Neptune's Fingers Read online

  It collapsed, completely swamping the vessel. Visibility failed as it continued on its way, battered but victorious, leaving the crew flung in all directions. The helmsman lost hold of the wheel and was flung across the deck. Another member of the crew lay wedged and half drowned under the bow of the longboat. A cry of anguish cut through the wind’s dreadful howling.

  “Man overboard!” There was not a hope of retrieving him. It galvanized the others to try harder, although it would be hard to imagine what they could possibly do any better. Each knew their turn could be next. The possibility of all men drowning was very real.

  “I feel sick,” moaned Bill, the would-be fisherman. The storm he experienced with Harry Landy paled into insignificance beside this one. “We can’t take this much longer.”

  As though to ratify this statement, a tearing of wood above their heads made them look up. The crow’s nest swung downwards, dangling over them. It would fall, it was certain, as the wind grabbed at it and played with it, like a toy.

  “There’s a light out there!” yelled Jack, over the din.

  “The lighthouse,” said Bill, his attention distracted from the riven mast head.

  “It isn’t built yet,” said Jack.

  “What?” said Bill.

  “It’s 1853. That’s the year The Kestrel ran aground.”

  Bill suddenly felt colder than the rain and the wind made him. The cold came from deep within him. This was supernatural. He began to shake.

  “Hold on, Bill,” said Jack, anxious. “That’s another boat. She’s further out, away from the rocks. If she can keep there she might be safe.”

  “Lucky her!” said Bill, with no hint of humor.

  Each wave drove The Kestrel closer to her fate. Another two sailors were washed overboard, no matter what they did to prevent it. Their eyes now accustomed to the dark, allowed for a better view of the decks. Jack glimpsed a small shape, lurching about, hanging on before moving a little further along the deck. So there was one of the two boys on board. At least he knew this one would survive. He was suddenly very glad he could not put a face to the other sailors, other than the second boy. It was easier to cope with their loss if they remained anonymous.

  The boy looked up as another rending sound warned of a fresh break in one of the masts. The mainmast snapped more than half way down and fell to the deck, pinioning a sailor beneath it. The boy followed the death throes of the mast with his eyes and saw what was afoot. He rushed for’ard to the stricken sailor and heaved with all his might. No one else helped. All were engaged in their own life and death struggle. The great beam moved a fraction. He had to lift it so the poor fellow could wriggle out. Jack strained his eyes to see if he recognized him. In horror, he realized who it was.

  “That’s Edward McPhail,” he cried.

  “What! How do you know that?” said Bill.

  Jack assumed that was a rhetorical question. His answer would never be heard even if he gave one. Edward’s small frame was his salvation, however, as the mast did not land flat but fell at an angle, wedging him in a triangular crevice. At last, he wriggled free, staggering to his feet, aided by Albert Madigan. Albert had decided to stick with Edward. A bond, albeit a tenuous one, existed between them. They were both boys on a man’s ship. They needed to help one another.

  “That light’s still there,” shouted Bill. Jack turned into the wind to look.

  The other ship seemed closer. The cyclonic winds made a mockery of its Captain’s efforts. It rode the waves like a surfer, rising above then disappearing in a trough, only to reappear, like a whale coming up for air.

  There were no lights on The Kestrel. Her lamps extinguished long ago and were too wet to relight. The crew worked like moles in the dark. Jack realized the other boat had a different kind of light; one that could not be extinguished by water. That was curious.

  Each vessel was tossed from wave to wave, inexorably towards the shore. A crunching, tearing sound, along with a terrible debilitating shudder, told them beyond doubt The Kestrel had found rock. It grated horribly, shaking them to their bones until another wave lifted it and carried it closer to shore. Water poured in through a gaping hole in the hull, probably below the water line. Not that it mattered. Water came in anyway, weighing the ship further down. It was over. It was time to get out.

  “Abandon ship,” came a bellow from somewhere below. “Grab what you can to hold to stay afloat, lads.”

  With that, The Kestrel crashed down again on rock, impaling it more securely this time. It lurched over to starboard with the next wave but remained stuck fast. The crew, knowing the futility of it, jumped into the seething mass of foam and water, with what buoyant object they could find, only to be dashed upon the rocks or engulfed in the ravenous water.

  Jack looked for the boys. They were still near the stricken mast, wrenching at it to dislodge it. A fresh splintering of wood deposited another section of mast on the deck. The boys looked at it and then at each other. That piece was free. They abandoned the wedged section and ran towards midships to the new piece of debris. This would be their raft to keep them afloat when they abandoned ship.

  “Yes lads,” roared a voice. “Grab what you can to hang on to. But jump now!” The Captain, bound to wait till all his crew debarked, was still on board.

  “Come on Cap’n,” gasped Albert, between lifts of the mast. “Come with us! ‘twill hold one more.”

  The Captain, sure he was last, save for the two lads, fell down the deck towards them. As they lifted and maneuvered the huge lump of wood to the rail, two wet, bedraggled boys outside their vision, clung to the other side. Jack and Bill fell with the mast, landing on bundles of tangled rope, in a bruised knot of limbs. Their efforts were hindered as The Kestrel heaved in the waves like a dying beast, breathing its last painful breaths. Eventually it was done and they were in the water. Albert fixed his eyes on Jack, a rictus grin on his face, and said, “Watch your legs against the rocks, Cully.”

  So he can see me this time too thought Jack. Does he ever stop smiling, this brave young boy?

  Bill stared, wide-eyed, spitting out water each time they were swamped, far too busy to see anyone. So he was unaware of the arm of Albert Madigan that lifted him as he sagged, exhausted and battered by the rocks. Jack was opposite Edward McPhail, his determined face all concentration.

  A wave they rode suddenly disintegrated and they fell through air on to the rocks. The Captain exhaled deeply, and let go of the beam, his breath knocked out of him and blood coming from somewhere on his chest. Edward McPhail made a grab for him, almost losing his own hold. He caught his arm as it floated by, pulling him in another direction, nearly tearing him in half. With a cry of anguish, he felt the arm slide from his grasp. He was not aware of the bites the rocks were taking from his battered legs, the pain far less than the loss of a man who treated a stowaway with compassion. It was a terrible sound. Soon the Captain was gone, somewhere in the maelstrom.

  It was a bumpy, painful, terrifying ride, sometimes above water, other times dumped and buried under a deluge. The sand beneath their feet, when they felt it came as a shock. The sound of the waves breaking was deafening. They had made it to shore yet still they were being pounded. Jack and Bill were aware of a light some way off to their left. The fitful clanging of a bell could be heard. At that moment, the sea spat them out. They were thrown onto the shore, gulping water and hurting all over.

  “Dear God! It’s the Aurora.”

  The voice cut through his pain. Jack was standing on the beach at False Bay, watching a dark gray shape pitch and roll at the will of the waves. It was headed for the beach. The buoys on board tinkled and shattered as they hit against the cabin. The derrick leaned dreadfully, making it difficult to keep the vessel upright. It had a perilous list to starboard as it made its drunken approach to the shore. Harry was in trouble and his boat was going to be beached. As bad as that was, it was better than being dashed to pieces on the rocks, which, by some miracle, he had missed.

/>   Bill stood near Jack, dazed. His mouth opened and shut like a goldfish but no words could he form. Something at the back of his mind, more or less related to the scene in front of him, kept getting in the way of his reason.

  The Aurora, disheveled and bereft of her beauty, rose and fell with the swell until it struck sand. She keeled over to one side and stuck. There were people on deck. Harry usually took two men with him when he fished.

  “There’s three heads. I can see three heads!” shrieked Bill. What a relief!

  Henry and George, safely on the beach, launch at the ready, and Jack and the dazed Bill gave a cheer. Henry and George fired up the engine on the launch and battled their way against the surge to The Aurora to bring the hapless fishermen to shore. It was a difficult task. The rescue was not over yet.

  “I can’t leave her,” called Harry, reluctant to desert his boat. If it floated out to sea with the tide he would have lost everything.

  Henry was prepared for this. “Don’t be stupid. Here! Catch this!” He circled a heavy, weighted rope like a lasso and hurled it towards the boat. It was short of the mark and he tried again and again. Harry caught his drift and grabbed for it.

  “Got it,” he called, after several attempts. He hauled it in securing it to the base of the derrick.

  Henry held the other end of the line and headed for shore to anchor it to the sturdiest tree he could find. He was not sure how successful he would be but he might be able to pull the boat closer to the shore so they could tie it down somehow.

  The little launch heaved and the motor complained but it all ended well. The trawler came a little closer with each large wave and finally came to rest, more out of the water than in it. The tide was almost as high as it would get. When it receded, more could be done to salvage it. Jack and Bill rushed over, aching in very limb, to help the men from the boat. The surf was enormous and the weary fishermen struggled in the waves till they collapsed on the sand at the water’s edge.

  Harry had an enormous gash on his forehead that still bled. His crew were mostly unscathed other than bruises and cuts to their hands. They were very lucky. Now was the time for rejoicing, not for chastising. They were safe. Henry and George helped the men away from the water, relief their only emotion.

  Jack’s eye was caught by a movement along the beach. Amid the tossing of branches and the flying of debris, something stood out as foreign. A boy, barefoot and wet, walking away along the beach towards a clump of trees was disintegrating before his eyes. Caught out of time, he watched until Edward McPhail vanished like fairy dust, as though he had never been there. Jack looked back to the shoreline and found an older boy sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin, his arms wrapped around them, the ever present grin lighting up his face. As he caught Jack’s eye, he raised one arm and waved.

  “Fair weather be for you,” he said. Jack felt a sudden pang of loss. He was getting used to his new friend. Tears welled up in his eyes as he watched Albert rise to his feet, turn and walk towards the spit, fading as he went. He would have kept watching but at that moment, the rocks finally let go their hold on The Kestrel and she lifted in a final salute, broke in half and vanished beneath the waves. Jack knew before he looked back that Albert, also, was gone. Jack thought his heart would break. Three great losses in one day.

  CHAPTER 17

  Bad weather pounded the coast for three days. Harry would not leave his boat. It lay on its side, half in the water and half out, in the full tide and stranded like a beached whale at ebb. Henry persuaded him to go over to the lighthouse at low tide and rest, safe in the knowledge The Aurora would not float away and join the sunken Kestrel.

  Neptune’s Fingers’ light continued its steadfast signal in case The Eileen should return. They saw no sign of her. Bob stood at the expansive window, his glass trained on the turbulent water peering through the gloom. Part of him wanted to see the dark green boat return to the harbor; the other part of him dreaded seeing her at all in the gigantic seas. There was no telling what would happen to her and resources were at full stretch helping Harry. On the fourth day, the rain was gone. The sky maintained its steely gray but it was much lighter as were the winds, no longer cyclonic, and diminishing in strength. The group at the lighthouse heaved a sigh of relief. Not much sleep had occurred over the three days. Everyone was too anxious and too busy. Now the worst was over, Harry went home. His wife was frantic. His one day fishing trip ended up being four. She was certain he was drowned. Her relief overflowed, swinging from telling him what she thought of his stupidity in a loud angry torrent, to hugging him in case he vanished once more.

  The Aurora was in need of urgent repair. Leaks sprung along her hull from the sea’s pounding and she had to be made seaworthy again before Harry could fish. The derrick was torn from its mount and had to be secured. It took a while but in view of what could have been, Harry deemed himself lucky.

  The flimsy homes along the Sandy Bay were also in varying states of ruin, some gone altogether in the huge tides the winds drove ashore, yet they gave to the cheerful fisherman what they could. Everyone liked Harry. He often passed over fish to these people. Now it was their turn to give. Adversity brought out the best in people. So, with a team effort, The Aurora became once more, a familiar figure on the waters of Neptune’s Fingers.

  On the sixth day, The Eileen returned. Lofty had gone north, ahead of the storm. He saw how things would be and was far enough ahead of the front to find a safe harbor to nestle from the worst that was to come.

  Henry was content. It was terrible to lose the ones you knew. They were like his chickens; his children. Safe once more in the grasp of Neptune’s Fingers that reached out to sea like a giant hand, the community strove to bring things back to normal.

  Debris littered the beaches and was strewn around the houses where it snagged against walls and fences. The town was like a busy ant nest, its members scurrying here and there to restore order. A pair of Ginny’s bloomers fluttered from a tree, stiff in the breeze like a flag, snatched from Ella’s clothes line, rigged from one tree to another. Most places suffered similar indignities. There were so many, it gave them some much-needed merriment and served to cheer them up.

  The fish were scarce for a while. They slowly returned as the sea resumed its calm and life took on a semblance of order. Bill had to rebuild his billy cart, found overturned and wedged under a thick prickly bush. The seat was askew and the steering shaft splintered. George put an arm around Bill’s shoulders and said:

  “Now I know what we can do to fill in the time on Saturday.”

  Everyone laughed. There was so much to do, no one was likely to be bored. Bill was glad his father thought his contraption was important.

  “What a good idea,” said Ella Tarrant. “It’ll keep you from under my feet.” She smiled as she looked from one of her brood to another. They were all safe.

  The lighthouse was a shambles. The windows were caked in salt and sand had found a way into every crevice imaginable. There was enough to do to keep Jack busy for a week, at least. It was a good thing. It took his mind off his losses. He remembered every second of his times aboard The Kestrel.

  He knew why Bill had such an easy going nature. He was so like Albert Madigan, long dead; drowned on the spit after surviving monstrous seas when grown men could not. Ella must have been a very young girl when he drowned. She must miss him. Jack knew he would never forget him.

  Then there was Edward McPhail, the taciturn, bad-tempered Grandfather he vaguely remembered from his younger days. Jack was frightened of him as a small boy and clung to his mother when he was about. His mother feared him also. Only Henry ever stood up to him.

  After the ordeal of the wreck, Jack could feel nothing but pride for the man. Jack had been frightened out of his wits on the embattled ship. He tried to imagine running away from home and travelling half way round the world to a place unknown. He was sure he could never do anything like it. Grandfather McPhail had great courage. How terrified he must have felt
when he was discovered. And he tried so hard to save the Captain, this small boy of eleven years.

  “You daydreaming?” said his father.

  Jack realized he was not cleaning the window but was gazing out to sea, cloth in hand, idle.

  “The Kestrel’s gone, dad. I thought it would always be there.” A sadness tinged his voice.

  “Nothing’s permanent, son. It looks a bit empty out there now, I have to agree. I don’t really want to see another one there, though, sailing ship or steamer. There was something about her though; The Kestrel, I mean.” Henry was searching for the right words.

  “The shags will have to find somewhere else to perch now,” said Jack, trying to cheer his mood. “I was going to explore the wreck the day the storm hit. I’m glad I didn’t. I had no idea how unstable she was. I thought she would be there forever. You can be lucky.”

  A little of the seafarer’s superstition lived in Henry. “The ship belongs to the men who sailed her. She’s with them now. It’s a good thing.”

  It sounded fair enough to Jack and he said nothing as his father moved to attend the lamp after its long vigil.

  Bright sunshine settled over Neptune’s Fingers. The litter on the beach dumped by the pounding seas and the lumps of seaweed hanging from branches of shoreline trees, remained as grim evidence of the turmoil of the previous days. Jack, released from duty, strolled along the rocky shore of Narrowgut, where once The Kestrel lay marooned and rotting. She was gone. How strange it seemed.

  The experiences of the last few days crowded in on him. He saw brief scenes in a jumbled array, like pieces of a jig-saw. As his vision refocused on the present, he spotted an object on the rocks. He had not seen it there before. Curious, he waded out through the rock pools to get a better look. When he saw plainly what it was, it took his breath away.

  His shoes, the very ones he left up the mast of The Kestrel, were sitting high and dry on a rock. He waded further out till he could reach them and pick them up. They were wet but otherwise more or less unscathed, the laces hanging over the rock and the tongues rolled back as they dried.