Using the hatchet, Sam chopped a notch into each end of log resting on the gunwale. Next he picked up one of the saplings, handed it to Remi, then grabbed his own.
“Now the trick part,” Sam said.
Each of them placed the notched tip of a sapling into the corresponding notch on the log, then braced the other end against the port and starboard cleats respectively.
“Care to do the honors?” Sam asked.
“Where are you going to be?”
“In the cabin with you. If those saplings let go, we don’t want to be anywhere near them. Slow back, if you will.”
Remi engaged the throttle and eased the Andreyale backward. Slowly the front edge of the raft began rising. The saplings trembled and bent like a pair of bows being drawn. The logs groaned. Inch by inch the bell rose from the water until its mouth was even with the gunwale.
“Hold here,” Sam said. “Steerageway only.”
He grabbed the remainder of the anchor line and padded onto the afterdeck, his eyes darting from one trembling sapling to the other. At the transom he leaned out, knotted the line around the bell’s crown, then backed into the cabin, uncoiling line as he went.
“All back slow,” he murmured.
Remi leaned back and whispered in his ear, “If we drop that thing through the deck, I’m pretty sure we’re going to lose our deposit.”
Sam chuckled. “We’ve got Triple A.”
The Andreyale eased backward. The saplings kept bending, creaking. Gingerly, Sam took up the slack in the line. The bell slid over the gunwale, bounced on the lip, and started swinging.
“Sam . . .” Remi warned.
“I know,” Sam muttered. “Hold it here. Easy . . .”
He spun around, darted down the ladder, and emerged ten seconds later carrying a mattress. In a double-handed bowler’s motion, he slid the mattress down the deck to the transom.
“Gun it!” he called.
Remi jammed the throttle to its stops. Sam heaved back on the line. Like overlapping gunshots, the saplings snapped and twirled away. With a dull thunk the bell crashed into the mattress, rolled onto its side, and went still.
CHAPTER 8
ZANZIBAR
“WE LOST A MAN,” ITZLI RIVERA SAID INTO THE PHONE.
“Oh?” President Quauhtli Garza replied. Even from ten thousand miles away his disinterest was palpable.
“Yaotl. He drowned. His body was lost in the channel. He was a good soldier, Mr. President.”
“Who gave his life for a greater cause. It’s fitting. In Nahuatl, Yaotl means ‘warrior,’ you know. He will be greeted by Huitzilopochtli and reside for eternity in Omeyocan,” Garza replied, referring to the Aztec god of war that kept the sun moving in the sky, and the most sacred of the Aztec’s thirteen heavenly realms. “Is that not reward enough?”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
“Itzli, please tell me that’s all you have to report.”
“No. There is more. The Fargos may have found something. A ship’s bell.”
“What do you mean ‘may have found’?”
“We searched their boat. On a pad of paper we found a diagram of a ship’s bell.”
“Describe it. Is it the right one?”