Marine Surprises
THE SIXTEENTH of January produced pictures that were, with ease, to be brought to the screen of Bony’s mind for many years.
It was a cool and brilliant day and, having caught a supply of bait-fish, Wilton directed Joe to take theMarlin away to the south-east and then follow Swordfish Reef to the north and Montague Island. And then, having attended to his engine, he came aft to sit in the spare angler’s chair and roll a cigarette.
“I was talking to Mrs Spinks yesterday afternoon,” Bony said. “I was up on the headland working out a problem when she found me. It’s more than a little strange that she and her daughter so firmly believe that Bill Spinks is still alive, don’t you think?”
Wilton’s brown face was newly shaved. His brown eyes directed their gaze over the sea, for long practice had given him the ability to occupy one part of his mind with talk and the other with the search for a fin.
“Notso strange as a man might think,” he countered.
“Explain,” lightly besought Bony.
“Well, you see, old man Spinks was no good, and before he slipped his anchor the family life was just plain hell. Fights, arguments, not much money, worry, and sheer damnation.
“When he died Mrs Spinks was a bit of a wreck. Bill and Marion were then just over eighteen, and at once a big change came over Bill. It seemedto many of us that we’d been looking at him in a kind of fog, and that, after the old man drank himself to death, he stepped right out of the fog and became sort of real. Him and Marion and me had kept together at school. Always good pals. When we left school Bill went into the fog I was telling about. When he came out of it, he put it on me to be my mate, as I was fishing on my own, having got my old man’s launch when he died a year before.
“Young Bill turned out a tiger for work, and I was able to lend him a hand, too. In less than a year Bill had paid off the debts and got the home on its feet, and Ma Spinks and Marion were living in peace and security. No more did Marion have to work out. Bill insisted on her staying home and helping to look after the mother. I never knew a feller who thought more of his mother than Bill did. He never left her in the morning without kissing her, and he never got home at night without kissing her. I suppose that after the hell they’d lived in for years they wanted the new life to be a kind of heaven.”
Wilton left the chair and walked forward to take a long look at the sea. When he returned, Bony said, pleadingly:
“Well, go on with the real life story, Jack.”
“Oh yes, Bill Spinks. Well, after he had been my mate for a couple of years he had money in the bank and the women were just happy and content. I’ve always loved Marion. Loved her when wewas kids. And I wanted her to marry me. I knew she liked me; always had. I knew, too, there wasn’t anybody else. But…”
“Just couldn’t make up her mind about marrying, eh?”
“That’s about how it was, right up to the time theDo-me vanished. Anyway, Bill saved money. Wouldn’t drink or smoke or even go to the pictures. He began to talk about buying a launch that was likely to come on the market; then he shifted off that idea and began to build theDo-me in his spare time. Joe came back from deep-sea sailoring and I took him on, and when we could we gave Bill a hand with his building. Mrs Spinks and Marion would come along sometimes and watch us working. And then Joe andme were out of it. It was just them three, you see. Theywas a kind of triangle nothing could bust-nothing but what must have happened that day theDo-me never came back. I used to get sore sometimes: jealous, I suppose. Yes… I reckon if Bill was dead them two women would know about it.”
“Tragedy that touches the dead blights the living, Jack,” Bony murmured, and then became silent for a space. Presently: “Still, if Bill Spinks is not dead, why doesn’t he come forward and tell us who shot Ericson and what became of theDo-me?”
“Because he’s not allowed to that’s why.”
“Not allowed to! Do you mean you think he is being held prisoner somewhere?”
Wilton’s gaze was seldom directed at Bony; even when he answered this last question he continued the search for a fin.
“I don’t know rightly what to think. He’s not dead, according to the women. If he is alive and was able he’d have come forward. Not having come forward, and still being alive, he must be kept somewhere against his will.”
“Made prisoner by those who murdered Ericson?”
“Yes.”
Bony sighed.
“I’m afraid, Jack, I can’t agree with that theory,” he said, slowly. “It’s now more than three months since theDo-me disappeared, and those who would attack theDo-me at sea and murder her angler are hardly likely to spare her crew. To do otherwise would mean keeping Spinks and Garroway prisoners for years-all their lives.”
“It all sounds stupid, I know,” Wilton admitted. Then, as though after all there was possible basis for argument: “But the women still don’t believe he’s dead.”
Bony persisted:
“During the Great War thousands of women wouldn’t believe that their dear ones were dead; believed that one day they would come home from a prisoners’ camp, or after a long period of mental aberration due to war.”
“The same thing doesn’t apply. Them three Spinks were extra close together. Besides, Bill and Marion are twins.”
“And you believe Spinks to be alive because they believe it?”
“Yes. One day the mystery of theDo-me is going to be cleared up, and then Bill Spinks will come back to his home.”
“That being so, Jack, Spinks might return to his home in the near future.”
This made Wilton direct his gaze towards the half-caste who was faintly smiling.
“You know,” Bony went on, “between the Spinks women and you I am beginning to think that Bill Spinks might be still alive. I shall have to take certain precautions when I wind up this investigation. I must think very seriously about it.”
Wilton’s brown eyes opened wide and he said, as though breathless:
“D’youthink you’re getting near the end of the investigation?”
Bony nodded.
“Will you let Joe and me be in at the finish? Dan Malone is a tough customer, and that Dave Marshall’s no mug in a scrap.”
“Surely you are not accusing them and Mr Rockaway…”
“What about that gun? What about them paint brushes? What about Rockaway saying his house was being done up when it wasn’t? What about Rockaway and Mr Ericson behaving as though they recognized each other that afternoon when theDolfin brought in that big tunny? Remmings reckoned they recognized each other, anyhow?”
“Now, now, Jack,” Bony said, reprovingly, “you must leave the speculating to me. When the time comes for the roundup, as they say in the moving pictures, I shall certainly ask you and Joe to be in it with me. But nothing to Joe yet, please.”
“Right-oh. I’ll go for’ard for a spell. There’s lots of things I’d like to ask you. There’s-”
“Don’t, Jack. I hate telling lies,” Bony cut in, laughingly.
“Hey, Jack! ’Way for’ard!” shouted Joe.
Wilton bounded to Joe’s side, to stand with him for a second or two looking through the glass protecting helmsman and cabin. Then he was agilely scrambling forward to the mast, to stand there for a space. Bony raised himself above the cabin roof by standing on the gunwale, to see two miles directly ahead a rusty-hulled, black-funnelled ship wallowing along at slow speed. Wilton came aft.
“It looks to me like a shoal of tunny following that trawler,” he shouted to permit Joe to hear.
“How do you make that out-about the shoal of tunny?” asked Bony.
“Compare the sea behind the trawler to the sea ahead of her.”
“Ah! It looks darker behind the ship. The sea looks as though a fierce squall is tormenting it.”
“ ’Tain’twind. It’s surface fish. I can see the white water being splashed by ’em.”
“So canI now. Why, there’s miles of jumping fish. Tuna you think?”
“Maybe not. If they’re tunny at this distance they’re big ’uns for sure. Hey, Joe! Speed her up.” To Bony, Wilton said: “If they should be tunny will you give ’em a go? I’ve a light rod and tackle down below.”
Bony nodded, his blue eyes gleaming, his pulses racing.
“Keep your eye on your fish-bait.” Wilton advised. “Likely enough outside that shoal will be swordies and sharks.”
Bony dropped back to the cockpit to divide his attention between his bait-fish and the ship ahead. The quickened engine thrust theMarlin forward at increased speed, which added to the excitement coursing through his veins. Then Wilton beckoned him. He scrambled forward beside the mast, holding to it and to the port mast stay. Wilton was laughing, his eyes bright.
“Porpoises,” he said. “There’sthousands of ’em following the trawler. The trawl could only have been sunk again an hour back, and the crew have been cleaning up after the last catch, throwing overboard the small fish and remains of octopuses and sting-rays and that kind of gentry. Look! The sea’s full of porpoises.”
“Pity they weren’t swordies,” Joe yelled, now standing on the gunwale with his right foot to bring his head above the shelter structure, and steering with his left foot pressing hard on a spoke of the wheel. He continued to shout: “Who wants porpoises, any’ow? I don’t. I want swordies and five ’undred-pounders at that.”
Bony waved a hand in agreement with Joe, and then gave his attention to the extraordinary marine manifestation. Founts of white water spewed upward from the deep slate of the sea; a minute later countless “humps” of fish appeared and disappeared every split second, the graceful backs of the mammals hurtling the chop upon the greater rollers. Quite unconcerned by the furious energy unloosed astern of her the trawler wallowed onward, her decks deserted of men, the lobster pot hoisted half up to her masthead signalling that her trawl was down and warning craft to keep wide of her stern.
Suddenly theMarlin was moving across a sea stiffened thick with fish. The porpoises swam in fours and fives and sixes, swam in all directions, amazingly escaping collision. They appeared beside theMarlin, dived under her, speeded alongside her to roll under her bow. Their humped backs could be seen southward and eastward, their total not to be estimated. They could be seen under the slopes of the rollers, superb masters of their environment.
“If I had to fall overboard I’d choose this place,” Wilton said.
“Oh! Why?”
“Because it’s a dead certaintythere’s no sharks here. These porpoises would smash a shark to pulp in less than a minute. Come up under him and slash at his belly as though each porpoise was a bullet out of a machine-gun. They ain’t real fish, of course. They’re mammals really, and that’s why they’ve got to heave up out of the water now and then. You wouldn’t think the sea could hold so many, would you?”
“I would not have thought that all the porpoises in all the oceans gathered together would number as many as these,” Bony said. “Do they often gather together like this?”
Wilton shook his head.
“I’ve only seen ’em like this once before-years ago. We might as well get out from among ’em. There’ll be no swordies hereabouts, either. Almost thick enough to walk on, ain’t they?”
Back again in the cockpit Bony took position behind his rod, his mind awed by the mightiness of life all round the tiny craft. The strangely agitated sea appeared unable to reflect the sunlight and seemed heavy as though unseen oil flattened it. As Wilton had suggested, the mammals were so numerous as to give the idea that one could walk on them across the sea.
Wilton came aft and said to Joe:
“Bring her round. We’ll range alongside that trawler and have a pitch.”
Joe’s face expanded in a grin of anticipation and he brought theMarlin round to an easterly course. Immediately she began to overhaul the trawler that had on her bow the cipher, A. S. 1. Presently theMarlin was running with the bigger ship, a bare twenty yards separating them.
“They’ve finished cleaning up,” Joe said, and chuckled at a joke he kept to himself. To Bony’s quickened interest there was not a man to be seen on the trawler’s deck, and Wilton explained that after the “clean-up” the crew went off duty. They could see two officers on the glass-protected bridge; one of them came to the end to look downward at the littleMarlin.
“Marlinahoy!” he shouted between cupped hands. “How’s the swordies?”
Wilton took over the wheel from the grinning Joe who came a little aft in order that his voice would not be deflected by the shelter structure. He also cupped his hands and distinctly, but with surprising volume, said:
“No respectable swordfish would be in the sea with that stinkpot afloat on it. You ’ad bites today?”
“Only one. A bit of a nibble. We don’t wantno rod ticklers. Nothing less’n fifty-ton whales satisfies us when we does a bit of fishing with hand lines. How’s your corns?”
“Itching to connect with yer stern, you lop-eared cast off,” yelled Joe.“ ’Ow’s old Whiskers ’Arris today? Tell ’im a gentleman’s down here wishing to ’ave a word or two with him.”
The trawler officer continued to lean elegantly over the end of the bridge. He expectorated in a manner denoting careful practice. Then he said, conversationally:
“The captain is unable to oblige, you flat-footed, paunchy tadpole. The captain never speaks with ex-deck-hands who never wash their necks-you shark-eating old mother-basher.”
Joe winked at Bony, cupped his hands and continued the chat.
“You tell ole Whiskers ’Arris that when I meets ’im again I’m gonna uncomb the tangle for ’im. I suppose he’s down below, drunk again. I pity ’is poor missus and kids. And as for you, you la-de-da queen, I’m gonna spoil that nice uniform you wears ashore. You know, that one with all the yards of gold braid pinned to it. No wonder the price of fish in the cities is so high that people can’t afford to eat fish. No wonder the Gov’ment provides soft jobs for their friends, sending them to sea in a flash craft to look for fish. They gotta do somethink to make believe fish is scarce, ’cos you blokes is asleep ’arf the time. Why don’t you wake up and catch fish, you scented barber’s pole?”
Wilton had turned the bow of theMarlin away from the trawler and quickly they drew apart. The officer on the bridge and Joe continued their chat until both realized that the other could not possibly hear him. Then Joe turned to Bony, to say:
“I served a twelvemonth on ’er. That pup on the bridge thought a lot of ’isself even in them days. Not a bad sorta bloke, though.”
“Zigzag her across the reef and make towards Montague,” Wilton ordered.
Again Bony saw the sea above Swordfish Reef. Today a steep chop marked its position, the waves close and ever-curling. They seemed to be barely moving like people who hurried, yet never arrived. The trawler already far astern sent a smoke plume from her funnel as though in derision of Joe Peace.
After two hours had passed in lethargic waiting, Montague Island appeared larger to Bony than ever before. Wilton, seated on the deck well forward stamped his foot. Instantly Joe became “alive”, raising himself above the shelter structure to hear his partner’s observations.
“Swordie jumping! ’Way over there!” shouted Wilton. “Speed her up.”
Bony leaned far out the better to see forward past theMarlin ’s side. He noted how quickly his pulses raced at the very mention of the king of fish. Then he saw the jumping swordfish. No doubt, the ancient originator of the story of Venus rising from the sea got his idea from a swordfish jumping. Bony saw the slim, beautiful figure glinting green within its rainbow sheath of spray.
“He’s showin’ orf,” shouted Joe. “There’sothers about for ’im to do that. Keep an eye on yer bait-fish.”
Again the great fish appeared to dance for a space on its tail, then slide down into the water at an angle.
Wilton waved a hand in a circular motion, and Joe steered theMarlin in giant circles about the place where the swordfish last leaped. Bony slipped on the body harness and attached it to the rod reel, then with gloved hands ready to control bait-fish and racing line, waited, his blood fired by expectation and the hope of seeing a fin. Presently Wilton came aft.
“There’s plenty of birdssouth of the island,” he announced. “Likely enough there’s a big shoal or two of fish. If you’d like some quick sport I’ll get the light rod and line ready.”
Bony nodded. He still hoped to see a fin. TheMarlin continued a straight course to the north, and in less than half an hour those on her saw ahead the water lashed to fury and darkened as though by a fierce wind squall.
The porpoises had been tightly packed in the water astern of the trawler, and their number within sight at any one instant had been astonishing but theMarlin trolled on to an area of hundreds of acres almost solid with fish. With the light line and tackle Bony brought to the launch fish after fish that all weighed in the vicinity of ten pounds. They were blue-fin tuna, firm androunded, strong and desperate fighters. In twenty minutes Bony gave it up. It was too much like hard work, this incessant reeling of fish to the light gaff wielded by Wilton. There was no chance of missing a strike. If one fish got off the feathered hook another would take it. When one fish was drawn towards the launch it would be followed closely by hundreds of others.
“More fish in that shoal than would be wanted to feed Australia for a year,” Wilton said, seriously. “If all the fish in that shoal was put aboard a twenty thousand ton ship they’d sink her. And, Bony, Australia imports every year more than a million pounds’ worth of tinned fish.”
“So I’ve heard,” Bony said. “And I recently heard Joe refer to the various governments sending out ships to look for fish along our coasts. I wonder if they have ever heard of Bermagui and Montague Island. I don’t suppose so. There’s enough fish in this sea to provide us all with fish at a penny a pound. Yes, Jack, it’s a mad world, and it’s getting madder every year.”
An hour later they trolled in water clear of shoal fish only to pass into another area crowded with countless billions of king-fish averaging four pounds each in weight.
“And men on the basic wage working in the cities and wondering how to feed the kids,” Wilton said, bitterly.“And fishermen along this coast struggling to make a living in a limited market.”
Again they got free into clear water, and Bony watched the receding area of tortured sea whilst he wondered at the selfishness of man which denied a stupendous harvest of the sea to the hungry. As he had said, it is a mad world.
Wilton was standing up for’ard and Joe was talking to Bony when the giant reel abruptly began its screaming. Three pairs of eyes at once were focused on the water astern of the launch. There was no commotion. The reel continued its high note, and the line was racing fast down into the clear green depths. Bony jumped for his place at the rod, slipped on his gloves and released the brake and controlled the line running off the drum of the reel. He did not see the glance of approval pass between his launchmen.
“What took the bait-fish?” Joe demanded.
“Don’t know. Never saw it go. Did you, Bony?”
“I was not watching,” Bony admitted.
“Sounds like it was a swordie galloping away with the bait-fish,” Wilton surmised.
“A bit too steady for a swordie,” Joe doubted. “More like a shark.”
“Perhaps,” Wilton conceded. “Hope it’s not a hammerhead. We’ll be hanging around a long time if it is.”
“ ’Tain’ta ’ammerhead,” Joe argued. “He’s going too far and too fast for a hammerhead. Might be a mako. Hope so. I like to lower their dignity.”
“More than half my line is out,” Bony cried, that longed-for thrill of exultation coursing through his veins like fire. “Shall I strike him?”
“Might be as well,” assented Wilton, standing at his angler’s back.
Bony applied brakage and struck. There was no give in the weight at the end of those hundreds of yards of line buried in the sea. There was no pause in the scream of the reel.
“Shark all right,” confidently predicted Joe. “He’s going south. A swordie would get away to the north-east. Hullo! Look! He’s coming up. He’s a mako for sure.”
Bony was gaining line and striking as rapidly as he could. He was experiencing pride in the fact that Wilton was not telling him what to do. Then he shouted when his launchmen shouted, for they all saw leap half-way out of the water a greyish shape having an eel-like head. The head shook, epitomising rage and hate. They could see its fearsome mouth snapping at the wire trace they could not see. They could see the whitish circle on the broad triangular dorsal fin marking probably the most ferocious species of shark.
“He’s a good ’un,” yelled Joe, his back to the wheel. “Sock it into ’im. ’E can’t throwa bait like a swordie can. What goes into ’is mouth stays there. Go on, Bony, sock it into ’im.”
Thirty minutes passed before the sweat-drenched Bony saw the bright swivel connecting line with trace come up out of the sea. He thought then that victory was near, but the brute decided to prolong the fight and went away with two hundred yards of Bony’s line. That two hundred yards of line took Bony another twenty minutes to regain, and then, when Wilton was about to grasp the trace with gloved hands preparatory to bringing the fish closer for Joe to gaff, the shark attacked theMarlin. The craft shuddered from the blow delivered by a battering ram weighting four hundred pounds. The battering ram ran away with a hundred yards of line, and “played” for a space with the exhausted angler. It again attacked theMarlin ten minutes later, heaving itself nearly clear of the sea in effort to get into the cockpit at the angler himself.
That made Bony feel cold beneath the heat of battle, and Joe yelled and danced and waved a bar of iron. After that, and five more minutes of struggle, the shark gave in. It was drawn to the side of the launch and expertly gaffed. Joe made fast the gaff rope to a bollard. Sheets of spray leaped upward further to cool the angler and to be ignored by the launchmen. Wilton hung on to the thin trace. Taking the vicious tugs of the brute’s head, and then Joe leaned over the gunwale and proceeded to lower the brute’s dignity with the iron bar. That done, he stood up and turned to face the triumphant angler.
“That’s fixed ’im,” he said, grinning. “I like taking it outer them sort. They ain’t fit companions for your gals.”