Читать книгу The Big Six - Arthur Ransome - Страница 6

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Bill woke first. The eelman’s lantern was burning palely. A window of the cabin was a bright square in the dark wall. Pete had slipped sideways against Tom as he fell asleep, and Tom had let him lie and had fallen asleep himself. Joe, with his mouth open, was snoring, not loudly, but evenly, as if for ever. Old Harry the eelman was gone, and gone without a lantern. There was the lantern of the Death and Glory on the floor in the corner. Bill moved to that brighter window and looked out. There was a glow in the eastern sky. Down river the water shone silver with splashes of green. The dawn was climbing, putting out the last of the stars.

The door opened and the eelman came in.

“Time you was in your beds,” said he. “And I’m for mine. Eels won’t work no more.”

Joe stopped snoring and sat up suddenly, with blinking eyes.

“Gosh!” said Tom. “Have I been asleep?”

“I haven’t,” said Pete. “The last thing you was saying was ...”

“More’n a hour since,” laughed the old man. “Fare to be a fine morning, but I don’t reckon to see much of it. Fish by night. Sleep by day.” He poured himself out a mug of tea, sloshed some milk in, emptied some sugar after the milk, cut himself a round of bread, put a thick slice of bacon on the bread, and settled to his breakfast. “Cold bacon afore you goes to sleep and you won’t wake with empty belly. Go on, now. Help yourselves.”

But not one of the Coots felt like eating. What they wanted was sleep.

“Come on,” said Tom. “It’s daylight already.”

“Wake up, Pete,” said Bill. “Sleep in your bunk. Joe and me’ll work her down to the staithe.”

“No wind,” said Joe. “Engines.”

“Tom’ll steer,” said Bill. “Hi, Pete! Don’t you drop off again.”

The old man came out with them, munching his bread and bacon. “How are you going to carry them old eels?” he said.

“I’ll run for our bucket,” said Bill.

“I’ll lend you a bucket,” said the old man. “I’ll be coming down for a pint later on, and pick it up.” He went down to his boat. “When are you going to cook ’em?’ he said.

“When we’ve had a bit of sleep,” said Bill.

“I’ll fix ’em for you,” said the old man. He opened the keep and looked in. His gnarled old hand darted down among the eels like a heron’s beak. Up it came again with a wriggling eel. Bang. He had stunned the eel with a blow on its tail. The next moment he had picked up his knife, jabbed it into the eel’s backbone close behind its head and dropped it into a bucket. Again his hand shot down into the keep. One after another he brought up half a dozen good eels, stunned them and killed them and dropped them in the bucket as easily and quietly as if he were thinking of something else. The Coots, remembering gory struggles with eels they had caught themselves, cut fingers, tangled fishing tackle thick with slime, watched with awe.

“However do you do it?” said Tom.

The old man looked up. “Scotching the warmints?” he asked. “Practice,” he said. “Practice. Seventy year of it.”

He gave them the bucket, said they could come again some time if they would like another night, and climbed back into his hulk. They thanked him, and splashed off along the reedy bank to get back to the Death and Glory. The cool fresh air of the September morning made their cheeks tingle after coming out of that hot cabin, and by the time they got aboard the Death and Glory and pushed off into the smooth river, even Pete was thoroughly awake.

“You go below and have your sleep out, young Pete,” said Bill.

“You go below yourself,” said Pete.

Bill and Joe, each with an oar, worked their ship into the middle of the stream. Tom, though there was no need, perched on the gunwale right aft, and took the tiller. Pete, with a hand on the mast, stood on the cabin-top. Somewhere in Horning a cock crowed and was answered far away by another. A bream turned with a splash sending widening rings over the smooth water ahead.

“Gosh,” said Tom. “That was fine. Let’s do it again when the D’s come.”

“Wonder if the Admiral like eels,” said Joe.

“That’s only one of the things we’ll do,” said Bill. “We can take the old ship anywheres.”

The affair of the cast off boat of the day before had gone clean out of their minds. Someone had cast off a boat. People had for a moment thought they were to blame. But they were not and after their night at the eel sett they were thinking of quite other things. They rowed steadily down the river, rounded the bend below old Harry’s and were half way down the short reach above the staithe when Pete gave a sudden shout.

“What boat’s that?” he said.

“Funny place to lie,” said Bill.

“Must be a foreigner,” said Tom.

There is just one place in that short reach, just before the river bends round under the inn, where the trees hang out over the water. It is a place that skippers of yachts, even if strangers, usually have the sense to avoid. And just here, close to the trees, was a yacht.

“Starboard your hellum,” said Joe. “We’ll go and have a look at her.”

“Something wrong with that yacht,” said Bill. “Look how she lie.”

As they came nearer, they saw that things were very wrong indeed. The yacht was neither anchored in the river, nor yet made fast fore and aft along the bank, but lay askew to the stream, held where she was by the top of her mast and by nothing else.

“Hullo,” said Bill. “She’s that yacht was tied up ahead of us.”

“Salvage job,” said Joe. “Get that rope ready, Pete.”

“How on earth did she get there?” said Tom.

“Drift up with the flood and catch in them trees. Didn’t, she’d be away down river. Must have come adrift just before high water.”

“Tide were still flooding when we come up, and it turn soon after,” said Bill.

“She were all right when we leave,” said Joe. “I see her. Remember, I stand by for fear we touch.”

They were close to her now, and, looking up at the masthead of the yacht, the salvage company could see that a bough had worked itself in between the mast and the forestay.

“What are you going to do?” said Tom.

“Take her back to the staithe and make her fast,” said Joe. “Can’t leave her like that.”

“Look at her warps hanging,” said Pete.

“That chap must have moored her pretty careless,” said Joe. “Gently now. Fenders out. Now then, Pete. Don’t let her touch there forrard. Unship your oar, Bill.” He unshipped his own as he spoke, leaving the Death and Glory with just enough way on her for Tom to turn her and bring her alongside. He was aboard her before the two boats touched. Pete followed.

“You haul in that bow warp,” said Joe, hauling in the rope that hung over the yacht’s stern. Both ropes came up with rond anchors on their ends.

“That’s a rum ’un,” said Bill. “However’d she get away?”

“Got to shift her sideways, same as she come on,” said Joe, squinting up at the leafy twigs between the mast and the stay. “Let’s have that tow-rope, Tom. Under where you’re sitting. Keep a hold of one end.”

He made the other end of the rope fast to the yacht’s mast and told Bill to take the Death and Glory to the middle of the river. “We don’t want to bump her if she come sudden. Never mind the rudder, Tom. Better with the oars.” The Death and Glories, boatbuilders’ sons all three of them, were in their element. This was work for the salvage company. Tom, older though he was, waited for orders and did what he was told. There was no argument. Joe was in command.

The Death and Glory moved away. The tow-rope tautened. A flutter of leaves dropped from the masthead. Joe, watching, lifted a hand. Bill and Tom let the salvage tug drop back, and then took her forward again, as Joe pointed in a new direction. There was a scraping noise overhead. Twigs and leaves fell on deck and in the water, and the yacht shook herself free.

“Good work,” said Tom.

“Tiller, Pete,” said Joe. “Half ahead there, in the tug. Go steady.”

The salvage tug moved slowly on towards the staithe, followed by the rescued yacht with Pete steering, while Joe coiled the mooring ropes at bow and stern, with anchors on the top of the coils, ready to take ashore.

“Slow ahead,” he called as they swung round the bend under the inn.

A window was suddenly flung up in the inn, and a maid leaned out of it, shaking a duster. Horning was waking up.

“I’m casting off now,” called Joe. “Stand by to haul in the tow-rope. All gone!” he ran aft. “Now then, young Pete. You go forrard ready to hop ashore. I’ll bring her in.”

The yacht slid slowly alongside the staithe. Tom and Bill were bringing the Death and Glory back to her old berth a few yards lower down. Pete and Joe hopped ashore from the yacht, each with an anchor and warp. They were just making her fast to the rings on the staithe when two larger boys, on bicycles, came round the corner of the boatshed, rode along the staithe, jumped off and stood watching them.

“At it again,” said one of them. “Well. There are two witnesses this time. Now then. Just you leave those warps alone. Lucky we were passing. You leave those warps alone.... Casting boats off and then telling people you didn’t.”

“Well, we didn’t,” said Pete. “So there. You can see we didn’t. We’re tying her up, not casting her off.”

“Likely story. Why, we caught you at it, with the warps already loose. Come on, George, let’s go and report them to that policeman right away.”

“When we get back from Norwich,” said George Owdon. “No time to waste now. Caught them in the act. And young Tom Dudgeon in it too.”

Tom jumped furiously ashore.

“We didn’t cast her off. We found her adrift, with her warps hanging loose. Her mast was caught in a tree. Look at the leaves on the deck. Anything might have happened if we hadn’t come along.”

“Salvage job,” said Joe.

“Casting off the Margoletta was salvage, too, I suppose,” said George Owdon. “You make those ropes fast again at once, and don’t think you can cast her off after we’ve gone. We’ve seen you at it.”

“We’re making ’em fast anyway,” said Joe. “You see we was.”

“We saw you with the warps loose, casting her off,” said George Owdon. “And I suppose you’ll say you had nothing to do with all the others. I suppose you’ll say you didn’t touch the Towzers’ rowing boat, or the green houseboat, or the Shooting Star?”

“What?” exclaimed Tom. “Nobody’s gone and touched the Shooting Star?”

“Haven’t they? You ought to know. I suppose she got away by herself, and the rowing boat, and the houseboat. Likely, isn’t it? And this time you’re caught with the warps in your hands. Come on, Ralph. You others’ll be hearing about this.”

George Owdon and his friend mounted their bicycles and rode away.

“Nasty beasts,” said Pete.

“It doesn’t matter a bit,” said Tom. “We all know where we found her.”

Bill was not so sure. “Who’s to prove it?” he said. “They all thought it was us with that cruiser yesterday and we know we never touch her.”

“What about them other boats?” said Joe.

“Harry Bangate knows we were with him all night,” said Tom. “We couldn’t be casting off boats and lifting eel-pods at the same time.”

“Lucky for us,” said Joe.

They went back to the Death and Glory.

“You take your pick of them eels,” said Joe.

Tom took a couple out of the bucket. “These’ll do for me,” he said. “Are you going to do yours now?”

“Going to have a sleep first,” said Joe. “Pete’s near yawning his head off again. Have to keep the fire going too, and who’s to stay awake to keep stoking.”

“I’m off now,” said Tom. He too was yawning. “I’ll be back later, when I’ve had a bit of sleep. Where’s that oilskin?”

He went off, with the oilskin bundled under one arm and an eel in each hand.

“I’m going to sleep till next week,” said Pete.

The milkboy rattled past the staithe on his tricycle. When he saw the Death and Glories he stared, hopped off, and wheeled his tricycle up to the boat.

“Hullo,” he said. “Why ain’t you down at the Ferry?”

“What for?” said Bill sleepily.

“Salving boats. There’s half a dozen gone adrift and brought up there.”

“We got to get some sleep,” said Joe.

“Did you push ’em off?” said the milkboy.

“No,” said Joe.

“Some of ’em think you done it,” said the boy.

“Let ’em think,” said Bill. “We been eeling all night along of old Harry Bangate at the eel setts.”

“Get any?”

“Lots.”

“And you didn’t cast off no boats?”

“Get out,” said Bill. “You leave us alone. We’re going to sleep.”

“Can’t a chap ask a question?” said the milkboy and rode away on his tricycle.

Bill went down into the cabin and came out again with a board on which he had pencilled in big letters, “ASLEEP, DON’T DISTURB”. “That’s what my Dad put up when my Mum was sick,” he said.

“Fine,” said Joe.

They fixed the board up on the roof of the cabin. Then, almost too sleepy to know what they were doing, they went below, kicked off their boots, turned in on their bunks without undressing, rolled to and fro to get their blankets round them, and began to make up for lost time.