by Farley Mowat
“I can’t cast off them lines, Ben,” Jake interjected into the silence that followed Gabby’s announcement. “The Frogs won’t let me get ashore.”
“Cut the blank things then, cut ’em now! We’re movin’ out, you hear?”
The diesel suddenly burst into life; and before the fishermen could make a move, the three mooring lines had been sliced through and Black Joke was moving away from the dock.
Down in the chain locker the boys heard the shouts being exchanged between the deck and the wharf. Although they had not been able to catch all that was said, they had heard enough to realize that Captain Smith was no longer in favor with the local people. This knowledge helped to brace their spirits, which had begun to plummet as the diesel started and as they felt the ship begin to move. They were committed now–there was no going back.
13
The Battle for Black Joke
IT WAS shortly before 2:00 A.M. when Black Joke pulled clear of the little wharf. Captain Smith was in a foul mood. Having lost his pilot, he realized that he would now be forced to sound every inch of the way out of Miquelon Bay in order to avoid the shoals; and in order to sound he would have to steam dead slow.
Standing in the wheelhouse he stuck his head out the port window and slung a string of curses at his mate, the man called Jake.
“You name of a New Jersey name!” he bellowed. “Get two of those blanking clodhoppers forward with lead lines. I want the depth called every swing, and I want a swing every fifteen seconds. Now jump or by the blankety four blanks I’ll move you with some hot lead!”
Jake jumped, and in a moment the three boys in the chain locker heard the pounding of feet overhead, and soon afterwards the monotonous calling of the depth began as two sailors swung their lead lines alternately.
“Three fathoms…three and a half…four.”
“That tears it,” Kye whispered. “Goin’ out on his own by the lead. Them two fellers is right above our heads and we ain’t got a chance to sneak out on deck and git aft to the engine room without they see us. How long ye reckon he’ll have to use the lead, Jacques, considerin’ he don’t know the way?”
“There are shoals right to the mouth of the bay, Kye. In the dark he will be wise to take soundings until he is past Miquelon Head.”
“That means we’ll be clear out to sea fore we can even try to git out of here,” Peter whispered miserably. “Ye was right, you two. I’m ten kinds of a fool. We never should have come aboard. I’m right sorry I got ye into this, I’m sorry….”
“Pickle it, Peter,” Kye interrupted abruptly. “We’re here, and them fellers don’t know we’re here so we’re not beat yet. Now git thinkin’–git thinkin’ hard. There’s got to be somethin’ we can do.”
But there was nothing they could do. They were trapped for as long as the two leadsmen stood on the deck above them, and it looked as if the men would be there until daylight, by which time it would be impossible to try to reach the engine room.
However, the boys had a hidden ally they did not know about, a totally unexpected one–none other than Captain Smith himself.
Two hours after Black Joke had left the dock, Smith’s slim store of patience ran out. For two hours he had kept the vessel creeping through the darkness like a tired snail. He could stand no more of it. He was reasonably sure he was clear of the worst shoals, and as for the rest–well, the ship would have to take her chances.
He shoved the speed control handle to full throttle and again stuck his head out the wheelhouse window and shouted to his mate who was with the two leadsmen. “Okay, Jake. Call off them houn’ dogs you got bayin’ in the bow. Tell your loafin’ bunch of bums they can all turn in–them as ain’t asleep on their feet already. I’ll take her myself till dawn. You rustle me up some coffee.”
This time the three boys heard almost every word of what was shouted. They listened intently to the thump of boots as men came heavily down the ladder into the forepeak. They sat quite still while the crew rumbled about behind the bulkhead. They heard a brief and uncomplimentary discussion of Captain Smith’s nature, his ancestors, and his probable future; and the sound of corks being drawn from bottles. Then, one by one, the rum-runners crawled into their berths. In a few more minutes the sound of snoring had grown almost as loud as the sound of the diesel. Only one man was still awake: the mate, who was brewing a pot of coffee.
Kye drew the other two boys’ heads down close to his.
“This is it,” he muttered. “Never be a better chance. Who’s goin’ to have a shot at it?”
“I’m the one, and that’s flat,” Peter said and, though his voice was taut with fear, there was no question but that he meant it.
“Wait, please,” Jacques whispered. “I have been thinking. How will you get past the wheelhouse, Peter? The capitain, he will surely see you, non? And the man, Jake, he may return on deck also. So, we must make them not to see you. Put your hands down here…there is a hole in the bulkhead, do you feel it?…A rat-hole perhaps. If we pour some powder through that hole and put a match to it…poooff!… there will be a big flash. The forepeak will be full of smoke. The men will think the ship is on fire. They will yell and jump out. I think the capitain will run forward too. If you, Peter, are hiding close to the wheelhouse at that time you will have a chance to pass by to the engine room without trouble, I think. It is good, eh? Bien, after you go on deck, Kye and I will wait as long as it takes to count one hundred. If we hear nothing, we will know you are all right. Then we will light the powder.”
“By the Harry, ye sure got a head for thinkin’,” Kye whispered admiringly. “What about it, Peter?”
“Start gittin’ your powder ready, Jacques, and hand me the hammer, Kye. You fellers keep the knife in case…in case. I got to go right now. If I waits another minute I’ll be so scared I’ll be stiff as a dead cod. You ready yet, Jacques?”
In the darkness Jacques could not tell how much powder he was pouring through the hole. He had to be certain it was enough to cause a real diversion. In order to be sure, he tilted the can sharply one final time.
“You’ll make it, Peter. I knows ye will,” Kye whispered as Peter gently slid back the hatch, thrust his head out for a quick look, then wriggled up and out of sight.
It was a magnificent night. Only a little zephyr of a breeze rippled the black waters about the vessel as she drove steadily out to sea. Thin clouds obscured some of the stars, but enough of them remained so that Peter, now thoroughly accustomed to darkness, could see quite well. There was a dim light in the wheelhouse, probably a reflection from the binnacle lamp, and by it he could see Captain Smith’s head behind the glass.
Taking a long, deep breath, Peter bent double and cautiously moved aft, counting to himself as he went. He passed the open slider of the forepeak companion and smelled the coffee boiling. Just in time, he thought with a shiver. In another minute or two the mate would be coming on deck again. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two–he reached the starboard side of the main hatch and, getting down on his hands and knees, began to crawl along in the shelter of it. Forty-seven, forty-eight–he was halfway to the mainmast now, and less than twenty feet from the wheelhouse; but where was he going to hide? He could not guess which side of the ship Smith would come along when the powder went off–sixty-three, sixty-four–something loomed in front of him, and his hands went out to it quickly. It was a loosely coiled mooring line. Almost without thinking, Peter wriggled into the middle of the coil and pulled some of the loops over him–ninety-five…ninety-nine…one hundred-and-three–his hands were icy with sweat, and the hammer, which he had shoved into his belt and which was now beneath him, was hurting his leg intolerably–one hundred-and-ten–what had gone wrong? He couldn’t stand this for much longer; he was so close to the wheelhouse that if Smith looked his way he couldn’t help but see him. One hundred-and-fift–
A great flash of white light seemed to leap out of the open forepeak companionway, and for a moment the whole ship stood out in brilliant det
ail. There was a muffled whoomf from forward that shook the vessel as if she had run into something solid, and then the night was filled with shrieks and yells.
Peter saw the wheelhouse door flung open and Smith come lumbering toward him. Smith had been looking forward when the powder went off and had received the full effect of the sudden glare. Almost blinded, he rushed forward, yelling unanswerable questions over the cacophony of human voices which was pouring out of the companionway through a swirling cloud of smoke. Abruptly his foot caught in the coil of rope and he pitched full length across Peter, striking his forehead against the edge of the main hatch. It was a severe blow, but it did not knock him out.
Cursing, Smith managed to get to his knees, dragging his legs right across Peter, and then he began crawling forward on his hands and knees, having completely failed to notice the boy.
Peter was shaking so badly that his body would not obey him. He knew there was very little time before the occupants of the forepeak would all come scrambling out on deck. He took his lip between his teeth and deliberately bit it as hard as he could. Pain shot through him like an electric shock, and his uncontrolled shivering ceased. Then he was on his feet, running the last dozen paces.
The engine-room scuttle was closed but not locked, and he flung it open and plunged down the short stairs. The thunder of the diesel filled his ears–but he could not see. He had forgotten that there might be no light in the engine room. Frantically he thrust his hands into the worn pockets of the fisherman’s trousers he had borrowed. His fingers touched and grasped a match, one match. He knew it might have been there for months, might have been wet a score of times, and might now be quite useless. His trembling was returning as he knelt and felt for a dry place on the floor. He scratched the match…too carefully…try again…there was a faint hiss, a blue glow, and then, miraculously, he could see. His eyes searched the engine-room walls for a light switch, and just as the match began to burn his fingers and die down, he saw it. Lunging for it he pulled the toggle and the light went on.
Now he could hear the yells of men even above the thunder of the engine which stood before him. The deck vibrated with footsteps. Someone was coming aft at a dead run. Well, they were too late.
He stepped forward and very deliberately swung his hammer at the first injector. Fuel oil spurted in all directions. Six cylinders, six injectors–one…two…three…four…five…six. The ragged thunder of the diesel died to silence.
Down in the chain locker Jacques had counted slowly in order to give Peter lots of time. When he reached one hundred, he took out a match scratched it on the chain at his feet, and as coolly as a man lighting a cigarette, bent over and touched the powder train.
Now, there are many kinds of gunpowder. The common kind is black, burns slowly, and is fairly harmless unless it is ignited in a closed container. Another kind is white and sugarlike in appearance and is used for high velocity cartridge loads. It is never harmless, and it burns so fast that even in the open the effect can be explosive. The powder in Jacques’s can had been white–but in the darkness, how was he to tell?
The resultant whoomf as the powder ignited was so powerful that even in the chain locker it almost knocked the two boys down. It blew the hatch above their heads clean off and sent it sailing overboard. A cloud of bitter, choking smoke billowed back at them through cracks in the bulkhead and sent them coughing wildly and in panic-stricken flight out of the now open hatch. They reached the deck and, crouching just forward of the windlass, listened horrified to the sounds from the forepeak.
Had Jacques been a little more generous with the powder, the explosion would probably have been fatal to some of the men in the forepeak. As things stood, they were reasonably well protected because the blast took place beneath their bunks. Nevertheless, the concussion was enough to half-stun them, and the acrid, rolling smoke nearly asphixiated them before they could recover their senses. Yelling and screaming in pure terror, they stumbled into and over one another as they fought desperately to find the ladder and escape from the shambles of the forepeak. Someone hit his head against the gimballed oil lamp, which had been blown out by the blast. He struck it such a blow that he split his own scalp and sent the lamp tumbling down upon the stovetop. A trickle of kerosene began to flow from the lamp’s brass reservoir into the crack of a stovelid, and a tongue of yellow flame instantly licked up into the smoke-filled darkness.
The last man up the ladder saw that flame and as he crawled out into the pandemonium of cursing and coughing men he raised a fear-filled voice in the most dreaded cry that can be heard at sea.
“She’s afire below! She’s goin’ t’ go! For God’s sake, get the boat over…. She’s goin’ to go!”
Black Joke’s crew were demoralized anyway–being blown out of one’s bed in the small hours of the morning is enough to shake the courage of any man–but the cry of fire put the cap on it. Every man aboard knew what would happen if the cargo burned. Twelve thousand exploding bottles of overproof spirits would turn the ship into a flaming torch within a matter of minutes. Brute panic overwhelmed the crew at this prospect, and they stampeded aft.
The blast had not only forced the powder smoke into the chain locker, but into the main hold abaft the forepeak as well. It was now seeping out through the badly secured main hatch. The mate, who was the only relatively rational man of the lot–and the only one with enough presence of mind to grab a flashlight before crawling on deck–might even then have managed to regain some control of the crew, but as the men began to run past him he swung the beam of his flashlight and caught a glimpse of the wisps of smoke curling up from the edge of the cargo hatch. At the same moment he became aware that the engine had stopped.
Panic is infectious. Instead of trying to stem the rush to reach the boat, Jake joined it. There was no time or inclination to reason things out. For all he knew the entire ship below decks, including the engine room, was probably afire. He had no intention of remaining aboard to find out, or of trying to stem the fire single-handedly. As for Smith, his Captain–well, Smith could look out for himself if he hadn’t already done so.
Panic was now unrestrained, and the belief that the ship might soon blow up crowded out every other thought save the terrible need to get as far away from Black Joke as possible in the shortest conceivable time.
The crew did not launch the boat, which was slung on davits in the stern; they simply threw it overboard and jumped after it. As they heaved themselves out of the water and into the boat, they were so completely demoralized that they half-swamped it and lost several of the oars. Screaming and cursing at each other, they tried frantically to get the boat under way.
Meantime, Smith had regained his feet and was staggering aft. He was dazed, and suffering considerable pain. Blood was running freely down the side of his face. He had not yet been able to form any clear idea of what had happened, or was happening to the vessel. But one thing he understood–his crew was abandoning ship without his order.
Despite his moral lapses Smith was a good seaman, a master mariner, and no coward. Neither explosion nor fire could drive him to abandon his vessel while a chance of saving her remained. He intended to fight for Black Joke, but in order to do so he needed the assistance of his crew.
Black Joke still had some way on her and was slowly pulling away from the lifeboat, which was now almost lost to sight in the darkness. Smith knew there was no point in simply ordering the men back or even in trying to persuade them to return. He had seen enough of panic in his day not to underestimate its power. There was only one thing he could try and he did not hesitate. Pulling out his automatic, he fired two shots close over the heads of the seething mob in the boat.
“Back to the ship,” he bellowed, “or I’ll drill the rotten lot of you!”
It was a desperate threat. The boat was barely visible and almost out of pistol range. Someone had got a pair of oars between the tholepins and was already rowing hard. Yet the threat might just possibly have worked if a tongue of f
lame had not chosen that moment to come licking up out of the forepeak companionway, momentarily illuminating most of the forward part of the ship and clearly revealing the curling plumes of powder smoke still rising from the chain locker and the main hatch.
It also illuminated, briefly, the strained faces of the men in the boat. Then it died down, and there was a demented babble of cries as more oars struck the water and the men pulled with frantic desperation away from the apparently doomed ship.
Smith wasted no more time upon his crew, for they were gone. Cursing fluently, he staggered to the engine room companion, flung wide the door, and started down the stairs to get the big foam extinguisher which hung beside the engine.
The whole course of events since the explosion had occupied only four or five minutes, but to Peter, crouching beside the silent diesel, it had seemed like many hours. Having done what he had set out to do, he now had no idea what to do next. He could not think, but could only listen appalled to the pandemonium on deck, to the shrieks and yells, and finally to the pistol shots and the great bellow from Captain Smith. Realization that the ship actually was afire penetrated into his frightened mind only very slowly, but at the moment when Smith flung back the companion doors and started down the ladder, Peter had begun to understand the danger. The lifeboat was gone, the ship was on fire; he had to get on deck. He ran straight into Smith’s arms.
Smith must have been immensely surprised, but he had no time to indulge it.
“You! Whoever you are!” he said fiercely. “Get forward. There’s fire buckets abaft the foremast. Start heavin’ water down the forepeak as if your life was on it. GIT!” He half-flung Peter up the stairs, and the boy was already running by the time he reached the deck. There was light to see by now, a flickering red glow from the forepeak companion. So much had happened to Peter by this time that he was almost numb. One thought remained in his head…fire buckets abaft the foremast.