Neptune's Fingers (13 page)

Harry had an enormous gash on his forehead that still bled. His crew were mostly unscathed other than bruises and cuts to their hands. They were very lucky. Now was the time for rejoicing, not for chastising. They were safe. Henry and George helped the men away from the water, relief their only emotion.

Jack's eye was caught by a movement along the beach. Amid the tossing of branches and the flying of debris, something stood out as foreign. A boy, barefoot and wet, walking away along the beach towards a clump of trees was disintegrating before his eyes. Caught out of time, he watched until Edward McPhail vanished like fairy dust, as though he had never been there. Jack looked back to the shoreline and found an older boy sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin, his arms wrapped around them, the ever present grin lighting up his face. As he caught Jack's eye, he raised one arm and waved.

“Fair weather be for you,” he said. Jack felt a sudden pang of loss. He was getting used to his new friend. Tears welled up in his eyes as he watched Albert rise to his feet, turn and walk towards the spit, fading as he went. He would have kept watching but at that moment, the rocks finally let go their hold on The Kestrel and she lifted in a final salute, broke in half and vanished beneath the waves. Jack knew before he looked back that Albert, also, was gone. Jack thought his heart would break. Three great losses in one day.

B
ad weather pounded the coast for three days. Harry would not leave his boat. It lay on its side, half in the water and half out, in the full tide and stranded like a beached whale at ebb. Henry persuaded him to go over to the lighthouse at low tide and rest, safe in the knowledge The Aurora would not float away and join the sunken Kestrel.

Neptune's Fingers' light continued its steadfast signal in case The Eileen should return. They saw no sign of her. Bob stood at the expansive window, his glass trained on the turbulent water peering through the gloom. Part of him wanted to see the dark green boat return to the harbor; the other part of him dreaded seeing her at all in the gigantic seas. There was no telling what would happen to her and resources were at full stretch helping Harry. On the fourth day, the rain was gone. The sky maintained its steely gray but it was much lighter as were the winds, no longer cyclonic, and diminishing in strength. The group at the lighthouse heaved a sigh of relief. Not much sleep had occurred over the three days. Everyone was too anxious and too busy. Now the worst was over, Harry went home. His wife was frantic. His one day fishing trip ended up being four. She was certain he was drowned. Her relief overflowed, swinging from telling him what she thought of his stupidity in a loud angry torrent, to hugging him in case he vanished once more.

The Aurora was in need of urgent repair. Leaks sprung along her hull from the sea's pounding and she had to be made seaworthy again before Harry could fish. The derrick was torn from its mount and had to be secured. It took a while but in view of what could have been, Harry deemed himself lucky.

The flimsy homes along the Sandy Bay were also in varying states of ruin, some gone altogether in the huge tides the winds drove ashore, yet they gave to the cheerful fisherman what they could. Everyone liked Harry. He often passed over fish to these people. Now it was their turn to give. Adversity brought out the best in people. So, with a team effort, The Aurora became once more, a familiar figure on the waters of Neptune's Fingers.

On the sixth day, The Eileen returned. Lofty had gone north, ahead of the storm. He saw how things would be and was far enough ahead of the front to find a safe harbor to nestle from the worst that was to come.

Henry was content. It was terrible to lose the ones you knew. They were like his chickens; his children. Safe once more in the grasp of Neptune's Fingers that reached out to sea like a giant hand, the community strove to bring things back to normal.

Debris littered the beaches and was strewn around the houses where it snagged against walls and fences. The town was like a busy ant nest, its members scurrying here and there to restore order. A pair of Ginny's bloomers fluttered from a tree, stiff in the breeze like a flag, snatched from Ella's clothes line, rigged from one tree to another. Most places suffered similar indignities. There were so many, it gave them some much-needed merriment and served to cheer them up.

The fish were scarce for a while. They slowly returned as the sea resumed its calm and life took on a semblance of order. Bill had to rebuild his billy cart, found overturned and wedged under a thick prickly bush. The seat was askew and the steering shaft splintered. George put an arm around Bill's shoulders and said:

“Now I know what we can do to fill in the time on Saturday.”

Everyone laughed. There was so much to do, no one was likely to be bored. Bill was glad his father thought his contraption was important.

“What a good idea,” said Ella Tarrant. “It'll keep you from under my feet.” She smiled as she looked from one of her brood to another. They were all safe.

The lighthouse was a shambles. The windows were caked in salt and sand had found a way into every crevice imaginable. There was enough to do to keep Jack busy for a week, at least. It was a good thing. It took his mind off his losses. He remembered every second of his times aboard The Kestrel.

He knew why Bill had such an easy going nature. He was so like Albert Madigan, long dead; drowned on the spit after surviving monstrous seas when grown men could not. Ella must have been a very young girl when he drowned. She must miss him. Jack knew he would never forget him.

Then there was Edward McPhail, the taciturn, bad-tempered Grandfather he vaguely remembered from his younger days. Jack was frightened of him as a small boy and clung to his mother when he was about. His mother feared him also. Only Henry ever stood up to him.

After the ordeal of the wreck, Jack could feel nothing but pride for the man. Jack had been frightened out of his wits on the embattled ship. He tried to imagine running away from home and travelling half way round the world to a place unknown. He was sure he could never do anything like it. Grandfather McPhail had great courage. How terrified he must have felt when he was discovered. And he tried so hard to save the Captain, this small boy of eleven years.

“You daydreaming?” said his father.

Jack realized he was not cleaning the window but was gazing out to sea, cloth in hand, idle.

“The Kestrel's gone, dad. I thought it would always be there.” A sadness tinged his voice.

“Nothing's permanent, son. It looks a bit empty out there now, I have to agree. I don't really want to see another one there, though, sailing ship or steamer. There
was
something about her though; The Kestrel, I mean.” Henry was searching for the right words.

“The shags will have to find somewhere else to perch now,” said Jack, trying to cheer his mood. “I was going to explore the wreck the day the storm hit. I'm glad I didn't. I had no idea how unstable she was. I thought she would be there forever. You can be lucky.”

A little of the seafarer's superstition lived in Henry. “The ship belongs to the men who sailed her. She's with them now. It's a good thing.”

It sounded fair enough to Jack and he said nothing as his father moved to attend the lamp after its long vigil.

Bright sunshine settled over Neptune's Fingers. The litter on the beach dumped by the pounding seas and the lumps of seaweed hanging from branches of shoreline trees, remained as grim evidence of the turmoil of the previous days. Jack, released from duty, strolled along the rocky shore of Narrowgut, where once The Kestrel lay marooned and rotting. She was gone. How strange it seemed.

The experiences of the last few days crowded in on him. He saw brief scenes in a jumbled array, like pieces of a jig-saw. As his vision refocused on the present, he spotted an object on the rocks. He had not seen it there before. Curious, he waded out through the rock pools to get a better look. When he saw plainly what it was, it took his breath away.

His shoes, the very ones he left up the mast of The Kestrel, were sitting high and dry on a rock. He waded further out till he could reach them and pick them up. They were wet but otherwise more or less unscathed, the laces hanging over the rock and the tongues rolled back as they dried.

“Well, I'll be….” said Jack. “So that's what Albert Madigan was looking for in the rain that night. Fancy him caring about that.” He picked them up and examined them. “I'll never throw these out even when they're falling to bits,” he promised himself. In a small way the shoes kept his connection with The Kestrel and his grandfather very much alive.

All the untidy ends of the past week or so were now in order. All were where they should be; ship-shape and Bristol fashion.

“Yes,” thought Jack. “All the men are there now. Albert Madigan, with one foot in this time and one in the other, and Edward McPhail, too, are with their shipmates again. And all who belong here and now are where they should be, safe, thank heaven.”

The thought of Albert Madigan striding towards the spit, not stopping, but wading into the water and disappearing beneath the waves, did not send a shiver down his spine as it might have done. Albert was at peace, his job complete. He had shown Jack his grandfather as he really was. Jack realized his eyes were moist. It would be good to be a Madigan, but Jack knew he would forever be proud to be Jack Lambeth, grandson of the brave Edward McPhail. With a warm feeling inside, shoes slung over his shoulder he made his way back to the lighthouse.