GEORGE OF THE “GREENWICH” GOES FISHING.
The little river-boat _Greenwich_ was loading freight and passengers at
one of the Grafton wharves.
Across the Clarence, on the south side, winches rattled bales of wool and
bags of potatoes and maize into the coastal steamer, which traded weekly
between Sydney and the fertile North Coast.
On the river bank above, blocking the roadway, were yet standing some of
the teams which had brought the wool down from the New England tableland.
The dusty whips of the carriers cracked no longer, and their tired horses
dozed contentedly in the sunlight.
Some of the carriers were at the water-side pub, beerily quarrelling
over the merits of rival “leaders.” One was in the backyard of the hotel
conducting amorous negotiations with a black gin, and another, who did
not drink, had gone down to see about back loading.
It was three in the afternoon, and Donald Mac., the skipper of the
_Greenwich_, took his place at the wheel.
On the river, up and down, there was no boat more popular than the
_Greenwich_. The crew of the little steamer consisted of Sam, the fat
engineer, George and Bill, and the skipper. George and Bill were the deck
hands, who put the cargo and passengers ashore at the various landings.
There was a general air of courtesy and good humour about the
_Greenwich_. Nothing seemed a trouble to little Donald Macpherson, but
the fact of the matter was that Donald’s troubles had made him lean, and
somewhat sad.
He had all the responsibilities of a deep-sea skipper, with less than the
pay of a third mate. It had taken him his life to learn the river, its
depths and bars, its shallows and reefs, and banks, and currents, and as
the river had a habit of changing its geographical features after each
flood, Donald was always at school.
Then there was ever the possibility that some day, as he brought the
_Greenwich_ round the Devil’s Elbow, between the reef and the bar at the
mouth in a swamping southerly, despite all his knowledge of the game, the
_Greenwich_ would stand on her head and kick her propeller at the Milky
Way.
It was three in the afternoon, and the skipper swung the nose of his ship
out from the wharf.
Sam, the engineer, with his ear at the gong, and his hand on the lever,
stood to his post. George, the senior deck hand, who ranked as first
mate, ran his eye down the cargo list. Bill stood by. There were coils
of fencing wire to drop here and there, boxes of groceries, tins of
kerosene, all sorts of sundries, mails, and newspapers.
Where the local newspapers had regular subscribers along the banks, it
was George’s custom to tie the paper round a stone (he kept a small pile
of ballast for’ard for the purpose), and threw it ashore as the steamer
slid by. He had become so expert at this practice that he could generally
land a newspaper or a small package right at the farmer’s door.
Most of the farm houses were built on the river’s brink. Cool,
comfortable-looking weatherboard cottages, surrounded by shade and fruit
trees with maize paddocks, banana groves, or cane fields behind them. As
the _Greenwich_ steered past she would give a blast of her whistle, and
the farmer, or his wife, or his boy, or often his pretty daughter, would
come out and pick up the package and wave pleasantly to the skipper and
his crew.
The skipper, with one hand to the wheel and one eye on the river, would
wave back, and George and Bill and Sam mostly kissed their hands, in the
case of a lady, and smiled cheerfully.
The skipper’s eye caught the waving of a handkerchief at the edge of a
cane field on the opposite bank, and crossed to pick up a passenger and a
consignment of produce. So they worked down the river. It was almost dark
when the steamer tied up at the wharf, where she stayed for the night.
Donald, his duties over for the day, took his tucker basket and went
ashore. His fancy went ahead of him, along the street of the little river
town. He saw the wife standing at the front door, and in the lamplight
behind her a white cloth laid for two, and a child’s chair drawn up to
the table.
And Donald forgot that he was tired.
Sam and Bill went ashore also, and left George to mind the ship.
George, being a bachelor, slept in the after-cabin on the transoms, and
tuckered for himself aboard.
His chief amusement was fishing; mostly with heavy lines for dog sharks
and “jews.”
So when he had had his tea he took his shark line, and baiting it with
half a mullet, threw out astern.
Having passed a loop of the line round an empty kerosene tin, and placed
it so that a tug at the bait would upset it and make a row, George filled
his pipe and went for’ard to smoke.
After an hour’s lounge the first mate thought he would stroll aft and
look at the line.
“I’ll bet,” he said to himself, “that the cursed bream have eaten my bait
off.”
He drew in the slack of the line and commenced to haul up. The line
tautened.
“Hullo!” cried George, “I’m snagged!”
He pulled steadily.
“No,” he added, “I’ve hooked something. It’s coming up,” he resumed,
peering over into the water, “Whatever it is it’s dashed heavy; must be a
log, I reckon.”
There was a kerosene lamp on the wharf which threw a dim yellow light
over the water astern.
George dragged the line around over the rail so that he would be enabled
to see what he was bringing up.
“By gosh, it’s heavy,” he soliloquised. “Dashed good thing this line is
strong.”
The line _was_ strong; it had held an eight foot grey-nurse shark.
Foot by foot the first mate hauled in.
“Here it comes!” he ejaculated, “what the devil is it, though!”
“Why, my God!” screamed the horrified deck-hand, “IT’S A MAN!!”
George had leaned over the rail to examine his haul, and at the last pull
a human head, ghastly and horrible, with livid face, and dank, dripping,
matted hair, had risen to the surface. His horrified gaze met the open
staring eyes of a corpse!
For one moment he was petrified, fascinated, frozen with horror!
Then he let the line run through his fingers, leaped on to the wharf
with a mighty bound and coatless, hatless, charged up the street in the
direction of the police station.
The Sergeant had gone to bed, but he rose in his pyjamas and came out on
to the verandah in answer to a loud, insistent knocking.
“What’s up?” he cried. “Who’s there?”
“Me!” cried George. “Get up, quick!”
“Who’s me?” demanded the officer.
“George!” said the first mate, still hanging on to the knocker.
“What George?”
“_Greenwich_; come quick, for God’s sake!”
“What’s up? What do you want?”
“Come down to the wharf quick. I’ve hooked a man.”
“Killed a man?” said the Sergeant. “Has there been a row; I didn’t hear
anything?”
“No, no!” exclaimed George, “there hasn’t been any row. I was shark
fishing, and I caught a man—a dead man.”
“Hum!” said the Sergeant, doubtfully, “have you been drinking?”
“No!” shouted the excited deck hand, “I don’t touch it; but I swear to
God it’s true I did catch a man!”
“Where is he now?”
“On the line; I hooked something and pulled it up. I couldn’t make out
what it was; it came so dead and heavy. When I got it to the top I leaned
over the stern and looked. My God, I never got such a fright in my life!”
“What did you do then?” asked the Sergeant.
“I let go the line and run up here!” said George.
“All right,” said the officer, in a grieved voice—he hated inquests—“some
fellow’s gone and drowned himself in the river, I suppose.”
“I dunno,” replied George. “He’s dead, anyway, and by the look of it, I
reckon he’s been dead some time.”
“You ought to have made the line fast,” said the Sergeant; “he might have
got off the hook. Hope to Heaven he has,” he added, “and that he gets
down to Palmer’s Island, or somewhere; I don’t want him. Wait, till I get
my trousers on, I’ll go down and see. It might have been fancy with you.
Sure you weren’t asleep, George?”
“No!” exclaimed George, emphatically, “I wasn’t asleep; I hadn’t even
made my bunk up.”
The Sergeant re-appeared in a few minutes with his boots and pants on,
and the two men wended their way to the riverside where the _Greenwich_
lay rocking gently on the night tide.
On the way down George went over the details two or three times.
“Where’s the line?” asked the Sergeant, as they stepped aboard.
“Here,” replied George, leading the way aft.
“I thought so,” he said, as yard after yard came aboard without
resistance. “You fell asleep and had a nightmare; nice thing to come
and call a man out of his bed like this. I’ve ridden over thirty miles
to-day.”
George vowed and protested that he had not been the victim of a delusion.
“I saw him as plain as I see you,” he answered, mentally assuring himself.
“There!” as the last yard of the line was drawn in, “what’s that! What’s
that on the hook?”
The Sergeant threw something on deck wet and slopping.
“Fetch a light,” he cried, “till we see what it is.”