Billy Topsail & Company Part 18

Archie Armstrong did not know until they were well started that Bill o' Burnt Bay was a marked man in Saint Pierre. There was no price on his head, to be sure, but he was answerable for several offenses which would pa.s.s current in St. John's for a.s.sault and battery, if not for a.s.sault with intent to maim or kill (which Bill had never tried to do)--all committed in those old days when he was young and wild and loved a ruction better than a prayer-meeting.

They determined to make a landing by stealth--a wise precaution, as it appeared to Archie. So in three days they were at La Maline, a small fishing harbour on the south coast of Newfoundland, and a port of call for the Placentia Bay mail-boat. The Iles Saint Pierre et Miquelon, the remnant of the western empire of the French, lay some twenty miles to the southwest, across a channel which at best is of uncertain mood, and on this day was as forbidding a waste of waves and gray clouds as it had been Archie's lot to venture out upon.

Bill o' Burnt Bay had picked up his ideal of a craft for the pa.s.sage--a skiff so cheap and rotten that "'twould be small loss, sir, if she sank under us." And the skipper was in a roaring good humour as with all sail set he drove the old hulk through that wilderness of crested seas; and big Josiah Cove, who had been taken along to help sail the _Heavenly Home_, as he swung the bail bucket, was not a whit behind in glowing expectation--in particular, that expectation which concerned an encounter with a gendarme with whom he had had the misfortune to exchange nothing but words upon a former occasion.

As for Archie, at times he felt like a smuggler, and capped himself in fancy with a red turban, at times like a pirate.

They made Saint Pierre at dusk--dusk of a thick night, with the wind blowing half a gale from the east. They had no mind to subject themselves to those formalities which might precipitate embarra.s.sing disclosures; so they ran up the harbour as inconspicuously as might be, all the while keeping a covert lookout for the skinny old craft which they had come to cut out. The fog, drifting in as they proceeded, added its shelter to that of the night; and they dared to make a search.

They found her at last, lying at anchor in the isolation of government waters--a most advantageous circ.u.mstance.

"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 m.u.f.fled cry, which seemed to come out of the sh.o.r.eward 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 pa.s.sed 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 c.o.c.k 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 ash.o.r.e," said Bill.

"We _got_ t' go ash.o.r.e," 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.