THE BUOYED CHANNEL
A bitter east wind was blowing through light mist, though the moon was
in the sky, when Andrew came out of a little shop in a lonely village
near the Galloway coast. He carried a basket of provisions and wore a
thick jersey and oilskins, but he shivered as he looked down the
street. It was empty, and dark except for a faint yellow glow here and
there in the windows of the small, white houses that rose abruptly
from the rough pavement.
"Dick's a long time in getting the eggs," he said to Whitney.
"That's so; we've been 'most half an hour buying the few things you
wanted. He's probably talking to somebody. Making friends with
strangers is a way he has, particularly when he knows we're waiting."
"I could suggest another explanation," Andrew replied.
He looked round at a clatter of heavy boots and saw two dark figures
against a square of light. Then a door was shut and Dick came up with
a man who wore an oilskin cap and jersey. Dick was awkwardly holding a
big paper bag.
"It's no' a good night," said the seaman. "I wouldna' say but we might
have a shift o' wind before long. They're telling me ye have brought
up in the west bay."
"For the night," said Andrew. "It's an exposed place."
"It's a' that. If the wind comes from the south'ard, it will take good
ground-tackle to hold ye."
"What about the burnfoot gutter?"
"It's snug enough, but ye might have to stop a week. Ye canna' beat
oot when there's any sea running on the sands."
"Are there any geese about?"
"Weel, I did see two or three bernicle, a week ago; but if it's
shooting ye want, ye'll have to gang doon west. The geese have moved
on, but I hear the duck are throng on the flats roon Deefoot, behind
the Ross."
Andrew said nothing. He had picked up Dick at Kirkcudbright on the
Dee, but had not seen a duck about the river mouth. It seemed that the
man had learned that they came from the head of Solway, but did not
know they were then returning from the west. He left them at the end
of the village and Andrew then asked Dick what had kept him.
"The eggs," Dick grinned. "Jim insisted on them and I didn't want to
disappoint him, though they're scarce just now. I should advise him to
take them before they smash; I'm not clever at carrying eggs in a
paper bag."
"Where did you get them?" Whitney asked as he took the bag.
"Where do you think? When you're in doubt in a Scotch clachan, it's
safe to try the change-house."
"I suppose that means the saloon," said Whitney. "Well, I suspected
something of the kind."
Leaving the road outside the village, they struck across some wet
fields and came to a marsh, through which a muddy creek wound
crookedly. After jumping deep drains and floundering through rushes,
they reached a steep bank of gravel, with a cut where the creek made
its way to the sea. A mooring buoy floated in the channel; and across
the channel lay a waste of sand, dotted with shallow pools. This ran
seaward until it was lost in the haze.
An old shooting punt that Andrew had repaired lay upon the gravel and
they dragged her down. As she was larger than usual and the big gun
had been unshipped for the voyage, she would carry them all; though
her shallow hull was deep in the water and the yacht some distance
off. They had brought their ordinary shoulder guns on the chance of
getting a shot at geese or duck. The village was about a mile away,
and the spot looked strangely desolate; although a raised causeway,
lined by stunted thorns, that ran back into the mist, seemed to
suggest that a road came down to the sands across the creek.
Andrew took the long paddle when they pushed off, and the tide carried
them away between muddy banks veined with tiny rivulets of water. In
coming, soon after high tide, they had crossed the sands, following
the line of beach, but now they must head seaward until they could
round the end of the projecting shoal. Soon the banks got lower and
the riband of water widened; and then a tall upright branch rose ahead
of them.
"That perch is new since I was here last," Andrew remarked. "Who was
the fellow you were talking to, Dick?"
"I don't know. He told me he had a boat at the burnfoot, but the
fishing wasn't good."
They drifted on until a strong ripple broke the surface ahead. A small
black object tossed in the disturbed patch.
"What's that?" asked Whitney. "Looks like a lobster trap."
"Lobsters prefer stones," said Andrew. "I don't think there are any
here, but we'll see, if you get hold of the buoy. Anyhow, it will let
me stop paddling and throw some water out."
He headed across the channel, and Whitney, crouching on deck, seized
the ring of corks. The punt swung round sharply with her bow to the
stream and there was an angry splash against her planks. Whitney was
glad to ease the strain on his arms by making fast the wet line.
"The tide's running strong," he said.
Andrew nodded.
"The buoy's not on a lobster creel or we'd have pulled it up. I wonder
what depth there is?"
He pushed down the double-ended paddle, which, as used in shooting
punts, is about nine feet long, and touched bottom when it was wet
half-way up. Then he held the blade against the stream until the punt
sheered across the channel, dragging the line with her, when he tried
again. This time he could not find bottom.
"It looks as if the corks are meant to mark a corner of the bank," he
said. "In a way, that's curious, because fishermen don't often bother
about a buoy. They know the ground and are satisfied with sounding
with an oar."
Andrew began to bail her out, and Whitney and Dick sat on the after
deck while he caught the water which ran toward them in the bailing
can.
"What about the geese?" Whitney asked.
"The man mentioned bernicle and I'd expect to find them on the outer
end of the flat, because it's soft ground and bernicle get their food
in the mud. Besides, I'd like to see how this channel runs as the
sands dry; there's more water than I thought. Suppose we leave the
punt and walk down the edge? As it's lower than the top of the bank,
we'd be out of sight."
"I'll stay in the punt," said Dick. "I'm not fond of crawling through
soft mud. Then, if you put up some birds, they'll probably fly over
me."
They paddled ashore and left him with the punt, Andrew showing him two
small rollers, which would help him to launch her if he wished to come
after them. The sand was soft and made a sucking noise about their
sea-boots, but this was the only sound except the faint ripple of the
tide. The shore was hidden and there was nothing visible beyond the
stretch of sloppy flat that vanished into the mist. The haze, however,
was not thick, and faint moonlight filtered through.
"What do you expect to find here?" Whitney asked.
"I don't know. I'm curious about the buoy and I imagine that the
fellow Dick was with wanted us to clear out. He was right in saying
that we'd brought up in an exposed place; but why did he tell us ducks
were plentiful down west?"
Whitney made a sign of agreement.
"It's certainly suspicious."
They went on while the sand got softer, but they saw nothing except a
few small wading birds and a black-backed gull. Then Andrew stopped
near the outer end of the bank. Something black floated in the midst
of a tide-ripple, about forty yards away.
"Another buoy and a bigger one, marking the fairway to the gut," he
said thoughtfully. "With that and the compass course to the corks we
saw, I'd take a boat drawing eight feet up to the burnfoot at five
hours' flood, on an average tide."
"Eight feet draught would give you a pretty big boat; a vessel of
about a hundred tons would float on that. But what would bring her
here?"
"That's the point," said Andrew. "I believe old wooden schooners
sometimes take cargoes of coal up these gutters and dump it into carts
on the beach, but I'm not quite satisfied."
He turned suddenly, as he heard a flapping of canvas, and a few
moments later, a tall dark shape emerged from the haze. At first, it
had no clear outline, but Andrew knew it was the topsail of a
cutter-rigged boat, beating in against the tide. She grew in
distinctness until they could see her black hull washed by a streak of
foam, and the straining mainsail, slanted away from them. The iron
shoe of a trawl-beam projected between her shrouds, and the net hung
in a dark festoon over her weather side. The wind was abeam just there
and she passed them, sailing fast; but they waited, knowing that it
would draw ahead where the channel curved. Presently, there was a
banging of canvas that suddenly swung upright, and then filled and
vanished on the other tack.
"Smart work!" Andrew commented. "They'll have about twenty yards of
deep water to gather way in before they bring her round again, against
the stream. The fellows who can beat her round that bend don't need
buoys. I'd like to take some bearings: this gutter's very sketchily
indicated on the chart."
"Shore bearings wouldn't be of much use to anybody who wanted to come
up in the dark."
"That's true," Andrew agreed thoughtfully. "But we came for geese, and
we may as well make our way back across the middle of the sand."
After a while they found a nearly dry gutter, and moved up it
cautiously until Andrew stopped. Out of the dark came a clear, high
note, the clanging cry of the bernicle geese. It was answered from one
side and behind, and then a measured fanning became audible. This
swelled into a rhythmic creak as the broad wings beat the air.
The men crouched low, with tingling nerves, clenching their guns and
straining for the first glimpse of the approaching birds.
"Flying low and right over," Andrew whispered. "Fire when you see the
first!"
Whitney got down on one knee, while the ooze soaked through his
trousers and ran into his sea-boot. But this did not matter; it was
worth sinking waist-deep to hear the wild call break out close ahead.
A dark object, planing downward on extended wings, shot out of the
mist; another came close behind; and the gun-butt jarred Whitney's
shoulder while smoke blew into his eyes. He swung the gun as he pulled
the second trigger, and saw a red flash leap out; and then the dark
was filled with a harsh clamor and the furious beat of wings. Andrew
jerked his gun open and the burnt cartridges shot out while smoke
curled about the breach.
"Two, I think," he said. "Yours is up the bank."
Whitney found it presently: a small, black-breasted goose.
"My first bernicle!" he said with a thrill of pride. "They're more
like a big duck than the heavy lag birds we've already bagged. Do you
think Dick will get a shot?"
"He ought to. They were flying straight up the bank."
They waited a few minutes, but no gunshot came out of the mist, and
when everything was silent they turned back down the gutter.
"The geese won't alight again," Andrew said. "As Dick knows that,
he'll probably launch the punt and come to meet us."
When they reached the edge of the water, Whitney stopped and lighted
his pipe.
"It's pretty soft farther on. Let's wait here for the punt," he
suggested.
He had nearly smoked his pipe out when they heard the splash of a
paddle, and presently the punt crept out of the mist. Its low,
gray-painted hull was hard to see; but Dick's form was more distinct
and Andrew made an abrupt movement as he watched him. He sat facing
forward, on the after deck, and he lurched clumsily from side to side
as he dipped the paddle. The punt was not going straight, but sheered
about, and Dick did not seem to be making for the bank. This projected
in a short cape, not far away, and then the sand ran back toward the
east, leaving a stretch of rippling water that vanished in the haze.
The tide was rapidly running seaward and the wind blew off the flat.
"Dip to leeward!" Andrew shouted. "Head her up for the point!"
Dick stopped and flourished his paddle.
"I'm not coming ashore," he answered with a chuckle. "Do you good to
walk back. Jim's getting fat!"
Whitney looked at Andrew in alarm.
"Yes; he's drunk!" Andrew said with an impatient sign.
It was plain to both that the situation was not free from danger. A
shooting punt, with its sides only from six to eight inches high, is
essentially a smooth-water craft and is easily swamped, in spite of
her deck. There was a good breeze, and if Dick passed the short point,
he would risk being blown out to sea. The tide did not follow the
sweep of bank but ran straight out.
"Don't be a fool!" Andrew shouted. "Run her in at once!"
Dick sat hunched up, with the paddle on the deck, and they heard him
laugh.
"It's quite oll ri'," he answered. "Needn't bother about me. I'm going
to look for submarinesh."
Andrew ran toward the point, and Whitney, following, tore two buttons
off his oilskin jacket as he tried to unfasten them with numbed
fingers. He wore ordinary serge trousers and heavy sea-boots, but the
punt must be stopped before she drifted past the little cape.
Afterward, it would be too late.
Andrew reached the spot first, while the punt was still upstream of
it, and at once plunged in; but Whitney, who had now got rid of his
oilskin, stopped and tried to pull off his long, wet boots. He hardly
thought Andrew could wade out far enough, and one of them might have
to swim. He was furious with Dick; but the boy must be rescued. He got
his boots off and went in up to his knees; but then he stopped; for he
would not be needed if his comrade could reach the punt. Andrew was
waist-deep but still floundering on, when Dick, laughing hoarsely,
threw something at him. It fell into the water, but the next shot was
better aimed, for Whitney saw an egg smash on Andrew's oilskin cap.
Another struck him in the face; but the punt was near now, and after a
few more floundering strides, Andrew threw himself forward. The craft
lurched as he fell across her deck, and Whitney thought she would
capsize; but the next moment Andrew flung Dick into the well and then,
kneeling on the deck, brought the craft ashore with a few strokes of
the paddle.
Whitney felt very cold, and he was getting stiffly on board when
Andrew asked:
"Hadn't you better bring your coat and boots?"
Whitney found it a relief to laugh as he went back for the things; and
Andrew pushed the punt off when he got on board.
"I'll paddle while you keep the young ass in the well," he said.
"Knock him down if he tries to get up."
"Don't want to get up," Dick remarked. "Quite snug down here. Only
trouble is I'm sitting in the eggs."
"I think that's correct," said Whitney. "_In_ is the proper word.
There's rather a mess on your face, too."
"Good shot, ole man," Dick observed with a grin.
Andrew said nothing as he swung the long paddle, for the ripples were
getting larger as they left the sand, and the breeze was freshening,
but at last the yacht's light twinkled in the mist. Getting on board,
they hustled Dick below, where Andrew stripped off his wet clothes and
put him into his berth, while Whitney got the stove to burn.
After a time, Dick put out his head.
"Feel I'd like some supper, before I go to sleep."
"You can go to sleep without it," Andrew said sternly. "I suppose
there's no use in talking about it now, but you've been warned that
this kind of thing may kill you."
"I'm 'shured," Dick rejoined. "Good big policy and I don't pay the
premiums."
"Who does pay them?" Andrew asked, in a quiet, insistent voice; but
Dick only grinned.
"That'sh secret, ole man. You're very good fellow, but don't know
everything. Don't bother me any more; I'm sleepy."
He was silent after this, but Whitney waited until he thought Dick was
really asleep.
"He looked sober when he joined us at the village," he said.
"I think he was," Andrew agreed. "Perhaps he'd drunk enough to make
him want more, and brought a bottle away. No doubt, we'll find it when
we clean up the punt." Then he forced a smile. "You'll have to go
without your eggs."
"That's obvious. But what did he mean about his being insured, and
somebody else's paying the premiums?"
"I don't know, and don't expect to get any more information when he's
sober, but I'll see what Mackellar thinks. Sometimes I feel like
giving up the whole business. Dick's too clever for me; and when I
turn to the other matter, I'm brought to a full stop."
Whitney nodded sympathetically.
"It's an awkward job, but you won't let up. You're not a quitter, and
luck or Mackellar may help you through."
He got into his cot, and the regular splash of ripples against the
boat's side, and the soft slapping of the halyards on the mast, soon
made him drowsy, but the last thing he saw was Andrew sitting on the
opposite locker with a stern, thoughtful face.