Poseidon's Daughter

by Diane A. S. Stuckart

  But then, was that not his profession, convincing the unwitting that he was their friend?

  Moments later, the Johnesta was under way. Under Captain Rolle's firm guidance, she moved with slow if stately grace through the shallow harbor. Halia curbed her impatience, for she knew the reason for the boat's sluggish progress.

  During the islands' heyday as a pirates' haven, the harbor had once been a veritable dumping ground for ballast stones, anchor chains, and like. Most of that debris had long since been cleared away by the first influx of legitimate settlers. Still, the occasional protruding anchor or other half-buried piece of wreckage posed a danger to unwitting vessels.

  She spent a few minutes gazing at the clear waters for something a bit more romantic than ballast, however...a cannon, perhaps, or else a pirate's chest spilling forth pieces of eight. When all she spotted was a prosaic section of hull and a pile of galley bricks, she turned her attention to her carpetbag. It held, among its collection of supplies, a sheaf of loose pages that was the sum of her previous night's work.

  After a simple supper made all the more pleasant for the fact that Malcolm and his friend, Mr. Foote, were not present, she had spent the evening poring over her father's notes. From those entries and the crude maps she had of the island and its surrounding waters, she had sketched out their general course and the likely areas for a preliminary search. The coordinates, she had already given to Captain Rolle, but she had been vague thus far as to the purpose of their search, lest she draw unwanted attention to the site.

  She studied the topmost page, a tracing of the map she had obtained from Malcolm. The original, she had left safely behind, hidden with the rest of the journal in a recess of her armoire. Partners or no, she did not trust the Englishman not to abscond with the entire volume, if it suited him.

  “Full-and-by,” she heard Rolle order his crew a few moments later.

  She glanced up from her papers again to see that they had cleared the narrow strait separating Bimini's north island from its south. They were in Atlantic waters again, where reefs stretched from the coast only to drop off with dramatic suddenness into the cobalt-blue stretch of ocean that was the Gulf Stream. There, Bimini played host to all manner of ocean life, from tiny, bright-hued anemones to moray eels and sharks.

  Maps and charts in hand, she squinted across the smooth turquoise sea which fairly sparkled beneath a brilliant robin's egg blue sky. A brisk breeze had caught the sails, so that the Johnesta now skimmed the water's surface at an exhilarating clip. The sharp snap of the sails in the wind was a counterpoint to the gossiping cries of the gulls that circled above, while the rhythmic splash of waves against the bow added a constant note to this ocean symphony.

  Their destination was a point just off the island's northwest coast. By the time they reached the site, she doubtless would be glad of her wide-brimmed skimmer, for the Caribbean sun would surely be well ablaze by then. For now, however, she was content to enjoy the gentle rays that warmed her face.

  “Here now, luv, you're not avoiding me, are you?”

  Halia stiffened, her pleasure in the morning churning away like sea foam. Malcolm had caught her unawares, having abandoned whatever task he'd been put to by Rolle to sneak up behind her. With a haughty lift of her chin, she turned to face him...and then found herself blushing in confusion.

  Try as she might, she could not banish the image of him standing naked before her the day before, like a classical statue come to life. Unfortunately, her thoughts must have shown in her face, for he favored her with a wicked grin that showed his dimples to advantage.

  “What's the matter, luv? Don't you recognize me with my clothes on?”

  “I recognize you quite well, Mr. Northrup,” she managed with frosty dignity despite her heated cheeks. “I dare say it is the particular clothes you have on that took me by surprise. Did you perhaps steal them off some unsuspecting woman's washline last night?”

  He promptly assumed an expression of mock-injury at the accusation.

  “My dear Miss Davenport, I haven't pinched a pair of trousers on washday since I was a lad in the East End of London. I'll have you know, I paid the woman in question a fair price for my new attire.”

  He paused to give her own clothing a considering look, then added with a sly grin, “But if I were you, luv, I wouldn't have the nerve to criticize anyone else's dress. Surely that is not what the fashionable set is wearing this season, is it?”

  That was her own adaptation of the style that Amelia Bloomer had introduced years earlier with but middling success. It consisted of a pair of full-cut, dark blue serge trousers gathered at the ankle, a matching sleeveless shirtwaist, and a white, calf-length overskirt. A lightweight pair of canvas shoes allowed her safe purchase on slick boat decks and rocky beaches. It was a practical outfit and the most comfortable she owned...no matter that it was not the mode.

  She smoothed her skirt and shot him a quelling look.

  “It is hardly my intent to be stylish. If you will recall, the Atlantis site is underwater. I do expect that some amount of swimming will be necessary to properly explore it,” she primly explained. “But I must confess, I am at a loss to know why you are here aboard ship, and with the intent to work, no less.”

  “It is simple. It occurred to me that you might forget to share all the details about your various discoveries if I am not there with you.”

  “You mean, you think that I intend to cheat you?”

  The outrage that swept her was genuine, so that she momentarily forgot her embarrassment. Before she could launch into any more voluble protest, however, he gestured in the direction of his fellow crewmen.

  “The lads need my help,” he said, though the “lads” in question had paused in their own tasks to watch her conversation with Malcolm. He added, “I expect we shall confer again once we reach the site and you've noted your preliminary findings.”

  As he strolled back toward the bow, Halia gritted her teeth and resisted the temptation to fling some unladylike remark after him. Confer, indeed. She would decide what he did or did not need to know. Just because he had forced his way into a partnership with her did not mean he would have any say in how the expedition was conducted.

  It was with a renewed sense of pique that she took up her own post again. The sea had darkened from turquoise to sapphire; still, it remained clear enough that she could spy the ocean floor far below the surface. The green and white Biminian shore remained in view, though it lay at some distance now.

  They must almost be atop the site, she realized with a sudden surge of anticipation. They must almost be—

  “Here,” came Captain Rolle's clipped word behind her. At a quick command from him, the crew furled the sails, so that the boat slowed to an almost stationary pitch atop the gentle waves.

  “We be needin' the water glass,” he explained as Halia hurried to join him at the port side of the vessel.

  He caught up what appeared to be nothing more than a large wooden bucket whose bottom was constructed of glass. Simple though it appeared, Halia knew it was an effective device, and one commonly used by Bahamian fishermen. One merely submerged its glass bottom a few inches below the surface and looked down inside it. Like an immense monocle, it eliminated the water's distortion and served as a porthole of sorts to what lay beneath the waves.

  “Please, Captain, let me,” she forestalled him when he unrolled a crude rope-and-driftwood ladder over the side and then made as if to descend.

  With a gallant bow, Rolle stepped aside. Halia tugged off her shoes and untied her overskirt, leaving them in an untidy heap in her haste. Nimbly, she swung a leg over the side and felt for a foothold as the ladder lightly swung against the planking. Once she was balanced there, Rolle handed her the water glass. She descended several rungs until the waves lapped at her stocking feet. Still clinging to the ladder with one hand, she crouched so that she could float the water glass atop the ocean's crystalline surface.

  A knot of anticipation tightened
in her chest as she took in the view below. The ocean floor lay a good three fathoms beneath her in water clear as a sultana's bath. Schools of tiny fish in a rainbow of hues—silver, blue, yellow, and red—flashed about in a silent, synchronized ocean ballet. Their backdrop was a rippled bottom of white sand littered with scores of conch shells, their pink mouths open in silent cries of welcome. Purple sea fans sprang from rocky outcrops and moved languidly with the current, their lacy display woven with ropes of thick green seaweed.

  It was a scene of tranquil beauty...and it looked little different from any other Caribbean ocean floor she'd ever seen.

  She glanced up at Rolle and shook her head. “Nothing here,” she reported and clambered back up.

  When she reached the top, however, it was Malcolm's hand that grasped hers and pulled her over the side again.

  “What do you mean, nothing?” he demanded once she regained her balance. “I thought that with the coordinates, you could find the spot right off.”

  “There is still room for error,” she coolly informed him, “besides which, it is possible that the ocean bottom has shifted since he recorded them. A storm or simply some unusual current patterns could disturb the sand enough to cover up the find.”

  She looked over to Rolle for confirmation. He nodded, asking, “And do you be knowin' what you be lookin' for, then?”

  “No, not exactly. The journal was not clear on that point, but my guess from some of my father's notes is that it is likely a formation of some sort...perhaps the remains of a foundation.”

  “Likely? Perhaps?” Malcolm echoed and raised a wry brow. “Tell me, Miss Davenport, how exactly do you intend to identify this formation, then?”

  “I'll know it when I see it,” came her confident retort. Then, turning back to Rolle, she continued, “Shall we try another spot, Captain?”

  A command from him brought the boat about. For the next hour, they moved in a concentric pattern, stopping at set intervals when Halia could descend the makeshift ladder and use the water glass to scan the bottom. Soon, her swimming costume was soaked to the waist and clung uncomfortably to her lower limbs, while the rope had begun to rub the flesh of her palms raw.

  “Perhaps you'd care to take a turn, Mr. Northrup,” she offered now as the rope ladder was lowered yet again.

  Malcolm shook his head as he clung rather desperately to the railing. He was looking pale now despite the growing heat, and the effort of that simple gesture appeared to tax him. Doubtless, he finally was feeling the effects of the gently tossing sea, she determined with uncharitable satisfaction...though, to his credit, he had managed thus far to hold down his breakfast.

  “Not me, luv,” came his blunt reply, though his tone was more subdued than usual. “I don't know how to swim, and I'm bloody well not about to start learning now.”

  “I suggest that you be learnin',” Rolle interjected as he rejoined them. “Only a fool would be spendin' his time around the ocean wit'out knowin' how to be managin' himself in it. Perhaps Miss Halia, she could be teachin' you, then,” he added with a look over at her.

  Halia frowned. She was a strong swimmer, herself, and enjoyed a vigorous outing in the waves; still, the thought of allowing the Englishman to share her pleasure was more than she could bear.

  “Really, Captain Rolle, I don't think I'll have the time to—”

  “That sounds like an excellent plan,” Malcolm cut short her protest and gave her a shadow of a grin that she countered with a quelling look of her own.

  “I don't think I will have the time,” she repeated, “though perhaps Lally will take on the task. She is, after all, native to the Bahamas and has been swimming in these waters since she was a toddler.”

  “But I could not impose upon her, as the two of us are hardly acquainted...while you, my dear Miss Davenport are surely the more appropriate person to approach for such a favor.”

  Halia spared herself the need of replying to that last outrageous statement simply by catching up the water glass and climbing over the side again. Unfortunately, she did not miss hearing the captain's muttered aside to Malcolm.

  “Be givin' her a bit more time, then, and she'll be comin' around.”

  Decidedly out of sorts with both men now, she glanced into her water glass yet again.

  “Same fish, same sand, same conch shells,” she muttered, trying not to give in to disappointment as she scanned this portion of the sea floor. It was not as if she'd expected to find an entire sunken city the first time she peeked beneath the waves; still, she had assumed that they would have stumbled across some sign or another of the site, by now. Perhaps she had miscopied the coordinates, or her father had mistakenly recorded the wrong figures, or—

  “Oh, my.”

  The words escaped her in a muffled cry of surprise. Blinking, she glanced up from the water glass to see Rolle and Malcolm leaning over the side, identical expressions of hopeful query etched on their faces. She bit her lip and gazed back down through the waves to the ocean bottom below, feeling her heart begin to pound faster in her breast.

  It might just be a trick of the light, her rational inner voice warned. She took another look. Her instincts told her that her rational voice was wrong. Slowly, she gazed up again at the two men looming above her, feeling a triumphant smile spreading across her face.

  Her tone was calm, however, as she called up, “You may drop anchor here, Captain, for I do believe we have found the remains of Atlantis.”

  ~ Chapter 12 ~

  “Found it?” Malcolm echoed as Rolle gave the command to drop anchor. His seasickness forgotten, he clutched at the railing and stared down at Halia. Her only reply was the fleetest of nods...but it was enough.

  Bloody hell, we've done it!

  He gripped the rail more tightly still, visions of ivory columns and gold statues flashing through his mind. Shading his eyes against the splash of sunlight on the water, he gazed past the translucent waves in hopes of spotting the lost city. All he could see from this vantage point, however, was the rocky sand of the sea bottom.

  By now, Halia was clambering back up the ladder. More impatient now than chivalrous, he offered her his hand and all but dragged her back onto the deck. Rolle, meanwhile, took the water glass from her and handed her a rough towel in exchange.

  His restiveness growing, Malcolm waited while she toweled off the sea spray from her face and brushed back the damp tendrils of blond hair that clung to her forehead. She was, he determined, quite a bit worse for wear. Her ridiculous bathing costume had wicked up the occasional wave, so that the dark fabric wrapped about her lower torso and legs. The effect, some might find erotic...that was, if their taste ran to brine-soaked waifs.

  His did not.

  A proper American mermaid. He wryly dismissed her, trying not to concede that he found the picture that she presented rather endearing, after all. But surely it was only the thought of the riches lying almost at his feet that had softened his attitude toward her.

  “Well?” he prompted when she had blotted away the worst of the sea water.

  She turned a small smile on him, looking rather like a child who'd learned a marvelous secret that she was dying now to tell.

  “Of course, it is far too early for us to judge the significance of my find,” she primly began, “so I would suggest that we refrain from making any claims, at this point. The first thing we must do is let the divers begin clearing away the sand so we can get a better idea of the size of the site.”

  She paused to give her head a wistful shake. “If only we had some way to view it from above. A hot air balloon would be ideal, but perhaps with a bit of climbing we can make do with a perspective from the mainmast—”

  “Bloody hell, I'll take a look for myself.”

  With those curt words, he tossed his boater at one of the crew, then snatched the water glass from Rolle's hands and swung a leg over the side. He groped a moment for a foothold; then, balancing with care, he made his way down the crude ladder.

 
A wave washed over his sandaled feet and soaked his cotton trousers to the knees. He ignored the sartorial damage, instead crouching at the lowest rung and submerging the lower edge of the water glass as he'd seen Halia do. Then, eagerly, he peered inside.

  The translucent blue waters now appeared completely transparent. Indeed, every detail of this unknown world seemed to hang suspended from invisible cords, so that he had to fight the unsettling sensation that he was poised over some great abyss.

  Frowning, he scanned in all directions, ignoring the lapping of the waves about his knees as he searched out some sign of a sunken city. All he saw, however, were bright colored fish by the score—some smaller than a man's thumb, others the size of a cooking platter—flitting atop a flat, rocky bottom dotted with trailing green and yellow grasses.

  He shot a challenging look up at Halia. Along with Rolle and half the crew, she was staring down at him with interest from her post at the railing. No doubt she had done this on purpose, he sourly thought, pretending to find her lost island just to see how he would react.

  “All right, Miss Davenport, you've had your fun,” he clipped out as he started up the rope ladder. “I suggest that you and Captain Rolle have your little laugh, and then let's get on about business again.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?”

  The indignation in her tone stopped him as he reached the upper edge of the planking. She stood but inches from him now, separated only by the railing. Her gaze was on a level with his, her green eyes narrowed in unfeigned pique.

  He met her, sneer for sneer. “What I'm talking about is the fact that there's nothing down there but a year's catch of fish and a forest of bloody seaweed.”

  “Are you blind, Mr. Northrup? I would think that the evidence would be apparent even to an untrained eye such as yours. The scoring of the rocks is obviously manmade, as is their symmetrical arrangement...”