Neptune's Fingers (7 page)

“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. You 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.

T
he 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.

All the way to Sandy Beach, Bill and Ginny, who had to accompany them, squabbled over Regatta rules and the unfairness of sandbars. Jack said very little. He let them wrangle. There was no harm in it and it entertained Ginny even if it annoyed Bill. They were still hard at it when they reached the Tarrant residence.

“Mum's not home yet. Bet she's talking to Mrs. White. That pair would talk underwater. Did you see what boat they were on?” Bill was in a fair way of being a champion talker himself; an apprentice to be proud of. The constant chat was beginning to tell on Jack. His own thoughts refused to switch off and Bill and Ginny's carry-on was irritating.

“Should've waited for her. She might have liked the company.” Jack was usually considerate.

“What! And interfere with arguing with Ginny! Give a bloke a break,” wailed Bill.

“Just a thought,” said Jack. “Was it good in the wheelhouse?” “Oooh, you didn't have a turn at the wheel!” cried Ginny. “Lucky thing! I'd love to do that.”

“You have to be able to see over the top of the wheel first,” said Bill, his best repartee so far.

“I think you're horrible,” said Ginny and flounced off.

“Should be on the stage, that one,” he said.

Jack was sick of this. His own concerns were having a battle of their own. Surely someone saw the mysterious boy. Bill saw everything. Maybe he saw him some other time. Jack made a tentative enquiry.

“Have you seen any strangers around here lately?” It was vague and gave little away. He wanted an honest answer, not one assisted by unnecessary clues.

“Nope. Don't think so. Most people on the boats were locals. Why?

“Oh, nothing. I saw a boy at the spit the other day. I'd never seen him before, so I just wondered.”

“No. No one,” said Bill. His curiosity failed to be engaged as he was still full of the joys of piloting Harry's boat, if only for a short time.

Mrs. Tarrant's arrival prevented Jack from enquiring further. She was in high spirits after the luxury of a day of pleasure. She invited Jack in for a drink of lemonade before he went to catch the tide, asking for Ginny's whereabouts at the same time.

“Gone off in a huff. She' s a poor loser,” said Bill.

“Sure you're not a poor winner?” asked his mother.

Bill huffed and puffed a little but nothing would take away the glorious feeling belonging to a winning boat, even if the only claim to fame was being there. Jack thanked Mrs. Tarrant for the lemonade and said goodbye to Bill. The tide was well out by now and his father had need of him. He had no wish to abuse the privilege of today's freedom. He walked along towards False Bay and the spit, his mind in a whirl.