For Dante, it was like studying a pixelgram — that moment when your brain makes the connection, and you plunge into the depths of 3-D. It wasn’t even a real image — more like the echo of one, formed by thousands of layers of coral polyps growing over an object long buried, long forgotten.
He deflated his B.C. and began to descend to the bottom. The others followed, confused. They didn’t see it, couldn’t see it.
In his excitement, he nearly fumbled away his dive slate. He scribbled the word that was pounding in his brain, revving his heartbeat up to the danger zone:
ANCHOR.
They stared at him blankly.
What are you, blind? he wanted to howl. Right there — in front of your noses!
The same condition that held color tantalizingly out of his grasp revealed the presence of the anchor in the subtleties of light and texture and shading. The others would never see it. He had to show them.
But how? Coral was like rock; it was rock beneath the living layers at the surface.
A few feet away, the reef gave way to sandy bottom. He began to dig, burrowing with both hands. Instantly, the crystal-clear water was murky with mud and silt.
Star, Kaz, and Adriana watched him, their bewilderment evident. Had Dante’s collision scrambled his brain? Why was he using the ocean floor as a sandbox?
Kaz touched his arm, but Dante shook it away. He was a man on a mission, tunneling down to the lost anchor. How big do they make these things? If the top is long enough, then it should be right about —
His glove struck something hard. “Got it!” he cried into his regulator.
He had stirred up so much silt that the sea was churning brown. He took Kaz’s gloved hand and pressed it against ancient iron.
Star removed a fin and fanned the water clear above the buried object. They could make out part of a thick shank topped with a sturdy ring. A small black disk floated beside it, disturbed by the digging action.
A chip off the old metal?
Dante stuck it in his dive pouch — proof of the anchor’s existence. But there was another problem: How would they ever find this spot again?
Then he remembered the marker buoys. He clipped one around the iron ring, and sent the balloon shooting for the surface. They followed it up, carefully matching the pace of the slowest of their bubbles.
A few bold fish watched them ascend — the advance scouts venturing out of hiding to make sure the dolphins were gone. The reef was returning to normal.
The divers broke into the chop and swam a short distance to the Brownie. The Ponce de León was almost upon them, a silhouette against the brilliant sun.
“Over here!” panted Star, waving her arms.
“We found something!” added Dante.
Marina jumped down to the dive platform to help them aboard. “I don’t see a lot of markers.”
“Not a cave,” Dante exclaimed. “An anchor!”
“You’re kidding!” Cutter came running, Reardon hot on his heels. Soon the four divers stood dripping on deck.
Adriana pulled off her flippers. “Is that what you’re looking for? With the magnetometer?” She added, “We know you’re not taking sonar readings.”
The three scientists exchanged a meaningful look. Finally, Marina spoke. “Our tow fish can do both — side scan mag and sonar. When we publish our map, it’s going to come with an overlay page of mineral deposits under the reef. That’s what the mag is for.”
“What about this anchor?” Reardon put in gruffly.
“Dante found it,” Kaz explained breathlessly. “Most of it’s buried in coral. You can tell it’s really old.”
“I got a piece of it,” added Dante, fumbling in his pouch.
Cutter frowned. “A piece of anchor?”
“More like a chip.” The photographer pulled out the small black disk. It was irregular in shape, but generally round, about three inches in diameter. “Is there some way to get it analyzed? You know, find out how old it is?”
A gasp escaped Reardon, which Marina extinguished with a stern look.
Cutter spoke up carefully. “I’m telling you this now, because I know how embarrassed you were when word got around the institute about that German plane. Guys, you just found the anchor of the Queen Anne’s Revenge.”
Adriana gawked at him. “Blackbeard’s ship?”
“Don’t you remember the movie? Harrison Ford played the diver who spotted the anchor buried in the mud.”
“You’re not saying—” Star’s eyes narrowed. “Another film prop?”
Cutter nodded. “It took the location people three weeks to plant it deep enough on the bottom.”
“That anchor wasn’t in mud,” Kaz pointed out. “It was in coral.”
“Coral grows fast,” put in Marina. “Especially on something hard like an anchor. How old is that movie — seven or eight years?”
“But the Queen Anne’s Revenge didn’t sink in the Caribbean,” Adriana pointed out. “It went aground off the Carolinas. Why shoot the film here?”
Cutter shrugged. “On-screen, water is water. You can’t tell the latitude by looking at it. Hollywood people like to work where the sea’s nice and warm and crystal clear. It’s easier and cheaper.”
Dante regarded his anchor chip with chagrin. “Worthless.” As he reared back to pitch the black disk into the sea, Reardon bulled forward and snatched it out of his hand. “Mind if I hang on to this?” he asked. “I’m a big Harrison Ford fan.”
Star looked disgusted. “Is there anything else we should know about before we make total idiots out of ourselves? Did Steven Spielberg re-create the lost continent of Atlantis over by the oil rigs?”
Marina laughed. “Don’t be embarrassed. You kids are doing beautifully, and you’re turning into top-notch divers. Don’t let yourselves get obsessed with sunken anchors or crazy discoveries. You’ll just end up disappointed.”
“Right,” agreed Cutter. “Anything of value in these waters has been salvaged decades ago. There’s nothing left to find down there.”
Throughout the conversation, Chris Reardon did not take his eyes off the small black disk.
11 August 1665
The Griffin’s store of fruit had long since gone rotten, and was maggot infested besides.
“Eat it, young Samuel,” ordered York, the ship’s barber. “The maggots too. They’ll keep the teeth in your head.”
Samuel closed his eyes and took a tiny bite of the moldy apple. He could feel the wormy insects moving on his tongue, and quickly swallowed, choking back his nausea.
As barber, York was in charge of much more than cutting hair. He was the Griffin’s sole medical man, apothecary, and dentist.
“Scurvy takes the teeth first,” he lectured. “Then the mind. Then your life.”
It was true. At the start of the crossing, each crewman aboard the ship had been allotted a small quantity of fruit. Those who had not jealously hoarded their shares were now suffering deeply from the disease. Toothless, their bodies bent from pain, they stumbled around the barque, struggling to perform their duties. Many more had given up trying, and hung in their berths, eyes wide with vacant stares. Of two and eighty seamen and four and thirty Viscount survivors, only sixty men — barely half — remained. Now, nearly four months out of England, the rest had succumbed to scurvy, fever, and the relentless assault of the Atlantic. The gut-wrenching stink of death joined the mix of overpowering smells that made up the reek of the ship.