The Sea-Story Megapack

by Jack Williamson

  “Come, Bobby, b’y!” he called.

  Bobby swam towards the boat. Eli swam to meet him, and helped him over the last few yards of choppy sea, for the lad was almost exhausted. Bobby laid a hand on the bow of the dory. Then Eli pulled off one of his long boots, and swam to the stern, where he began cautiously to bail the boat. When she was light enough in the water, he helped Bobby aboard, and Bobby bailed her dry.

  “Ha, lad!” Eli ejaculated, with a grin that made his face shine. “You is safe aboard. How is you, b’y?”

  “Tired, Eli,” Bobby answered.

  “You bide quiet where you is,” said Eli. “I’ll find the paddles; an’ I’ll soon have you home.”

  Eli’s great concern had been to get the boy out of the water. He had cared for little else than that—to get him out of the reach of the sea. And now he was confronted by the problem of making harbour. The boat was slowly drifting out with the wind; the dusk was approaching; and every moment it was growing more difficult to swim in the choppy sea. It took him a long time to find the paddles.

  “Steady the boat, Bobby,” he said, when the boy had taken the paddles into the dory. “I’m comin’ aboard.”

  Eli attempted to board the dory over the bow. She was tossing about in a choppy sea; and he was not used to her ways. Had she been a punt—his punt—he would have been aboard in a trice. But she was not his punt—not a punt, at all; she was a new boat, a dory, a flat-bottomed craft; he was not used to her ways. Bobby tried desperately to steady her while Eli lifted himself out of the water.

  “Take care, Eli!” he screamed. “She’ll be over!”

  Eli got his knee on the gunwale—no more than that. A wave tipped the boat; she lurched; she capsized. And again Eli waited for Bobby to come to the surface of the water; again buoyed him up; again gave him courage; again helped him to the boat; again bailed the boat—this time with one of Bobby’s boots—and again helped Bobby aboard.

  “I’m wonderful tired, Eli,” said Bobby, when the paddles were handed over the side for the second time. “I’m fair’ done out.”

  “’Twill be over soon, lad. I’ll have you home by the kitchen fire in half an hour. Come, now, partner! Steady the boat. I’ll try again.”

  Even more cautiously Eli attempted to clamber aboard. Inch by inch he raised himself out of the water. When the greater waves ran under the boat, he paused; when she rode on an even keel, he came faster. Inch by inch, humouring the cranky boat all the time, he lifted his right leg. But he could not get aboard. Again, when his knee was on the gunwale, the dory capsized.

  For the third time the little partner was helped aboard and given a boot with which to bail. His strength was then near gone. He threw water over the side until he could no longer lift his arms.

  “Eli,” he gasped, “I can do no more!”

  Eli put his hand on the bow, as though about to attempt to clamber aboard again. But he withdrew it.

  “Bobby, b’y,” he said, “could you not manage t’ pull a bit with the paddles. I’ll swim alongside.”

  Bobby stared stupidly at him.

  Again Eli put his hand on the bow. He was in terror of losing Bobby’s life. Never before had he known such dread and fear. He did not dare risk overturning the boat again; for he knew that Bobby would not survive for the fourth time. What could he do? He could not get aboard, and Bobby could not row. How was he to get the boy ashore? His hand touched the painter—the long rope by which the boat was moored to the stage. That gave him an idea: he would tow the boat ashore!

  So he took the rope in his teeth, and struck out for the tickle to the harbour!

  “’Twas a close call, b’y,” said Eli, when he and Bobby sat by the kitchen fire.

  “Ay, Eli; ’twas a close call.”

  “A wonderful close call!” Eli repeated, grinning. “The closest I ever knowed.”

  “An’ ’twas too bad,” said Bobby, “t’ lose the gear.”

  Eli laughed.

  “What you laughin’ at?” Bobby asked.

  “I brought ashore something better than the gear.”

  “The dory?”

  “No, b’y!” Eli roared. “My little partner!”

  CHAPTER XII

  Containing the Surprising Adventure of Eli Zitt’s Little Partner on the Way Back from Fortune Harbour, in Which a Newfoundland Dog Displays a Saving Intelligence

  Bobby Lot, Eli Zitt’s little partner, left his dog at home when he set out for Fortune Harbour in Eli’s punt. He thought it better for the dog. He liked company, well enough, did Bobby; but he loved his dog. Why expose the lazy, fat, old fellow, with his shaky legs and broken teeth, to an attack in force by the pack of a strange harbour?

  The old dog’s fighting days were over. He had been a mighty, masterful beast in his prime; and he had scarred too many generations of the Ruddy Cove pack to be molested now as he waddled about the roads and coves where his strength and courage had been proved. But the dogs of Fortune Harbour knew nothing of the deeds he had done; and an air of dignity, a snarl and a show of yellow teeth would not be sufficient to discourage the yelping onset.

  “They’d kill him,” thought the master.

  So the lad determined to leave his dog at home, and it was well for him that he did.

  “Go back, Bruce!” he cried, as he pushed out from Eli Zitt’s wharf-head.

  But Bruce slipped into the water from the rocks, and swam after the boat, a beseeching look in the eyes which age had glazed and shot with blood. He was not used to being left at home when Bobby pushed out in the punt.

  “Go home, b’y!” cried Bobby, lifting an oar.

  The threatening gesture was too much for Bruce. He raised himself in the water and whined, then wheeled about and paddled for shore.

  “Good dog!” Bobby called after him.

  In response, the water in the wake of the dog was violently agitated. He was wagging his tail. Thus he signified a cheerful acquiescence.

  “He’ll be wonderin’ why he’ve been sent back,” thought Bobby. “’Tis too bad we can’t tell dogs things like that.”

  Bobby had a message for Sammy Tompkins. It was about the great run of cod at Good Luck Tickles, the news of which had reached Ruddy Cove that morning. But old Sammy was on the Black Fly fishing grounds when the lad got to Fortune Harbour. It was growing dark when he got in for the night. So Bobby chanced to be late starting home.

  The wind had fallen away to a breathless calm; the sky was thickly overcast, and a thin mist lay between the gloomy clouds and the sea’s long, black ground-swell. Bobby had not pulled through four of the six miles before sea and sky and rocky coast were melted into one vast, deep shadow, except where, near at hand, the bolder headlands were to be distinguished by one who knew them well.

  “I wonder,” Bobby thought, “if I’ll get home before mornin’. ’Tis hard t’ say. I might have t’ lie out here all night. Sure, I hope it gets no thicker.”

  He rowed on towards Ruddy Cove, taking new bearings from time to time as the deeper shadows of the headlands loomed out of the dark of the night. Thus, he followed the coast, making with great caution for the narrow entrance to the inner harbour, which invariably was hard to find at night or in the fog.

  The sea was breaking against the rocks. The noise was loud in Bobby’s ears, and served to guide him at such times as the headlands were indistinguishable from the clouds. His progress was slow and cautious; for he knew the dangers of the way he must take.

  There was a line of submerged rocks—The Wrecker, Old Moll and Deep Down—lying out from Iron Head, directly in his path. That neighbourhood was a neighbourhood of danger. When the lad caught sight of the strange outline of Iron Head, he swerved the bow of the boat to sea and paddled out. He wanted to make sure of rounding Deep Down, the outermost rock—of giving it a wide berth.

  But the night and the noise of the breakers confused him. He could not tell whether or not he had gone far enough. At length he decided that he must be safely beyond the rock. But w
here was Deep Down? Often he paused to turn and look ahead. Every glance he cast was more anxious than the one before. He was getting nervous.

  “’Tis hard t’ tell if the sea is breakin’ on Deep Down,” he said to himself. “Sure, it must be, though.”

  It was important to know that. Sometimes only the larger swells curl and break as they roll over Deep Down. Bobby knew that just such a sea was running then. Had it been daylight, the green colour and the slight lifting of the water would have warned him of the whereabouts of that dangerous reef. But it was night; the spray, as the wave was broken and flung into the air, and the swish and the patter, as the water fell back, were the signs he was on the lookout for.

  If, then, the waves broke only at long intervals, the punt might at any moment be lifted and overturned. It might even then be floating over the rock. Bobby’s heart beat faster when the greater swells slipped under the boat. Would they break beneath him? Would they break near at hand? He paddled slowly. It was better to be cautious, he thought, until he had Deep Down located. So he listened and looked as he paddled on.

  At last he heard the significant swish and patter. He flashed about to look ahead. But he was too late. The spray had fallen and disappeared.

  “’Tis somewheres near,” he thought, “and ’tis breakin’. But whether t’ port or starboard, I don’t know.”

  Again—and apparently from another quarter—he heard the noise of a breaking wave. He turned in time to catch sight of a gleam of phosphorescence off the port bow.

  “If that’s Deep Down,” he thought, “I’m safe. But if ’tis Old Moll or The Wrecker, I’m somewheres over Deep Down. I wisht I knowed which it was.”

  What was it? The Wrecker, Old Moll or Deep Down? Which one of the three rocks that lay in a line off Iron Head?

  “I wisht I knowed,” Bobby muttered, as he bent anew to the oars.

  In the meantime, old Sol Sludge, of Becky Sharpe’s cove, which lies beyond Iron Head, had started for Ruddy Cove by the goat paths to tell Skipper John Matthews that he would take a berth in the schooner Rescue when she got back from the Labrador.

  He had a candle-lantern to light the way. When he had crossed the Head and was bound down the valley to meet the Ruddy Cove road, he heard a cry for help. It came from the sea, with a soft southwest wind which had sprung up—a sharp “Help! Help!” ringing out of the darkness again and again. Old Sol listened stupidly, until, as from exhaustion, the cries turned hoarse and weak.

  “Now, I wonder who’s out there,” the dull old fellow thought. “It sounded like a woman’s voice. Sure, it may be the spirit o’ Mary Rutt. She was drowned off Iron Head.”

  Nevertheless, he made haste to Ruddy Cove—all the haste his old legs and dim sight would permit—and told the folk that he had heard the cry of a spirit drift in from the sea off Iron Head. But nobody believed that.

  Who was in the water off Iron Head? was the question that passed from cottage to cottage. Was it Billy Topsail? No; for Billy told the folk in person that he had come in from the grounds at twilight. Was it Josiah Seaworthy? No; for Josiah’s wife said that he had gone by way of Crooked Tickle to Burnt Harbour.

  Who was it? Had Eli Zitt’s little partner got back from Fortune Harbour? When Eli Zitt heard of that cry for help he knew that Bobby’s punt had been overturned on one of the Iron Head rocks. Like a woman’s voice? That surely was Bobby’s—that clear, full voice. So he called for a crew to man the skiff, and in five minutes he was ready to push off.

  Old Bruce jumped aboard.

  “Get out with you!” said Bill Watt, aiming a kick at him by the light of the lantern.

  “Sc-ctt!” cried old Tom Topsail.

  But Bruce was a practiced stowaway. He slunk forward, and found a refuge under the bow seat.

  “Push off, lads!” Eli shouted. “Give way!”

  In ten minutes the skiff had passed from the harbour to the sea. Eli Zitt, who worked the scull oar, turned her bow towards the Iron Head rocks. It was dark; but he had fished those waters from boyhood, and he knew the way, daylight or dark.

  Dark it was, indeed! How was Bobby to be found in that great shadow? He was a water-dog, was Bobby; but there was a limit to his endurance, and half an hour at least had passed since old Sol Sludge had heard his cry for help.

  A long search meant failure. He must be found soon or he would not be found at all. On went the boat, the water curling from her bows and swirling in her wake. The phosphorescence flashed and glowed as the oars were struck deep and lifted.

  “He’ll be swimmin’ in,” Bill Watt panted, when the skiff had covered half the distance to Deep Down. “They’s no place for him t’ land with this sea on. We ought t’ meet him hereabouts.”

  “If he’s afloat,” Topsail added.

  “Oh, he’s afloat yet,” Eli said, confidently. “He’s a strong swimmer, that lad is.”

  “I’m thinkin’ he’ll be nearer shore,” said Bill Watt.

  “No, no! He’s further out an’ on.”

  “Bobby!” Topsail shouted. “Oh, Bobby!”

  There was no reply. For a moment the rowers lifted their oars from the water. Silence was all about—from the boat to the shore rocks, where the waves were breaking. The cries for help had ceased.

  “Gone down,” Bill Watt muttered.

  The men gave way again. Again they paused to call Bobby’s name, and to listen, with anxious hearts, for some far-off, answering cry. Again they gave way. Again they called and called, but heard no answer.

  “Gone down,” Bill Watt repeated.

  “Give way, lads!” cried Eli. “He’s further out.”

  Old Bruce came out from hiding. He crawled to the stern seat and sniffed to windward. Then, with his nose pointed astern, he began to howl.

  “Shut up, you!” Topsail exclaimed.

  But Bruce could not be quieted—not even after Topsail’s boot had caught him in the side and brought a sharp howl of pain. Still he sniffed to windward and barked.

  “Throw him over,” said Bill Watt. “We’ll not be able t’ hear Bobby.”

  “Oh, if ’twas only light!” Eli groaned, not heeding Watt.

  But it was dark. The water was covered with deepest shadow. Only the breakers and the black outline of Iron Head could be seen. Bobby might be swimming near at hand but too far off to send an audible shout for help.

  “Bobby—oh—Bobby!”

  If a cry in answer had gone up, the barking of the dog drowned it. The dog must be quieted.

  “Push the brute over!” said Watt.

  Watt himself dropped his oar and stepped to the stern. He took Bruce unaware and tumbled him into the water. The old dog made no protest. He whined eagerly and swam out from the boat—a straight course astern.

  “Now, what did he do that for?” mused Watt.

  “That’s queer,” said Topsail.

  Eli looked deep into the night. The dog left a luminous wake. Beyond, in the direction the dog had taken, the man caught sight of a phosphorescent glow. Watt saw it at the same moment.

  “What’s that?” said he. “They’s fiery water, back there!”

  “Man,” cried Eli, “the dog knowed! Sure, it must be Bobby, swimmin’ up, an’ too beat out t’ cry. Fetch her about, lads. We’re on the wrong course. Haste! He’ll not be able t’ last much longer.”

  Eli was right. The dog had known. It was Bobby. When they picked him up he was too much exhausted to speak. It was afterwards learned that he had mistaken the spray of the Old Moll breaker for Deep Down and had been turned over by the outer rock when he thought himself safe. He had heard the call of his name, and had seen the lantern of the rescuing skiff, as it drew near; but, long before, he had worn his voice out with screaming for help, and could make no answer. He had heard the barking of Bruce, too; had known its significance, and had wondered whether or not the dog would be understood. But all that he could say, when they lifted him aboard—and that in a hoarse, weak whisper—was:

  “Bruce!”

&nbs
p; At that moment the crew heard a piteous whine near at hand. It was Bill Watt who pulled the exhausted old dog over the gunwale.

  “Good dog!” said he.

  And so said they all.

  CHAPTER XIII

  In Which Billy Topsail Sets Sail for the Labrador, the Rescue Strikes an Iceberg, and Billy is Commanded to Pump for His Life

  It was early in the spring—a time of changeable weather when, in the northern seas, the peril of drift-ice, bergs, snow, wind and the dark must sometimes be met with short warning. The schooner Rescue, seventy tons, Job Small, master, had supplied the half-starved Labrador fishermen with flour and pork, and was bound back to Ruddy Cove, in ballast, to load provisions and shop goods for the straits trade.

  Billy Topsail was aboard. “I ’low, dad,” he had said to his father, when the skipper of the Rescue received the Government commission to proceed North with supplies, “that I’d like t’ see the Labrador.”

  “You’ll see it many a time, lad,” his father had replied, “afore you’re done with it.”

  “An’ Skipper Job,” Billy had persisted, “says he’ll take me.”

  The end of it was that Billy was shipped.

  The Rescue had rounded the cape at dawn, with all sails set, even to her topmast-staysail, which the Newfoundlanders call the “Tommy Dancer”; but now, with the night coming down, she was laboriously beating into a head wind under jib and reefed mainsail.

  “I’m fair ashamed t’ have the canvas off her,” said Skipper Job, after a long look to windward. “’Tis no more than a switch, an’ we’re clewed up for a snorter.”

  “They’s no one t’ see, sir,” said the cook. “That’s good; an’ sure I hopes that nothin’ heaves in sight t’ shame us.”

  “Leave us shake the reef out o’ the mains’l, sir, an’ give her the fores’l,” said the first hand.

  “We’re not in haste, b’y,” the skipper replied. “She’s doin’ well as she is. We’ll not make harbour this night, an’ I’ve no mind t’ be in the neighbourhood o’ the Breakheart Rocks afore mornin’. Let her bide.”