The Sea-Story Megapack

by Jack Williamson

  By this time the storm was a blizzard. The men had no shelter, and they were afraid to venture far from the boat in search of it. Neither would permit the other to stumble over the rough ice, chancing its pitfalls, for neither cared to be lost from the other.

  Now they sat silent in the lee of the upturned boat, with the snow swirling about them; again they ran madly back and forth; yet again they swung their arms and stamped their feet. At last, do what they would, they shivered all the time. Then they sat quietly down.

  “I’m wonderful glad Billy is safe home,” Watt observed.

  “I wisht I was sure o’ that,” said Topsail. “It looks bad for us, Bill, lad. The ice is drivin’ out fast, an’ I’m thinkin’ ’twill blow steady for a day. It looks wonderful bad for us, an’ I’d feel—easier in me mind—about the lad’s mother—if I knowed he was safe home.”

  Late in the night Topsail turned to Watt. He had to nudge him to get his attention. “It’s awful cold, Bill,” he said. “We got the boat, lad. Eh? We got the boat.”

  “No, no, Tom! Not yet! We’d be sure doomed without the boat.”

  Half an hour passed. Again Topsail roused Watt.

  “We’re doomed if we don’t,” he said. “We can’t stand it till mornin’, lad. We can’t wait no longer.”

  Watt blundered to his feet. Without a word he fumbled in the snow until he found what he sought. It was the axe. He handed it to Topsail.

  “Do it, Tom!” he said, thickly. “I’m near gone.”

  Topsail attacked the boat. It was like murder, he thought. He struck blow after blow, blindly, viciously; gathered the splinters, made a little heap of them and set them afire. The fire blazed brightly. Soon it was roaring. The ice all around was lighted up. Above, the snow reflected the lurid glow.

  Warmth and a cheerful light put life in the men. They crept as close to the fire as they could. Reason would shut out hope altogether, but hope came to them. Might not the storm abate? Might not the wind change? Might not they be picked up? In this strain they talked for a long time; and meanwhile they added the fuel, splinter by splinter.

  “Father! ’Tis you!”

  Topsail leaped to his feet and stared.

  “’Tis Billy!” cried Watt.

  Billy staggered into the circle of light. He stared stupidly at the fire. Then he tottered a step or two nearer, and stood swaying; and again he stared at the fire in a stupid way.

  “I seed the fire!” he mumbled. “The punt’s nipped, sir—an’ I seed the fire—an’ crawled over the ice. ’Twas hard to find you.”

  Tom Topsail and Bill Watt understood. They, too, had travelled rough ice in a blizzard, and they understood.

  Billy was wet to the waist. That meant that, blinded by the snow or deceived by the night, he had slipped through some opening in the ice, some crack or hole. The bare thought of that lonely peril was enough to make the older men shudder. But they asked him no questions. They led him to the fire, prodigally replenished it, and sat him down between them. By and by he was so far recovered that he was able to support his father’s argument that the wind had not changed.

  “Oh, well,” replied Watt, doggedly, “you can say what you likes; but I tells you that the wind’s veered to the south. ’Twould not surprise me if the pack was drivin’ Cape Wonder way.”

  “No, no, Bill,” said Topsail sadly; “there’s been no change. We’re drivin’ straight out. When the wind drops the pack’ll go to pieces, an’ then—”

  Thus the argument was continued, intermittently, until near dawn. Of a sudden, then, they heard a low, far-off rumble. It was a significant, terrifying noise. It ran towards them, increasing in volume. It was like the bumping that runs through a freight-train when the engine comes to a sudden stop.

  The pack trembled. There was then a fearful confusion of grinding, crashing sounds. Everywhere the ice was heaving and turning. The smaller pans were crushed; many of the greater ones were forced on end; some were lifted bodily out of the water, and fell back in fragments, broken by their own weight. On all sides were noise and awful upheaval. The great pan upon which the seal-hunters had landed was tipped up—up—up—until it was like the side of a steep hill. There it rested. Then came silence.

  Bill Watt was right: the wind had changed; the pack had grounded on Cape Wonder. The three men from Ruddy Cove walked ashore in the morning.

  Billy was the first to run up to the house. He went through the door like a gale of wind.

  “We’re safe, mother!” he shouted.

  “I’m glad, dear,” said his mother, quietly. “Breakfast is ready.”

  When Billy was older he learned the trick his mother had long ago mastered—to betray no excitement, whatever the situation.

  CHAPTER X

  How Billy Topsail’s Friend Bobby Lot Joined Fortunes With Eli Zitt and Whether or Not he Proved Worthy of the Partnership

  Ruddy Cove called Eli Zitt a “hard” man. In Newfoundland, that means “hardy”—not “bad.” Eli was gruff-voiced, lowering-eyed, unkempt, big; he could swim with the dogs, outdare all the reckless spirits of the Cove with the punt in a gale, bare his broad breast to the winter winds, travel the ice wet or dry, shoulder a barrel of flour; he was a sturdy, fearless giant, was Eli Zitt, of Ruddy Cove. And for this the Cove very properly called him a “hard” man.

  When Josiah Lot, his partner, put out to sea and never came back—an offshore gale had the guilt of that deed—Eli scowled more than ever and said a deal less.

  “He’ll be feelin’ bad about Josiah,” said the Cove.

  Which may have been true. However, Eli took care of Josiah’s widow and son. The son was Bobby Lot, with whom, subsequently, Billy Topsail shared the adventure of the giant squid of Chain Tickle. The Cove laughed with delight to observe Eli Zitt’s attachment to the lad. The big fellow seemed to be quite unable to pass the child without patting him on the back; and sometimes, so exuberant was his affection, the pats were of such a character that Bobby lost his breath. Whereupon, Eli would chuckle the harder, mutter odd endearments, and stride off on his way.

  “He’ll be likin’ that lad pretty well,” said the Cove. “Nar a doubt, they’ll be partners.”

  And it came to pass as the Cove surmised; but much sooner than the Cove expected. Josiah Lot’s widow died when Bobby was eleven years old. When the little gathering at the graveyard in the shelter of Great Hill dispersed, Eli took the lad out in the punt—far out to the quiet fishing grounds, where they could be alone. It was a glowing evening—red and gold in the western sky. The sea was heaving gently, and the face of the waters was unruffled.

  “Bobby, b’y!” Eli whispered. “Bobby, lad! Does you hear me? Don’t cry no more!”

  “Ay, Eli,” sobbed Bobby. “I’ll cry no more.”

  But he kept on crying, just the same, for he could not stop; and Eli looked away—very quickly—to the glowing sunset clouds. Can’t you tell why?

  “Bobby,” he said, turning, at last, to the lad, “us’ll be partners—you an’ me.”

  Bobby sobbed harder than ever.

  “Won’t us, lad?”

  Eli laid his great hand on Bobby’s shoulder. Then Bobby took his fists out of his eyes and looked up into Eli’s compassionate face.

  “Ay, Eli,” he said, “us’ll be partners—jus’ you an’ me.”

  From that out, they were partners; and Bobby Lot was known in the Cove as the foster son of Eli Zitt. They lived together in Eli’s cottage by the tickle cove, where Eli had lived alone, since, many years before, his mother had left him to face the world for himself. The salmon net, the herring seine, the punt, the flake, the stage—these they held in common; and they went to the grounds together, where they fished the long days through, good friends, good partners. The Cove said that they were very happy; and, as always, the Cove was right.

  One night Eli came ashore from a trading schooner that had put in in the morning, smiling broadly as he entered the kitchen. He laid his hand on the table, palm down.

>   “They’s a gift for you under that paw, lad,” he said.

  “For me, Eli!” cried Bobby.

  “Ay, lad—for my partner!”

  Bobby stared curiously at the big hand. He wondered what it covered. “What is it, Eli?” he asked. “Come, show me!”

  Eli lifted the hand, and gazed at Bobby, grinning, the while, with delight. It was a jack-knife—a stout knife, three-bladed, horn-handled, big, serviceable; just the knife for a fisher lad. Bobby picked it up, but said never a word, for his delight overcame him.

  “You’re wonderful good t’ me, Eli,” he said, at last looking up with glistening eyes. “You’re wonderful good t’ me!”

  Eli put his arm around the boy. “You’re a good partner, lad,” he said. “You’re a wonderful good partner!”

  Bobby was proud of that.

  They put the salmon net out in the spring. The ice was still lingering offshore. The west wind carried it out; the east wind swept it in: variable winds kept pans and bergs drifting hither and thither, and no man could tell where next the ice would go. Now, the sea was clear, from the shore to the jagged, glistening white line, off near the horizon; next day—the day after—and the pack was grinding against the coast rocks. Men had to keep watch to save the nets from destruction.

  The partners’ net was moored off Breakheart Point. It was a good berth, but a rough one; when the wind was in the northeast, the waters off the point were choppy and covered with sheets of foam from the breakers.

  “’Tis too rough t’ haul the salmon net,” said Eli, one day. “I’ll be goin’ over the hills for a sack o’ flour. An’ you’ll be a good b’y ’til I gets back?”

  “Oh, ay, sir!” said Bobby Lot.

  It was a rough day: the wind was blowing from the north, a freshening, gusty breeze, cold and misty; off to sea, the sky was leaden, threatening, and overhead dark clouds were driving low and swift with the wind; the water was choppy—rippling black under the squalls. The ice was drifting alongshore, well out from the coast; there was a berg and the wreck of a berg of Arctic ice and many a pan from the bays and harbours of the coast.

  With the wind continuing in the north, the ice would drift harmlessly past. But the wind changed. In the afternoon it freshened and veered to the east. At four o’clock it was half a gale, blowing inshore.

  “I’ll just be goin’ out the tickle t’ have a look at that ice,” thought Bobby. “’Tis like it’ll come ashore.”

  He looked the punt over very carefully before setting out. It was wise, he thought, to prepare to take her out into the gale, whether or not he must go. He saw to it that the thole-pins were tight and strong, that the bail-bucket was in its place, that the running gear was fit for heavy strain. The wind was then fluttering the harbour water and screaming on the hilltops; and he could hear the sea breaking on the tickle rocks. He rowed down the harbour to the mouth of the tickle, whence he commanded a view of the coast, north and south.

  The ice was drifting towards Breakheart Point. It would destroy the salmon net within the hour, he perceived—sweep over it, tear it from its moorings, bruise it against the rocks. Bobby knew, in a moment, that his duty was to put out from the sheltered harbour to the wind-swept, breaking open, where the spume was flying and the heave and fret of the sea threatened destruction to the little punt. Were he true man and good partner he would save the net!

  “He’ve been good t’ me,” he thought. “Ay, Eli ’ve been wonderful good t’ me. I’ll be true partner t’ him!”

  CHAPTER XI

  Bobby Lot Learns to Swim and Eli Zitt Shows Amazing Courage and Self-possession and Strength

  When, returning over the hills, Eli Zitt came to the Knob o’ Breakheart, he saw his own punt staggering through the gray waves towards the net off the point—tossing with the sea and reeling under the gusty wind—with his little partner in the stern. The boat was between the ice and the breakers. The space of open water was fast narrowing; only a few minutes more and the ice would strike the rocks. Eli dropped on his knees, then and there, and prayed God to save the lad.

  “O Lard, save my lad!” he cried. “O Lard, save my wee lad!”

  He saw the punt draw near the first mooring; saw Bobby loose the sheet, and let the brown sail flutter like a flag in the wind; saw him leap to the bow, and lean over, with a knife in his hand, while the boat tossed in the lop, shipping water every moment; saw him stagger amidships, bail like mad, snatch up the oars, pull to the second mooring and cut the last net-rope; saw him leap from seat to seat to the stem, grasp the tiller, haul taut the sheet, and stand off to the open sea.

  “Clever Bobby!” he screamed, wildly excited. “Clever lad! My partner, my little partner!”

  But the wind carried the cry away. Bobby did not hear—did not know, even, that his partner had been a spectator of his brave faithfulness. He was beating out, to make sea-room for the run with the wind to harbour; and the boat was dipping her gunwale in a way that kept every faculty alert to keep her afloat. Eli watched him until he rounded and stood in for the tickle. Then the man sighed happily and went home.

  “Us’ll grapple for that net the morrow,” he said, when Bobby came in.

  Bobby opened his eyes. “Aye?” he said. “’Tis safe on the bottom. I thought I’d best cut it adrift t’ save it.”

  “I seed you,” said Eli, “from the Knob. ’Twas well done, lad! You’re a true partner.”

  “The knife come in handy,” said Bobby, smiling. “’Tis a good knife.”

  “Aye,” said Eli, with a shake of the head. “I bought un for a good one.”

  And that was all.

  Eli set about rearing young Bobby in a fashion as wise as he knew. He exposed the lad to wet and weather, as judiciously as he could, to make him hardy; he took him to sea in high winds, to fix his courage and teach him to sail; he taught him the weather signs, the fish-lore of the coast, the “marks” for the fishing grounds, the whereabouts of shallows and reefs and currents; he took him to church and sent him to Sunday-school. And he taught him to swim.

  On the fine days of that summer, when there were no fish to be caught, the man and the lad went together to the Wash-tub—a deep, little cove of the sea, clear, quiet, bottomed with smooth rock and sheltered from the wind by high cliffs; but cold—almost as cold as ice-water. Here Bobby delighted to watch Eli dive, leap from the cliff, float on his back, swim far out to sea; here he gazed with admiration on the man’s rugged body—broad shoulders, bulging muscles, great arms and legs. And here, too, he learned to swim.

  When the warmest summer days were gone, Bobby could paddle about the Wash-tub in promising fashion. He was confident when Eli was at hand—sure, then, that he could keep afloat. But he was not yet sure enough of his power when Eli had gone on the long swim to sea. Eli said that he had done well; and Bobby, himself, often said that he could swim a deal better than a stone. In an emergency, both agreed, Bobby’s new accomplishment would be sure to serve him well.

  “Sure, if the punt turned over,” Bobby innocently boasted, “I’d be able t’ swim ’til you righted her.”

  That was to be proved.

  “Eli, b’y,” said old James Blunt, one day in the fall of the year, “do you take my new dory t’ the grounds t’-day. Sure, I’d like t’ know how you likes it.”

  Old James had built his boat after a south-coast model. She was a dory, a flat-bottomed craft, as distinguished from a punt, which has a round bottom and keel. He was proud of her, but somewhat timid; and he wanted Eli’s opinion of her quality.

  “’Tis a queer lookin’ thing!” said Eli. “But me an’ my partner’ll try she, James, just for luck.”

  That afternoon a fall gale caught the dory on the Farthest Grounds—far out beyond the Wolf’s Teeth Reef. It came from the shore so suddenly that Eli could not escape it. So it was a beat to harbour, with the wind and sea rising fast. Off the Valley, which is half a mile from the narrows, a gust came out between the hills—came strong and swift. It heeled the dory over�
��still over—down—down until the water poured in over the gunwale. Eli let go the mainsheet, expecting the sail to fall away from the wind and thus ease the boat. But the line caught in the block. Down went the dory—still down. And of a sudden it capsized.

  When Bobby came to the surface, he began frantically to splash the water, momentarily losing strength, breath and self-possession. Eli was waiting for him, with head and shoulders out of the water, like an eager dog as he waits for the stick his master is about to throw. He swam close; but hung off for a moment—until, indeed, he perceived that Bobby would never of himself regain his self-possession—for he did not want the boy to be too soon beholden to him for aid. Then he slipped his hand under Bobby’s breast and buoyed him up.

  “Partner!” he said, quietly. “Partner!”

  Bobby’s panic-stricken struggles at once ceased; for he had been used to giving instant obedience to Eli’s commands. He looked in Eli’s dripping face.

  “Easy, partner,” said Eli, still quietly. “Strike out, now.”

  Bobby smiled, and struck out, as directed. In a moment he was swimming at Eli’s side.

  “Take it easy, lad,” Eli continued. “Just take it easy while I rights the boat. It’s all right. I’ll have you aboard in a jiffy. Is you—is you—all right, Bobby?”

  “Aye,” Bobby gasped.

  Eli waited for a moment longer. He was loath to leave the boy to take care of himself. Until then he had not known how large a place in his heart his little partner filled, how much he had come to depend upon him for all those things which make life worth while. He had not known, indeed, how far away from the old, lonely life the lad had led him. So he waited for a moment longer, watching Bobby. Then he swam to the overturned dory, where, after an anxious glance towards the lad, he dived to cut away the gear—and dived again, and yet again; watching Bobby all the time he was at the surface for breath.

  The gear cut away, the mast pulled from its socket, Eli righted the boat. It takes a strong man and clever swimmer to do that; but Eli was clever in the water, and strong anywhere. Moreover, it was a trick he had learned.