Mattie Mitchell Read Online Free PDF Page B

the
schooner captain, who was standing over the whale gun with what
appeared to be a burning stick in his hand. He held the burning
end against a thin, dark fuse sticking up out of the back of thecannon. Just when it seemed it would not ignite, it sizzled into a
smoky yellow flame that travelled down the twisted length of fuse
and disappeared into the bore of the cannon. By now everyone,
including the skipper, had jumped out over the gunnels of the
schooner to stand on the creaking wharf. From the mouth of the
cannon came a single perfect ring of smoke. From the small hole
where the burning fuse had disappeared came a long pfttt! sound
like that of a fat squid on a jigger, and nothing more.
    Everyone started yelling at the captain at once, blaming him
for the “dud” shot. The captain yelled back, “It wasn’t my fault!
Maybe the bloody powder was damp!” He started to climb back
aboard his schooner to check on the failed firing of the gun, when
a blue, black, and white plume of smoke erupted from each end
of the cannon. From the business end erupted a long, thin, yellow
tongue of flame followed by an ear-splitting explosion that
silenced the second church bell, which had just begun. The noise
burst out over the still waters of the harbour, boomed way out
the bay, and roared back from the hills. When the echo died, the
next sounds came from every dog in the place. The barking that
followed created almost as much disquiet as had the cannon. And,
still, “poor Walt” did not appear.
    High in the hills, wet and tired, Mattie Mitchell smiled at the
memory. The sound he had heard just a few minutes before came
again. This wasn’t someone hoping to raise a dead body from the
depths. Of that he was pretty sure. The sound did not come again.
Striding once more into the dark forest, the tall Indian vanished
from the mountain meadow.

    DOWN OVER THE WHITE MOUNTAINS , through the wooded
gorges, across the sloped, spring-flowing valleys and out into theice-packed Gulf of St. Lawrence, a small schooner lay jammed
solid. Dark figures scrambling down her shaky rope ladders and
wooden side sticks jumped drunkenly onto the hummocky ice
that held them prisoner. The first few steps the black-clad men
took left dirty, grease-stained prints on the virgin ice: the filth
from the schooner’s deck trailing the hunters.
    The schooner’s white mainsail appeared to be new and was
billowed full with a following wind. Her foresail was brown and
showed many sewn patches, the stitching showing like the healed
scabs from numerous wounds. This sail too was pulling with all
of its strain. But still the schooner was not moving.
    The vessel was leaning to starboard at an alarming angle
and was in danger of being broached by the terrible pressure
exerted on her port side by the squeezing ice. On board, the
men flung heavy hemp lines from her bow and, on the ice,
the others hurriedly gathered them up. Placing the ropes over
their shoulders, and bent over like straining, hauling dogs, and
bellowing some obscure seaman’s shanty, the sealers pulled with
all their might. Now the sails luffed a bit as the men shouted, the
mast rigging creaked and clinked, the schooner yawed more to
starboard and groaned her misery, but still she remained held in
the frozen grip.
    At a command from the schooner’s skipper the ropes were
discarded. The men hurried back along both sides of the hapless
boat, where they stood and awaited further instructions. Two
greasy poles about ten feet long were handed down over the sides
of the schooner by the few men still on deck, along with several
quart-sized cans of black powder. The two men who took the
wooden poles quickly lashed one tin of the canned explosives
to one end of each pile. Thin, black fuses no more than a foot
long were attached to one end of the cans. Now the two men
separated from the crowd. Running like proud warriors, theirraised standards swaying as they went, they soon reached