Tom Swift and His Submarine Boat by Howard R. Garis (best e reader for manga TXT) 📕

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.