Doctor Luke of the Labrador - Norman Duncan (e reader .TXT) 📗

Labrador. 'Smallpox!' says the skipper. 'Who says 'tis the smallpox? Me an' Jagger says 'tis the chicken-pox.' So the cook--the skipper havin' the eyes he had--says he'll sail t' the Labrador all right, but he'll see himself hanged for a mutineer afore he'll enter Poor Luck Harbour. 'Poor Luck Harbour, is it?' says the skipper. 'An' is that where they've the--the--smallpox?' says he. 'We'll lay a course for Poor Luck Harbour the morrow. I'll prove 'tis the chicken-pox or eat the man that has it.' So the cook--the skipper havin' the eyes he had--says _he_ ain't afraid o' no smallpox, but he knows what'll come of it if the crew gets ashore.

"'Ho, ho! cook,' says the skipper. '_You'll_ go ashore along o' _me_, me boy.'

"The next day we laid a course for Poor Luck Harbour, with a fair wind; an' we dropped anchor in the cove that night. In the mornin', sure enough, the skipper took the cook an' the first hand ashore t' show un a man with the chicken-pox; but I was kep' aboard takin' in fish, for such was the evil name the place had along o' the smallpox that we was the only trader in the harbour, an' had all the fish we could handle.

"'Skipper,' says I, when they come aboard, '_is_ it the smallpox?'

"'Docks, b'y,' says he, lookin' me square in the eye, 'you never yet heard me take back my words. I _said_ I'd eat the man that had it. But I tells you what, b'y, I ain't hankerin' after a bite o' what I seed!'

"'We'll be liftin' anchor an' gettin' t' sea, then,' says I; for it made me shiver t' hear the skipper talk that way.

"'Docks, b'y,' says he, 'we'll be liftin' anchor when we gets all the fish they is. Jagger,' says he, 'wants fish, an' I'm the boy t' get un. When the last one's weighed an' stowed, we'll lift anchor an' out; but not afore.'

"We was three days out from Poor Luck Harbour, tradin' Kiddle Tickle, when Tommy Mib, the first hand, took a suddent chill. 'Tommy, b'y,' says the cook, 'you cotched cold stowin' the jib in the squall day afore yesterday. I'll be givin' _you_ a dose o' pain-killer an' pepper.' So the cook give Tommy a wonderful dose o' pain-killer an' pepper an' put un t' bed. But 'twas not long afore Tommy had a pain in the back an' a burnin' headache. 'Tommy, b'y,' says the cook, 'you'll be gettin' the inflammation, I'm thinkin'. I'll have t' put a plaster o' mustard an' red pepper on _your_ chest.' So the cook put a wonderful large plaster o' mustard an' red pepper on poor Tommy's chest, an' told un t' lie quiet. Then Tommy got wonderful sick--believe _me_, sir, wonderful sick! An' the cook could do no more, good cook though he was.

"'Tommy,' says he, 'you got something I don't know nothin' about.'

"'Twas about that time that we up with the anchor an' run t' Hollow Cove, where we heard they was a grand cotch o' fish, all dry an' waitin' for the first trader t' pick it up. They'd the smallpox there, sir, accordin' t' rumour; but we wasn't afeard o' cotchin' it--thinkin' we'd not cotched it at Poor Luck Harbour--an' sailed right in t' do the tradin'. We had the last quintal aboard at noon o' the next day; an' we shook out the canvas an' laid a course t' the nor'ard, with a fair, light wind. We was well out from shore when the skipper an' me went down t' the forecastle t' have a cup o' tea with the cook; an' we was hard at it when Tommy Mib hung his head out of his bunk.

"'Skipper,' says he, in a sick sort o' whisper, 'I'm took.'

"'What's took you?' says the skipper.

"'Skipper,' says he, 'I--I'm--took.'

"'What's took you, you fool?' says the skipper.

"Poor Tommy fell back in his bunk. 'Skipper,' he whines, 'I've cotched it!'

"''Tis the smallpox, sir,' says I. 'I seed the spots.'

"'No such nonsense!' says the skipper. ''Tis the measles. That's what _he've_ got. Jagger an' me says so.'

"'But Jagger ain't here,' says I.

"'Never you mind about that,' says he. 'I knows what Jagger thinks.'

"When we put into Harbour Grand we knowed it wasn't no measles. When we dropped anchor there, sir, _we knowed what 'twas_. Believe _me_, sir, we _knowed_ what 'twas. The cook he up an' says he ain't afraid o' no smallpox, but he'll be sunk for a coward afore he'll go down the forecastle ladder agin. An' the second hand he says he likes a bunk in the forecastle when he can have one comfortable, but he've no objection t' the hold _at times_. 'Then, lads,' says the skipper, 'you'll not be meanin' t' look that way agin,' says he, with a snaky little glitter in his eye. 'An' if you do, you'll find a fist about the heft o' _that_,' says he, shakin' his hand, 't' kiss you at the foot o' the ladder.' After that the cook an' the second hand slep' in the hold, an' them an' me had a snack o' grub at odd times in the cabin, where I had a hammock slung, though the place was wonderful crowded with goods. 'Twas the skipper that looked after Tommy Mib. 'Twas the skipper that sailed the ship, too,--drove her like he'd always done: all the time eatin' an' sleepin' in the forecastle, where poor Tommy Mib lay sick o' the smallpox. But we o' the crew kep' our distance when the ol' man was on deck; an' they was no rush for'ard t' tend the jib an' stays'l when it was 'Hard a-lee!' in a beat t' win'ard--no rush at all. Believe _me_, sir, they was no rush for'ard--with Tommy Mib below.

"'Skipper Jim,' says I, one day, 'what _is_ you goin' t' do?'

"'Well, Docks,' says he, 'I'm thinkin' I'll go see Jagger.'

"So we beat up t' Wayfarer's Tickle--makin' port in the dusk. Skipper Jim went ashore, but took nar a one of us with un. He was there a wonderful long time; an' when he come aboard, he orders the anchor up an' all sail made.

"'Where you goin'?' says I.

"'Tradin',' says he.

"'Is you?' says I.

"'Ay,' says he. 'Jagger says 'tis a wonderful season for fish.'"

Docks paused. "Skipper Billy," he said, breaking off the narrative and fixing the impassive skipper of the _Greased Lightning_ with an anxious eye, "did they have the smallpox at Tops'l Cove? Come now; did they?"

"Ay, sir," Skipper Billy replied; "they had the smallpox at Tops'l Cove."

"Dear man!" Docks repeated, "they had the smallpox at Tops'l Cove! We was three days at Tops'l Cove, with folk aboard every day, tradin' fish. An' Tommy Mib below! We touched Smith's Arm next, sir. Come now, speak fair; did they have it there?"

"They're not rid of it yet," said Doctor Luke.

"Smith's Arm too!" Docks groaned.

"An' Harbour Rim," the skipper added.

"Noon t' noon at Harbour Rim," said Docks.

"And Highwater Cove," the doctor put in.

"Twenty quintal come aboard at Highwater Cove. I mind it well."

"They been dyin' like flies at Seldom Cove."

"Like flies?" Docks repeated, in a hoarse whisper. "Skipper Billy, sir, who--who died--like that?"

Skipper Billy drew his hand over his mouth. "One was a kid," he said, tugging at his moustache.

"My God!" Docks muttered. "One was a kid!"

In the pause--in the silence into which the far-off, wailing chorus of wind and sea crept unnoticed--Skipper Billy and Docks stared into each other's eyes.

"An' a kid died, too," said the skipper.

Again the low, wailing chorus of wind and sea, creeping into the silence. I saw the light in Skipper Billy's eyes sink from a flare to a glow; and I was glad of that.

"'Twas a cold, wet day, with the wind blowin' in from the sea, when we dropped anchor at Little Harbour Deep," Docks continued. "We always kep' the forecastle closed tight an' set a watch when we was in port; an' the forecastle was tight enough that day, but the second hand, whose watch it was, had t' help with the fish, for 'tis a poor harbour there, an' we was in haste t' get out. The folk was loafin' about the deck, fore an' aft, waitin' turns t' weigh fish or be served in the cabin. An' does you know what happened?" Docks asked, tensely. "Can't you see how 'twas? Believe _me_, sir, 'twas a cold, wet day, a bitter day; an' 'tis no wonder that one o' they folk went below t' warm hisself at the forecastle stove--went below, where poor Tommy Mib was lyin' sick. Skipper, sir," said Docks, with wide eyes, leaning over the table and letting his voice drop, "I seed that man come up--come tumblin' up like mad, sir, his face so white as paint. He'd seed Tommy Mib! An' he yelled, sir; an' Skipper Jim whirled about when he heard that word, an' I seed his lips draw away from his teeth.

"'Over the side, every man o' you!' sings he.

"But 'twas not the skipper's order--'twas that man's horrid cry that sent un over the side. They tumbled into the punts and pushed off. It made me shiver, sir, t' see the fright they was in.

"'Stand by t' get out o' this!' says the skipper.

"'Twas haul on this an' haul on that, an' 'twas heave away with the anchor, 'til we was well under weigh with all canvas spread. We beat out, takin' wonderful chances in the tickle, an' stood off t' the sou'east. That night, when we was well off, the cook says t' me that he _thinks_ he've nerve enough t' be boiled in his own pot in a good cause, but he've no mind t' make a Fox's martyr of hisself for the likes o' Skipper Jim.

"'Cook,' says I, 'we'll leave this here ship at the next port.'

"'Docks,' says he, ''tis a clever thought.'

"'Twas Skipper Jim's trick at the wheel, an' I loafed aft t' have a word with un--keepin' well t' win'ward all the time; for he'd just come up from the forecastle.

"'Skipper Jim,' says I, 'we're found out.'

"'What's found out?' says he.

"'The case o' smallpox for'ard,' says I. 'What you goin' t' do about it?'

"'Do!' says he. 'What'll I do? Is it you, Docks, that's askin' me that? Well,' says he, 'Jagger an' me fixed _that_ all up when I seed him there t' Wayfarer's Tickle. They's three ports above Harbour Deep, an' I'm goin' t' trade un all. 'Twill be a v'y'ge by that time. Then I'm goin' t' run the _Sink or Swim_ back o' the islands in Seal Run. Which done, I'll wait for Tommy Mib t' make up his mind, one way or t' other. If he casts loose, I'll wait, decent as you like, 'til he's well under weigh, when I'll ballast un well an' heave un over. If he's goin' t' bide a spell longer in this world, I'll wait 'til he's steady on his pins. But, whatever, go or stay, I'll fit the schooner with a foretopmast, bark her canvas, paint her black, call her the _Prodigal Son_, an' lay a course for St. Johns. They's not a man on the docks will take the _Prodigal Son_, black hull, with topmast fore an' aft an' barked sails, inbound from the West Coast with a cargo o' fish--not a man,