Fishers -- Fiction; Fishing villages -- Fiction; Immigrants -- Fiction; San Francisco Bay Area (Calif.) -- Fiction; Short stories
Charley came forward to board the prize, but when I proceeded to haul
alongside by means of the line, the Italians cast it off. We at once
began drifting to leeward, while they got out two pairs of oars and rowed
their light craft directly into the wind. This manœuvre for the moment
disconcerted us, for in our large and heavily loaded boat we could not
hope to catch them with the oars. But our prisoner came unexpectedly to
our aid. His black eyes were flashing eagerly, and his face was flushed
with suppressed excitement, as he dropped the centre-board, sprang
forward with a single leap, and put up the sail.
“I’ve always heard that Greeks don’t like Italians,” Charley laughed, as
he ran aft to the tiller.
And never in my experience have I seen a man so anxious for the capture
of another as was our prisoner in the chase that followed. His eyes
fairly snapped, and his nostrils quivered and dilated in a most
extraordinary way. Charley steered while he tended the sheet; and though
Charley was as quick and alert as a cat, the Greek could hardly control
his impatience.
The Italians were cut off from the shore, which was fully a mile away at
its nearest point. Did they attempt to make it, we could haul after them
with the wind abeam, and overtake them before they had covered an eighth
of the distance. But they were too wise to attempt it, contenting
themselves with rowing lustily to windward along the starboard side of a
big ship, the _Lancashire Queen_. But beyond the ship lay an open
stretch of fully two miles to the shore in that direction. This, also,
they dared not attempt, for we were bound to catch them before they could
cover it. So, when they reached the bow of the _Lancashire Queen_,
nothing remained but to pass around and row down her port side toward the
stern, which meant rowing to leeward and giving us the advantage.
We in the salmon boat, sailing close on the wind, tacked about and
crossed the ship’s bow. Then Charley put up the tiller and headed down
the port side of the ship, the Greek letting out the sheet and grinning
with delight. The Italians were already half-way down the ship’s length;
but the stiff breeze at our back drove us after them far faster than they
could row. Closer and closer we came, and I, lying down forward, was
just reaching out to grasp the skiff, when it ducked under the great
stern of the _Lancashire Queen_.
The chase was virtually where it had begun. The Italians were rowing up
the starboard side of the ship, and we were hauled close on the wind and
slowly edging out from the ship as we worked to windward. Then they
darted around her bow and began the row down her port side, and we tacked
about, crossed her bow, and went plunging down the wind hot after them.
And again, just as I was reaching for the skiff, it ducked under the
ship’s stern and out of danger. And so it went, around and around, the
skiff each time just barely ducking into safety.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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