Alfred Grace - The Tale of Timber Town

“No, certainly not; not by that name, anyhow.”

“D’you know what an apparent light is?”

“No, but I know plenty of apparent fools.”

“An apparent light is a most ingenious contraption.”

“I’ve no doubt.”

“It’s a optical delusion, and makes two lights o’ one – one on shore, which is the real one, and one here, which is the deception.” But while the Pilot went on to talk of base plates, lewis bats, and all the paraphernalia of his craft, the skipper’s eye was fixed on a string of little islands which stood off the end of the western arm of the great bay outside.

“Now, I never saw those when I was coming in,” said he. “Where did you get them islands from, Summerhayes? Are they occulting, real, or apparent? Changing your landmarks, like this, is deceiving.”

The Pilot, forgetting the technicalities of his profession, looked at the phenomenon which puzzled the skipper, and said, as gruffly as a bear, “That’s no islands: it’s but a bit of a mirage. Sometimes there’s only one island, sometimes three, sometimes more – it’s accordin’ to circumstances. But what’s this craft coming down the bay? Barque or ship, Sartoris? – I’ve forgot me glass.”

Both men stood on the seaward edge of the island, and looked long and hard at the approaching vessel.

“Barque,” said Sartoris, whose eyes were keener than the older man’s.

“There’s no barque due at this port for a month,” said the Pilot. “The consignees keep me posted up, for to encourage a sharp lookout. The Ida Bell should arrive from London towards the middle of next month, but she is a ship. This must be a stranger, putting in for water or stores; or maybe she’s short-handed.”

For a long time they watched the big craft, sailing before the breeze.

“Sartoris, she’s clewing up her courses and pulling down her head-sails.”

“Isn’t she a trifle far out, Pilot?”

“It’s good holding-ground out there – stiff clay that would hold anything. What did I tell you? – there you are – coming-to. She’s got starn-board. There goes the anchor!”

The skipper had hitherto displayed but little interest in the strange vessel, but now he was shouting and gesticulating, as a flag was run up to her fore-truck.

“Look at that, Summerhayes!” he exclaimed. “If you ain’t blind, tell me what that flag is. Sure as I’m a master without a ship, it’s the currantine flag.”

“So it is, so it is. That means the Health Officer, Sartoris.” And the gruff old Pilot hastened down to the dingey.

As the two seamen put off from the island, the skipper, who was in the stern of the little boat, could see Summerhayes’s crew standing about on the slip of the pilot-shed; and by the time the dingey had reached the shore, the Pilot’s big whale-boat lay by the landing-stage.

“Where’s the doctor?” roared Summerhayes. “Is he goin’ to make us hunt for him when he’s required for the first time this six weeks?”

“All right, all right,” called a clear voice from inside the great shed. “I’m ready before you are this time, Pilot.”

“An’ well you are,” growled the gruff old barnacle. “That furrin’-lookin’ barque outside has hoisted the yellow flag. Get aboard, lads, get aboard.”

“Your men discovered the fact half an hour ago, by the aid of your telescope.” The doctor came slowly down the slip, carrying a leather hand-bag.

“If you’ve any mercy,” said the Pilot, “you’ll spare ’em the use o’ that. Men die fast enough without physic.”

“Next time you get the sciatica, Summerhayes, I’ll give you a double dose.”

“An’ charge me a double fee. I know you. Shove her off, Johnson.”

The grim old Pilot stood with the steering-oar in his hand; the skipper and the doctor sitting on either hand of him, and the crew pulling as only a trained crew can.

“Steady, men,” said the Pilot: “it’s only half tide, and there’s plenty of water coming in at the entrance. Keep your wind for that, Hendricson.”

With one hand he unbuttoned the flap of his capacious trouser-pocket, and took out a small bunch of keys, which he handed to Sartoris.

“Examine the locker,” he said. “It’s the middle-sized key.” The captain, in a moment, had opened the padlock which fastened the locker under the Pilot’s seat.

“Is there half-a-dozen of beer – quarts?” asked Summerhayes.

“There is,” replied Sartoris.

“Two bottles of rum?”

“Yes.”

“Glasses?”

“Four.”

“An’ a corkscrew?”

“It’s here.”

“Then we’ve just what the doctor ordered: not this doctor – make no mistake o’ that. An’ them sons o’ sea cooks, forrard there, haven’t yet found a duplicate key to my locker. Wonderful! wonderful!”

The crew grinned, and put their backs into every stroke, for they knew “the old man” meant that they shouldn’t go dry.

“I’m the Pilot o’ this here port, eh?”

“Most certainly,” said the doctor.

“An’ Harbour Master, in a manner o’ speaking?”

“That’s so.”

“And captain o’ this here boat?”

They were hugging the shore of the island, where the strength of the incoming tide began to be felt in the narrow tortuous channel. The bluff old Pilot put the steering-oar to port, and brought his boat round to starboard, in order to keep her out of the strongest part of the current.

“Now, lads, shake her up!” he shouted.

The men strained every nerve, and the boat was forced slowly against the tide. With another sudden movement of the steering-oar Summerhayes brought the boat into an eddy under the island, and she shot forward.

“Very well,” he said; “it’s acknowledged that I’m all that – Pilot, Harbour Master, and skipper o’ this boat. Then let me tell you that I’m ship’s doctor as well, and in that capacity, since we’re outside and there’s easy going now under sail, I prescribe a good stiff glass all round, as a preventive against plague, Yellow Jack, small-pox, or whatever disease it is they’ve got on yonder barque.”

Sartoris uncorked a bottle, and handed a glass to the doctor.

“And a very good prescription, too,” said the tall, thin medico, who had a colourless complexion and eyes that glittered like black beads; “but where’s the water?”

“Who drinks on my boat,” growled the Pilot, “drinks his liquor neat. I drown no man and no rum with water. If a man must needs spoil his liquor, let him bring his own water: there’s none in my locker.”

The doctor took the old seaman’s medicine, but not without a wry face; Sartoris followed suit, and then the Pilot. The boat was now under sail, and the crew laid in their oars and “spliced the main brace.”

“That’s the only medicine we favour in this boat or in this service,” said the Pilot, as he returned the key of the locker to his pocket, “an’ we’ve never yet found it to fail. Before encount’ring plague, or after encount’ring dirty weather, a glass all round: at other times the locker is kept securely fastened, and I keep the key.” Saying which, he buttoned the flap of his pocket, and fixed his eyes on the strange barque, to which they were now drawing near.

It could be seen that she was a long time “out”; her sails, not yet all furled, were old and weather-worn; her sides badly needed paint; and as she rose and fell with the swell, she showed barnacles and “grass” below the water-line. At her mizzen-peak flew the American ensign, and at the fore-truck the ominous quarantine flag.

As the boat passed under the stern, the name of the vessel could be seen – “ Fred P. Lincoln , New York” – and a sickly brown man looked over the side. Soon he was joined by more men, brown and yellow, who jabbered like monkeys, but did nothing.