by Farley Mowat
“She’s comin’ off, Father,” Peter said softly.
Jonathan did not reply. He stared intently as the little ship he loved so well began to move stern-first back into the channel. In a little while the towing rope was cast off. The men who had boarded the schooner had evidently managed to start her engine. Slowly, sadly, Black Joke turned and began moving toward the harbor of St. Pierre.
Jonathan got to his feet and turned his back on the sight.
“That be the end of it,” he said shortly. “All right, me b’ys, let’s git us a camp set up amongst they boulders. Then we’ll have grub, and catch some rest. Nothing to do now until the fog comes in.”
“Shouldn’t we have a sentry?” Kye asked a little diffidently. “The rum-runner ain’t goin’ back to harbor. Looks to me like she’s goin’ to have a right good search around for us.”
“Good idea, lad,” Jonathan replied. “I’ll take first watch. Two hours on for each of us. Peter, ye’ll be next. Best git some sleep now while ye can.”
It did not take long to get the camp set up. The spare jib was stretched between three massive boulders and firmly anchored with stones, to form a comfortable shelter. The gear was piled inside in case of rain–though rain looked unlikely, for the morning was clear and bright. Kye meantime got some grub ready. They did not dare risk a fire since the smoke might give them away, but there was plenty of cold boiled pork and sea-biscuits, washed down with water from the pond.
During Jonathan’s watch he saw nothing to alarm him. The motor vessel moved out to sea on a course for Fortune, obviously hoping to find the dory. It was soon out of sight, far beyond the three-mile limit. The law don’t seem to mean nothin’ to they chaps, Jonathan thought indignantly. They’d pick us up right out of Newfoundland waters if they got the chance. Powerful anxious to git their hands on me, I guess. He chuckled. Can’t say I blame them overmuch. Must have hurt more’n their dignity when I rammed them in the channel.
At ten o’clock he woke Peter and went to sleep himself. Peter made the circuit of the high plateau but saw nothing except a number of St. Pierre fishing dories puttering by under the lee of the great cliffs. Becoming a little bored with the quietness, Peter explored part of the cliff-face in search of puffin nests. He found scores of them, and after breaking an egg or two to see if they were fresh, he collected three or four dozen and brought them triumphantly back to camp to show Kye when he woke him for his watch.
“You’re right smart, you are,” said Kye, when Peter showed him the eggs and bragged about the fine omelette they would make. “How you goin’ to make an omelette when we dasn’t light a fire? Goin’ to eat your omelette raw?”
Peter was crestfallen. “Well,” he said defensively, “if we was to git marooned on this here island, I guess we’d be glad to eat raw eggs.”
The idea of being marooned stayed in Kye’s mind as he wandered about the plateau peering out to sea occasionally. He knew that the dory was in a most unsafe position, and he also knew it was impossible to haul her far enough up the cliffs to make her secure. Born to the sea, he was quick to recognize the signs of weather. Now he began anxiously to scan the northwestern sky where thin bands of diffuse white clouds were appearing. A breeze seemed to be making up from the north too. Kye began to worry. The signs were those of a nor’ westerly blow.
Not waiting to finish his watch, he decided to wake Jonathan. Jonathan took one look at the sky and immediately roused Peter. “Trouble comin’, b’ys,” he said. “There’s a blow on its way. And the dory’s layin’ on the weather side of the rock, right where the seas will come ashore.”
“What’ll we do, then?” Peter asked.
“Have to try and bring her round to the lee side,” said Jonathan, “but it’s risky with all them fishin’ boats about, and the rum-runner bound to come back this way afore too long. We’ll hang on a bit, Mayhaps the blow’ll not amount to much. Can’t ever be sure with a nor’-wester.”
They waited tensely for an hour to two while the wind rose slowly but surely, and a sharp chop began to build on the face of the ocean far below.
“Can’t leave it no longer, lads,” Jonathan said at last. “We’ll have to git her off that shore afore she gits broke up. I’ll take her round myself. One feller in a dory won’t look so bad if we gits spotted, but three of we would be a dead give-away. Peter, you come down and help me launch her. Kye, you keep a watch on the backside of the island and if ye sees a boat comin’ close, heave over a stone so’s it’ll hit the water somewhere’s nigh me and give me a warnin’. Come on, Peter, there be no time to lose.”
Half falling and half scrambling, the two of them went over the edge and down the cliff. After a considerable struggle, they managed to right the dory. She slid easily enough into the water, for the breaking seas were already half floating her. Jonathan made a wild jump to get aboard and in a moment was rowing strongly to draw clear of the rocks. Looking down from the top of Colombier, he had not realized just how big the sea had become, and now he was having all he could do to keep the dory under control.
Peter began climbing up again, for there was no foreshore which would have enabled him to walk around the island at sea-level. In order to meet Jonathan and help him haul the dory up again, he would have to climb all the way up to the plateau and then descend the other side. Meanwhile Kye had run to the lee side of the plateau and was searching the narrow gap of water between Colombier and St. Pierre. There were no French dories in sight. Evidently the fishermen had read the weather signs too and had run for shelter while they could.
Seen from above, Jonathan’s little boat seemed like a minute chip being tossed in a spring freshet. First one end, then the other, seemed to be pointing straight up at the windswept sky. Jonathan was standing up in order to get more leverage and was leaning into the oars with the fury of desperation as wind and seas did their best to drive him onto the rocks at the foot of the northern cliff. He realized now that he had badly miscalculated the force of the storm, but there was nothing he could do about it except strain every muscle and hope he could get safely around the corner of the island, run down the eastern side, and then pull into shelter on the southern side.
He was very close to exhaustion by the time he was clear of the hungry rocks. Then he was able to let the wind take the dory and she began to drive rapidly past the east coast of Colombier, pushed by both wind and waves. Jonathan rested, slumped over the oars. But in a few minutes the dory had blown to the southeast corner, and once again he had to take up the oars and pull with all his strength in order to gain the promised shelter.
Watching anxiously from above, the boys saw him take a strain on the oars. Then they saw him suddenly lose his balance and fall backwards, full-length into the bottom of the dory.
“An oar broke, an oar broke!” Peter yelled at the top of his voice. “He’ll never make it now, Kye! He’ll blow ashore on St. Pierre! We got to do somethin’ quick!”
“Nothin’ we can do,” Kye yelled back over the whine of the wind. “Why don’t he git up? What’s the matter with him? He ain’t movin’ at all! Must have hit his head on the for’ard thwart. Must have knocked himself clean out!”
“He’ll be drowned,” Peter wailed.
“No he won’t,” cried Kye, though he was far from sure. “Ain’t no sea ever made what could overturn a dory. He’ll drift down the harbor. Somebody’s bound to see the dory down there. They’re bound to see it come ashore. Somebody’ll help him. Most likely he’ll come-to anyway afore she hits the beach. He’ll be all right, Peter, ye hear me? He’ll come through all right!”
Jonathan had struck his head a savage blow and now lay totally unconscious in the bottom of the boat. But a dory is the most seaworthy small craft ever invented, and as Kye had said, there was no danger of it overturning. Wind, seas, and the inflowing tide were carrying it rapidly off to the southeast, almost directly toward the entrance to St. Pierre Roads. If it continued to drift in the same direction, it would eventually fetch up near t
he relatively smooth beach where many of the St. Pierre fishermen hauled out their own dories. But Kye was wrong about one thing; Jonathan was not likely to recover consciousness for a long time. The sharp edge of the birch thwart had nearly split his skull, and he was suffering from what would later prove to be a serious concussion of the brain.
From the high, windswept plateau, the two boys watched until the dory vanished from their sight behind the southwest headlands of St. Pierre. They continued to lie watching for some time afterwards, hoping against hope for some sign that Jonathan would survive. They saw nothing until they spotted the returning rum-runner driving hard for harbor, and rolling and pitching in a manner which showed she was having all she could do to keep on her course.
Peter jumped to his feet and almost danced with relief.
“They’ll spot the dory, Kye,” he shouted. “Can’t miss seein’ it. They’re bound to pick him up. He’ll be all right now. He’s sure to be.”
It was only when their fears for Jonathan’s safety were somewhat alleviated that a realization of their own plight began to dawn on the boys. They were marooned on Colombier.
The wind was now so strong it was hard to stand against it, so they made their way back to the sheltered hollow where the tent was flapping like a wild thing. Having added more stones around the edges to hold it down, they crawled inside and began to discuss their plight.
“What ye reckon we ought to do, Peter?” Kye asked.
“Stay put, I guess. Don’t have no choice till this blow is over. Then we could signal one of the French dorymen aisy enough and git took off.”
“We better not do that,” replied Kye. “Jonathan might have his own plans for us. Maybe he’ll try and git word to Skipper Mathews for him to pick us off when he’s outward bound for. Newfoundland. And if he decides that ain’t no good, he’ll tell the Frenchies where we are and they’ll send off a boat for us. I figure we ought to just bide aisy and leave it up to he.”
“Guess you’re right, Kye. We got grub and a snug camp and they ain’t no use lookin’ for trouble afore we has to. After what we done, I kind of think the Frenchies would put us in jail if we was only six-year-olds. And another thing, there ought to be other Newfoundland schooners comin’ in here and we could maybe signal one, if Skipper Mathews can’t help out.”
Although still worried about Jonathan, the boys’ spirits were rising rapidly at the prospect of being marooned on the gigantic rock and having to live like Robinson Crusoes. They mightily enjoyed their first night in the homemade tent, listening to the howl of the wind overhead and the steady rumble of the big seas breaking at the foot of the cliffs. Morning brought some second thoughts, however, for the gale continued unabated and the supply of cooked food was running low. By mid-afternoon they were looking speculatively at the puffins’ eggs, and before noon of the following day they had concluded that raw puffins’ eggs might be edible after all. They were. Downing the first one raw was the hardest part, but Peter tried the experiment, and when he found he could keep it down, he managed to eat half a dozen more. Kye followed his example.
On the afternoon of their third day on the rock, the wind dropped light and the seas began to fall off. But though they spent several hours watching the mouth of St. Pierre’s harbor, they saw no sign of any boat setting out to rescue them. By evening, when the seas had smoothed down considerably, a stream of power dories began to put out, filled with fishermen–but none of them paid any attention to Colombier. Some of them puttered past within a few yards of the shore rocks, but their crews did not even glance up toward the high crests where the boys lay watching.
Life on the island was becoming tedious. The boys had explored the crest very thoroughly, but exploration of the cliffs was not something one would tackle for fun, for a drop of six hundred feet to the shore rocks was not a pleasant prospect. Their diet of cold water, raw eggs, sea-biscuits, and the occasional handful of brown sugar was beginning to sour. Worse still, the rats on the island, which normally lived on the cliff-face eating puffins’ eggs and young puffins, had discovered the camp. During the third night the rats staged an invasion of the tent in search of food, and the boys spent most of the night leaping about and striking at the scuttling creatures with rocks or bits of stick. Although the rats were not dangerous, they made sleep impossible.
As the fourth day dawned, the boys found that the pleasures of being marooned had worn pretty thin. They were hungry, tired, bored, and beginning to feel lost and lonely. They could no longer even begin to guess at what was happening on St. Pierre. Only one fact seemed certain, that for some reasons of his own Jonathan had not told the authorities where they were. Presumably this meant he had made arrangements for their rescue by Mathews, or some other friendly person–but the uncertainty was beginning to tell on their nerves. There was always the thought, suppressed as much as possible, but ever-present in the back of their minds, that Jonathan might not have made it safely to St. Pierre. It was a black thought, and one they would not face, yet it hovered always near.
Towards noon on the fourth day they were lying together on the south crest looking at the mounded heights of St. Pierre lying less than a mile off. They were in a dark and gloomy mood as they watched a fishing dory coming toward the channel between the two islands, from the direction of Miquelon lying to the north.
It was a big dory, brilliantly painted in sky-blue with red trim, and it was coming along at a fast clip. The lads could see only two figures aboard it, one of them a burly man sitting on the engine-cover and wearing a beret, while a youth with red hair was in the stern steering.
“Maybe we ought to signal that one,” Peter said tentatively. “We can’t stay stuck up here forever. I’m sick of eatin’ puffins’ eggs and chasin’ rats. We got to find out what’s happened to me father, and we can’t find out nothin’ here.”
“Quit your grumblin’,” Kye replied shortly. “We agreed to stick it out till we got word from your dad. If we don’t hear nothin’ before tomorrow night, it’ll be time to start thinkin’ about givin’ up. Lessen ye’re ready to quit, of course!”
“Spences don’t quit!” Peter replied hotly. “And I don’t aim to be the first. Let that dory go along. I’ll wait as long as you can.”
Kye suddenly grasped Peter’s shoulder. “It ain’t goin’ along,” he said, excitement mounting in his voice. “It’s turnin’ in! I believe it’s goin’ to land right on Colombier!”
9
The Basques Take Sides
THE BOYS watched anxiously as the big dory turned sharply toward the cliffs. Although it appeared to have come from the wrong direction, they still hoped it might have been sent to fetch them, for why else would a dory land on Colombier? Peter was feverishly anxious to hear news of his father, and so, jumping to his feet he began to yell and wave his arms, though his voice could not have been heard above the sound of the dory’s motor. Kye grabbed him and pulled him back from the edge of the cliff.
“Take it easy,” Kye said sharply. “We don’t know for sure it was sent for we. Let’s wait and see what happens afore we sticks out our necks.”
The dory engine stopped and the boat drifted toward the rocks. At the last minute the man with the beret leapt ashore, caught the dory’s nose and fended her off. The redheaded boy joined him, bringing with him two big wicker baskets. After mooring the boat, man and boy slipped the baskets over their arms and began to climb the steep cliffs.
Kye and Peter were puzzled. “What do ye guess them baskets is for?” Peter asked. Kye shook his head. “Keep yer eyes peeled till we find out; but don’t let ’em see us yet.”
The man and the boy had now separated and were working their way up the cliffs by two different routes. When they were about halfway up, they reached the area where the puffins nested and they were soon surrounded by clouds of the little birds.
Peter was watching them intently.
“They didn’t come for us, at all,” he said at last. “They’re after eggs. What’ll we do now?
We better figure what we’re going to do.”
Retreating to their camp, the two boys conferred. Peter was for making contact with the strangers at once, on the grounds that he and Kye could not remain on Colombier much longer in any case. But Kye was still doubtful of the wisdom of such a move. They were arguing heatedly about it when a sound of boots on rocks brought them to their feet.
Coming up behind their tent, after having evidently scaled the cliff to the rear as they were arguing, was the boy from the dory. They could not avoid him nor escape. They could only stand and wait to see what he would do.
The strange lad with the red hair seemed immensely surprised. He stared at the tent for some time, then at Peter and Kye. Finally he spoke.
“Qui êtes-vous?” he asked.
Peter and Kye stared back at him uncomprehendingly, whereupon he ran to the edge of the plateau and began shouting. Two or three minutes later the head and shoulders of the man emerged into view. He was a big, burly fellow with a hawklike nose, dark eyes, and a mass of black curly hair slipping out from under his beret.
He took one astounded look at the scene, hauled himself up on the level ground, and came striding forward.
“By Gar,” he cried in a booming voice. “You fellows don’t come from St. Pierre, eh? Who you are an’ how you get up here?”
Peter said the first thing that came into his head.
“We been shipwrecked, sorr,” he quavered.