Billy Topsail, M.D.
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Billy Topsail liked him. That is putting it mildly. And Archie Armstrong liked Billy Topsail. That, too, is putting it mildly. The boys had been through some hard places together, as I have elsewhere recorded; and they had come through the good and the bad of their undertakings with mutual respect and liking. Nobody could help liking Billy Topsail – he was a courageous, decent, jolly, friendly soul; and for the same reasons nobody could help liking Archie Armstrong. It was a good partnership – this friendship between the Colonial knight's son and heir and the outport fisherman's lad. And both had profited.
Billy had gained in manners and knowledge of the world, to describe the least gain that he won; and Archie had gained in health and courage and the wisdom of the coast. But that was all. Rich as Archie's prospects were, and as great the wealth and generosity of his father, Billy Topsail had never anticipated a material advantage; and had one been offered him, it would not have been accepted except on terms of a description not to wound Billy Topsail's self-respect.
Well, what sort of an education had Archie Armstrong had? It is best described in the incident that sent him off on his first sealing voyage, as elsewhere set down. It was twilight of a blustering February day. Sir Archibald Armstrong sat alone in his office, with his chair drawn close to the low, broad window, which overlooked the wharves and ice-strewn harbour beyond; and while the fire roared and the wind drove the snow against the panes, he lost himself in profound meditation.
He stared absently at the swarm of busy men – now almost hidden in the dusk and storm – and at the lights of the sealing fleet, which lay there fitting out for the voyage to the drift-ice of the north; but no sound of the activity on dock or deck could disturb the quiet of the little office where the fire blazed and crackled and the snow fell softly against the window panes.
By and by Archie came in.
"Come, son," said Sir Archibald, presently, "let us watch them fitting out the fleet."
They walked to the window, Sir Archibald with his arm over Archie's shoulder; and in the dusk outside, the wharves and warehouses and ships told the story of the wealth of Sir Archibald's firm.
"It will all be yours some day," said Sir Archibald, gravely. After a pause, he continued: "The firm has had an honourable career through three generations of our family. My father gave it to me with a spotless reputation. More than that, with the business he gave me the faith of every man, woman and child of the outports. The firm has dealt with its fishermen and sealers as man with man, not as the exploiter with the exploited. It has never wronged, or oppressed, or despised them.
"In September you are going to an English public school, and thence to an English University, when the time comes. You will meet with new ideals. The warehouses and ships, the fish and fat, will not mean so much to you. You will forget. It may be even – for you are something of a dandy, you know – that you will be ashamed to acknowledge that your father is a dealer in fish and seal-oil; and that – "
Archie drew breath to protest.
"But I want you to remember," Sir Archibald went on, lifting his hand. "I want you to know a man when you meet one, whatever the clothes he wears. The men upon whom the fortunes of this firm are founded are true men. They are strong, brave and true. Their work is toilsome and perilous, and their lives are not unused to deprivation; but they are cheerful, and independent, and fearless, through it all – stout hearts, every one of them.
"They deserve respectful and generous treatment at the hands of their employers. For that reason I want you to know them more intimately – to know them as shipmates know one another – that you may be in sympathy with them. I am confident that you will respect them, because I know that you love all manly qualities. And so for your good, and the good of the men, and the good of the firm, I have decided that – "
"That I may go sealing?" cried Archie.
"That you may go sealing."
Archie had gone sealing. And the adventure had made of him the man that he was.
Archie Armstrong had gone then to an English public school, having made the acquaintance of Billy Topsail on that first voyage, where the friendship had been founded in peril and a narrow escape. And he had come back unspoiled; and he had adventured with Billy Topsail again, and he had gone to England and returned to Newfoundland once more. In St. John's, with an English tutor, because of the illness of his mother, who had by that time recovered, he pleaded with Sir Archibald to be permitted once more to sail with the fleet.
There was objection. Archie was importunate. Sir Archibald relented and gave a reluctant consent. And it was determined that Archie should be shipped with Cap'n Saul Galt, commanding the Rough and Tumble, a stout ship, well manned, and, in the hands of Cap'n Saul, as safe a berth for a lad as any ship of the fleet could provide. That Archie was delighted goes without saying; and that he was all aflame with interest in the movements of the ice – inquisitive and talkative – goes without saying too.
As a matter of fact, a man might hear what he liked on the water-front about the movements of the ice. In the gathering places it was just the same. There were rumours of the ice all the way from the Straits of Belle Isle and the Labrador coast to the Funks and Cape Bonavist'. It was even held by some old sealing dogs that the floes had gone to the east in a spurt of westerly weather and would be found far to sea in the southerly drift.
All this while old Cap'n Saul, of the Rough and Tumble, with Archie usually at his elbow, cocked an ear and kept his counsel, putting two and two together, and arriving at the correct result of four, according to the old cock's habit.
"The ice is inside the Funks, Archie," said he. "I'll twist the Rough and Tumble t' the west an' shake off the fleet in the night. Havin' clung with profit t' my sealin' wisdom these ten sealin' seasons," he went on, "they'll follow me an they're able, an' pester my fellows an' steal my panned fat. They're all bit mad by the notion that the ice drove t' the east with the nor'west puff an' whisper o' wind we had. I'll fiddle their wits this year – mark me!"
"Whisper of wind?" Archie exclaimed. "'Twas a whole gale of wind!"
"Pt!"
"And the ice did drive to the east."
"Pt!" says Cap'n Saul. "You'll never make a sealin' skipper, Archie. I smells the ice off the Horse Islands."
It was foul weather all the way from St. John's to the floes. The fleet sailed into a saucy head-wind and a great slosh of easterly sea. It was a fair start and no favour, all managed by the law; the fat on the floes was for the first crews of the fleet to find and slaughter it. And there was a mighty crowd on the water-front to wish the fleet well; and there was a vast commotion, too – cheering and waving and the popping of guns.
At sea it was a helter-skelter race for the ice. Cap'n Saul touched up the Rough and Tumble beyond St. John's Narrows; and the ship settled to her work, in that rough and tumble of black water, with a big white bone in her teeth – shook her head and slapped her tail and snouted her way along to the northeast. A whisp of fog came with the night. It was thick weather. But Cap'n Saul drove northeast, as before – slap into a smothering sea; and by this the fleet, tagging behind, was befooled and misled.
After dark, Cap'n Saul doused the lights and switched full steam to the west; and when day broke the Rough and Tumble was alone, come what might of her isolation – and come it did, in due course, being all a-brew for Cap'n Saul and crew, even then, in the northwest.
As for the fleet, it was off on fools' business in the bare seas to the east.
CHAPTER XXIX
In Which the Crew of the "Rough and Tumble" is Harshly Punished, and Archie Armstrong, Having Pulled the Wool Over the Eyes of Cap'n Saul, Goes Over the Side to the Floe, Where He Falls in with a Timid Lad, in Whose Company, with Billy Topsail Along, He is Some Day to Encounter His Most Perilous Adventure
Well, now, two days later, near dusk, with Archie Armstrong on the bridge, the Rough and Tumble was crawling northwest through the first ice of the floe. An hour of drab light was left of the day – no more. And it was mean ice roundabout – small pans and a naughty mess of slush. There was a hummock or two, it might be, and a clumper or two, as well; and a man might travel that ice well enough, sore pinched by need to do so. But it was foul footing for the weight of a full-grown man, and tricky for the feet of a lad; and a man must dance a crooked course, and caper along, or perish – leap from a block that would tip and sink under his feet to a pan that would bear him up until he had time and the wit to leap again, and so come, at last, by luck and good conduct, to a pan stout enough for pause.
It was mean ice, to be sure. Yet there was a fine sign of seals drifting by. Here and there was an old dog hood on a hummock; and there and here were a harp and a whitecoat on a flat pan. But the orders of Cap'n Saul were to "leave the swiles be" – to "keep the mouths o' the guns shut" until the Rough and Tumble had run up to the herd that was coming down with the floe.
"I'll have no swiles slaughtered in play," he declared.
A gun popped forward. It was from the midst of a crowd. And Cap'n Saul leaned over the bridge-rail.
"Who done that?" he demanded.
There was no answer.
"Mm-m?" Cap'n Saul repeated. "Who done that?"
No answer.
"A dog hood lyin' dead off the port bow!" said Cap'n Saul. "Who killed un?"
Still no answer. And Cap'n Saul didn't ask again. Forthwith he stopped the ship.
"Mister Knibbs, sir," said he, to the mate, "send the crew after that dead hood."
The mate jumped.
"Cap'n Saul, sir," he replied, his eyes popping, "the ice – "
"Sir?"
"This here ice, sir – "
"Sir?"
"This here – "
"Sir?"
"This – "
"Mister Knibbs, sir," said Cap'n Saul, dryly, "this here ice is fit enough for any crew that I commands. An' if the crew isn't fit for the ice, sir, I'll soon have un so, ecod! Put un over the side. We'll waste no swiles on this v'y'ge."
"All hands, sir?"
"All hands over the side, sir, t' fetch that dead hood aboard."
Archie put in:
"May I go, Cap'n Saul?"
"No!"
"Cap'n Saul," Archie began to wheedle, "I'm so wanting to – "
"No, sir."
"I'm just crazy to – "
"'Tis no fit place for you."
"But – "
Cap'n Saul changed his mind all at once. He sent a call for Archie's old and well-tried friend, Bill o' Burnt Bay.
"Stand by the lad," said he.
"Ay, sir."
Archie left the bridge with Bill o' Burnt Bay, with whom he had sailed before. And over the side they went. And over the side went the crew for punishment. There were more than two hundred men. And not a man was spared. Cap'n Saul sent the ship's doctor after malingerers, and the mate and the haft of a sealing gaff after lurkers; and he kept them capering and balancing for dear life on that dirty floe, sopping and shivering, all in a perilous way, until dusk was in the way of catching some of them unaware.
It was then that Archie and Bill o' Burnt Bay fell in with old Jonathan Farr of Jolly Harbour. Bill o' Burnt Bay knew the old man well. And he was shocked to find him cavorting over that foul, tricky ice, with the thin blood and dry old bones he had to serve his need – a gray old dog like Jonathan Farr of Jolly Harbour, past his full labour these years gone by, gone stiff and all unfit for the labour and chances of the ice.
Still, the old man was blithe enough, as Bill marvelled to see. His eye was lit up with a flicker of fun, sparkling, somehow, through the rheum of age; and his words were mixed with laughter. They came to rest on a pan – the four of them together; old Jonathan Farr and Bill and Archie and a little lad. And Archie marked this in a glance – that the lad, whoever he was, was out of heart with the work he was at.
A good deal was to flow from that meeting; and Billy Topsail was to have a part in it all.
CHAPTER XXX
In Which a Little Song-Maker of Jolly Harbour Enlists the Affection of the Reader
"My gran'son, Bill," said Jonathan.
Archie pitied the lad – a white, soft-eyed little chap, all taut and woeful with anxiety.
"He's young for the ice," Bill observed.
"A young dog," Jonathan replied, "masters his tricks with ease."
Again Archie pitied the little fellow.
"Too young," said Bill, "for man's labour like this."
"He'll l'arn all the better for his youth."
"Time enough," Bill insisted, "two years hence."
"Ah, well, Bill," said Jonathan, then, "I wants t' see my gran'son fit an' able for his labour afore I goes my way." And he clapped the lad on the back. "Eh, Toby?" said he, heartily.
The lad was grave and mannerly.
"Ay, gran'pa," said he; "you're wonderful careful o' me, you is!"
"That I is, Toby!"
"Yes, siree!"
"I bet I is careful o' you!" Jonathan declared. "An' I'll keep on bein' so. Eh, Toby?"
The lad turned to Archie.
"I'm havin' a wonderful bringin' up, sir," said he. "My gran'pa is wonderful careful o' me. With the wonderful bringin' up I'm havin' I ought t' turn out a wonderful clever man."
"You will!" Archie replied.
"That ye will!" said Bill o' Burnt Bay.
"Pray God," said the lad, "I'm worthy!"
Jonathan gave the lad a little clap on the back. Archie thought it was to thank him for the expression of confidence. And it made the lad squirm and grin like a patted puppie.
"What you think of un, Bill?" Jonathan inquired.
It was a wistful question. Jonathan seemed to want a word of praise. And Bill gave it with all his heart.
"Big as a whale!" said he.
"He've the hull of a young whale," said Jonathan; "an' afore this v'y'ge is out he'll have the heart of a bear."
Toby chuckled.
"Ay – maybe!" said he.
"You will!" Archie declared.
Well, now, you must know that it is not uncommon to fall in with a timid lad on the coast: a lad given a great deal to music and the making of ballads, and to the telling of tales, too. Such folk are timid when young. It is no shame. By and by they harden to their labour, the softer aspiration forgotten. And then they laugh at what they used to do. I have sometimes thought it a pity. But that's no matter now.
Bill o' Burnt Bay knew this lad – knew his weird, sad songs, and had bellowed them in the cabin of the Cash Down—
"Oh, the chain 'e parted,An' the schooner drove ashore;An' the wives of the handsNever seed un any more —No more:Never seed un no mor-or-or-ore!"It was a song weird and sad enough for a little lad like Toby Farr to make. Before a bogie-stove in the forecastle of a schooner at anchor, Toby Farr could yarn of foul weather in a way to set the flesh of a man's back creeping with fear; but it was told of him at Jolly Harbour, and laid to the sad songs he made, that in a pother of northeasterly weather he was no great hand for laughter.
"'Tis Toby's first season at the ice, Bill," said Jonathan. "Eh, Toby?"
"Ay, sir."
"An' gran'pa come along with you, didn't he, Toby? You wanted ol' gran'pa for company, didn't you? Eh, Toby?"
"Ay, sir."
"Isn't got no father, is you, Toby?"
"No, sir."
"Isn't got nobody but gran'pa t' fetch you up – is you? Eh, Toby?"
"I'm content, sir."
"Hear that, Bill! He's content! An' he've been doin' well out here over the side on the ice. Isn't you, Toby?"
"Is I, gran'pa?" It was a flash of hope.
"Is you!"
"Ay – is I, sir?" It was eager. "Is I been doin' well, sir – as you'd have me do?"
"That you is!"
"Is you tellin' me the truth, gran'pa? It isn't jus' t' hearten me, is it?"
"'Tis the truth! You is doin' better, Toby, than your father done at your age. I never knowed a lad t' do so well first time on ice like this. An' you was all on fire t' come t' the ice, wasn't you, Toby?"
"I wanted t' come, sir."
"An' you've not repented, Toby? Mm-m?"
"No, sir." The lad stared about and sighed. "I'm glad I come, sir."
Jonathan turned to Archie with his face all in a pucker of joy.
"There's spirit, sir!" he declared.
"Ay," said Archie; "that's brave enough, God knows!"
"I been cronies with Toby, Bill," Jonathan went on, to Bill o' Burnt Bay, "ever since he was born. A ol' man like me plays with children. He've nothin' else t' do. An' I'm enjoyin' it out here at the ice with Toby. 'Tis a pleasure for a ol' man like me t' teach the young. An' I'm wonderful fond o' this here gran'son o' mine. Isn't I, Toby? Eh, lad?"
"That you is, gran'pa!" the lad agreed. "You been wonderful good t' me all my life long."
"Hear that, Bill!" Jonathan exclaimed.
The lad was mannerly and grave.
"I wisht, sir," said he, "that my conduct might win your praise."
And then Cap'n Saul called them aboard with a saucy toot of the whistle, as though they had been dawdling the day in pranks and play.
CHAPTER XXXI
In Which a Gale of Wind Almost Lays Hands on the Crew of the "Rough and Tumble," Toby Farr is Confronted With the Suggestion of Dead Men, Piled Forward Like Cord-Wood, and Archie Armstrong Joins Bill o' Burnt Bay and Old Jonathan in a Roar of Laughter
Archie Armstrong and Toby Farr made friends that night. The elder boy was established as the patron of the younger. Toby was aware of Archie's station – son and heir of the great Sir Archibald Armstrong; but being outport born and bred, Toby was not overawed. Before it was time to turn in he was chatting on equal terms with Archie, just as Billy Topsail had chatted, in somewhat similar circumstances, on Archie's first sealing voyage.
Toby sang songs that night, too – songs for the crew, of his own making; and he yarned for them – tales of his own invention. It occurred to Archie more than once that Toby possessed a talent that should not be lost – that something ought to be done about it, that something must be done about it; and Archie determined that something should be done about it – Archie was old enough to understand the power of his prospective wealth and his own responsibility with relation to it.
And that night, below, when Toby Farr was curled up asleep, Archie learned more of this queer matter of Jonathan and the lad. He learned that it was in the mind of old Jonathan Farr that he would not last long in the world – that he was wistful to have the lad hardened before the time of his departure fell. Proper enough: for of all that Jonathan had to leave the lad, which was much, when you come to think it over, he could leave him no better fortune than a store of courage and the will and skill to fend for himself.
But the ice was no fit place for Jonathan Farr – a lean, weary old dog like Jonathan Farr. Ah, well, said he, what matter? For his time was on the way, and the lad was heartened and taught in his company; and as for the frost that might bite his old flesh, and as for the winds that might chill the marrow of his old bones, it was nothing at all to suffer that much, said he, in the cause of his own son's son, who was timid, as his father had been, in youth, and his father's father before him.
"Ay," said Archie; "but the lad's too young for the ice."
"True, Archie – he's tender," said Jonathan; "but I've no certainty o' years. An' I done well with his father, Archie, at his age."
"'Twould go hard with a tender lad like Toby in time of trouble."
"No, no, Archie – "
"He'd never live it through, Jonathan."
"Ay," Jonathan replied; "but I'm here, Archie – me! An' that's jus' what I'm here for – t' keep un safe from harm while I teaches un t' fend for hisself."
"You!" Bill o' Burnt Bay put in, in banter.
"I'm old – true," says Jonathan. "Yet I've a shot left in the locker, Bill, against a time o' need."
Next day Cap'n Saul found the herds – a patch of harps and new-whelped young. The crew killed all that day. At dusk the men were used to the slaughter, and could bat a seal and travel the ice without fear or awkwardness. There was a pretty prospect indeed of making a quick voyage of it. And this would mean a puff and bouquet of praise for Cap'n Saul in the St. John's newspapers, and a sixty dollar share in the fat for every man and lad of the crew: "Rough and Tumble, Cap'n Saul Galt, First Arrival. In With Thirty Thousand!" – all in big, black letters to startle folks' eyes and set the tongues of the town clacking.
It would be news of a size to make the town chatter for a fortnight; it would spread to the outports; it would give Cap'n Saul all the sealing glory of that year. There would be great stir and wonder in Water Street when Cap'n Saul went by; and there would be a lively gathering for congratulations in the office of the owners when Cap'n Saul swaggered in to report what everybody knew, that Saul Galt, of the Rough and Tumble, was the first of the fleet to come in with a load.
Sir Archibald Armstrong himself would be there to clap the skipper on the back.
"I congratulate you, Cap'n Saul!" he would say. "I'm proud o' ye, sir!"
Driving this way and that, and squirming along, nosing and ramming and blasting a course through the floes, the Rough and Tumble loaded fifteen thousand seals in a week. It was still gray weather – no wind to matter; and the sea was flat in the lakes and lanes, and the ice was abroad, and no great frost fell to scorch the crew. Bill o' Burnt Bay was master of the Third Watch – the watch of Jonathan Farr and Toby. At dawn the First Watch filed over the side, every man with a gaff and a tow-rope and a biscuit or two; and all day long they killed and sculped and towed and panned the fat – all smothered in blood.
Meanwhile the Rough and Tumble ran away out of sight to land the Second Watch on another field, and beyond that, then, to land the Third Watch; and then she made back through the ice to stand by and pick up the First Watch. And when she had picked up the First Watch, and stowed away the seals, and had gathered the Second Watch, it was dusk and after every night, and sometimes long after, when she got back to pick up Bill o' Burnt Bay's watch, which was the last to leave the floe.
Thus it was labour all day and sweat most of the night – torches on the pans where the sculped seal lay; and torches on deck – the decks all red and slippery with blood and fat and ice. And it looked well for them, every one – a load of fat and the first to port with it.
Toby Farr killed and sculped and towed and panned a lad's full share of the fat.
"Well, sir," said Archie, one day, "how you getting along?"
"I thrives, sir," Toby replied.
"A cock so soon!" said Bill.
"My gran'pa," says Toby, "is teachin' me."
Archie laughed.
"Is you apt?" Bill inquired.
"I've learned courage," Toby replied, "an' 'tis a hard lesson t' learn."
"God knows!" Bill agreed.
"I'll be jus' 's fit an' able 's anybody, mark me," Toby boasted, "afore this v'y'ge is out!"
"I believe you!" said Archie.
Foul weather fell with the crews on the floe – a brief northeast gale of cold wind. The floe went crunching to the southwest – jumping along with the wind like a drove of scared white rabbits. And the pans packed; and the lakes began to close – the lanes to close. Bill o' Burnt Bay gathered his watch in haste. Seals? Drop the seals! It was time for caution – quick work for crews and ship. Cap'n Saul snatched the other watches from the ice and footed it back for Bill's watch before the press nipped the Rough and Tumble and caught her fast; and Bill's watch was aboard before dusk, leaving the kill to drift where the wind had the will to drive it.
Cap'n Saul was proud of the smart work – smelling out a swift gale of northeasterly wind with that old foul-weather nose of his, and picking his crew from the ice with the loss of not a man. It was a narrow shave, though – narrow enough to keep a man's heart in his mouth until he got a mug of hot tea in his stomach. And that night there was talk of it below – yarns of the ice: the loss of the Greenland's men in a blizzard – poor, doomed men, cut off from the ship and freezing to madness and death; and of how the Greenland steamed into St. John's Harbour with her flag at half-mast and dead men piled forward like cord-wood.