BEACHCOMBING 63 



Islands — some 12 or 14 miles to the north. In fateful 

 March of that year a cyclone swooped down on this 

 part of the coast with the pent-up fury of a century's 

 restraint. The enormous bloodwood-trees torn out by the 

 roots on Dunk Island testified to the force and ferocity of 

 the storm. The sandbanks, are isolated, dreary spots, the 

 highest portion but 2 or 3 feet above the level reached 

 by spring tides. A cutter — The Dolphin — with a crew of 

 aboriginals, in charge of a couple of Kanakas, was anchored 

 at the shoal, and as the cyclone worked up, the Kanakas 

 decided that the one and only bid for life was to run before 

 it to the mainland. It was a forlorn hope — so forlorn that 

 four or five of the aboriginals declined to take part in it, 

 deeming it safer to trust to the sandbank, which they 

 imagined could never be entirely swept by the besoms of 

 the sea. The cutter fled before the storm, only to capsize 

 in the breakers off the mouth of the Johnstone River, 

 Clinging to the wreck until it drifted a few miles south, the 

 Kanakas and crew battled through the waves and eventually 

 reached the shore. Of those who placed their faith on the 

 sandbank not one was spared. The seas raced over it, 

 pounded and flattened it. The men upon it were uncon- 

 sidered trifles. 



The tall and handsome Scandinavian whose fortune 

 was thus assailed was at his home with his wife and 

 children and brother. His yacht — The Maud— in the 

 height of the storm, began to drag her anchor. He 

 and his brother went out in a dinghy to secure her. At 

 dusk the wife, young, petite and pretty, with strained 

 anxiety watched the efforts of the men to beat back to 

 shelter. Darkness came, blotting out the scene and its 

 climax. Never after was anything seen or heard of the 

 brothers or the yacht. And for nearly a fortnight the 

 disconsolate wife and her little ones were alone on the 

 island. 



Ten years later, on one of the two bare patches of sand, 

 another beche-de-mer smoke-house was built. While the 

 owner, a swarthy Arabian, was out on the reef miles away, 



