Back to the berg went the little craft. When it was close beside the middle of the berg, the lieutenant put the gun to his shoulder, while a sailor made sure that the line would run free. At a favorable moment the lieutenant fired high over the mass of ice. The projectile flew true, whisking the line after it. The small boat was brought close to the base of the berg, a weight was attached to the end of the shot-line, and then the boat rowed round the berg and picked up the other end of the line.
The lieutenant now had something to which to attach his mines. Together they weighed more than one hundred pounds. Carefully these were bent to the shot-line and lowered until they rested against the base of the ice, thirty feet below the surface of the sea. The small boat pulled far away, and the shot was fired. The report was a muffled roar. Immense quantities of ice came crashing down from the titanic shoulders of the berg, with thunderous reverberations. The sound was startling. The mountain of ice itself began to rise, the huge bulk lifting straight up out of the water, as though a giant hand were pushing it from beneath. Ten feet it rose, then twenty, and yet it continued to lift. At thirty feet there was a sharp crack, and the huge mass broke fairly in halves. Then it fell back into the sea, throwing out an enormous wave. Each half was a third as large as the original berg had been. The remaining third was the broken ice that had come rattling down from the giant’s shoulders.
For the first time in history an iceberg had been destroyed by artificial means, for within twenty-four hours the two huge chunks of this monster had completely disintegrated. Nothing but small growlers and slush ice encumbered the sea. TNT had been more than a match for the ice king.
CHAPTER XXII
VICTORY
For two weeks the Iroquois herded the floes of ice. Then the Oneida relieved her and the Iroquois sailed to Halifax, where she renewed her supplies and equipment preparatory to another two weeks of struggle with the army of the ice king. So it went for long months, but finally the last of the bergs disappeared. The Oneida had already gone back to Boston. Now the Iroquois bade farewell to the fogs and storms of the Grand Banks and gleefully headed for her home anchorage in the shelter of old St. George.
But ere she reached her longed-for haven, duty once more turned her prow away from home. The little cutter, driving as fast as steam and the eagerness of her crew could send her, was far off the New England coast when, shortly after evening mess one foggy day, Henry picked out of the air that ever-startling call, “QST—QST—QST—QRT—QRT—QRT—SOS—SOS—SOS—SOS—SOS: Steamers Wilmington and Hiawatha in collision. Position sixty-four ten west, forty-three north.”
It was the Wilmington’s operator who was sending. The instant he signed off, Henry’s key was sounding. He flashed the Wilmington’s call, KGD, and asked, “Do you require assistance?”
“Yes,” came the answer. “Require assistance immediately.”
Henry called a sailor and sent the message to the commander. Then he returned to his key, and again signaled the Wilmington. “How badly are you hurt?” he queried.
“Wilmington’s bow crushed. Number one hold full of water. Hiawatha’s stern damaged. Propeller broken. Hiawatha in tow. Making for Halifax. Speed three knots an hour.”