The Black Joke

by Farley Mowat

  He reached the buckets, and out of the darkness forward two figures rose up as one and ran to meet him. In the glow of the fire he could see two terrified sets of eyes gleaming at him.

  “Buckets!” he yelled, and grabbing one himself he caught the lanyard in one hand and heaved the red pail overboard. Jacques and Kye needed no second telling. Within seconds they too were throwing buckets overboard, hauling them up full, and dashing the contents down the open companionway.

  The sharp crackle and the glare of flame told them that the fire was well into the woodwork. Coiling clouds of smoke mingling with gusts of scorching air were now billowing freely out of the companionway so that they had to heave the water into it from a distance of several feet. Seen by the reflected glow of the flames, they seemed like three maniac dwarfs as they scuttled back and forth between the rail and the companionway.

  What Captain Smith must have thought, as he lumbered onto the scene with a big foam extinguisher under his arm, remained unexpressed. He had no time to consider how one unexplained boy hiding in the engine room had suddenly become three.

  “I’m goin’ down,” he bawled at them. “Keep them buckets comin’ and heave ’em over me. Wet me down good and keep doin’ it or we’ll all of us finish up with the devil tonight!”

  Unslinging the extinguisher he grasped the nozzle and turned toward the companionway. A full pail of water flung by Kye caught him on the head and ran down his neck. A second pailful drenched his shoulders. He waited until three more pailfuls had been flung over him and then, hauling the top of his turtle-necked jersey up over his face and pulling his peaked cap down over his eyes, he hunched his shoulders and stepped deliberately into the smoke-filled opening.

  “He’ll burn to death!” Kye screamed.

  “The water! Keep it comin’!” Peter yelled hysterically. “Keep him wet down!”

  Now the three boys moved with the fury of madmen. Pail after pail of salt water whooshed through the opening. They moved in so close to the companionway that the smoke half-blinded them while the heat seared their faces. Panting and sweating like exhausted dogs, they were only half aware of what they were doing now. They hardly noticed the subdued hissing sound of the extinguisher which was beginning to be heard over the failing crackle of the fire; and they were only vaguely aware that it was getting darker–that the red glare was dying down. Smoke billowed much more thickly from the opening, but now it was only smoke, and no more flame.

  They continued heaving water like mindless robots. Rushing back from the rail, Peter was about to swing his bucket toward the companionway when he realized that there was something moving in the opening. It looked like an arm waving slowly and then falling, to lie limply on the deck. There was almost no light now, and he was not quite sure what he had seen, but he dropped the bucket, reached forward groping, touched a hand, and yelled. “He’s tryin’ to git out! Help me, b’ys!”

  Jacques was by his side in an instant. Together they began hauling at the limp arm. Kye joined them and the three boys strained at the inert bulk of the man and slowly dragged him up, over the sill, and out into the open.

  Smith’s cap was gone and his hair was singed down to his scalp, but he had not suffered serious burns, except to his hands. The steady flow of water from above had saved him from the heat, but the combination of smoke and carbon dioxide from the extinguisher had been too much for even his massive strength. Beginning to pass out, he had just been able to climb the ladder to the companion entrance before he became unconscious.

  Jacques bent over him and listened to the ragged, heavy breathing.

  “I think he is all right. But the fire maybe is not yet out! We must keep on!”

  Though almost totally exhausted, the boys returned automatically to their task. They had lost all track of time. Mechanically they staggered to the rail, dipped their buckets, and staggered back. They had no breath to spare for even a single word to one another. Had they paused and looked, they would have seen that the fire was out, for the carbon dioxide had smothered the flames effectively and the steady flood of water had killed the last glowing embers. But they did not stop until Peter, with a groan, slipped down in a dead faint.

  The clatter of his bucket rolling across the deck was like a signal freeing Jacques and Kye from a nightmare. They too dropped their buckets and sank to the deck in a state of near collapse.

  14

  The Long Voyage Ends

  IT WAS past three o’clock in the morning before Pierre Roulett breasted the last rise and began making his way painfully down the mountain slopes toward the village. He was very tired but the sight of a number of lights moving through the village streets made him hurry his pace.

  “Hello!” he cried as he approached a man carrying a storm lantern. “What you looking for at this time of night, eh?”

  “Is that you, Pierre? Bon! There is much trouble. Jacques and the boys of Terre Neuve have disappeared. The whole of Miquelon is out looking for them. Pascal waits at your house. He will tell you what has happened.”

  Pascal was standing just inside the kitchen door when Pierre burst in. The young man was trying to defend himself from a verbal assault by Mrs. Roulett, who seemed almost on the point of going for him with her bare hands.

  “Stop that screeching!” Pierre bellowed in a voice that brooked no opposition. “What has happened here, Pascal?”

  Much relieved by Pierre’s arrival, but still eying the infuriated Mrs. Roulett apprehensively, Pascal broke into a rapid explanation of all that had occurred up to the moment when Black Joke had been cut loose from the dock and had vanished into darkness. At this point he was interrupted by Marie, who could no longer contain herself.

  “I warned they lads not to go nigh the wharf whilst the schooner was layin’ there,” she cried in English. “But that fool, Pascal, he let ’em go. If they’ve come to any hurt, I’ll reach his scalp right off his head!”

  “Be quiet, woman!” Pierre shouted. “What do you think has happened to them, Pascal?”

  “They are not in the village, or near it, Pierre. It seems impossible, but the only place they can be is aboard the ship.”

  “When did she sail?” Pierre snapped.

  “An hour and a half ago, but without a pilot. We told Gabby Morazi the plan was off when you did not appear, and so he decided to stay ashore. The schooner must be steaming dead slow, feeling her way with the leadline through the shoals. Already we have been thinking of going after her….”

  “Thinking!” Pierre interrupted harshly. “Why did you not act? Find me twelve men and the three fastest dories on the beach. And whatever guns you can grab quick. I give you five minutes only. Go!”

  Pierre himself remained behind only long enough to snatch up his shotgun and a handful of shells, then he was off for the beach. He had already winched his own dory into the water before the other men appeared.

  “Make the course toward Miquelon Head,” he ordered curtly. “Smith will steer that way for sure. Pascal, you try and keep a quarter-mile to port of me. Uncle Paul, you keep a quarter-mile to starboard.”

  Moments later the dories were under way. At the helm of his own boat Pierre sat tense and grim. He knew the odds were heavily against catching up with the schooner, unless by some freak she happened to put herself on a shoal. He also knew, having heard about the row at the wharf, that Smith would be wary about letting any dory come close to him.

  The boats drove noisily through the darkness, and every eye was strained for some indication that would lead the pursuit toward the fleeing schooner. Yet the men were totally unprepared when, with fearful abruptness, a flare of white light burst up from the surface of the sea far ahead of them and hung flickering for an instant like a flash of summer lightning.

  Pierre was the first to realize what it was they had seen. “Sacré bleu!” he cried in anguish, “It is the ship! She has blown up!”

  As if by a common impulse, the three dories drew in upon each other until they were running almost gunwal
e to gunwale toward the site of the distant flash where now a flickering red glow had come into being.

  “Pray God they can get off in time!” One of the men aboard Pierre’s dory yelled above the sound of the laboring engine. “She will be a torch in a few minutes…. Pray God…!”

  There was nothing else to do but pray. In each dory, men crouched down, leaning forward as if they could will the boats to a faster speed. Pierre’s hand on the tiller was clenched so tightly that some of his fingernails broke off, but he did not even notice….

  Aboard the schooner Kye painfully opened his eyes and sat up. It seemed to him that he had been asleep for hours, dreaming wildly of an explosion and leaping flames, though in reality he had slept only a few minutes. The sound of heavy groans had wakened him, and now he saw that Smith was sitting near, holding both burned hands in front of him so that they bore a ghastly resemblance to two freshly boiled lobsters. The sight of those hands brought Kye fully to his senses. His fear and hatred of Smith were submerged in a wave of horrified pity.

  “Hang on, sorr,” he cried. “I’ll run aft and git some grease out of the engine room. It’ll maybe help some to ease the pain.”

  Smith looked over at the boy and, despite his agony, he grinned.

  “Grease is it, you young scut? More likely you’ll stick a knife in me ribs and finish me off. When it comes to fightin’ a bunch of young devils what don’t even mind blowin’ themselves to glory to hijack a ship, I quit! This boat’s all yours, sonny…. Only lay off the dynamite, will you?”

  Despite himself, Kye could not help returning the grin, though a bit shamefacedly.

  “I guess we’re sorry,” he said slowly. “We never meant to hurt nobody. It was just that we had to stop ye gittin’ clear.”

  “Okay,” Smith replied. “You stopped me. Now fetch that grease. Then you better wake up your pals there, and take charge of this hulk before she ends up on the rocks and drowns us all. There’s nothin’ I can do to help nor hinder you.”

  But Smith was able to help. After Kye had smothered his burns in grease and had then shaken the other two boys awake, it was Smith who gave the orders.

  “Cut loose that starboard anchor,” he told them, “and let run about fifteen fathoms of chain. Then one of you light the gas lantern that’s in the wheelhouse. Hang it in the rigging as high as you can climb. There’s flares too. Fire one of ’em every ten minutes. The Frogs ashore will see ’em and come out for loot, if nothing else.”

  Groggily, and still half-stupefied with exhaustion, the boys did as Smith directed. Jacques had just fired the third flare when the distant mutter of dory engines made itself heard. The boys shouted hopefully into the darkness and fired the remaining flares with the abandon of a fireworks display.

  Fifteen minutes later the dories loomed alongside. Seconds afterwards Pierre leapt aboard, shotgun in his hand and his big electric torch sweeping the decks which were already growing dimly visible in the pre-dawn light.

  The boys clustered around him, almost hysterical with relief. But Pierre only lingered with them long enough to assure himself they were all right before striding over to the main hatch where Smith was sitting. Pierre lifted the shotgun and swung it until the muzzle was only inches away from the American’s head.

  “I theenk you bettair say your prayers pretty quick, monsieur le kidnappair!” he said tautly.

  Smith did not flinch from the threat.

  “Kidnaper, nothin’!” he replied with feeling. “It was them kids done the napin’. Drove off my crew, hijacked my boat, and damn near got me burned to a crisp into the bargain! Mister, there ain’t nothin’ you can do to me that they ain’t already thought of!”

  Meanwhile Jacques had jumped to his father’s side and pulled down the muzzle of the gun. In rapid French he described what had happened from the moment Peter decided to stow away aboard Black Joke. Pierre and the other fisherman listened in incredulous silence to the tale. By the time Jacques finished, the hard lines on Pierre’s face had softened.

  “By Gar, capitain,” he said. “You have easier time if you ship the cargo of wolf cubs, eh? I thank you for save these fool boys’ lifes when you put out the fire, but you mus’ realize the boat she don’ belong to you no more. You fellows steal her from my fren’ capitain Spence–now the boys take her back, is it not so?”

  “I won’t give you no argument. That guy Spence can have his boat back for all of me. Just ask him not to sic them kids onto me again!”

  “Bon,” said Pierre, “but now I have business with the ship. One of the men here, he take you to Miquelon in hees dory. My wife Marie, she pretty good nurse an’ she feex up those burns you got…. Hey, you boys! You go ’long with the dory too, ’fore you make more troubles on thees schooner.”

  Jacques was about to obey his father’s order, but Peter turned stubborn.

  “I’m sorry, Mister Roulette,” he said. “I guess me and Kye better stay aboard. She’s a Spence vessel and there ought to be a Spence onto her as long as she’s at sea.”

  Pierre gave him a quizzical look.

  “I hope you don’ theenk the Basques try to steal her now,” he said. “Okay, I suppose I get the devil from Marie for let you stay, but me, I don’ feel strong enough to put you fellows off. Maybe you blow me up if I try that, eh?”

  By this time daylight was strengthening and Pierre was anxious to be off, for the task of unloading and of hiding the schooner’s cargo still remained. Calling Uncle Paul, he instructed the old man to take Smith ashore and then to gather a few men and round up the rest of the smugglers. Their lifeboat was now visible on the shore of the bay where the crew had landed after their panic-stricken flight from the burning ship.

  As soon as Uncle Paul and Smith had left, Pierre ordered the two remaining dories to be made fast, one on each side of Black Joke. The anchor was recovered and then, propelled by the engines of the dories, Black Joke slowly got under way toward the sea-caves on the rugged eastern shore of Miquelon. It was a perfect morning for the voyage. The water was calm and there was a haze which cut visibility to a mile or so, and effectively shielded the schooner from the sight of any passing ships at sea.

  At Pierre’s orders, the boys made their way down into the after cabin where they curled up on mattresses and Smith’s blankets and sank into a sleep of exhaustion. Nor did they wake until several hours later when the sound of the dory engines was replaced by the rattle of blocks and tackle and the noise of hatch covers being removed. When they crawled sleepily on deck, they found the schooner moored to the foot of a high cliff with her bowsprit almost touching the rocks. A few yards away to starboard the black mouth of a sea-cave yawned and already one of the dories, piled high with cases of whiskey, was being sculled toward it.

  The boys volunteered to help unload the whiskey, but were refused by Pierre. “Een one night you do more than ten men do in a month,” he told them. “Now you take leetle holiday. Maybe you find yourselve some food eef it don’ all burn up in the fire.”

  Peter and Jacques climbed down into the gutted forepeak, and amongst the charred bedding and burned gear they found some tins whose labels had vanished, but which were still intact. When they brought these on deck and opened them with a clasp knife they found they were filled with beans–doubly baked beans, and still warm from the fire.

  Having satisfied some of their hunger pains, they cadged a ride aboard one of the dories and spent some time examining the cave where the whiskey was being stored. It was a dark, echoing slit in the mountains, extending back far beyond the reaches the boys cared to explore, even helped by Pierre’s electric torch.

  “My father says this place was used for contraband many years ago,” Jacques told the others. “Before that, it was a place the pirates came to hide their treasure. Maybe the man who owned the first Black Joke–the one you tell me about–maybe he come here too.”

  “I bet Captain John Phillip wouldn’t have thought too much of this kind of treasure,” said Peter contemptuously, as he swu
ng the beam of the torch over the stacks of whiskey cases which stood on a series of ledges well above the high-water mark.

  “Maybe not,” Kye replied. “I guess it ain’t much like gold nor silver, but it’ll still git Black Joke back all legal-like, and set yer father free and clear.”

  The work of unloading the whiskey continued through most of the morning, and the sun was beginning to burn away the haze before the last cases were ferried into the caves. Meanwhile Pierre and Pascal had been occupied in the engine room of Black Joke. They had found a spare set of injectors, thoughtfully provided by the provident Monsieur Gauthier in case of engine trouble at sea. These were quickly installed and though they had considerable trouble re-connecting the fuel lines, which had been well battered by Peter’s hammer blows, they managed to complete the repairs in time to take the schooner away from the caves under her own power.

  She steamed back into Miquelon Roads that afternoon, with Peter standing proudly at her wheel, while the other two boys clung to her mainmast rigging waving frenziedly at the people on the wharf. Almost the whole population of the village was on hand to greet the returning ship. Even Smith, his hands heavily bandaged, appeared on the dock. Word of how he had put out the fire had spread rapidly, and he was no longer looked upon with hostility by the fishermen, for they could appreciate a brave deed as well as anyone.

  But Smith’s crew was not in evidence. As Uncle Paul explained later, they had been trying to make their way over the mountains toward Langlade when they were terrified to discover a party of Basques, all armed with shotguns, pressing close on their heels.

  “Silly fools!” Uncle Paul said, snorting with disdain. “Naturally we only took our guns along in case we met some game. But when those fellows saw us they ran like rabbits. In rubber sea-boots too! By the time we got them stopped, their feet were like raw turnips. We left them in a hunting cabin with two of our men to keep them from getting into mischief.”