Australian Search Party | Page 7

out, and we had secured a large sackful, after which we
all retired to the tent, except one of our number, who, having a
lady-love in Cardwell with an inordinate affection for shell-fish,
lingered to fill a haversack for his 'inamorata'. We were comfortably
smoking our pipes and watching with satisfaction the tide rising higher
and higher, when a faint "coo-eh" from the direction of the rock
reached us, followed by another and another and another, each one
more shrill than the last.
"By Jove, Wordsworth's in some trouble!" exclaimed one of our party,
and, snatching up our carbines, we hurried to the end of the island at
which stood the Sail Rock. The tide had now risen considerably, and
the water between the rock and ourselves was over four feet deep, and
increasing in depth each moment. We saw poor Wordsworth clinging
on to the slippery wall, as high up as the smooth mass afforded
hand-hold.
"Come along, old fellow!" we shouted; "it's not up to your neck yet."
"He turned his head over his shoulder -- even at the distance we were,
its pallor was quite visible -- and slowly and cautiously releasing one
hand, he pointed to the water between himself and the island.

"By Jove!" cried the pilot, "he's bailed up by a shark, look at his
sprit-sail!" and following his finger we saw an enormous black fin
sailing gently to and fro, as regularly and methodically as a veteran
sentry paces the limits of his post.
"Stick tight, old man! we'll bring the boat," and leaving the pilot to
keep up a fusillade at the monster with the carbines, we darted back. I
shall never forget the efforts we made to launch the boat, but she was
immovable, and every moment the tide was rising, the little ripples
expending themselves in bubbly foam against the thirsty sand. We
strained, we tugged, we prised with levers, but unavailingly, the boat
seemed as if she had taken root there and would not budge an inch. A
happy thought struck me all of a sudden, as a reminiscence of a similar
case that I had seen in years gone by came back in full vigour.
"Give me a tomahawk," I said.
One was produced in a minute from under the stern-sheets. Meanwhile
I had got out a couple of the oars.
"Now, Jim, you're the best axeman, off with them here!"
Half a dozen strokes to each, and the blades were severed from the
looms.
"Now boys, lay aft and lift her stern."
It was done, and one of the oars placed under as a roller.
"Now, launch together."
"Heave with a will."
"She's moving!"
"Again so. Keep her going."
"Hurrah!" and a loud cheer broke forth, as, through the medium of the
friendly rollers, the heavy boat trundled into the water.
The pull was long, at least it seemed to us long, for we had to round the
sandy spit before we could head towards the rock, and nearly got on
shore in trying to make too close a shave. We could hear the crack of
the pilot's carbine every few minutes, borne down to us by the
freshening breeze, and the agonising "coo-ehs" of poor Wordsworth,
whose ankles were already hidden by the advancing waters; added to
this, we had only two oars, and the wind, now pretty strong, was dead
in our teeth. I was steering, and Jim was standing up in the bows with
his carbine for a shot, if the shark offered such an opportunity. As we
neared the rock we could distinctly see the black fin within six feet of

the narrow ledge on which the poor fellow was standing, and only
when we approached to within a couple of boats' lengths, did the
ferocious brute sail sullenly out to sea, pursued by a harmless bullet
from Jim's rifle. Poor Wordsworth dropped into the boat fainting from
terror, exhaustion, and loss of blood, for, although he was unconscious
of it all the time, in his convulsive grip, the sharp oyster-shells had cut
his hands to the very bone. A good glass of grog and some hot tea -- the
bushman's infallible remedy -- soon brought him round, but the scars
on his hands and knees will accompany him to his grave. He afterwards
described the glances that the shark threw at him as perfectly diabolical,
and confessed that he it not been for the cheery hails of the pilot, he
should most certainly have relinquished his hold, and met with a death
too horrible to contemplate.
It was now about three o'clock in the afternoon, and the boat being
launched, we resolved to reach Gould Island before dark. The tent was
soon struck, the provisions stowed away, the priming of the carbines
looked to