The Mystery of Swordfish Reef

by Arthur W. Upfield

  Joe continued to shout, but now Bony’s brain did not register the words. He did not see the enormous Joe dancing with naked feet, or Wilton standing on the gunwale and supporting himself against the side of the cabin structure. The falling barometer and the threat of bad weather were forgotten by all. The fish was curving well astern of the launch, coming in and on to follow the wake.

  Wilton sprang to the back of Bony’s chair and began to fasten on his angler the body harness. In this harness clipped to the rod reel, Bony was compelled to crouch over the rod, gloves now on his hands, the fingers of the right hand gently working at the brake spokes, feeling the drag of the water on the baitfish. Wilton’s voice in his ear was like the hiss of the sea.

  “Six hundred pounds if an ounce, Bony. Take him easy. Oh—what a beauty! He’s after the bait-fish. He’s seen it. Look at him, just keeping pace with it, eyeing it, smelling it. He’s a bit suspicious. We’re leaving the teasers out till the last second. That’s right! Be ready to take off brakage, and be careful not to let the line over-run when he’s taking it away. Come on, you beauty! What’s stopping you? Come and take it. It’s just waiting for you. Ah! ... Look!”

  Like an arrow sped straight and sure, the fin streaked forward, came on up the slope of a water mountain, up and up after the skimming bait-fish. The Marlin began to drop down into the water valley, and there on the summit of the huge roller, silhouetted against the steely sky, rode the bait-fish, sending outward to port and starboard its “bow” wave, and there immediately behind it, sticking upward like the keel of an overturned racing yacht, sped the dorsal fin of the swordfish.

  Down came the bait-fish, following the Marlin into the valley. And now the men could look through the slope of the roller and see the black shape beneath the fin, slim and long and superb.

  They were in the valley when a brown spear of bone rose out of the sea. An elephantine mouth rose up beside the baitfish. It seemed to jerk forward like the open jaws of an eager dog, then sank with the bait-fish gripped by it. The fin disappeared. The reel began to scream.

  Immediately Joe spun the wheel to bring the stern round to the north-east. The line from the rod tip ran out directly astern, watched by Bony, the angler, crouching over the screaming reel. Wilton jumped back to whisk inboard the two teasers. Then he sprang again to crouch over Bony from behind the chair.

  Every second yards of line were torn off the reel. There had been nine hundred yards wound on it. Now there were only seven hundred yards. Three seconds later there were but six hundred yards. The reel was being emptied of line. There was left only half of the nine hundred yards of line when the reel abruptly ceased its screaming and the line between rod tip and water lay slack.

  “Wait!” pleaded Wilton. “No brake, yet. He’ll run again.”

  Wilton was right. Again the reel screamed and the line again ran away into the sea. Bony’s gloved fingers continued to press on the revolving drum. The fingers of his right hand itched to turn the spokes of the brake wheel, to stem that terrific outgoing of precious line. Wilton’s nerves were frozen solid. He watched the emptying reel first with unease and then with growing despair. Six hundred yards of line lay buried in the sea. Now six hundred and fifty yards of line had been taken overboard. Now only two hundred yards of line remained on the reel.

  His angler couldn’t wait longer for the fish to stop and chew the bait-fish before swallowing it, no not with only a hundred and fifty yards of line in reserve, and this reserve being eaten up at every split second. The last foot of line to leave the reel would mean breaking the rod or snapping the line, in any case losing the fish. Better to strike before the right moment and chance hooking the fish than to leave it too late and certainly lose it through the line being snapped off the drum.

  “Strike him, Bony! Strike him now!” he shouted. “You’ll probably lose him, but you’d lose him anyway with no line left on the reel in reserve.”

  Bony struck, sharply, felt the weight, was unable to hold the line racing away under his finger-tips. He struck again, bringing the rod tip up and back over his head, braking as hard as he dared.

  The scream of the reel stopped.

  He wound in the slack line, felt the weight of the fish, and again struck.

  “Give it to him,” yelled Joe.

  “Come round, Joe. Speed her up. Follow the fish. Line’s short!” shouted Wilton, and Bony noted the increased engine beats and saw the line swinging to port, and the craft’s stern came round. The line presently came to meet the sea off the beam, and the way on of the launch reduced the rate of line expenditure. The fish reduced its speed and he wound slack line on the reel drum. Water dripped to his knees. His back now was to the stern, his face almost directly confronting the dancing Joe, whose task was to keep the bow of the Marlin almost parallel with the line.

  “He’s coming up!” shouted Wilton, excitement unnecessarily raising his voice. “Fetch her round, Joe!”

  Round came the stern. Round went the line and the rod tip until the line spun outward to the sea directly astern, giving Bony foot purchase on the stern rail and a clear fighting range. They could see the line lengthening above water as the fish, hundreds of yards away, was shooting to the surface at express speed. Up went Bony’s rod tip against the weight at the far end. Down went the rod tip to produce slack line which was brought in to the reel drum. Again up and then down: up and down. The angler’s right hand ached with the rapid circular movement enforced by the winding handle. His left forearm ached with the incessant upward pull exerted on the rod every time he struck the fish. This time he was able to do all this without looking at his work, and thus he was able to watch the sea far astern, guessing where the fish would appear. His guess was right.

  He and Wilton and Joe yelled together.

  “There he goes! Look at him! Look at him!”

  Up from the summit of a water mountain sprang the fish, six hundred yards away, a greyish torpedo enshrined in a rainbow. The water mountain passed from under it whilst yet it was above the sea, and consequently they did not see the mighty splash of its falling into a water valley.

  “Go on, give it to ’im, Bony!” yelled Joe. “Sock it into ’im! You’ve got him! Don’t let him have slack. Give it to ’im!”

  “By heck, he’s a record, Joe!” cried Wilton, exultation in his voice.

  “No, he ain’t. Jack, but he’s a near record. How’s the line on the reel?”

  “Not enough if he runs far now. Begin to bring her round to follow the fish. Yes, there he goes.”

  Despite Bony’s braking on the line the reel began again its scream, as the fish went deep and away at the speed of a fast car.

  Bony’s brain actually felt cold within his skull. It again became parted into two entities, one of which registered all sounds and movements made by his launchmen, the other coldly calculating, reasoning, seeking to forestall. This day he had the requisite knowledge of managing rod and reel and brake, but he still lacked the timing sense gained only by experience. He suffered no nervous complexes. He was unconscious of his body, but strangely conscious of his brain housed behind his eyes.

  The thumb of the hand holding the rod he kept pressed to the taut line, estimating by its tautness the strain put upon it. When it became too great he eased the brake, and the reel’s scream rose a note higher. The launch was under way, following the fish, but not overtaking it, reducing the expenditure of line reserve of which was down to a hundred and fifty yards. Sweat poured from Bony’s face, ran down his neck to saturate his shirt. The line often was so taut that Wilton despaired. He refrained from his urging, recognizing that had he been in the chair he could have done no better than Bony was doing.

  The screaming reel became silent, and instantly Joe swung the Marlin’s stern wide, bringing the line again back beyond the stern.

  “What’s ’e doin’ now?” he demanded of Wilton.

  “Dunno, unless he intends rolling a bit to take the trace round his tail and break it.”

 
“Hell-’v-a-chance he’s got of doing that with that nice strong trace,” Joe shouted, and roared with laughter. “Stick to him, Bony! He’s gonna try a few ’arty tugs.”

  And Joe was right. Up the line to the rod tip, and down through the line guides to Bony’s hands came a succession of terrific tugs. Each tug tore line from the protesting reel despite the brakage placed on it.

  “Careful!” pleaded Wilton. “Careful, or the line’ll go, or the rod’ll break. He’s down deep, shaking his head or his tail, trying to snap the trace asunder. Let him to it. There’s plenty of time. The more he fights now the less hard he’ll be on line when he runs again. He’s no chicken, bee-lieve me. You want to conserve your strength because you’re going to be tired by the time you bring him to the gaff.”

  Joe reached forward and touched his partner with a foot. Wilton turned and Joe indicated the eastern horizon. There, low above the horizon, was a long, narrow black cloud.

  Tight-lipped, Wilton passed into the cabin where he glanced at the barometer, and still tight-lipped he attended to the engine, checking oilers, checking the petrol in the tanks. When he emerged he stood close to Joe and said:

  “Glass down to twenty-nine point four. The weather’ll break with a howler.”

  Joe grinned, and all his whiskers seemed to stand out.

  “Bit of bad luck, the weather,” he said. “Hope the fish is tired time it strikes us, or you’ll have to hold Bony into his chair. Just look at him now. Cold as ice inside and pourin’ sweat outside. He’s got the right temperament for swordfishin’. Picking it up fast, ain’t ’e?”

  Wilton grinned. Once again he looked seaward: the thickness of the ribbon cloud on the horizon was increasing.

  “The Dolfin’s coming in fast for home,” he told Joe. “What do you reckon? Cut the line and make for Bermee?”

  “Cut the line!” Joe blazed. “Cut the line with that fish on the other end of it! No fear. We’ll run into Wapengo Inlet if the sea looks like we won’t reach Bermee in time to get over the bar. The ruddy launch can sink before we lose that ruddy fish.”

  Wilton grinned, and patted his partner on the arm.

  “Keep your eye on that weather,” he urged, and went aft once again to stand behind his angler.

  “How’s he going?” he asked. “You’ve got a bit of line in, I see.”

  “Yes, but what I get in over a minute the fish takes out again in less than a second,” panted Bony.

  “Never mind. Make him fight all the time. Don’t let up on him and give him a breather. Watch those rollers, too. Every time we heave over the back of one be easy on the brake because the strain becomes heavy. We don’t want to lose that beauty now.”

  “How long’s he been on?” Bony asked, between gasps.

  “About thirty-five minutes. Getting tired?”

  “More than a little. I’m not as young as I used to be. But what a fish, Jack! What a fish! Ah, come in a little nearer! No you don’t. Ah ... I’m holding you better now.”

  Bony gained a yard or two of line; held it whilst the rod became a bow; then he would lose a few feet despite all his own muscular effort, finely judging how to employ the brake without danger. And then into his radius of vision swept a cruiser-type launch painted silver-grey. It came in on the starboard side, and ran smartly parallel with the Marlin in order not to cross the angler’s line. Bony saw a big man and a slim woman seated in the roomy cockpit. Another man stood in the shelter of the wheel-house. Yet another was dismantling a heavy game fishing-rod. The man and woman in the cockpit waved to him, and Bony managed to wave a hand in acknowledgement.

  The sea was certainly “getting up”; the rollers had now become huge mountains. When one was between them neither launch could be seen from the other. The big man seated with the woman in the angler’s chairs rose and pointed to the east, and Bony then saw the rising cloud belt sweeping towards the zenith. Joe shouted and waved his arms. After that the Dolfin quickly forged ahead and, passing across the Marlin’s bow, slid away shoreward.

  The minutes were mounting against Bony. When the battle had lasted a full hour the gale struck them with wind and rain. The sun went out. The blue and white of the sea became green and white. The crests of the chop were whipped away in a general smother so that the green patches contracted and the white gashes spread to join in big areas.

  “How’s it going now?” asked the anxious Wilton.

  “He’s coming. But he’s slow. It’s like pulling at a whale,” Bony sobbed.

  “Keep going. You’ve got half your line in. He’ll come faster and faster because he can’t get any fresher.”

  The fish was still away to the north-east and the rising seas were attacking the Marlin broadside on. Joe edged her bow a little to take the crests on the port quarter. The launch bucked like a cork, and Wilton had hard work steadying Bony’s chair to enable him to maintain a purchase with his feet on the stern rail. Foot by foot the dripping line was brought to the rod tip and down the guides to the reel drum.

  “Storm blowing up?” asked Bony, the words rasping from his mouth.

  “Bit of a squall,” replied Wilton.

  The rain hit the green areas of water, bounced, was whipped away into the suds; the upper slopes of the rollers were covered with angry crests. Wilton’s uneasiness was caused by the prospect of the minor waves becoming added to the rollers and forming on them towering, curving, smashing walls of white water. Every minute the chance of making the bar at Wapengo Inlet was becoming poorer. He went back to Joe.

  “What d’you think of it now?”

  “Not too bad yet, Jack. How’s the fish comin’?”

  “Two hundred yards out. Another hour and we won’t be able to get into Wapengo.”

  “Then we’ll make down to Eden, Jack. This tub will ride anything. We’ve plenty of petrol. Take a look at the glass.”

  “Twenty-nine point three six,” Wilton said on emerging from the cabin.

  “She’s gonna blow ’ard in a minute,” predicted Joe, with amazing cheerfulness. “She can blow as ’ard as she likes s’long as we get that fish.”

  The fish was beaten, and had Bony been fresh a minute or two only would have sufficed to bring it to the launch, but he had by this time spent seventy minutes in a gruelling battle with a fish weighing several hundredweight. Now he realized that the wind had shifted from the west to the east, that it was rapidly gaining strength. He could see how it whipped off the weather-tops of the crests; how it drove short lines of suds scudding across the little patches of green water. The raindrops were big: each one that struck upon his arms and face and neck stung like the bites of green-head ants.

  He knew that Wilton was again standing behind him, and he was forced to master his breathing in order to shout:

  “I’m bringing him now. He’s given in. It’s like a ton weight at the bottom of a well.”

  “You’re doing good-oh,” Wilton hissed into his right ear. “Work him a bit faster. The sea’s getting up, and we’ll have to run for Wapengo Inlet. Wouldn’t get to Burmee in time to navigate the bar.”

  Because the angler’s arms felt filled with lead, and his back ached, he did not notice any trace of the anxiety growing in Wilton’s mind. It was all very well for Joe to say they could run down to Eden if they couldn’t chance the Wapengo bar. The Marlin wasn’t a steamer, and the coast steamers sometimes ran for shelter. Brown eyes, screwed inward for protection from the rain and spray, calculated the amount of line still to be got in. He went back to Joe.

  “Fish is pretty near,” he said. “Get the gaff and ropes.”

  He took the wheel from Joe and Joe nimbly worked preparing for the ultimate conquest. Wilton, watching the oncoming seas and his angler’s line, saw presently the bright metal swivel connecting the cord with the wire trace come up out of the water.

  Now had arrived the most ticklish job of all, for there was no third man to take the wheel and keep the bow of the Marlin towards those vast white crests on each succeeding water mountai
n. He accelerated the engine to give the craft more speed and therefore more steering way. He watched Bony bringing his rod tip back towards him to take the trace. He saw Joe crouched immediately behind the angler with gaff pole and ropes expertly held.

  With a bite of a rope he lashed the wheel, and sprang aft to take the trace. Luckily the fish was nearly dead, almost drowned. The launch bucked sickeningly, and her forehead dropped to bang on the wind’ard side of a roller. What a fish! The very biggest he had ever seen in the water: the biggest he had ever brought to the Marlin’s gaff. The great silver-green body slid through the surface suds when he hauled on the trace, bringing it alongside. In went the gaff: out came the pole: on to the gaff rope Joe threw all his weight.

  Sheets of spray sprang upward from the side of the launch to be flicked away by the wind now becoming a dull roar. Bony lay back in his chair, panting, still gripping his rod, waiting for the announcement that his fish was secure.

  Joe half-hitched his rope round a stern bit and sprang to the wheel to unslip the lashing. He was just in time to prevent the Marlin from swinging broadside to a vast cap of white water rearing above them. Wilton cut the line and took the trace end back to Joe, who now steered and held the line keeping the fish’s head fast beside the launch. These men acted as though governed by one mind. Each move had been thought out before the fish had been brought in. Now Wilton entwined his feet round the arm-rest of Bony’s chair, and, with a rope’s noose in his hands, lay over the gunwale to slip the noose over the flailing tail. Time and again his head and shoulders were sent below the surface before his task was accomplished. Then he came struggling inboard, water pouring from him, pride and satisfaction like ecstasy shining in his water-clouded eyes. Above the roar of the wind and the sea came Joe’s mighty voice.