The sun was as high in the polar heavens as it ever rises in that part of the world. Captain Hubbell stood on the deck of the Dipsey with his quadrant in hand to take an observation. The engines had been stopped, and nearly everybody on the vessel now surrounded him.
“Longitude everything,” said Captain James Hubbell, “latitude ninety, which is as near as I can make it out.”
“My friends,” said Mr. Gibbs, looking about him, “we have found the pole.”
And at these words every head was uncovered.
For some moments no one spoke; but there was a look upon the faces of most of the party which expressed a feeling which was voiced by Sarah Block.
“And yet,” said she, speaking in a low tone, “there's nothing to see, after all!”
Captain Hubbell's observations and calculations, although accurate enough for all ordinary nautical purposes, were not sufficiently precise to satisfy the demands of the present occasion, and Mr. Gibbs and the electricians began a series of experiments to determine the exact position of the true pole.
The vessel was now steered this way and that, sometimes backed, and then sent forward again. After about an hour of this zigzag work Mr. Gibbs ordered the engine stopped.
“Now,” said he, “the ring on the deck is exactly over the pole, and we may prepare to take possession.”
At these words Samuel Block disappeared below, followed by his wife.
“That was an odd expression of yours, Captain Hubbell,” said Mr. Gibbs, “when you said we had reached longitude everything. It is correct, of course, but it had not struck me in that light.”
“Of course it is correct,” said Captain Hubbell. “The end of every line of longitude is right here in a bunch. If you were a bird, you could choose one of 'em and fly down along it to Washington or Greenwich or any other point you pleased. Longitude everything is what it is; we've got the whole of 'em right under us.”
Now Samuel Block came on deck, where everybody else on board soon gathered. With a furled flag in his hand, dressed in his best and cleanest clothes, and with a large fur cloak thrown over his shoulders, Mr Block advanced towards the ring on the deck, near the compass.
But he was yet several yards from this point when a black figure, crouching close to the deck, issued from among the men, a little in the rear of the party, and made a dash towards the ring. It was the Pole, Rovinski, who had been standing quivering with excitement, waiting for this supreme moment. But almost at the same instant there sprang from the side of Mr. Gibbs another figure, with a face livid with agitation. This was Mr. Marcy, who had noticed the foreigner's excitement and had been watching him. Like a stone from a catapult, Mr. Marcy rushed towards Rovinski, taking a course diagonal to that of the latter, and, striking him with tremendous force just before he reached the ring, he threw him against the rail with such violence that the momentum given to his head and body carried them completely over it, and his legs following, the man went headlong into the sea.
Instantly there was a shout of horror. Sarah Block screamed violently, and her husband exclaimed: “That infernal Pole! He has gone down to the pole, and I hope he may stay there!”
“What does all this mean, Mr. Marcy?” roared Captain Hubbell; “and why did you throw him overboard?”
“Never mind now,” cried Sammy, his voice rising above the confusion. “I will tell you all about it. I see what he was up to. He wanted to take possession of the pole in his own beastly name, most likely.”
“I don't understand a word of all this,” exclaimed Mr. Gibbs. “But there is the man; he has risen to the surface.”
“Shall we let him sink,” cried Sammy, “or haul him aboard?”
“Let the man sink!” yelled Captain Hubbell. “What do you mean, sir?”
“Well, I suppose it wouldn't do,” said Sammy, “and we must get him aboard.”
Captain Hubbell roared out orders to throw out life-preservers and lower a boat; but, remembering that he was not on board a vessel of the olden times, he changed the order and commanded that a patent boat-hook be used upon the man in the water.
The end of this boat-hook, which could be shot out like a fishing-rod, was hooked into Rovinski's clothes, and he was pulled to the vessel. Then a rope was lowered, and he was hauled on board, shivering and shaking.
“Take him below and put him in irons,” cried Sammy.
“Mr. Block,” said Captain Hubbell, “I want you to understand that I am skipper of this vessel, and that I am to give orders. I don't know anything about this man; but do you want him put in irons?”
“I do,” said Sammy, “for the present.”
“Take that man below and put him in irons!” roared Captain Hubbell.
“And give him some dry clothes,” added Sarah Block.
When the confusion consequent upon the incident had subsided there was a general desire not to delay for a moment the actual act of taking legal possession of the pole they had discovered.
Sammy now advanced, his fur cap in one hand and his flag in the other, and took his position in the centre of the circle. For a few moments he did not speak, but turned slowly around, as if desirous of availing himself of the hitherto unknown privilege of looking southward in every direction.
“I'm glad he remembers what I told him,” said Sarah. “He's making it last as long as he can.”
“As the representative of Roland Clewe, Esq.,” said Samuel, deliberately and distinctly, “I take possession of the north pole of this earth in the name of United North America.” With these words he unfurled his flag, with its broad red and white stripes, and its seven great stars in the field of blue, and stuck the sharp end of the flagstaff into the deck in the centre of the circle.*
[* It must be understood that at this time the seven greatcountries of North America—Greenland, Norland (formerlyBritish America, British Columbia, and Alaska), Canada, theUnited States, Mexico, Central America, and West Indies—were united under one confederated government, and had oneflag, a modification of the banner of the dominant nation.]
“Now,” said he to his companions, “this pole is ours, and if anybody ever comes into this sea from Russia, or Iceland, or any other place, they will find the north pole has been pre-empted.” At this three hearty cheers were given by the assembled company, who thereupon put on their hats.
The rest of that day and part of the next were spent in taking soundings, and very curious and surprising results were obtained. The electric lead, which rang the instant it touched bottom, showed that the sea immediately over the pole was comparatively shallow, while in every direction from this point the depth increased rapidly. Many interesting experiments were made, which determined the character of the bottom and the varied deposits thereupon, but the most important result of the work of Mr. Gibbs and his associates was the discovery of the formation of the extreme northern portion of the earth. The rock-bed of the sea was found to be of the shape of a flattened cone, regularly sloping off from the polar point.
This peculiar form of the solid portion of the earth at the pole was occasioned, Mr. Gibbs believed, by the rotary motion of the bottom of the sea, which moved much more rapidly than the water above it, thus gradually wearing itself away, and giving to our earth that depression at the poles which has been so long known to geographers.
Day after day the experiments went on; but Mr. Gibbs and his associates were extremely interested in what they were doing; some of the rest of the party began to get a little tired of the monotony. There was absolutely nothing to see except water and sky; and although the temperature was frequently some degrees above freezing, and became sometimes quite pleasant as they gradually grew accustomed to the outer arctic atmosphere, those who had no particular occupation to divert their minds made frequent complaints of the cold. There were occasional snow-storms, but these did not last long, and as a rule the skies were clear.
“But think, Sarah,” said Samuel Block, in answer to some of her complaints, “what it would be if this were winter, and, instead of being light all the time, it was dark, with the mercury 'way down at the bottom of the thermometer!”
“I don't intend to think of it at all,” replied Sarah, sharply. “Do you suppose I am goin' to consent to stay here until the everlastin' night comes on? If that happened, I would simply stretch myself out and die. It's bad enough as it is; but when I look out on the sun, and think that it is the same sun that is shinin' on Sardis, and on the house which I hope we are goin' to have when we get back, I feel as if there was somethin' up here besides you, Sammy, that I'm accustomed to. If it was not for you and the sun, I could not get along at all; but if the sun's gone, I don't think you will be enough. I wish they would plant that corner-stone buoy and let us be off.”
But by far the most dissatisfied person on board was the Pole, Rovinski. He was chained to the floor in the hold, and could see nothing; nor could he find out anything. Sammy had explained his character and probable intentions to Captain Hubbell, who had thereupon delivered to Mr. Block a very severe lecture for not telling him before.
“If I've got a scoundrel on board I want to know it, and I hope this sort of thing won't happen again, Mr. Block.”
“I don't see how it can,” answered Sammy; “and I must admit I ought to have told you as soon as you took command; but people don't always do all they ought to do; and, as for tellin' Mr. Gibbs, I would not do that, for his mind is rigged on a hair-spring balance anyway; it wouldn't do to upset him.”
“And what are we goin' to do with the feller?” said the captain. “Now that I know what this Pole is, I wish I had let him go down to the other pole and stay there.”
“I thought so at first,” said Sammy; “but I'm glad he didn't; I'd hate to think of our glorious pole with that thing floppin' on it.”
At last all was ready to anchor the great buoy, and preparations were in progress for this important event, when everybody was startled by a shout from Mr. Marcy.
“Hello!” he cried. “What's that? A sail?”
“Where away?” shouted the captain.
“To the south,” replied Mr. Marcy. And instantly everybody was looking in opposite directions. But Mr. Marcy's outstretched arm soon indicated to all the position of the cause of his outcry. It was a black spot clearly visible upon the surface of the sea, and apparently about two miles away. Quickly Captain Hubbell had his glass directed upon it, and the next moment he gave a loud cry.
“It's a whale!” he shouted. “There's whales in this polar sea!”
“I thought you said whales were extinct,” cried Sammy.
“So I did,” replied the captain. “And so they are in all Christian waters. Who ever could have imagined that we would have found 'em here?”
Sarah Block was so frightened when she found there was a whale in the same water in which the Dipsey floated that she immediately hurried below, with an indistinct idea of putting on her things. In such a case as this, it was time for her to leave. But soon recognizing the state of affairs, she sat down in a chair, threw a shawl over her head, and waited for the awful bump.
“Fortunately whales are soft,” she said to her, self over and over again.
No one now thought of buoys. Every eye on deck was fixed upon the exposed back of the whale, and everybody speedily agreed that it was coming nearer to them. It did come nearer and nearer, and at one time it raised its head as if it were endeavoring to look over the water at the strange object which had come into those seas. Then suddenly it tossed its tail high into the air and sank out of sight.
“It's a right-whale!” cried Captain Hubbell. “There's whales in this sea! Let's get through this buoy business and go cruisin' after 'em.”
There was a great deal of excited talk about the appearance of the whale, but this was not allowed to interfere with the business in hand. A chain, not very heavy but of enormous strength, and of sufficient length to reach the bottom and give plenty of play, was attached to an anchor of a peculiar kind. It was very large and heavy, made of iron, and shaped something like a cuttlefish, with many arms which would cling to the bottom if any force were exerted to move the anchor. The other end of the chain was attached to the lower part of the buoy, and with powerful cranes the anchor was hoisted on deck, and when everything had been made ready the buoy, which had had the proper date cut upon it, was lowered into the water. Then the great anchor was dropped into the sea, as nearly as possible over the pole.
The sudden rush downward of the anchor and the chain caused the buoy to dip into the sea as if it were about to sink out of sight, but in a few moments it rose again, and the great sphere, half-way out of the water, floated proudly upon the surface of the polar sea.
Then came a great cheer, and Mrs. Block—who, having been assured that the whale had entirely disappeared, had come on deck—turned to her husband and remarked: “Now, Sammy, is there any earthly reason why we should not turn right around and go straight home? The pole's found, and the place is marked, and what more is there for us to do?”
But before her husband could answer her, Captain Hubbell lifted up his voice, which was full of spirit and enthusiasm.
“Messmates!” he cried, “we have touched at the pole, and we have anchored the buoy, and now let us go whalin'. It's thirty years since I saw one of them fish, and I never expected in all my born days I'd go a-whalin'.”
The rest of the company on the Dipsey took no very great interest in the whaling cruise, but, on consultation with Mr. Clewe and Mrs. Raleigh at Sardis, it was decided that they ought by no means to leave the polar sea until they had explored it as thoroughly as circumstances would allow. Consequently the next day the Dipsey sailed away from the pole, leaving the buoy brightly floating on a gently rolling sea, its high-uplifted weather-vane glittering in the sun, with each of its ends always pointing bravely to the south.
In the office of the Works at Sardis, side by side at the table on which stood the telegraph instrument, Margaret Raleigh and Roland Clewe, receiving the daily reports from the Dipsey, had found themselves in such sympathy and harmony with the party they had sent out on this expedition that they too, in fancy, had slowly groped their way under the grim overhanging ice out into the open polar sea. They too had stood on the deck of the vessel which had risen like a spectre out of the waters, and in the cold, clear atmosphere had gazed about them at this hitherto unknown part of the world. They had thrilled with enthusiastic excitement when the ring on the deck of the Dipsey was placed over the actual location of the pole; they had been filled with anger when they heard of the conduct of Rovinski; and their souls had swelled with a noble love of country and pride in their own achievements when they heard that they, by their representative, had made the north pole a part of their native land. They had listened, scarcely breathing, to the stirring account of the anchoring of the great buoy to one end of the earth's axis, and they had exclaimed in amazement at the announcement that in the lonely waters of the pole whales were still to be found, when they were totally unknown in every other portion of the earth.
But now the stirring events in the arctic regions which had so held and enthralled them day by day had, after a time, ceased. Mr. Gibbs was engaged in making experiments, observations, and explorations, the result of which he would embody in carefully prepared reports, and Sammy's daily message promised to be rather monotonous. Roland Clewe felt the great importance of a thorough exploration and examination of the polar sea. The vessel he had sent out had reached this hitherto inaccessible region, but it was not at all certain that another voyage, even of the same kind, would be successful. Consequently he advised those in charge of the expedition not to attempt to return until the results of their work were as complete as possible. Should the arctic night overtake them before they left the polar sea, this would not interfere with their return in the same manner in which they had gone north, for in a submarine voyage artificial light would be necessary at any season. So, for a tune, Roland and Margaret withdrew in a great measure their thoughts from the vicinity of the pole, and devoted themselves to their work at home.
When Roland Clewe had penetrated with his Artesian ray as deeply into the earth beneath him as the photic power of his instrument would admit, he had applied all the available force of his establishment—the men working in relays day and night—to the manufacture of the instruments which should give increased power to the penetrating light, which he hoped would make visible to him the interior structure of the earth, up to this time as unknown to man as had been the regions of the poles.
Roland had devoted a great deal of time to the arrangement of a system of reflectors, by which he hoped to make it possible to look down into the cylinder of light produced by the Artesian ray without projecting any portion of the body of the observer into the ray. This had been done principally to provide against the possibility of a shock to Margaret, such as he received when he beheld a man with the upper part of his body totally invisible, and a section of the other portion laid bare to the eye of a person standing in front of it. But his success had not been satisfactory. It was quite different to look directly down into that magical perforation at his feet, instead of studying the reflection of the same, indistinctly and uncertainly revealed by a system of mirrors.
Consequently the plan of reflectors was discarded, and Roland determined that the right thing to do was to take Margaret into his confidence and explain to her why he and she should not stand together and look down the course of the Artesian ray. She scolded him for not telling her all this before, and a permanent screen was erected around the spot on which the ray was intended to work, formed of Venetian blinds with fixed slats, so that the person inside could readily talk and consult with others outside without being seen by them.
As might well be supposed, this work with the “photic borer,” as Clewe now called his instrument, was of absorbing interest. For a day or two after it was again put into operation Margaret and Roland could scarcely tear themselves away from it long enough for necessary sleep and meals, and several persons connected with the Works were frequently permitted to witness its wonderful operations.
Down, down descended that cylinder of light, until it had passed through all the known geological strata in that part of New Jersey, and had reached subterranean depths known to Clewe only by comparison and theory.
The apparent excavation had extended itself down so far that the disk at the bottom, although so brightly illuminated, was no longer clearly visible to the naked eye, and was rapidly decreasing in size on account of the perspective. But the telescopes which Clewe had provided easily overcame this difficulty. He was sure that it would be impossible for his light to penetrate to a depth which could not be made clearly visible by his telescopes.
It was a wonderful and weird sensation which came over those who stood, glass in hand, and gazed down the track of the Artesian ray. Far, far below them they saw that illuminated disk which revealed the character of the stratum which the light had reached. And yet they could not see the telescope which they held in their hands; they could not see their hands; they knew that their heads and shoulders were invisible. All observers except Clewe kept well back from the edge of the frightful hole of light down which they peered; and once, when the weight of the telescope which she held had caused Margaret to make an involuntary step forward, she gave a fearful scream, for she was sure she was going to fall into the bowels of the earth. Clewe, who stood always near by, with his hand upon the lever which controlled the ray, instantly shut off the light; and although Margaret was thus convinced that she stood upon commonplace ground, she came from within the screen, and did not for some time recover from the nervous shock occasioned by this accident of the imagination.
Clewe himself took great pleasure in making experiments connected with the relation of the observer to the action of the Artesian ray. For instance, he found that when standing and gazing down into the great photic perforation below him, he could see into it quite as well when he shut his eyes as when they were open; the light passing through his head made his eyelids invisible. He stood in the very centre of the circle of light and looked down through himself.
That this application of light which he had discovered would be of the greatest possible service in surgery, Roland Clewe well knew. By totally eliminating from view any portion of the human body so as to expose a section of said body which it was desirable to examine, the interior structure of a patient could be studied as easily as the exterior, and a surgeon would be able to dissect a living being as easily as if the subject were a corpse. But Clewe did not now wish to make public the extraordinary adaptations of his discovery to the uses of the medical man and the surgeon. He was intent upon discovering, as far as was possible, the internal structure of the earth on which he dwelt, and he did not wish to interfere at present with this great and absorbing object by distracting his mind with any other application of his Artesian ray.
It is not intended to describe in detail the various stages of the progress of the Artesian ray into the subterranean regions. Sometimes it revealed strata colored red, yellow, or green by the presence of iron ore; sometimes it showed for a short distance a glittering disk, produced by the action of the light upon a deep-sunken reservoir of water; then it passed on, hour by hour, down, down into the eternal rocks.
When the Artesian ray had begun to work its way through the rocks, Margaret became less interested in observing its progress. Nothing new presented itself; it was one continual stony disk which she saw when she looked down into the shaft of light beneath her. Observation was becoming more and more difficult even to Roland Clewe, and at last he was obliged to set up a large telescope on a stand, and mount a ladder in order to use it.
Day after day the Artesian ray went downward, always revealing rock, rock, rock. The appliances for increased electric energy were working well, and Clewe was entirely satisfied with the operation of his photic borer.
One morning he came hurriedly to Margaret at her house, and announced with glistening eyes that his ray had now gone to a greater degree into the earth than man had ever yet reached.
“What have you found?” she asked, excitedly. “Rock, rock, rock,” he answered. “This little State of ours rests upon a firm foundation.”
Although Roland Clewe found his observations rather monotonous work, he was regular and constant at his post, and gave little opportunity to his steadily progressing cylinder of light to reach and pass unseen anything which might be of interest.
It was nearly a week after he had announced to Margaret that he had seen deeper into the earth than any man before him that he mounted his ladder to take his final observation for the night. When he looked through his telescope his eye was dazzled by a light which obliged him suddenly to close it and lift his head. At first he thought that he had reached the fabulous region of eternal fire, but this he knew to be absurd; and, besides, the light was not that of fire or heated substances. It was pale, colorless; and although dazzling at first, he found, when very cautiously he applied his eye again to the telescope, that it was not blinding. In fact, he could look at it as steadily as he could upon a clear sky.
But, gaze as he would, he could see nothing—nothing but light; subdued, soft, beautiful light. He knew the ray was passing steadily downward, for the mechanism was working with its accustomed regularity, but it revealed to him nothing at all. He could not understand it; his brain was dazed. He thought there might be something the matter with his eyesight. He got down from the ladder and hurriedly sent for Margaret, and when she came he begged her to look through the telescope and tell him what she saw. She went inside the screen, ascended the ladder, and looked down.
“It isn't anything,” she called out presently. “It looks like lighter air; it can't be that. Perhaps there is something the matter with your telescope.”
Clewe had thought of that, and as soon as she came out he examined the instrument, but the lenses were all right. There was nothing the matter with the telescope.
That night Roland Clewe spent in the lens-house, almost constantly at the telescope, but nothing did he see but a disk of soft, white light.
“The world can't be hollow!” he said to Margaret the next morning. “It can't be filled with air, or nothing, and my ray would not illuminate air or nothing. I cannot understand it. If you did not see what I see, I should think I was going crazy.”
“Don't talk that way,” exclaimed Margaret. “This may be some cavity which the ray will soon pass through, and then we shall come to the good old familiar rock again.”
But Clewe could not be consoled in this way. He could see no reason why his ray acting upon the emptiness of a cavern should produce the effect he beheld. Moreover, if the ray had revealed a cavern of considerable extent he could not expect that it could now pass through it, for the limit of its operations was almost reached. His electric cumulators would cease to act in a few hours more. The ray had now descended more than fourteen miles—its limit was fifteen.
Margaret was greatly troubled because of the effect of this result of the light borer upon Roland. His disappointment was very great, and it showed itself in his face. His Artesian ray had gone down to a distance greater than had been sometimes estimated as the thickness of the earth's crust, and the result was of no value. Roland did not believe that the earth had a crust. He had no faith in the old-fashioned idea that the great central portion was a mass of molten matter, but he could not drive from his mind the conviction that his light had passed through the solid portion of the earth, and had emerged into something which was not solid, which was not liquid, which was in fact nothing.
All his labors had come to this: he had discovered that the various strata near the earth's surface rested upon a vast bed of rock, and that this bed of rock rested upon nothing. Of course it was not impossible that the arrangement of the substances which make up this globe was peculiar at this point, and that there was a great cavern fourteen miles below him; but why should such a cavern be filled with a light different from that which would be shown by his Artesian ray when shining upon any other substances, open air or solid matter?
He could go no deeper down—at least at present. If he could make an instrument of increased power, it would require many months to do it.
“But I will do it,” said he to Margaret. “If this is a cavern, and if it has a bottom, I will reach it. I will go on and see what there is beyond. On such a discovery as I have made one can pass no conclusion whatever. If I cannot go farther, I need not have gone down at all.”
“No,” said Margaret, “I don't want you to go on—at least at present; you must wait. The earth will wait, and I want you to be in a condition to be able to wait also. You must now stop this work altogether. Stop doing anything; stop thinking about it. After a time—say early in winter—we can recommence operations with the Artesian ray; that is, if we think well to do so. You should stop this and take up something else. You have several enterprises which are very important and ought to be carried on. Take up one of them, and think no more for a few months of the nothingness which is fourteen miles below us.”
It was not difficult for Roland Clewe to convince himself that this was very good advice. He resolved to shut up his lens-house entirely for a time, and think no more of the great work he had done within it, but apply himself to something which he had long neglected, and which would be a distraction and a recreation to his disappointed mind.
In a large building, not far from the lens-house in which Roland Clewe had pursued the experiments which had come to such a disappointing conclusion, there was a piece of mechanism which interested its inventor more than any other of his works, excepting of course the photic borer.
This was an enormous projectile, the peculiarity of which was that its motive power was contained within itself, very much as a rocket contains the explosives which send it upward. It differed, however, from the rocket or any other similar projectile, and many of its features were entirely original with Roland Clewe.
This extraordinary piece of mechanism, which was called the automatic shell, was of cylindrical form, eighteen feet in length and four feet in diameter. The forward end was conical and not solid, being formed of a number of flat steel rings, decreasing in size as they approached the point of the cone. When not in operation these rings did not touch one another, but they could be forced together by pressure on the point of the cone. This shell might contain explosives or not, as might be considered desirable, and it was not intended to fire it from a cannon, but to start it on its course from a long semi-cylindrical trough, which would be used simply to give it the desired direction. After it had been started by a ram worked by an engine at the rear end of the trough, it immediately bean to propel itself by means of the mechanism contained within it.
But the great value of this shell lay in the fact that the moment it encountered a solid substance or obstruction of any kind its propelling power became increased. The rings which formed the cone on its forward end were pressed together, the electric motive power was increased in proportion to the pressure, and thus the greater the resistance to this projectile the greater became its velocity and power of progression, and its onward course continued until its self-containing force had been exhausted.
The power of explosives had reached, at this period, to so high a point that it was unnecessary to devise any increase in their enormous energy, and the only problems before the students of artillery practice related to methods of getting their projectiles to the points desired. Progress in this branch of the science had proceeded so far that an attack upon a fortified port by armored vessels was now considered as a thing of the past; and although there had been no naval wars of late years, it was believed that never again would there be a combat between vessels of iron or steel.
The recently invented magnetic shell made artillery practice against all vessels of iron a mere mechanical process, demanding no skill whatever. When one of these magnetic shells was thrown anywhere in the vicinity of an iron ship, the powerful magnetism developed within it instantly attracted it to the vessel, which was destroyed by the ensuing contact and explosion. Two ironclads meeting on the ocean need each to fire but one shell to be both destroyed. The inability of iron battle-ships to withstand this improvement in artillery had already set the naval architects of the world upon the work of constructing warships which would not attract the magnetic shell—which was effective even when laid on the bottoms of harbors—and Roland Clewe had been engaged in making plans and experiments for the construction of a paper man-of-war, which he believed would meet the requirements of the situation.
When Clewe determined to follow Margaret Raleigh's advice and give up for a time his work with the Artesian ray, his thoughts naturally turned to his automatic shell. Work upon this invention was now almost completed, but the great difficulty which its inventor expected to meet with was that of inducing his government to make a trial of it. Such a trial would be extremely expensive, involving probably the destruction of the shell, and he did not feel able or willing to experiment with it without governmental aid.
The shell was intended for use on land as well as at sea, against cities and great fortified structures, and Clewe believed that the automatic shell might be brought within fifty miles of a city, set up with its trough and ram, and projected in a level line towards its object, to which it would impel itself with irresistible power and velocity, through forests, hills, buildings, and everything, gaining strength from every opposition which stood in the direct line of its progress. Attacking fortifications from the sea, the vessel carrying this great projectile could operate at a distance beyond the reach of the magnetic shell.
Now that the automatic shell itself was finished, and nothing remained to be done but to complete the great steel trough in which it would lie, Roland Clewe found himself confronted with a business which was very hard and very distasteful to him. He must induce other people to do what he was not able to do himself. Unless his shell was put to a practical trial, it could be of no value to the world or to himself.
In one of the many conversations on the subject; Margaret had suggested something which rapidly grew and developed in Roland's mind.
“It would be an admirable thing to tunnel mountains with,” said she. “Of course I mean a large one, as thick through as a tunnel ought to be.”
In less than a day Clewe had perfected an idea which he believed might be of practical service. For some time there had been talk of a new railroad in this part of the State, but one of the difficulties in the way was the necessity of making a tunnel or a deep cut through a small mountain. To go round this mountain would be objectionable for many reasons, and to go through it would be enormously expensive. Clewe knew the country well, and his soul glowed within him as he thought that here perhaps was an opportunity for him to demonstrate the value of his invention, not only as an agent in warfare, but as a wonderful assistant in the peaceful progress of the world.
There was no reason why such shells should not be constructed for the express purpose of making tunnels. Nothing could be better adapted for an experiment of this kind than the low mountain in question. If the shell passed through it at the desired point, there would be nothing beyond which could be injured, and it would then enter the end of a small chain of mountains, and might pass onward, as far as its motive power would carry it, without doing any damage whatever. Moreover, its course could be followed and it could be recovered.
Both Roland and Margaret were very enthusiastic in favor of this trial of the automatic shell, and they determined that if the railroad company would pay them a fair price if they should succeed in tunnelling the mountain, they would charge nothing should their experiment be a failure. Of course the tunnel the shell would make, if everything worked properly, would not be large enough for any practical use; but explosives might be placed along its length, which, if desired, would blow out that portion of the mountain which lay immediately above the tunnel, and this great cut could readily be enlarged to any desired dimensions.
Clewe would have gone immediately to confer with the secretary of the railroad company, with whom he was acquainted but that gentleman was at the sea-side, and the business was necessarily postponed.
“Now,” said Clewe to Margaret, “if I could do it, I'd like to take a run up to the polar sea and see for myself what they have discovered. Judging from Sammy's infrequent despatches, the party in general must be getting a little tired of Mr. Gibbs's experiments and soundings; but I should be intensely interested in them.”
“I don't wonder,” answered Margaret, “that they are getting tired; they have found the pole, and they want to come home. That is natural enough. But, for my part, I am very glad we can't run up there. Even if we had another Dipsey I should decidedly oppose it. I might agree that we should go to Cape Tariff, but I would not agree to anything more. You may discover poles if you want to, but you must do it by proxy.”
At this moment an awful crash was heard. It came from the building containing the automatic shell. Clewe and Margaret started to their feet. They glanced at each other, and then both ran from the office at the top of their speed. Other people were running from various parts of the Works. There was no smoke; there was no dust. There had been no explosion, as Clewe had feared in his first alarm.
When they entered the building, Clewe and Margaret stood aghast. There were workmen shouting or standing with open mouths; others were running in. The massive scaffolding, twenty feet in height, on which the shell had been raised so that the steel trough might be run under it, lay in splinters upon the ground. The great automatic shell itself had entirely disappeared.
For some moments no one said anything; all stood astounded, looking at the space where the shell had been. Then Clewe hurried forward. In the ground, amid the wreck of the scaffolding, was a circular hole about four feet in diameter. Clasping the hand of a man near him, he cautiously peered over the edge and looked down. It was dark and deep; he saw nothing.
Roland Clewe stepped back; he put his hands over his eyes and thought. Now he comprehended everything clearly. The weight of the shell had been too great for its supports. The forward part, which contained the propelling mechanism, was much heavier than the other end, and had gone down first, so that the shell had turned over and had fallen perpendicularly, striking the ground with the point of the cone. Then its tremendous propelling energy, infinitely more powerful than any dynamic force dreamed of in the preceding century, was instantly generated. The inconceivably rapid motion which forced it forward like a screw must have then commenced, and it had bored itself down deep into the solid earth.
“Roland, dear,” said Margaret, stepping quietly up to him, tears on her pale countenance, “don't you think it can be hoisted up again?”
“I hope not,” said he.
“Why do you say that?” she asked, astonished.
“Because,” he answered, “if it has not penetrated far enough into the earth to make it utterly out of our power to get it again, the thing is a failure.”
“More than that,” thought Margaret; “if it has gone down entirely out of our reach, the thing is a failure all the same, for I don't believe he can ever be induced to make another.”
During the course of his inventive life Roland Clewe had become accustomed to disappointments; he was very much afraid, indeed, that he was beginning to expect them. If that really happened, there would be an end to his career.
But when he spoke in this way to Margaret, she almost scolded him.
“How utterly absurd it is,” she said, “for a man who has just discovered the north pole to sit down in an arm-chair and talk in that way!”
“I didn't discover it,” he said; “it was Sammy and Gibbs who found the pole. As for me—I don't suppose I shall ever see it.”
“I am not so sure of that,” she said. “We may yet invent a telescope which shall curve its reflected rays over the rotundity of the earth and above the highest icebergs, so that you and I may sit here and look at the waters of the pole gently splashing around the great buoy.”
“And charge a dollar apiece to all other people who would like to look at the pole, and so we might make much money,” said he. “But I must really go and do something; I shall go crazy if I sit here idle.”
Margaret knew that the loss of the shell was the greatest blow that Roland had ever yet received. His ambitions as a scientific inventor were varied, but she was well aware that for some years he had considered it of great importance to do something which would bring him in money enough to go on with his investigations and labors without depending entirely upon her for the necessary capital. If he could have tunnelled a mountain with this shell, or if he had but partially succeeded in so doing, money would have come to him. He would have made his first pecuniary success of any importance.
“What are you going to do, Roland?” said she, as he rose to leave the room.
“I am going to find the depth of the hole that shell has made. It ought to be filled up, and I must calculate how many loads of earth and stones it will take to do it.”
That afternoon he came to Mrs. Raleigh's house.
“Margaret,” he exclaimed, “I have lowered a lead into that hole with all the line attached which we have got on the place, and we can touch no bottom. I have telegraphed for a lot of sounding-wire, and I must wait until it shall arrive before I do anything more.”
“You must be very, very careful, Roland, when you are doing that work,” said Margaret. “Suppose you should fall in!”
“I have provided against that,” said he. “I have laid a floor over the hole with only a small opening in it, so there is no danger. And another curious thing I must tell you-our line is not wet: we have struck no water!”
When Margaret visited the Works the next day she found Roland Clewe and a number of workmen surrounding the flooring which had been laid over the hole. They were sounding with a windlass which carried an immense reel of wire. The wire was extremely thin, but the weight of that portion of it which had already been unwound was so great that four men were at the handles of the windlass.
Roland came to meet Margaret as she entered.
“The lead has gone down six miles,” he said, in a low voice, “and we have not touched the bottom yet.”
“Impossible!” she cried. “Roland, it cannot be! The wire must be coiling itself up somewhere. It is incredible! The lead cannot have gone down so far!”
“Leads have gone down as far as that before this,” said he. “Soundings of more than six miles have been obtained at sea.”
She went with him and stood near the windlass. For an hour she remained by his side, and still the reel turned steadily and the wire descended into the hole.
“Shall you surely know when it gets to the bottom?” said she.
“Yes,” he answered. “When the electric button under the lead shall touch anything solid, or even anything fluid, this bell up here will ring.”
She stayed until she could stay no longer. She knew it would be of no use to urge Roland to leave the windlass. Very early the next morning a note was brought to her before she was up, and on it was written:
“We have touched bottom at a depth of fourteen and an eighth miles.”
When Roland came to Mrs. Raleigh's house, about nine o'clock that morning, his face was pale and his whole form trembled.
“Margaret,” he cried, “what are we going to do about it? It is wonderful; I cannot appreciate it. I have had all the men up in the office this morning and pledged them to secrecy. Of course they won't keep their promises, but it was all that I could do. I can think of no particular damage which would come to me if this thing were known, but I cannot bear that the public should get hold of it until I know something myself. Margaret, I don't know anything.”
“Have you had your breakfast?” she asked.
“No,” he said; “I haven't thought of it.”
“Did you eat anything last night?”
“I don't remember,” he answered.
“Now I want you to come into the dining-room,” said she. “I had a light breakfast some time ago, and I am going to eat another with you. I want you to tell me something. There was a man here the other day with a patent machine for making button-holes—you know the old-fashioned button-holes are coming in again—and if this is a good invention it ought to sell, for nearly everybody has forgotten how to make button-holes in the old way.”
“Oh, nonsense!” said Roland. “How can you talk of such things? I can't take my mind—”
“I know you can't,” she interrupted. “You are all the time thinking of that everlasting old hole in the ground. Well, I am tired of it; do let us talk of something else.”
Margaret Raleigh was much more than tired of that phenomenal hole in the earth which had been made by the automatic shell; she was frightened by it. It was something terrible to her; she had scarcely slept that night, and she needed breakfast and change of thought as much as Roland.
But it was not long before she found that it was impossible to turn his thoughts from that all-absorbing subject. All she could do was to endeavor to guide them into quiet channels.
“What are you going to do this morning?” she asked, towards the close of the breakfast.
“I am going to try to take the temperature of that shaft at various points,” said he.
“That will be an excellent thing,” she answered; “you may make valuable discoveries; but I should think the heat at that great depth would be enough to melt your thermometers.”
“It did not melt my lead or my sounding-wire,” said he. And as he said these words her heart fell.
The temperature of this great perforation was taken at many points, and when Roland brought to Margaret the statement of the height of the mercury at the very bottom she was astounded and shocked to find that it was only eighty-three degrees.
“This is terrible!” she ejaculated.
“What do you mean?” he asked in surprise. “That is not hot. Why, it is only summer weather.”
But she did not think it terrible because it was so hot; the fact that it was so cool had shocked her. In such temperature one could live! A great source of trust and hope had been taken from her.
“Roland,” she said, sinking into a chair, “I don't understand this at all. I always thought that it became hotter and hotter as one went down into the earth; and I once read that at twenty miles below the surface, if the heat increased in proportion as it increased in a mine, the temperature must be over a thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Your instrument could not have registered properly; perhaps it never went all the way down; and perhaps it is all a mistake. It may be that the lead did not go down so far as you think.”
He smiled; he was becoming calmer now, for he was doing something: he was obtaining results.
“Those ideas about increasing heat at increasing depths are old-fashioned, Margaret,” he said. “Recent science has given us better theories. It is known that there is great heat in the interior of the earth, and it is also known that the transmission of this heat towards the surface depends upon the conductivity of the rocks in particular locations. In some places the heat comes very near the surface, and in others it is very, very far down. More than that, the temperature may rise as we go down into the earth and afterwards fall again. There may be a stratum of close-grained rock, possibly containing metal, coming up from the interior in an oblique direction and bringing the heat towards the surface; then below that there may be vast regions of other rocks which do not readily conduct heat, and which do not originate in heated portions of the earth's interior. When we reach these, we must find the temperature lower, as a matter of course. Now I have really done this. A little over five miles down my thermometer registered ninety-one, and after that it began to fall a little. But the rocks under us are poor conductors of heat; and, moreover, it is highly probable that they have no near communication with the source of internal heat.”
“I thought these things were more exact and regular,” said she; “I supposed if you went down a mile in one place, you would find it as hot as you would in another.”
“Oh no,” said he. “There is nothing regular or exact in nature; even our earth is not a perfect sphere. Nature is never mathematically correct. You must always allow for variations. In some parts of the earth its heated core, or whatever it is, must be very, very far down.”
At this moment a happy thought struck Margaret.
“How easy it would be, Roland, for you to examine this great hole! I can do it; anybody can do it. It's perfectly amazing when you think of it. All you have to do is to take your Artesian, ray machine into that building and set it over the hole; then you can light the whole interior, all the way down to the bottom, and with a telescope you can see everything that is in it.”
“Yes,” said he; “but I think I can do it better than that. It would be very difficult to transfer the photic borer to the other building, and I can light up the interior perfectly well by means of electric lights. I can even lower a camera down to the very bottom and take photographs of the interior.”
“Why, that would be perfectly glorious!” cried Margaret, springing to her feet, an immense relief coming to her mind with the thought that to examine this actual shaft it would not be necessary for anybody to go down into it.
“I should go to work at that immediately,” said he, “but I must have a different sort of windlass—one that shall be moved by an engine. I will rig up the big telescope too, so that we can look down when we have lighted up the bottom.”
It required days to do all that Roland Clewe had planned. A great deal of the necessary work was done in his own establishment, and much machinery besides was sent from New York. When all was ready many experiments were made with the electric lights and camera, and photographs of inexpressible value and interest were taken at various points on the sides of this wonderful perpendicular tunnel.
At last Clewe was prepared to photograph the lower portion of the shaft. With a peculiar camera and a powerful light five photographs were taken of the very bottom of the great shaft, four in horizontal directions and one immediately below the camera. When these photographs were printed by the improved methods then in vogue, Clewe seized the pictures and examined them with eager haste. For some moments he stood silent, his eyes fixed upon the photographs as if there was nothing else in this world; but all he saw on each was an irregular patch of light. He thrust the prints aside, and in a loud, sharp voice he gave orders to bring the great telescope and set it up above the hole. The light was still at the bottom, and the instant the telescope was in position Clewe mounted the stepladder and directed the instrument downward. In a few moments he gave an exclamation, and then he came down from the ladder so rapidly that he barely missed falling. He went into his office and sent for Margaret. When she came he showed her the photographs.
“See!” he said. “What I have found is nothing; even a camera shows nothing, and when I look down through the glass I see nothing. It is just what the Artesian ray showed me; it is nothing at all!”
“I should think,” said she, speaking very slowly, “that if your sounding-lead had gone down into nothing, it would have continued to go down indefinitely. What was there to stop it if there is nothing there?”
“Margaret,” said he, “I don't know anything about it. That is the crushing truth. I can find out nothing at all. When I look down through the earth by means of the Artesian ray I reach a certain depth and then I see a void; when I look down through a perfectly open passage to the same depth, I still see a void.”
“But, Roland,” said Margaret, holding in her hand the view taken of the bottom of the shaft, “what is this in the middle of the proof? It is darker than the rest, but it seems to be all covered up with mistiness. Have you a magnifying-glass?”
Roland found a glass, and seized the photograph. He had forgotten his usual courtesy.
“Margaret,” he cried, “that dark thing is my automatic shell! It is lying on its side. I can see the greater part of it. It is not in the hole it made itself; it is in a cavity. It has turned over, and lies horizontally; it has bored down into a cave, Margaret—into a cave—a cave with a solid bottom—a cave made of light!”
“Nonsense!” said Margaret. “Caves cannot be made of light; the light that you see comes from your electric lamp.”
“Not at all!” he cried. “If there was anything there, the light of my lamp would show it. During the whole depth of the shaft the light showed everything and the camera showed everything; you can see the very texture of the rocks; but when the camera goes to the bottom, when it enters this space into which the shaft plainly leads, it shows nothing at all, except what I may be said to have put there. I see only my great shell surrounded by light, resting on light!”
“Roland,” said Margaret, “you are crazy! Perhaps it is water which fills that cave, or whatever it is.”
“Not at all,” said Roland. “It presents no appearance of water, and when the camera came up it was not wet. No; it is a cave of light.”
He sat for some minutes silently gazing out of the window. Margaret drew her chair closer to him. She took one of his hands in both of hers.
“Look at me, Roland!” she said. “What are you thinking about?”
He turned his face upon her, but said nothing. She looked straight into his eyes, and she needed no Artesian ray to enable her to see through them into his innermost brain. She saw what was filling that brain; it was one great, overpowering desire to go down to the bottom of that hole, to find out what it was that he had discovered.
“Margaret, you hurt me!” he exclaimed, suddenly. In the intensity of the emotion excited by what she had discovered, her finger-nails had nearly penetrated through his skin. She had felt as if she would hold him and hold him forever, but she released his hand.
“We haven't talked about that button-hole machine,” she said. “I want your opinion of it.” To her surprise, Roland began immediately to discuss the new invention of which she had spoken, and asked her to describe it. He was not at all anxious now to tell Margaret what he was thinking of in connection with the track of the shell.