CHAPTER XVI
"Crashed"
Peter had barely resumed charge, when the motors coughed and stopped. A deadly silence succeeded the purr of the engines, since the rush of air past the metal planes was inaudible within the sound-proof compartment.
It was the pilot's chief concern to keep the flying-boat up as long as possible. It was entirely beyond reason to suppose that the gliding would be prolonged till dawn, but the longer the aircraft kept up the better, since there would be more time to make preparations for the forced landing.
Planing as nearly in a horizontal direction as possible for two minutes, was followed by a short steep rise until the flying-boat seemed in danger of "stalling". This manoeuvre Peter repeated, knowing that for every hundred feet of vertical drop he could knock off twenty or more by the sudden leap against gravity.
For quite twenty minutes he held on, his hand dexterously manipulating the controls, while his eyes never left the altimeter and speed-indicator.
Meanwhile, Brian Strong was busy. Realizing that perhaps the flying-boat might be able to land on fairly even ground, he set about to prepare the electric head-lamp which could be trained in a vertical arc of fifteen degrees—enough to illuminate a sufficient length of ground before the machine came in contact with terra firma.
The searchlight was of the accumulator type. According to instructions issued to the Rioguayan airmen the batteries were to be kept fully charged; but when Brian tested the circuits he found that the accumulators had completely run down.
There remained the secondary head-lamp—a three-hundred candle-power acetylene-generated light.
Hoping against hope that this apparatus was in working order, Brian unfastened the lid of the generator. The acetylene chamber was full of perfectly dry carbide, but the water compartment was empty.
"How long can you give me?" asked Uncle Brian.
"Five minutes—ten, with luck," was the reply.
Hurrying to the water-tank, Brian turned the tap. There was no flow.
"Has every tank in this confounded contraption run dry?" demanded Brian. Then the solution of the mystery dawned upon him. The water in the tank was frozen into a solid block.
Had the motors been water-cooled a way out of the difficulty would have been simple; but being air-cooled no help was forthcoming from them.
Seizing a spanner, Uncle Brian vigorously attacked the six nuts securing the circular plate on the top of the water-tank. The cover removed, he hacked at the ice until he was able to gather a double handful of chips of frozen water. These he placed in a can and held them over the still warm cylinders of one of the motors until the vessel contained about a pint of fluid.
"Look sharp!" shouted Peter. "We can't be much more than a thousand feet up."
Working feverishly, Brian poured the water into the generator, turned on the needle-valve to its fullest extent, and applied a match to the triple fish-tail burners. With a mild explosion the gas ignited, and the powerful beam flashed out into the night.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Peter, aghast, for the bright white light was playing on a solid substance less than four hundred yards away—the steeply rising face of a formidable mountain peak. Only a few seconds separated the flying-boat from an end-on crash.
Putting the vertical rudders hard over, Peter literally jerked the machine round, tilting her to an angle of nearly sixty degrees as he did so.
Unprepared, Uncle Brian lost his balance and fell violently against the lee-side of the compartment. Before he could regain his feet, the flying-boat pancaked and crashed.
Peter had a brief vision of the nose crumpling up and the under-carriage being forced through the steel floor of the fuselage. Then the long slender body rose until the tail was almost vertical. The pilot, hurled against the instrument-board, lost all interest in the immediately subsequent proceedings.
Brian Strong came off fairly lightly.
Owing to the circumstance that he was lying inertly upon the floor—for after his first attempt to rise he had philosophically abandoned further effort—he had escaped being flung headlong against the bulkhead. As it was, he found himself lying on the ground with wreckage on either side of him—while within two yards of his feet were the remains of the acetylene head-light, with a flare of vivid white light leaping twenty feet into the air.
"Never did think much of those acetylene lamps," he remarked to himself, and tried to puzzle out by what means he found himself where he was.
It was indeed fortunate that the fuel supply of the flying-boat—there were about twenty gallons in the lowermost tank—was non-inflammable when released from pressure; had it been ordinary petrol the wreckage would have been a mass of molten metal and the two airmen would have been burnt to ashes.
Still muttering incoherently, Uncle Brian sat up and rubbed his head vigorously.
"Where am I?" he demanded.
He dug his hands into the ground. It was fine sand. He sniffed at it, half expecting to find it salt like the sand of the seashore.
Still puzzled, he watched the strongly-burning acetylene until the glare was too much for his eyes. He turned his head, but was unable to discern a single object.
Then he crawled, like a stricken animal, away from the light, until a mass of twisted steel plating impeded his progress.
"There's been a most unholy smash," he declared solemnly.
Gradually coherent reasoning returned to him. Strangely enough he completely forgot that Peter had been with him in the crash. His chief thoughts were for the safety of the essential parts of the secret-ray apparatus. Those placed in a locker in the flying-boat were probably smashed, but there remained the most important object of all—the delicate valve which he had hidden in an empty cartridge case.
Almost feverishly he tore open his leather greatcoat and felt for the cartridge-belt that had been his constant companion from the time he left El Toro. With trembling fingers he extracted the small glass phial and held it up to the light. Then he gave a gulp of relief and satisfaction. The delicate filament and the minute and complex mechanism were intact.
"Hello, Uncle! Taking a blood test?"
Brian Strong turned at the sound of the well-known voice. Walking unsteadily towards him was Peter Corbold.
His nephew was still wearing his flying-coat and helmet, which he had put on merely for the sake of warmth. The coat was rent in half a dozen places, while the left side of his face was red with blood welling from a cut on the forehead.
Peter's period of insensibility had been of short duration, Thrown clear of the wreckage after his impact with the instrument-board, he had got off with a nasty bruise on the forehead. The padded helmet had saved his skull from being fractured, but the blow had been sufficient to cause the blood to flow freely. His head was whirling, he felt horribly sick and as weak as a kitten, yet he could not repress a facetious remark upon seeing his relative so absorbed in his precious invention.
"We're here," continued Peter. "But where, goodness only knows. What's your damage, Uncle Brian? Wasn't it a jolly old crash? It reminds me of a song we used to yell in the gun-room of the old Baffin: 'She bumped as she'd never bumped before.'"
"And never will again," added Uncle Brian with emphasis. "What's to be done now?"
"Sleep till the morning," replied the practical Peter. "My head's buzzing like a top. There's a chunk of the old 'bus that will make quite a decent bunk. I vote we turn in."
Eight hours later Peter awoke to find the sun shining brightly. His headache had vanished and—good sign—he felt ravenously and healthily hungry.
Uncle Brian was still sleeping soundly. Peter let him sleep. It would give him an opportunity to take stock of the locality.
Throwing off his blankets and greatcoat, for the heat of the sun was oppressive, Peter emerged from his retreat and stood blinking in amazement in the dazzling light—sheer amazement at their marvellous escape.
The wrecked flying-boat was practically in the centre of a circular patch of sand and gravel about three-quarters of a mile in diameter. On all sides rose rugged mountains with precipitous faces in places rising sheer to a height of at least two thousand feet.
The plain was almost dead level and absolutely destitute of verdure. No sign of life was visible. The flying-boat had struck a snag in the form of a mass of rock about four feet in height and less than a couple of yards in circumference. Otherwise, the sandy waste was free from irregularities. It would have been an ideal landing-ground, for the sand was fairly hard; and it was certainly a case of sheer hard luck that the machine should have wrecked herself on the only dangerous bit of ground in the extensive circle.
On the other hand, it was a rare slice of good fortune that had accompanied the flying-boat on her downward glide. She must have skimmed the summit of the encircling mountains with but a few feet to spare. In the darkness Peter had been in entire ignorance of the danger. Equally fortunate was the fact that the timely lighting of the acetylene head-lamp had enabled the pilot to escape crashing nose-on against the opposite wall of the huge basin of natural stone.
"We're here," decided Peter grimly. "We're here; but goodness only knows how we are going to get out. It's been a fine old smash-up. However, there's some consolation: the Rioguayan air fleet has lost one unit."
So severe had been the impact that both of the for'ard motors had broken away and lay quite fifteen yards from the crumpled bows. The after portion of the fuselage had broken off short, forming with the buckled 'midship part an irregular, inverted "V". Four of the subsidiary fuel tanks had completely parted company with the hull, while the steel water-tank had burst from its securing bonds and now rested bottom upwards upon the sand. The tank was practically intact, but, since Uncle Brian had not had time to replace the cover after chipping the ice, the precious contents had drained into the parched ground. The outstanding feature was the sight of the two rear propellers, both intact, standing up like flaming crosses as the sunlight glinted upon the polished metal blades.
"And we're a long way from the sea," exclaimed Peter aloud.
"Did I hear anyone say 'tea'?" inquired Uncle Brian, from the depths of his temporary sleeping compartment. "If so, many thanks."
"You didn't," replied his nephew. "There's nothing doin' in that line, I'm afraid. No water to be had."
"That's a rotten look-out," said Uncle Brian, as he emerged from his retreat. With his bruised features, torn clothing, and staggering gait, he looked more like a dissipated tramp than an engineering expert.
He glanced at the debris, then at the mountain barrier.
"The old horse jibbed at that fence, Peter," he added. "It'll mean padding the hoof for us, I fancy. Any grub going?"
Scrambling over a litter of steel sheets, Peter dived into the debris that remained of the 'midship part of the flying-boat. After hunting about for some time, he discovered the oddly assorted contents of the provision-room. He managed to rescue a couple of tins of pressed beef, a loaf made of maize, and a bottle of soda water—the sole survivor of nearly four dozen.
"Enough here for the present," he announced, as he crawled out. "We shan't starve if we can carry enough away with us."
The frugal meal was eaten in silence. Uncle Brian produced a spirit flask, half filled with brandy. Pouring about a couple of tablespoonfuls of soda water into the metal cup, he handed it to his companion.
"Your liquid ration, Peter," he said solemnly. "We'll have to make it last out till we find water."