_Billy Topsail Wrings Out His Clothes and Finds Himself
Cut off From Shore by Thirty Yards of Heaving Ice_
BILLY could swim--could swim like any Newfoundland dog bred in Green
Bay. Moreover, the life he led--the rugged, venturesome calling of the
shore fishermen--had inured him to sudden danger. First of all he freed
himself from the cumbersome mail-bag. He would not have abandoned it
had he not been in such case as when, as the Newfoundlanders say, it
was "every hand for his life."
Then he made for the surface with swift, strong strokes. A few more
strokes brought him to the edge of the ice. He clambered out, still
gasping for breath, and turned about to account to himself for his
predicament.
The drift of snow had collapsed; he observed that it had covered some
part of a wide hole, and that the exposed water was almost of a colour
with the ice beyond--a polished black. Hence, he did not bitterly blame
himself for the false step, as he might have done had he plunged
himself into obvious danger through carelessness. He did not wonder
that he had been deceived.
Her Majesty's mail, so far as the boy could determine, was slowly
sinking to the bottom of the bay.
There was no help in regret. To escape from the bitter wind and the
dusk, now fast falling, was the present duty. He could think of all the
rest when he had leisure to sit before the fire and dream. He took off
his jacket and wrung it out--a matter of some difficulty, for it was
already stiff with frost. His shirt followed--then his boots and his
trousers. Soon he was stripped to his rosy skin. The wind, sweeping in
from the open sea, stung him as it whipped past.
When the last garment was wrung out he was shivering, and his teeth
were chattering so fast that he could not keep them still. Dusk soon
turns to night on this coast, and the night comes early. There was
left but time enough to reach the first of the goat-paths at Creepy
Bluff, two miles away--not time to finish the overland tramp to Ruddy
Cove--before darkness fell.
When he was about to dress, his glance chanced to pass over the water.
The mail-bag--it could be nothing else--was floating twenty-yards off
the ice. It had been prepared with cork for such accidents, which not
infrequently befall it.
"'Tis Her Majesty's mail, b'y," Billy could hear the mailman say.
"But 'tis more than I can carry t' Ruddy Cove now," he thought.
Nevertheless, he made no move to put on his shirt. He continued to look
at the mail-bag. "'Tis the mail--gov'ment mail," he thought again.
Then, after a rueful look at the water: "Sure, nobody'll know that it
floated. 'Tis as much as I can do t' get myself safe t' Gull Cove. I'd
freeze on the way t' Ruddy Cove."
There was no comfort in these excuses. There, before him, was the bag.
It was in plain sight. It had not sunk. He would fail in his duty to
the country if he left it floating there. It was an intolerable thought!
"'Tis t' Ruddy Cove I'll take that bag this day," he muttered.
He let himself gingerly into the water, and struck out. It was bitter
cold, but he persevered, with fine courage, until he had his arm
safely linked through the strap of the bag. It was the country he
served! In some vague form this thought sounded in his mind, repeating
itself again and again, while he swam for the ice with the bag in tow.
He drew himself out with much difficulty, hauled the mail-bag after
him, and proceeded to dress with all speed. His clothes were frozen
stiff, and he had to beat them on the ice to soften them; but the
struggle to don them sent the rich blood rushing through his body, and
he was warmed to a glow.
On went the bag, and off went the boy. When he came to the firmer ice,
and Creepy Bluff was within half a mile, the wind carried this cheery
song up the bay:
Lukie's boat is painted green,
The finest boat that ever was seen;
Lukie's boat has cotton sails,
A juniper rudder and galvanized nails.
At Creepy Bluff, which the wind strikes with full force, the ice was
breaking up inshore. The gale had risen with the coming of the night.
Great seas spent their force beneath the ice--cracking it, breaking it,
slowly grinding it to pieces against the rocks.
The Bluff marks the end of the bay. No ice forms beyond. Thus the waves
swept in with unbroken power, and were fast reducing the shore cakes to
a mass of fragments. Paul was cut off from the shore by thirty yards of
heaving ice. No bit of it would bear his weight; nor, so fine had it
been ground, could he leap from place to place as he had done before.
"'Tis sprawl I must," he thought.
The passage was no new problem. He had been in such case more than
once upon his return from the offshore seal-hunt. Many fragments would
together bear him up, where few would sink beneath him. He lay flat on
his stomach, and, with the gaff to help support him, crawled out from
the solid place, dragging the bag. His body went up and down with the
ice. Now an arm was thrust through, again a leg went under water.
Progress was fearfully slow. Inch by inch he gained on the
shore--crawling--crawling steadily. All the while he feared that the
great pans would drift out and leave the fragments room to disperse.
Once he had to spread wide his arms and legs and pause until the ice
was packed closer.
"Two yards more--only two yards more!" he could say at last.
Once on the road to Ruddy Cove, which he well knew, his spirits rose;
and with a cheery mood came new strength. It was a rough road, up hill
and down again, through deep snowdrifts and over slippery rocks. Night
fell; but there was light enough to show the way, save in the deeper
valleys, and there he had to struggle along as best he might.
Step after step, hill after hill, thicket after thicket: cheerfully he
trudged on; for the mail-bag was safe on his back, and Ruddy Cove was
but three miles distant. Three was reduced to two, two to one, one to
the last hill.
From the crest of Ruddy Rock he could look down on the lights of the
harbour--yellow lights, lying in the shadows of the valley. There was
a light in the post-office. They were waiting for him there--waiting
for their letters--waiting to send the mail on to the north. In a few
minutes he could say that Her Majesty's mail had been brought safe to
Ruddy Cove.
* * * * *
"Be the mail come?"
Billy looked up from his seat by the roaring fire in the post-office.
An old woman had come in. There was a strange light in her eyes--the
light of a hope which survives, spite of repeated disappointment.
"Sure, Aunt Esther; 'tis here at last."
"Be there a letter for me?"
Billy hoped that there was. He longed to see those gentle eyes
shine--to see the famished look disappear.
"No, Aunt Esther; 'tis not come yet. Maybe 'twill come next----"
"Sure, I've waited these three year," she said, with a trembling lip.
"'Tis from me son----"
"Ha!" cried the postmaster. "What's this? 'Tis all blurred by the
water. 'Missus E--s--B--l--g--e--l.' Sure, 'tis you, woman. 'Tis a
letter for you at last!"
"'Tis from me son!" the old woman muttered eagerly. "'Tis t' tell me
where he is, an'--an'--when he's comin' home. Thank God, the mail came
safe the night."
What if Billy had left the mail-bag to soak and sink in the waters of
the bay? What if he had failed in his duty to the people? How many
other such letters might there not be in that bag for the mothers and
fathers of the northern ports?
"Thank God," he thought, "that Her Majesty's mail came safe the night!"
Then he went off home, and met Bobby Lot on the way.
"Hello!" said Bobby. "Got back?"
"Hello yourself!" said Billy. "I did."
They eyed each other delightedly; they were too boyish to shake hands.
"How's the ice?" asked Bobby Lot.
"Not bad," said Billy.