Arthur Upfield - The Mystery of Swordfish Reef

Joe stood up to wave, and when the machine had passed over and began to circle there could be seen two men, one of whom waved back whilst he examined theMarlin through binoculars. After that, like an albatross, it “drifted” northward.

Joe came aft with his lunch basket.

“Sooner be here than up in that thing,” he said, with the conservatism of the sailor. “Shift her four points to starboard, and we’ll follow up a current running between two reefs.”

“Telfer must have got to work reporting the absence of theDo-me,” surmised Wilton, again standing before the wheel and obeying his partner’s order. “That plane’s from Sydney all right. She’s an Air Force machine.”

“Hell-’v-a-’opeof sightin’ theDo-me now,” grumbled Joe. “And not much chance their sighting oil after last night’s weather. Any’ow if they seen a patch of oil they couldn’t tell if it came from theDo-me or a steamer.”

“How do you think to tell it if we come across any?”

“If we come across oil, Jack, the chances are that it came from theDo-me. ’Cos why?’Cos we’re follering tight the sea-drift from where theDo-me must have gone down. Oil anywhere away from the drift would be steamer’s oil, likely enough, any’ow, after last night’s weather it won’t be easy to look at from aboard here, let alone a plane, low as that one was working. Better let me take the wheel. I’ll have to do a bit of dodging about. If there’s anything to be found it will be within a mile or two of this position.”

Wilton was standing beside the mast when, some forty minutes later, he abruptly turned aft and raised both his arms. Instantly Joe pushed the engine clutch into neutral, and raised himself to look over the shelter structure. Wilton was pointing to the sea about the launch.

“What d’you make of it, Joe? Is it oil?”

Joe’s eyes widened. Then he sprang down into the cockpit, bent low to bring his eyes on a level with the gunwale to squint across the low chop-waves on the slopes of the greater swells. Perhaps for half a minute he remained thus before clambering for’ard to join his partner in staring downward at the surface of the water. Then:

“Yes, that’s oil, Jack. Film’s thinner than ordinary due to last night’s rough weather. It’s oil, all right, and it’s in the drift coming from Swordfish Reef. Now lemme think.”

His face became a study of mental concentration, the expression not unlike that of a schoolboy trying to remember a lesson. In fact his brain was working on a problem that would have defied a professor of mathematics, for he sought the answer to the question: How far from an oil patch which offers exceedingly slight resistance to wind might be found flotsam from the same craft from which came the oil, when the velocity of the wind was such and such for so many hours, when it blew from such a quarter before changing to such a quarter, when this current would flow at so many knots to the hour, and that at so many knots, to join another current moving at such a speed?

“We’ll move on a bit,” he said sharply. “You stay here and keep a look-out. Don’t pass by as much as a splinter of wood.”

The aeroplane was still out over the sea, out from Bunga Head, ten miles south of Bermagui. TheMarlin was six miles south of the great headland and seven miles off the small settlement called Tathra. They could this clear day see the hotel at Tathra.

Joe brought out from the cabin a petrol drum, and standing on this he could see on all sides above the shelter roof whilst he steered with his naked feet. He sent theMarlin forward at a mere two knots to the hour, scanning the coast about Tathra and taking constant bearings from Bunga Head. The upper part of his body rested on the roof of the shelter and his hands protected his eyes from the near light. Apparently undirected, theMarlin began a series of zig-zags, curves and giant circles.

Steadying himself by holding to the mast and the port mast stay, Jack Wilton ceaselessly scanned the sea with greater mental concentration than ever he had watched for a fin. His craft’s extraordinary antics perturbed him not at all, for his confidence in his partner was supreme when it was a question of the currents controlled by the wind and the reefs far below the surface. He did not permit himself to gaze landward, or to watch the plane, giving every second of time to the surface of the glittering sea.

The wind was dying. The chop from the south was falling fast, and the now unopposed swells were flat topped and smooth sloped. Minutes mounted to an hour, the hour grew to two hours, and still Joe stood on his drum and steered with his naked feet. He watched not the sea but the land and Bunga Head, for that Head and points of the land gave him his constantly changing positions.

The plane had at last gone from the sea. There was a launch far away tothe nor ’-east, its hull below the horizon, its mast standing stiffly on the horizon like a hair on the head of a bald man.

Both Wilton and Joe were confident that if theDo-me had gone down there must be flotsam and oil to betray its fate. The oil they had passed over was more likely than not to have come from theDo-me, for Joe was following an invisible road to Swordfish Reef above which the missing launch was assumed to have sunk. On this same invisible road would be objects which would float away from theDo-me if and when she sank; objects such as the angler’s chair-cushion, the wooden bait-fish box, hats, lunch basket and wooden tucker box, thermos flasks and milk bottles. If the door giving entry to the engine-room cabin was open at the time of the catastrophe, a good deal of gear would wash out and float to the surface. Somewhere along Joe’s narrow and invisible road would be floating flotsam from the missing launch-if she had sunk-and Joe’s ability to keep to this track zig-zagging across the trackless sea was something extraordinary.

Ah! There was Jack still standing against the mast, but now loudly stamping on the deck to attract his partner’s attention. He did not look back, but continued to stare away over the starboard bow, as though he knew that once he shifted the direction of his gaze the object would be lost to him. Joe altered course in accordance with the orders given by Wilton’s outstretched arm, his feet taking the place of his hands on the wheel-spokes.

Presently he came to see ahead a line of suds, thin and broken. As he well knew, it was the division line between a current setting landward and one making seaward, a dividing line forming a no-man’s-land on which floated the chalky backs of cuttlefish, the bodies of dead crabs, and other offal of the sea.

Then Joe saw that which was exciting his partner. It was reflecting the sunlight, winking as the water moved its angle with the sun. Joe pushed the clutch into neutral, and theMarlin lost speed and glided towards the sun-reflector. Wilton shouted:

“It’s a thermos-flask!”

He raced aft to leap down into the cockpit, where he crouched over the gunwale whilst Joe expertly “edged” the craft alongside the flasks. With his booted feet hooked about the side rail of the starboard angler’s chair, Wilton leaned far out and down to snatch from the sea this piece of flotsam. Joe helped him inboard, and together they regarded the flask.

The cap cup was screwed on tightly and yet was not rusted on. There was no rust on the screw of the flask, which was new and obviously had not long been in the water. The cork was firmly pushed into the glass receptacle, and on being pulled free permitted Wilton to pour a little of the contents out on to a hand palm. It was tea, and when he tasted it, he said, looking at Joe:

“Might have been brewed this morning. Hullo, what’s this?”

On the bottom of the flask had been scratched two letters. The scratching was still bright. Only recently had it been done.