Billy Topsail & Company: A Story for Boys

It was aboard the First Venture, which Bill o’ Burnt Bay had as master-builder built at Ruddy Cove for himself. She was to be his–she was his–and he loved her from stem to 90 stern. And she was his because Sir Archibald Armstrong, the great St. John’s merchant and ship-owner, had advanced the money to build her in recognition of Skipper Bill’s courageous rescue of Archie Armstrong, Sir Archibald’s only son, in a great blizzard, on the sealing voyage of the year before.[2 - The story of this voyage–the tale of the time when Archie Armstrong and Billy Topsail and Bill o’ Burnt Bay were lost in the snow on the ice-floe–with certain other happenings in which Billy Topsail was involved–is related in “The Adventures of Billy Topsail.”] At any rate, the First Venture was Bill’s; and she was now afloat and finished, rigged to the last strand of rope. To say that Skipper Bill was proud of her does not begin to express the way in which he loved her.

“Now, look you, Billy Topsail, and you, too, Jimmie Grimm!” said he, gravely, one day, beckoning the boys near.

The First Venture was lying at anchor in the harbour, ready for her maiden voyage to St. John’s.

“I’m in need of a man aboard this here craft,” Bill o’ Burnt Bay went on; “an’ as there’s none t’ be had in this harbour I’m thinkin’ of addin’ you two boys up an’ callin’ the answer t’ the sum a man.”

“Wisht you would, Skipper Bill,” said Jimmie.

“Two halves makes a whole,” Bill mused, scratching his head in doubt. “Leastwise, so I was teached.”

“They teach it in school,” said Jimmie.

Billy Topsail grinned delightedly.

“Well,” Bill declared, at last, “I’ll take you, no matter what comes of it, for there’s nothing else I can do.”

It wasn’t quite complimentary; but the boys didn’t mind.

When the First Venture made St. John’s it was still early enough in the spring of the year for small craft to be at sea. When she was ready to depart on the return voyage to Ruddy Cove, the days were days of changeable weather, of wind and snow, of fog and rain, of unseasonable intervals of quiet sunshine. The predictions of the wiseacres were not to be trusted; and, at any rate, every forecast was made with a wag of the head that implied a large mental reservation. At sea it was better to proceed with caution. To be prepared for emergencies–to expect the worst and to be ready for it–was the part of plain common sense. And Skipper Bill o’ Burnt Bay was well aware of this.

The First Venture lay in dock at St. John’s. She was loaded for Ruddy Cove and the ports beyond. Skipper Bill had launched himself as a coastwise skipper–master of the stout First Venture, carrying freight to the northern settlements at a fair rate for all comers. The hold was full to the deck; and the deck itself was cumbered with casks and cases, all lashed fast in anticipation of a rough voyage. It was a miscellaneous cargo: flour, beef, powder and shot, molasses, kerosene, clothing–such necessities, in short, as the various merchants to whom the cargo was consigned could dispose of to the people of the coast, and such simple comforts as the people could afford.

She was a trim and stout little fore-and-aft schooner of fifty tons burthen. The viewers had awarded the government bounty without a quibble. Old John Hulton, the chief of them–a terror to the slipshod master-builders–had frankly said that she was an honest little craft from bowsprit to taffrail. The newspapers had complimented Bill o’ Burnt Bay, her builder, in black and white which could not be disputed. They had even called Skipper Bill “one of the honest master-builders of the outports.” Nor had they forgotten to add the hope that “in the hands of Skipper William, builder and master, the new craft will have many and prosperous voyages.” By this praise, of course, Skipper Bill was made to glow from head to foot with happy gratification.

All the First Venture wanted was a fair wind out.

“She can leg it, sir,” Skipper Bill said to Sir Archibald, running his eyes over the tall, trim spars of the new craft; “an’ once she gets t’ sea she’s got ballast enough t’ stand up to a sousing breeze. With any sort o’ civil weather she ought t’ make Ruddy Cove in five days.”

“I’d not drive her too hard,” said Sir Archibald, who had come down to look at the new schooner for a purpose.

Bill o’ Burnt Bay looked up in amazement. This from the hard-sailing Sir Archibald!

“Not too hard,” Sir Archibald repeated.

Skipper Bill laughed.

“I’m sure,” said Sir Archibald, “that Mrs. William had rather have you come safe than unexpected. Be modest, Skipper Bill, and reef the Venture when she howls for mercy.”

“I’ll bargain t’ reef her, sir,” Bill replied, “when I thinks you would yourself.”

“Oh, come, skipper!” Sir Archibald laughed.

Bill o’ Burnt Bay roared like the lusty sea-dog he was.

“I’ve good reason for wishing you to go cautiously,” said Sir Archibald, gravely.

Bill looked up with interest.

“You’ve settled at Ruddy Cove, skipper?”

“Ay, sir,” Bill answered. “I moved the wife t’ Ruddy Cove when I undertook t’ build the Venture.”

“I’m thinking of sending Archie down to spend the summer,” said Sir Archibald.

Bill o’ Burnt Bay beamed largely and delightedly.

“Do you think,” Sir Archibald went on, with a little grin, “that Mrs. Skipper William would care to take him in?”

“Care?” Skipper Bill exclaimed. “Why, sir, ’twould be as good as takin’ her a stick o’ peppermint.”

“He’ll come aboard this afternoon,” said Sir Archibald.

“He’ll be second mate o’ the Venture,” Bill declared.

“Skipper,” said Sir Archibald, presently, “you’ll be wanting this craft insured, I suppose?”

“Well, no, sir,” Bill drawled.

Sir Archibald frowned. “No trouble for me to take the papers out for you,” said he.

“You see, sir,” Bill explained, “I was allowin’ t’ save that there insurance money.”

“Penny wise and pound foolish,” said Sir Archibald.

“Oh,” drawled Skipper Bill, “I’ll manage t’ get her t’ Ruddy Cove well enough. Anyhow,” he added, “’twon’t be wind nor sea that will wreck my schooner.”

“As you will,” said Sir Archibald, shortly; “the craft’s yours.”

Archie Armstrong came aboard that afternoon–followed by two porters and two trunks. He was Sir Archibald’s son; there was no doubt about that: a fine, hardy lad–robust, straight, agile, alert, with his head carried high; merry, quick-minded, ready-tongued, fearless in wind and high sea. His hair was tawny, his eyes blue and wide and clear, his face broad and good-humoured. He was something of a small dandy, too, as the two porters and the two trunks might have explained. The cut of his coat, the knot in his cravat, the polish on his boots, the set of his knickerbockers, were always matters of deep concern to him. But this did not interfere with his friendship with Billy Topsail, the outport boy. That friendship had been formed in times of peril and hardship, when a boy was a boy, and clothes had had nothing to say in the matter.

Archie bounded up the gangplank, crossed the deck in three leaps and stuck his head into the forecastle.

“Ahoy, Billy Topsail!” he roared.

“Ahoy, yourself!” Billy shouted. “Come below, Archie, an’ take a look at Jimmie Grimm.”

Jimmie Grimm was at once taken into the company of friends.

CHAPTER X

In Which the Cook Smells Smoke, and the “First Venture” In a Gale of Wind Off the Chunks, Comes Into Still Graver Peril, Which Billy Topsail Discovers

Skipper Bill o’ Burnt Bay got the First Venture under way at dawn of the next day. It was blowing a stiff breeze. A fine, fresh wind was romping fair to the northwest, where, far off, Ruddy Cove lay and Mrs. Skipper William waited.

“I ’low,” Skipper Bill mused, as the schooner slipped through the narrows, “that that there insurance wouldn’t o’ done much harm anyhow.”

There was an abrupt change of weather. It came without warning; and there was no hint of apology to the skipper of the First Venture. When the schooner was still to the s’uth’ard of the dangerous Chunks, but approaching them, she was beating laboriously into a violent and capricious head wind. Bill o’ Burnt Bay, giving heed to Sir Archibald’s injunction, kept her well off the group of barren islands. They were mere rocks, scattered widely. Some of them showed their forbidding heads to passing craft; others were submerged, as though lying in wait. It would be well to sight them, he knew, that he might better lay his course; but he was bound that no lurking rock should “pick up” his ship.