Crested Seas
Page 17
“They’re taking big chances,” replied Cap’n Jock.
At this juncture, Black Dan seemed to realize that he was showing us up when it came to daring. Having lightened his dories, he could not resist the temptation to rub it in. Coming about suddenly, he stormed upon our vessel with the devil-may-care abandon of a born sail- dragger.
The Airlie was under trysail and jib only, while the Dundee sported single reefed mainsail, whole foresail, and jib with the bonnet out, all the canvas she could risk without dipping her fish-laden decks into the creaming brine.
Tearing down upon us with a fine display, Black Dan passed under our counter, then coming about with the wind abeam, he shot across our bows with the ease of a destroyer.
Having administered this spectacular rebuke to Caution, a quality which he abhorred, Black Dan doffed his sou’wester contemptuously, and started beating back to his own trawls.
In that moment the crew of our vessel were sick with shame. We had received the worst dressing down that one Banker could give another. It was no good to say that we had whipped the Dundee before, our crew thought only of how this rumor would spread throughout the fleet. We had been made the laughing stock of our rivals, while MacEacherens prayed in vain for our Skipper to give the Campbell a “bit o’ his ain.”
For the next hour there was scant chance for grumbling aboard the Airlie, as Cap’n Jock drove us to it, dressing down the catch. When the last fish had been split and salted, dories were nested in the chocks and everything was made doubly secure.
“Now then, take a reef in the trysail.”
One of the dory-mates made a wild leap for our bowsprit
This last order seemed the limit of prudence.
“Here’s what they call gettin’ ready the night before the ball,” sneered the mate.
But for once his joke fell flat.
While he was still speaking, without slightest warning, there came a shrieking, whistling sound in the rigging, and the ill-intentioned winter’s day went black with sudden gloom.
As sometimes happened on this treacherous spot, a nor’easter had leaped upon us with all the vicious stealth of a crouching tiger.
Up to windward, the Dundee vanished in the smother, while with a feeling of horror I saw her tiny dories blotted out
Down, down, our vessel rolled before the blast, with every man clutching for lifelines, ringbolts, stanchions, or whatever happened to be handy.
For’ard the lookout strove in vain to pierce the blinding snow and sleet.
In that moment, all of us fervently thanked God that we were not outside at the trawls, while Louis standing near me called in awed tones:
“Black Dan and his cook alone aboard the Dundee wi’ all that sail cracked on!”
“Here’s where his show-off stuff is ended.”
“I’d sooner take me chance wi’ the Earl o’ Hell, than wi’ them two alone aboard that vessel.”
Talk between us was suddenly cut short by a disturbance for’ard.
Crash! Bang!
Something struck the Airlie on the port broadside with a report like a cannon.
“What’s that?”
“Save us, it’s a dory !”
Even as we spoke we beheld one of the dory- mates making a wild leap for our bowsprit, and catching hold, he tumbled inboard on the icy deck.
A moment later, out of the gloom from aft there came a piercing shriek. The other dory- mate had caught our after rail, only to lose his grip again before a hand could help, and in an instant he had vanished into seething darkness.
The old man who came in over the port bows, at the sudden loss of his mate was stricken with a shivering palsy.
“Why should ye take it so bad?”
“Because, that other lad was me own son,” he sobbed brokenly.
When the first fierce squall passed, the lookout descried another dory fighting for life. After proceeding to their rescue Cap’n Jock swung off and proceeded to pick up the rest of the Dundee’s scattered and sorely harassed crew. Owing to the breaking seas, this was accomplished with utmost difficulty. None but fishermen accustomed to making flying sets in all kinds of weather could have picked up small boats in such weather.
Meanwhile, conditions were hopeless aboard the Dundee. Caught unawares without a crew, Black Dan Campbell was at last paying the price of pride. The tremendous press of sail on his heavily laden vessel caused her to work her underwater seams. Plunging and rolling in the squalls, she was racking and tearing herself asunder. Stricken in all her being, helpless and hopeless, the proudest vessel of the Gloucester fleet was drifting in toward the Nor’ East Bar.
Whilst we aboard the Airlie gazed horror- stricken, the doomed vessel suddenly started to send up rockets of distress. These signals were seen by the coastguards of Sable Island on their lonely patrols, but the roaring of the bars told us that it would be impossible to launch a lifeboat.
With most of the Dundee’s dories accounted for, our Skipper had started at the last minute to work out of the fatal “Bend,” when the sight of that lurid trail of light, with its mute appeal, caused him to hesitate.
Seeing the perplexed look upon the Skipper’s face, Wild Archie demanded:
“Surely, Skip, ye aren’t thinkin’ o’ takin’ chances like that fer such as Black Dan Campbell?”
Cap’n Jock did not answer, but sang out abruptly :
“Give us a cast o’ the lead, for’ard.”
Soundings revealed that we were already drifting into shoal water. Our predicament was not pleasant to contemplate. Somewhere to windward in this dark and howling waste was ice that at any moment might come crashing down upon us. Off under our lee was the Nor’ East Bar of Sable Island.
Caught with headlong gale and tide ‘twixt driving ice and siren shore, who would not hesitate?
The bold ones of our crew, who earlier had been urging chances for the sake of a big catch, were now pleading with the Skipper with a single eye to their own safety. But while they pleaded with him in their own interests, another rocket shooting up into the night forced Cap’n Jock into quick decision.
Cupping hands to mouth, he bellowed:
“Get ready to come about.”
CHAPTER XL
Lee Shore
The idea of coming about and taking a life-or-death chance in the frightful Bend of Sable Island did not appeal to me in itself; to do this for the arch enemy of the MacPhees was unthinkable.
It seemed as though we had not heard aright. Filled with grave apprehension the mate came aft to expostulate:
“Surely, Skipper, ye don’t mean to go back into that hell-hole, just when we’re workin’ clear?”
“Them’s my orders.”
“But it’s suicide.”
“There’s signals o’ distress, and I’m standin’ by.”
“Aye, but them fellers is as good as dead already, ye can never save ‘em in a sea like this.”
“I’m goin’ to try.”
Seeing that argument was useless, the mate, in a panic, tried to take command, issuing contrary orders to the man at the wheel.
As the helmsman hesitated the Skipper rapped out:
“Hold her to the course I gave ye.”
Then advancing upon the mate he inquired sharply:
“Who’s master here?”
Faced by irresistible command, the mate backed away, and like one who has received his sentence of doom, started to carry out the Skipper’s orders.
Standing near my Uncle at this moment, I could not help remarking:
“You seem to have forgotten the dirty tricks that Black Dan has played on us.”
“I have forgotten naething, Johnnie Angus.”
“Well, what are you taking chances like this for on his account? I’d let hi
m be drowned, and be damned.”
“There’s two ways o’ squarin’ an auld score, Johnnie Angus.”
I was still full of objections, but further talk was cut short as the Skipper moved for’ard to the lookout.
Kerosene flares were lighted to signal our approach, while an answering rocket came back as a cry for us to hasten.
Every eye was straining to get a glimpse of the Dundee. I descried her first, a dim shape to starboard, gradually settling in the heavy seas. As the two vessels drew nearer, our flares cast a ghost-like reflection across the black howling waste. I had never seen anything more abandoned than the Dundee, as she appeared then, her sails in tatters, her rigging awry, her spring-stay burst, her mainmast gone, the calking hanging out of her in strips. Her two survivors had lashed themselves in the forerigging, but they were in peril! of the foremast going at any moment.
As we drew nearer, Cap’n Jock knew exactly what he intended to do. Up in the crosstrees of the Airlie a man waited with a heaving line. Just as we were abeam a long thin snake of rope came shooting down toward the Dundee’s fore- rigging. Black Dan made a wild lunge, caught the rope momentarily, then fumbled, and his hope of life went trailing off into the sea.
After another fruitless effort, it was apparent that those aboard the derelict were too far gone to help themselves.
“No use, we’ll have to take ‘em off,” exclaimed Cap’n Jock. “Stand by top dory.”
There was a rush for the slings.
“Lower away.”
Instantly the frail craft alighted on the water, a cresting grayback lifted her on high, then smashed her like matchwood against Our vessel’s side. At this evidence of the wrath of the
sea, the
Skipper solemnly handed over the wheel, and sprang into the waist.
“Can’t order a man out in a sea like this. May not come baek. Who’ll take the dory with me?”
A half dozen of us stood forth to volunteer. I was surprised to find myself in that group, still more surprised to hear the Skipper say:
“I’ll take ye, Johnnie Angus.”
“Why ye takin’ the kid?” growled Wild Archie.
“Because he’s a grand hand in a boat. He’ll jump in and out where you heavyweights wouldn’t. Besides, this is an affair for the Mac- Phees,” he added significantly.
Before launching the second dory, kegs of oil were released to prevent the seas breaking, then watching our chance, the instant the dory floated we leaped aboard, and casting clear started away before the gale.
One minute we were lifted up on a mountainous crest, the next the schooner vanished to her trucks as we were swallowed up in the trough.
I had seen some rough boat-handling in my day, but this was the worst yet. All about were roaring graybacks, while our eyes Were blinded by blown spray.
Coming up under the lee of the Dundee, on account of floating spars and wreckage alongside, we had to keep off.
Black Dan, who was almost paralyzed with fear, clung to the rigging, but the cook”, watching for a smooth, took a chance, leaped upon the deck and threw us a line. Once this line was made fast to the dory, the cook jumped overboard, and we soon hauled him in to safety.
Black Dan was still hesitating, when Uncle Jock called out:
“Come on, if ye’re comin’.”
At this he scrambled down the shrouds and plunged into the sea. A few moments later, more dead than alive, we hauled him into the dory.
After the two survivors had been taken aboard, we were so deep in the water that it was impossible to make headway toward our vessel lying up to windward. Realizing our predicament, Allan MacEacheren, at the: wheel, came down to pick us up.
As the Airlie ranged alongside, Black Dan, over-anxious for himself, stood up and made a grab for the lee rail of the schooner, he succeeded in making it, all right, but as he did so, a sudden roller turned our dory completely over, plunging the rest of us into the sea.
Uncle Jock and I managed to scramble inboard, but the cook, poor fellow, was missing. A moment later he appeared far astern, struggling faintly; then, beyond help, he disappeared completely.
Aboard the Airlie there was scant chance now for sorrow. Every minute we were being swept farther and farther into the fatal Bend.
Leaping across the plunging deck, Cap’n Jock took his place at the wheel and put the vessel on the port tack in order to work off shore.
The set of the wind and the rush of the tide gave warning that it was no place to tarry. Out only hope aboard the Airlie was to harden our hearts for a thrash to windward to test the very core of man and ship.
Once having taken command, the Skipper started to put the canvas to her. I had heard of sail-dragging and cracking-on, but never before had I dreamed of such audacious chancing.
With the lives of men dependent on his headlong chancing, Jock the cautious had metamorphosed into Jock the reckless.
At last there came an order that caused the stoutest heart to tremble.
“Put the stays’l to her.”
With the schooner already buried to her hatches, this last seemed like tempting Providence too far.
“Ye’ll rip the sticks clean out o’ her!”
“Rip ‘em out,” came back the answer. “Better die crackin’ on, than runnin’ off.”
Down, down went the Airlie under the incredible pressure, while her lee side fairly smoked as she ate into the wind.
Over the roar of our lee, and the shriek of straining shrouds, one voice, imperative, insistent :
“Haul away on them sheets, there.”
“Punish her! Punish her!”
“Haul away till she’s flat as a board!”
While we were still sweating away at the sheets, there came a cracking sound aloft, then, with a ripping tearing note down crashed a mass of slatting spars and canvas.
“Topmast’s gone!”
“We’re done!”
There was an agony of waiting, waiting for the worst. Then someone called:
“My God, we’re clear!”
Looking back, the meaning of it all began to dawn upon us. We had clawed our way out of the fatal Bend. We had weathered the outermost bar. Before, stretched out the welcome of the open sea.
While I was still standing incredulous, Cap’n Jock handed over the wheel and came for’ard to superintend the job of clearing away the gear. As he passed me, I felt a warm pat upon my shoulder:
“Ye done grand work in the dory, laddie.”
Still mystified at all that had transpired, I could only reply:
“An’ God only knows why ye should ‘ave done it for a dog of a Campbell.”
With the look upon his face of one who was well pleased, the Skipper answered:
“How many times must I be tellin’ ye, Johnnie Angus, that mercy is a strong man’s vengeance?”
THE END
Text copyright © 2012 Arthur Hunt Cute
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Formac Publishing Company Limited acknowledges the support of the Cultural Affairs Section, Nova Scotia Department of Tourism, Culture and Heritage. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Chute, Arthur Hunt, 1890-1929
The crested seas / Arthur Hunt Chute ; introduction by
Gerald Hallowell.
(Formac fiction treasures)
Includes bibli
ographical references
Issued also in electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4595-0072-3
I. Title. II. Series: Formac fiction treasures
PS8505.H875C74 2012 C813’.52 C2012-903520-3
This digital edition first published in 2012 as 978-1-4595-0073-0
Originally published in 2012 as 978-1-4595-0072-3
Formac Publishing Company Limited
5502 Atlantic Street
Halifax, NS B3H 1G4
www.formac.ca