Billy Topsail, M.D.

There stood old Jonathan Farr, in the writhing gloom of that night, stiff and still and patient as the dead, with his back to the gale, plastered with snow and frozen spindrift, his shoulders humped and his head drawn in like a turtle. It was bitter dark – yet not as black as the grave. It is never that on the floe. And the wind streamed past, keen as a blade with frost, thick with crisp snow, and clammy with the spray it caught up from the open lakes and flung off in sheets and mist.

Dead bodies lying roundabout then – the boys had stumbled over the dead as they walked. Young men, sprawled stiff, hard as ice to the bones, lying stark in the drifts – Big Sam Tiller, of Thank-the-Lord, he that whipped Paddy of Linger Tickle, in White Bay, when the fleet was trapped by the floe in the Year of the Small Haul, was dead by that time; and Archie had found little Dickie Ring, of Far-Away Cove, dead in his elder brother's dead arms – they were pried apart with a crowbar when the time came.

Yet there stood old Jonathan Farr, cased in snow and ice, with the life warm in him – making a lee for little Toby. And Toby was snuggled up to his grandfather, his face close – sheltered and rested from the gale, as much as might be.

Billy Topsail bent down.

"How does you?" says he.

Toby put his head out from its snug harbour, and spoke, in a passion, as though Billy had wronged him, and then ducked back from the smother of wind and snow.

"My gran'pa takes care o' me!" he flashed.

"Will you save him, Jonathan?" Archie asked.

"I've a shot in the locker, Archie," Jonathan replied. "I'll save un alive."

Out flashed Toby's head; and he tugged at his grandfather – and bawled up.

"Is I doin' well?" he wanted to know.

"You is!"

"Is I doin' as well as my father done at my age?"

"You is! Is you rested?"

"Ay, sir."

"Full steam ahead!" said Jonathan. With that they bore away – playing a game. And Jonathan was the skipper and Toby was the wheelman and engine. "Port!" bawled Jonathan. And "Starboard your helm!" And Billy and Archie lost sight of them in the dark.

CHAPTER XXXIX

In Which One Hundred and Seventy-Three Men of the "Rough and Tumble" are Plunged in the Gravest Peril of the Coast, Wandering Like Lost Beasts, and Some Drop Dead, and Some are Drowned, and Some Kill Themselves to be Done With the Torture They Can Bear No Longer

They kept close, a hundred and seventy-three living men, to start with, and then God knew how many! – kept close for comfort and safety; and they walked warily, drunk and stupid in the wind, in dread of lakes and blow-holes and fissures of water, and in living fear of crusts of snow, wind-cast over pitfalls. And they died fast in the dark. In Archie Armstrong's tortured mind childish visions of hell were revived – the swish and sad complaint of doomed souls, winging round and round and round in a frozen dark. It was like that, he thought.

Dawn delayed. It was night forever; and the dark was peopled – the throng stirred, and was not visible; and from the black wraiths of men, moving roundabout, never still, all driven round and round by the torture of the night, came cries of pain – sobbing and wailing, rage and prayer, and screams for help, for God's sake.

Many of the men wore out before dawn and were fordone: hands frozen, feet frozen, lips and throat frozen – heart frozen. And many a man dropped in his tracks, limp and spiritless as rags, and lay still, every man in his own drift of snow; and his soul sped away as though glad to be gone. Brothers, some, and fathers and sons – the one beating the other with frozen hands, and calling to him to rouse and stand up lest he die.

Dawn came. It was just a slow, dirty dusk. And day was no better than dusk. Still they walked blind and tortured in a frosty smother and driving whirlwind of snow. Hands frozen, feet frozen – and the cold creeping in upon the heart! They were numb and worn and sleepy. And there was no rest for them. To pause was to come into living peril – to rest was to sleep; and to sleep was death. Once more, then, when day was full broken, Archie and Billy came on Jonathan Farr and Toby.

The old man was sheathed in snow and frozen spindrift. A hairy old codger he was – icicles of his own frozen breath clinging to his long white beard and icicles hanging from his bushy brows. And he was beating Toby without mercy: for the lad would fall down, worn out, and whimper and squirm; and the old man would jerk and cuff him to his feet, and drive him on with cuffs from behind, stumbling and whimpering and bawling.

It was a sad task that he had, done in pity – thus to cuff the little lad awake and keep him moving; and Billy Topsail fancied that it was waste pain. It seemed to him that the lad must die in the gale, soon or late – no doubt about that, with stout men yielding to death roundabout. Billy thought that it would be better to let him sleep and die and suffer no more.

"I'm s' sleepy!" Toby complained to his grandfather. "Leave me sleep!"

"Get up!"

"Ah, jus' a minute, gran'pa!"

"Get up!"

"You c'n wake me 's easy – "

"Get up!"

"Ye hurt me, gran'pa!"

"Drive on!"

"You leave me alone!" Toby bawled, angrily. "Ye hurt!"

"Drive on!"

By this time the men had been more than twenty-four hours on the ice. And they had no food. Hungry? No. They were cold. No man famished in that gale. And they had yet a night of that gale to win through, though they knew nothing about that at the time. They began to stray wide. And they began to go blind. And some men fell in the water and were drowned. Billy Topsail saw John Temple, of Heart's Island, drop through a crust of snow and go down for good and all; and he saw Tom Crutch, of Seldom-Come-By, stumble over the edge of a pan, and heard him screech for help. They hauled him out – two men of his own harbour; and he was frozen solid in half an hour.

Some men chose an end of torture and leaped into the water and killed themselves. And as day drew on, others began to go mad. It was horrible – like a madhouse. They babbled, stark mad – the harbours they came from, and their mothers, their wives, their babies. And they had visions, and were deluded – some saw a blaze of fire and set out to find the glow, and called to the others, as they went off, to come and be warm. And one saw the ship's lights, as in clear, dark weather, and staggered away, bawling that he was coming, with a troop of poor madmen in his wake.

This is the naked truth about that gale.

CHAPTER XL

In Which Toby Farr Falls in the Water, and, Being Soaked to the Skin, Will Freeze Solid in Half an Hour, in the Frosty Dusk of the Approaching Night, Unless a Shift of Dry Clothes is Found, a Necessity Which Sends Jonathan Farr and Billy Topsail Hunting for Dead Men

Through all this black confusion and bitter hardship Billy Topsail and Archie Armstrong wandered with the others of the men of the Rough and Tumble. They suffered, despaired, hoped, despaired again – but fought desperately for their lives as partners. When Archie wanted to give way to his overwhelming desire for sleep, Billy cuffed and beat him into wakefulness and renewed courage; and when Billy, worn out and numb with cold, entertained the despair that assaulted him, Archie gathered his faculties and encouraged him. Had either been alone on the floe, it is probable that he would have perished; but both together, devoted to each other, resolved to help each other, each watchful of the other, each inspired by the other's need – fighting thus as partners in peril, they were as well off, in point of vitality and determination, as any man on the floe. Afraid? Yes, they were afraid – that is to say, each perceived the peril he was in, knew that his life hung in the balance, and wished with all his might to live; but neither boy whimpered in a cowardly way.

Coming on dusk of that day, the boys fell in for the last time with old Jonathan Farr. Jonathan had Toby by the scruff of the neck and was just setting him on his feet by a broken crust of snow. Toby was wide awake then. And he was dripping wet to the waist – near to the armpits. And he was frightened.

"I falled in," said he. "I – I stumbled."

In that wind and frost it was death. The lad was doomed. And it was but a matter of minutes.

"Is you – is you wet through, Toby?" Jonathan asked, blankly.

"I is, sir."

Jonathan drew off a mitt and felt of the lad's clothes from his calves to his waist.

"Wet through!" said he. "Oh, dear me!"

"I'm soppin' t' the skin."

"Jus' drippin' wet!"

"I'm near froze," Toby complained. And he chilled. And his teeth clicked. "I wisht I had a shift o' clothes," said he.