“Fat divers in’t no good,” the man said, whistling between his teeth. “Can’t take the pressure down deep. Their ’ealth goes an’ they’re finished. Off with yer clothes, then. No time ter stand abaht!”
“What?”
“Off with yer clothes,” the man repeated patiently. “Yer don’t think yer was goin’ down dressed up like that, did yer? ’Oo’d yer think yer’ll see down there, then? The flippin’ Queen?”
Another man had arrived ready to assist, and Monk looked across and saw that Trace was also being undressed and redressed by a cheerful man who was wearing a thick sweater in spite of the warm August morning.
Obediently he stripped off his outer clothes, leaving only his underwear. He was handed two pairs of long, white woolen stockings, then a thick shirt of the same material, then flannel knee breeches which had the effect of keeping the other garments together. They were suffocatingly hot. He had little time to imagine the ludicrous figure he must cut, but seeing Trace he knew he would appear much the same.
His dresser produced a cap of red wool and placed it on his head, adjusting it as carefully as if it had been an object of high fashion.
A string of barges moved past them, men staring interestedly, wondering what was happening, what they would be looking for, or if it was only a matter of shoring up a falling wall or broken pier stake.
“Watch yerself!” Monk’s dresser warned. “Keep that straight, just like I put it! Get yer air ’ose blocked up an’ we’ll be pulling yer up dead, an’ all! Now yer’d best be gettin’ down them steps onter the barge. No need ter put the rest o’ yer suit on yet. It’s mortal ’eavy, specially w’en yer in’t used ter it. Watch yerself!” This last was directed to Monk when he took a step in his stockinged feet perilously close to an upstanding nail.
Trace followed after him down the long ladder to the low boat which was bumping up against the wharf. It was already occupied by a wonderful array of pumps, wheels, coils of rubber hose and ropes.
Normally, Monk would have kept his balance easily in the faintly rocking boat, but he was tense and uncharacteristically awkward. It flashed into his mind to wonder what they would think of him if they found nothing. And who would pay him for this expedition?
Trace was looking grim, but his fine features were composed. At least outwardly he felt no misgivings. Had he believed Monk’s extraordinary story?
The three men who had dressed them and helped so far put their backs against the oars and pulled away from the wharf, then began to swing wide and go downstream with the outgoing tide, towards Bugsby’s Marshes and beyond. No one spoke. There was no sound but the creak of the oars in the oarlocks and the splash and dip of the water.
The sky was half overcast from the smoke of thousands of chimneys in the dock areas on the north side. Masts and cranes showed black against the haze. Ahead of them lay the ugly flats of the marshes. He had already told them as nearly as he could where they wished to begin the search. It was only approximate, and he became increasingly aware of just how huge the area was as they approached the Point, and the wreck he had seen on his earlier trip.
The men rested on their oars. It was just about slack tide.
“Right, sir,” one of them said. “Where’d yer be wantin’ ter begin, then?”
It was time to seek the counsel of experts.
“If a man wanted to sink a barge with the least chance of its being found, where would he choose?” he asked. It sounded ridiculous even as he listened to himself.
Overhead, gulls wheeled and cried. The wind was rising and the water slurped against the sides of the boat, rocking it very gently.
It was the man who had begun helping Monk dress who answered.
“In the lee o’ one o’ the sandbanks,” he answered without hesitation. “Water’s deep enough ter ’ide a barge even at the lowest tide.”
“What would sink a barge?” Monk asked him.
The man screwed up his face. “Not much, actual. Mostly age, overloading, which some fools do.”
“But if you wanted to sink one?” Monk pressed.
The man’s eyes widened. “Bash an ’ole in it, I reckon. Below the waterline, o’ course. Not the bottom. That’s made of elm. Too ’ard. Sides is oak.”
“I see. Thank you.” He had all he needed. Now there was no avoiding putting on the rest of the suit and going over the side and into the murky water.
A few more pulls on the oars, five minutes perhaps, and he was climbing into the diving suit with the help of two of the men. It looked rather like a very baggy, all-in-one jacket and trousers made of two layers of waterproof cloth with india rubber between. It felt as though he were pulling on a heavy sack, but with arms and legs in it.
He had had no idea how difficult it would be to force his hands through the tight india rubber cuffs. He was obliged to grease his hands with soft soap and then narrow his palms as much as possible while an attendant opened the cuff and he pushed his hand into it so violently he was afraid he was going to tear his flesh.
The dresser nodded with approval. If he noticed the cold sweat on Monk’s face he made no comment on it.
“Sit down!” he ordered, pointing to the thwart behind Monk. “Gotta get yer boots on, an’ yer ’elmet. Gotta make sure everything’s right.” He bent down and began the process with the enormous weighted boots. “If they in’t right, you’ll lose them in the mud. Sucks summink awful down there. an’ ’old still while I put on yer breastplate. That comes loose an’ yer a gonner.”
Monk felt his stomach clench as his imagination visualized the darkness and the bottomless, greedy mud. It cost him all his self-control to sit obediently motionless while the helmet was placed over his head and screwed, metal rubbing against metal, until it was tight. The front glass was left off for now. Monk was surprised by the almost crushing weight of the helmet. The air hose was passed under his right arm and the end attached to the inlet valve, then the breast line was brought up under his left arm and secured. Next came the belt and the heavy, razor-sharp knife in its leather sheath. The man looped a rope around Monk’s waist.
“ ’Ere now, ’old this in yer ’and, and if yer get in trouble pull on it six or seven times an’ we’ll get yer up. That’s w’y we call it the lifeline.” He grinned. “This ’ere other rope we’ve tied to yer, we’re gonna tie the other end ter the ladder—we don’t wanter lose yer—least not until we’re paid.” He laughed heartily.
“All right, lad?” the man asked.
Monk nodded, his mouth dry.
He looked at the brown water around their vessel, still drifting idly on the slack tide, and felt as if he were about to be buried alive. The three men were busy at their tasks, careful, professional.
Trace sat on the other thwart, dressed exactly the same. He smiled, and Monk smiled back, wishing he felt as confident as the gesture implied.
One of the men straightened up. “All right, boys, let’s get the pump going!” There was a loud click-clack, and in a moment Monk felt the air rush into his helmet. The man smiled. “Aye, it’s working all right. Now, don’t you worry, lad. Just ’member ter stick close ter the other feller an’ ’ow ter inflate yer suit wi’ that valve, an’ yer’ll be fine.” He did not sound quite as confident now, as if at this final moment he had realized just what a novice Monk was, and the risks he was taking.
The front glass of his helmet was screwed into place and for a moment Monk was overcome with panic. He gasped for air and drew it into his lungs. Gradually his wild heartbeat subsided.
“Right,” the man said with a slightly forced smile. “Time ter go!”
Monk lumbered towards the ladder, thinking with each step that the weight of the helmet would buckle him at the knees. He climbed down awkwardly, and when the water was to his waist two fifty-pound leads were fastened to his chest and back. He gasped at the sudden increase in weight.