By the time I’d regained my breath, after a somewhat hurried embarkation, I saw that Holmes had taken up a position in the tugboat’s bow. There he stood, straight-backed, thin as a pikestaff, hatless, and dressed severely in black. Every inch the eager seeker of truth. His deep-set eyes raked the turquoise ocean, hunting for what he knew must lie out here.
But what, exactly, was the nature of our case? He’d given no elaboration, other than that mystifying statement in the telegram. That which cannot be. Is.
I picked my way across the deck, over coils of rope, rusty chain and assorted winding gear that adorned this grubby little workhorse of the sea. The vessel moved at the limits of its speed. Steam hissed from pipes, smoke tumbled out of the funnel to stain an otherwise perfectly blue June sky. Gulls wheeled about our craft, for the moment mistaking us for a fishing boat. Either they finally understood that we didn’t carry so much as a mackerel or, perhaps, they sensed danger ahead, for the birds suddenly departed on powerful wings, uttering such piercing shrieks that they could be plainly heard above the whoosh! and shorr! of the engine.
Likewise, I made it my business to be overheard above the machine, too. “Holmes. What’s happened?”
That distinctive profile remained. He didn’t even glance in my direction.
“Holmes, good God, man! The telegram! What does it mean?”
Still he did not turn. Instead, he rested his fingertip against his lips.
Hush.
My friend is not given to personal melodrama, or prone to questioning my loyalties by virtue of frivolous tests. Clearly, this was a matter of great importance. Just what that matter was I’d have to wait and see. However, a certain rigidity of his posture and grimness of expression sent a chill foreboding through my blood. Terrible events loomed — or so I divined. Therefore, I stood beside that black clad figure, said nothing, and waited for the tugboat to bear us to our destination.
Presently, I saw where we were headed. Sitting there, as a blot of darkness on the glittering sea, was a large vessel of iron. What I’d first surmised to be a stunted mast between the aft deck and the funnel was, in fact, a crane. A cable ran from the pulley at the tip of that formidable lifting arm to a grey object on the aft deck.
In the next half hour Holmes would speak but tersely. “Steel yourself, Watson.” That was his sole item of conversation on the tugboat.
The dourness of countenance revealed that some immense problem weighed heavy on the man. His long fingers curled around the rail at the prow. Muscle tension produced a distinct whitening of the knuckles. His piercing eyes regarded the iron ship, which grew ever nearer. And he looked at that ship as a man might who’d seen a gravestone on which his own name is etched with the days of his mortal arrival and, more disconcertingly, his departure.
The tugboat captain fired off two short blasts of the steam whistle. The leviathan at anchor gave an answering call on its horn. A mournful sound to be sure.
Soon the tugboat drew alongside. A grim-faced Holmes took my elbow in order to help me safely pass from the heaving tugboat to the rope ladder that had been cast down for us.
My heart, and I readily confess the fact, pounded nearly as hard as the pistons of the tugboat. For, as I climbed up toward the guardrail fifteen feet above me, I saw an assembly of faces. They regarded me with such melancholy that I fully expected to be marched to a gallows where my noose awaited.
Panting, I clambered over the rail onto the aft deck. There, something resembling the boiler of a locomotive, lying horizontally, dominated the area. A pair of hawsers ran from this giant cylinder to a linking ring; from that stout ring a single hawser of great thickness rose to the crane’s tip.
Holmes followed me on deck.
Immediately, a man of around sixty, or so, strode forward. His face had been reddened by ocean gales and the sun. A tracery of purple veins emerged from a pair of mutton-chop side-whiskers that were as large as they were perfectly white. Those dark veins appeared as distinct as contour lines on a map. Such a weather-beaten visage could have been on loan from the Ancient Mariner himself. His wide, grey eyes examined my face, as if attempting to discern whether I was a fellow who’d stand firm in the face of danger, or take flight. That assessment appeared to be of great importance to him.
Holmes introduced me to this venerable seaman. “Captain Smeaton. Doctor Watson.” We shook hands. His grasp was steel. Holmes closed with the terse request: “Captain Smeaton, please explain.”
The captain shared the same funereal expression as the rest of his crew. Not smiling once. Nevertheless, he did speak.
“Doctor Watson,” he began in a voice long since made permanently hoarse from having to make himself heard above ocean storms, “I don’t know what Mr. Holmes has revealed to you about our plight.”
“Nothing.” To avoid my friend’s silence on this matter as being altogether too strange I added, ‘I arrived from London in something of a rush.’
Captain Smeaton didn’t appear concerned by my ignorance and continued swiftly. “You’re on board the Fitzwilliam, a salvage vessel. Mr. Holmes spent the day with us yesterday, because … well … I’ll come to that later, sir. I’ll tell the story in plain-speak. There’s no requirement for me to embellish with colorful or dramatic phrases, because what you’ll witness is going to strike at the heart of you anyway.”
Holmes stood beside me, listening carefully.
The Captain did as he promised, rendering his account in deep, whispery tones that were plain and very much to the point. “Five years ago, Doctor Watson, we were engaged by the admiralty to recover silver bullion from the SS Runswick, which lies ninety fathoms beneath our keel. The depth is too great for divers using Siebe Gorman suits. They can operate to depths nearing thirty fathoms or so — to go any deeper is certain death. So we use Submarine Chambers, such as this.” He indicated the iron cylinder that occupied the deck. Moisture dripped from its massive flanks. Bulbous rivets held that hulking beast together in such a formidable way the thing appeared downright indestructible to my eyes.
“A diving bell?” I asked.
“As they are commonly known. Diving bells have been used since the time of the ancient Greeks, sir. Back then they’d simply invert a cauldron, trapping the air inside. This they’d submerge into the ocean. A diver would then visit the air pocket in order to breathe. That arrangement allowed sponge divers, and the like, much greater duration on the seabed.”
“Remarkable,” I commented, eying the huge vessel squatting there on the deck. “And this is the twentieth century descendent of the cauldron?”
“That it is, sir.” Captain Smeaton’s gaze strayed toward Holmes as if seeking permission to continue. Holmes gave a slight nod. “To get to the meat of the matter, sir, back in 1899 we used a diving bell to retrieve silver bullion from the sunken ship. One particular morning I ordered that the Pollux, which is the name of the bell, be lowered to the ocean floor. On board was a man by the name of George Barstow. The diving bell was delivered to the wreck by crane, as you see here, sir. It is both lowered, and raised to the surface by means of a steel hawser. Fresh air is pumped down to the craft via a tube. Contact is maintained between the ship and the diving bell by telephone. I tell you, gentlemen, I curse the hour that I ordered Barstow to man the craft. Not a day goes by without me reliving those terrible events.” He took a deep breath, his grey eyes glistened. “Initially, the dive went well. Barstow descended to the wreck without incident. His function was to act as observer and to send directions, via telephone apparatus, to my men on the ship to lower a grappling hook in order to retrieve the cargo. We successfully hooked five cases of silver and brought them to the surface. Then I noticed a swell had begun to run. This poses a risk to diving bells as it puts excessive strain on the hawser. I gave the order to winch the craft back to the surface.” He paused for moment. “That’s when Barstow spoke to me by telephone. He reported that the diving bell had become caught on the superstructure of the wreck. The thing had jammed fast. We tried every which way to free the bell. Meanwhile, waves had started to break against the sides of the ship. So I told the winch-man to use brute force and haul the diving bell free.” He paused again. Trying to avoid melodrama, he said simply. “The hawser snapped. As did the telephone line and air pipe. That was five years ago. The Pollux became George Barstow’s coffin. He’s been down there ever since.”