The Black Joke (14 page)

The last man up the ladder saw that flame and as he crawled out into the pandemonium of cursing and coughing men he raised a fear-filled voice in the most dreaded cry that can be heard at sea.

“She's afire below! She's goin' t' go! For God's sake, get the boat over….
She's goin' to go!
”

Black Joke
's crew were demoralized anyway–being blown out of one's bed in the small hours of the morning is enough to shake the courage of any man–but the cry of fire put the cap on it. Every man aboard knew what would happen if the cargo burned. Twelve thousand exploding bottles of overproof spirits would turn the ship into a flaming torch within a matter of
minutes. Brute panic overwhelmed the crew at this prospect, and they stampeded aft.

The blast had not only forced the powder smoke into the chain locker, but into the main hold abaft the forepeak as well. It was now seeping out through the badly secured main hatch. The mate, who was the only relatively rational man of the lot–and the only one with enough presence of mind to grab a flashlight before crawling on deck–might even then have managed to regain some control of the crew, but as the men began to run past him he swung the beam of his flashlight and caught a glimpse of the wisps of smoke curling up from the edge of the cargo hatch. At the same moment he became aware that the engine had stopped.

Panic is infectious. Instead of trying to stem the rush to reach the boat, Jake joined it. There was no time or inclination to reason things out. For all he knew the entire ship below decks, including the engine room, was probably afire. He had no intention of remaining aboard to find out, or of trying to stem the fire single-handedly. As for Smith, his Captain–well, Smith could look out for himself if he hadn't already done so.

Panic was now unrestrained, and the belief that the ship might soon blow up crowded out every other thought save the terrible need to get as far away from
Black Joke
as possible in the shortest conceivable time.

The crew did not launch the boat, which was slung on davits in the stern; they simply threw it overboard and jumped after it. As they heaved themselves out of the water and into the boat, they were so completely de
moralized that they half-swamped it and lost several of the oars. Screaming and cursing at each other, they tried frantically to get the boat under way.

 

Meantime, Smith had regained his feet and was staggering aft. He was dazed, and suffering considerable pain. Blood was running freely down the side of his face. He had not yet been able to form any clear idea of what had happened, or was happening to the vessel. But one thing he understood–his crew was abandoning ship without his order.

Despite his moral lapses Smith
was
a good seaman, a master mariner, and no coward. Neither explosion nor fire could drive him to abandon his vessel while a chance of saving her remained. He intended to fight for
Black Joke
, but in order to do so he needed the assistance of his crew.

Black Joke
still had some way on her and was slowly pulling away from the lifeboat, which was now almost lost to sight in the darkness. Smith knew there was no point in simply ordering the men back or even in trying to persuade them to return. He had seen enough of panic in his day not to underestimate its power. There was only one thing he could try and he did not hesitate. Pulling out his automatic, he fired two shots close over the heads of the seething mob in the boat.

“Back to the ship,” he bellowed, “or I'll drill the rotten lot of you!”

It was a desperate threat. The boat was barely visible and almost out of pistol range. Someone had got a
pair of oars between the tholepins and was already rowing hard. Yet the threat might just possibly have worked if a tongue of flame had not chosen that moment to come licking up out of the forepeak companionway, momentarily illuminating most of the forward part of the ship and clearly revealing the curling plumes of powder smoke still rising from the chain locker and the main hatch.

It also illuminated, briefly, the strained faces of the men in the boat. Then it died down, and there was a demented babble of cries as more oars struck the water and the men pulled with frantic desperation away from the apparently doomed ship.

Smith wasted no more time upon his crew, for they
were gone. Cursing fluently, he staggered to the engine room companion, flung wide the door, and started down the stairs to get the big foam extinguisher which hung beside the engine.

 

The whole course of events since the explosion had occupied only four or five minutes, but to Peter, crouching beside the silent diesel, it had seemed like many hours. Having done what he had set out to do, he now had no idea what to do next. He could not think, but could only listen appalled to the pandemonium on deck, to the shrieks and yells, and finally to the pistol shots and the great bellow from Captain Smith. Realization that the ship actually was afire penetrated into his frightened mind only very slowly, but at the moment when Smith flung back the companion doors and started down the ladder, Peter had begun to understand the danger. The lifeboat was gone, the ship was on fire; he
had
to get on deck. He ran straight into Smith's arms.

Smith must have been immensely surprised, but he had no time to indulge it.

“You! Whoever you are!” he said fiercely. “Get forward. There's fire buckets abaft the foremast. Start heavin' water down the forepeak as if your life was on it.
GIT
!” He half-flung Peter up the stairs, and the boy was already running by the time he reached the deck. There was light to see by now, a flickering red glow from the forepeak companion. So much had happened to Peter by this time that he was almost numb.
One thought remained in his head…fire buckets abaft the foremast.

He reached the buckets, and out of the darkness forward two figures rose up as one and ran to meet him. In the glow of the fire he could see two terrified sets of eyes gleaming at him.

“Buckets!” he yelled, and grabbing one himself he caught the lanyard in one hand and heaved the red pail overboard. Jacques and Kye needed no second telling. Within seconds they too were throwing buckets overboard, hauling them up full, and dashing the contents down the open companionway.

The sharp crackle and the glare of flame told them that the fire was well into the woodwork. Coiling clouds of smoke mingling with gusts of scorching air were now billowing freely out of the companionway so that they had to heave the water into it from a distance of several feet. Seen by the reflected glow of the flames, they seemed like three maniac dwarfs as they scuttled back and forth between the rail and the companionway.

What Captain Smith must have thought, as he lumbered onto the scene with a big foam extinguisher under his arm, remained unexpressed. He had no time to consider how one unexplained boy hiding in the engine room had suddenly become three.

“I'm goin' down,” he bawled at them. “Keep them buckets comin' and heave 'em over me. Wet me down good and keep doin' it or we'll all of us finish up with the devil tonight!”

Unslinging the extinguisher he grasped the nozzle
and turned toward the companionway. A full pail of water flung by Kye caught him on the head and ran down his neck. A second pailful drenched his shoulders. He waited until three more pailfuls had been flung over him and then, hauling the top of his turtle-necked jersey up over his face and pulling his peaked cap down over his eyes, he hunched his shoulders and stepped deliberately into the smoke-filled opening.

“He'll burn to death!” Kye screamed.

“The water! Keep it comin'!” Peter yelled hysterically. “Keep him wet down!”

Now the three boys moved with the fury of madmen. Pail after pail of salt water whooshed through the opening. They moved in so close to the companionway that the smoke half-blinded them while the heat seared their faces. Panting and sweating like exhausted dogs, they were only half aware of what they were doing now. They hardly noticed the subdued hissing sound of the extinguisher which was beginning to be heard over the failing crackle of the fire; and they were only vaguely aware that it was getting darker–that the red glare was dying down. Smoke billowed much more thickly from the opening, but now it was only smoke, and no more flame.

They continued heaving water like mindless robots. Rushing back from the rail, Peter was about to swing his bucket toward the companionway when he realized that there was something moving in the opening. It looked like an arm waving slowly and then falling, to lie limply on the deck. There was almost no light now, and
he was not quite sure what he had seen, but he dropped the bucket, reached forward groping, touched a hand, and yelled. “He's tryin' to git out! Help me, b'ys!”

Jacques was by his side in an instant. Together they began hauling at the limp arm. Kye joined them and the three boys strained at the inert bulk of the man and slowly dragged him up, over the sill, and out into the open.

Smith's cap was gone and his hair was singed down to his scalp, but he had not suffered serious burns, except to his hands. The steady flow of water from above had saved him from the heat, but the combination of smoke and carbon dioxide from the extinguisher had been too much for even his massive strength. Beginning to pass out, he had just been able to climb the ladder to the companion entrance before he became unconscious.

Jacques bent over him and listened to the ragged, heavy breathing.

“I think he is all right. But the fire maybe is not yet out! We must keep on!”

Though almost totally exhausted, the boys returned automatically to their task. They had lost all track of time. Mechanically they staggered to the rail, dipped their buckets, and staggered back. They had no breath to spare for even a single word to one another. Had they paused and looked, they would have seen that the fire was out, for the carbon dioxide had smothered the flames effectively and the steady flood of water had
killed the last glowing embers. But they did not stop until Peter, with a groan, slipped down in a dead faint.

The clatter of his bucket rolling across the deck was like a signal freeing Jacques and Kye from a nightmare. They too dropped their buckets and sank to the deck in a state of near collapse.

 

14

The Long Voyage Ends

I
T WAS
past three o'clock in the morning before Pierre Roulett breasted the last rise and began making his way painfully down the mountain slopes toward the village. He was very tired but the sight of a number of lights moving through the village streets made him hurry his pace.

“Hello!” he cried as he approached a man carrying a storm lantern. “What you looking for at this time of night, eh?”

“Is that you, Pierre?
Bon!
There is much trouble. Jacques and the boys of
Terre Neuve
have disappeared. The whole of Miquelon is out looking for them. Pascal waits at your house. He will tell you what has happened.”

Pascal was standing just inside the kitchen door when Pierre burst in. The young man was trying to defend himself from a verbal assault by Mrs. Roulett, who seemed almost on the point of going for him with her bare hands.

“Stop that screeching!” Pierre bellowed in a voice that brooked no opposition. “What has happened here, Pascal?”

Much relieved by Pierre's arrival, but still eying the infuriated Mrs. Roulett apprehensively, Pascal broke into a rapid explanation of all that had occurred up to the moment when
Black Joke
had been cut loose from the dock and had vanished into darkness. At this point he was interrupted by Marie, who could no longer contain herself.

“I warned they lads not to go nigh the wharf whilst the schooner was layin' there,” she cried in English. “But that fool, Pascal, he let 'em go. If they've come to any hurt, I'll reach his scalp right off his head!”

“Be quiet, woman!” Pierre shouted. “What do you
think
has happened to them, Pascal?”

“They are not in the village, or near it, Pierre. It seems impossible, but the only place they
can
be is aboard the ship.”

“When did she sail?” Pierre snapped.

“An hour and a half ago, but without a pilot. We told Gabby Morazi the plan was off when you did not appear, and so he decided to stay ashore. The schooner must be steaming dead slow, feeling her way with the leadline through the shoals. Already we have been thinking of going after her….”

“
Thinking!
” Pierre interrupted harshly. “Why did you not
act?
Find me twelve men and the three fastest dories on the beach. And whatever guns you can grab quick. I give you five minutes only.
Go!
”

Pierre himself remained behind only long enough to snatch up his shotgun and a handful of shells, then he was off for the beach. He had already winched his own dory into the water before the other men appeared.

“Make the course toward Miquelon Head,” he ordered curtly. “Smith will steer that way for sure. Pascal, you try and keep a quarter-mile to port of me. Uncle Paul, you keep a quarter-mile to starboard.”

Moments later the dories were under way. At the helm of his own boat Pierre sat tense and grim. He knew the odds were heavily against catching up with the schooner, unless by some freak she happened to put herself on a shoal. He also knew, having heard about the row at the wharf, that Smith would be wary about letting any dory come close to him.

The boats drove noisily through the darkness, and every eye was strained for some indication that would lead the pursuit toward the fleeing schooner. Yet the men were totally unprepared when, with fearful abruptness, a flare of white light burst up from the surface of the sea far ahead of them and hung flickering for an instant like a flash of summer lightning.

Pierre was the first to realize what it was they had seen. “
Sacré bleu!
” he cried in anguish, “It is the ship! She has blown up!”

As if by a common impulse, the three dories drew in upon each other until they were running almost gunwale to gunwale toward the site of the distant flash where now a flickering red glow had come into being.

“Pray God they can get off in time!” One of the men
aboard Pierre's dory yelled above the sound of the laboring engine. “She will be a torch in a few minutes…. Pray God…!”

There was nothing else to do but pray. In each dory, men crouched down, leaning forward as if they could will the boats to a faster speed. Pierre's hand on the tiller was clenched so tightly that some of his fingernails broke off, but he did not even notice….

 

Aboard the schooner Kye painfully opened his eyes and sat up. It seemed to him that he had been asleep for hours, dreaming wildly of an explosion and leaping flames, though in reality he had slept only a few minutes. The sound of heavy groans had wakened him, and now he saw that Smith was sitting near, holding both burned hands in front of him so that they bore a ghastly resemblance to two freshly boiled lobsters. The sight of those hands brought Kye fully to his senses. His fear and hatred of Smith were submerged in a wave of horrified pity.

“Hang on, sorr,” he cried. “I'll run aft and git some grease out of the engine room. It'll maybe help some to ease the pain.”

Smith looked over at the boy and, despite his agony, he grinned.

“Grease is it, you young scut? More likely you'll stick a knife in me ribs and finish me off. When it comes to fightin' a bunch of young devils what don't even mind blowin' themselves to glory to hijack a ship, I quit! This
boat's all yours, sonny…. Only lay off the dynamite, will you?”

Despite himself, Kye could not help returning the grin, though a bit shamefacedly.

“I guess we're sorry,” he said slowly. “We never meant to hurt nobody. It was just that we
had
to stop ye gittin' clear.”

“Okay,” Smith replied. “You stopped me. Now fetch that grease. Then you better wake up your pals there, and take charge of this hulk before she ends up on the rocks and drowns us all. There's nothin' I can do to help nor hinder you.”

But Smith
was
able to help. After Kye had smothered his burns in grease and had then shaken the other two boys awake, it was Smith who gave the orders.

“Cut loose that starboard anchor,” he told them, “and let run about fifteen fathoms of chain. Then one of you light the gas lantern that's in the wheelhouse. Hang it in the rigging as high as you can climb. There's flares too. Fire one of 'em every ten minutes. The Frogs ashore will see 'em and come out for loot, if nothing else.”

Groggily, and still half-stupefied with exhaustion, the boys did as Smith directed. Jacques had just fired the third flare when the distant mutter of dory engines made itself heard. The boys shouted hopefully into the darkness and fired the remaining flares with the abandon of a fireworks display.

Fifteen minutes later the dories loomed alongside. Seconds afterwards Pierre leapt aboard, shotgun in his
hand and his big electric torch sweeping the decks which were already growing dimly visible in the pre-dawn light.

The boys clustered around him, almost hysterical with relief. But Pierre only lingered with them long enough to assure himself they were all right before striding over to the main hatch where Smith was sitting. Pierre lifted the shotgun and swung it until the muzzle was only inches away from the American's head.

“I theenk you bettair say your prayers pretty quick,
monsieur le kidnappair!
” he said tautly.

Smith did not flinch from the threat.

“Kidnaper, nothin'!” he replied with feeling. “It was them
kids
done the napin'. Drove off my crew, hijacked my boat, and damn near got me burned to a crisp into the bargain! Mister, there ain't nothin' you can do to me that they ain't already thought of!”

Meanwhile Jacques had jumped to his father's side and pulled down the muzzle of the gun. In rapid French he described what had happened from the moment Peter decided to stow away aboard
Black Joke
. Pierre and the other fisherman listened in incredulous silence to the tale. By the time Jacques finished, the hard lines on Pierre's face had softened.

“By Gar,
capitain
,” he said. “You have easier time if you ship the cargo of wolf cubs, eh? I thank you for save these fool boys' lifes when you put out the fire, but you mus' realize the boat she don' belong to you no more. You fellows steal her from my fren'
capitain
Spence–now the boys take her back, is it not so?”

“I won't give you no argument. That guy Spence can
have his boat back for all of me. Just ask him not to sic them kids onto me again!”

“
Bon
,” said Pierre, “but now I have business with the ship. One of the men here, he take you to Miquelon in hees dory. My wife Marie, she pretty good nurse an' she feex up those burns you got…. Hey, you boys! You go 'long with the dory too, 'fore you make more troubles on thees schooner.”

Jacques was about to obey his father's order, but Peter turned stubborn.

“I'm sorry, Mister Roulette,” he said. “I guess me and Kye better stay aboard. She's a Spence vessel and there ought to be a Spence onto her as long as she's at sea.”

Pierre gave him a quizzical look.

“I hope you don' theenk the Basques try to steal her now,” he said. “Okay, I suppose I get the devil from Marie for let you stay, but me, I don' feel strong enough to put you fellows off. Maybe you blow
me
up if I try that, eh?”

By this time daylight was strengthening and Pierre was anxious to be off, for the task of unloading and of hiding the schooner's cargo still remained. Calling Uncle Paul, he instructed the old man to take Smith ashore and then to gather a few men and round up the rest of the smugglers. Their lifeboat was now visible on the shore of the bay where the crew had landed after their panic-stricken flight from the burning ship.

As soon as Uncle Paul and Smith had left, Pierre or
dered the two remaining dories to be made fast, one on each side of
Black Joke
. The anchor was recovered and then, propelled by the engines of the dories,
Black Joke
slowly got under way toward the sea-caves on the rugged eastern shore of Miquelon. It was a perfect morning for the voyage. The water was calm and there was a haze which cut visibility to a mile or so, and effectively shielded the schooner from the sight of any passing ships at sea.

At Pierre's orders, the boys made their way down into the after cabin where they curled up on mattresses and Smith's blankets and sank into a sleep of exhaustion. Nor did they wake until several hours later when the sound of the dory engines was replaced by the rattle of blocks and tackle and the noise of hatch covers being removed. When they crawled sleepily on deck, they found the schooner moored to the foot of a high cliff with her bowsprit almost touching the rocks. A few yards away to starboard the black mouth of a sea-cave yawned and already one of the dories, piled high with cases of whiskey, was being sculled toward it.

The boys volunteered to help unload the whiskey, but were refused by Pierre. “Een one night you do more than ten men do in a month,” he told them. “Now you take leetle holiday. Maybe you find yourselve some food eef it don' all burn up in the fire.”