Роберт Фиш - The Gold of Troy

He was about to move the anchor for a second time when he saw the tangled wreckage of the two boats ahead of him. He nodded in satisfaction and swept the sea floor with his lamp. He had come upon the object of his search in time. A few more minutes and he would have had to surface and try another night. But where was the case? He frowned and then realized he had come upon the two boats from the side of the Kirsten Christensen . He swam to the right, skirting the wreckage, his lamp moving furiously from side to side, almost afraid to look up for fear of seeing Gustave tangled in the ropes. The feeling made him realize he was running out of time. Where was the case ? For a moment he feared someone had been down there before him, had stolen the case from him — the case, he now felt, was his by rights — and an unreasonable anger swept him. And then, just as he was about to concede failure this first night of his search, he saw the glint of light from metal, and knew he had found it.

In the light of his electric lamp, now held close to his strange discovery, he saw that the last of the wooden casing had rotted away during the hard winter, and only a few bits of board were held clamped between the steel case beneath and metal straps that had been wrapped around the case. He locked the anchor rope to his belt, set down his lamp, and put both hands to the task of shifting the box. Even though its weight was greatly reduced under water, it was heavy, and Knud paused, thinking. Then he came to a conclusion. He cut the anchor loose and thrust the free end of the rope through the metal straps, drawing the rope tight, making a sturdy knot that held the case firmly. Then with one last look at the box he gave a firm thrust with his flippers, grasped the rope, and swiftly drew himself up through the chill waters to his dory.

He climbed aboard, slipped off his gear, and sat down, resting a bit. The only problem now, as he saw it, was whether the straps would hold the weight, or if he had abandoned a good anchor for nothing, and would have to repeat his search another time. He began hauling slowly on the rope, bringing the case from the bottom. Beneath his feet the dory dipped dangerously. Maybe he should have brought Jens Krag into the picture, he thought. With the winch on Krag’s boat it would have been no job at all to handle the heavy case. But no! The case and its contents were his by right of discovery and by every other right! He would not share. He would get it ashore by himself. He pulled on the rope steadily, the case moving with greater ease as it came up from the bottom.

Christensen knew, as he slowly pulled the steel case toward him, that he would never be able to bring the case into the dory without capsizing, but that was not what he had in mind. When the side of the box bumped gently against the bottom of the dory, he looped the rope tightly around one of the dory’s bollards and bent to the oars. It was hard rowing, and occasionally Knud could feel a slight bump as the heavy case swung against the dory at the end of its tether, but he was getting closer and closer to the dock. As he rowed he kept a steady look over his shoulder, judging his position constantly should the straps or the rope break and drop the case to the bottom again, requiring another dive, but it was still with him when he nudged the dory against the dock.

Christensen climbed out, secured the boat, and then waded out to his prize. He reached down with his knife and cut the rope, leaving enough slack to wind about his thick arm and allow him to drag the case to land. He paused, panting. One thing was sure; the case was heavy. Another thing was equally sure; he could not and would not ask for any help. With a deep breath and the assurance to himself that if there was anything of value in the box it would go toward a memorial to his brothers, he bent and with all the strength of his large body brought the case to his arms and staggered toward the house.

He dragged the heavy box across the sill and closed the door behind him, allowing himself to fall in near exhaustion to the floor beside it, catching his breath, feeling the strain in his muscles from the arduous job. Then he came to his feet, closed the shutters and drew the curtains before lighting a lamp. In its light he made his way to the kitchen and poured himself a large glass of aquavit. He downed it as if it were water, shuddered a moment, and then went back to the living room, staring down at the case. Whatever was in it, he certainly hoped it had been worth the effort, not to mention the cost of a new anchor for the dory, because he knew he would never dive in that area again, for his lost anchor or for anything else. How long had the box been at the bottom of the sea? There was no way of knowing. He could not recall any ship sinking in that area in his lifetime. Possibly if he were to ask Jens Krag or the lighthouse keeper, who were far older than he, one of them might remember — but that would be stupid. If he was going to keep his discovery a secret, the last thing to do would be to go around asking questions.

He went through the house and out to the barn, keeping the lantern in his hand shuttered. Inside, in the lantern’s light, he found the tools he was seeking and returned to the house. With a cold chisel and a mall he carefully cut through the steel, making sure to make his entry large enough to bring out whatever was inside without cutting himself, or the contents, on the ragged edges. When he had removed a large enough panel he tried to see inside by the light of the lantern, but it was unsatisfactory. He reached in and felt around, and eventually brought out four wrapped packages.

He spread them on the floor at his side and began opening them, one by one. Each of the packages was wrapped in some type of suede leather, and inside, wrapped with equal care in tissue paper, were a huge number of beads and buttons and little circlets of wire, as well as oddly carved larger pieces made of some sort of metal he didn’t recognize. Knud sat and stared at his find, wondering what on earth it was supposed to be, or why it had been so carefully packaged in a steel box. He picked up one of the larger pieces, which seemed to be a childish attempt at a mask, stared at it a few moments and then put it down again. Like the other larger pieces it seemed to be flimsy, amateurish, and while Knud recognized that he was no expert he did know what he liked, and he didn’t particularly like any of the pieces. It seemed to him extremely doubtful that the things he had found could possibly have enough value to compensate him for his effort, or his lost anchor, or to leave enough for the most modest of memorials for his brothers. Most likely the stuff had a sentimental value for someone, to account for the care that had gone into wrapping and encasing the stuff. Still, they had gone to that trouble, so it seemed a bit early to give up all hope of eventually realizing at least a little value from his find.

But who could he ask regarding the odd material? Father Rasmussen? The father was by far the most highly educated in the village, but his education had been largely ecclesiastical, and that might or might not enable him to give a judgment as to the value of the beads, buttons, and the other larger pieces. Besides, Father Rasmussen was a noted gossip, and the chances of keeping the matter secret were the good father to be consulted were extremely remote. Per Baunsgaard, the blacksmith? The one who fixed most of the farm equipment as well as the fishing gear that required any metalwork? He might recognize what alloy the stuff was made of, but Per Baunsgaard was an even bigger gossip than Father Rasmussen. Showing him the pieces would be the same as advertising the affair in the Copenhagen newspapers, or putting it on the radio. Besides, Per Baunsgaard was a noted liar, so how could he be trusted no matter what opinion he gave?