Novel - Airman (11 page)

Billtoe took Conor by the scruff, urging him onto the ladder. “That’s enough out of you, Pike. This is Marshall Bonvilain’s special boy, remember? He needs to be looked after.”

Pike’s expression changed from wheedling to leering. “Ah, the special boy. The little prince. Send him down. I have a few rams waiting to bump horns with him.”

Sheep again. What could it mean?
Billtoe stepped on Conor’s fingers, forcing him down a rung. “Down you go, Conor Finn. Don’t make me break your fingers. These are good boots, and Salt blood would ruin ’em on me.”

There was a curious, expectant silence as Conor climbed down into the pit. He could feel the temperature drop with every rung, until the cold of the water crept from its surface like an invisible cowl draping itself heavily on Conor’s shoulders. He was really scared during the descent. Almost too petrified to move, but gravity tugged at his bones, helping him on his way.

The mad wing convicts were a motley lot, favoring the stony stare, a slack-jawed demeanor. They glared at Conor with loathing and fear, and the threat of harm hung heavy in the salty air. For long moments, the only sounds were creaking ladder and the gentle slap of water on rock.

Finally Conor arrived at the water’s surface, feeling like an enemy flag under the hammering gaze of so many hostiles. Billtoe stepped down behind him and pointed at the diving bell. “That there is
Flora
. You know what she is, Salt?”

Conor mumbled his reply. “She’s a diving bell.”

“No, turf head. She’s a . . .” Billtoe was frustrated to have his information stolen. He poked Conor in the chest with a rigid finger. “Yes, she
is
a diving bell. And because you know all about it, you can be first into her.
Flora
has been out of service for several years, but I’m sure all is well with her fittings.”

Conor forced himself to study the bell, though all he wanted to do was clasp his knees in a quiet corner and cry for the bad luck that had cursed him. The bell seemed sound enough, though deeply gouged by stone in several places. She was suspended by a network of chains that hitched to an iron hoop dangling over its prow. The hoop in turn fed half a dozen more chains to the scaffolding above. The chains seemed as ancient as the bell, with several rust-dappled links shedding flakes as they swung. A cracked rubber hose poked from the top of the bell, snaking upward to a hand-cranked bellows affair, which Conor presumed to be an ancient air pump. The pump was being cranked by two inmates. One was racked with consumptive coughing fits and the other paused regularly to spit tobacco phlegm onto the rocks. Not the ideal pair for the job. Conor would not rely on either to supply enough oxygen to fuel the lungs of a small dog.

Billtoe stepped well back and called out his command to a guard above.

“Lower her down. Do not break the hose, or the warden will tan all our hides.”

The diving bell descended in fits, according to the strength of the inmates bearing the strain and the clumsy coiling of chains on the previous use. Some of the links had fused in tangled knots and now popped free, sending the diving bell lurching and swinging. The cavern walls resounded with irregular clangs and bongs, causing anyone with free hands to cover their ears.

“Hell’s bells, man!” Billtoe called up to his comrade. “It sounds like drunk day in St. Christopher’s in here.” Saint Christopher had been adopted by the Trudeaus as the Saltees’ patron saint. The church on Great Saltee bore his name.

“It ain’t my fault, Billtoe,” retorted the guard. “She’s coming, ain’t she? Mind I don’t land her on your head.” It was said only in jest, but Billtoe stepped aside smartish just the same.
Flora
swung lower, like a skittish baby monkey on a rope, until eventually she splashed into the black water, sending wave rings rushing to the rocks.

“Every day,” sighed Billtoe, mopping his brow with a kerchief. “We have to go through this blasted rigmarole every day from this out.” He turned his attention and annoyance on the prisoners on the pumps. “Crank! You apron-tugging, turnip-brained scatterfools.”

“Yes, boss,” they mumbled and set to pumping the bellows, sending air through the rubber hose and into the bell itself. The hose wriggled and flipped as the air inflated it slightly. The bell sank slowly into the sea, emitting a curious shivering hum as the water caressed its surface.

Billtoe elbowed Conor. “You hear that, soldier boy? We call that the siren’s song. Because it’s the last sound many of you Salts hear. Lord, I had forgotten how soothing it was.”

A band of glass with rubber seals was set into the diving bell’s dome. The window was covered with a scree of algae and filth that made it impossible to see through. Billtoe followed Conor’s gaze. “Yes, pity about that port. Filthy as a beggar’s britches. We won’t be seeing much of what goes on in there today. I do hope and pray there are no unfortunate accidents.”

Conor had little doubt that whatever was coming would be unfortunate for him, but it would be no accident. Billtoe meant to break him in the bell. This whole affair was becoming nightmarish. He recoiled from the guard as he would from a brandished torch.

“What are you twitching for, boy?” asked Billtoe. “Crazed so soon? You’d best be keeping your wits about you in the bell.”

Surprisingly, these were bordering on words of wisdom from the prison guard. They were meant as a warning, and Conor took them as one. Whatever his problems, he’d best forget them until he was safe in his cell. Linus Wynter would help him to survive this hellhole, but only if he lived long enough to see him again. While Conor did not believe that the traitor Bonvilain wished him dead, perhaps there was a kind of
sheep
that did not follow orders so well. “What do I need to do?” he asked Billtoe, best to be as prepared as possible.

Billtoe was happy to deliver a lecture. “We lower
Flora
into the Pipe, then you goes down with your partner and chip off diamonds. Simple as bread pudding.” He barked at an inmate loitering at the waterline. “You, fish bait. Give him your belt.”

The man placed a protective hand on his belt. “But, boss. I been polishing these tools for years. Got ’em from my dad.”

Billtoe tapped his head as though there was water lodged in his ears. “What’s this chattering? I hear the chattering of a dead man. Must be leaking through his punctured neck.” Two seconds later, the leather belt was in Conor’s hands. Billtoe ran through the tools. “You got your pick hammer for breaking down the rock. Hammer the rock, then pick out the diamonds, which will resemble nothing more than glassy marbles. Don’t worry about breaking the diamonds; you won’t be able to, because they’re the . . .”

“Hardest substance in nature,” said Conor automatically.

“Hardest substance in nature,” continued Billtoe, then scowled. He reached over and cuffed Conor on the temple. “Don’t be supplying me with information that I am supplying to you. That is a very annoying trait, which I would relish beating out of you.”

Conor nodded, ignoring the pain in his head, just as he was ignoring the other pains.

“This here,” said Billtoe proudly, pointing to a little trident tool, “is a Devil’s Fork. Invented on this very island by one Arthur Billtoe over twenty years ago. Got me a job for life, this little beauty did. Plus, Marshall Bonvilain himself granted me a house on Great Saltee. It’s tele . . . tele . . .”

“Telescopic,” said Conor, thinking that if Billtoe could not even pronounce the word, it was unlikely that he had invented a telescopic tool. More likely he had stolen the idea from an inmate.

“Exactly, telescopic. On the tip of me tongue it was.” Billtoe slipped the fork from its holder and twisted a few rings, extending the tool from eight inches to three feet. “Now yer can wriggle this little beauty into cracks and spear any stones what has fallen down there. Amazing, eh?”

Conor knew enough to nod, though an extendable fork was hardly amazing in anyone’s book. It was practical, though, and canny, and proved that Bonvilain knew a good idea when he saw one.

“So all you have to do, Salt, is swim down there into the bell and dig out as many diamonds as you can until your swing is over. Stash them in your net and bring them back up. Simple as bread pudding. Naturally, we search all the divers; and if we find any stones outside of that net, then I find the biggest bull of a guard on the island and have him flog the thievery out of you. Straight enough for you, little soldier?”

Conor nodded, wondering how close the Pipe was to open sea.

Once more, Billtoe displayed a disturbing ability to anticipate Conor’s very thoughts. “Of course, you may decide to swim for it. The lure of freedom may be too strong for you. Feel free to give it your best. You may even make it—mind you, you’d be the first, and bigger men than you have tried. We still get bodies washing up in the cave, decades after they went in. And do you know something? They all look the same way. Dead.”

Conor cinched the belt around his waist, drawing it tight to the last hole. He could figure no escape from this task. In Greek mythology when the heroes were faced with daunting trials, they went about them with stoic determination and emerged victorious. Conor could not muster an ounce of determination for this trial; all he felt was a weight of exhaustion. And even if he did emerge victorious, his only reward would be more of the same tomorrow, and the day after that.

Billtoe encouraged him with a friendly wink and a jaunty tapping of his fingers upon the pistol stock at his waist. Conor set foot in the water, and the cold gripped him in its icy fist, squeezing the life from his toes. An involuntary gasp escaped his lips, causing much laughter from the assembled men.

Conor took a moment to become used to the water temperature, casting a quick eye around the cave, wondering if there were a single person who would come to his aid. Every gaze he crossed was hostile. These were rugged men in evil surroundings, with little time to waste on sympathy. Conor realized that were it not for their uniforms, it would be impossible to separate the guards from the inmates. He was alone in this endeavor. Fourteen, and alone. This was one of the few occasions in Conor’s life when his father was not there to provide guidance. And if Declan Broekhart
had
been there, perhaps he would have laughed along with the rest of them. It was an unbearable thought.

Though he was without doubt alone, there was something in Conor Broekhart that would not allow him to give in. His mother’s brain and his father’s spirit were strong in his heart. He would endure somehow, and survive. If Conor could return to his cell still breathing, then the American, Linus Wynter, could teach him a lesson or two about Little Saltee.

Push it all from your mind,
he told himself.
Forget your family, the king, Isabella. Forget them all. Just live to think on them another day.
This was easier conceived than achieved, but Conor did the best he could, concentrating on the scene before him, shutting away his torment. He stepped off the rocky ledge, sinking fast into the cold, dark waters of Little Saltee.

For a moment the cold was absolute and it seemed as though nothing could ever be any colder. Conor thrashed his limbs, not from fear but to generate some heat. He had often swum on the Saltee beaches, but the water he was in now had never been blessed with sun. There was nothing to raise the temperature a few degrees.

Conor opened his eyes, peering through the liquid gloom. Below him, he spied a blob of orange, like a fading sun in the grip of black space.
The bell.

It is not so far down,
he told himself.
A chap would have to be a pretty poor swimmer not to make that distance. Ten kicks at most.
Conor duck dived, cupping his hands to better scoop the water. He had always been a good swimmer, and immediately the orange blob assumed its proper bell shape and he could make out the texture of its surface. This tiny success comforted him somewhat.
I am not helpless. I can still do things.

The bell swung gently two feet above the cave bed; air bubbles leaked like pearl strings from a dozen tiny breaches. Conor hooked his fingers under its curved rim and wriggled inside. His efforts were rewarded by air, not by any means sweet or fresh, but air, nonetheless. Conor filled his lungs to capacity, ignoring the rubbery smell and the oily film that instantly coated his nose and throat.

The bell was suspended two feet above the floor of the cave, and the surface below Conor’s feet was uneven, slick, and treacherous. This was not an ideal working environment. The bell itself had a diameter of barely ten feet, and swung in irregular arcs with the current, butting Conor in the shoulder and elbow. He hunched his shoulders as far as possible, protecting his head. The light was murky and wavering.

Conor peered upward but could make out nothing more distinct than vague wavering silhouettes. Perhaps men? Perhaps rocks? It was impossible to tell. But then one of the silhouettes detached itself from the group.

Conor watched with a dread colder than seawater as the figure leaped into the ocean, shattering its surface into a jigsaw of silver crescents. The sound of the splash carried through the bell’s air hole. Another sound carried too; laughter wafting through the pipe like ghost mirth. Dark, vicious, threatening laughter.

Conor choked down absolute terror.
Survive. You can do things. Survive.

Then something flashed past the porthole. A pale limb. Thick and muscled, swatting at the water. And on the forearm, drawn with bold punctures, visible even through a sheen of scum, a tattoo of a horned ram.

A sheep, thought Conor.
Sheep are not for stewing here on Little Saltee.

The figure disappeared from the porthole, pulling itself down the bell curve. Hands slapped at the brass, setting off a cacophony of shuddering clangs inside the bell’s skirt. The clangs reverberated around the diving bell until Conor prayed for silence. Surely his ears were bleeding. Then four thick fingers curled under the bell’s rim, shimmering white in the water.

Each finger was tattooed with a single letter. Even upside down, it didn’t take a scholar to read what the letters promised. P.A.I.N.