Fishers -- Fiction; Fishing villages -- Fiction; Immigrants -- Fiction; San Francisco Bay Area (Calif.) -- Fiction; Short stories
But they did not grow careless, and Charley confessed that this was one
of the times when all signs failed. Their patience seemed equal to ours,
and the second week of the siege dragged monotonously along. Then
Charley’s lagging imagination quickened sufficiently to suggest a ruse.
Peter Boyelen, a new patrolman and one unknown to the fisher-folk,
happened to arrive in Benicia and we took him into our plan. We were as
secret as possible about it, but in some unfathomable way the friends
ashore got word to the beleaguered Italians to keep their eyes open.
On the night we were to put our ruse into effect, Charley and I took up
our usual station in our rowing skiff alongside the _Lancashire Queen_.
After it was thoroughly dark, Peter Boyelen came out in a crazy duck
boat, the kind you can pick up and carry away under one arm. When we
heard him coming along, paddling noisily, we slipped away a short
distance into the darkness, and rested on our oars. Opposite the
gangway, having jovially hailed the anchor-watch of the _Lancashire
Queen_ and asked the direction of the _Scottish Chiefs_, another wheat
ship, he awkwardly capsized himself. The man who was standing the
anchor-watch ran down the gangway and hauled him out of the water. This
was what he wanted, to get aboard the ship; and the next thing he
expected was to be taken on deck and then below to warm up and dry out.
But the captain inhospitably kept him perched on the lowest gangway step,
shivering miserably and with his feet dangling in the water, till we, out
of very pity, rowed in from the darkness and took him off. The jokes and
gibes of the awakened crew sounded anything but sweet in our ears, and
even the two Italians climbed up on the rail and laughed down at us long
and maliciously.
“That’s all right,” Charley said in a low voice, which I only could hear.
“I’m mighty glad it’s not us that’s laughing first. We’ll save our laugh
to the end, eh, lad?”
He clapped a hand on my shoulder as he finished, but it seemed to me that
there was more determination than hope in his voice.
It would have been possible for us to secure the aid of United States
marshals and board the English ship, backed by Government authority. But
the instructions of the Fish Commission were to the effect that the
patrolmen should avoid complications, and this one, did we call on the
higher powers, might well end in a pretty international tangle.
The second week of the siege drew to its close, and there was no sign of
change in the situation. On the morning of the fourteenth day the change
came, and it came in a guise as unexpected and startling to us as it was
to the men we were striving to capture.
Charley and I, after our customary night vigil by the side of the
_Lancashire Queen_, rowed into the Solana Wharf.
“Hello!” cried Charley, in surprise. “In the name of reason and common
sense, what is that? Of all unmannerly craft did you ever see the like?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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