Grantville Gazette.Volume 22 Page 8

  ***

  Miquel couldn't believe his luck. Not only did he have the chance of a job, but it was a well-paying one. If he got this job there would be no more sailor's hostel and miserable day laborer's wages. The Americans were offering employment for a whole quarter, by which time he should be able to secure a place on a ship out of Luebeck.

  He looked down at the scrawled note from the hiring hall. It was in German, which he couldn't read. He approached a dockworker for help.

  Travemunde, Luebeck Bay

  Miquel knocked hesitantly on the door he'd been directed toward.

  "Come on in, the door's open."

  Miquel paused. That request had been in English. He knew enough of the language to recognize the instruction, but the accent was new. He pushed open the door to find two young men sitting at a table. "I am Miquel. I have come about the job, the diving job."

  Miquel's English was fractured, and it was immediately obvious that the two young men had difficulty understanding him. He thrust the note from the hiring hall towards one of them.

  Sam accepted the note, read it, and then passed it to his brother. "You have come about the diving job?"

  Miquel was relieved that they spoke German, a language he knew reasonably well. "Yes, the diving job. I am a good diver. I dive for coral off the Isla del Aire."

  "Where's that?" Al asked.

  "It is an island off the southern tip of Menorca."

  Sam shook his head. "Never heard of it. Where's Menorca, Miquel?"

  Miquel tried to keep the disbelief off his face. How could they not know where Menorca was? They were up-timers; they were supposed to know everything. "It is the northernmost of the Islas Baleares." This time Miquel saw the blank looks and preempted the question. "They are islands off the Spanish mainland, east of Valencia."

  "I guess if its east of the mainland it has to be in the Mediterranean." Sam said.

  Miquel was surprised that the up-timer could even work out that detail. "Yes, the Mediterranean."

  "A coral diver. Hey, Al, that's better than we expected. Miquel, welcome to the team."

  That night

  "You know what?" Al asked.

  Sam rolled in his bunk and looked through the shadows toward his brother. "What?"

  "I don't think Miquel knows about what happened in Copenhagen."

  "How could he not know? It must have been in all the papers."

  "Yeah, but I don't think he can read and write."

  Sam considered that for a few moments. "Do we tell him?"

  "Nah! Let's just make sure he understands about the non-return valve and what it's there for. Then when he finally hears the story, he'll understand that he hasn't been at risk."

  "Okay. Now try and get some sleep. We have to start teaching Miquel how to use the dive suit in the morning."

  Late June

  Miquel peeked over the salvage assessor's shoulder. He couldn't read the writing, but he could read the numbers. They were low, but a fair assessment of the collection of junk which was all he'd been finding. Hefollowed the assessor into the office where Sam and Al were working.

  "The assessment, gentlemen," Gotthard vonHoveln said, handing his clip board over to Al. "If this is the best you're finding on the wreck then I will authorize the final breaking up of the wreck and you may proceed to the Falken."

  "You think there's anything else to find, Miquel?" Al asked.

  "No. The wreck was pretty much picked clean before we started. About the only thing of any value we found were her anchors."

  "Right, then I guess we blow this wreck to pieces and move onto the Falken. "

  Miquel was happy to hear that. Whereas the other ships had sunk in barely a dozen feet of water-easy pickings for anybody with a boat, or willing to risk walking on the ice when the river froze during the winter-the Falken had sunk in probably the deepest hole in the Trave. With only the tops of her upper galleries breaking the surface she had to be in a hole at least thirty feet deep. That should have put the gun deck and the hold out of easy reach. The pickings should be better.

  A couple of days later

  Al walked into the cabin with a letter in his hand. "Sam, we've got a problem."

  "How do you mean?"

  "The admiral wants us in Copenhagen as soon as possible."

  "So we go to Copenhagen. Where's the problem?" Sam asked.

  "You're forgetting the little matter of the city fathers and their deep water channel. They're going to insist we finish what we started.

  "

  "Oh!"

  "Yeah, oh! Miquel's competent, and the surface crews are well drilled, but for safety's sake we're going to have to find an assistant diver for Miquel before we can head for Copenhagen."

  "Hell, it took long enough to find Miquel." Sam sighed. "Maybe he's got a friend."

  "I don't think so. He spends nearly all his time on the dive tender."

  "So what do we do now?"

  "Send out an S.O.S. to the Navy. If they want us in Copenhagen, they need to find us a new diver to finish clearing the channel."

  ***

  Hard hat diving. Matt Tisdel never thought he'd ever be doing that, but that was the assignment he'd been offered. There had been a few carrots attached. With the reputation of hard hat diving having taken a real dive with the stories coming out of Copenhagen, the Navy had been generous with its bribes.

  He checked his travel orders. Yep, he was in the right place. He tossed his sea bags onto his shoulders and walked past the dive tender toward the office.

  Matt had filled out a bit since Al had last seen him and it took a few seconds before recognition dawned. "Matt, what brings you here?"

  "The Navy sent me."

  Al gestured to a chair. "Take a seat. Actually we asked the Navy to ask if you were interested in doing some salvage diving, but that was a month ago."

  "Well, I got my orders just a couple of days ago. Maybe they thought you still wanted me."

  Sam poked his head through the door. "Hey, Matt. What brings you here?"

  "The Navy sent him," Al answered.

  "Does that mean I don't have to send that S.O.S.?" Sam asked.

  "S. O. S.?"

  "We just got instructions from Admiral Simpson to head to Copenhagen and we were wondering how we could be in two places at once. It seems you're the Navy's answer," Al explained. "So, first question how's your Spanish?"

  "Spanish? Okay I guess. I've been in Ms. DiCastro's Spanish class the last three years, why?"

  "Because your co-diver's a Spaniard. His English is lousy, and his German isn't a lot better. Come on through and we'll introduce you to Miquel.

  Two weeks later

  Miquel looked at the gun deck and swore. There was barely five and half feet of head room. Normally that wouldn't present a problem, but with the dive helmet on he couldn't stand up without banging his head. That meant he would have to go in on his knees. He pulled in enough line and air hose to give him some slack and went in.

  He stumped along on his knees, dragging his weighted feet behind. Every couple of steps he reached out with his barge pole, searching in the dark for anything that might be interesting. There wasn't much though. When the Mortons sank the Falken they'd been a little over-enthusiastic. The blast that sank her had sent nearly every cannon on the Falken rolling around. He and Matt had managed to salvage the lighter cannon from the top decks and some through the gun ports, but Miquel expected to find the heaviest of them in one big tangled mess somewhere on the gun deck.

  He tugged on his lines, telling Matt to give him some more slack, and moved forward on his knees, trying to keep his head high without hitting it on the low beams.

  Further into the gun deck he hooked onto something solid. He worked his way closer until he was finally right on top of his discovery. It was a cannon, and one still attached to its carriage at that. He felt through his lines looking for the thick leader line. Hauling on the leader he soon had a heavy hauling line. He tied that around the cannon
and worked his way back to Matt. Together they hauled on the line, to no effect.

  Miquel sighed. It was too heavy and too entangled. He signaled to Matt that they should surface.

  ***

  Miquel sat at the unsuiting area staring out to where the Falken just broke the surface. "The cannon are in a tangled mess and we can't move them," he told Daniel Spieker.

  "What about making a lifting bag and using one of the spare air hoses to fill it?" Matt asked.

  "Not enough height on the gun deck, Matt," Daniel said. "We'd need a bag about five feet in diameter, and with the gun deck barely five and half feet high, well, I'm sure you see the problem."

  "Then what about cutting open the deck and lifting them straight up?" Matt asked.

  "Cutting the deck with what?" Miquel asked. "Those decks have to be three or four inches thick. Using a saw underwater would take forever."

  "What about explosives?" Matt asked.

  "Do we have any, Daniel?" Miquel asked.

  "No. The Mortons took it all with them to Copenhagen."

  "Can't we order some more through the Navy?" Matt asked.

  Miquel thought about it. Explosives would surely be a quick way to make a hole in the Falken's deck. "Daniel, would you write up a request for me and see that the Navy gets it?"

  A week later

  When he suggested ordering some explosives through the Navy, Matt had firmly expected it to arrive complete with someone skilled in its use. He'd been wrong. What they got was a demolitions kit, complete with a simple instruction booklet. The Mortons wouldn't have had any problems with what was sent, but they weren't in Luebeck.

  Matt read through the booklet. On the face of it there wasn't much to working with explosives. You prepared your charge. Placed it where you wanted it. Set the detonator and after retiring a safe distance, set it off. It sounded simple. Too simple. "Miquel, I'd feel a lot better about this if we did a little experimenting with really small charges until we're confident enough to set a big charge."

  "Nonsense, Matt. Sam and Al never played around with small practice charges. They went straight in and set their main charges. I have seen them do it. Read the manual and we'll see about setting our charges."

  Matt sighed. It was times like this he wished Miquel could read. Then he'd know that Sam and Al didn't exactly follow best practice when using explosives. However, Miquel was the boss, and anyway, he wanted to see if he could do it.

  "Okay, but I'll be placing the charges in snorkeling gear. There's no way I'm going to handle explosives for the first time in a dive suit."

  "Whatever makes you happy, Matt."

  ***

  Matt swam to the surface unrolling the spool of wire as he went. He handed the spool to Miquel and hauled himself onto the dive tender. "That's done. Give the order to clear the water while I connect the wires to the blasting box."

  While Miquel hurried off to order everyone out of the water Matt connected the wires to the blasting box. When that was finished, Miquel was standing beside him. "All clear?" he asked.

  "All clear," Miquel confirmed.

  Matt nodded and started loudly calling out the countdown. "Blasting in five, four, three, two, one…"

  BOOM!

  The water over the middle of the wreck erupted.

  "I hope that doesn't mean we used too much," Miquel commented.

  "I used as much as the formulas said I needed to cut through those main beams, Miquel. What is it you're worried about?"

  "If the blast was that violent on the surface, might it not have also blasted the gun deck? We don't want to make a hole in the roof just to find the cannon have fallen through a hole in the floor."

  Matt stared at the wreck. Miquel had a point. The blast could have damaged the gun deck. "It should be okay. There's at least five feet of water between the charges and the gun deck. Anyway, we'll know soon enough."

  ***

  Less than a quarter of an hour later Matt was back in the water in his snorkeling rig swimming around on the surface examining the hole he'd made in the Falken's deck. Satisfied that there were not going to be any danger he took a deep breath and duck-dived down for a closer look. The hole was a little bigger than he'd planned, and the edges had a lot of sharp splinters that might catch on the lines or air hoses. Whoever was acting as dive assistant would have to take special care at that point. He poked his head through the hole and looked around. With the additional light his new hole let in, he could make out the tangle of cannon and the ropes that should have restrained them. They were still going to have fun getting the cannon out, but the hole would certainly make things a lot easier.

  Later that day

  Matt accepted the rope from Miquel and looped it around the top cannon. When he was satisfied he tugged on a signal line and settled back in the gun deck well away from the cannon should it swing about when it lifted.

  Matt found himself counting the hiss-click of his non-return valve as he waited for the cannon to start moving. Well into the four hundreds it finally started to move. Matt stopped counting and signaled Miquel.

  Slowly the cannon lifted, trailing thick ropes. It was going to be his job to deal with the ropes if they caught on anything.

  The cannon rose only a few inches before its progress was stopped by a rope. Matt stumped forward in his weighted boots and pulled on the offending ropes. That didn't achieve anything. Above water they'd use an axe to cut the rope, but that wasn't possible underwater. Matt had to saw at it with a machete-like blade.

  After a few minutes sawing, he swapped hands. A few minutes later, he swapped back. Sweat was starting to run down his face, and the face plate was starting to fog up. There was nothing he could do about the sweat, but he could clear his face plate. He stopped sawing at the rope to suck in some water through the spit cock and sprayed it on the glass. Then he spent the next few minutes futilely trying to remove the foul taste of the river from his tongue.

  Eventually he cut through the rope and the cannon rose again. To be stopped by another rope. Matt sighed and moved in to cut it away.

  Matt was completely exhausted even before the cannon was freed. Watching it slowly ascend he signaled to Miquel that he needed to talk. This was way too much like hard work.

  ***

  "How long did it take to clear that cannon?" Matt asked.

  "You were down a bit over two hours," Daniel answered.

  Matt turned to Miquel. "At this rate we could be here until Christmas. There has to be an easier way to cut those ropes."

  "How would you cut them up-time?" Miquel asked.

  "Cutting shears, I suppose."

  "Well, we don't have any. Any other ideas?"

  Matt shook his head. "No, but could we at least attach the cutting blade to a pole? Every time I had to crawl under the cannon to cut a rope I was terrified it was going to fall."

  "Daniel?" Miquel asked.

  "Sure, I can do that. I should have thought of it earlier actually. With a pole you should be able to use both hands and put more power into each cut."

  "That would be great, Daniel. It was darned hard work doing it one handed," Matt said.

  Two hours later

  Miquel paused in his sawing and tried to relax his shoulders. If this was how it felt using Daniel's new cutting pole he could only admire Matt's perseverance with the hand blade. It might not take them until Christmas as Matt had suggested, but it was going to take several days to get to the bottom of the tangled pile of cannon.

  That evening

  Matt sank lower into the steaming bathtub. "I'm going to need a new set of shoulders tomorrow."

  "You weak Americans. A little real work and you're out of work for a week."

  Matt snorted. "And I didn't hear a certain Spaniard complaining about his sore shoulders?"

  "No, that was just your over-active imagination. There are no Spaniards here."

  "This ignorant American thinks that the Balearic Islands are part of Spain."

  "Then the ignor
ant American is truly ignorant."

  "Yeah, anyway, what are your plans for when we finish clearing out the Falken?"

  "I was hoping just to save a little money and then get a place on a ship out of Luebeck, but since using the new diving equipment I've been thinking about buying a couple of the new snorkeling sets and trying my luck doing salvage work in the Caribbean."

  "You mean treasure hunting?"

  "Yes. On my last trip to the Caribbean, I was able to dive on the site of the Santa Margarita."

  Matt heard a heavy sigh from Miquel. "What's the problem?"

  "A snorkeling set will be better than what I used last time, but I would still be limited to a few minutes at a time. What I need is a hardhat suit. The trouble is, I can never afford one."

  "Hey, for a share of anything you can find I'm willing to chip in some of my savings and anything we get as a bonus from this job."

  "Thank you, Matt, but even if we recover all the cannon our shares wouldn't be enough for a full hard hat rig."

  "Don't forget the cannon balls."

  "Yes, Matt, one shouldn't forget the cannon balls. There are many thousands of them, and we will have to lift each one to the surface. You think cutting the ropes today was bad, wait until you have individually picked up three or four thousand cannon balls. It is no picnic."

  Matt could feel his shoulders tighten at the thought of lifting that many cannon balls. "Does it have to be a hard hat? Why not SCUBA? How deep are you planning on diving?"

  "The waters where the Santa Margarita was lost were a little over forty feet deep."

  "At those depths in the Caribbean you won't need a dive suit. Why don't we talk to the guy who made the helmets and see if he can make us a SCUBA rig?"

  Workshop of Asmus Brockmann

  Asmus put aside the books Matt and Miquel had provided and sat back in his chair. Closing his eyes he thought about the SCUBA rig the American and his colleague wanted.