“If one of you abdicates, the other must stay in the water another two minutes to complete the task. After this is finished, you will haveuntil noon to return home, dry, change, and return to the Lyon’s Den. Is all this understood?”
Both men nodded.
“Very well,” Titan called. “Let us begin.”
As Timothy and Livingstone doffed their great coats and boots and handed them off, Titan maneuvered the boat closer to the bank, where two more employees of Mrs. Dove-Lyon helped steady it and guide the men aboard. Timothy sat on the bow seat while Livingstone scrambled to perch on the stern bench. Using one oar, Titan pushed away from the bank and rowed closer to the middle of the river, a few dozen yards from the Cake House. He lifted the oars, bracing them inside the hull near a stack of blankets, letting the boat drift slowly.
His voice lower, he spoke to the two men. “The easiest way to get off a rowboat without tipping us all over is to roll out backwards, each on one side. The water will be cold, so take a deep breath before you go in, so you do not gasp and suck in water when you hit. If at any point you feel as if you are in danger, wave me over. There are two more tasks to follow. You do not have to win this one.” He looked from one man to the other. “Slowly ease your buttocks up on the gunwales. Rydell to port. Livingstone to starboard.” He paused, then whispered to Livingstone, “Here,” as he patted the starboard gunwale. “I will count down from three. Remember to take a deep breath on one.”
Timothy slid his rear onto the edge of the boat and waited, taking a long deep breath... then over.
A thousand needle pricks stung his exposed skin, and he fought to hold his breath—not to gasp or flail—as he sank. With his weight and bulk, he had no buoyancy, and he slid down in the water like a cannon ball dropped overboard. He opened his eyes—the water stinging them as well—to get his bearing. The water surprised him with its clarity, probably the result of a light current that flowed near the bottom. Timothy knew the maximum depth of the Serpentine was no morethan seventeen feet but here it seemed shallower, as he hit the bottom quickly.
He braced his feet on the silt, bent his legs, looked up to find the shadowy bottom of the rowboat, and pushed off hard, launching himself through the surface in mere seconds. As his head burst free, he shook it, gasped for air, and kicked hard, finding his balance in the water.
Cheers erupted on the bank, as money began changing hands fast and furiously.
As the stings of the first exposure to the cold eased, Timothy felt the chill moving through his muscles, straight into his bones. He would have to work hard to stay warm and afloat, and he set a rhythm with his kicks—up, out, down, again—with a speed that he knew he could not maintain, especially not for an hour. He looked around for Livingstone but could not spot him, and he grinned, realizing that sending them off opposite sides of the boat had not just been for balance.
Timothy lay back in the water, his kicks moving him toward the front of the rowboat, then around to the other side. Near the boat’s middle, Livingston struggled, his head dropping below water. He would push up, spitting, his hands slapping the water instead of skimming beneath it.
“No!” Timothy called. “Stop hitting the water! Lay back, float for a moment, until you get your bearings!”
Livingstone stared at him, then nodded, pushing his torso backward. Slowly his feet came to the surface and the man stretched out, panting.
Timothy kicked closer to him. “Catch your breath. You know how to swim?”
Livingstone nodded.
“Then do not panic. You will exhaust yourself. Rest and float for a moment.”
“It’s too cold!” Livingstone’s teeth chattered.
“Catch your breath, then lower your legs. You will have to work to keep from getting too cold. And don’t slap the water. Skim with your hands. Slapping just sends spray for you to choke on.”
Livingstone nodded and appeared to calm his breathing, then let his legs sink as he started to tread.
The cheers on the bank had quieted. Timothy did not care. He had spent too many years on ships to allow another man in the water to swim alone.
He leaned his head back, resting it in the water, as he continued his rhythmic kicks. His body had slowly adjusted to the temperature, and the constant motion helped keep him warmer than if he were just floating. Speaking the rhythm would help pass the time and help maintain his focus. He had been through this before, although in the much warmer coastal waters of South Carolina. An unexpected wave had caught him unaware and washed him over the rail, the ship leaving him in its wake. It turned around, of course, to rescue him, but that took time. He had spent almost an hour in the water, repeating his rhythm, watching for sharks, and saying prayers of gratitude that Gordon had insisted he learn to swim after their first voyage.
At least today no sharks would be lingering nearby.
Time passed. The noise from the riverbank quelled to quieter conversations and random calls to someone on the far bank. Watching people tread water, Timothy thought, has to be one of the more boring ways to spend a morning. He let his mind drift, his thoughts wandering over past voyages, his conversations with Luke and their mother. He had managed to conduct some business yesterday, including a visit with the managers of the gaming hall At Wheel’s End. Lady Elspeth and how much he wished he could unpin those remarkable locks of red hair. Run his hands through the tresses. Slowly unlacing her stays. He could almost feel—
An errant splash drew his attention, and Timothy opened his eyesto see Livingstone slip beneath the water. He waited a moment to see if the man would push back to the service, but he did not.
Timothy bellowed, “Titan!” He broke into a swim, reaching Livingstone’s position in seconds. Dropping beneath the service, he spotted Livingstone about five feet down, no longer fighting. Timothy dove below the water, grabbed Livingstone’s arm and kicked for the surface.
He came up directly beside the rowboat, and Titan was there, reaching down to haul Livingstone into the boat. With a quick action, Titan draped Livingstone over the center seat and whacked him hard on the back.
Silence. Timothy hung in the water, fighting to control his own breathing.
Then, suddenly, a fit of coughing exploded from the boat, and cheers went up on the riverbank. Relief flooded Timothy as Titan urged Livingstone into an upright position, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. He looked haunted, his face a pale gray with dark shadows around his eyes. His gaze remained unfocused, as if he were staring into an unknown future.
Timothy pushed away from the boat, continuing to tread water, as Titan tended to Livingstone, giving him another blanket and producing a tin cup of water from somewhere. After a few minutes, Titan, apparently assured that Livingstone was no longer about to keel over, motioned to Timothy.
“Rydell. Let us get you back in the boat. Come in at the stern, center, and I’ll balance the boat.”
