The Adventures of Billy Topsail

CHAPTER XXXVI

It Appears That the Courage and Strength of the Son of a Colonial Knight are to be Tried. The Hunters are Caught in a Great Storm

THE Lucky Star and the Dictator parted company the next day – the former bound for the Labrador coast, the latter in a southerly direction to White Bay. For several days, the Dictator ran here and there among the great floes, attacking small herds; and at the end of a week she had ten thousand seals in her hold. But that cargo did not by any means content Captain Hand. Indeed, he began to fear the voyage would be little better than a failure. Nothing less than twenty thousands pelts would be a profitable "haul" for a vessel of the Dictator's tonnage to carry back to St. John's.

For that reason, perhaps, both the captain and the men were willing to take some risk, when, late one morning, a large herd was sighted on a floe near the coast in the southwest. The danger lay in the weather: it was an unpromising day – cold and dull, and threatening snow and storm. For a time the captain hesitated; but, at last, he determined to land his men in three parties, caution them to be watchful and quick, and himself try to keep the Dictator within easy reach of them all. It really did not appear to be necessary to waste the day merely because the sky was dark over the coast.

Bill o' Burnt Bay's party was landed first. Billy Topsail and Tim Tuttle were members of it; and, as usual, Archie Armstrong attached himself to it. As the Dictator steamed away to land the second crew, and, thence, still further away to land the third, Bill led his men on a trot for the pack, which lay about a mile from the water's edge.

"'Tis a queer day, this," Bill observed to the boys, who trotted in his wake.

"Sure, why?" asked Billy.

"Is it t' snow, or is it not? Can you answer me that? Sure, I most always can tell that little thing, but t'-day I can't."

"'Tis like snow," Billy replied, puzzled, "an' again 'tisn't. 'Tis queer, that!"

"I hopes the captain keeps the ship at hand," said Bill. "'Tis not t' my taste t' spend a night on the floe in a storm."

To be lost in a blizzard is a dreaded danger, and not at all an uncommon experience. Many crews, lost from the ship in a blinding storm, have been carried out to sea with the floe, and never heard of afterwards. Bill o' Burnt Bay lost his own father in that way, and himself had had two narrow escapes from the same fate. So he scanned the sky anxiously, not only as he ran along at the head of his sixty men, but from time to time through the day, until the excitement of the hunt put all else out of his head.

It was a profitable hunt. The men laboured diligently and rapidly. So intent on the work in hand were they that none observed the darkening sky and the gusts of wind that broke from behind the rocky coast. Thus, towards evening, when the work was over save the sculping and lashing, dusk caught them unaware. Bill o' Burnt Bay looked up to find that the snow was flying, that it was black as ink in the northeast, and that the wind was blowing in long, angry gusts.

"Men," he cried, "did you ever see a sky like that?"

The men watched the heavy clouds in the northeast rise and swiftly spread.

"Sure, it looks bad," muttered one.

"Make haste with the sculpin'," Bill ordered. "They's wonderful heavy weather comin' up. I mind me a time when a blizzard come out of a sky like that."

The dusk grew deeper, the snow fell thicker, the wind rose; and all this Bill observed while he worked. Groups of men lashed their tows and started off for the edge of the floe where the steamer was to return for them.

"Lash your tows, b'ys," shouted Bill, to the rest of the men. "Leave the rest go. 'Tis too late t' sculp any more."

There was some complaint; but Bill silenced the growlers with a sharp word or two. The whole party set off in a straggling line, dragging their tows; it was Bill who brought up the rear, for he wanted to make sure that his company would come entire to the landing-place. Strong, stinging blasts of wind were then sweeping out of the northeast, and the snow was fast narrowing the view.

"Faster, b'ys!" cried Bill. "The storm's comin' wonderful quick."

The storm came faster than, with all his experience, Bill o' Burnt Bay had before believed possible. When he had given the order to abandon the unskinned seals, he thought that there was time and to spare; but, now, with less than half the distance to the landing-place covered, the men were already staggering, the wind was blowing a gale, and the blinding snow almost hid the flags at the water's edge. When he realized this, and that the ship was not yet in sight, "Drop everything, an' run for it!" was the order he sent up the line.

"Archie, b'y," he then shouted, catching the lad by the arm and drawing him nearer, "we got t' run for the landing-place. Stick close t' me. When you're done out, I'll carry you. Is you afraid, b'y?"

Archie looked up, but did not deign to reply to the humiliating question.

"All right, lad," said Bill, understanding. "Is you ready?"

Archie knew that his strength and courage were to be tried. He was tired, and cold, and almost hopeless; but, then and there, he resolved to prove his blood and breeding – to prove to these men, who had been unfailingly kind to him, but yet had naturally looked with good-natured contempt upon his fine clothes and white hands, that fortitude was not incompatible with a neat cravat and nice manners. Beyond all that, however, it was his aim to prove that Sir Archibald Armstrong's son was the son of his own father.

"Lead on, Bill," he said.

"Good lad!" Bill muttered.

Archie bent to the blast.

CHAPTER XXXVII

In Which the Men are Lost, the Dictator is Nipped and Captain Hand Sobs, "Poor Sir Archibald!"

WHEN the last party of hunters had been landed from the Dictator, the ship was taken off the ice field; and there she hung, in idleness, awaiting the end of the hunt. It was then long past noon. The darkening sky in the northeast promised storm and an early night more surely than ever. It fretted the captain. He was accountable to the women and children of Green Bay for the lives of the men; so he kept to the deck, with an eye on the weather: and while the gloom deepened and spread, a storm of anxiety gathered in his heart – and, at last, broke in action.

"Call the watch, Mr. Ackell!" he cried, sharply. "We'll wait no longer."

He ran to the bridge, signalled "Stand by!" to the engine-room, and ordered the firing of the recall gun. The men of the last party were within ear of the report. It brought all work on the ice to a close. The men waited only to pile the dead seals in heaps and mark possession with flags.

"Again, mate!" shouted the captain. "They're long about comin', it seems t' me."

A second discharge brought the men on a run to the edge of the ice. It was evident that some danger threatened. They ran at full speed, crowded aboard the waiting boats, and were embarked as quickly as might be. Then the ship steamed off to the second field, five miles distant, to pick up the second party. When she came within hearing distance, three signal guns were fired, with the result that, when she came to, the men were waiting for the boats.

It was a run of six miles to the field upon which the first party had been landed – part of the way in and out among the pans. The storm had now taken form and was advancing swiftly, and the fields in the northeast were hidden in a spreading darkness. The wind had risen to half a gale, and it was beginning to snow. A run of six miles! The captain's heart sank. When he looked at the black clouds rising from behind the coast, he doubted that the Dictator could do it in time. An appalling fortune seemed to be descending on the men on the ice.

"But we may make it, mate," said the captain, "if – "

"Ay, sir?"

"If they's no ice comin' with the gale."

The ship had been riding the open sea, skirting the floe. Now she came to the mouth of a broad lane, which wound through the fields. It was the course; along that lane, at all hazards, she must thread her way. The danger was extreme. The wind, blowing a gale, might force the great fields together. Or, if ice came with the wind, the lanes might be choked up. In either event, what chance would there be for the men? In the first event, which was almost inevitable, what chance would there be for the Dictator herself?

"Cap'n Hand, sir," the mate began, nervously, "is you goin' – "

The captain looked up in amazement when the mate stammered and stopped. "Well, sir?" he said.

"Is you goin' inside the ice, sir?"

"Is I goin' WHAT?" roared the captain, turning upon him. "Is I goin' WHAT, sir?"

It was sufficient. The captain was going among the fields. The mate needed no plainer answer to his question.

"Beg pardon, sir," he muttered meekly. "I thought you was."

"Huh!" growled the captain.

When the ship passed into the lane, the storm burst overhead. The scunner in the foretop was near blinded by the driven snow. His voice was swept hither and thither by the wind. Directions came to the bridge in broken sentences. The captain dared not longer drive the vessel at full speed.

"Half speed!" he signalled.

The ship crept along. For half an hour, while the night drew on, not a word was spoken, save the captain's quiet "Port!" and "Starboard!" into the wheelhouse tube. Then the mate heard the old man mutter:

"Poor b'y! Poor Sir Archibald!"

No other reference was made to the boy. In the captain's mind, thereafter, for all the mate knew, young Archibald Armstrong, the owner's son, was merely one of a crew of sixty men, lost on the floe.

"Ice ahead!" screamed the lookout in the bow.

The ship was brought to a stop. The lane she had been following had closed before her. The mate went forward.

"Heavy ice, sir," he reported.

Broken ice, then, had come down with the wind. It had been carried into the channels, choking them.

"Does you see water beyond, b'y?" the captain shouted.

"'Tis too thick t' tell, sir."

The captain signalled "Go ahead!" The chance must be taken. To be caught between two fields in a great storm was a fearful situation. So the ship pushed into the ice, moving at a snail's pace, labouring hard, and complaining of the pressure upon her ribs. Soon she made no progress whatever. The screw was turning noisily; the vessel throbbed with the labour of the engines; but she was at a standstill.

"Stuck, sir!" exclaimed the mate.

"Ay, mate," the captain said, blankly, "stuck."

The ship struggled bravely to force her way on; but the ice, wedged all about her, was too heavy.

"God help the men!" said the captain, as he signalled for the stopping of the engines. "We're stuck!"

"An' God help us," the mate added, in the same spirit, "if the fields come together!"

Conceive the situation of the Dictator. She lay between two of many vast, shifting fields, all of immeasurable mass. The captain had deliberately subjected her to the chances in an effort to rescue the men for whom he was accountable to the women and children of Green Bay. She was caught; and if the wind should drive the fields together, her case would be desperate, indeed. The slow, mighty pressure exerted by such masses is irresistible. The ship would either be crushed to splinters, or – a slender chance – she would be lifted out of danger for the time.

Had there been no broken ice about her, destruction would have been inevitable. Her hope now lay in that ice; for, with the narrowing of the space in which it floated, it would in part be forced deep into the water, and in part be crowded out of it. If it should get under the ship's bottom, it would exert an increasing upward pressure; and that pressure might be strong enough to lift the vessel clear of the fields. The captain had known of such cases; but now he smiled when he called them to mind.

"Take a week's rations an' four boats t' the ice, mate," he directed, "an' be quick about it. We'll sure have t' leave the ship."

While the mate went about this work, the captain paced the bridge, regardless of the cold and storm. It was dark, the wind was bitter and strong, the snow was driving past; but still he paced the bridge, now and then turning towards the darkness of that place, far off on the floe, where his men, and the young charge he had been given, were lost. The women of Green Bay would not forgive him for lives lost thus; of that he was sure. And the lad – that tender lad —

"Poor little b'y!" he thought. "Poor Sir Archibald!"

For relief from this torturing thought, he went among the men. He found most of them gathered in groups, gravely discussing the situation of the ship. In the forecastle, some were holding a "prayer-meeting"; the skipper paused to listen to the singing and to the solemn words that followed it. Here and there, as he went along, he spoke an encouraging word; here and there dropped a word of advice, as, "Timothy, b'y, you got too much on your back; 'tis not wise t' load yourself down when you takes t' the ice," and the like; here and there, in a smile or a glance, he found the comforting assurance that the men knew he had tried to do his duty.

"Cap'n John Hand," he thought, when he returned to the bridge, "you hasn't got a coward aboard!"

The mate came up to report. "We've the boats on the ice, sir," he said, "an' I've warned the crew t' make ready."

"Very well, Mr. Ackell; they's nothin' more t' be done."

"Hark, sir!"

The ice about the ship seemed to be stirring. Beyond – from far off in the distance to windward – the noise of grinding, breaking ice-pans could be heard. There was no mistaking the warning. The moment of peril was at hand.

"The fields is comin' together, sir."

"Call the crew, Mr. Ackell," said the captain, quietly.

The men gathered on deck. They were silent while they waited. The only sounds came from the ice – and from overhead, where the wind was screaming through the rigging.

"'Tis comin', sir," said the mate.

"Ay."

"God help us!"

"'Twill soon be over, Mr. Ackell," observed the captain.

He awaited the event with a calm spirit.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

And Last: In Which Wind and Snow and Cold Have Their Way and Death Lands on the Floe. Billy Topsail Gives Himself to a Gust of Wind, and Archie Armstrong Finds Peril and Hardship Stern Teachers. Concerning, also, a New Sloop, a Fore-an'-After and a Tailor's Lay-Figure

BILL o' Burnt Bay did not lead a race for the landing place. When he looked up, a thick curtain of snow hid the flags. It was then apparent to him that he and his men must pass the night on the ice. In a blizzard of such force and blinding density, no help could reach them from the ship, even if she managed to reach the place where the men were to be taken aboard.

Nothing was visible but the space immediately roundabout; and the wind had risen to such terrific strength that sound could make small way against it. Thus, neither lights nor signal guns could be perceived – not though the ship should beat her way to within one hundred yards of where the group stood huddled. There was nothing for it but to seek the shelter of an ice hummock, and there await the passing of the storm.

"B'ys," he said to the few men who had gathered about him, and he shouted at the top of his voice, for the wind whisked low-spoken words away, "they's a hummock somewheres handy. Leave us get t' the lee of it."

"No, no!" several men exclaimed. "Leave us get on t' the rest o' the crew. 'Tis no use stayin' here."

"The path is lost, men," Bill cried. "You'll lose your way – you'll lose your lives!"

But they would not listen. They hurried forward, and were soon swallowed up by the night and snow. Bill o' Burnt Bay was left alone with Billy and Archie and a man named Osmond, who was a dull, heavy fellow.

"They's a hummock within a hundred yards o' here," Bill shouted. "I marked it afore the snow got thick. We must find it. 'Tis – "

"'Tis t' the left; 'tis over there," said Billy, pointing to the left. "I marked it well."

"Ay 'tis somewheres t' the left. Our only chance is t' find it. Now, listen well t' what I says. We must spread out. I'll start off. Archie, you follow me; keep sight o' me – keep just sight o' me, an' no more; but don't lose me, b'y, for your life. Osmond, you'll follow the b'y; an' be sure you watch him well. Billy, b'y, you'll follow Osmond. When we gets in line, we'll face t' the left an' go for'ard. The first t' see the hummock will signal the next man, an' he'll pass the word."

The three nodded their heads to signify their understanding of these directions.

"Osmond, don't lose sight o' this b'y," said Bill, impressively, placing his hand on Archie's shoulder. "D'you mind? Men," he went on, "if one loses sight o' the others, 'tis all up with us. Leave your pelt go. I'll take mine."

Shelter from that frosty wind was imperative in Archie's case. He made no complaint, for it was not in his nature to complain; but, strong to endure as he was, and stout as his spirit was, the cold, striking through the fur and wool about him, was having its inevitable effect.

When Bill moved off, dragging his burden of pelt, the boy calmly waited until the stalwart figure had been reduced to an outline; then, with heavy steps, but fixed purpose to acquit himself like a man, he followed, keeping his distance. Osmond came next. Young Billy had the exposed position – a station of honour in which he exulted – at the other end of the line.

Bill gave the signal, which was passed along by Archie to Osmond and by him to Billy, and they faced about and moved forward in the direction in which the hummock lay.

Archie searched the gloom for the gray shape of the hummock. It was a shelter – a mere relief. But how despairingly he searched for a sight of that formless heap of ice! Soon he began to stumble painfully. Once he lost sight of Bill o' Burnt Bay. Then he faltered, fell and could not rise. It was the watchful Bill who picked him up.

"What's this, b'y?" Bill asked, his voice shaking.

"I fell down," Archie answered, sharply. "That's all."

"I'll carry you, b'y," Bill began. "I'll carry you, if – "

Archie roughly pushed the man away. Then he stumbled forward, keeping his head up.

At that moment, Osmond, who was like a shadow to the right, gave the signal. So Bill knew that Billy, whom he could not see, had chanced upon the hummock. He caught Archie up in his arms, against the boy's protests and struggles, and ran with him to Osmond, and thence to Billy, all the time dragging his "tow."

When they reached the lee of the ice, Archie lay quietly in Bill's arms. He was about to fall asleep, as Bill perceived.

"Unlash the tow," Bill said, quickly, to Osmond, "an' start a fire."

With the help of Billy, Osmond took a pelt from the pack, and spread it on the ice.

"They's no wood," he said, stupidly.

"Take the cross-bar o' the tow line, dunderhead!" cried Billy. "Here! Leave me do it."

While Billy released the slender bar of wood from the end of the line, stuck it in the blubber and prepared to set fire to it, Bill was dealing with Archie's drowsiness. He shook the lad with all his strength, slapped him, shook him again, ran him hither and thither, and, at last, roused him to a sense of peril. The boy fought desperately to restore his circulation.

"'Tis ready t' light," Billy said to Bill.

"Leave me do it," Bill answered. "Keep movin', b'y," he cautioned Archie. "Don't you give up."

Give up? Not he! And Archie said so – mumbled it scornfully to Bill, and repeated it again and again to himself, until he was sick of the monotony of the words, but could not stop repeating them.

Neither Osmond nor Billy had matches, but Bill had a box in his waistcoat pocket. He shielded the contents from the wind and snow while he took one match out. Then he closed the box and handed it to Osmond to hold. It was well that he did not return it to his own pocket.

Archie was stumbling back and forth over the twenty yards of sheltered space. He had a great, shadowy realization of two duties: he must keep in motion, and he must keep out of the wind. All else had passed from his consciousness. At every turn, however, he unwittingly ventured further past the end of the hummock.

Twice the wind, the full force of which he could not resist, almost caught him. Then came a time when he had to summon his whole strength to tear himself from its clutch. He told himself he must not again pass beyond the lee of the ice. But, before he returned to that point, he had forgotten the danger.

A mighty gust laid hold on him, carried him off his feet, and swept him far out into the darkness.8 It chanced that Billy Topsail, who had kept an eye on Archie, caught sight of him as he fell.

"Archie!" the boy screamed.

"Archie?" cried Bill, looking up. "What – "

Archie had even then been carried out of sight. Billy leaped to his feet and followed. He gave himself to the same gust of wind, and, with difficulty keeping himself upright, was carried along with it. Bill grasped the situation in a flash. He, too, leaped up, and ran into the storm.

"Archie, b'y!" he cried. "Where is you? Oh, where is you, lad?" It was the first time in many years that heart's agony had wrung a cry from old Bill o' Burnt Bay.

Billy Topsail was carried swiftly along by the wind. It was clear to him that, should he diverge from the path of the gust, not only would he be unable to find the lost boy, but he himself would be in hopeless case. The wind swept him close upon Archie's track, but, as its force wasted, ever more slowly. He soon tripped over an obstruction, and plunged forward on his face. He recovered, and crawled back. There he came upon Archie, lying in a heap, half covered by a drift of snow.

"B'y," Billy shouted, "is you dead?"

Archie opened his eyes. Billy Topsail looked close, but could see no light of intelligence in them. He shook the boy violently.

"Wake up!" he cried. "Wake up!"

"What?" Archie responded, faintly.

Billy lifted him to his feet, but there was no strength in the lad's legs; he was limp as a drunken man. But this exertion restored Billy Topsail; he felt his own strength returning – a strength which the arduous toil of the coast had mightily developed.