Sweetapple Cove | Page 8

"And what about you and the little boy, Frenchy?" I asked the other
man.
"Me go orright," he answered. "Me see heem baby again."
So we jumped aboard. The tiny cove was so sheltered that we had to
give a few strokes of the oars before, suddenly, the little ship heeled to
the blow.
CHAPTER III
From John Grant's Diary
In a few minutes the slight protection afforded us by Will's Island was

denied us. I was anxious to ask further details about this injured man
we were hurrying to see, but the two fishermen had no leisure for
conversation. A few necessary words had to be shrieked. Even before I
had finished putting on my oilskins the water was dashing over us, and
old Sammy, at the tiller, was jockeying his boat with an intense
preoccupation that could not be interfered with.
The smack was of a couple of tons' burden, undecked, with big
fish-boxes built astern and amidships. She carried two slender masts
with no bowsprit to speak of, having no headsails, and her two tanned
wings bellied out while the whole of her fabric pitched and rolled over
the white crested waves. The fog was growing denser around us, as if
we had been journeying through a swift-moving cloud. It was scudding
in from the Grand Banks, pushed by a chill gale which might first have
passed over the icy plateaux of inner Greenland.
This lasted for a long time. We were all staring ahead and seeking to
penetrate the blinding veil of vapor, and I felt more utterly strayed and
lost than ever in my life before. Our faces were running with the salt
spray that swished over the bows or flew over the quarters, to stream
down into the bilge at our feet, foul with fragments of squid and caplin
long dead. We were also beginning to listen eagerly for other sounds
than the wind hissing in the cordage, the breaking of wave-tops and the
hard thumping of the blunt bows upon the seas.
"Look out sharp, byes, I'm mistrusting'," roared old Sammy.
There were some long tense moments, ended by a shriek from Frenchy
by the foremast.
"Hard a-lee!"
The sails shook in the wind and swung in-board, and out again, with a
rattling of the little blocks. The forefoot rose high, once or twice, with
the lessened headway, and a great savage mass of rock passed
alongside, stretching out jagged spurs, like some wild beast robbed of
its prey. Frenchy, ahead, crossed himself quietly, without excitement,
and again peered into the fog.

"Close call!" I shouted to the skipper, after I had recovered my breath,
since I am not yet entirely inured to the risks these men constantly run.
"We nigh got ketched," roared back Sammy Moore. "I were mistrustin'
the tide wuz settin' inshore furder'n common. But I knows jist where I
be now, anyways."
His grim wrinkled face was unmoved, for during all his life he had
been staring death in the face and such happenings as these were but
incidents in the day's work.
"I doesn't often git mistook," he shouted, "but fer this once it looks like
the joke were on me."
The little smack continued to rise and fall over the surge. Yves, the
Frenchman, remained at his post forward, holding on to the foremast
and indifferent to the spray that was drenching him as he stared through
the fog, keenly. My attention was becoming relaxed for, after all, I was
but a passenger. Despite Sammy's close shave I maintained a
well-grounded faith in him. It was gorgeous to see him speed his boat
over the turbulent waters with an inbred skill and ease which reminded
one of seagulls buffeting the wind or harbor seals playing in their
element. Like these the man was adapted to his life, not because he
possessed wonderful intelligence but owing to the brine which, since
childhood, had entered his blood. The vast ice-pans had revealed their
secrets to him and the North Atlantic gales had become the breath of
his nostrils.
I can remember a time when I had an idea that I could handle a boat
fairly well, but now I was compelled to recognize my limitations, while
I really enjoyed the exhibition of Sammy's skill.
"We'd ought ter be gettin' handy," roared the latter to Frenchy, who
nodded back, turning towards us his dripping, bearded face, for an
instant.
Suddenly he extended his arm.

"Me see. To port!" he shouted.
Dimly, veiled by the fog curtain, of ghostly outline, a jutting cliff
appeared and Sammy luffed slightly. On both sides of us the seas were
dashing up some tremendous rocks, but directly ahead there was an
opening between the combers that hurled themselves aloft, roaring and
impotent, to fall back into seething masses