by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER VII SOME LOBSTERS
It was strange. As Donald Bracket shaded his eyes to peer into thedriving fog he seemed to see a face. The muscles of that face weretwisted into a smile. Not a pleasant smile, it came near being a leer.
Of course, there was no face; only an after image that had somehow creptup from the shadowy recesses of his brain. A very vivid image, itremained there against the fog for many seconds before it slowly faded.
"Peter Tomingo," he said to himself. "It's fairly spooky, as if he hadsent us out to get into this mess, knowing we'd fall into it.
"But then," he thought a moment later as he steered his sloop square intothe heart of a great wave, "he didn't know. No one could foretell such astorm four days in advance. Besides, he couldn't count on my coming outthis very day."
"Whew!" He caught his breath. Cutting its way through the crest of thewave, his twenty-foot fishing boat went plunging down the other side. Fora matter of seconds the air about him was all white spray. This passed,but the driving fog remained.
"Good thing the canvas is there." He tightened a rope that held aprotecting canvas across the prow of his boat. "Be dangerous to get one'smotor wet in such a blow. Might be fatal."
Once more, wrinkling his brow, he stared into the fog. "Wish I couldsight Monhegan. Wish----"
An exclamation escaped his lips. He drew his hands hastily across hiseyes. The face, the crafty smile, were there again. The lips appeared tomove. They seemed to be saying:
"The shoal is just there. Plenty da lobsters. Plenty big. Wanta go. Boattoo small, mine. Too far froma da shore. Plenty da lobster. Get reechqueek."
"Well, anyway, he told the truth," Don said to himself. "There arelobsters aplenty." He glanced down at a crate where a mass of legs, eyesand great green pinchers squirmed and twisted while the boat, worried bythe ever increasing storm, rolled and pitched like a bit of drift in amountain cataract.
He threw a look at the two water drenched girls, Pearl and Ruth, who sathuddled in the prow, and his brow wrinkled.
"Have to get out of this," he told himself, taking a fresh grip on hissteering stick. "Only question is, where?"
That indeed was the question. Fifteen miles to the westward was themainland and rocky shores little known to him. He was far from his usualfishing ground. Somewhere out there in the fog, perhaps very near,scarcely a mile long, a mere granite boulder jutting out of the sea, wasthe island called Monhegan. Smaller rocks jutting up from the sea formeda safe harbor for this island. Once there he could weather the storm insafety. Again he shaded his eyes to peer into the fog.
For a full moment, with straining eyes, he stood there motionless. Thenof a sudden a sigh of satisfaction escaped his lips. Towering a hundredor more feet above the sea, a bold headline loomed before him.
"Black Head," he whispered. "That's better."
Touching his lever, he set his boat at a slight angle to the rushingwaves, then took a deep breath. The battle was begun, not finished. Thechannel that led to Monhegan's cozy harbor was narrow. It was guarded bynature's sentinels--black and frowning rocks on one side, reefs boomingand white on the other. Many a stauncher boat than his had turned backbefore these perils. The rocky shore of Monhegan has taken its toll oflives all down the years.
"It is to be a battle," he exulted, "and I shall win!"
In the meantime, while his immediate attention was devoted to the presentstruggle, the questions regarding Tomingo and the lobster industry wererevolving themselves in the back of his mind.
They, the three of them, Don, Ruth and Pearl, had reached the mainlandnearest to the island of Monhegan, Booth Bay Harbor, in safety. Therethey had taken up their abode in an abandoned fisherman's shack. Shortlyafter that Don had met Tomingo.
To Tomingo he had confided his plans for lobster trapping. Tomingo hadtold him of the reef far out from the mainland, but near Monhegan, wherethe lobster fishing was unusually good. Without thinking much about it,he had followed the tip. The weather had been fine. Having piled hismotor boat high with lobster pots, he had gone pop-popping away towardMonhegan.
He had experienced no difficulty in finding the long sunken reef Tomingohad pointed out on the chart. He had baited his pots with codfish heads,then dropped them one by one along the reef. After adjusting the brightred floats, each marked with his initials, he had cast an appraising eyealong the tossing string of them, then turned his boat's prow toward hisshack.
"Fifteen miles is a long way to come for lobsters," he had thought tohimself. "But the reefs close in are fished out. If the catch is goodI'll do well enough."
A two days' storm had kept him from his traps. The morning of this, thethird day, had promised fair weather; so with his sister and cousin onboard, he had ventured out. Nature had kept but half her promise. Fairweather had continued while he was visiting the shoal. The work oflifting the traps had been particularly difficult. Ruth had given him aready hand at this. Six traps were fairly loaded with lobsters. A seventhhad been torn in pieces by a fifteen pound codfish that had blunderedinto it. Another trap had been demolished by a dogfish. All the othertraps had yielded a fair harvest.
"It sure was a good catch," the boy told himself as he thought of it now."Never had a better."
"But that Tomingo," he thought again. "Why did he tell me about it, me, astranger and an American?"
That, indeed, was a question worthy of consideration. The conflictbetween native born and foreign born fishermen all along the Maine coasthas for many long years been a hard-fought and bitter one. At timesfloats have been cut and traps set adrift and sharp battles fought withfists and clubbed oars. It seemed inconceivable, now that he thought ofit, that any foreigner should have told him of this rich fishing ground.
"It is true," he told himself, "that Tomingo's boat is smaller and lessseaworthy than mine. I wouldn't want to come this far in it myself. Butsome of his friends and fellow countrymen have far better boats thanmine. Why should they not fish that shoal?"
He could not answer this question. "There's a trick in it somewhere, I'llbe bound, and I'll find it soon enough without doubt. Meanwhile there isbusiness at hand."
And, indeed, there was. The frowning rocks of Black Head, Burnt Head andSkull Rock loomed squarely before him. He had been told enough to knowthat this was the back of the island, that he must round the point to theleft, circle half about the island and enter from the other side.
"Going to be a hard pull," he said, setting his teeth hard, "but if theold engine stays with me I'll make it."
The memory of that next hour will remain with the boy as long as thestars shine down upon him and the sun brightens his mornings.
The wind, the fog, the storm, the falling night. Above the roar of thesea a long-drawn voice, hoarse and insistent, never ending, the voice ofManana, the great fog horn that, driven by great engines, watched overnight and day, warned of rocky shoals and disaster.
With that voice sounding in his ears, with damp spray cutting sharplyacross his face, with his light craft like a frightened rabbit leapingfrom wave to wave, he steered clear of Black Head, White Head and SkullRock, to round the point and come swinging round toward the narrowentrance where he would find safe haven or a grave.
He was heading for what he believed to be the channel when a lightcreeping slowly across the sky caught and held his attention. It wasgrowing dark now, difficult to see ten yards before him. He needed to getin at once. For all this, the mysterious light intrigued him. Beginningat the right, it moved slowly over a narrow arc against the black sky.Pausing for the merest fraction of a second, it appeared to retrace itsway over an invisible celestial way.
"What can it be?" For a moment he was bewildered. Then, like a flash itcame to him. He was looking at the crest of the great rock that laybefore Monhegan. On Monhegan a powerful light was set. As it playedbackward and forward it tinged the crest of Manana, as the rock wascalled, with a faint halo of glory.
"What a boon to
the sailor!" he thought. "What real heroes are those wholive on this bleak island winter and summer! What--"
His thoughts broke straight off. Before him he had caught an appallingsound, the rush of surf beating upon a rocky shoal.
Reflected from Manana, a single gleam of light gave him further warning.The shoals were just before him. The waves there were breaking mountainhigh. Turning his boat squarely about, he set his engine to doing itsbest and trusted himself to the trough of a wave. Instantly there came adrenching crash of cold black water.
He clung desperately to his course. Any moment the engine, deluged by agreater sea, might go dead. Then would come the end.
"But there's no other way." He set his teeth hard.
Once more he caught the moving gleam across the sky. That gleam savedhim. He held to a course perpendicular to its line of motion as long ashe dared. Then, swinging through a quarter circle he shot straight ahead.Five minutes later, drenched to the skin, panting from excitement andwell nigh exhausted, but now quite safe, he ran his boat alongside a puntwhere a yellow light gleamed.
"Hello!" said a voice. A lantern held high revealed a boyish face."Pretty lucky you got in. Nasty night. Some blow!" said the boy.
"Wouldn't have made it," said Don, "only I caught the gleam on the crestof Manana. It guided me in."
"Tie up," invited the boy. "I'll take you ashore in my punt."
"What you got there?" he asked in a surprised tone as the light of hislantern fell upon the crate.
"Lobsters," said Don.
"Lobsters?" The boy let out a whistle of surprise. "Where'd you get 'em?"
"On a shoal, little way out." Don hadn't meant to tell that. He hadn'tliked the sound of that whistle. He spoke before he thought.
"You'd better watch out," said the other boy. Then without allowing timefor further remarks, "All set? Hop in then. I got to go ashore. The gangwill be looking for me."
As the young stranger rowed the two girls and Don ashore, Don wonderedover his strange warning.
"You better look out!" What could he have meant? He wanted to ask.Natural reserve held him back.
Only once during the short journey was the silence broken. They werepassing a boat covered with canvas and sunk to the gunwale.
"What's that for?" Don asked.
"Lobster pond. Keep lobsters there."
"Why do they keep them?"
"There are a hundred or more of us summer folks out here," the other boyexplained. "We like a lobster salad now and then. They keep them for us.Mighty decent of them to bother. A fine lot, these fishermen. Realsports."
Don thought it strange that lobsters should be kept when there was asteady market for them and they were to be caught out here withcomparative ease. However, he asked no further questions.
"Thanks for the lift." He stood looking up at the few lights that gleamedthrough the fog. "Suppose I'll have to stay here all night."
"Suppose so. I'd take you to our cottage, but it's small. We're full up.Couldn't crowd one more in an end. There's a summer hotel up yonder."
"Summer hotel. Four dollars up. Society folks." Don looked down at hissodden garments. "No, thanks. Where do the fisherfolk live? I'm one ofthem."
"Why----" The boy appeared surprised. "Captain Field lives just downthere beyond the wharf. But you wouldn't go there?"
"Wouldn't? Why not?" Something in the other boy's tone angered Donald.
"You ought to know." The boy's tone was sharp. He turned to go.
"But I don't."
"Then you're dumb. That's all I have to say for you. You're breaking intothe closed season on lobsters. You couldn't do anything worse."
"The closed season!" Don's eyes opened wide. "You're crazy. There's noclosed season on lobsters, not in the State of Maine."
"On Monhegan there is, and believe me it's tight closed. Try it out andsee."
"But that would have to be a law. No one owns the shoals."
"Guess if you lived on this rocky island winter and summer, heat, cold,supplies, no supplies, if you took it all as it came, you'd feel that youowned the shoals. That's the way the folks here feel. They want time tofish for cod and take summer parties about, so they haul up their trapsand call June to November a closed season.
"Listen!" The other boy's tone was kindly now. "You seem a decent sort. Idon't know what got you out here. But you go back. Take your traps withyou. When people live in a place like this they've got a right to make afew laws. Know those Italian fishermen over at the Bay?" he askedsuddenly.
"Yes, one of them. Tomingo."
"Tomingo. That's his name. He's their leader. They tried trapping on theMonhegan shoals. Know what happened? Someone cut their floats. Neverfound their traps, nor the lobsters in 'em. Goodnight. Wish you luck."The boy disappeared into the fog.
So that was it! And that was why Tomingo was so willing to direct him torich lobster fields! Don sat limply down upon a rock. The two girls stoodstaring at him in silence.
"He wanted to keep us off any ground he might wish to trap on, and wantedto repay a debt to these Monheganites," he said to his companions.
For five minutes he sat there enshrouded in fog, buried in thought.
"Closed season!" he exploded at last. "What nonsense! Who ever heard ofsuch a thing? Of course, we won't pay any attention to it. And if theycut my floats I'll have them in jail for it. There are laws enoughagainst that."
With this resolve firmly fixed in his mind, but with an uneasy feelinglurking there as well, he thought once more of supper and a bed for thenight.
"We'll go to this Captain Field's place," he said to the girls. "I'lltell him I am a fisherman from Peak's Island. That's true. I'll get anearly start in the morning. He need never know about my catch oflobsters."
With this settled in his mind he led the way round the bank, across thewharf and up the grass grown path that led to the dimly gleaming lightthat shone from Captain Field's window.
A half hour later, with thoughts of the forbidden lobsters crowded farback in the hidden recesses of their minds, the trio found themselvesdoing full justice to great steaming bowls of clam chowder topped by awedge of native blueberry pie.
All this time and for a long while after, Don talked of sails andfishing, nets, harpoons, and long sea journeys with his smiling,lean-faced and fit appearing host. Captain Field, though still a youngman, had earned his papers well, for he had sailed the Atlantic in everytype of craft and had once shipped as a harpooner on a swordfishing boatoutfitted in Portland harbor.
As they talked Don's eyes roved from corner to corner of the cabin.Everything within was scrupulously clean, but painfully plain, much of ithand hewn with rough and ready tools.
As if reading his thoughts, the young Captain smiled as he said:
"There's not a lot of money to be had on Monhegan. The ground's too roughfor farming or cattle. We fish in summer and trap lobsters in winter. Butwe must have an eye on the purse strings every day of the year."
As he said this a curly-haired girl of eight and a brown-faced boy of sixcame to kneel by their mother's knee to say their goodnight prayers.
As he bowed his head with them, something very like a stab ran throughDon's heart and a voice seemed to whisper:
"You are a thief. You are robbing these little ones and their honestparents of their bread. They endure all the hardships of the year. Youcome to reap a golden harvest from their lobster fields while their backsare turned."
He retired soon after. The bed they gave him was a good one. He wastired, yet he did not sleep. For a full hour he thrashed about. Then asudden resolve put him to rest.
As is the way with persons endowed with particularly splendid physique,Ruth, in the broad rope bed beside her cousin, fell asleep at once. Shehad wrestled long that day with trap lines. The struggle to reach shorehad been fatiguing. Her sleep was sweet and dreamless.
Not so with Pearl. Her mind ever filled with fancy, was now overflowing.She was now on Monhegan, the island of her dreams. She recalled as
ifthey were told yesterday the tales she had heard told of this island byher seafaring uncle before she was old enough to go to school.
"Oh, Uncle," she had cried. "Take me there! Take me to Monhegan!"
"Some day, child," he had promised.
Alas, poor man, he had not lived to fulfill his promise. Like manyanother brave fisherman, he had lost his life on the dreary banks ofNewfoundland.
"Dear Uncle," she whispered as her throat tightened, "now I am here.Here! And I know you must be glad."
The storm was still on. She could hear the distant beat of waves on BlackHead, Burnt Head and Skull Rock. The great fog horn still sent out itsmessage from Manana.
"Hoo-who-ee-Whoo-oo!" Sometimes rising, sometimes falling, it seemed ameasureless human voice shouting in the night. The sound of it washaunting.
Rising and wrapping a blanket about her, the girl went to the low windowsill, to drop upon the floor and sit there staring into the night.
There was little enough to see. The night was black. But across the crestof that great rock, the spot of light played incessantly.
"Fifteen miles out to sea," she thought. "Seems strange. One does notfeel that this house rested on land. It is more as if this were a ship'scabin, the lighthouse our search light, the fog horn our signal, and wesail on and on into the night. We----"
She was awakened from this dream by an unfamiliar sound, thundering thatwas not waves beating a shore, that might have been the roar of thedistant battle front.
A moment passed, and then she knew.
"A seaplane," she thought suddenly. "And on such a night! Why, that canmean only one thing, a trans-Atlantic flyer!"
How her heart leaped at the thought! She recalled with a tremor the dayshe got news of "Lindy's marvelous achievement."
Such flyers had become fairly common now. Yet she had never seen one inhis flight.
"If he comes near enough," she said to herself, straining her eyes in avain attempt to pierce the inky blackness of the night.
Then a new thought striking her all of a heap set her shuddering. "Whatif he does not realize he is near Monhegan? If he is flying low, he willcrash."
Involuntarily a little prayer went up for the lone navigator of the nightair.
Nor was the prayer unheeded. As she looked a dark spot appeared overManana. Then the plane came into full view. As if set to the task, thelight from the island beacon followed the aviator in his flight. Tenseconds he was in full view. Then he was gone, passed on into the night.
"Why!" the girl exclaimed, catching her breath, "How--how strange!"
The thing she had seen _was_ strange. A broad-winged seaplane with a widefusilage that might have been a cabin for carrying three or fourpassengers, had passed. The strange part of it all was that it waspainted the dull gray-green of a cloudy sea, and carried not one singleinsignia of any nation.
"The Flying Dutchman of the air," she thought as a thrill ran up herspine.
For a long time she sat there staring at the darkness of night that hadswallowed up the mysterious ship of the air.
At last, with a shudder, for the night air of Monhegan is chill even insummer, she rose to creep beneath the blankets beside her sleepingcompanion.
She was about to drift away to the land of dreams, when she thought ofCaptain O'Connor and what he had told her of smugglers along the Mainecoast.
"Can it be?" she thought. "But no! One would not risk his life crossingthe ocean in a seaplane just to smuggle in a few hundred dollars' worthof lace or silk or whatever it might be. 'Twouldn't be worth the cost.
"But men," she thought quite suddenly. "He said something about smugglingmen into the country. It might be----"
Her eyes were drooping. The day had been long. The salt sea air lay heavyupon her. She fell asleep.
It was a little dark when Don arose. The girls were still asleep.Somewhat to his surprise, as he reached the beach he found the boy of theprevious night there before him.
"Sleep here?" he asked good-naturedly.
"Nope." There was something in Don's look that made this boy like him."Going so soon? Want me to take you out?"
"Thanks. Yes."
"Where is Captain Field's lobster pond?" Don asked as the punt bumped theside of his boat.
"That green one." The boy opened his eyes wide. "Why?"
"Nothing. Give me a lift, will you?" Don was tugging at the crate oflobsters in the bottom of his motor boat.
"There!" he sighed as the crate dropped into the punt. "Just row me overto the Field lobster pond, will you?"
Once there, to the boy's astonishment, Don loosed the lacings of thecanvas on Field's lobster pond, then one at a time he took the lobstersfrom his crate and dropped them into the pond.
"He buy them from you?" The younger boy was incredulous.
"No."
"You quitting?"
Don nodded.
"I like you for that." The other boy put out a hand. For a second Dongripped it. Then, together they rowed back to the motor boat.
The sea was calm now. Twirling the wheel to his motor, Don wentpop-popping away to his lobster traps. Having lifted these, he piled themhigh on the deck, then turned his prow once more toward Monhegan. Hislobster fishing days on Monhegan shoals were at an end. But he was notgoing to leave Monhegan, not just yet. The wild charm of the place hadgot him. Strange and startling things were yet to greet him there.
