Originally published: June 26, 1909
Genres: Adventure, Children's
Goodreads link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/199572945-motor-matt-in-brazil-or-under-the-amazon
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49746
Chapters: 16
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
CHAPTER I
THE CACHALOT
"Look at the chart, Dick. Unless I'm off in my reckoning, those blue things in the distance, that look like clouds, are the mountains of Trinidad."
"Right-o, matey! The Gulf of Paria is to the south, and right ahead of us is the Boca Drago, or Dragon's Mouth, the entrance to the Gulf. What's our first port-of-call?"
"Georgetown. That's where we're to pick up the midshipman."
"But we're two days ahead of time, and he won't be expecting us. Why not put in at Port-of-Spain for a little social call? I was there once, on the old Billy Ruffin, and it's a fine place for getting on your go-ashores and seeing the sights."
"This is a business trip, old chap, and not a sightseeing excursion. Our schedule has been made out for us, and we've got to follow it through. It's a big responsibility we're under, and if anything should happen to the Grampus, there'd—"
At this moment a tremendous shock interrupted Motor Matt. The big steel hulk of the submarine stopped dead, reeled for an instant like a drunken man, and then rebounded sternward against the push of the propeller. Accompanying the weird manœuvre was a fierce thrashing of the waves outside.
Sunk level with the surface of the sea, conning tower awash, the Grampus had been proceeding at a good clip on her southward journey. Motor Matt and Dick Ferral were in the periscope room, Matt with his attention divided between the periscope table, the steering wheel, and the small compass, and Dick on his knees beside a locker on which were a number of admiralty charts.
Dick was thrown sidewise by the shock, and Matt only saved himself a fall by taking a convulsive grip on the spokes of the steering wheel.
"Fore-rudder will not work, sir!" cried Speake through the tube communicating with the engine room.
One admirable thing about the king of the motor boys was that he never got "rattled." Under any and all circumstances he kept his head.
"Stop your motor, Gaines!" he cried instantly through another of the tubes, then, whirling to still another, he called: "Prepare to empty the ballast, Clackett!"
The ready "Aye, aye, sir!" that came through both tubes proved that those in the motor room and tank room were on the alert.
The hum of the engine died slowly, and muffled sounds from the tank room showed that Clackett was calmly attending to his work.
In time of accident, no man could leave his post, for the safety of the submarine, and the lives of those within her might depend upon instant compliance with orders. Iron-nerved men formed the crew of the Grampus, for each had been selected by Captain Nemo, Jr. with that quality in mind.
Meanwhile, Motor Matt had been studying the top of the periscope table carefully.
"So far as I can make out," said he, in a puzzled tone, "there is nothing above."
"The Orinoco brings down a lot of drift, matey," put in Dick, "and we may have struck a log floating between two waves. If our rudder has been damaged—"
He was interrupted by another blow, fully as severe as the first. But this stroke came from the side and not from forward and hurled the submarine over so far that every loose article slammed to starboard, and it seemed as though the boat must surely turn turtle.
"Start the turbines, Clackett!" roared Matt through the tank-room tube; "empty the ballast tanks!"
"Sorry to report, Matt," came the instant response of Clackett, "that the turbines are disabled an' won't work."
Matt was astounded.
"Then empty the tanks with compressed air!" he cried. "Sharp's the word, Clackett!"
The hiss of air, fighting with the water in the tanks, was heard. At once the boat began to ascend and presently the slap of waves against the outer shell proved that they were on the surface.
"Take the wheel, Dick," called Matt, and leaped up the iron ladder into the conning tower.
The lunettes, or little windows in the tower, were frosted with spindrift, and Matt threw open the hatch and pushed head and shoulders over the top.
"Great spark plugs!" he cried; "a whale!"
"A bull cachalot!" exclaimed Dick from below, staring through the periscope.
"Vat iss dot, Tick?"
The voice of Carl Pretzel, none too steady, floated up to Matt from the periscope room. Carl was not on duty and had probably come up to find out what was going on.
"Why," went on Dick, excitedly, "a cachalot is one of the hardest fighters in the whole whale family. We probably ran into that old blubber-head while he was taking his morning nap, and he's got his mad up. By the figurehead of the Old Harry! See him spout! We're going to have trouble with him, Matt! His head's like India rubber, and he could poke it through the plates of the Grampus and never hurt himself."
Matt had got his head out of the hatch just in time to snatch a glance at the flukes of a big whale disappearing in the sea.
He signaled half-speed ahead by the engine room jingler. The elevation of the periscope ball gave Dick a much more extensive view of the surface than it did Matt from the top of the conning tower. The whale had come to the top again, and, while Matt was able to see the geyser-like column of water the creature threw up, Dick could take in the cachalot's immense proportions.
"He's lumpy all over," announced Dick, "and every lump is an old harpoon mark. He's a veteran, mates, and he's coming right at us. He'll stave in the plates, Matt! Dodge him!"
"Tell Speake and Clackett to put a Whitehead in the port torpedo tube!" called Matt.
Dick immediately repeated the order, and Carl clattered below to help.
"They can't get the tube loaded, Matt," cried Dick, "before the cachalot will be on us."
"We'll have to meet his first charge," answered Matt calmly; "there can't be any dodging."
There came a low thump from forward, followed by a gurgling splash. From that Matt knew that the bow port had been closed and that the water was being blown out of the tube by compressed air. Then a faint rattle told him the breech door was being opened preparatory to loading the torpedo.
By then Matt was able to see the charging whale. He was a tremendous fellow, and he was making straight for the submarine with all the force in his great body. The water flashed away from his shining sides, and a long trail of foam unrolled behind his churning flukes.
"I'll do the steering from here, Dick!" shouted Matt, laying hold of the patent device which enabled one to steer from the tower.
Matt headed the boat so as to meet its strange antagonist bow on. Whale and submarine came together with a terrific impact. For an instant, the whale seemed stunned, sheered off a little, and the sharp prow raked his side.
The next instant the Grampus was beyond the whale. Matt, looking behind, could see the huge cachalot leaping clear out of the water, and falling into it again with a splash like some mountain dropping into the sea.
The whale was terribly wounded, and bleeding, but the wound seemed only to have increased his pugnacious disposition.
"Watch the periscope, Dick!" roared Matt. "Can you see him? He's out of sight from here."
"He's sounded, mate," answered Dick, his tense voice proving the strain his nerves were under. "I'm hoping he'll leave us now, and— Sink me! There he is again! He's coming for us like an express train."
A spouting of reddened water gave Matt the location, and he put the Grampus about, so as to face the danger and bring the cachalot in front of the port torpedo tube.
"Tell them to get ready in the torpedo room!" shouted Matt. "They must fire the Whitehead the moment I give the word."
Dick repeated the order. The torpedo was contrived so as to travel at a certain distance underwater. If discharged at too great a distance from the whale it would sink to its normal depth, and so miss the charging monster altogether. Matt, watching the cachalot with sharp eyes, awaited the right moment to let the Whitehead go.
The whale left a bloody track as it hurled itself nearer and nearer.
"Fire!" shouted Matt suddenly.
A gurgling swish, a spluttering cough, and a thud followed. The surface of the sea directly ahead of the submarine was full of ripples that marked the passing of the deadly infernal machine.
"Full speed astern!" cried Matt.
Dick repeated the order to Gaines. Barely was the motion of the propeller reversed when the whale and torpedo met. There was a dull roar, and the sea lifted high in a veritable flurry. The Grampus slid backward rapidly, rocking on the troubled waters. Then, the lifted waves having descended, the whale was seen torn cruelly and lying on his back. Already the triangular fins of sharks were in evidence, rushing from every direction upon the prey.
Matt descended to the engine room and found Dick steering with one hand and wiping the perspiration from his face with the other.
"A tight squeak, matey!" Dick muttered. "We're out one torpedo, but you saved the boat."
Speake, meanwhile, had been taking the turbine to pieces. He now appeared in the periscope room with a wooden sieve half full of small fish.
"Mullet for dinner, Matt!" he laughed. "A shoal of fish was bein' chased by the cachalot. The draught-holes of our turbines was open an' the fish run in. No wonder the turbines wouldn't work!"
"Good enough," answered Matt laughing, "if you can call anything good that put our turbines out of commission at a time when we needed them. Have some of them for dinner, Speake." He turned to Dick. "Lay our course for the Port-of-Spain, old chap," he added. "We'll put into the harbor and look the submarine over to see whether her bow has been damaged any. I'll go below and have a look at the fore-rudder. Possibly we can tinker that up temporarily. It would never do to pick up the midshipman with the Grampus at all out of commission."
"Aye, aye, old ship!" responded Dick heartily.
They were to call at the Port-of-Spain, after all, and Dick Ferral was mightily pleased with the prospect.
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