_In Which Bagg, Unknown to Ruddy Cove, Starts for Home,
and, After Some Difficulty, Safely Gets There_
Uncle Tommy Luff, coming up the hill one day when the ice was jammed
against the coast and covered the sea as far as sight carried, was
stopped by Bagg at the turn to Squid Cove.
"I say, mister," said Bagg, "which way was you tellin' me Lun'on was
from 'ere?"
Uncle Tommy pointed straight out to the ice-covered sea.
"That way?" asked Bagg.
"Straight out o' the tickle with the meetin'-house astarn."
"Think a bloke could ever get there?" Bagg inquired.
Uncle Tommy laughed. "If he kep' on walkin' he'd strike it some time,"
he answered.
"Sure?" Bagg demanded.
"If he kep' on walkin'," Uncle Tommy repeated, smiling.
This much may be said of the ice: the wind which carries it inshore
inevitably sweeps it out to sea again, in an hour or a day or a week,
as it may chance. The whole pack--the wide expanse of enormous
fragments of fields and glaciers--is in the grip of the wind, which,
as all men know, bloweth where it listeth. A nor'east gale sets it
grinding against the coast, but when the wind veers to the west the
pack moves out and scatters.
If a man is caught in that great rush and heaving, he has nothing
further to do with his own fate but wait. He escapes if he has
strength to survive until the wind blows the ice against the coast
again--not else. When the Newfoundlander starts out to the seal hunt
he makes sure, in so far as he can, that no change in the wind is
threatened.
Uncle Ezekiel Rideout kept an eye on the weather that night.
"Be you goin', b'y?" said Ruth, looking up from her weaving.
Ezekiel had just come in from Lookout Head, where the watchers had
caught sight of the seals, swarming far off in the shadows.
"They's seals out there," he said, "but I don't know as us'll go the
night. 'Tis like the wind'll haul t' the west."
"What do Uncle Tommy Luff say?"
"That 'twill haul t' the west an' freshen afore midnight."
"Sure, then, you'll not be goin', b'y?"
"I don't know as anybody'll go," said he. "Looks a bit too nasty for
'em."
Nevertheless, Ezekiel put some pork and hard-bread in his dunny bag,
and made ready his gaff and tow-lines, lest, by chance, the weather
should promise fair at midnight.
"Where's that young scamp?" said Ezekiel, with a smile--a smile which
expressed a fine, indulgent affection.
"Now, I wonder where he is?" said Ruth, pausing in her work. "He've
been gone more'n an hour, sure."
"Leave un bide where he is so long as he likes," said he. "Sure he
must be havin' a bit o' sport. 'Twill do un good."
Ezekiel sat down by the fire and dozed. From time to time he went to
the door to watch the weather. From time to time Aunt Ruth listened
for the footfalls of Bagg coming up the path. After a long time she
put her work away. The moon was shining through a mist; so she sat at
the window, for from there she could see the boy when he rounded the
turn to the path. She wished he would come home.
"I'll go down t' Topsail's t' see what's t' be done about the seals,"
said Ezekiel.
"Keep a lookout for the b'y," said she.
Ezekiel was back in half an hour. "Topsail's gone t' bed," said he.
"Sure, no one's goin' out the night. The wind's hauled round t' the
west, an' 'twill blow a gale afore mornin'. The ice is movin' out slow
a'ready. Be that lad out yet?"
"Yes, b'y," said Ruth, anxiously. "I wisht he'd come home."
"I--I--wisht he would," said Ezekiel.
Ruth went to the door and called Bagg by name.
But there was no answer.
* * * * *
Offshore, four miles offshore, Bagg was footing it for England as fast
as his skinny little legs would carry him. The way was hard--a
winding, uneven path over the pack. It led round clumpers, over ridges
which were hard to scale, and across broad, slippery pans. The frost
had glued every fragment to its neighbour; for the moment the pack
formed one solid mass, continuous and at rest, but the connection
between its parts was of the slenderest, needing only a change of the
wind or the ground swell of the sea to break it everywhere.
The moon was up. It was half obscured by a haze which was driving out
from the shore, to which quarter the wind had now fairly veered. The
wind was rising--coming in gusts, in which, soon, flakes of snow
appeared. But there was light enough to keep to the general direction
out from the coast, and the wind but helped Bagg along.
"I got t' 'urry up," thought he.
The boy looked behind. Ruddy Cove was within sight. He was surprised
that the coast was still so near.
"Got t' 'urry up a bit more," he determined.
He was elated--highly elated. He thought that his old home was but a
night's journey distant; at most, not more than a night and a day, and
he had more than food enough in his pockets to last through that. He
was elated; but from time to time a certain regret entered in, and it
was not easily cast out. He remembered the touch of Aunt Ruth's lips,
and her arm, which had often stolen about him in the dusk; and he
remembered that Uncle Ezekiel had beamed upon him most affectionately,
in times of mischief and good works alike. He had been well loved in
Ruddy Cove.
"Wisht I'd told Aunt Ruth," Bagg thought.
On he trudged--straight out to sea.
"Got t' 'urry up," thought he.
Again the affection of Aunt Ruth occurred to him. She had been very
kind; and as for Uncle 'Zeke--why, nobody could have been kinder.
"Wisht I _'ad_ told Aunt Ruth," Bagg regretted. "Might o' said
good-bye anyhow."
The ice was now drifting out; but the wind had not yet risen to that
measure of strength wherewith it tears the pack to pieces, nor had the
sea attacked it. There was a gap of two hundred yards between the
coast rocks and the edge of the ice, but that was far, far back, and
hidden from sight. The pack was drifting slowly, smoothly, still in
one compact mass. Its motion was not felt by Bagg, who pressed
steadily on toward England, eager again, but fast growing weary.
"Got t' 'urry up," thought he.
But presently he must rest; and while he rested the wind gathered
strength. It went singing over the pack, pressing ever with a stronger
hand upon its dumpers and ridges--pushing it, everywhere, faster and
faster out to sea. The pack was on the point of breaking in pieces
under the strain, but the wind still fell short of the power to rend
it. There was a greater volume of snow falling; it was driven past in
thin, swirling clouds. Hence the light of the moon began to fail. Far
away, at the rim of the pack, the sea was eating its way in, but the
swish and crash of its work was too far distant to be heard.
"I ain't nothink t' nobody but Aunt Ruth," Bagg thought, as he rose to
continue the tramp.
On he went, the wind lending him wings; but at last his legs gave out
at the knees, and he sat down again to rest. This was in the lee of a
clumper, where he was comfortably sheltered. He was still warm--in a
glow of heat, indeed--and his hope was still with him. So far he had
suffered from nothing save weariness. So he began to dream of what he
would do when he got home, just as all men do when they come near,
once again, to that old place where they were born. The wind was now
a gale, blowing furiously; the pack was groaning in its outlying
parts.
"Nothink t' nobody," Bagg grumbled, on his way once more.
Then he stopped dead--in terror. He had heard the breaking of an
ice-pan--a great clap and rumble, vanishing in the distance. The noise
was repeated, all roundabout--bursting from everywhere, rising to a
fearful volume: near at hand, a cracking; far off, a continuing roar.
The pack was breaking up. Each separate part was torn from another,
and the noise of the rending was great. Each part ground against its
neighbour on every side. The weaker pans were crushed like egg-shells.
Then the whole began to feel the heave of the sea.
"It's a earthquake!" thought Bagg. "I better 'urry up."
He looked back over the way he had come--searching the shadows for
Ruddy Cove. But the coast was lost to sight.
"Must be near acrost, now," he thought. "I'll 'urry up."
So he turned his back on Ruddy Cove and ran straight out to sea, for
he thought that England was nearer than the coast he had left. He was
now upon a pan, both broad and thick--stout enough to withstand the
pressure of the pack. It was a wide field of ice, which the cold of
the far North, acting through many years, it may be, had made strong.
Elsewhere the pans were breaking--were lifting themselves out of the
press and falling back in pieces--were being ground to finest
fragments. This mighty confusion of noise and wind and snow and night,
and the upheaval of the whole world roundabout, made the soul of Bagg
shiver within him. It surpassed the terrors of his dreams.
"Guess I never _will_ get 'ome," thought he.
Soon he came to the edge of the pan. Beyond, where the pack was in
smaller blocks, the sea was swelling beneath it. The ice was all
heaving and swaying. He dared not venture out upon this shifting
ground. So he ran up and down, seeking a path onward; but he
discovered none. Meantime, the parts of the pack had fallen into
easier positions; the noise of crunching, as the one ground against
the other, had somewhat abated. The ice continued its course outward,
under the driving force of the wind, but the pressure was relieved.
The pans fell away from one another. Lakes and lanes of water opened
up. The pan upon which Bagg chanced to find himself in the great
break-up soon floated free. There was now no escape from it.
Bagg retreated from the edge, for the seas began to break there.
"Wisht I was 'ome again," he sobbed.
This time he did not look towards England, but wistfully back to Ruddy
Cove.
* * * * *
The gale wasted away in the night. The next day was warm and sunny on
all that coast. An ice-pack hung offshore from Fortune Harbour. In the
afternoon it began to creep in with a light wind. The first pans
struck the coast at dusk. The folk of the place were on the Head, on
the lookout for the sign of a herd of seal. Just before night fell
they spied a black speck, as far out from shore as their eyes could
see.
"They'll be seals out there the morrow," the men were all agreed.
So they went home and prepared to set out at dawn of the next day. In
the night, the wind swept the whole pack in, to the last lagging pan.
The ice was all jammed against the coast--a firm, vast expanse,
stretching to the horizon, and held in place by the wind, which
continued strong and steady. The men of Fortune Harbour went
confidently out to the hunt. At noon, when they were ten miles off the
shore, they perceived the approach of a small, black figure.
The meeting came soon afterwards, for the folk of Fortune Harbour,
being both curious and quick to respond to need, made haste.
"I say, mister," said Bagg, briskly, addressing old John Forsyth, "yer
'aven't got no 'am, 'ave yer?"
The men of Fortune Harbour laughed.
"Or nothink else, 'ave yer?" Bagg continued, hopefully. "I'm a bit
'ungry."
"Sure, b'y," said Forsyth. "I've a biscuit an' a bit o' pork."
"'Ave yer, now?" said Bagg. "Would yer mind giv----"
But his hands were already full. A moment later his mouth was in the
same condition.
"How'd you come out here?" said Forsyth.
"Swep' out," said Bagg. "I say, mister," he added, between munches,
"which way would yer say my 'ome was from 'ere?"
"Where's your home?"
"Ruddy Cove," said Bagg.
"'Tis fifteen mile up the coast."
"'Ow would you get there quickest if yer 'ad to?"
"We'll take care o' you, b'y," said Forsyth. "We'll put you t' Ruddy
Cove in a skiff, when the ice goes out. Seems t' me," he added, "you
must be the boy Ezekiel Rideout took. Isn't you Ezekiel Rideout's
boy?"
"Bet yer life I am," said Bagg.