by Farley Mowat
Fortune’s harbor seemed very small; but small or not, it was jammed with ships. At least twenty schooners lay moored side by side across the upper end, and another dozen lay alongside the wharves. These made up the Fortune banking fleet which would normally have spent the summer on the Grand Banks, dory-fishing for cod. But this spring the harbor had a deserted and abandoned look. There was no sign of life on any of the ships. No sails were bent to their spars. No running rigging stood taut and ready. Decks and upperworks were scruffy with neglect, and paint peeled from rails and planks. It was clear that hard times had come to Fortune as they had to all of Newfoundland.
“I mind the days,” said Jonathan to Peter, who was standing by the rail, “when there was fifty vessels here at the one time. And all busy loadin’ or unloadin’ fish. A man could walk across the harbor on their decks…. Cut off yer bullgine, Kye…. Now, Peter, hop along for’ard and put a line ashore.”
Black Joke kissed gently against the government wharf, and a few moments later she was securely moored for the night. Barnes hastened ashore at once. He had a telegram to send and one that brooked no delay. It was an innocent-looking message. Addressed to the well-known St. Pierre merchant, Jean Gauthier, it read:
EXPECT ME EARLY FRIDAY AFTERNOON WITH AGREED MERCHANDISE HOPE YOU PREPARED RECEIVE SAME PROPERLY–BARNES
Through the night, as the crew of Black Joke slept unaware, this message was being relayed by land-wire to St. John’s, then to Placentia, where the trans-Atlantic underwater cable leaves Newfoundland for St. Pierre en route to Canada. Before dawn on Friday morning it had arrived in St. Pierre, and by breakfast time it was being read by Monsieur Jean Gauthier.
At about the same time that Gauthier was reading the telegram, Jonathan was reporting to the Fortune customs officer and getting his clearance papers for a “foreign-going voyage” to St. Pierre. It was only a formality, but a necessary one. Without proper papers it would have been illegal for him to land at St. Pierre. Jonathan believed in staying within the law, even if he did not always think the law was fair.
By 10:00 A.M. Black Joke was again under way. Overnight the wind had shifted easterly and though it had dropped light, there was still a good sea running. There was also the probability of fog, for an easterly wind often brings heavy fog in from the Grand Banks to blanket the eastern and southeastern coasts of Newfoundland. However, fog was no great threat to Jonathan. He had sailed in fog so often that he had developed a sort of sixth sense which seemed to enable him to find his way about.
They met the fog as they cleared the outer extremity of the Burin Peninsula at Danzic Point and took their departure from the land. It lay off to the southeast, a looming black wall that seemed as solid as stone. Rapidly it drifted down upon them, and before noon it had enveloped the vessel. Thick, wet, and icy-cold, it hung right down to the decks so that Peter, at the wheel, could not even see the sails above his head. Kye, posted as lookout forward, could not see fifteen feet ahead of the bowsprit as he strained his eyes through the curling murk. At intervals of three or four minutes, he pumped the handle of the bellows-driven foghorn. The deep blast of the machine seemed to be swallowed up at once in the dark and roiling mist.
Even Barnes came on deck. He made his way aft, and he seemed uneasy, pacing a few feet back and forward and staring up into the impenetrable fog overhead.
Thinking that the merchant was worrying about his cargo, and mastering his dislike for the man, Jonathan tried to soothe him.
“No call to mind a little fog, Mr. Barnes,” he said conversationally. “We’uns’ll raise the sound of the Green Island horn pretty soon. Still, it’s your cargo and your charter. If ye say the word, we’ll come about and run in under Danzic Head and wait to see will it clear off.”
Barnes shook his head impatiently. “I’m not the man to worry about fog,” he replied shortly. “But you might have to anchor in the Roads outside St. Pierre until it clears. I won’t risk my cargo in the entrance channel in this kind of weather.”
“There’ll be no need to anchor, sorr. The breeze is haulin’ northerly right now. By the time we stands in under the land she’ll have blowed clear; or pretty nigh it anyway.”
Barnes said no more, but his mind was busy. The fog might very well crimp his plans if it remained so thick that Black Joke could approach St. Pierre’s harbor unobserved. On the other hand, a little fog would serve as a useful mask for what was planned. And much as he disliked Jonathan Spence, he had to admit that the man was a truly expert seaman. If he said the fog would be clearing by the time they reached St. Pierre, he was probably correct. Barnes decided to wait and see, but, with so much at stake, he found himself as restless as a cat. The blast of the hand foghorn from the unseen bow of the ship rasped his nerves. Turning on his heel he made his way to the forepeak, where he took a bottle of black rum out of his handbag, pulled out the cork, and raised the bottle to his lips.
Black Joke ghosted on through the fog. Between blasts on their own horn, Jonathan and the two boys strained their ears for the sound of another horn, either that of some unseen ship, or that of the powerful diaphone on Green Island. It was Peter who caught the distant murmur of the Green Island horn first. Cupping his right hand to his ear Jonathan listened for it too, and when it came again–O-o-o-o-o-UMP–he cast a quick glance at the compass and then smiled. “Three points off the port bow,” he said. “Hold her as she goes, lad. We’ll be abeam of the horn in half an hour and then we’ll alter for St. Peter’s.”
Time slipped along. Black Joke altered to her final course, and Kye took the wheel while Peter relieved him as lookout. The light breeze had shifted to northeast and was making up a little. Soon the schooner would be approaching the entrance to St. Pierre’s harbor and Peter, feeling the responsibility of his task, was already straining every nerve to penetrate the murk for a first sight of land.
He was not the only one who was staring out into the thinning fog that Friday afternoon. On the crest of the high hill which rises behind the town of St. Pierre and which commands a good view of the harbor approaches, a dark-faced man was waiting impatiently for the mist to clear enough so that he could use the telescope which lay across his knees. Near the foot of the hill, and within shouting distance of the man on the crest, a second man lay at his ease beside a motorcycle, smoking a cigarette and idly leafing through an old French magazine. From where he lay, a rough track led down to the town, joined the steeply descending streets, and ran on to the harbor side where a powerful but dirty-looking motor vessel, some sixty feet in length, lay with her dual engines gently ticking over. She was one of the fast American rum-runners, and in her wheelhouse Monsieur Gauthier sat nervously sipping a glass of brandy while opposite him the boat’s captain, a big, broad-faced American named Smith, was absently toying with a heavy automatic pistol.
“There must be no possibility of mistaking things, capitain,” said Gauthier in his stilted English. And, with a sideways glance at the pistol, “No monkey’s stuff, you understand, with guns. The officials here are my good friends, but we must not make it difficult for them to be on our side. In New York, no doubt you would do things differently, but here you are in France. I implore you to remember that.”
Smith gave him an amused look.
“You got nothin’ to worry about, Johnny. Just do your own job and I’ll do mine. Soon as I get word from the boys up the hill that the schooner’s comin’, I’m off; and if I can’t outsmart a hillbilly Newfie without usin’ a rod, I’ll quit the game. I’ll make the whole thing look so good even that Newfie skipper’ll end up thinkin’ it was his own damn fault. The fog’s clearin’ off. You better git ashore–unless you wanta come along for the ride.”
Hurriedly Gauthier set down his glass and scrambled to his feet. The last thing he wanted was to be aboard the rum-runner when she put to sea to carry out the plans of his friend, Simon Barnes. He was an organizer, not a doer.
As the Frenchman jumped agilely to the wharf, the American grinned disdainfully. �
�Frogs!” he muttered to his grease-stained engineer who had joined him on deck. “I’d give something to see that character turned loose on the New Jersey waterfront. The boys’d soon slice him up fer crab bait–him and his fancy talk!”
Black Joke was now close enough to the French islands so that her crew could hear the bleat of the foghorn on Galantry Head of St. Pierre. “Keep a sharp lookout, Peter,” Jonathan commanded.
Peter did not need to be reminded of his duty. The fog was thinning and lifting, leaving scattered swirls of mist to obscure the surface of the water. As Peter stared ahead, he saw a darker loom.
“Land off the starboard bow!” he yelled.
“Good lad!” Jonathan shouted back. “That’ll be Colombier Rock. Haul her off to south’ard, Kye, and keep yer eyes skinned for the channel buoy.”
As the schooner closed with the land, the fog continued to fade until the outline of Grand Colombier Rock, six hundred feet high, stood clear and bold. Now the St. Pierre Roads–the open anchorage lying outside the harbor–began to appear. Farther away, and still somewhat obscured by mist, the high hills behind the town could be dimly seen.
“Time to shorten sail; there’s a crooked channel ahead, and we won’t want too much headway on the ship. Get the jumbo off her, Peter, then come and give me a hand with the foresail,” Jonathan commanded.
As Peter brought the jumbo down with a run, Kye spotted the outer channel buoy and headed the ship toward it. Barnes, who had come on deck some time before, was standing in the bow looking fixedly toward the harbor itself.
“Nothin’ to fear now, sorr,” Peter said cheekily as he finished securing the jumbo and started aft to help his father. If Barnes heard the boy, he gave no sign; nor did he relax his attitude of expectation. Suddenly he leaned forward–yes, there was no doubt of it: coming slowly out between the twin piers of the inner harbor, a rakish-looking motor vessel was turning into the seaward channel. Barnes let out his breath as he recognized the rum-runner, then walked quickly aft.
“We’ll have our lines ashore in half an hour,” Jonathan said to Barnes as the merchant came up beside him.
“Maybe you will, Skipper, maybe you will,” Barnes replied noncommittally; and leaving Jonathan to stare in surprise at his back, he moved to the foot of the mainmast and stood braced against it.
“Motor vessel comin’ out the channel, Kye,” Jonathan said. “Keep well over to the starboard side; give him what room he needs.”
The two vessels were approaching each other fairly slowly, both on their own sides of the channel, which was now only a few hundred feet wide.
A sudden spurt of white water at the motorboat’s stern caught Jonathan’s eye. As he watched, the power boat leapt forward under the full thrust of her twin engines. In a few moments she was racing along at fifteen knots and then, quite inexplicably, she altered course directly for Black Joke.
With a single jump Jonathan was at Black Joke’s wheel, roughly pushing Kye aside. The motorboat was coming straight for the schooner’s bow, and unless one of the two ships altered course a collision was inevitable. The action of the motorboat seemed so inexplicable that Jonathan wondered briefly if she had gone out of control–perhaps her steering had failed. He had only seconds to decide what he should do. If he hauled to port, and the other ship then tried to return to her own side of the channel, the consequent collision would be partly Jonathan’s fault. But if he hauled to starboard and ran his ship outside the channel and into the nest of sunken rocks which lay there, he would probably sink her. The third alternative, to hold his course, trusting to the fact that Black Joke, being under sail, had the right of way over the other ship, might prove equally fatal unless the master of the motorboat quickly admitted Black Joke’s rights and swung back to his own side of the channel. It seemed fearfully plain that this was something he had no intention of doing.
There was no time to weigh the odds. The motorboat was holding straight on toward the schooner, and in seconds the two vessels would collide head-on and with disastrous results. Jonathan made his decision. With a shout of warning, he spun the wheel hard over and Black Joke’s bows began to swing to port, toward the center of the channel.
It was as if the master of the motorboat had been waiting for this action (as indeed he had). Having forced the schooner to disobey the rule of keeping to the right, the American now swung his own ship sharply toward mid-channel. Being under power, the motorboat answered to her helm much faster than Black Joke could do. Before Jonathan could counter this move by trying to swing back to starboard, the master of the motor ship had slowed his engines to quarter speed and had deliberately run under the Black Joke’s bow so that the schooner struck a glancing blow just abaft the rum-runner’s wheelhouse. It was neatly done. The motorboat skipper had calculated the angle of impact to a nicety, so that his ship would take no serious damage. Black Joke swept along the rum-runner’s port quarter aft. The schooner’s anchor, catted out over her bow, caught on the rum-runner’s boat davits and tore loose, plunging into the channel with a jolt that released the brake on the windlass and sent ten fathoms of chain running out with a roar. Brought up short by the anchor, Black Joke swung into the wind, her sails flapping wildly, while the motor vessel spun about and headed back at full speed toward the inner harbor, not even pausing to see what damage Black Joke had suffered.
Things had happened so rapidly that neither Peter nor Kye were at all clear as to what had actually occurred; but at Jonathan’s shout of “Get the sail off her. JUMP, you two!” they leapt instinctively to the halyards. Meanwhile Jonathan raced forward and swung himself out on the bobstays (which brace the bowsprit), where he satisfied himself that, apart from two or three splintered planks well above waterline, Black Joke had taken no real damage.
The excitement seemed to be over almost as quickly as it had begun. While the boys furled the sails, Jonathan started the old engine. The chain and anchor were winched aboard, and the ship was under way once more.
Back at the wheel, Jonathan was reminded of the presence of the merchant, who had not moved from his position by the mainmast.
“You hit that poor chap pretty hard,” Barnes said.
Jonathan could not conceal his surprise at the remark.
“Lardy, sorr!” he replied in astonishment. “He run hisself square into me! A proper madman in command, I’d say. We’s lucky not to be swimmin’, with that’un out to sink us like he looked to be.”
“P’raps you might see it that way,” Barnes said, “but to me it looked like you went in the wrong, hauling over to port the way you did.”
Jonathan’s temper, already overstrained by the events of the past half-hour, shot out of control at this.
“Why, ye blind old robber!” he shouted. “In the wrong, was I? And what’d you have done? Hauled off to starboard and put the schooner on the rocks?”
Barnes only smiled coldly before turning his back and going forward to pack his gear.
Jonathan was still fuming when Black Joke entered the inner harbor and came alongside the wharf in front of the customs house. He was surprised to see what looked like a reception committee waiting on the dock. Apart from three uniformed douanes (customs officers), there was also a detachment of gendarmes led by the chef de gendarmerie himself. A score of civilians surrounded these dignitaries, but none of them offered to take Black Joke’s mooring lines when the boys flung them ashore. Kye had to leap to the wharf and make the lines fast himself.
Two of the customs men then came aboard, closely followed by the chief of the gendarmes. Jonathan led the way to the forepeak and, taking his ship’s papers out of the watertight box where he stored his valuables, he presented them to the customs officers, while casting a curious glance at the gendarme. The police did not normally concern themselves with a vessel’s arrival, and already Jonathan was beginning to smell trouble ahead.
The customs men made no difficulty. After a rapid reading of the papers, they excused themselves.
“All seems to
be in order, but you will present yourself to the customs house, please, monsieur le capitain,” said the senior of the two. “The formalities, you understand. Good morning.” They climbed the ladder and disappeared, leaving Jonathan alone with the chef de gendarmerie, an imposing fellow in a most elaborate uniform. He seemed somewhat ill at ease.
“I am informed, Monsieur,” he began, “that there was a little trouble in the channel?”
“Aye,” replied Jonathan indignantly. “Trouble there was. I’ll be takin’ me protest to the harbormaster this very day. And there’s like to be more trouble afore I’m through with that madman who nigh onto sunk my ship.”
The policeman bowed very slightly.
“Monsieur le capitain,” he continued, “I am afraid there will indeed be trouble. Already there is a protest lodged by the master of the other ship, and here is a writ from the judiciairie. Your vessel is under arrest until the matter is settled. You will not attempt to leave port, please? I am sorry. I must tell you, I do not like some of the Yankee people who come here in these times, but they have many friends in St. Pierre. I am not their friend, but I must do my duty. Let us go on deck, please?” He climbed the companion ladder with a worried Jonathan close behind him. One of the gendarmes had come aboard and was busy nailing an official-looking piece of paper to the mainmast.
“This man will stay aboard your ship,” the Chief explained. “I hope he will not make the inconvenience for you.”
Not a little confused by the course of events, Jonathan searched the crowd for Barnes, who, as charterer of the ship, would presumably be involved in any difficulties that had arisen. But Barnes had vanished. He was at that moment sitting in Jean Gauthier’s living room, drinking a glass of neat whiskey and chuckling as he recounted the story of the collision.
