They finned to the surface, grabbed a half dozen lungfuls of air, then dove again. Sam signaled to Remi: Pictures. If the worst came to pass and they lost the bell, pictures would at least give them a chance at identification. As Remi started shooting, Sam finned forward until he could see over the edge. The slope was not quite vertical but rather sixty or sixty-five degrees. Not that it mattered. As Remi had earlier guessed, the bell’s weight surpassed that of the Speaker’s by twenty or thirty pounds. If the bell decided to go over the edge, the slope’s angle would slow its descent only slightly.And then, as if on cue, the sand beneath the bell gave way. The crown tipped upward, hovered for a split second, then the bell began sliding, mouth first, down the slope.
On an impulse he immediately regretted, Sam coiled his legs, gave a sharp dolphin kick, and followed the bell over the edge. He heard, fleetingly, Remi’s muffled scream of “Sam!” and then it was gone, replaced by the rush of the current. Sand peppered his body like a thousand bee stings. Tumbling now head over feet, Sam reached out in what he hoped was the direction of the bank. The outstretched fingers of his right hand struck something hard, and he felt a sharp pain shoot through his pinkie finger. Ignoring the pain, he could feel the bell picking up speed now, the bulldozer-like effect of the mouth losing to the physics of momentum. His eyesight began to swim as his lungs began consuming the last molecules of oxygen. His heart pounded in his head like cannon fire.
Working from feel alone, he slid his hand up the bell’s waist, then over the head. His fingers found the opening of the crown. He lifted his left hand up to his mouth, grabbed the D ring, and fed it through the crown. He curled it around the line and then, using his thumb, spun the screw link closed.
The bell jerked to a stop. The rope let out a muffled twang. Sam lost his grip, and he began sliding downward, hands slapping at the bell’s surface, fingers scrabbling for purchase. There was nothing. Then, suddenly, a ridge slid beneath his palm. He felt another stab of pain in his pinkie finger. The bead line, he thought. His curled fingertips had landed on the bead line just above the mouth of the bell. He reached up with his other hand, gripped the line, then chinned himself upward, both legs kicking against the draw of the current until the anchor line came into view, a braid of pure white in the swirl of sand. He grabbed it. He felt fingers touch the back of his hand. Out of the gloom a face appeared. Remi. His eyesight was sparkling now and dimming at the edges. Remi pulled herself down the anchor line, reached down, clamped onto his right wrist, and tugged.Instinctively Sam latched onto rope and began climbing.
TEN MINUTES LATER he sat in the deck chair, eyes closed and head tilted back into the sun. After two minutes of this he brought his head level again and opened his eyes to find Remi sitting on the gunwale watching him. She leaned forward and handed him a bottle of water.“Feeling better?” she asked gently.
“Yes. Much. Pinkie finger’s jammed, though. Smarts.” He held it up for inspection; the digit was straight but swollen. He curled it and winced. “It’s not broken. Nothing a little athletic tape won’t cure.”“Nothing else wrong?”
Sam shook his head.
“Good, glad to hear it,” said Remi. “Sam Fargo, you’re a dummy.”
“Pardon me?”
“What were you thinking, going after that thing?”
“I just reacted. By the time I realized what the hell I was doing it was too late. In for a penny, in for-”
“A one-way trip to the bottom of the ocean,” Remi countered with a scowling shake of her head. “I swear, Fargo . . .”
“Sorry,” Sam said. “And thanks for coming to get me.”
“Dummy,” Remi repeated, then got up, walked over, and kissed him on the cheek. “But you’re my dummy. And you don’t need to thank me-but you’re welcome anyway.”
“Tell me we still have it,” Sam said, looking around. “Do we still have it?” He was still a tad woozy. Remi pointed off the stern where the anchor line, taut as piano wire, arced down into the water.“While you were taking your catnap, I dragged it off the slope. It should be resting about five feet from the edge.”
“Nicely done.”
“Don’t get too excited. We still have to raise it.”
Sam smiled. “Have no fear, Remi. Physics is our friend.” BEFORE THEY COULD APPLY Sam’s idea, however, they had to exercise some brute force. With Sam’s newly damaged pinkie wrapped in duct tape, he stood in the stern taking up slack in the anchor line while Remi reversed the Andreyale’s engine and followed his hand signals until they were almost directly above the bell. He uncoiled the line from the cleats, took up the remainder of the slack, then looped and locked down again.Sam called, “All ahead slow. Nice and easy.”
“You got it.”
Remi eased the throttle forward a quarter inch at a time. Sam, leaning over the stern, his face mask in the water, watched the bell’s progress as it bulldozed through the sand. When it was twenty feet from the edge of the precipice, he called: “All stop.” Remi throttled down.
Sam settled the mask over his face and dove down to examine their prize. He resurfaced a minute later. “Looks good. Not much barnacle growth, which means it’s probably been embedded in that bank for quite a while.”Remi extended her hand and helped Sam aboard. She asked, “Damage?”
“None that I could see. It’s thick, Remi-probably closer to eighty pounds.”
She whistled softly. “Big boy. Okay, by standard measure that’d make the ship . . . what, a thousand tons displacement?”
“Between that and twelve hundred. Much bigger than the Speaker . The proximity of the Adelise coin and the bell is pure coincidence.”
WITH THE BELL no longer in danger of dropping into the channel, they disconnected and steered the Andreyale north a hundred yards, then eased their way through the inlet at the island’s ankle and emerged in the stiletto lagoon.
Only a half mile wide and long, the lagoon was actually a mangrove swamp. Jutting from the water were a couple dozen “floating islands”: mushroom caps of earth sitting atop buttresses of exposed, gnarled mangrove roots. Ranging in size from standing-room-only to a double garage, all were covered in thick weeds, and most supported miniature forests of scrub trees and bushes. At the southern end of the swamp was a narrow beach, and beyond that a copse of coconut palms. It was eerily quiet, the air dead still.“Now, this isn’t something you see every day,” Remi murmured.
“Any sign of the Mad Hatter or Alice?”
“No, knock wood.”
“Let’s get moving. Daylight’s burning.”
The made their way through the floating islands, dropped anchor just off the beach, and waded ashore.
“How many are we going to need?” Remi asked. With one hand she deftly curled her auburn hair off her neck and snapped a rubber band around it, making a neat topknot.
Sam smiled. “It’s like magic, how you do that.”
“We are a wondrous species,” Remi agreed with a smile and wrung the water from her shirttails. “So, how many?”
“Six. No, five.”
“And you’re sure we couldn’t get what we need in Stone Town and sneak back here?”
“You want to risk it? Something tells me that gunboat captain would be only too happy to arrest us. If he thinks we were lying to him . . .”
“True. Okay, Gilligan, let’s make your raft.”
THEY HAD NO TROUBLE finding plenty of downed trees but a harder time finding ones of a manageable size. Sam identified five candidates, all roughly eight feet long and about as big around as a telephone pole. He and Remi dragged each log down to the beach, where they arranged them in a row.
SAM WENT TO WORK. The construction was simple enough, Sam explained. He grabbed a nearby piece of driftwood and inscribed the plan in the sand:
“Not exactly the Queen Mary,” Remi observed with a smile.“For that,” Sam replied, “I’d need at least four more logs.”
“Why the protruding ends?”
