The Death Warrant
THREE men leaned against the charting table on the bridge of the anchored Stingaree. Their chins were rested on their palms and their eyes were intent on the shaded tracings on an aged yellow parchment chart.
Across the room, on a leather transom, sat Vick Stanton, clothed in white sailor pants, a seaman’s blouse and tennis shoes. Wisps of shining blond hair escaped from under the yachting cap she wore, and in spite of the masculine garb, she looked appealingly feminine. From time to time her eyes wandered out across the blue water of the Windward Passage, which terminated in the harsh brown landscape that was Haiti, but her glance always returned to Hawk Ridley.
On Hawk’s right was Gregory, and on his left was Stokey Watts, his assistant diver. Stokey had a certain chunky stolidness that belied the adventurous nature of his chosen work, and from his manner one might have guessed that he was cautious, rather than venturesome.
He traced a stubby finger down the coastline of Haiti, and then tapped the red X that stood out boldly against the aged yellow scroll.
“This must be the spot,” he said. “It checks with the coastline to a hair.”
“I think so, too,” said Captain Gregory, “but you never can tell. Those Spaniards weren’t so accurate about their charts in those days.”
“Maybe not,” said Stokey. “But it seems to me that if I was a captain of a gold-bearing galleon and I lost my ship on a reef, I’d mark it accurate, whether I was Spanish or Greek. Nobody is going to make a mistake in plotting the position of three tons or so of gold.”
“We’re right,” Hawk assured them. “The only thing I’m worrying about is whether the ship is on a hard bottom, or whether she’s gone to pieces and sunk in the ooze. If she’s on hard coral, she might have drifted quite a ways from the spot. See here. This is the reef the galleon hit, and here is where she floated off and sank. They didn’t know how deep it was there, and we’re not sure that our drag is in the wreck. But I’m betting that I can locate the thing in a day.”
“Even if she’s gone to pieces,” said Stokey, “this construction map you got in Spain will tell us what part of the ship to look under. Y’know, come to think of it, Hawk, this position chart isn’t much good unless it’s backed up with the plans of the galleon.”
“You’re not the only one that knows that,” Hawk grinned. “Mercer was hellbent on getting this chart.” He traced the outline of the wolf’s head of Haiti all the way around and came back to the cross. “Anybody with a few weeks to look around could find the thing.”
Stokey stepped back and brushed back a lock of red hair. “Well, there’s no use standing here all day chinning about it. Who’s going to take the first dive, Hawk, you or me?”
“I will.” Hawk folded up the charts and thrust them into his shirt front. “Go on forward and rout out the crews. I’ll be there as soon as you get the gear set up.” He walked out to the deck and stood for a moment gazing across the unbelievably blue water. He was about to walk on down the superstructure when he felt the light touch of a hand on his arm. Vick.
“All set?” she said.
“And rarin’ to go!” Hawk pointed down. “In twenty minutes I’ll be walking around a hundred feet beneath you.”
Vick’s smile faded. “There isn’t any danger to it, is there? No sharks, or anything like that?”
Hawk laughed down at her. “Maybe, and maybe not. Sometimes a shark makes a pass at you, but not often, and as far as these waters go, there’s little else to worry about—that is, that a diver can’t avoid if he uses his head. It’s pretty light down there on a bright day like this.”
“You know, Hawk, you never asked me any questions on the way down. I hope you don’t think that I…that…”
“What’s the need of questions?” Hawk smiled. “I never do any prying into other people’s business. You came aboard in trouble, and unless you wanted to tell me the story, it wasn’t necessary.”
The troubled look in her eyes was still there. “I heard some of the men talking, and they think I’m in Mercer’s pay just because my father is Charles Stanton. Do you think so?”
Taken aback by her directness, Hawk laid both hands on the rail and looked out toward the mountains of Haiti. “Don’t worry about it, Vick. I don’t think you’d double-cross me.”
She smiled at that and raised her head in sudden decision. “There’s one thing I know that you should know. Maybe it will help you. I heard that Chuck Mercer was fixing up some different kind of boat to come down here and put you out of business. You can take that for what it’s worth to you. I don’t know anything more than that—and that was just a rumor.”
Hawk regarded her soberly. “Then it’s pretty certain that Ocean Salvage is going to make a fight for the bullion?”
Vick looked down at the steel plates of the deck, then back at Hawk. “Yes, pretty certain.”
Before he could say more, Hawk heard Stokey’s call from the forward well deck, and he turned away, to clatter down toward the array of diving equipment which had been laid out below.
Seating himself on a three-legged stool, Hawk allowed his “bears” to pull the rubber and canvas diving suit over his legs. The two men worked silently and quickly at the lacings, and then helped him to his feet, so that he could pull on the rest of the outfit.
Vick stood by the landing stage and watched the procedure with critical eyes, and when Hawk looked up she gave him a smile.
The two sixteen-pound shoes had been strapped on, the eighty pounds of lead belts were in place, the corselet had been screwed down tight over the bib, and Hawk was inspecting the helmet one of his bears held out to him.
Vick came and stood beside Hawk. “Let me put your helmet on for you—maybe it will bring you some good luck,” she said.
“Go to it,” Hawk laughed. “In the old days, ladies set a knight’s helmet in place, didn’t they?”
With fingers quick and sure, Vick slid the copper globe over his head and fitted it securely on the glinting corselet. In a few seconds all the dogs were expertly battened, and the dress was complete.
“Well done!” Hawk applauded through the plate-glass window at the helmet’s front. “You must know something about this game, Vick.”
She shook her head, and stood back to let him step up on the lowering stage.
A winch creaked and groaned as it took in enough cable to swing the stage over the rail, and then, amid a cloud of steam, lowered the platform down to the level of the sea.
As he went toward the water, Hawk flexed his arms stiffly and looked at the weather-beaten side of the Stingaree as it crept past his window. His thoughts were on the task before him. Down below on a sandy floor was the wreck of a galleon centuries old, and in that wreck three tons of gold bullion….
The sight of crude lettering on the side of the ship snapped across his thoughts. He felt dizzy, as though he had been spun about. For there, written in white chalk on the steel plates, were the ugly words, “Death at Twenty Fathoms!”
An involuntary gasp escaped Hawk’s compressed lips. The import and the source of the legend were plain. Someone had written that warning to frighten the Stingaree away from the task of salvaging the gold.
“Haul me back!” Hawk snapped into the telephone.
The startled winch operator followed the order, and in a moment the stage swayed close to the side of the rail where the crew stood, puzzled and questioning. Hawk waved to Stokey to board the platform, and Stokey obeyed with all the alacrity of which his chunky body was capable.
Through his opened helmet window, Hawk said but a single word: “Look!” And he pointed at the writing which had been invisible from the deck.
Stokey read the words with bugging eyes. “What the devil! Who’s responsible for that?”
“Mercer,” said Hawk without hesitation. “He put that there while we were still in New York and we never noticed it until now. I wanted you to see it, so you wouldn’t be jarred out of your boots by it tomorrow.”
“You don’t suppose there’s anything behind that, do you?” Stokey was plainly shaken. “Maybe a trap’s been laid, or something like that.”
“Don’t be foolish!” said Hawk. “That only means that we’re going to have to keep a sharp lookout for boats. Tell Gregory that if he sees any strange craft around here to let me know immediately, and to take every precaution necessary to keep them away from us.”
“You don’t suppose this girl—” began Stokey.
“No. She hasn’t got a thing to do with it! Now go back up and warn Gregory against strange ships and boats.”
Stokey looked as though he were about to push his theory further, but he caught a certain glint in his chief’s eyes and silently swung himself back to the deck.
Once again the stage was lowered toward the water, and in spite of himself, the words “Death at Twenty Fathoms!” sent a chill racing down Hawk’s back. The last thing he saw before the waves buried his glinting headgear were the words and, above them, the anxious face of Vick Stanton as she watched him out of sight.
Sunlight shot through the blue water and the waves made the stabbing rays flicker weirdly through the undersea twilight. Bubbles were rushing upward from the helmet in a silver trail, to burst on the surface in farewell to those watching from the deck. The sound of escaping air mingled with the dull throb of the compressor motor and the crackle of the telephone. Hawk gave an air valve a half turn and felt the suit puff away from him as it filled. He let go one of the platform braces, placed his hand in the region of his heart and surprised himself by feeling the beat of it through a layer of wool, two thicknesses of twill and a layer of rubber. Something seemed to choke him, and he moved his head away from the corselet, only to realize that the pressure was from within and not from without.
“You’re yellow,” he muttered to himself. “You’ve got a yellow streak a yard wide up and down your spine.” Then he looked out and saw a striped small fish which resembled a convict. “Hello,” Hawk greeted, feeling somewhat silly for saying it. “How is it downstairs? Chilly, huh?”
The fish’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed.
“O, yourself!” Hawk grinned, feeling better for his nonsense.
The blue water gradually changed to indigo, until the electric lamp Hawk carried threw out the only noticeable light. Deepwater denizens swam up and regarded the strange, round-headed being on the stage, and then went off to tell their neighbors about it. A barnacled shark saw the light and headed for it, blinking and rolling from side to side in anticipation. Hawk felt of the knife in his belt and turned his powerful light until it caught the cruel glint of the sea beast’s eyes. The shark swerved away, came back to stare, and then shot upward out of sight.
“You’re yellow, too,” Hawk said. He felt the platform come to rest against the bottom, and pressed his chin against the buzzer plate in his helmet. “Hello, Sleepy! I’m down!”
“Twenty fathom,” came back to him. “Twenty fathom, and everything okay.”
“Death at Twenty Fathoms,” said Hawk to himself. And then into the phone: “It’s black as coal down here. Better tighten up on the lifeline.”
The lamp threw its blurry square of light on a waving forest of graceful shrubs which danced silently and slowly in the current, and Hawk leaned forward and placed a foot on the white sand floor of the Windward Passage. Above, he could see an occasional shaft of light filtering through and a dark blob which was the hull of the Stingaree. Ahead, he caught the glint of the iron anchor chain from the ship. He was in a familiar world, doing a familiar job, but there was a thickness in his throat, and a bristly feeling up and down his spine which ordered him, for the first time in his tempestuous career, to go slow.