In Which Bagg, Unknown to Ruddy Cove, Starts for Home, and, After Some Difficulty, Safely Gets There
Uncle Tommy Luff, coming up the hill one day when the ice was jammed against the coast and covered the sea as far as sight carried, was stopped by Bagg at the turn to Squid Cove.
“I say, mister,” said Bagg, “which way was you tellin’ me Lun’on was from ’ere?”
Uncle Tommy pointed straight out to the ice-covered sea.
“That way?” asked Bagg.
“Straight out o’ the tickle with the meetin’-house astarn.”
“Think a bloke could ever get there?” Bagg inquired.
Uncle Tommy laughed. “If he kep’ on walkin’ he’d strike it some time,” he answered.
“Sure?” Bagg demanded.
“If he kep’ on walkin’,” Uncle Tommy repeated, smiling. 77
This much may be said of the ice: the wind which carries it inshore inevitably sweeps it out to sea again, in an hour or a day or a week, as it may chance. The whole pack––the wide expanse of enormous fragments of fields and glaciers––is in the grip of the wind, which, as all men know, bloweth where it listeth. A nor’east gale sets it grinding against the coast, but when the wind veers to the west the pack moves out and scatters.
If a man is caught in that great rush and heaving, he has nothing further to do with his own fate but wait. He escapes if he has strength to survive until the wind blows the ice against the coast again––not else. When the Newfoundlander starts out to the seal hunt he makes sure, in so far as he can, that no change in the wind is threatened.
Uncle Ezekiel Rideout kept an eye on the weather that night.
“Be you goin’, b’y?” said Ruth, looking up from her weaving.
Ezekiel had just come in from Lookout Head, where the watchers had caught sight of the seals, swarming far off in the shadows.
“They’s seals out there,” he said, “but I 78 don’t know as us’ll go the night. ’Tis like the wind’ll haul t’ the west.”
“What do Uncle Tommy Luff say?”
“That ’twill haul t’ the west an’ freshen afore midnight.”
“Sure, then, you’ll not be goin’, b’y?”
“I don’t know as anybody’ll go,” said he. “Looks a bit too nasty for ’em.”
Nevertheless, Ezekiel put some pork and hard-bread in his dunny bag, and made ready his gaff and tow-lines, lest, by chance, the weather should promise fair at midnight.
“Where’s that young scamp?” said Ezekiel, with a smile––a smile which expressed a fine, indulgent affection.
“Now, I wonder where he is?” said Ruth, pausing in her work. “He’ve been gone more’n an hour, sure.”
“Leave un bide where he is so long as he likes,” said he. “Sure he must be havin’ a bit o’ sport. ’Twill do un good.”
Ezekiel sat down by the fire and dozed. From time to time he went to the door to watch the weather. From time to time Aunt Ruth listened for the footfalls of Bagg coming up the path. After a long time she put her work away. 79 The moon was shining through a mist; so she sat at the window, for from there she could see the boy when he rounded the turn to the path. She wished he would come home.
“I’ll go down t’ Topsail’s t’ see what’s t’ be done about the seals,” said Ezekiel.
“Keep a lookout for the b’y,” said she.
Ezekiel was back in half an hour. “Topsail’s gone t’ bed,” said he. “Sure, no one’s goin’ out the night. The wind’s hauled round t’ the west, an’ ’twill blow a gale afore mornin’. The ice is movin’ out slow a’ready. Be that lad out yet?”
“Yes, b’y,” said Ruth, anxiously. “I wisht he’d come home.”
“I––I––wisht he would,” said Ezekiel.
Ruth went to the door and called Bagg by name.
But there was no answer.
Offshore, four miles offshore, Bagg was footing it for England as fast as his skinny little legs would carry him. The way was hard––a winding, uneven path over the pack. It led round clumpers, over ridges which were hard to scale, and across broad, slippery pans. The frost had 80 glued every fragment to its neighbour; for the moment the pack formed one solid mass, continuous and at rest, but the connection between its parts was of the slenderest, needing only a change of the wind or the ground swell of the sea to break it everywhere.
The moon was up. It was half obscured by a haze which was driving out from the shore, to which quarter the wind had now fairly veered. The wind was rising––coming in gusts, in which, soon, flakes of snow appeared. But there was light enough to keep to the general direction out from the coast, and the wind but helped Bagg along.
“I got t’ ’urry up,” thought he.
The boy looked behind. Ruddy Cove was within sight. He was surprised that the coast was still so near.
“Got t’ ’urry up a bit more,” he determined.
He was elated––highly elated. He thought that his old home was but a night’s journey distant; at most, not more than a night and a day, and he had more than food enough in his pockets to last through that. He was elated; but from time to time a certain regret entered in, and it was not easily cast out. He remembered 81 the touch of Aunt Ruth’s lips, and her arm, which had often stolen about him in the dusk; and he remembered that Uncle Ezekiel had beamed upon him most affectionately, in times of mischief and good works alike. He had been well loved in Ruddy Cove.
“Wisht I’d told Aunt Ruth,” Bagg thought.
On he trudged––straight out to sea.
“Got t’ ’urry up,” thought he.
Again the affection of Aunt Ruth occurred to him. She had been very kind; and as for Uncle ’Zeke––why, nobody could have been kinder.
“Wisht I ’ad told Aunt Ruth,” Bagg regretted. “Might o’ said good-bye anyhow.”
The ice was now drifting out; but the wind had not yet risen to that measure of strength wherewith it tears the pack to pieces, nor had the sea attacked it. There was a gap of two hundred yards between the coast rocks and the edge of the ice, but that was far, far back, and hidden from sight. The pack was drifting slowly, smoothly, still in one compact mass. Its motion was not felt by Bagg, who pressed steadily on toward England, eager again, but fast growing weary.
“Got t’ ’urry up,” thought he. 82
But presently he must rest; and while he rested the wind gathered strength. It went singing over the pack, pressing ever with a stronger hand upon its dumpers and ridges––pushing it, everywhere, faster and faster out to sea. The pack was on the point of breaking in pieces under the strain, but the wind still fell short of the power to rend it. There was a greater volume of snow falling; it was driven past in thin, swirling clouds. Hence the light of the moon began to fail. Far away, at the rim of the pack, the sea was eating its way in, but the swish and crash of its work was too far distant to be heard.
“I ain’t nothink t’ nobody but Aunt Ruth,” Bagg thought, as he rose to continue the tramp.
On he went, the wind lending him wings; but at last his legs gave out at the knees, and he sat down again to rest. This was in the lee of a clumper, where he was comfortably sheltered. He was still warm––in a glow of heat, indeed––and his hope was still with him. So far he had suffered from nothing save weariness. So he began to dream of what he would do when he got home, just as all men do when they come near, once again, to that old place where they were born. The wind was now 83 a gale, blowing furiously; the pack was groaning in its outlying parts.
“Nothink t’ nobody,” Bagg grumbled, on his way once more.
Then he stopped dead––in terror. He had heard the breaking of an ice-pan––a great clap and rumble, vanishing in the distance. The noise was repeated, all roundabout––bursting from everywhere, rising to a fearful volume: near at hand, a cracking; far off, a continuing roar. The pack was breaking up. Each separate part was torn from another, and the noise of the rending was great. Each part ground against its neighbour on every side. The weaker pans were crushed like egg-shells. Then the whole began to feel the heave of the sea.
“It’s a earthquake!” thought Bagg. “I better ’urry up.”
He looked back over the way he had come––searching the shadows for Ruddy Cove. But the coast was lost to sight.
“Must be near acrost, now,” he thought. “I’ll ’urry up.”
So he turned his back on Ruddy Cove and ran straight out to sea, for he thought that England 84 was nearer than the coast he had left. He was now upon a pan, both broad and thick––stout enough to withstand the pressure of the pack. It was a wide field of ice, which the cold of the far North, acting through many years, it may be, had made strong. Elsewhere the pans were breaking––were lifting themselves out of the press and falling back in pieces––were being ground to finest fragments. This mighty confusion of noise and wind and snow and night, and the upheaval of the whole world roundabout, made the soul of Bagg shiver within him. It surpassed the terrors of his dreams.
“Guess I never will get ’ome,” thought he.
Soon he came to the edge of the pan. Beyond, where the pack was in smaller blocks, the sea was swelling beneath it. The ice was all heaving and swaying. He dared not venture out upon this shifting ground. So he ran up and down, seeking a path onward; but he discovered none. Meantime, the parts of the pack had fallen into easier positions; the noise of crunching, as the one ground against the other, had somewhat abated. The ice continued its course outward, under the driving force of the wind, but the pressure was relieved. The pans 85 fell away from one another. Lakes and lanes of water opened up. The pan upon which Bagg chanced to find himself in the great break-up soon floated free. There was now no escape from it.
Bagg retreated from the edge, for the seas began to break there.
“Wisht I was ’ome again,” he sobbed.
This time he did not look towards England, but wistfully back to Ruddy Cove.
The gale wasted away in the night. The next day was warm and sunny on all that coast. An ice-pack hung offshore from Fortune Harbour. In the afternoon it began to creep in with a light wind. The first pans struck the coast at dusk. The folk of the place were on the Head, on the lookout for the sign of a herd of seal. Just before night fell they spied a black speck, as far out from shore as their eyes could see.
“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, 86 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?”
“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.
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 89 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 90 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.[2] 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. 92
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 93 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 Venture when she howls for mercy.”
“I’ll bargain t’ reef her, sir,” Bill replied, “when I thinks you would yourself.” 94
“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?” 95
“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 96 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.
The story of this voyage––the tale of the time when Archie Armstrong and Billy Topsail and Bill o’ Burnt Bay were lost in the snow on the ice-floe––with certain other happenings in which Billy Topsail was involved––is related in “The Adventures of Billy Topsail.”
Courtesy of “The Youth’s Companion”
SHE WAS BEATING LABORIOUSLY INTO A VIOLENT HEAD WIND.
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 98 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; 99 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 100 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. 101
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.
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 plunged 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 103 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. 104 Was it possible to sight a black, low-lying 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?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a pause. Archie Armstrong and Jimmie Grimm, aft near the wheel, wondered why the skipper had put the question.
“An’ where,” the skipper asked, quietly, “did you put the powder?”
“For’ard, sir.”
“How far for’ard?”
“Fair up against the forecastle bulkhead!”
The appalling significance of this was plain to 105 the crew. The bulkhead was a thin partition dividing the forecastle from the hold.
“Archie,” Skipper Bill drawled, “you better loose the stays’l sheet. She ought t’ do better than this.” He paused. “Fair against the forecastle bulkhead?” he continued. “Tom, you better get the hatch off, an’ see what you’re able t’ do about gettin’ them six kegs o’ powder out. No––bide here!” he added. “Take the wheel again, Billy. Get that hatch off, some o’ you.”
It was the skipper himself who dropped into the hold. The cargo was packed tight. Heavy barrels of flour, puncheons of molasses, casks of pork and beef, lay between the skipper and the powder. He crawled forward, wriggling in the narrow space between the freight and the deck. No fire had as yet entered the hold; but the place was full of stifling smoke. It was apparent that the removal of the powder would be the labour of hours; and there were no hours left for labour. The skipper could stand the smoke no longer. He retreated towards the hatch. How long it would be before the fire communicated itself to the cargo––how long it would be before the explosion of six kegs of powder would scatter the 106 wreck of the First Venture upon the surface of the sea––no man could tell. But the end was inevitable.
Anxious questions greeted the skipper when again he stood upon the wind-swept deck.
“Close the hatch,” said he.
“No chance, sir?” Archie asked.
“No, b’y.”
The forecastle was already closed. There was no gleam of fire anywhere to be seen. The bitter wind savoured of smoke; nothing else betrayed the schooner’s peril.
“Now, get you all back aft!” was the skipper’s command. “Keep her head as it points.”
When the crew had crept away to the place remotest from the danger point, Bill o’ Burnt Bay went forward to keep a lookout for the rocks and breakers. The burning forecastle was beneath his feet; he could hear the crackling of the fire; and the smoke, rising now more voluminously, troubled his nostrils and throat. It was pitch dark ahead. There was no blacker shadow of land, no white flash of water, to give him hope. It seemed as though an unbroken expanse of sea lay before the labouring First Venture. But the skipper knew to the contrary; 107 somewhere in the night into which he stared––somewhere near, and, momentarily, drawing nearer––lay the Chunks. He wondered if the First Venture would strike before the explosion occurred. It must be soon, he knew. The possibility of being off the course did not trouble him.
Soon the seams of the deck began to open. Smoke poured out in thickening clouds. Points of light, fast changing to lines of flame, warned the skipper that he must retreat. It was not, however, until heat and smoke and the certain prospect of collapse compelled him, that he joined the crew. He was not a spectacular hero; when common sense dictated return, he obeyed without delay, and without maudlin complaint. Without a word he took the wheel from Billy Topsail’s hands, and without a word he kept the schooner on her course. There was no need of command or advice; men and boys knew their situation and their duty.
“It can’t be long,” said the cook.
There was now a glow of red light above the forecastle. The fire was about to break through. It was not hard to surmise that the collapse of the bulkhead was imminent. 108
“No, sir!” the fidgety cook repeated. “It can’t be long, now.”
It seemed long. Minute after minute passed, each of incredible length, while the First Venture staggered forward, wildly pitching through the seas. At last, the flames broke out of the forecastle and illuminated the deck.
“Not long, now!” the cook whimpered. “It can’t be!”
Nor was it. The First Venture struck. She was upon the rocks before the skipper was well aware that breakers lay ahead. Her bow fell, struck, was lifted, fell again, and fastened itself. The next wave flung the schooner broadside. The third completed the turn. She lay with her head pointing into the wind. Her stern, where the crew stood waiting for the end, rose and fell on the verge of a great breaker. Beyond was a broken cliff, rising to unwashed heights, which the snow had begun to whiten. The bow was lifted clear of the waves; the stern was awash. A space of white water lay between the schooner and the shore.
Bill o’ Burnt Bay let go his grip on the wheel. There was but one thing to do. Many a skipper had done it before; but never before had there 109 been such desperate need of haste. The fire still burned lustily; and the forecastle was high out of the water.
“If I can’t do it,” the skipper shouted, “it’s the first hand’s turn next.”
He had fastened the end of a coil of rope about his waist. Now he stood swaying on the taffrail. By the light of the fire––uncertain and dull––he must act. He leaped a moment after the next wave had slipped under the stern––when, in the current, he should reach the rocks just after the wave had broken. The crew waited a long time. Many a glance was cast forward; it seemed to them all, such headway had the fire made, that the six kegs of powder must explode the very next instant. No sign came from the skipper; and no sight of him could be caught. They paid out the rope––and waited. The rope was for a long time loose in their hands.
“He’s landed!” cried Jimmie Grimm.
The rope was hauled taut. Upon the rocks, out of reach of the sea, the figure of the skipper could be seen.
“One at a time!” Skipper Bill shouted.
And one at a time they went––decently and in order, like true Newfoundland sailors, Tom 110 Rook, the first hand, the last of all. When they were all ashore, they scrambled like mad up the cliff; and they were no more than out of danger when the First Venture was blown to atoms. There was a flash, a deafening roar––and darkness; broken only by the spluttering splinters of the little craft.
That night, from Heart’s Harbour, the folk observed a ship afire, running in towards the Chunks. To the report they sent immediately to St. John’s––there happens fortunately to be a government telegraph station at Heart’s Harbour––they added, later, that she had blown up. But from St. John’s the salvage-tug Hurricane was dispatched into the stormy sea in search of the survivors; and on the second day following she picked up Skipper Bill o’ Burnt Bay and his crew.
Next day they were in St. John’s.
“Wisht I’d took your advice about the insurance, sir,” broken-hearted Bill o’ Burnt Bay said to Sir Archibald.
Sir Archibald laughed. “I took it for you,” said he.
“What?” Skipper Bill exploded. 111
“I insured the First Venture on my own responsibility,” Sir Archibald replied. “You shall build the Second Venture at Ruddy Cove next winter.”
Archie Armstrong and Bill o’ Burnt Bay, with the lads and men of the lost First Venture, went back to Ruddy Cove by rail and the mail-boat.
In Which Old David Grey, Once of the Hudson Bay Company, Begins the Tale of How Donald McLeod, the Factor at Fort Refuge, Scorned a Compromise With His Honour, Though His Arms Were Pinioned Behind Him and a Dozen Tomahawks Were Flourished About His Head.
Archie Armstrong was presently established in a white little room in the beaming Aunt “Bill’s” little white cottage at Ruddy Cove. His two trunks––two new trunks, now––were there established with him, of course; and they contained a new outfit of caps, shoes, boots, sweaters, coats, gloves, and what not, suited to every circumstance and all sorts of weather. Then began for Archie, Jimmie and Billy––with Bagg, of the London gutters, sometimes included––hearty times ashore and afloat. It was Bagg, indeed, who proposed the cruise to Birds’ Nest Islands.
“I said I wouldn’t go t’ Birds’ Nest Islands,” said Billy Topsail, “an’ I won’t.”
“Ah, come on, Billy,” Archie pleaded. 113
“I said I wouldn’t,” Billy repeated, obstinately, “an’ I won’t.”
“That ain’t nothink,” Bagg argued.
“Anyhow,” said Billy, “I won’t, for I got my reasons.”[3]
David Grey, a bent old fellow, who was now long “past his labour,” as they say in Newfoundland, sat within hearing. Boy and man he had been in the service of the Hudson Bay Company, as hunter, clerk, trader, explorer, factor; and here, on the coast where he had been born, he had settled down to spend the rest of his days. He was not an ignorant man, but, on the contrary, an intelligent one, educated by service, wide evening study of books, and hard experience in the great wildernesses of the Canadian Northwest, begun, long ago, when he was a lad.
“You make me think of Donald McLeod,” said he.
The boys drew near.