The weather was still unsettled, but the mist was lifting, and shortly we descried a small steamer bound east. Our progress was slow, but all the time the fog was clearing, and shortly before noon, a small fishing smack was sighted just ahead.
“Guess we’d better run down and ask our position.”
It took half an hour to get within hailing distance, and we found that we were only four miles from the gas buoy off Canso Light, which was three miles further in.
On learning of our predicament, the skipper of the smack gave us some bread and butter and a drink of cold tea, which proved a great reviver.
“You’d better let us run you in,” he volunteered.
“No, the wind’s favorable,” replied my Uncle. “We’re all right.”
With a cheery good-by, we ran close to the land, which by this time was clearly visible ahead of us, a grim, hard, rocky coastline that you see off Canso, white surf, and bastion granite, a more foreboding shore could not be imagined. And yet, as I beheld it through the lifting fog, the very grimness of the rocks was precious in my eyes after our endless torture of sea and fog.
The reefs and sunken rocks lie thick off Canso, and here my Uncle’s skill told as he threaded his way unhesitatingly through the imperiled channel.
By the middle of the afternoon with the sun shining, we rounded Cranberry Head, and swung in amid the shipping of Canso Harbor.
The port was full of coasters and fishermen who had put in to escape the bad weather.
“There’s our lads, tied up alongside at Whitman’s wharf,” exclaimed my Uncle.
Following the sweep of his hand, I beheld the Airlie with her ensign flapping lazily at half mast. It wasn’t the first time that Foul Weather Jock had come up, as it were, from a watery grave. From what I knew of my
Uncle now, it seemed to me that above all else we owed our deliverance to his efforts. But such an idea was evidently the farthest from his mind, for he burst out with sudden thankfulness:
“It’s the mercy o’ God, Johnnie Angus.”
All such thoughts, at that moment, were swept clean from my mind as I beheld the sharp clipper bows, and the soaring topmasts of the Dundee, lying amid the shipping in the stream.
At the first sight of Dan Campbell’s vessel, I was intent on swooping down upon him, right then and there, in order to brand him before the eyes of the whole port. But my Uncle disagreed.
“Nay, we won’t be botherin’ about the likes o’ him just now.”
“But I thought you said out there on the dory that you’d get him?”
“Aye, but I’ll be bidin’ me time.”
CHAPTER XXXVII
Vengeance Is Mine
A great demonstration awaited us aboard the Airlie.
Little Rory, the piper, exclaimed, “Sure, I always expect to see Foul Weather Jock come struttin’ back out o’ the jaws o’ death.”
Louis almost broke down at my reappearance. The faithful negro had been with me continually ever since I first went to sea. As a dory- mate, I believe that he would have willingly sacrificed himself at any time to save me.
After a good meal, I turned in and slept the clock round. Next morning I awoke greatly refreshed, and except for a drawn look from lack of food, apparently none the worse for my experiences.
Over the breakfast table that morning I told all hands of the treachery of Black Dan Campbell.
As the Skipper was not present at the time, there was no restraint in the Gaelic oaths and threats that passed around the foc’sle table.
Wild Archie, who was the most literal- minded of our crowd, was not the kind to be satisfied with mere say-so evidence, and he continued to express his doubts until the Cook declared :
“There’s no doubt that Black Dan done what the young feller says.”
“How’d ye make that out?”
“Because, I was up at Riley’s pool room yesterday, before the Skipper an’ this lad showed up. Black Dan was in there pretty well jingled. When someone says, ‘Old Jock’ll make port all right,’ Black Dan butts in, with, ‘They’ll never make it. Them two MacPhees has gone to Fiddler’s Green, where they belong.’
“ ‘How d’ye happen to know so much?’ I asks.
“ ‘Oh, I know, that’s all; them fellers is gone.’ An’ with that he goes out behind where a gang was lappin’ up some stuff that Riley just run in from Saint Pierre, and all the time, outside there, I heard him laughing out, ‘Them two MacPhees is gone to Fiddler’s Green.’”
“That proves it all right,” everybody exclaimed. And at this last testimony, even Wild Archie threw away his doubts.
“Yea, we’ll get him this time, no mistakin’ it,” was his closing remark, as the Skipper entered, putting a damper for the time being on further discussions of this sort.
That same afternoon, while ashore, I was passing Riley’s pool room, an infamous joint, where they made a killing in selling smuggled liquor to sailors and fishermen.
Uncle Jock had warned me never to go near the place. But as I passed this afternoon I was attracted by a familiar voice holding forth in loud impassioned tones.
With curiosity getting the better of me, I shoved back the door and entered, to be greeted by the sight of Wild Archie in a paroxysm, stamping up and down the rum shop, exclaiming fervently:
“Lead me to ‘im! Oh, lead me to ‘im!” I had never seen the Judique giant appearing more sinister and foreboding. His bronzed and weather-beaten face was livid with the in tenseness of his rage.
Suddenly, in a frenzy, he ripped open his homespun shirt. Tattooed in China ink and gunpowder on his bared breast there appeared his own and his wife’s initials, with a heart between and the Saviour on the cross above. Over this most sacred symbol, the Judique giant now placed his right hand and swore vengeance swift and sure upon Black Dan Campbell and his ilk.
Seated about the rum shop more than one Judique Highlander backed him up in his vow.
Said one, “It’s a cryin’ shame, Archie, that ye haven’t been able to get that Campbell feller yet. He’s been shootin’ his face all over the outports on how he’s put it over ye.”
‘ What about the race to the Western Ground, this spring?”
“Oh, he don’t say nothin’ about that, an’ to tell the truth, that’s another reason why he’s layin’ fer the Airlie’s gang. Black Dan is one o’ them who, if he can’t win the game, will beat the game. By fair means or by foul, he’s bound to get you fellers, an’ all the time ye just lay back an’ take it.”
“Here’s one that ain’t goin’ to take no more of it lyin’ down,” Wild Archie was declaring, when, attracted by the din, Captain Jock himself burst into the rum shop. With his black shore coat, and his somber mien, he certainly cut an incongruous figure in Riley’s den. He stood on the threshold, with an inquiring eye, and then catching sight of me burst out : “What are ye doin’ here, Johnnie Angus?” “Came in to see what was up.” “What d’ye mean?” “I heard Wild Archie yellin’ and—” Wild Archie here interrupted: “No, ye ain’t goin’ to stop me this time, neither, Skipper.”
The giant was in defiant mood, but Cap’n Jock ignored him, and addressing the crowd inquired what was the row.
“It’s over Cap’n Campbell o’ the Dundee “ answered Riley from behind the bar.
“More likely it’s from your rotten hooch,” glowered my Uncle. “Pity they couldn’t run ye out o’ town, Riley, wi’ yer miserable business o’ robbin’ wives an’ bairns.”
At this an outsider tried to butt in, but he was cut short.
“Ye jus’ keep yer oar out o’ this.”
“But surely you ain’t goin’ to take Black Dan’s dirt lyin’ down? The whole fleet’s talkin’ about it now. If ye can’t settle up yer ain quarrels, Jock MacPhee, just leave it to some of us MacDonalds frae Judique Mountai
n.”
“None o’ that fer me.”
“No, ye ain’t the man ye used to be, that’s the trouble. If ye was yer ain fightin’ self, Black Dan Campbell would have been pushin’ daisies long ago.”
“Have ye made yer peace wi’ the Campbell?” inquired John Mystic MacDonald. (Mystic from the name of his vessel.)
“Not till it’s ‘Dust to dust an’ ashes to ashes,’” replied Cap’n Jock in an awful tone.
“Well, what’s holdin’ ye, then?”
“The Law of God,” came back the steadfast answer. “I ain’t the man I ought to be, John Mystic, but I’ve been saved too often to forget that my life is not my own.”
“But look at what he’s done to ye already.”
“And, as Father Donald is always sayin’, ‘Two wrongs’ll never make a right’.”
“Bah, Father Donald sure ruined a lovely devil when he started in on ye.”
Not waiting for further parley, Cap’n Jock exclaimed to Wild Archie, peremptorily:
“Come on, back to the vessel wi’ ye, before ye find yerself in the hands o’ the police.”
Reluctantly, Wild Archie obeyed, leaving the rough-necks from Judique Mountain deploring: “What a grand fight it might ‘ave been.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Graveyard Of The Atlantic
Jogging under trysail and jib, Louis and I, on watch, descried in the far distance the West Point Light of Sable Island. The most terrific storms that rage upon the oceans have been known to spend their fury here at this meeting place of the Gulf Stream and the Arctic Current.
The Island proper is about twenty miles long shaped like a bow. From the West Point stretches northward a bar which on calm days is dry for a couple of miles, then it extends for nine miles over which the sea breaks at times, and still further for seven miles over which it breaks in heavy weather.
On the East End, a bar stretches northeasterly for seventeen miles, of which the first four are dry in fine weather, the next nine covered with heavy breakers, and the last four with an ugly cross sea.
Thus in stormy weather, Sable Island presents to seaward upwards of fifty miles of terrific breakers—for the mariner, a fifty mile finger of death.
Ever since the time that he had nearly lost his life here, Louis had maintained a dread of this ill-omened spot. Now to catch the warning flash of the West Point Light struck him with cold fear. Even in the darkness I was aware of his violent trembling.
Standing together by the fore rigging we spoke with bated breath.
“Ain’t no place in all the seas that I’d sooner steer clear of than that spot yonder.”
“You know it well, eh?”
“I spent two weeks ashore there, the time your father rescued me from a lost dory.”
“They say it’s not such a bad place ashore.”
“No, not bad when you’ve once landed, but it’s hell for those off the Island.”
“What’s it like ashore?”
“Loveliest place in the world on a fine day, lying so peacef ul in the lap o’ the waves. There’s the Superintendent’s house, an’ the houses o’ the lifeguards, that’s all there is there, except the Sable Island ponies.”
As Louis went on with his descriptions of the Island I became more and more interested.
“Gee, I’d like to land there sometime.”
“Hope ye never do,” replied Louis, with profound pity for my ignorance. “Why?”
“Because the people that come ashore there generally go to the Monkey Puzzle.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The Monkey Puzzle is another name for the Sable Island Cemetery. That’s where most of the visitors are put up for a long spell.”
“What do they go there for?” I inquired, still incredulous.
“Because they are the dead men,” answered Louis with grim finality.
“I remember one evenin’ I was strollin’ about in the sunset, never seen sunsets so pretty there right down in the lap o’ the sea. I was jus’ tellin’ myself that I liked Sable Island fine, when I happened to pass the cemetery, where they was burying one o’ the crew o’ the French schooner Topaz from Saint Pierre that come ashore on the Nor’ East Bar.
“She drifted in bottom up at number three station, and broke up at once. Eight o’ the bodies come ashore, an’ seein’ their funeral cured me o’ the beauties o’ Sable.”
“They tell me that there’s been over a hundred wrecks off there.”
“That’s what’s accounted for. But God only knows how many ships have been lost off there, an’ never a trace of ‘em afterwards. If they drive in on the sand they may remain for days, or even for months, but if they get caught outside on one of the bars they may crash right over, and founder in deep water on the other side, an’ not leave so much as a spar to tell their story.
“When they talk about the Port o’ Missin’ Ships, I’ll tell ye, Johnnie Angus, there ain’t anywhere in all the oceans that’s nearer to that spot than the bars o’Sable Island.”
Despite the grisly fame of this ridge of sand, there was a sort of fascination about it, and endless yarns followed of the wreckers who used to kindle false lights to lure ships to their doom; of fingers torn from fair ladies to filch their rings, of one man saved from a ship’s company by putting his arm through a ring bolt and thus coming ashore with a bag of gold, oaly to be murdered by the wreckers on the beach.
As the yarns flowed on, I heard of how one of His Majesty’s sloops of war was lost on the Nor’ East Bar with all on board. How the Black Ball ships Hannah and Eliza met their end with the touch of the sand. How there was a Jake inside into which a vessel once sailed ‘only to have the sand close in. “And her bones are still there,” said Louis.
After the names of clippers and liners, he came to the tale of Banks fishing schooners lost in this vicinity.
Said he, “I’ll bet there’s more Gloucester fishermen buried underneath these waters than there is in green graves back in Gloucester.
When one o’ the fishin’ vessels is posted missin’ most people blame the liners, say that she was likely run down in the fog. But that ain’t my idea.”
“What’s yours?”
“I give the blame to Sable, or still more likely to the cursed Sable Island bars.”
After Louis had gone below, I remained on deck, pacing up and down, pausing occasionally to gaze across the sea floor at that Isle of grisly fame. Ever and anon, out of thick gloom a star arose casting its reflected ray across a waste of broken water. Under the revolving light, in those brief glimpses, the jagged edge of the breakers appeared as the teeth of hungry wolves.
CHAPTER XXXIX
Pride Goeth Before
Before sunup the following morning, we started dropping our dories near their trawls.
Rowing down to the watchbuoy that marked our gear, Louis noted the paling gleam of the West Point Light, and shuddered in the chill, uncertain dawn.
Day coming on apace revealed the crests of the black seas extending farther and farther into the gloom, until there again was Sable, wicked as ever in the coming on of day. Outward, miles on miles of white and broken water ; landward, low dunes and shifting sand.
“Yon’s no place to be stickin’ near on a threatenin’ morn,” said Louis.
Similar thoughts were evidently in the mind of our Skipper, when we came back from the first underhauling of the gear.
“Don’t like the prospects,” he exclaimed.
“But the fish are bitin’ grand, Skip.”
“Aye, but there’s somethin’ more than fish to be thinkin’ about when it’s lookin’ dirty, with us inside the bend o’ Sable Island.”
The Skipper, as he spoke, was studying the scintillations of an iceberg drifting by. The sunlight playing across the
shimmering mass caused the peaks to glitter and gleam momentarily, then darken into greenish tints. This constantly changing aspect held one with fascination. But the thought of a fleet of these monsters drifting down upon us, with the awful “Bend” of this dread Isle under our lee, caused a sickish dread.
“Don’t like the look of our position,” affirmed the Skipper.
To this the mate strenuously objected.
“We’re on to real fishin’, an’ here’s where we ought to stay.”
“But we had a bad sunrise this mornin’, an’ ye can see fer yerself there’s squalls comin’.”
“Ye’re right, Skipper,” Louis broke in. “Wi’ ice in the offin’ an’ us between, this ain’t no place if she’s comin’ wi’ the dirty stuff.”
A general chorus of dissent greeted these remarks, but acting on his own judgment, the Skipper decided on a course of prudence.
“Ye can haul yer gear an’ come aboard fer good next time,” he ordered. “Better not take any more risks stickin’ round this berth.”
“But we’ve only just struck the fish, ought to get after ‘em while the goin’s good.”
“Better be safe than sorry.” “That ain’t no kind o’ talk fer a fisherman.”
“It’s the kind o’ talk that goes aboard my vessel,” replied Cap’n Jock with a tone of finality, and the crowd went out to get their gear according to his bidding.
The early winter’s afternoon was beginning to darken when the last of our crowd returned to the parent vessel. As we came alongside I breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow I found myself sharing Louis’ apprehension.
As we came aboard, the sea was beginning to make, lifting and heaving with a long uneasy swell. Wind-harried clouds driven to leeward appeared as the advance guard of a storm. All this was premonitory, but most of our crowd were sore at abandoning a good berth so early. The feelings of the disgruntled were in nowise improved by the sight of the Dundee with all her dories out making the best of grand fishing.
“Them’s the lads that’s goin’ to make the high-line catch,” taunted the mate.
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