken loose.”

“Yes, and I’ll help,” said Mr. Damon.

“And I,” added Tom and the balloonist.

“That’s the way to talk,” commented the captain.  “Now let’s eat, for I see that rascally lieutenant coming this way, and we mustn’t appear to be plotting, or he’ll be suspicious.”

The day passed slowly, and though the prisoners seemed to be allowed considerable liberty, they soon found that it was only apparent.  Once Tom walked some distance from that portion of the deck where he and the others had been told to remain.  A sailor with a gun at once ordered him back.  Nor could they approach the rails without being directed, harshly enough at times, to move back amidships.

As night approached the gold-seekers were on the alert for any chance that might offer to slip away, or even attack their guard, but the number of Brazilians around them was doubled in the evening, and after supper, which was served to them on deck by the light of swinging lanterns, they were taken below and locked in a stuffy cabin.  They looked helplessly at each other.

“Don’t give up,” advised Captain Weston.  “It’s a long night.  We may be able to get out of here.”

But this hope was in vain.  Several times he and Tom, thinking the guards outside the cabin were asleep, tried to force the lock of the door with their pocket-knives, which had not been taken from them.  But one of the sailors was aroused each time by the noise, and looked in through a barred window, so they had to give it up.  Slowly the night passed, and morning found the prisoners pale, tired and discouraged.  They were brought up on deck again, for which they were thankful, as in that tropical climate it was stifling below.

During the day they saw Admiral Fanchetti and several of his officers pay a visit to the submarine.  They went below through the opened conning tower, and were gone some time.

“I hope they don’t disturb any of the machinery,” remarked Mr. Swift.  “That could easily do great damage.”

Admiral Fanchetti seemed much pleased with himself when he returned from his visit to the submarine.

“You have a fine craft,” he said to the prisoners.  “Or, rather, you had one.  My government now owns it.  It seems a pity to shoot such good boat builders, but you are too dangerous to be allowed to go.”

If there had been any doubt in the minds of Tom and his friends that the sentence of the court-martial was only for effect, it was dispelled that day.  A firing squad was told off in plain view of them, and the men were put through their evolutions by Lieutenant Drascalo, who had them load, aim and fire blank cartridges at an imaginary line of prisoners.  Tom could not repress a shudder as he noted the leveled rifles, and saw the fire and smoke spurt from the muzzles.

“Thus we shall do to you at sunrise to-morrow,” said the lieutenant, grinning, as he once more had his men practice their grim work.

It seemed hotter than ever that day.  The sun was fairly broiling, and there was a curious haziness and stillness to the air.  It was noticed that the sailors on the San Paulo were busy making fast all loose articles on deck with extra lashings, and hatch coverings were doubly secured.

“What do you suppose they are up to?” asked Tom of Captain Weston.

“I think it is coming on to blow,” he replied, “and they don’t want to be caught napping.  They have fearful storms down in this region at this season of the year, and I think one is about due.”

“I hope it doesn’t wreck the submarine,” spoke Mr. Swift.  “They ought to close the hatch of the conning tower, for it won’t take much of a sea to make her ship considerable water.”

Admiral Fanchetti had thought of this, however, and as the afternoon wore away and the storm signs multiplied, he sent word to close the submarine.  He left a few sailors aboard inside on guard.

“It’s too hot to eat,” observed Tom, when their supper had been brought to them, and the others felt the same way about it.  They managed to drink some cocoanut milk, prepared in a palatable fashion by the natives of the island, and then, much to their disgust, they were taken below again and locked in the cabin.

“Whew!  But it certainly is hot!” exclaimed Mr. Damon as he sat down on a couch and fanned himself.  “This is awful!”

“Yes, something is going to happen pretty soon,” observed Captain Weston.  “The storm will break shortly, I think.”

They sat languidly about the cabin.  It was so oppressive that even the thought of the doom that awaited them in the morning could hardly seem worse than the terrible heat.  They could hear movements going on about the ship, movements which indicated that preparations were being made for something unusual.  There was a rattling of a chain through a hawse hole, and Captain Weston remarked: 

“They’re putting down another anchor.  Admiral Fanchetti had better get away from the island, though, unless he wants to be wrecked.  He’ll be blown ashore in less than no time.  No cable or chain will hold in such storms as they have here.”

There came a period of silence, which was suddenly broken by a howl as of some wild beast.

“What’s that?” cried Tom, springing up from where he was stretched out on the cabin floor.

“Only the wind,” replied the captain.  “The storm has arrived.”

The howling kept up, and soon the ship began to rock.  The wind increased, and a little later there could be heard, through an opened port in the prisoners’ cabin, the dash of rain.

“It’s a regular hurricane!” exclaimed the captain.  “I wonder if the cables will hold?”

“What about the submarine?” asked Mr. Swift anxiously.

“I haven’t much fear for her.  She lies so low in the water that the wind can’t get much hold on her.  I don’t believe she’ll drag her anchor.”

Once more came a fierce burst of wind, and a dash of rain, and then, suddenly above the outburst of the elements, there sounded a crash on deck.  It was followed by excited cries.

“Something’s happened!” yelled Tom.  The prisoners gathered in a frightened group in the middle of the cabin.  The cries were repeated, and then came a rush of feet just outside the cabin door.

“Our guards!  They’re leaving!” shouted Tom.

“Right!” exclaimed Captain Weston.  “Now’s our chance!  Come on!  If we’re going to escape we must do it while the storm is at its height, and all is in confusion.  Come on!”

Tom tried the door.  It was locked.

“One side!” shouted the captain, and this time he did not pause to say “by your leave.”  He came at the portal on the run, and his shoulder struck it squarely.  There was a splintering and crashing of wood, and the door was burst open.

“Follow me!” cried the valiant sailor, and Tom and the others rushed after him.  They could hear the wind howling more loudly than ever, and as they reached the deck the rain dashed into their faces with such violence that they could hardly see.  But they were aware that something had occurred.  By the light of several lanterns swaying in the terrific blast they saw that one of the auxiliary masts had broken off near the deck.

It had fallen against the chart house, smashing it, and a number of sailors were laboring to clear away the wreckage.

“Fortune favors us!” cried Captain Weston.  “Come on!  Make for the small boat.  It’s near the side ladder.  We’ll lower the boat and pull to the submarine.”

There came a flash of lightning, and in its glare Tom saw something that caused him to cry out.

“Look!” he shouted.  “The submarine.  She’s dragged her anchors!”

The Advance was much closer to the warship than she had been that afternoon.  Captain Weston looked over the side.

“It’s the San Paulo that’s dragging her anchors, not the submarine!” he shouted.  “We’re bearing down on her!  We must act quickly.  Come on, we’ll lower the boat!”

In the rush of wind and the dash of rain the prisoners crowded to the accommodation companion ladder, which was still over the side of the big ship.  No one seemed to be noticing them, for Admiral Fanchetti was on the bridge, yelling orders for the clearing away of the wreckage.  But Lieutenant Drascalo, coming up from below at that moment, caught sight of the fleeing ones.  Drawing his sword, he rushed at them, shouting: 

“The prisoners!  The prisoners!  They are escaping!”

Captain Weston leaped toward the lieutenant

“Look out for his sword!” cried Tom.  But the doughty sailor did not fear the weapon.  Catching up a coil of rope, he cast it at the lieutenant.  It struck him in the chest, and he staggered back, lowering his sword.

Captain Weston leaped forward, and with a terrific blow sent Lieutenant Drascalo to the deck.

“There!” cried the sailor.  “I guess you won’t yell ‘Silenceo!’ for a while now.”

There was a rush of Brazilians toward the group of prisoners.  Tom caught one with a blow on the chin, and felled him, while Captain Weston disposed of two more, and Mr. Sharp and Mr. Damon one each.  The savage fighting of the Americans was too much for the foreigners, and they drew back.

“Come on!” cried Captain Weston again.  “The storm is getting worse.  The warship will crash into the submarine in a few minutes.  Her anchors aren’t holding.  I didn’t think they would.”

He made a dash for the ladder, and a glance showed him that the small boat was in the water at the foot of it.  The craft had not been hoisted on the davits.

“Luck’s with us at last!” cried Tom, Seeing it also.  “Shall I help you, dad?”

“No; I think I’m all right.  Go ahead.”

There came such a gust of wind that the San Paulo was heeled over, and the wreck of the mast, rolling about, crashed into the side of a deck house, splintering it.  A crowd of sailors, led by Admiral Fanchetti, who were again rushing on the escaping prisoners, had to leap back out of the way of the rolling mast.

“Catch them!  Don’t let them get away!” begged the commander, but the sailors evidently had no desire to close in with the Americans.

Through the rush of wind and rain Tom and his friends staggered down the ladder.  It was hard work to maintain one’s footing, but they managed it.  On account of the high side of the ship the water was comparatively calm under her lee, and, though the small boat was bobbing about, they got aboard.  The oars were in place, and in another moment they had shoved off from the landing stage which formed the foot of the accommodation ladder.

“Now for the Advance!” murmured Captain Weston.

“Come back!  Come back, dogs of Americans!” cried a voice at the rail over their heads, and looking up, Tom saw Lieutenant Drascalo.  He had snatched a carbine from a marine, and was pointing it at the recent prisoners.  He fired, the flash of the gun and a dazzling chain of lightning coming together.  The thunder swallowed up the report of the carbine, but the bullet whistled uncomfortable close to Tom’s head.  The blackness that followed the lightning shut out the view of everything for a few seconds, and when the next flash came the adventurers saw that they were close to their submarine.

A fusillade of shots sounded from the deck of the warship, but as the marines were poor marksmen at best, and as the swaying of the ship disconcerted them, our friends were in little danger.

There was quite a sea once they were beyond the protection of the side of the warship, but Captain Weston, who was rowing, knew how to manage a boat skillfully, and he soon had the craft alongside the bobbing submarine.

“Get aboard, now, quick!” he cried.

They leaped to the small deck, casting the rowboat adrift. 
It was the work of but a moment to open the conning tower. 
As they started to descend they were met by several
Brazilians coming up.

“Overboard with ’em!” yelled the captain.  “Let them swim ashore or to their ship!”

With almost superhuman strength he tossed one big sailor from the small deck.  Another showed fight, but he went to join his companion in the swirling water.  A man rushed at Tom, seeking the while to draw his sword, but the young inventor, with a neat left-hander, sent him to join the other two, and the remainder did not wait to try conclusions.  They leaped for their lives, and soon all could be seen, in the frequent lightning flashes, swimming toward the warship which was now closer than ever to the submarine.

“Get inside and we’ll sink below the surface!” called Tom.  “Then we don’t care what happens.”

They closed the steel door of the conning tower.  As they did so they heard the patter of bullets from carbines fired from the San Paulo.  Then came a violent tossing of the Advance; the waves were becoming higher as they caught the full force of the hurricane.  It took but an instant to sever, from within, the cable attached to the anchor, which was one belonging to the warship.  The Advance began drifting.

“Open the tanks, Mr. Sharp!” cried Tom.  “Captain Weston and I will steer.  Once below we’ll start the engines.”

Amid a crash of thunder and dazzling flashes of lightning, the submarine began to sink.  Tom, in the conning tower had a sight of the San Paulo as it drifted nearer and nearer under the influence of the mighty wind.  As one bright flash came he saw Admiral Fanchetti and Lieutenant Drascalo leaning over the rail and gazing at the Advance.

A moment later the view faded from sight as the submarine sank below the surface of the troubled sea.  She was tossed about for some time until deep enough to escape the surface motion.  Waiting until she was far enough down so that her lights would not offer a mark for the guns of the warship, the electrics were switched on.

“We’re safe now!” cried Tom, helping his father to his cabin.  “They’ve got too much to attend to themselves to follow us now, even if they could.  Shall we go ahead, Captain Weston?”

“I think so, yes, if I may be allowed to express my opinion,” was the mild reply, in strange contrast to the strenuous work in which the captain had just been engaged.

Tom signaled to Mr. Sharp in the engine-room, and in a few seconds the Advance was speeding away from the island and the hostile vessel.  Nor, deep as she was now, was there any sign of the hurricane.  In the peaceful depths she was once more speeding toward the sunken treasure.