He had returned, with his allies from distant waters, and he had timed his attack well — he must have had spies among Moby Dick’s people — but not quite well enough. (I still like to think that our rescue was his main motivation.) He and his new army were unarmed, of course, but they had the advantages of surprise and sobriety. And, after all, only Moby Dick and nine of his supporters had swords.
The battle was short but vicious.
Sally and I retreated hastily to the beach, well away from the melee in the water, from charge and counter charge, out of reach of snapping jaws and flailing tails. We stood there in wonderment, watching, until we were made aware of a fresh danger, until a stone twice the size of my head thudded to the sand beside us. Green had made his way back up the cliff, and was making sure that we did not follow him. He had lost his gun and knew that now it was a case of kill or be killed.
And he wanted to be the killer.
I grabbed Sally and we ran for the shelter of the overhang of the cliff. Another stone crashed down and hit the lamp. For a few seconds there was a bright flare before the thirsty sand sucked up the last of the blazing colza oil, then there was darkness. That smashing of the lantern must have been accidental. It hampered Green more than it did us.
We crouched there, under the overhang, hard by the foot of the path. If Green came down we should hear him before we saw him, would be able to grab his legs and bring him floundering to the sand, unable to use the knife or hammer or axe that he was sure to have picked up as a weapon. We tried to keep alert for the sound of his descent, but it was hard not to watch what was happening offshore.
With the lantern gone, no longer could we make out the scarlet harness of Noah, the white trappings of Moby Dick. All we could see was the welter of phosphorescent foam with the flurries of spray that marked the minor, individual fights on its outskirts. We could hear the grunts and whistles and, now and again, the screams of the mortally wounded.
And then there was the voice of Moby Dick: “Gurley, Gurley! Help me!”
“Help your muckin’ self!” came the answering shout from the cliff top.
The battle was almost over now. The great patch of luminescent water drifted out from the beach, to seawards, broke into a thousand particles of cold fire, into streaks of phosphorescence that scattered over the darkness. And there was Noah’s voice calling, “Beter! Beter!”
“Use Morse,” I whistled.
Inshore drifted the sharp, clear notes, the staccato rhythm of the code. “Boat. Take you away.”
“There!” said Sally, clutching my arm and pointing with her free hand. “There!”
I could see it then, the white shape that became more distinct as it slowly approached. Would there be men in the boat, rescuers? I strained my ears for the sound of a motor, for the creaking of oars in crutches. But the boat came in silently — silently, that is, save for the occasional snort and whistle of the porpoises around it. Right up to the beach it came, then grounded with a crunch of keel on sand.
“Run for it!” I snapped to Sally.
We tensed ourselves, sprang out from the shelter of the overhang. We sprinted across the sand. From the cliff top I heard Curley Green yell wordlessly, heard the thud of a heavy stone as it fell well clear of us. Then Sally was scrambling over the gunwales of the boat and I had my shoulder against the bows of it, was pushing and straining, trying to get it off the beach. Once Sally was aft, once her weight had got the stern down in the water, it came off easily enough — so easily that I lost my balance and fell face down into the sea. A heavy stone, flung with accuracy by Green, crashed against the planking where I would have been had I not fallen.
I scrambled up, splashed after the retreating boat, caught the gunwale and tried to hoist myself aboard. Sally got her hands under my arms, pulled. I tumbled inboard and together we sprawled on the bottom boards. We felt the boat lift and scend to the swell, heard the gurgle of water along the sides.
Helping each other, we got shakily to our feet, looked astern.
The island was no more than a blob of greater darkness against the darkness, a black, ragged silhouette against the stars relieved by one ruddy spark, the embers of our dying fire.