The boy waited until he could view the necessity of descent with composure. Then, with extreme caution, he made his way to the deck, and went to the cabin, where he warmed himself over the stove. Apparently, the incident had passed unnoticed from the deck. He said nothing about it to the captain, nor to any one else; nor did Bill o’ Burnt Bay, who had an adequate conception of the sensitiveness of lads in respect to such narrow chances.
CHAPTER XXXIII
The Ice Runs Red, and, in Storm and Dusk, Tim Tuttle Brews a Pot o’ Trouble for Captain Hand, While Billy Topsail Observes the Operation
Meantime the ship drew near the ice. When Archie came again on deck, his nerves quite composed, she was being driven in and out through the fields to a point as near to the first seal pack as she could be taken—a mile distant, at the least. During this tedious search for a landing place, the crew’s eager excitement passed the bounds of discipline. The men could see the crew from Alexander Bryan & Company’s Lucky Star at work; and that excited them the more: they were mad to reach the ice before their rivals could molest the pack for which they were bound.
When, at last, the engines were stopped, a party of sixty was formed in a haphazard fashion; the boats were lowered in haste, and the men leaped and tumbled into them, crowding them down to the gunwales. In one of the boats were Archie and Billy, the former in the care of Bill o’ Burnt Bay, to whom the “nursing” was not altogether agreeable, under the circumstances; the latter in charge of himself, a lenient guardian, but a wise one.
“Don’t get into trouble with the crew o’ the Lucky Star,” had been the captain’s last command.
The men landed, hurrahing, and at once organized into half a dozen separate expeditions. The direction to be taken by each was determined by the leaders, and they set off at a dog trot upon their diverging paths over the ice to the widely distributed seal pack. Meantime, the boats were taken back to the ship and hoisted in; and the ship steamed off to land another party on another field, thence to land the last party near a third pack.
The boys trotted in Bill’s wake. Two pennant bearers, carrying flags to mark the heaps of “fat,” as they should be formed, led the file. One of these men—it happened by chance, to all appearances—was the captain’s enemy, Tim Tuttle. Their work was particularly important on that day, with the crew of the Lucky Star working so near at hand; for the flags were to mark the ownership of the mounds of “fat,” and any tampering with these “brands” would be likely to precipitate a violent encounter between the men of the rival ships.
“I’m thinkin’ ’twill snow afore night,” Bill panted, as they ran along; and, indeed, it appeared that it would.
The advance soon had to be made with caution. The hunters were so near the pack that the whines of the white coats could be heard. Archie could make out not only the harps, but the blowholes beside which they lay in family groups. At this point the men formed in twos and threes, and dispersed. In a few minutes more, they rushed upon the prey, striking right and left.
The ice was soon strewn with dead seals. It was harvest time for these impoverished Newfoundlanders. Lives of seals for lives of men and women! Bill o’ Burnt Bay had ten “kids” at home, and he was merciless and mighty in destruction.
Archie and Billy came upon a family of four, lying at some distance from their blowhole—two grown harps, a “jar,” which is a one year old seal, and a ranger, which is three years old and spotted like a leopard. Billy attacked the ranger without hesitation. Archie raised his gaff above the fluffy little jar, which was fanning itself with its flipper, and whining.
“I can’t do it!” he exclaimed, lowering his club, and turning away, faint at heart; then “Look, Billy!” he cried, in half amused wonderment.
The old seals had wriggled off to the blowhole, moving upon their flippers, in short jumps, as fast as a man could walk. Apparently they had reached the hole at the same instant, which was not wide enough to admit them both. Neither would give way to the other. They were stuck fast, their heads below, their fat bodies above.
Their selfish haste was their undoing. Billy was not loath to take advantage of their predicament.
Thus, everywhere, the men were at work. There was no friction with the crew of the Lucky Star; the whole party worked amicably, and almost side by side. When they had dispersed the pack, the “sculping” knives were drawn, and the labour of skinning was vigorously prosecuted. The skins, with the blubber adhering, were piled in heaps of six or more, according to the strength of the men who were to “tow” them to the edge of the field, where the ship was to return in the evening; and every “tow” was marked with an Armstrong and Son flag.
The Lucky Star’s recall gun surprised the men before the work was finished. They looked up to find that the dusk was upon them, and that the snow was falling—falling ever more thickly, and drifting with the wind. The men of the Lucky Star stopped work, hurriedly saw to it that their heaps of pelt were all marked, and started on a run for the ship; for, on the ice fields, the command of the recall gun is never disregarded.
“There goes the Dictator’s gun,” shouted one of the men.
A second boom added force to the warning. The captain was evidently anxious to have his men safe out of the storm; the “fat” could be taken aboard in the morning. So Bill o’ Burnt Bay, who was in tacit command of the party, called his men about him, and led the return. It was a mile over the ice to the Dictator, which lay waiting, with the second and third parties aboard. He was in haste; moreover, he had Sir Archibald Armstrong’s son in his care: perhaps, that is why he did not stop to count the Dictator’s heaps of pelt before he started.
“Come, now, Tuttle, don’t lag!” he shouted, ambitious to have his party return with no delay.
But Tuttle still lagged—or, rather, ran from heap to heap of pelt, as though to make sure that each was marked. He busied himself, indeed, until the party was well in advance—until, as he thought, there was no eye to see what he did under cover of the driving snow. Then he quickly snatched Lucky Star flags from half a dozen heaps of “fat,” cast them away, and planted Dictator flags in their stead—a dishonourable duty which the house-flag of Armstrong& Son had never before been made to do.
Quite sure, now, that he had shot an arrow that would sorely wound Captain Hand and the firm of Armstrong & Son, Tuttle ran after his party. When he was yet some distance behind, he turned about, and saw a small figure following him. He stopped dead—and waited until that small figure came up.
“Topsail,” he demanded, “what you been doin’ back there?”
Billy was very much frightened; but he was a truthful boy, and he now told the truth. “Been sculpin’ an’ pilin’ me swiles, sir,” he stammered.
“Has you been touchin’ them flags?”
“N-n-no, sir. I didn’t have no time. I was afeared I’d get lost in the snow.”
Tuttle caught the boy by the shoulders, and stared fiercely into his eyes. “Did you see what I done?” he demanded.
Billy was strongly tempted to choose the easier way; but, as I have said, he was a truthful lad, and a brave lad, too. The temptation passed in a moment, and he fearlessly returned Tuttle’s stare.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“If you tells Cap’n Hand what you saw,” said Tuttle, tightening his grip, and bringing his face close to the lad’s, “I’ll—”
He did not complete the threat. Billy Topsail’s imagination, as he knew, would conceive the most terrible revenge.
“Yes, sir,” Billy gasped, vacantly; for he was more frightened than he had ever before been in his short life.
That was all. They ran at full speed after their party, and soon joined it. Tuttle kept at Billy’s side while they were getting aboard the ship, kept at his side while supper was served in the forecastle, kept at his side through the short evening; kept at his side all the time, in a haunting, threatening way that frightened Billy as nothing else could, until the lad, tired out and utterly discouraged as to the purpos
e he had formed, turned in, no less to escape Tuttle, who had now grown hateful to him, than to rest.
“Oh,” he thought, “if Archie had on’y come t’ the fo’c’s’le this night, I might ’a’ told him; but now—I thinks—I’ll be afeared, in the mornin’.”
CHAPTER XXXIV
In Which Tim Tuttle’s Shaft Flies Straight for the Mark. The Crews of the Dictator and Lucky Star Declare War, and Captain Hand is Threatened with the Shame of Dishonour, While Young Billy Topsail, Who Has the Solution of the Difficulty, is in the Hold of the Ship
Tim Tuttle’s design against the honour of Captain Hand and of the firm of Armstrong & Son promised well. The following day broke fine; and, early in the morning, the crew of the Dictator was turned out to load the “fat” which had been left on the floe over night. About one hundred men were sent to the ice; the rest were kept on the ship to stow away the “tows” as they came aboard. Among the latter was young Billy Topsail, who was ordered to the hold the moment he appeared on deck.
The party under Bill o’ Burnt Bay was first on the ground. Presently, the men from the Lucky Star arrived. For a time, pleasant words passed between the crews. Soon, however, a group of Lucky Star hunters gathered out of hearing of the Dictator’s crew. Their voices, which had been low at first, rose angrily, and to such a pitch that the attention of Bill o’ Burnt Bay was attracted. He observed their suspicious glances, their wrathful faces, their threatening gestures; and he promptly surmised that trouble of a familiar kind was brewing.
It was evident that there was to be a dispute over the possession of certain of the “tows.” The rights of that dispute Bill was not in a position to determine. So far as he knew—and he was bound to stand squarely upon his own knowledge—there had been no wrong-doing on the part of his men; and, being a man who never failed in his duty to the firm, he resolved that not an ounce of “fat” which then lay under a flag of Armstrong & Son should be yielded to the Lucky Star until a higher authority than he gave the word. Needless to say, that is precisely what Tuttle expected of him.
Moving quietly, lest he should provoke the dispute, Bill warned his men to be on the alert. And it was not long before the crew of the Lucky Star, with a stout fellow at their head, advanced threateningly.
“Look here, you, Bill o’ Burnt Bay,” shouted the leader, “some o’ your men have been stealin’ our tows.”
“Oh, come, now, Johnny Tott,” Bill replied, good-humouredly, “that ain’t our way o’ gettin’ a cargo.”
The men of the Dictator gathered behind Bill. Bill would have been better pleased had they gathered with less haste, had there been less of the battle-light in their eyes, had they held their gaffs less tightly—but all that, of course, was beyond his control; he could only make sure to have them there to defend the rights of the firm.
“You can’t scare me!” Johnny Tott flashed, angered by what he understood to be a display of force, but still trying to keep his temper. “We left twenty-two tows here last night, an’ we find sixteen this mornin’. Who took the odd six?”
Bill was bent on having the question referred to the captains of the ships. They might settle it as they would. As for him—knowing from experience how quickly such encounters might come, and how violent they might be—all he desired was peaceably to protect the interests of his employers, and of the men, who had a percentage interest in every seal killed.
“I don’t want t’ scare you, Johnny Tott,” he replied, quietly. “I thinks you’ve counted your flags wrong. Now, why can’t we just—”
Then came an unfortunate interruption. It was a long, derisive cat-call from one of Bill’s men—none other than Tim Tuttle. That was more than could be borne by men who were confident of their rights.
“Thieves!” half a dozen of the crew of the Lucky Star retorted. “A pack o’ thieves!”
It was a critical moment. The Dictator’s men, too, believed themselves to be in the right; and there was a limit to what they, too, could suffer. To be called thieves was perilously near that limit, already provoked, as they were, by what they thought a bold attempt to rob them of their seals.
Bill turned quickly on his own men. “Stand back!” he cried, knowing well that a rush impended.
“Thieves! Thieves!” taunted the crew of the Lucky Star.
“Keep your men quiet!” Bill roared to Johnny Tott. “There’ll be trouble if you don’t.”
The Lucky Star men were outnumbered; but not so far outnumbered that their case would be hopeless in a hand-to-hand fight. Nevertheless, it was the part of wisdom for Johnny Tott, who was himself animated by the best motives, to keep them quiet. He faced them, berated them roundly, and threatened to “knock the first man down” who should dare to continue the disturbance. Thus encouraged, Bill o’ Burnt Bay addressed his crew briefly and to the point.
“No nonsense, men!” he growled. “We wants no bloodshed here. The first man that passes me,” he added, in such a way that not a man of them doubted he would make good his word, “may get hurt, an’ badly hurt, afore he knows it.”
It was no time for gentle dealing. Bill had strong, angry men to deal with; and the responsibility of keeping them from wronging themselves and their fellows sat heavily upon him. Confident, however, that he had them in check, he advanced to parley with Tott. All would doubtless have gone smoothly had there not been a designing man on Bill’s side. That man was Tuttle, to whom the course of events was not pleasing. Perceiving, now, that an encounter was likely to be warded off, he determined to precipitate it.
“Who called me a thief?” he burst out.
Then he broke away from his fellows, and ran towards the crew of the Lucky Star, with his gaff upraised. But Bill o’ Burnt Bay was quick as a flash to intercept him. He tripped Tuttle up with his gaff, fairly leaped upon the prostrate form, caught the man by the collar, dragged him back and flung him at the feet of the crew. And, meantime, the Lucky Star men, who had instantly prepared to meet Tuttle, laughed uproariously. That hearty laugh lightened the situation perceptibly.
“An’ here comes Cap’n Black!” shouted one of the men.
Captain Hand of the Dictator, too, was on his way over the ice. Both skippers had observed the cessation of the work and the separation of the men into two hostile parties. Familiar as they were with such disputes, they needed no message to tell them that their presence was urgently needed on the floe. They came over the ice at full speed, at the same time trying to get at the merits of the quarrel from the men who ran to meet them; and, being fat sea-captains, both of them, and altogether unused to hurried locomotion afoot, they were quite out of breath when they met.
The skipper of the Lucky Star was a florid, peppery little man, much given to standing upon his dignity.
“Cap’n Hand,” he puffed, “this is—an out—rage, sir! Is this the way—”
“’Scuse me—Cap’n B-Black—sir,” the skipper of the Dictator panted, his little red eyes almost hidden by his bushy brows; “but—I’m wonder—ful s’prised—that—”
Captain Black drew a long breath, and proceeded more easily, but still with magnificent dignity. “I’m wonderful surprised t’ know, sir,” he said, “that this is the way Cap’n Hand makes a good v’y’ge of it every year. I never knew how before, sir.”
“I’d have you t’ know, sir,” returned Captain Hand, bristling ominously, “that I ’lows no man t’ call me a thief.”
“I’d have you t’ know, sir, that your men have stolen my fat.”
“An’ I’ll have you t’ know, sir, that that’s t’ be proved.”
“Cap’n Hand, sir,” declared Captain Black, swelling like a pouter-pigeon the meanwhile, “you whole crew outnumbers mine nigh two t’ one, or I’d load every pound o’ fat on the ice on my ship. But I tells you now, sir, that I’ll have the law o’ you at St. John’s. If you touch them six tows I’ll have you sent t’ coolie for a thief, sir, if there’s an honest jury in the land! Mark my words, sir, I’ll do it!”
The up
shot of it all was, when both captains had cut a ridiculous figure for a considerable time (and had found it out), that the crews were withdrawn to the ships, ostensibly for dinner, but really that they might be kept apart while their blood was heated. A conference was appointed for three o’clock in the afternoon; and in the interval the captains were more fully and more accurately to inform themselves by examining their respective crews. This was a very sensible agreement. So far as it went, Captain Hand was content; but, being a wise and experienced man, he foresaw that an amicable settlement of the difficulty was extremely doubtful.
“I hopes, anyhow, that ’twill not come t’ blows,” he told Archie, as they trudged along, for his position made it impossible for him to confide in anybody else. “’Twill be a dreadful disgrace if it comes t’ blows. An’ maybe ’twill be something worse.”
When the men reached the Dictator, Billy Topsail was waiting on deck, keen as the rest of them to know what had happened on the ice. He had a wholesome conscience, and a reasonable courage; he had fully determined to do his duty, and was about to attract Archie Armstrong’s attention—Archie was to be his first confidant—when Tuttle slipped quietly to his side, and laid a hand on his shoulder. Billy had no need to look up; he knew whose hand that was, and what the firm, increasing pressure meant.
“You better go t’ the fo’c’s’le, lad,” Tuttle whispered in his ear.
CHAPTER XXXV
In Which the Issue is Determined
Billy Topsail went to the forecastle as he was bid. With Tuttle so near, he seemed not to have the will to carry out his purpose. He passed Archie on the way forward, even responded to his nod and merry greeting with a wistful smile; but said nothing, for he felt that Tuttle’s cold gray eyes were fixed upon him. Archie marked that strange smile, and thought—it was just a fleeting thought—that Billy must be in trouble; he was about to stop, but put the solicitous question off—until another time.
Aboard the Lucky Star, Captain Black called Johnny Tott to his cabin. It was a serious moment for both, as both knew. The hunter realized that the captain would act upon his statement, and that there would be no return, once the course was taken. Moreover, he knew that he would have to take oath, and support that oath with evidence, in the court-room at St. John’s.
The Sea-Story Megapack Page 28
