Billy Topsail & Company: A Story for Boys

“Take the skiff ’longside, skipper,” said Josiah.

“’Tis a bit risky, Josiah, b’y,” said Skipper Bill. “But ’twould be good–now, really, ’twould–’twould be good t’ tread her old deck for a spell.”

“An’ lay a hand to her wheel,” said Josiah, with a side wink so broad that the darkening mist could not hide it.

“An’ lay a hand to her wheel,” repeated the skipper. “An’ lay a hand to her wheel!”

They ran in–full into the lee of her–and rounded to under the stern. The sails of the skiff flapped noisily and the water slapped her sides. They rested breathless–waiting an event which might warn them to be off into hiding in the fog. But no disquieting sound came from the schooner–no startled exclamation, no hail, no footfall: nothing but the creaking of the anchor chain and the rattle of the blocks aloft. A schooner loomed up and shot past like a shadow; then silence.

Archie gave a low hail in French. There was no response from the Heavenly Home; nor did a second hail, in a raised voice, bring forth an answering sound. It was all silent and dark aboard. So Skipper Bill reached out with the gaff and drew the boat up the lee side. He chuckled a bit and shook himself. It seemed to Archie that he freed his arms and loosened his great muscles as for a fight. With a second chuckle he caught the rail, leaped from the skiff like a cat and rolled over on the deck of his own schooner.

They heard the thud of his fall–a muttered word or two, mixed up with laughter–then the soft fall of his feet departing aft. For a long time nothing occurred to inform them of what the skipper was about. They strained their ears. In the end they heard a muffled cry, which seemed to come out of the shoreward cloud of fog–a thud, as though coming from a great distance–and nothing more.

“What’s that?” Archie whispered.

“’Tis a row aboard a Frenchman t’ win’ard, sir,” said Josiah. “’Tis a skipper beatin’ a ’prentice. They does it a wonderful lot.”

Five minutes passed without a sign of the skipper. Then he came forward on a run. His feet rang on the deck. There was no concealment.

“I’ve trussed up the watchman!” he chortled.

Archie and Josiah clambered aboard.

CHAPTER XVII

In Which Bill o’ Burnt Bay Finds Himself in Jail and Archie Armstrong Discovers That Reality is Not as Diverting as Romance

To be sure, Bill o’ Burnt Bay had overcome the watchman! He had blundered upon him in the cabin. Being observed before he could withdraw, he had leaped upon this functionary with resistless impetuosity–had overpowered him, gagged him, trussed him like a turkey cock and rolled him into his bunk. The waters roundabout gave no sign of having been apprised of the capture. No cry of surprise rang out–no call for help–no hullabaloo of pursuit. The lights of the old town twinkled in the foggy night in undisturbed serenity.

The night was thick, and the wind swept furiously up from the sea. It would be a dead beat to windward to make the open–a sharp beat through a rock-strewn channel in a rising gale.

“Now we got her,” Skipper Bill laughed, “what’ll we do with her?”

Archie and Josiah laughed, too: a hearty explosion.

“We can never beat out in this wind,” said Bill; “an’ we couldn’t handle her if we did–not in a gale o’ wind like this. All along,” he chuckled, “I been ’lowin’ for a fair wind an’ good weather.”

They heard the rattle and creak of oars approaching; to which, in a few minutes, the voices of two men added a poignant interest. The rowers rested on their oars, as though looking about; then the oars splashed the water again, and the dory shot towards the Heavenly Home. Bill o’ Burnt Bay and his fellow pirates lay flat on the deck. The boat hung off the stern of the schooner.

“Jean!”

The hail was in French. It was not answered, you may be sure, from the Heavenly Home.

“Jean!”

“He’s not aboard,” spoke up the other man.

“He must be aboard. His dory’s tied to the rail. Jean! Jean Morot!”

“Come–let’s be off to the Voyageur. He’s asleep.” A pair of oars fell in the water.

“Come–take your oars. It’s too rough to lie here. And it’s late enough.”

“But–”

“Take your oars!” with an oath.

The Newfoundlanders breathed easier when they heard the splash and creak and rattle receding; but they did not rise until the sounds were out of hearing, presumably in the direction of the Voyageur.

Bill o’ Burnt Bay began to laugh again. Archie joined him. But Josiah Cove pointed out the necessity of doing something–anything–and doing it quickly. It was all very well to laugh, said he; and although it might seem a comical thing to be standing on the deck of a captured schooner, the comedy would be the Frenchman’s if they were caught in the act. But Archie still chuckled away; the situation was quite too ridiculous to be taken seriously. Archie had never been a pirate before; he didn’t feel like one now–but he rather liked the feeling he had.

“We can’t stay aboard,” said he, presently.

“Blest if I want t’ go ashore,” said Bill.

“We got t’ go ashore,” Josiah put in.

Before they left the deck of the Heavenly Home (the watchman having then been made more comfortable), it was agreed that the schooner could not make the open sea in the teeth of the wind. That was obvious; and it was just as obvious that the Newfoundlander could not stay aboard. The discovery of the watchman in the cabin must be chanced until such a time as a fair wind came in the night. On their way to the obscure wharf at which they landed it was determined that Josiah should board the schooner at nine o’clock, noon, and six o’clock of the next day to feed the captured watchman and to set the galley fire going for half an hour to allay suspicion.

“An’ Skipper Bill,” said Josiah, seriously, “you lie low. If you don’t you’re liable to be took up.”

“Take your advice t’ yourself,” the skipper retorted. “Your reputation’s none o’ the best in this harbour.”

“We’ll sail to-morrow night,” said Archie.

“Given a dark night an’ a fair wind,” the skipper qualified.

Skipper Bill made his way to a quiet café of his acquaintance; and Josiah vanished in the fog to lie hidden with a shipmate of other days. Archie–depending upon his youth and air and accent and well-tailored dress to avert suspicion–went boldly to the Hotel Joinville and sat down to dinner. The dinner was good; he enjoyed it, and was presently delighting in the romance in which he had a part. It all seemed too good to be true. How glad he was he had come! To be here–in the French Islands of Miquelon–to have captured a schooner–to have a prisoner in the cabin–to be about to run off with the Heavenly Home. For the life of him, Archie could not take the thing seriously. He chuckled–and chuckled–and chuckled again.

Presently he walked abroad; and in the quaint streets and old customs of the little town, here remote from all the things of the present and of the new world as we know it in this day, he found that which soon lifted him into a dream of times long past and of doughty deeds for honour and a lady. Soft voices in the streets, forms flitting from shadow to shadow, priest and strutting gendarme and veiled lady, gabled roofs, barred windows, low doorways, the clatter of sabots, the pendant street lights, the rumble of the ten o’clock drums. These things, seen in a mist, were all of the days when bold ventures were made–of those days when a brave man would recover his own, come what might, if it had been wrongfully wrested from him. It was a rare dream–and not broken until he turned into the Quai de la Ronciere.

As he rounded the corner he was almost knocked from his feet by a burly fellow in a Basque cap who was breathless with haste.

“Monsieur–if he will pardon–it was not–” this fellow stammered, apologetically.

Men were hurrying past toward the Café d’Espoir, appearing everywhere from the mist and running with the speed of deep excitement. There was a clamorous crowd about the door–pushing, scuffling, shouting.

“What has happened?” Archie asked in French.

“An American has killed a gendarme, monsieur. A ter-rible fellow! Oh, fear-r-rful!”

“And why–what–”

“He was a ter-rible fellow, monsieur. The gendarmes have been on the lookout for him for three years. And when they laid hands on him he fought, monsieur–fought with the strength of a savage. It took five gendarmes to bind him–five, monsieur. Poor Louis Arnot! He is dead–killed, monsieur, by a pig of an American with his fist. They are to take the murderer to the jail. I am just now running to warn Deschamps to make ready the dungeon cell. If monsieur will but excuse me, I will–”

He was off; so Archie joined the crowd at the door of the café, which was that place to which Skipper Bill had repaired to hide. He hung on the outskirts of the crowd, unable to push his way further. The wrath of these folk was so noisy that he could catch no word of what went on within. He devoutly hoped that Skipper Bill had kept to his hiding-place despite the suspicious sounds in the café. Then he wormed his way to the door and entered. A moment later he had climbed on a barrel and was overlooking the squirming crowd and eagerly listening to the clamour. Above every sound–above the cries and clatter and gabble–rang the fighting English of Bill o’ Burnt Bay.

It was no American; it was Skipper Bill whom the gendarmes had taken, and he was now so seriously involved, apparently, that his worst enemies could wish him no deeper in the mesh. They had him bound hand and foot and guarded with drawn swords, fearing, probably, that somewhere he had a crew of wild fellows at his back to make a rescue. To attempt a rescue was not to be thought of. It did not enter the boy’s head. He was overcome by grief and terror. He withdrew into a shadow until they had carried Skipper Bill out with a crowd yelping at his heels. Then, white and shaking, he went to a group in the corner where Louis Arnot, the gendarme, was stretched out on the floor.