that Martin," he said, "would have settled it without all that
palaver"; and then he went on to tell the Old Man what happened when he
was in the New Bedford whalers.
"Aye, aye, man! Aye, aye," said Old Jock, "I know the Yankee game,
Mister--blood an' thunder an' belayin' pins an' six-ounce
knuckle-dusters! Gun play, too, an' all the rest of it. I know that
game, Mister, and it doesn't come off on my ship--no' till a' else has
been tried."
He took a turn or two up and down the poop, whistling for a breeze.
Out in the nor'-west the haze was lifting, and a faint grey line of
ruffled water showed beyond the glassy surface of our encircling calm.
"Stan' by t' check th' yards, Mister," he shouted, rubbing his
hands.... "Phe ... w! Phe ... w! Phe ... w! encouraging."
XIV
A TRICK AT THE WHEEL
"Keep 'r full an' by!"
"Full 'n by!"
Houston, relieved from the wheel, reports to the Mate and goes forward,
and I am left to stand my trick.
We are in the south-east trades; a gentle breeze, and all sail set.
Aloft, the ghostly canvas stands out against a star-studded sky, and
the masthead trucks sway in a stately circle as we heave on the light
swell. She is steering easily, asking nothing but a spoke or two when
a fluttering tremor on the weather leach of the royals shows that she
is nearing the wind. The light in the binnacle is dim and spluttering,
the glass smoke-blackened, and one can but see the points on the
compass card. South sou'-west, she heads, swinging a little west at
times, but making a good course. Eccles, who should see to the lights,
is stretched out on the wheel-box grating, resuming the thread of his
slumbers; a muttered "'ware!" will bring him to his feet when the Mate
comes round; meantime, there are stars ahead to steer by, and the
binnacle-lamp may wait.
South of the Line, at four in the morning, is a fine time to see the
stars, if one be but properly awake. Overhead, Orion has reached his
height, and is now striding towards the western horizon. The Dog-star
is high over the mizzen truck, and Canopus, clear of the weather
backstays, is a friend to a drowsy helmsman. The Southern Cross is
clearing the sea-line, and above it many-eyed Argus keeps watch over
the Pole. Old friends, all of them, companions of many a night watch
on leagues of lonely sea. A glow to the eastward marks where the dawn
will break, and the fleecy trade-clouds about the horizon are already
assuming shape and colour. There the stars are paling, but a planet,
Jupiter, perhaps, stands out in brilliance on the fast lightening sky.
Forward one bell is struck, and the look-out chants a long-drawn,
"Aw--ll's well!"
The Mate, who until now has been leaning lazily over the poop rail,
comes aft, yawning whole-heartedly, as men do at sea. He peers into
the dimly-lighted binnacle, turns his gaze to the sail aloft, sniffs
the wind, and fixes me with a stern though drowsy eye.
"H-mm! You, is it?" (I have but a modest reputation as a steersman.)
"Jest you keep 'r full now, or I'll teach ye steerin' in your watch
below. Keep 'r full, an' no damned shinnanikin!" He goes forward.
'Shinnanikin' is a sailor word; it means anything at all; it may be
made an adjective or a verb, or almost any part of speech, to serve a
purpose or express a thought. Here it meant that there was to be no
fooling at the helm, that she was to be steered as by Gunter himself.
"Full an' by," was the word. "Full an' by, an' no damned shinnanikin!"
Right!
The light grows, and the towering mass of canvas and cordage shows
faint shadows here and there. The chickens in the quarter coops stir
and cackle; a cock crows valiantly. Eccles, sleeping his watch on the
lee side of the poop, stirs uneasily, finds a need for movement, and
tramps irresolutely up and down his appointed station. From somewhere
out of sight the Mate shouts an order, and he goes forward to take in
the sidelights; dim and sickly they shine as he lifts them inboard.
There is now some sign of life about the decks. A keen smell of
burning wood and a glare from the galley show that the cook has taken
up the day's duties. Some men of the watch are already gathered about
the door waiting for their morning coffee, and the 'idlers' (as the
word is at sea), the steward, carpenter, and sailmaker, in various
states of attire, are getting ready for their work.
Two bells marks five o'clock, and the crowd about the galley door grows
impatient. The cook has a difficulty with his fire, and is behind time.
"Come on, 'doctor'!" shouts Old Martin; "get a move on yer! Them
tawps'l 'alyards is screechin' fer a pull, an' th' Mate's got 'is
heagle heye on that 'ere fore-tack. 'E'll be a-floggin' th' clock
afore ye knows it!"
The Mate hears this, as Martin intended he should, and scowls darkly at
that ancient mariner. Martin will have his 'old iron' worked up for
that before the watch is out. He's a hard case. Coffee is served out,
and the crowd disperses. It is now broad daylight, and the sun is on
the horizon. The east is a-fire with his radiance; purest gold there
changing to saffron and rose overhead; and in the west, where fading
stars show, copper-hued clouds are working down to the horizon in track
of the night. Our dingy sails are cut out in seemly curves and glowing
colours against the deep of the sky; red-gold where the light strikes,
and deepest violet in the shadows. Blue smoke from the galley funnel
is wafted aft by the draught from the sails, and gives a kindly scent
to the air; there is no smell like that of wood fires in the pride of
the morning. This is a time to be awake and alive; a morning to be at
the wheel of a leaning ship.
Presently I am relieved for a few minutes that I may have my coffee.
Being the last man, I get a bo'sun's share of the grounds. To my
protests the cook gives scant heed.
"Ach, sure! Phwat are yez growlin' at? Sure, if ye'd been in my last
ship, yez wouldn't have none at all! Devil the coffee would yez get
till eight bells ov a marnin', an' tay at thatt, bedad!"
The 'doctor,' being Irish, is beyond argument, so I take my pannikin
along to our quarters to sift the grounds as best I can. There is
naught but dry ship's biscuit to put down with it, for it is well on in
the week--Thursday, indeed--and only Hansen among us can make his
week's rations last out beyond that; he was bred in the north. The
half-deck is in its usual hopeless disorder--stuffy and close and
dismal in the shuttered half-light. Four small ports give little air,
and sea clothes hanging everywhere crowd up the space. The beams,
blackened by tobacco smoke, are hacked and carved, covered by the
initials and remarks of bygone apprentices. Only the after one is kept
clear; there the Board of Trade inscription (slightly altered by some
inspiring genius), reads, "Certified to suffocate eight seamen." A
dismal hole on a bright morning! Happily, one has not far to go for a
breath of keen air. Ten minutes is my time, and I am back at the wheel
again.
The Mate is seated on the cabin skylight, smoking. This is his time to
consider the trim of the sails. It is no matter that the evening
before the gear was sweated up to the tautest of sailing trim; the wind
is unchanged, but morning shows wrinkles in the clew of the royals or a
sag in the foot of a topsail. Ropes give mysteriously, and this must
all be righted before the Old Man comes on deck. So he smokes
leisurely and considers the trim.
The day's work begins at half-past five. The Mate strikes three bells
himself, exact, on the tick of the minute, and goes forward to turn the
men to.
"Fore tack," as Martin said, is the first order. The Mate signs to me
to luff her up, and when the sail shakes the tack is hove hard down.
Then sheets and halyards are sweated up, ropes coiled, and a boy sent
aloft to stop up the gear. At the main they have the usual morning
wrestle with the weather topsail sheet--a clew that never did fit.
Macallison's loft must have been at sixes and sevens the day they
turned that sail out; a Monday after Glasgow Fair, belike. When the
trim is right, wash deck begins. A bucket and spar is rigged, and the
clear sparkling water is drawn from overside. This is the fine job of
the morning watch in summer seas. The sound of cool sluicing water and
the swish of scrubbing brooms is an invitation that no one can resist.
There is something in it that calls for bare feet and trousers rolled
above the knee. There is grace in the steady throwing of the
water--the brimming bucket poised for the throw, left foot cocked a few
inches above the deck, the balance, and the sweeping half-circle with
the limpid water pouring strongly and evenly over the planking; then
the recovery, and the quick half-turn to pass the empty bucket and
receive a full--a figure for a stately dance!
Now it is six, and I strike four bells. Martin has the next trick, but
I see no signs of my relief. The Mate will have him at some lowly
'work-up' job, cleaning pig-pens or something like that, for his hint
about flogging the clock in the morning. The cranky old 'shellback' is
always 'asking for it.'
In the waist a row begins, a bicker between the sailmaker and bo'sun.
Old Dutchy is laying it off because someone has spilt water on the
main-hatch, where a sail is spread out, ready for his work. In course,
the bo'sun has called him a 'squarehead,' and 'Sails,' a decent old
Swede, is justly indignant at the insult; only Germans are squareheads,
be it known. "Skvarehedd! Jou calls me skvarehedd! Ah vass no more
skvarehedd as jou vass," he says, excited. "Jou tinks d' sheep vass
jours, mit jour vash-backet und deck-scrub. Dere vass no places for d'
sailmake, aindt it? Skvarehedd! Skvarehedd jourselluf, dam Cockney
loafer!" There are the makings of a tidy row, but the Mate, coming
from forrard, cuts it short.
"Now, then, you men there, quit yer chinning an' get on with the work!"
'Sails' tries to explain his grievance, but meets with little sympathy.
"Squarehead? Well, what the hell's th' odds, anyhow? If ye ain't a
squarehead, ye'r as near it 's can be!"
This is rough on old 'Sails,' whose proud boast is that he has been
"for thirty jahrs sailmake mit British sheeps in!" He goes sorrowfully
to his work, and bends over his seam with many shakings of the head.
"Skvarehedd!"
Time is drawing on, and I am getting tired of my long trick, when I see
Martin coming round the deck-house. He has donned the familiar old red
flannel shirt that he stands his wheel in, and, bareheaded as he always
is at sea, he looks a typical old salt, a Western Ocean warrior. He
mounts the lee ladder, crosses to windward in the fashion of the sea,
and stands behind me. Here, I thought, is a rare chance to get at
Martin. I give him the Mate's last steering order as I got it.
"Full an' by," I said, concealing a foolish grin; "full an' by, and no
damned shinnanikin!" Martin looked at me curiously. "No shinnanikin,"
was a new order to a man who could steer blindfold, by the wind on his
cheek; to a man who had steered great ships for perhaps half a century.
On the other hand, orders were orders, meant to be repeated as they
were given, seamanlike.
Martin squared himself, put a fresh piece of tobacco in position, and
gripped the spokes. "Full 'n' by," he said, lifting his keen old eyes
to the weather clews of the royals, "full 'n' by, 'n' no damned
shinnanikin, it is!"
XV
''OLY JOES'
"She'll be one o' them 'oly Joes; them wot cruises among th' Islands
wi' tracks an' picter books for th' bloomin' 'eathens!"
"'O--ly Joes! 'Oly Joes b' damn," said Martin. "'Oly Joes is
schooners same's mission boats on th' Gran' Banks! ... 'Oly Joes!
She's a starvation Britisher, that's wot _she_ is; a pound an' pint
ruddy limejuicer by th' set o' them trucks; sailor's misery in them
painted bloomin' ports o' her."
The subject of discussion was a full-rigged ship, standing upright in
mid-Pacific, with all her canvas furled; looking as she might be in
Queenstown Harbour awaiting orders. The south-east trades had blown us
out of the tropics, and we held a variable wind, but there was nothing
in the clean, fresh morning to cause even a Killala pilot to clew up,
and the strange sight of an idle ship in a working breeze soon drew all
hands from work and slumber, to peer over the head rail, to vent
deep-sea logic over such an odd happening.
One of the younger hands had expressed an opinion, and Martin, who held
that "boys an' Dutchmen should only speak when spoke to," was
scornfully indignant.
"'O--ly bloomin' Joe! ... 'Ow should she be an 'oly Joe, me young
'know-all'? Wot d'ye know 'bout 'oly Joes, anyway?"
"Well! ... 'eard as 'ow they clews up at eight bells o' a Saturd'y
night an' prays, solid on, till they sets tawps'ls, jack-easy, ov a
Monday mornin'!"
The laugh of derision sent him shamefaced to the fo'cas'le, and we
talked about till there was a call for all hands to haul courses up and
stand by to work ship. We hauled sharp up to windward, and, as we drew
on, we saw what was the matter, and the sight caused our Old Man to
dive below to his charts, cursing his wayward chronometer.
We saw the loom of a low island, scarce raised above the sea, with the
surf breaking lightly, and the big ship piled up, all standing, on the
verge of the weather reef. She looked to be but lately gone on, for
her topsides were scarce weather-beaten. The boats were gone from her
skids, and the davit tackles, swinging lubberly overside, told that her
crew had left her. Aloft, she seemed to be in good trim, and her sails
were as well stowed as if she were lying in the Canning Dock with her
nose against the Custom House. We lay-to for some time with our ensign
apeak, but saw no sign of life aboard of the wreck, and when we fired a
charge from our signal-gun (a rusty six-pounder), only a few sea-birds
rose at the report. We were about to bear off on our course again when
we saw two sail rounding the reef from the west side, and beating out.
There was but a light breeze, and they were some time in reaching us.
One was a large boat with barked canvas, going well and weatherly, but
the other, plainly a ship's lifeboat, hung heavy in the wind, and
presently her crew lowered sail and came at us under oars. The big
boat reached us first, her steersman taking every inch out of the
fickle breeze. Plainly these were no deep-water sailor-men, by the way
they handled their boat. Smart, wiry men, they had no look of
castaways, and their light cotton clothes were cleanly and in order.
As they sheered alongside they hailed us in clear, pleasant English:
one shouted, in face of our line of wondering seamen, a strange sea
salutation:
"God bless you, Captain Leish! Are you long out?"
"Blimy," said the bo'sun, "th' young 'un wos right after all. 'Oly
Joes they be!"
"Mebbe 'oly Joes, but them ain't sailormen," muttered Martin sullenly;
"them's Kanakas!"
Neither was quite right, for the boatmen were Pitcairn Islanders, and
they were soon on deck greeting us in the friendly way of men from
afar. Their leader went aft to the Old Man, and the rest remained to
tell us of the wreck, in exchange for what scant knowledge we had of
affairs.
The island was called Oeno. The ship was the _Bowden_, of Liverpool.
She had gone ashore, six weeks back, in a northerly wind, with all sail
on her: chronometer was twenty miles out: a bad case, the whole bottom
was ripped out of her, and her ruined cargo of grain smelt abominably;
two of their men were already sick. Ugh! ... The crew of the ship had
made for Pitcairn, ninety miles to the southward; they might be there
now. They (the Islanders) had now been three weeks on the reef,
salving what they could. There was not much: they were all pretty sick
of the job, and wanted to get back to Pitcairn. Perhaps the Captain
would give them a passage; it was on the way?
As we stood about, the Old Man and the leader of the Islanders came out
of the cabin, and talked with the others. All wanted to get back to
Pitcairn, and, the Old Man agreeing to give them a passage, we hoisted
the smaller boat on our davits, towed the other astern, and were soon
on our way towards Pitcairn.
When we got the ship in fair sailing trim, we had a rare opportunity of
learning something of the Island and its people. Discipline was, for
the time, relaxed, and but for working ship, in which the Islanders
joined us, we had the time to ourselves. In the shade of the great
sails, we stood or sat about, and our decks showed an unusual animation
in the groups of men colloguing earnestly--strangers met by the way.
In stature the Islanders were perhaps above the average height, lithe
and wiry, and but few were darker-skinned than a Spaniard or Italian.
They spoke excellent English (though, among themselves, they had a few
odd words), and their speech had no unnecessary adjectives. They had a
gentle manner, and no ill language; sometimes our rough ship talk
raised a slight protest; a raised hand, or a mild, "Oh, Sir!" Their
leader, who was Governor of the Island, was a man in the prime of life,
and, though dressed in dungarees and a worn cotton shirt, barefooted
like the rest, had a quiet dignity in his manner and address that
caused even our truculent Old Martin to call him Sir. There was one
outlander among them, a wiry old man, an American whaleman, who had
been settled on the Island for many years; he it was who steered the
boat, and he knew a little of navigation.
Their talk was mostly of ships that had visited the Island, and they
asked us to run over the names of the ships that were at 'Frisco when
we left; when we mentioned a ship that they knew, they were eager to
know how it fared with her people. They had fine memories. They could
name the Captain and Mates of each ship; of the whalers they had the
particulars even down to the bulk of oil aboard. They seemed to take a
pleasure in learning our names, and, these known, they let pass no
opportunity of using them, slipping them into sentences in the oddest
manner. They themselves had few surnames--Adams, Fletcher, Christian,
and Hobbs (the names of their forefathers, the stark mutineers of the
_Bounty_)--but their Christian names were many and curious, sometimes
days of the week or even dates. They told us that there was a child
named after our Old Man, who had called off the Island the day after it
was born, five years ago; a weird name for a lassie! In one way the
Islanders had a want. They had no sense of humour. True, they laughed
with us at some merry jest of our Irish cook, but it was the laugh of
children, seeing their elders amused, and though they were ever
cheery-faced and smiling, they were strangely serious in their outlook.
We had light winds, and made slow progress, and it was the afternoon of
the second day when we saw Pitcairn, rising bold and solitary, on the
lee bow. The sun had gone down before we drew nigh, and the Island
stood sharp outlined against the scarlet and gold of a radiant western
sky. Slowly the light failed, and the dark moonless night found us
lifting lazily to the swell off the north point. The Islanders manned
their boats and made off to the landing place. It was clock calm, and
we heard the steady creak of their oars long after the dark had taken
them. We drifted close to the land, and the scent of trees, lime and
orange, was sweetly strange.
The boats were a long time gone, and the Old Man was growing impatient,
when we heard voices on the water, and saw, afar off, the gleam of
phosphorescence on the dripping oars. We heard the cheery hail, "The
_Florence_, ahoy!" and burned a blue light to lead them on.
There were many new men in the boats, and they brought a cargo of fruit
and vegetables to barter with us. The Old Man heaved a sigh of relief
when he learned that the _Bowden's_ crew were disposed of; they had
taken passage in a whaler that had called, nine days before, on her way
across to Valparaiso--a 'full' ship.
In odd corners the bartering began. Cotton clothes were in most
demand; they had little use for anything heavier. A basket of a
hundred or more luscious oranges could be had for an old duck suit, and
a branch of ripening bananas was counted worth a cotton shirt in a
reasonable state of repair. Hansen had red cotton curtains to his
bunk, full lengths, and there was keen bidding before they were taken
down, destined to grace some island beauty. After the trade in
clothing had become exhausted, there were odd items, luxuries to the
Islanders, soap, matches, needles, thread. There was a demand for
parts of old clocks--Martin it was who had a collection; they told us
that there was a man on the island who was a famous hand at putting up
and repairing such battered timepieces as we had to offer. They had
some curios; rudely carved or painted bamboos, and sea-shells cunningly
fashioned into pin-cushions, with Pitcairn in bold black letters, just
as one might see "A Present from Largs." These were the work of the
women-folk, and showed considerable ingenuity in the way the shells
were jointed.
Although they seemed to have a good idea of the value of the trifles we
offered, there was no 'haggling,' and latterly, when trade slackened,
it came to be, "Sir! if you like this, I will give it to you, and you
will give me something."
There was no cheating. Those of our crew who would glory in 'bilking'
a runner or a Dutchman were strangely decent, even generous, in their
dealings. When we were called away to brace the yards round, stock was
taken on both sides; the Islanders had their boats well laden, and our
once trim deck was strewn with a litter of fruit and vegetables, like
the top of Bell Street on a busy morning.
Light was breaking into the east when we laid the yards to a gentle
breeze, and shortly the Islanders, with a great shaking of hands and
"God bless you," got aboard their boats and sheered off. We were now
to leeward of the Island, and the light showed us the bold wooded
heights, high cliffs, steep to the water's edge, and the small houses
scattered apart among the trees. Astern the boats had hoisted sail,
and were standing inshore, leaning gently to the scented land breeze.
The ''oly Joes' were singing together as they sailed; the tune was an
old familiar one that minded us of quiet Sabbath days in the homeland,
of kirk and kent faces, and, somehow, we felt that it was we who were
the 'bloomin' 'eathens,' for their song was 'Rock of Ages,' and it had
a new sound, mellowed by distance and the water.
XVI
EAST, HALF SOUTH
On a day of high action in sea and sky we fled, hot-foot, before the
fury of a nor'-west gale. We had run her overlong. Old Jock, for once
at any rate, had had his weather eye bedimmed. He was expecting a
quick shift into the sou'-west, a moderate gale, and a chance to make
his 'easting' round Cape Horn, but the wind hung stubbornly in the
nor'-west; there was no break in the sky, no cessation in the black
bursts of rain and sleet that swept upon us. A huge sea set up, and we
were past the time when we could, in safety, heave her to the wind.
There was nothing for it but to run--run she did.
We had tops'ls and a reefed foresail on her while daylight lasted, but
on threat of darkness we stowed all but the foretops'l; wings enough
for the weight of a hurricane wind. Under that narrow band of
straining canvas she sped on into the murk of advancing night, while
behind the lurid western sky showed threat of a mightier blast in bank
upon bank of ragged storm-cloud. It was a wild night, never a wilder!
In the darkness the uncanny green shimmer of breaking seas gave an
added terror to the scene of storm. Rain and stinging sleet swept
constantly over us, thundering seas towered and curled at our stern,
lapping viciously at the fleeting quarter, or, parting, crashed aboard
at the waist, filling the decks man high with a power of destruction.
Part of the bulwarks were torn from the side. That was, perhaps, the
saving of us, for the seas swept off as fast as they thundered aboard,
and the barque rode buoyant, when, with bulwarks standing, the weight
of compassed water would have held her at mercy of the next towering
greybeard. A boat on the forward skids was smashed to atoms and the
wreck swept overboard, and every moment we looked to see our crazy
half-deck go tottering to ruin. The fo'ca'sle was awash through a
shattered door, and all hands were gathered on the poop for such safety
as it held. There was nowhere else where man could stand on the
reeling hull, and crouching at the rails, wet and chilled to the
marrow, we spent the night a-watching.