The Sea-Story Megapack: 30 Classic Nautical Works

by Jack Williamson

  “Skipper Bill,” said Archie, “the nearest telegraph station is at Tilt Cove. Can we make it in a night?”

  “If the wind holds,” the skipper answered.

  “Then we’ll try,” said Archie.

  The predicament was explained to Donald North and Jimmie Grimm and Billy Topsail. The Spot Cash could have no more fish as long as the Black Eagle paid three eighty-five with the St. John’s market at three thirty-five. But was the market at three thirty-five? Hadn’t the Black Eagle later information? That must be found out; and from Tilt Cove it could be discovered in two hours. So up went the sails of the Spot Cash, and, with the Black Eagle following, she jockeyed out of the harbour. Presently, when she had laid a course for Cape John and Tilt Cove, the Black Eagle came about and beat back to Conch.

  * * * *

  Next morning—and dirty weather was promised for the day—the Spot Cash dropped anchor in the shelter of the cliff at Tilt Cove and Billy Topsail pulled Archie ashore. It was in Archie’s heart to accuse his father’s firm of harsh dealing with a small competitor; but he resolved to do no more than ask the price of fish. The answer would be significant of all that the lad wished to know; and if the great firm of Armstrong& Company had determined to put obstacles in the way of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm& Company, even to the point of ruin, there was no help for Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company. Archie would ask no quarter.

  “Make haste!” Skipper Bill called from the deck of the Spot Cash. “I’ve no love for this harbour in a gale o’ wind.”

  It was poor shelter at best.

  “Much as I can,” Archie shouted back.

  The boy sent this telegram:

  Tilt Cove, August 6.

  Armstrong & Company,

  St. John’s.

  Price of fish.

  Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company.

  There was now nothing to do but wait. Sir Archibald would be in his little office overlooking his wharves and shipping. It would not be long. And the reply presently came:

  St. John’s, August 6.

  Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company,

  Aboard “Spot Cash,”

  Tilt Cove.

  Still three thirty-five. No rise probable.

  Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company.

  Archie Armstrong was hurt. He could hardly conceive that his father had planned the ruin of his undertaking and the loss of his honour. But what was left to think? Would the skipper and clerk of the Black Eagle deliberately court discharge? And discharge it would be—discharge in disgrace. There was no possible excuse for this amazing change in prices. No; there was no explanation but that they were proceeding upon Sir Archibald’s orders. It was inconceivable that they should be doing anything else. Archie would ask no quarter of his father; but he would at least let Sir Archibald know that he was aware of the difference between fair and unfair competition. Before he boarded the Spot Cash he dispatched this message:

  Tilt Cove, August 6.

  Armstrong & Company,

  St. John’s.

  Tilt Cove.

  “Black Eagle” paying three eighty-five. Underselling flour, pork, tea, sugar. Why don’t you play fair?

  Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company.

  If Archie Armstrong could have been in the little office which overlooked the wharves to observe the effect of that message upon Sir Archibald he would not only have been amazed but would have come to his senses in a good deal less time than he actually did. The first item astounded and bewildered Sir Archibald; the second—the brief expression of distrust—hurt him sorely. But he had no time to be sentimental. Three eighty-five for fish? What was the meaning of that? Cut prices on flour, pork, sugar and tea? What was the meaning of that? Sir Archibald saw in a flash what it meant to Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company. But what did it mean to Armstrong & Company? Sir Archibald flushed and perspired with wrath. He pushed buttons—he roared orders—he scribbled telegrams. In ten minutes, so vociferous was his rage, so intense his purpose, it was known from one end of the establishment to the other that the Black Eagle must be communicated with at once.

  But Armstrong & Company could not manage to communicate with the Black Eagle direct, it seemed. Armstrong & Company might, however, communicate with the Spot Cash, now at Tilt Cove and possibly bound north. Doubtless by favour of the clerk of the Spot Cash Armstrong& Company would be able to speak orders in the ear of Skipper George Rumm.

  “Judd!” Sir Archibald roared.

  The pale little clerk appeared on the bound.

  “Rush this,” said Sir Archibald.

  The message read:

  St. John’s, August 6.

  Archibald Armstrong II,

  On board “Spot Cash,”

  Tilt Cove.

  Please oblige order “Black Eagle” St. John’s forthwith. This your authority.

  Armstrong & Company.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  In Which the “Spot Cash” is Caught By a Gale In the Night and Skipper Bill Gives Her Up For Lost

  It was blowing up when Archie returned to the Spot Cash. There was a fine rain in the wind, too; and a mist—hardly yet a fog—was growing denser on the face of a whitening sea. Nothing to bother about yet, of course: only a smart breeze and a little tumble, with thick weather to make a skipper keep his eyes open. But there was the threat of heavy wind and a big sea in gray sky overhead and far out upon the water. Tilt Cove was no place for the Spot Cash to lie very long; she must look for shelter in Sop’s Arm before night.

  “Archie, b’y,” said Bill o’ Burnt Bay, in the cozy forecastle with the boys, “there’s something queer about this here Black Eagle.”

  “I should say so!” Archie sneered. “It’s the first time I ever knew my father not to play fair.”

  “Bosh!” Skipper Bill ejaculated.

  Archie started up in a rage.

  “’Ear the wind!” said Bagg, with a little shiver.

  It had begun to blow in earnest. The wind, falling over the cliff, played mournfully in the rigging. A gust of rain lashed the skylight. Swells from the open rocked the schooner.

  “Blowin’ up,” said Billy Topsail.

  “How long have you knowed Sir Archibald?” the skipper asked.

  Archie laughed.

  “Off an’ on for about sixteen years, I ’low?” said the skipper.

  Archie nodded shortly.

  “’Ark t’ the wind!” Bagg whispered.

  “’Twill be all in a tumble off the cape,” said Jimmie Grimm.

  “Know Sir Archibald well?” the skipper pursued.

  Archie sat down in disgust.

  “Pretty intimate, eh?” asked the skipper.

  The boy laughed again; and then all at once—all in a flash—his ill-humour and suspicion vanished. His father not play fair? How preposterous the fancy had been! Of course, he was playing fair! But somebody wasn’t. And who wasn’t?

  “It is queer,” said he. “What do you make of it, Bill?”

  “I been thinkin’,” the skipper replied heavily.

  “Have you fathomed it?”

  “Well,” the skipper drawled, “I’ve thunk along far enough t’ want t’ look into it farder. I’d say,” he added, “t’ put back t’ Conch.”

  “It’s going to blow, Skipper Bill.”

  It had already begun to blow. The wind was moaning aloft. The long-drawn melancholy penetrated to the cozy cabin. In the shelter of the cliff though she was, the schooner tossed in the spent seas that came swishing in from the open.

  “Well,” the skipper drawled, “I guess the wind won’t take the hair off a body; an’ I ’low we can make Conch afore the worst of it.”

  “I’m with the skipper,” said Billy Topsail.

  “Me, too,” said Jimmie Grimm.

  Bagg had nothing to say; he seldom had, poor fellow, in a gale of wind.

  “I’ve a telegram to send,” said Archie.

  It was a message of apology. Archie went ashore with a lighter heart to file
it. What an unkindly suspicious fool he had been! He reflected, heartily ashamed of himself.

  “Something for you, sir,” said the agent.

  Sir Archibald’s telegram was put in the boy’s hand; and when this had been read aboard the Spot Cash—and when the schooner had rounded Cape John and was taking full advantage of a sudden change of wind to the southwest—Archie and the skipper and the crew felt very well indeed, thank you!

  * * * *

  It blew hard in the afternoon—harder than Bill o’ Burnt Bay had surmised. The wind had a slap to it that troubled the little Spot Cash. Crested seas broke over her bows and swept her deck. She was smothered in white water half the time. The wind was rising, too. It was to be a big gale from the southeast. It was already half a gale. There was wind enough for the Spot Cash. Much more would shake and drown her like a chip. Bill o’ Burnt Bay, at the wheel, and the crew, forward and amidships, kept watch for the coast and the friendly landmarks of harbour. But what with wind and fog and rain it was a disheartening business.

  When night gathered, the coast was not in sight. The Spot Cash was tossing somewhere offshore in a rising gale and dared not venture in. The wind continued in the southeast. The coast was a lee shore—all rocks and islands and cliffs. The Spot Cash must beat out again to sea and wait for the morning. Any attempt to make a harbour of that harsh shore in the dark would spell destruction. But the sea was hardly more hospitable. The Spot Cash, reefed down almost to bare poles, and standing out as best she could, tossed and plunged in the big black seas, with good heart, to be sure, but, presently, with small hope. It seemed to Bill o’ Burnt Bay that the little craft would be broken and swamped.

  The boys came aft from forward and amidships. All at once Archie, who had been staring into the night ahead, started, turned and uttered an ejaculation of dismay, which a gust of wind drove into the skipper’s ear.

  “What is it, b’y?” Skipper Bill roared.

  “I forgot to insure her,” shouted Archie.

  Skipper Bill grinned.

  “It’s ruin if we wreck, Bill,” Archie shouted again.

  It looked to Bill o’ Burnt Bay like wreck and death. If so, the ruin might take care of itself. It pleased him to know that Archie was still unconcerned about his life. He reflected that if the Spot Cash should by any chance survive he would tell Sir Archibald that story. But a great sea and a smothering blast of wind distracted him. The sea came clear over the bow and broke amidships; the wind fairly drove the breath back into the skipper’s throat. There would be two more seas he knew: there were always three seas. The second would break in a moment; the third would swamp the schooner. He roared a warning to the boys and turned the wheel to meet the sea bow on. The big wave fell with a crash amidships; the schooner stopped and shivered while a torrent of water drove clear over the stern. Bill o’ Burnt Bay saw the crest of the third sea grow white and tower in the night.

  “Hang to her!” screamed Archie.

  Skipper Bill smiled grimly as the sea came aboard. It broke and swept past. He expected no more; but more came—more and still more. The schooner was now tossing in a boiling pot from which the spray rose like steam. Bill caught the deep boom of breakers. The Spot Cash was somewhere inshore. The water was shallowing. She was fairly on the rocks. Again Bill shouted a warning to the boys to save themselves when she struck. He caught sight of a low cliff—a black shadow above a mass of moving, ghostly white. The schooner was lifted by a great sea and carried forward. Skipper Bill waited for the shock and thud of her striking. He glanced up at the spars—again screamed a warning—and stood rigid. On swept the schooner. She was a long time in the grip of that great wave.

  Then she slipped softly out of the rough water into some placid place where the wind fluttered gently down from above.

  * * * *

  There was a moment of silence and uttermost amazement. The wind had vanished; the roar of the sea was muffled. The schooner advanced gently into the dark.

  “The anchor!” the skipper gasped.

  He sprang forward, stumbling; but it was too late: the bowsprit crumpled against a rock, there was a soft thud, a little shock, a scraping, and the Spot Cash stopped dead.

  “We’re aground,” said Bill.

  “I wonders where?” said Jimmie Grimm.

  “In harbour, anyhow,” said Billy Topsail.

  “And no insurance!” Archie added.

  There was no levity in this. The boys were overawed. They had been afraid, every one of them; and the mystery of their escape and whereabouts oppressed them. But they got the anchor over the bow; and presently they had the cabin stove going and were drying off. Nobody turned in; they waited anxiously for the first light of day to disclose their surroundings.

  CHAPTER XXVIX

  In Which Opportunity is Afforded the Skipper of the “Black Eagle” to Practice Villainy in the Fog and He Quiets His Scruples. In Which, also, the Pony Islands and the Tenth of the Month Come Into Significant Conjunction

  Aboard the Black Eagle, Skipper George Rumm and Tommy Bull, with the cook and three hands, all of Tom Tulk’s careful selection, were engaged, frankly among themselves, in a conspiracy to wreck the schooner for their own profit. It was a simple plan; and with fortune to favour rascality, it could not go awry. Old Tom Tulk of Twillingate had conceived and directed it. The Black Eagle was to be loaded with salt-cod from the French Shore stages in haste and at any cost. She was then to be quietly taken off one of the out-of-the-way rocky little islands of the remote northern coast. Her fish and the remainder of her cargo were to be taken ashore and stowed under tarpaulin: whereupon—with thick weather to corroborate a tale of wreck—the schooner was to be scuttled in deep water.

  “’Tis but a matter o’ clever management,” Tom Tulk had said. “Choose your weather—that’s all.”

  Presently the castaways were to appear in Conch in the schooner’s quarter boat with a circumstantial account of the disaster. The Black Eagle was gone, they would say; she had struck in a fog, ripped out her keel (it seemed), driven over the rock, filled and sunk. At Conch, by this time, the mail-boat would be due on the southward trip. Skipper George and the clerk would proceed in grief and humiliation to St. John’s to report the sad news to Armstrong & Company; but the cook and the three hands would join Tom Tulk at Twillingate, whence with the old reprobate’s schooner they would rescue fish and cargo from beneath the tarpaulins on the out-of-the-way rocky little island in the north. To exchange crews at Twillingate and run the cargo to St. John’s for quick sale was a small matter.

  “Barrin’ accident,” Tom Tulk had said, “it can’t fail.”

  There, indeed, was a cold, logical plan. “Barrin’ accident,” as Tom Tulk was aware, and as he by and by persuaded Skipper George, it could not fail. Let the weather be well chosen, the story consistent: that was all. Was not Skipper George forever in danger of losing his schooner? Had not Sir Archibald already given him his last warning? They would say in St. John’s merely that Skipper George had “done it at last.” Nobody would be surprised; everybody would say, “I told you so.” And when old Tom Tulk came into harbour with a mysterious load of fish who would suspect him? Was not Tom Tulk known to be an eccentric? Was there any accounting for what Tom Tulk would do? Tom Tulk would say, “Mind your business!” and that would make an end of the questioning.

  “Choose your weather, Skipper George,” said Tom Tulk. “Let it be windy and thick.”

  With fog to hide the deed—with a gale to bear out the story and keep prying craft away—there would be small danger of detection. And what if folk did suspect? Let ’em prove it! That’s what the law demanded. Let ’em prove it!

  * * * *

  When the Black Eagle put back to Conch from following the little Spot Cash, it was evident that the opportunity had come. The weather was thick; there was a promise of wind in the air. Moreover, with Archie Armstrong on the coast in a temper, it was the part of wisdom to beware. Skipper George went gloomily to the cabin when the schoo
ner rode once more at anchor. It was time, now; he knew it, the clerk knew it, the crew knew it. But Skipper George had no liking for the job; nor had the clerk, to tell the truth, nor had the cook, nor had the crew. Rascals are not made in a day; and it takes a long time to innure them against fear and self-reproach. But skipper and crew of the Black Eagle were already committed. Their dealing for fish on the coast had been unpardonable. The skipper could not explain it in St. John’s; nor could the clerk excuse it.

  “We got t’ go through with this, Tommy,” said the gloomy skipper.

  “Have a dram,” the clerk replied. “I’m in sore need o’ one meself.”

  It seemed the skipper was, too.

  “With that little shaver on the coast,” said the clerk, “’tis best done quickly.”

  “I’ve no heart for it,” the skipper growled.

  The clerk’s thin face was white and drawn. His hand trembled, now, as he lifted his glass. Nor had he any heart for it. It had been all very well, at first; it had seemed something like a lark—just a wild lark. The crew, too, had taken it in the spirit of larking—at first. But now that the time was come both forecastle and cabin had turned uneasy and timid.

  In the forecastle, the cook said to the first hand:

  “Wisht I was out o’ this.”

  “Wisht I’d never come in it,” the first hand sighed.

  Their words were in whispers.

  “I ’low,” said the second hand, with a scared glance about, “that the ol’ man will—will do it—the morrow.”

  The three averted their eyes—each from the other’s.

  “I ’low,” the cook gasped.

  Meantime, in the cabin, the clerk, rum now giving him a saucy outlook, said: “’Twill blow half a gale the morrow.”

  “Ay,” said the skipper, uneasily; “an’ there’s like t’ be more than half a gale by the glass.”

  “There’ll be few craft out o’ harbour.”

  “Few craft, Tommy,” said the skipper, drawing a timid hand over his bristling red beard. “I’m not likin’ t’ take the Black Eagle t’ sea.”

  “’Tis like there’ll be fog,” the clerk continued.

  “Ay; ’tis like there’ll be a bit o’ fog.”