“You take your money back to your kids; lay off that stuff.”
“Aye, p’raps yer right; so I’ll join the temperance fer the night.”
After supper, Allan left us, giving me an added warning, “Keep Archie from the booze.”
“I’ll look out for him,” I called reassuringly. But the job was more than expected; while I was watching the games of bowls in the back, unnoticed, my two companions gave me the slip and drifted into the front of the tavern.
As soon as the report went forth that Wild Archie was “soakin’ up a good skinful,” various Campbells began to drop in.
Black Dan, who happened to be handy, came around to the front and peeked furtively through the window, but remembering the account that our crowd had against him, he discreetly deputed his dirty work to deputies.
Everything was going merrily before the bar, Louis and Wild Archie were growing more hilarious, while I was still watching the bowling alley, never dreaming of treachery, when one of the Campbells suddenly called out, “What part of Ireland do the MacEacherens come from?”
“What’s that?” growled Wild Archie.
“Ye fellers are a bunch o’ Galway Micks, ain’t ye?”
“When ye start makin’ dirty remarks about our Hielan’men, ha’ a care.”
“Calls MacEacherens Hielan’men, does he?”
“A lot o’ bog trotters!”
At that moment, I burst into the throng, calling Wild Archie to come out.
Louis, who saw imminent trouble also, tried to head off the storm.
“Fer a’ sakes, Arch, let ‘em alone; this pore white trash ain’t worth botherin’ with.”
“Eh, listen to the nigger, will ye?” taunted the first speaker, whose thrust was greeted by a gale of laughter, while someone across the room hurled an iron cuspidor at Wild Archie, yelling, “Take that, ye great big hulkin’ stiff.”
“I’ll take ye—!” roared Wild Archie.
“I’ll gi’e ye—!”
“Down wid him! Down wid him!” cried the whole gang at once, springing upon the lone-handed fighter in overwhelming numbers.
There, on the end of that wild crowd, I thought that my companion would surely be killed, but at the challenge, an amazing metamorphosis came over him; in a mad fury, his eyes appeared to be turning black.
As the gang attempted to surround him, they resembled a set of fox terriers attacking a bull.
In an instant he dropped his glass, and, seizing by the collar and thigh the first of the Campbells, who had jeered so loudly at the “nigger,” he used him against the others both as a weapon and as a shield.
With such fury and effect was the helpless fellow hurled and banged, that the others, who a moment before had been so bold, were glad enough to provide for their safety by instant retreat.
Through the open door they stampeded in wildest disorder. But the poor fellow who was trussed up in Wild Archie’s grasp, and dashed against this and that one with such violence, had his body beaten almost to a pulp, and kept howling arid shrieking for mercy.
His cries were totally unheeded by the giant, until, on rushing out of the door, his eye chanced to fall on a heavy wagon hauled up by the roadside.
Tossing his discarded human sledge into a heap, Wild Archie immediately seized the rude vehicle and, wrenching a limb from it, he cast the huge weapon upon his shoulder and started off in pursuit of his tormentors.
By this time, the pursued had gained a hundred yards up the Tracadie Road, and were bending away like greyhounds.
Black Dan Campbell, who had been standing apart, with an innocent look upon his face, hoped to pass unobserved. But Louis, who was running behind Wild Archie, sang out:
“Thar’s Black Dan!”
At sight of this long-sought-for enemy, Wild Archie’s rage flamed into white heat, while he yelled out in Gaelic:
“If I get me hands on ye, the devils’ll be playing hurly with your head to-night on the streets of hell.”
The most wonderfully clean pair of heels that I have ever seen were those of Black Dan as he started inland, seized with a panic which gave wings to his speed, and which soon enabled him to outpass all others. The pursuer was not so speedy, but of greater endurance, and the rage that impelled him was no less potent than the other’s terror.
The chances were not looking any too bright for the Campbells, when out of one of the stores there emerged the reticent figure of my Uncle Jock, who suddenly planted himself fair in the path of the charging lion.
Wild Archie, coming on irresistibly as a head-wind tide rip, faltered, then stopped as though the hand of God had been lifted across his path.
“Where ye bound?”
The word of challenge sounded with the staccato note of a machine gun.
“I’m goin’ to lick the hale set,” Wild Archie panted.
“Ye’re goin’ to do nae such thing.”
Wild Archie’s voice took on a pleading note: “But fer the love o’ Mary, Skipper, think what they’ve done to us.”
“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”
“I’ll take that vengeance out o’ God’s ain hand,” growled Archie.
“Ye’ll do as I tell ye. Throw down that stick.”
The weapon dropped to the ground.
“Now then, back to the vessel wi’ ye, an’ stay there till ye’re over the booze.”
In spite of growling protestations, Wild Archie obeyed, leaving me to wonder first at my Uncle’s authority, and still more at his amazing leniency. Why in the world should he interfere with anyone who was out to clean up a Campbell? Had he not held forth again and again about our ancient grudge? Had he not pledged me on account of my Father’s death?
And yet, here he was interfering with the loveliest chance for a reprisal.
Jock MacPhee always kept one guessing, but he never appeared more inexplicable to me than he did in this incident.
“I can’t understand him,” I muttered to myself, as I went off in deep disgust.
CHAPTER XVIII
Challenge
The occasion of our visit to MacNairs was an ocean race staged there each yearas the fleet embarked for the Western Ground.
This contest had been instituted by J. B. MacLehose, a steel man of Cape Breton, who had started life as an iron puddler. The ore of Newfoundland and the coal of Sydney had swollen his revenues until he was reputed to be vastly rich. Coming from a little town in Nova Scotia, “J. B.” possessed a thrift to put auld Scotia in the shade, his one and only extravagance was sailing, regarding which he was wont to declare:
“Some that have the money keep fast women, some keep fast horses, I keep fast ships.”
The MacLehose fleet of clean white schooners were built primarily to tickle their owner’s fancy, but his new Glasgow conscience could not allow even his playthings to be idle; consequently he turned them over to Judique skippers for fishing on the North Atlantic. Thus was created a Banks fleet where sportsmanship was not the minor key.
Each year “J. B.” offered a thousand dollars in gold for a race to the Western Ground between his own and Gloucester vessels. Happening to be in the vicinity at that season, Uncle Jock put into MacNairs, with the remark:
“I kinda’ have a hankerin’ to see ‘em mix it up there.”
The evening before the race, I was with my Uncle in the front parlor of the Fraser House, a hostelry frequented by schooner captains. Of course, the talk there was all on the big event of the morrow.
As we entered the place, Captain Stephen Black of the Alcala sprang up, exclaiming: “Hullo, Jock!”
“Howdy, Steve!”
“Where ye bound?”
“Western Bank.”
“Ye ought to put that new vessel o’ yours into it with the rest o’ us.”
&
nbsp; “Afraid I’m gettin’ too old.”
“Fiddlesticks, a feller ‘ud have to go some to teach a bonnie dog like you how to crack on.”
“Ye’re still a pretty good josher, eh, Steve. Who are ye pickin’ for a winner?”
“Dunno, heavy odds are on Black Dan Campbell o’ the Dundee”
At this, my Uncle’s wistful manner suddenly forsook him.
“What, is Black Dan in this?”
“Sure thing,” answered another skipper. “It’s between him an’ Steve there who’s comin’ home wi’ the bacon. If it’s light airs, it’ll be a walk away fer the Dundee. But if it’s high winds and heavy seas, ye want to keep yer eye on that there ninety-ton toothpick o’ Steve’s.”
While we were all absorbed in the racing prospects, the door opened and who should enter but Dan Campbell himself.
Black Dan was in happy mood, and greeted everyone cheerily.
I expected, after the incident of the morning, that Uncle Jock would be conciliatory. Black Dan evidently expected the same, for he went so far as to call out:
“That’s an ugly lookin’ semi-knockabout o’ yours, Cap’n Jock; she ought to be all right on a dusty day.”
Everyone was waiting for an answer, but, against expectation, my Uncle turned his back on the speaker, and, to further accentuate contempt, spat out of the open window with undisguised venom.
Black Dan turned scarlet; with his breath coming short, he swung around to where he could face his tormentor, demanding, “Haven’t
you got the decency to speak when you’re spoken to?”
“I’m particular about my company.”
“One would ‘ave thought by the way ye acted this mornin’ that ye was ready to let bygones be bygones.”
“Not as long as me name’s MacPhee.”
“Well, what did ye hold up Wild Archie for?”
“Because beatin’ a man up, an’ layin’ him out ain’t just the thing I’m lookin’ for. There’s a clean way o’ fightin’ an’ a dirty way. I expect to take the clean way.”
“What for?”
“To show ye who’s the better man.”
Here was a challenge direct and unescap- able; in an instant, true to our code of Highland honor, Black Dan was hauling off his coat with a great flourish, blustering out:
“Ye may have spared me once, Jock MacPhee, but that’s wiped out right now. If ye’re a better man than me, put up yer; dukes an’ prove it.”
As my Uncle did not make a move, but sat with the suggestion of contempt upon his thin, pressed lips, Black Dan forgot himself completely, pouring out a stream of foulest blasphemy.
“Stop it!”
There was the same imperious ring in our
Skipper’s voice that sounded in the morning when he faced Wild Archie.
Recognizing that note, Black Dan’s profanity petered out, while my Uncle demanded:
“What kind o’ man are ye, to be talkin’ that way before this lad here? Can’t ye at least respect the innocence of youth?”
A flush of shame came over the swashbuckler. Putting on his coat, like one who retires ungracefully from an encounter, he growled:
“You talk fight, Jock MacPhee, as big as the beast, an’ then by — you cave in as soon as the fightin’ starts.”
“No one ever saw me cave in before a giant wi’ feet of clay.”
“Well, I can’t make head or tail of you. This mornin’ ye saved me from a tight jam, I don’t mind sayin’ so; then, when I come around to do the decent, you as good as give me a kick in the face. One minute ye’re makin’ peace, an’“
Uncle Jock raised his head in solemn protest.
“I’m never makin’ peace wi’ the likes o’ ye, Dan Campbell. My clan fought the Diar- maids for a thousand years, an’ as long as I got breath left in me, I’ll keep on fightin’.”
Black Dan this time was truly mystified.
“How in the world are ye goin’ to fight?”
Rising from his seat, in an impassioned manner, Cap’n Jock strode over to the window where the silver sheen of the strait reflected itself beneath a waning moon.
Pointing downwards, he inquired testily: “D’ye see that water?”
“Yea.”
“Well, there’s the place I’ll fight ye. Ye may be able to put over yer Diarmaid tricks in Water Street dives ashore, but outside there on the open ocean is where yer dirty stuff don’t go.”
“An’ what’s all this mean?” said Dan with affected haughtiness.
“Ye’re in that race to-morrow, ain’t ye?”
“Yea.”
“All right, I’m in it, too.”
CHAPTER XIX
The Start
The fleet was due to sail at four o’clock in the afternoon for the Western Bank. Shortly before the time set for the race, I accompanied my Uncle down the front street of MacNairs to our vessel. All along the way, the crowd shouted according to their sentiments.
“Hurrah for the Airlie” “Black Dan ‘ll show ‘em up.” “Old men’s home’s where Jock MacPhee ought to be.”
“His coffin’s hangin’ on the collar beams.” The dirty remarks of the Campbell sympathizers caused me to hand back a bit of Billingsgate on my own, which led to a tussle in one instance, whereat my Uncle chided:
“Just stow that stuff, young feller; we got something more than chin music ahead o’ us today.”
At the wharves alongside the Sunnyside Bend where the fleet was assembled, there was a merry babel, the clomp, clomp, clomp of the windlass powl, the hum of the running gear reeving through the blocks, and the music of straining sheaves to last long pulls on sheets and halliards.
As we came aboard the Airlie there was an air of tense excitement on her decks. The mate already had her under four lowers, and the great wind was sounding out its chorus in the slatting canvas.
Our gang were all known as hard drivers, except one fellow, Murdie Chisholm, whose heart was too weak for the company he kept.
As he came aboard, Uncle Jock added to the excitement by inquiring of the mate:
“What’s the record fer this run?”
“Ten hours.”
“All right,” was the reply, “fer us, it’s goin’ to be Western Ground or bust in nine hours.”
Black Dan Campbell of the Dundee was the first to push his nose out into the strait. A half a gale was blowing from the nor’east, and as though to show his respect for the weather, Black Dan immediately began to shake out his topsails.
“Holy Christopher, but watch her go,” exclaimed Louis, as the Dundee laid over into the indigo blue, carving a white and glistening furrow toward the opposite shore.
One by one, the others began to pay off into the stream. Soon the whole strait was alive
with the snowy wings of the fishing fleet, tearing back and forth in the narrow channel;
Again and again, nervous persons on the shore held their breath and shuddered at imminent disaster. But skippers, trained to pick up their string of dories in all kinds of weather, laughed as they grazed each other’s paint.
As Cap’n Jock still kept us waiting at the dock, we began to get a bit restive. Finally, the mate inquired: “Don’t ye think that we’d better be castin’ off, Skipper.” “Nay.”
“But look at the rest of ‘em.” “Let them that wants to have the show-off stuff in harbor; we’re out for an Ocean Race.”
“An’ here’s one o’ them show-off guys comin’ now,” said Louis.
As he spoke, I saw the Dundee charging down upon us. With everything set; up to her balloon gauze, she surely was a magnificent sight, and the shore hands sent up a thunderous cheer as she came tearing on, which, of course, was just to her Captain’s liking.
Aft at her wheel, I could see Black D
an spitting on his hands, and gripping the spokes in fine frenzy, as he sent his great schooner spinning around in her course like a top.
Of course, it was a grand-stand play, but it made my blood go faster just the same. No matter what I thought of Black Dan, none could withstand the beauty of his soaring schooner, which impressed me in that moment like a burst of great music.
As she gathered headway on the opposite tack, we all agreed that we had never seen a vessel which, in passing through the water, disturbed it less. Hardly a ripple curled at the cutwater, nor did the sea break at any place along her side. She left a wake as straight as an arrow, then getting the wind, with increasing speed, she began to lay over to it, and lifted her forefoot to the coming swell, “Aye, she’s a beauty.” “She’ll make ye step, Jock.” A score of voices were calling to us from the shore, but aboard our own vessel there was now scant chance to think of others. At last, the Skipper gave the longed-for order: “All right, cast off there.” Soon we, too, had taken our place in the throng of vessels that were engaged in jockeying for the line.
At high tide, which occurred that afternoon at four, the fleet was due to cross the line. Two blasts of the foundry whistle was the five- minute warning, and then one blast on the hour was the signal for the start.
As the two* blasts of the warning whistle sounded, Cap’n Jock emerged from the cabin, coming up as leisurely as though we were a wood scow instead of a racing schooner.
Near by, aboard the Dundee, we could see Black Dan cutting a fine figure, which caused UncIe Jock to spit contemptuously.
“Will ye take the wheel?” called the mate.
“Nay, let the kid have it,” he answered, and remained leaning on the companion, as though slightly bored by the histrionics of his rival.
The mate at first did not understand, and hung on, but the Skipper called in sharper tone:
“Let the kid take the wheel, d’ye hear?”
In an instant it dawned upon me what was in my Uncle’s mind. To show his supreme contempt for the Dundee’s skipper, he was sending his own vessel across the line in the hands of a mere boy.
But I made up my mind, right then and there, that I would show them that the mere boy was no fool.
Crested Seas Page 9