AT ST. PIERRE
They had difficulty in working the boat out of the harbour, but under
reduced sail and Ben's expert handling they eventually managed it.
Once they were far enough off the land to clear Shagtown Cape they
had straight sailing, and shaking out the reef in the big foresail
they settled down to the short voyage. They passed Saltern a mile
from the land, which was skirted by the white foam of breaking seas.
The boat gave an admirable exhibition of her qualities and proved her
late owner's boast correct, for with a fair wind and a following sea
she did her eight knots in grand style.
Dare and Ben had an opportunity to observe the Saltern coast, and
found it wild and rugged. Cliffs ranging from two hundred to four
hundred feet in height rose uncompromisingly upright from the sea,
but were broken at points by intersecting small sandy beaches which
gave upon less precipitous backgrounds.
Except for a solitary merchantman beating her way towards Shagtown,
they had the sea to themselves, for the weather was too rough for the
local fishermen to go to their trawls and nets.
Ben gave Dare the tiller of the _Nancy_ and turned a pair of
binoculars on the Saltern cliffs, subjecting them to a long, close
scrutiny. Except for a few sheep and goats, and a fisherman's
cottage or so in lonely, desolate-looking spots, there was no sign of
life or human habitation. A rugged, solitary coast it certainly Was.
Further from Saltern, however, the coast became more pleasing to the
eye, and sloped down more gradually to the sea. Ben, at this point,
took the tiller again and changed the course a little. Miquelon, the
companion island of St. Pierre, could be plainly seen, as could Green
Island, and setting his course by the latter Ben turned the boat's
head definitely from the land. This necessitated taking in some
sheet and subjected the boat to a rough beam sea. She was,
fortunately, in good ballast, and had little to fear from the press
of wind bearing her down heavily as she sank into the hollows. Dare,
who was with Ben in the cockpit, the deck at a level with their
waists, welcomed the rough water. The sting of the spray, the roar
of the wind, stimulated him to a high degree, and enjoyment swallowed
up any concern there might have been as to their safety.
Ben, chewing with gusto a plug of tobacco, was in his natural
element. He had not enjoyed himself so much for years. Now and then
he gave a grunt of approval as the boat rose gallantly from under a
breaking sea, but for the most part he was stoically inexpressive,
his gaze fixed ever ahead, his capable hand hard set on the tiller.
At four o'clock they brought open the roadstead of St. Pierre
harbour, and half an hour later, in half a gale of wind and a
blinding rainstorm, they made the inner harbour.
Considerably elated at their successful run, they headed the boat
towards the public quay next Treloar's wharf, and in calm water tied
her up and made her shipshape for the night.
"Four hours an' a half from one quay to t'other," said Ben in high
good humour. "Now we'll go below and put the kettle on and have a
cup o' tea."
It was snug and cosy in the little fo'c'sle and Dare, stripped of his
oilskins, listened with growing pleasure in his environment to the
wail of the wind, the beat of the rain, and the uneasy chafing of the
boat and the shipping in her vicinity as the wind streamed through
their rigging.
Now and then there sounded a long warning note from a siren, a dog
would bark, and a solitary cart rattle by on the cobble-stoned quay.
A stormy night, Ben prophesied, but as they were snug in harbour they
could ignore the weather. Ben, like the seasoned campaigner he was,
went about the business of boiling the kettle, and in a short time he
had fashioned a delectable meal consisting of a roasted piece of cod
fish, cold ham, pickles, bread, butter, jam, and tea, all tasting a
little of smoke and the tang of salt water.
Dare, as he consumed prodigious quantities of this fare, felt he had
never supped better in his life. After the meal was finished he made
himself useful and washed up. Ben filled his pipe and took his
pleasure of it. His work done, Dare stretched out on a blanket. For
awhile both he and Ben maintained a strict silence, listening to the
steady drip of the rain on deck.
"We won't telegraph the cap'n till to-morrer," Ben said at last. "He
won't be expectin' us to get here before then. As it's a dirty night
and'll be dark early, we won't go ashore now but take our comfort
here."
Dare, lying on his back, his head supported by his clasped hands,
nodded contentedly. St. Pierre was lying waiting for him. He could
afford to be patient. There would be all the joy of discovery in
watching the town awake next morning.
"Ah, these is good times, Mr. Dare," said Ben after another silence.
"It does my heart good to be lyin' here like this. Many's the time
I've laid me down to sleep to the sound of wind and water, and woke
to hear the cry of the watch, and the sound of the waves striking
like a steel hammer on the deck overhead. And other nights there was
when I took me blankets on deck and laid me down under the stars,
with the sea that smooth you could frame it like a picture with the
horizon, and the air that warm an' soft you would be thinkin' you was
in the tropics, instead of in the Western Ocean not two days sail
from the Azores."
Dare nodded dreamily, Ben's voice like distant music in his ears.
What boy has not had his imagination sent rioting by thinking of such
things? A fine life, a clean life, a brave life, that of the sailor,
with strange ports always lying ahead, and the sea, the vast sea
always about one, bringing calm and storm, monotony and drama and
adventure.
He slept that night the sleep of eager youth and dreamed rosy dreams
of the things he should do some fine day when he came into his
kingdom--that delectable world which lies before youth when it
attains the age of manhood and emancipation, that bright, that
chivalrous age of twenty-one.
Early the next morning he was roused by Ben's shout of "show a leg!"
He tumbled out eagerly. Ben had already kindled a fire. He shoved
his head above deck and saw the town wrapt in a morning mist, and on
the waters of the harbour the dimly seen hulls of the ships.
There was a nip in the air that drove sleep and dreams from him and
made him keen to launch forth into action and adventure. He went on
deck, and drawing up a bucket of water plunged his head deep into it.
His toilet was soon made. He grinned as he remembered that for the
first time in his life he had an adequate excuse for not scrubbing
his face. When he had finished he went to the fo'c'sle head and
called down to Ben.
"Brekfus is not ready yet," Ben told him. "As you're up there you
might as well wash down the deck and take a turn at the pump."
While he was doing this the mist rolled away and the sun appeared as
if by magic, gilding the town and the shipping with early morning
beauty.
The boat was too far below the quay for him to see anything but the
upper stories of the buildings facing the harbour, so he had to
content himself with gazing upon the latter and the variegated
shipping that filled it. Steam trawlers, coal tramps, American
deep-water fishermen, Newfoundland Bank fishermen, cargo boats,
sailing and steam yachts, steam tugs and a host of smaller craft
filled the basin.
He gazed on this scene as he had so often gazed on St. John's harbour
as seen from the college windows, admiring the beautiful lines of
some of the vessels, the ugliness of others, indeed their endless
variety.
He was torn from this pleasant exercise by the call to breakfast.
After the meal was over they loosened the sails and shook them out to
dry, then prepared to go ashore. By this time the town was well
awake. At a neighbouring quay one vessel was discharging coal and
another produce, both of which commodities were being loaded on to
antiquated ox-carts drawn by even more antiquated oxen. Numerous
dogs were barking and pretending to be fiercely excited by pieces of
stick floating in the water, and one after another were diving off
the quay, encouraged by errant bakers' boys and other seemingly
unattached youths.
The sound of strange speech struck the ear, a French that Dare could
hardly believe was the same language he was taught at school.
In time they prepared to enter this strange world. Ben locked up the
fo'c'sle, asked the crew of a nearby boat to keep an eye on the
_Nancy_, then, followed by Dare, climbed up the side of the quay and
stood erect on dry land.
The town of St. Pierre has been formed by the needs of the visiting
sailors and fishermen of France, America, and Newfoundland. Old as
age goes in the Americas, the remains of the English fortifications
can still be seen, but now by the Treaty of Utrecht, no garrisoning
or fortification of the island is permitted. Its architecture is
such as one finds in the seaports of Brittany and sea towns such as
Marseilles. There has been a rich trade done there in its day, but
its importance has declined with the importance of St. Pierre et
Miquelon as a colony, the only French colony in the Atlantic, and
little more in reality than a station for her Bank fishermen.
But enough remains of the colony's importance to ensure a brisk trade
in the summer months when the population is greatly augmented by the
visiting fleets.
The principal street is known as the waterfront. It runs parallel to
the quays and is flanked by numerous cafés, shops, and marine stores.
Breaking it about half-way is a large square with a decrepit fountain
and an uneven, cobble-stoned pavement. It was into this square that
Ben and Dare stepped on their first visit ashore.
Ben, faced by several routes, stopped to consider his movements.
"We can't do better than walk a little way along the waterfront, and
drop in on Madame Roquierre," he said. "It's a little early for the
cafés, but madame is always on hand night and day."
Dare, to whom even the name of Madame Roquierre was unfamiliar,
nodded agreement, and they sauntered on their way. The waterfront
presented a very animated scene. Scores of sailors strolled up and
down, proprietors of _magasins_ and cafés stood outside their
premises exchanging salutations with the passers-by and not omitting
to call attention to the exclusive benefits patronage of themselves
would bring, teams of oxen plodded slowly by, and gendarmes strolled
on their rounds, keeping a vigilant eye on one and all.
Ben had little eyes for so familiar a scene, but to Dare every detail
was foreign to anything in his previous experience and therefore
worthy of interest and attention.
They eventually reached Madame Roquierre's café, a large square box
of a building with a prevailing atmosphere of sour wine inside and
out. The bar was empty except for an old manservant busy raising a
cloud of dust. In response to Ben's inquiries after madame, he
answered, "Elle est sortie."
Dare recognized the phrase and translated it for Ben's benefit.
"Out, is she?" said Ben. "Well, it's no matter; we can come back
again." They returned to the waterfront.
"The madame," explained Ben, "is a wise old bird. She knows everyone
and everything in St. Pierre. She's kept that there grogshop of hers
for forty years and more. Although it's ten years since I've been
here, I'm willin' to bet she can remember me. Aye, that's so. You
might think I wouldn't want to be remembered as a bos'n of the
cap'n's. But you'd be wrong. Madame ain't the one to blab, and when
I tells her that I'm named Wheeler an' that I wants everybody who
knows me to forget they've seen me before, she'll catch on as quick
as anything. Nothin' can't surprise her. She's seen too much in her
time. I'm countin' to hear a bit from her about this end of the
smuggling game. And maybe she'll be able to give us a few names.
We'll go to her fer our dinner and supper--she keeps a good kitchen,
as I knows of old. It ain't convenient to eat aboard all the time."
Dare welcomed this plan and said so, it being likely to offer them
diversion as well as benefit their mission.
They spent the morning sauntering from quay to quay in the manner of
others of their kind. Now and then they were drawn into
conversation, and on such occasions responded genially and with that
seeming openness most likely to inspire confidences. At noon they
went to the telegraph office and cabled the captain. They then
returned to the quay and had a look at the boat. Then they wended
their way once more towards Madame Roquierre's.
All was changed now. The bar was fairly crowded, and through the
swing door leading to the kitchen came a delectable odour, and a
burst of sound comparable to that attendant upon the feeding of a
battalion.
Ben pushed through the crowd at the bar, Dare in his wake, and went
into the kitchen. There, presiding over the distribution of an
enormous tureen of soup, was Madame Roquierre. She was stout,
possessed a heavy moustache, and very white teeth which were often
revealed in an excess of geniality. She found time, amidst her other
duties, to greet everyone who entered, and Dare and Ben were no
exceptions. Ben called out a "bonjoor, madame," while Dare silently
gave an imitation of a bow.
They took seats at a long table already well filled, and as soon as
they were seated immense bowls of soup were placed before them. The
soup seemed to Dare to contain nearly every known vegetable, but
decidedly it was good. Ben attacked it with gusto, and before long
Dare was following his example.
"Never anything else here in the kitchen but soup," said Ben. "If
you want other things they're special. But after a bowl or two of
this you don't want much. I come here because it would look funny
our askin' fer a private room. We're not of that sort now. But
later I'll have a talk with madame and we can have what we like here
in the kitchen."
After the soup they ordered coffee, and sat so long over it that the
room was practically empty when they rose to go. Before they could
reach the door, madame confronted them.
"Bon jour, messieurs," she said genially. "Ah, I have seen you
before, my fren'," she said to Ben, and wrinkled her forehead in an
effort to remember. "So! It was with the capitaine----"
"No names, madame, if you please," interrupted Ben. "I'd take it as
a favour if you'd fergit you've seen me before."
"Hein? Ah, so, I see! Eh bien, it is as you say. You stay long?"
"Two weeks, perhaps. Perhaps less."
"So! It is well. You shall come to see me again, is it not?"
"We was thinkin' of takin' dinner and supper here, madame."
"Good," declared madame. "But stay, you will drink a brandy?"
Ben, who looked upon the offer of hospitality as most favourable to
his intentions, accepted.
"And you, m'sieu?" said madame, turning to Dare.
"Nothing, thank you," replied Dare.
"But a sirop," insisted madame, "a bon sirop." And Dare perforce
could do no other than accept.
They seated themselves again at a table and madame, who was inclined
to gossip, joined them.
"It is long, I think, since you came last," she said to Ben.
"Aye, madame, ten years."
"Ma foi! How the time it goes! And you sail no more with the
capitaine who shall not be named?"
"That's so. I got a boat of me own, madame. Me and me nevvy here,
we intends to run between St. Pierre and the mainland. Tobaccy is
dear on the mainland. Savvy?"
Madame smiled wisely.
"There is light," she answered. "So, you also, hein? Well, and why
not? The poor should not have to pay taxes."
"You said it, madame."
"Tobacco, you have said. And wine, yes?"
"Liquor, madame, is like tobaccy. If you got to have it, get it
cheap."
"So you are wise. Now I---- Well, my fren', I have a large cellar.
Vous comprenez? And you shall do as well by me as at that ol' thief
Giraud's, who boasts he has all the trade of such as yourself."
"I've heard of Giraud," said Ben cautiously.
"A thief, my fren'. I have said it. And it is not true that he has
all the trade, for, mark you, I, Roquierre, say it--Pierre has taken
from me no less than one mille of the three-cross brandy since two
years."
"And who might Pierre be, madame?" Ben made the mistake of inquiring.
Madame's expression changed the slightest bit. A curtain of reserve
slowly descended.
"You know not Pierre?" she asked, a little surprised.
"Never heard of him," admitted Ben. "A smuggler, is he?"
Madame rose to her feet, smiling enigmatically.
"A smuggler?" she said. "But what is that? Here we name not such
things. If one wishes to take a bottle or two quietly, ma foi, is he
then to be called a smuggler?"
"What else, madame?"
"It makes nothing," madame quietly answered. "We talk of other
things, n'est-ce pas?"
"But this Pierre feller?" insisted Ben stupidly.
Madame eyed him for a moment, then leaned forward impressively.
"Understand, m'sieu, one does not talk lightly of Pierre to those who
know him not. So, enough. I have already said too much. Au'voir,
messieurs. You are welcome always, and forget not what I have said
of Giraud."
She gave them a guarded smile and left the room. Ben watched her go
without a word, then, beckoning to Dare to follow, made for the
street.
"Well, we didn't get much forrarder there," he exclaimed ruefully, as
he stood in the street outside.
"You went about it in the wrong way," said Dare impatiently. "If you
hadn't asked her who Pierre was, she would have been telling you all
about him in a few minutes."
"Aye, I reckon that's so," agreed Ben, abashed. "What a dunderhead I
be! Why didn't you stop me, Mr. Dare?"
"I didn't have a chance. Madame, as you've said, is a wise old
lady," he added. "She thought it was queer your not knowing Pierre
if you were a smuggler. Pierre, who took no less than a thousand
cases of brandy from her in two years!"
"Aye, I reckon it seemed funny," said Ben humbly. "But anyhow, we
got somethin' to go by, we can keep a look-out for that feller
Pierre."
"That's so, of course. He must be a smuggler in a pretty big way,
don't you think?"
"There's no tellin', but it seems so. A thousand of brandy from one
cellar in two years is not bad work, not to mention what he might
have had from Giraud."
"Of course, he may be running cargoes down the coast, and not in
Saltern Bay at all."
"That's what we've got to find out. One of the first things we got
to do is see Giraud."
"We might go up there later in the afternoon."
"Aye. And to-night I'll try and get on the right side of madame
again. I don't believe she thinks I'm not what I give myself out to
be."
"No," agreed Dare. "But you'll have to go carefully there. It's my
belief it's no use trying to pump her now. She'll be on her guard.
Still, it won't hurt to quieten down her suspicions if she has any."
"You said it."
In a few minutes they had reached the quay. The _Nancy_ was lying
almost level with it on a flood tide.
"What shall we do now?" asked Dare.
"I was thinkin' of takin' a nap," confessed Ben. "There's no use
tryin' to see that feller Giraud till three o'clock."
"All right," said Dare. "As for me, I'm going across the square to
that barber's shop you see there, to get a hair-cut. Then I'll take
a stroll around and be back here for you at three sharp."
They parted on that understanding.