‘People from Port Lawrence gathered on the beach kind’a helpin’ out, maybe even helpin’ themselves to a few choice things. This ferryin’ went on for the best part of the day, and all the while you could hear it from the shore, the hammerin’ of hundreds of palms against the inside of her wooden hull, and hundreds of voices wailin’ and screamin’ to be let out. Finally the question is asked of the captain, “What about them negro slaves locked up below decks?” He says, “Leave ’em. The condition they’re in, them negroes would be worth more on shippin’ insurance than sold at a slave market.” He says the valuable cargo’s already been saved. People up here hadn’t much to do with negroes back then, many had never even seen one. They were pretty shocked at the captain’s answer.
‘That evening, the Lady Grey finally lists to one side and quickly then she jus’ slides under. All the while the people on the beach could hear the hammerin’ and screamin’. The story goes, you could still hear them slaves for a while after she’d gone down.’
The old man struck a match and lit his cigarette.
‘I presume there’s some hackneyed moral to that tale?’ said Chris, a little uneasily.
‘They say them slaves are still down there screamin’. When folks go missing at sea round these parts, they say “the slaves have got ’em”.’
Chris nodded sincerely. ‘Right, okay… I’ll keep my eyes peeled for them, then.’
‘You hear that distant hammerin’ and screamin’ and you’re in big trouble, boys.’
‘If I hear hammering and screaming down there, trust me, Will, I’ll be back in this boat and halfway home before you can say scooby-doobie-doo,’ said Chris, smiling nervously.
Mark shook his head. ‘No you won’t, you’ll be spending five minutes decompressing with me on the way up. Then you can run away.’
Chris nodded at Mark. He was right, and now wasn’t the time to be goofing around.
Will smiled, perhaps reassured that his little story had sobered things up some. ‘You enjoy your dive, boys. And mind you treat that wreck with the respect it deserves.’ He headed back towards the pilothouse and poured himself a steaming mug of something from a thermos flask stashed beside the helm.
Chris shivered. ‘He could have offered us one, the tight git.’
‘I guess that would cost extra.’
‘Yup. On that note, care for a swim?’
Mark pulled his helmet on and twisted it until it locked with a reassuring clunk. Chris did the same.
‘You hear me okay?’ Mark’s voice sounded tinny over the helmet speaker. Chris gave a thumbs-up.
‘You can talk, you idiot.’
‘Oh yeah, I forgot. Okay, Mark, you can take point.’
Mark rolled off the stern of the trawler and splashed into the Atlantic.
‘Here goes,’ said Chris as he followed suit and disappeared into the ink-black water, leaving behind a circle of splash suds that were quickly washed away.
Will turned off the floodlight that bathed the aft deck and turned on a fan heater and his FM radio. It was tuned to a station that played classical. The soothing melody of Cavalleria Rusticana quickly eased away some of his misgivings as he watched the faint glow of submerged torchlight slowly recede.
Chapter 4
The reinforced-plastic diving helmet felt infinitely less claustrophobic and uncomfortable than a regular diving mask and regulator. They were Mark’s latest equipment purchase, his pride and joy.
It’s like being an astronaut, going EVA.
Chris looked around. He was immersed in total darkness. Above him there were only a couple of flickering shards of light from the trawler. Suddenly a strong blue shaft of light cut the world in two in front of him as Mark aimed his torch upwards.
‘You might want to turn your torch on,’ Mark’s voice hissed out of the speaker. Chris fumbled for the switch on his torch and found it.
‘Whoa, that’s bright,’ he said, panning it around, admiring the power and length of the light beam.
‘Two-hundred-watt halogen bulbs,’ said Mark proudly. ‘Only got about forty minutes charge time on the battery pack, though.’
Mark shone his torch at the buoy’s line.
‘Okay. We’re going to follow that down.’ He kicked his legs out and began to swim down, holding the line in one hand and torch in the other. Chris followed suit, keeping an eye on the dwindling beam of Mark’s torch below.
‘Not so fast, mate,’ he said with an edge in his voice. ‘You’re leaving me behind.’
‘Relax, I’m just down here. You can see my torch, can’t you?’
‘Yup.’
Chris kicked his legs and pulled himself down the buoy’s line. Mark was waiting for him, treading water.
‘See? I’m here. Stay calm, okay? Things go wrong only when you lose your cool and start getting worked up. We’ve got half an hour, remember. So we haven’t got a lot of time.’ He checked his depth gauge. They were thirty feet down. ‘It’s seventy-five feet down, you said? We should see it soon.’
Mark resumed swimming downward with slow strong strokes. Chris followed, struggling to keep up and breathing harshly with the exertion. For a few moments all that he could hear over the helmet speaker was the even, relaxed, rhythmic breathing of his partner. It was strangely soothing, like a heartbeat or the ticking of a clock.
‘Ahh here we go… I think I see something down there.’
Chris pushed hard with his legs and a moment later he was floating alongside Mark. Below, their two torch beams picked out the unmistakable oval silhouette of a wing tip. The beams worked their way along the wing, passing over the bulge of an engine casing, then another, and finally coming to rest on the cylindrical form of the plane’s fuselage.
Chris turned to Mark. ‘Bingo.’
They swam down the last few feet and settled with a gentle bump on the wing. Chris reached out and ran a hand along its surface. Only a slippery coat of algae covered the sheet metal. It belied the years underwater. His fingers danced over rivets that had experienced only a small amount of corrosion.
‘Isn’t it bloody beautiful?’
‘Amazing. This is a big plane,’ said Mark.
‘It’s a B-17, nicknamed the Flying Fortress. Looks in fantastic shape.’
Mark studied the ghostly grey giant. ‘Yup, it is. But then it’s a cold, low-salt water environment.’
‘No, I don’t mean corrosion, or marine growth. I mean there’s hardly any impact damage. It’s like it was just gently placed here.’
Chris pulled out his camera and took a couple of shots. The flash on the camera flickered like a strobe. He swam along the wing towards the inner port engine.
‘Look at that.’ He gestured towards the propeller.
‘What am I looking at?’
‘The propeller blades are intact. Do you know what that means?’
Mark shook his head. ‘Not really.’
‘It means this particular propeller wasn’t spinning when she touched down on the ocean. If it had been the blades would be bent to buggery.’
‘Oh.’ Mark watched as Chris photographed the engine and the prop. He checked his watch; they had been down five minutes. Twenty-five left.
Chris swam back to the fuselage and slowly drifted down the side towards the rear. His torch eventually picked out the barrel and small opening of the portside waist-gun.
‘Come and look at this!’
Mark followed the glaring beam of Chris’s torch and found himself staring at a long line of bullet holes that
