The Adventures of Billy Topsail
Page 31
CHAPTER XXVIII
_In Which Archie Armstrong falls in with Bill o' Burnt Bay and Billy Topsail of Ruddy Cove and Makes a Speech_
THERE is no telling what would have happened had the _Dictator_ struckthe jam of ice in the narrows of Long Tom Harbour. Captain Hand was notthe man to lose half a voyage because there was a risk to be taken; hadhe been used to counting the risk, he would not have been in commandof the finest ship in Armstrong and Son's fine fleet. Rather than belocked in the harbour, he had launched his vessel at the barrier,quietly confident that she would acquit herself well. But, as he hadforeseen, the jam broke of its own weight before the steamer struck. Ofa sudden, it cracked, and gave way; the key blocks had broken. It thenremained only to breast the pack, which was not at all an impossibleundertaking for the stout _Dictator_.
With her rivals following close, she struck the floe, broke a waythrough, and pushed on, with a great noise, but slowly, surely; and shewas soon in the open sea. The course was then shaped northeast, for itappeared that open water lay in that direction. The floe retarded theship's progress, but could not stop it; the ice pans crashed againsther prow and scraped her sides, but she was staunch enough to withstandevery shock; and so, gaining on the rest of the fleet, she crept out tosea, in the teeth of the rising gale.
At two o'clock in the morning, Archie Armstrong was still on the bridgewith the captain and mate. The lights of the fleet were lost in thenight behind. The _Dictator_ had laboured through the first field ofice into open water. The sea was dotted with great, white "pans,"widely scattered; and, as the captain had feared, there were signs ofbergs in the darkness roundabout. The waves were rising, spume crested,on every hand; at intervals, they broke over the bows, port andstarboard, with frightful violence. Gusts of wind whirled the spray tothe bridge, where it soon sheathed men and superstructure in ice.
"Send a lookout aloft, Mr. Ackell," said the captain, after he had longand anxiously peered straight ahead.
The thud of ice, as the seas hurled it against the ship's prows, thehiss and crash of the waves, the screaming of the gale, drowned thecaptain's order.
"Pass the word for Bill o' Burnt Bay!" he roared.
A short, brawny man, of middle age, who had not missed a voyage to theice in twenty years, soon appeared in response to the call, which hadgone from mouth to mouth through the ship. Archie was inclined to smilewhen he observed Bill's unkempt, sandy moustache, which was curiouslygiven an upward twist at one side, and a downward twist at the other.Nevertheless, he was strongly attracted to him; for he looked like aman who could be trusted to the limit of his courage and strength.
"Take a glass t' the nest, b'y, an' look sharp for bergs," the captainordered. "Don't stay up there. Come back an' report t' me here."
The man went off with a brisk, "Ay, ay, sir!" It was his duty toclamber to the crow's-nest--a cask lashed to the topmast just below themasthead--and to sweep the sea for signs of bergs.
"'Tis more than I bargained for, Mr. Ackell," the captain went on, tothe mate, in an anxious undertone, which, however, Archie managed tocatch; and it may be added that the lad's heart jumped into his throat,and had a hard time getting back into place again.
"Dirty weather, sir!" the mate agreed. "I'm thinkin' we're close tosome heavy ice."
"Well," said the captain, after a pause, "keep her head as she pointsnow. I'll have a look 'tween decks."
Archie was tempted to ask the captain "if there was any danger." Thefoolish question was fairly on the tip of his tongue; but his bettersense came to his rescue in time. Danger? Of course, there was! Therewas always danger. He had surely not come on a sealing voyage expectingnone! But catastrophe was not yet inevitable. At any rate, it was thecaptain's duty to sail the ship. He was responsible to the owners, andto the families of the crew; the part of the passenger was but bravelyto meet the fortune that came. So, completely regaining his courage,Archie followed the captain below.
'Tween decks the stout hearts were rollicking still. The working crewhad duty to do, every man of them; but the two hundred hunters, who hadbeen taken along to wield gaff and club, were sprawled in every place,singing, laughing, yarning, scuffling, for all the world like a packof boys: making light of discomfort, and thinking not at all of danger,for the elation of departure still possessed them. Had any misgivingstill remained with Archie, the sight of this jolly, careless crowdof hunters would have quieted it. _They_ were not alarmed. Then, whyshould he be? Doubtless, it was responsibility that made the captainanxious.
In the improvised cabin aft, Ebenezer Bowsprit, of Exploits, wasroaring the "Luck o' the Northern Light," a famous old sealing song,which, no doubt, his grandfather had sung to shipmates upon similaroccasions long ago. Rough, frank faces, broadly smiling, were turnedto him; and when it came time for the chorus, willing voices andmighty lungs swelled it to a volume that put the very gale to shame.The ship was pitching violently--with a nauseating roll occasionallythrown in--and the cabin was crowded and hot and filled with clouds oftobacco smoke; but neither pitch, nor roll, nor heat, nor smoke, couldinterfere with the jollity of the occasion.
"All right here," the captain growled, grinning in his great beard.
"Speech, Sir Archie!" shouted one of the men.
Before Archie could escape--and amid great laughter and uproar andlouder calls for a speech--he was caught by the arm, jerked off hisfeet, and hoisted on the table, where he bumped his head, and, by anespecially violent roll of the vessel, was almost thrown headlong intothe arms of the grinning crowd around him.
"Speech, speech!" they roared.
Archie would have declined with some heat had he not caught sight ofthe face of Tim Tuttle--a tawny, lean, long man, apparently as strongas a wire rope. There was a steely twinkle in his eye, and a sneering,utterly contemptuous smile upon his thin lips. Archie did not know thatthis was Tuttle's habitual expression. He felt that the man expected arather amusing failure on the part of Sir Archibald Armstrong's son;and that stimulated him to take the situation seriously. Unconsciouslycalling his good breeding to his aid, he pulled off his cap, smoothedhis hair, touched his cravat, and--
"Ahem!" he began; as he had heard the governor of the colony do a dozentimes, and as now, to his surprise, he found most inspiring.
"Hear, hear!" burst rapturously from old Ebenezer Bowsprit.
HE WAS NEAR THE END OF THE SIXTEENTH VERSE.]
Ebenezer was in a condition of high delight and expectation. Admirationshone in his eyes, surprise was depicted by his wide opened mouth,bewonderment by his strained attention. The sight of his face was toomuch for Archie.
"Oh, what Tommy-rot!" he laughed. "Here, let me go! I can't (hold meup, or I'll fall) make a speech. ("Hear, hear!" from the awe-strickenEbenezer.) All I got to say is that I'm (_please_ get a better hold onmy legs, or I'll be pitched off) mighty glad to be here. I'm having thebest time of my life, and I expect to have a better one when we strikethe seals. (Loud and prolonged cheering.) I hope----"
But, in the excitement following his last remark, the speaker's supportwas withdrawn, and a pitch of the ship threw him off the table. He wascaught, set on his feet, and clapped on the back. Then he managed toescape with the captain, followed by loud cries of "More! More!" towhich he felt justified in paying no attention.
"You're your father's son," laughed the captain, as they made their wayup the deck. "Sure, your father never in his life let slip a chancet' make a speech."
In the forecastle they had a lad on the table under the lantern--atow-headed, blue-eyed, muscular boy, of Archie's age, or less. He hadon goatskin boots, a jacket of homespun, and a flaring red scarf. Themen were quiet; for the boy was piping, in a clear, quavering treble,the "Song o' the Anchor an' Chain," a Ruddy Cove saga, which goes tothe air of a plaintive West Country ballad of the seventeenth century,with the refrain,
"Sure, the chain 'e parted, An' the schooner drove ashoare, An' the wives o' the 'ands Never saw un any moare. No moare! Ne
ver saw un any mo-o-o-are!"
He was near the end of the sixteenth verse, and the men were drawingbreath for the chorus, when the captain appeared in the door, wrath inhis eyes.
"What's this?" roared he.
There was no answer. The lad turned to face the captain, in partdeferentially, in part humorously, altogether fearlessly.