Transcribed from the 1914 William Heinemann edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org
[Picture: Book cover]
[Picture: “Now will you keep off?” he demanded]
Tales of the
Fish Patrol
By
Jack London
Author of “Burning Daylight,” etc.
[Picture: Decorative graphic]
London
William Heinemann
1914
WHITE AND YELLOW
SAN FRANCISCO BAY is so large that often its storms are more disastrous
to ocean-going craft than is the ocean itself in its violent moments.
The waters of the bay contain all manner of fish, wherefore its surface
is ploughed by the keels of all manner of fishing boats manned by all
manner of fishermen. To protect the fish from this motley floating
population many wise laws have been passed, and there is a fish patrol to
see that these laws are enforced. Exciting times are the lot of the fish
patrol: in its history more than one dead patrolman has marked defeat,
and more often dead fishermen across their illegal nets have marked
success.
Wildest among the fisher-folk may be accounted the Chinese
shrimp-catchers. It is the habit of the shrimp to crawl along the bottom
in vast armies till it reaches fresh water, when it turns about and
crawls back again to the salt. And where the tide ebbs and flows, the
Chinese sink great bag-nets to the bottom, with gaping mouths, into which
the shrimp crawls and from which it is transferred to the boiling-pot.
This in itself would not be bad, were it not for the small mesh of the
nets, so small that the tiniest fishes, little new-hatched things not a
quarter of an inch long, cannot pass through. The beautiful beaches of
Points Pedro and Pablo, where are the shrimp-catchers’ villages, are made
fearful by the stench from myriads of decaying fish, and against this
wasteful destruction it has ever been the duty of the fish patrol to act.
When I was a youngster of sixteen, a good sloop-sailor and all-round
bay-waterman, my sloop, the _Reindeer_, was chartered by the Fish
Commission, and I became for the time being a deputy patrolman. After a
deal of work among the Greek fishermen of the Upper Bay and rivers, where
knives flashed at the beginning of trouble and men permitted themselves
to be made prisoners only after a revolver was thrust in their faces, we
hailed with delight an expedition to the Lower Bay against the Chinese
shrimp-catchers.
There were six of us, in two boats, and to avoid suspicion we ran down
after dark and dropped anchor under a projecting bluff of land known as
Point Pinole. As the east paled with the first light of dawn we got
under way again, and hauled close on the land breeze as we slanted across
the bay toward Point Pedro. The morning mists curled and clung to the
water so that we could see nothing, but we busied ourselves driving the
chill from our bodies with hot coffee. Also we had to devote ourselves
to the miserable task of bailing, for in some incomprehensible way the
_Reindeer_ had sprung a generous leak. Half the night had been spent in
overhauling the ballast and exploring the seams, but the labor had been
without avail. The water still poured in, and perforce we doubled up in
the cockpit and tossed it out again.
After coffee, three of the men withdrew to the other boat, a Columbia
River salmon boat, leaving three of us in the _Reindeer_. Then the two
craft proceeded in company till the sun showed over the eastern sky-line.
Its fiery rays dispelled the clinging vapors, and there, before our eyes,
like a picture, lay the shrimp fleet, spread out in a great half-moon,
the tips of the crescent fully three miles apart, and each junk moored
fast to the buoy of a shrimp-net. But there was no stir, no sign of
life.
The situation dawned upon us. While waiting for slack water, in which to
lift their heavy nets from the bed of the bay, the Chinese had all gone
to sleep below. We were elated, and our plan of battle was swiftly
formed.
“Throw each of your two men on to a junk,” whispered Le Grant to me from
the salmon boat. “And you make fast to a third yourself. We’ll do the
same, and there’s no reason in the world why we shouldn’t capture six
junks at the least.”
Then we separated. I put the _Reindeer_ about on the other tack, ran up
under the lee of a junk, shivered the mainsail into the wind and lost
headway, and forged past the stern of the junk so slowly and so near that
one of the patrolmen stepped lightly aboard. Then I kept off, filled the
mainsail, and bore away for a second junk.
Up to this time there had been no noise, but from the first junk captured
by the salmon boat an uproar now broke forth. There was shrill Oriental
yelling, a pistol shot, and more yelling.
“It’s all up. They’re warning the others,” said George, the remaining
patrolman, as he stood beside me in the cockpit.
By this time we were in the thick of the fleet, and the alarm was
spreading with incredible swiftness. The decks were beginning to swarm
with half-awakened and half-naked Chinese. Cries and yells of warning
and anger were flying over the quiet water, and somewhere a conch shell
was being blown with great success. To the right of us I saw the captain
of a junk chop away his mooring line with an axe and spring to help his
crew at the hoisting of the huge, outlandish lug-sail. But to the left
the first heads were popping up from below on another junk, and I rounded
up the _Reindeer_ alongside long enough for George to spring aboard.
The whole fleet was now under way. In addition to the sails they had
gotten out long sweeps, and the bay was being ploughed in every direction
by the fleeing junks. I was now alone in the _Reindeer_, seeking
feverishly to capture a third prize. The first junk I took after was a
clean miss, for it trimmed its sheets and shot away surprisingly into the
wind. By fully half a point it outpointed the _Reindeer_, and I began to
feel respect for the clumsy craft. Realizing the hopelessness of the
pursuit, I filled away, threw out the main-sheet, and drove down before
the wind upon the junks to leeward, where I had them at a disadvantage.
The one I had selected wavered indecisively before me, and, as I swung
wide to make the boarding gentle, filled suddenly and darted away, the
smart Mongols shouting a wild rhythm as they bent to the sweeps. But I
had been ready for this. I luffed suddenly. Putting the tiller hard
down, and holding it down with my body, I brought the main-sheet in, hand
over hand, on the run, so as to retain all possible striking force. The
two starboard sweeps of the junk were crumpled up, and then the two boats
came together with a crash. The _Reindeer’s_ bowsprit, like a monstrous
hand, reached over and ripped out the junk’s chunky mast and towering
sail.
This was met by a curdling yell of rage. A big Chinaman, remarkably
evil-looking, with his head swathed in a yellow silk handkerchief and
face badly pock-marked, planted a pike-pole on the _Reindeer’s_ bow and
began to shove the entangled boats apart. Pausing long enough to let go
the jib halyards, and just as the _Reindeer_ cleared and began to drift
astern, I leaped aboard the junk with a line and made fast. He of the
yellow handkerchief and pock-marked face came toward me threateningly,
but I put my hand into my hip pocket, and he hesitated. I was unarmed,
but the Chinese have learned to be fastidiously careful of American hip
pockets, and it was upon this that I depended to keep him and his savage
crew at a distance.
I ordered him to drop the anchor at the junk’s bow, to which he replied,
“No sabbe.” The crew responded in like fashion, and though I made my
meaning plain by signs, they refused to understand. Realizing the
inexpediency of discussing the matter, I went forward myself, overran the
line, and let the anchor go.
“Now get aboard, four of you,” I said in a loud voice, indicating with my
fingers that four of them were to go with me and the fifth was to remain
by the junk. The Yellow Handkerchief hesitated; but I repeated the order
fiercely (much more fiercely than I felt), at the same time sending my
hand to my hip. Again the Yellow Handkerchief was overawed, and with
surly looks he led three of his men aboard the _Reindeer_. I cast off at
once, and, leaving the jib down, steered a course for George’s junk.
Here it was easier, for there were two of us, and George had a pistol to
fall back on if it came to the worst. And here, as with my junk, four
Chinese were transferred to the sloop and one left behind to take care of
things.
Four more were added to our passenger list from the third junk. By this
time the salmon boat had collected its twelve prisoners and came
alongside, badly overloaded. To make matters worse, as it was a small
boat, the patrolmen were so jammed in with their prisoners that they
would have little chance in case of trouble.
“You’ll have to help us out,” said Le Grant.
I looked over my prisoners, who had crowded into the cabin and on top of
it. “I can take three,” I answered.
“Make it four,” he suggested, “and I’ll take Bill with me.” (Bill was
the third patrolman.) “We haven’t elbow room here, and in case of a
scuffle one white to every two of them will be just about the right
proportion.”
The exchange was made, and the salmon boat got up its spritsail and
headed down the bay toward the marshes off San Rafael. I ran up the jib
and followed with the _Reindeer_. San Rafael, where we were to turn our
catch over to the authorities, communicated with the bay by way of a long
and tortuous slough, or marshland creek, which could be navigated only
when the tide was in. Slack water had come, and, as the ebb was
commencing, there was need for hurry if we cared to escape waiting half a
day for the next tide.
But the land breeze had begun to die away with the rising sun, and now
came only in failing puffs. The salmon boat got out its oars and soon
left us far astern. Some of the Chinese stood in the forward part of the
cockpit, near the cabin doors, and once, as I leaned over the cockpit
rail to flatten down the jib-sheet a bit, I felt some one brush against
my hip pocket. I made no sign, but out of the corner of my eye I saw
that the Yellow Handkerchief had discovered the emptiness of the pocket
which had hitherto overawed him.
To make matters serious, during all the excitement of boarding the junks
the _Reindeer_ had not been bailed, and the water was beginning to slush
over the cockpit floor. The shrimp-catchers pointed at it and looked to
me questioningly.
“Yes,” I said. “Bime by, allee same dlown, velly quick, you no bail now.
Sabbe?”
No, they did not “sabbe,” or at least they shook their heads to that
effect, though they chattered most comprehendingly to one another in
their own lingo. I pulled up three or four of the bottom boards, got a
couple of buckets from a locker, and by unmistakable sign-language
invited them to fall to. But they laughed, and some crowded into the
cabin and some climbed up on top.
Their laughter was not good laughter. There was a hint of menace in it,
a maliciousness which their black looks verified. The Yellow
Handkerchief, since his discovery of my empty pocket, had become most
insolent in his bearing, and he wormed about among the other prisoners,
talking to them with great earnestness.
Swallowing my chagrin, I stepped down into the cockpit and began throwing
out the water. But hardly had I begun, when the boom swung overhead, the
mainsail filled with a jerk, and the _Reindeer_ heeled over. The day
wind was springing up. George was the veriest of landlubbers, so I was
forced to give over bailing and take the tiller. The wind was blowing
directly off Point Pedro and the high mountains behind, and because of
this was squally and uncertain, half the time bellying the canvas out and
the other half flapping it idly.
George was about the most all-round helpless man I had ever met. Among
his other disabilities, he was a consumptive, and I knew that if he
attempted to bail, it might bring on a hemorrhage. Yet the rising water
warned me that something must be done. Again I ordered the
shrimp-catchers to lend a hand with the buckets. They laughed defiantly,
and those inside the cabin, the water up to their ankles, shouted back
and forth with those on top.
“You’d better get out your gun and make them bail,” I said to George.
But he shook his head and showed all too plainly that he was afraid. The
Chinese could see the funk he was in as well as I could, and their
insolence became insufferable. Those in the cabin broke into the food
lockers, and those above scrambled down and joined them in a feast on our
crackers and canned goods.
“What do we care?” George said weakly.
I was fuming with helpless anger. “If they get out of hand, it will be
too late to care. The best thing you can do is to get them in check
right now.”
The water was rising higher and higher, and the gusts, forerunners of a
steady breeze, were growing stiffer and stiffer. And between the gusts,
the prisoners, having gotten away with a week’s grub, took to crowding
first to one side and then to the other till the _Reindeer_ rocked like a
cockle-shell. Yellow Handkerchief approached me, and, pointing out his
village on the Point Pedro beach, gave me to understand that if I turned
the _Reindeer_ in that direction and put them ashore, they, in turn,
would go to bailing. By now the water in the cabin was up to the bunks,
and the bed-clothes were sopping. It was a foot deep on the cockpit
floor. Nevertheless I refused, and I could see by George’s face that he
was disappointed.
“If you don’t show some nerve, they’ll rush us and throw us overboard,” I
said to him. “Better give me your revolver, if you want to be safe.”
“The safest thing to do,” he chattered cravenly, “is to put them ashore.
I, for one, don’t want to be drowned for the sake of a handful of dirty
Chinamen.”
“And I, for another, don’t care to give in to a handful of dirty Chinamen
to escape drowning,” I answered hotly.
“You’ll sink the _Reindeer_ under us all at this rate,” he whined. “And
what good that’ll do I can’t see.”
“Every man to his taste,” I retorted.
He made no reply, but I could see he was trembling pitifully. Between
the threatening Chinese and the rising water he was beside himself with
fright; and, more than the Chinese and the water, I feared him and what
his fright might impel him to do. I could see him casting longing
glances at the small skiff towing astern, so in the next calm I hauled
the skiff alongside. As I did so his eyes brightened with hope; but
before he could guess my intention, I stove the frail bottom through with
a hand-axe, and the skiff filled to its gunwales.
“It’s sink or float together,” I said. “And if you’ll give me your
revolver, I’ll have the _Reindeer_ bailed out in a jiffy.”
“They’re too many for us,” he whimpered. “We can’t fight them all.”
I turned my back on him in disgust. The salmon boat had long since
passed from sight behind a little archipelago known as the Marin Islands,
so no help could be looked for from that quarter. Yellow Handkerchief
came up to me in a familiar manner, the water in the cockpit slushing
against his legs. I did not like his looks. I felt that beneath the
pleasant smile he was trying to put on his face there was an ill purpose.
I ordered him back, and so sharply that he obeyed.
“Now keep your distance,” I commanded, “and don’t you come closer!”
“Wha’ fo’?” he demanded indignantly. “I t’ink-um talkee talkee heap
good.”
“Talkee talkee,” I answered bitterly, for I knew now that he had
understood all that passed between George and me. “What for talkee
talkee? You no sabbe talkee talkee.”
He grinned in a sickly fashion. “Yep, I sabbe velly much. I honest
Chinaman.”
“All right,” I answered. “You sabbe talkee talkee, then you bail water
plenty plenty. After that we talkee talkee.”
He shook his head, at the same time pointing over his shoulder to his
comrades. “No can do. Velly bad Chinamen, heap velly bad. I t’ink-um—”
“Stand back!” I shouted, for I had noticed his hand disappear beneath his
blouse and his body prepare for a spring.
Disconcerted, he went back into the cabin, to hold a council, apparently,
from the way the jabbering broke forth. The _Reindeer_ was very deep in
the water, and her movements had grown quite loggy. In a rough sea she
would have inevitably swamped; but the wind, when it did blow, was off
the land, and scarcely a ripple disturbed the surface of the bay.
“I think you’d better head for the beach,” George said abruptly, in a
manner that told me his fear had forced him to make up his mind to some
course of action.
“I think not,” I answered shortly.
“I command you,” he said in a bullying tone.
“I was commanded to bring these prisoners into San Rafael,” was my reply.
Our voices were raised, and the sound of the altercation brought the
Chinese out of the cabin.
“Now will you head for the beach?”
This from George, and I found myself looking into the muzzle of his
revolver—of the revolver he dared to use on me, but was too cowardly to
use on the prisoners.
My brain seemed smitten with a dazzling brightness. The whole situation,
in all its bearings, was focussed sharply before me—the shame of losing
the prisoners, the worthlessness and cowardice of George, the meeting
with Le Grant and the other patrol men and the lame explanation; and then
there was the fight I had fought so hard, victory wrenched from me just
as I thought I had it within my grasp. And out of the tail of my eye I
could see the Chinese crowding together by the cabin doors and leering
triumphantly. It would never do.
I threw my hand up and my head down. The first act elevated the muzzle,
and the second removed my head from the path of the bullet which went
whistling past. One hand closed on George’s wrist, the other on the
revolver. Yellow Handkerchief and his gang sprang toward me. It was now
or never. Putting all my strength into a sudden effort, I swung George’s
body forward to meet them. Then I pulled back with equal suddenness,
ripping the revolver out of his fingers and jerking him off his feet. He
fell against Yellow Handkerchief’s knees, who stumbled over him, and the
pair wallowed in the bailing hole where the cockpit floor was torn open.
The next instant I was covering them with my revolver, and the wild
shrimp-catchers were cowering and cringing away.
But I swiftly discovered that there was all the difference in the world
between shooting men who are attacking and men who are doing nothing more
than simply refusing to obey. For obey they would not when I ordered
them into the bailing hole. I threatened them with the revolver, but
they sat stolidly in the flooded cabin and on the roof and would not
move.
Fifteen minutes passed, the _Reindeer_ sinking deeper and deeper, her
mainsail flapping in the calm. But from off the Point Pedro shore I saw
a dark line form on the water and travel toward us. It was the steady
breeze I had been expecting so long. I called to the Chinese and pointed
it out. They hailed it with exclamations. Then I pointed to the sail
and to the water in the _Reindeer_, and indicated by signs that when the
wind reached the sail, what of the water aboard we would capsize. But
they jeered defiantly, for they knew it was in my power to luff the helm
and let go the main-sheet, so as to spill the wind and escape damage.
But my mind was made up. I hauled in the main-sheet a foot or two, took
a turn with it, and bracing my feet, put my back against the tiller.
This left me one hand for the sheet and one for the revolver. The dark
line drew nearer, and I could see them looking from me to it and back
again with an apprehension they could not successfully conceal. My brain
and will and endurance were pitted against theirs, and the problem was
which could stand the strain of imminent death the longer and not give
in.
Then the wind struck us. The main-sheet tautened with a brisk rattling
of the blocks, the boom uplifted, the sail bellied out, and the
_Reindeer_ heeled over—over, and over, till the lee-rail went under, the
cabin windows went under, and the bay began to pour in over the cockpit
rail. So violently had she heeled over, that the men in the cabin had
been thrown on top of one another into the lee bunk, where they squirmed
and twisted and were washed about, those underneath being perilously near
to drowning.
The wind freshened a bit, and the _Reindeer_ went over farther than ever.
For the moment I thought she was gone, and I knew that another puff like
that and she surely would go. While I pressed her under and debated
whether I should give up or not, the Chinese cried for mercy. I think it
was the sweetest sound I have ever heard. And then, and not until then,
did I luff up and ease out the main-sheet. The _Reindeer_ righted very
slowly, and when she was on an even keel was so much awash that I doubted
if she could be saved.
But the Chinese scrambled madly into the cockpit and fell to bailing with
buckets, pots, pans, and everything they could lay hands on. It was a
beautiful sight to see that water flying over the side! And when the
_Reindeer_ was high and proud on the water once more, we dashed away with
the breeze on our quarter, and at the last possible moment crossed the
mud flats and entered the slough.
The spirit of the Chinese was broken, and so docile did they become that
ere we made San Rafael they were out with the tow-rope, Yellow
Handkerchief at the head of the line. As for George, it was his last
trip with the fish patrol. He did not care for that sort of thing, he
explained, and he thought a clerkship ashore was good enough for him.
And we thought so too.