Howard paused, and the others looked at each other doubtfully. Finally, Mr. Willoughby cleared his throat. “I confess,” he observed hesitatingly, “that I fear the depths of the sea. I should much prefer to remain on top of it and go home in a steamer. May we not run down this—er—river on the surface and talk it over as we go?”
“Surely. That’s good sense. We’ll do it. Joyce, suppose you run up on the galleon and take a last look for Captain Forbes. Meanwhile, everybody else get aboard. Hurry, Joyce!”
Joyce hurried. In five minutes he came racing back as fast as his legs would carry him. “The cap’n’s comin’,” he cried. “Coming with his whole force. He isn’t three ships away.”
Howard smiled grimly. “Just too late,” he exclaimed. “On board with you, Joyce! Quick! Off we go!” With the word, he cast loose the last mooring, and the Seashark moved slowly away.
As, with gathering headway she rounded the galleon’s high-decked poop, she came in view of a dozen or more armed men, who were rapidly clambering over the wrecks, and who burst into excited babble as they spied the little vessel. An instant later Forbes appeared.
“Curse you!” he shrieked. “I’ll get you yet.” He threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired, his men following suit with a scattering volley.
But at the first sign of hostilities, Howard, who was alone on deck, dropped nimbly down inside the body of the Seashark, and remained, steering by aid of the camera lucida put there for the purpose, until a curve in the channel sheltered the little vessel from the bullets that had pattered harmlessly around her.
For an hour the Seashark dropped swiftly down the slowly widening channel between ever-changing banks of massed ships. In that hour she passed in review the shipping of more than two centuries. Squat-bellied, round-bowed Dutchmen, high-pooped Spaniards, clippers that had made the American flag famous, frigates shot-torn and shattered in the American Civil War, deep-water ships still bearing the indelible imprint of the Chinese trade, steamers old and new—one by one they passed in a progression constantly growing more and more modern. Howard, alone in the conning-tower, glanced at them with wonder; never before had they so impressed him. Until then, nearness had obscured the vastness of the ruin, and only now had the full meaning of it all been hammered into his mind.
But he resolutely threw off the spell, and concentrated his entire attention on the navigation of his little vessel. It was very necessary. The channel, being newly formed, was reasonably clear of weed, but it was impossible to guess how soon its character might change. The smallest patch of vegetation might foul the screw of the Seashark, or might conceal a water-logged spar, floating just awash, that would rip a plate from her bow and send her to the bottom, ending at once the lives of the castaways and their dreams of fortune. In some ways it would be safer beneath the water; yet Howard knew that every turn of the gas-engines was aiding to store up power in the electric accumulators, on which alone they must depend when the time came to dive. He did not dare to go below an instant sooner than he must.
After an hour the channel opened more rapidly, and the weed began to thicken, showing that the edge of the wreck-pack was near. Soon the accumulation grew so thick that it was no longer safe to push through it. Howard glanced at the indicators that measured the power accumulated. “Enough to run us three and a half hours,” he murmured, “or perhaps four. At eight knots, that means about twenty-five miles of distance. Twenty-five miles! Humph! I guess it’s safe.”