Neptune's Fingers

by Lyn Aldred

  Neptune’s Fingers was well known for its tomatoes that thrived in the gray sandy soil. Each week over the summer, they were loaded on the steamer from the city and sold there for a disappointing sum. Still, it was better than nothing. Jack looked at the fine crop sprawling on the trellis his father erected and felt great satisfaction. These were very large. Only the other day, Jim asked if he could buy a pound of tomatoes but Henry told him he thought it was a shame to cut one just for a pound. They both had laughed and Henry ended up giving him a bagful.

  I’m not the only one who works on ‘feast or famine’, he thought. Look at these beauties. We’ll never get through all of these. There was a limit to how many pickles could be made too. Lack of containers put paid to that. It’s nice to share, thought Jack. I feel better about it when I see those poor devils in the shanty town at Sandy Bay. It’s not their fault they have no jobs.

  It appeared there were a few things in young Jack’s life he thought could stand some attention. The Depression was one, for a start. Then again, work wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. If he didn’t have to work, he would have time to explore The kestrel. Ohhhh! What a perverse thing life was!

  By the time Henry came in, Jack had produced a fine batch of fried tomatoes and onions and piles of toast. He spooned the mushy mess onto two thick pieces of toast each and set them on the table.

  “That’s a nice surprise. I didn’t relish having to get dinner tonight. I’m still getting over yesterday,” said his father.

  “Yeah. I know what you mean. Want some tea?” asked Jack.

  “Oh, lovely,” said Henry, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

  Jack was surprised how tired he was. The physical work he put in, linked with the over-activity of his mind, wore him out, and his bed beckoned him early. Tomorrow would be better. Bill was coming over at low tide to stay for a couple of days. Jack knew his father was weaning him from his boyhood gently by giving him some latitude. He still had his work to do but Bill could help – or hinder – as the case may be.

  Bill thought the lighthouse was fun but his soul belonged on the sea, not overlooking it. Jack was glad to have his company. When he explored The Kestrel, he wanted Bill to be there with him. The two boys shared all their great moments so it was unthinkable not to include him. Now he knew Bill’s connection to the boy, it was even more imperative. Jack fell asleep, secure in the knowledge the world would be less vexing with the arrival of Bill.

  Jack peered out of the lighthouse windows into the gray day. The clouds on the horizon must have heard his jibe yesterday, for here they were, crowding about the island in a thick blanket. A brisk wind hustled them along, nipping at their heels like a sheepdog and driving them into a bunch of gray cotton wool. Low tide was near midday so Bill would be lucky to arrive dry. Gone was the vivid blue sky and the heat with it. A southerly arrived during the night, bringing welcome relief from the desiccating sun. It would rain before long.

  The Kestrel pointed its mast into the wind as though checking its direction. A crazy notion made Jack laugh. What if The Kestrel thought it was too cold today and decided not to come out? The poor old thing was wedged so tight in the rocks, and many a rough sea had failed to dislodge it. No doubt it would survive a bit of a southerly. Chuckling to himself, he sought his father to receive his instructions for the morning. He found him frowning in front of the barometer. The needle lay like a dead thing on the far left hand side of the glass face. It was not surprising it was low as the weather was changed from yesterday, but to see it as low as this was a shock.

  “Gosh!” he gasped.

  “Mm,” said his father, distracted. Air pressure this low promised severe weather, possibly for a few days. He checked his log to see what vessels were out. He prided himself with knowing the state of the fishing fleet as these people were his people. Most of the boats had their own barometer and checked the weather regularly. Their lives depended on it. Today, Harry Landy was out. He left at first light to make up for the time off at Christmas. He would trawl a few miles out and come home late in the afternoon. Harry’s routine was well-known. Lofty Lynch went out yesterday and should be home this afternoon. Jack saw the dark green Eileen, churning through the water and carving a white wake on the deep sapphire blue sea. The rest of the fleet either had enough fish or heeded the barometer, considering the turn in the weather too great a risk to venture out.

  It bothered Jack that Harry was out there. He was a game fellow and was not frightened of much but this might be some seriously bad weather approaching. Jack had been around barometers long enough to know they changed as the air pressure changed. The effects of that change usually took a day or two to eventuate. That meant, if the barometer fell, there was time to get to safety, as a rule. He looked back at the silent face on the wall with a sense of foreboding. Something told him this would not be an ordinary blow.

  Henry said nothing about his thoughts. No doubt he wondered at the prudence of experienced sailors ignoring a warning like this. It was not his job to question, however, but to provide assistance if required and a light in the dark.

  Jack realized he would have plenty to do today as it was getting darker by the minute. He quietly worried about Harry Landy. Please Harry, come home now. My father is worried. I am worried.

  The tide retreated and more of the mast of The Kestrel poked up into the air. The tip of the keel pierced through the waves but vanished as quickly, as the sea foamed in the wind’s growing intensity. Playful waves were breaking up and shattering on the rocks and the wreck in white foam. The sea was slopping over the rocks, flung there by the wind, mocking the pull of the retreating tide. The rocks and The Kestrel would have to endure this for a little longer. At least at low tide, the rocks lay exposed and passing vessels could see them.

  Jack doubted it would rain at present but it couldn’t be too far away. Gray was turning to a bruised gray, green and black and a flash of lightning burned across the sky like an vivid, overcrowded, crazy roadmap. The sea went from gray to white in an instant and back again to gray, followed by a volley of thunder announcing the arrival of heaven’s artillery. The storm was closer than he thought.

  Had either Henry Lambeth or Jack been a bird in the sky, they would have known the storm was part of a major front racing up the coast like a mad thing. The far south coast, under siege all night, lay drowning in the aftermath and listening to the diminishing rumbles of the thunder as it rolled inexorably northward. The vanguard of the storm was not far off as the scouts had arrived, flexing their muscles in warning.

  CHAPTER 15

  The most important thing for Henry and Jack was to make sure the lamps were full. It would be a dark day even without rain. There was no hope of that, though. Big spots fell in random splashes, hitting the windows like the tapping of long fingernails. The wind gathered momentum, whipping the water into foam and splintered fountains. Without warning, a violent crack of thunder rent the air, shaking the ground beneath their feet, the flash of lightning initiating it, barely over. Jack and Henry, in one involuntary movement, looked up suddenly, peering out into the gloom.

  At the same time, a voice behind them said;

  “Cor, I’m glad I beat that one.”

  They spun round to find Bill, wet and bedraggled, standing there. He was peeling off a wet mackintosh, a disgusted expression on his face. This was not wreck exploring weather at all. The next thing, George appeared. He came in his boat, sure extra hands would be needed before the day was out. His barometer showed a dismal picture. Wild weather, the spiteful summer kind, was building. He saw Harry depart and wondered at his wisdom. True, his wife, Amy, was awaiting the arrival of a new little Landy and Harry was anxious to make sure he could provide for it but this was crazy.

  “You frightened the life out of me,” said Jack. Bill’s unexpected voice seemed to come out of the thunder.

  “Yes, I like to make my presence felt. Nothing less than thunder will do,” he said, a cheeky grin on his face. “That was a be
auty. I almost fell down the stairs, I got such a shock.” His expression changed to one of concern. “Harry’s out,” he said, although he did not think this would be news.

  “Yeah,” said Jack. “Surely he’ll turn back. It will be horrendous out there.”

  ‘Out there’ lay concealed behind the sickly marbled curtain of gloom. If a boat was coming in, it would have to be closer before it was seen.

  “We left the boat round the other side, near Jim’s place. It’s a bit more protected. I’d hate to hear what Ella would say if I lost it,” said George. “What can we do?”

  “Nothing at the moment,” said Henry, “until we know what we are dealing with. With luck, all will be well. Keeping the lamp going is the most important thing. I know about the locals but I don’t know about anyone else who might be on the sea.”

  George nodded. He went with Henry to check the readiness of the boat he would use to rescue anyone, if needed, and Jack and Bill stood near the window overlooking The Kestrel. Usually, at low tide, the blackened keel lay like a forlorn skeleton, abandoned on the rocks, while black shags perched on it, looking for fish. Today, it was battling in the writhing waters, and no matter how much of it became exposed, the sea swallowed it again. The water still had a fair way to recede to full ebb.

  As though to hide its agony, the heavens opened and a wall of water fell, obliterating their view. The Kestrel faded before their eyes as the tumultuous din of the rain pounded the lighthouse and the island like the beat of a million drums.

  Almost as fast as it started, the rain stopped. The clouds emptied their load and that was that. A lighter shade of gray covered the land for a while. A strong swell rolled across the water in increasing intensity as the wind strengthened, its strident chorus shrieking about the lighthouse. Trees bent in a torturous dance, branches whipping about as though they were being throttled. The rain held off for a while as the hoards of clouds re-gathered in greater concentration. It was a day of dusk, an evening that started at breakfast time. The lighthouse flashed out its signal – one red, one white, one red, one white – constant and steadfast through the gathering mist. The clouds hung low on the ocean making yesterday’s sunshine a distant memory. How quickly it all could change here.

  Jack picked up the glass and peered through it, scanning the horizon for signs of a boat. The weekly steamer bringing supplies to their outlying community would be cancelled, he felt sure. The company owning the vessel took care of its boats. They were too expensive to replace. There would be no steamer today.

  Good! thought Jack. One less problem.

  The four watchers at the lighthouse waited, impotent as the storm gathered its inexorable might. Each willed the boats to come home before the storm became worse but as the hours ticked by, squall after squall with accompanying thunder and fireworks wracked the coast. Each squall was closer together until solid rain settled in, flung about by the cyclonic wind. The only hope for Harry was to get out to sea beyond the reaches of the storm and ride it out. It would be madness to try to come in now. Even a boat with an engine would have a hard time of it staying on course. The currents and channels about Neptune’s Fingers led, without fail, to the rocks and submerged reefs, lying in wait for a wayward boat.

  A great fear welled up in the boys. Where was Harry? Perhaps he did go further out to sea and avoided the storm altogether. They should have more faith in him. A trawler was a hardy boat and was as safe as houses in rough weather, as long as it wasn’t swamped.

  The Aurora was gray and hard to see in these conditions. Jack and Bill continued in their efforts to pierce the wall of water with their anxious eyes. The wind howled and buffeted in a boisterous madness, blocking out most other sound. They did not hear their father’s return. Visibility was very poor. Both men were drenched. The last sudden deluge caught them unawares, making a return to the lighthouse imperative and difficult as the winds that were working up to gale force impeded their progress. There was nothing for it but to wait.

  The Kestrel hugged the rocks, clinging to its spiny fingers just as surely as the rocks gripped it in return. Jack and Bill had long given up the idea of exploring it any day soon. Conditions would be rough for a while after this. They looked forlornly out at the sad, battered remains of what had once been a proud vessel. Bill gave a sudden start and gripped Jack by the shoulder.

  “What the….?” he stammered. And when he could manage his tongue again, asked, “Did you see that?”

  Jack was not sure what he had seen. Everything was blurry through the rain that raced down the windows like a crazy waterfall. The Kestrel could be seen but it was like looking through very thick glass or a pair of spectacles much too strong for the wearer. The keel appeared jagged like the filament in a light globe. He knew better, but The Kestrel appeared to be fractured right along its spine.

  “It’s the rain doing that, I think,” Jack said, not at all certain of his facts. It was indecent to think of his wreck disintegrating. “Blurry, you mean?”

  Bill nodded, his hand still on Jack’s shoulder. “Must be seeing things. My imagination’s running wild.”

  A huge bolt of lightning rent the sky, dazzling them, followed by a crack of thunder louder than anything preceding it. Bill’s hold grew tighter, his fingernails digging into Jack’s shoulder. As though in a rage, angered at being disturbed, The Kestrel began to move. Buoyed by the next insurging wave on a tide now rushing inward, it lifted its prow like a horse rearing. A fearful wrenching, tearing sound, louder than either boy believed possible, screamed its protest at the wind and as they stared in horror, the world wobbled and shimmered like a plate of jelly. All things – trees, island, ship – lost their rigidity and wavered, spineless in the black, drowning day. A huge wave reared and crashed over them, an unyielding wall. Stunned, they found themselves perched like shags on rocks, high up the mizzen mast, and clinging on for dear life, mindful of shouts and the awful sound of splintering wood.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Kestrel, its sails furled and lumpy along the yards where they were tied like a string of sausages, was awash and reeling in a mighty sea. All hands were making a desperate attempt to secure anything that came adrift. The ferocious wind picked up strong men like toys and flung them against the railing where they clung on tight until they could stand again. A man overboard would be irretrievable. The Captain bellowed orders, only to have them flung back at him in the roaring gale. A helmsman battled the wheel, his valiant efforts endeavoring to prevent the ship from broadsiding and turning turtle, drowning the lot of them from Captain to the lowliest cabin boy. Monstrous seas dwarfed the ship. As it plowed towards a wave, determined to steer away from rocks that were all too near, a cascade of water pounded over it from prow to stern, drenching everyone in a frightening deluge.

  “We’re going to crash into the rocks,” said Jack, horrified. “This is the wreck of The Kestrel, I know it.”

  The longboat was still secured on the deck. It was full of water as the sea emptied load after load into it. It gushed over its sides like waterfalls, adding to the chaos on the deck. Maneuvering a heavy boat was the last thing anyone wanted to do. It would mean all was lost if they had to resort to that. If a ship could not survive the mountains of water, a longboat had no chance.

  “What’s happening?” said Bill, his frightened voice whipping through the howling wind. He gripped the mast with the tenacity of a monkey, a wild, frantic expression on his face.

  “Keep with me, Bill. I think we’ll be all right,” said Jack. Empty words, he thought. I have no idea what is going to happen. “We were not alive when The Kestrel went down. We’re probably not really here at all.”

  “You’re joking,” gasped Bill surfacing from another wave. “I’m wet through. Where else would we be?”

  No matter where they actually were, they could both feel the motion of the writhing ship. Mountains of water reared over them and battered them almost senseless. Temporarily blinded, they shook the water from their faces, never daring
to let go of the mast. Dream or no dream, Jack was hanging on till this was over. Bill needed no convincing either. The embattled helmsman, in sou’wester and oilskins, looked ghostly through the torrential rain. The deck was alive with action, intentional or otherwise as the sea tore the ground from beneath slithering feet.

  High up, overlooking the chaos below, like spectators at a sporting event, the two boys rode the mast like a pendulum as the troughs and crests tipped the ship first one way and then another. Their stomachs lurched at the unfamiliar motion. The sails provided a padded seat and a bit more width than the yardarm, helping them to balance. As long as the gaskets held, these sodden bundles were secure.

  It was obvious, by the state of the rigging, the gale had troubled them for some time. Shrouds were torn loose allowing the mast to whip with the wind as these long ropes were usually attached to the top of the mast and secured at the other end on the deck, like a tripod’s foot. The ratlines were shredded. These provided footholds, like a rope ladder for those tending the sails. It was doubtful anyone would climb up there anyway until the gale abated. Sails were useless in such a blow. The rudder was more important, as it was the only hope of controlling the ship’s direction. From the frantic efforts of the helmsman, for the moment, the ship still had a rudder. It was a small thing to fight such odds. It could be torn off on rocks with ease. It all seemed futile.

  The Captain bellowed orders while the crew made a brave effort to comply. Yet, for all their attempts, the rocks loomed ever nearer, cruel teeth grinning like a slavering beast. Shouts and sounds of panic punctuated the activity on deck. Even the cook was doing his bit, retying loosened rope, battening down hatches. As the boys looked beyond the ship, a wave larger than the last welled up, temporarily poised like a bull pawing the ground, preparing for a charge. The enormous energy it brewed was palpable and they both held their breaths.