Heralds of Empire

by Agnes C. Laut

  CHAPTER VII

  M. DE RADISSON ACTS

  Quick as tongue could trip off the orders, eyes everywhere, thought andact jumping together, Pierre Radisson had given each one his part, andpledged our obedience, though he bade us walk the plank blindfold tothe sea. Two men were set to transferring powder and arms from theforehold to our captain's cabin. One went hand over fist up themainmast and signalled the Ste. Anne to close up. Jackets were tornfrom the deck-guns and the guns slued round to sweep from stem tostern. With a jarring of cranes and shaking of timbers, the two shipsbumped together; and a more surprised looking lot of men than the crewof the Ste. Anne you never saw. Pierre Radisson had played the roguestheir own game in the matter of signals. They had thought the St.Pierre in league, else would they not have come into his trap soreadily. Before they had time to protest, the ships were together, thetwo captains conferring face to face across the rails, and our sailorsstanding at arms ready to shoot down the first rebel.

  At a word, the St. Pierre's crew were scrambling to the Ste. Anne'sdecks. A shout through the trumpet of the Ste. Anne's bo'swain and themutinous crew of the Ste. Anne were marched aboard the St. Pierre.

  Then M. Radisson's plan became plain. The other ship was the better.M. de Radisson was determined that at least one crew should reach thebay. Besides, as he had half-laughingly insinuated, perhaps he knewbetter than Chouart Groseillers of the Ste. Anne how to manage mutinouspirates. Of the St. Pierre's crew, three only remained with Radisson:Allemand, in the pilot-house; young Jean Groseillers, Chouart's son, onguard aft; and myself, armed with a musket, to sweep the fo'castle.

  And all the time there was such a rolling sea the two ships were liketo pound their bulwarks to kindling wood. Then the Ste. Anne easedoff, sheered away, and wore ship for open sea.

  Pierre Radisson turned. There faced him that grim, mutinous crew.

  No need to try orders then. 'Twas the cat those men wanted. BeforePierre Radisson had said one word the mutineers had discovered the deckcannon pointing amidships. A shout of baffled rage broke from theragged group. Quick words passed from man to man. A noisy, shuffling,indeterminate movement! The crowd swayed forward. There was a suddenrush from the fo'castle to the waist. They had charged to gainpossession of the powder cabin--Pierre Radisson raised his pistol. Foran instant they held back. Then a barefoot fellow struck at him with abelaying-pin.

  'Twere better for that man if he had called down the lightnings.

  Quicker than I can tell it, Pierre Radisson had sprung upon him. TheFrenchman's left arm had coiled the fellow round the waist. Ourleader's pistol flashed a circle that drove the rabble back, and theringleader went hurling head foremost through the main hatch with forcelike to flatten his skull to a gun-wad. There was a mighty scatteringback to the fo'castle then, I promise you.

  Pierre Radisson uttered never a syllable. He pointed to the forescuttle. Then he pointed to the men. Down they went underhatches--rats in a trap!

  "Tramp--bundle--pack!" says he, as the last man bobbed below.

  But with a ping that raised the hair from my head, came a pistol-shotfrom the mainmasts. There, perched astride of the crosstrees, was arascal mutineer popping at M. Radisson bold as you please.

  Our captain took off his beaver, felt the bullet-hole in the brim,looked up coolly, and pointed his musket.

  "Drop that pistol!" said he.

  The fellow yelped out fear. Down clattered his weapon to the deck.

  "Now sit there," ordered Radisson, replacing his beaver. "Sit theretill I give you leave to come down!"

  Allemand, the pilot, had lost his head and was steering a coursecrooked as a worm fence. Young Jean Groseillers went white as thesails, and scarce had strength to slue the guns back or jacket theirmuzzles. And, instead of curling forward with the crest of the roll,the spray began to chop off backward in little short waves like ahorse's mane--a bad, bad sign, as any seaman will testify. And I, withmy musket at guard above the fo'scuttle, had a heart thumping harderthan the pounding seas.

  And what do you think M. Radisson said as he wiped the sweat from hisbrow?

  "A pretty pickle,[1] indeed, to ground a man's plans on such dashedimpudence! Hazard o' life! As if a man would turn from his course forthem! Spiders o' hell! I'll strike my topmast to Death himselffirst--so the devil go with them! The blind gods may crush--they shallnot conquer! They may kill--but I snap my fingers in their faces tothe death! A pretty pickle, indeed! Batten down the hatches, Ramsay.Lend Jean a hand to get the guns under cover. There's a storm!"

  And "a pretty pickle" it was, with the "porps" floundering bodily fromwave-crest to wave-crest, the winds shrieking through the cordage, andthe storm-fiends brewing a hurricane like to engulf master and crew!

  In the forehold were rebels who would sink us all to the bottom of thesea if they could. Aft, powder enough to blow us all to eternity! Ondeck, one brave man, two chittering lads, and a gin-soaked pilotsteering a crazy course among the fanged reefs of Labrador.

  The wind backed and veered and came again so that a weather-vane couldnot have shown which way it blew. At one moment the ship was jumpingfrom wave to wave before the wind with a single tiny storms'l out. Atanother I had thought we must scud under bare poles for open sea.

  The coast sheered vertical like a rampart wall, and up--up--up thatdripping rock clutched the tossing billows like watery arms of sirens.It needed no seaman to prophecy the fate of a boat caught between thatrock and a nor'easter.

  Then the gale would veer, and out raced a tidal billow of waters liketo take the St. Pierre broadside.

  "Helm hard alee!" shouts Radisson in the teeth of the gale.

  For the fraction of a second we were driving before the oncoming rush.

  Then the sea rose up in a wall on our rear.

  There was a shattering crash. The billows broke in sheets of whippingspray. The decks swam with a river of waters. One gun wrenched loose,teetered to the roll, and pitched into the seething deep. Yard-armscame splintering to the deck. There was a roaring of waters over us,under us, round us--then M. de Radisson, Jean, and I went slitheringforward like water-rats caught in a whirlpool. My feet struck againstwindlass chains. Jean saved himself from washing overboard bycannoning into me; but before the dripping bowsprit rose again to mountthe swell, M. de Radisson was up, shaking off spray like a water-dogand muttering to himself: "To be snuffed out like a candle--no--no--no,my fine fellows! Leap to meet it! Leap to meet it!"

  And he was at the wheel himself.

  The ship gave a long shudder, staggered back, stern foremost, to thetrough of the swell, and lay weltering cataracts from her decks.

  There was a pause of sudden quiet, the quiet of forces gatheringstrength for fiercer assault; and in that pause I remembered somethinghad flung over me in the wash of the breaking sea. I looked to thecrosstrees. The mutineer was gone.

  It was the first and last time that I have ever seen a smoking sea.The ocean boiled white. Far out in the wake of the tide that hadcaught us foam smoked on the track of the ploughing waters.Waters--did I say? You could not see waters for the spray.

  Then Jean bade me look how the stays'l had been torn to flutters, andwe both set about righting decks.

  For all I could see, M. Radisson was simply holding the wheel; but theholding of a wheel in stress is mighty fine seamanship. To keep thatold gallipot from shipping seas in the tempest of billows was a moreticklish task than rope-walking a whirlpool or sacking a city.

  Presently came two sounds--a swish of seas at our stern and the boomingof surf against coast rocks. Then M. de Radisson did the maddest thingthat ever I have seen. Both sounds told of the coming tempest. Theveering wind settled to a driving nor'easter, and M. de Radisson wassteering straight as a bullet to the mark for that rock wall.

  But I did not know that coast. When our ship was but three lengthsfrom destruction the St. Pierre answered to the helm. Her prow roundeda sharp rock. Then the wind caugh
t her, whirling her right about; butin she went, stern foremost, like a fish, between the narrow walls of afiord to the quiet shelter of a land-locked lagoon. Pierre Radissonhad taken refuge in what the sailors call "a hole in the wall."

  There we lay close reefed, both anchors out, while the hurricane heldhigh carnival on the outer sea.

  After we had put the St. Pierre ship-shape, M. Radisson stationed Jeanand me fore and aft with muskets levelled, and bade us shoot any manbut himself who appeared above the hatch. Arming himself with hisshort, curved hanger--oh, I warrant there would have been a carvingbelow decks had any one resisted him that day!--down he went to themutineers of the dim-lighted forehold.

  Perhaps the storm had quelled the spirit of rebellion; but up came M.de Radisson, followed by the entire crew--one fellow's head in whitecotton where it had struck the floor, and every man jumping keen toanswer his captain's word.

  I must not forget a curious thing that happened as we lay at anchor.The storm had scarce abated when a strange ship poked her jib-boomacross the entrance to the lagoon, followed by queer-rigged black sails.

  "A pirate!" said Jean.

  But Sieur de Radisson only puckered his brows, shifted position so thatthe St. Pierre could give a broadside, and said nothing.

  Then came the strangest part of it. Another ship poked her nose acrossthe other side of the entrance. This was white-rigged.

  "Two ships, and they have us cooped!" exclaimed Jean.

  "One sporting different sails," said M. de Radisson contemptuously.

  "What do you think we should do, sir?" asked Jean.

  "Think?" demanded Radisson. "I have stopped thinking! I act! Mythoughts are acts."

  But all the same his thought at that moment was to let go a broadsidethat sent the stranger scudding. Judging it unwise to keep ahalf-mutinous crew too near pirate ships, M. Radisson ordered anchorup. With a deck-mop fastened in defiance to our prow, the St. Pierreslipped out of the harbour through the half-dark of those northernsummer nights, and gave the heel to any highwayman waiting to attack asshe passed.

  The rest of the voyage was a ploughing through brash ice in thestraits, with an occasional disembarking at the edge of some greatice-field; but one morning we were all awakened from the heavy sleep ofhard-worked seamen by the screaming of a multitude of birds. The airwas odorous with the crisp smell of woods. When we came on deck, 'twasto see the St. Pierre anchored in the cove of a river that raced tomeet the bay.

  The screaming gulls knew not what to make of these strange visitors;for we were at Port Nelson--Fort Bourbon, as the French called it.

  And you must not forget that we were French on _that_ trip!

  [1] These expressions are M. de Radisson's and not words coined by Mr.Stanhope, as may be seen by reference to the French explorer's accountof his own travels, written partly in English, where he repeatedlyrefers to a "pretty pickle." As for the ships, they seem to have beensomething between a modern whaler and old-time brigantine.--_Author_.