a chance to put his helm down. There was a perceptible lull in the
wind, but the sea was high as ever. The heavy, racing clouds had
broken in the zenith; there were rifts here and there through which
shone fleeting gleams from the moon, lighting the furious ocean for a
moment, then vanishing as the storm-wrack swept over.
It seemed a long time before the Old Man saw the 'smooth' he was
waiting for. A succession of big seas raced up, broke, and poured
aboard: one, higher than all, swept by, sending her reeling to the
trough. Now--the chance! "Ease th' helm down!" he shouted. "Stand
by, all!" Her head swung steadily to windward, the steering way was
well timed.
Suddenly, as we on the poop watched ahead, a gleam of light shone on
the wet decks. The half-deck door was swung out--a figure blocked the
light, sprawling over the washboard--Munro! "Back!" we yelled. "Go
back!"
There was time enough, but the youngster, confused by the shouts, ran
forward, then aft, bewildered.
The ship was bearing up to the wind and sea. Already her head was
driving down before the coming of the wave that was to check her way.
In a moment it would be over us. The Mate leapt to the ladder, but, as
he balanced, we saw one of the men in the main rigging slide down a
backstay, drop heavily on deck, recover, and dash on towards the boy.
Broad on the beam of her, the sea tore at us and brimmed the decks--a
white-lashing fury of a sea, that swept fore and aft, then frothed in a
whelming torrent to leeward.
When we got forward through the wash of it, we found Jones crouching
under the weather rail. One arm was jammed round the bulwark
stanchion, the wrist stiffened and torn by the wrench, the other held
the Kid--a limp, unconscious figure.
"Carry him aft," said Jones. "I think ... he's ... all right ... only
half drowned!" He swayed as he spoke, holding his hand to his head,
gasping, and spitting out. "D-damn young swine! What ... he ...
w-want t' come on deck f-for? T-told ... him t' ... s-stay below!"
IV
THE 'DEAD HORSE'
Fine weather, if hot as the breath of Hades, and the last dying airs of
the nor'-east trades drifting us to the south'ard at a leisured three
knots.
From the first streak of daylight we had been hard at work finishing up
the general overhaul cf gear and rigging that can only be done in the
steady trade winds. Now it was over; we could step out aloft, sure of
our foothold; all the treacherous ropes were safe in keeping of the
'shakin's cask,' and every block and runner was working smoothly, in
readiness for the shifting winds of the doldrums that would soon be
with us.
The work done, bucket and spar were manned and, for the fourth time
that day, the sun-scorched planks and gaping seams of the deck were
sluiced down--a job at which we lingered, splashing the limpid water as
fast the wetted planks steamed and dried again. A grateful coolness
came with the westing of the tyrant sun, and when our miserable evening
meal had been hurried through we sought the deck again, to sit under
the cool draught of the foresail watching the brazen glow that attended
the sun's setting, the glassy patches of windless sea, the faint
ripples that now and then swept over the calm--the dying breath of a
stout breeze that had lifted us from 27 deg. North. What talk there was
among us concerned our voyage, a never-failing topic; and old Martin,
to set the speakers right, had brought his 'log'--a slender
yardstick--from the forecastle.
"... ty-seven ... ty-eight ... twenty-nine," he said, counting a row of
notches. "Thirty days hout t'morrer, an' th' 'dead 'orse' is hup t'
day, sons!"
"'Dead 'oss' hup t' dye? 'Ow d'ye mike that aht?" said 'Cockney'
Hicks, a man of importance, now promoted to bo'sun. "Fust Sunday we
wos in Channel, runnin' dahn th' Irish lights, worn't it?"
"Aye!"
"Secon' Sunday we wos routin' abaht in them strong southerly win's,
hoff th' Weste'n Isles?"
"That's so," said Martin, patting his yard-stick, "Right-o!"
"Third Sunday we 'ad th' trides, runnin' south; lawst Sunday wos fourth
Sunday hout, an' this 'ere's Friday--'peasoup-dye,' ain't it? 'Ow d'ye
mike a month o' that? 'Dead 'oss' ain't up till t'morrer, I reckon!"
"Well, ye reckons wrong, bo'sun! Ye ain't a-countin' of th' day wot we
lay at anchor at th' Tail o' th' Bank!"
"Blimy, no! I'd forgotten that dye!"
"No! An' I tell ye th' 'dead 'orse' is hup, right enuff. I don't make
no mistake in my log.... Look at 'ere," pointing to a cross-cut at the
head of his stick. "That's the dye wot we lay at anchor--w'en you an'
me an' the rest ov us wos proper drunk. 'Ere we starts away," turning
to another side; "them up strokes is 'ead win's, an' them downs is
fair; 'ere's where we got that blow hoff th' Weste'n Isles," putting
his finger-nail into a deep cleft; "that time we carries away th'
topmas' stays'l sheet; an' 'ere's th' trade win's wot we're 'avin' now!
... All k'rect, I tell ye. Ain't no mistakes 'ere, sons!" He put the
stick aside the better to fill his pipe.
"Vat yo' calls dem holes in de top, Martin, _zoone_? Dot vass
sometings, aind't id?"
Vootgert, the Belgian, picked the stick up, turning it over carelessly.
Martin snatched it away.
"A course it's 'sometings,' ye Flemish 'og! If ye wants to know
pertiklar, them 'oles is two p'un' o' tebaccer wot I had sence I come
aboard. Don't allow no Ol' Man t' do _me_ in the bloomin' hye w'en it
comes t' tottin' th' bill! ... I'll watch it! I keeps a good tally ov
wot I gets, tho' I can't read nor write like them young 'know-alls'
over there" (Martin had no love for 'brassbounders'), "them wot orter
be aft in their proper place, an' not sittin' 'ere, chinnin' wi' th'
sailormen!"
"Who's chinnin'?" said Jones, Martin's particular enemy. "Ain't said a
word! Not but what I wanted to ... sittin' here, listenin' to a lot of
bally rot about ye'r dead horses an' logs an' that!"
Jones rose with a great pantomime of disgust (directed especially at
the old man), and went aft, leaving Munro and me to weather Martin's
rage.
"Oh, shut up, Martin!" said the bo'sun. "They ain't doin' no 'arm!
Boys is boys!"
"Ho no, they ain't, bo'sun: not in this ship, they ain't. Boys is men,
an' men's old beggars, 'ere! I don't 'old wi' them a-comin' forrard
'ere at awl! A place fer everything, an' everybody 'as 'is place, I
says! Captin' on the bloomin' poop o' her, an' cook t' th' foresheet!
That's shipshape an' Bristol fashion, ain't it?"
"That's so, that's so! ... But them young 'uns is 'ere for
hin-for-mashun, eh?"
Martin grumbled loudly and turned to counting his notches. "Know-alls!
That's wot _they_ is--ruddy know-alls! Told me I didn't know wot a
fair win' wos!" he muttered as he fingered his 'log.'
"'Dead 'oss?'" said the bo'sun, turning to Munro. "'Dead 'oss' is th'
fust month out, w'en ye're workin' for ye'r boardin'-mawster. 'E gets
ye'r month's advawnce w'en ye sails, an' ye've got to work that hoff
afore ye earns any pay!"
"Who vass ride your 'dead 'oss,' Martin?" asked the Belgian when quiet
was restored.
"Oh, Jemmy Grant; 'im wot 'as an 'ouse in Springfield Lane. Come in t'
th' Clyde in th' _Loch Ness_ from Melb'un--heighty-five days, an' a
damn good passage too, an' twel' poun' ten of a pay day! Dunno' 'ow it
went.... Spent it awl in four or five days. I put up at Jemmy Grant's
for a week 'r two arter th' money was gone, an' 'e guv' me five bob an'
a new suit of oilskins out 'er my month's advawnce on this 'ere 'ooker!"
"Indeed to goodness, now! That iss not pad at all, indeed," said John
Lewis, our brawny Welshman. "I came home in th' _Wanderer_, o' St.
Johnss, an' wass paid off with thirty-fife poun'ss, I tell 'oo. I
stayed in Owen Evanss' house in Great Clyde Street, an' when I went
there I give him ten poun'ss t' keep for me. 'Indeed, an' I will, m'
lad,' he sayss, 'an' 'oo can have it whenever 'oo likes,' he sayss....
Damn him for a rogue, I tell 'oo!"
Martin laughed. "Well, ye was soft. Them blokes' bizness is keepin',
ain't it?"
"Iss, indeed! Well, I tell 'oo, I got in trouble with a policeman in
th' Broomielaw. It took four o' them to run me in, indeed!" pleasantly
reminiscent; "an' the next mornin' I wass put up for assaultin' th'
police. 'I don't know nothin' about it,' I sayss, when the old fella'
asked me. 'Thirty shillins' or fourteen days,' he sayss! ... Well, I
didn't haf any money left, but I told a policeman, and he said he would
send for Owen Evanss.... After a while Evanss come to the office, an'
they took me in. I was quite quiet, indeed, bein' sober, I tell
'oo.... 'Owen, _machgen-i_,' I sayss, 'will 'oo pay the thirty
shillin's out of the ten poun'ss I give 'oo?' 'What ten poun'ss?' he
sayss. 'What ten poun'ss?' I sayss. '_Diwedd-i_, the ten poun'ss I
give 'oo t' keep for me,' I sayss. 'Ten poun'ss,' he sayss, 'ten
poun'ss to keep for 'oo, an' it iss two weeks' board an' lodgin' 'oo
are owin' me, indeed!' 'Damn 'oo!' I sayss. 'Did I not give 'oo ten
poun'ss when I wass paid off out of the _Wanderer_, an' 'oo said 'oo
would keep it for ne and give it back again when I wanted it?' I
sayss.... 'What are 'oo talkin' about?' he sayss. ''Oo must be drunk,
indeed!' ... 'Have 'oo got a receipt for it, m' lad?' sayss the
Sergeant. 'No, indeed,' I sayss. 'I didn't ask him for a receipt.'
... 'Oh,' he sayss, 'we've heard this pefore,' he sayss, shuttin' th'
book an' signin' to the policeman to put me away. I made for Owen
Evanss, but there wass too many policemen indeed.... So I had to serve
the month, I tell 'oo!" John stroked his beard mournfully, muttering,
"Ten poun'ss, indeed! Ten poun'ss, py damm!"
"An' didn't ye git square wi' th' bloke wot done ye?" asked the bo'sun.
"Oh, iss! Iss, indeed!" John brightened up at thought of it. "When I
came out I went straight to Great Clyde Street an' give him th' best
hidin' he effer got, I tell 'oo! I took ten poun'ss of skin an' hair
out of him pefore th' police came. Fine! I think it wass fine, an' I
had to do two months for that.... When I come out the street wass full
of policemen, indeed, so I signed in this barque an' sold my advance
note to a Jew for ten pob!"
Ten shillings! For what, if the discounter saw to it that his man went
to sea, was worth three pounds when the ship had cleared the Channel!
On the other hand, Dan Nairn, a Straits of Canso sailor-farmer (mostly
farmer), had something to say.
"Waall, boy-ees, they ain't awl like that, I guess! I came acraus
caow-punchin' on a Donalds'n cattle boat, an' landed in Glasgow with
damn all but a stick ov chewin' tebaccer an' two dallars, Canad'n, in
my packet. I put up with a Scowwegian in Centre Street; a stiff good
feller too! Guess I was 'baout six weeks or more in 'is 'aouse, an' he
give me a tidy lot 'er fixin's--oilskins an' sea-boots an' awl--out 'er
my month's advance."
"Oh, some is good and some ain't," said Martin. "Ah knowed a feller
wot 'ad an 'ard-up boardin'-'ouse in Tiger Bay. Awl th' stiffs in
Cardiff use' ter lay back on 'im w'en nobody else 'ud give 'em 'ouse
room--hoodlums and Dagos an' Greeks wot couldn't get a ship proper. 'E
'ad rooms in 'is 'ouse fitted up wi' bunks like a bloomin' fo'cs'le,
ah' 'is crowd got their grub sarved out, same's they wos at sea. Every
tide time 'e wos down at th' pier-'ead wi' six or seven of 'is
gang--'ook-pots an' pannikins, an' bed an' piller--waitin' their chanst
ov a 'pier-'ead jump.' That wos th' only way 'e could get 'is men
away, 'cos they worn't proper sailormen as c'd go aboard a packet 'n
ast for a sight like you an' me. Most of 'em 'ad bad discharges or
dead-'un's papers or somethin'! 'Pier-'ead jumps,' they wos, an' they
wouldn't never 'a' got a ship, only f'r that feller an' 'is 'ard-up
boardin'-'ouse."
Martin picked up his precious 'log' and turned to go below. "Anyways,
good or bad," he said, "them 'sharks' 'as got my ol' iron fer the last
month, an' if this worn't a starvation bloomin' Scotch packet, an' a
crew of bloomin' know-alls, fixing me with a fancy curl of lip, we'd a
_chanteyed_ th' 'dead 'orse' aft t'night an' ast th' Ol' Man t' splice
the mainbrace."
He passed into the forecastle, and through the open door we could hear
him sing a snatch of the 'dead horse' _chantey_:--
"_But now th' month is up, ol' turk!_
(_An' we says so, an' we 'opes so._)
_Get up, ye swine, an' look fer work!_
(_Oh! Poor--ol'--man!_)
"_Get up, ye swine, an' look fer graft!_
(_An' we says so, an' we 'opes so._)
_While we lays on an' yanks ye aft!_
(_Oh! Poor--ol'--man!_)"
V
'SEA PRICE'
At first weak and baffling, the south-east trades strengthened and blew
true as we reached away to the south'ard under all sail. Already we
had forgotten the way of bad weather. It seemed ages since we had last
tramped the weltering decks, stamping heavily in our big sea-boots for
warmth, or crouching in odd corners to shelter from the driven spray,
the bitter wind and rain. Now we were fine-weather voyagers--like the
flying-fish and the albacore, and bonita, that leapt the sea we sailed
in. The tranquil days went by in busy sailor work; we spent the nights
in a sleepy languor, in semi-wakefulness. In watch below we were
assured of our rest, and even when 'on deck'--save for a yawning pull
at sheet or halyard when the Mate was jealous at our idling, or a brief
spell at wheel or look out--were at liberty to seek out a soft plank
and lie back, gazing up at the gently swaying mastheads till sleep came
again. Higher and higher, as the days went by, the southern stars rose
from the sea-line, while--in the north--homely constellations dipped
and were lost to view. Night by night we had the same true breeze, the
sea unchanged, the fleecy trade clouds forming on the sea-line--to fade
ere they had reached the zenith. There seemed no end to our pleasured
progress! Ah, it is good to be alive and afloat where the trades blow.
Down south, there!
But, in spite of the fine weather and the steady breeze, there were
signs of what our voyage would be when the 'barefoot days' were done.
Out beyond the clear sky and tender clouds, the old hands saw the
wraith of the rugged Cape that we had yet to weather. The impending
wrestle with the rigours of 'the Horn' sent them to their preparations
when we had scarce crossed the Line. Old Martin was the fore hand.
Now, his oilskins hung out over the head, stretched on hoops and
broomsticks, glistening in a brave new coat of oil and blacking. Then
Vootgert and Dutch John took the notion, and set to work by turns at a
canvas wheel-coat that was to defy the worst gale that ever blew.
Young Houston--canny Shetlander--put aside his melodeon, and clicked
and clicked his needles at a famous pair of north-country hose. Welsh
John and M'Innes--'the Celtic twins'--clubbed their total outfit and
were busy overhauling, while Bo'sun Hicks spent valuable time and
denied us his yarns while he fortified his leaky bunk by tar and strips
of canvas. Even Wee Laughlin, infected by the general industry of the
forecastle, was stitching away (long, outward-bound stitches) at a
cunning arrangement of trousers that would enable him to draw on his
two pairs at once. All had some preparation to make--all but we
brassbounders!
We saw no farther than the fine weather about us. Most had been 'round
the Horn' before, and we should have known but there was no old
'steady-all' to ballast our cock-a-boat, and we scorned the wisdom of
the forecastle. 'Good enough t' be goin' on with,' and 'come day, go
day'--were our mottoes in the half-deck. Time enough, by and by, when
the weather showed a sign! We had work enough when on duty to keep us
healthy! Fine days and 'watch below' were meant for lazying--for old
annuals of the B.O.P., for Dicks's Standards, for the Seaside library!
Everyone knows that the short dog-watches were meant for sing-song and
larking, and, perhaps, a fight, or two! What did we care if Old Martin
and his mates were croak, croak, croakin' about 'standin' by' and
settin' th' gear handy? We were 'hard cases,' all of us, even young
Munro and Burke, the 'nipper' of the starboard watch! _We_ didn't
care! _We_ could stand the racket! _Huh!_
So we lazied the fine days away, while our sea harness lay stiffening
in the dark lockers.
Subtly, almost imperceptibly, the weather changed. There was a chill
in the night air; it was no longer pleasant to sleep on deck. The
stars were as bright, the sky as clear, the sea as smooth; but when the
sun had gone, damp vapours came and left the deck chill and clammy to
the touch.... 'Barefoot days' were over!
Still and all, the 'times' were good enough. If the flying-fish no
longer swept from under the bows in a glistening shoal, the trades yet
served us well. The days drew on. The day when we shifted the patched
and threadbare tropic sails and bent our stoutest canvas in their
place; the day when Sann'y Armstrong, the carpenter, was set to make
strong weatherboards for the cabin skylights; the day--a cloudy
day--when the spars were doubly lashed and all spare fittings sent
below. We had our warning; there were signs, a plenty!
All too soon our sunny days came to an end. The trades petered out in
calms and squally weather. Off the River Plate a chill wind from the
south set us to 'tack and tack,' and when the wind hauled and let us
free to our course again, it was only to run her into a gale on the
verge of the 'Forties.' Then for three days we lay hove-to, labouring
among heavy seas.
The 'buster' fairly took our breath away. The long spell of light
winds had turned us unhandy for storm work. The swollen ropes,
stiffened in the block-sheaves, were stubborn when we hauled; the wet,
heavy canvas that thrashed at us when stowing sail proved a fighting
demon that called for all our strength; the never-ending small work in
a swirl of lashing water found us slow and laboured at the task.
All this was quickly noted by the Mate, and he lost no time in putting
us to rights. Service in New Bedford whalers had taught him the
'Yankee touch,' and, as M'Innes put it, he was 'no' slow' with his big
hands.
"Lay along here, sons," he would roar, standing to the braces.... "Lay
along, sons;--ye know what sons I mean! ... Aft here, ye lazy hounds,
and see me make 'sojers,' sailors!!"
With his language we had no great grievance. We could appreciate a man
who said things--sailor-like and above board--but when it came to
knocking a man about (just because he was 'goin' t' get his oilskins,'
when the order was 'aloft, an' furl') there were ugly looks here and
there. We had our drilling while the gale lasted, and, when it
cleared, our back muscles were 'waking up.'
Now--with moderate weather again--famous preparations began in the
half-deck; everyone of us was in haste to put his weather armour to
rights. Oilskins, damp and sticking, were dragged from dark corners.
"Rotten stuff, anyway. We'll have no more of Blank's outfits, after
this," we said, as we pulled and pinched them apart. "Oh, damn! I
forgot about that stitchin' on the leg of my sea-boot," said one.
"Wish I'd had time t' put a patch on here," said another, ruefully
holding out his rubbers. "Too far gone for darning," said Eccles.
"Here goes," and he snipped the feet part from a pair of stockings and
tied a ropeyarn at the cut!
We were jeered at from the forecastle. Old Martin went about
_clucking_ in his beard. At every new effort on our part, his head
went nod, nod, nodding. "Oh, them brassbounders!" he would say. "Them
ruddy 'know-alls'! Wot did I tell ye, eh? Wot did I tell 'em, w'en we
was a-crossin' th' Line, eh? An' them 's th' fellers wot'll be
a-bossin' of you an' me, bo'sun! Comin' th' 'hard case,' like the big
feller aft there!"
Martin was right, and we felt properly humbled when we sneaked forward
in search of assistance. Happily, in Dan Nairn we found a cunning
cobbler, and for a token in sea currency--a plug or two of hard
tobacco--he patched and mended our boots. With the oilskins, all our
smoothing and pinching was hopeless. The time was gone when we could
scrub the sticky mess off and put a fresh coating of oil on the fabric.
Ah! We pulled long faces now and thought that, perhaps, sing-song and
larking, and Dicks's Standards and the Seaside Library are not good
value for a frozen soaking off the Horn!
But there was still a haven to which we careless mariners could put in
and refit. The Captain's 'slop chest'--a general store, where oilskins
were 'sea priced' at a sovereign, and sea-boots could be had for thirty
shillings! At these figures they would have stood till they crumbled
in a sailor-town shop window, but 50 deg. S. is a world away from
Broomielaw Corner, and we were glad enough to be served, even if old
Niven, the steward, did pass off old stock on us.
"Naw! Ye'll no' get ye'r pick! Yell jist tak' whit 's gien' ye ... or
nane ava'!"
Wee Laughlin was a large buyer. He--of us all--had come to sea 'same
's he was goin' t' church!' A pier-head jump! So far, he had borrowed
and borrowed, but even good-natured Dutch John was learning English,
and would say, "Jou come to _mein haus, und_ stay mit me," or "_Was
fuer_ jou nod trink less _und_ buy somet'ings," at each wily approach.
On the day when 'slops' were served out, the Pride of Rue-en' Street
was first at the cabin door. As he was fitted and stepped along
forward with his purchases, the bo'sun saw him, and called: "Hello!
Oilskins an' sea-boots an' new shirts, eh? I see ye're outward bound,
young feller!" Laughlin leered and winked cunning-like.
"What d'ye mean by outward bound," asked Munro. "We're all outward
bound, an't we?"
"Of course; of course," said Hicks. "All outward bound! But w'en I
says it that wye, I mean as Lawklin is a-spendin' of 'is 'dibs,' ...
meanin' t' desert w'en we gets out! If 'e don't 'op it as soon as we
anchors in 'Frisco Bay, ye kin call me a ruddy Dutchman!"
"Desert? But that's serious?"
"Ho no! Not there it ain't! Desertin' 's as easy as rollin' off a
log, ... out there! D'ye think th' queer-fella' is goin' t' pay them
prices for 'is kit, if 'e wos goin' t' stop by her in 'Frisco? Not
much 'e ain't! An' ye kin tike it as a few more is goin' t' 'op it, or
ye wouldn't see so many of 'em aft 'ere for their bloomin' 'sundries'!"
"_Wel, wel_, now! These prices is not pad, indeed," said Welsh John,
who had joined us. "I haf paid more than three shillin' for a knife
pefore!"
"_Heh! Heh!_" The bo'sun laughed. "When a 'Taffy' that's a-buyin'
says that, ye may say it's right! ... But, blimy--the boot's on th'
other foot w'en it's 'Taffy' as is a-sellin'! _Heh! Heh!_ There wos
Old Man Lewis of th' _Vanguard_, o' Liverpool, that I signed in!
Blimy! 'e could tell ye wot 'sea price' is!"
"Good ol' 'sea price,'" said Martin. "Many an' 'appy 'ome, an' garden
wit' a flagstaff, is built o' 'sea price'!"
"Right, ol' son! Right," continued the bo'sun. "Old Man Lewis owned a
row of 'em, ... down in Fishguard.... I sailed in th' _Vanguard_ out
o' Liverpool t' Noo York an' then down south, 'ere--boun' t' Callao.
Off th' Falklan's, the Old Man opens out 'is bloomin' slop-chest an'
starts dealin'. A pound for blankits wot ye c'd shoot peas through,
an' fifteen bob for serge shirts--same kind as th' Sheenies sells a'
four an' tanner in th' Mawrsh! Of course, nobody 'ud buy 'em in at
that price, though we wos all 'parish rigged'--us bein' 'bout eight
months out from 'ome. If we 'ad been intendin' t' leave 'er, like th'
queer-fella, there, it 'ud a bin all right, but we 'ad 'bout
twenty-five poun' doo each of us, an' we wasn't keen on makin' th' Old
Man a n'ansome presint!"
"How could he get that?"
"'Ow could 'e get it? Easy 'nuff, in them days! As soon as we 'ad a
bin over th' rail, 'e 'ud 'ave us down in 'is bloomin' book--slops
supplied--five pun' 'ere--six pun' there--an' so on! ... Well, I was
sayin' as we was goin' south, round th' 'Orn! Winter time it was--an'
cold! Cruel! Ye couldn't tell who ye'r feet belonged to till ye 'ad
ye'r boots off. West an' sou'-west gales, 'ard runnin', ... an' there
we wos, away t' hell an' gone south' o' th' reg'lar track!
"I wos at the wheel one day, an' I 'eard th' Old Man an' th' Mate
confabbin' 'bout th' ship's position.
"'Fifty-nine, forty, south,' says th' Mate. 'Antarctic bloody
exploration, I call this!' ... 'E was frappin' 'is 'an's like a
Fenchurch cabby.... 'It's 'bout time ye wos goin' round, Capt'n!
She'd fetch round 'Cape Stiff' with a true west wind! She'll be in
among th' ice soon, if ye don't alter th' course! Time we was gettin'
out o' this,' says he, 'with two of th' han's frost-bit an' th' rest of
us 'bout perishin'!'