Tom Swift and His Submarine Boat, Howard R. Garis [free books to read txt] 📗
- Author: Howard R. Garis
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“What will they do with us?” inquired Mr. Swift.
“Have some sort of a court-martial, perhaps,” went on the captain, “and confiscate our craft Then they will send us back home, I expect for they would not dare harm us.”
“But take our submarine!” cried Tom. “The villains—”
“Silenceo!” shouted Lieutenant Drascalo and he drew his sword.
By this time the small boat was under the big guns of the San Paulo, and the prisoners were ordered, in broken English, to mount a companion ladder that hung over the side. In a short time they were on deck, amid a crowd of sailors, and they could see the boat going back to bring off the admiral, who signaled from the submarine. Tom and his friends were taken below to a room that looked like a prison, and there, a little later, they were visited by Admiral Fanchetti and several officers.
“You will be tried at once,” said the admiral. “I have examined your submarine and I find she carries two torpedo tubes. It is a wonder you did not sink me at once.”
“Those are not torpedo tubes!” cried Tom, unable to keep silent, though Captain Weston motioned him to do so.
“I know torpedo tubes when I see them,” declared the admiral. “I consider I had a very narrow escape. Your country is fortunate that mine does not declare war against it for this act. But I take it you are acting privately, for you fly no flag, though you claim to be from the United States.”
“There’s no place for a flag on the submarine,” went on Tom. “What good would it be under water?”
“Silenceo!” cried Lieutenant Drascalo, the admonition to silence seeming to be the only command of which he was capable.
“I shall confiscate your craft for my government,” went on the admiral, “and shall punish you as the court-martial may direct. You will be tried at once.”
It was in vain for the prisoners to protest. Matters were carried with a high hand. They were allowed a spokesman, and Captain Weston, who understood Spanish, was selected, that language being used. But the defense was a farce, for he was scarcely listened to. Several officers testified before the admiral, who was judge, that they had seen the submarine rise out of the water, almost under the prow of the San Paulo. It was assumed that the Advance had tried to wreck the warship, but had failed. It was in vain that Captain Weston and the others told of the reason for their rapid ascent from the ocean depths—that Mr. Swift had been shocked, and needed fresh air. Their story was not believed.
“We have heard enough!” suddenly exclaimed the admiral. “The evidence against you is over-whelming—er—what you Americans call conclusive,” and he was speaking then in broken English. “I find you guilty, and the sentence of this court-martial is that you be shot at sunrise, three days hence!”
“Shot!” cried Captain Weston, staggering back at this unexpected sentence. His companions turned white, and Mr. Swift leaned against his son for support.
“Bless my stars! Of all the scoundrelly!” began Mr. Damon.
“Silenceo!” shouted the lieutenant, waving his sword.
“You will be shot,” proceeded the admiral. “Is not that the verdict of the honorable court?” he asked, looking at his fellow officers. They all nodded gravely.
“But look here!” objected Captain Weston. “You don’t dare do that! We are citizens of the United States, and—”
“I consider you no better than pirates,” interrupted the admiral. “You have an armed submarine—a submarine with torpedo tubes. You invade our harbor with it, and come up almost under my ship. You have forfeited your right to the protection of your country, and I have no fear on that score. You will be shot within three days. That is all. Remove the prisoners.”
Protests were in vain, and it was equally useless to struggle. The prisoners were taken out on deck, for which they were thankful, for the interior of the ship was close and hot, the weather being intensely disagreeable. They were told to keep within a certain space on deck, and a guard of sailors, all armed, was placed near them. From where they were they could see their submarine floating on the surface of the little bay, with several Brazilians on the small deck. The Advance had been anchored, and was surrounded by a flotilla of the native boats, the brown-skinned paddlers gazing curiously at the odd craft.
“Well, this is tough luck!” murmured Tom. “How do you feel, dad?”
“As well as can be expected under the circumstances,” was the reply. “What do you think about this, Captain Weston?”
“Not very much, if I may be allowed the expression,” was the answer.
“Do you think they will dare carry out that threat?” asked Mr. Sharp.
The captain shrugged his shoulders. “I hope it is only a bluff,” he replied, “made to scare us so we will consent to giving up the submarine, which they have no right to confiscate. But these fellows look ugly enough for anything,” he went on.
“Then if there’s any chance of them attempting to carry it out,” spoke Tom, “we’ve got to do something.”
“Bless my gizzard, of course!” exclaimed Mr. Damon. “But what? That’s the question. To be shot! Why, that’s a terrible threat! The villains—”
“Silenceo!” shouted Lieutenant Drascalo, coming up at that moment.
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.
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