Reindeer struck with a dull crash and came to a standstill. We ran
forward, and found her bowsprit entangled in the tanned rigging of
a short, chunky mast. She had collided, head on, with a Chinese
junk lying at anchor.
At the moment we arrived forward, five Chinese, like so many bees,
came swarming out of the little ‘tween-decks cabin, the sleep still
in their eyes.
Leading them came a big, muscular man, conspicuous for his pock-
marked face and the yellow silk handkerchief swathed about his
head. It was Yellow Handkerchief, the Chinaman whom we had
arrested for illegal shrimp-fishing the year before, and who, at
that time, had nearly sunk the Reindeer, as he had nearly sunk it
now by violating the rules of navigation.
“What d’ye mean, you yellow-faced heathen, lying here in a fairway
without a horn a-going?” Charley cried hotly.
“Mean?” Neil calmly answered. “Just take a look – that’s what he
means.”
Our eyes followed the direction indicated by Neil’s finger, and we
saw the open amidships of the junk, half filled, as we found on
closer examination, with fresh-caught shrimps. Mingled with the
shrimps were myriads of small fish, from a quarter of an inch
upward in size.
TALES OF THE FISH PATROL
69
Yellow Handkerchief had lifted the trap-net at high-water slack,
and, taking advantage of the concealment offered by the fog, had
boldly been lying by, waiting to lift the net again at low-water
slack.
“Well,” Neil hummed and hawed, “in all my varied and extensive
experience as a fish patrolman, I must say this is the easiest
capture I ever made. What’ll we do with them, Charley?”
“Tow the junk into San Rafael, of course,” came the answer.
Charley turned to me. “You stand by the junk, lad, and I’ll pass
you a towing line. If the wind doesn’t fail us, we’ll make the
creek before the tide gets too low, sleep at San Rafael, and arrive
in Oakland to-morrow by midday.”
So saying, Charley and Neil returned to the Reindeer and got under
way, the junk towing astern. I went aft and took charge of the
prize, steering by means of an antiquated tiller and a rudder with
large, diamond-shaped holes, through which the water rushed back
and forth.
By now the last of the fog had vanished, and Charley’s estimate of
our position was confirmed by the sight of McNear’s Landing a short
half-mile away. Following along the west shore, we rounded Point
Pedro in plain view of the Chinese shrimp villages, and a great to-
do was raised when they saw one of their junks towing behind the
familiar fish patrol sloop.
The wind, coming off the land, was rather puffy and uncertain, and
it would have been more to our advantage had it been stronger. San
Rafael Creek, up which we had to go to reach the town and turn over
our prisoners to the authorities, ran through wide-stretching
marshes, and was difficult to navigate on a falling tide, while at
low tide it was impossible to navigate at all. So, with the tide
already half-ebbed, it was necessary for us to make time. This the
heavy junk prevented, lumbering along behind and holding the
Reindeer back by just so much dead weight.
“Tell those coolies to get up that sail,” Charley finally called to
me. “We don’t want to hang up on the mud flats for the rest of the
night.”
I repeated the order to Yellow Handkerchief, who mumbled it huskily
to his men. He was suffering from a bad cold, which doubled him up
in convulsive coughing spells and made his eyes heavy and
bloodshot. This made him more evil-looking than ever, and when he
TALES OF THE FISH PATROL
70
glared viciously at me I remembered with a shiver the close shave I
had had with him at the time of his previous arrest.
His crew sullenly tailed on to the halyards, and the strange,
outlandish sail, lateen in rig and dyed a warm brown, rose in the
air. We were sailing on the wind, and when Yellow Handkerchief
flattened down the sheet the junk forged ahead and the tow-line
went slack. Fast as the Reindeer could sail, the junk outsailed
her; and to avoid running her down I hauled a little closer on the
wind. But the junk likewise outpointed, and in a couple of minutes
I was abreast of the Reindeer and to windward. The tow-line had
now tautened, at right angles to the two boats, and the predicament
was laughable.
“Cast off!” I shouted.
Charley hesitated.
“It’s all right,” I added. “Nothing can happen. We’ll make the
creek on this tack, and you’ll be right behind me all the way up to
San Rafael.”
At this Charley cast off, and Yellow Handkerchief sent one of his
men forward to haul in the line. In the gathering darkness I could
just make out the mouth of San Rafael Creek, and by the time we
entered it I could barely see its banks. The Reindeer was fully
five minutes astern, and we continued to leave her astern as we
beat up the narrow, winding channel. With Charley behind us, it
seemed I had little to fear from my five prisoners; but the
darkness prevented my keeping a sharp eye on them, so I transferred
my revolver from my trousers pocket to the side pocket of my coat,
where I could more quickly put my hand on it.
Yellow Handkerchief was the one I feared, and that he knew it and
made use of it, subsequent events will show. He was sitting a few
feet away from me, on what then happened to be the weather side of
the junk. I could scarcely see the outlines of his form, but I
soon became convinced that he was slowly, very slowly, edging
closer to me. I watched him carefully. Steering with my left
hand, I slipped my right into my pocket and got hold of the
revolver.
I saw him shift along for a couple of inches, and I was just about
to order him back – the words were trembling on the tip of my
tongue – when I was struck with great force by a heavy figure that
had leaped through the air upon me from the lee side. It was one
TALES OF THE FISH PATROL
71
of the crew. He pinioned my right arm so that I could not withdraw
my hand from my pocket, and at the same time clapped his other hand
over my mouth. Of course, I could have struggled away from him and
freed my hand or gotten my mouth clear so that I might cry an
alarm, but in a trice Yellow Handkerchief was on top of me.
I struggled around to no purpose in the bottom of the junk, while
my legs and arms were tied and my mouth securely bound in what I
afterward found to be a cotton shirt. Then I was left lying in the
bottom. Yellow Handkerchief took the tiller, issuing his orders in
whispers; and from our position at the time, and from the
alteration of the sail, which I could dimly make out above me as a
blot against the stars, I knew the junk was being headed into the
mouth of a small slough which emptied at that point into San Rafael
Creek.
In a couple of minutes we ran softly alongside the bank, and the
sail was silently lowered. The Chinese kept very quiet. Yellow
Handkerchief sat down in the bottom alongside of me, and I could
feel him straining to repress his raspy, hacking cough. Possibly
seven or eight minutes later I heard Charley’s voice as the
Reindeer went past the mouth of the slough.
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am,” I could plainly hear him
saying to Neil, “that the lad has finished with the fish patrol
without accident.”
Here Neil said something which I could not catch, and then
Charley’s voice went on:
“The youngster takes naturally to the water, and if, when he
finishes high school, he takes a course in navigation and goes deep
sea, I see no reason why he shouldn’t rise to be master of the
finest and biggest ship afloat.”
It was all very flattering to me, but lying there, bound and gagged
by my own prisoners, with the voices growing faint and fainter as
the Reindeer slipped on through the darkness toward San Rafael, I
must say I was not in quite the proper situation to enjoy my
smiling future. With the Reindeer went my last hope. What was to
happen next I could not imagine, for the Chinese were a different
race from mine, and from what I knew I was confident that fair play
was no part of their make-up.
After waiting a few minutes longer, the crew hoisted the lateen
sail, and Yellow Handkerchief steered down toward the mouth of San
TALES OF THE FISH PATROL