University of Virginia Library

44. CHAPTER XLIV.
A NIGHT'S BOAT-RACE.

WHEN Gilpin left Jesse Hill standing near the
Mission, as mentioned in the last chapter, it
was to run to the boat's crew, waiting at the
water-side. Three of them were there and had seen
nothing and heard nothing strange or noticeable. Two
of their number were off in one direction, and two in
another, one way up and one down the harbor, scouting.

“There's the Priests' punt, then, anyway, and no life in
her,” said Skipper Charles. “I'll bide here, a-bit. It
can't be long, if they've got any gumpshion amongst 'em.”

Upon the word some men came hurrying; these were
from up the harbor. Our constable had his wits about
him, more than ever, that night. Before the men have
got to him, he sends off, post-haste, for the other couple,
down the harbor, and his ear is open for the story of the
comers.

The carriage was the only one, such as it was, in a long
walk, in those days; nothing for horse or horses, but a
hand-wagon, so to say, known every where as Peter
Laverty's.

It had gone down with plenty of whispering, but in no
great hurry, to Bryan's stage; and there, after much bustle,
had transferred its load, or, at least, what seemed a

sick woman, was lifted out of it, and passed into a boat;
the Priest said “Mind!” the man answered “Yes, your
reverence,” and then a portion of the company had gone
back. The measured sound of oars came on the ear as
this hurried report was made; it was the boat. “Now,
where are our other boys? They fellows must show us a
good lead, if they think we won't come up to them.
They'll have nothing much start of us, but the best boat
in the B'y.”

“Are you there, Ladford?” asked Skipper Charles.

“Ay! I'm here,” said a silent man, sitting on a keg
and smoking.

“You know what dependence there is on you, to-night,”
said the constable.

“I can't say for that; but if there's aught for me to do,
I'll try and do it. Now, then, lads! there's your comrades;”
and Ladford's pipe was gone somewhere, like a
firefly flown; and next, he himself had disappeared below
the stage-head. Down went the others, the whole boat's
crew, six, seven, counting Ladford.

“There's your commission, Will Ladford—let's see—
we've got documents enough for to-night,—the little
one,—yes, that's it.—Let 'em get clear o' the harbor, you
know—”

“I don't go skipper,” said Ladford, as if settling a
point which was mooted between them; “but don't lose
time upon it; some on us 'll do what's wantun. I don't
want to take hold o' one o' they things. I'll take helum,
or stroke-oar, or bow-oar. Don't gi' me none o' they papers;
I've seen too much, and I've—shove off. Take it,
you, Zippity. Up mainsail! Up foresail! Brail up till
we get out. Oars! Give it to her, boys! Take it easy;
we shall want our arms, bumby.”

All Ladford's little speech, though we have emphasized
the different orders given, was delivered with just force
enough to fling its meaning to the ears for which it was
intended, and very little noise was, altogether, made by
the departing boat. Gilpin and Isaac, passing a word together,
went away in company.

The moon is not up yet, but is rising, and, though
above them, has not fairly put down and conquered the
great, damp shadows that crouch and lurk about.

Out into the stream, then outward to the Bay, all
steady and still, and Will Ladford steering, our boat pulls
on, much in the course of the other, but a little nearer to
the town, to have the weather-gauge, if possible, whatever
the chase may mean to do. A little beyond the island in
the harbor, they see the rival boat ahead, feeling the first
wind but setting no sail as yet; only the water is darkening
all about them, as it is roughened up by the freshening
breeze. Then, before our men have got into it, the
others spread their sails, put off their bow a point or
two, and their slight craft leans over as if she were
listening to the gurgling and the rippling at her side.
Our men sweep on, with a good, strong, steady sweep,
and not a word said. The breeze begins to come in flaws,
tempting the sails; but the others, ahead, are carrying off
all the wind in their canvas bags. There are nothing
but little flaws here—but a few strokes of the oar change
things wonderfully.

“Now give her her wings, lads,” said Will Ladford,
and she flutters them once or twice, and then is setting
her course like the other.

“She limps a little, to-night,” said Ladford. They understood
him as speaking of the boat pursued, and one of
them answered, “Then she's not well handled, I'm thinkin'.”

They all felt that their own was managed as it
ought to be.

“We're gainin' on her; we're drawin' up wi' her; we
shall overhaul her, if we goes on at this rate,” they said.

“We'll see that;” said Ladford; “but if we can't one
w'y, we can another. We can pull up wi' her, ef there's
no more wind stirrin' than this, and they can't help or
hender us.”

A race of sail-boats in a moonlight night, is a very
pretty thing; but here, while the whole land was lying
sleeping, what warm and eager life was going in these
boats! All eyes among William Ladford's company were
set toward the little sloop ahead.

“Somebody's got hold of her that knows hisself pooty
well, for all,” said Will Ladford, “but he's losin' ground
upon us, I believe. There's a strange caper! There
goes his gaff-topsail! What can they mean? There!
they've got it up again; the halyard gave way. That'll
help us on, many a good foot;” and indeed his little
boat seemed to be pulling the other back, while she advanced
herself.

Both parties were as still as two deep streams flowing
on under the night. About the boat there is a constant
babble of waters, as of travellers overtaken on the road
and passed. Ladford's companions—most, or all of them
—gazed through the moonlight, under the sails, at the
little sloop and those she carried—dark, silent figures, and
a sort of heap, or crowd, or something that was not fisherman,
and might be,—lying on a couch, or bundled up,
in the boat's bottom—the lost Lucy. Ladford sat up
straight and steered, looking all ways, without moving his
head, and at the same time seeming to have his eye on
any one that looked towards him. With his old canvas

hat and shabby clothes, most meanly dressed of all of
them, (and you have heard his speech too, just the coarse
dialect of the island;) he looked poetical and picturesque.
If you give a man command, whether it be of a body of
men, or of a horse, or of a boat—something that has a
power and will of its own,—there is always this interest
about him, and the more in proportion as the force and
will controlled are greater. One man, a genius for example,
full of power and passion, is a nobler object, controlling
and commanding himself, than almost any. But
to our chase!

There was Belle-isle, away ahead, with its great, deep
shadow, making the water look so dark and deep, and,
except to eyes that knew it and saw what was not to be
seen in this light, there was no separation, to the sight,
between the island and the main beyond, or between the
island and its companions, Great and Little Kelley's, or
however the lesser one is called.

They are coming near the boat ahead of them, and not
a word is said on either side.

“Tim Croonan,” said Will Ladford, giving to his
companions the name of the other helmsman, as if he
just touched each of his boat's crew with a conductor
of magnetic influence—the sound not being wasted or
spreading out beyond. In the other boat no noise or
motion of the people indicated their consciousness of any
body's being on the water but themselves. Steadily the
following boat drew up a little to windward of the sloop.

“Hail him, you Zippity!” said Ladford, and as the
words left his mouth, John flung his hail, in quick, sharp
voice—there was no need of loud—over the water. It
struck upon the bellying sails, and part of it came back.
It seemed as if it all came back; at all events it did not

seem to touch the people in the other boat, more than so
many dead men sailing in moonlight on the sea.

“Ahoy, Skipper!” was flung across again; “hilloa,
there!” but with no more effect than if he and his were
all in the soundest sleep. On they all went again, in silence;
the moon shining, the shadows stretching, the
water babbling; but two men do not keep along, side by
side, in street or highway, if one or both be waiting for
an opportunity, without soon coming into communication.
So it was here. The boats were nearly abreast of each
other, and thirty or forty yards apart.

“Can ye find never sea-room for yourself, but must
be coming and taking the wind out of us, intirely?” asked
the man whom Ladford had called Tim Croonan, turning
half round and then back again. He spoke like a man
that is insulted; but this time there was no answer out of
Ladford's boat.

“Why don't you answer un, then, Zippity?” asked
Ladford, gently; “you knows I want to keep myself
quiet.”

“But you're the oldest of us, and you can do it best,
too,” answered Zebedee.

“That's Misther Ladford, it is,” said Croonan, stretching
out the words, as if he were painting them in very
large letters, to the eyes of his hearers, with a hand
pointing at them. “Misther Ladford, and nothing less.”

“We don't want to quarrel, Mr. Croonan,” said Zippity,
taking up his office at this juncture, “We've got a
little business with you, that's all.”

“Wid me, is it, ye have business? This is a purty
time and place to come on business afther me; and the
more to it, that I think I don't know yiz, nor ever seen
yiz in my life, unless it's Misther Ladford, there,” (emphasizing

and stretching the words again,) “and I don't
know him too well. Is it me, alone, or the whole iv us,
ye've got business with?”

Will Ladford, saying nothing, eased off his mainsheet,
or let his mainsail go, a little, so as not to get ahead, but
to keep even pace, while his spokesman answered:—

“It's with all of you, I suppose. Is Lucy Barbury in
that boat?”

“Who's Lucy Barbury, then? And what's it to you,
I'd like to know, who's in this boat?” inquired Croonan.
“Give that topsail a stretch, now, so.”

Up went the topsail; the sheets of the other sails rattled
a little as they ran, and the sloop was beginning to hold
her own or more. In came Ladford's mainboom, again,
a hand's breadth or two, and another hand's breadth or
two, until he was satisfied.

“We've come to look after Lucy Barbury,” said Will's
spokesman, following up his advance.

“Well, look afther her, then; and take care ye don't
miss her, the light being a little dim, ye know,” returned
Croonan.

“We don't want to mistrust e'er a one; we wants only
just to know ef Lucy's there, that's all.”

“Them that's in this boat belongs here, is all I've got
to say, at the present time.”

“But if she's there she doesn't belong there, and that's
all we want to know. Will you please to tell us what
female you've got there, then?”

“No, I will not; only she's not your's, anny way. Ye
may take yer oath of that, if ye like.”

Ladford, having the weather-gauge, used it, and kept
away a little for the sloop.

“If you run into us, or come foul of us,—mind, if we
don't sink ye!” said Croonan sternly.

Ladford said nothing; but his boat was running down
the diagonal that would bring her up, before long, with
the left, or larboard, bow of the other.

“Now, I think I've given you fair warning,” said the
helmsman of the latter. “Tell me, now, will ye keep
away?—Boat-hook, Paddy!” he said, aside, to one of
his crew.—“I say, will ye keep away, now?”

They drew nearer and nearer; scarce three boats'
lengths separated them.

“I warn ye, now, to keep clear of us!” repeated
Croonan.

“Will you plase just to let us see who you've got?”
asked Ladford, taking, for the first time, a part in the conversation.
“It's only because of Lucy that's lost; and
sure, ef it was your case, you'd want the same. Will
you only let one of us come aboard?”

Misther Ladford's found his tongue, at last! I thought
mebbe, you'd got a cold, being exposed to the weather,
and not being used to it. Now, I tell ye there's no
Lucy Barbury here; will that do ye?” said Croonan.

“You've put us off so, we'd like to look for ourselves,
if you plase,” answered Zebedee, taking up his office
again.

“I'm thinkin' ye'll wait till ye're axed, then,” said the
other; “and mind, I warn ye, if you meddle with this
boat, if I don't sink you, or do harm to you!”

Ladford kept on, and came within a boat's length.

“Take you the helm, Paddy,” said Croonan, hastily.
“Give me that!” and, snatching the boat-hook out of
Paddy's hands, as he ran forward, he laid hold of the
end of Ladford's foremast, which leaned over towards him,
and bore down upon it with all his weight.

“I'll give them one small piece of a ducking, anny

way, that I don't think 'll do any harrm to them;” and, as
he bore down, the water already began to gurgle against
the rowlocks, along the gunwale, and to come into Ladford's
boat in a thick waterfall.

Saying nothing, the helmsman of the boat which was
thus going gunwale under, in the midst of that wide bay,
at night, and where it might be thirty fathoms, or fifty, or
a hundred, down to the bottom, thrust up an oar, just as
it was wanted, against the mischievous weapon, and
cleared the mast from its hold. Before Croonan got his
balance again, and got the wield of his boat-hook, Ladford's
little craft had righted, and he was at the helm.
She felt the wind, and got her headway once more, which
she had nearly lost. As they drew up again, Ladford
said:—

“I don't want to quarrel with any man. I want to
keep quiet, and clear of all mischief: but don't 'ee try that
again, friend. 'Ee can't ketch us another time, and if 'ee
breaks our mast, when we won't let it go down, next time,
it 'll be a provocation. 'Ee'd better let one of us come
quietly aboard of 'ee, and right back again.”

The boat-hook took, this time, the direction of the gunwale,
and, resting on it, kept the two craft asunder.
Ladford put up his helm, and his boat, turning on the end
of the boat-hook as on a fulcrum, brought her bow right
up against the breast of the other, flinging the latter,
also, at the same time, up into the wind. Croonan raised
his boat-hook, and brought it down in the way of wreaking
summary vengeance on this determined non-combatant's
head. It grazed the shoulder of the man it was intended
to stun or admonish severely, and, at the instant, he, seizing
it with one strong back hand, as he stood, brought the
other over to it, and pulled in on it. For his part, the

holder of the other end clung to it, not to be robbed of
his own boat-hook, and the two boats now came together
astern, both heading up into the wind.

At sea, one learns to do twenty things in little time,
and in hot moments one can do twenty times as much as
common; so the boats' coming together was not the only
thing that was accomplished now. Tim Croonan went,
sideways and backwards, overboard in a moment.

All this scene, being managed and shifted by those who
understood it, was very short; but a good deal more was
done in it than has been recorded. When things began
to thicken, a female voice was heard, alarmed, and crying
out, “not to get into trouble.” Tim Croonan's comrades
hurried aft, to rescue him,—(and let it be remembered
that fishermen and sailors rarely know how to swim).—
The cry was, “Where is he?”

Ladford called John, and, putting his mouth close to
the other's ear, said, in a most emphatic voice, “Keep a
sharp eye about this man for SHARKS.”

“Is that, there, the only lady or female there is on
board?” inquired he, aloud, as unmoved as if he did not
care a straw for the man's life, which might be washed
out by the waters of this cold, dark bay, like the life of a
tobacco-pipe, or crunched out by obscene and hideous
teeth.

“You're a man, are ye, then?” asked one of the other
crew. “A man's drowning! Where is he? Where is
he? What's that, there?” many voices joined in crying
out.

Whether it was that the smuggler of other days had got
his old nature alive in him, as things began to warm, or
for whatever reason, Ladford took no new animation into
him. “He's safe enough,” said he. “Look there, some

of ye, forward, and see ef there's no more in the t'other
one. No Lucy?”

“No! no Lucy,” was the answer. “There's two of
'em, but no Lucy!”

So this night sail, excitement, and bad blood;—nothing
had come of it, unless it should give rise to future quarrels.
Ladford and all his men had hoped, and hope had
become earnest, as they drew near the object of their
chase. They did not know how much their hope had
been until they lost it; and now they were hardly ready
for any thing, so disappointed were they. Has the reader
been disappointed? He knew what these boatmen did
not, yet.

It was not so with the other crew. They could not be
idle or listless.

“Down with that fellow! He's murdering Croonan!
Strike the bloody fellow down! Let go of that man, I
tell you now! He's holding him down in the water!”

Ladford had providently widened the distance between
himself and them, and he had their boat-hook. Oars,
therefore, were their only weapons of offence, or means
of grappling. Several oars were lifted in the air; but
Ladford threw them all up with a weapon of words.

“Have a care, now, friends. I've said I want to be
peaceable. Ef you wants to help your friend, avast with
your striking. I've done more'n I maned to done, for I
did not mane to do the laste vi'lence to e'er a one; but I
haven' done much. This man thought to give us a wetting,—so
he said,—and he've agot one. Here, then,
friend, take to your own boat. I'm sorry to 've adoned
any thing; but you brought it on yourself.”

As he said this, the noise and struggle, which had been
going on near the stern of his craft, was explained by his

bearing round, with his arm, to the open space between,
the body of Tim Croonan, whom he had been keeping,
and keeping in the water, by a hold of his clothes, from
which the man in the water had not been able to disengage
himself. Croonan had struggled, but had been too
proud to utter a word.

“Give me a hold of your oar,” said Ladford, to one of
the men opposite; and, getting hold of one, he held it
while they drew the boats nearly together again, with the
floating man between them. Croonan had soon hold of
the gunwale over which he had been dragged into the
sea, and, being released from the restraining hold, was
presently on board.

As William Ladford let go the oar, he fell back with a
groan, for the men at the other end had given him a
fierce thrust.

“That bloody old smuggler 'll hear of this again,” said
some of the rival crew; but, generally, in Newfoundland,
vengeance, if sought, is not wreaked very ferociously. It
is not likely to be so in this case; but it sometimes is.