Produced by Al Haines
THE BRASSBOUNDER
_A Tale of the Sea_
by
DAVID W. BONE
AUTHOR OF "BROKEN STOWAGE"
DUCKWORTH
3 HENRIETTA STREET
LONDON, W.C.2.
All Rights Reserved
First published 1910. Reprinted (twice) 1910.
Reprinted 1911. Popular Edition printed 1913.
Reprinted 1916 and 1924.
Reprinted (New Readers Library) 1927.
Made and Printed in Great Britain by
The Camelot Press Limited
London and Southampton
TO
JAMES HAMILTON MUIR
THE NEW READERS LIBRARY
1. GREEN MANSIONS by W. H. HUDSON
2. THE POLYGLOTS by WILLIAM GERHARDI
3. THE SEA AND THE JUNGLE by H. M. TOMLINSON
4. THE ROADMENDER by MICHAEL FAIRLESS
5. THE TERROR by ARTHUR MACHEN
6. LOST DIARIES by MAURICE BARING
7. THE BONADVENTURE by EDMUND BLUNDEN
8. SUCCESS by CUNNINGHAM GRAHAM
9. BIRDS AND MAN by W. H. HUDSON
10. THE BLACK MONK by ANTON TCHEKOFF
11. GOD'S COUNTRY by JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD
12. BUCOLIC COMEDIES by EDITH SITWELL
13. THE BRASSBOUNDER by DAVID W. BONE
14. THE PURPLE LAND by W. H. HUDSON
15. CALABAN'S GUIDE TO LETTERS AND LAMKIN'S REMAINS by HILAIRE BELLOC
16. OBITER DICTA by AUGUSTINE BIRRELL
17. AMARYLLIS AT THE FAIR by RICHARD JEFFERIES
18. A CRYSTAL AGE by W. H. HUDSON
19. THE KISS by ANTON TCHEKOFF
20. GOSSIP OF THE 17TH AND 18TH CENTURIES by JOHN BERESFORD
21. FUTILITY by WILLIAM GERHARDI
22. TRIPLE FUGUE by OSBERT SITWELL
23. EL OMBU by W. H. HUDSON
24. SIX SHORT PLAYS by JOHN GALSWORTHY
CONTENTS
I. THE 'BLUE PETER'
II. STEERSMANSHIP
III. THE WAY OF THE HALF-DECK
IV. THE 'DEAD HORSE'
V. 'SEA PRICE'
VI. ROUNDING THE HORN
VII. A HOT CARGO
VIII. WORK!
IX. IN 'FRISCO TOWN
X. THE DIFFICULTY WITH THE 'TORREADOR'S'
XI. THE 'CONVALESCENT'
XII. ON THE SACRAMENTO
XIII. HOMEWARD!
XIV. A TRICK AT THE WHEEL
XV. ''OLY JOES'
XVI. EAST, HALF SOUTH!
XVII. ADRIFT
XVIII. "----AFTER FORTY YEAR!"
XIX. 'IN LITTLE SCOTLAND'
XX. UNDER THE FLAG
XXI. 'DOLDRUMS'
XXII. ON SUNDAY
XXIII. A LANDFALL
XXIV. FALMOUTH FOR ORDERS
XXV. "T' WIND'ARD!"
XXVI. LIKE A MAN
EPILOGUE: "1910"
THE BRASSBOUNDER
I
THE 'BLUE PETER'
Ding ... dong.... Ding ... dong. The university bells toll out in
strength of tone that tells of south-west winds and misty weather. On
the street below my window familiar city noises, unheeded by day,
strike tellingly on the ear--hoof-strokes and rattle of wheels, tramp
of feet on the stone flags, a snatch of song from a late reveller, then
silence, broken in a little by the deep mournful note of a steamer's
siren, wind-borne through the Kelvin Valley, or the shrilling of an
engine whistle that marks a driver impatient at the junction points.
Sleepless, I think of my coming voyage, of the long months--years,
perhaps--that will come and go ere next I lie awake hearkening to the
night voices of my native city. My days of holiday--an all too brief
spell of comfort and shore living--are over; another peal or more of
the familiar bells and my emissary of the fates--a Gorbals cabman,
belike--will be at the door, ready to set me rattling over the granite
setts on the direct road that leads by Bath Street, Finnieston, and
Cape Horn--to San Francisco. A long voyage and a hard. And where
next? No one seems to know! Anywhere where wind blows and square-sail
can carry a freight. At the office on Saturday, the shipping clerk
turned his palms out at my questioning.
"Home again, perhaps. The colonies! Up the Sound or across to Japan,"
he said, looking in his _Murray's Diary_ and then at the clock, to see
if there was time for him to nip home for his clubs and catch the 1.15
for Kilmacolm.
Nearly seventeen months of my apprenticeship remain to be served.
Seventeen months of a hard sea life, between the masts of a starvation
Scotch barque, in the roughest of seafaring, on the long voyage, the
stormy track leading westward round the Horn.
It will be February or March when we get down there. Not the worst
months, thank Heaven! but bad enough at the best. And we'll be badly
off this voyage, for the owners have taken two able seamen off our
complement. "Hard times!" they will be saying. Aye! hard times--for
us, who will now have to share two men's weight in working our heavily
sparred barque.
Two new apprentices have joined. Poor little devils! they don't know
what it is. It seemed all very fine to that wee chap from Inverary who
came with his father to see the ship before he joined. How the eyes of
him glinted as he looked about, proud of his brass-bound clothes and
badge cap. And the Mate, all smiles, showing them over the ship and
telling the old Hielan' clergyman what a fine vessel she was, and what
an interest he took in boys, and what fine times they had on board
ship, and all that! Ah yes--fine times! It's as well the old chap
doesn't know what he is sending his son to! How can he? We know--but
we don't tell.... Pride! Rotten pride! We come home from our first
voyage sick of it all.... Would give up but for pride.... Afraid to
be called 'stuck sailors' ... of the sneers of our old schoolmates....
So we come home in a great show of bravery and swagger about in our
brass-bound uniform and lie finely about the fine times we had ... out
there! ... And then nothing will do but Jimmy, next door, must be off
to the sea too--to come back and play the same game on young Alick!
That's the way of it! ...
Then when the Mate and them came to the half-deck, it was: "Oh yes,
Sir! This is the boys' quarters. Well! Not always like that,
Sir--when we get away to sea, you know, and get things shipshape. Oh,
well no! There's not much room aboard ship, you see. This is one of
our boys--Mister Jones." (Jones, looking like a miller's man--he had
been stowing ship's biscuits in the tanks--grinned foolishly at the
Mate's introduction: 'Mister!') "We're very busy just now, getting
ready for sea. Everything's in a mess, as you see, Sir. Only joined,
myself, last week. But, oh yes! It will be all right when we get to
sea--when we get things shipshape and settled down, Sir!"
Oh yes! Everything will be all right then, eh? Especially when we get
down off the Horn, and the dingy half-deck will be awash most of the
time with icy water. The owners would do nothing to it this trip, in
spite of our complaints. They sent a young man down from the office
last week who poked at the covering boards with his umbrella and wanted
to know what we were growling at. Wish we had him out there--off Diego
Ramirez. Give him something to growl at with the ship working, and
green seas on deck, and the water lashing about the floor of the house,
washing out the lower bunks, bed and bedding, and soaking every stitch
of the clothing that we had fondly hoped would keep us moderately dry
in the next bitter night watch. And when (as we try with trembling,
benumbed fingers to buckle on the sodden clothes) the ill-hinged door
swings to, and a rush of water and a blast of icy wind chills us to the
marrow, it needs but a hoarse, raucous shout from without to crown the
summit of misery. "Out there, the watch! Turn out!" in tone that
admits of no protest. "Turn out, damn ye, an' stand-by t' wear ship!"
(A blast of wind and rain rattles on my window-pane. _Ugh_! I turn
the more cosily amid my blankets.)
Oh yes! He would have something to growl at, that young man who asked
if the 'Skipp-ah' was aboard, and said he "was deshed if he could see
what we hed to complain of."
He would learn, painfully, that a ship, snugly moored in the south-east
corner of the Queen's Dock (stern-on to a telephone call-box), and the
same craft, labouring in the teeth of a Cape Horn gale, present some
points of difference; that it is a far cry from 58 deg. South to the
Clyde Repair Works, and that the business of shipping is not entirely a
matter of ledgers.
Oh well! Just have to stick it, though. After all, it won't always be
hard times. Think of the long, sunny days drowsing along down the
'Trades,' of the fine times out there in 'Frisco, of joys of strenuous
action greater than the shipping clerk will ever know, even if he
should manage to hole out in three. Seventeen months! It will soon
pass, and I'll be a free man when I get back to Glasgow again.
Seventeen months, and then--then----
Ding ... dong.... Ding ... dong.... Ding dong....
Quarter to! With a sigh for the comfort of a life ashore, I rise and
dress. Through the window I see the Square, shrouded in mist, the
nearer leafless shrubs swaying in the chill wind, pavement glistening
in the flickering light of street lamps. A dismal morning to be
setting off to the sea! Portent of head winds and foul weather that we
may meet in Channel before the last of Glasgow's grime and smoke-wrack
is blown from the rigging.
A stir in the next room marks another rising. Kindly old '_Ding ...
dong_' has called a favourite brother from his rest to give me convoy
to the harbour.
Ready for the road, he comes to my room. Sleepy-eyed, yawning. "Four
o'clock! _Ugh_! Who ever heard of a man going to sea at four in the
morning! Ought to be a bright summer's day, and the sun shining and
flags flying an'----" A choked laugh.
"Glad I'm not a sailorman to be going out on a morning like this! Sure
you've remembered everything? Your cab should be here now. Just gone
four. Heard the bells as I was dressing----"
Rattle of wheels on the granite setts--sharp, metallic ring of shod
heels--a moment of looking for a number--a ring of the door-bell.
"Perty that's tae gang doon tae th' Queen's Dock wi' luggage.... A'
richt, Mister! Ah can cairry them ma'sel'.... Aye! Weel! Noo that
ye menshun it, Sur ... oon a mornin' like this.... Ma respeks, gents!"
There are no good-byes: the last has been said the night before. There
could be no enthusiasm at four on a raw November's morning; it is best
that I slip out quietly and take my seat, with a last look at the quiet
street, the darkened windows, the quaint, familiar belfry of St. Jude's.
"A' richt, Sur. G'up, mere! Haud up, mere, ye!"
At a corner of the Square the night policeman, yawning whole-heartedly,
peers into the cab to see who goes. There is nothing to investigate;
the sea-chest, sailor-bag, and bedding, piled awkwardly on the
'dickey,' tell all he wants to know.
"A sailor for aff!"
Jingling his keys, he thinks maybe of the many 'braw laads' from
Lochinver who go the same hard road.
* * * * *
Down the deserted wind-swept streets we drive steadily on, till house
lights glinting behind the blinds and hurrying figures of a
'night-shift' show that we are near the river and the docks. A turn
along the waterside, the dim outlines of the ships and tracery of mast
and spar looming large and fantastic in the darkness, and the driver,
questioning, brings up at a dim-lit shed, bare of goods and cargo--the
berth of a full-laden outward-bounder. My barque--the _Florence_, of
Glasgow--lies in a corner of the dock, ready for sea. Tugs are
churning the muddy water alongside, getting into position to drag her
from the quay wall; the lurid side-light gleams on a small knot of
well-wishers gathered at the forward gangway exchanging parting words
with the local seamen of our crew. I have cut my time but short.
"Come en there, you!" is my greeting from the harassed Chief Mate.
"Are you turned a ---- passenger, with your gloves and overcoat? You
sh'd have been here an hour ago! Get a move on ye, now, and bear a
hand with these warps.... Gad! A drunken crew an' skulkin'
'prentices, an' th' Old Man growlin' like a bear with a sore----"
Grumbling loudly, he goes forward, leaving me the minute for
'good-bye,' the late 'remembers,' the last long hand-grip.
Into the half-deck, to change hurriedly into working clothes. Time
enough to note the guttering lamp, evil smell, the dismal aspect of my
home afloat--then, on deck again, to haul, viciously despondent, at the
cast-off mooring ropes.
Forward the crew--drunk to a man--are giving the Chief Mate trouble,
and it is only when the gangway is hauled ashore that anything can be
done. The cook, lying as he fell over his sailor bag, sings, "_'t wis
ye'r vice, ma gen-tul Merry!_" in as many keys as there are points in
the compass, drunkenly indifferent to the farewells of a sad-faced
woman, standing on the quayside with a baby in her arms. Riot and
disorder is the way of things; the Mates, out of temper with the
muddlers at the ropes, are swearing, pushing, coaxing--to some attempt
at getting the ship unmoored. Double work for the sober ones, and for
thanks--a muttered curse. Small wonder that men go drunk to the sea:
the wonder is that any go sober!
At starting there is a delay. Some of the men have slipped ashore for
a last pull at a neighbourly 'hauf-mutchkin,' and at a muster four are
missing. For a time we hold on at single moorings, the stern tug
blowing a 'hurry-up' blast on her siren, the Captain and a River Pilot
stamping on the poop, angrily impatient. One rejoins, drunken and
defiant, but of the others there is no sign. We can wait no longer.
"Let go, aft!" shouts the Captain. "Let go, an' haul in. Damn them
for worthless sodjers, anyway! Mister"--to a waiting Board of Trade
official--"send them t' Greenock, if ye can run them in. If not,
telephone down that we're three A.B.'s short.... Lie up t' th'
norr'ard, stern tug, there. Hard a-port, Mister? All right! Let go
all, forr'ard!" ... We swing into the dock passage, from whence the
figures of our friends on the misty quayside are faintly visible. The
little crowd raises a weakly cheer, and one bold spirit (with his
guid-brither's 'hauf-pey note' in his pocket) shouts a bar or two of
"Wull ye no' come back again!" A few muttered farewells, and the shore
folk hurry down between the wagons to exchange a last parting word at
the Kelvinhaugh. '_... Dong ... ding ... DONG ... DONG...._' Set to a
fanfare of steam whistles, Old Brazen Tongue of Gilmorehill tolls us
benison as we steer between the pierheads. Six sonorous strokes, loud
above the shrilling of workshop signals and the nearer merry jangle of
the engine-house chimes.
Workmen, hurrying to their jobs, curse us for robbing them of a
'quarter,' the swing-bridge being open to let us through. "Come oon!
Hurry up wi' that auld 'jeely-dish,' an' see's a chance tae get tae wur
wark," they shout in a chorus of just irritation. A facetious member
of our crew shouts:
"Wot--oh, old stiy-at-'omes. Cahmin' aat t' get wandered?"--and a
dockman answers:
"Hello, Jake, 'i ye therr? Man, th' sailormen maun a' be deid when th'
Mate gied you a sicht! Jist you wait tae he catches ye fanklin' th'
cro'-jeck sheets!"
We swing slowly between the pierheads, and the workmen, humoured by the
dockman's jest, give us a hoarse cheer as they scurry across the still
moving bridge. In time-honoured fashion our Cockney humorist calls
for, 'Three cheers f'r ol' Pier-'ead, boys,' and such of the 'boys' as
are able chant a feeble echo to his shout. The tugs straighten us up
in the river, and we breast the flood cautiously, for the mist has not
yet cleared and the coasting skippers are taking risks to get to their
berths before the stevedores have picked their men. In the shipyards
workmen are beginning their day's toil, the lowe of their flares light
up the gaunt structures of ships to be. Sharp at the last wailing note
of the whistle, the din of strenuous work begins, and we are fittingly
drummed down the reaches to a merry tune of clanging hammers--the
shipyard chorus "Let Glasgow flourish!"
Dawn finds us off Bowling, and as the fog clears gives us misty views
of the Kilpatrick Hills. Ahead, Dumbarton Rock looms up, gaunt and
misty, sentinel o'er the lesser heights. South, the Renfrew shore
stretches broadly out under the brightening sky--the wooded Elderslie
slopes and distant hills, and, nearer, the shoal ground behind the lang
Dyke where screaming gulls circle and wheel. The setting out is none
so ill now, with God's good daylight broad over all, and the flags
flying--the 'Blue Peter' fluttering its message at the fore.
On the poop, the Captain (the 'Old Man,' be he twenty-one or fifty)
paces to and fro--a short sailor walk, with a pause now and then to
mark the steering or pass a word with the River Pilot. Of medium
height, though broad to the point of ungainliness, Old Jock Leish (in
his ill-fitting broadcloth shore-clothes) might have passed for a
prosperous farmer, but it needed only a glance at the keen grey eyes
peering from beneath bushy eyebrows, the determined set of a square
lower jaw, to note a man of action, accustomed to command. A quick,
alert turn of the head, the lift of shoulders as he walked--arms
swinging in seaman-like balance--and the trick of pausing at a windward
turn to glance at the weather sky, marked the sailing shipmaster--the
man to whom thought and action must be as one.
Pausing at the binnacle to note the direction of the wind, he gives an
exclamation of disgust.
"A 'dead muzzler,' Pilot. No sign o' a slant in the trend o' th' upper
clouds. Sou'west, outside, I'm afraid.... Mebbe it's just as weel;
we'll have t' bring up at th' Tail o' th' Bank, anyway, for these three
hands, damn them.... An' th' rest are useless.... Drunk t' a man, th'
Mate says. God! They'd better sober up soon, or we'll have to try
'Yankee music' t' get things shipshape!"
The Pilot laughed. "I thought the 'Yankee touch' was done with at sea
now," he said. "Merchant Shippin' Act, and that sort of thing,
Captain?"
"Goad, no! It's no bye wi' yet, an' never will be as long as work has
to be done at sea. I never was much taken with it myself, but, damn
it, ye've got to sail the ship, and ye can't do it without hands. Oh,
a little of it at the setting off does no harm--they forget all about
it before long; but at the end of a voyage, when ye're getting near
port, it's not very wise. No, not very wise--an' besides, you don't
need it!"
The Pilot grins again, thinking maybe of his own experiences, before he
'swallowed part of the anchor,' and Old Jock returns to his walk.
Overhead the masts and spars are black with the grime of a 'voyage' in
Glasgow Harbour, and 'Irish pennants' fluttering wildly on spar and
rigging tell of the scamped work of those whose names are not on our
'Articles.' Sternly superintended (now that the Mate has given up all
hope of getting work out of the men), we elder boys are held aloft,
reeving running gear through the leads in the maintop. On the deck
below the new apprentices gaze in open-mouthed admiration at our deeds:
they wonder why the Mate should think such clever fellows laggard, why
he should curse us for clumsy 'sodgers,' as a long length of rope goes
(wrongly led) through the top. In a few months more they themselves
will be criticising the 'hoodlums,' and discussing the wisdom of the
'Old Man' in standing so far to the south'ard.
Fog comes dense on us at Port Glasgow, and incoming steamers, looming
large on the narrowed horizon, steer sharply to the south to give us
water. Enveloped in the driving wraiths we hear the deep notes of
moving vessels, the clatter of bells on ships at anchor, and farther
down, loud over all, the siren at the Cloch, bellowing a warning of
thick weather beyond the Point. Sheering cautiously out of the
fairway, we come to anchor at Tail of the Bank to wait for our
'pier-head jumps.' At four in the afternoon, a launch comes off with
our recruits and our whipper-in explains his apparent delay.
"Hilt nor hair o' th' men that left ye hae I seen. I thocht I'd fin'
them at 'Dirty Dick's' when th' pubs opened ... but no, no' a sign: an'
a wheen tailor buddies wha cashed their advance notes huntin' high an'
low! I seen yin o' them ower by M'Lean Street wi' a nicht polis wi 'm
t' see he didna get a heid pit on 'm!--'_sss_! A pant! So I cam' doon
here, an' I hiv been lookin' for sailormen sin' ten o'clock. Man,
they'll no' gang in thae wind-jammers, wi' sae mony new steamers
speirin' hauns, an' new boats giein' twa ten fur th' run tae London....
Thir's th' only yins I can get, an' ye wadna get them, but that twa's
feart o' th' polis an' Jorgensen wants t' see th' month's advance o'
th' lang yin!"
The Captain eyes the men and demands of one:
"Been to sea before?"
"_Nach robh mhi_? Twa years I wass a 'bow rope' in the _I-on-a_, an' I
wass a wheelhouse in the Allan Line."
A glance at his discharges confirms his claim, slight as it is, to
seamanship, and Duncan M'Innes, of Sleat, in Skye, after being
cautioned as to his obligations, signs his name and goes forward.
Patrick Laughlin has considerable difficulty in explaining his absence
from the sea for two years, but the Captain, after listening to a long,
rambling statement... "i' th' yairds ... riggin' planks fur th'
rivitter boys.... Guid-brither a gaffer in Hamilton's, at the 'Poort'
... shoart time" ... gives a quick glance at the alleged seaman's
cropped head and winks solemnly at the Shipping-master, who is signing
the men on. Hands being so scarce, however, Patrick is allowed to
touch the pen.
One glance at the third suffices. Blue eyes and light colourless hair,
high cheek-bones and lithe limbs, mark the Scandinavian. Strong, wiry
fingers and an indescribable something proclaim the sailor, and though
Von Shmit can hardly say 'yes' in English, he looks the most likely man
of the three.
The Shipping-master, having concluded his business, steps aboard his
launch, leaving us with a full crew, to wait the weather clearing, and
the fair wind that would lift us down Channel.
* * * * *
Daybreak next morning shows promise of better weather, and a light
S.S.E. wind with a comparatively clear sky decides the Old Man to take
the North Channel for it. As soon as there is light enough to mark
their colours, a string of flags brings off our tug-boat from Princes
Pier, and we start to heave up the anchor. A stout coloured man sets
up a 'chantey' in a very creditable baritone, and the crew, sobered now
by the snell morning air, give sheet to the chorus.
'_Blow, boy-s, blow,--for Califor-ny, oh!_
_For there's lot's of gold, so I've been told,_
_On the banks--of Sa-cramen-to!_'
The towing-hawser is passed aboard, and the tug takes the weight off
the cable. The nigger having reeled off all he knows of 'Californy,' a
Dutchman sings lustily of 'Sally Brown.' Soon the Mate reports,
"Anchor's short, Sir," and gets the order to weigh. A few more
powerful heaves with the seaman-like poise between each--"_Spent my
mo-ney on Sa-lley Brown!_"--and the shout comes, "Anchor's a-weigh!"
Down comes the Blue Peter from the fore, whipping at shroud and
backstay in quick descent--our barque rides ground-free, the voyage
begun!
The light is broad over all now, and the Highland hills loom dark and
misty to the norr'ard. With a catch at the heart, we pass the
well-known places, slowly making way, as if the flood-tide were
striving still to hold us in our native waters. A Customs boat hails,
and asks of us, "Whither bound?" "'Frisco away!" we shout, and they
wave us a brief God-speed. Rounding the Cloch, we meet the coasting
steamers scurrying up the Firth.
"'Ow'd ye like t' be a stiy-at-'ome, splashin' abaht in ten fathoms,
like them blokes, eh?" the Cockney asks me, with a deep-water man's
contempt in his tone.
How indeed? Yearning eyes follow their glistening stern-wash as they
speed past, hot-foot for the river berths.
Tide has made now. A short period of slack water, and the ebb bears us
seaward, past the Cowal shore, glinting in the wintry sunlight, the
blue smoke in Dunoon valley curling upward to Kilbride Hill, past
Skelmorlie Buoy (tolling a doleful benediction), past Rothesay Bay,
with the misty Kyles beyond. The Garroch Head, with a cluster of Clyde
Trust Hoppers, glides abaft the beam, and the blue Cock o' Arran shows
up across the opening water. All is haste and bustle. Aloft,
spider-like figures, black against the tracery of the rigging, cast
down sheets and clew lines in the one place where they must go. Shouts
and hails--"Fore cross-trees, there! Royal buntline inside th'
crin'line, _in_-side, damn ye!"
"Aye, aye! Stan' fr' under!"
..._rrup_! A coil of rope hurtling from a height comes rattling to the
rail, to be secured to its own particular belaying-pin. Out of a
seeming chaos comes order. Every rope has its name and its place and
its purpose; and though we have 'sodjers' among us, before Arran is
astern we are ready to take to the wind. Off Pladda we set staysails
and steer to the westward, and, when the wind allows, hoist topsails
and crowd the canvas on her. The short November day has run its course
when we cast off the tow-rope. As we pass the standing tug, all her
hands are hauling the hawser aboard. Soon she comes tearing in our
wake to take our last letters ashore and to receive the Captain's
'blessing.' A heaving-line is thrown aboard, and into a small oilskin
bag are put our hastily written messages and the Captain's material
'blessing.' Shades of Romance! Our last link with civilisation
severed by a bottle of Hennessy's Three Star!
The tugmen (after satisfying themselves as to the contents of the bag)
give us a cheer and a few parting 'skreichs' on their siren and,
turning quickly, make off to a Norwegian barque, lying-to, off Ailsa
Craig.
All hands, under the Mates, are hard driven, sweating on sheet and
halyard to make the most of the light breeze. At the wheel I have
little to do; she is steering easily, asking no more than a spoke or
two, when the Atlantic swell, running under, lifts her to the wind.
Ahead of us a few trawlers are standing out to the Skerryvore Banks.
Broad to the North, the rugged, mist-capped Mull of Cantyre looms up
across the heaving water. The breeze is steady, but a falling
barometer tells of wind or mist ere morning.
Darkness falls, and coast lights show up in all airts. Forward, all
hands are putting a last drag on the topsail halyards, and the voice of
the nigger tells of the fortunes of--
'_Renzo--boys, Renzo!_'
II
STEERSMANSHIP
Wee Laughlin, dismissed from the wheel for bad steering, was sitting on
the fore-hatch, a figure of truculence and discontent, mouthing a
statement on the Rights of Man, accompanied by every oath ever heard on
Clydeside from Caird's to Tommy Seath's at Ru'glen. It was not the
loss of his turn that he regretted--he was better here, where he could
squirt tobacco juice at will, than on the poop under the Mate's
eye--but, hardened at the 'Poort' as he was, he could not but feel the
curious glances of his watchmates, lounging about in dog-watch freedom
and making no secret of their contempt of an able seaman who couldn't
steer, to begin with.
"'Ow wos she 'eadin', young feller, w'en ye--left?" Cockney Hicks,
glancing away from the culprit, was looking at the trembling leaches of
top'gal'nsails, sign of head winds.
"'Er heid? Ach, aboot Nor' thurty west!"
"Nor' thirty west? Blimy! Where th' 'ell's that? 'Ere! Give us it
in points! None o' yer bloomin' degrees aboard square-sail, young
feller!"
"Weel, that's a' th' wye I ken it!" Sullen, mouth twisted askew in the
correct mode of the 'Poort,' defiant.
"It wis aye degrees in a' th' boats I hiv been in--none o' thae wee
black chats ye ca' p'ints; we niver heeded thim. Degrees, an' 'poort'
an' 'starboord '--t' hell wit' yer 'luffs' an' 'nae highers'!"
"Blimy!"
"Aye, blimy! An' I cud steer them as nate's ye like; but I'm no guid
enough fur that swine o' a Mate, aft there!" He spat viciously. "'Nae
higher,' sez he t' me. 'Nae higher, Sur,' says I, pitten' the wheel a
bit doon. 'Up,' says he, 'up, blast ye! Ye're lettin 'r come up i'
th' win',' says he. I pit th' ---- wheel up, keepin' ma 'ee on th'
compass caird; but that wis a fau't tae.... 'Damn ye!' says he; 'keep
yer 'ee on th' to'gallan' leaches,' ... 'Whaur's that?' sez I. 'Oh,
holy smoke!' sez he. 'Whit hiv we got here?' An' he cam' ower and hut
me a kick, an' shouts fur anither haun' t' th' wheel! ... By ----"
mumbling a vicious formula, eyes darkening angrily as he looked aft at
the misty figure on the poop.
Cockney looked at him curiously.
"Wot boats 'ave ye bin in, anyway?" he said. "Them boats wot ye never
steered by th' win' before?"
"---- fine boats! A ban' sicht better nor this bluidy ould wreck.
Boats wi' a guid gaun screw at th' stern av thim! Steamers, av coorse!
This is th' furst bluidy win'-jammer I hae been in, an' by ---- it'll
be th' last! An' that Mate! Him! ... Oh! If I only hid 'm in
Rue-en' Street ... wi' ma crood aboot,"--kicking savagely at a coil of
rope--"he widna be sae smert wi' 'is fit! Goad, no!"
"Ye' fust win'-jammer, eh?" said Cockney pleasantly. "Oh well--ye'll
l'arn a lot! Blimy, ye'll l'arn a lot before ye sees Rue-hend Street
again. An' look 'ere!"--as if it were a small matter--"if ye cawn't
steer th' bloomin' ship afore we clears th' bloomin' Channel, ye kin
count _hon_ me fer a bloomin' good 'idin'! I ain't agoin' t' take no
other bloomin' bloke's w'eel! Not much, I ain't!"
"Nor me!" "Nor me!" said the others, and Wee Laughlin, looking round at
the ring of threatening faces, realised that he was up against a
greater power than the Officer tramping the poop beyond.
"Wull ye no'?" he said, spitting with a great show of bravery. "Wull
ye no'? Mebbe I'll hae sumthin' t' say aboot th' hidin'.... An' ye'll
hae twa av us tae hide whin ye're a' it. I'm nut th' only yin.
There's the Hielan'man ... him wi' th' fush scales on's oilskins. He
nivvir wis in a win'-jammer afore, he telt me; an'----"
"An' whaat eef I nefer wass in a win'-chammer pefore?" M'Innes, quick
to anger, added another lowering face to the group. "Wait you till I
am sent awaay from th' wheel ... an' thaat iss not yet, no! ...
Hielan'man? ... Hielan'man? ... Tamm you, I wass steerin' by th' win'
pefore you wass porn, aye! ... An' aal t' time you wass in chail,
yess!"
In the face of further enmity, Wee Laughlin said no more, preferring to
gaze darkly at the unknowing Mate, while his lips made strange
formations--excess of thought! The others, with a few further
threats--a word or two about 'hoodlums' and 'them wot signed for a
man's wage, an' couldn't do a man's work'--returned to their short
dog-watch pacings, two and two, talking together of former voyages and
the way of things on their last ships.
We were in the North Channel, one day out, with the Mull of Cantyre
just lost to view. The light wind that had carried us out to the Firth
had worked to the westward, to rain and misty weather, and all day we
had been working ship in sight of the Irish coast, making little
headway against the wind. It was dreary work, this laggard setting
out--hanging about the land, tack and tack, instead of trimming yards
to a run down Channel. Out on the open sea we could perforce be
philosophic, and talk of 'the more days, the more dollars'; but here in
crowded waters, with the high crown of Innistrahull mocking at our
efforts, it was difficult not to think of the goodness of a shore life.
As the close of each watch came round the same spirit of discontent
prompted the question of the relief, officer or man. On the poop it
was, "Well, Mister! How's her head now? Any sign of a slant?" On the
foredeck, "'Ere! Wot th' 'ell 'ave ye bin doin' with 'er? Got th'
bloomin' anchor down or wot?"
At nightfall the rain came down heavily before fitful bursts of chill
wind. Ours was the first watch, and tramping the deck in stiff, new
oilskins, we grumbled loudly at the ill-luck that kept us marking time.
"I wonder w'y th' Old Man don't put abaht an' run dahn th' Gawges
Channel. Wot's 'e 'angin' abaht 'ere for, hanyw'y? Wot does 'e
expeck?" said Cockney, himself a 'navigator'--by his way of it.
"Oh, shift o' wind, or something," said I. "I was aft at th' binnacles
an' heard him talkin' t' th' Mate about it. Says th' wind 'll back t'
th' south'ard if th' barometer don't rise. Told the Mate to call him
if the glass went up before twelve. I see old 'Steady-all'" (we are
one day out, but all properly named) "popping up and down the cabin
stairs. He'll be building a reef of burnt matches round the barometers
before that fair wind comes."
"Sout' vass fair vind, ass ve goes now, aind't id?" asked Dutch John, a
pleasant-faced North German.
"Fair wind? 'Oo th' 'ell's talkin' 'bout fair win's, an' that Shmit at
th' w'eel? 'Ow d'ye expeck a fair win' with a Finn--a bloody Rooshian
Finn's a-steerin' ov 'er?" Martin, a tough old sea-dog, with years of
service, claimed a hearing.
"No, an' we won't 'ave no fair win' till a lucky steers 'er! Ain't
much that way myself--me bein' a Liverpool man--but there's Collins
there--the nigger.... Niggers is lucky, an' West-country-men, an'
South of Ireland men--if they ain't got black 'air--but Finns! Finns
is the wu'st o' bloody bad luck! ... Knowed a Finn onst wot raised an
'owlin' gale agin us, just a-cos th' Ol' Man called 'im a cross-eyed
son ef a gun fur breakin' th' p'int ov a marlinspike! Raised an
'owlin' gale, 'e did! No, no! Ye won't 'ave no fair win' till a lucky
man goes aft. 'Ere, Collins! Your nex' w'eel, ain't it?"
Collins grinned an affirmative.
"Right-o! Well, young fellers, ye kin spit on yer 'an's fur squarin'
them yards somewheres between four an' eight bells. Nuthin' like a
nigger for bringin' fair win's.... An' 'e's a speshul kind o' nigger,
too.... Nova Scotiaman, Pictou way ... talks the same lingo as th'
'ilandman ... 'im on th' look-out, there."
"Not the Gaelic, surely?" said I.
"Aye, Gaelic. That's it. They speak that lingo out there, black an'
w'ite. Knowed lots o' niggers wot spoke it ... an' chows too!"
I turned to Collins--a broad, black nigger with thick lips, woolly
hair, white, gleaming teeth--the type! He grinned.
"Oh yass," he said. "Dat's ri'! Dey speak de Gaelic dere--dem
bluenose Scotchmen, an' Ah larn it when Ah wass small boy. Ah doan'
know much now ... forgot it mos' ... but Ah know 'nuff t' ask dat boy
Munro how de wass. _Hoo! Ho!! Hoo!!!_ 'Cia mar tha thu nis,' Ah
says, an' he got so fright', he doan' be seasick no mo'!"
A wondrous cure!
At ten Collins relieved the wheel and we looked for the shift that old
Martin had promised, but there was no sign of it--no lift to the misty
horizon, no lessening in the strength of the squalls, now heavy with a
smashing of bitter sleet. Bunched up against the helm, a mass of
oilskins glistening in the compass light, our 'lucky man' scarce seemed
to be doing anything but cower from the weather. Only the great eyes
of him, peering aloft from under the peak of his sou'wester, showed
that the man was awake; and the ready turns of the helm, that brought a
steering tremor to the weather leaches, marked him a cunning steersman,
whichever way his luck lay.
Six bells struck, the Mate stepped below to the barometers, and a gruff
"Up! up!" (his way of a whisper) accompanied the tapping of the
aneroid. There he found encouragement and soon had the Old Man on
deck, peering with him in the wind's eye at the brightening glare of
Innistrahull Light out in the west.
"Clearing, eh? And the glass risin'," said the Old Man. "Looks like
nor'-west! Round she goes, Mister: we'll lose no more time. Stan' by
t' wear ship!"
"Aye, aye, Sir! Stan' by t' square mainyards, the watch, there!"
Shouting as he left the poop, the Mate mustered his men at the braces.
"Square mainyards! That's th' talk," said old Martin, throwing the
coils down with a swing. "Didn't Ah tell ye it wos a nigger as'd bring
a fair win'!"
"But it ain't fair yet," said I. "Wind's west as ever it was; only th'
Old Man's made up his mind t' run her down th' George's Channel. Might
ha' done that four hours ago!"
"Wot's th' use o' talkin' like that? 'Ow th' 'ell could 'e make up 'is
min' wi' a Rooshian Finn at th' w'eel, eh? Don't tell me! Ah knows as
niggers is lucky an' Finns ain't; an' don't ye give me none o' yer
bloody sass, young feller, cos ..." ("Haul away mainyards, there!") ...
"_Ho! ... io ... io...._ Ho! round 'em in, me sons. ... _Ho! ... io
... io...._ Twenty days t' th' Line, boys! ... _Ho ... io ... ho!_"
A hard case, Martin!
Turning on heel, we left Innistrahull to fade away on the quarter, and,
under the freshening breeze, made gallant steering for the nigger.
This was more like the proper way to go to sea, and when eight bells
clanged we called the other watch with a rousing shout.
"Out, ye bloomin' Jonahs! Turn out, and see what the port watch can do
for ye. A fair wind down Channel, boys! Come on! Turn out, ye hungry
Jonahs, and coil down for your betters!"
* * * * *
After two days of keen sailing, running through the Channel traffic, we
reached the edge of soundings. The nor'-west breeze still held, though
blowing light, and under a spread of canvas we were leaning away to the
south'ard on a course for the Line Crossing. We sighted a large
steamer coming in from the west, and the Old Man, glad of a chance to
be reported, hauled up to 'speak' her. In hoists of gaily coloured
bunting we told our name and destination, and a wisp of red and white
at the liner's mast acknowledged our message. As she sped past she
flew a cheering signal to wish us a 'pleasant voyage,' and then lowered
her ensign to ours as a parting salute.
"Keep her off to her course again--sou'-west, half south!" ordered the
Old Man when the last signal had been made.
"Aff tae her coorse ag'in, Sur! Sou'-west, hauf south, Sur!"
At sound of the steersman's answer I turned from my job at the signal
locker. Wee Laughlin, eyes on the weather clew of the royals, was
learning!
III
THE WAY OF THE HALF-DECK
The guttering lamp gave little light in the half-deck; its trimming had
been neglected on this day of storm, so we sat in semi-gloom listening
to the thunder of seas outside. On the grimy deal table lay the
remains of our supper--crumbs of broken sea-biscuits, a scrap of greasy
salt horse, dirty plates and pannikins, a fork stabbed into the deal to
hold the lot from rolling, and an overturned hook-pot that rattled from
side to side at each lurch of the ship, the dregs of the tea it had
held dripping to the weltering floor. For once in a way we were
miserably silent. We sat dourly together, as cheerless a quartette as
ever passed watch below. "Who wouldn't sell his farm and go to sea?"
asked Hansen, throwing off his damp jacket and boots and turning into
his bunk. "'A life on th' ocean wave,' eh? Egad! here's one who
wishes he had learned to drive a wagon!"
"And another," said Eccles. "That--or selling matches on th' highway!
... Come on, Kid! Get a move on ye and clear away! ... And mind ye
jamm the gear off in the locker. No more o' these tricks like ye did
in Channel--emptyin' half the bloomin' whack into th' scupper! You
jamm the gear off proper, or I'll lick ye!"
Young Munro, the 'peggy' of our watch, swallowed hard and set about his
bidding. His small features were pinched and drawn, and a ghastly
pallor showed that a second attack of sea-sickness was not far off. He
staggered over to the table and made a half-hearted attempt to put the
gear away,
"What's th' matter with ye?" said Eccles roughly. "Ye've been long
enough away from ye'r mammy t' be able t' keep ye'r feet. A fortnight
at sea, an' still comin' th' 'Gentle Annie'! You look sharp now, an'
don't----"
"Eccles!"
"Eh?"
"You let the Kid alone," said Hansen in a dreamy, half-sleepy tone.
"You let the Kid alone, or I'll twist your damn neck! Time enough for
you to start chinnin' when your elders are out o' sight. You shut up!"
"Oh, all right! Ye needn't get ratty. If you want t' pamper the
bloomin' Kid, it's none of my business, I s'pose.... All the same, you
took jolly good care I did _my_ 'peggy' last voyage! There was no
pamperin' that I remember!"
"Different!" said Hansen, still in the same sleepy tone. "Different!
You were always big enough an' ugly enough t' stand the racket. You
leave the Kid alone!"
Eccles turned away to his bunk and, seeking his pipe, struck match
after match in a vain attempt to light the damp tobacco. Now and then
the ship would falter in her swing--an ominous moment of silence and
steadiness--before the shock of a big sea sent her reeling again. The
crazy old half-deck rocked and groaned at the battery as the sea ran
aft, and a spurt of green water came from under the covering board.
Some of the sea-chests worked out of the lashings and rattled down to
leeward. Eccles and I triced them up, then stowed the supper gear in
the locker.
"A few more big 'uns like that," said I, "and this rotten old house 'll
go a-voyagin'! ... Wonder it has stood so long."
"Do ye think there's danger?" asked the Kid, in a falter, and turning
terrified eyes on one after another.
"Course," said Hansen--we had thought him asleep--"course there is!
That's what ye came here for, isn't it? This is when th' hero stands
on th' weather taffrail, graspin' th' tautened backst'y an' hurlin'
defiance at th' mighty elements--'Nick Carter,' chap. one!"
Eccles and I grinned. Munro took heart.
"Danger," still the drowsy tone, "I should think there is! Why, any
one o' these seas might sweep the harness-cask and t'morrow's dinner
overboard! Any one of 'em might----"
The door swung to with a crash, a blast of chill wind and rain blew in
on us, the lamp flickered and flared, a dripping oilskin-clad figure
clambered over the washboard.
"Door! door!" we yelled as he fumbled awkwardly with the handle.
"Oh, shut up! Ye'd think it was the swing-door of a pub. t' hear ye
shouting!" He pulled heavily, and the broken-hinged baulk slammed into
place. It was Jones, of the other watch, come in to turn us out.
"Well, I'm hanged!" He looked around the house--at the litter on the
floor, at the spurting water that lashed across with the lurch of her.
"Why don't some of ye bale the place out 'stead of standing by t' shout
'Door, door!' when there's no need? Damn! Look at that!" She lurched
again. A foot or more of broken water dashed from side to side,
carrying odds of loose gear with it. "Egad! The port watch for lazy
sojers--every time! Why don't ye turn to an' dry the half-deck out?
Oh no; not your way! It's 'Damn you, Jack--I'm all right!' with you
chaps. Goin' on deck again soon, eh? Why should ye dry up for the
other watch, eh? ... Oh! all right. Just you----"
"Oh, dry up yourself, Jones!" Hansen sat up in his bunk and turned his
legs out. "What you making all the noise about? We've been balin' and
balin', and it's no use! No use at all ... with that covering board
working loose and the planks opening out at every roll.... What's up,
anyway? ... All hands, eh?"
"Yes. 'All hands wear ship' at eight bells! We've just set the fore
lower tops'l. Think we must be getting near the Western Islands by the
way th' Old Man's poppin' up and down. It's pipin' outside! Blowin'
harder than ever, and that last big sea stove in the weather side of
the galley. The watch are at it now, planking up and that.... Well,
I'm off! Ye've quarter an hour t' get your gear on. Lively, now! ..."
At the door he turned, eyeing the floor, now awash. "Look here, young
'un"--to poor, woebegone Munro--"the Mate says you're not to come on
deck. You stay here and bale up, an' if the damn place isn't dry when
we come below I'll hide the life out o' ye! ... Oh, it's no use
screwin' your face up. 'Cry baby' business is no good aboard a packet!
You buck up an' bale the house ... or ... look out!" He heaved at the
door, sprawled over, and floundered out into the black night.
Munro turned a white, despairing face on us elders. We had no support
for him. Hansen was fumbling with his belt. I was drawing on my long
boots. Both of us seemed not to have heard. This was the way of the
half-deck. With Eccles it had been different. He was only a second
voyager, a dog-watch at sea--almost a 'greenhorn.' There was time
enough for him to 'chew the rag' when he had got the length of keeping
a regular 'wheel and look out.' Besides, it was a 'breach' for him to
start bossing about when there were two of his elders in the house. We
could fix him all right!
Ah! But Jones! ... It was not that we were afraid of him. Either of
us would have plugged him one at the word 'Go!' if it had been a
straight affair between us. But this was no business of ours. Jones
was almost a man. In a month or two his time would be out. There
could be no interference, not a word could be said; it was--the way of
the half-deck.
Swaying, sailor-like, on the reeling deck, we drew on our oilskins and
sea-boots, buckled our belts, tied down the flaps of our sou'westers,
and made ready. While we were at it Munro started on his task. He
filled the big bucket, dragged it half-way to the door, then sat down
heavily with a low cry of dismay.
"What's the matter, Kid, eh?" said Hansen kindly. "Got the blues, eh?
Buck up, man! Blue's a rotten colour aboard ship! Here, hand me the
bucket!"
He gripped the handle, stood listening for a chance, then swung the
door out an inch or two, and tipped the bucket.
"It ... it's ... not ... that," said the youngster. "It's ...
s-s-staying in here w-when you fellows are on d-deck! ... Ye ...
s-said th' house m-might go ... any time! ... Let me come!..."
"No, no! Th' Mate said you weren't t' come on deck! You stay here!
You'd only be in th' way! You'll be all right here; the rotten old box
'll stand a few gales yet! ... What's that?"
Above the shrilling of the gale we heard the Mate's bull roar: "All ...
hands ... wear ... ship!"
We took our chance, swung the door to, and dashed out. Dismayed for a
moment--the sudden change from light to utter darkness--we brought up,
grasping the life-lines in the waist, and swaying to meet the wild
lurches of the ship. As our eyes sobered to the murk we saw the lift
of the huge seas that thundered down the wind. No glint of moon or
star broke through the mass of driving cloud that blackened the sky to
windward; only when the gleam of a breaking crest spread out could we
mark the depth to which we drove, or the height when we topped a wall
of foaming water. The old barque was labouring heavily, reeling to it,
the decks awash to our knees. Only the lower tops'ls and a stays'l
were set; small canvas, but spread enough to keep her head at the right
angle as wave after wave swept under or all but over her. "Stations!"
we heard the Mate calling from his post at the lee fore braces. "Lay
along here! Port watch, forrard!"
We floundered through the swirl of water that brimmed the decks and
took our places. Aft, we could see the other watch standing by at the
main. Good! It would be a quick job, soon over! The Old Man was at
the weather gangway, conning the ship and waiting for a chance. Below
him, all hands stood at his orders--twenty-three lives were in his
keeping at the moment; but there was no thought of that--we knew our
Old Jock, we boasted of his sea cunning. At length the chance came; a
patch of lesser violence after a big sea had been met and surmounted.
The sure, steady eye marked the next heavy roller. There was time and
distance! ... "Helm up, there!" (Old Jock for a voice!)
Now her head paid off, and the order was given, 'Square mainyards!'
Someone wailed a hauling cry and the great yards swung round, tops'l
lifting to the quartering wind. As the wind drew aft she gathered
weight and scudded before the gale. Seas raced up and crashed their
bulk at us when, at the word, we strained together to drag the
foreyards from the backstays. Now she rolled the rails under--green,
solid seas to each staggering lift. At times it seemed as if we were
all swept overboard there was no hold to the feet! We stamped and
floundered to find a solid place to brace our feet and knees against;
trailed out on the ropes--all afloat--when she scooped the ocean up,
yet stood and hauled when the chance was ours. A back roll would come.
"Hold all! ... Stand to it, sons! ..." With a jerk that seemed to
tear at the limbs of us, the heavy yards would weigh against us. There
was no pulling ... only "stand and hold" ... "hold hard." Then, to us
again: "Hay ... o ... Ho.... Hay ... o! ... Round 'em in, boys! ..."
Quick work, hand over hand, the blocks rattling cheerily as we ran in
the slack.
"Vast haulin' foreyards! Turn all and lay aft!" We belayed the ropes,
and struggled aft to where the weaker watch were hauling manfully. The
sea was now on the other quarter, and lashing over the top rail with
great fury. Twice the Second Mate, who was 'tending the weather
braces, was washed down among us, still holding by the ropes. "Haul
awaay, lauds!" he would roar as he struggled back to his perilous post.
"Haul, you!"
We dragged the yards to a new tack; then to the fore, where again we
stood the buffet till we had the ship in trim for heaving-to.
"All hands off the deck!" roared the Mate when the headyards were
steadied. "Lay aft, all hands!"
Drenched and arm weary as we were, there was no tardiness in our
scramble for safe quarters--some to the poop, some to the main rigging.
We knew what would come when she rounded-to in a sea like that.
"All ready, Sir," said the Mate when he came aft to report. "All hands
are off the deck!"