The Mystery of Swordfish Reef. Arthur W. Upfield
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can say you’ve got a good fish if you land a striped marlin weighing two-eight-three pounds,” Emery said. “They’re better fighters than the black marlin, I think, but there’s some who will argue about it. Look at that head, and the sword that’s like a needle! All right, Fred, get along. … About that tip, now.”
“Yes,” urged Bony.
“Well, here’s a good one. Give your launchman to understand that he’s to go where he likes, that he’s the captain who knows more about the fishing along this coast than you do. He’ll be glad to do as you ask, because he’s out to land the greatest number for the season. Want another tip?”
“You are being kind. Certainly.”
“Then tell your launchman that as you know nothing about the game you will be glad of his advice. Lots of fellers come here who’ve caught a tiddler or two and think they know all about angling for swordies. They don’t want advice from any low-browed launchman, you understand, and so the launchman is mortified to see ’em get excited and break their rods or lines and lose the fish he’s been counting on to bring his tally ahead of the others. Then we hear ’em talking loudly in the pub how they missed the fish. The odds are always in favour of the swordie, remember. Here we are. Come on!”
The crews of half the launches moored to the slender jetty were busy preparing for their anglers: winding on to the heavy steel reels from the drying frames the lines used the previous day; watching every foot of the nine hundred yards for a possible flaw that would lose a fish; stowing away drums of petrol and oil; affixing the heavy rods to the seat-edge of the angler’s swivel chairs; and generally making all ship-shape.
“Well, so long and good luck,” Emery cried, stopping above the Gladious on which Remmings’s mate took down the lunch baskets and thermos Emery was not too proud to carry from the car.
“Good luck to you, and many thanks,” Bony said, before moving on to meet Jack Wilton, who was waiting above his Marlin.
The light wind failed wholly to cover the river’s water. Beyond the bar the ocean appeared lazy this morning. The air was softly warm and crystal clear, bringing Dromedary Mountain to within rifle range. Launch engines were thudding sluggishly. Gulls sometimes cried their harsh notes. A small boy lying on the jetty floor, perilously balanced, was fishing with a hand line and small hook, and every time he dropped the baited hook into the crystal-clear water, tiny black fish swarmed about the bait until they became a compact mass the size of a football. The small fisherman never caught a fish. The tiny fish sucked off his bait before it could sink to the bottom where swam the larger perch.
“Morning, Mr Bonaparte!” Wilton said, coming to stand beside the detective who was watching the efforts of the boy to get his bait past the attacking fish.
“Good day, Jack,” replied Bony, handing over his lunch and thermos to his launchman who insisted on taking it from him. “Is everything ready?”
“Yes. My partner, Joe Peace, wet your line and wound it on the reel. It’s faultless, and the reel runs smooth as oil. Going to be a good day, I think. The glass is steady.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Bony said, smilingly. “Before we go on board I am going to ask you to grant me three favours. One: that you will understand that I am a new-chum angler, who will gladly accept any advice. Two: that I don’t really mind where we go to fish. Three: that when we are away from this jetty you will kindly drop the “mister” and call me Bony.”
“None of ’em will be hard to grant—Bony. You want swordies: I want to see you bring ’em to the gaff. The angler’s art isn’t difficult to learn, but some will lose their blocks, get excited, and then something has to go west. The best anglers never become excited. The fish are out there in the sea, all right. And here’s my mate, Joe Peace. He’s likely to call a fish a cow, with trimmings, but he knows more about the coast and the swordies than I do. Meet Mr Bonaparte, Joe, and remember when we’re at sea that Mr Bonaparte wants to be called just Bony.”
Bony was delighted with this barrel of a man who was glaring at him with his light grey eyes, his right hand resting on the two bowls of the pipes thrust through his belt.
“Day!” he rumbled.
“Right-oh, Joe. Cast off!” Wilton ordered. Then Bony followed him down into the cockpit of the Marlin.
For a moment or two Joe still held the attention of the detective. Bony was interested in Joe’s enormous calloused feet and his agility which seemed, when needed, to uncoil like the quickening of a sleepy snake. Then other things claimed Bonaparte. The engine of the craft on which he stood roared with power and the jetty slid away. The scene turned half circle, and they were moving down-river towards the narrows. Joe came aft as lightly as a cat, to unwind a light line and to toss its feathered hook overside.
“Get a holt, mister,” he rumbled, proffering the line to his angler. “Want bait-fish.”
A second line he let go astern, and to Bony it seemed that the rock-footed promontory on the one side and the steep-sided sand-bar on the other were closing in to pinch the Marlin. The water under them began to boil. Little wavelets darted over the cauldron as though animated by hidden springs. The stern of the Marlin sank downward and then the bow thudded and spray hissed outward. They were on the bar and the entire craft lifted above the river water they had left. Now they were over the bar and in the bay, and the action of the Marlin was regular—rising and falling.
The promontory protecting the river’s mouth fell astern, and Bony saw the white sweep of the little inner bay extending round in a white-edged crescent to skirt the township and to end at the base of the great protective headland jutting northward. Eastward beyond that tongue of rock-armoured land lay the Tasman Sea. Northward he gazed across the great bay to Cape Dromedary, blue in the distance and guarded by the tall mountain of the same name.
The long ground swells were advancing majestically shoreward, smooth-sloped and dull green in colour. Up and over them moved the Marlin, two craft ahead of her, another coming out round the promontory.
“Fish-oh!” shouted Joe, and in that instant of time Bony’s line was tugged so heavily as to be almost taken through his clenched hand. The launch engine at once accelerated when the propeller shaft was put out of gear by Wilton. Bony found himself frantically hauling in his tautened line, was conscious that Joe was acting similarly. Now both lines were cutting the water as the hooked fish swam powerfully to the right and left. With a heave Joe jerked his catch into the cockpit, but Bony permitted his to jump the side of the launch and so lost it.
“Lift ’em clear, or you’ll lose ’em every time,” Joe urged.
“I’ll try to remember to,” assented the smiling Bony, and it was then that Joe summed up this new angler. Here was no haughty know-all.
Out went the bait lines and onward went the Marlin. In the bait-box the two-pound salmon snapped like a machine-gun.
“You see, as the boat’s going when we hook ’em don’t begin to haul ’em in until the speed of the boat slackens,” advised Joe. “Now look out! We’re coming to another shoal.”
This time Bony joined Joe in the shout of “fish-oh”, and waited until the launch lost speed before beginning to haul in. He lifted into the cockpit a blue-green bonito, a species of tuna, weighing about a pound and a half, and he was astonished to see Joe taking from his hook a similar fish of the same weight.
“That’s the sort,” chortled Joe. “Just the right size for the swordies, and their favourite. Going to try ’em again, Jack. There they are!”
Wilton swung the Marlin round again to cross over the shoal, and two more bonito were added to the bait-box.
“That’ll be enough,” called Wilton. “We’re lucky this morning to get bait-fish so quick. Come and take the wheel, Joe. We’ll go straight out as the wind might move to the east’ard during the day.”
Beyond the tip of the headland, the chop from the south caused