by RA Williams
Out of the constrictive diving gear and once again on Adel’s deck, Elle watched seawater flow over the wooden inspection tables on the stern deck. Pumped through hoses hung over the side of the ship, the excess water poured into open drains at the base of the tables and streamed off the stern, back into the sea. A steady flow was crucial – after centuries on the seabed, the artefacts were extremely fragile.
The canvas sunshade provided blessed relief from the scorching sun, but the heat did not abate, necessitating occasional plunges into the sea to cool off. Elle was just climbing onto the diving platform after a brief dip when she heard the crew cheer as a creaking winch brought the first haul to the surface. Leaning over the side, she waited eagerly for her discovery to surface, somewhat disappointed when a crab catch filled with lumps of encrustations appeared.
‘Okay. Let’s have a look,’ she said as it was brought to the inspection tables, coral deposits spilling out.
Elle had trained a team of crewmen in conservation during the voyage from the Abacos. Apprehensively, she hung back as they went to work on the hard coatings with hammers, pry bars and chisels. She need not have worried. With precise and delicate taps, the encrustations came apart.
A silver decanter revealed itself. A boarding hatchet. Ivory dagger handle. And finally, a gold bowl engraved in Spanish.
Finer preservation work would be left until after returning to Hope Town, so Elle assigned each find a lot number, and jotted down a few details in a notebook before wrapping the artefacts in seaweed and transferring them to wooden casks sailors referred to as hogsheads, filled with sawdust soaked in seawater, for the return voyage.
The sound of the winch protesting drew her to the port-side rail. Ropes strained and the surface churned as something heavy was brought up. A hard hat broke the surface. Holding on to his shot rope, Henrikson grinned at her through his faceplate. Raising a hand, he gave a thumbs up. Other divers appeared, accompanying another encrustation, this time enormous.
‘That’s the bee’s knees,’ she shouted excitedly.
The discovery was raised up and over the railing, swinging gently over the deck, seawater pouring from its fissures as fifteen strong backs manoeuvred it onto an inspection table. The wooden legs of the table groaned under the weight. The conservators descended like cats on a wounded bird.
‘Go chase yourselves, boys.’ Pushing her way through, Elle stood before the massive lump of coral. ‘I got this one.’
‘What do you reckon it is?’
Henrikson stood beside her now, still in his John Brown rig, helmet under one arm.
Taking up a hose, she washed the silt away from the coral she’d inadvertently broken off. Half a ghoulish face carved in stone scowled back. ‘Camazotz.’
‘I’m guessing he’s Mayan.’
‘Bat god of all things wicked.’ Taking up a pry bar, she shoved it under the coral growth, preparing to break it away. ‘And a Sentinel.’
‘A what-inel?’
‘Never mind,’ she replied.
‘Can it be one of the missing stelae from Copán?’
‘I can’t say. It’s Mayan. Of that I am certain.’
Something else was hidden. Another figure. She could just make out its shoulder, but before she could prise away the growth, a lookout hollered a warning, pointing south. Following his gaze, she spotted sails in the distance. A double-masted sloop, flag of the Weimar Republic flapping at the stern.
‘Damn. Here comes trouble.’
Henrikson lifted a pair of glasses and peered silently through them.
‘Your Hun?’ he asked, passing them to her.
She raised the binoculars to her eyes. The sloop came into focus. On the bow, shirt off, Guatemalan straw hat perched haughtily on his head, stood Herr Frisch.
‘What do you suppose he wants?’ Elle asked, pulling a white linen blouse over her wet swimsuit and closing two buttons.
Henrikson shrugged, the twinkle in his eye suggesting he knew precisely what the German was game for. ‘Rather a fit chap, isn’t he?’
‘Don’t suppose he’s on his way to Roatán?’ She watched the sloop lower its sails and drop anchor. She sighed. ‘We’re not so lucky.’
‘I’d like to discourage visitors, Elle.’
‘He’ll get the icy mitt,’ she replied, snatching a Springfield rifle from the hands of the shark watch.
‘A what?’
‘The cold shoulder.’
Chambering a thirty-aught-six round, she made her way aft, watching as a little Chris-Craft motorboat was short-lined to the stern of the sloop.
The motor roared to life and Herr Frisch crossed the distance between the two vessels with impressive speed.
‘Ahoy,’ he called out over the motor’s whine.
‘Elle.’
She turned to a nervous-looking Henrikson.
‘We can’t have that Hun boarding us,’ he said.
‘What do you want me to do, shoot him?’
‘Not the worst idea,’ he said, and shrugged. ‘Nah. Ink’s barely dry on the Versailles Treaty. Let’s just see what he wants.’
‘We both know what he wants,’ she said, as the small vessel glided alongside Adel’s diving platform.
Killing the motor, Herr Frisch tossed a rope to a seaman on deck. ‘You’re not planning to take a shot at me, are you?’
‘For you to decide,’ she replied, resting the rifle butt on her hip. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I want to show you about Utila.’
He dived into the water and swam towards them. Elle fired. Herr Frisch ducked underwater as the bullet zipped overhead. Popping up again, he shouted, ‘Verdammt noch mal – bist du verrückt geworden?’
‘No, I’m not the crazy one. A crazy person leaps into the sea when a shark is lurking.’
The German turned, the water behind him clouding crimson as a bull shark floated to the surface.
‘It ain’t no Riesenhai either,’ she added.
‘Mein Gott,’ he said, shocked, swimming quickly to the diving platform.
‘Lunch?’
‘Ours or his?’ Herr Frisch asked.
‘Enough shark steak to feed the entire crew. What do you think?’ she said to Henrikson.
He smiled. ‘Wherever did you learn to shoot?’
‘Shooting trap at the hunt club with my father when I was a kid. Fired thousands of rounds over the years.’ Sliding back the Springfield’s bolt, she ejected the spent cartridge. ‘Never dreamed it would come in handy.’
The German began to scramble up the ladder.
‘You ain’t been piped aboard, Herr Frisch,’ said Henrikson.
‘Erik,’ he replied, warily raising his hands in surrender. He turned to Elle. ‘Utila is a nice little island. The windward side especially lovely.’
‘Really now?’ Elle questioned his intent. Mucking about with Herr Frisch was not her idea of a well-spent afternoon. She glanced at the inspection table, the stela under the encrustations so tantalisingly close. Then she turned to Henrikson.
‘It is,’ he replied.
Something had to be done to be rid of the German. And apparently, she was to be the sprat that caught the mackerel. Grabbing her silk stole, she turned to Herr Frisch.
‘Let’s go.’
Pounding across the wind-raked crests, the Chris-Craft thrust towards Utila. Sea spray soaked Elle as she leaned over the windscreen, permitting the German a peek at her bum under a pair of the crew’s shorts she’d trimmed to fit and had rolled up just enough to keep him distracted.
She’d figured distraction would draw Herr Frisch’s attention away from what Henrikson was up to. She wasn’t wrong. And as the launch leaped over another crest, soaking her, she couldn’t deny it was belting good fun.
Utila’s shoreline appeared – a blanket of stunted palm trees dotted with white fishermen’s cottages. Twin-masted ketches squatted low in the tide as lighters brought out fruit shipments from East Harbour. As the boat’s rubbing strake bumped again
st the wharf’s pilings, a hearty-looking fellow with corned-beef legs and a frayed, palm-fronded hat waved to her.
‘Toss a line.’
Taking a coiled rope from behind her seat, Elle heaved it up to the old man, who caught it and tied it off. Hopping from the launch, she caught his hand and he pulled her onto the landing dock. He smelled of brine and cheap tobacco. She looked around hopefully for Gunny. The marines were nowhere to be seen.
‘Ey, Hun. Got yerself a mate this time?’
‘Jeornagian Copper,’ Herr Frisch replied. ‘Still you are alive.’
‘Long as I got a whimper here,’ he said, tapping a half-missing finger to his temple, ‘I got a spring in me arse.’ He coughed, depositing it off the end of the wharf.
‘Have my launch short-lined. We’re bicycling to the windward side for a swim.’
‘Wot are ya doin’ here?’ Jeornagian asked.
Elle thought his peculiar accent sounded Cornish.
‘I will show my friend Pumpkin Hill.’
‘I mean all ya Hun mates running round the island.’
‘We prepare more accurate navigational charts,’ replied the German dismissively. ‘You have some bicycles for us?’ he asked, shoving a fistful of lempira into the old man’s overalls.
‘End of the pier, Hun.’
Elle gave Herr Frisch a sideways glance as he hurried her along. ‘Accurate navigational charts? Bum fodder.’
The German shrugged with a smile. Quite clearly, neither Herr Frisch nor his Kameraden were conducting a navigational mapping survey. It was down to her to figure out what he was up to. If twisting her lip and shaking her bum in his face got her the answers she needed, then so be it.
As they pedalled along East Harbour’s narrow lanes, they passed colonialist cottages tucked behind flowering hibiscus and trees heavy with breadfruit. Slowing to enter the town centre, Elle saw a policeman in tropical attire standing post before a tiny Bancasa bank. He waved.
‘Afternoon, Herman the German,’ said the policeman, tipping the brim on his pith helmet. ‘Back again, eh?’
Herr Frisch waved back. Evidently, he was a much more frequent visitor to the island than he let on.
There were no motor cars. No Hondurans and only an occasional Caribbean. Considering Utila was just off the Mosquito Coast, it was all rather peculiar. East Harbour now left behind, her grotty bicycle, its rubber tyres patchworked from repairs, rattled along the narrowing dirt track under a canopy of fever trees. ‘Bit rum, this place. Strange the locals speak English with Cornish accents.’
‘You do not know the island’s history?’
‘Captain Morgan’s hideout, right?’ Elle enquired in response.
‘The islanders are descendants of his buccaneers. They hailed from Cornwall. For generations, the islanders spoke Cornish. They say Morgan’s treasure is buried here somewhere. Nobody has found it.’ Swerving to miss a crab scurrying for its hole, Herr Frisch gave her a quick glance. ‘Not yet.’
They emerged from a copse of trees onto the windward side of the island, the track ending at a spit covered with broken coral and pink sand.
‘So,’ said the German, doffing his espadrilles as he walked barefoot to the sand. ‘Will you tell me what your friends are doing out there on Adel?’
She joined him, sand hot underfoot.
‘Just as soon as you tell me what the Reichsmarine is doing in Honduras.’
She smiled, feigning innocence.
Sea grass tickled her feet as the tide carried her over the jagged reef protecting the windward side of the island from huge waves crashing offshore. She eyed the pounding breakers.
‘Fancy some body planing?’
‘Wahnsinn,’ the German called back, remaining on the shallow side. ‘Those breakers would pulverise you.’
‘Nah.’
Elle turned and swam beyond the safety of the reef, the undertow taking hold of her and pulling her towards the oncoming waves. She had body planed countless times in the Abacos. The key was to know when to turn for shore. The waves loomed large, forming walls of green as she was carried further into deeper waters. She felt their power lifting her as each wave crested. Another moment and she turned to face the shoreline. Kicking her flippers like mad, she planed out, arms ahead of her. She scooted along like a torpedo, riding the wave over the outer reef before tumbling under as the wave broke. Surfacing, she hollered in victory as adrenaline had her hankering for more. ‘Yee haw!’
‘You are quite mad,’ shouted Erik, waving for her to come in from the surf.
Staying put, she waved for him to join her instead. After much dithering, he plunged in, swimming until he was beside her on the reef. A tall man, he was able to stand upright on the coral. ‘Guter Junge. Good boy,’ she said, before turning to the waves and swimming away. Looking briefly over her shoulder, she smiled at Herr Frisch reluctantly following her. A few strokes more and she felt the pull of the waves again.
‘Stay close,’ she told him as he swam alongside her. ‘When I tell you, turn round and flatten out. The wave will carry you in.’
Nodding nervously, he took a few more strokes as the wall of water grew, undertow pulling them in.
‘Drowning is your idea of fun?’ he asked.
‘You won’t drown,’ she replied, treading water as the wave grew taller still.
‘I’ve twice nearly drowned. I don’t wish to tempt providence.’
Before she could answer, the wave was on them.
‘Turn,’ she yelled. ‘Swim as if your life depends on it.’
She continued treading water a second or two longer, watching the German turn and catch the wave perfectly. He planed out, and the wave’s power carried him back over the reef.
But the extra moment cost Elle. Before she could get into position, the wave crashed down on her, rolling her over and pulling her under. Tossed about, she struck the reef, lacerating her back and knocking the wind from her. Her vision went white as her lungs screamed for air.
She was hauled up by her hair, spitting seawater. Herr Frisch stood bolt upright on the reef.
‘Mein Gott,’ he shouted, raising her up almost entirely free from the surf, the top of her swimsuit yanked down by the wave’s suction, breasts in plain view. ‘Will you have had enough once you’ve finally drowned yourself?’
Heart pounding, she reached for the talisman around her neck before worrying about covering up. It was still there, secured by its chain.
Wrapped in a towel before a crackling fire, Elle felt sore and ashamed. As dusk approached, Herr Frisch’s sloop appeared offshore, his crew landing the Chris-Craft. With a few stitches, they mended her back, then, digging a pit in the sand, they set a low fire alight. After it reduced to coals, wet seaweed was laid on, followed by clams, prawns and lobster. The smell of clambake pervaded the beach, making Elle’s mouth water and her stomach twinge, despite her pain. She wolfed down the largest lobster she’d ever seen and a dozen or so clams; the meal did her good.
She did not fail to notice the crew slip away, leaving her alone on the beach with Herr Frisch, a new moon casting them in soft blue light. It was the perfect setting for a romantic interlude. There was no denying Herr Frisch was a handsome man. But interludes didn’t interest her.
He set up a bar on a washed-up log, squeezing oranges. A bottle of vodka, gloriously cold, appeared from inside a rum cask filled with chipped ice.
‘You Germans do know how to organise an expedition,’ she said, taking a handful of ice and pressing it against her sun-kissed chest. ‘Is that Russian vodka?’
‘Of course.’
‘That’s better than the jag juice we got up in the USA these days.’
‘Prohibition, ja?’
‘Ja.’
‘I can’t tell you how long I’ve saved this bottle,’ he said, crushing cranberries into tin cups and adding orange juice. ‘Waiting for the right occasion.’
‘Don’t spare the horses,’ she told him, the pain of her wound throbbing. He smiled, c
racking the waxen seal on the bottle cap and pouring a very generous glug of spirit into her cup, before handing it to her.
He sat on a blanket, not quite across the fire from her.
‘You are better now?’
Sipping her drink, she felt a delicious burn down her throat. ‘Ah yes. Better now,’ she replied. ‘Madras?’
‘Ja. And there’s plenty more,’ he said, slinging his drink back.
The Madras was cold and refreshing, manna from heaven. She knocked hers back too, not in the least reluctant to ask the German to fix her another. He obliged.
‘Thank you for pulling me out. It was a stupid stunt on my part. I’m really quite embarrassed.’ She adjusted the blanket around her shoulders. Remembering he had gotten an eyeful of her, she added, ‘For all sorts of reasons. Least of which was nearly drowning.’
‘It was a poor decision. But do not worry. I won’t tell.’ He eyed her tanned legs as he returned to the bottle to fix them both a second round. His eyes met hers. ‘About anything.’
She laughed.
‘I had great fun today. Right up to the moment I nearly drowned. So, thank you, Herr Frisch.’
Returning to the fire with their cups, he sucked air like a bellhop cheated of a tip. ‘Please, Elle, will you not call me by my given name?’
‘All right,’ she said, taking her drink. ‘Thank you, Erik.’
He sat, closer this time. ‘You didn’t nearly drown.’
‘You said something about that earlier,’ she replied, sipping her drink.
He looked to the fire. ‘About drowning?’
‘Yeah.’
‘In the Great War, at the Battle of Jutland, I was on a cruiser sunk by the British. A hundred of my men managed to take to the water alive. Until a shell detonated on the water.’
‘Who fired it?’
‘Does it matter?’
She said nothing.
‘The explosion set the surface oil alight. I was one of only three of my crew who survived.’
‘That’s dreadful.’
‘That’s war. We knew what we let ourselves in for when we joined the navy.’ Looking up from the fire, his eyes met hers. ‘Titanic was another matter.’
‘What happened to you?’
‘I am not the strongest of swimmers.’