“They’ll be seals out there the morrow,” the men were all agreed.
So they went home and prepared to set out at dawn of the next day. In the night, the wind swept the whole pack in, to the last lagging pan. The ice was all jammed against the coast—a firm, vast expanse, stretching to the horizon, and held in place by the wind, which continued strong and steady. The men of Fortune Harbour went confidently out to the hunt. At noon, when they were ten miles off the shore, they perceived the approach of a small, black figure.
The meeting came soon afterwards, for the folk of Fortune Harbour, being both curious and quick to respond to need, made haste.
“I say, mister,” said Bagg, briskly, addressing old John Forsyth, “yer ’aven’t got no ’am, ’ave yer?”
The men of Fortune Harbour laughed.
“Or nothink else, ’ave yer?” Bagg continued, hopefully. “I’m a bit ’ungry.”
“Sure, b’y,” said Forsyth. “I’ve a biscuit an’ a bit o’ pork.”
“’Ave yer, now?” said Bagg. “Would yer mind giv—”
But his hands were already full. A moment later his mouth was in the same condition.
“How’d you come out here?” said Forsyth.
“Swep’ out,” said Bagg. “I say, mister,” he added, between munches, “which way would yer say my ’ome was from ’ere?”
“Where’s your home?”
“Ruddy Cove,” said Bagg.
“’Tis fifteen mile up the coast.”
“’Ow would you get there quickest if yer ’ad to?”
“We’ll take care o’ you, b’y,” said Forsyth. “We’ll put you t’ Ruddy Cove in a skiff, when the ice goes out. Seems t’ me,” he added, “you must be the boy Ezekiel Rideout took. Isn’t you Ezekiel Rideout’s boy?”
“Bet yer life I am,” said Bagg.
CHAPTER IX
In Which Jimmie Grimm and Billy Topsail, Being Added Up and Called a Man, Are Shipped For St. John’s, With Bill o’ Burnt Bay, Where They Fall In With Archie Armstrong, Sir Archibald’s Son, and Bill o’ Burnt Bay Declines to Insure the “First Venture”
Of course, Donald North, who had been ferryman to his father, had no foolishly romantic idea of his experience on that pan of ice; nor had Jimmie Grimm, nor had Billy Topsail. Donald North would not have called it an adventure, nor himself a hero; he would have said, without any affectation of modesty, “Oh, that was jus’ a little mess!” The thing had come in the course of the day’s work: that was all. Something had depended upon him, and, greatly to his elation, he had “made good.” It was no more to him than a hard tackle to a boy of the American towns. Any sound American boy—any boy of healthy courage and clean heart—would doubtless have taken Job North off the drifting floe; and Donald North, for his part, would no doubt have made the tackle and saved the goal—though frightened to a greenish pallor—had he ever been face to face with the necessity. Had he ever survived a football game, he would have thought himself a hero, and perhaps have boasted more than was pleasant; but to have taken a larger chance with his life on a pan of ice was so small and usual a thing as presently to be forgotten.
Newfoundland boys are used to that.
It was still spring at Ruddy Cove—two weeks or more after Bagg came back to his real home—when Donald North’s friends, Billy Topsail and Jimmie Grimm, fell into considerable peril in a gale of wind off the Chunks. Even they—used to such adventures as they were—called it a narrow escape.
“No more o’ that for me,” said Billy Topsail, afterwards.
“Nor me,” said Jimmie Grimm.
“You’ll both o’ you take all that comes your way,” Bill o’ Burnt Bay put in, tartly.
It was aboard the First Venture, which Bill o’ Burnt Bay had as master-builder built at Ruddy Cove for himself. She was to be his—she was his—and he loved her from stem to stern. And she was his because Sir Archibald Armstrong, the great St. John’s merchant and ship-owner, had advanced the money to build her in recognition of Skipper Bill’s courageous rescue of Archie Armstrong, Sir Archibald’s only son, in a great blizzard, on the sealing voyage of the year before.9 At any rate, the First Venture was Bill’s; and she was now afloat and finished, rigged to the last strand of rope. To say that Skipper Bill was proud of her does not begin to express the way in which he loved her.
“Now, look you, Billy Topsail, and you, too, Jimmie Grimm!” said he, gravely, one day, beckoning the boys near.
The First Venture was lying at anchor in the harbour, ready for her maiden voyage to St. John’s.
“I’m in need of a man aboard this here craft,” Bill o’ Burnt Bay went on; “an’ as there’s none t’ be had in this harbour I’m thinkin’ of addin’ you two boys up an’ callin’ the answer t’ the sum a man.”
“Wisht you would, Skipper Bill,” said Jimmie.
“Two halves makes a whole,” Bill mused, scratching his head in doubt. “Leastwise, so I was teached.”
“They teach it in school,” said Jimmie.
Billy Topsail grinned delightedly.
“Well,” Bill declared, at last, “I’ll take you, no matter what comes of it, for there’s nothing else I can do.”
It wasn’t quite complimentary; but the boys didn’t mind.
When the First Venture made St. John’s it was still early enough in the spring of the year for small craft to be at sea. When she was ready to depart on the return voyage to Ruddy Cove, the days were days of changeable weather, of wind and snow, of fog and rain, of unseasonable intervals of quiet sunshine. The predictions of the wiseacres were not to be trusted; and, at any rate, every forecast was made with a wag of the head that implied a large mental reservation. At sea it was better to proceed with caution. To be prepared for emergencies—to expect the worst and to be ready for it—was the part of plain common sense. And Skipper Bill o’ Burnt Bay was well aware of this.
The First Venture lay in dock at St. John’s. She was loaded for Ruddy Cove and the ports beyond. Skipper Bill had launched himself as a coastwise skipper—master of the stout First Venture, carrying freight to the northern settlements at a fair rate for all comers. The hold was full to the deck; and the deck itself was cumbered with casks and cases, all lashed fast in anticipation of a rough voyage. It was a miscellaneous cargo: flour, beef, powder and shot, molasses, kerosene, clothing—such necessities, in short, as the various merchants to whom the cargo was consigned could dispose of to the people of the coast, and such simple comforts as the people could afford.
She was a trim and stout little fore-and-aft schooner of fifty tons burthen. The viewers had awarded the government bounty without a quibble. Old John Hulton, the chief of them—a terror to the slipshod master-builders—had frankly said that she was an honest little craft from bowsprit to taffrail. The newspapers had complimented Bill o’ Burnt Bay, her builder, in black and white which could not be disputed. They had even called Skipper Bill “one of the honest master-builders of the outports.” Nor had they forgotten to add the hope that “in the hands of Skipper William, builder and master, the new craft will have many and prosperous voyages.” By this praise, of course, Skipper Bill was made to glow from head to foot with happy gratification.
All the First Venture wanted was a fair wind out.
“She can leg it, sir,” Skipper Bill said to Sir Archibald, running his eyes over the tall, trim spars of the new craft; “an’ once she gets t’ sea she’s got ballast enough t’ stand up to a sousing breeze. With any sort o’ civil weather she ought t’ make Ruddy Cove in five days.”
“I’d not drive her too hard,” said Sir Archibald, who had come down to look at the new schooner for a purpose.
Bill o’ Burnt Bay looked up in amazement. This from the hard-sailing Sir Archibald!
“Not too hard,” Sir Archibald repeated.
Skipper Bill laughed.
“I’m sure,” said Sir Archibald, “that Mrs. William had rather have you come safe than unexpected. Be modest, Skipper Bill, and reef the Ventur
e when she howls for mercy.”
“I’ll bargain t’ reef her, sir,” Bill replied, “when I thinks you would yourself.”
“Oh, come, skipper!” Sir Archibald laughed.
Bill o’ Burnt Bay roared like the lusty sea-dog he was.
“I’ve good reason for wishing you to go cautiously,” said Sir Archibald, gravely.
Bill looked up with interest.
“You’ve settled at Ruddy Cove, skipper?”
“Ay, sir,” Bill answered. “I moved the wife t’ Ruddy Cove when I undertook t’ build the Venture.”
“I’m thinking of sending Archie down to spend the summer,” said Sir Archibald.
Bill o’ Burnt Bay beamed largely and delightedly.
“Do you think,” Sir Archibald went on, with a little grin, “that Mrs. Skipper William would care to take him in?”
“Care?” Skipper Bill exclaimed. “Why, sir, ’twould be as good as takin’ her a stick o’ peppermint.”
“He’ll come aboard this afternoon,” said Sir Archibald.
“He’ll be second mate o’ the Venture,” Bill declared.
“Skipper,” said Sir Archibald, presently, “you’ll be wanting this craft insured, I suppose?”
“Well, no, sir,” Bill drawled.
Sir Archibald frowned. “No trouble for me to take the papers out for you,” said he.
“You see, sir,” Bill explained, “I was allowin’ t’ save that there insurance money.”
“Penny wise and pound foolish,” said Sir Archibald.
“Oh,” drawled Skipper Bill, “I’ll manage t’ get her t’ Ruddy Cove well enough. Anyhow,” he added, “’twon’t be wind nor sea that will wreck my schooner.”
“As you will,” said Sir Archibald, shortly; “the craft’s yours.”
Archie Armstrong came aboard that afternoon—followed by two porters and two trunks. He was Sir Archibald’s son; there was no doubt about that: a fine, hardy lad—robust, straight, agile, alert, with his head carried high; merry, quick-minded, ready-tongued, fearless in wind and high sea. His hair was tawny, his eyes blue and wide and clear, his face broad and good-humoured. He was something of a small dandy, too, as the two porters and the two trunks might have explained. The cut of his coat, the knot in his cravat, the polish on his boots, the set of his knickerbockers, were always matters of deep concern to him. But this did not interfere with his friendship with Billy Topsail, the outport boy. That friendship had been formed in times of peril and hardship, when a boy was a boy, and clothes had had nothing to say in the matter.
Archie bounded up the gangplank, crossed the deck in three leaps and stuck his head into the forecastle.
“Ahoy, Billy Topsail!” he roared.
“Ahoy, yourself!” Billy shouted. “Come below, Archie, an’ take a look at Jimmie Grimm.”
Jimmie Grimm was at once taken into the company of friends.
CHAPTER X
In Which the Cook Smells Smoke, and the “First Venture” In a Gale of Wind Off the Chunks, Comes Into Still Graver Peril, Which Billy Topsail Discovers
Skipper Bill o’ Burnt Bay got the First Venture under way at dawn of the next day. It was blowing a stiff breeze. A fine, fresh wind was romping fair to the northwest, where, far off, Ruddy Cove lay and Mrs. Skipper William waited.
“I ’low,” Skipper Bill mused, as the schooner slipped through the narrows, “that that there insurance wouldn’t o’ done much harm anyhow.”
There was an abrupt change of weather. It came without warning; and there was no hint of apology to the skipper of the First Venture. When the schooner was still to the s’uth’ard of the dangerous Chunks, but approaching them, she was beating laboriously into a violent and capricious head wind. Bill o’ Burnt Bay, giving heed to Sir Archibald’s injunction, kept her well off the group of barren islands. They were mere rocks, scattered widely. Some of them showed their forbidding heads to passing craft; others were submerged, as though lying in wait. It would be well to sight them, he knew, that he might better lay his course; but he was bound that no lurking rock should “pick up” his ship.
“Somehow or other,” he thought, “I wisht I had took out that there insurance.”
At dusk it began to snow. What with this thick, blinding cloud driving past, shrouding the face of the sea, and what with the tumultuous waves breaking over her, and what with the roaring gale drowning her lee rail, the First Venture was having a rough time of it. Skipper Bill, with his hands on the wheel, had the very satisfactory impression, for which he is not to be blamed, that he was “a man.” But when, at last, the First Venture began to howl for mercy in no uncertain way, he did not hesitate to waive the wild joy of “driving” for the satisfaction of keeping his spars in the sockets.
“Better call the hands, Tom!” he shouted to the first hand. “We’ll reef her.”
Tom put his head into the forecastle. The fire in the little round stove was roaring lustily; and the swinging lamp filled the narrow place with warm light.
“Out with you, lads!” Tom cried. “All hands on deck t’ reef the mains’l!”
Up they tumbled; and up tumbled Archie Armstrong, and up tumbled Jimmie Grimm, and up tumbled Billy Topsail.
“Blowin’ some,” thought Archie. “Great sailin’ breeze. What’s he reefin’ for?”
The great sail was obstinate. Ease the schooner as Skipper Bill would, it was still hard for his crew of two men, three lads and a cook to grasp and confine the canvas. Meantime, the schooner lurched along, tossing her head, digging her nose into the frothy waves. A cask on the after deck broke its lashings, pursued a mad and devastating career fore and aft, and at last went spinning into the sea. Skipper Bill devoutly hoped that nothing else would get loose above or below. He cast an apprehensive glance into the darkening cloud of snow ahead. There was no promise to be descried. And to leeward the first islands of the Chunks, which had been sighted an hour ago, had disappeared in the night.
“Lively with that mains’l, lads!” Skipper Bill shouted, lifting his voice above the wind. “We’ll reef the fores’l!”
The crew had been intent upon the task in hand. Not a man had yet smelled smoke. And they continued to wrestle with the obstinate sail, each wishing, heartily enough, to get the dirty-weather job well done, and to return to the comfort of the forecastle. It was the cook who first paused to sniff—to sniff again—and to fancy he smelled smoke. But a gust of wind at that moment bellied his fold of the sail, and he forgot the dawning suspicion in an immediate tussle to reduce the disordered canvas. A few minutes more of desperate work and the mainsail was securely reefed; but these were supremely momentous intervals, during which the fate of the First Venture was determined.
“All stowed, sir!” Archie Armstrong shouted to the skipper.
“Get at that fores’l, then!” was the order.
With the customary, “Ay, ay, sir!” shouted cheerily, in the manner of good men and willing lads, the crew ran forward.
Skipper Bill remembers that the cook tripped and went sprawling into the lee scupper; and that he scrambled out of the water with a laugh.
It was the last laugh aboard the First Venture; for the condition of the schooner was then instantly discovered.
“Fire!” screamed Billy Topsail.
The First Venture was all ablaze forward.
CHAPTER XI
In Which the “First Venture” All Ablaze Forward, Is Headed For the Rocks and Breakers of the Chunks, While Bill o’ Burnt Bay and His Crew Wait for the Explosion of the Powder in Her Hold. In Which, Also, a Rope Is Put to Good Use
“Fire!”
A cloud of smoke broke from the forecastle and was swept off by the wind. A tongue of red flame flashed upward and expired. Skipper Bill did not need the cries of terror and warning to inform him. The First Venture was afire! And she was not only afire; she was off the Chunks in a gale of wind and snow.
“Aft, here, one o’ you!”
When Billy Topsail took the wheel, the skipper plun
ged into the forecastle. It was a desperate intention. He was back in a moment, singed and gasping. But in that interval he had made out that the forecastle stove, in some violent lurch of the schooner, had broken loose, and had been bandied about, distributing red coals in every part. He had made out, moreover, that the situation of the schooner was infinitely perilous, if not, indeed, quite beyond hope. The forecastle was all ablaze. In five minutes it would be a furnace.
“We’re lost!” Jimmie Grimm cried, staring at the frothy waves running past.
“Not yet,” Archie grimly replied.
They were all of heart and strength and ingenuity; and they worked with all their might. But the buckets of water, and the great seas, which Skipper Bill, in desperation, deliberately shipped, made little impression. It was soon evident that the little First Venture was doomed. Meantime, the skipper had brought her before the wind, and she was now flying towards the inhospitable Chunks. The skipper was less concerned for his schooner than for the lives of his crew. The ship was already lost; the crew—well, how could the crew survive the rocks and gigantic breakers of the Chunks?
It was the only hope. No small boat could for a moment live in the sea that was running. The schooner must be beached on the Chunks. There was no other refuge. But how beach her? It was a dark night, with the snow flying thick. Was it possible to sight a black, lowlying rock? There was nothing for it but to drive with the wind in the hope of striking. There were many islands; she might strike one. But would it really be an island, whereon a man might crawl out of reach of the sea? or would it be a rock swept by the breakers? Chance would determine that. Skipper Bill was powerless.
But would she make the Chunks before she was ablaze from stem to stern? Again, the skipper was powerless; he could do no more than give her all the wind that blew.
So he ordered the reefs shaken out—and waited.
“Tom,” said the skipper, presently, to the first hand, “was it you stowed the cargo?”
The Sea-Story Megapack Page 35
