AMONG THE OYSTER-BEDS
Time and the world slipped away, and both boys were aroused by the harsh
voice of French Pete from the sleep into which they had fallen.
"Get under way!" he was bawling. "Here, you Sho! Cast off ze gaskets!
Queeck! Lively! You Kid, ze jib!"
Joe was clumsy in the darkness, not knowing the names of things and the
places where they were to be found; but he made fair progress, and when
he had tossed the gaskets into the cockpit was ordered forward to help
hoist the mainsail. After that the anchor was hove in and the jib set.
Then they coiled down the halyards and put everything in order before
they returned aft.
"Vaire good, vaire good," the Frenchman praised, as Joe dropped in over
the rail. "Splendeed! You make ze good sailorman, I know for sure."
'Frisco Kid lifted the cover of one of the cockpit lockers and glanced
questioningly at French Pete.
"For sure," that mariner replied. "Put up ze side-lights."
'Frisco Kid took the red and green lanterns into the cabin to light them,
and then went forward with Joe to hang them in the rigging.
"They 're not goin' to tackle it," 'Frisco Kid said in an undertone.
"What?" Joe asked.
"That big thing I was tellin' you was down here somewhere. It 's so big,
I guess, that French Pete 's 'most afraid to go in for it. Red Nelson 'd
go in quicker 'n a wink, but he don't know enough about it. Can't go in,
you see, till Pete gives the word."
"Where are we going now?" Joe questioned.
"Don't know; oyster-beds most likely, from the way we 're heading."
It was an uneventful trip. A breeze sprang up out of the night behind them,
and held steady for an hour or more. Then it dropped and became aimless and
erratic, puffing gently first from one quarter and then another. French
Pete remained at the tiller, while occasionally Joe or 'Frisco Kid took
in or slacked off a sheet.
Joe sat and marveled that the Frenchman should know where he was going.
To Joe it seemed that they were lost in the impenetrable darkness which
shrouded them. A high fog had rolled in from the Pacific, and though they
were beneath, it came between them and the stars, depriving them of the
little light from that source.
But French Pete seemed to know instinctively the direction he should go,
and once, in reply to a query from Joe, bragged of his ability to go by
the "feel" of things.
"I feel ze tide, ze wind, ze speed," he explained. "Even do I feel ze land.
Dat I tell you for sure. How? I do not know. Only do I know dat I feel ze
land, just like my arm grow long, miles and miles long, and I put my hand
upon ze land and feel it, and know dat it is there."
Joe looked incredulously at 'Frisco Kid.
"That 's right," he affirmed. "After you 've been on the water a good
while you come to feel the land. And if your nose is any account, you
can usually smell it."
An hour or so later, Joe surmised from the Frenchman's actions that they
were approaching their destination. He seemed on the alert, and was
constantly peering into the darkness ahead as though he expected to see
something at any moment. Joe looked very hard, but saw only the darkness.
"Try ze stick, Kid," French Pete ordered. "I t'ink it is about ze time."
'Frisco Kid unlashed a long and slender pole from the top of the cabin,
and, standing on the narrow deck amidships, plunged one end of it into
the water and drove it straight down.
"About fifteen feet," he said.
"What ze bottom?"
"Mud," was the answer.
"Wait one while, den we try some more."
Five minutes afterward the pole was plunged overside again.
"Two fathoms," Joe answered--"shells."
French Pete rubbed his hands with satisfaction. "Vaire good, vaire well,"
he said. "I hit ze ground every time. You can't fool-a ze old man; I tell
you dat for sure."
'Frisco Kid continued operating the pole and announcing the results, to the
mystification of Joe, who could not comprehend their intimate knowledge of
the bottom of the bay.
"Ten feet--shells," 'Frisco Kid went on in a monotonous voice. "'Leven
feet--shells. Fourteen feet--soft. Sixteen feet--mud. No bottom."
"Ah, ze channel," said French Pete at this.
For a few minutes it was "No bottom"; and then, suddenly, came 'Frisco
Kid's cry: "Eight feet--hard!"
"Dat 'll do," French Pete commanded. "Run for'ard, you Sho, an' let go ze
jib. You, Kid, get all ready ze hook."
Joe found the jib-halyard and cast it off the pin, and, as the canvas
fluttered down, came in hand over hand on the downhaul.
"Let 'er go!" came the command, and the anchor dropped into the water,
carrying but little chain after it.
'Frisco Kid threw over plenty of slack and made fast. Then they furled
the sails, made things tidy, and went below and to bed.
It was six o'clock when Joe awoke and went out into the cockpit to look
about. Wind and sea had sprung up, and the _Dazzler_ was rolling and
tossing and now and again fetching up on her anchor-chain with a savage
jerk. He was forced to hold on to the boom overhead to steady himself.
It was a gray and leaden day, with no signs of the rising sun, while the
sky was obscured by great masses of flying clouds.
Joe sought for the land. A mile and a half away it lay--a long, low
stretch of sandy beach with a heavy surf thundering upon it. Behind
appeared desolate marshlands, while far beyond towered the Contra
Costa Hills.
Changing the direction of his gaze, Joe was startled by the sight of a
small sloop rolling and plunging at her anchor not a hundred yards away.
She was nearly to windward, and as she swung off slightly he read her name
on the stern, the _Flying Dutchman_, one of the boats he had seen lying at
the city wharf in Oakland. A little to the left of her he discovered the
_Ghost_, and beyond were half a dozen other sloops at anchor.
"What I tell you?"
Joe looked quickly over his shoulder. French Pete had come out of the
cabin and was triumphantly regarding the spectacle.
"What I tell you? Can't fool-a ze old man, dat 's what. I hit it in ze
dark just so well as in ze sunshine. I know--I know."
"Is she goin' to howl?" 'Frisco Kid asked from the cabin, where he was
starting the fire.
The Frenchman gravely studied sea and sky for a couple of minutes.
"Mebbe blow over--mebbe blow up," was his doubtful verdict. "Get breakfast
queeck, and we try ze dredging."
Smoke was rising from the cabins of the different sloops, denoting that
they were all bent on getting the first meal of the day. So far as the
_Dazzler_ was concerned, it was a simple matter, and soon they were
putting a single reef in the mainsail and getting ready to weigh anchor.
Joe was curious. These were undoubtedly the oyster-beds; but how under the
sun, in that wild sea, were they to get oysters? He was quickly to learn
the way. Lifting a section of the cockpit flooring, French Pete brought
out two triangular frames of steel. At the apex of one of these triangles;
in a ring for the purpose, he made fast a piece of stout rope. From this
the sides (inch rods) diverged at almost right angles, and extended down
for a distance of four feet or more, where they were connected by the
third side of the triangle, which was the bottom of the dredge. This was
a flat plate of steel over a yard in length, to which was bolted a row of
long, sharp teeth, likewise of steel. Attached to the toothed plate, and
to the sides of the frame was a net of very coarse fishing-twine, which
Joe correctly surmised was there to catch the oysters raked loose by the
teeth from the bottom of the bay.
A rope being made fast to each of the dredges, they were dropped overboard
from either side of the _Dazzler_. When they had reached the bottom, and
were dragging with the proper length of line out, they checked her speed
quite noticeably. Joe touched one of the lines with his hands, and could
feel plainly the shock and jar and grind as it tore over the bottom.
"All in!" French Pete shouted.
The boys laid hold of the line and hove in the dredge. The net was full
of mud and slime and small oysters, with here and there a large one. This
mess they dumped on the deck and picked over while the dredge was dragging
again. The large oysters they threw into the cockpit, and shoveled the
rubbish overboard. There was no rest, for by this time the other dredge
required emptying. And when this was done and the oysters sorted, both
dredges had to be hauled aboard, so that French Pete could put the
_Dazzler_ about on the other tack.
The rest of the fleet was under way and dredging back in similar fashion.
Sometimes the different sloops came quite close to them, and they hailed
them and exchanged snatches of conversation and rough jokes. But in the
main it was hard work, and at the end of an hour Joe's back was aching
from the unaccustomed strain, and his fingers were cut and bleeding from
his clumsy handling of the sharp-edged oysters.
"Dat 's right," French Pete said approvingly. "You learn queeck. Vaire
soon you know how."
Joe grinned ruefully and wished it was dinner-time. Now and then, when
a light dredge was hauled, the boys managed to catch breath and say a
couple of words.
"That 's Asparagus Island," 'Frisco Kid said, indicating the shore. "At
least, that 's what the fishermen and scow-sailors call it. The people
who live there call it Bay Farm Island." He pointed more to the right.
"And over there is San Leandro. You can't see it, but it 's there."
"Ever been there?" Joe asked.
'Frisco Kid nodded his head and signed to him to help heave in the
starboard dredge.
"These are what they call the deserted beds," he said again. "Nobody owns
them, so the oyster pirates come down and make a bluff at working them."
"Why a bluff?"
"'Cause they 're pirates, that 's why, and because there 's more money in
raiding the private beds."
He made a sweeping gesture toward the east and southeast. "The private beds
are over yonder, and if it don't storm the whole fleet 'll be raidin' 'em
to-night."
"And if it does storm?" Joe asked.
"Why, we won't raid them, and French Pete 'll be mad, that 's all. He
always hates being put out by the weather. But it don't look like lettin'
up, and this is the worst possible shore in a sou'wester. Pete may try
to hang on, but it 's best to get out before she howls."
At first it did seem as though the weather were growing better. The stiff
southwest wind dropped perceptibly, and by noon, when they went to anchor
for dinner, the sun was breaking fitfully through the clouds.
"That 's all right," 'Frisco Kid said prophetically. "But I ain't been
on the bay for nothing. She 's just gettin' ready to let us have it good
an' hard."
"I t'ink you 're right, Kid," French Pete agreed; "but ze _Dazzler_ hang
on all ze same. Last-a time she run away, an' fine night come. Dis time
she run not away. Eh? Vaire good."