“Shh.”
“Now he’s in the caisson. He said he painted ‘Heil Hitler’ and swastikas everywhere. He wants it to look as if I did the damage, as if I wanted it to scream of Nazi sabotage. But everyone knows Bauer isn’t a Nazi. Is Fiske that desperate? He honestly thinks the American public will attribute this to a crazy interventionist? That they’ll rise up in furor and return to the false comfort of isolationism? That—”
“Shh. We have to make sure you and Mr. Bauer survive to testify against him.” No doubt, Mr. Fiske had become unhinged as his plans collapsed, one after another, and the country spiraled down into war. “Can you wiggle your feet, help me out?”
A mighty gurgle overhead, and water gushed out of a pipe, arching over Mary’s head.
Cold water splashed her, and she squealed before she could stop herself. “Come on. We have to hurry.”
He wiggled, she pulled. Water splashed off the hull, drenched her back. Another loop, another. Mr. Winslow kicked and squirmed, loosening the ties. Mary fumbled at them with cold wet fingers.
“There!” She yanked the last one free. “Come on. I need your help with Mr. Bauer.”
Water frothed around her feet, and she pulled Mr. Winslow to standing. He sagged back against the caisson and groaned. “My head. He hit me—he hit me hard.” He doubled over and vomited.
Although her stomach turned, she couldn’t afford to be queasy. Their lives were at stake. “Come on. We have to get to Bauer, get to the stairs.”
The second pipe opened, baptizing the infant ship.
Mary headed toward the stairs, stepping over beams, ducking under scaffolding, each step plunging into icy water, her foot, her ankle. Her arms shook from the cold.
“Mr. Bauer!” Water lapped against his cheeks, and Mary lifted his shoulders. “Come on, Mr. Bauer. Wake up. Please wake up.”
“He won’t.” Winslow’s voice dipped lower than their chances of survival. “That much codeine will knock him out for hours. I should know.”
“You have to help me. We have to work together.”
“I—I’ll try. My hand—”
“Use your good hand, here under his shoulder. I’ll get his other side. The water’s almost up to the lowest beam. We might be able to float him through.”
She sloshed through the knee-high water, banging her shins against the horizontal beams, cradling Mr. Bauer’s head with one hand while she and Mr. Winslow guided his shoulders over.
A loud rush signaled the opening of a third pipe.
Mary’s teeth chattered, and the water rose to mid-thigh, swirling the hem of her coat. If that became water-logged, it would hold her down. “Here. Support his shoulders. I need to take off my coat. You should too when I’m done.”
She shrugged off her coat and abandoned it. If she survived, she’d be happy she’d taken her old brown coat rather than her new red one.
After Mr. Winslow took off his coat, he helped her remove Mr. Bauer’s. The less weight they had to drag, the better.
Above her, beams creaked.
“Oh no.” If the water rose enough to float the ships, the scaffolding would fall free, and the hulls would tip over.
“Come on, hurry!” Water rose to her hips, making her skirt balloon around her, but she had no time to worry about modesty.
The stairs had to be close. The water was almost up to the next beam, forcing them to submerge Mr. Bauer to get him through the opening. The poor man.
A loud thunk, and Mr. Winslow cried out and cussed. “Clobbered my head.”
“Shh! We still don’t know where Mr. Fiske is.”
“I’m right here.”
41
South of Iceland
