“Don’t worry about this end, Jack,” yelled Quince. “You just get a fix on a spot we need to break through and pull Paul and our Chinaman the hell out of there.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” added Jack. “I need a wine bottle with the cork removed—don’t even ask why, one of Le Maire’s ideas.”
Quince rolled his eyes at Jack as Coop dashed off for the bottle.
With the uncorked and inverted bottle in hand, Jack slid down the rope once again. On hitting bottom, he squeezed himself into the big barrel, still clutching the wine bottle, and made his way without incident to the air pocket.
The level of the water had risen a good three to four inches since he departed. Saying only, “no time to waste,” Jack forced the bar through the constriction, then handed up the wine bottle.
“How’s Quen-Li doing, Paul?” Jack had surfaced again in the pocket, still beneath the constriction.
“Fair, just fair, Jack. The water’s getting close to his chest and he’s pretty beat-up and fatigued.”
“O’Reilly, I tell you I have something you want.” It was de Silva again.
“I know, just try to make it to the surface so I can enjoy it.”
“O’Reilly, I have the key to the Chinese man’s irons.”
The only sounds in the dark enclosure was heavy breathing through the mouths of four desperate men.
“Really, I have it and I could make it through the bulkhead and pass the key to your friend,” the count said. “The only thing I ask in return is your word. Your word that you and your men don’t kill me when we reach the surface.”
Jack’s insides twisted into a knot. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything.
“Jack, damn it. If he has the damn keys it’s going to be our only chance. I think Quen-Li’s getting weaker,” Paul urged.
Again silence.
At last, Jack spoke. “De Silva, you may have the one thing on this earth that can save you from me. Listen carefully: hand those keys to my friend, then with his help you enter through the bulkhead. When the men chop through from the outside there will be confusion. Paul’s not a strong swimmer. If you help him bring Quen-Li to the surface—if they both arrive at the ship alive and well—I—I swear not to kill you.”
“And none of your men—”
“Shut your face, don’t dare trifle or bargain with me!” Jack’s scream echoed in the hollow chamber. “You heard the terms. Now bring the key or what happens from here on won’t matter for you.”
Jack listened in the darkness as Paul and de Silva scrabbled through wooden beams and wreckage he could only catch vague glimpses of. After several minutes, Paul was near Jack and lifting Quen-Li’s good arm. The clinking of iron keys was bell-like in the underwater tomb. Suddenly, de Silva’s voice broke the silence; he was now in the compartment with the others. “Wait, wait… the Chinaman, he must promise, too.”
Quen-Li responded in almost a whisper with a tone as cold as a rapier, “The emperor of China does not make bargains.”
“There, I knew it. Treachery! This one is an animal. He killed my men like they were—”
“Shut up, de Silva, if you want to live,” Jack said. “I won’t tell you again.” Then to Quen-Li, “Damn it all, listen to me. It’s not just your life now, it’s Paul’s. Let’s get this over. Promise the bastard!”
After a seemingly endless silence, Quen-Li spoke: “De Silva, in deference to my friends—and my young captain who has to make an even greater sacrifice than I in not snuffing your miserable life, I—I agree not to kill you—for a while.”
“A while?”
“If you help us to the surface I will give you thirty moons of life. My final offer.”
“Done, done.” The count handed Paul the keys. “Go ahead and unlock him.”
There was a clanking of steel and a jangle as links fell loose into the water below. “He’s free, Jack!” blurted Paul.
“Thank God, but you’ve got to start pounding quick. I think this ship is shifting—the water’s raised another three inches while we’ve been talking. Pound, damn it. It’s critical they come in at just the right point or they might still let the air out and not free you.”
Paul lifted Quen-Li higher, to a more comfortable position. “Now for the wine,” he told Jack.
“You’re daft,” said Jack.
Paul retrieved the bottle from its perch and poured off the top quarter of the liquid. “Probably seawater,” he said by way of explanation. He raised the bottle and drank deeply, turned quickly, and offered some to Quen-Li. The Chinese man had learned not to question Paul’s odd behavior and he too took a draught.
“Paul, for the sake of Christ!”
Paul offered the bottle to the count. “De Silva?” The count waved off the young lunatic. He next proferred it to Jack. “Jack?”
“What the hell,” he said, grabbing the bottle and taking a deep swig. “Are you happy now?”
“Getting there. Now listen.” Paul poured the rest of the wine onto the surface of the water, like a priest making a benediction. “This wine bottle may be our salvation.”
Paul thrust the empty bottle upside down into the water next to Jack. “There’s a name written down the blown glass, Jack. I think it’s Sobrett—tell me exactly where the water’s stopped that forced its way into the bottle when I pushed it down.”
A glimmer of comprehension formed in Jack’s mind. He let his eyes adjust and, reemerging said, “It hits the bottom of the R. Yeah, a bubble starts right at the bottom of the R.”
“I can’t be sure of this, old friend, but the way I reckon is, if you head back down, never inverting this bottle, and then ascend back up the hull, never going to the surface… you’ll find a place on the hull where the bubble goes back exactly to the bottom of the R. That, my friend, should be precisely the same depth as in here. Once you know that, there’s only one thin line along the hull that can be the right place. You run your ear along the line till the pounding is loudest—that’s where you need to break through.”
Jack absorbed his friend’s words with amazement. He didn’t know the physics involved but somehow it made sense.
“And listen,” Paul added. “If you’re off a couple of feet this way or that, it won’t matter much as long as the hole is correct relative to the depth of the air pocket—once you’re sure of that from watching the bottle, go for it.”
A moment later Jack was swimming for all he was worth back to the barrel. He carefully held the bottle upside down and away from the air he breathed from the bell. Then he streaked off again for the surface, bubbles streaming out of his nose.
Halfway to the surface, Jack could see and hear Klett and the Belaurans off to his side slamming axes and picks into the hull of the Spanish ship with frantic movements. He broke from the up-line and swam toward them.
He saw that by the time he reached the rescue party, although he could clearly hear the banging, the bubble in the bottle had pushed past the R. They were at the right frame but the wrong depth by a good five vertical feet. Placing the bottle directly on the hull, he traced it back down until the bubble matched where it had been inside the base of the air pocket.
His lungs bursting, he smashed the bottle into the hull at the exact point. It broke, simultaneously making a distinct white scar in the fouling that covered the wood. By now the others had seen him; when he lunged for the surface with the last of his air, they followed.