CHAPTER XXXVIII
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
It is 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 the Rough and Tumble until 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 fend any 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.
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, 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.
"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 leg loose – 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.
CHAPTER XLI
In Which a Dead Man is Made to Order for Little Toby Farr
"Couldn't you 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 grandfather then. 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.