by Wilbur Smith
The next morning Chubby and I worked for half an hour bringing down the equipment we needed from the whaleboat and stacking it on the gundeck of the wreck before we were able to penetrate deeper into the hull.
The heavy charges I had set against the well had wrought the sort of havoc I feared. They had torn out the decking and smashed in the bulkheads of the passenger cabins, blocking the passage for a quarter of its length.
We found a good anchor point for our block and tackle and while Chubby rigged it, I left him and floated back to the nearest cabin. I played my torch through the shattered panelling. The interior was, like everything else, smothered in a thick furring of marine growth but I could make out the shape of the simple furniture beneath it.
I eased myself through the gap, and moved slowly across the cluttered deck, fascinated by the objects which I found scattered and heaped about the cabin. There were items of porcelain and china, a shattered washbasin and a magnificent chamber pot with a pink floral design showing through the film of accumulated sediment. There were cosmetic pots and scent bottles, smaller indefinable metal objects and mounds of rotted and amorphous material which may have been clothing, curtaining or mattresses and bedclothing.
I glanced at my watch and saw that it was time to leave and surface for a change of air bottles. As I turned, a small square object caught my attention and I played the torch. beam upon it while I gently brushed it clear of the thick layer of muddy filth. It Was a wooden box, the size of a Portable transistor radio, but the lid was beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl and tortoiseshell. I picked it up and tucked it under my arm. Chubby had finished rigging the block and tackle -and he was waiting for me beside the gunk deck ladder. When we surfaced beside the whaleboat I passed the box up to Angelo before climbing aboard.
While Sherry poured coffee for us and Angelo changed the demand valves to the fresh scuba bottles, I lit a cheroot and examined the box.
It was in a sorry state of deterioration, I saw at once. The inlay was rotten and falling out of its seating, the rosewood was swollen and distorted and the lock and hinges half eaten away.
Sherry came to sit beside me on the thwart and examined my prize with me. She recognized it immediately.
“It’s a ladies” jewel box,” she exclaimed. “Open it, Harry.
Let’s see what’s inside.”
I slipped the blade of a screwdriver under the lock and at the first pressure the hinges snapped and the lid flew off. “Oh, Harry!” Sherry was first into it, and she came out with a thick gold chain and a heavy locket of the same material. “This stuff is so in fashion, you’d never believe it.” Everyone was dipping into the box now. Angelo ripped off a pair of gold and sapphire earrings which immediately replaced the brass pair he habitually wore, while Chubby picked an enormous necklace of garnets which he hung around his neck and preened like a teenage girl.
“For my missus,“he explained.
It was the personal jewellery -of a middle-class wife, probably some minor official or civil servant - none of it of great value, but in its context it was a fascinating collection. Inevitably Miss. North acquired the lion’s share - but I managed to snatch away a thick plain gold wedding band.
“What do you want with that?” she challenged me, reluctant to yield a single item.
“I’ll find a use for it,” I told her, and gave her one of my looks of deep significance, which was completely wasted for she had returned to ransacking the jewel box.
Nevertheless I tucked the ring safely away in the small zip pocket of my canvas gear bag. Chubby by this stage was bedecked with chunky jewellery like a Hindu bride.
“My God, Chubby, you’re a dead ringer for Liz Taylor,” I told him and he accepted the compliment with a graceful inclination of his head.
I had a difficult job getting him interested in a return to the wreck, but once we were in the passenger deck again, he worked like a giant amongst the shattered wreckage.
We hauled out the panelling and timber baulks that blocked the passage by use of the block and tackle and our combined strength, and we dragged it down to the gundeck and stacked it out of the way in the recesses of that gloomy gallery.
We had reached the well of the forward hold by the time our air supplies were almost exhausted. The heavy planking had broken up in the explosion and beyond the opening we could make out what appeared to be a solid dark mass of material. I guessed that this was a conglomerate formed by the cargo out of its own weight and pressure.
However, it was afternoon the following day before I found that I was correct. We were at last into the hold, but I had not expected such a Herculean task as awaited us there.
The contents of the hold had been impregnated with sea water for over a century. Ninety per cent of the containers had rotted and collapsed, and the perishable contents had coalesced into a friable dark mass.
Within this solid heap of marine compost, the metal objects, the containers of stronger and impervious material and other imperishable objects, both large and small, were studded like lucky coins in a Christmas pudding. We would have to dig for them.
At this point we encountered our next problem. At the slightest disturbance of this* rotted maw the water was immediately filled with a swirling storm of dark particles that blotted out the beams of the torches and plunged us into clouds of blinding darkness.
We were forced to work by sense of touch alone. it was painfully slow progress. When we encountered some solid body in the softness we had to drag it clear, manoeuvre it down the passage, lower it to the gundeck and there try to identify it. Sometimes we were obliged to break open what remained of the container, to get at the contents.
If they were of little value or interest, we tucked them away in the depths of the gundeck to keep our working field clear.
At the end of the first day’s work we had salvaged only one item which we decided was worth raising. It was a sturdy case of hard wood, covered with what appeared to be leather and with the corners bound in heavy brass. It was the size of a large cabin trunk.
It was so heavy that Chubby and I could not lift it between us.
The weight alone gave me high hopes. I believed it could very readily contain part of the golden throne. Although the container did not look like one that had been manufactured by an Indian village carpenter and his sons in the middle of the nineteenth century, yet there was a chance that the throne had been repacked before it was shipped from Bombay.
If it did contain part of the throne, then our task would be simplified. We would know what type of container to look for in the future. Using the block and tackle Chubby and I dragged the case down the gundeck to the gunport and there we shrouded’it in a nylon cargo net to prevent it bursting open or breaking during the ascent. To the eyes spliced into the circumference of the net we attached the canvas flotation bags and inflated them from our air bottles.
We went up with the case, controlling its ascent by either spilling air from the bags, or adding more from our bottles. We came out beside the whaleboat and Angelo passed us half a dozen nylon slings with which we secured the case before climbing aboard.
The weight of the case defeated our efforts to lift it over the side, for the whaleboat heeled dangerously when the three of us made the attempt. We had to step the mast and use it as a derrick, only then did our combined efforts suffice and the case swung on board, spouting water from its seams.
The moment that it sank to the deck Chubby scrambled back to the motors and ran for the channel. The tide pressed closely on our heels as we went.
The case was too weighty and our curiosity too strong to allow us to carry it up to the caves. We opened it on the beach, prising the lid open with a pair of jennny bars. The elaborate locking device in the lid was of brass and had withstood the ravages of salt sea water. It resisted our efforts bravely, but at last with a rending of woodwork the lid flew back and creaked against the heavily corroded hinges.
My disappointment was immediate, for it was clear t
hat this was no tiger throne. It was only when Sherry lifted out one of the large gleaming discs and turned it curiously in her hands that I began to suspect that we had been awarded an enormous bonus.
It was an entre plate she held, and my first thought was that it was of solid gold. However, when I snatched a mate from its slot in the cunningly designed rack and turned it to examine the hallmarks, I realized that it was silver and gold gilt.
The gold plating had protected it from the sea so that it was perfectly preserved, a masterpiece of the silversmith’s art with a raised coat of arms in the centre and the rim wondrously chased with scenes of woods and deer, of huntsmen and birds.
The plate I held weighed almost two pounds and as I set it aside and examined the rest of the set I saw the weight of the chest fully accounted for.
There were servings for thirty-six guests in the set; soup bowls, fish - plates, entre plates, dessert bowls, side plates and all the cutlery to go with it. There were serving dishes, a magnificent chafing dish, wine coolers, dish covers and a carving dish almost the size of a baby’s bath.
Every piece was wrought with the same coat of arms, and the ornamental scenes of wild animals and huntsmen, and the case had been designed to hold this array of plate.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, “as your chairman, it behaves me to assure you, one and all, that our little venture is now in profit.”
“It’s just plates and things,” said Angelo, and I winced theatrically.
“My dear Angelo, this is probably one of the few COMPlete sets of Georgian banquet silverware remaining “anywhere in the world - it’s priceless.” “How much?” asked Chubby, doubtfully.
“Good Lord, I don’t know. It would depend of course on the maker and the original owner. - this coat of arms “:,probably belongs to some noble house. A wealthy nobleman on service in India, an earl, a duke perhaps, even a viceroy.” Chubby looked at me as though I was trying to sell him a spavined horse.
“How much?“he repeated.
“At Messrs Sothebys on a good day,” I hesitated, “I don’t know, say, a hundred thousand pounds.”
Chubby spat into the sand and shook his head. You couldn’t fool old Chubby.
“This fellow Sotheby, does he run a loony house?”
“It’s true, Chubby,” Sherry cut in. “this stuff is worth a fortune.
It could be more than that.”
Chubby was now torn between natural scepticism and chivalry. It would be an un-gentlemanly act to call Sherry a liar. He compromised by lifting his hat and rubbing his head, spitting once more and saying nothing.
However, he handled the case with new respect when we dragged it up through the palms to the caves. We stored it behind the stack of jerrycans, and I went to fetch a new bottle of whisky.
“Even if there is no tiger throne in the wreck, we aren’t going to do too badly out of this,” I told them.
Chubby sipped at his whisky mug and muttered, “A hundred thousand - they’ve got to be crazy.”
“We’ve got to go through that hold and the cabins more carefally.
We are going to leave a fortune down there if we don’t.”
“Even the little items, less spectacular than the silver plate, they have enormous antique value,” Sherry agreed. “Trouble is when you touch anything down there it stirs up such a fog you can’t see the tip of your nose,” gloomed Chubby, and I refilled his mug with good cheer.
“Listen, Chubby, you know the centrifugal water pump that Arnie Andrews has got out at Monkey Bay?” I asked, and Chubby nodded.
“Will he lend it to us?” Arnie was Chubby’s uncle. He owned a small market garden on the southern side of St. Mary’s island.
“He might,” Chubby answered warily. “Why?”
“I want to try and rig a dredge pump,” I explained and sketched it for them in the sand between my feet. “We set the pump up in the whaleboat, and we use a length of steam hose to reach the wreck - like this.” I roughed it out with my finger. “Then we use it like a vacuum cleaner in the hold, suck out all that muck and pump it to the surface,”
“Hey, that’s right,” Angelo burst out enthusiastically. “When it spills out of the pump we run it through a sieve, and we will be able to pick up all the small stuff.”
“That’s right. Only muck and small light items will go up the spout - anything large or heavy will be left behind.”
We discussed it for an hour working out details and refinements on the basic idea. During that time Chubby tried manfully to show no signs of enthusiasm, but finally he could contain himself no longer.
“It might work,” he muttered, which from him was a high accolade.
“Well, you better go fetch that pump then, hadn’t you?” I asked.
“I think I will have one more drink,” he procrastinated, and I handed him the bottle.
“Take it with you,” I suggested. “It will save time.” He grunted, and went to fetch his overcoat.
Sherry and I slept late, gloating on the lazy day ahead and at the feeling of having the island entirely to ourselves. We did not expect Chubby and Angelo to return before noon.
After breakfast we crossed the saddle between the hills and went down to the beach. We were playing in the shallows, and the rumble of the surf on the outer reef and our own splashing and laughter blanketed any other sounds. It was only by chance that I looked UP and saw the light aircraft sweeping in from the landward channel.
“Run!” I shouted at Sherry, and she thought I was joking until I pointed urgently at the approaching aircraft “Run! Don’t let him see us,” and this time she responded quickly. We floundered naked from the water, and went up the beach at top speed.
Now I could hear the buzz of the aircraft engines and I glanced over my shoulder. it was banking low over the southernmost peak of the island and levelling over the long straight beach towards us.
“Faster!” I yelled at Sherry, as she ran long-legged and fullbottomed ahead of me with the wet tresses of her sable hair dangling down her darkly tanned back.
I looked back and the aircraft was headed directly at us, SItill about a mile distant, but I could see that it was twinengined. As I watched, it sank lower towards the snowy expanse of coral sands.
We snatched up our discarded clothing at full run, and sprinted the last few yards into the palm grove. There was a mound formed by a fallen palm tree and the fronds torn off the trees by the storm. It was a convenient shelter and I grabbed sherrys arm and dragged her down.
We rolled under the shelter of the dead fronds and lay side by side, panting wildly from the run up the beach, I saw now that it was a twinengined Cessna. It came down the beach and swept past our hideaway only twenty feet above the water’s edge.
The fuselage was painted a distinctive daisy yellow and was blazoned with the name
“Africair’. I recognized the aircraft. I had seen it before at St. Mary’s Airport on half a dozen occasions, usually discharging or picking up groups of wealthy tourists. I knew that Afticair was a charter company based on the mainland, and that its aircraft were for hire on a mileage tariff. I wondered who was paying for the hire on this trip.
There were two persons in the forward seats of the aircraft, the pilot and a passenger, and their faces were turned towards us as it roared past. However, they were too far from us to make out the features and I could not be sure if I knew either of them. They were both white men, that was all that was certain.
The Cessna turned steeply out over the lagoon and, one wing pointed directly down into the crystal water, it swept around and then levelled for another run down the beach.
This time it passed so closely that for an instant I looked up into the face of the passenger as he peered down into the palm grove. I thought I recognized him, but I could not be certain.
The Cessna then turned away, rising slowly, and set a new course for the mainland. There was something about her going that was complacent, the air of someone having achieved his purpose, a job
well done.
Sherry and I crawled from our hiding-place and stood up to brush the sand from our damp bodies.
“Do you think they saw us?” she asked timidly.
“With that bottom of yours flashing like a mirror in the sunlight, they could hardly miss.”
“They might have mistaken us for a couple of native fishermen.”
“Fishermen?” I looked at her, not at her face, and I grinned. With those great beautiful boobs?”
“Harry Fletcher, you are a disgusting beast,” she said. “But seriously, Harry, what is going to happen now?”
“I wish I knew, my sweeting, I wish I knew,” I answered, but I was glad that Chubby had taken the case of silverware back to St. Mary’s with him. By now it was probably buried behind the shack at Turtle Bay. We were still in profit even if we had to run for it soon.
The visit by the aircraft instilled in us all a new sense of urgency. We knew now that our time was strictly rationed. Chubby brought news with him when he returned that was equally disturbing.
“The Mandrake cruised for five days in the south islands. They saw her nearly every day from Coolie Peak, and she was messing about like she didn’t know what she was doing he reported. “Then on Monday she anchored again in Grand Harbour. Wallys says that the owner and his wife went up to the hotel for lunch, then afterwards they took a taxi and went down to Frobisher Street. They spent an hour with Fred Coker in his office, then he drove them down to Admiralty Wharf and they went back on board Mandrake. She weighed and sailed almost immediately.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes,” Chubby nodded, “except that Fred Coker went straight up to the bank afterwards and put fifteen hundred dollars into his savings account.”
“How do you know that?”
“My sister’s third daughter works at the bank.”
I tried to show a cheerful face, although I felt ugly little insects crawling around in my stomach. “Well,” I said, “no use moping around. Let’s try and get the pump assembled so we can catch tomorrow’s tide.”
Later, after we had carried the water pump up to the caves, Chubby returned alone to the whaleboat and when he came back he carried a long canvas-wrapped bundle.