Is this mutiny? If so, by God, it must be nipped in the bud.
"I'm the Captain of this ship, Seaman Jones, and I'll do—"
"What you are is a royal pain in the ass, Jacky, but we still don't want to see you dead. We—"
"Here's what we'll do, Captain," says Tink, who takes the end of a long coil of rope and ties it around my waist. "We'll give a long count of twenty and then we'll haul you back up, whether you want to come or not. When you feel the tug, drop the anchor. It'll still be attached to the knotted line, so we won't lose it."
Ah, John Tinker, the soul of reason.
"Anybody else got a damned opinion?" I ask, miffed, to the ship at large. "Daniel? Jim? John Thomas? Finn? Jemimah?"
"I think you crazy to git in the water at all, crazy to prance aroun' half bare like that," says Jemimah from her chair, "so this is jes' more of yo' craziness."
Dr. Sebastian speaks up. "While it is true that you are the commander of this ship, I am the leader of the expedition, and I order that you go down with the rope about your waist, or you do not go down at all. You are too valuable to this project to be lost this early."
"All right," I say, tired of all this. I hop up onto the rail. "Let's get on with it. Give me the anchor."
It is put in my hands, and my arms strain to hold its fifty heavy pounds. One deep breath ... another deep breath ... and a third, really deep breath and hold ... and I am over and into the water.
I plummet like a stone, past the shadow of the Nancy B. 's hull, past her keel, past her anchor chain leading down, then past the big anchor itself imbedded in the bottom, past the slope where I found the Spanish sailor, past all that and down into the abyss.
It is still clear here, but the light is now far overhead and the bottom of the chasm is dim and I can't see ... My ears start to hurt and I'm gonna have to let go soon and I ... I ... One more moment ... just one more ... and ... There! Coming up at me like a spear from out of the depths— unmistakable—the mainmast of a sunken ship, scraps of canvas still clinging to the topgallant spar.
I drop the lifeboat's anchor and, at the same time, feel the tug of the lifeline at my middle, towing me swiftly back to the surface.
When my head breaks through, I gasp, then say, "I've found her! She's right down there! I saw her masts! Don't take up the little anchor. Attach a buoy or something to mark this spot. Oh lads, we have found the Magdalena!"
Chapter 22
The elation we feel upon finding what has to be the treasure ship is immediately dashed by a shout from the lookout.
"Skipper! Ship ahoy! Due south! Two points abaft the port beam!" shouts Daniel in the crow's-nest.
I rush to my quarterdeck to grab my long glass, then train it on the approaching ship.
"What is she?" asks Higgins.
"Don't know yet, but she's big and she's headin' straight for us." I keep my eye pressed to the glass, trying to make out her colors. Then I don't have to look for her flag anymore, 'cause I see something attached to the foot of her mainmast—it is a six-foot-tall golden crucifix.
Damn!
"It's a Spanish man-of-war," I say, snapping the glass shut. "And it looks like he means to board us. Everyone take your places. Remember, we are all Americans here. We are a sponge boat with a naturalist aboard and that is all. Doctor, take the skeleton down into your lab. It will not look out of place there. Me, I shall get back in the water and start collecting sponges. Everybody be calm, maybe this is nothing to worry about."
Saying that, I hurry back down to the diving raft and, with goggles on, slip into the water.
I pause for a moment to collect my thoughts. What is he doing here? Could word of our doings have leaked out somehow? I don't know, just collect your sponges, girl, and let things play out as they will.
Looking down, I see a likely looking batch of sponges on the bottom and dive down to collect them. It's a little deeper here, but I still have no trouble getting to them, then cutting their tough stalks with my shiv, hauling them back to the surface, and slapping them on the raft, water oozing out of their pores. It'd be nice to have Joannie help me with this, but she's still laid up, and will be for a while yet. But she is getting better, which is good.
I sneak a peek at the rapidly closing-in Spaniard, and then nip back down. As I harvest this newest batch of unfortunate sponge, again I marvel at the ease with which the little fishies that gather about me flit through the water with simple flicks of their tails, while I have to struggle to do the same. And then I see what looks to be a huge ray at the bottom, leisurely flying along as if he were an albatross riding a rising wind. Hmmm ... More study is required on that ... But later—time now to deal with the Dons above.
A massive shadow moves overhead and I know it is the hull of the Spanish man-of-war. I swim back up, deposit my sponges, and putting my elbows on the raft, I look at the thing looming over me.
It is a First-Rate Ship-of-the-Line-of-Battle, a huge fighting machine carrying at least eighty guns, six hundred men, and enough firepower to reduce something like us to splinters in a matter of seconds ... And I notice the gun ports are open and the gun barrels sticking out. A worm of worry works its way into my mind, not for the Nancy B.— as we are insignificant next to this floating instrument of death and destruction—but for the Dolphin, due here in a few days, and for my friends who are upon her. If she encounters this ship, she will be honor bound to fight, though she is half its size. Oh Lord, please...
The ship is called the San Cristobal, I see from the name painted in gilt on the stern, and a boat is being loaded, and ten men and an officer are in it.
I nip back under again, go to the bottom, and hack off a few more sponges. As I head back up, I see the hull bottom of the small boat making its way overhead to the raft of the Nancy B. I wait a bit, till I'm reasonably sure the occupants are out of the boat, then I resurface and place my arms on the raft and lie still to listen.
"Who are you and what are you doing here in Spanish waters?" the officer demands of John Higgins, who stands onboard as Captain. I observe that the young man is quite handsome—dark hair, noble nose—and is resplendent in a blue, yellow, and gold uniform. From the amount of gold braid on him, he looks to be a Senior Lieutenant.
"We are the Nancy B. Alsop, out of Boston, Massachusetts, United States, engaged in the harvesting of sponges. We also have a naturalist aboard who is studying the local flora and fauna—may I present Dr. Stephen Sebastian, here?"
The young officer does not seem particularly interested in who we are and what we are doing. He ignores the Doctor and directs his men to search our ship, and so they plunge down into our inner spaces.
"I will point out to you, Señor," says Higgins, "that we are five miles from shore and are, therefore, in international waters."
The officer slowly turns himself to bring his gaze upon Higgins.
"We will decide whose waters you are in, Señor, and not you."
An uneasy silence falls over the ship. Presently Higgins, who believes there is never an excuse for bad manners, says, "May we offer you something to eat or drink, Señor, while your men conduct their search?"
"If you have any decent rum aboard, you may give me a cup."
Higgins nods to Daniel, who goes below to get it. He comes back carefully balancing a tumbler of the amber liquor.
The Spaniard takes it and knocks back half of it. A disagreeable look comes over his face. "Swill," he says with a sneer, then flings the rest of the rum in Daniel's face. Shocked, the boy cries out and wipes at his eyes.
"You would serve that to a Castellano?" the Lieutenant asks, as he flings the cup over his shoulder. It hits the deck and shatters.
"And you will spurn our hospitality and cause distress to a small boy?" asks Higgins, unable to let the insult pass. I know that Higgins stocks only the finest of whiskeys and rums, and it is not good to question his taste.
The officer puts his hand on the hilt of his sword, his dark eyes hard. "Be careful of your tongue, Yanqui, else you might lose it."
Higgins is about to reply, when the Spanish sailors return to the deck, the lead man saying, "Nada, Teniente." They found nothing, just as we had thought.
"Very well. Vamos, hombres!" The Lieutenant spins on his heel and leads his men back toward their boat. I figure this would be a good time for me to go back down for more sponges and so stay out of the Castilian gentleman's notice.
It doesn't work out that way.
When I come back up, figuring the Spaniards would already be back in their boat, I fling my catch onto the raft like any good sponge diver—which would be fine if the Lieutenant had left the platform, which he had not. He was still very much there, and I see with a certain amount of horror that I have sprayed water from the dripping sponges all over his shiny black boots.
Uh-oh...
"Madre de Dios!" he yells. "Look what you've done, you miserable perro!"
"I am sorry, Sir," I say, thinking about swimming away to escape his wrath.
I don't get the chance.
"Bring him up here!" he roars to his men, and strong hands grab me under the arms to haul me up on the raft and then fling me all sprawled out down upon it.
He gives me a kick and says, "You piece of—" His eyes widen as he takes in my costume ... and me. "What? A girl? Get up, you!"
I get to my feet, my rump smarting from his boot.
His gaze sweeps over me and a smile comes to his thin lips. "Bueno. A welcome little diversion, eh, chica? Turn around." He pushes my right shoulder and I reluctantly turn around, slipping my forefingers under the bottom of my suit to tug it down to cover my bum.
"Very nice," he says. I endure his gaze, knowing that the San Cristobal could send us straight to the bottom with no questions asked if we dare to cross the Spaniards. I have heard sounds of my crewmen up on deck being restrained by both Higgins and Dr. Sebastian from pulling their knives and jumping down to my aid, which is good. Steady boys, steady...
The officer, who has not removed his hand, then calls up to Higgins, "Why do you have girls diving for your sponges, man?"
Higgins, staying in character, replies, "Good seamen are hard to replace. Girls we can get anywhere. Plus they can stay down longer than men because they do not smoke tobacco."
"So you consider them expendable? Very good. And we know there are other uses for them as well, do we not? Dry this one off and she would warm a bed quite nicely."
Higgins does not reply, and the Spanish Lieutenant says, "Ah well, this has been most amusing, but now I must be off." I heave a sigh of relief. A little too soon, it turns out.
"There is still the matter of my boots," he goes on. "You sullied them. You shall kneel and clean them," and he shoves me down to my knees. I look at the tops of his boots and the sprinkles of seawater that glisten there. It is all I can do not to push this insufferable so-called gentleman over the side of the raft and then dive down to watch his face as he drowns. But I stifle my rage—there is too much at stake for me to give in to it.
When I am diving, Higgins always makes sure a folded towel is placed on the raft for me to dry off with when I am done, so now I reach for it and wipe the offending droplets from the blackguard's boots.