_In Which Bill o' Burnt Bay Finds Himself in Jail and
Archie Armstrong Discovers That Reality is Not as
Diverting as Romance_
To be sure, Bill o' Burnt Bay had overcome the watchman! He had
blundered upon him in the cabin. Being observed before he could
withdraw, he had leaped upon this functionary with resistless
impetuosity--had overpowered him, gagged him, trussed him like a
turkey cock and rolled him into his bunk. The waters roundabout gave
no sign of having been apprised of the capture. No cry of surprise
rang out--no call for help--no hullabaloo of pursuit. The lights of
the old town twinkled in the foggy night in undisturbed serenity.
The night was thick, and the wind swept furiously up from the sea. It
would be a dead beat to windward to make the open--a sharp beat
through a rock-strewn channel in a rising gale.
"Now we got her," Skipper Bill laughed, "what'll we do with her?"
Archie and Josiah laughed, too: a hearty explosion.
"We can never beat out in this wind," said Bill; "an' we couldn't
handle her if we did--not in a gale o' wind like this. All along," he
chuckled, "I been 'lowin' for a fair wind an' good weather."
They heard the rattle and creak of oars approaching; to which, in a
few minutes, the voices of two men added a poignant interest. The
rowers rested on their oars, as though looking about; then the oars
splashed the water again, and the dory shot towards the _Heavenly
Home_. Bill o' Burnt Bay and his fellow pirates lay flat on the deck.
The boat hung off the stern of the schooner.
"Jean!"
The hail was in French. It was not answered, you may be sure, from the
_Heavenly Home_.
"Jean!"
"He's not aboard," spoke up the other man.
"He must be aboard. His dory's tied to the rail. Jean! Jean Morot!"
"Come--let's be off to the _Voyageur_. He's asleep." A pair of oars
fell in the water.
"Come--take your oars. It's too rough to lie here. And it's late
enough."
"But----"
"Take your oars!" with an oath.
The Newfoundlanders breathed easier when they heard the splash and
creak and rattle receding; but they did not rise until the sounds were
out of hearing, presumably in the direction of the _Voyageur_.
* * * * *
Bill o' Burnt Bay began to laugh again. Archie joined him. But Josiah
Cove pointed out the necessity of doing something--anything--and doing
it quickly. It was all very well to laugh, said he; and although it
might seem a comical thing to be standing on the deck of a captured
schooner, the comedy would be the Frenchman's if they were caught in
the act. But Archie still chuckled away; the situation was quite too
ridiculous to be taken seriously. Archie had never been a pirate
before; he didn't feel like one now--but he rather liked the feeling
he had.
"We can't stay aboard," said he, presently.
"Blest if I want t' go ashore," said Bill.
"We _got_ t' go ashore," Josiah put in.
Before they left the deck of the _Heavenly Home_ (the watchman having
then been made more comfortable), it was agreed that the schooner
could not make the open sea in the teeth of the wind. That was
obvious; and it was just as obvious that the Newfoundlander could not
stay aboard. The discovery of the watchman in the cabin must be
chanced until such a time as a fair wind came in the night. On their
way to the obscure wharf at which they landed it was determined that
Josiah should board the schooner at nine o'clock, noon, and six
o'clock of the next day to feed the captured watchman and to set the
galley fire going for half an hour to allay suspicion.
"An' Skipper Bill," said Josiah, seriously, "you lie low. If you don't
you're liable to be took up."
"Take your advice t' yourself," the skipper retorted. "Your
reputation's none o' the best in this harbour."
"We'll sail to-morrow night," said Archie.
"Given a dark night an' a fair wind," the skipper qualified.
Skipper Bill made his way to a quiet cafe of his acquaintance; and
Josiah vanished in the fog to lie hidden with a shipmate of other
days. Archie--depending upon his youth and air and accent and
well-tailored dress to avert suspicion--went boldly to the Hotel
Joinville and sat down to dinner. The dinner was good; he enjoyed it,
and was presently delighting in the romance in which he had a part. It
all seemed too good to be true. How glad he was he had come! To be
here--in the French Islands of Miquelon--to have captured a
schooner--to have a prisoner in the cabin--to be about to run off with
the _Heavenly Home_. For the life of him, Archie could not take the
thing seriously. He chuckled--and chuckled--and chuckled again.
Presently he walked abroad; and in the quaint streets and old customs
of the little town, here remote from all the things of the present and
of the new world as we know it in this day, he found that which soon
lifted him into a dream of times long past and of doughty deeds for
honour and a lady. Soft voices in the streets, forms flitting from
shadow to shadow, priest and strutting gendarme and veiled lady,
gabled roofs, barred windows, low doorways, the clatter of sabots, the
pendant street lights, the rumble of the ten o'clock drums. These
things, seen in a mist, were all of the days when bold ventures were
made--of those days when a brave man would recover his own, come what
might, if it had been wrongfully wrested from him. It was a rare
dream--and not broken until he turned into the Quai de la Ronciere.
As he rounded the corner he was almost knocked from his feet by a
burly fellow in a Basque cap who was breathless with haste.
"Monsieur--if he will pardon--it was not----" this fellow stammered,
apologetically.
Men were hurrying past toward the Cafe d'Espoir, appearing everywhere
from the mist and running with the speed of deep excitement. There was
a clamorous crowd about the door--pushing, scuffling, shouting.
"What has happened?" Archie asked in French.
"An American has killed a gendarme, monsieur. A ter-rible fellow! Oh,
fear-r-rful!"
"And why--what----"
"He was a ter-rible fellow, monsieur. The gendarmes have been on the
lookout for him for three years. And when they laid hands on him he
fought, monsieur--fought with the strength of a savage. It took five
gendarmes to bind him--five, monsieur. Poor Louis Arnot! He is
dead--killed, monsieur, by a pig of an American with his fist. They
are to take the murderer to the jail. I am just now running to warn
Deschamps to make ready the dungeon cell. If monsieur will but excuse
me, I will----"
He was off; so Archie joined the crowd at the door of the cafe, which
was that place to which Skipper Bill had repaired to hide. He hung on
the outskirts of the crowd, unable to push his way further. The wrath
of these folk was so noisy that he could catch no word of what went on
within. He devoutly hoped that Skipper Bill had kept to his
hiding-place despite the suspicious sounds in the cafe. Then he wormed
his way to the door and entered. A moment later he had climbed on a
barrel and was overlooking the squirming crowd and eagerly listening
to the clamour. Above every sound--above the cries and clatter and
gabble--rang the fighting English of Bill o' Burnt Bay.
It was no American; it was Skipper Bill whom the gendarmes had taken,
and he was now so seriously involved, apparently, that his worst
enemies could wish him no deeper in the mesh. They had him bound hand
and foot and guarded with drawn swords, fearing, probably, that
somewhere he had a crew of wild fellows at his back to make a rescue.
To attempt a rescue was not to be thought of. It did not enter the
boy's head. He was overcome by grief and terror. He withdrew into a
shadow until they had carried Skipper Bill out with a crowd yelping at
his heels. Then, white and shaking, he went to a group in the corner
where Louis Arnot, the gendarme, was stretched out on the floor.
Archie touched the surgeon on the shoulder. "Is he dead?" the boy
asked, in French, his voice trembling.
"No, monsieur; he is alive."
"Will he live?"
"To be sure, monsieur!"
"Is there any doubt about it?" asked Archie.
"Doubt?" exclaimed the surgeon. "With _my_ skill, monsieur? It is
impossible--he _cannot_ die! He will be restored in three days.
I--_I_--I will accomplish it!"
"Thank God for that!" thought Archie.
The boy went gravely home to bed; and as he lay down the adventure
seemed less romantic than it had.