“It was long ago,” David went on. “Long, long ago,” the old man repeated. “It was ’way back in the first half of the last century, for I was little more than a boy then. McLeod was factor at Fort Refuge, a remote post, situated three hundred miles or more to the northeast of Lake Superior, but now abandoned. And a successful, fair-dealing trader he was, but so stern and taciturn as to keep both his helpers and his half-civilized customers in awe of him. It was deep in the wilderness––not the wilderness as you boys know it, where a man might wander night and day without fear of wild beast or savage, but a vast, unexplored place, with dangers lurking everywhere.
“‘Grey,’ he said to me when I reported for duty, fresh from headquarters, ‘if you do your duty by me, I’ll do mine by you.’
“‘I’ll try to,’ said I.
“‘When you know me better,’ said McLeod, with quiet emphasis, ‘you’ll know that I stand by my word.’
“We dealt, of course, with the Indians, who, spring and fall, brought their furs to the fort, and never failed to remain until they had wasted their earnings in the fashion that best pleased their fancy.
“Even then the Indians were degenerate, given 115 over to idleness and debauchery; but they were not so far sunk in these habits as are the dull, lazy fellows who sell you the baskets and beaded moccasins that the squaws make to-day. They were superstitious, malicious, revengeful, and they were almost in a condition of savagery, for the only law they knew was the law our guns enforced. Some authority was vested in the factor, and he was not slow to exert it when a flagrant offense was committed near by.
“‘There’s no band of Indians in these parts,’ I was told, ‘that can scare McLeod. He’ll see justice done for and against them as between man and man.’
“Fort Refuge was set in a wide clearing. It was built of logs and surrounded by a high, stout stockade. Admittance to the yard was by a great gate, which was closed promptly at sundown, and always strongly barred. We had no garrison regularly stationed there to defend us. In all, it may be, we could muster nine men––McLeod, two clerks, and a number of stout fellows who helped handle the stores. Moreover, were our gate to be closed and our fort surrounded by a hostile force, we should be utterly cut off from communication with those quarters 116 whence relief might come. We had the company’s wares to guard, and we knew that once we were overcome, whatever the object of the attack, the wares and our lives would be lost together.
“‘But we can stand a long siege,’ I used to think; and indeed there was good ground for comfort in that.
“Our stockade was impregnable to an attack by force, no doubt; but as it soon appeared, it was no more than a paper ribbon before the wily strategy of the Indians. One night, when I had shut the gates and dropped the bars, I heard a long-drawn cry––a scream, in which it was not hard to detect the quality of terror and great stress. It came, as I thought, from the edge of the forest. When it was repeated, near at hand, my heart went to my mouth, for I knew that a band of Indians was encamped beyond, and had been carousing for a week past. Then came a knocking at the gate––a desperate pounding and kicking.
“‘Let me in! Open! Open!’ I heard a man cry.
“I had my hands on the bar to lift it and throw open the gate when McLeod came out of his house. 117
“‘Stop!’ he shouted.
“I withdrew from the gate. He approached, waved me back, and put his own hand on the bar.
“‘Who’s there?’ he asked.
“‘Let me in, McLeod. It’s Landley. Quick! Open the gate, or I’ll be killed!’
“McLeod’s hesitation vanished. He opened the gate. A man stumbled in. Then the gate was shut with a bang.
“‘What’s this about, Landley?’ McLeod said, sternly. ‘What trouble have you got yourself into now?’
“I knew Landley for a white man who had abandoned himself to a shiftless, vicious life with the Indians. He had sunk lower, even, than they. He was an evil, worthless, ragged fellow, despised within the fort and respected nowhere. But while he stood there, gasping and terror-stricken, I pitied him; and it may be McLeod himself was stirred by the mere kinship of colour.
“‘Speak up, man!’ he commanded. ‘What have you done?’
“‘I’ve done no wrong,’ Landley whimpered. ‘Buffalo Horn’s young son has died, and they put the blame on me. They say I’ve cast the 118 evil eye on him. They say I killed him with a spell. You know me, McLeod. You know I haven’t got the evil eye. Don’t turn me out, man. They’re coming to kill me. Don’t give me up. You know I’m not blood-guilty. You know me. You know I haven’t got the evil eye.’
“‘Tush, man!’ said McLeod. ‘Is that all the trouble?’
“‘That’s all!’ Landley cried. ‘I’ve done no harm. Don’t give me up to them.’
“‘I won’t,’ McLeod said, positively. ‘You’re safe here until they prove you blood-guilty. I’ll not give you up.’”
Old David Grey paused; and Jimmie demanded:
“Did they give un up?”
“Was they wild Indians?” Bagg gasped.
David laughed. “You just wait and see,” said he.
Billy Topsail’s reasons were no doubt connected with an encounter with a gigantic devil-fish at Birds’ Nest Islands, as related in “The Adventures of Billy Topsail.”
In Which There Are Too Many Knocks At the Gate, a Stratagem Is Successful, Red Feather Draws a Tomahawk, and an Indian Girl Appears On the Scene
“McLeod turned on his heel and went to the shop,” David continued; “and when he had ordered a watch to be kept on the clearing on all sides, we devoted ourselves to the matter in hand––the preparation of the regular quarterly statement for the officials at headquarters. But as we laboured, hatchets, knives and the cruel, evil faces of the savages, by whom, as I chose to think, we were threatened, mixed themselves with the figures, to my bewilderment.
“Soon the dusk came, and while I trimmed and lighted the candles in the shadowy outer room there seemed to be shapes in the corners which I had never seen there in quieter times. McLeod, however, was unperturbed. He had forgotten all about the numerous band which he stood ready to defy.
“‘Do you think there is danger?’ said I. 120
“‘Danger?’ said he. ‘From what?’
“‘Buffalo Horn’s band,’ said I.
“‘Nonsense!’ said he. ‘What is that last total? There seems to be a shilling and sixpence missing here.’
“At that moment one of the helpers came in. He was visibly excited––like a man who bears tidings.
“‘Red Feather is at the gate,’ he said.
“‘Is he alone?’ said McLeod.
“‘Yes, sir. We made sure of that.’
“‘Fetch him here,’ said the factor, calmly. ‘Take Tom and Tobias to the gate, and don’t let Red Feather hold it open.’
“Red Feather was soon brought in. He was the chief of the band, an old, crafty Indian, chief in name, but inferior in authority to Buffalo Horn, who was chief in fact. McLeod continued his work.
“‘Let us talk,’ said Red Feather, at last.
“He spoke in his own tongue, which I shall interpret freely for you. McLeod put his pen aside and faced about.
“‘What have we to talk about?’ he asked. ‘The trading is done. You have your supplies. There is no business between us.’ 121
“‘We have the white man to talk about,’ said Red Feather. ‘He has killed a child of our tribe, and you have given him refuge here. He has killed the son of Buffalo Horn with the evil eye. He must be put to death.’
“‘I know this man,’ said McLeod. ‘He has not the evil eye. He has killed no man, and he shall not be given up.’
“‘His life is forfeit to the tribe.’
“‘His life is in my keeping. I have said that he shall not lose it. Am I the man to break my word?’
“‘You have kept your word between us,’ said Red Feather. ‘You are not the man to break your word.’
“‘What business, then, lies between us? Our talk is done.’
“The guard at the gate interrupted. ‘There is a man knocking at the gate,’ he said.
“‘It is my brother,’ said Red Feather. ‘He comes to join the talk. Let him in.’
“‘Open the gate,’ said McLeod.
“It was growing dark. I went with the guard to admit the brother of Red Feather. Dusk had fallen over the clearing. The sky was overcast; in half an hour it would be deep night, 122 the clearing one with the forest. But we opened the gate. A tall Indian stalked in. He was alone, and I knew him for the brother of Red Feather. I followed him to the shop, making sure first that the bar was in place.
“‘Let us have the white man,’ he said to McLeod. ‘Let the peace between us continue.’
“McLeod perceived the threat. He was not a rash man. He had no wish to provoke a conflict, but he had no thought of surrendering the refugee. As for me, my trust was in the stockade.
“‘I will talk with the white man,’ he said.
“The factor was gone for half an hour. He secreted Landley, inspected the defenses, gathered the women and children in the blockhouse, and returned to the council.
“‘The white man is not blood-guilty,’ he said, proudly. ‘I have promised him protection and he shall have it.’
“Again the helper came. ‘There is another knock at the gate,’ said he.
“‘Who is there?’ said McLeod.
“‘It’s so dark I can’t see,’ said the helper.
“‘The man is my cousin,’ said Red Feather. ‘He has come to talk with us. Let him in, for he is a wise man and may help us.’ 123
“‘Open the gate,’ said McLeod.
“We sat silent, waiting for the cousin of Red Feather, the wise man who might help us. I heard the rattle of the bar as the helper lifted it, then the creak of the gate. Then a furious outcry, a confusion of howls and screams, a war-whoop and a rush of feet. The Indians were within the stockade. A moment later they burst into the shop and advanced upon us, uttering blood-curdling whoops and brandishing their hatchets and knives. McLeod reached for the musket above the desk, but before his fingers touched it Red Feather caught him by the arms, and with the help of the brother made him prisoner. At the same instant I was secured.
“‘Let us strike! Let us strike!’ the Indians kept shouting, all the while dancing about us, flourishing their weapons.
“The danger was real and terrible. We were at the mercy of the band, and at that moment I did not doubt that they were bent on murder and pillage. There had been a cruel massacre at Fort Pine but a few months before. The story was fresh in my mind. That crime had gone unpunished; nor was it likely that a 124 sufficient force would be sent west to give the band their due. There was nothing now to deter Red Feather’s men from committing a similar outrage. We were remote from our kind, on the edge of a wilderness into which escape was a simple matter. Our guns, as I have said, had been our law and defense, and we were now utterly in the power of our enemies.
“‘Let us strike! Let us strike!’ was the cry.
“Buffalo Horn had come in with the band. It was soon evident that to the restraining influence of his presence was due our respite. He waved his braves back. They withdrew and became quiet.
“‘Will you give the murderer of my child to our tribe?’ the chief said to McLeod.
“‘He is no longer mine to give,’ said the factor.
“‘Will you give him to us in peace and forget that he has gone with us?’
“McLeod was still in the grasp of Red Feather and his brother. Buffalo Horn was facing him. Behind the chief, awaiting his signal, was the band, with knives and hatchets in hand.
“‘No,’ said McLeod.
“The tumult was renewed. The Indians advanced, threatening the factor with their weapons and crying out for his death. But McLeod was not to be terrified.
“‘Let us take the white man,’ said Buffalo Horn, lifting his hand for silence. ‘We have no quarrel with you. Let all be as it was.’
“‘No,’ said McLeod. ‘I will never consent to his murder.’
“‘Let us take him.’
“‘I said I wouldn’t,’ said McLeod, ‘and I won’t.’
“It seemed to me that the end had come. Buffalo Horn looked steadily into McLeod’s eyes. McLeod gave him glance for glance. He was ready to die for the word he had passed. The Indian hesitated. It may be that he did not want to precipitate the slaughter. Then he turned, as if to give the signal. Before his hand was raised, however, the daughter of the Indian interpreter of the post pushed her way through the band of braves and stood before their chief.
“‘Listen,’ said she. ‘Have you come to rob the great company of its goods?’
“‘No,’ said Buffalo Horn. ‘We have no quarrel with the great company.’ 127
“She was a slip of a girl, to whom, in sickness and in health, McLeod had been unfailingly kind. She knew no fear, and in intelligence she was superior to all the other women of her race I have known.
“‘Have you come to take the life of this man?’ she went on, moving closer to Buffalo Horn, and looking deep into his eyes.
“‘No,’ said the chief, ‘we have no quarrel with this man. He is a good man, but he will not deliver the murderer of my child.’
“‘Will you take his life because of that?’
“‘No; we will take his life because he will betray our part in the death of the white man whom he has tried to shelter.’
“‘There are others who might betray you.’
“‘And their lives, also,’ said Buffalo Horn, composedly.
“All that had been implied was now expressed. He was to massacre us all to shield his tribe from the punishment that might follow the discovery of his revenge.
“‘You will lay waste the fort,’ said the interpreter’s daughter, ‘but will the ruins not accuse you to the great company which this man serves?’ 128
“‘We will be far away.’
“‘And will you never care to return to the grounds you have hunted from childhood?’
“To this Buffalo Horn made no reply. He looked at the floor, his arms folded, and he was silent for a long time.
“‘This man,’ said the girl, touching McLeod on the shoulder, ‘has dealt fairly by you. He has kept his faith with you. He said that he would provide you with food through the hard seasons. Has he not done so?’
“‘He has kept faith with us,’ said the chief. ‘Therefore he is a good man.’
“‘He is a good man because he has kept faith with you,’ the girl said, eagerly. ‘Would you, then, have him break faith with some other? He has said to the white man, “I will not give you up.” Would you have him break the word he has passed? For if he breaks it once, will he not break it again? If he should yield up the white man, what security would you have that he would provide for you through the next hard season?’
“‘He keeps his word,’ said Buffalo Horn. ‘He is a good man.’
“He made a sign to Red Feather to release 129 McLeod. Then he gathered his braves about him, and stalking solemnly at their head, led them out of the shop, over the courtyard and through the gate. We were left alone.
“‘Leave the gate open, Tobias,’ said McLeod. ‘Come, boy,’ to me, ‘let us get to work on the quarterly statement again. This interruption came at an awkward time. We’ll have to make up for it.’”
That was the end of David’s story.
In Which Jimmie Grimm and Master Bagg Are Overtaken by the Black Fog in the Open Sea and Lose the Way Home While a Gale is Brewing
Jimmie Grimm and Bagg, returning from Birds’ Nest Islands, were caught by the black fog in the open sea. It had been lowering all day. Dull clouds had hung in the sky since early morning and had kept the waters of the sea sombre. There was no wind––not the faintest breath or sigh. The harbour water was still; and the open––beyond the tickle rocks––was without a ripple or hint of ground swell. A thick, gray mist crept out from the hills, late in the afternoon, and presently obscured the shore. Jimmie and Bagg were then off Mad Mull. Two miles of flat sea and windless space lay between the punt and the harbour.
“Goin’ t’ be thick as mud,” Jimmie grumbled.
“Wisht we was more inshore,” said Bagg, anxiously.
At dusk the fog was so thick that every landmark had been blotted from sight. 131
“Is you able t’ see Mad Mull?” Jimmie demanded.
“I is not,” said Bagg.
Mad Mull was lost in the fog. It was the last landmark. The tickle rocks, through which a passage leads to the harbour, had long ago vanished.
“Wisht we was home,” said Bagg.
“Don’t you go an’ get scared, Bagg,” Jimmie laughed. “Never you fear. I’ll take you home.”
It was hot, dark and damp––a breathless evening. There was a menace in the still air and heat. A roll of thunder sounded from the northeast.
“I ’low ’twill blow afore long,” said Jimmie.
“’Urry up,” said Bagg.
Jimmie put a little more strength into the rowing. The punt moved faster, but not fast enough to please Bagg, who was terrified by the fog, the thunder and the still, black water.
“Never you fear,” Jimmie grumbled; “you’ll get home afore the wind comes.”
Bagg wasn’t so sure of that.
“An’ it will come,” Jimmie reflected. “I can fair feel it on the way.” 132
Jimmie pulled doggedly. Occasionally a rumble of thunder came out of the northeast to enliven his strokes. There was no wind, however, as yet, except, perhaps, an adverse stirring of the air––the first hint of a gale. On and on crept the punt. There was no lessening of the heat. Jimmie and Bagg fairly gasped. They fancied it had never been so hot before. But Jimmie did not weaken at the oars; he was stout-hearted and used to labour, and the punt did not lag. On they went through the mist without a mark to guide them. Roundabout was a wall of darkening fog. It hid the whole world.
“Must be gettin’ close inshore,” said Jimmie, at last, while he rested on his oars, quite bewildered.
“What you stoppin’ for?” Bagg demanded.
“Seems t’ me,” said Jimmie, scratching his head in a puzzled way, “that we ought t’ be in the tickle by this time.”
It was evident, however, that they were not in the tickle.[4] There was no sign of the rocks on either hand. Jimmie gazed about him in every direction for a moment. He saw nothing except 133 a circle of black water about the boat. Beyond was the black wall of fog.
“Wonderful queer,” thought he, as he dipped his oars in the water again; “but I ’low we ought t’ be in the harbour.”
There was a louder clap of thunder.
“We’ll have that wind afore long,” mused Jimmie.
“You ’aven’t gone an’ lost your way, ’ave you?” Bagg inquired in a frightened voice.
“Wonderful queer,” Jimmie replied. “We ought t’ be in the harbour by this time. I ’low maybe I been pullin’ too far t’ the nor’east.”
“No, you ’aven’t,” said Bagg; “you been pullin’ too far t’ the sou’east.”
“I ’low not,” mused Jimmie.
“’Ave, too,” Bagg sniffed.
Jimmie was not quite sure, after all. He wavered. Something seemed to be wrong. It didn’t feel right. Some homing instinct told him that the tickle rocks did not lie in the direction in which the bow of the punt pointed. In fact, the whole thing was queer––very queer! But he had not pulled too far to the southeast; he was sure of that. Perhaps, too far to the northeast. He determined to change his course. 134
“Now, Bagg,” said he, confidently, “I’ll take you into harbour.”
A clap of thunder––sounding near at hand––urged the boy on.
“Wisht you would,” Bagg whimpered.
Jimmie turned the boat’s head. He wondered if he had turned far enough. Then he fancied he had turned too far. Why, of course, thought he, he had turned too far! He swerved again towards the original direction. This, however, did not feel just right. Again he changed the course of the boat. He wondered if the harbour lay ahead. Or was it the open sea? Was he pulling straight out from shore? Would the big wind catch the little punt out of harbour?
“How’s she headin’ now?” he asked Bagg.
“You turned too far,” said Bagg.
“Not far enough,” said Jimmie.
Jimmie rowed doggedly on the course of his choosing for half an hour or more without developing anything to give him a clue to their whereabouts. Night added to the obscurity. They might have been on a shoreless waste of water for all that they were able to see. The mist made the night impenetrable. Jimmie could but dimly distinguish Bagg’s form, although he 135 sat not more than five feet from him; soon he could not see him at all. At last he lifted his oars and looked over the bow.
“I don’t know where we is,” he said.
“No more do I,” Bagg sobbed.
“I ’low we’re lost,” Jimmie admitted.
Just then the first gust of wind rippled the water around the boat and went whistling into the mist.
A “tickle” is a narrow passage of water between two islands. It is also (as here used) a narrow passage leading into harbour.
In Which it Appears to Jimmie Grimm and Master Bagg That Sixty Seconds Sometimes Make More Than a Minute
Ruddy Cove is deep––vastly deep––except in one part. That is in Burnt Cove within the harbour. There at low tide it is shallow. Rocks protrude from the water––dripping and covered with a slimy seaweed. And Burnt Cove lies near the tickle to the sea. You pass between the tickle rocks, bear sharply to the right and are presently in the cove. It is a big expanse, snugly sheltered; and it shallows so slowly that there are many acres of quiet water in which the little fellows of Ruddy Cove learn to swim.
Ezekiel Rideout’s cottage was by Burnt Cove; and Bagg wished most heartily that he were there.
But Bagg was at sea. And the punt was a small one. It was not Jimmie Grimm’s fishing 137 punt; it was a shallow little rodney, which Jimmie’s father used for going about in when the ice and seals were off the coast. It was so small and light that it could be carried over the pans of ice from one lane of open water to another. And being small and light it was cranky. It was no rough weather boat; nor was it a boat to move very much about in, as both boys were quite well aware.
Bagg heard Jimmie’s oars rattle in the row-locks and the blades strike the water. The boat moved forward. Jimmie began to row with all his strength––almost angrily. It was plain that he was losing his temper. And not only did he lose his temper; he had grown tired before he regained it.
“Here, Bagg,” said he; “you have a go at it.”
“I’ll ’ave a try,” Bagg agreed.
Jimmie let the oars swing to the side and Bagg made ready to steady the little boat. Bagg heard him rise. The boat rocked a little.
“Steady!” Bagg gasped.
“Steady, yourself!” Jimmie retorted. “Think I don’t know how t’ get around in a rodney?”
It was now so dark, what with night and fog, that Bagg could not see Jimmie. But presently 138 he understood that Jimmie was on his feet waiting for him to rise in his turn. They were to exchange places. Bagg got to his feet, and, with all the caution he could command, advanced a step, stretching out his hands as he did so. But Bagg had not been born on the coast and was not yet master of himself in a boat. He swayed to the left––fairly lurched.
“Have a care!” Jimmie scolded.
Have you never, in deep darkness, suddenly felt a loss of power to keep your equilibrium? You open your eyes to their widest. Nothing is to be seen. You have no longer a sense of perpendicularity. You sway this way and that, groping for something to keep you from falling. And that is just what happened to Bagg. He was at best shaky on his legs in a boat; and now, in darkness and fear, his whole mind was fixed on finding something to grasp with his hands.
“Is you ready?” asked Jimmie.
“Uh-huh!” Bagg gasped.
“Come on,” said Jimmie; “but mind what you’re about.”
Bagg made a step forward. Again the boat rocked; again the darkness confused him, and 139 he had to stop to regain his balance. In the pause it struck him with unpleasant force that he could not swim. He was sure, moreover, that the boat would sink if she filled. He wished he had not thought of that. A third half-crawling advance brought him within reach of Jimmie. He caught Jimmie’s outstretched hand and drew himself forward until they were very close.
“Look out!” he cried.
He had crept too far to the right. The boat listed alarmingly. They caught each other about the middle, and crouched down, waiting, rigid, until she had come to an even keel.
Presently they were ready to pass each other.
“Now,” said Jimmie.
Bagg made the attempt to pass him. The foothold was uncertain; the darkness was confusing. He moved to the side, but so great was his agitation that he miscalculated, and the boat tipped suddenly under his weight. The water swept over the gunwale. Bagg would have fallen bodily from the punt had it not been for Jimmie’s clutch on his arm. In the light they might have steadied themselves; in the dark they could not.
Jimmie drew Bagg back––but too hurriedly, 140 too strongly, too far. The side of the boat over which he had almost fallen leaped high in the air and the opposite gunwale was submerged. Jimmie released him, and Bagg collapsed into a sitting posture in the bottom. Instinctively he grasped the gunwales and frantically tried to right the boat. He felt the water slowly curling over.
“She’s goin’ down,” said Jimmie.
“Sinkin’!” Bagg sobbed.
The boat sank very slowly, gently swaying from side to side. Bagg and Jimmie could see nothing, and all they could hear was the gurgle and hissing of the water as it curled over the gunwales and eddied in the bottom of the boat. Bagg felt the water rise over his legs––creep to his waist––rise to his chest––and still ascend. Through those seconds he was incapable of action. He did not think; he just waited.
Jimmie wondered where the shore was. A yard or a mile away? In which direction would it be best to strike out? How could he help Bagg? He must not leave Bagg to drown. But how could he help him? What was the use of trying, anyhow? If he could not row ashore, how could he manage to swim ashore? And if 141 he could not get ashore himself, how could he help Bagg ashore?
Nothing was said. Neither boy breathed. Both waited. And it seemed to both that the water was slow in coming aboard. But the water came. It came slowly, perhaps––but surely. It rose to Bagg’s shoulders––to his chin––it seemed to be about to cover his mouth and nostrils. Bagg already had a stifled sensation––a frantic fear of smothering; a wish to breathe deep. But he did not stir; he could not rise.
The boys felt a slight shock. The water rose no more. There was a moment of deep silence.
“I––I––I ’low we’ve grounded!” Jimmie Grimm stuttered.
The silence continued.
“We sure is!” Jimmie cried.
“Wh-wh-where ’ave we got to?” Bagg gasped, his teeth chattering with the fright that was not yet passed.
Silence again.
“Ahoy, there!” came a voice from near at hand in the foggy night. “What you boys doin’ out there?”
“We’re in Burnt Cove,” said Jimmie, in 142 amazement, to Bagg. “’Tis Uncle Zeke’s voice––an’, ay, look!––there’s the cottage light on the hill.”
“We’re comin’ ashore, Uncle Zeke,” Bagg shouted.
The boat had grounded in less than three feet of water. Jimmie had brought her through the tickle without knowing it. The boys emptied her and dragged her ashore just as the rain and wind came rushing from the open sea.
That’s why Jimmie used to say with a laugh:
“Sixty seconds sometimes makes more than a minute.”
“Bet yer life!” Bagg would add.
In Which Archie Armstrong Joins a Piratical Expedition and Sails Crested Seas to Cut Out the Schooner “Heavenly Home”
It was quite true that Archie Armstrong could speak French; it was just as true, as Bill o’ Burnt Bay observed, that he could jabber it like a native. There was no detecting a false accent. There was no hint of an awkward Anglo-Saxon tongue in his speech. There was no telling that he was not French born and Paris bred. Archie’s French nurse and cosmopolitan-English tutor had taken care of that. The boy had pattered French with the former since he had first begun to prattle at all.
And this was why Bill o’ Burnt Bay proposed a piratical expedition to the French islands of Miquelon which lie off the south coast of Newfoundland.
“Won’t ye go, b’y?” he pleaded.
Archie laughed until his sides ached.
“Come, now!” Bill urged; “there’s like t’ be 144 a bit of a shindy that Sir Archibald hisself would be glad t’ have a hand in.”
“’Tis sheer piracy!” Archie chuckled.
“’Tis nothin’ of the sort!” the indignant Skipper William protested. “’Tis but a poor man takin’ his own from thieves an’ robbers.”
“Have you ever been to Saint Pierre?” Archie asked.
“That I has!” Skipper Bill ejaculated; “an’ much t’ the grief o’ Saint Pierre.”
“They’ve a jail there, I’m told.”
“Sure ’tis like home t’ me,” said Skipper Bill. “I’ve been in it; an’ I’m told they’ve an eye open t’ clap me in once more.”
Archie laughed again.
“Jus’ t’ help a poor man take back his own without troublin’ the judges,” Bill urged.
The lad hesitated.
“Sure, I’ve sore need o’ your limber French tongue,” said Bill. “Sure, b’y, you’ll go along with me, will you not?”
“Why don’t you go to law for your own?” Archie asked, with a little grin.
“Law!” Bill o’ Burnt Bay burst out. “’Tis a poor show I’d have in a court at Saint Pierre. 145 Hut!” he snorted. “Law!––for a Newfoundlander in Saint Pierre!”
“My father–––” Archie began.
“I’ll have the help o’ no man’s money nor brains nor influence in a business so simple,” Bill protested.
The situation was this: Bill o’ Burnt Bay had chartered a schooner––his antique schooner––the schooner that was forever on the point of sinking with all hands––Bill had chartered the schooner Heavenly Home to Luke Foremast of Boney Arm to run a cargo from Saint Pierre. But no sooner had the schooner appeared in French waters than she was impounded for a debt that Luke Foremast unhappily owed Garnot & Cie, of Saint Pierre. It was a high-handed proceeding, of course; and it was perhaps undertaken without scruple because of the unpopularity of all Newfoundlanders.
Luke Foremast protested in an Anglo-Saxon roar; but roar and bellow and bark and growl as he would, it made no difference: the Heavenly Home was seized, condemned and offered for sale, as Bill o’ Burnt Bay had but now learned.
“’Tis a hard thing to do,” Archie objected.
“Hut!” Bill exclaimed. “’Tis nothin’ but 146 goin’ aboard in the dark an’ puttin’ quietly out t’ sea.”
“Anyhow,” Archie laughed, “I’ll go.”
Sir Archibald Armstrong liked to have his son stand upon his own feet. He did not wish to be unduly troubled with requests for permission; he fancied it a babyish habit for a well-grown boy to fall into. The boy should decide for himself, said he, where decision was reasonably possible for him; and if he made mistakes he would surely pay for them and learn caution and wisdom. For this reason Archie had no hesitation in coming to his own decision and immediately setting out with Bill o’ Burnt Bay upon an expedition which promised a good deal of highly diverting and wholly unusual experience.
Billy Topsail and Jimmie Grimm wished the expedition luck when it boarded the mail-boat that night.
Archie Armstrong did not know until they were well started that Bill o’ Burnt Bay was a marked man in Saint Pierre. There was no price on his head, to be sure, but he was answerable for several offenses which would pass current in St. John’s for assault and battery, if not 147 for assault with intent to maim or kill (which Bill had never tried to do)––all committed in those old days when he was young and wild and loved a ruction better than a prayer-meeting.
They determined to make a landing by stealth––a wise precaution, as it appeared to Archie. So in three days they were at La Maline, a small fishing harbour on the south coast of Newfoundland, and a port of call for the Placentia Bay mail-boat. The Iles Saint Pierre et Miquelon, the remnant of the western empire of the French, lay some twenty miles to the southwest, across a channel which at best is of uncertain mood, and on this day was as forbidding a waste of waves and gray clouds as it had been Archie’s lot to venture out upon.
Bill o’ Burnt Bay had picked up his ideal of a craft for the passage––a skiff so cheap and rotten that “’twould be small loss, sir, if she sank under us.” And the skipper was in a roaring good humour as with all sail set he drove the old hulk through that wilderness of crested seas; and big Josiah Cove, who had been taken along to help sail the Heavenly Home, as he swung the bail bucket, was not a whit behind in glowing expectation––in particular, that expectation which 148 concerned an encounter with a gendarme with whom he had had the misfortune to exchange nothing but words upon a former occasion.
As for Archie, at times he felt like a smuggler, and capped himself in fancy with a red turban, at times like a pirate.
They made Saint Pierre at dusk––dusk of a thick night, with the wind blowing half a gale from the east. They had no mind to subject themselves to those formalities which might precipitate embarrassing disclosures; so they ran up the harbour as inconspicuously as might be, all the while keeping a covert lookout for the skinny old craft which they had come to cut out. The fog, drifting in as they proceeded, added its shelter to that of the night; and they dared to make a search.
They found her at last, lying at anchor in the isolation of government waters––a most advantageous circumstance.
“Take the skiff ’longside, skipper,” said Josiah.
“’Tis a bit risky, Josiah, b’y,” said Skipper Bill. “But ’twould be good––now, really, ’twould––’twould be good t’ tread her old deck for a spell.”
“An’ lay a hand to her wheel,” said Josiah, 149 with a side wink so broad that the darkening mist could not hide it.
“An’ lay a hand to her wheel,” repeated the skipper. “An’ lay a hand to her wheel!”
They ran in––full into the lee of her––and rounded to under the stern. The sails of the skiff flapped noisily and the water slapped her sides. They rested breathless––waiting an event which might warn them to be off into hiding in the fog. But no disquieting sound came from the schooner––no startled exclamation, no hail, no footfall: nothing but the creaking of the anchor chain and the rattle of the blocks aloft. A schooner loomed up and shot past like a shadow; then silence.
Archie gave a low hail in French. There was no response from the Heavenly Home; nor did a second hail, in a raised voice, bring forth an answering sound. It was all silent and dark aboard. So Skipper Bill reached out with the gaff and drew the boat up the lee side. He chuckled a bit and shook himself. It seemed to Archie that he freed his arms and loosened his great muscles as for a fight. With a second chuckle he caught the rail, leaped from the skiff like a cat and rolled over on the deck of his own schooner. 150
They heard the thud of his fall––a muttered word or two, mixed up with laughter––then the soft fall of his feet departing aft. For a long time nothing occurred to inform them of what the skipper was about. They strained their ears. In the end they heard a muffled cry, which seemed to come out of the shoreward cloud of fog––a thud, as though coming from a great distance––and nothing more.
“What’s that?” Archie whispered.
“’Tis a row aboard a Frenchman t’ win’ard, sir,” said Josiah. “’Tis a skipper beatin’ a ’prentice. They does it a wonderful lot.”
Five minutes passed without a sign of the skipper. Then he came forward on a run. His feet rang on the deck. There was no concealment.
“I’ve trussed up the watchman!” he chortled.
Archie and Josiah clambered aboard.
In Which Bill o’ Burnt Bay Finds Himself in Jail and Archie Armstrong Discovers That Reality is Not as Diverting as Romance
To be sure, Bill o’ Burnt Bay had overcome the watchman! He had blundered upon him in the cabin. Being observed before he could withdraw, he had leaped upon this functionary with resistless impetuosity––had overpowered him, gagged him, trussed him like a turkey cock and rolled him into his bunk. The waters roundabout gave no sign of having been apprised of the capture. No cry of surprise rang out––no call for help––no hullabaloo of pursuit. The lights of the old town twinkled in the foggy night in undisturbed serenity.
The night was thick, and the wind swept furiously up from the sea. It would be a dead beat to windward to make the open––a sharp beat through a rock-strewn channel in a rising gale.
“Now we got her,” Skipper Bill laughed, “what’ll we do with her?” 152
Archie and Josiah laughed, too: a hearty explosion.
“We can never beat out in this wind,” said Bill; “an’ we couldn’t handle her if we did––not in a gale o’ wind like this. All along,” he chuckled, “I been ’lowin’ for a fair wind an’ good weather.”
They heard the rattle and creak of oars approaching; to which, in a few minutes, the voices of two men added a poignant interest. The rowers rested on their oars, as though looking about; then the oars splashed the water again, and the dory shot towards the Heavenly Home. Bill o’ Burnt Bay and his fellow pirates lay flat on the deck. The boat hung off the stern of the schooner.
“Jean!”
The hail was in French. It was not answered, you may be sure, from the Heavenly Home.
“Jean!”
“He’s not aboard,” spoke up the other man.
“He must be aboard. His dory’s tied to the rail. Jean! Jean Morot!”
“Come––let’s be off to the Voyageur. He’s asleep.” A pair of oars fell in the water. 153
“Come––take your oars. It’s too rough to lie here. And it’s late enough.”
“But–––”
“Take your oars!” with an oath.
The Newfoundlanders breathed easier when they heard the splash and creak and rattle receding; but they did not rise until the sounds were out of hearing, presumably in the direction of the Voyageur.
Bill o’ Burnt Bay began to laugh again. Archie joined him. But Josiah Cove pointed out the necessity of doing something––anything––and doing it quickly. It was all very well to laugh, said he; and although it might seem a comical thing to be standing on the deck of a captured schooner, the comedy would be the Frenchman’s if they were caught in the act. But Archie still chuckled away; the situation was quite too ridiculous to be taken seriously. Archie had never been a pirate before; he didn’t feel like one now––but he rather liked the feeling he had.
“We can’t stay aboard,” said he, presently.
“Blest if I want t’ go ashore,” said Bill.
“We got t’ go ashore,” Josiah put in. 154
Before they left the deck of the Heavenly Home (the watchman having then been made more comfortable), it was agreed that the schooner could not make the open sea in the teeth of the wind. That was obvious; and it was just as obvious that the Newfoundlander could not stay aboard. The discovery of the watchman in the cabin must be chanced until such a time as a fair wind came in the night. On their way to the obscure wharf at which they landed it was determined that Josiah should board the schooner at nine o’clock, noon, and six o’clock of the next day to feed the captured watchman and to set the galley fire going for half an hour to allay suspicion.
“An’ Skipper Bill,” said Josiah, seriously, “you lie low. If you don’t you’re liable to be took up.”
“Take your advice t’ yourself,” the skipper retorted. “Your reputation’s none o’ the best in this harbour.”
“We’ll sail to-morrow night,” said Archie.
“Given a dark night an’ a fair wind,” the skipper qualified.
Skipper Bill made his way to a quiet café of his acquaintance; and Josiah vanished in the 155 fog to lie hidden with a shipmate of other days. Archie––depending upon his youth and air and accent and well-tailored dress to avert suspicion––went boldly to the Hotel Joinville and sat down to dinner. The dinner was good; he enjoyed it, and was presently delighting in the romance in which he had a part. It all seemed too good to be true. How glad he was he had come! To be here––in the French Islands of Miquelon––to have captured a schooner––to have a prisoner in the cabin––to be about to run off with the Heavenly Home. For the life of him, Archie could not take the thing seriously. He chuckled––and chuckled––and chuckled again.
Presently he walked abroad; and in the quaint streets and old customs of the little town, here remote from all the things of the present and of the new world as we know it in this day, he found that which soon lifted him into a dream of times long past and of doughty deeds for honour and a lady. Soft voices in the streets, forms flitting from shadow to shadow, priest and strutting gendarme and veiled lady, gabled roofs, barred windows, low doorways, the clatter of sabots, the pendant street lights, the rumble 156 of the ten o’clock drums. These things, seen in a mist, were all of the days when bold ventures were made––of those days when a brave man would recover his own, come what might, if it had been wrongfully wrested from him. It was a rare dream––and not broken until he turned into the Quai de la Ronciere.
As he rounded the corner he was almost knocked from his feet by a burly fellow in a Basque cap who was breathless with haste.
“Monsieur––if he will pardon––it was not–––” this fellow stammered, apologetically.
Men were hurrying past toward the Café d’Espoir, appearing everywhere from the mist and running with the speed of deep excitement. There was a clamorous crowd about the door––pushing, scuffling, shouting.
“What has happened?” Archie asked in French.
“An American has killed a gendarme, monsieur. A ter-rible fellow! Oh, fear-r-rful!”
“And why––what–––”
“He was a ter-rible fellow, monsieur. The gendarmes have been on the lookout for him for three years. And when they laid hands on him he fought, monsieur––fought with the 157 strength of a savage. It took five gendarmes to bind him––five, monsieur. Poor Louis Arnot! He is dead––killed, monsieur, by a pig of an American with his fist. They are to take the murderer to the jail. I am just now running to warn Deschamps to make ready the dungeon cell. If monsieur will but excuse me, I will–––”
He was off; so Archie joined the crowd at the door of the café, which was that place to which Skipper Bill had repaired to hide. He hung on the outskirts of the crowd, unable to push his way further. The wrath of these folk was so noisy that he could catch no word of what went on within. He devoutly hoped that Skipper Bill had kept to his hiding-place despite the suspicious sounds in the café. Then he wormed his way to the door and entered. A moment later he had climbed on a barrel and was overlooking the squirming crowd and eagerly listening to the clamour. Above every sound––above the cries and clatter and gabble––rang the fighting English of Bill o’ Burnt Bay.
It was no American; it was Skipper Bill whom the gendarmes had taken, and he was now so seriously involved, apparently, that his worst enemies could wish him no deeper in the 158 mesh. They had him bound hand and foot and guarded with drawn swords, fearing, probably, that somewhere he had a crew of wild fellows at his back to make a rescue. To attempt a rescue was not to be thought of. It did not enter the boy’s head. He was overcome by grief and terror. He withdrew into a shadow until they had carried Skipper Bill out with a crowd yelping at his heels. Then, white and shaking, he went to a group in the corner where Louis Arnot, the gendarme, was stretched out on the floor.
Archie touched the surgeon on the shoulder. “Is he dead?” the boy asked, in French, his voice trembling.
“No, monsieur; he is alive.”
“Will he live?”
“To be sure, monsieur!”
“Is there any doubt about it?” asked Archie.
“Doubt?” exclaimed the surgeon. “With my skill, monsieur? It is impossible––he cannot die! He will be restored in three days. I––I––I will accomplish it!”
“Thank God for that!” thought Archie.
The boy went gravely home to bed; and as he lay down the adventure seemed less romantic than it had.