The Mudskipper Cup

by Christopher Cummings

  “I think he would,” Peter said grimly, indicating the shaft which had so narrowly missed him.

  For a moment Graham stood helplessly clenching and unclenching his hands. He gripped the handle of his small knife. Useless for this! ‘How can we defend ourselves?’

  Then it came to him

  “The cannon!” he cried.

  “What?”

  “The cannon,” Graham replied as he flung himself aft to the locker. He wrenched it open and hauled out the cannon. With feverish haste he unwrapped it and reached into the locker for the gun powder.

  Peter shook his head. “Graham be careful! Someone will get killed,” he cried.

  “Yes. One of us,” Graham snarled. He scooped out a full measure of powder and poured it down the barrel, half his attention on the tinnie which rocked on the waves a hundred metres off.

  “Oh shit! Here he comes!” Peter cried. Graham glanced up, then rammed home a paper wad. He seized the jar of ball bearings and unscrewed the lid with trembling fingers. Half a dozen spilled out but he ignored them and shoved one down the barrel.

  The tinnie seemed to grow larger even as he watched. In desperate haste he cut a short length of fuse and tried to insert it in the touch hole.

  “Calm down! Calm down! Fingers work!” he called to himself. By a conscious effort of will he steadied the shaking and pushed the fuse in. By then the tinnie was only fifty-metres off and closing fast. Peter put the helm over and came about onto a bows-on course.

  The tinnie swerved and raced past. The boys cringed but nothing came except abuse. Graham shielded the cannon from the spray and looked up. Burford had the spear-gun in his right hand and was coming around to approach from astern. There was no time for the Mudskipper to turn away.

  As the tinnie raced up alongside Graham met Burford’s eye and was stunned by the rage filling his face. Burford aimed the spear-gun directly at him. Disbelief and fear seemed to hold Graham mesmerised.

  ‘Thwack!!

  The steel spear flashed towards him. It travelled so fast he hardly had time to react. Then it flicked past and he felt its shaft stroke his neck. He flinched and ducked.

  As he crouched in the hull a wave of cold fear washed over him but it was quickly replaced by a surge of anger.

  ‘He tried to kill me!’ Graham thought in disbelief. ‘I’ll show the mongrel!’ He heaved the cannon onto the quarterdeck and hastily hooked on the tackles. Then he fumbled for the matches, cursing his damp hands.

  Too late! Burford had reloaded the spear-gun and was surging up astern again.

  Graham struck a match and looked up. Burford was aiming directly at him, eyes glittering with hate.

  ‘No time to aim’ Graham thought. He put the match to the fuse. It began to fizz but seemed to take forever to burn down. Graham could see straight along the spear into Burford’s right eye. ‘Duck!’ he thought, throwing himself flat in the starboard hull.

  BAM!

  The cannon fired an instant before the spear-gun. Graham had a fleeting glimpse of the smoke billowing out, of alarm on Burford’s face, then of the steel spear flashing towards him. It flicked through the edge of the smoke. He cringed then thought, ‘Missed! Reload, quick!’

  The gunpowder smoke swirled around him and made his eyes sting. He began coughing and heard Peter calling to him but he was intent now on his task. A wave of cold fear had washed over him but now it was replaced by a surge of teeth gritting determination.

  He grabbed the small sponger, dipped it in the water sloshing in the hull and pushed it down the cannon muzzle. A glance showed that the tinnie had curved away and slowed down. Burford was again reloading the spear-gun.

  “He nearly got you then,” Peter said. He pointed forward. Graham turned to look. The stainless steel spear was embedded for half its length in the starboard focsle. Graham shook his head in disbelief then looked around.

  “Where are the others?”

  Peter pointed. He had come around so the wind was on their port quarter so they were heading almost west towards the beach. Several hundred metres away were four tiny black dots strung out on the water; the heads of the swimmers.

  Graham poured in more powder and wadded it down. He saw the tinnie start to accelerate. Again he looked around for help but there didn’t seem to be another boat anywhere near them. The blue and yellow cats were at least two kilometres off, close together on converging tacks up near the finish line. He set his mouth in a determined clench as he added the ball bearing and rammed it in.

  Peter looked grim. “Don’t kill him,” he said.

  Graham bared his teeth. “I will if I have to,” he grated. Using his new knife he cut a piece of fuse. This time his fingers didn’t shake at all. Carefully he inserted it and took up the matches.

  “We will have to aim the cat,” he said. “The traverse is too limited.”

  Peter nodded and looked astern at the rapidly approaching tinnie. It was coming up slowly on the starboard quarter.

  “This time I will turn to port so you can fire. As soon as you have I will turn to starboard across his bows. See if you can hit his motor to stop him.”

  “OK,” Graham agreed. He crouched and squinted along the barrel, match ready to strike. At that angle he couldn’t see the outboard motor at all, just the upraised bow and Burford. He aimed at Burford and cursed the movement of the Mudskipper on the waves. Suddenly he felt calm and he smiled.

  “I can see what all those books about battles between sailing ships meant when they said ‘Fire on the up-roll’,” he commented.

  Peter grunted, his head turned to watch the rapidly approaching tinnie. “Stand by.”

  Burford was more cautious this time. He edged out to starboard so that Peter and Graham were in line and the cannon could not be turned to bear on him. Graham unhooked the right hand train tackle and slewed the gun further, knowing they could well lose the gun when it recoiled.

  “Don’t,” Peter said. “Keep the gun hooked on. It will somersault over the side otherwise. Stand by! Now!”

  Graham hooked the tackle on, then lit the fuse. The tinnie was ten-metres off and Burford had raised the spear-gun. The Mudskipper began to swing to port. The tinnie turned sharply as well.

  Hopeless! Graham could see they had no chance of hitting such a fast moving target. The tinnie wasn’t even in front of the cannon when it fired.

  Boom!

  Smoke streamed past. Graham sprang into action to sponge out and reload. He felt the Mudskipper slow as Peter put the helm over. The tinnie was somewhere over on Graham’s left. He cringed in anticipation of the spear’s impact but concentrated on loading.

  Peter suddenly bent down, scooped up the lifebuoy and hurled it. Then he fell down heavily, half over the side between the hulls.

  Graham glanced around and was aghast. A shiny steel spear was stuck right through Peter’s forearm and blood was flowing out. Graham stopped ramming the cannon and sprang across to help. The Mudskipper yawed out of control and the sails all began flapping as the gear ran free. A solid jerk made Graham stumble and pitch heavily on top of Peter. The tinnie had collided with them.

  As he fell Graham was conscious of the tinnie close alongside and of Burford screaming at them. Graham felt an upwelling of bitter defeat as he grabbed Peter’s lifejacket. Hauling with all his strength he dragged him back aboard and then scrambled to his feet, treading on Peter as he did. ‘Bastard!’ he thought. He whipped out his knife. ‘I’ll go down fighting!’

  CHAPTER 37

  THE MUDSKIPPER CUP

  As Graham crouched, knife in hand, the tinnie suddenly curved away. There was a tremendous jerk. Graham sprawled flat on his back. He struck his head so hard on the focsle cross-beam he almost blacked out. Somehow he held on to his knife.

  Peter sat up, gripping his impaled forearm. “Graham! Your knife! Quick!” he yelled.

  Graham struggled to a sitting position feeling half-stunned. Peter yelled again and pointed. “Cut the rope! We’ve got him!”


  Graham shook his head to clear it and got to his feet. The Mudskipper was now stationary but so was the tinnie. Between the two was a bar-taut nylon rope. Burford was screaming abuse and wrestling with his outboard motor which was spluttering and coughing out clouds of smoke.

  Shaking his head to clear it Graham looked to see what was happening. Then he gave a savage grin- the safety rope on the lifebuoy was wrapped around the tinnie’s propeller.

  Realizing they had a chance Graham cheered and sprang aft. He leaned over Peter and sawed at the rope. Margaret’s new knife was sharp and quickly severed the strands. The rope parted and the two boats began to drift apart. At that moment the Mudskipper was only five-metres from the other boat.

  Graham sheathed his knife and turned to Peter. Peter was clutching his arm and obviously in pain but he shook his head. “I’m OK. It’s not bleeding too bad. Get us out of here and pick up the others.”

  Graham hesitated. He looked around and bit his lip in indecision. He saw that Burford had tilted his motor up and was leaning over to untangle the rope. The bully couldn’t quite reach and the stern of the tinnie dipped so low that water slopped into it. Burford swore, shook his fist at them, then slipped over the side and swam to the stern where he could work on the tangle.

  ‘If we just try sailing off he will be after us in a couple of minutes,’ Graham reasoned. He thought for a moment, then snatched at the mainsheet and hauled it.

  “Here Pete. Can you hold this?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Turn us into the wind and heave to. I want to wreck his motor,” Graham said.

  “It might be damaged anyway,” Peter replied.

  “Maybe. I want to make sure,” Graham replied as he thrust the rope into Peter’s left hand. Then he scrambled back to the cannon.

  As quickly as his shaking fingers would allow he inserted a ball, cut a new fuse and checked the tackles. Then he depressed the muzzle and looked through the sights. The Mudskipper swung slowly until the stern was pointing at the tinnie. But she wouldn’t line up.

  Peter stood up, blood still streaming down his arm. “Take the tiller. I’ve got to set the jib,” he cried. He moved painfully forward holding the mainsheet and grabbed the flapping jib at its leech. He held it across so that the wind took it aback. Graham grabbed the tiller cross piece in his left hand.

  Peter gestured urgently. “The other way! The other way!” he shouted through gritted teeth.

  Graham pushed the tiller over. The Mudskipper began to make sternway and spun slowly. As the cannon came on line he eased the tiller and crouched behind the cannon. Cursing damp and trembling fingers he struck a match.

  It wouldn’t light. He tried again. No good. He flung it away and took out another. This time it struck so he cupped the flame to shelter it from the wind and lit the fuse as the sights came on.

  BAM! Smoke billowed but Graham heard the ball strike metal and he saw Burford jerk around in fright. At once Graham began reloading.

  To add to the stress Graham was experiencing he saw that the Mudskipper was drifting down towards the tinnie quickly, was only fifteen-metres away. By the time he had reloaded it was less than ten. Burford had a wicked looking knife and was slashing at the tangle of rope. Graham crouched behind the gun ready to light the fuse as soon as the sights came on line.

  He saw the outboard motor bob into his line of sight and struck the match. “Bugger these waves,” he grumbled as the Mudskipper rocked up and down. He crouched ready to fire but the cat slewed out of line.

  “Hold her still Pete,” Graham cried, casting a quick glance at his friend.

  “Oh no!” he gasped.

  Peter had slumped on the foredeck and let go of the jib. Graham turned, grabbed the tiller and hauled it over. The Mudskipper was still drifting stern first and that pulled her round. Almost hyperventilating with anxiety he struck the match. The tinnie was only five-metres away. He tried to judge the burning time of the fuse. It was as short as he dared, only a couple of millimetres protruding from the touchhole.

  “On the up-roll!” he cried and applied the flame.

  Hiss! BAM! Whang!

  “Got him!” Graham cheered. He could see a jagged hole in the outboard motor casing.

  Burford swore, stopped hacking at the tangled rope and swam towards the drifting Mudskipper. A stab of fear coursed through Graham as it was only a few metres. In near desperation he glanced back at Peter then snatched up a paddle as Burford’s fingers gripped the Mudskipper’ bulwark.

  Burford’s face appeared, knife between his teeth, eyes flashing murder.

  Graham raised the paddle. “Back Burford or I’ll hit you!” he shouted. Burford ignored him and went to heave himself aboard. Seeing no other choice Graham swung hard. The flat of the paddle struck Burford’s upper arm with a meaty thwack! Burford cried out, his knife dropping into the starboard hull. He let go and fell back into the sea.

  Graham scrambled across and looked over. Burford was swimming back to the tinnie which was only a few strokes away.

  The spear-gun!

  Graham went cold with fear. At that range Burford couldn’t miss. He sprang to the cannon, then changed his mind. Scrambling forward he seized the mainsheet which Peter had let go. With his left hand he hauled Peter roughly back into the hull. Peter groaned and opened his eyes, then grabbed at the forearm in obvious pain. To Graham’s horrified eyes there seemed to be a lot of blood.

  Graham sobbed. No time for First Aid. ‘I will just have to hope Pete doesn’t bleed to death,’ he told himself. Quickly he scrambled aft, hauling in the mainsheet as he did.

  The two boats were almost within touching distance by this. As Graham grabbed the tiller Burford hauled himself into the tinnie and snatched up the spear-gun and another spear.

  With a shock Graham saw that the spear had no point. Instead it had a small blunt cylinder on the end.

  A power head! Designed to kill sharks.

  ‘We have to get away!’ he thought in near panic. He put the tiller over and hauled at the mainsheet. The Mudskipper began to turn off the wind. The sail filled and she began to move.

  But so slowly!

  Burford inserted the spear. Graham looked over his shoulder, his back ‘crawling’ in anticipation. Three-metres, four, five. ‘We won’t make it,’ he thought. Burford cocked the spear-gun and turned to aim it. Six-metres, seven. Graham saw the spear-gun come up and line up on him. He cringed.

  “Police! Stop!” a loudhailer boomed.

  Graham looked around in astonishment.

  Only fifty-metres away was the large white police launch. It was racing towards them with such a thunder of motors he wondered he had not heard it. Three policemen stood on the foredeck and one had a rifle.

  The loudhailer boomed again.

  “Put down the gun. Stop!”

  Graham looked back and saw Burford gaping at the approaching police launch. His face went from angry surprise, to fury, to sour defeat in a few seconds. To Graham’s intense relief he lowered the spear-gun.

  Ten-metres only! Graham gave a great sigh and shuddered. He let go tiller and mainsheet and clawed open the locker to get out the First Aid Kit. Then he scrambled forward to help Peter.

  Peter grinned at him. “Well done old mate. That was a bit close.”

  “Too bloody close!” Graham agreed. He shook his head and shivered, then opened the First Aid Kit. Quickly he fashioned two ring pads from triangular bandages. As he did so the police launch nosed alongside and a policeman climbed down. It was Pimples.

  The policeman crouched awkwardly on the cross beam and looked at the spear.

  “We could easily push that right through,” he said.

  “Don’t you dare!” Graham snapped. “It stays in until the doctor takes it out. If nothing else, it plugs the wound. And where is your lifejacket?”

  The policeman actually blushed. “Let’s get him aboard.”

  “He is aboard! Get going and fish our friends out of the water before a shark attacks
them. I’ll have this done by then. You can radio the ambulance while you do,” Graham replied.

  “No need,” the constable said, pointing. Graham looked and saw that several other boats, including the runabout, were speeding towards the swimmers. Another launch with BOATING AND FISHERY PATROL painted on its side was slowing beside the tinnie, which now also contained a policeman. Burford was handcuffed and put on the police launch.

  Graham turned back to his bandaging. He gently eased the ring pads on over the ends of the spear. Peter and the Constable then held them while Graham bound them firmly and gently in place with a roll bandage, the ends of the spear still protruding. Peter winced a few times, then put his free hand on Graham’s shoulder and squeezed.

  They hoisted Peter to his feet and passed him up onto the police launch. The sergeant was there.

  “Tie this rope on and we will tow you back,” he ordered.

  “I’ll furl the sails first,” Graham said.

  “Don’t touch anything else,” the sergeant cautioned, pointing at the cannon.

  “Why?” Graham asked. And then his heart sank. ‘Am I in trouble for firing it?’ he fretted.

  “Because it’s a crime scene and there will have to be an investigation, that’s why. Are you cut badly?”

  Graham put his hand to his shoulders. He had forgotten it. To his surprise he found his shirt soaked in blood.

  “Just a cut I think.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Harvey attacked me with a knife when they boarded us,” Graham replied. The cut didn’t hurt so he moved forward and untied the hoists and ran both sails down. He could hear people talking on the launch’s radio.

  As he finished wrapping the mainsheet around the hastily furled sail the runabout arrived. Roger and Alex sat in it with Captain Kirk and Sub Lt Sheldon.

  “You OK son?” Graham’s father called.

  “Yes dad,” Graham replied. He looked around, wanting to tidy up and secure the loose items. Before climbing up onto the police launch he bent down and patted the cannon.