it hadn't been shore," said the trader, "I wouldn't be here."
CHAPTER VIII
In the Offshore Gale: In Which Billy Topsail Goes Seal Hunting and is Swept to Sea With the Floe
WHAT befell old Tom Topsail and his crew came in the course of the day's work. Fishermen and seal-hunters, such as the folk of Ruddy Cove, may not wait for favourable weather; when the fish are running, they must fish; when the seals are on the drift-ice offshore in the spring, they must hunt.
So on that lowering day, when the seals were sighted by the watch on Lookout Head, it was a mere matter of course that the men of the place should set out to the hunt.
"I s'pose," Tom Topsail drawled, "that we'd best get under way."
Bill Watt, his mate, scanned the sky in the northeast. It was heavy, cold and leaden; fluffy gray towards the zenith, and black where the clouds met the barren hills.
"I s'pose," said he, catching Topsail's drawl, "that 'twill snow afore long."
"Oh, aye," was the slow reply, "I s'pose 'twill."
Again Bill Watt faced the sullen sky. He felt that the supreme danger threatened – snow with wind.
"I s'pose," he said, "that 'twill blow, too."
"Oh, aye," Topsail replied, indifferently, "snow 'n' blow. We'll know what 'twill do when it begins," he added. "Billy, b'y!" he shouted.
In response Billy Topsail came bounding down the rocky path from the cottage. He was stout for his age, with broad shoulders, long thick arms and large hands. There was a boy's flush of expectation on his face, and the flash of a boy's delight in his eyes. He was willing for adventure.
"Bill an' me'll take the rodney," Topsail drawled. "I s'pose you might's well fetch the punt, an' we'll send you back with the first haul."
"Hooray!" cried Billy; and with that he waved his cap and sped back up the hill.
"Fetch your gaff, lad!" Topsail called after him. "Make haste! There's Joshua Rideout with his sail up. 'Tis time we was off."
"Looks more'n ever like snow," Bill Watt observed, while they waited. "I'm thinkin' 'twill snow."
"Oh, maybe 'twon't," said Topsail, optimistic in a lazy way.
The ice-floe was two miles or more off the coast; thence it stretched to the horizon – a vast, rough, blinding white field, formed of detached fragments. Some of the "pans" were acres in size; others were not big enough to bear the weight of a man; all were floating free, rising and falling with the ground swell.
The wind was light, the sea quiet, the sky thinly overcast. Had it not been for the threat of heavy weather in the northeast, it would have been an ideal day for the hunt. The punt and the rodney, the latter far in the lead, ran quietly out from the harbour, with their little sails all spread. From the punt Billy Topsail could soon see the small, scattered pack of seals – black dots against the white of the ice.
When the rodney made the field, the punts of the harbour fleet had disappeared in the winding lanes of open water that led through the floe. Tom Topsail was late. The nearer seals were all marked by the hunters who had already landed. The rodney would have to be taken farther in than the most venturesome hunter had yet dared to go – perilously far into the midst of the shifting pans.
The risk of sudden wind – the risk that the heavy fragments would "pack" and "nip" the boat – had to be taken if seals were to be killed.
"We got to go right in, Bill," said Topsail, as he furled the rodney's sails.
"I s'pose," was Watt's reply, with a backward glance to the northeast. "An' Billy?"
"'Tis not wise to take un in," Topsail answered, hastily. "We'll have un bide here."
Billy was hailed, and, to his great disappointment, warned to keep beyond the edge of the floe. Then the rodney shot into the lane, with Topsail and Bill Watt rowing like mad. She was soon lost to sight. Billy shipped his sail and paddled to the edge of the ice, to wait, as patiently as might be, for the reappearance of the rodney.
Patience soon gave way to impatience, impatience to anxiety, anxiety to great fear for the lives of his father and the mate, for the offshore gale was driving up; the blue-black clouds were already high and rising swiftly.
At last there came an ominous puff of wind. It swept over the sea from the coast, whipping up little waves in its course – frothy little waves, that hissed. Heavy flakes of snow began to fall. As the wind rose they fell faster, and came driving, swirling with it.
With the fall of the first flakes the harbour fleet came pell-mell from the floe. Not a man among them but wished himself in a sheltered place. Sails were raised in haste, warnings were shouted; then off went the boats, beating up to harbour with all sail set.
"Make sail, lad!" old Elisha Bull shouted to Billy, as his punt swung past.
Billy shook his head. "I'll beat back with father!" he cried.
"You'll lose yourself!" Elisha screamed, as a last warning, before his punt carried him out of hail.
But Billy still hung at the edge of the ice. His father had said, "Bide here till we come out," and "bide" there he would.
He kept watch for the rodney, but no rodney came. Minute after minute flew by. He hesitated. Was it not his duty to beat home? There was still the fair chance that he might be able to make the harbour. Did he not owe a duty to his mother – to himself?
But a crashing noise from the floe brought him instantly to a decision. He knew what that noise meant. The ice was feeling the force of the wind. It would pack and move out to sea. The lane by which the rodney had entered then slowly closed.
In horror Billy watched the great pans swing together. There was now no escape for the boat. The strong probability was that she would be crushed to splinters by the crowding of the ice; that indeed she had already been crushed; that the men were either drowned or cast away on the floe.
At once the lad's duty was plain to him. He must stay where he was. If his father and Bill Watt managed to get to the edge of the ice afoot, who else was to take them off?
The ice was moving out to sea, Billy knew. The pans were crunching, grinding, ever more noisily. But he let the punt drift as near as he dared, and so followed the pack towards the open, keeping watch, ever more hopelessly, for the black forms of the two men.
Soon, so fast did the sea rise, so wild was the wind, his own danger was very great. The ice was like a rocky shore to leeward. He began to fear that he would be wrecked.
Time and again the punt was nearly swamped, but Billy dared not drop the oars to bail. There was something more. His arms, stout and seasoned though they were, were giving out. It would not long be possible to keep the boat off the ice. He determined to land on the floe.
But the sea was breaking on the ice dead to leeward. It was impossible to make a landing there, so with great caution he paddled to the right, seeking a projecting point, behind which he might find shelter. At last he came to a cove. It narrowed to a long, winding arm, which apparently extended some distance into the floe.
There he found quiet water. He landed without difficulty at a point where the arm was no more than a few yards wide.
