Jack took the bitter end of the line and dropped through the rim of the bell, slowly making his way across the bottom. The more deliberate his movements, it seemed, the longer he could hold his breath. He used familiar bottom features to guide him to the sash. A clump of large, lettucelike coral to the left; next, a rock that, when used as a handhold, had something under it that burned his wrist, much like a jellyfish sting. Finally, the wreckage itself loomed about him and he swam three kicks to the right and over a collapsed bulwark to regain the crew’s quarters, where he’d seen the sash. On this trip he noted a white canvas bag with rope weaved through it—one of the other men’s kits.
Knowing his time was almost up, Jack decided to loop the line from the bell over a sturdy timber before being yanked unceremoniously back, and fashioned a quick bowline knot to secure it. Almost instantly it grew taut, the sign that Klett was applying his considerable strength to bring Jack in. Hand over hand, Jack made his way down the line, amazed at how soon he had recovered the distance to the bell. He wondered why it had taken so long for them to think of this obvious technique.
Since the line was secure to the wreck, Jack told Klett to have a go at grabbing the kit spotted on Jack’s last trip. Meanwhile, Jack would drop to the bottom, under the bell, and secure the home end of the line to a coral head. That way it didn’t have to be held by a diver.
Moments later Klett burst through the bottom of their wooden air pocket and gasped for air. “Got it, and blimey, I think it has boots in it.” Jack’s spirits soared. Now they were getting somewhere. After all their efforts, the barrels yesterday, the shoes today, and a line laid toward the grand prize—the triggers.
“Do you think we should be getting up? We’ve been here well over an hour, lad.” Klett, usually as adventurous as his companion, was fatigued.
“Not me. We’re too close. I know I saw that damned sash—and we need those triggers now.”
“I’ll stay too if you’re stayin’, Jack.”
“No, let Maril take your place and have Shram stand by.”
“Jack, you’ll be killing yourself for those guns—”
“Go. You’re just wasting air down here. You’re tired and need a break. Tell Maril to come down. Anyway, I need you up there in case anything goes wrong. I figure you could lift the whole damn bell by yourself if you had to.” Hesitantly, Klett took a gulp of air and made his way to the surface.
Jack rested from the exertion of swimming and talking. He felt resolve building in him. It was so close. He was becoming dizzy and it took longer to catch his breath, but he noted that the flame in the bell still flickered. Their canary still aflutter, he thought, smiling. Look at it, flapping its wings—hell, it’s out. Must be the commotion of Klett leaving. It’s gone out before, from disturbances in the bell; when I relit it, it lasted a good half hour longer. Should relight it but… bloosh… another bucket of fresh air released by the Indian divers. Aye, that’s it, lads, we’re hopping now… what the hell, okay, yeah, the sash.
Jack took in another lungful of air and dropped to the line. Here we go, down the hemp highway. Time had changed with the use of the rope. It seemed he was back to the wreck in two kicks. Hell, that piece of bulwark, that’s the one near the sash. He left the line and swam to the bulwark, and indeed, right below him was Le Maire’s kit! Marked with the telltale decorative sash. He grabbed for it. Missed. There, got it! Come on you bastard, there. I’ve got Paul’s bag. Going to be hard to make it back, feel sick.
How much later he wasn’t sure, but he was back in the barrel now.
“Dyak, Dyak,” Maril said.
“Aye, it’s me, friend. What the hell are we doing here? Where the hell is the bag, Paul’s kit? Why the hell is it so dark? Feel kinda sick.”
“Dyak! No fire! Must go!”
“Yer a quick learner, Maril. You know, I’d like to drill your damn sister till she talks English good as you, hell good as the bloody damn king of England. Dick won’t work though, sorry.”
Another bucket of air splooshed in, followed almost immediately by another.
“Ah, me head’s a little clearer. Two buckets… Le Maire must be having a bit of anxiety up there.” More scrambling and scratching against the wood, and Jack felt the presence of another person in the tight confines.
It was Shram. He could hear him talk to Maril in Belauran, then, “Pol say, ‘Up! Go up!,’ say Pol.”
So, that’s it; these wogs are going to drag me to the surface. Damn Le Maire. My bag is right there, I saw it under Paul’s. Jack grabbed the bottom of the barrel, pulled himself under the two Indians, and then wildly propelled himself along his guide line. He looked back. They’re following me. No time to talk… need guns now. Jack reached the wreckage, pulled himself over, and dove straight for the bag. All of a sudden he was frightened. He turned quickly and found Maril’s outstretched hand. He pulled it down to the top of his bag, placed it there in no uncertain way, then turned and started back. He saw Maril hesitate and motion to Shram, who grabbed Jack and pulled him back to the bell. Jack surfaced in the pocket and gasped, hoping Maril had retrieved the kit. He was in air but couldn’t get enough to breathe. Jack vomited and blurted out the word “up.” He felt Shram grab him and assist his ascent to the surface. Lord, it was so far…
A fire was crackling nearby. Jack could hear the sound of mosquitoes and smell the burning wood. He felt awful, more tired than he could ever remember being. His shirt was off, and Paul and Quince were peering down at him.
“Ya hear me, lad?” Quince said.
“Aye.”
“I’ve made Master Le Maire here promise not to kill you.”
“Thanks, but I think I’d appreciate it if he did.”
Paul had obviously been terrified. Jack tried to smile. “Old friend, don’t be cross with me. It had to be done.”
“Your whole damn chest is covered with a rash,” Paul said. “Are you okay?”
“Kinda feel pins and needles all over, head aches real bad and tired, uh, real kinda tired.” Before he fell back into a deep sleep he heard Quince say, “No point in having a canary if you don’t listen when he sings. But we got ’em, lad. Maril brought up the mechanisms.”
For the week it took Jack to recuperate from his dive, he watched the labors of Mentor and Coop as they used their carving skills to set the brass parts into the stocks they had already started. Much of the first day they brought the barrels and mechanisms to his bed, to get his assurance they were assembling the parts correctly. He had little to say; the parts fit together well and Coop was adept at preparing the resting pad for the barrels. The men were better carpenters than he.
Jack felt strangely despondent. His mood wasn’t helped on the third day when an accident occurred. Quince decided, as Jack had expected, to raise the deep bell. It needed to be aired, and design flaws corrected in the resting platforms. And, their main diver had “diver’s rheumytism,” according to Mentor. Paul, though not sure it was rheumatism, believed it true that Jack had some kind of diving ailment.