Doctor Luke of the Labrador
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Norman Duncan >> Doctor Luke of the Labrador
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"I'm not knowin'," my sister sighed, still staring out to sea, "what's
beyond the mist."
"Nor I."
'Twas like a curtain, veiling some dread mystery, as an ancient
tragedy--but new to us, who sat waiting: and far past our guessing.
"I wonder what we'll see, dear," she whispered, "when the mist lifts."
"'Tis some woeful thing."
She leaned forward, staring, breathing deep, seeking with the strange
gift of women to foresee the event; but she sighed, at last, and gave it
up.
"I'm not knowin'," she said.
We turned homeward; and thereafter--through the months of that
summer--we were diligent in business: but with small success, for Jagger
of Wayfarer's Tickle, seizing the poor advantage with great glee, now
foully slandered and oppressed us.
* * * * *
Near midsummer our coast was mightily outraged by the sailings of the
_Sink or Swim_, Jim Tall, master--Jagger's new schooner, trading our
ports and the harbours of the Newfoundland French Shore, with a case of
smallpox in the forecastle. We were all agog over it, bitterly angered,
every one of us; and by day we kept watch from the heads to warn her
off, and by night we saw to our guns, that we might instantly deal with
her, should she so much as poke her prow into the waters of our harbour.
Once, being on the Watchman with my father's glass, I fancied I sighted
her, far off shore, beating up to Wayfarer's Tickle in the dusk: but
could not make sure, for there was a haze abroad, and her cut was not
yet well known to us. Then we heard no more of her, until, by and by,
the skipper of the _Huskie Dog_, bound north, left news that she was
still at large to the south, and sang us a rousing song, which, he said,
had been made by young Dannie Crew of Ragged Harbour, and was then
vastly popular with the folk of the places below.
"Oh, _have_ you seed the skipper o' the schooner _Sink or Swim_?
We'll use a rope what's long an' strong, when we cotches him.
He've a case o' smallpox for'ard,
An' we'll hang un, by the Lord!
For he've traded every fishin' port from Conch t' Harbour Rim.
"T' save the folk that dreads it,
We'll hang the man that spreads it,
They's lakes o' fire in hell t' sail for such as Skipper Jim!"
My sister, sweet maid! being then in failing health and spirits, I
secretly took ship with the skipper of the _Bonnie Betsy Buttercup_,
bound south with the first load of that season: this that I might surely
fetch the doctor to my sister's help, who sorely needed cheer and
healing, lest she die like a thirsty flower, as my heart told me. And I
found the doctor busy with the plague at Bay Saint Billy, himself
quartered aboard the _Greased Lightning_, a fore-and-after which he had
chartered for the season: to whom I lied diligently and without shame
concerning my sister's condition, and with such happy effect that we put
to sea in the brewing of the great gale of that year, with our topsail
and tommy-dancer spread to a sousing breeze. But so evil a turn did the
weather take--so thick and wild--that we were thrice near driven on a
lee shore, and, in the end, were glad enough to take chance shelter
behind Saul's Island, which lies close to the mainland near the
Harbourless Shore. There we lay three days, with all anchors over the
side, waiting in comfortable security for the gale to blow out; and
'twas at dusk of the third day that we were hailed from the coast rocks
by that ill-starred young castaway of the name of Docks whose tale
precipitated the final catastrophe in the life of Jagger of Wayfarer's
Tickle.
* * * * *
He was only a lad, but, doubtless, rated a man; and he was now sadly
woebegone--starved, shivering, bruised by the rocks and breaking water
from which he had escaped. We got him into the cozy forecastle, clapped
him on the back, put him in dry duds; and, then, "Come, now, lads!"
cried Billy Lisson, the hearty skipper of the _Greased Lightning_,
"don't you go sayin' a word 'til I brew you a cup o' tea. On the
Harbourless Shore, says you? An' all hands lost? Don't you say a word.
Not one!"
The castaway turned a ghastly face towards the skipper. "No," he
whispered, in a gasp, "not one."
"Not you!" Skipper Billy rattled. "You keep mum. Don't you so much as
_mutter_ 'til I melts that iceberg in your belly."
"No, sir."
Perchance to forestall some perverse attempt at loquacity, Skipper Billy
lifted his voice in song--a large, rasping voice, little enough
acquainted with melody, but expressing the worst of the rage of those
days: being thus quite sufficient to the occasion.
"Oh, _have_ you seed the skipper o' the schooner _Sink or Swim_?
We'll use a rope what's long an' strong, when we cotches him.
He've a case o' smallpox for'ard,
An' we'll hang un, by the Lord!
For he've traded every fishin' port from Conch t' Harbour Rim.
"T' save the folk that dreads it,
We'll _hang_ the man that spreads it,
They's lakes o' fire in hell t' sail for such as Skipper Jim!"
"Skipper Billy, sir," said Docks, hoarsely, leaning into the light of
the forecastle lamp, "does you say _hang_? Was they goin' t' hang
Skipper Jim if they cotched him?"
"_Was_ we?" asked Skipper Billy. "By God," he roared, "we _is_!"
"My God!" Docks whispered, staring deep into the skipper's eyes, "they
was goin' t' hang the skipper!"
There was not so much as the drawing of a breath then to be heard in the
forecastle of the _Greased Lightning_. Only the wind, blowing in the
night--and the water lapping at the prow--broke the silence.
"Skipper Billy, sir," said Docks, his voice breaking to a whimper, "was
they goin' t' hang the crew? They wasn't, was they? Not goin' t' _hang_
un?"
"Skipper t' cook, lad," Skipper Billy answered, the words prompt and
sure. "Hang un by the neck 'til they was dead."
"My God!" Docks whined. "They was goin' t' hang the crew!"
"But we isn't cotched un yet."
"No," said the boy, vacantly. "Nor you never will."
The skipper hitched close to the table. "Lookee, lad," said he, leaning
over until his face was close to the face of Docks, "was _you_ ever
aboard the _Sink or Swim_?"
"Ay, sir," Docks replied, at last, brushing his hair from his brow. "I
was clerk aboard the _Sink or Swim_ two days ago."
For a time Skipper Billy quietly regarded the lad--the while scratching
his beard with a shaking hand.
"Clerk," Docks sighed, "two days ago."
"Oh, _was_ you?" the skipper asked. "Well, well!" His lower jaw
dropped. "An' would mind tellin' us," he continued, his voice now
touched with passion, "what's _come_ o' that damned craft?"
"She was lost on the Harbourless Shore, sir, with all hands--but me."
"Thank God for that!"
"Ay, thank God!"
Whereupon the doctor vaccinated Docks.
XXV
A CAPITAL CRIME
"You never set eyes on old Skipper Jim, did you, Skipper Billy?" Docks
began, later, that night. "No? Well, he was a wonderful hard man. They
says the devil was abroad the night of his bornin'; but I'm thinkin'
that Jagger o' Wayfarer's Tickle had more t' do with the life he lived
than ever the devil could manage. 'Twas Jagger that owned the _Sink or
Swim_; 'twas he that laid the courses--ay, that laid this last one, too.
Believe me, sir," now turning to Doctor Luke, who had uttered a sharp
exclamation, "for I _knowed_ Jagger, an' I _sailed_ along o' Skipper
Jim. 'Skipper Jim,' says I, when the trick we played was scurvy, 'this
here ain't right.' 'Right?' says he. 'Jagger's gone an' laid _that_ word
by an' forgot where he put it.' 'But you, Skipper Jim,' says I, '_you_;
what _you_ doin' this here for?' 'Well, Docks,' says he, 'Jagger,' says
he, 'says 'tis a clever thing t' do, an' I'm thinkin',' says he, 'that
Jagger's near right. Anyhow,' says he, 'Jagger's my owner.'"
Doctor Luke put his elbows on the forecastle table, his chin on his
hands--and thus gazed, immovable, at young Docks.
"Skipper Jim," the lad went on, "was a lank old man, with a beard that
used t' put me in mind of a dead shrub on a cliff. Old, an' tall, an'
skinny he was; an' the flesh of his face was sort o' wet an' whitish, as
if it had no feelin'. They wasn't a thing in the way o' wind or sea that
Skipper Jim was afeard of. I like a brave man so well as anybody does,
but I haven't no love for a fool; an' I've seed _him_ beat out o' safe
harbour, with all canvas set, when other schooners was reefed down an'
runnin' for shelter. Many a time I've took my trick at the wheel when
the most I hoped for was three minutes t' say my prayers.
"'Skipper, sir,' we used t' say, when 'twas lookin' black an' nasty t'
win'ard an' we was wantin' t' run for the handiest harbour, ''tis like
you'll be holdin' on for Rocky Cove. Sure, you've no call t' run for
harbour from _this here_ blow!'
"'Stand by that mainsheet there!' he'd yell. 'Let her off out o' the
wind. We'll be makin' for Harbour Round for shelter. Holdin' on, did you
say? My dear man, they's a whirlwind brewin'!'
"But if 'twas blowin' hard--a nor'east snorter, with the gale raisin' a
wind-lop on the swell, an' the night comin' down--if 'twas blowin'
barb'rous hard, sometimes we'd get scared.
"'Skipper,' we couldn't help sayin', ''tis time t' get out o' this. Leave
us run for shelter, man, for our lives!'
"'Steady, there, at the wheel!' he'd sing out. 'Keep her on her course.
'Tis no more than a clever sailin' breeze.'
"Believe _me_, sir," Docks sighed, "they wasn't a port Skipper Jim
wouldn't make, whatever the weather, if he could trade a dress or a
Bible or a what-not for a quintal o' fish. 'Docks,' says he, 'Jagger,'
says he, 'wants fish, an' _I_ got t' get un.' So it wasn't pleasant
sailin' along o' him in the fall o' the year, when the wind was all in
the nor'east, an' the shore was a lee shore every night o' the week. No,
sir! 'twasn't pleasant sailin' along o' Skipper Jim in the _Sink or
Swim_. On no account, 'twasn't pleasant! Believe _me_, sir, when I lets
my heart feel again the fears o' last fall, I haven't no love left for
Jim. No, sir! doin' what he done this summer, I haven't no love left for
Jim.
"'It's fish me an' Jagger wants, b'y,' says he t' me, 'an' they's no
one'll keep un from us.'
"'Dear man!' says I, pointin' t' the scales, 'haven't you got no
conscience?'
"'Conscience!' says he. 'What's that? Sure,' says he, 'Jagger never
_heared_ that word!'
"Well, sir, as you knows, there's been a wonderful cotch o' fish on the
Labrador side o' the Straits this summer. An' when Skipper Jim hears a
Frenchman has brought the smallpox t' Poor Luck Harbour, we was tradin'
the French shore o' Newfoundland. Then he up an' cusses the smallpox,
an' says he'll make a v'y'ge of it, no matter what. I'm thinkin' 'twas
all the fault o' the cook, the skipper bein' the contrary man he was;
for the cook he says he've signed t' cook the grub, an' he'll cook 'til
he drops in his tracks, but he _haven't_ signed t' take the smallpox,
an' he'll be jiggered for a squid afore he'll sail t' the Labrador.
'Smallpox!' says the skipper. 'Who says 'tis the smallpox? Me an' Jagger
says 'tis the chicken-pox.' So the cook--the skipper havin' the eyes he
had--says he'll sail t' the Labrador all right, but he'll see himself
hanged for a mutineer afore he'll enter Poor Luck Harbour. 'Poor Luck
Harbour, is it?' says the skipper. 'An' is that where they've
the--the--smallpox?' says he. 'We'll lay a course for Poor Luck Harbour
the morrow. I'll prove 'tis the chicken-pox or eat the man that has it.'
So the cook--the skipper havin' the eyes he had--says _he_ ain't afraid
o' no smallpox, but he knows what'll come of it if the crew gets
ashore.
"'Ho, ho! cook,' says the skipper. '_You'll_ go ashore along o' _me_, me
boy.'
"The next day we laid a course for Poor Luck Harbour, with a fair wind;
an' we dropped anchor in the cove that night. In the mornin', sure
enough, the skipper took the cook an' the first hand ashore t' show un a
man with the chicken-pox; but I was kep' aboard takin' in fish, for such
was the evil name the place had along o' the smallpox that we was the
only trader in the harbour, an' had all the fish we could handle.
"'Skipper,' says I, when they come aboard, '_is_ it the smallpox?'
"'Docks, b'y,' says he, lookin' me square in the eye, 'you never yet
heard me take back my words. I _said_ I'd eat the man that had it. But I
tells you what, b'y, I ain't hankerin' after a bite o' what I seed!'
"'We'll be liftin' anchor an' gettin' t' sea, then,' says I; for it made
me shiver t' hear the skipper talk that way.
"'Docks, b'y,' says he, 'we'll be liftin' anchor when we gets all the
fish they is. Jagger,' says he, 'wants fish, an' I'm the boy t' get un.
When the last one's weighed an' stowed, we'll lift anchor an' out; but
not afore.'
"We was three days out from Poor Luck Harbour, tradin' Kiddle Tickle,
when Tommy Mib, the first hand, took a suddent chill. 'Tommy, b'y,' says
the cook, 'you cotched cold stowin' the jib in the squall day afore
yesterday. I'll be givin' _you_ a dose o' pain-killer an' pepper.' So
the cook give Tommy a wonderful dose o' pain-killer an' pepper an' put
un t' bed. But 'twas not long afore Tommy had a pain in the back an' a
burnin' headache. 'Tommy, b'y,' says the cook, 'you'll be gettin' the
inflammation, I'm thinkin'. I'll have t' put a plaster o' mustard an'
red pepper on _your_ chest.' So the cook put a wonderful large plaster
o' mustard an' red pepper on poor Tommy's chest, an' told un t' lie
quiet. Then Tommy got wonderful sick--believe _me_, sir, wonderful sick!
An' the cook could do no more, good cook though he was.
"'Tommy,' says he, 'you got something I don't know nothin' about.'
"'Twas about that time that we up with the anchor an' run t' Hollow
Cove, where we heard they was a grand cotch o' fish, all dry an' waitin'
for the first trader t' pick it up. They'd the smallpox there, sir,
accordin' t' rumour; but we wasn't afeard o' cotchin' it--thinkin' we'd
not cotched it at Poor Luck Harbour--an' sailed right in t' do the
tradin'. We had the last quintal aboard at noon o' the next day; an' we
shook out the canvas an' laid a course t' the nor'ard, with a fair,
light wind. We was well out from shore when the skipper an' me went down
t' the forecastle t' have a cup o' tea with the cook; an' we was hard at
it when Tommy Mib hung his head out of his bunk.
"'Skipper,' says he, in a sick sort o' whisper, 'I'm took.'
"'What's took you?' says the skipper.
"'Skipper,' says he, 'I--I'm--took.'
"'What's took you, you fool?' says the skipper.
"Poor Tommy fell back in his bunk. 'Skipper,' he whines, 'I've cotched
it!'
"''Tis the smallpox, sir,' says I. 'I seed the spots.'
"'No such nonsense!' says the skipper. ''Tis the measles. That's what
_he've_ got. Jagger an' me says so.'
"'But Jagger ain't here,' says I.
"'Never you mind about that,' says he. 'I knows what Jagger thinks.'
"When we put into Harbour Grand we knowed it wasn't no measles. When we
dropped anchor there, sir, _we knowed what 'twas_. Believe _me_, sir, we
_knowed_ what 'twas. The cook he up an' says he ain't afraid o' no
smallpox, but he'll be sunk for a coward afore he'll go down the
forecastle ladder agin. An' the second hand he says he likes a bunk in
the forecastle when he can have one comfortable, but he've no objection
t' the hold _at times_. 'Then, lads,' says the skipper, 'you'll not be
meanin' t' look that way agin,' says he, with a snaky little glitter in
his eye. 'An' if you do, you'll find a fist about the heft o' _that_,'
says he, shakin' his hand, 't' kiss you at the foot o' the ladder.'
After that the cook an' the second hand slep' in the hold, an' them an'
me had a snack o' grub at odd times in the cabin, where I had a hammock
slung, though the place was wonderful crowded with goods. 'Twas the
skipper that looked after Tommy Mib. 'Twas the skipper that sailed the
ship, too,--drove her like he'd always done: all the time eatin' an'
sleepin' in the forecastle, where poor Tommy Mib lay sick o' the
smallpox. But we o' the crew kep' our distance when the ol' man was on
deck; an' they was no rush for'ard t' tend the jib an' stays'l when it
was 'Hard a-lee!' in a beat t' win'ard--no rush at all. Believe _me_,
sir, they was no rush for'ard--with Tommy Mib below.
"'Skipper Jim,' says I, one day, 'what _is_ you goin' t' do?'
"'Well, Docks,' says he, 'I'm thinkin' I'll go see Jagger.'
"So we beat up t' Wayfarer's Tickle--makin' port in the dusk. Skipper
Jim went ashore, but took nar a one of us with un. He was there a
wonderful long time; an' when he come aboard, he orders the anchor up
an' all sail made.
"'Where you goin'?' says I.
"'Tradin',' says he.
"'Is you?' says I.
"'Ay,' says he. 'Jagger says 'tis a wonderful season for fish.'"
Docks paused. "Skipper Billy," he said, breaking off the narrative and
fixing the impassive skipper of the _Greased Lightning_ with an anxious
eye, "did they have the smallpox at Tops'l Cove? Come now; did they?"
"Ay, sir," Skipper Billy replied; "they had the smallpox at Tops'l
Cove."
"Dear man!" Docks repeated, "they had the smallpox at Tops'l Cove! We
was three days at Tops'l Cove, with folk aboard every day, tradin' fish.
An' Tommy Mib below! We touched Smith's Arm next, sir. Come now, speak
fair; did they have it there?"
"They're not rid of it yet," said Doctor Luke.
"Smith's Arm too!" Docks groaned.
"An' Harbour Rim," the skipper added.
"Noon t' noon at Harbour Rim," said Docks.
"And Highwater Cove," the doctor put in.
"Twenty quintal come aboard at Highwater Cove. I mind it well."
"They been dyin' like flies at Seldom Cove."
"Like flies?" Docks repeated, in a hoarse whisper. "Skipper Billy, sir,
who--who died--like that?"
Skipper Billy drew his hand over his mouth. "One was a kid," he said,
tugging at his moustache.
"My God!" Docks muttered. "One was a kid!"
In the pause--in the silence into which the far-off, wailing chorus of
wind and sea crept unnoticed--Skipper Billy and Docks stared into each
other's eyes.
"An' a kid died, too," said the skipper.
Again the low, wailing chorus of wind and sea, creeping into the
silence. I saw the light in Skipper Billy's eyes sink from a flare to a
glow; and I was glad of that.
"'Twas a cold, wet day, with the wind blowin' in from the sea, when we
dropped anchor at Little Harbour Deep," Docks continued. "We always kep'
the forecastle closed tight an' set a watch when we was in port; an' the
forecastle was tight enough that day, but the second hand, whose watch
it was, had t' help with the fish, for 'tis a poor harbour there, an' we
was in haste t' get out. The folk was loafin' about the deck, fore an'
aft, waitin' turns t' weigh fish or be served in the cabin. An' does you
know what happened?" Docks asked, tensely. "Can't you see how 'twas?
Believe _me_, sir, 'twas a cold, wet day, a bitter day; an' 'tis no
wonder that one o' they folk went below t' warm hisself at the
forecastle stove--went below, where poor Tommy Mib was lyin' sick.
Skipper, sir," said Docks, with wide eyes, leaning over the table and
letting his voice drop, "I seed that man come up--come tumblin' up like
mad, sir, his face so white as paint. He'd seed Tommy Mib! An' he
yelled, sir; an' Skipper Jim whirled about when he heard that word, an'
I seed his lips draw away from his teeth.
"'Over the side, every man o' you!' sings he.
"But 'twas not the skipper's order--'twas that man's horrid cry that
sent un over the side. They tumbled into the punts and pushed off. It
made me shiver, sir, t' see the fright they was in.
"'Stand by t' get out o' this!' says the skipper.
"'Twas haul on this an' haul on that, an' 'twas heave away with the
anchor, 'til we was well under weigh with all canvas spread. We beat
out, takin' wonderful chances in the tickle, an' stood off t' the
sou'east. That night, when we was well off, the cook says t' me that he
_thinks_ he've nerve enough t' be boiled in his own pot in a good cause,
but he've no mind t' make a Fox's martyr of hisself for the likes o'
Skipper Jim.
"'Cook,' says I, 'we'll leave this here ship at the next port.'
"'Docks,' says he, ''tis a clever thought.'
"'Twas Skipper Jim's trick at the wheel, an' I loafed aft t' have a word
with un--keepin' well t' win'ward all the time; for he'd just come up
from the forecastle.
"'Skipper Jim,' says I, 'we're found out.'
"'What's found out?' says he.
"'The case o' smallpox for'ard,' says I. 'What you goin' t' do about
it?'
"'Do!' says he. 'What'll I do? Is it you, Docks, that's askin' me that?
Well,' says he, 'Jagger an' me fixed _that_ all up when I seed him there
t' Wayfarer's Tickle. They's three ports above Harbour Deep, an' I'm
goin' t' trade un all. 'Twill be a v'y'ge by that time. Then I'm goin'
t' run the _Sink or Swim_ back o' the islands in Seal Run. Which done,
I'll wait for Tommy Mib t' make up his mind, one way or t' other. If he
casts loose, I'll wait, decent as you like, 'til he's well under weigh,
when I'll ballast un well an' heave un over. If he's goin' t' bide a
spell longer in this world, I'll wait 'til he's steady on his pins. But,
whatever, go or stay, I'll fit the schooner with a foretopmast, bark her
canvas, paint her black, call her the _Prodigal Son_, an' lay a course
for St. Johns. They's not a man on the docks will take the _Prodigal
Son_, black hull, with topmast fore an' aft an' barked sails, inbound
from the West Coast with a cargo o' fish--not a man, sir, will take the
_Prodigal Son_ for the white, single-topmast schooner _Sink or Swim_, up
from the Labrador, reported with a case o' smallpox for'ard. For, look
you, b'y,' says he, 'nobody knows _me_ t' St. Johns.'
"'Skipper Jim,' says I, 'sure you isn't goin' t' put this fish on the
market!'
"'Hut!' says he. 'Jagger an' me is worryin' about the price o' fish
already.'
"We beat about offshore for three days, with the skipper laid up in the
forecastle. Now what do you make o' that? The skipper laid up in the
forecastle along o' Tommy Mib--an' Tommy took the way he was! Come, now,
what do you make o' that?" We shook our heads, one and all; it was plain
that the skipper, too, had been stricken. "Well, sir," Docks went on,
"when Skipper Jim come up t' give the word for Rocky Harbour, he looked
like a man risin' from the dead. 'Take her there,' says he, 'an' sing
out t' me when you're runnin' in.' Then down he went agin; but,
whatever, me an' the cook an' the second hand was willin' enough t' sail
her t' Rocky Harbour without un, for 'twas in our minds t' cut an' run
in the punt when the anchor was down. 'A scurvy trick,' says you, 't'
leave old Skipper Jim an' Tommy Mib in the forecastle, all alone--an'
Tommy took that way?' A scurvy trick!" cried Docks, his voice aquiver.
"Ay, maybe! But you ain't been aboard no smallpox-ship. You ain't never
knowed what 'tis t' lie in your bunk in the dark o' long nights
shiverin' for fear you'll be took afore mornin'. An' maybe you hasn't
seed a man took the way Tommy Mib was took--not took _quite_ that way."
"Yes, I has, b'y," said Skipper Billy, quietly. "'Twas a kid that I
seed."
"Was it, now?" Docks whispered, vacantly.
"A kid o' ten years," Skipper Billy replied.
"Ah, well," said Docks, "kids dies young. Whatever," he went on,
hurriedly, "the old man come on deck when he was slippin' up the narrows
t' the basin at Rocky Harbour.
"''Tis the last port I'll trade,' says he, 'for I'm sick, an' wantin' t'
get home.'
"We was well up, with the canvas half off her, sailin' easy, on the
lookout for a berth, when a punt put out from a stage up alongshore, an'
come down with the water curlin' from her bows.
"'What's the meanin' o' that, Docks?' sings the skipper, pointin' t' the
punt. 'They're goin' out o' the course t' keep t' win'ard.'
"'Skipper Jim,' says I, 'they knows us.'
"'Sink us,' says he, 'they does! They knows what we is an' what we got
for'ard. Bring her to!' he sings out t' the man at the wheel.
"When we had the schooner up in the wind, the punt was bobbin' in the
lop off the quarter.
"'What ship's that?' says the man in the bow.
"'_Sink or Swim_,' says the skipper.
"'You get out o' here, curse you!' says the man. 'We don't want you
here. They's news o' you in every port o' the coast.'
"'I'll bide here 'til I'm ready t' go, sink you!' says the skipper.
"'Oh, no, you won't!' says the man. 'I've a gun or two that says you'll
be t' sea agin in half an hour if the wind holds.'
"So when we was well out t' sea agin, the cook he says t' me that he've
a wonderful fondness for a run ashore in a friendly port, but he've no
mind t' be shot for a mad dog. 'An' we better bide aboard,' says the
second hand; 'for 'tis like we'll be took for mad dogs wherever we tries
t' land.' Down went the skipper, staggerin' sick; an' they wasn't a man
among us would put a head in the forecastle t' ask for orders. So we
beat about for a day or two in a foolish way; for, look you! havin' in
mind them Rocky Harbour rifles, we didn't well know what t' do. Three
days ago it blew up black an' frothy--a nor'east switcher, with a
rippin' wind an' a sea o' mountains. 'Twas no place for a short-handed
schooner. Believe _me_, sir, 'twas no place at all! 'Twas time t' run
for harbour, come what might; so we asked the cook t' take charge. The
cook says t' me that he'd rather be a cook than a skipper, an' a skipper
than a ship's undertaker, but he've no objection t' turn his hand t'
anything t' 'blige a party o' friends: which he'll do, says he, by
takin' the schooner t' Broad Cove o' the Harbourless Shore, which is a
bad shelter in a nor'east gale, says he, but the best he can manage.
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