The Sea-Story Megapack

by Jack Williamson

  “I’ve no heart for it,” the skipper growled.

  The clerk’s thin face was white and drawn. His hand trembled, now, as he lifted his glass. Nor had he any heart for it. It had been all very well, at first; it had seemed something like a lark—just a wild lark. The crew, too, had taken it in the spirit of larking—at first. But now that the time was come both forecastle and cabin had turned uneasy and timid.

  In the forecastle, the cook said to the first hand:

  “Wisht I was out o’ this.”

  “Wisht I’d never come in it,” the first hand sighed.

  Their words were in whispers.

  “I ’low,” said the second hand, with a scared glance about, “that the ol’ man will—will do it—the morrow.”

  The three averted their eyes—each from the other’s.

  “I ’low,” the cook gasped.

  Meantime, in the cabin, the clerk, rum now giving him a saucy outlook, said: “’Twill blow half a gale the morrow.”

  “Ay,” said the skipper, uneasily; “an’ there’s like t’ be more than half a gale by the glass.”

  “There’ll be few craft out o’ harbour.”

  “Few craft, Tommy,” said the skipper, drawing a timid hand over his bristling red beard. “I’m not likin’ t’ take the Black Eagle t’ sea.”

  “’Tis like there’ll be fog,” the clerk continued.

  “Ay; ’tis like there’ll be a bit o’ fog.”

  Skipper and clerk helped themselves to another dram of rum. Why was it that Tom Tulk had made them a parting gift? Perhaps Tom Tulk understood the hearts of new-made rascals. At any rate, skipper and clerk, both simple fellows, after all, were presently heartened.

  Tommy Bull laughed.

  “Skipper,” said he, “do you go ashore an’ say you’ll take the Black Eagle t’ sea the morrow, blow high or blow low, fair wind or foul.”

  The skipper looked up in bewilderment.

  “Orders,” the clerk explained, grinning. “Tell ’em you’ve been wigged lively enough by Sir Archibald for lyin’ in harbour.”

  Skipper George laughed in his turn.

  “For’ard, there!” the clerk roared, putting his head out of the cabin. “One o’ you t’ take the skipper ashore!”

  Three fishing-schooners, bound down from the Labrador, had put in for safe berth through a threatening night. And with the skippers of these craft, and with the idle folk ashore, Skipper George foregathered. Dirty weather? (the skipper declared); sure, ’twas dirty weather. But there was no wind on that coast could keep the Black Eagle in harbour. No, sir: no wind that blowed. Skipper George was sick an’ tired o’ bein’ wigged by Sir Archibald Armstrong for lyin’ in harbour. No more wiggin’ for him. No, sir! He’d take the Black Eagle t’ sea in the mornin’? Let it blow high or blow low, fair wind or foul, ’twould be up anchor an’ t’ sea for the Black Eagle at dawn. Wreck her? Well, let her go t’ wreck. Orders was orders. If the Black Eagle happened t’ be picked up by a rock in the fog ’twould be Sir Archibald Armstrong’s business to explain it. As for Skipper George, no man would be able t’ tell him again that he was afraid t’ take his schooner t’ sea. An’ orders was orders, sir. Yes, sir; orders was orders.

  “I’m not likin’ the job o’ takin’ my schooner t’ sea in wind an’ fog,” Skipper George concluded, with a great assumption of indignant courage; “but when I’m told t’ drive her, I’ll drive, an’ let the owner take the consequences.”

  This impressed the Labrador skippers.

  “Small blame t’ you, Skipper George,” one declared, “if you do lose her.”

  Well satisfied with the evidence he had manufactured to sustain the story of wreck, Skipper George returned to the schooner.

  “Well,” he drawled to the clerk, “I got my witnesses. They isn’t a man ashore would put t’ sea the morrow if the weather comes as it promises.”

  The clerk sighed and anxiously frowned. Skipper George, infected by this melancholy and regret—for the skipper loved the trim, fleet-footed, well-found Black Eagle—Skipper George sighed, too.

  “Time t’ turn in, Tommy,” said he.

  The skipper had done a good stroke of business ashore. Sir Archibald had indeed ordered him to “drive” the Black Eagle.

  And in the rising wind of the next day while the Spot Cash lay at anchor in Tilt Cove and Archie’s messages were fleeting over the wire to St. John’s—the Black Eagle was taken to sea. Ashore they advised her skipper to stick to shelter; but the skipper would have none of their warnings. Out went the Black Eagle under shortened sail. The wind rose; a misty rain gathered; fog came in from the far, wide open. But the Black Eagle sped straight out to sea. Beyond the Pony Islands—a barren, out-of-the-way little group of rocks—she beat aimlessly to and fro: now darting away, now approaching. But there was no eye to observe her peculiar behaviour. Before night fell—driven by the gale—she found poor shelter in a seaward cove. Here she hung grimly to her anchorage through the night. Skipper and crew, as morning approached, felt the wind fall and the sea subside.

  Dawn came in a thick fog.

  “What do you make of it, Tommy?” the skipper asked.

  The clerk stared into the mist. “Pony Islands, skipper, sure enough,” said he.

  “Little Pony or Big?”

  In a rift of the mist a stretch of rocky coast lay exposed.

  “Little Pony,” said the clerk.

  “Ay,” the skipper agreed: “an’ ’twas Little Pony, easterly shore,” he added, his voice dwindling away, “that Tom Tulk advised.”

  “An’ about the tenth o’ the month,” Tommy Bull added.

  CHAPTER XXX

  In Which the Fog Thins and the Crew of the “Spot Cash” Fall Foul of a Dark Plot

  Morning came to the Spot Cash, too—morning with a thick mist: morning with a slow-heaving sea and a vanished wind. Bill o’ Burnt Bay looked about—stared in every direction from the listed little schooner—but could find no familiar landmark. They were in some snug harbour, however, of a desolate and uninhabited coast. There were no cottages on the hills; there were no fish-flakes and stages by the waterside. Beyond the tickle—that wide passage through which the schooner had driven in the dark—the sea was heaving darkly under the gray mist. Barren, rugged rock fell to the harbour water; and rocky hills, stripped of verdure by the winds of a thousand years, hid their bald heads in the fog.

  “I don’t know what it is,” said Bill o’ Burnt Bay to the boys; “but I know well enough what it ought t’ be.”

  “’Tis never the Shore,” Billy Topsail declared.

  “I’m ’lowin’,” said Skipper Bill, but yet doubtfully, “that ’tis one o’ the Pony Islands. They lies hereabouts,” he continued, scratching his head, “long about thirty mile off the mainland. We’re on a westerly shore, and that means Islands, for we’ve never come t’ the westerly coast o’ Newfoundland. If I could get a peep at the Bald-head I could tell for certain.”

  The grim landmark called the Bald-head, however—if this were indeed one of the Pony Islands—was in the mist.

  “I’ll lay ’tis the Pony Islands,” Billy Topsail declared again.

  “It may be,” said the skipper.

  “An’ Little Pony, too,” Billy went on. “I mind me now that we sheltered in this harbour in the Fish Killer afore she was lost on Feather’s Folly.”13

  “I ’low ’tis,” Skipper Bill agreed.

  Whether the Pony Islands or not—and whether Big Pony or Little Pony—clearing weather would disclose. Meantime, as Archie Armstrong somewhat tartly pointed out, the Spot Cash was to be looked to. She had gone aground at low tide, it seemed; and she was now floating at anchor, free of the bottom. The butt of her bowsprit had been driven into the forecastle; and the bowsprit itself had gone permanently out of commission. Otherwise she was tight and ready. The practical-minded Archie Armstrong determined, with a laugh, that notwithstanding the loss of a bowsprit the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company would not have to
go out of business for lack of insurance. And after an amazingly hearty and hilarious breakfast, which Bagg, the cook—Bagg was the cook—presently announced, the folk of the Spot Cash went ashore to take observations.

  “We’ll rig a bowsprit o’ some sort,” Bill o’ Burnt Bay remarked, “afore the fog lifts.”

  The fog was already thinning.

  Meantime, on the easterly coast of the Little Pony, the Black Eagle was being warped in towards shore and moored with lines to a low, sheer rock, which served admirably as a landing wharf. The gangplank was run out, the hatches were lifted, the barrows were fetched from below; and all these significant operations were directed in a half-whisper by the rat-eyed little Tommy Bull. Ashore went the fish—ashore by the barrow-load—and into a convenient little gully where the tarpaulins would keep it snug against the weather. Fortune favoured the plan: fog hid the island from the sight of all men. But the faces of the crew grew longer as the work advanced; and the voice of the rat-eyed little clerk fell lower, and his manner turned still more furtive, and his hand began to shake.

  In the cabin the skipper sat, with an inspiring dram, engaged in melancholy and apprehensive brooding. Armstrong & Company had not served him ill, after all (thought he); but, pshaw! The Black Eagle was insured to the hilt and would be small loss to the firm. Well, well! She was a tight little schooner and had many a time taken the evil fall weather with a stout heart. ’Twas a pity to scuttle her. Scuttle her? The skipper had much rather scuttle Tom Tulk! But pshaw! After all ’twould but make more work for Newfoundland ship-builders. Would it never be known? Would the murder never out? Could Tommy Bull and the crew be trusted? The skipper had already begun to fear Tommy Bull and the crew. He had caught himself deferring to the cook.

  To the cook!

  “Pah!” thought the skipper, as he tipped his bottle, “George Rumm knucklin’ down to a cook! A pretty pass t’ come to!”

  Tommy Bull came down the ladder. “Skipper, sir,” said he, “you’d best be on deck.”

  Skipper George went above with the clerk.

  “She’s gettin’ light,” said Tommy Bull.

  At that moment the skipper started. With a hoarse ejaculation leaping from his throat he stared with bulging eyes towards the hills upon which a shaft of sunlight had fallen. Then he gripped Tommy Bull by the arm.

  “Who’s that?” he whispered.

  “What?” the terrified clerk exclaimed. “Who’s what, man? Where—where? What you talkin’ about?”

  The skipper pointed to the patch of sunlight on the hills. “That!” he gasped.

  “’Tis a man!” said the clerk.

  “We’re cotched!” the skipper groaned.

  The rat-like little clerk bared his teeth.

  Bill o’ Burnt Bay and the boys of the Spot Cash had seen what the lifting fog disclosed—the Black Eagle moored to the rocks of the Little Pony and unloading. But they had not fathomed the mystery. A mystery it was, however, and a deep one. To solve it they came down the hill towards the schooner in a body and were presently face to face with skipper and clerk on the deck. The crew went on with the unloading; there was never a hint of hesitation or embarrassment. And the skipper of the Spot Cash was serenely made welcome. Whatever rat-like impulse to bite may have been in the heart of the little clerk, when Bill o’ Burnt Bay came over the crest of the hill, it had now vanished in discreet politeness. There was no occasion for biting. Had there been—had the crew of the Black Eagle been caught in the very act of scuttling the ship—Tommy Bull would no doubt have driven his teeth in deep. Even amateur scoundrels at bay may be highly dangerous antagonists. These were amateur scoundrels, to be sure, and good-hearted in the main; but they were not yet by any means at bay.

  “Jus’ a little leak, Skipper Bill,” Skipper George explained, when Bill o’ Burnt Bay had accounted for his presence in Little Pony. “Sprung it in the gale.”

  “Did you, now?” said Skipper Bill, suspiciously; “’tis lucky we happened along. I’m a bit of a carpenter, meself, an’ I’d—”

  “Not at all!” Skipper George protested, with a large wave of the hand. “Not at all!”

  “’Twould be no trouble—”

  “Not at all!” Skipper George repeated. “Here’s Tommy just found the spot, an’ we’ll plug it in short order.”

  Skipper Bill could ill conceal his suspicion.

  “You’re in trouble yourself with the Spot Cash, says you,” said Skipper George. “We’ll lend you a spar an’ a couple o’ hands t’ set it.”

  “We’ll buy the spar,” Archie put in.

  Skipper George laughed heartily. “Well, well,” said he. “Have it your own way. You make your repairs, an’ I’ll make mine; an’ then we’ll see who’s back t’ the Shore ports first.”

  Archie bethought himself.

  “I’ll lay you,” Skipper George went on, clapping Archie on the back, “that you’ll not find a fish in the harbours where the Black Eagle goes.”

  “You’re ordered home, Skipper George,” said Archie. “I’ve this message from Tilt Cove.”

  Skipper George glanced at the telegram. “Well, well!” said he, blandly; “we’re nigh loaded, anyhow.”

  Archie wondered afterwards why Skipper George had caught his breath and lost some of his colour.

  Presently the crew of the Spot Cash, with two stout hands from the Black Eagle, went over the hills with the spare spar. Skipper George and Tommy Bull made haste to the cabin.

  “Ordered home,” said the skipper, slapping the message on the counter.

  “Forthwith,” Tommy Bull added.

  “There’s more here than appears,” the anxious skipper went on. “Tommy,” said he, gravely, “there’s something back o’ this.”

  The clerk beat a devil’s tattoo in perturbation.

  “There’s more suspected than these words tell,” the skipper declared.

  “’Tis by sheer good luck, Skipper George,” said the clerk, “that we’ve a vessel t’ take home. I tell you, b’y,” said he, flushing with suspicion and rage, “I don’t trust Tom Tulk. He’d sell his mother for a slave for a thousand dollars.”

  “Tom Tulk!” Skipper George exclaimed. “By thunder!” he roared, “Tom Tulk has blowed!”

  For the second time that day the rat-like little clerk of the Black Eagle bared his teeth—now with a little snarl.

  “They’ve no proof,” said the skipper.

  “True,” the clerk agreed; “but they’s as many as two lost jobs aboard this vessel. They’ll be two able-bodied seamen lookin’ for a berth when the Black Eagle makes St. John’s.”

  “Well, Tommy Bull,” said the skipper, with a shrug, “’tis the clerk that makes prices aboard a tradin’ schooner; and ’twill be the clerk that will explain in this particular case.”

  “Huh!” Tommy Bull sneered.

  Next day the Black Eagle, with her fish again aboard, put to sea and sped off on a straight course for St. John’s. Notwithstanding the difficulties in store, clerk and skipper were in good humour with all the world (except Tom Tulk); and the crew was never so light-hearted since the voyage began. But as the day drew along—and as day by day passed—and as the home port and Sir Archibald’s level eyes came ever nearer—the skipper grew troubled. Why should the Black Eagle have been ordered home? Why had Sir Archibald used that mysterious and unusual word “forthwith” with such emphasis? What lay behind the brusque order? Had Tom Tulk played false? Would there be a constable on the wharf? With what would Sir Archibald charge the skipper? Altogether, the skipper of the Black Eagle had never sailed a more disquieting voyage. And when the Black Eagle slipped through the narrows to St. John’s harbour he was like a dog come home for a thrashing.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  In Which the “Spot Cash” is Picked up by Blow-Me-Down Rock In Jolly Harbour, Wreckers Threaten Extinction and the Honour of the Firm Passes into the Keeping of Billy Topsail

  The Spot Cash made for the French Shore with all the speed her heels could co
mmand. The seventh of August! How near it was to the first of September! The firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company, with the skipper and cook, shivered to think of it. Ten more trading days! Not another hour could they afford if the Spot Cash would surely make St. John’s harbour on the specified day. And she would—she must—Archie declared. His honour was involved—the honour of them all—of the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company. Had not Sir Archibald said so?

  So in the harbours of the Shore Bill o’ Burnt Bay once more tussled valiantly with “The Lost Pirate,” and the flags flew, and the phonograph ground out inviting music, and Bobby North shook the hornpipe out of his active toes, and Bagg double-shuffled, and the torches flared, and “Kandy for Kids” and “Don’t be Foolish and Fully Fooled” persuaded the populace, and Signor Fakerino created mystification, and Billy Topsail employed his sweet little pipe most wistfully in the old ballad of the coast:

  “Sure, the chain ’e parted,

  An’ the schooner drove ashore,

  An’ the wives of the ’ands

  Never saw un any more,

  No more!

  Never saw un any mo-o-o-re!”

  It was all to good purpose. Trade was even brisker than in White Bay. Out went the merchandise and in came the fish. Nor did the Spot Cash once leave harbour without a hearty, even wistful, invitation to return. Within seven days, so fast did the fish come aboard, the hold had an appearance of plethora. Jimmie Grimm and Bagg protested that not another quintal of fish could be stowed away. It was fairly time to think of a deck-load. There was still something in the cabin: something to be disposed of—something to turn into fish. And it was Archie who proposed the scheme of riddance.

  “A bargain sale,” said he. “The very thing.”

  “An’ Jolly Harbour’s the place,” said the skipper.

  “Then homeward bound!” shouted Archie.

  They ran into Jolly Harbour on the wings of a brisk southerly wind—and unfortunately in the dusk brought up hard and fast on Blow-Me-Down Rock.