The Ebb Tide

“The freight doors!” I shouted, probably worthlessly in that ongoing cacophony of noise, and I pointed wildly toward the distant doors and set out at a splashing run. Before I’d taken six strides, there was a hand on the back of my coat and I was stopped in my tracks, the water swirling around my ankles. I turned to see Hasbro gesturing in the direction of the diving chamber, which St. Ives was examining with a trained eye. Of course, I thought, wading after Hasbro, looking hastily into the maze of catwalks overhead, where the tall man still watched us. He was holding a rifle now, leaning casually against the railing as if he meant to shoot squirrels.

The ratcheting and banging ceased abruptly, throwing the room into an eerie silence but for the hissing of steam. There was a gurgling noise and a soft splashing of water as the tide rose abysmally fast — knee deep now, cold and dark as death. St. Ives had the hatch door open and was climbing in, one foot on the nearest outstretched, bent leg of the craft, his hand on an iron rung. He disappeared inside briefly, turned around, and looked out at us, leaning forward and waving me along, although I had no need of encouragement. I found the rungs easily enough, my hands made nimble by fear, to tell the truth. St. Ives ducked back into the chamber to allow me room to enter the surprisingly spacious compartment, where I slumped down on a padded bench and sagged with relief.

Hasbro’s face loomed into view outside the hatch now, and I bent over to give him a hand in, hearing at that moment a small explosion — the crack of a rifle. Hasbro teetered backward off the rungs, holding on momentarily with one hand. I leaned out, grabbing for the lapel of his coat, but finding empty air, watching him tumble into the black water and disappear. St. Ives was so concentrated on the controls of the craft that he was oblivious, and I shouted incoherently at him, turning around and backing out into the open again, hunched up like a man trying to cram himself into a box, anticipating the bullet that would surely follow, and did follow. It glanced off the metal shell of the chamber near the side of my head, so close that I heard the ricochet along with the report of the rifle.

CHAPTER 4 The Bottom of the River

Hasbro lurched up out of the flood, his hand gripping his upper arm, and I let loose of the rungs and splashed down alongside him, going under for one dark, cold, horrifying moment before getting my feet under me, river water streaming into my eyes, my clothes sodden. Hasbro waded forward, putting his hand on a rung and feeling blindly to get a purchase with his foot. He climbed heavily as I pushed from below, trying to keep at least partly protected by the curved wall of the diving chamber. St. Ives leaned out and hauled Hasbro in from above, and I scrambled up after him, finding myself inside for the second time, kneeling in a pool of water on the deck, gasping to catch my breath, and too stunned and flummoxed to know how cold I was.

The hatch was already slamming shut, but there was one last report from the rifle, only a dim crack, like two stones knocked together, and the sound of the bullet pinging off the interior walls of the chamber, four rapid, distinct pings, and then the flattened bullet dropping to the curved floor and sliding down into the shallow pool of water. I realized, as I plucked the spent bullet up from where it lay and put it into my pocket as a souvenir, that the chamber was illuminated now, a soft glow emanating from overhead lamps, and there was the sound of a beehive-like humming on the air.

St. Ives twisted closed the latch that secured and sealed the door from within, nodded his head with satisfaction, and said, “We’re carrying dry cells! She’s an independent traveler!” The statements meant nothing to me, but his apparent joy bucked me up just a little. He worked at the controls methodically, manipulating levers and wheels, cocking his head with concentration. I helped Hasbro off with his wet coat, the inside of which was a marvel of pockets. After he extracted a roll of bandage and a flask of the cask-strength malt whisky that he carried against emergencies of all sorts, he worked his shirt down over his arm, exposing the wound. The bullet had scored the flesh and then had gone on its way, thank God, although there was a prodigious quantity of blood, which we staunched with the steady pressure of a wet kerchief folded into a compress. Hasbro dribbled whisky over the wound and I tied it with the bandage, making a neat job of it. I was reminded of poor Merton, beaten bloody in his own shop. We were getting the bad end of things, and no doubt about it — apparently played for fools all along.

“Thank you, Jack,” Hasbro said, offering me the flask. I raised it in a brief salute and took a swallow, nearly gasping at the strength of the whisky, and then gave the flask to St. Ives, who was smiling like a schoolboy. “Oxygenators,” he said cryptically, nodding his head toward the controls. “Compressed air, so it’s a limited supply, but it’ll do if we look sharp. Jack, you’ll be on call to let in fresh air when we need it — that lever on the port side, there. But be as stingy as a landlady with it.” He turned the air lever downward, and there was a sort of metallic swishing sound, air through pipes, the exhaled air tasting cool and metallic.

St. Ives took a quick drink from the flask before handing it back to Hasbro and turning again to his work. Hasbro followed suit and then slipped the flask back into his coat. I won’t say that we felt like new men after the whisky, but at least not so old fashioned as we had felt a few minutes earlier. There was a constant hum and mutter and whoosh now, the chamber having become a living creature. St. Ives turned to us and nodded, as if to say, “What about that?” and with Hasbro attended to and apparently well, there was nothing to be done but to let St. Ives go about his able business, and I for one was happy to let him do it.

I watched the water creep up the side of the heavy glass portholes, my mind beginning to turn, trying to come to grips with what this meant, this watery entrapment. We had neither food nor drink, aside from the flask. Perhaps, I thought, we could wait until the water reached its zenith and then open the hatch, flood the sphere, swim to the surface, and try to find our way up the stairs, which might be reachable in the high water. Or might not. And of course our friend with the rifle might simply be waiting for us, conspicuously closer now on his perch overhead, which would make matters difficult indeed.

My spirits declined even further when I suddenly recollected Finn Conrad emerging from across the way last night at the precise moment that I was surveying the street. I wondered, perhaps unkindly, whether the boy hadn’t simply been waiting for us, whether he was an even better actor than he was an acrobat. It was he, I thought darkly, who had led us to the Goat and Cabbage, the Pied Piper turned on its head, and him cheerfully eating chestnuts outside on the street as we witlessly filed in through the door, avidly pursuing our doom….

The thing suddenly seemed to be a certainty, and that was a damned shame. I liked the boy, and I was shocked at the level of loathing I felt for scoundrels that would lure such a likely lad into a life of dishonor and falsehood. He had been monumentally helpful at Merton’s, but now that seemed evidently suspicious. Of course he would have been helpful, if his goal had been to lure us into the gin shop, where we would almost certainly discover the secret door, one thing leading to another. He hadn’t known about the map in the armadillo’s mouth, I reminded myself with some small satisfaction: the vital secret was still safe. But then I recalled Merton uttering the word, “reproduction” in his enthusiasm last night, and my satisfaction fled.

I sat there with a heavy heart, with nothing to cheer me aside from the faded glow of the whisky, which had seemed sufficient only moments ago. But I sat so only briefly, because the water outside had risen beyond the tops of the ports and I found myself looking out into the inky black of subterranean water. Lamps came on outside the craft, illuminating things, and I saw fish — eels of some sort — darting away into the darkness. The chamber tilted abruptly, as if it wanted to float, and I shifted on the seat, trying to distribute the weight so that we didn’t simply fall over like a dead thing.

“Hold on,” St. Ives said, opening a valve and listening, his head bent and eyes narrowed. “I think I’ve…”

There was the sound of water rushing into what must have been ballast chambers, and we settled on the floor once again. St. Ives tentatively began to work the several levers that rose from the deck of the chamber, manipulating the thing’s legs, the chamber rising and settling, pitching backward and forward in a way that was distinctly unsettling. I thought of an upended beetle, struggling to right itself, its myriad feet utterly useless to it, but I swept the thought away, aware that we were creeping along now with a slow, ungainly gait. “A drop of air, Jack,” St. Ives said, and I dutifully let in a few seconds’ worth.

“Where are we bound?” I managed to ask after I had done my duty. We could hardly climb the stairs, after all, and merely creeping about the floor of the shipyard would accomplish little.

“Out,” St. Ives said. “We’re bound for points east. It’s my idea that we have no choice but to make away with this marvelous craft. We’ll borrow it, I mean to say. If we could find the owner and ask permission, we’d do it, but