The following night, once the lights of the village began to go off one by one, Knud Christensen took his compressed-air gear and the hundred feet of rope he had prepared and carried them down to the dory. He quickly spliced the extra rope to the forty or more feet of rope the dory anchor normally carried, and then returned to the house. There would be no Jens Krag waiting for him this time, and he would be in no position to search for a drifting dory. In the darkened house he put on his wet suit, attached the new belt he had since purchased together with new knives. He would not require weights this trip, the anchor would serve that purpose. He picked up his lamp and flippers and walked quickly down to the dock.
He paused, looking about. Above him and to one side the searchlight atop the lighthouse tower revolved impersonally, lighting a swath of sea in its glow, its principal beam reflecting back from a bank of lowering clouds. A bit of rain might come later, but there was ample time for his mission beforehand. He climbed into his dory, untied it, and reached for the oars.
When he judged he was close enough to the spot where he had located the Kirsten Christensen and Gustave’s body, he paused and looked about. The tower light still rotated evenly, but there was no indication he was being watched. Not that it really made any difference, he said to himself, and pulled on his compressed-air gear and his flippers. Then he tucked his mouthpiece in place, clipped his lamp to his belt, picked up the ánchor, and leaned backwards over the gunwale, falling silently into the water.
The water was still cold, and although nowhere near as cold as it had been in January, he knew he could not stay down for very long. For one thing his determination to recover the case was not the same driving force that had willed him to recover Gustave’s body. He came down in total blackness, not wanting to use his lamp until he was sure the glow of light beneath the water could not be seen from the surface or from the lighthouse walkway. When he struck it was with a painful jolt against the sharp rocks, the anchor pinned against his chest, and for a moment he feared he might have pierced his wet suit, but a swift check proved this fear unfounded. He settled the anchor firmly in the rocks, hooked the slack rope into his belt to be sure not to lose the line that led to the surface and the waiting dory, and began his search. His lamp pierced the darkness of the sea for only a few feet, and he wondered if he should have waited for daylight to make his search. But that might have brought curious neighbors. Besides, the difference in light at that depth was negligible. He felt a tug; he had reached the limit of the rope. With a muttered curse he pulled himself back to the anchor, raised it, swam ahead for a few minutes, and then replaced it in the rocks, taking up the search again.
He was about to move the anchor for a second time when he saw the tangled wreckage of the two boats ahead of him. He nodded in satisfaction and swept the sea floor with his lamp. He had come upon the object of his search in time. A few more minutes and he would have had to surface and try another night. But where was the case? He frowned and then realized he had come upon the two boats from the side of the Kirsten Christensen. He swam to the right, skirting the wreckage, his lamp moving furiously from side to side, almost afraid to look up for fear of seeing Gustave tangled in the ropes. The feeling made him realize he was running out of time. Where was the case? For a moment he feared someone had been down there before him, had stolen the case from him — the case, he now felt, was his by rights — and an unreasonable anger swept him. And then, just as he was about to concede failure this first night of his search, he saw the glint of light from metal, and knew he had found it.
In the light of his electric lamp, now held close to his strange discovery, he saw that the last of the wooden casing had rotted away during the hard winter, and only a few bits of board were held clamped between the steel case beneath and metal straps that had been wrapped around the case. He locked the anchor rope to his belt, set down his lamp, and put both hands to the task of shifting the box. Even though its weight was greatly reduced under water, it was heavy, and Knud paused, thinking. Then he came to a conclusion. He cut the anchor loose and thrust the free end of the rope through the metal straps, drawing the rope tight, making a sturdy knot that held the case firmly. Then with one last look at the box he gave a firm thrust with his flippers, grasped the rope, and swiftly drew himself up through the chill waters to his dory.
He climbed aboard, slipped off his gear, and sat down, resting a bit. The only problem now, as he saw it, was whether the straps would hold the weight, or if he had abandoned a good anchor for nothing, and would have to repeat his search another time. He began hauling slowly on the rope, bringing the case from the bottom. Beneath his feet the dory dipped dangerously. Maybe he should have brought Jens Krag into the picture, he thought. With the winch on Krag’s boat it would have been no job at all to handle the heavy case. But no! The case and its contents were his by right of discovery and by every other right! He would not share. He would get it ashore by himself. He pulled on the rope steadily, the case moving with greater ease as it came up from the bottom.
Christensen knew, as he slowly pulled the steel case toward him, that he would never be able to bring the case into the dory without capsizing, but that was not what he had in mind. When the side of the box bumped gently against the bottom of the dory, he looped the rope tightly around one of the dory’s bollards and bent to the oars. It was hard rowing, and occasionally Knud could feel a slight bump as the heavy case swung against the dory at the end of its tether, but he was getting closer and closer to the dock. As he rowed he kept a steady look over his shoulder, judging his position constantly should the straps or the rope break and drop the case to the bottom again, requiring another dive, but it was still with him when he nudged the dory against the dock.
Christensen climbed out, secured the boat, and then waded out to his prize. He reached down with his knife and cut the rope, leaving enough slack to wind about his thick arm and allow him to drag the case to land. He paused, panting. One thing was sure; the case was heavy. Another thing was equally sure; he could not and would not ask for any help. With a deep breath and the assurance to himself that if there was anything of value in the box it would go toward a memorial to his brothers, he bent and with all the strength of his large body brought the case to his arms and staggered toward the house.
He dragged the heavy box across the sill and closed the door behind him, allowing himself to fall in near exhaustion to the floor beside it, catching his breath, feeling the strain in his muscles from the arduous job. Then he came to his feet, closed the shutters and drew the curtains before lighting a lamp. In its light he made his way to the kitchen and poured himself a large glass of aquavit. He downed it as if it were water, shuddered a moment, and then went back to the living room, staring down at the case. Whatever was in it, he certainly hoped it had been worth the effort, not to mention the cost of a new anchor for the dory, because he knew he would never dive in that area again, for his lost anchor or for anything else. How long had the box been at the bottom of the sea? There was no way of knowing. He could not recall any ship sinking in that area in his lifetime. Possibly if he were to ask Jens Krag or the lighthouse keeper, who were far older than he, one of them might remember — but that would be stupid. If he was going to keep his discovery a secret, the last thing to do would be to go around asking questions.
He went through the house and out to the barn, keeping the lantern in his hand shuttered. Inside, in the lantern’s light, he found the tools he was seeking and returned to the house. With a cold chisel and a mall he carefully cut through the steel, making sure to make his entry large enough to bring out whatever was inside without cutting himself, or the contents, on the ragged edges. When he had removed a large enough panel he tried to see inside by the light of the lantern, but it was unsatisfactory. He reached in and felt around, and eventually brought out four wrapped packages.