Neptune's Fingers (12 page)

T
he most important thing for Henry and Jack was to make sure the lamps were full. It would be a dark day even without rain. There was no hope of that, though. Big spots fell in random splashes, hitting the windows like the tapping of long fingernails. The wind gathered momentum, whipping the water into foam and splintered fountains. Without warning, a violent crack of thunder rent the air, shaking the ground beneath their feet, the flash of lightning initiating it, barely over. Jack and Henry, in one involuntary movement, looked up suddenly, peering out into the gloom.

At the same time, a voice behind them said;

“Cor, I'm glad I beat that one.”

They spun round to find Bill, wet and bedraggled, standing there. He was peeling off a wet mackintosh, a disgusted expression on his face. This was not wreck exploring weather at all. The next thing, George appeared. He came in his boat, sure extra hands would be needed before the day was out. His barometer showed a dismal picture. Wild weather, the spiteful summer kind, was building. He saw Harry depart and wondered at his wisdom. True, his wife, Amy, was awaiting the arrival of a new little Landy and Harry was anxious to make sure he could provide for it but this was crazy.

“You frightened the life out of me,” said Jack. Bill's unexpected voice seemed to come out of the thunder.

“Yes, I like to make my presence felt. Nothing less than thunder will do,” he said, a cheeky grin on his face. “That was a beauty. I almost fell down the stairs, I got such a shock.” His expression changed to one of concern. “Harry's out,” he said, although he did not think this would be news.

“Yeah,” said Jack. “Surely he'll turn back. It will be horrendous out there.”

‘Out there' lay concealed behind the sickly marbled curtain of gloom. If a boat was coming in, it would have to be closer before it was seen.

“We left the boat round the other side, near Jim's place. It's a bit more protected. I'd hate to hear what Ella would say if I lost it,” said George. “What can we do?”

“Nothing at the moment,” said Henry, “until we know what we are dealing with. With luck, all will be well. Keeping the lamp going is the most important thing. I know about the locals but I don't know about anyone else who might be on the sea.”

George nodded. He went with Henry to check the readiness of the boat he would use to rescue anyone, if needed, and Jack and Bill stood near the window overlooking The Kestrel. Usually, at low tide, the blackened keel lay like a forlorn skeleton, abandoned on the rocks, while black shags perched on it, looking for fish. Today, it was battling in the writhing waters, and no matter how much of it became exposed, the sea swallowed it again. The water still had a fair way to recede to full ebb.

As though to hide its agony, the heavens opened and a wall of water fell, obliterating their view. The Kestrel faded before their eyes as the tumultuous din of the rain pounded the lighthouse and the island like the beat of a million drums.

Almost as fast as it started, the rain stopped. The clouds emptied their load and that was that. A lighter shade of gray covered the land for a while. A strong swell rolled across the water in increasing intensity as the wind strengthened, its strident chorus shrieking about the lighthouse. Trees bent in a torturous dance, branches whipping about as though they were being throttled. The rain held off for a while as the hoards of clouds re-gathered in greater concentration. It was a day of dusk, an evening that started at breakfast time. The lighthouse flashed out its signal – one red, one white, one red, one white – constant and steadfast through the gathering mist. The clouds hung low on the ocean making yesterday's sunshine a distant memory. How quickly it all could change here.

Jack picked up the glass and peered through it, scanning the horizon for signs of a boat. The weekly steamer bringing supplies to their outlying community would be cancelled, he felt sure. The company owning the vessel took care of its boats. They were too expensive to replace. There would be no steamer today.

Good! thought Jack. One less problem.

The four watchers at the lighthouse waited, impotent as the storm gathered its inexorable might. Each willed the boats to come home before the storm became worse but as the hours ticked by, squall after squall with accompanying thunder and fireworks wracked the coast. Each squall was closer together until solid rain settled in, flung about by the cyclonic wind. The only hope for Harry was to get out to sea beyond the reaches of the storm and ride it out. It would be madness to try to come in now. Even a boat with an engine would have a hard time of it staying on course. The currents and channels about Neptune's Fingers led, without fail, to the rocks and submerged reefs, lying in wait for a wayward boat.

A great fear welled up in the boys. Where was Harry? Perhaps he did go further out to sea and avoided the storm altogether. They should have more faith in him. A trawler was a hardy boat and was as safe as houses in rough weather, as long as it wasn't swamped.

The Aurora was gray and hard to see in these conditions. Jack and Bill continued in their efforts to pierce the wall of water with their anxious eyes. The wind howled and buffeted in a boisterous madness, blocking out most other sound. They did not hear their father's return. Visibility was very poor. Both men were drenched. The last sudden deluge caught them unawares, making a return to the lighthouse imperative and difficult as the winds that were working up to gale force impeded their progress. There was nothing for it but to wait.

The Kestrel hugged the rocks, clinging to its spiny fingers just as surely as the rocks gripped it in return. Jack and Bill had long given up the idea of exploring it any day soon. Conditions would be rough for a while after this. They looked forlornly out at the sad, battered remains of what had once been a proud vessel. Bill gave a sudden start and gripped Jack by the shoulder.

“What the….?” he stammered. And when he could manage his tongue again, asked, “Did you see that?”

Jack was not sure what he had seen. Everything was blurry through the rain that raced down the windows like a crazy waterfall. The Kestrel could be seen but it was like looking through very thick glass or a pair of spectacles much too strong for the wearer. The keel appeared jagged like the filament in a light globe. He knew better, but The Kestrel appeared to be fractured right along its spine.

“It's the rain doing that, I think,” Jack said, not at all certain of his facts. It was indecent to think of his wreck disintegrating. “Blurry, you mean?”

Bill nodded, his hand still on Jack's shoulder. “Must be seeing things. My imagination's running wild.”

A huge bolt of lightning rent the sky, dazzling them, followed by a crack of thunder louder than anything preceding it. Bill's hold grew tighter, his fingernails digging into Jack's shoulder. As though in a rage, angered at being disturbed, The Kestrel began to move. Buoyed by the next insurging wave on a tide now rushing inward, it lifted its prow like a horse rearing. A fearful wrenching, tearing sound, louder than either boy believed possible, screamed its protest at the wind and as they stared in horror, the world wobbled and shimmered like a plate of jelly. All things – trees, island, ship – lost their rigidity and wavered, spineless in the black, drowning day. A huge wave reared and crashed over them, an unyielding wall. Stunned, they found themselves perched like shags on rocks, high up the mizzen mast, and clinging on for dear life, mindful of shouts and the awful sound of splintering wood.

T
he Kestrel, its sails furled and lumpy along the yards where they were tied like a string of sausages, was awash and reeling in a mighty sea. All hands were making a desperate attempt to secure anything that came adrift. The ferocious wind picked up strong men like toys and flung them against the railing where they clung on tight until they could stand again. A man overboard would be irretrievable. The Captain bellowed orders, only to have them flung back at him in the roaring gale. A helmsman battled the wheel, his valiant efforts endeavoring to prevent the ship from broadsiding and turning turtle, drowning the lot of them from Captain to the lowliest cabin boy. Monstrous seas dwarfed the ship. As it plowed towards a wave, determined to steer away from rocks that were all too near, a cascade of water pounded over it from prow to stern, drenching everyone in a frightening deluge.

“We're going to crash into the rocks,” said Jack, horrified. “This is the wreck of The Kestrel, I know it.”

The longboat was still secured on the deck. It was full of water as the sea emptied load after load into it. It gushed over its sides like waterfalls, adding to the chaos on the deck. Maneuvering a heavy boat was the last thing anyone wanted to do. It would mean all was lost if they had to resort to that. If a ship could not survive the mountains of water, a longboat had no chance.

“What's happening?” said Bill, his frightened voice whipping through the howling wind. He gripped the mast with the tenacity of a monkey, a wild, frantic expression on his face.

“Keep with me, Bill. I think we'll be all right,” said Jack. Empty words, he thought. I have no idea what is going to happen. “We were not alive when The Kestrel went down. We're probably not really here at all.”

“You're joking,” gasped Bill surfacing from another wave. “I'm wet through. Where else would we be?”

No matter where they actually were, they could both feel the motion of the writhing ship. Mountains of water reared over them and battered them almost senseless. Temporarily blinded, they shook the water from their faces, never daring to let go of the mast. Dream or no dream, Jack was hanging on till this was over. Bill needed no convincing either. The embattled helmsman, in sou'wester and oilskins, looked ghostly through the torrential rain. The deck was alive with action, intentional or otherwise as the sea tore the ground from beneath slithering feet.

High up, overlooking the chaos below, like spectators at a sporting event, the two boys rode the mast like a pendulum as the troughs and crests tipped the ship first one way and then another. Their stomachs lurched at the unfamiliar motion. The sails provided a padded seat and a bit more width than the yardarm, helping them to balance. As long as the gaskets held, these sodden bundles were secure.

It was obvious, by the state of the rigging, the gale had troubled them for some time. Shrouds were torn loose allowing the mast to whip with the wind as these long ropes were usually attached to the top of the mast and secured at the other end on the deck, like a tripod's foot. The ratlines were shredded. These provided footholds, like a rope ladder for those tending the sails. It was doubtful anyone would climb up there anyway until the gale abated. Sails were useless in such a blow. The rudder was more important, as it was the only hope of controlling the ship's direction. From the frantic efforts of the helmsman, for the moment, the ship still had a rudder. It was a small thing to fight such odds. It could be torn off on rocks with ease. It all seemed futile.

The Captain bellowed orders while the crew made a brave effort to comply. Yet, for all their attempts, the rocks loomed ever nearer, cruel teeth grinning like a slavering beast. Shouts and sounds of panic punctuated the activity on deck. Even the cook was doing his bit, retying loosened rope, battening down hatches. As the boys looked beyond the ship, a wave larger than the last welled up, temporarily poised like a bull pawing the ground, preparing for a charge. The enormous energy it brewed was palpable and they both held their breaths.

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.