CHAPTER XXXI
In Which the “Spot Cash” is Picked up by Blow-Me-Down Rock In Jolly Harbour, Wreckers Threaten Extinction and the Honour of the Firm Passes into the Keeping of Billy Topsail
The Spot Cash made for the French Shore with all the speed her heels could command. The seventh of August! How near it was to the first of September! The firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company, with the skipper and cook, shivered to think of it. Ten more trading days! Not another hour could they afford if the Spot Cash would surely make St. John’s harbour on the specified day. And she would–she must–Archie declared. His honour was involved–the honour of them all–of the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company. Had not Sir Archibald said so?
So in the harbours of the Shore Bill o’ Burnt Bay once more tussled valiantly with “The Lost Pirate,” and the flags flew, and the phonograph ground out inviting music, and Bobby North shook the hornpipe out of his active toes, and Bagg double-shuffled, and the torches flared, and “Kandy for Kids” and “Don’t be Foolish and Fully Fooled” persuaded the populace, and Signor Fakerino created mystification, and Billy Topsail employed his sweet little pipe most wistfully in the old ballad of the coast:
“Sure, the chain ’e parted,
An’ the schooner drove ashore,
An’ the wives of the ’ands
Never saw un any more,
No more!
Never saw un any mo-o-o-re!”
It was all to good purpose. Trade was even brisker than in White Bay. Out went the merchandise and in came the fish. Nor did the Spot Cash once leave harbour without a hearty, even wistful, invitation to return. Within seven days, so fast did the fish come aboard, the hold had an appearance of plethora. Jimmie Grimm and Bagg protested that not another quintal of fish could be stowed away. It was fairly time to think of a deck-load. There was still something in the cabin: something to be disposed of–something to turn into fish. And it was Archie who proposed the scheme of riddance.
“A bargain sale,” said he. “The very thing.”
“An’ Jolly Harbour’s the place,” said the skipper.
“Then homeward bound!” shouted Archie.
They ran into Jolly Harbour on the wings of a brisk southerly wind–and unfortunately in the dusk brought up hard and fast on Blow-Me-Down Rock.
Aground! They were hard and fast aground on Blow-Me-Down Rock in Jolly Harbour at high tide. A malignant sea made a certainty of it. It lifted the Spot Cash– drove her on–and gently deposited her with a horrifying list to starboard. Archie Armstrong wrung his hands and stamped the deck. Where was the first of September now? How was the firm to–to–what was it Sir Archibald had said?–yes; how was the firm to “liquidate its obligations” on the appointed day and preserve its honour?
“By gettin’ the Spot Cash afloat,” said Skipper Bill, tersely.
“And a pretty time we’ll have,” groaned Archie.
“I ’low,” Bill drawled, “that we may be in for a prettier time still.”
“Sure, it couldn’t be worse,” Billy Topsail declared.
“This here,” Bill explained, “is Jolly Harbour; an’ the folk o’ Jolly Harbour isn’t got no reputations t’ speak of.”
This was hardly enlightening.
“What I means,” Skipper Bill went on, “is that the Jolly Harbour folk is called wreckers. They’s been a good deal o’ talk about wreckers on this coast; an’ they’s more lies than truth in it. But Jolly Harbour,” he added, “is Jolly Harbour; an’ the folk will sure come swarmin’ in punts and skiffs an’ rodneys when they hear they’s a vessel gone ashore.”
“Sure, they’ll give us help,” said Billy Topsail.
“Help!” Skipper Bill scornfully exclaimed. “’Tis little help they’ll give us. Why, b’y, when they’ve got her cargo, they’ll chop off her standing rigging and draw the nails from her deck planks.”
“’Tis a mean, sinful thing to do!” cried Billy.
“They live up to their lights, b’y,” the skipper said. “They’re an honest, good-hearted, God-fearin’ folk on this coast in the main; but they believe that what the sea casts up belongs to men who can get it, and neither judge nor preacher can teach them any better. Here lies the Spot Cash, stranded, with a wonderful list t’ starboard. They’ll think it no sin to wreck her. I know them well. ’Twill be hard to keep them off once they see that she’s high and dry.”
Archie began to stamp the deck again.
When the dawn broke it disclosed the situation of the schooner. She was aground on a submerged rock, some distance offshore, in a wide harbour. It was a wild, isolated spot, with spruce-clad hills, which here and there showed their rocky ribs rising from the edge of the water. There was a cluster of cottages in a ravine at the head of the harbour; but there was no other sign of habitation.
Evidently the schooner’s deep list betrayed her distress; for when the day had fully broken, a boat was pushed off from the landing-place and rowed rapidly towards her.
“Here’s the first!” muttered Skipper Bill. “I’ll warn him well.”
He hailed the occupant, a fisherman with a simple, good-humoured face, who hung on his oars and surveyed the ship.
“Keep off, there!” shouted the skipper. “We need no man’s help. I warn you an’ your mates fair not to come aboard. You’ve no right here under the law so long as there’s a man o’ the crew left on the ship, and I’ll use force to keep you off.”
“You’re not able to get her off, sir,” said the fisherman, rowing on, as if bent on boarding. “She’s a wreck.”
“Billy,” the skipper ordered, “get forward with a gaff and keep him off.”
With that the fisherman turned his punt about and made off for the shore.
“Aye, aye, Billy!” he called, good-naturedly. “I’ll give you no call to strike me.”
“He’ll come back with others,” the skipper remarked, gloomily. “’Tis a bad lookout.”
“We’ll try to haul her off with the punt,” suggested Archie.
“With the punt!” the skipper laughed. “’Twould be as easy to haul Blow-Me-Down out by the roots. But if we can keep the wreckers off, by trick or by force, we’ll not lose her. The Grand Lake passed up the coast on Monday. She’ll be steamin’ into Hook-and-Line again on Thursday. As she doesn’t call at Jolly Harbour we’ll have t’ go fetch her. We can run over in the punt an’ fetch her. ’Tis a matter o’ gettin’ there and back before the schooner’s torn t’ pieces.”
At dawn of the next day Skipper Bill determined to set out for Hook-and-Line to intercept the steamer. In the meantime there had been no sign of life ashore. Doubtless, the crew of the Spot Cash thought, the news of the wreck was on its way to neighbouring settlements. The wind had blown itself out; but the sea was still running high, and five hands (three of them boys) were needed to row the heavy schooner’s punt through the lop and distance. Muscle was needed for the punt; nothing but wit could save the schooner. Who should stay behind?
“Let Archie stay behind,” said Billy Topsail.
“No,” Skipper Bill replied; “he’ll be needed t’ bargain with the captain o’ the Grand Lake.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Billy,” said the skipper, “you’ll stay.”
Billy nodded shortly.
“Now, Billy Topsail,” Skipper Bill went on, “I fear you’ve never read the chapter on’ Wreck an’ Salvage’ in the ‘Consolidated Statutes o’ Newfoundland.’ So I’m going t’ tell you some things you don’t know. Now, listen careful! By law, b’y,” tapping the boy on the breast with a thick, tarry finger, “if they’s nobody aboard a stranded vessel–if she’s abandoned, as they say in court–the men who find her can have her and all that’s in her. That’s pretty near the law o’ the land–near enough for you, anyway. Contrary, by law, b’y,” with another impressive tap, “if they is one o’ the crew aboard, he’s a right to shoot down any man who comes over the side against his will. That’s exactly the law. Do you follow?”
“But I’ve no mind for shootin’ at so good-natured a man,” said Billy, recalling the fisherman’s broad grin.
“An’ I hope you won’t have to,” said the skipper. “But they’s no harm in aiming an empty gun anywhere you’ve a mind to. So far as I know, they’s no harm in firin’ away a blast or two o’ powder if you forget t’ put in the shot.”
Billy laughed.
“Billy, boy,” said Archie, tremulously, “it’s up to you to save the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company.”
“All right, Archie,” said Billy.
“I know it’s all right,” Archie declared.
“They’s just two things to remember,” said the skipper, from the bow of the punt, before casting off. “The first is to stay aboard; the second is to let nobody else come aboard if you can help it. ’Tis all very simple.”
“All right, skipper,” said Billy.
“Topsail–Armstrong–Grimm–and– Company,” were the last words Billy Topsail heard; and they came from Archie Armstrong.
CHAPTER XXXII
In Which the “Grand Lake” Conducts Herself In a Most Peculiar Fashion to the Chagrin of the Crew of the “Spot Cash”
Skipper Bill and the punt of the stranded Spot Cash made the harbour at Hook-and-Line in good season to intercept the Grand Lake. She was due–she would surely steam in–that very day, said the men of Hook-and-Line. And it seemed to Archie Armstrong that everything now depended on the Grand Lake. It would be hopeless–Skipper Bill had said so and the boys needed no telling–it would be hopeless to attempt to get the Spot Cash off Blow-Me-Down Rock in an unfriendly harbour without the steamer’s help.
“’Tis fair hard t’ believe that the Jolly Harbour folk would give us no aid,” said Jimmie Grimm.
Skipper Bill laughed. “You’ve no knowledge o’ Jolly Harbour,” said he.
“’Tis a big expense these robbers are putting us to,” Archie growled.
“Robbers?” Bill drawled. “Well, they’re a decent, God-fearin’ folk, with their own ideas about a wreck.”
Archie sniffed.
“I’ve no doubt,” the skipper returned, “that they’re thankin’ God for the windfall of a tradin’ schooner at family worship in Jolly Harbour at this very minute.”
This view expressed small faith in the wits of Billy Topsail.
“Oh, Billy Topsail will stand un off,” Jimmie Grimm stoutly declared.
“I’m doubtin’ it,” said the frank skipper.
“Wh-wh-what!” Archie exclaimed in horror.
“I’m just doubtin’ it,” the skipper repeated.
This was a horrifying confession; and Archie Armstrong knew that Skipper Bill was not only wise in the ways of the French Shore but was neither a man to take a hopeless view nor one needlessly to excite anxiety. When Bill o’ Burnt Bay admitted his fear that Billy Topsail had neither the strength nor the wit to save the Spot Cash from the God-fearing folk of Jolly Harbour, he meant more than he said. The affairs of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company seemed to be in a bad way. It was now more than a mere matter of liquidating an obligation on the first of September; the problem was of liquidating it at all.
“Wisht the Grand Lake would ’urry up,” said Bagg.
“I’d like t’ save some splinters o’ the schooner, anyway,” the skipper chuckled, in a ghastly way, “even if we do lose the cargo.”
It occurred all at once to Archie Armstrong that Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company were not only in obligation for the debt to Armstrong & Company but were responsible for a chartered craft which was not insured.
“A thousand dollars–a cold thousand dollars–and the Spot Cash!” he exclaimed, aghast.
“Wisht she’d ’urry up,” Bagg repeated.
Archie, pacing the wharf, his hands deep in his pockets, his face haggard and white, recalled that his father had once told him that many a man had been ruined by having too large a credit. And Archie had had credit–much credit. A mere boy with a thousand dollars of credit! With a thousand dollars of credit in merchandise and coin and the unquestioned credit of chartering a schooner! He realized that it had been much–too much. Somehow or other, as he feverishly paced the wharf at Hook-and-Line, the trading venture seemed infinitely larger and more precarious than it had in his father’s office on the rainy day when the lad had so blithely proposed it. He understood, now, why it was that other boys could not stalk confidently into the offices of Armstrong & Company and be outfitted for a trading voyage.
His father’s faith–his father’s indulgent fatherhood–had provided the all-too-large credit for his ruin.
“Wisht she’d ’urry up,” Bagg sighed.
“Just now,” Archie declared, looking Skipper Bill in the eye, “it’s up to Billy Topsail.”
“Billy’s a good boy,” said the skipper.
Little Donald North–who had all along been a thoroughly serviceable but inconspicuous member of the crew–began to shed unwilling tears.
“Wisht she’d ’urry up,” Bagg whimpered.
“There she is!” Skipper Bill roared.
It was true. There she was. Far off at sea–away beyond Grief Head at the entrance to Hook-and-Line–the smoke of a steamer surely appeared, a black cloud in the misty, glowering day. It was the Grand Lake. There was no other steamer on the coast. Cap’n Hand–Archie’s friend, Cap’n Hand, with whom he had sailed on the sealing voyage of the stout old Dictator– was in command. She would soon make harbour. Archie’s load vanished; from despair he was lifted suddenly into a wild hilarity which nothing would satisfy but a roaring wrestle with Skipper Bill. The Grand Lake would presently be in; she would proceed full steam to Jolly Harbour, she would pass a line to the Spot Cash, she would jerk the little schooner from her rocky berth on Blow-Me-Down, and presently that selfsame wilful little craft would be legging it for St. John’s.
But was it the Grand Lake?
“Lads,” the skipper declared, when the steamer was in view, “it sure is the Grand Lake.”
They watched her.
“Queer!” Skipper Bill muttered, at last.
“What’s queer?” asked Archie.
“She should be turnin’ in,” the skipper replied. “What’s Cap’n Hand thinkin’ about?”
“Wisht she’d ’urry up,” said Bagg.
The boys were bewildered. The steamer should by this time have had her nose turned towards Hook-and-Line. To round Grief Head she was keeping amazingly far out to sea.
“Wonderful queer!” said the anxious skipper.
The Grand Lake steamed past Hook-and-Line and disappeared in the mist. Evidently she was in haste. Presently there was not so much as a trail of smoke to be descried at sea.
CHAPTER XXXIII
In Which Billy Topsail, Besieged by Wreckers, Sleeps on Duty and Thereafter Finds Exercise For His Wits. In Which, also, a Lighted Candle is Suspended Over a Keg of Powder and Precipitates a Critical Moment While Billy Topsail Turns Pale With Anxiety
At Jolly Harbour, meantime, where Billy Topsail kept watch, except for the flutter of an apron or skirt when the women went to the well for water, there was no sign of life at the cottages the livelong day. No boats ran out to the fishing-grounds; no men were on the flakes; the salmon nets and lobster-traps were not hauled. Billy prepared a spirited defense with the guns, which he charged heavily with powder, omitting the bullets. This done, he awaited the attack, meaning to let his wits or his arms deal with the situation, according to developments.
The responsibility was heavy, the duty anxious; and Billy could not forget what Archie had said about the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company.
“I ’low there was nothing for it but t’ leave me in charge,” he thought, as he paced the deck that night. “But ’twill be a job now to save her if they come.”
Billy fancied, from time to time, that he heard the splash of oars; but the night was dark, and although he peered long and listened intently, he could discover no boat in the shadows. And when the day came, with the comparative security of light, he was inclined to think that his fancy had been tricking him.
“But it might have been the punts slippin’ in from the harbours above and below,” he thought, suddenly. “I wonder if ’twas.”
He spent most of that day lying on a coil of rope on the deck of the cabin–dozing and delighting himself with long day-dreams. When the night fell, it fell dark and foggy. An easterly wind overcast the sky and blew a thick mist from the open sea. Lights twinkled in the cottages ashore, somewhat blurred by the mist; but elsewhere it was dark; the nearer rocks were outlined by their deeper black.
“’Twill be now,” Billy thought, “or ’twill be never. Skipper Bill will sure be back with the Grand Lake to-morrow.”
Some time after midnight, while Billy was pacing the deck to keep himself warm and awake, he was hailed from the shore.
“’Tis from the point at the narrows,” he thought. “Sure, ’tis Skipper Bill come back.”
Again he heard the hail–his own name, coming from that point at the narrows.
“Billy, b’y! Billy!”
“Aye, sir! Who are you?”
“Skipper Bill, b’y!” came the answer. “Fetch the quarter-boat. We’re aground and leakin’.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“Quick, lad! I wants t’ get aboard.”
Billy leaped from the rail to the quarter-boat. He was ready to cast off when he heard a splash in the darkness behind him. That splash gave him pause. Were the wreckers trying to decoy him from the ship? They had a legal right to salve an abandoned vessel. He clambered aboard, determined, until he had better assurance of the safety of his charge, to let Skipper Bill and his crew, if it were indeed they, make a shift for comfort on the rocks until morning. “Skipper Bill, sir!” he called. “Can you swim?”
“Aye, b’y! But make haste.”
“I’ll show a light for you, sir, if you want t’ swim out, but I’ll not leave the schooner.”
At that there was a laugh–an unmistakable chuckle–sounding whence the boy had heard the splash of an oar. It was echoed to right and left. Then a splash or two, a creak or two and a whisper. After that all was still again.
“’Tis lucky, now, I didn’t go,” Billy thought. “’Twas a trick, for sure. But how did they know my name?”
That was simple enough, when he came to think about it. When the skipper had warned the first fisherman off, he had ordered Billy forward by name. Wreckers they were, then–simple, good-hearted folk, believing in their right to what the sea cast up–and now bent on “salving” what they could, but evidently seeking to avoid a violent seizure of the cargo.
Billy appreciated this feeling. He had himself no wish to meet an assault in force, whether in the persons of such good-natured fellows as the man who had grinned at him on the morning of the wreck, or in those of a more villainous cast. He hoped it was to be a game of wits; and now the lad smiled.
“’Tis likely,” he thought, “that I’ll keep it safe.”
For an hour or more there was no return of the alarm. The harbour water rippled under the winds; the rigging softly rattled and sang aloft; the swish of breakers drifted in from the narrows.
Billy sat full in the light of the deck lamps, with a gun in his hands, that all the eyes, which he felt sure were peering at him from the darkness roundabout, might see that he was alive to duty.
As his weariness increased, he began to think that the wreckers had drawn off, discouraged. Once he nodded; again he nodded, and awoke with a start; but he was all alone on the deck, as he had been.
Then, to occupy himself, he went below to light the cabin candle. For a moment, before making ready to go on deck again, he sat on the counter, lost in thought. He did not hear the prow of a punt strike the Spot Cash amidships, did not hear the whispers and soft laughter of men coming over the side by stealth, did not hear the tramp of feet coming aft. What startled him was a rough voice and a burst of laughter.
“Come aboard, skipper, sir!”
The companionway framed six weather-beaten, bearded faces. There was a grin on each, from the first, which was clear to its smallest wrinkle in the candle-light, to those which were vanishing and reappearing in the shadows behind. Billy seemed to be incapable of word or action.
“Come to report, sir,” said the nearest wrecker. “We seed you was aground, young skipper, and we thought we’d help you ashore with the cargo.”
Billy rested his left hand on the head of a powder keg, which stood on end on the counter beside him. His right stole towards the candlestick. There was a light in his blue eyes–a glitter or a twinkle–which might have warned the wreckers, had they known him better.
“I order you ashore!” he said, slowly. “I order you all ashore. You’ve no right aboard this ship. If I had my gun–”
“Sure, you left it on deck.”
“If I had my gun,” Billy pursued, “I’d have the right t’ shoot you down.”
The manner of the speech–the fierce intensity of it–impressed the wreckers. They perceived that the boy’s face had turned pale, that his eyes were flashing strangely. They were unused to such a depth of passion. It may be that they were reminded of a bear at bay.
“I believe he’d do it,” said one.
An uneasy quiet followed; and in that silence Billy heard the prow of another punt strike the ship. More footfalls came shuffling aft–other faces peered down the companionway. One man pushed his way through the group and made as if to come down the ladder.
“Stand back!” Billy cried.
The threat in that shrill cry brought the man to a stop. He turned; and that which he saw caused him to fall back upon his fellows. There was an outcry and a general falling away from the cabin door. Some men ran forward to the punts.
“The lad’s gone mad!” said one. “Leave us get ashore!”
Billy had whipped the stopper out of the hole in the head of the powder keg, had snatched the candle from the socket, carefully guarding its flame, and now sat, triumphantly gazing up, with the butt of the candle through the hole in the keg and the flame flickering above its depths.
“Men,” said he, when they had gathered again at the door, “if I let that candle slip through my fingers, you know what’ll happen.” He paused; then he went on, speaking in a quivering voice: “My friends left me in charge o’ this here schooner, and I’ve been caught nappin’. If I’d been on deck, you wouldn’t have got aboard. But now you are aboard, and ’tis all because I didn’t do my duty. Do you think I care what becomes o’ me now? Do you think I don’t care whether I do my duty or not? I tell you fair that if you don’t go ashore I’ll drop the candle in the keg. If one o’ you dares come down that ladder, I’ll drop it. If I hear you lift the hatches off the hold, I’ll drop it. If I hear you strike a blow at the ship, I’ll drop it. Hear me?” he cried. “If you don’t go, I’ll drop it!”
The candle trembled between Billy’s fingers. It slipped, fell an inch or more, but his fingers gripped it again before he lost it. The wreckers recoiled, now convinced that the lad meant no less than he said.
“I guess you’d do it, b’y,” said the man who had attempted to descend. “Sure,” he repeated, with a glance of admiration for the boy’s pluck, “I guess you would.”
“’Tis not comfortable here,” said another. “Sure, he might drop it by accident. Make haste, b’ys! Let’s get ashore.”
“Good-night, skipper, sir!” said the first.
“Good-night, sir!” said Billy, grimly.
With that they went over the side. Billy heard them leap into the punts, push off, and row away. Then silence fell–broken only by the ripple of the water, the noise of the wind in the rigging, the swish of breakers drifting in. The boy waited a long time, not daring to venture on deck, lest they should be lying in wait for him at the head of the ladder. He listened for a footfall, a noise in the hold, the shifting of the deck cargo; but he heard nothing.
When the candle had burned low, he lighted another, put the butt through the hole, and jammed it. At last he fell asleep, with his head resting on a pile of dress-goods; and the candle was burning unattended. He was awakened by a hail from the deck.
“Billy, b’y, where is you?”
It was Skipper Bill’s hearty voice; and before Billy could tumble up the ladder, the skipper’s bulky body closed the exit.
“She’s all safe, sir!” said the boy.
Skipper Bill at that moment caught sight of the lighted candle. He snatched it from its place, dropped it on the floor and stamped on it. He was a-tremble from head to foot.
“What’s this foolery?” he demanded, angrily.
Billy explained.
“It was plucky, b’y,” said the skipper, “but ’twas wonderful risky.”
“Sure, there was no call to be afraid.”
“No call to be afraid!” cried the skipper.
“No, sir–no,” said Billy. “There’s not a grain of powder in the keg.”
“Empty–an empty keg?” the skipper roared.
“Do you think,” said Billy, indignantly, “that I’d have risked the schooner that way if ’twas a full keg?”
Skipper Bill stared; and for a long time afterwards he could not look at Billy without staring.