And then--one elbow was hitched in the weather rigging and a half
hitch around his waist--the skipper swung around, and looking over to
the Withrow, he went on:
"I don't see, Mr. Duncan, why we don't stand a pretty good chance to
win out on Hollis."
"Why not--why not--if anything happens to the Lucy."
It jarred us some to think that even there, in spite of the great race
the Johnnie was making of it, she was still, in the old man's eyes,
only a second string to the Lucy Foster.
About then the wind seemed to come harder than ever, but Clancy at the
wheel never let up on the Johnnie. He socked it to her--wide and free
he sailed her. Kept her going--oh, but he kept her going. "If this one
only had a clean bottom and a chance to tune her up before going out,"
said somebody, and we all said, "Oh, if she only had--just half a day
on the railway before this race."
We were fairly buried at times on the Johnnie--on the Lucy Foster it
must have been tough. And along here the staysail came off the Withrow
and eased her a lot. We would all have been better off with less sail
along about that time. In proof of that we could see back behind us
where the Nannie O, under her trysail, was almost holding her own. But
it wouldn't do to take it off. Had they not all said before putting
off that morning that what sail came off that day would be blown
off?--yes, sir--let it blow a hundred miles an hour. And fishermen's
pride was keeping sail on us and the Foster. Hollis tried to make it
look that his staysail blew off, but we knew better--a knife to the
halyards did the work.
It was after her big staysail was off and she making easier weather of
it that the Withrow crossed the Lucy's bow for the first time in the
race and took the lead.
We all felt for Mr. Duncan, who couldn't seem to believe his eyes. We
all felt for Wesley, too, who was desperately trying to hold the wind
of the Withrow--he had even rigged blocks to his jib sheets and led
them to cleats clear aft to flatten his headsails yet more. And
Wesley's crew hauled like demons on those jib sheets--hauled and
hauled with the vessel under way all the time--hauled so hard, in
fact, that with the extra purchase given them by the blocks they
pulled the cleats clean out, and away went the Lucy's jib and
jumbo--and there was Wesley hung up. And out of the race, for we were
all too near the finish for her to win out then unless the Johnnie and
the Withrow capsized entirely.
Mr. Duncan, when he saw the Lucy's crew trying to save the headsails,
couldn't contain himself.
"Cut 'em away--cut 'em to hell!" he sang out, and we all had to smile,
he spoke so excitedly. But it was no use. The Lucy was out of the
race, and going by her, we didn't look at Mr. Duncan nor Wesley
Marrs--we knew they were both taking it hard--but watched the
Withrow.
Over on the other tack we went, first the Withrow, then the Johnnie.
We were nearing the finish line, and we were pretty well worked
up--the awful squalls were swooping down and burying us. We could hear
Hollis's voice and see his crew go up when he warned his men at the
wheel to ease up on her when the squalls hit. On our vessel the
skipper never waved an arm nor opened his mouth to Clancy at the
wheel. And of his own accord you may be sure that Clancy wasn't easing
up. Not Tommie Clancy--no, sir--he just drove her--let her have it
full--lashed her like, with his teeth and eyes flashing through the
sea that was swashing over him. And the Johnnie fairly sizzled through
the water.
There were several times in the race when we thought the going was as
bad as could be, but now we were all sure that this was the worst of
all. There was some excuse for Mr. Duncan when he called out:
"My God, Tommie, but if she makes one of those low dives again, will
she ever come up?"
"I dunno," said Clancy to that. "But don't you worry, Mr. Duncan, if
any vessel out of Gloucester'll come up, this one'll come up."
He was standing with the water, the clear water, not the swash, well
up to his waist then, and we could hear him:
"Oh, I love old Ocean's smile,
I love old Ocean's frowning--
I love old Ocean all the while,
My prayer's for death by drowning."
That was too much for Mr. Duncan, and, watching his chance, he dove
between the house and rail, to the weather rigging, where the skipper
grabbed him and made him fast beside himself. The old man took a look
down the slant of the deck and took a fresh hold of the rigging.
"Captain Blake, isn't she down pretty low?"
"Maybe--maybe--Mr. Duncan, but she'll go lower yet before the sail
comes off her. This is the day Sam Hollis was going to make me take in
sail."
Less than a minute after that we made our rush for the line. Hollis
tried to crowd us outside the stake-boat, which was rolling head to
wind and sea, worse than a lightship in a surf gale--tried to crowd us
out just as an awful squall swooped down. It was the Johnnie or the
Withrow then. We took it full and they didn't, and there is all there
was to it. But for a minute it was either vessel's race. At the
critical time Sam Hollis didn't have the nerve, and the skipper and
Clancy did.
They looked at each other--the skipper and Clancy--and Clancy soaked
her. Held to it cruelly--recklessly. It was too much to ask of a
vessel. Down she went--buried. It was heaven or hell, as they say, for
a while. I know I climbed on to her weather run, and it was from there
I saw Withrow ducking her head to it--hove to, in fact, for the blast
to pass.
The Johnnie weathered it. Able--able. Up she rose, a horse, and across
the line we shot like a bullet, and so close to the judge's boat that
we could have jumped aboard.
We all but hit the Henry Clay Parker, Billie Simms's vessel, on the
other side of the line, and it was on her that old Peter of Crow's
Nest, leaping into the air and cracking his heels together, called out
as we drove by:
"The Johnnie Duncan wins--the able Johnnie Duncan--sailin' across the
line on her side and her crew sittin' out on the keel."