A thousand deaths by Jack London

anchor in ten feet. It was the big June run-out of the full moon,

and as the ebb had yet an hour and a half to run, I knew that our

anchorage would be dry ground before slack water.

Mr. Taft’s beds were three miles away, and for a long time we rowed

silently in the wake of the other boats, once in a while grounding

and our oar blades constantly striking bottom. At last we came

TALES OF THE FISH PATROL

29

upon soft mud covered with not more than two inches of water – not

enough to float the boats. But the pirates at once were over the

side, and by pushing and pulling on the flat-bottomed skiffs, we

moved steadily along.

The full moon was partly obscured by high-flying clouds, but the

pirates went their way with the familiarity born of long practice.

After half a mile of the mud, we came upon a deep channel, up which

we rowed, with dead oyster shoals looming high and dry on either

side. At last we reached the picking grounds. Two men, on one of

the shoals, hailed us and warned us off. But the Centipede, the

Porpoise, Barchi, and Skilling took the lead, and followed by the

rest of us, at least thirty men in half as many boats, rowed right

up to the watchmen.

“You’d better slide outa this here,” Barchi said threateningly, “or

we’ll fill you so full of holes you wouldn’t float in molasses.”

The watchmen wisely retreated before so overwhelming a force, and

rowed their boat along the channel toward where the shore should

be. Besides, it was in the plan for them to retreat.

We hauled the noses of the boats up on the shore side of a big

shoal, and all hands, with sacks, spread out and began picking.

Every now and again the clouds thinned before the face of the moon,

and we could see the big oysters quite distinctly. In almost no

time sacks were filled and carried back to the boats, where fresh

ones were obtained. Nicholas and I returned often and anxiously to

the boats with our little loads, but always found some one of the

pirates coming or going.

“Never mind,” he said; “no hurry. As they pick farther and farther

away, it will take too long to carry to the boats. Then they’ll

stand the full sacks on end and pick them up when the tide comes in

and the skiffs will float to them.”

Fully half an hour went by, and the tide had begun to flood, when

this came to pass. Leaving the pirates at their work, we stole

back to the boats. One by one, and noiselessly, we shoved them off

and made them fast in an awkward flotilla. Just as we were shoving

off the last skiff, our own, one of the men came upon us. It was

Barchi. His quick eye took in the situation at a glance, and he

sprang for us; but we went clear with a mighty shove, and he was

left floundering in the water over his head. As soon as he got

back to the shoal he raised his voice and gave the alarm.

TALES OF THE FISH PATROL

30

We rowed with all our strength, but it was slow going with so many

boats in tow. A pistol cracked from the shoal, a second, and a

third; then a regular fusillade began. The bullets spat and spat

all about us; but thick clouds had covered the moon, and in the dim

darkness it was no more than random firing. It was only by chance

that we could be hit.

“Wish we had a little steam launch,” I panted.

“I’d just as soon the moon stayed hidden,” Nicholas panted back.

It was slow work, but every stroke carried us farther away from the

shoal and nearer the shore, till at last the shooting died down,

and when the moon did come out we were too far away to be in

danger. Not long afterward we answered a shoreward hail, and two

Whitehall boats, each pulled by three pairs of oars, darted up to

us. Charley’s welcome face bent over to us, and he gripped us by

the hands while he cried, “Oh, you joys! You joys! Both of you!”

When the flotilla had been landed, Nicholas and I and a watchman

rowed out in one of the Whitehalls, with Charley in the stern-

sheets. Two other Whitehalls followed us, and as the moon now

shone brightly, we easily made out the oyster pirates on their

lonely shoal. As we drew closer, they fired a rattling volley from

their revolvers, and we promptly retreated beyond range.

“Lot of time,” Charley said. “The flood is setting in fast, and by

the time it’s up to their necks there won’t be any fight left in

them.”

So we lay on our oars and waited for the tide to do its work. This

was the predicament of the pirates: because of the big run-out,

the tide was now rushing back like a mill-race, and it was

impossible for the strongest swimmer in the world to make against

it the three miles to the sloops. Between the pirates and the

shore were we, precluding escape in that direction. On the other

hand, the water was rising rapidly over the shoals, and it was only

a question of a few hours when it would be over their heads.

It was beautifully calm, and in the brilliant white moonlight we

watched them through our night glasses and told Charley of the

voyage of the Coal Tar Maggie. One o’clock came, and two o’clock,

and the pirates were clustering on the highest shoal, waist-deep in

water.

“Now this illustrates the value of imagination,” Charley was

TALES OF THE FISH PATROL

31

saying. “Taft has been trying for years to get them, but he went

at it with bull strength and failed. Now we used our heads . . .”

Just then I heard a scarcely audible gurgle of water, and holding

up my hand for silence, I turned and pointed to a ripple slowly

widening out in a growing circle. It was not more than fifty feet

from us. We kept perfectly quiet and waited. After a minute the

water broke six feet away, and a black head and white shoulder

showed in the moonlight. With a snort of surprise and of suddenly

expelled breath, the head and shoulder went down.

We pulled ahead several strokes and drifted with the current. Four

pairs of eyes searched the surface of the water, but never another

ripple showed, and never another glimpse did we catch of the black

head and white shoulder.

“It’s the Porpoise,” Nicholas said. “It would take broad daylight

for us to catch him.”

At a quarter to three the pirates gave their first sign of

weakening. We heard cries for help, in the unmistakable voice of

the Centipede, and this time, on rowing closer, we were not fired

upon. The Centipede was in a truly perilous plight. Only the

heads and shoulders of his fellow-marauders showed above the water

as they braced themselves against the current, while his feet were

off the bottom and they were supporting him.

“Now, lads,” Charley said briskly, “we have got you, and you can’t

get away. If you cut up rough, we’ll have to leave you alone and

the water will finish you. But if you’re good we’ll take you

aboard, one man at a time, and you’ll all be saved. What do you

say?”

“Ay,” they chorused hoarsely between their chattering teeth.

“Then one man at a time, and the short men first.”

The Centipede was the first to be pulled aboard, and he came

willingly, though he objected when the constable put the handcuffs

on him. Barchi was next hauled in, quite meek and resigned from

his soaking. When we had ten in, our boat we drew back, and the

second Whitehall was loaded. The third Whitehall received nine

prisoners only – a catch of twenty-nine in all.

“You didn’t get the Porpoise,” the Centipede said exultantly, as

though his escape materially diminished our success.

TALES OF THE FISH PATROL

32

Charley laughed. “But we saw him just the same, a-snorting for

shore like a puffing pig.”

It was a mild and shivering band of pirates that we marched up the

beach to the oyster house. In answer to Charley’s knock, the door

was flung open, and a pleasant wave of warm air rushed out upon us.

“You can dry your clothes here, lads, and get some hot coffee,”

Charley announced, as they filed in.

And there, sitting ruefully by the fire, with a steaming mug in his

hand, was the Porpoise. With one accord Nicholas and I looked at

Charley. He laughed gleefully.

“That comes of imagination,” he said. “When you see a thing,

you’ve got to see it all around, or what’s the good of seeing it at