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"They probably panicked and abandoned ship at sea," Giord'L-o theorized.
"Nothing points to a panic," said Pitt. "The galley could pass a general inspection."
"Can you penetrate the rest of the ship?"
"There's a hatchway in the forward bulkhead. I'm going to see what's on the other side."
He leaned down and ducked through the low and narrow opening, carefully pulling his lifeline and air hose after him. The darkness was oppressive. He unhooked the dive light from his weight belt and swept its beam around a small compartment.
"I'm now in some kind of storeroom. The water is shallower here, rising just short of my knees. I can see tools, yes, the ship's carpenter's tools, spare anchors, a large steelyard ' "Steelyard?" Giordino broke in.
"A balance scale that hangs from a hook."
"Got you."
"There's also an assortment of axes, lead weights and fish netting. Hold on while I document."
A narrow wooden ladder led upward through an opening in the main deck.
After shooting tape, he cautiously tested it, surprised to find it still stout enough to support his weight.
Pitt slowly climbed the rungs and poked his head into the shattered remains of a deck cabin. Little was visible except a few buried bits of
debris. The cabin had been nearly crushed flat by the build up of ice.
He dropped down and waded through another hatch that opened into the cargo hold. He swung the dive light's beam from Starboard to port and instantly went numb from shock.
It was not only a cargo hold.
It was also a crypt.
The extreme cold had transformed the dry hold into a cryogenic chamber.
Eight bodies in a state of nearperfect preservation were grouped around a small iron stove toward the bow. Each was covered by a shroud of ice, making them look as though they had been individually wrapped in a thick, clear plastic.
Their facial expressions appeared peaceful and their eyes were locked open-Like mannikins in a shop window, they were posed in different positions as if placed and adjusted for the correct attitude. Four sat around a table eating, plates in hand, cups raised to mouth. Two reclined side by side against the hull, reading what Pitt guessed were scrolls. One was bent over a wooden chest, while the last was seated in the act of writing.
Pitt felt as if he had entered a time machine. He could not believe he was staring at men who had been citizens of Imperial Rome. Ancient mariners who sailed into ports long buried under the debris of later civilizations, ancestors over sixty generations from the past.
They had not been prepared for the Arctic cold. None wore heavy clothing; all were bundled in coarse blankets. They seemed small in size compared to Pitt; all would have measured a good head shorter. One little man was bald, with gray woolly side hair. Another had shaggy red hair and was heavily bearded. Most were clean-shaven. from what he could read through their icy covering, the youngest was around eighteen and the oldest close to forty years of age.
The mariner who had died while writing had a leather cap pulled tight around his head and long strips of wool wrapped around his legs and feet. He was bent over a small stack of wax tablets resting on the scarred surface of a small folding table. A stylus was still gripped in his right hand.
The crew did not look as if they had starved or died slowly from the cold. Death had come suddenly and unexpectedly.
Pitt guessed the cause. All hatch covers had been tightly sealed to keep out the cold, and the only opening for ventilation had frozen over.
The pots containing the last meal were sitting on the small oil stove.
There was no way for the heat and smoke to escape to the outside. Lethal carbon monoxide had built up within the cargo hold. Unconsciousness had struck without warning, and each man died where he sat.
Almost as if he was afraid to awaken the long-dead seaman, Pitt very carefully chipped the ice away from the wax tablets until they came free. Then he unzipped the front of his dry suit and slipped them inside.
Pitt no longer noticed the agony of the cold, the nervous sweat that was trickling from his pores, or the shivering. His mind was so absorbed in the morbid scene that he failed to hear Giordino's repeated demands for a reply.
"Are you still with us?" asked Giordino. "Answer, dammit!"
Pitt mumbled a few unintelligible words.
