Читать книгу The Mystery of Swordfish Reef - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 11

“Fish-Oh!”

Bony breakfasted at seven o’clock the following morning in company with that Mr Emery who had set up Marion Spinks in business and whose capture of the last evening was now suspended on the triangle at the entrance to the town. The small grey eyes regarded Bonaparte for a fraction of time.

“Morning! You going out fishing today?”

“Yes. This is to be my first sally after the swordfish. What are the prospects, do you think?”

Again that stabbing glance was directed at the half-caste, but the heavy, reddened face successfully masked the thought relative to Bonaparte’s birth. An educated man is stamped by his voice and accent, and both were weighed and judged by a mind used to lightning decisions. Although Emery was ageing and probably knew better, he bolted his food and spoke with his mouth full.

“You never know how the day will turn out,” he said, in a manner reminding his table companion of a marionette show. “This is my third swordfishing season at Bermagui. It’s the uncertainty of the fishing which makes it so great a sport. If a feller could catch ’em all day long and every day he’d want to be as strong as one of those wrestlers—as you will, I hope, find out. A feller’s lucky to get three swordies a week, and sometimes, when the shoal fish are away, you can go a full week and never see a fin. You using your car?”

“No. I came down by plane.”

“Well, then, hurry up and I’ll take you along to the jetty in my “tub”. Ordered your lunch basket?”

“Yes.”

“You get sick?”

“Never.”

“You’re lucky. Me, I’m terribly sick the first day or two.” The food was shovelled into the wide mouth. Then: “Being sick don’t stop me fishing. First day this time I was as sick as a dog and not keeping proper watch on my bait-fish, when a hammerhead took the bait. Great brainless pig of a fish is that kind of shark. Won’t fight, you know. Anyway, time I’d bullocked with him, and he wanted to go down deep and drown himself, I forgot all about being sick.” Another silence followed these somewhat inapt remarks. Presently: “If I ate like this at home I’d have indigestion for a month and a doctor’s bill to pay. Go on, man, hurry up. The days are short enough without wasting time on breakfast.”

They ate rapidly, Bonaparte feeling the thrill of a race.

“Fighting a swordfish must give a terrific thrill,” he said, anxious to know all that was to be known about swordfishing in the shortest possible time.

“Swordfishing gets you like whisky,” Emery stuttered. “One time I used to down two bottles a day, so I know what I’m talking about. Once you bring a swordfish to the gaff you become a slave to a drug worse’n whisky. I’ve landed ten fish so far. Years ago I used to day-dream of fighting blackguards to rescue a girl; now I day-dream of fighting a swordie in a half-gale, one that’ll weigh a thousand pounds. Australian record was one going at six-seven-two pounds, a black marlin captured by a Mr J. Porter, of Melbourne. There must be a thousand-pounder somewhere to be caught.”

“We will hope that one of us will capture him.”

“We’ll hope like mad.”

“A great place this Bermagui,” Bony remarked a moment later. “Fish everywhere, they tell me, and no mosquitoes.”

“Bermagui becomes a man’s Sharg Grelah, or whatever was the name of that place in Lost Horizon. A feller’s never happy away from it. You finished? Good! Come on!”

They rose to dash across to the sideboard for their prepared lunches and thermos-flasks, Emery the more disreputably dressed of the two. Outside the hotel, where it had been carelessly parked all night, stood the tub, a three-thousand-pound affair in charge of a uniformed driver. From the hotel to the jetty was less than half a mile, and the walk after breakfast would have done Emery good, but time was precious, or so he said.

“What launch have you booked?” he asked when they had taken their seats. “Drive slowly past the fish, Fred. I want to look at it.”

“The Marlin.”

“Oh! Good craft, that, and they tell me that young Wilton’s a good man. Want a tip?”

“All you can give me.”

“In a minute, then. What d’you think of my fish? Took me fifty-three minutes to bring him to the gaff. Nice striped marlin, isn’t he?”

“Yes, a beautiful fish, Mr Emery,” Bony agreed, sighing.

“You can say you’ve got a good fish if you land a striped marlin weighing two-eight-three pounds,” Emery said. “They’re better fighters than the black marlin, I think, but there’s some who will argue about it. Look at that head, and the sword that’s like a needle! All right, Fred, get along. … About that tip, now.”

“Yes,” urged Bony.

“Well, here’s a good one. Give your launchman to understand that he’s to go where he likes, that he’s the captain who knows more about the fishing along this coast than you do. He’ll be glad to do as you ask, because he’s out to land the greatest number for the season. Want another tip?”

“You are being kind. Certainly.”

“Then tell your launchman that as you know nothing about the game you will be glad of his advice. Lots of fellers come here who’ve caught a tiddler or two and think they know all about angling for swordies. They don’t want advice from any low-browed launchman, you understand, and so the launchman is mortified to see ’em get excited and break their rods or lines and lose the fish he’s been counting on to bring his tally ahead of the others. Then we hear ’em talking loudly in the pub how they missed the fish. The odds are always in favour of the swordie, remember. Here we are. Come on!”

The crews of half the launches moored to the slender jetty were busy preparing for their anglers: winding on to the heavy steel reels from the drying frames the lines used the previous day; watching every foot of the nine hundred yards for a possible flaw that would lose a fish; stowing away drums of petrol and oil; affixing the heavy rods to the seat-edge of the angler’s swivel chairs; and generally making all ship-shape.

“Well, so long and good luck,” Emery cried, stopping above the Gladious on which Remmings’s mate took down the lunch baskets and thermos Emery was not too proud to carry from the car.

“Good luck to you, and many thanks,” Bony said, before moving on to meet Jack Wilton, who was waiting above his Marlin.

The light wind failed wholly to cover the river’s water. Beyond the bar the ocean appeared lazy this morning. The air was softly warm and crystal clear, bringing Dromedary Mountain to within rifle range. Launch engines were thudding sluggishly. Gulls sometimes cried their harsh notes. A small boy lying on the jetty floor, perilously balanced, was fishing with a hand line and small hook, and every time he dropped the baited hook into the crystal-clear water, tiny black fish swarmed about the bait until they became a compact mass the size of a football. The small fisherman never caught a fish. The tiny fish sucked off his bait before it could sink to the bottom where swam the larger perch.

“Morning, Mr Bonaparte!” Wilton said, coming to stand beside the detective who was watching the efforts of the boy to get his bait past the attacking fish.

“Good day, Jack,” replied Bony, handing over his lunch and thermos to his launchman who insisted on taking it from him. “Is everything ready?”

“Yes. My partner, Joe Peace, wet your line and wound it on the reel. It’s faultless, and the reel runs smooth as oil. Going to be a good day, I think. The glass is steady.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Bony said, smilingly. “Before we go on board I am going to ask you to grant me three favours. One: that you will understand that I am a new-chum angler, who will gladly accept any advice. Two: that I don’t really mind where we go to fish. Three: that when we are away from this jetty you will kindly drop the “mister” and call me Bony.”

“None of ’em will be hard to grant—Bony. You want swordies: I want to see you bring ’em to the gaff. The angler’s art isn’t difficult to learn, but some will lose their blocks, get excited, and then something has to go west. The best anglers never become excited. The fish are out there in the sea, all right. And here’s my mate, Joe Peace. He’s likely to call a fish a cow, with trimmings, but he knows more about the coast and the swordies than I do. Meet Mr Bonaparte, Joe, and remember when we’re at sea that Mr Bonaparte wants to be called just Bony.”

Bony was delighted with this barrel of a man who was glaring at him with his light grey eyes, his right hand resting on the two bowls of the pipes thrust through his belt.

“Day!” he rumbled.

“Right-oh, Joe. Cast off!” Wilton ordered. Then Bony followed him down into the cockpit of the Marlin.

For a moment or two Joe still held the attention of the detective. Bony was interested in Joe’s enormous calloused feet and his agility which seemed, when needed, to uncoil like the quickening of a sleepy snake. Then other things claimed Bonaparte. The engine of the craft on which he stood roared with power and the jetty slid away. The scene turned half circle, and they were moving down-river towards the narrows. Joe came aft as lightly as a cat, to unwind a light line and to toss its feathered hook overside.

“Get a holt, mister,” he rumbled, proffering the line to his angler. “Want bait-fish.”

A second line he let go astern, and to Bony it seemed that the rock-footed promontory on the one side and the steep-sided sand-bar on the other were closing in to pinch the Marlin. The water under them began to boil. Little wavelets darted over the cauldron as though animated by hidden springs. The stern of the Marlin sank downward and then the bow thudded and spray hissed outward. They were on the bar and the entire craft lifted above the river water they had left. Now they were over the bar and in the bay, and the action of the Marlin was regular—rising and falling.

The promontory protecting the river’s mouth fell astern, and Bony saw the white sweep of the little inner bay extending round in a white-edged crescent to skirt the township and to end at the base of the great protective headland jutting northward. Eastward beyond that tongue of rock-armoured land lay the Tasman Sea. Northward he gazed across the great bay to Cape Dromedary, blue in the distance and guarded by the tall mountain of the same name.

The long ground swells were advancing majestically shoreward, smooth-sloped and dull green in colour. Up and over them moved the Marlin, two craft ahead of her, another coming out round the promontory.

“Fish-oh!” shouted Joe, and in that instant of time Bony’s line was tugged so heavily as to be almost taken through his clenched hand. The launch engine at once accelerated when the propeller shaft was put out of gear by Wilton. Bony found himself frantically hauling in his tautened line, was conscious that Joe was acting similarly. Now both lines were cutting the water as the hooked fish swam powerfully to the right and left. With a heave Joe jerked his catch into the cockpit, but Bony permitted his to jump the side of the launch and so lost it.

“Lift ’em clear, or you’ll lose ’em every time,” Joe urged.

“I’ll try to remember to,” assented the smiling Bony, and it was then that Joe summed up this new angler. Here was no haughty know-all.

Out went the bait lines and onward went the Marlin. In the bait-box the two-pound salmon snapped like a machine-gun.

“You see, as the boat’s going when we hook ’em don’t begin to haul ’em in until the speed of the boat slackens,” advised Joe. “Now look out! We’re coming to another shoal.”

This time Bony joined Joe in the shout of “fish-oh”, and waited until the launch lost speed before beginning to haul in. He lifted into the cockpit a blue-green bonito, a species of tuna, weighing about a pound and a half, and he was astonished to see Joe taking from his hook a similar fish of the same weight.

“That’s the sort,” chortled Joe. “Just the right size for the swordies, and their favourite. Going to try ’em again, Jack. There they are!”

Wilton swung the Marlin round again to cross over the shoal, and two more bonito were added to the bait-box.

“That’ll be enough,” called Wilton. “We’re lucky this morning to get bait-fish so quick. Come and take the wheel, Joe. We’ll go straight out as the wind might move to the east’ard during the day.”

Beyond the tip of the headland, the chop from the south caused the Marlin to roll as she climbed up and over and down the endless swells. Other launches were still engaged getting bait-fish, trolling close to the ugly rocks, obedient to the master at the wheel. Out here the surge was attacking the Marlin, taking her high and dropping her low, her white wake lying astern like the track of a scenic railway. Bony stood leaning back against the stern rail, watching the other launches, the receding coast, and Wilton, who was pushing outward to either side from amidship a long pole from the point of which fell a light rope line. To these lines were attached brightly painted cylinders of wood which, when tossed overboard and dragged by the lines, darted beneath and skimmed over the surface like torpedoes gone mad. Teasers, Wilton explained to Bony, and then came aft to join him.

To the end of the cord line on the drum of the huge reel fixed to the butt of the rod, which in turn was swivelled to the edge of one of the two angler’s chairs, Wilton fastened one end of a twenty-foot long wire trace. At the other end was the hook, almost the size of a man’s hand. On the hook he placed one of the recently caught bonito, further securing it with a section of cord. Finally he slipped the bait-fish over the stern and it dropped back some thirty odd feet and skimmed the surface like a small motor-boat, escorted either side by a darting teaser.

“D’you see, Bony, the bait-fish and the two teasers look to a shark or swordie just like a small shoal of fish following the launch for protection,” Wilton explained. “Now you sit here with a leg either side the rod. That’s right. You leave the rod resting on the stern rail. This spoked wheel at the side of the reel is the brake, and you must remember that you can easily put on brakage enough either to break the line or the rod. Just you work it for a bit, and try it for yourself. Have on only sufficient brakage to resist the water on the bait-fish.”

“Oh! Ah, yes! I see! I’ve mastered it. What else?”

“It’s the angler’s job to watch his bait-fish and the sea on the stern quarters. It’s our job to keep watch on the sea for’ard and on both beams for a fin, or for shoal fish where it’s likely a swordie will be.

“All you’ll see of a swordie will be his fin sticking above water and cutting it like a knife. When you see one you yell out “fish-oh”, but for crikey’s sake don’t lift the rod or do anything with the line or reel. Let him come after the bait-fish. Let him take it, and the moment he does you whip off the brake and prevent the line over-running by pressing on the revolving drum with your left hand. Have a glove on, of course. Anyway, before then I’ll be with you, and if you do just what I tell you, and don’t get excited, we’ll get him.”

“A fish may come after the bait-fish any second?” pressed the thrilling Bony.

“Any second. And you may have to wait only a minute or as long as a week.”

“All right.”

“Now just you have a practice with that brake, and when done troll the bait-fish at that distance astern. I’ll go for’ard and see what I can see.”