Harold Bindloss - The Secret of the Reef

He believed that he had learned on board the sailing ships not to be dainty, but he sniffed at the food with repugnance and then resolutely cut off a piece. When he had eaten a bite of it he threw down his knife.

“It’s rank!” he exclaimed.

Moran, reaching up through the scuttle, threw his bannock overboard.

“Very well!” said Bethune. “That shortens our stay. Perhaps we had better get the pumps down into the cockpit when you have finished the pork and tea.”

They did so, grumbling, and then lay on the lockers, smoking and disinclined for sleep. There was a tension in the air, and something ominous in the roar of the surf, which seemed to grow louder and more insistent.

“Whether we’ll find the gold or not is doubtful; the only thing certain is that we’ll have an opportunity for doing a lot of work,” Bethune observed after a while. “In a way, Hank’s more to be pitied than either of us. He hadn’t the option of taking things easily when he came out West.”

“The big lobsters were most killed off; you couldn’t make your grub with the traps,” Moran explained. “Then I got some little books showing it was easy to get rich by fishing in British Columbia. Wish I had the liars who wrote them out in a half-swamped dory picking up a trawl.”

“I don’t see that I had much more option than he had,” Jimmy objected.

“You could have stayed on board the liner, wearing smart uniforms and faring sumptuously, with a Chinese steward to look after you, if you’d exercised a little tact and shown a proper respect for authority. When the skipper disapproved of a man with heart trouble steering his ship, as he had every right to do, you should have agreed with him.”

“I’m glad I didn’t,” Jimmy said stubbornly. “Anyhow, you’re no better off, even if you practise what you preach.”

“That would be too much to expect; but then I admit that I am a fool,” Bethune laughed. “If I doubted it, the number of times it has been delicately pointed out would have convinced me. After all, it’s easy to conform outwardly, which is all that is required, and you can do what you like in private. A concession to popular opinion here and there doesn’t cost one much.”

“If you mean I ought to have got the quartermaster sacked after he’d prevented a ton of cargo from dropping on my head, I’d rather starve.”

“There’s a risk of your doing so if you persist in your foolishness. If you had stopped to reason, you would have seen it was your duty to agree with your skipper. Misguided pity is a dangerous thing.”

“Moralizing of this kind makes my headache worse!” said Jimmy disgustedly. “Drop it and light your pipe!”

“Let him alone; he has to talk,” Moran interposed. “It doesn’t matter so long as you don’t worry about what he means.”

“Well,” drawled Bethune, “I’ll conclude. Which of you is going to wash up?”

Moran picked up the dirty plates and thrust them into a locker.

“I’m played out and homesick! Wish I was back East, where I did my fishing in the natural way – on top of the water! But it’s a sure thing none of us will be down at the wreck to-morrow.”

There was silence except for the rumble of the surf and the occasional rap of a halyard against the mast. The sound became more frequent as Jimmy got drowsy, but he was used to the approach of bad weather. Stretched out comfortably on the locker, he soon fell asleep; and it was as dark as it ever is in the North in summer when he was rudely awakened by a terrific jar. The sloop seemed to be rearing upright, and Moran’s hoarse shouts were all but drowned by the rattle of chain on deck.

Scrambling out quickly, Jimmy saw the fisherman stooping forward where the cable crossed the bits, and a narrow stretch of smoking sea ahead. Individual combers emerged from it, and the sloop alternately reeled over them with a white surge boiling at her bows and plunged into the hollows. Jimmy, however, wasted no time in looking about; they had hung on to their moorings longer than was prudent, and prompt action was needed.

With Bethune’s assistance he close-reefed the mainsail and got the shortened canvas up; then all three were needed to break out the anchor, and Jimmy crouched in the water that swept the forward deck as he stowed it while his comrades hoisted a storm-jib. After that she drove away before the sea, and the men anxiously watched for the entrance to the channel. Though dawn had not broken, it was by no means dark, and they could see the streaky backs of the rollers that ran up the shoals, and beyond them a broad, white band of surf. Presently a break opened up, but it was narrow and crooked, and it seemed impossible that the sloop could get through. When they had run on for a minute or two longer, Moran stood up on deck to command a better view.

“We’d have about two feet under her at the bend, and if she didn’t luff up handy she’d sure go ashore,” he said. “Seems to me the chances are too blamed steep.”

They might reach shelter by taking the risk, and to refuse it meant a struggle with the sea; but Jimmy reluctantly agreed with Moran.

“Yes,” he said; “we had better stand off. Look out while I jibe her round.”

She swung on before the sea as he put up his helm, followed close by a comber that reared its crest astern, her boom flung on end with the patch of wet mainsail swelling like a balloon. Moran and Bethune were desperately busy with the sheet, for safety depended on their speed. Jimmy moved his wheel another spoke, and sail and heavy spar swung over, while the Cetacea , coming round, buried her lee deck in the sea. With a wild plunge she shook off the water, and, while Bethune and his comrade flattened in the sheets, drove out to windward away from the dangerous shoal. Since they could not reach the bight, she would be safer in open water.

When dawn broke, ominously red, the Cetacea was hove to with a small trysail set, rising and falling with a drunken stagger, as the long, white seas rolled up on her weather bow. Though she shipped no heavy water, she was drifting fast to leeward: the island had faded to a gray streak on the horizon. It would be a day’s work to beat back again, even if the wind abated, and it showed no sign of doing so. By noon the land was out of sight, and the sea had grown heavier. For an hour or two there was misty sunshine, and the oncoming walls of water glistened luminously blue beneath their incandescent crests. Some of them curled dangerously, and the trysail flapped, half empty, when the Cetacea sank into the trough. She lay there a few moments while her crew watched the comber that rose ahead. With slanted mast and rag of drenched sail she looked uncomfortably small; but somehow she staggered up the slope before the roller broke. Jimmy could not tell how far he helped her with the helm, but the sweat of nervous strain dripped from his face as he turned his wheel. Now and then she was a few seconds slow in responding to it, and when her bows swung clear her after-half was buried in a rush of spouting foam. It sluiced off, however, and the sharp swoop into the trough was repeated as comber after comber swept upon them.

When Moran relieved him, Jimmy felt worn out. He had had only an hour or two’s sleep after a day of exhausting work; his breakfast had consisted of a morsel of stale, cold fish, hurriedly torn with his fingers from the lump in the pan; and they had had no opportunity for cooking dinner.

“I’ll try to make some coffee,” he said, as he went below.

It was difficult to light the stove. The cabin trickled with moisture like a dripping-well. Grate and wood were wet; and when at last the fire began to crackle, Jimmy had to kneel on a locker as he held the kettle on, in order to keep his feet out of the water which washed up from the bilge. There seemed to be a good deal of it.