Dave Dashaway and His Giant Airship: or, A Marvellous Trip Across the Atlantic

It was always a pleasure for the boys to watch out nights for the steamers far beneath them. That night, Grimshaw, seated at one of the windows, remarked in his usual laconic way:

“Light ahoy!”

“Where away?” chirped the active Hiram, who was priding himself on becoming quite nautical.

“Just ahead, somewhat to the southeast.”

“I see it,” said the young aviator.

“So do I,” joined in Hiram. “Why, say,” he added, excitedly a minute or two later, “that’s no light. It’s a fire.”

As they progressed and the radiance became plainer, all hands decided that Hiram was right. Nearer and nearer they came to the growing light. Flames became visible, then the fire fringed the outlines of hull and rigging.

Dave ran to the pilot room and quickly advised Mr. King of the circumstance. Professor Leblance was summoned from the engine room.

“Slow down and focus the searchlight on the ship,” he ordered.

This was done. It was a vivid and exciting scene. The great fingers of radiance went groping all about the craft. No one seemed aboard. No one seemed struggling in the waves about the ship.

Fast to its stern, however, by a long cable and thus held in position, was a rude raft. The searchlight showed a man standing upon this and viewing the blazing ship. At his feet, covered over with a tarpaulin, there seemed to be another human form.

“We cannot leave those people to their fate,” said the Professor. “Mr. King, we will drop the floats and stop, while you and the boys take the emergency yawl and go after whoever may be aboard of that raft.”

The Albatross rested its floats lightly upon the water and skimmed it slowly at an even height, like the royal bird after which it was named.

The handling of the yawl was of a piece with the operation of all the perfect utilities of the airship. The three boys took the oars and the airman acted as pilot.

Just as they got near to the raft they saw the man standing upright upon it, sever the cable holding it to the burning ship. The heat from the flames had evidently become too intense for him to bear. Then he posed in an attitude of suspense and eagerness, a wiry, keen-eyed little man. He had a long, oval metal box strapped across his shoulder, and was dripping wet.

“Good for you!” he hailed, as the airman grappled the raft with a boathook.

“Ship caught fire, did it?” remarked Mr. King.

“No, I set it.”

The yawl crew stared almost unbelievingly at the man as he made this statement, but he went on calmly:

“I had to. She’s water logged, and bound to sink the first capful of breeze that hits her.”

“Where are the passengers and crew?” asked the airman.

“Abandoned her early this morning. I was down in the cabin getting this” – and the speaker tapped the tin box as though it contained something precious. “They missed me, and were away in the boat before I knew it.”

“But the fire?”

“I made this raft ready against the ship scuttling. Thought I’d fire the ship for a signal for help. You see it did some good.”

“Well, get aboard,” ordered the airman.

“What about him?” inquired the shipwrecked man, and he pointed to the tarpaulin on the raft.

“Someone there?”

“Yes.”

“Who is it?”

“A man I rescued not an hour ago. He lay across a wooden grating, floating along past the ship. His head is bleeding, and he is unconscious.”

Mr. King directed Dave and Hiram to assist in lifting the insensible man to the yawl. The latter was limp and lifeless as some water logged rat. They placed him in the bottom of the yawl and resumed their oars.

“See here,” spoke the man with the tin box, “the best you can do for me is a sky sailor, is it?”

“That, or nothing,” replied the airman.

“Where are you bound for?”

“Across the Atlantic, for Europe.”

“I knew it would come some day,” observed the rescued man quite coolly. “You see, I’m an inventor myself. I’ve got in that tin box patents for a new kind of color photography that will make me millions. I’m not altogether poor just now, either, and if you set me and my patents safe on terra firma almost anywhere, I’ll pay a handsome reckoning.”

Within the hour the rescued men were hoisted safely into the airship and the yawl replaced in position. The unconscious man had been carried into one of the staterooms. Professor Leblance had quite a smattering of medicine. He examined the patient, prepared some remedies from a medicine chest the craft carried, and came into the cabin to report to Mr. Dale.

“A very sick man. What water and exposure have not done, a bad cut on the head has. He is delirious and in a weak and feverish condition. I would suggest that you in the cabin here take turns in caring for him.”

All hands were agreeable to this. In the excitement and bustle of the rescue, Dave and the others had not particularly noticed the sufferer. Dave had scarcely entered the place where the patient lay, however, with Hiram, when he gave a great start. He stood with his eyes fixed on the man, as he spoke hurriedly to his comrade.

“Go to Mr. King and tell him to come here at once.”

“What is it, Dashaway?” inquired the airman, appearing a few minutes later.

“Look, Mr. King,” said the young aviator, pointing to the prostrate man; “who is he?”

“Impossible!” ejaculated Mr. King, starting back. “Why, it’s Roger Davidson!”

There was no doubt of the fact. In turn Grimshaw, young Brackett and even Hiram confirmed the identification.

“Here’s a new mystery for you,” admitted Mr. King, coming into the cabin an hour later. “The clothes that man wore show little adaptability to airship work. In one of his pockets I found the main stub of a steamship ticket. He never fell from any airship. I can account for his extraordinary appearance upon the scene in one way only.”

“And that?” questioned Mr. Dale.

“Is that he was lost off some ocean steamer. One thing certain – the Dictator never started across the Atlantic with this man in charge.”

For three days Davidson lay insensible most of the time. Meanwhile the Albatross coursed its way without accident or delay. All hands were delighted over the success thus far of their wonderful enterprise. They passed the three-quarters distance mark with every prospect of reaching goal in splendid trim.

It was a cool, cloudy and misty night, and both the professor and airman were on close guard on account of the changed weather conditions. The boys were reading in the cozy cabin. Grimshaw and Mr. Dale had gone to bed, and everything seemed proceeding smoothly in engine and pilot rooms. Finally Hiram looked up from his book.

“We are surely going to make it,” he remarked. “The professor says that it will be a clean shoot ahead for land first thing in the morning.”

“I can hardly realize that there is every chance of reaching the goal and winning the prize,” observed the young aviator.

“Say, what was that?” abruptly interjected young Brackett.

There had come a sudden shock. It resembled a wrench, a shiver; as if some vital part of the giant mechanism had met with disaster.

“Something wrong!” cried Dave, springing to his feet.

At that moment a blood-curdling yell echoed through the airship.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE FORLORN HOPE

Hiram and Brackett joined the young aviator in a rush for the passageway leading to the pilot room. It was from that direction that the cry had echoed.

A sharp, double danger signal rang out from the engine room. There were sounds of distant shouts. The yell was repeated. Some keen intuition drove Dave to the stateroom which had served as invalid ward for the man rescued from the raft.

“Hiram,” cried the young aviator, “Davidson is gone!”

“Why, it can’t be! Say – whew! suppose he’s gone wild, and is rambling all over the ship among that machinery!”

Snap – crack! Following upon the echoes of that second terrific cry, a disturbing thing had happened – every electric light in the Albatross went out!

To add to the confusion and terror of the moment, in the direction of the engine room there rang out a thumping, crashing sound, as if some disjointed part of the machinery was beating things to pieces like a steel flail.

“Stand still,” ordered Dave, sharply, “don’t try to grope about in the dark. It’s no use.”

The young aviator felt his way out into a corridor leading to the supply room. It was a fortunate thing that he had familiarized himself with everything about the place. Dave located a certain cabinet, and opening one of its drawers, took out what he was after – an armful of electric hand lights carrying their own batteries.

“Here, Hiram, Brackett,” he called, flashing one of the tubes. “Take some of these. Follow me. I don’t know that the people in the engine rooms have any way of getting a light. Let us hurry to them.”

“Hold on!” shouted a new voice, and Grimshaw bolted upon the scene. “What’s the trouble?”

“We don’t know, but something pretty serious, I imagine,” replied Dave, quickly. “Take these.”

He furnished Grimshaw with two of the electric tubes. Then Dave led the way to the pilot room. He found Mr. King lighting matches to get some kind of illumination, and as ignorant themselves as to the condition of affairs. The aviator at once led a rush in the direction of the engine room. They arrived at the ante-chamber leading to it to come upon a stirring scene.

A small hand lamp only illuminated the apartment. It contained four men, the professor, two of his assistants, and these latter were holding to the floor and battling with and binding hand and foot a wild, struggling maniac – Roger Davidson.

“He got loose!” cried the aviator, at once reading the situation.

“And in his frenzy has done terrible damage to the Albatross,” exclaimed Professor Leblance, pale, disturbed and anxious-faced. “It is very serious, I fear. Get him away to the cabin as speedily as you can, and watch him every minute. You, Mr. King, resume your post at the pilot table. Dashaway, hurry all the spare light tubes here.”

There was a shivery, uncertain wobble to the giant airship now. The prodigious construction resembled some monster machine that had received a vital wound. Dave hastened on his mission. As he returned to the engine room he passed Hiram, Brackett and one of the assistants, carrying Davidson back to the stateroom.

Mr. King was at his post at the pilot table, and looked worried and helpless. The electric apparatus of the airship having been destroyed, he could only sit and use the speaking tubes.

Dave found the engine room in hideous disorder. The engine was not in operation, and parts of it were all out of order. The professor and his men were getting a reserve engine in shape. For over an hour, silently, and deeply engrossed in all that was going on, the young aviator placed the light tubes as directed, and brought this and that tool and machine-fitting to the workmen as Professor Leblance ordered.

Dave saw the new engine started up. The professor held a long, whispered conversation with one of his men. Then he beckoned to Dave and led the way to the pilot room.

The Frenchman sank into a chair there, his face gray and careworn. They were three anxious ones. Leblance passed his hand over his eyes wearily, as if he had gone through a terrible ordeal.

“Well?” said the aviator simply.

“That maniac threw an iron bar into the machinery. He has ruined everything,” announced Leblance.

“But the new engine?”

“Can only operate the rudder control. The entire mechanism is practically destroyed, my friends. I must not conceal from you that the situation is desperate, dangerous, almost hopeless!”

“But we are still running, Professor?” submitted the aviator.

“With one forlorn hope in view.”

“Of reaching the end of our voyage?”

“That we can never hope for,” declared the Frenchman, in a gloomy tone.

“Then – what?” bluntly demanded the aviator.

Leblance arose to his feet, running one hand over his eyes with a swift movement as if to restore impaired vision or brush away tears. He proceeded to a map attached to the wall just above the pilot table. His fingers traced the course already traversed by the Albatross.

“We are here,” he said, halting the faltering index. “Ahead, observe, is an island. It is two hundred miles southwest of the coast of France. We may possibly reach it by exhausting every utility we possess. If we do not, within the next forty-eight hours – ”

The professor shrugged his shoulders slowly, sadly this time. An expression of ineffable solemnity crossed his noble face.

He pointed down as if indicating unknown depths waiting to swallow them up. Then he again ran his finger across the map, pausing at that little dark speck that marked the island.

“A change of wind,” he said, “a single break in the apparatus, a trifling leak, and we are at the mercy of the mishap of our lives! That island – it is our last forlorn hope!”

CHAPTER XXIV

GOAL!

“It’s too bad,” said Hiram, and the young aviator’s assistant was very nearly at the point of tears.

“We can only make the best of it,” returned Dave, trying to be philosophical. “At any rate, we made a grand run.”

“Yes, it’s something to beat the world’s record, even half the way,” agreed Hiram. “But think of it – only for that awful break of Davidson we’d have won the day!”

The two young airmen sat outside of a wretched little hotel, a part of a remote fishing town on the island that had been “the forlorn hope” of the Albatross. The giant airship had succeeded in reaching it.

As Dave sat rather gloomily reviewing experience and prospects, he could not help but think of the past two nights and a day with a thrill. That had been a desperate, hair-breadth dash of the crippled airship. Without knowing all the technical details of their situation, Dave had read from the tireless, feverish actions of Professor Leblance, that he was rushing the Albatross under a fearful strain of risk and suspense, momentarily dreading a new and final disaster.

Before daylight, with a flabby gas bag and with the reserve engine barely able to work the propellers, the Albatross had settled down on a desolate stretch of beach, practically a wreck.

“The mechanism has played out completely,” Leblance had asserted. “According to the regulations of the international society, the flight must end on the French or English mainland. We are two hundred miles short. We might as well be two thousand.”

“Is there no possible chance of getting new machinery, of making temporary repairs that will tide us over?” suggested Mr. King.

“Impossible, under days, even weeks,” replied the Frenchman. “On the rule schedule a stay at any point over twelve hours cancels the right of entry.”

It was, indeed, too bad – so near to success, so very close to goal! A profound gloom had spread over every member of the airship crowd. The islanders had viewed the strange craft with excited curiosity at first, and had then gone back to their fishing. Davidson had been removed to a room at the little hotel, young Brackett in charge as his nurse, and all the others had taken up their quarters as well.

The young aviator and his comrade had been discussing the situation seated on an overturned boat. Hiram at length arose with a dreary kind of sigh and strolled aimlessly back towards the hotel. Dave sat thinking deeply. He started up, however, as he saw Brackett coming towards him.

“Dashaway,” he said quite excitedly, “I’ve got to get back to my charge, don’t dare to leave him alone, you know but I wanted you to read something,” and the speaker extended some folded sheets of paper.

“Why, what is this?” inquired the young aviator.

“You know I understand shorthand – humph! it’s about all I am good for, I reckon,” added Elmer, in his usual deprecating way. “Well, for the past hour or two my patient has been saying some strange things.”

“What about?” asked Dave – “the Dictator and Jerry Dawson, I suppose?”

“You’ve guessed it. I’ve written out his ramblings in long hand. I fancy your quick mind will weave a pretty startling story out of it all.”

“There’s the professor,” said Dave abruptly, “I’ll read your notes later, Brackett,” and he thrust the sheets into his pocket, and started towards the beach as he saw Professor Leblance leave the hotel, bound in the same direction.

The failure of the ambitious Frenchman had almost crushed him. Dave felt sorry for him as he noted the drooping head and dejected manner of the scientist. He did not approach him closely, but followed him at a distance. As they rounded some rocks the Albatross came into full view.

Professor Leblance, walking slowly, gazed with sadness upon the inert monster of the air. Then he looked up at a hail. A fisherman was running towards him. Dave noticed the professor brace up magically at the first words of the native. The latter pointed to the air and the sea. His pantomime was expressive and energetic.

There came a sudden blast of wind, and then Dave understood. He noticed the professor start on a keen run for the Albatross. He was up the trailing rope ladder sprightly as a lad, shouting some orders to the fisherman, who ran towards the guy cable attached to a great tree trunk.

“It can’t be possible,” almost gasped the startled young airman, “that Professor Leblance is thinking of trusting to the wind alone to finish the flight. It’s true! I won’t be left behind!”

Dave caught at the ladder just as the propeller began to whir. By the time he was in the cabin the earth was fading away. He threaded the corridors in the direction of the engine room.

“Dashaway!” shouted the professor in amazement, as the young airman burst in upon him.

“Yes, Professor, I am here,” said Dave. “You are going to make a try to reach the mainland? I am with you.”

There was no time for compliments, explanations or delay. In two minutes’ time the professor had made his assistant aware of what was required of him. Practically only as a balloon could the Albatross now act, and only provided the strong wind maintained in precisely the direction it was now set.

“See, my friend,” spoke Leblance, eagerly, “we have no control whatever over the planes. The steering apparatus, too, is useless. The engine will barely take care of the propellers. If you know how to operate them, take my seat here. Keep the rudder locked firm. That is all we can do. For the rest – it is a risk, a perilous risk.”

“Anything to get there!” cried Dave; and then the professor left him alone.

The Albatross had risen to a good altitude at her first spurt. She drove with the wind at a wonderful rate of speed. At the end of an hour, however, the young aviator noticed a gradual drop. The buoyancy of the gas bag was lessening.

After that Dave heard the professor working with tools below the cabin. He was quite startled as there was a jerk. Then he saw first one and then the other of the aeroplane attachments go hurtling down to the water, engulfed by the ocean.

Relieved of such an incubus the airship regained a higher level. Two hours went by, then three. The professor appeared in a great state of excitement and hopefulness.

“She’s dropping again, but don’t let up for an instant,” he ordered. “I see the land ahead – two hours more, and we’ve made it.”

“Will the gas last?” inquired the young aviator, seriously.

“I am about to free our final reserve – one tank. That will do for a spell. Then – if I have to explode the balloonets into the main gas chamber, we must keep aloft till we are over land.”

Up – down – up – down – that was the progress for the next two hours. Once it was nearly a volplane drift, and the dauntless young pilot of the Albatross fancied they were headed for a dive straight into the ocean’s depths.

A final rise, and Dave’s heart cheered as he saw land not two miles distant. Professor Leblance rushed into the engine room.

“Drift!” he ordered – “let her drop as she likes now – we have arrived!”

The brave old scientist tottered from excitement and exhaustion as he spoke. A great, thrilling cheer seemed to lift from the lips of the young aviator, and ten minutes later the Albatross, a wobbling, flabby, weather-worn wreck, landed on a great dock in the sight of waiting thousands.

“Boy,” spoke Professor Leblance, in a ringing tone and with sparkling eyes, “we have reached goal! The giant airship has crossed the Atlantic!”

CHAPTER XXV

CONCLUSION

“This is Professor Leblance, I believe? We have been expecting you, sir.”

“And this is my friend and co-worker, David Dashaway,” spoke the French scientist, proudly.

It was thirty-six hours after the giant airship had landed on French soil. Within that space of time rapid and interesting events had been crowded into the experience of the young American aviator.

At once after the landing, the professor had sought out the nearest resident representative of the French Aero Association. This individual had officially verified the arrival of the Albatross. Armed with the necessary credentials, Leblance and his young assistant had started at once for London.

Their destination, now reached, was the International Aero Institute, with whom trans-Atlantic negotiations had been made before the Albatross started on its trip. The French official had wired about the coming of the distinguished visitors.

Now Dave Dashaway, like the professor, arrayed in a handsome new suit of clothes, stood in the office of one of the most noted organizations in the aero world.

The first flush of the recent triumph still dwelt with Dave. Then there flashed over his mind the marvelous contrast between the present moment and less than six months previous. Then he had been the obscure down-trodden ward of a cruel guardian. Now through a mist of grateful tears the young aviator thought tenderly of the right royal friends who had assisted in crossing the Atlantic in the giant airship and who had loyally helped him to become the honored guest of men famous the world over for science and intelligent adventure.

The secretary of the club who had greeted them stood aside with a courteous bow to usher them into the reception room of the club. As he did so he said:

“We are proud to greet you, Professor. Your exploit will live in history, notwithstanding that you are second in the remarkable feat of crossing the Atlantic in an airship.”

The sensitive Frenchman recoiled as though dealt a blow.

“How?” he cried sharply. “Second? what does this mean?”

“You had not heard? Ah, yes, the Dictator, pilot J. E. Dawson, landed near Plymouth day before yesterday. After a terrible trip, clinging to the mere rag of a gas bag, Dawson was found nearly drowned on the seashore.”

Professor Leblance sank to a chair stupefied. He stared like a man stunned into vacancy. He was completely overcome.

A strange expression crossed the face of the young aviator. Impulsively his hand went to a certain document that Elmer Brackett had given him two days before. His eye grew more steady, his lips more firm.

“Will you kindly give me a few details of the Dictator flight,” he requested, “while Professor Leblance recovers from his surprise?”

It was a brief story. The red, white and blue gas bag had landed near Plymouth. The daring pilot was discovered clinging to it, drenched to the skin. He had been feted, honored, brought to London. He was even now in the next room, relating his wonderful adventures to the president and directors of the club.

“Come, Professor Leblance,” said Dave, in a clear, steady tone, “I have something to say to this wonderful J. E. Dawson.”

“Professor Leblance and Mr. Dashaway, of the Albatross,” introduced the secretary, a minute later.

Lolling in a luxurious armchair in the midst of some braggadocio recital, with a startled jerk Jerry Dawson came upright as though electrified.

The eye of the young aviator rested upon him with a fixedness that made him squirm.

“Happy to meet you, Professor Leblance,” greeted the club official. “You share a most glorious exploit with our guest.”

“One word first,” interrupted Dave, amazed at his own firmness of voice and nerve. “So there may be no later misunderstanding, does that young man, whom I recognize as a Mr. Dawson, claim to have arrived first in the race across the Atlantic?”