The British fleet lay at Oban; I don’t think any wars-man on any of the
vessels would not have changed places with one of us; for to any seaman
there is an air of romance and adventure about a whaler. I’d have felt
distinctly proud passing down their line in our little vessel whose
object and capabilities any bluejacket could guess at—a motor, plus sails
and a small but sea-going hull, a business-like gun at bow, a crow’s
nest; and going south—that would appeal to their imagination. But alas!
at our stern hung a Union Jack made in Norway, that a Boy Scout would
jeer at. I am to blame. I’d taken it for granted I could get a Union Jack
anywhere, but the Norse idea of a Union Jack I cannot recommend. But the
warships politely dipped to us, and the crews crowded round their bows
and we could only imagine the smiles at our Jack. We may perhaps still
manage to get one of the correct design in the north of Ireland if we
call there. In any case, our mistake was accidental and temporary; but
each of his Majesty’s ships flew the Cross of St George with the Union
Jack device relegated to a mere canton, a deliberate violation of the
Treaty of Union, the first article of Treaty which stipulated that the
united crosses of both Scotland and England shall be used in _all_ flags
both at sea and on land.
We spent the Sunday afternoon as John Knox and the reformer used to spend
it. I mean we enjoyed ourselves “out-by.” John Knox, you know, golfed on
Sunday afternoons, and ate oysters in a High Street cellar at night! So
we sailed, and then dined in the Station Hotel. My wife and my cousin,
Urmston, had come north to Oban to avail themselves of the chance of
seeing the St Ebba; and with a light, fresh breeze and smooth water we
sailed and motored over to Duart and South Morven, and Loch Linnhe, and
at night dined on shore as stated. The engine had worked perfectly;
Urmston, a born mechanic and sailor, was delighted with the whole
turn-out, so it was rather a jolly dinner and there were many yarns.
One of the subjects that came up was that of wives at sea. “Ach, vifes at
sea’s no good,” said Henriksen emphatically, and I was rather surprised,
as I know Norwegian captains often take their wives to sea, but Henriksen
has been, as a boy and mate, a looker-on, and has seen trouble come from
it.
“No, no,” he continued, “alvays bad veather and trouble ven veemen’s
on board. I tell you vonce a veeman come on board—I laff! We vas in a
barque and the captain’s vife she owned it—she vas very reech, and had
tree sheeps. She vas married tree times—the captain tell me dis, he vas
her tird husband.” Henriksen was serving his time on this barque as all
Norsemen do, on sailing-ships before the mast. At Boulogne they lay one
night alongside the slip, and all but he had gone on shore to the cafés.
He being youngest had to do watchman, and brewed himself coffee in the
galley and then dozed, possibly slept for “five minutes or maybe two
hours,” he said. “I do not know, and ven I vakes up I looks out and dere
is a light in cabin so I goes quiet and looks down the skylight and der
vas a great veemen! with luggage on de floor beside her.”
Down to the cabin went Henriksen and addressed her. “Who is you, vat you
come here for without leave?” To which she replied: “I am the captain’s
wife.” But the boy would not be bluffed. “That is not true,” he cried,
“go away at once, you’se bad veemen, you comes here to steal, be off wid
you before I gets the crew or the captain comes.”
And she looked round her and rose and reached to a young woman’s photo
on the wall and held it to Henriksen and he gazed and saw the truth;
this elderly spacious person still preserved some faint resemblance to
the buxom girl in the faded photograph. So Henriksen made his bow—you
know how the Norse bow, straight from the hips, and apologised and asked
forgiveness, which she very graciously extended to him, saying: “You very
good boy, you look after ship well.” So he chatted away pleasantly, and
got her coffee and food and retired again to the galley, and when he was
sound asleep again, the captain came from the town, jumped down on deck
and came growling to the galley: “Hillo, you’re a nice watchman! asleep
in the galley, when you should be on deck.” “Well, captain,” said the
boy, “I work all day hard, and all night I vatch and den comes your vife
and I cooks for her long times, what you expect?”
“My wife,” whispered the captain anxiously. “Evan, here’s something for
you, put that in your pocket and keep it, and promise not to say a word
about my coming aboard.”
Henriksen promised, and the captain turned and stole away along the dark
quay.
In the morning a wire came to the first mate—I think it was supposed to
be from Antwerp—saying the captain was on his way home to meet his wife
in Norway, on which the fond creature said she would at once return home
to meet her good man, and she went. An hour later the captain appeared on
board, and they made sail for Valparaiso.
My wife said: “That’s a most excellent story, Captain Henriksen,” at
which he protested solemnly: “No, no, dat is no _story_, dat is quite
true, I tells you.” And we had to explain the differences in our language
between the “story,” an incident, and the “story,” an untruth; if you
try, you will find it is rather difficult to do this. The language
question again!—how often it crops up. I wish I could speak Norsk
properly; I have to worry along with English. I was told to-day I can
speak that difficult language very well. We had all been speaking to the
lighthouse service captain for quite a long time when he complimented
Henriksen on his English and flatteringly told me I spoke it even better,
and I explained I’d made a study of it for about half-a-century, and in
fact had the honour of lisping my first words in his own part of the
country.
[Illustration: THE “ST. EBBA,” MOTOR WHALER, IN OBAN
Note the whale gun and harpoon at the bow and the oil boilers amidships.]
That incident was slightly amusing: but halting English nearly got
our Swedish motor inspector, whom we met at Tobermory, into serious
trouble. He is such a nice-looking fellow, too, I felt quite sorry. He
waited there for our arrival peacefully for three days at the Mishnish
Hotel, putting in the time sketching. One day he made a drawing of Aros
Castle, the Allans’ mansion, and as he lay in the grass and ferns under
the birches his thoughts went back to his professional work and he drew
plans and symbols, and a native came dandering along, full of the kindly
interest the west highlander takes in the stranger (I like it myself, but
some people call it mere curiosity), and he ventured: “You will shust pe
arrived, maybe by the Lochinvar? Aye, aye, shust so, she’s a wonderful
boat. Aye, you will be from Glasgie? That’s a fine toon Glasgie. I wass
there for the Exheebition. Och, no, you will not be from Glasgie. From
Sweden! Do you tell me so? ma Cot! that’s a long way. I see, I see, so
you will be a foreigner. Weel, weel, I will wish you a coot day,” and he
went. But he had seen the symbols, and he knew the Fleet was at Oban,
and he had been reading the papers about invasions, so when he met the
policeman, who pays a visit to Tobermory once a year to sign his name,
he said to him that “there wass a lad at Aros, in the ‘furrns,’ drawin’
plans and things—_would he be a spy_?” After due consideration the
policeman decided to walk round the bay. It is not very far round the
bay, not far for anyone but Tobermory natives, who are restful people.
I once saw them watching Aros Castle on fire with their hands in their
pockets, and it never occurred to them to trot round the half-mile to
help.
Well, the policeman did not go quite round the bay, for he met the
young man coming back and he said: “It’s a fine day, Mister, for the
time of year, and you will haff been drawing?”—and asked very politely
if he might see the sketches; in the West we are very polite, for the
climate is so mild. And as the young Swede modestly refused to exhibit,
MacFarlane accompanied the visitor rather silently till they came to the
famous Mishnish (famous for drams since the Flood), and then the young
Swede began to see the humour of the situation, and allowed MacFarlane
to examine his baggage, and got him at last to understand, with great
difficulty, for he only spoke very little English, that he was waiting
for a Diesel engine motor-whaler called the St Ebba, and mentioned
this writer’s name, which made it all right with MacFarlane. And the
hotelkeeper, and one or two friends of the policeman and the hotel
proprietor came, and they had quite a pleasant afternoon and evening: for
as the sun shines there are soft drinks to be drunk and tales to be told
in the Mishnish Hotel in Tobermory’s sheltered bay any day of the year
round.
[Illustration]