The Nautical Chart Part 23

It was true. They had been reviewing the doc.u.ments, the rescued boy's declaration, and the official report, and there was not a single contradiction. The ship's boy had been firm about the lat.i.tude and longitude. And he had the paper in his pocket as proof.

"He was a fine boy," Tanger added. "Loyal as they come."

"So it seems."

'And clever. You remember his testimony? He talks about the cape to the northeast, but doesn't name it. From the position he gave, everyone believed it was Tinoso. But he was careful not to correct them. He never said what cape it was."

Again Coy looked out at the sea through the porthole.

"I suppose," he said, "it was his way of carrying on with the fight."

The sun was well up by now and the mist was burning off. The dark outlines of the coast were becoming clear off their port. Punta de la Chapa emerged with its white lighthouse east of Portman Bay, the Portus Magnus of old, with the slag of abandoned mines on the old Roman highway and silt clogging the cove where ships with eyes painted on their bows had loaded silver ingots before the birth of Christ.

"I wonder what became of him?"

He was referring to the boy's disappearance from the naval hospital. Tanger had her own theory, which she sketched out, leaving Coy to fill in the blank s.p.a.ces. In early February of 1767, the Jesuits could still rely on money and power everywhere, including the maritime district of Cartagena. It was not difficult to bribe the right people and a.s.sure the discreet removal of the ship's boy from center stage. All that was needed was a coach and horses and a safe pa.s.sage to get past the city gates. No doubt agents of the Society arranged for him to leave the hospital before a new interrogation, taking him far away, out of reach, the day after his rescue at sea. "Unauthorized leave," was how it had been noted in the file, which was somewhat irregular for a very young merchant seaman being questioned by the Navy. But that "unauthorized leave" had later been corrected by an anonymous hand and replaced with "approved discharge." And there the trail ended.

It was easy, Coy thought as he listened to Tanger's story. It all fit together, and it took no effort to imagine the night. The deserted corridors of the hospital, the light of a candle, sentinels or guards, their eyes closed by gold, someone arriving, heavily cloaked and with precise instructions, the boy surrounded by trusted agents. Then the empty streets, the clandestine council in the city's Jesuit convent. A serious, quick, tense interrogation, and scowls that eased as it was ascertained that the secret was well guarded. Perhaps claps on the back, approving hands on his shoulder. Good lad. Good, brave lad. Then again the night, and people signaling from a shadowy corner; no hitch in the plan. The coach and horses, the city gates, the open country and star-filled skies. A fifteen-year-old sailor dozing in the coach seat, accustomed from boyhood to far worse jouncing, his sleep watched over by the ghosts of his dead comrades. By the sad smile of Captain Elezcano.

"However," Tanger concluded, "there's something... maybe interesting...maybe strange. The ship's boy was named Palau, Miguel Palau, remember? He was the nephew of Luis Fornet Palau, the Valencian outfitter of the Dei Gloria. Dei Gloria. Maybe it's only a coincidence..." She held up a finger, as if requesting a moment's attention, and then went through the doc.u.ments in the drawer of the chart table. "Here. Look at this. When I was checking names and dates, I consulted some later shipping lists in Viso del Marques, and I came upon a reference to the hoy Maybe it's only a coincidence..." She held up a finger, as if requesting a moment's attention, and then went through the doc.u.ments in the drawer of the chart table. "Here. Look at this. When I was checking names and dates, I consulted some later shipping lists in Viso del Marques, and I came upon a reference to the hoy Mtdata, Mtdata, of Valencia. In 1784 that ship had a battle with the English brig of Valencia. In 1784 that ship had a battle with the English brig Undaunted, Undaunted, near the straits of Formentera. The brig tried to capture her, but the hoy defended herself very well and was able to escape- And do you know what the Spanish captain's name was? M. Palau, the reference said. Like our ship's boy. Even the age is right-fifteen in near the straits of Formentera. The brig tried to capture her, but the hoy defended herself very well and was able to escape- And do you know what the Spanish captain's name was? M. Palau, the reference said. Like our ship's boy. Even the age is right-fifteen in 1767, 1767, thirty-two or thirty-three in 1784." thirty-two or thirty-three in 1784."

She handed Coy a photocopy, and he read the text. "Notice of the events of the fifteenth day of the present month, regarding the engagement between the hoy Mulata Mulata commanded by captain don M. Palau and the English brig commanded by captain don M. Palau and the English brig Undaunted Undaunted off Los Ahorcados island." off Los Ahorcados island."

"If it's the same Palau," said Tanger, "he didn't give up that time either, did he?"

"It is reported before the maritime authority of this port of Ibiza that following a course from Valencia to this locality, when heading for the main channel of the straits at Formentera and in the vicinity of Las Negras and Los Ahorcados, the Spanish hoy Mulata, Mulata, of eight guns, was attacked by the English brig of eight guns, was attacked by the English brig Undaunted, Undaunted, of twelve, which had approached under false French colors and attempted to seize her. Despite the difference in size she sustained heavy fire but with great damage to both sides, and also an attempt to board by the English, who succeeded in getting three men aboard the hoy, there being then three dead heaved into the sea. The vessels separated and very b.l.o.o.d.y combat ensued for the s.p.a.ce of half an hour, until the of twelve, which had approached under false French colors and attempted to seize her. Despite the difference in size she sustained heavy fire but with great damage to both sides, and also an attempt to board by the English, who succeeded in getting three men aboard the hoy, there being then three dead heaved into the sea. The vessels separated and very b.l.o.o.d.y combat ensued for the s.p.a.ce of half an hour, until the Mulata, Mulata, despite an unfavorable wind, was able to pa.s.s to this side of the straits thanks to a maneuver of notorious risk, consisting of slipping through the middle strait, with only four despite an unfavorable wind, was able to pa.s.s to this side of the straits thanks to a maneuver of notorious risk, consisting of slipping through the middle strait, with only four brazas brazas below and very near the reef of La Barqueta; a most uncommonly skillful maneuver that left the English on the other side, their captain not daring to proceed due to conditions of the wind and the uncertainty of the bottom, and the below and very near the reef of La Barqueta; a most uncommonly skillful maneuver that left the English on the other side, their captain not daring to proceed due to conditions of the wind and the uncertainty of the bottom, and the Mulata Mulata able to arrive in this port of Ibiza with four men dead and eleven wounded without further occurrence-" able to arrive in this port of Ibiza with four men dead and eleven wounded without further occurrence-"

Coy handed the copy of the report back to Tanger. Years before, on a sailboat with minimal length and draft, he had pa.s.sed through the middle strait at that very place. Four brazas brazas was less than twenty-two feet, in addition to which, depths diminished rapidly from the center to each side. He remembered well the sinister sight of the bottom through the water. A hoy fitted with guns might have a draft of ten feet, and a contrary wind would make sailing on a straight course very difficult; so whether the ship's boy Miguel Palau and Captain M. Palau were the same man, whoever was captaining the was less than twenty-two feet, in addition to which, depths diminished rapidly from the center to each side. He remembered well the sinister sight of the bottom through the water. A hoy fitted with guns might have a draft of ten feet, and a contrary wind would make sailing on a straight course very difficult; so whether the ship's boy Miguel Palau and Captain M. Palau were the same man, whoever was captaining the Mulata Mulata had very steady nerves. had very steady nerves.

"Maybe the name is just a coincidence."

"Maybe." Tanger was quietly rereading the photocopy before replacing it in the drawer. "But I like to think it was him."

She was quiet for a moment, and then turned to the porthole to focus on the line of the coast revealed by the rising mist, clean and free off the port bow, with the sun shining on the dark rock of Cabo Negrete: "I like to think that that ship's boy went back to sea, and that he continued to be a brave man."

FOR eight days they combed the new search area with the Pathfinder, track by track from north to south, beginning at the eastern edge, in depths from two hundred sixty to sixty feet. Deeper and more open to winds and currents than Mazarr6n cove, the sea was rough, complicating and slowing their job. The bottom was uneven, rock and sand, and both El Piloto and Coy had made frequent dives-necessarily brief because of the depths-to check out irregularities picked up by the sounding device, including an old anchor that had raised their hopes until they identified it as an Admiralty model with an iron shank, one used later than the eighteenth century. By the end of the day, exasperated and exhausted, they would drop anchor near Negrete on nights with little wind, or, if sheltering from levanters and eight days they combed the new search area with the Pathfinder, track by track from north to south, beginning at the eastern edge, in depths from two hundred sixty to sixty feet. Deeper and more open to winds and currents than Mazarr6n cove, the sea was rough, complicating and slowing their job. The bottom was uneven, rock and sand, and both El Piloto and Coy had made frequent dives-necessarily brief because of the depths-to check out irregularities picked up by the sounding device, including an old anchor that had raised their hopes until they identified it as an Admiralty model with an iron shank, one used later than the eighteenth century. By the end of the day, exasperated and exhausted, they would drop anchor near Negrete on nights with little wind, or, if sheltering from levanters and lebeches, lebeches, in the small port at Cabo de Palos. The weather dispatches had announced the formation of a center of low pressure in the Atlantic, and if the storm didn't take a turn to the northeast its effects would take less than a week to arrive in the Mediterranean, forcing them to suspend the search for some time. All this was making them nervous and irritable. El Piloto went entire days without opening his mouth, and Tanger maintained her stubborn watch at the screen in a somber mood, as if each day that went by tore away another shred of hope. One afternoon Coy happened to see the notebook where she had been recording the results of the exploration. There were pages filled with incomprehensible spirals and sinister crosses, and on one the hideously distorted face of a woman, the lines scrawled so hard that in some places the paper was ripped. It was a woman who seemed to be screaming into a void. in the small port at Cabo de Palos. The weather dispatches had announced the formation of a center of low pressure in the Atlantic, and if the storm didn't take a turn to the northeast its effects would take less than a week to arrive in the Mediterranean, forcing them to suspend the search for some time. All this was making them nervous and irritable. El Piloto went entire days without opening his mouth, and Tanger maintained her stubborn watch at the screen in a somber mood, as if each day that went by tore away another shred of hope. One afternoon Coy happened to see the notebook where she had been recording the results of the exploration. There were pages filled with incomprehensible spirals and sinister crosses, and on one the hideously distorted face of a woman, the lines scrawled so hard that in some places the paper was ripped. It was a woman who seemed to be screaming into a void.

Nights were not much more pleasant. El Piloto would say good night and close his door at the bow, and they would bed down, weary, skin smelling of sweat and salt, on mats in one of the cabins at the stern. They came together in silence, seeking each other with an urgency so extreme it seemed artificial, their union intense and brutal, quick and wordless. Each time Coy would seek to prolong the encounter, holding Tanger in his arms as they leaned against the bulkhead, trying to control the body and mind of this unknowable woman. But she would struggle, escape, try to hasten along their lovemaking, investing only breath and flesh, her mind far away, her thoughts unreachable. Sometimes Coy thought she was with him, as he listened to the rhythm of her breathing and felt the kisses of her parted lips, the pressure of her naked thighs around his waist. He would kiss her neck or b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hold her very tight, capturing her wrists, feeling the beat of her pulse on his tongue and groin, thrusting deep inside her, as if he hoped to touch her heart, to saturate it and make it as soft as the moistness he felt inside her. But she would draw back, a prisoner trying to escape his embrace. In the end she refused him the thought he was striving to capture. Her gleaming, remote eyes, boring into him in the shadows, would become absent, somewhere far beyond Coy and the ship and the sea, absorbed in arcane curses of loneliness and blackness. And then her mouth would open to scream, like the woman he had glimpsed in the drawing, a scream of silence that echoed in Coy's gut like the most galling insult. He felt that lament pounding through his veins, and he bit his lips, holding back an anguish that flooded his chest and nose and mouth, as if he were drowning in a viscous sea of sorrow. He wanted to cry the large, copious tears he had wept as a child, incapable of warming the cold shiver of such loneliness. It was a weigjht too heavy to bear. All he had done was read a few books, sail a few years and know a few women. He believed that was why he lacked the right words and the right moves, and he also believed that even his silences were sullen. But he would have given his life to get deep inside her, to filter through the cells of her flesh and slowly, softly, lick that center of her being with all the tenderness he could offer, to clean away the painful and malign tumor left there like ballast by hundreds of years, thousands of men, and millions of lives. That was why each night they were together, once she stopped moving and lay quiet, recovering her breath after the last of her shudders, Coy tenaciously insisted, forgetting himself and lashed by desperation, that he loved her more than anyone or anything. But she had gone away, too far away, and he did not exist; he was an intruder in her world and her instant. And that, he thought with pain, was how it would end. Not with noise, but with a nearly imperceptible sigh. In that moment of indifference, punctual as a verdict, everything in her died, everything was held in suspense as her pulse recovered its normal beat. Again Coy would be aware of the porthole open to the night, and of the cold creeping in from the sea like a biblical curse. He would fall into a desolation as barren as a vast, perfect, polished marble surface. A terrifyingly motionless Sarga.s.so Sea, a nautical chart with names invented by those ancient navigators: Deception Point, Bay of Solitude, Bitterness Bay, Island of G.o.d-Help-Us-AU- Afterward she would kiss him and turn her back, and he would lie on bis back, wavering between loathing for that last kiss and disgust for himself. Eyes staring into the darkness, ears tuned to the water lapping against the Carpanta's Carpanta's hull and to the wind rising in the rigging. Thinking how no one would ever be able to draw the nautical chart that would allow a man to navigate a woman. And with the certainty that Tanger was going to walk out of his life before he possessed her. hull and to the wind rising in the rigging. Thinking how no one would ever be able to draw the nautical chart that would allow a man to navigate a woman. And with the certainty that Tanger was going to walk out of his life before he possessed her.

IT was about that time that I heard from them again. Tanger called me from El Pez Rojo, a restaurant at Cabo de Palos, to ask me about a technical problem that involved an error of half a mile of east longitude. I cleared up the question and inquired with interest as to their progress. She told me everything was going well, many thanks, and that I would be hearing from them. In fact, it was a couple of weeks before I had news of them, and when I did it was from the newspapers, leaving me to feel as stupid as nearly everyone else in this story. But I don't want to get ahead of myself. Tanger made the telephone call one noontime that found the was about that time that I heard from them again. Tanger called me from El Pez Rojo, a restaurant at Cabo de Palos, to ask me about a technical problem that involved an error of half a mile of east longitude. I cleared up the question and inquired with interest as to their progress. She told me everything was going well, many thanks, and that I would be hearing from them. In fact, it was a couple of weeks before I had news of them, and when I did it was from the newspapers, leaving me to feel as stupid as nearly everyone else in this story. But I don't want to get ahead of myself. Tanger made the telephone call one noontime that found the Carpanta Carpanta put up alongside the quay in that old fishing town converted into a tourist haven. The storm in the north Atlantic was still stationary, and the sun was shining on the southeast Iberian Peninsula. The needle of the barometer was high, without crossing over the dangerous vertical to the left, and that was, paradoxically, what had brought them to the small port that stretched around a wide black sand cove, dangerous because of the reefs just below the surface and presided over by the lighthouse tower rising high on a rock set out in the sea. That morning the heat had triggered the appearance of some anvil-shaped, gray, and threatening c.u.mulo-nimbuses that were boiling higher by the minute. A wind of twelve to fifteen knots was blowing in the direction of those clouds, but Coy knew that if this c.u.mulonimbus anvil kept building, by the time the gray ma.s.s was overhead strong squalls would be unleashed on the other side. A silent exchange of glances with El Piloto, whose squint in the same direction deepened the wrinkles around his eyes, was enough for the two sailors to understand one another. El Piloto brought the put up alongside the quay in that old fishing town converted into a tourist haven. The storm in the north Atlantic was still stationary, and the sun was shining on the southeast Iberian Peninsula. The needle of the barometer was high, without crossing over the dangerous vertical to the left, and that was, paradoxically, what had brought them to the small port that stretched around a wide black sand cove, dangerous because of the reefs just below the surface and presided over by the lighthouse tower rising high on a rock set out in the sea. That morning the heat had triggered the appearance of some anvil-shaped, gray, and threatening c.u.mulo-nimbuses that were boiling higher by the minute. A wind of twelve to fifteen knots was blowing in the direction of those clouds, but Coy knew that if this c.u.mulonimbus anvil kept building, by the time the gray ma.s.s was overhead strong squalls would be unleashed on the other side. A silent exchange of glances with El Piloto, whose squint in the same direction deepened the wrinkles around his eyes, was enough for the two sailors to understand one another. El Piloto brought the Carpanta's Carpanta's bow around to face Cabo de Palos. So there they were, on the whitewashed porch of the Pez Rojo, eating fried sardines and salad, and drinking red wine. bow around to face Cabo de Palos. So there they were, on the whitewashed porch of the Pez Rojo, eating fried sardines and salad, and drinking red wine.

'A half a mile more," said Tanger, returning to her seat.

She sounded irritated. She picked up a sardine from the tray, looked at it a minute as if hoping to attribute some portion of responsibility to it, and threw it down with disgust.

"One d.a.m.ned half-mile more," she repeated.

From her lips, that "d.a.m.ned" was almost a curse. It was strange to hear her speak that way, and much stranger to see her lose control. Coy observed her with curiosity.

"It isn't all that serious," he said.

"It's another week."

Her hair was dirty and matted from salt.w.a.ter, her skin shiny from too much sun and not enough soap and water. El Piloto and Coy, after several days without shaving, presented no better picture, and they were equally as sunburned and sweaty. They were all wearing jeans, faded T-shirts and sweatshirts, and sneakers, and signs of their days at sea were clear.

"One whole week," Tanger repeated. 'At least."

She stared somberly at the Carpanta, Carpanta, still lit by the sun and tied up below them at the Muelle de la Barra dock. The gray anvil was gradually darkening the cove, as if someone were slowly drawing a curtain that doused the sun's reflection on small white houses and cobalt-blue water. She's losing hope, Coy thought suddenly. After all this time and all this effort, she's beginning to accept the possibility of failure. Where we're searching now it's deeper, and that may mean that the wreck will be beyond our recovery even if we find it. On top of that, the time allotted for the search is running out, and so is her money. Now, for the first time since who knows when, she knows the feeling of doubt. still lit by the sun and tied up below them at the Muelle de la Barra dock. The gray anvil was gradually darkening the cove, as if someone were slowly drawing a curtain that doused the sun's reflection on small white houses and cobalt-blue water. She's losing hope, Coy thought suddenly. After all this time and all this effort, she's beginning to accept the possibility of failure. Where we're searching now it's deeper, and that may mean that the wreck will be beyond our recovery even if we find it. On top of that, the time allotted for the search is running out, and so is her money. Now, for the first time since who knows when, she knows the feeling of doubt.

He looked at El Piloto. The sailor's gray eyes were silently seconding his conclusions. The adventure was beginning to verge on the absurd. All the data had been verified, but the main thing was missing-the sunken ship. No one doubted it was somewhere out there. From the slight elevation of the restaurant they may even have been looking at the very spot where the brigantine and the corsair had gone down. Maybe they had sailed several times above where it lay beneath yards of mud and sand. Maybe the whole effort had been nothing more than a series of errors, the first one being that hunting treasure was not compatible with lucid adult rationality.

"We have a mile and half still to explore," Coy said gently The minute he had spoken those words, he felt ridiculous. Him, giving a pep talk? The truth was, all he wanted to do was put off the final act. Put it off, before going back to being on his own, an orphan clinging to Queequeg's coffin. To the launch of the Dei Gloria. Dei Gloria.

"Right," she replied blankly.

Elbows on the table, hands crossed under her chin, she kept staring toward the cove. The gray anvil was above the Carpanta Carpanta now, turning the sky black over its bare mast. The wind died, the sea flattened around the dock, and the sailboat's halyards and flag drooped limply. Then Coy watched as across the cove the reefs and rocks along the sh.o.r.e became streaked with white, lines of foam breaking as a darker color spread like an oil stain across the surface of the water. There was still sunlight on the restaurant porch when the first gust of wind rippled the water on the bay. On the now, turning the sky black over its bare mast. The wind died, the sea flattened around the dock, and the sailboat's halyards and flag drooped limply. Then Coy watched as across the cove the reefs and rocks along the sh.o.r.e became streaked with white, lines of foam breaking as a darker color spread like an oil stain across the surface of the water. There was still sunlight on the restaurant porch when the first gust of wind rippled the water on the bay. On the Carpanta Carpanta the flag suddenly stood straight out and the halyards cracked against the mast, jingling furiously as the boat tilted toward the quay, pushing hard against her fenders. The second gust was stronger, thirty-five knots at least, Coy calculated. The bay was filled with whitecaps and the wind howled, climbing the scale note by note around the hollow chimneys and eaves of the rooftops. the flag suddenly stood straight out and the halyards cracked against the mast, jingling furiously as the boat tilted toward the quay, pushing hard against her fenders. The second gust was stronger, thirty-five knots at least, Coy calculated. The bay was filled with whitecaps and the wind howled, climbing the scale note by note around the hollow chimneys and eaves of the rooftops.

Now everything was somber and fnghteningly gray, and Coy was happy to be sitting there eating fried sardines.

"How long will this last?" Tanger asked.

"Not long," said Coy. "An hour, maybe. Could be a little longer. It will be over by dark. It's just a summer storm."

"The heat," El Piloto added.

Coy looked at his friend, smiling inside. He feels as if he needs to console her too, he thought. After all, that's really what has brought us to this point, although El Piloto doesn't rationalize that kind of thing. Or at least I don't think he does. At that moment the sailor's eyes met Coy's. They were as tranquil and serene as always, and Coy had second thoughts. Maybe he does rationalize such things.

"Tomorrow we'll have to include that additional half mile," Tanger announced. "To forty-seven minutes west."

Coy didn't need a chart. He had 464 engraved on his brain from having studied it so long, and he knew the search area down to the last detail.

"Well, the good news," he said, "is that the depth decreases to between fifty-nine and seventy-nine feet on that side. Everything will go much easier."

"What's the bottom like?"

"Sand and rock, right, Piloto? With clumps of seaweed."

El Piloto nodded. He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and stuck one in his mouth. Since Tanger was looking at him, he nodded again.

"There's more seaweed the closer you get to Cabo Negrete," he said. "But that area is clean. Rock and sand, like Coy says. With a little shingle where you find the green lobsters."

Tanger, who was taking a sip of wine, stopped, holding the gla.s.s to her lips, and focused on El Piloto.

"What is that about green lobsters?"

El Piloto was concentrating on lighting his cigarette. He made a vague gesture.

"Well, just that." Smoke escaped from between his fingers as he spoke. "Lobsters that are green. It's the only place you find them. Or used to. n.o.body catches lobsters around here anymore."

Tanger had set her gla.s.s down. She placed it carefully on the cloth, as if afraid of spilling it. She was staring hard at El Piloto, who calmly wound up the wick in his lighter.

"Have you been there?"

"Sure. A long time ago. It was good for fishing when I was young."

Coy remembered something. His friend had told him once about North African lobsters with sh.e.l.ls that were green rather than the usual dark red or brown speckled with white. That had been twenty or thirty years ago, when there were still langoustine, clams, tuna, and forty-five-pound groupers in those waters.

"They had a good flavor," El Piloto explained, "but the color put people off."

Tanger was following every word.

"Why? What color was that?"

'A kind of mossy green, very different from the red or bluish color of fresh-caught lobsters, or that dark green of the African or American lobster." El Piloto may have smiled behind the tobacco smoke. "They weren't very appetizing, which is why the fishermen ate them themselves, or sold the tails already cooked."

"Do you remember the place?"

"Sure." Tanger's interest was beginning to make El Piloto uncomfortable. He used the excuse of drawing on his cigarette to take longer and longer pauses, and to look at Coy. "Cabo de Agua abeam and the headland of Junco Grande around ten degrees north."

"What's the depth?"

"Shallow. Sixty-some feet. Lobsters are usually in deeper waters, but mere were always a few around there."

"Did you dive there?" - - Again El Piloto glanced at Coy. Tell me where this is going, his eyes said. Coy turned his hands palm up-I don't have the least f.u.c.king idea.

"Those days we didn't have the diving equipment we have now," El Piloto answered finally. "Fishermen set out reed traps or trammel nets, and if they got lost they stayed below."

"Below," she repeated.

Then she was silent. After a pause, she reached for her gla.s.s of wine, but had to set it down because her hand was trembling. "What is it?" Coy asked.

He couldn't understand her mood or her trembling-nothing about Tanger's sudden interest in lobsters. It was one of the dishes on the menu, and he'd watched her pa.s.s over it without a flicker of interest.

She laughed. A strange, quiet laugh. A sort of chortle, unexpectedly sardonic, shaking her head as if enjoying a joke she'd just told. She put her hands to her temples-she might have been in sudden pain-and looked back toward the bay, now gray but lighter where choppy waves foamed under incessant bursts of wind. The filtered light outside accentuated the blued steel of her eyes. Absorbed. Or dazed.

"Lobsters," she murmured. "Green lobsters."

Now she was shivering, with a laugh too close to a sob. With a new attempt, she had spilled wine on the tablecloth. I hope she hasn't lost it, Coy thought with alarm. I hope all this s.h.i.t hasn't pushed her over the edge, and instead of taking her back to the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria we end up stopping by the loony bin. He dabbed at the wine with his napkin, then put a hand on her shoulder. He could feel her trembling. we end up stopping by the loony bin. He dabbed at the wine with his napkin, then put a hand on her shoulder. He could feel her trembling.

"Calm down," he whispered.

"I am completely calm," she said. "I have never been more calm in my life."

"What the h.e.l.l's going on?"

She had stopped laughing, or sobbing, or whatever she'd been doing, though her eyes were still on the ocean. Finally the shivering stopped. She sighed deeply and looked at El Piloto with a strange expression before leaning across the table and planting a kiss on the astounded sailor's face. She was smiling, radiant, when she turned back to Coy.

"That's where the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria is! Where the green lobsters are." is! Where the green lobsters are."

RIPPLED sea, nearly flat, and a gentle breeze. Not a cloud in the sky. The sea, nearly flat, and a gentle breeze. Not a cloud in the sky. The Carpanta Carpanta was rolling softly about two and a half miles off the coast, with her anchor chain falling straight down from the sheave. Cabo de Agua lay off the beam and Junco Grande ahead, ten degrees to the northeast. The sun wasn't high, but it burned into Coy's back when he bent down to check the pressure gauge on the cylinder: sixteen liters of compressed air, reserve above that, harness ready. He checked the valve and then fitted over it the regulator that would provide air at a pressure varying with the depth, compensating for increasing atmospheres on his body. Without that apparatus to equalize the internal pressure, a diver would be crushed, or would explode like a balloon filled with too much air. He opened the valve wide and then turned it back three-quarters. The mouthpiece was an old Nemrod; it smelled like rubber and talc.u.m powder when he put it in his mouth to test it. Air circulated noisily through the membranes. Everything was in order. was rolling softly about two and a half miles off the coast, with her anchor chain falling straight down from the sheave. Cabo de Agua lay off the beam and Junco Grande ahead, ten degrees to the northeast. The sun wasn't high, but it burned into Coy's back when he bent down to check the pressure gauge on the cylinder: sixteen liters of compressed air, reserve above that, harness ready. He checked the valve and then fitted over it the regulator that would provide air at a pressure varying with the depth, compensating for increasing atmospheres on his body. Without that apparatus to equalize the internal pressure, a diver would be crushed, or would explode like a balloon filled with too much air. He opened the valve wide and then turned it back three-quarters. The mouthpiece was an old Nemrod; it smelled like rubber and talc.u.m powder when he put it in his mouth to test it. Air circulated noisily through the membranes. Everything was in order.

'A half hour at sixty-five feet," El Piloto reminded him.

Coy nodded as he put on the neoprene vest, weight belt, and emergency life vest. Tanger was standing holding onto the backstay, watching in silence. She was wearing her black Olympic-style suit, fins, a diving mask, and a snorkel. She had spent most of the evening and part of the night explaining about the green lobsters.

She went over it backward and forward, questioning El Piloto exhaustively, making pen and paper sketches, and calculating distances and depths. Lobsters' sh.e.l.ls, she had told them, have mimetic properties. As nature does with many other species, it provides those crustaceans with the ability to camouflage themselves as a means of defense. So they tend to adapt to their habitat. It had been proven that lobsters that live around sunken iron ships often acquire the rusty red hues of deteriorating metal plates. And the mossy green El Piloto had described coincided exactly with the color bronze acquires after long immersion in the sea.

"What bronze?" Coy had asked.

"The bronze of the guns."

Coy had his doubts. It all sounded too much like the Crab with the Golden Claws, or some other adventure. But they weren't living in a Tintin comic book. At least he wasn't.

"You said yourself, and we checked it carefully, that the Dei Gloria's Dei Gloria's guns were iron. There weren't any great quant.i.ties of bronze on board the brigantine." guns were iron. There weren't any great quant.i.ties of bronze on board the brigantine."

Tanger's expression was tranquil and superior, as at other times when she seemed to imply that he hadn't zipped his fly, or that he was an idiot.

"That's right. The guns on the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria were iron, but the were iron, but the Chergui's Chergui's weren't. The xebec carried twelve guns-four six-pounders, eight four-pounders, and those weren't. The xebec carried twelve guns-four six-pounders, eight four-pounders, and those four pedreros, four pedreros, remember? They had come from the remember? They had come from the Flamme, Flamme, an old French corvette. And those twelve guns were bronze." She removed the plan of the xebec from the bulkhead and tossed it on the table in front of Coy. "That's in the doc.u.ments Lucio Gamboa gave us in Cadiz. There are nearly fifteen tons of bronze down there." an old French corvette. And those twelve guns were bronze." She removed the plan of the xebec from the bulkhead and tossed it on the table in front of Coy. "That's in the doc.u.ments Lucio Gamboa gave us in Cadiz. There are nearly fifteen tons of bronze down there."

Coy exchanged a look with El Piloto, who was merely listening, offering no objections. As for the rest, Tanger continued, it was obvious. The two ships had gone down in close proximity. Because of the explosion that finished the Chergui, Chergui, it was likely that bits of the corsair were scattered around the main wreck. Since one of the components of the bronze guns was copper, the weapons had begun to take on that characteristic undersea coloration, which was then adopted by the lobsters that lived around the wreckage and in the mouths of the guns. There was an additional and very encouraging circ.u.mstance. The most important, really. If the lobsters had adopted the color of the bronze, that meant the area of dispersion was reasonably compact, and that the wreckage was not covered by mud or sand. it was likely that bits of the corsair were scattered around the main wreck. Since one of the components of the bronze guns was copper, the weapons had begun to take on that characteristic undersea coloration, which was then adopted by the lobsters that lived around the wreckage and in the mouths of the guns. There was an additional and very encouraging circ.u.mstance. The most important, really. If the lobsters had adopted the color of the bronze, that meant the area of dispersion was reasonably compact, and that the wreckage was not covered by mud or sand.

COY heard a splash and saw that Tanger was no longer by the backstay. She had jumped into the water and swum around the stern of the heard a splash and saw that Tanger was no longer by the backstay. She had jumped into the water and swum around the stern of the Carpanta, Carpanta, wearing her mask and respirator. She wasn't going to dive with him but wait at the surface, watching the bubbles to keep track of his location. The radius within which he planned to explore was difficult to maintain while tethered to the sailboat with a safety line. Coy readied himself, knife on his right calf, depth meter and watch on one wrist and compa.s.s on the other, then went to the edge of the stern step. Sitting with his feet in the water, he put on the fins, spit onto the gla.s.s of his mask, and put it on after rinsing it in the sea. He lifted his arms so El Piloto could place the cylinder of compressed air on his back, and tightened the straps and put the mouthpiece in his mouth. Air whistled in his ears as it circulated through the regulator. He turned on one side, protecting the gla.s.s of his mask with his hand, and fell backward into the sea. wearing her mask and respirator. She wasn't going to dive with him but wait at the surface, watching the bubbles to keep track of his location. The radius within which he planned to explore was difficult to maintain while tethered to the sailboat with a safety line. Coy readied himself, knife on his right calf, depth meter and watch on one wrist and compa.s.s on the other, then went to the edge of the stern step. Sitting with his feet in the water, he put on the fins, spit onto the gla.s.s of his mask, and put it on after rinsing it in the sea. He lifted his arms so El Piloto could place the cylinder of compressed air on his back, and tightened the straps and put the mouthpiece in his mouth. Air whistled in his ears as it circulated through the regulator. He turned on one side, protecting the gla.s.s of his mask with his hand, and fell backward into the sea.

THE water was very cold, too cold for the time of year. Maps of the currents indicated a gentle flow from northeast to southwest, with a difference of five or six degrees compared to the general temperature of the water. Coy felt his skin contract with the unpleasant sensation of cold water beneath his neoprene vest; it would take a few minutes to warm to his body temperature. He took a couple of slow, deep breaths to test the regulator. With his head half out of the water he could see El Piloto standing there over the stern of the water was very cold, too cold for the time of year. Maps of the currents indicated a gentle flow from northeast to southwest, with a difference of five or six degrees compared to the general temperature of the water. Coy felt his skin contract with the unpleasant sensation of cold water beneath his neoprene vest; it would take a few minutes to warm to his body temperature. He took a couple of slow, deep breaths to test the regulator. With his head half out of the water he could see El Piloto standing there over the stern of the Carpanta. Carpanta. He sank down a little, looking around at the blue panorama surrounding him. Near the surface, with the sun's rays lighting the clear, quiet water, there was good visibility. About thirty feet, he calculated. He could see the black keel of the He sank down a little, looking around at the blue panorama surrounding him. Near the surface, with the sun's rays lighting the clear, quiet water, there was good visibility. About thirty feet, he calculated. He could see the black keel of the Carpanta, Carpanta, with its rudder turned to port and the chain of the anchor descending vertically into the depths. Tanger was swimming nearby, with gentle thrusts of her orange plastic fins. Putting her out of his mind, he concentrated on what he was doing. He looked down to where the blue became darker and more intense, verified the position of the hands on his watch, and began the slow descent toward the bottom. The sound of the air as he breathed through the regulator was deafening, and when the needle of the depth gauge showed fifteen feet, he stopped and pinched his nose beneath the mask, to adapt to the increased pressure on his ears. As he did that, he raised the mask, relieved, and saw bubbles rising from his last exhalation. The sun had turned the surface of the sea into a ceiling of shimmering silver. The black hull of the with its rudder turned to port and the chain of the anchor descending vertically into the depths. Tanger was swimming nearby, with gentle thrusts of her orange plastic fins. Putting her out of his mind, he concentrated on what he was doing. He looked down to where the blue became darker and more intense, verified the position of the hands on his watch, and began the slow descent toward the bottom. The sound of the air as he breathed through the regulator was deafening, and when the needle of the depth gauge showed fifteen feet, he stopped and pinched his nose beneath the mask, to adapt to the increased pressure on his ears. As he did that, he raised the mask, relieved, and saw bubbles rising from his last exhalation. The sun had turned the surface of the sea into a ceiling of shimmering silver. The black hull of the Carpanta Carpanta was overhead. Tanger had dived to swim slightly above him, and was looking at him through her mask, her blond hair floating in the water, her slim legs, extended by the fins, treading slowly to maintain her depth near Coy. When he breathed again, another plume of bubbles ascended toward her, and she waved her hand in salute. Then Coy looked down and continued his slow descent through a blue sphere that closed above his head, darkening as he neared the bottom. He made a second stop to compensate for the pressure when the gauge marked forty-six feet. Now the water was a translucid sphere that extinguished all colors but green. He was at that intermediate point where divers, with no point of reference, can become disoriented and suddenly find themselves contemplating bubbles that seem to be falling rather than rising; only logic, if in fact they retain that, reminds them that a bubble of air always rises upward. But he hadn't yet reached that extreme. Shapes began to emerge from the darkness on the floor beneath him, and moments later Coy fell very slowly onto a bed of pale, cold sand near a thick meadow of sea anemones, posidonias, and tall, gra.s.slike seaweed enlivened by darting schools of ghostly fish. The depth meter indicated sixty feet. Coy looked around him through the half-light. Vision was good, and the mild current cleared the water. Within a radius of sixteen to twenty-three feet he could easily make out a landscape of starfish, empty seash.e.l.ls, large spade-shaped bivalves standing upright in the sand, and, marking the boundaries of the submarine meadow, ridges of stone with rudimentary coral formations. Small microorganisms floated past him, pulled by the current. He knew that if he turned on his light, color would return to all those monotone objects magnified through the shatterproof gla.s.s of his mask. He breathed deliberately several times, trying to adapt his lungs to the pressure and to oxygenate his blood, and checked his bearings on the compa.s.s. His plan was to move fifty or seventy feet to the south and then trace a circle around the was overhead. Tanger had dived to swim slightly above him, and was looking at him through her mask, her blond hair floating in the water, her slim legs, extended by the fins, treading slowly to maintain her depth near Coy. When he breathed again, another plume of bubbles ascended toward her, and she waved her hand in salute. Then Coy looked down and continued his slow descent through a blue sphere that closed above his head, darkening as he neared the bottom. He made a second stop to compensate for the pressure when the gauge marked forty-six feet. Now the water was a translucid sphere that extinguished all colors but green. He was at that intermediate point where divers, with no point of reference, can become disoriented and suddenly find themselves contemplating bubbles that seem to be falling rather than rising; only logic, if in fact they retain that, reminds them that a bubble of air always rises upward. But he hadn't yet reached that extreme. Shapes began to emerge from the darkness on the floor beneath him, and moments later Coy fell very slowly onto a bed of pale, cold sand near a thick meadow of sea anemones, posidonias, and tall, gra.s.slike seaweed enlivened by darting schools of ghostly fish. The depth meter indicated sixty feet. Coy looked around him through the half-light. Vision was good, and the mild current cleared the water. Within a radius of sixteen to twenty-three feet he could easily make out a landscape of starfish, empty seash.e.l.ls, large spade-shaped bivalves standing upright in the sand, and, marking the boundaries of the submarine meadow, ridges of stone with rudimentary coral formations. Small microorganisms floated past him, pulled by the current. He knew that if he turned on his light, color would return to all those monotone objects magnified through the shatterproof gla.s.s of his mask. He breathed deliberately several times, trying to adapt his lungs to the pressure and to oxygenate his blood, and checked his bearings on the compa.s.s. His plan was to move fifty or seventy feet to the south and then trace a circle around the Carpanta's Carpanta's anchor, which was to the north, behind him. He began to swim slowly, with gentle movements of his legs and fins, hands at his sides, about a yard above the bottom. His eyes searched the sand, alert for the slightest sign of something buried beneath it-although the bronze guns, Tanger had insisted, had to be exposed. He swam to the edge of the meadow and peered into the seaweed and undulating blades. If there was anything in that thicket it was going to be difficult to find, so he decided to continue exploring the area of bare sand which, though it seemed flat, actually descended in a gentle slope to the southwest, as he confirmed with the depth meter and compa.s.s. He was inhaling and exhaling every five seconds, and the sound of air was interspersed with intervals of absolute silence. He concentrated on moving slowly, reducing his physical effort to a minimum. The slower the breathing rhythm, the less air consumption and fatigue, went the old divers' rule, and the more available reserves. And this was going to take a while. With lobsters or without them, this was like looking for a needle in a haystack. anchor, which was to the north, behind him. He began to swim slowly, with gentle movements of his legs and fins, hands at his sides, about a yard above the bottom. His eyes searched the sand, alert for the slightest sign of something buried beneath it-although the bronze guns, Tanger had insisted, had to be exposed. He swam to the edge of the meadow and peered into the seaweed and undulating blades. If there was anything in that thicket it was going to be difficult to find, so he decided to continue exploring the area of bare sand which, though it seemed flat, actually descended in a gentle slope to the southwest, as he confirmed with the depth meter and compa.s.s. He was inhaling and exhaling every five seconds, and the sound of air was interspersed with intervals of absolute silence. He concentrated on moving slowly, reducing his physical effort to a minimum. The slower the breathing rhythm, the less air consumption and fatigue, went the old divers' rule, and the more available reserves. And this was going to take a while. With lobsters or without them, this was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Coy saw some dark patches on the sand and went closer to give them a look. Shingle and half-buried rocks covered with small seaweed. A little farther on he found the first object connected with life on the surface, a rusted tin can. He continued at a controlled pace, moving his head from left to right, and stopped when he calculated he had reached the edge of the radius of the circle he intended to search around the anchor. Then he oriented himself again and began to swim in an arc to his right. He was about to cross from the sandy bed to the rocks that marked the limits of the meadow when he spied a shadow a little farther away, almost at the edge of his field of vision. He went to it and found, to his disappointment, that it was a round rock covered with limy formations. Too round and too perfect, it occurred to him suddenly. He lifted it a little, raising a cloud of sand from the bottom, and the rock turned out to be surprisingly light as it broke apart in his hands, revealing a gray-green interior not unlike rotted wood. Astounded, Coy was slow to comprehend that it was exactly that- old, rotted wood. Maybe the wheel of a gun carriage. He felt his heart beating faster beneath the neoprene. His breathing was less tranquil now, and the rate rose to three mouthfuls every five seconds as he scratched in vain in the sand. The digging raised such a cloud from the bottom that he had to rise up a little to find clear water and continue looking. That was when he saw the first gun.

HE swam toward it, kicking very slowly, as if he feared that the large ma.s.s of bronze would deteriorate before his eyes like the wooden wheel. It was about five feet in length, and lay on the bottom as if someone had deposited it there with great care. It was almost entirely exposed, with a mossy film and a few incrustations, but the dolphin designs on the handles, the ball of the cascabel on the breech, and the heavy trunnions were all perfectly recognizable. It must weigh nearly a ton. swam toward it, kicking very slowly, as if he feared that the large ma.s.s of bronze would deteriorate before his eyes like the wooden wheel. It was about five feet in length, and lay on the bottom as if someone had deposited it there with great care. It was almost entirely exposed, with a mossy film and a few incrustations, but the dolphin designs on the handles, the ball of the cascabel on the breech, and the heavy trunnions were all perfectly recognizable. It must weigh nearly a ton.

A little farther away he could make out the dark shadow of another gun. He swam to it and saw that it was identical, although in a different position. This one must have fallen almost straight down, diving mouth-first onto the ocean floor, its weight drilling it up to the trunnions in sand. There were also curious reddish stones around, which, when Coy cut them open, showed empty interiors like molds. Of course, he thought. When iron corrodes it leaves an imperfect copy of its shape in the limy formation that has covered it over time. Coy had to discipline himself not to shoot to the surface and shout the news. He had found the Chergui, Chergui, or what remained of her. Instead, he fanned away sand, revealing wood fragments and objects better preserved because they were protected by the sand. He unearthed a bottle that appeared to be very old, its base intact but deformed. Melted, Coy was sure, by extreme heat. The corsair xebec, he concluded, had blown up precisely here, sixty-five feet overhead, and its remains were scattered over the bottom. A little farther on, close together, he found two more guns. They too had the green tone of bronze submerged for two and a half centuries, and were reasonably clean except for a few incrustations and the mossy coating. Now there was a lot of wreckage: wood protruding from the sand, metal objects in varying stages of corrosion, half-buried cannonb.a.l.l.s, shards of clay, and shattered wood planking with iron nails. Coy even found a nearly intact wooden construction, which as he scooped away sand appeared to be larger and in better condition than he had thought at first sight. It looked as if it might be a sailmaker's table, with large deadeyes and bits of cordage that disintegrated as he touched them. And more guns. He counted nine, spread in an area some one hundred feet in diameter. or what remained of her. Instead, he fanned away sand, revealing wood fragments and objects better preserved because they were protected by the sand. He unearthed a bottle that appeared to be very old, its base intact but deformed. Melted, Coy was sure, by extreme heat. The corsair xebec, he concluded, had blown up precisely here, sixty-five feet overhead, and its remains were scattered over the bottom. A little farther on, close together, he found two more guns. They too had the green tone of bronze submerged for two and a half centuries, and were reasonably clean except for a few incrustations and the mossy coating. Now there was a lot of wreckage: wood protruding from the sand, metal objects in varying stages of corrosion, half-buried cannonb.a.l.l.s, shards of clay, and shattered wood planking with iron nails. Coy even found a nearly intact wooden construction, which as he scooped away sand appeared to be larger and in better condition than he had thought at first sight. It looked as if it might be a sailmaker's table, with large deadeyes and bits of cordage that disintegrated as he touched them. And more guns. He counted nine, spread in an area some one hundred feet in diameter.

He was amazed at how clean everything was, and at the lack of more than a thin layer of sediment on the wreckage. The gentle, cold current flowing southwest might be one explanation; it had kept the site dear, emptying into a basin a little lower down and behind a low rocky ridge covered with anemones. Coy swam there to be sure, and could see that the depression, in the shape of a natural gully, drained off the sediment by directing it toward a series of terraces stepping down to deeper levels. An octopus, surprised in its den, skittered along the sand, its tentacles opened in the shape of an undulating star, shooting streams of ink to cover its retreat. Coy consulted his watch. It was getting more difficult to breathe, so he looked up toward the diffuse blue-green light above his head, pierced by silver bubbles. It was time to go back. He turned the valve at the base of the bottle to activate the reserve, and his lungs filled with air.

He was starting his ascent when he spotted the anchor. It lay at the edge of a second rocky, eroded ridge on the other side of the gully It was large and it was old, its rusted iron flukes covered with crusts of lime.. Both the anchor and the anemone-covered ridge held tangled remnants of old nets and rotted woven traps; over time, many fishermen had snagged their equipment here. But what caught his attention was that the anchor had a wooden shank, although the wood had rotted away and all that was left were a few splinters beneath the anchor ring. It was an anchor the xebec or the brigantine would have carried, and that encouraged Coy to cross the gully, swim around the ridge, and go closer, using the last minutes of his air reserve. On the other side of the rocks, sand alternated with a bed of shingle. The depression was more p.r.o.nounced, varying from eighty to ninety feet in depth. And there, in the green darkness, looming in the depths like a ghostly dark shadow, was the Dei Gloria. Dei Gloria.

XV.

The Devil's Irises Everything found in the sea that has no owner belongs to the finder.

FRANCISCO COLOANE COLOANE, El camino de la ballena El camino de la ballena In short, nervous musical phrases, the alto was improvising as no one had ever done. "Ko-ko" was playing, one of the themes Charlie Parker had recorded when he had invented everything he was destined to invent before rotting and exploding in a laughing fit. And in that order-first he rotted and then he died laughing, watching television. That had happened half a century ago, and now Coy was in his room in the Cartago Inn. The window offered a rainswept view of the port, and he was sitting naked in a rocking chair, a tray of fruit on the table beside him, listening to the digitalized recording of that old cut. Be-do-be-dooo. Toomb, toomb. Be-bop. Coy was holding a botrie of lemonade and watching Tanger sleep.

It was raining on the port, on derricks, wharves, and Navy ships berthed two by two alongside the San Pedro dock, and on the rusting hulls in the Graveyard of Ships With No Name, where the Carpanta Carpanta was moored by the stern to the mole with an anchor at the bow. It was pouring buckets because the storm had finally arrived. was moored by the stern to the mole with an anchor at the bow. It was pouring buckets because the storm had finally arrived.

That had been arranged from the headquarters of the low-pressure system located over Ireland and spreading evilly outward in concentric, closely drawn isobars. Strong winds from.the west were pushing successive fronts in the direction of the Mediterranean, weather maps were covered with black warnings and thunderbolts and signs of rain, and the coasts were pierced by arrows with wispy fletchings in the shaft, aimed at the heart of unwary ships. So that after three days of working at the site of the shipwreck, the crew of the Carpanta Carpanta found themselves obliged to return to port. Despite Tanger's impatience, she agreed that they could use the break to plan the last stages of the search, and to obtain the equipment they needed before a final a.s.sault on the secrets of that underwater tomb. The found themselves obliged to return to port. Despite Tanger's impatience, she agreed that they could use the break to plan the last stages of the search, and to obtain the equipment they needed before a final a.s.sault on the secrets of that underwater tomb. The Dei Gbria's Dei Gbria's tomb was now definitively situated two miles off the coast, at 3733.3,N and 046.8,W. with her stern at eighty-five feet and her bow at ninety-two. tomb was now definitively situated two miles off the coast, at 3733.3,N and 046.8,W. with her stern at eighty-five feet and her bow at ninety-two.

For several days, during which they lived with one eye on the sea and the other on the barometer, Tanger had directed the operation from the Carpanta's Carpanta's cabin. Coy and El Piloto worked hard, taking turns below in spans of thirty to forty minutes, with intervals long enough to make long decompressions unnecessary. They had discovered in their earliest explorations that the ship was in good condition, considering the two and a half centuries she'd lain beneath the sea. She had gone down bow-first, losing one of her anchors on the rocky ridge before settling onto the bottom on a northeast-southwest axis. The hull, resting on its starboard side, was buried in sand and sediment to the waist. The deck was rotted and covered with marine life, but still intact at the stern. Toward the bow, the planking and beams of the deck were missing, and some of the frames protruded from the sand, recalling the ribs of a skeleton. When Coy and El Piloto explored the rest of the cabin. Coy and El Piloto worked hard, taking turns below in spans of thirty to forty minutes, with intervals long enough to make long decompressions unnecessary. They had discovered in their earliest explorations that the ship was in good condition, considering the two and a half centuries she'd lain beneath the sea. She had gone down bow-first, losing one of her anchors on the rocky ridge before settling onto the bottom on a northeast-southwest axis. The hull, resting on its starboard side, was buried in sand and sediment to the waist. The deck was rotted and covered with marine life, but still intact at the stern. Toward the bow, the planking and beams of the deck were missing, and some of the frames protruded from the sand, recalling the ribs of a skeleton. When Coy and El Piloto explored the rest of the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria on subsequent dives, they established that the aft third of the ship was clear of debris, and that the damage would have been more major in other waters and in a different position. The waist seemed to be buried beneath a tangle of wood, cl.u.s.ters of iron powdery from corrosion, sand, and sediment that grew deeper as you approached the crushed and buried bow. It was obvious that the ten iron guns on deck and all other heavy objects had shifted forward as the brigantine started down, and that over time the deck planking had caved in under their weight, disappearing beneath the sand. That was why the stern was a little higher and had sustained less damage, although many beams and ribs had yielded to the years, and sand had piled up in the rotten timberwork. They saw the stump of the mainmast, which had been blasted off during battle, as well as a pyramid of planks, petrified in the shape of the companion, two gun ports on the port gunnel, and the sternpost, still held by bronze pins, rusty and full of filaments and incrustations, and the remains of the rudder stock. on subsequent dives, they established that the aft third of the ship was clear of debris, and that the damage would have been more major in other waters and in a different position. The waist seemed to be buried beneath a tangle of wood, cl.u.s.ters of iron powdery from corrosion, sand, and sediment that grew deeper as you approached the crushed and buried bow. It was obvious that the ten iron guns on deck and all other heavy objects had shifted forward as the brigantine started down, and that over time the deck planking had caved in under their weight, disappearing beneath the sand. That was why the stern was a little higher and had sustained less damage, although many beams and ribs had yielded to the years, and sand had piled up in the rotten timberwork. They saw the stump of the mainmast, which had been blasted off during battle, as well as a pyramid of planks, petrified in the shape of the companion, two gun ports on the port gunnel, and the sternpost, still held by bronze pins, rusty and full of filaments and incrustations, and the remains of the rudder stock.

They were lucky, Tanger declared that first night as they rode at anchor above the wreck. The three of them were grouped around Urrutia's chart and the plans of the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria in the feint light of the cabin lantern, celebrating the find with a bottle of white Pescador that El Piloto had on board. They were lucky for many reasons, but the main one was that the brigantine went down bow first. That gave them better access to the captain's cabin, which was where valuable objects were usually stored for safekeeping. It was likely that the emeralds, if they were still on board at the time of the sinking, were either there or in the adjacent orlop reserved for pa.s.sengers. The feet that the stern was not completely buried made their task much easier, because searching beneath the sand would have required suction hoses and more complex equipment. As for her state of preservation-optimum after so much time at the bottom of the sea-that was owing to the rocky ridge she lay behind, with natural channels and rocks protecting her from the action of the waves, marine sediment, and fishermen's nets. The gentle current of cold water flowing from Cabo de Palos had also lessened the work of teredos, those marine mollusks that devour wood and find their most favorable conditions in warm waters. For all these reasons, the work that lay ahead would be exhausting, but not impossible. Unlike archaeologists conducting research on a sunken ship, they did not have to preserve anything; they could destroy anything in