The Sea-Story Megapack

by Jack Williamson

  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 sm
all 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 tomorrow.”

  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.”