by M. C. Muir
Once the men had finished their chores, the diving barrel attracted everyone’s attention though no one was allowed near enough to touch it. With Bungs guarding one side and the carpenter patrolling the other, it amazed Mr Parry that the bell had been built at all as, throughout its construction, it was apparent the cooper and chippie did not have a civil word for each other.
The bosun was in charge of the tackle and of swaying out the barrel to the longboat. Froyle’s job was to ensure the line from the barrel to the stern of the longboat was secure. Once the bell was submerged, he was to monitor its progress and have the boat crew follow the drift as it meandered around the sea bed. It was Foss’s responsibility to hold the line running down to the boy in the barrel and if he felt a tug on it, he was to have it hauled to the surface immediately.’
The two Lascars, Ekundayo and two other sailors were already in the water holding onto the sides of the boat. Their task was to make sure the bell went straight down without tipping, and to assist when it came back up.
‘Are you ready?’ Oliver called from the ship’s deck.
Several voices replied. ‘Aye.’
When the captain gave the order, the yardarm groaned as the barrel was lowered to the boat where it balanced precariously on the gunnel. From there, the first attempt to launch failed. Losing his balance, one of the men in the boat splashed headfirst into the sea. The longboat swayed, the barrel wobbled and slapped into the water landing inches from the head of one of the Indians. The sea rushed in filling it within seconds, and with the weights dragging it down, it was in grave danger of sinking. The abortive performance raised a variety of responses from the observers both in the boat and on Perpetual’s deck.
‘Silence,’ Captain Quintrell ordered. Time was not on their side. They must achieve their goal while the sea was relatively calm and the tide was on the ebb. If the wind or waves picked up, and when the tide turned, the currents in the channel would be too dangerous to proceed with the dive.
Lifting the barrel bell back to its upright position proved exhausting for the swimmers and awkward for those in the longboat.
‘It’ll never work, you mark my works.’
‘Shut it, Smithers or you’ll be shark bait.’
With the call for more weights to carry it down, two additional twelve-pound balls were passed to the men in the boat.
‘Hold it steady this time,’ the coxswain yelled.
With five men in the sea and three leaning precariously over the side of the longboat, the barrel was manoeuvred carefully onto the water where it bobbed upright on the gentle surface.
Observing from Perpetual’s deck, the captain was satisfied all appeared well. ‘Now,’ he called, ‘let the boy get in and take it down.’
Tommy was nervous, but ready. The sun was shining but the warm tropical air was melting the congealed pork fat smeared on his chest. Because of the rancid smell making his stomach churn, and having heard Smithers’ warning about sharks, he had begged to go without it. But the Lascars had convinced the captain that is was essential to protect him from the cold water.
From the instructions, repeated to him several times, Tommy knew what to do. He must drop into the water, slide beneath the bottom rim of the barrel then squeeze himself up inside it and onto the thwart. If Bungs had done his job well, he would find himself in a chamber filled with fresh air. He was warned that when the barrel was lowered, the air inside the bell would shrink and the water level would slowly rise over his knees and up to his chest. He was told not to be alarmed. He was also reminded to hold tight to the loose line running up the coxswain and to tug on it firmly if he was in strife. But he was warned not to wait until the barrel was nearly empty of air before doing so, as the air that was left could be foul.
From the encouraging cries from the deck, Tommy felt excited.
‘Silence, there,’ Mr Parry called.
With a nod from the captain on Perpetual’s deck, Tommy kicked off his shoes and slid over the side of the longboat to where his friend was waiting. The shock of the cold water made him shiver.
‘Take a big breath,’ Eku said. ‘I’ll make sure you are all right.’
Tommy did as he was instructed, filled his cheeks with air and dropped to the bottom of the barrel. But squeezing through the narrow gap between the thwart and the rim was not as easy as he had expected.
In the boat and on deck, the observers fell silent as the barrel swayed back and forth and a rush of bubbles burst onto the surface.
Once inside, however, Tommy took his first breath – cautiously at first fearing there may be no air in the hollow space. But with his lungs refilled, he felt reassured and shuffled his bottom along the thwart and kicked his feet in the water. Then he remembered to knock on the side to indicate all was well. Eku replied with two knocks and instantly the barrel began its descent.
When the top of the diving bell disappeared from view, the atmosphere in the longboat changed to one of apprehension.
Sitting inside, Tommy’s ears popped and he shivered as the currents of cold water swirled around his feet. But he didn’t look down. At first, the light shining through the glass above his head was comforting, it quickly dimmed. He didn’t know how deep he had sunk but noticed the level of water rising up to his belly. Perhaps he was swallowing too much air. He tried holding his breath for a while and then remembered the captain’s instructions and returned to breathing normally.
He could feel his heart thumping and, though the prism provided a little light, he felt trapped. It was the same sudden overwhelming feeling that had taken hold of him when he was buried in the coal mine. Frantically, he pushed his elbows against the sides only to find that the staves of the barrel were as solid as the rock walls which had entombed him. Clenching his fingers around the rope, he was sorely tempted to tug on it.
Then he thought of his sister who had died that day and never been found. He thought of his mother who had wished him God speed, but in her heart had wanted him to stay home. He thought of his brother still toiling down the pit. And he thought of Captain Quintrell who had allowed him the opportunity to fulfill the promise he had made to himself. He owed all of those people a debt, and by succeeding, he felt he would be repaying a little of it.
Gulping air and watching the rocks, sand, clumps of seaweed and fish drift under his feet, he discovered that only his head and shoulders were clear of the water. A blue fish with yellow stripes swam into the barrel with him. It was like no fish he had ever seen before. He shook his head. He felt dizzy. The barrel smelled of vinegar. His skin smelled of salt pork. He thought of his mother’s cooking, and realized he was not concentrating on the job he was supposed to be doing.
Having been warned of the danger of lingering too long, he stuck his face in the water, took a final glance at the sea bed, then gave two firm tugs on the hand-line and waited. When nothing happened he tugged again. The line was loose in his hands. Gripped with fear, he started hauling it in hand over hand. Had it come away from the boat? Had the barrel been cast free? He pulled again, taking in the slack till it was taut and he could pull no more. Then, with tension on it, he tugged two more times. Almost instantly the barrel juddered, swayed in the current and started to rise. With his head swimming, the return to the surface took longer than he had expected but when finally the barrel scraped against something solid, he knew the bell had reached the longboat.
The sound of knocking on the staves was reassuring. Tommy knocked back then tried to slide down in the water between the seat and the rim. But it wasn’t as easy as he had imagined. Halfway out, he became stuck. He kicked. Thrashed his arms about. Wanted to scream. Unable to move either up or down, his head was beginning to spin. He had run out of air and his chest was about to burst. Then after a final weak kick, a pair of firm hands grabbed his ankles, yanked him downwards, out of the barrel and delivered him into the arms of the boat’s crew.
It was over.
From Perpetual’s rail, a few cheered while others ogled the
diver to see if he was cradling any sunken treasure.
‘Did you see anything?’ Froyle asked.
Tommy shook his head.
‘Can you do it again?’
He couldn’t speak. His lips were blue. He was trembling and still trying to catch his breath.
‘Best rest for a spell.’
Tommy nodded.
From the quarterdeck, Oliver and Mr Parry watched in silence. The captain had mixed feeling. It was some consolation that the diving bell worked and the construction was sound, but searching the seabed was not going to be as easy as he had hoped. He was concerned for Tommy’s safety descending into currents that could swirl or change suddenly, upend the barrel and throw the lad into the water. If that happened he could be carried for miles without ever reaching the surface. Nothing had been said about that. After only one dive, Oliver was sceptical. The boy was cold and exhausted, and hope of success was already fading. Could he make another dive?
By the time the diving barrel was ready to be lowered for the fourth time, Tommy was less fearful of the confined space and insisted he could tolerate one more dive. He had felt guilty because each time he surfaced, he was conscious of the disappointment registering on the sailors’ faces and with little to entertain them, and nothing to celebrate, many chose to leave the deck and go below.
With each dive, the barrel was dropped to a slightly different location on the sea bed, but with the tide on the turn, the captain ordered this was definitely to be the final attempt. Despite his energy having been sapped and his enthusiasm dwindling, Tommy still wanted to succeed.
When something slithered over his ankles, Smithers’ taunts leapt to his mind. Was it the fin of a shark or the wing of stingray, or a sea snake whose bite could kill a man in an instant? Keeping as still as he could, he allowed it to brush slowly across his legs. There was only one way to find out what it was, so taking a deep breath, he thrust his face into the water and opened his eyes. There in the dim light – sea-lion grey and measuring near twelve inches in circumference – was the anchor cable. Tommy was amazed. When flaked out on the ship’s deck, it was a dead weight, yet in the water it appeared buoyant and swayed with the grace of a giant kelp plant. Reaching down, he slid his arms around it and pulled, but the cable had a mind of its own and didn’t move.
Not knowing at which end the anchor was attached, he straddled the line and, by allowing it to run between his legs, pulled himself along, hand over hand, drawing the barrel with him.
‘Avast rowing!’ Froyle shouted, when he noticed the line from the barrel drawing away from the longboat in the opposite direction. ‘Starboard oars! Go about!’
Inside the barrel, Tommy gasped. It was hard work. His head felt fuzzy and he didn’t know how far he had to go. But he dare not stop, or release his grip for fear he may lose it and not be able to find it again. Suddenly, his hand touched a piece of rope looped around the cable. Attached to it was the package he was seeking. Feeling light-headed and unable to see what he was doing, he felt for the knot and untied it, making sure to hold onto it tightly. Once free of the anchor cable, he tucked it under one arm, squeezed it to his chest, let the cable fall from between his legs and, with his final effort, tugged hard on the line connecting him to the men above. And prayed.
When the barrel broke the surface, Eku was there to haul him out and push him head first into the longboat. Unable to stand or hear the men cheering for him, Tommy was swaddled in blankets before being hauled on board Perpetual.
‘You have performed well, young man,’ Captain Quintrell said, before ordering him to be taken below to the cockpit. Then he turned to Simon Parry. ‘Sway the bell aboard as quickly as possible then prepare to make sail. Tell the master to head directly into Callao harbour. I wish to deliver this prize to Captain Crabthorne.’
Chapter 19
A Casualty of War
That evening, the mood in the mess was mixed. There was obvious pride from those responsible for building the diving barrel, satisfaction from some that Perpetual’s mission had been successful, and elation and relief from many that the ship was about to head home. Despite the obstacles ahead of them – thousands of miles of ocean, Cape Horn, the Doldrums, encounters with pirates or privateers, or French navy ships, and the fact it would take almost three months before they raised the Lizard, most of the men were optimistic.
It was something to look forward to, plus the thought of a share in the prize they had taken in the North Atlantic. Those proceeds would be dependent on Lieutenant Hazzlewood arriving safely in Kingston with Captain Liversedge and Imperishable, and on honest transactions conducted by the prize agents. At least they were heading in the right direction (albeit they must first sail over three-thousand miles to the south), with the anticipation of wages and prize money and family waiting for them in England.
But, as always, there was an undertone of disgruntlement by a small handful who felt hard done by. They resented not having been allowed time ashore either in Chile or Peru – time to spend money, to visit the bordellos, to taste the wine or sample the swarthy South American señoritas. And for a small number, having to remain aboard had deprived them of the opportunity to run – to escape from the life they had been pressed into – a life they had never wanted. For them this far flung foreign place had offered a faint chance of freedom – a place to hide – somewhere they would never be found. But they said nothing.
After spending two days in the sick berth, at the recommendation of the ship’s surgeon, Tommy Wainwright was happy to return to the mess and thrilled to find himself the centre of attraction. Because he had recovered the lost pouch and, because he had spent time talking with the captain, the men crowded around eager to hear his news. They were keen to learn what was in the package.
‘I don’t know,’ Tommy said truthfully.
‘You fished it up from the bottom. You must have some idea.’
‘Did you feel anything in it? Gemstones, maybe? Diamonds?’ Smithers asked.
‘Has to be something of value for all the bother we was put to, making that diving barrel and all.’
‘I didn’t look heavy enough to have a gold bar or silver ingots in it,’ Muffin said. ‘Did the captain say aught?’
‘Why would the captain tell me?’ Tommy said.
‘Piss off the lot of you,’ Bungs yelled. ‘Leave the lad alone. Like he says, if it’s a secret why would the captain tell him?’
Though some thought to continue the questioning, when Bungs got to his feet with a sharpened piece of barrel iron in his hand, the nattering stopped and the sailors shuffled back to their own mess tables.
‘You did well, Tommy,’ Eku said, patting him on the back.
‘Aye,’ Bungs added, ‘indeed you did, lad.’
‘Thanks to you and Chippie.’
‘The barrel bell worked all right, didn’t it? But you’d not have got me in that device.’
Tommy laughed. ‘Just as well,’ he said, ‘you’d never have squeezed in.’
With the initial excitement over, the shipmates waited for their daily ration of meat to be served onto their plates.
‘Bloody salt pork, again. I hope we call into Valdivia and kill some more beasts. I fancy a piece of fresh beef.’
‘We’re not going there,’ Tommy said. ‘I heard the captain talking to the surgeon. He said we’re heading to some islands where we’ll meet up with Captain Crabthorne before doubling the Horn and heading north to Rio.’
‘What islands? What else did you hear?’ Bungs asked quietly.
Tommy shook his head.
‘You did good to keep your ears open. And I’ll tell you a bit of chit-chat I heard spoken between the officers.’
Five pairs of eyes were on Bungs waiting for his latest story.’
‘Remember the ship in the strait?’
‘The slaver?’
‘Aye. Seems it was part of a convoy of three that had sailed from Africa bound for Callao. Two of them arrived a month before we did and off-loade
d eight-hundred slaves.’
‘Where did they take ’em?’
‘Marched ’em south to the silver mines, I expect.’
‘Marched? I doubt most of the poor sods could walk.’
‘Poor devils, swapped the ship’s hold for a black hole in the ground. Once there, they’ll never get out.’
Tommy remembered the blackness. ‘Just like pit ponies,’ he sighed.
‘It’s said that ponies and mules don’t last more than two months pushing the mills in the mint before they are done for. I heard that twenty slaves are cheaper than four mules. They reckon near thirty thousand African slaves have been sent to Potosí by the Spanish.’
‘What about the women and children – Froyle said there were some on that death ship.’
‘Sent to work in the fields, I expect.’
‘Don’t they let the families stay together,’ Tommy asked.
Eku thumped the table, got up and left the mess.
‘It ain’t human what they do to them,’ Muffin said. ‘Chaining ’em like animals till there’s no flesh on their bones. And trading ’em in the markets like cattle or sheep. It just ain’t human.’
‘No worse than the navy does when they send you aloft in a roaring gale and your fingers freeze to the yards. The only warmth you feel is when you piss down your leg.’
‘Aye, and then your breeches freeze hard as wood and scrape your thighs red raw.’
‘Aye, but that’s only for a while, it’s not everyday or forever.’
‘Seems like forever when you’re up there,’ Muffin argued.
‘Snuff that talk. You does your job and you gets paid for it,’ Bungs said.
‘Whose side are you on?’
‘It’s like the share of prize money we get. By the time the captain and officers have taken a big slice, we’re left with nowt but crumbs – a pittance – hardly enough coins to rattle in your pocket.’
No one argued. Every foremast Jack knew it was the truth.