In Which Archie Armstrong Rejoins the "Rough and Tumble," With Billy Topsail for Shipmate, and They Seem Likely to be Left on the Floe, While Toby Farr, With the Gale Blowing Cold as Death and Dark Falling, Promises to Make a Song About the Ghosts of Dead Men, but is Entreated Not to Do So
In Which Archie Armstrong Rejoins the "Rough and Tumble," With Billy Topsail for Shipmate, and They Seem Likely to be Left on the Floe, While Toby Farr, With the Gale Blowing Cold as Death and Dark Falling, Promises to Make a Song About the Ghosts of Dead Men, but is Entreated Not to Do So
Archie Armstrongand Billy Topsail did not wait with Doctor Luke at Poor Luck Barrens until the cure of Trapper George was accomplished. In view of Archie's wish to return to St. John's with Cap'n Saul aboard theRough and Tumble, it was arranged that the boys should go back to Bread-and-Butter Tickle alone, and thence down the coast to Our Harbour, as best they could manage, carrying news of Doctor Luke's detention and the cause of it. They were sorry to say good-bye to Doctor Luke; and Doctor Luke was sorry to say good-bye to them. When the time came, Billy Topsail, who had come to love and respect the man for his warm qualities and the work that he did, sought for words to expresshis feeling and his thanks; but being a simple, robust fellow, not accustomed to the frank expression of feeling, not used to conventional forms, he could manage but poorly. Archie Armstrong would have been ready, fluent, and sincere in the same situation. But Billy Topsail could only stutter and flush and come to an awkward full stop.
What Billy wanted to say was clear enough in his own mind. He had been with Doctor Luke a good deal. They had been in tight places together. But it was not that. "Tight places" are only relative, after all; what is an adventure in one quarter of the world may be a mild incident in another. And that Billy Topsail and Doctor Luke had been in danger together was not particularly impressive: Billy Topsail was used to danger—to peril of that sort—and had grown to regard it as among the commonplaces of life.
That aspect of his experience with Doctor Luke to which Billy Topsail had responded was the habit of service—the instant, willing, efficient answer to the call of helpless need. Indeed, Doctor Luke appeared to Billy Topsail to be a very great man—the greatest man, in hispersonality and life, Billy Topsail had ever known, not excepting Sir Archibald Armstrong. And Billy Topsail had come definitely to the conclusion that what he wanted to do with his life was precisely what Doctor Luke was doing with his.
It was this that he wanted to tell Doctor Luke; and it was this that he failed to tell him.
"Good-bye, sir," he said.
"Good-bye, Billy."
"Th-th-thanks, sir."
"Thanks?" cried Doctor Luke. "For what, Billy?I'mthe debtor."
"Th-th-thanks, sir."
"Thankyou, Billy, boy, for your most excellent company."
And so Billy and Archie left Doctor Luke at Poor Luck Barrens—hard at work and happy in his work. They made Bread-and-Butter Tickle; they travelled down the coast without incident; they shook hands with Teddy Brisk, who was still telling his adventures on the ice-floe, his leg as sound as any leg; and they came safe to Our Harbour, where they waited until Cap'n Saul put in with theRough and Tumble. And then Archie would hear of nothing but Billy's company to St. John's—Billymustgo to St. John's, and hewouldgo to St. John's on theRough and Tumble, ecod, or Archie would put him in irons and carry him there! Billy had no sound objection. From St. John's he could travel easily to his home at Ruddy Cove and arrive there long before the Labrador mail-boat would be north on her first voyage.
And so the boys boarded theRough and Tumbletogether, fell in with Bill o' Burnt Bay, Jonathan Farr and little Toby once more, and put to sea. TheRough and Tumblewas not loaded; she had more seals to kill and stow away, and Cap'n Saul was resolved to "put back loaded"—a desirable end towards which his active crew, in conjunction with his own sealing wisdom, was fast approaching.
"I'll load in a week!" he boasted.
And then——
Sunday, then—and that a brooding day. It was a dull, dragging time. Not a gaff was out, not a gun; not a man put foot on the floe. TheRough and Tumblekilled no seals. It was not the custom. All that day she lay made fast to the ice, fretting for midnight. Cap'n Saul keptto his cabin. Time and quiet weather went wasting away. Quiet weather—quiet enough that day: a draught of westerly wind blowing, the sky overcast and blank, and a flurry of snow in the afternoon, which failed, before dusk, a black, still midnight drawing on.
On the first stroke of the midnight bell, for which he had waited since the dawn of that dull day, Cap'n Saul popped out of the cabin, like a jack-in-the-box, and stamped the bridge, growling and bawling his orders, in a week-day temper, until he had dropped the First Watch, and was under way through the floe, a matter of twenty miles, to land the Second Watch and the Third—feeling a way through the lanes.
Before dawn Bill o' Burnt Bay's watch, with Archie and Billy Topsail, was on the ice. Cap'n Saul put back to stand by the First Watch. Black dark yet. It was bleak on the floe! They shivered in the frost and dark. And the light lagged, as the light will, when it is waited for. It was a sad dawn. A slow glower and lift of thin, gray light: no warmth of colour in the east—no rosy flush and glow. When day broke, at last, the crew made into the herds, mad to be warm, and began to kill. Still, it was donewithout heart. There was less blithe slaughter, that day, than unseemly brooding and weather-gazing. It was a queer thing, too. There was no alarm of foul weather that any man could see.
A drear, gray day it was, day drawing near noon. Archie and Billy always remembered that. Yet there was no frost to touch a man's heart, no need to cower and whine in the wind, no snow to make a man afraid. A scowl in the northeast—a low, drab, sulky sky, mottled with blue-black and smoky white. They recalled it afterwards. But that was all. And Bill o' Burnt Bay fancied, then, with the lives of his crew in mind, that the weather quarter was doubtless in a temper, but no worse, and was no more than half-minded to kick up a little pother of trouble before day ran over the west.
And Bill was at ease about that.
"She'll bide as she is," he thought, "'til Cap'n Saul gets back."
Bill o' Burnt Bay was wrong. It came on to blow. The wind jumped to the northwest with a nasty notion of misbehaviour. It was all in a moment. A gust of wind, cold as death, went swirling past. They chilled to the bones in it. And then a bitter blast of weather came sweeping down. The floe began to pack and drive. Bill o' Burnt Bay gathered and numbered his watch. And then they waited for the ship. No sign. And the day turned thick. Dusk fell before its time. It was not yet midway of the afternoon. And the wind began to buffet and bite. It began to snow, too. And it was a frosty cloud of snow. It blinded—it stifled. It was flung out of the black northwest like flour from a shaken sack.
The men were afraid. They knew that weather. It was a blizzard. There was a night of mortal peril in it. There might be a night and a day—a day and two nights. And they knew what would happen to them if Cap'n Saul failed to find them before the pack nipped him and the night shut down. It had happened before to lost crews. It would happen again. Men gone stark mad in the wind—the floe strewn with drifted corpses. They had heard tales. And now they had visions. Dead men going into port—ship's flag at half-mast, and dead men going into port, frozen stiff and blue, and piled forward like cord-wood.
"I'll make a song about this," said Toby Farr.
"A song!" Archie Armstrong exclaimed.
"'Tis about the gray wraiths o' dead men that squirm in the night."
"I'd not do it!" Jonathan protested.
"They drift like snow in the black wind," said Toby.
"Ah, no!" said Jonathan. "I'd make no songs the night about dead men an' wraiths."
"Ay, but I'm well started——"
"No, lad!"
"I've a bit about cold fingers an' the damp touch——"
"I'd not brood upon that."
"An it please you, sir——"
"No."
"Ah, well," Toby agreed, "I'll wait 'til I'm cozy an' warm aboard ship."
"That's better," said Archie.
Billy Topsail shuddered. Toby's imagination—ghosts and dead men—had frightened him.
"It is!" he declared.
In Which the Wind Blows a Tempest, Our Heroes are Lost on the Floe, Jonathan Farr is Encased in Snow and Frozen Spindrift, Toby Strangely Disappears, and an Heroic Fight for Life is Begun, Wrapped in Bitter Dark
In Which the Wind Blows a Tempest, Our Heroes are Lost on the Floe, Jonathan Farr is Encased in Snow and Frozen Spindrift, Toby Strangely Disappears, and an Heroic Fight for Life is Begun, Wrapped in Bitter Dark
Itis well known on this coast, from Cape Race to Norman and the Labrador harbours, what happened to Cap'n Saul that night. It was vast, flat, heavy ice, thick labour for the ship, at best—square miles of pans and fields. In the push of the northwest gale, blowing down, all at once, with vigour and fury, from a new quarter, the big pans shifted and revolved. The movement was like that of a waltz—slow dancers, revolving in a waltz. And then the floe closed. And what was a clear course in the morning was packed ice before dusk.
When the day began to foul, Cap'n Saul snatched up the First Watch, where he was standing by, and came driving down after Bill o' Burnt Bay's watch. It was too late. The ice caught him. And there was no shaking free.The men on the floe glimpsed the ship—the bulk of the ship and a cloud of smoke; but Cap'n Saul caught no glimpse of them—a huddle of poor men wrapped in snow and dusk.
A blast of the gale canted theRough and Tumbleuntil her bare yards touched the floe and Cap'n Saul had a hard time to save her alive from the gale. And that was the measure of the wind. It blew a tempest. Rescue? No rescue. The men knew that. A rescue would walk blind—stray and blow away like leaves. They must wait for clear weather and dawn.
There had been Newfoundlanders in the same hard case before. The men knew what to do.
"Keep movin'!"
"No sleep!"
"Stick t'gether!"
"Nobody lie down!"
"Fetch me a buffet, some o' you men, an I gets sleepy."
"I gives any man leave t' beat me."
"Where's Tom Land?"
"Here I is!"
"I say, Tom—Long George gives any man leave t' beat un black an' blue!"
And a laugh at that.
"Mind the blow-holes!"
"An a man gets wet, he'll freeze solid."
"No sleep!"
"Keep movin'!"
They kept moving to keep warm. And even they larked. Tag, whilst they could see to chase—and a sad leap-frog. And they wrestled and scuffled until it was black dark and the heart went out of them all. And then they wandered, with no lee to shelter them—a hundred and seventy-three men, stamping and stumbling in the wind, clinging to life, hour after hour, and waiting for the dawn, bitten by frost and near stifled by snow. It was gnawing cold. Twelve below—it was afterwards said. And that's bitter weather. It bit through to the bones and heart. And what they wore to withstand it—no great-coats, to hamper the kill, but only jackets and caps and mitts.
The floe was flat and bare to the gale. Nobody knows the pitch of the wind. It was a full tempest. That much is known. And it stung and cut and strove to wrest them from their feet and whisk them away. And there they were—in the grip of the wind, stripped to the strength they had, like lost beasts, and helpless to fendany more. Billy Topsail saw young Simeon Tutt, of Whoopin' Harbour, trip and stagger and fall at his feet; and before Billy could lay hands on him to save him, the wind blew him away, like a leaf, and he was never seen again, but driven into a lake of water in the dark, it was thought, and there perished.
LIKE LOST BEASTS
LIKE LOST BEASTS
By and by Archie and Billy stumbled on old Jonathan Farr of Jolly Harbour. It was long past midnight then. And they saw no lad with him. Where was Toby?
"That you, Jonathan?" said Archie.
"'Tis I, Archie."
"You living yet?"
"No choice. I got t' live."
"Where's Toby?" said Billy.
"The lad's——"
It was hard to hear. The old man's words jumped away with the wind. And still the boys saw no lad.
"What say?" said Billy. "I don't see Toby. Where is he?"
"In my lee," Jonathan replied. "He's restin'."
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, plasteredwith 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.
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
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
Theykept 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 frozenspindrift. 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 ablaze 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.
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
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
Throughall this black confusion and bitter hardship Billy Topsail and Archie Armstrong wandered with the others of the men of theRough 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.
"I wisht you had!" said Jonathan.
Billy Topsail got to windward of Jonathan to speak his mind in the old man's ear. It seemed to Billy that Toby's case was hopeless. The lad would freeze. There was no help for it. And the sooner his suffering was over—the better.
"Let un die," Billy pleaded.
Jonathan shook his head and flashed at Billy. Yet Billy had spoken kindness and plain wisdom. But Jonathan was in a rage with him. Billy heard his icicles rattle. And Jonathan glared in wrath through the white fringe of his brows.
"Go to!" he exclaimed.
"My pants is froze stiff!" said Toby in amazement. "That's comical! I can't move me legs." And then he whimpered with pain and misery and fear. "I'll freeze stiff!" said he. "I'll die!"
It was coming fast.
"You can't save un," Billy insisted, in Jonathan's ear. "He'll freeze afore dark. Let un go."
"I'll never give up," Jonathan protested.
"I'm awful mis'able, gran'pa," said Toby. "What'll I do now?"
"Ah, have mercy!" Billy begged. "Let un slip away quick an' be gone."
Jonathan peered around.
"Mus' be some dead men, Billy," said he, "lyin' around here somewheres."
Dead men enough in the drifts!
"More than a hundred," said Archie. "I counted a hundred and nine through the day."
"I'll find one," said Jonathan.
"No time, Jonathan."
"They're lyin' handy. I fell over Jack Brace somewheres near here."
"Night's closin'," said Billy.
"No time t' lose," Jonathan agreed.
"Speed then!" Billy exclaimed. "He'll freeze fast afore you find one."
"Guard the lad," said Jonathan. "I'll not be long. Try his temper. He'll fight if you tease un."
With that, then, old Jonathan Farr ran off to dig a dead man from the drifts. The boys could not see him in the snow. All this while the wind was biting and pushing and choking them still—the snow was mixed with the first dusk. Toby was shivering then—cowering from the wind, head down. And he was dull. His head nodded. He swayed in the wind—caught his feet; and he jerked himself awake—and nodded and swayed again. Billy Topsail thought it a pity and a wrong to rouse him. Yet both boys turned to keep him warm.
Toby must have the life kept in him, they thought, until his grandfather got back. And they cuffed him and teased him until his temper was hot, poor lad, and he fought them in a passion—stumbling at them, hampered by his frozen clothes, and striking at them with his stiff arms and icy fists.
Jonathan came then.
"I can't find no dead men," he panted. It was hard for him to breast the wind. He was gasping with haste and fear. "I've hunted," said he, "an' I can't find no dead men."
"They're lyin' thick hereabouts," said Billy.
"They're all covered up. I can't find un."
"Did you kick the drifts?" Archie asked. "We've strayed wide," said Jonathan. "I can't find no dead men. An' I can't walk well no more."
"Watch the lad," said Billy. "I'll try my hand."
Toby was lying down. Jonathan caught him up from the ice and held him in his arms.
"Quick!" he cried. "He've fell asleep. Ah, he's freezin'!"
It was coming dark fast. There was no time to waste in the gale that was blowing. The frost was putting Toby to sleep. Billy sped. He searched the drifts like a dog for a dead man. And soon he had luck. He found Long Jerry Cuff, of Providence Arm, a chunk of ice, poor man!—lying in a cuddle, arms folded and knees drawn up, like a child snuggled in bed. Long Jerry had been in the water, soaked to the skin, and he was solid and useless. And then Billy came on a face and a fur cap in a drift of snow. It was George Hunt, of Bullet Bight, with whom Billy had once sailed, in fishing weather, to Thumb-and-Finger of the Labrador.
Long Jerry was lying flat on his back with his arms flung out and his legs spread. And he was frozen fast to the floe. Billy could not budge him. No. Billy caught him by the head and lifted—he was stiff as a plank; and Billy failed. And Billy took him by the foot and pried a legloose—and ripped at it with all his might; and again he failed. Solid as stone! They must all have been solid like that. And then Billy knew that it was no use to try any more—that they could not strip the clothes from a dead man if they had a dead man to strip.
And then he went disconsolate to Jonathan.
In Which a Dead Man is Made to Order for Little Toby Farr
In Which a Dead Man is Made to Order for Little Toby Farr
"Couldn'tyou find none?" cried Jonathan.
"Yes."
"Where is he?"
"No use, Jonathan. He's froze fast t' the ice. I couldn't budge un."
"We'll all——"
Billy shook his head.
"No use, Jonathan," he said again. "He's hard as stone. We couldn't strip un."
Jonathan said nothing to that. He was in a muse. Presently he looked up.
Then he said:
"It don't matter."
"How's Toby?" Billy asked.
Toby was on his feet.
"I'm all right," he answered for himself. "Isn't I doin' pretty well for me, gran'pa?"
"You is!"
Billy took Jonathan aside. Jonathan was at ease. Billy marvelled. It was queer.
"I've warmed un up again," said Jonathan. "Archie an' me done well. We've got un quite warm."
"Too bad," said Billy. "He've got t' die."
"No," said Jonathan. "I've a shot in the locker, Billy. I've found a way. Heed me, Billy. An' mark well what I says. I 'low a dead man's clothes would be cold an' damp anyhow. The lad needs a shift o' warm clothes. An' I'm warm, Billy. An' my underclothes is dry. I been warm an' dry all day long, an' wonderful strong an' wakeful, too, with the fear o' losin' Toby. I'll jus' go away a little piece an' lie down an' die. I'm tired an' dull. It won't take long. An' you an' Archie will strip me, Billy, while I'm still warm."
"It might do."
"'Tis the only sensible thing t' do."
It was the only thing to do. Billy Topsail knew that. If Toby Farr's life were to be saved, he must have dry clothes at once. Billy did not offer to strip himself for Toby. It would have been mock heroics. Nor did Archie Armstrong when he learned of what Jonathan was to do.Either boy would have risked his life in a moment to save the life of Toby Farr—without a second thought, an instant of hesitation, whatever the risk. Obviously it was the duty of old Jonathan Farr to make the only sacrifice that could save the boy. Had Archie or Billy volunteered, the old man would have thanked them and declined the gift.
As old Jonathan had said, to die was the only sensible thing to do.
"Nothin' else t' do," said Billy.
"No; nothin' else t' do that I can think of right now."
"'Tis hard for you, Jonathan," said Billy.
"Oh, no!" Jonathan replied. "I don't mind."
"Then make haste," Billy advised. "If 'tis t' be done, it must be done quick."
"Don't waste no heat," said Jonathan. "Fetch Toby alongside, jus' as soon as I'm gone, an' strip me afore I'm cold."
"Ay," Billy agreed. "That's a good idea."
"An' you keep Toby alive, somehow, Billy," Jonathan went on. "God help you!"
"I will."
Jonathan moved away.
"Watch where I goes," said he. "Don't lose me. I won't be far."
And then Toby, whom Archie had in hand, keeping him moving, spoke in alarm:
"Where you goin', gran'pa?" he demanded.
Jonathan stopped dead. He turned. And he made back towards Toby. And then he stopped dead again.
"I'm jus' goin' t' look for something," said he.
"What you goin' t' look for?"
"I'm goin' t' find a shift o' warm clothes for you."
"A dead man, gran'pa?"
"Ay; a dead man."
"Don't be long," said Toby. "I'll miss you."
"I'm glad o' that," Jonathan replied.
"You might get lost in the snow," said Toby. "Hurry up. I'll wait here with Billy an' Archie."
"I'll be back jus' as quick as I'm able," Jonathan promised. "You wait here, Toby, an' mind Billy and Archie, won't you, while I'm gone?"
"Ay, sir. An' I'll keep movin' jus' the same as if you was here. Hurry up."
By and by, when Billy thought it was time, he went to where Jonathan was lying.
"Is you dead?" he whispered.
"Not yet," said Jonathan. "Come back in a few minutes."
Pretty soon Billy went back.
"Is you dead?" he asked.
"Not yet," said Jonathan. "I'm makin' poor work of it."
And Billy went once more.
"Is you dead?"
"I'm goin' fast."
And yet again:
"Is you dead?"
And Jonathan was dead.
It was worth doing. It saved Toby Farr alive from that gale. It was no easy thing to clothe him anew in the wind—the little boy weeping for his dead grandfather and wanting to lie down and die by his side. Newfoundland born, however, and used to weather, he lived through the night. And when Cap'n Saul gathered the dead from the ice in the quiet weather of the next morning, the lad was carried aboard and stowed away, frost-bitten in a sad way, yet bound to hang on to life.
Toby said never a word about his grandfatherthen. Nor did he weep any more. Nor did he ask Billy and Archie any questions. But he brooded. And the boys wondered what he was thinking so deeply about. And then they put into port—flag at half-mast and a hundred and twenty-one men piled forward like cord-wood. And Toby Farr came on deck, clad in his grandfather's clothes, and watched the dead go ashore, with Archie and Billy and Sir Archibald, until his grandfather went by, wrapped in a Union Jack.
"Billy!" said he.
"Ay, Toby?"
"Did my gran'pa gimme his clothes?"
"He did."
"I'll be worthy!" said Toby.
And he has grown up since then. And he is worthy.
In Which the Tale Comes to a Good End: Archie and Billy Make Ready for Dinner, Toby Farr is Taken for Good and All by Sir Archibald, and Billy Topsail, Having Been Declared Wrong by Archie's Father, Takes the Path That Leads to a New Shingle, After Which the Author Asks a Small Favour of the Reader
In Which the Tale Comes to a Good End: Archie and Billy Make Ready for Dinner, Toby Farr is Taken for Good and All by Sir Archibald, and Billy Topsail, Having Been Declared Wrong by Archie's Father, Takes the Path That Leads to a New Shingle, After Which the Author Asks a Small Favour of the Reader
Well, now, we have come to the end of the tale of Billy Topsail. I need not describe the grief of the Colony when the tragedy of the ice-floes was disclosed. Newfoundlanders are warm-hearted folk; they are easily touched to sympathy—they grieved, indeed, even to the remotest harbours, when news of the death of the men of theRough and Tumblewas spread forth. It was a catastrophe that impended every sealing season—rare, perhaps, in its degree, but forever a thing to be expected. Yet you are not to think of Newfoundland in visions wholly of wind and snow and ice. Newfoundland is not an Arctic country by any means. Nor does the wind blow all the while; nor is the sea all the while in a turmoil. It is a lovely coastafter all; and the folk who live there are simple, self-respecting, cheerful—a lovable, admirable folk. To be sure they have summer weather. What is written in this book is of the spring of the year—the tempestuous season, with the ice breaking up. As a matter of fact, Newfoundland seems to me, in retrospect, to be far less a land of tempest and frost than of sunlit hills and a rippling blue sea.
Ashore, at last, and making ready for dinner, in Sir Archibald Armstrong's great house, while Archie's mother mothered little Toby Farr, who was to live in the great house thereafter, and be reared by Sir Archibald, like a brother of Archie's own—alone in Archie's rooms, Billy and Archie talked a little while.
"Somehow, Archie," said Billy, with a puzzled frown, "it didn't seem nothin' much t' do at the time."
"What, Billy?"
"What Jonathan done."
"No," Archie agreed.
"Somehow," Billy went on, "it jus' seemed as if everybody was dyin', or goin' t' die, an' one more wouldn't make no very great difference. Didn't it seem that way t' you, Archie?"
"Just that way, Billy."
"Queer, isn't it?"
"I didn't care very much, Billy, what happened to me."
"Nor I what happened t' me."
"Sometimes Iwantedto die. I just wanted to lie down and——"
"Me too, Archie."
"Looking back, though, it isn't the same. I'm glad I'm alive."
There was a silence.
"Archie," said Billy, "that was a pretty fine thing that Jonathan done."
"It was, Billy."
"An' the way he done it was fine. It was a man's way t' do a thing like that. No fuss about it. Jus' a quiet way—jus' goin' ahead an' doin' what he thought he ought t' do, an' sayin' nothin' about it."
"That was the best of it, Billy."
"It was agreatthing, Archie. I can't get over it. I thinks of it again an' again an' again. I'd like t' be big enough t' do a thing like that in jus' that way."
"And I, Billy."
"I bet you, Archie, Jonathan wasgladt' be able t' do it."
"I think he was."
"Yes," Billy repeated; "a big thing like that in a big way like that. I'd like t' be man enough. An' I knows only one other man in the world who could do it—in jus' that quiet way."
"Who's that, Billy?"
"Doctor Luke."
"Yes," Archie agreed; "he's big enough for anything."
"I'd like t' be like he!" Billy sighed.
Then the boys went down to dinner. Archie had something in mind of which Billy Topsail was not aware.
After dinner, Toby Farr was put to bed. He was a soft little fellow, perhaps, and Archie's mother, too, was tender. At any rate, she was calling Toby "Son" by that time; and Toby didn't mind, and Archie was delighted, and Sir Archibald was smiling as though he enjoyed it. Toby was not happy—not by any means; no prospect of luxury, no new love, could ease the wish for his grandfather's voice and presence. Yet he was as happy as he very well could be—and as safe as any lad ever was. When he said good-night, he said it gravely, in the mannerlyway he had—a courteous voice, a serious air, a little bow. Sir Archibald smiled, and Archie clapped him on the back, and Archie's mother put her arms around the lad, smiling, too, and led him off to stow him away.
Archie and Billy were then left alone with Sir Archibald.
"Dad," Archie began, "Billy and I have been talking."
"Well, well!" said Sir Archibald.
Billy chuckled.
"I meanreallytalking, dad."
"What about, son?"
"Well, quite a number of things."
"You surprise me!" said Sir Archibald.
Archie ignored the banter.
"Look here, dad," he said, "I want Billy to do something that he won't do."
"Then," said Sir Archibald, "I should recommend you to ask him to do something else."
"But that won't do."
"Must he do this thing?"
"If it's right."
"Is it right?"
"Ithink so."
"What is it?"
Archie explained the matter in dispute, with all its provisions for guarding Billy Topsail's self-respect, and Sir Archibald listened.
"I agree with you," said Sir Archibald, promptly, when Archie came to the end. "I think it right."
And that is how Billy Topsail found a proper way to study medicine—that is how it came about that a new shingle declares to the world of the north Newfoundland Coast the whereabouts of—
William Topsail, M. D.
William Topsail, M. D.
You may find Billy Topsail in the surgery (when he happens to be at home) if you land from the mail-boat and follow the road over Tinkle-Tinkle Hill to Broad Cove—a hearty, smiling, rather quiet chap, of a scientific turn, who goes where he is called, and has the reputation of being the most promising physician and surgeon in Newfoundland. He has been advised to go to St. John's, of course; but that he will not do—for reasons of his own, which have to do with the obligations of service. Well, then, there he is—in the surgery, when he is at home; andif youshouldhappen to go ashore from the mail-boat, and if you should take Tinkle-Tinkle Road to Broad Cove, and if your seeking eye should alight upon a new shingle, inscribedWilliam Topsail, M. D., and if you should knock on the door, and if a stalwart, fine-looking, rather quiet chap, with a twinkling smile, should open the door, and if you should tell him that you know me, and that I had invited you to call—
He'll laugh. And he'll say:
"Come in! Glad t' see you!"
And you go in—don't fail to. You'll have a good time. And give Billy my compliments and tell him I'll be up to see him one of these summers. Thanks. I'm much obliged.
Printed in the United States of America