Mark Mills - Amagansett

What else could he say? He hadn’t hooked the giant fish he was after, and he wasn’t going to now, the tuna bite being pretty much played out by noon.

‘There’s a couple finning nearby.’

‘Show me,’ said the Senator with swagger, laying aside his glass of Cognac.

As they all made their way to the foredeck, Conrad collared the Wallaces.

‘The Captain’s asking for an extra hundred.’

‘A hundred dollars!?’ said Manfred.

‘Not a problem,’ said his father.

It was a twelve-foot harpoon, light and well balanced. Conrad demonstrated how to hold it. He showed them how the little bronze dart at the end came free at the moment of the strike, twisting as it did so, lodging itself in the flesh. The dart was attached to a wooden keg by several hundred feet of manila line, neatly coiled down in a tub. The keg was tossed over the side as the line ran out. After that, it was simply a question of tracking the keg, waiting for the fish to tire itself out or to die from the wound.

It was a perfect day for swordfishing—a dead calm sea and a searing, windless heat. They would find other fish, and Conrad could afford to take the first turn on the pulpit. He removed his overshirt before doing so, and regretted it almost immediately.

‘Regimental tattoo?’ asked the Senator.

The red arrowhead was clearly visible just beneath the arm hem of his T-shirt.

‘Yeah,’ replied Conrad, busying himself with the harpoon, clearing the line, hoping that was the end of it.

‘Did you see action? My boy saw action—Guadalcanal. He didn’t make it back.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

Conrad made his way to the end of the pulpit, terminating the conversation. They were bearing down on the swordfish now with the sun astern to keep the glare from blinding Conrad. It was a large fish that looked likely to tip the balance at around four hundred pounds.

‘Keep her off half a point,’ called Conrad.

‘You tellin’ me my business?’ growled Chase.

‘Sorry, Cap.’

Chase put him directly over the fish and Conrad threw his full weight behind the harpoon, thrusting down into the dark, lacquered body, ironing the creature in the thick muscle right behind the dorsal fin.

The ocean erupted, the swordfish making a scorching run to starboard, the line burning out of the tub, singing. Rollo hove the keg over the side. A second later the line snapped taut and the keg tore across the slick surface. They set off in pursuit.

With the lily firmly set, the rest was a formality. They trailed the keg for half an hour until it finally bobbed to a halt, inert.

‘Reckon he’s about drowned out,’ said Chase.

They hooked the keg aboard and dragged the swordfish up from the depths. It had no fight left in it; in fact, no life at all. It had expired from the wound Conrad had inflicted. It was best to be sure, though. Taking up the lance, he turned to the girls.

‘You might want to turn away.’

But they didn’t, and he thrust the lance into the gills. They fastened a strap round the tail and hoisted the fish inboard using a block and fall, laying it on the deck.

Everyone stared in mute wonder at the beauty and the enormity of the creature.

The Senator ran the toe of his shoe along the sword. ‘My God.’

‘Are you still game?’ asked Conrad.

‘Are you joking?’

Conrad turned to Manfred Wallace. ‘You want to tend the warp and keg for the Senator?’

‘Sure.’

It was another ten minutes—time enough to cut out the lily and recoil the line—before Rollo hollered from the masthead, ‘Fish on the lee beam!’

There were two of them, finning close together this time. Keeping the sun at their backs meant coming at them head-on. Conrad accompanied the Senator to the end of the pulpit and handed him the harpoon.

‘They may flare off at the last second, but you’ll still get a shot. Here…’ He adjusted the Senator’s grip on the pole. ‘Remember, just behind the dorsal fin else you’ll bone the dart. And don’t look them in the eye.’

‘Why not?’

‘They’ll freeze you with their stare.’

‘Really?’

‘Trust me.’

The Senator nodded gravely and Conrad made his way back to the stem of the boat where the others were gathered.

‘Good luck, Pappy!’ called the Senator’s daughter, all a-fluster.

Conrad wandered aft, picked up an ax, then returned to the foredeck. He let the ax hang inconspicuously against his thigh.

What the Senator lacked in style he more than made up for in determination. He almost disappeared over the pulpit rail in his bid to stick the fish, but it was a clean hit.

‘I got him!’ he yelled in triumph, raising the harpoon high above his head.

The swordfish took off at a breathtaking clip, heading directly astern of the boat. Conrad couldn’t have asked for more. Everyone turned instinctively to observe its passage, including Manfred Wallace, which meant he took his eyes off the tub.

Conrad glanced down at it, the manila line hissing out, the wooden rim starting to smoke.

‘The keg!’ he shouted, when he judged it was just too late.

To Manfred’s credit, he didn’t freeze. Spinning back, he lunged at the keg, only to see it snatched from his fingertips.

It flew across the foredeck, upending Penrose senior and scattering the others, before crashing into the starboard rail, ripping out one whole section as it continued its journey aft. Conrad leapt forward, swinging the ax, severing the line.

Chase hauled back on the throttle lever. ‘You stupid sonofabitch!’ he yelled. ‘The one thing you had to do—toss the goddamn keg!’

‘I—’ stammered Manfred.

‘No excuses,’ said Conrad. ‘You screwed up.’

Manfred turned his gaze on him, and for the briefest of moments, deep in his crystalline eyes, Conrad caught a glimmer of what Manfred was capable of.

‘Look at my goddamn boat!’

‘We’ll cover it,’ said George Wallace. ‘Whatever it costs.’

‘Damn right you will,’ said Chase, beginning to soften, the prospect of padding out the costs already dampening his anger.

Mr Penrose was helped to his feet. He hopped around and rubbed his shin and declared himself to be okay. The Senator looked far from okay.

‘Did I stick her right?’ he asked Conrad.

‘You stuck her right.’

‘I’d have had her.’

‘Oh, you’d have had her.’

Manfred Wallace felt the full force of the Senator’s glare. Assuming, as you certainly could, that the Senator had grossly exaggerated the size of the North Carolina bluefin that got away, then he’d just lost the biggest fish of his life, and through no fault of his own.

Only when he caught Rollo looking at him did Conrad realize he was wearing an expression of deep satisfaction. He didn’t care that Rollo had seen him laid bare. He didn’t care that someone could have been far more seriously injured by the keg, or that somewhere out there a four-hundred-pound swordfish was being driven mad with the agony of a bronze dart buried in its back. He didn’t care, because he knew this was as close as he was ever likely to come to witnessing the humiliation of Manfred Wallace.

It was a dismal end to a perfect day for the Wallaces and their guests. As the Zephyr pressed towards home the conversation was muted, with Gayle doing her best to lighten the mood. Manfred was silent, suitably chastened, and by the time they reached the breakwaters at Montauk Harbor he’d been forgiven.

The Senator mock-punched him on the jaw and laughed as he recalled the spectacle of Penrose senior going ass-over-elbow. The swordfish might have given him the slip, but he had a far more entertaining tale to tell because of it, and that realization was just beginning to dawn on him.

The late-afternoon buzz at the Montauk Yacht Club swept aside the last vestiges of the incident, the dockside thronging with people eager to view the catches of the returning boats. Their swordfish was hoisted on to the scales at the end of the dock. At four hundred and forty pounds it wasn’t large enough to cause a real stir, but the number of tuna they’d hooked, stacked up on the dock like so much cordwood, was impressive by any standards. It made Chase look good, it made his party look good, and the moment was trapped for posterity by a photographer.

Conrad cleaned and dressed a couple of tuna and packed them in ice for the Wallaces. The rest were sold to the same buyer who took the swordfish off Chase’s hands.

Manfred announced he was off to phone home, to let the drivers know they were back. Conrad slipped away, tailing him towards the clubhouse.

‘There’s the extra hundred for the swordfishing,’ he called.

Manfred stopped and turned. ‘I thought I’d just add it to the cost of the repairs.’

‘I’ll take it now, if that’s okay with you.’

It was twice as much as he’d promised Chase, but he doubted any tips would be forthcoming after what he was about to say. He didn’t care for himself, but there was no reason Rollo should be denied his dues.

Manfred handed him the cash, and Conrad stuffed it into his hip pocket without looking at it.

‘Whose idea was it?’

‘Excuse me?’ said Manfred.

‘Going fishing, your sister still warm in her grave.’

Manfred didn’t respond immediately, unsure if he had heard correctly. ‘How dare you,’ he flared.

Conrad took a step towards him.

‘I know about Lizzie Jencks.’

Manfred recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. His eyes had betrayed him.

‘Lizzie who?’

‘And that’s not all I know.’

‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Manfred with way too much indignation.

Conrad smiled. ‘I’ll be seeing you.’

He stood his ground, obliging Manfred to walk away first. But he didn’t.

‘Who the hell do you think you are, hurling accusations around?’

‘Accusations?’ said Conrad. ‘I thought you’d never heard of Lizzie Jencks.’

Twenty-Two

Hollis had been trying his hardest to appear interested, so he was a little surprised when Mary said, ‘You don’t seem very interested.’

‘Don’t I? Maybe it’s the blisters.’

‘The blisters?’

‘I have a few.’

It was an understatement; his heels and toes were rubbed raw. This was due in part to the old pair of walking boots she’d lent him, her ex-husband’s feet being a good couple of sizes larger than his own. Mainly, though, it was because of the considerable distances they’d covered since their dawn departure. He had never walked so far in one day, not since a tramping trip in the Catskills with the Brooklyn Boy Scouts many years before. On that occasion the heat had been bearable, the terrain forgiving, and they’d had the roving hands of a buck-toothed scoutmaster to spur them onwards.

Mary, he’d soon discovered, was a keen believer in treading the thorny path. Without so much as a word of warning she would leave the trails that threaded the oak woods north of town, striking out through the brush and briars over uneven ground deliberately designed to turn an ankle. He’d had little choice but to follow. The treasures she sought were only to be found deep in the woods.

She showed him square indentations in the forest floor—the cellar holes of dwellings abandoned centuries before. She pointed out large flat stones buried in the undergrowth, etched with initials, that had once served as boundary markers for these early homesteads. And as they weaved through the oak, hickory, maple and birch, she drew his attention to clusters of pear and apple trees, gnarled and wretched—the vestiges of orchards considerably older than the trees that now towered around them.