Mister! South's th' course, ... south till I sells them fine blankits
an' warm shirts!'"
VI
ROUNDING THE HORN
Rounding Cape Horn from the eastward, setting to the teeth of the great
west wind, to the shock and onset of towering seas; furious combination
of the elements that sweep unchecked around the globe!
Days passed, and we fared no farther on. North we would go with the
yards hard on the back-stays; to wear ship, and steer again south over
the same track. Hopeless work it was, and only the prospect of a
slant--a shift of wind that would let us to our journey--kept us
hammering doggedly at the task.
Day after day of huge sea and swell, mountainous in calm or storm.
Leaden-grey skies, with a brief glint of sunshine now and then--for it
was nominally summer time in low latitudes. Days of gloomy calm,
presage of a fiercer blow, when the Old Man (Orcadian philosopher that
he was) caught and skilfully stuffed the great-winged albatross that
flounders helplessly when the wind fails. Days of strong breezes, when
we tried to beat to windward under a straining main-to'gal'nsail; ever
a west wind to thwart our best endeavours, and week-long gales, that we
rode out, hove-to in the trough of overwhelming seas, lurching to
leeward under low canvas.
We had become sailors in earnest. We had forgotten the way of steady
trades and flying-fish weather, and, when the wind howled a whole gale,
we slapped our oilskin-clad thighs and lied cheerfully to each other of
greater gales we had been in. Even Wee Laughlin and M'Innes were
turned to some account and talked of sail and spars as if they had
never known the reek of steamer smoke. In the half-deck we had little
comfort during watch below. At every lurch of the staggering barque, a
flood of water poured through the crazy planking, and often we were
washed out by an untimely opening of the door. Though at heart we
would rather have been porters at a country railway station, we put a
bold front to the hard times and slept with our wet clothes under us
that they might be the less chilly for putting on at eight bells. We
had seldom a stitch of dry clothing, and the galley looked like a
corner of Paddy's market whenever McEwan, the 'gallus' cook, took pity
on our sodden misery.
In the forecastle the men were better off. Collins had rigged an
affair of pipes to draw the smoke away, and it was possible, in all but
the worst of weather, to keep the bogie-stove alight. We would gladly
have shifted to these warmer quarters, but our parents had paid a
premium for _privileged berthing_, and the Old Man would not hear of
our flitting. Happily, we had little darkness to add to the misery of
our passage, for the sun was far south, and we had only three hours of
night. Yet, when the black squalls of snow and sleet rolled up from
the westward, there was darkness enough. At times a flaw in the
wind--a brief veering to the south--would let us keep the ship
travelling to the westward. All hands would be in high spirits; we
would go below at the end of our watches, making light of sodden
bedclothes, heartened that at last our 'slant' had come. Alas for our
hopes! Before our watch was due we would be rudely wakened. "_All
hands wear ship_"--the dreaded call, and the Mate thundering at the
half-deck door, shouting orders in a threatening tone that called for
instant spur. Then, at the braces, hanging to the ropes in a swirl of
icy water, facing up to the driving sleet and bitter spray, that cut
and stung like a whiplash. And when at last the yards were laid to the
wind, and the order '_down helm_' was given, we would spring to the
rigging for safety, and, clinging desperately, watch the furious sweep
of a towering 'greybeard' over the barque, as she came to the wind and
lay-to.
Wild, heart-breaking work! Only the old hands, 'hard cases' like
Martin and Welsh John and the bo'sun, were the stoics, and there was
some small comfort in their "Whoo! This ain't nuthin'! Ye sh'd a' bin
shipmates with me in the ol' _Boryallus_!" (Or some such ancient
craft.) "_Them_ wos 'ard times!"
Twice we saw Diego Ramirez and the Iledefonsos, with an interval of a
fortnight between the sightings--a cluster of bleak rocks, standing out
of surf and broken water, taking the relentless battery of huge seas
that swept them from base to summit. Once, in clear weather, we marked
a blue ridge of land far to the norrard, and Old Martin and Vootgert
nearly came to blows as to whether it was Cape Horn or the False Cape.
Fighting hard for every inch of our laboured progress, doubling back,
crossing, recrossing (our track on the old blue-back chart was a maze
of lines and figures) we won our way to 70 deg. W., and there, in the
hardest gale of the passage, we were called on for tribute, for one
more to the toll of sailor lives claimed by the rugged southern gateman.
All day the black ragged clouds had swept up from the south-west, the
wind and sea had increased hourly in violence. At dusk we had
shortened sail to topsails and reefed foresail. But the Old Man hung
on to his canvas as the southing wind allowed us to go 'full and by' to
the nor'-west. Hurtling seas swept the decks, tearing stout fittings
from their lashings. The crazy old half-deck seemed about to fetch
loose with every sea that crashed aboard. From stem to stern there was
no shelter from the growing fury of the gale; but still the Old Man
held to his course to make the most of the only proper 'slant' in six
weary weeks.
At midnight the wind was howling slaughter, and stout Old Jock,
dismayed at last at the furious sea upreared against him, was at last
forced to lay her to. In a piping squall of snow and sleet we set to
haul up the foresail. Even the nigger could not find heart to rouse
more than a mournful _i--o--ho_ at the buntlines, as we slowly dragged
the heavy slatting canvas to the yard. Intent on the work, we had no
eye to the weather, and only the Captain and steersman saw the sweep of
a monster sea that bore down on us, white-crested and curling.
"Stand by," yelled the Old Man. "Hang on, for your lives, men!
Christ! Hold hard there!"
Underfoot we felt the ship falter in swing--an ominous check in her
lift to the heaving sea. Then out of the blackness to windward a swift
towering crest reared up--a high wall of moving water, winged with
leagues of tempest at its back. It struck us sheer on the broadside,
and shattered its bulk aboard in a whelming torrent, brimming the decks
with a weight that left no life in the labouring barque. We were swept
to leeward at the first shock, a huddled mass of writhing figures, and
dashed to and fro with the sweep of the sea. Gradually, as the water
cleared, we came by foothold again, sorely bruised and battered.
"Haul away again, men!" The Mate, clearing the blood of a head wound
from his eyes, was again at the foretack giving slack. "Hell! what ye
standing at? Haul away, blast ye! Haul an' rouse her up!"
Half-handed, we strained to raise the thundering canvas; the rest, with
the Second Mate, were labouring at the spare spar, under which Houston,
an ordinary seaman, lay jammed with his thigh broken. Pinching with
handspikes, they got him out and carried aft, and joined us at the
gear; and at last the sail was hauled up. "_Aloft and furl_," was the
next order, and we sprang to the rigging in time to escape a second
thundering 'grey-beard.'
It was dark, with a black squall making up to windward, as we laid out
on the yard and grappled with the wet and heavy canvas. Once we had
the sail up, but the wind that burst on us tore it from our stiffened
fingers. Near me a grown man cried with the pain of a finger-nail torn
from the flesh. We rested a moment before bending anew to the task.
"Handy now, laads!" the Second Mate at the bunt was roaring down the
wind. "Stick t it, ma herts, ... hold aal, now! ... Damn ye, hold it,
you. Ye haandless sojer! ... Up, m' sons; up an' hold aal."
Cursing the stubborn folds, swaying dizzily on the slippery footropes,
shouting for hold and gasket, we fought the struggling wind-possessed
monster, and again the leach was passed along the yard. A turn of the
gasket would have held it, but even the leading hands at the bunt were
as weak and breathless as ourselves. The squall caught at an open lug,
and again the sail bellied out, thrashing fiendishly over the yard.
There was a low but distinct cry, "Oh, Christ!" from the quarter, and
M'Innes, clutching wildly, passed into the blackness below. For a
moment all hands clung desperately to the jackstay, fending the
thrashing sail with bent heads; then some of the bolder spirits made to
come off the yard.... "The starboard boat .... Who? ... Duncan ...
It's Duncan gone.... Quick there, the star ... the lashings!"
The Second Mate checked their movement.
"No! No! Back, ye fools! Back, I say! Man canna' help Duncan now!"
He stood on the truss of the yard, grasping the stay, and swung his
heavy sea-boot menacingly.
"Back, I say! Back, an' furl the sail, ... if ye wouldna' follow
Duncan!"
Slowly we laid out the yard again, and set sullenly to master Duncan's
murderer.
A lull came. We clutched and pounded at the board-like cloths, dug
with hooked fingers to make a crease for handhold, and at last turned
the sail to the yard, though lubberly and ill-furled.
One by one, as our bit was secured, we straggled down the rigging.
Some of the hands were aft on the lee side of the poop, staring into
the darkness astern--where Duncan was. Munro, utterly unmanned, was
crying hysterically. In his father's country manse, he had known
nothing more bitter than the death of a favourite collie. Now he was
at sea, and by his side a man muttered, "Dead?--My God, I hope he's
dead, ... out there!"
The Old Man crossed over from the weather side, and addressing the men,
said: "The Second Mate tells me ye wanted t' get t' th' boat when
M'Innes .... went.... I'm pleased that ye've that much guts in ye,
but I could risk no boat's crew in a sea like this.... Besides, I'm
more-ally certain that M'Innes was dead before he took the water. Eh,
Mister?"
"Aye ... dead," said the Mate. "I saw him strike the to'gal'nt rail,
and no man could live after a blow like that. Dead, sure!"
Old Jock returned to his post under the weather-cloth, and the Mate
ordered the watch below.
So Duncan took his discharge, and a few days later, in clearing
weather, his few belongings were sold at the mast. It was known that
he wasn't married, but Welsh John, who knew him best, said he had
spoken of his mother in Skye; and the Old Man kept a few letters and
his watch that he might have something besides his money to send to
Duncan's relatives.
As if Duncan had paid our toll for rounding the storm-scarred Cape, the
weather cleared and winds set fair to us after that last dread night of
storm. Under a press of canvas we put her head to the norrard, and
soon left the Horn and the 'Roaring Forties' astern.
* * * * *
One night, in the middle watch, when we had nearly run out the
south-east trades, I went forward, looking for someone to talk to, or
anything to relieve the tedium of my two hours on the lee side of the
poop. I found Welsh John sitting on the main-hatch and disposed to
yarn. He had been the most intimate with Duncan, harkening to his
queer tales of the fairies in Knoidart when we others would scoff, and
naturally the talk came round to our lost shipmate.
It was bright moonlight, and the shadow of sails and rigging was cast
over the deck. Near us, in the lee of the house, some sleepers lay
stretched. The Mate stepped drowsily fore and aft the poop, now and
then squinting up at the royals.
"I wonder what brought Duncan to a windjammer," I said. "He was too
old to be starting the sea, an' there were plenty of jobs on the river
for a well-doin' man like him."
Welsh John spat carefully on the deck, and, after looking round, said,
"Tuncan was here, indeed, because he thought the police would bother
him. He told me he wass in a small steamboat that runs from Loch Fyne
to the Clyde, an' the skipper was a man from Killigan or Kalligan, near
Tuncan's place."
"Kyle-akin," I suggested.
"That iss it, Kyle-akin; an' he was very far in drink. They started
from Inverary for the river, and it wass plowin' strong from the
south-east, an' the small boat wass makin' very bad weather, indeed.
The skipper wass very trunk, an' Tuncan, who wass steerin', said they
should put in to shelter for the night. But the skipper wass
quarrelsome, an' called Tuncan a coward an' a nameless man from Skye,
an' they came to plows. Tuncan let go the tiller, an' the small boat
came broadside on, and shipped a big sea, an' when Tuncan got to the
tiller an' put it up, the skipper was gone. They never saw him, so
they came on to the Clyde, where Tuncan left the poat. An' they were
askin' questions from him, an' Tuncan was afraid; but indeed to
goodness he had no need to pe. So he shipped with us--a pier-head jump
it wass...."
A sleeper stirred uneasily, rolled over, and cursed us for a pair of
chatterin' lawyers.
We were both quiet for a moment or two; then the strident voice of the
Mate rang out, "Boy! Boy! Where the hell have you got to now? Lay
aft and trim the binnacle!"
I mounted the poop ladder, muttering the usual excuse about having been
to see the side-lights. I trimmed the lamps, and as it was then a
quarter to four, struck one bell and called the watch. As I waited on
the poop to strike the hour, the men were turning out forward, and I
could hear the voice of the eldest apprentice chiding the laggards in
the half-deck. I thought of Duncan, and of what Welsh John had told me.
"Aye, aye, that was Duncan. That was the way of it. I always wond----"
_Cla--clang--Cla--clang--Cla--clang--Cla--clang._
The Mate, anxious to get his head on pillow, had flogged the clock and
had struck eight bells himself.
VII
A HOT CARGO
Shorefolk can have but a hazy idea of all that it means to the
deep-water sailor when at last, after long voyaging, the port of his
destination heaves in sight. For months he has been penned up on
shipboard, the subject of a discipline more strict than that in any way
of life ashore. The food, poor in quality, and of meagre allowance at
the best, has become doubly distasteful to him. The fresh water has
nearly run out, and the red rusty sediment of the tank bottoms has a
nauseating effect and does little to assuage the thirst engendered by
salt rations. Shipmates have told and retold their yarns, discussions
now verge perilously on a turn of fisticuffs. He is wearying of sea
life, is longing for a change, for a break in the monotony of day's
work and watch-keeping, of watch-keeping and day's work.
A welcome reaction comes on the day when he is ordered to put the
harbour gear in readiness. Generally he has only a hazy notion of the
ship's position (it is sea fashion to keep that an Officers' secret),
and the rousing up of the long idle anchor chains and tackle is his
first intimation that the land is near, that any day may now bring the
shore to view, that soon he will be kicking his heels in a sailor-town
tavern, washing off his 'salt casing' with lashings of the right stuff.
This was in part our case when we were a hundred and forty days out
from the Clyde. The food was bad and short allowance; the key of the
pump was strictly guarded, but we had excitement enough and to spare,
for, six days before our 'landfall,' the bo'sun discovered fire in the
fore-hold that had evidently been smouldering for some time, was
deep-seated, and had secured a firm hold.
It was difficult to get at the fire on account of the small hatchway,
and notwithstanding the laboured efforts of all hands, we were at last
obliged to batten the hatches down and to trust to a lucky 'slant' to
put us within hail of assistance. The water which we had so
fruitlessly poured below had all to be pumped out again to get the ship
in sailing trim; and heart-breaking work it was, with the wheezy old
pump sucking every time the ship careened to leeward. Anxiety showed
on all faces, and it was with great relief that, one day at noon, we
watched the Mate nailing a silver dollar to the mizzenmast. The dollar
was his who should first sight the distant shore.
We held a leading wind from the norrard, and when, on the afternoon of
a bright day, we heard the glad shout from the fore-tops'l
yard--"Land-oh"--we put a hustle on our movements, and, light at heart,
found excuse to lay aloft to have a far-away look at God's good earth
again. It was the Farallone Islands we had made--thirty miles west
from the Golden Gate--a good landfall. Dutch John was the lucky man to
see it first, and we gave him a cheer as he laid aft to take the dollar
off the mast.
In the second dog-watch we hung about the decks discussing prospective
doings when we set foot ashore, and those who had been in 'Frisco
before formed centres of inquiry and importance. From the bearing of
the land, we expected orders to check in the yards, but, greatly to our
surprise, the Mate ordered us to the lee fore-brace, and seemed to be
unable to get the yards far enough forrard to please him. When Wee
Laughlin came from the wheel at eight bells, we learned that the ship
was now heading to the nor'east, and away from our port; and the old
hands, with many shakings of the head, maintained that some tricky game
was afoot. The Old Man and the Mate were colloguing earnestly at the
break of the poop; and Jones, who went aft on a pretence of trimming
the binnacle, reported that the Old Man was expressing heated opinions
on the iniquity of salvage. At midnight we squared away, but as we
approached the land the wind fell light and hauled ahead. Wonder of
wonders! This seemed to please the Captain hugely, and his face beamed
like a nor'west moon every time he peered into the compass.
Dawn found us well to the norrard of the islands, and close-hauled,
standing into the land. From break of day all hands were busy getting
the anchors cleared and the cables ranged. Some were engaged painting
out the rusty bits on the starboard top-side. A 'work-up' job they
thought it was until the Mate ordered them to leave the stages hanging
over the water abreast of the fore-hatch. Here the iron plating was
hot, the paint was blistered off, and every time the ship heeled over
there was an unmistakable _sssh_ as the water lapped the heated side.
This, and the smell of hot iron, was all that there was to tell of our
smouldering coal below, but 'Frisco men from the Water Front are sharp
as ferrets, and very little would give them an inkling of the state of
affairs. Presently we raised the land broad on the port bow, and two
of us were perched on the fore-to'gal'nt yard to look out for the pilot
schooner; or, if luck was in our way, a tow-boat. The land became more
distinct as the day wore on, and the bearing of several conspicuous
hills gave the Captain the position he sought. Before noon we reported
smoke ahead, and the Mate, coming aloft with his telescope, made out
the stranger to be a tow-boat, and heading for us. We were called down
from aloft, and the ship was put about.
We were now, for the second time, heading away from our port; and when
the Mate set us to slap the paint on the burned patch, we understood
the Old Man's manoeuvre, which had the object of preventing the
tow-boat from rounding to on our starboard side. Her skipper would
there have assuredly seen evidences of our plight, and would not have
been slow to take advantage of it.
The tug neared us rapidly (they lose no time on the Pacific slope), and
the Captain recognised her as the _Active_.
"She's one of Spreckel's boats," said he, shutting his glass. "Cutbush
runs her, an' he's a dead wide ane. If he smells a rat, Mister, we'll
be damned lucky if we get into harbour under a couple o' thousand."
We were all excited at the game, though it mattered little to us what
our owners paid, as long as we got out of our hot corner. Straight for
us he came, and when he rounded our stern and lay up on the lee
quarter, the bo'sun voiced the general opinion that the Old Man had
done the trick.
"Morn, Cap.! Guess ye've bin a long time on th' road," sang out the
tow-boat's skipper, eyeing our rusty side and grassy counter.
"Head winds," said the Old Man, "head winds, an' no luck this side o'
th' Horn."
"Ye're a long way to th' norrard, Cap. Bin havin' thick weather
outside?"
"Well, not what ye might call thick, but musty, these last few days.
We were lookin' to pick up the Farallones." (The unblushing old
Ananias!)
There ensued a conversation about winds and weather, ships and
freights, interspersed with the news of five months back. The talk
went on, and neither seemed inclined to get to business. At last the
tow-boat man broke the ice.
"Wall, Cap., I reckon ye don't want t' stay here all day. Wind's
easterly inside, an' there ain't none too much water on th' bar. Ye'd
better give us yer hawser 'n let's git right along."
"Oh! no hurry, Capt'in; there's no hurry. What's a day here or there
when ye'r well over the hundreds? I can lay up to th' pilot ground on
th' next tack.... Ye'll be wantin' a big figure from here, an' my
owners won't stand a long pull."
"Only six hundred, Cap., only six hundred, with your hawser."
The Old Man started back in amazement.
"Six hundred dollars, Capt'in. Did you say six hundred? Holy smoke!
I don't want t' buy yer boat, Capt'in.... Six hundred--well, I'm
damned. Loose them royals, Mister! Six hundred, no damn fear!"
Quickly we put the royals on her, though they were little use, the wind
having fallen very light. The tow-boat sheered off a bit, and her
skipper watched us sheeting-home, as if it were a most interesting and
uncommon sight.
He gave his wheel a spoke or two and came alongside again.
"All right, Cap. Give us yer hawser 'n I'll dock ye for five-fifty!"
The Old Man paid no attention to his request, but paced fore and aft
the weather side, gazing occasionally at the lazy royals, then fixing
the man at the wheel with a reproachful eye. At last he turned to
leeward with a surprised expression, as if astonished to find the
tow-boat still there.
"Come, Cap.! Strike it right naow! What d'ye offer? Mind the wind,
as there is ov it, is due east in the Strait."
The Old Man thought carefully for quite a time. "Hundred 'n fifty, 'n
your hawser," he said.
The Captain of the _Active_ jammed his telegraph at full speed ahead.
"Good morn', Cap.," he said. "Guess I'll see ye in 'Frisco this side
o' the Noo Year." He forged rapidly ahead, and when clear of the bows
took a long turn to seaward. The Mate took advantage of his being away
and wiped off the paint on the burned patch, which was beginning to
smell abominably. Fresh paint was hurriedly put on, and the stages
were again aboard when the _Active_, finding nothing to interest her on
the western horizon, returned--again to the lee quarter.
"Saay, Cap., kan't we do a deal; kan't we meet somewhere?" said
Cutbush, conciliatory. "Say five hundred or four-eighty, 'n I'll toss
ye for th' hawser?"
"I can't do it, Capt'in.... I'd lose my job if I went," (here the Old
Man paused to damn the steersman's eyes, and to tell him to keep her
full) "if I went that length."
The tow-boat again sheered off, and her skipper busied himself with his
telescope.
"Wall, Cap., she may be a smart barque, but I'm darn ef ye can beat her
though the Golden Gate the way th' wind is. Saay! Make it
three-fifty? What the hell's about a fifty dollars. Darn me! I've
blown that in half-hour's poker!"
"Aye, aye! That's so; but I'm no' takin' a hand in that game. Set the
stays'ls, Mister, 'n get a pull on the fore 'n main sheets!"
We went about the job, and the _Active_ took another turn, this time to
the south'ard. Munro, aloft loosing the staysails, reported a steamer
away under the land. She was sending up a dense smoke, and that caused
the Old Man to account her another tow-boat out seeking.
"That'll fetch him," he said to the Mate, "'n if he offers again I'll
close. Three-fifty's pretty stiff, but we can't complain."
"Egad, no!" said the Mate; "if I'd been you I'd have closed for five
hundred, an' be done with it."
"Aye, aye, no doubt! no doubt! But ye're not a Scotchman looking after
his owners' interest."