that he saw us.
Then the ship was blotted out in my lens, hidden by the land again, and I snapped the spyglass shut. I was happy to think we wouldn't be alone.
Butterfield had the anchor dropped, and we sat to wait for the change in tide. It was at least an hour away, and the
Dragon
rocked so uncomfortably in the swells, and the fevered men moaned so pitifully, that I made an excuse to get off her. I volunteered to row the dory in with a line I could tie to shore.
“I can have it all ready,” I told Butterfield. “We can warp her right to the beach.”
As always, my uncle Stanley knew what I was really thinking. “If I were young and eager, I'd be anxious to get ashore too,” he said. “Well, off you go, and if you
happen
to speak to that brig, give my compliments to the captain.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I launched the dory, tossed in a coil of line, and then nearly broke my back rowing against the tide. It flowed from the harbor with the strength of a small river, whipped by the wind into quick little waves that seemed to leap fromthe sea and into the boat. I soon had water up to my ankles, but I kept on rowing, for it was easier than stopping. I drifted back a foot for every yard I gained, was flung to my left and then to my right, until at last I passed the narrows and found the rowing easier.
I could see the bottom then, five fathoms down. Bright-colored fish flitted over sand that was white as silver, rippled by the current into tiny hills and valleys. I watched them as I rowed along, whole schools dashing past, dashing back, turning like a single animal. Suddenly they rose, and swarmed toward the dory. They came from either side, from ahead and behind, packing into the shadows of my little boat. There were so many fish that I could hear the ticking of their tiny fins against the planks. At first I was delighted.
Until I saw the shark.
It passed deep below, moving with a languorous twisting of its body. From head to tail it was twenty feet long, and in the slow twitching of its gills, in the lazy curving of its body, I saw such sinister purpose that it turned my blood to ice.
Just as quickly, it was gone. The fish darted back into the sunbright water, and I dug in the oars to hurry along.
Again the fish bunched at the boat. And behind me came the shark.
It was on the surface now, its curved fin slicing through the sea, rushing up the path of ripples that my oars had made. Steadily it came, a curl of water pushed before it, faster and faster, until it seemed it meant to cleave my boat in two. Then, inches from the stern, that wicked fin disappeared. And with a thrashing of its tail, a vicious swirl of water, the shark thumped against the boat and tipped it onto its side.
I grabbed for the gunwale, then reached frantically for an oar that was slipping through its pins. All the water in the boat weighed it down, and I feared it wouldn't come upright. Another thump, harder than before—hard enough to crack the wood—tossed the dory onto her other side. A second shark passed below the boat.
Suddenly there were three fins circling round and round my dory. The little fish clung to her shadows. I banged my oars on the pins, trying to scare the sharks’ food away, but they only tightened below me, like children at a mother's skirt. Full of terror, my heart pounding, I rowed harder than I ever had.
There was one more thump—at the bow, behind me. Something cold and hard scraped against my shoulder. I screamed, and raised my hands to push against it. The oars slid out and sailed away. And my arms closed on a cable, the great, thick rope that anchored the brig in the harbor.
I was so startled that I thrust it away. The dory spun past, under the bowsprit, and nudged against the brig's cutwater. I scrambled for a handhold before the current could catch the boat and sweep me out again. But the rigging was too high above me, and my hands only scratched at the planking.
I shouted for help, but not a man came
Then the ship was blotted out in my lens, hidden by the land again, and I snapped the spyglass shut. I was happy to think we wouldn't be alone.
Butterfield had the anchor dropped, and we sat to wait for the change in tide. It was at least an hour away, and the
Dragon
rocked so uncomfortably in the swells, and the fevered men moaned so pitifully, that I made an excuse to get off her. I volunteered to row the dory in with a line I could tie to shore.
“I can have it all ready,” I told Butterfield. “We can warp her right to the beach.”
As always, my uncle Stanley knew what I was really thinking. “If I were young and eager, I'd be anxious to get ashore too,” he said. “Well, off you go, and if you
happen
to speak to that brig, give my compliments to the captain.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I launched the dory, tossed in a coil of line, and then nearly broke my back rowing against the tide. It flowed from the harbor with the strength of a small river, whipped by the wind into quick little waves that seemed to leap fromthe sea and into the boat. I soon had water up to my ankles, but I kept on rowing, for it was easier than stopping. I drifted back a foot for every yard I gained, was flung to my left and then to my right, until at last I passed the narrows and found the rowing easier.
I could see the bottom then, five fathoms down. Bright-colored fish flitted over sand that was white as silver, rippled by the current into tiny hills and valleys. I watched them as I rowed along, whole schools dashing past, dashing back, turning like a single animal. Suddenly they rose, and swarmed toward the dory. They came from either side, from ahead and behind, packing into the shadows of my little boat. There were so many fish that I could hear the ticking of their tiny fins against the planks. At first I was delighted.
Until I saw the shark.
It passed deep below, moving with a languorous twisting of its body. From head to tail it was twenty feet long, and in the slow twitching of its gills, in the lazy curving of its body, I saw such sinister purpose that it turned my blood to ice.
Just as quickly, it was gone. The fish darted back into the sunbright water, and I dug in the oars to hurry along.
Again the fish bunched at the boat. And behind me came the shark.
It was on the surface now, its curved fin slicing through the sea, rushing up the path of ripples that my oars had made. Steadily it came, a curl of water pushed before it, faster and faster, until it seemed it meant to cleave my boat in two. Then, inches from the stern, that wicked fin disappeared. And with a thrashing of its tail, a vicious swirl of water, the shark thumped against the boat and tipped it onto its side.
I grabbed for the gunwale, then reached frantically for an oar that was slipping through its pins. All the water in the boat weighed it down, and I feared it wouldn't come upright. Another thump, harder than before—hard enough to crack the wood—tossed the dory onto her other side. A second shark passed below the boat.
Suddenly there were three fins circling round and round my dory. The little fish clung to her shadows. I banged my oars on the pins, trying to scare the sharks’ food away, but they only tightened below me, like children at a mother's skirt. Full of terror, my heart pounding, I rowed harder than I ever had.
There was one more thump—at the bow, behind me. Something cold and hard scraped against my shoulder. I screamed, and raised my hands to push against it. The oars slid out and sailed away. And my arms closed on a cable, the great, thick rope that anchored the brig in the harbor.
I was so startled that I thrust it away. The dory spun past, under the bowsprit, and nudged against the brig's cutwater. I scrambled for a handhold before the current could catch the boat and sweep me out again. But the rigging was too high above me, and my hands only scratched at the planking.
I shouted for help, but not a man came
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