Neptune's Fingers Read online

  “Just look at her! What a show-off!” said Bill.

  “She looks pretty happy, at that,” said Jack.

  Bill snorted in disgust. She’d better hang on, that was all. His attention was diverted before long. Ginny could not hold Bill’s attention for long. The boats were spreading out, each in order of their engine capacity. The outcome was a foregone conclusion. Still, no one wanted to come last. The roasting from the others for that dubious honor was unbearable.

  “I’m going in the wheelhouse,” announced Bill. “Coming?”

  “No. Have fun.” Funny how driving a boat did not appeal. It took your mind off feeling the experience of being here. People leaned over the rails, arms waving and pointing. Jack stood up and moved away from in front of the cabin window, making sure Harry’s view was not hindered. The Aurora would not come first, but there was no reason why she would not come second.

  Jack moved to the point of the prow. He felt like a figurehead up here. Amused, he turned back to watch everyone on board. The deck swelled out either side of the wheelhouse and disappeared behind it in a tangle of nets and rope, while the tall derrick……

  The derrick? There was someone standing on it! Jack thought Ginny was being stupid sitting on the wheelhouse, but here was a chap with no brains at all. If he fell, it would be a hard landing. He stared at him and was stunned to see the boy grinning back at him, familiarity written all over his face. The sun was behind Jack so he was able to see the boy very clearly. His baggy trousers, torn at the hem, were tied round his middle with a piece of rope. His shirt, tied in a knot at the front, filled with the wind, like sails. He stood on the spar of the derrick, as nimble as a cat, one casual hand resting on the vertical mast as he leaned against it with the nonchalance and ease of one who is much practiced in the art.

  Jack’s mouth hung open. Movement below caught his attention. Harry and Bill, peering through the wheelhouse window, were making hideous faces at him and laughing fit to burst. It was like looking in a mirror and Jack realized with a shock how he must look. He shut his mouth and shrugged, grinning to hide his embarrassment. That made his audience laugh all the more. Jack waved them away with an impatient hand and smiled. It was good fun. No harm done.

  He remembered the boy. He was at his post on the spar, a lost expression on his face. It was as though Jack’s smile gave him life, and now, deprived of its power, had nothing to sustain it. As Jack lifted his gaze upwards, the boy’s face lit up and life coursed through him again. He waved at Jack and beckoned to him.

  “Does he want me to go up there? He’s mad!” Jack had no fear of heights as he took his turn cleaning lighthouse windows often enough, walking round the iron balcony encircling it. As he watched, he could see the movement of the boat mirrored in the gyrations of the derrick waving against the sky like a pendulum on a grandfather clock. Standing up there with the whole thing moving about did not fill him with confidence. At least the lighthouse stood still.

  The boy waited, his hand on his hips, his stance screaming impatience. He beckoned again, this time more vigorously. In spite of his rational mind, Jack’s treacherous feet took it upon themselves to walk behind the wheelhouse where the derrick was fixed through the deck. Smiling faces were all about him but no recognition showed in their eyes. They were ignoring him. It was like being in a dream.

  He searched for footholds to enable him to climb safely. There must be a way. The boy was up there wasn’t he? Jack was never sure how he managed it. One minute he was standing on the deck, the next he was halfway up the derrick, almost to the spar. The sun burned into his eyes as he climbed and he could see nothing. He blinked several times and opened his eyes wide. Nearly there. He could see a pair of feet in front of his face – bare feet, calloused and hard. The noise up here was unexpected. A flapping sound, foreign to him dominated all else. He shinnied up the next few feet and climbed onto the spar, a pair of guiding hands helping him up. Puffing and blowing, he stood up.

  “You’ve no stamina, cully,” said a lilting voice.

  It was then Jack took in his surroundings. Expecting to see Guthrie’s Bay and the competing boats, it is not to be wondered at that his balance faltered so he snatched out in desperation at the main mast. The land was no longer there. Water, as far as the eye could see, undulated in ever rolling troughs and crests, while the ship rolled with it, sails flapping in the stiff breeze. The power of speech eluded Jack. Once more his mouth was open as though it had a faulty hinge. The boy was all mirth. Now it was Jack’s turn to look out of place.

  “It’s better without shoes, mate,” he suggested. His feet clung to the yard like a monkey. Jack had never seen anyone look so at home anywhere. While the world rolled and lurched beneath them, the boy stood solid as a rock on the thin piece of wood stretching out from the mast, and he, Jack, teetered like a tightrope walker without a pole. “Sit ye down, now.” The boy pointed to the yardarm beneath their feet.

  Jack was glad to sit. Not one to be seasick, he ventured there could be a first time. There was less of him to sway while seated. His rebellious stomach subsided for the moment and as yet, his tongue would not work. He looked wildly about him. Where was The Aurora? Where were the other boats? Where was Guthrie’s Bay?

  “You’re on Her Majesty’s Ship, Kestrel, as fine a Barque as ever sailed.” Jack’s face still held its frozen disbelief. “Don’t mind the noise of the sheets. They always talk to one another up here.”

  “Sheets?” mumbled Jack.

  “The sails, cully. The sails be sheets. Look up yonder. The gallant mast is a treat for the eyes way up there, is it not?”

  Jack could not argue. They were a treat for his eyes all right but he was willing to wager it was a different kind of treat to the one the boy talked about. Merciful heaven, how grateful he was not to be up there. His face visibly paled.

  “You’ll get your sea legs, mate. By the time we get to Sydney Town, you’ll be able to do it with your eyes closed.”

  Sydney Town? No one’s called it that for years, he thought. Stone the crows! Panic was the overriding emotion within him. “Where are we?” he managed to ask.

  “Not sure but we must be near the straits. You need your wits about you there. Always bad in the straits.” This was not reassuring news, at all. Jack would have preferred to hear something more comforting. Which straits? Surely not Bass Strait. That was hundreds of miles from home. His next question sat poised on the tip of his tongue but would not jump off for fear of the answer.

  “What year is it?” he managed, after a bit.

  “1853,” he said. “What year is it with all those boats with no sails?”

  “1933. They are fishing boats. Trawlers. 1853? Crikey!”

  “Trawlers smell. It’s a blessing, it is, the fish drown it out.” The petrol-driven engines had a smell of their own.

  “Was that you I saw on the spit?” asked Jack.

  “You were going to drown,” he said, frowning. “It’s bad to drown.”

  “You’re telling me!” said Jack. Jack’s brain started to catch up. “The Kestrel? Not the one on the rocks at Narrowgut?”

  “The very one. That was a terrible, bad blow we had.” He shuddered with the memory. “Our main mast broke. The sheets tore and we were swamped.” He pointed upward to the tallest mast. This vessel had three masts, a tall one at the fore, a smaller one, where both boys were standing now, – the mizzen mast the boy told him, – and a smaller one aft that was fore-and-aft rigged. “Terrible bad.”

  Jack was confused. The boy talked as though the mast was in splinters and the square-rigged sails in disarray. They were anything but. Masses of white sheets, full before the wind, bloomed out in a magnificent display.

  “Broke?” he said, his brow furrowing as he tried to understand what he was told.

  “Terrible,” repeated the boy. “My beauty was smashed to pieces.”

  “You mean, this ship is going to get wrecked?”

  “Don’t get yourself in a lather, mate. Yo
u did not drown.”

  Jack subsided a little. Still, it was plain the boy endured the shipwreck. It was unnerving how he talked about it so matter-of-fact when it must have been terrifying. He was not sure why he was here on The Kestrel in the first place. Did the boy summon him here? He remembered the dreamlike state he felt before he climbed the derrick. Now he was here, the picture of his climb was clearer. Not one soul on The Aurora paid attention to him as he climbed. There were no smart remarks or words of warning. He was ignored. He could see them in his mind, shouting to passengers on other trawlers or laughing with one another and Bill was too busy in the wheelhouse to notice his disappearance from the bow.

  “They won’t miss you, either,” said the boy, reading his thoughts.

  “Why not?” asked Jack.

  “Because you are still standing amidships, looking up the mast.”

  “Derrick,” corrected Jack with no intention of rudeness. His mind raced to take this information in. “It’s a derrick.”

  “So it is. So it is.” The boy was unruffled.

  “What are ye doing, boy? Those shrouds won’t fix themselves.” A voice of authority, peppered with a short temper, broke into their world.

  “Aye, sir,” called the boy. “Got to get up the mizzen,” he said to Jack. “The ratlines are a bit frayed.” He pronounced it ‘ratlins’. “They are the bits ’o rope across the shrouds. They are sailor’s footholds when up above. A terrible thing it would be to lose your footing up there. They send us monkeys aloft to fix the rigging. More nimble, you see.”

  “Well, get on with you,” roared the boson, hands on hips and face red as beetroot.

  Jack watched him disappear towards the heavens and vanish behind the billowing sails, while he remained, sitting on the yardarm, abandoned. He blinked, trying to find the boy in his sights, but the sun only dazzled him. He lowered his gaze and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again, all sign of sails were gone and he was sitting on the spar of the derrick, like a shag on a rock and feeling ridiculous. He slithered down the pole, carefully avoiding the people below. They were still intent upon their own pleasures and ignored his progress. In no time at all he was safely on deck once more.

  He shook his head like a dog shedding itself of excess water, hoping to relegate his memories to the status of dreams where they belonged. It had to be a dream. Convincing himself to be a victim of sunstroke or the like, he headed for his place in the bow. A sharp pain in his toe brought him face to face with reality. He stubbed his toe. His shoes, the ones he removed on the yardarm, were not on his feet. They were up the mast somewhere. He scanned the spar of the derrick for a sign of them. It was possible they fell off. An inspection of the base of the derrick revealed no sign of them.

  “Blimey, it really happened,” he mumbled. “Who is that boy?” It was clear the boy in his dream now owned a pair of shoes.

  CHAPTER 8

  The lusty smell of the sea carried on the breeze and in the salt spray, filling his nostrils. The Aurora was ahead of the fleet with only Dawnwind leaving her in her wake. The water, choppy and boisterous, pitched the boats up and down, frolicking like a family of ducks out on a family picnic. Voices floated across the Bay from one boat to another, unrestrained in the open air. It was hard to believe these people were the down-and-outers. Better sport could hardly be had by anybody.

  Bill stuck his head out of the wheelhouse, pivoting around in search of Jack. He located him almost outside the cabin door, the last place he thought of to look. Last time he saw his friend, he was standing at the bow, looking silly. Now his expression showed something else.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “There’s nothing to worry about out here. Look, we’re winning – as long as you don’t count Dawnwind. She’s racing herself, I reckon.”

  Jack took in his present surroundings. He was mad to get tangled up in something unreal while the race was going on. It was reckless abandon out here on the harbor. Even the seagulls joined in, flying alongside in the slipstream of the boats. He laughed.

  “Nothing.” He leaned over the starboard side and let the spray wet his face. He knew a salty crust would coat his skin as the water dried but he did not mind. “Gosh, that’s Curlew catching us up. I didn’t think she had that much power.”

  It was true. The passengers aboard The Aurora were shrieking their encouragement to Harry and his boat as the tussle for second place looked like being a real contest. The Curlew was a pretty boat owned by Harv Williams. Jack could see him in the wheelhouse, guiding his boat to advantage. They were close enough to see the grin on his face. The Curlew was gaining. This could not be! Curlew sat high in the water as she had no load other than passengers to weigh her down. The Aurora was empty too. The boats had equal chance and well their captains knew it. The final buoy loomed before them. Dawnwind was rounding it now. The boat closer to the buoy as they turned would be in front and both captains jostled for position. Harry gave it all he had. The Aurora inched ahead but Curlew stuck like a magnet to her starboard side. So far Harry had the advantage but anything could happen.

  Willed by the cheering crowd, The Aurora maintained her position and the buoy hove to on her port side. With enormous skill, Harry turned the wheel and his boat responded eagerly. He kept a tight position around the buoy so that Curlew could not edge in between and take the lead. Passengers on the other trawlers could see the contest going on. Each to his own fancy, they called out to one boat or the other, as though their encouragement earned them a place on the winner. Dawnwind gained no further lead. Her place assured, the passengers on her decks called out their cheeky suggestions which carried on the wind to the straining combatants. Ginny’s voice rang above the rest.

  “That girl’s got a set of pipes and no mistake. No one can outshout Ginny. Cor, block yer ears,” said Bill in the time honored manner of an older brother.

  Jack had no intention of doing any such thing. The exciting finish succeeded in driving out his earlier confusion, for the time being, at least. This was something he could understand. Let Ginny yell in her familiar, raucous way. He could see they were gaining on Dawnwind and had shown Curlew a clean pair of heels, so to speak. She wallowed in Aurora’s wake, her battle lost as Harry saved the best till last. Ginny’s shrieks grew louder to match her consternation. Bill would be impossible if Dawnwind lost the race.

  Still they gained, Aurora with the spirit of a young filly as no obstacle barred her progress. Amid the noise, a whoop of delight issued from the wheelhouse.

  “We’ll get her,” yelled Harry. “They’re too close to the sandbank. Hold on to your hats folks.”

  So they were. Inattention for a while allowed The Dawnwind to slew off course, into the path of one of the sandbanks, horribly close to the surface as the tide retreated. The Dawnwind tried to correct its course as it had not grounded but it was far too close to the sandbar. The wretched things were unstable and channels moved from time to time, depending on the weather. The tide was on the ebb and the sandbar leered up at them. The channel, now narrower than it had been, demanded she cut a course to port and then full ahead. Harry used the maneuvering time to catch up.

  The passengers could hardly believe it. The Aurora’s bow was neck and neck with Dawnwind’s stern, and still she had not straightened. It looked as though she would ram The Aurora but there was no need to be intimidated. These boats were the only thing between their owners and starvation. No one would willingly ram another boat. Harry knew this well. His impish grin declared he knew what Dawnwind was up to. He would not be intimidated. Harry maintained his straight line and headed for home.

  Gasps issued from the less experienced sailors aboard both boats. Jack and Bill, however, had grins on their faces to match Harry’s. Suddenly, it was done. It was not possible for Dawnwind to head Aurora off and she capitulated, to the accompaniment of Ginny’s wails. Both boys were delighted and danced about the deck, hugging everyone who came too close. The hugs were returned with equal fervor. Harry was a �
�lad’ and no mistake.

  As Aurora crossed the finish line a shot rang out to mark a winner. Dawnwind was second by half a boat length and Curlew plowed across two boat lengths behind the Dawnwind. The rest of the fleet straggled in, passengers wet, sunburnt and delighted. Everyone tumbled out of the boats, eager to share thoughts, jokes and barbs with one another. Bill couldn’t wait to see Ginny. What a roasting he’d give her! He remembered her superiority the previous year. Well, little Miss Perfect, we beat you this year! Bill believed Harry’s success was due to his help in the wheelhouse. All Ginny contributed was extra weight and a lot of noise. The argument would last till dinner time if he was lucky when his mother would threaten to pour cold water over them like a bunch of fighting dogs.

  Jack was pensive. Now the race was over, his memory of the boy, who was nameless and in a strange way, displaced, worried his thoughts. That was a peculiar remark about the ship he was on sinking. How could he be on it, whole and intact, and remember it foundering as well, some time later? All Jack’s life he thought in a rational way. Besides, he did not believe he was transported to 1853. That was an out and out nonsense! He wondered what episode in his life conjured up a sailing ship and deposited him on it. Dreams were funny like that. They took a bit from here and a bit from there and shook them like a cocktail and there you had it – an irrational mix of all those random parts.

  It was a good try to rid himself of uncomfortable notions, but something else bothered him. The sound of the canvas flapping was undeniable. Those sails looked very real. The worst thing, though, was having to explain to his father what had become of his shoes. The weather was calm and so they were unlikely to end up overboard. He had them in his dream when he climbed the mast. He was without them when he descended to the deck. The expense of a new pair of shoes would anger his father. There was no money to spare.