Billy Topsail & Company: A Story for Boys

Presently the castaways were to appear in Conch in the schooner’s quarter boat with a circumstantial account of the disaster. The Black Eagle was gone, they would say; she had struck in a fog, ripped out her keel (it seemed), driven over the rock, filled and sunk. At Conch, by this time, the mail-boat would be due on the southward trip. Skipper George and the clerk would proceed in grief and humiliation to St. John’s to report the sad news to Armstrong & Company; but the cook and the three hands would join Tom Tulk at Twillingate, whence with the old reprobate’s schooner they would rescue fish and cargo from beneath the tarpaulins on the out-of-the-way rocky little island in the north. To exchange crews at Twillingate and run the cargo to St. John’s for quick sale was a small matter.

“Barrin’ accident,” Tom Tulk had said, “it can’t fail.”

There, indeed, was a cold, logical plan. “Barrin’ accident,” as Tom Tulk was aware, and as he by and by persuaded Skipper George, it could not fail. Let the weather be well chosen, the story consistent: that was all. Was not Skipper George forever in danger of losing his schooner? Had not Sir Archibald already given him his last warning? They would say in St. John’s merely that Skipper George had “done it at last.” Nobody would be surprised; everybody would say, “I told you so.” And when old Tom Tulk came into harbour with a mysterious load of fish who would suspect him? Was not Tom Tulk known to be an eccentric? Was there any accounting for what Tom Tulk would do? Tom Tulk would say, “Mind your business!” and that would make an end of the questioning.

“Choose your weather, Skipper George,” said Tom Tulk. “Let it be windy and thick.”

With fog to hide the deed–with a gale to bear out the story and keep prying craft away–there would be small danger of detection. And what if folk did suspect? Let ’em prove it! That’s what the law demanded. Let ’em prove it!

When the Black Eagle put back to Conch from following the little Spot Cash, it was evident that the opportunity had come. The weather was thick; there was a promise of wind in the air. Moreover, with Archie Armstrong on the coast in a temper, it was the part of wisdom to beware. Skipper George went gloomily to the cabin when the schooner rode once more at anchor. It was time, now; he knew it, the clerk knew it, the crew knew it. But Skipper George had no liking for the job; nor had the clerk, to tell the truth, nor had the cook, nor had the crew. Rascals are not made in a day; and it takes a long time to innure them against fear and self-reproach. But skipper and crew of the Black Eagle were already committed. Their dealing for fish on the coast had been unpardonable. The skipper could not explain it in St. John’s; nor could the clerk excuse it.

“We got t’ go through with this, Tommy,” said the gloomy skipper.

“Have a dram,” the clerk replied. “I’m in sore need o’ one meself.”

It seemed the skipper was, too.

“With that little shaver on the coast,” said the clerk, “’tis best done quickly.”

“I’ve no heart for it,” the skipper growled.

The clerk’s thin face was white and drawn. His hand trembled, now, as he lifted his glass. Nor had he any heart for it. It had been all very well, at first; it had seemed something like a lark–just a wild lark. The crew, too, had taken it in the spirit of larking–at first. But now that the time was come both forecastle and cabin had turned uneasy and timid.

In the forecastle, the cook said to the first hand:

“Wisht I was out o’ this.”

“Wisht I’d never come in it,” the first hand sighed.

Their words were in whispers.

“I ’low,” said the second hand, with a scared glance about, “that the ol’ man will–will do it–the morrow.”

The three averted their eyes–each from the other’s.

“I ’low,” the cook gasped.

Meantime, in the cabin, the clerk, rum now giving him a saucy outlook, said: “’Twill blow half a gale the morrow.”

“Ay,” said the skipper, uneasily; “an’ there’s like t’ be more than half a gale by the glass.”

“There’ll be few craft out o’ harbour.”

“Few craft, Tommy,” said the skipper, drawing a timid hand over his bristling red 252 beard. “I’m not likin’ t’ take the Black Eagle t’ sea.”

“’Tis like there’ll be fog,” the clerk continued.

“Ay; ’tis like there’ll be a bit o’ fog.”

Skipper and clerk helped themselves to another dram of rum. Why was it that Tom Tulk had made them a parting gift? Perhaps Tom Tulk understood the hearts of new-made rascals. At any rate, skipper and clerk, both simple fellows, after all, were presently heartened.

Tommy Bull laughed.

“Skipper,” said he, “do you go ashore an’ say you’ll take the Black Eagle t’ sea the morrow, blow high or blow low, fair wind or foul.”

The skipper looked up in bewilderment.

“Orders,” the clerk explained, grinning. “Tell ’em you’ve been wigged lively enough by Sir Archibald for lyin’ in harbour.”

Skipper George laughed in his turn.

“For’ard, there!” the clerk roared, putting his head out of the cabin. “One o’ you t’ take the skipper ashore!”

Three fishing-schooners, bound down from the Labrador, had put in for safe berth through a threatening night. And with the skippers of these craft, and with the idle folk ashore, Skipper George foregathered. Dirty weather? (the skipper declared); sure, ’twas dirty weather. But there was no wind on that coast could keep the Black Eagle in harbour. No, sir: no wind that blowed. Skipper George was sick an’ tired o’ bein’ wigged by Sir Archibald Armstrong for lyin’ in harbour. No more wiggin’ for him. No, sir! He’d take the Black Eagle t’ sea in the mornin’? Let it blow high or blow low, fair wind or foul, ’twould be up anchor an’ t’ sea for the Black Eagle at dawn. Wreck her? Well, let her go t’ wreck. Orders was orders. If the Black Eagle happened t’ be picked up by a rock in the fog ’twould be Sir Archibald Armstrong’s business to explain it. As for Skipper George, no man would be able t’ tell him again that he was afraid t’ take his schooner t’ sea. An’ orders was orders, sir. Yes, sir; orders was orders.

“I’m not likin’ the job o’ takin’ my schooner t’ sea in wind an’ fog,” Skipper George concluded, with a great assumption of indignant courage; “but when I’m told t’ drive her, I’ll drive, an’ let the owner take the consequences.”

This impressed the Labrador skippers.

“Small blame t’ you, Skipper George,” one declared, “if you do lose her.”

Well satisfied with the evidence he had manufactured to sustain the story of wreck, Skipper George returned to the schooner.

“Well,” he drawled to the clerk, “I got my witnesses. They isn’t a man ashore would put t’ sea the morrow if the weather comes as it promises.”

The clerk sighed and anxiously frowned. Skipper George, infected by this melancholy and regret–for the skipper loved the trim, fleet-footed, well-found Black Eagle– Skipper George sighed, too.

“Time t’ turn in, Tommy,” said he.

The skipper had done a good stroke of business ashore. Sir Archibald had indeed ordered him to “drive” the Black Eagle.

And in the rising wind of the next day while the Spot Cash lay at anchor in Tilt Cove and Archie’s messages were fleeting over the wire to St. John’s–the Black Eagle was taken to sea. Ashore they advised her skipper to stick to shelter; but the skipper would have none of their warnings. Out went the Black Eagle under shortened sail. The wind rose; a misty rain gathered; fog came in from the far, wide open. But the Black Eagle sped straight out to sea. Beyond the Pony Islands–a barren, out-of-the-way little group of rocks–she beat aimlessly to and fro: now darting away, now approaching. But there was no eye to observe her peculiar behaviour. Before night fell–driven by the gale–she found poor shelter in a seaward cove. Here she hung grimly to her anchorage through the night. Skipper and crew, as morning approached, felt the wind fall and the sea subside.

Dawn came in a thick fog.

“What do you make of it, Tommy?” the skipper asked.

The clerk stared into the mist. “Pony Islands, skipper, sure enough,” said he.

“Little Pony or Big?”

In a rift of the mist a stretch of rocky coast lay exposed.

“Little Pony,” said the clerk.

“Ay,” the skipper agreed: “an’ ’twas Little Pony, easterly shore,” he added, his voice dwindling away, “that Tom Tulk advised.”

“An’ about the tenth o’ the month,” Tommy Bull added.