The Sea-Story Megapack

by Jack Williamson

  “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 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 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; 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.

  “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 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 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.

  “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.

  CHAPTER XII

  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.

  “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.”10

  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.

  “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 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 today. 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 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.

  “‘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 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.

  CHAPTER XIII

  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.

  “‘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.’

  “‘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, 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.’