Joak McGlashan's troubles started when the _Starbuck_ crossed 45°
south. The pleasant zephyrs of the Trades were a memory of the past;
the gentle undulations of the fine weather latitudes which hove the
schooner gently along their swelling bosoms gave place to long
rollers, which had the vessel sliding down their declivities and
almost standing on her bowsprit, and then climbing up a watery hill
with her long toothpick looking for the Southern Cross.
Joak had to work around his stove during this ocean fandango; he had
to cook and prepare meals with his galley floor sliding and sloping
under him at angles which called for gimballed joints and adhesive
feet. When they swung into the "Roaring Forties" the skipper had given
Joak a warning of what was to come. "Mouse your pots an' kettles,
cook, the _Starbuck's_ bound to the east'ard!" he said with a grin.
"See all yer cut glass an' silver well stowed, chocked up, tommed off,
an' shored, for she'll do some queer prancing from now on!"
"Aye, captain," returned Joak ruefully. "She's beginnin' tae jump
aboot, but let me tell ye, ef ye want guid bread ye'll hae tae rin her
steadier fur I canna get ma dough tae rise wi' th' shup jugglin' about
like a jumpin'-jack!" And with this dire remark he grabbed at a
sliding pot and chocked it off on top of the stove with a rolling
rod.
The fiddles were shipped on the fo'c'sle table, and a minimum of
dishes were placed upon it at a time. The men ate with their mugs of
tea or coffee in their hands, and with a protective arm around their
plates, for _Helen_ was beginning to dance. On deck, everything was
double-lashed for heavy weather; the foretopmast had been sent down,
and the balloon jib and foretopsail rolled up and stowed away in the
sail locker. Under winter rig of four lowers the schooner was swinging
into the long rollers of the "Forties" and getting ready for her
"easting."
The cold weather came upon them quickly, and Donald donned his winter
clothes and saw to boots, mittens, socks, and oil-skins. Though it was
supposed to be summer time down south, yet it was bitterly cold and
the only tangible evidence of the season was the long daylight--the
duration of darkness being but four hours, as the sun was south of the
Line. The blue color of the middle-latitude seas had changed to a
chill grey-green, and as they made their southing the wind hauled more
westerly and blew hard with a vigor and intensity which reminded
Donald of other days in this part of the world. At times they glimpsed
on the far horizon great islands of dazzling white--outriders of the
Antarctic ice, lofty, immense in area, and dangerous in calms and
thick weather.
With the single-reefed mainsail boomed over the quarter, whole
fores'l, jumbo and jib, the _Helen Starbuck_ commenced to show her
heels in the windy latitudes south of fifty. Twelve knots, thirteen
knots, fourteen knots were common hourly readings in the gusts, and
Nickerson would grunt with satisfaction when he picked off noon to
noon runs of three hundred sea miles. Rare travelling, surely! And he
would pace the weather alley glancing at sail and sheet to scent a job
for the watch in jigging-up slack canvas or yanking a boom inboard.
Occasional snow flurries came down the wind and it was bitter on deck
o' nights, but there was always a warm bunk in a warm cabin or
fo'c'sle to turn into; good eatable grub at meal times, and a "mug up"
of hot coffee or a bite of soft bread or pie for a man to warm his
blood with during, or after, a chilly watch.
Then came the day, when, steering east by south, they started to "run
their easting down." They were south of Cape Piller and had got into
the swing of the tremendous sea which sweeps around the world in that
latitude. The western wind blew hard and strong and Nickerson had the
mainsail stowed, the big main boom in the crotch well secured by the
crotch-tackles, chain guys and topping-lift, the jib furled and triced
up on the fore-stay to keep it from freezing on to the bowsprit, and
the jumbo was in the stops.
Under the whole foresail and the squaresail, they were running her
before it--a job for nervy men--and the great rollers of the Southern
Ocean were piling up in vast battalions, crowned with acres of
seething, roaring foam, and almost half a mile from crest to crest. In
these mighty undulations, the _Helen Starbuck_ was storming along with
the wind whistling in her rigging and a bawling welter of white water
sheering away from her sharp bows.
Joak, imprisoned in the fo'c'sle, was endeavouring to cook under
conditions which rendered culinary work a herculean task. It was one
hand for himself and one for the ship, and he hung between sink and
stove doing his best and feeling half sick with the heat of his
battened-down fo'c'sle, and the violent swoops and leaps of the ship.
Aft in the cabin the watch below slept in the spare bunks so as to be
handy for a sudden call. Two men steered, lashed to the wheel-box, and
Nickerson stood, muffled to the eyes, in oil-skins and sea-boots, on
top of the cabin house with an arm thrust through a stop of the furled
mainsail. He was constantly on deck watching ship and sea, looking out
for ice, and, ever and anon, grunting advice to the wheelsmen.
Steering a running ship in such a sea called for vigilance and skill.
Once let her broach-to amid those Cape Horn grey-beards, and she would
be gone--rolled over and smashed into kindling in the twinkling of an
eye.
Up, up, up, the slopes of these frightful hills of brine she would
climb--poise for a moment amidst the roaring white water of the crests
with her keel showing clear to the foremast--and then, with a wild
swoop, her bows would drive down the fore-front of the comber into the
trough with the creaming surge-tops growling, roaring and curling
above and behind her. Many times they piled up astern--walls of
grey-green water full thirty feet above their heads--and when almost
under their toppling crests, the brave little vessel would leap
forward and the giant comber would plunge over and break on each
quarter in a thundering broil of foam which drowned all other sounds.
The two Norwegians and Donald were the only hands who would steer the
schooner running in this sea. Thompson and Jenkins refused to tackle
the wheel, and Nickerson would not insist. Good steersmen are born,
not made, and only men who had an instinctive knowledge of a vessel's
ways, who could forecast what she would do a few seconds after, were
able to twirl the spokes to correct that little swing which might lead
to broaching and disaster. Most seamen can steer a good trick by
compass or by the wind in a moderate breeze, but it takes a
master-helmsman to steer running before a gale and a giant sea. The
Norwegians inherited their steersmanship through centuries of Viking
ancestry; McKenzie, through quick wit, sensitiveness and steady nerve.
The wonderful seaworthiness of the schooner was fully apparent during
that storming to the east'ard. She was as buoyant as a cork and no
heavy water struck her decks. Sprays would slop in over the waist or
over the bows when she over-ran a sea, but the quarters were dry and
never a dollop came over the taff-rail. "Ef ye were in the
_Kelvinhaugh_ naow," remarked the skipper, "I'd hate to think o' what
she'd be doing. I cal'late she'd be pooped in this a dozen times in a
watch and her main deck 'ud be full to the rail with them greybeards
overtaking her."
They wolfed their food in the fo'c'sle, mug and food in hand, and they
had to watch their chance to jump below without bringing an unwelcome
sea down the half-opened hatch. Joak did his best to cook something,
but after many disasters, he confined his efforts to tea and coffee,
biscuits and soup, and the others did not grumble but praised him for
his efforts.
"This ain't nawthin'," remarked the skipper with a grin. "I've seen it
ten times worse'n this daown here. I recollect once bein' two weeks in
the hollow o' one sea an' when we came up on the crest of it we c'd
look daown the chimneys in China, by Godfrey!"
It was dangerous going, and the skipper fully appreciated it. He was
anxious, and when the black squalls of rain and sleet came driving
down upon them, he watched the straining sails and spars with eyes of
concern. It was now that the sailorizing of the Trade latitudes would
be put to the test. A drawn splice, a slip-shod mousing, a stranded
rope or a broken shackle ... and disaster might follow swiftly. He
spent his time between his cabin-roof look-out and the vicinity of the
foremast scanning the over-taxed gear. When the squalls came driving
down, he was doubly concerned.
West of the Ramirez in the grey dawn, the gale stiffened into a wind
which her sail could not stand. A violent gust carried the squaresail
away and it flew down the wind like a snowflake. The schooner was
trembling under the weight of the whole foresail and the mast
threatened to go by the board. Nickerson called all hands, cook as
well, and said: "We've got to reef that fores'l and reef it running as
we can't come to the wind in this sea. Donald will take the wheel, and
the rest of us will tackle the sail." And to Donald he said in words
pregnant with meaning, "Son, you want to steer as you never steered
before. Watch her like a hawk and give her jest th' least little shake
so's we kin git that fores'l daown a bit ... and don't let her lose
way or come up!"
Donald took the spokes and the others went for'ard along the swaying,
sloshing decks. A terrible sea was running and the air was white with
driving sleet, while the wind screamed in the shrouds and plastered
the naked main-mast with wet snow.
The six men for'ard cast off the halliards and four had hold of the
gaff-downhaul. "Shake her a mite, son!" roared Nickerson in the teeth
of the wind. Donald glanced astern at the sea, then eased the wheel
down gently--watching the sail anxiously and murmuring a heartfelt
prayer. The schooner tore along, yawing and plunging, but she started
to come up with the turn of her rudder and Donald met her with
unerring instinct. The vessel swung around in the trough, the sail
commenced to flutter, and the men hauled the gaff down with lurid
deep-water oaths and yells of encouragement. "Swing her off! Swing her
off!" bawled Nickerson, fearfully eyeing a big greybeard which was
racing down on them, but McKenzie had acted ere he sung out.
With the fore-gaff held fast by the down-haul, and the reef cringle on
the leach sweated down to the boom by a tackle, the sail bellied out
like a balloon in the squalls, and as the schooner raced off before
the wind again the six men and boys started to get the tack of the
sail down to the goose-neck of the fore-boom. They tugged and hauled
with numb fingers, but the sail was iron-hard and full and refused to
"light up." "It 'ud take a whole fishing gang o' twenty men to reef
that fores'l naow!" panted the skipper. "We'll hev to shoot her up
again to git that tack-earring passed." He clawed his way aft to the
wheel.
"Ye'll hev to shake her again, son," he shouted. "Be damned careful,
naow, an' don't let her lose way or git tripped up."
Watching his chance, Donald eased the helm down and yelled, "Now!" The
sail flapped and jerked at the restraining sheet and down-haul while
Nickerson and the gang hove down the tack-cringle with tugs and oaths.
The schooner was sidling along in a momentary lull in the squalls with
way upon her, when Donald saw the shadow of a big sea before him. He
flashed a look astern; saw it piling up with a crest of foam, roaring
and seething, and he screamed, "Look out, ahead!" and clawed the helm
up as it thundered over the taff-rail and engulfed him in tons of
chilly brine.
The water tore at his lashing and he hung to the wheel with his arms
thrust through the spokes. While under water he instinctively
shouldered the wheel up a bit to prevent a gybe; there was a roaring
as of Niagara in his ears; red lights danced before his eyes; his
lungs filled to bursting, while his strained muscles pained fearfully.
Then his eyes glimpsed the daylight, and he straightened up off the
wheel-box with a dull pain in his left side, while the gallant little
vessel lifted ahead and rolled the water off her decks over both
rails.
"All right, nipper?" came a voice from for'ard.
"Aye, all right!" he gasped faintly, steadying the schooner in a
violent yaw. Dazed and panting for breath, he stood hanging on to the
spokes and steering by instinct. They had got the fores'l tack tied
down and were tying the reef-points. In a few minutes the sail was
reefed, the down-haul cast off, and the gaff hoisted up again. Then
they trooped aft, clawing their way along the slushy decks.
"Yer face is all over blood!" cried the skipper staring at Donald.
"Did that sea hurt ye?"
The boy wiped the blood away from a wound in his forehead where his
head had struck the handholds of the wheel-spokes. "That's nothing,
sir," he replied. "I, couldn't help letting that sea come aboard ...
it caught us as she was coming to in the trough."
"Of course you couldn't help it," said the other. "You did blame'
fine! You must ha' swung her off an' steadied her while that comber
had you under. From for'ard, there was nawthin' to be seen aft here
but th' main-boom stickin' aout! Waal, she's all right naow. Under
that rag of a fores'l she'll run like a hound. Ain't there th' hell of
a sea runnin' though? A square-rigger 'ud be sloshin' through this
under a fore-lower-tops'l--" He stopped and pointed at the smother
down to starboard. "Look!" he shouted. "There's a poor devil of an
outward-bounder! See him? Hove to!"
The _Starbuck's_ crew stared in the direction indicated and glimpsed
in the lift of the sleet squalls a big grey-painted barque lying under
a mizzen stays'l and a goose-winged lower maintops'l with the lee clew
hauled out. "Poor devils ... beatin' to the west'ard off th' pitch o'
th' Horn ... sooner be on this hooker, captain!" shouted Thompson, and
his remarks seemed strange when one made comparisons between the big
wall-sided barque with her spacious decks and human complement of
twenty-five or thirty men, and the little 95-ton _Helen Starbuck_ and
her seven hands all told. But Thompson was learning that size did not
mean seaworthiness or even comfort, and an able little schooner of
Bank fisherman model was to be preferred to a huge steel box like the
_Kelvinhaugh_ for ocean ranging.
The pain in McKenzie's side was beginning to make him wince when a
kick of the wheel jarred his body, and the skipper noticed it. He came
close to the lad and shouted in order to be heard above the noise of
wind and sea, "Hurt anywhere?"
The boy nodded and grinned stoically. "Think I've bust a 'slat,'
sir!"--using West Coast slang. "Got hove down on wheel ... left
side ... when sea hit her that time." Nickerson shoved back the hatch.
"Olsen! Relieve the wheel!" And when he came up he motioned to Donald
to go down into the cabin.
When McKenzie was divested of his upper clothing, examination revealed
an ugly bruise just below the heart. With Thompson and Chubby holding
the boy from sliding off the locker, the skipper examined the spot,
tenderly feeling the bruise with his fingers. "You sure have, son!" he
murmured. "Two slats are sprung, me son! Waal, can't be helped, but
ye'll do no deck work or steering for a spell, boy. You've done yer
trick, anyway, so we'll doctor ye up without kickin'!" And he first
proceeded to doctor Donald by giving him a stiff dose of salts!
"Ugh!" protested McKenzie after he had swallowed the nauseous dose.
"Is this a sailor's cure-all? If a man breaks a leg or a rib, why
should he be dosed with this muck?"
Nickerson laughed. "It may seem unnecessary, but it ain't, for the
salts will put your system into a condition which will help the bones
to knit. There's good medical logic in that, son!" Dosed, rubbed with
liniment and bandaged, Donald was shored by pillows and rolled up
blankets into a cabin bunk and ordered to remain there for the rest of
the day.
"Durned plucky kid!" remarked the skipper to Thompson.
"Always was," answered the other. "Game to the core! Good stuff in
him! Always plays cricket!" An odd British Public School expression,
the latter. Fulsome praise, truly, from two such men--English and
Canadian master-seamen!
Flying along on the wings of the wind the _Helen Starbuck_ made brave
running of it under the reefed foresail, and when Nickerson managed to
get a noon sight in spite of successive squalls and sliding decks, he
figured out the ship's position and remarked gleefully to Donald,
"She's run ahead of the log, son! We'll haul her up this afternoon.
Cape Stiff'll be in sight off the port bow in a while. She's run sixty
miles in four hours--good travelling! Thought I sighted the Ramirez
rocks at eight this morning ... to th' norrad. Old Man Horn should be
loomin' up from th' riggin' naow ef it's anyways clear inshore." Cape
Horn in sight! The storied Stormy Horn--locale of a thousand epics of
the sea since Schouten and Drake braved its tempestuous corner.
"'Round Cape Horn!" A sailor's boast--conferring a brevet rank on the
man who had gone through the mill off Cape Stiff! Donald's imagination
thrilled at the thought of viewing the wind-and-wave-beaten milestone
at the foot of the world. "I'd like to see it, sir," he pleaded. "Call
me when it is sighted, please!"
Nickerson laughed. "Waal, son, ye're more eager than I am. I wouldn't
care a cuss ef I never saw it. Ef it was old Cape Sable or Nigger Cape
or Sambro or Eastville Heads, naow! Why, I'd jump to the spreaders for
a squint, but Cape Stiff? Ugh!" And he spat disgustedly. He buttoned
up his oilcoat and clambered on deck, and a minute or two later Donald
could hear his voice. "Aye ... to th' norrad ... high peak with
smaller ones. See it? Aye ... alright." The companion hatch was shoved
back and Donald was out of his bunk and pulling on his boots when the
captain came down. "Hell's main hatch is in sight," he cried with a
laugh. "Where they brew the gales and sailor's misery.... Lemme help
ye with yer coat. It ain't rainin' naow an' th' sun's aout. I'll bowse
ye up on th' cabin roof."
About eight miles distant, the Ultima Thule of the South American
continent reared its hoary head--a pinnacle of weather-worn granite,
which, with the lower hills of Horn Island and the land behind, made
the whole appear like a crouching lion facing the west. It stood
clearly defined for a space--blue against the rain and mist behind and
dull red where its northern slopes caught the sun--a monument of
strenuous endeavour; a monolithic memorial to seamen's a courage and
suffering, and the bones of ships and men in the waters below. Around
its splintered base the mighty combers of a world-around wind-hounding
smashed themselves in acres of foam, roaring and hissing in sullen
fury at the implacability of the rock which forever bars their
passage. Tremendous! Inspiring! Irresistible! The storied, stormy
Horn!
A moment later it was blotted out by a snarling snow squall just as
though the God of those seas had rung down the curtain on a sight not
given to every sailor's eyes. Donald was assisted to his bunk again.
He had seen the Horn and his romance-hunger was satisfied.
When Horn Island had swung to the port quarter, Captain Nickerson
called the hands. "We'll gybe that fores'l over naow and make our
northing. Hook the boom-tackle into that fore-boom and ease her over,
and look out in case she ships a sea!" The relieving tackle was
hooked on to ease the fore-sheet when the boom came over, and Hansen
was instructed to put the helm up. The vessel swung to the nor'rad,
the fores'l gave a mighty flap, and with a "whish!" and a "crash!" and
the screech of the tackle-rope whirring through the blocks, the sail
swooped over and brought up on the patent gybing gear with a jarring
shock. "Let 'er go nothe-east by east!" cried the skipper. "We'll run
her through the LeMaire Straits an' dodge this sea. I cal'late the
rips o' the Pacific drift and the Patagonia current ain't agoin' to
bother us much in there ... we'll try it. Can't be worse'n the Bay o'
Fundy 'round Brier Island."
They negotiated the Strait without difficulty--sighting the high
cliffs of Staten Island and Terra del Fuego in their passage through
the treacherous channel, and after leaving the sterile, snow-capped
highlands of Cape San Diego astern, they swung off shore again, and
ran over by the West Falklands and up the South American coast.
Back into warmer climes, they busied themselves overhauling the
schooner's rigging after the strain of the easting run, and on the
morning of a fine summer's day they struck soundings in the muddy
estuary of the River Plate. Under all sail with the wind blowing down
the river, they snored through the muddy water and picked up the
English Bank light-ship. Four hours later, they stood in and dropped
head-sails and anchor in the outer roadstead of Monte Video.
Reporting at the Customs House that they only came in for water, wood
and supplies, they procured these necessities and spent a couple of
days seeing the sights of the beautiful Uruguayan city. Donald sent
off a long letter to his mother telling her of the voyage so far and
his future prospects. Before sunrise one morning, the _Helen Starbuck_
slipped away on the last leg of her long, long trail.
The voyage up the South Atlantic, over the Line, and into the North
Atlantic was practically a repetition of their Pacific passage, and
with much the same daily round of duties. It was not all plain
sailing. They experienced several blows, and some they had to ride
out hove-to under foresail and jumbo. The worst of these was near
home, between La Have and Western Bank, and here, for the first time,
Donald saw numerous Bank fishing schooners lying-to like themselves.
"Son, these are fishermen!" cried Nickerson, pointing to six or eight
vessels riding out the blow around them. "They're hanging on to the
ground until it moderates. Ef they had a full trip below, they'd be
hoofin' it for Boston or Gloucester under all she'd stand. It takes a
breeze o' wind to stop those fellers--they're sail-draggers from
'way-back. You'll see some joker giving her 'main-sheet' for home in a
while."
In a blurry easterly squall of sleet that night, Donald saw one of
them "giving her main-sheet" for home. She stormed out of the
smother--a long, lean schooner under reefed mainsail, whole foresail
and jumbo, and she flew ahead of the _Starbuck_ on the wings of the
wind--riding over the seas like a duck, with the main-boom over the
quarter and well topped up to keep it clear of the wave-crests when
she rolled to loo'ard. There was something inspiring in the manner in
which she raced out of the gloom--a ghostly vessel literally bounding
over the seas. A pile of dories were nested on her deck amidships, and
as she swung past, someone hailed, "Hi-yi! haow's fishin'?"
Nickerson chuckled delightedly. "Naow, there's a hound!" he remarked.
"Swinging off for Boston or Gloucester with a hundred thousand o' cod
and haddock below. Dory-handliner, by the looks o' her. Her gang will
be below playing cards or mugging-up or snoozing, and only two on deck
seeing her home! These fellers are sailors, my son! Winter and summer,
they're sloggin' in and aout, and nawthin' bothers them. I'd sooner be
skipper of that hooker than commander of the _Teutonic_! I'd have more
fun and I'd make more money."
When the _Starbuck_ got under way again under reefed canvas, fishing
schooners passed her bound west under their whole four lowers.
Sometimes two vessels would come driving up out of the snow
squalls--racing for port with sheets flat aft and the lee rail under
in a broil of white water, and a mob of oilskinned men lounging around
the quarters of the respective ships watching the going and betting on
the outcome. Beautiful schooners they were, and Donald could not
believe that such yacht-like craft were employed in the humble
pursuits of fishing.
"There's hundreds of these craft on this coast," remarked Captain
Nickerson, "and they're all fine-lined, able vessels. They're built to
sail fast and they're rigged an' sparred to stand the drag. They draw
a lot of water aft and they carry a pile of iron and stone ballast.
That's why they can sail an' make a passage while we're lying-to. Even
in this able packet, we wouldn't dare to try to sail by the wind like
those jokers in that snifter."
Donald was profoundly impressed and he began to regard casting his lot
with the North American Bank fishermen as something to be desired--a
phase of seafaring with remunerative and romantic attractions, and
when he saw more of them, crossing the southern edge of Western Bank,
the spell of this adventurous, daring, sailorly life began to get a
hold on his imagination, and he made up his mind to give it a trial.
Incidents, related by Nickerson, of the camaraderie among the crews,
their superb seamanship, and the good living aboard their vessels also
influenced his decision to experience these things himself.
On a bright winter's morning when the sea, ruffled by a moderate
westerly breeze, rolled blue under a clear, cloudless sky, to the
horizon, the skipper pointed over the port bow. "Old Nova Scotia's
showin' up naow!" he said with a grin. "Ye'll see the rocks and spruce
in a while, and if it holds like this, we'll drop the killick in
Halifax to-day. We're running in to the shores of God's Country--Nova
Scotia!" He uttered the last sentence with unusual feeling in his
voice.... Judson Nickerson--hard-case blue-waterman, world ranger, and
a perfect seaman--was glad to be nearing home after many years.
The faint haze on the horizon ahead defined itself, as they drew near,
into wooded hills--green with spruce and coniferous trees--and
patched, here and there with snow which gleamed dazzling white in the
sunshine. A depression in the land, over which smoke could be
discerned, marked the City of Halifax, and, ahead of them an Atlantic
liner was standing in for the port.
Captain Nickerson was pacing up and down the quarter, smoking and
talking to the runaway apprentices, and Thompson lounging aft. "You
two chaps"--meaning Thompson and Jenkins--"will have no trouble in
getting a ship for England here. You can either go as a passenger or
ship as quarter-master or 'fore-the-mast. It's only a ten-day jump
across the pond and a mere hoot-in-hell to the fifteen thousand mile
we've traversed in this hooker. There's Chebucto Head to port an'
Devil's Island to starb'd ... we're gettin' inside the harbor naow ...
due north by compass takes her right up." And he chatted and joked
with the boys in buoyant spirits at getting home--a vastly different
Nickerson from the bawling, truculent wind-jammer officer of other
days.
Slipping along in smooth water, they found themselves once more
encompassed by green earth and human habitation, and it was good to
look upon by eyes wearied by countless leagues of restless sea.
Herring Cove, with its fishermen's cottages nestling among the winter
greenery, slipped past to port, and the village looked snug and homey
and "landish" to these world sailors. Thrumcap, Maugher's Beach, and
McNab Island glided by, and they lowered the stays'l for the last time
as they ran through the passage of George Island at the neck of the
harbor. The fair city of Halifax burst upon their vision then--row
upon row of houses rising from the wharves and warehouses of Water
Street to the Citadel Hill, which overlooked the eastern outpost to
the Dominion which the _Helen Starbuck_ had run the length of two
oceans to span from west to east. Victoria to Halifax! A long traverse
truly for a small schooner around the Horn, and when they let the
headsails run and dropped the anchor behind George Island, Captain
Nickerson smacked his fist on the wheel-box and laughed. "Victoria to
Halifax raound Cape Stiff in a hundred an' twenty days! Not too bad
for a little hooker--not too bad! With a little more ballast and a
couple more hands to fist sail in a breeze, we'd ha' done it in a
hundred! But, it was a fair sail ... a fair sail!"
Donald and Thompson pulled the skipper ashore, and loafed for an hour
on Water Street. The paving stones felt hard to their feet after
months of a vessel's decks, and they kept their body muscles
instinctively keyed up to meet the lurch and sway which did not come.
"Looks something like an Old Country town," said Thompson, after they
had strolled around a bit. "Let's get a newspaper an' see what's
happened since we left. Chubby will want to know if there's been
anything doing in soccer."
Captain Nickerson joined them after a while. "We're to leave the
schooner where she is," he said. "The new owners will tow her in to
their own wharf to-morrow. We'll strike our flag and pay off in the
morning."
By the next day afternoon, they had their dunnage out of the _Helen
Starbuck_ and Donald cast a regretful glance at the wonderful little
vessel in which they worked such a long, watery traverse. As he gazed
at her lying quiet and still behind the Island, he thought of those
wild and windy days "running the easting"; of Cape Horn and the
Le-Maire Straits, the wild seas and the scorching calms "down to the
south'ard!" Aye! these were romantic days--days he would never forget,
and as he clambered up on the wharf, he waved an adieu to the anchored
schooner. "Good-bye and good luck!" he murmured. "You're a brave and
gallant little ship--_Helen Starbuck_!"
The little band of adventurers parted company shortly
afterwards--Olsen and Hansen to a boarding house where they would meet
others of their kind, and Chubby and Thompson to try their luck at
getting over to Liverpool by working their way, or as steerage
passengers.
"So-long, nipper!" said Thompson to Donald. "Good luck to you in
future. We'll maybe meet again some day!" Chubby wrung Donald's hand
but said nothing. His heart was too full for words. "So long, Chubby!"
said McKenzie. "Try and make Uncle give you your premium back, but
don't say that I'm alive. So long!"
Joak McGlashan remained with Captain Nickerson and Donald. He would
stay a while and try his hand "cookin' at the fushin'" before going
home, and he, like Donald, would sail in the wake of the redoubtable
Judson Nickerson, and see where that worthy would lead them.