a slanted hatch, was ready for the road, and we were mustered around
the open gangway. The Old Man was reading the service in his homely
Doric, and it lost nothing of beauty or dignity in the
translation--"an' whosoever liveth an' believeth in me sall never die."
He paused and glanced anxiously to windward. There was a deadly check
in the wind, and rain had commenced to fall in large, heavy drops. "A
hand t' th' tops'l halyards, Mister," quietly, then continuing, "I know
that my Redeemer liveth, an' that He sail stand at th' latter day upon
th' airth. An' though ... yet in my flesh sail I see Goad...."
Overhead, the sails were thrashing back and fore, for want of the
breeze--still fell the rain, lashing heavily now on us and on the
shrouded figure, face up, that heeded it not.
Hurriedly the Old Man continued the service--"Foreasmuch as it hath
pleased Almighty Goad of his gre--at merrcy t' take unto Himself th'
so-al of oor de-ar brother, here departed, we therefore commit he's
boady t' th' deep ... when th' sea sall give up her daid, an' th' life
of th' worl-d t' come, through oor Loard, Jesus Christ."
At a sign, the Second Mate tilted the hatch, the two youngest boys held
the Flag, and Martin, slipping from its folds, took the water feet
first in a sullen, almost noiseless, plunge.
"Oor Father which airt in heaven"--with bent head the Old Man finished
the service. He was plainly ill at ease. He felt that the weather was
'making' on him, that the absence from the post of command (the narrow
space between wheel and binnacle) was ill-timed. Still, his sense of
duty made him read the service to a finish, and it was with evident
relief he closed the book, saying, "Amen! Haul th' mains'l up, Mister,
an' stand by t' square mainyards! ... Keep th' watch on deck; it's
'all hands'--thon," pointing to the black murk spreading swiftly over
the weather sky.
We dragged the wet and heavy mains'l to the yard and stood by, waiting
for the wind. Fitful gusts came, driving the rain in savage, searching
bursts; then would come a deadly lull, and the rain beating on us,
straight from above--a pitiless downpour. It was bitter cold, we were
drenched and depressed as we stood shivering at the braces, and we
wished for the wind to come, to get it over; anything would be better
than this inaction.
A gust came out of the sou'-west, and we had but squared the yards when
we heard the sound of a master wind on the water.
Shrieking with fury long withheld, the squall was upon us. We felt the
ship stagger to the first of the blast; a furious plunge and she was
off--smoking through the white-lashed sea, feather-driven before the
gale. It could not last; no fabric would stand to such a race. "Lower
away tops'l halyards!" yelled the Old Man, his voice scarce audible in
the shrilling of the squall. The bo'sun, at the halyards, had but
started the yard when the sheet parted; instant, the sail was in
ribbons, thrashing savagely adown the wind. It was the test for the
weakest link, and the squall had found it, but our spars were safe to
us, and, eased of the press, we ran still swiftly on. We set about
securing the gear, and in action we gave little thought to the event
that had marked our day; but there was that in the shriek of wind in
the rigging, in the crash of sundered seas under the bows, in the cries
of men at the downhauls and the thundering of the torn canvas that sang
fitting Requiem for the passing of our aged mariner.
XXI
DOLDRUMS
"Lee fore-brace!"
Mister M'Kellar stepped from the poop and cast off the brace coils with
an air of impatience. It wanted but half an hour of 'knocking off
time'--and that half-hour would be time enough, for his watch to finish
the scraping of the deck-house--but the wind waits on no man, and
already the weather clew of the mainsail was lifting lazily to a shift.
It was hard to give up the prospect of having the house all finished
and ship-shape before the Mate came on deck (and then trimming yards
and sail after the _work_ was done); but here was the wind working
light into the eastward, and the sails nearly aback, and any minute
might bring the Old Man on deck to inquire, with vehemence, "What the
---- somebody was doing with the ship?" There was nothing else for it;
the house would have to stand.
"_T--'tt_, lee-fore-brace, the watch there!" Buckets and scrapers were
thrown aside, the watch mustered at the braces, and the yards were
swung slowly forward, the sails lifting to a faint head air.
This was the last of the south-east trades, a clean-running breeze that
had carried us up from 20 deg. S., and brace and sheet blocks, rudely
awakened from their three weeks' rest, creaked a long-drawn protest to
the failing wind; ropes, dry with disuse, ran stiffly over the sheaves,
and the cries of the men at the braces added the human note to a chorus
of ship sounds that marked the end of steady sailing weather.
"_He--o--ro_, round 'm in, me sons;
_ho--io--io_--lay-back-an'-get-yer-muscle-up-fer ghostin' through th'
doldrums!" Roused by the song (broad hints and deep-sea pleasantries)
of the chanteyman, the Old Man came on deck, and paced slowly up and
down the poop, whistling softly for wind, and glancing expectantly
around the horizon. Whistle as he might, there was no wisp of stirring
cloud, no ruffling of the water, to meet his gaze, and already the sea
was glassing over, deserted by the wind. Soon what airs there were
died away, leaving us flat becalmed, all signs of movement vanished
from the face of the ocean, and we lay, mirrored sharply in the
windless, silent sea, under the broad glare of an equatorial sun.
For a space of time we were condemned to a seaman's purgatory; we had
entered the 'doldrums,' that strip of baffling weather that lies
between the trade winds. We would have some days of calm and heavy
rains, sudden squalls and shifting winds, and a fierce overhead sun;
and through it all there would be hard labour for our crew (weak and
short-handed as we were), incessant hauling of the heavy yards, and
trimming of sail. Night or day, every faint breath of wind a-stirring,
every shadow on the water, must find our sail in trim for but a flutter
of the canvas that would move us on; any course with north in it would
serve. "Drive her or drift her," by hard work only could we hope to
win into the steady trade winds again, into the gallant sailing weather
when you touch neither brace nor sheet from sunset to sunrise.
Overhead the sails hung straight from the head-ropes, with not even a
flutter to send a welcome draught to the sweltering deck below.
Everywhere was a smell of blistering paint and molten pitch, for the
sun, all day blazing on our iron sides, had heated the hull like a
furnace wall. Time and again we sluiced the decks, but still pitch
oozed from the gaping seams to blister our naked feet, and the moisture
dried from the scorched planking almost as quickly as we could draw the
water. We waited for relief at sundown, and hoped for a tropical
downpour to put us to rights.
Far to the horizon the sea spread out in a glassy stillness, broken
only by an occasional movement among the fish. A widening ring would
mark a rise--followed by the quick, affrighted flutter of a shoal of
flying fish; then the dolphin, darting in eager pursuit, the sun's rays
striking on their glistening sides at each leap and flurry. A few
sharp seconds of glorious action, then silence, and the level sea
stretching out unbroken to the track of the westing sun.
Gasping for a breath of cooler air, we watched the sun go down, but
there was no sign of wind, no promise of movement in the faint, vapoury
cirrhus that attended his setting.
* * * * *
Ten days of calms (blazing sun or a torrent of rain) and a few faint
airs in the night time--and we had gained but a hundred miles. 'Our
smart passage,' that we had hoped for when winds were fair and fresh,
was out of question; but deep-sea philosophy has a counter for every
occasion, and when the wind headed us or failed, someone among us would
surely say, "Well, wot's th' odds, anyway? More bloomin' days, more
bloomin' dollars, ain't it?" Small comfort this to the Old Man, who
was now in the vilest of tempers, and spent his days in cursing the
idle steersman, and his nights in quarrelling with the Mates about the
trim. If the yards were sharp up, it would be, "What are ye thinkin'
about, Mister? Get these yards braced in, an' look damn smart about
it!" If they were squared, nothing would do but they must be braced
forward, where the sails hung straight down, motionless, as before.
Everything and everybody was wrong, and the empty grog bottles went
'_plomp_' out of the stern ports with unusual frequency. When we were
outward bound, the baffling winds that we met off Cape Horn found him
calm enough; they were to be expected in that quarter, and in the stir
and action of working the ship in high winds, he could forget any
vexation he might have felt; but this was different, there was the
delay at the Falklands, and here was a further check to the passage--a
hundred miles in ten days--provisions running short, grass a foot long
on the counter, and still no sign of wind. There would be no
congratulatory letter from the owners at the end of this voyage, no
kindly commending phrase that means so much to a shipmaster. Instead
it would be, "We are at a loss to understand why you have not made a
more expeditious passage, considering that the _Elsinora_, which
sailed," etc., etc. It is always a fair wind in Bothwell Street! It
was maddening to think of. "Ten miles a day!" Old Jock stamped up and
down the poop, snarling at all and sundry. To the steersman it was,
"Blast ye, what are ye lookin' round for? Keep yer eye on th' royals,
you!" The Mates fared but little better. "Here, Mister," he would
shout; "what's th' crowd idlin' about for? Can't ye find no work t'
do? D'ye want me t' come and roust them around? It isn't much use o'
me keepin' a dog, an' havin' t' bark myself!"
It was a trying time. If the Old Man 'roughed' the Mates, the Mates
'roughed' us, and rough it was. All hands were 'on the raw,' and
matters looked ugly between the men and Officers, and who knows what
would have happened, had not the eleventh day brought the wind.
It came in the middle watch, a gentle air, that lifted the canvas and
set the reef points drumming and dancing at each welcome flutter, and
all our truculence and ill-temper vanished with the foam bubbles that
rose under our moving fore-foot.
The night had fallen dark and windless as any, and the first watch held
a record for hauling yards and changing sheets. "'Ere ye are, boys,"
was the call at eight bells. "Out ye comes, an' swigs them b----y
yards round; windmill tatties, an' th' Old Man 'owlin' like a dancin'
---- dervish on th' lid!" The Old Man had been at the bottle, and was
more than usually quarrelsome; two men were sent from the wheel for
daring to spit over the quarter, and M'Kellar was on a verge of tears
at some coarse-worded aspersion on his seamanship. The middle watch
began ill. When the wind came we thought it the usual fluke that would
last but a minute or two, and then, "mains'l up, an' square mainyards,
ye idle hounds!" But no, three bells, four bells, five, the wind still
held, the water was ruffling up to windward, the ship leaning
handsomely; there was the welcome heave of a swell running under.
So the watch passed. There were no more angry words from the poop.
Instead, the Old Man paced to and fro, rubbing his hands, in high good
humour, and calling the steersman "m' lad" when he had occasion to con
the vessel. After seeing that every foot of canvas was drawing, he
went below, and the Second Mate took his place on the weather side,
thought things over, and concluded that Old Jock wasn't such a bad
sort, after all. We lay about the decks, awaiting further orders.
None came, and we could talk of winds and passages, or lie flat on our
backs staring up at the gently swaying trucks, watching the soft clouds
racing over the zenith; there would be a spanking breeze by daylight.
A bell was struck forward in the darkness, and the 'look-out' chanted a
long "Awl--'s well!"
All was, indeed, well; we had picked up the north-east trades.
XXII
ON SUNDAY
Sunday is the day when ships are sailed in fine style. On week days,
when the round of work goes on, a baggy topsail or an ill-trimmed yard
may stand till sundown, till the _work_ be done, but Sunday is sacred
to keen sailing; a day of grace, when every rope must be a-taut-o, and
the lifts tended, and the Mates strut the weather poop, thinking at
every turn of suitable manoeuvres and sail drill that will keep the
sailormen from wearying on this, their Day of Rest.
On a fine Sunday afternoon we lay at ease awaiting the Mate's next
discovery in the field of progress. She was doing well, six knots or
seven, every stitch of sail set and drawing to a steady wind. From
under the bows came the pleasing _thrussh_ of the broken water, from
aloft the creak of block and cordage and the sound of wind against the
canvas. For over an hour we had been sweating at sheets and halyards,
the customary Sunday afternoon service, and if the _Florence_, of
Glasgow, wasn't doing her best it was no fault of ours.
Now it was, "That'll do, the watch!" and we were each following our
Sunday beat.
Spectacled and serious, 'Sails' was spelling out the advertisements on
a back page of an old _Home Notes_; the two Dutchmen were following his
words with attentive interest. The Dagos, after the manner of their
kind, were polishing up their knives, and the 'white men' were brushing
and airing their 'longshore togs,' in readiness for a day that the
gallant breeze was bringing nearer. A scene of peaceful idling.
"As shair's daith, he's gotten his e'e on that fore-tops'l sheet. Ah
telt ye; Ah telt ye!" Houston was looking aft. "Spit oan yer hauns,
lauds! He's seen it. We're gaun tae ha'e anither bit prayer for th'
owners!"
The Mate had come off the poop, and was standing amidships staring
steadily aloft.
"Keep 'oor eyes off that tops'l sheet, I tell 'oo," said Welsh John
angrily. "He can't see it unless he comes forra'd; if he sees 'oo
lookin', it's forra'd he'll be, soon, indeed!"
There were perhaps a couple of links of slack in the tops'l sheet, a
small matter, but quite enough to call for the watch tackle--on a
Sunday. The crisis passed; it was a small matter on the main that had
called him down, and soon a 'prentice boy was mounting the rigging with
ropeyarns in his hand, to tell the buntlines what he thought of
them--and of the Mate.
Bo'sun Hicks was finishing off a pair of 'shackles,' sailor handles for
Munro's sea-chest--a simple bit of recreation for a Sunday afternoon.
They were elaborate affairs of four stranded 'turks-heads' and double
rose knots, and showed several distinct varieties of 'coach whipping.'
One that was finished was being passed round an admiring circle of
shipmates, and Hicks, working at the other, was feigning a great
indifference to their criticisms of his work.
"Di--zy, Di--zy, gimme yer awnswer, do," he sang with feeling, as he
twisted the pliant yarns.
"Mind ye, 'm not sayin' as them ain't fine shackles"--Granger was ever
the one to strike a jarring note--"As fine a shackles as ever I see;
but there was a Dutchman, wot I was shipmates with in th'
_Ruddy-mantus_, o' London, as _could_ turn 'em out! Wire 'earts, 'e
made 'em, an' stuffin', an' made up o' round sinnet an' dimon'
'itchin'! Prime! W'y! Look a here! If ye was t' see one ov 'is
shackles on th' hend ov a chest--all painted up an' smooth like--ye
couldn't 'elp a liftin' ov it, jest t' try th' grip; an' it 'ud come
nat'ral t' th' 'and, jes' like a good knife. Them wos shackles as 'e
made, an'----"
"Ho, yus! Shackles, wos they? An' them ain't no shackles wot 'm
a-finishin' of? No bloomin' fear! Them's garters f'r bally dancers,
ain't they? Or nose rings for Sullimans, or ----, or ----. 'Ere!"
Hicks threw aside the unfinished shackle and advanced threateningly on
his critic.
"'Ere! 'Oo th' 'ell are ye gettin' at, anywye? D'ye siy as I cawn't
make as good a shackles as any bloomin' Dutchman wot ever said _yaw_
f'r yes? An' yer _Ruddy-mantus_, o' London? I knows yer
_Ruddy-bloomin-mantus_, o' London! Never 'ad a sailorman acrost 'er
fo'cas'le door! Men wot knowed their work wouldn't sail in 'er,
anyhow, an' w'en she tided out at Gravesen', all th' stiffs out o' th'
'ard-up boardin'-'ouses wos windin' 'er bloomin' keeleg up!
_Ruddymantus_? 'Er wot 'ad a bow like the side o' 'n 'ouse--comin' up
th' Mersey Channel a-shovin' th' sea afore 'er, an' makin' 'igh water
at Liverpool two hours afore th' Halmanack! That's yer _Ruddy-mantus_!
An' wot th' 'ell d'you know 'bout sailorizin', anywye? Yer never wos
in a proper ship till ye come 'ere, on a dead 'un's discharge, an' ye
couldn't put dimon' 'itchin' on a broom 'andle, if it wos t' get ye a
pension!"
Here was a break to our peaceful Sunday afternoon; nothing short of a
round or two could set matters fair after such an insult to a man's
last ship!
Someone tried to pacify the indignant bo'sun.
"'Ere, bo'sun! Wot's about it if 'e did know a blanky Dutchman wot
made shackles? Them o' yourn's good enough. I don't see nuthin' th'
matter wi' them!"
"No--no! A-course ye don't, 'cos ye'r like that b----y Granger there,
ye knows damn all 'bout sailorizin' anywye! Didn't ye 'ear 'im say as
I couldn't make shackles?"
A chorus of denials, a babel of confused explanation.
"A-course 'e did," shouted the maker of shackles. "'E sed as I didn't
know 'ow t' work round sennit an' dimon' 'itchin', as I wos never in a
proper ship afore, as 'e knowed a bloomin' Dutchman wot could make
better shackles nor me; sed as 'ow my shackles worn't fit f'r a
grip----"
"'Ere! 'Ere!! bo'sun--I never sed nuthin' ov th' kind!" The
unfortunate Granger was bowing to the blast. "Wot I sed wos, 'ow them
was good shackles; as fine a shackles as ever I see--an' I wos only
tellin' my mates 'ere 'bout a Dutchman wot was in th' _Ruddymanthus_
along o' me as could make 'em as smooth to the 'and----"
"An' wot's the matter wi' them?" Hicks picked up the discarded shackle
and threw it at Granger, striking him smartly on the chest. "Ain't
them smooth enough for yer lubberly 'an's, ye long-eared son of a----"
"_Fore-tops'l sheet, the watch there!!_"
The Mate had seen the slack links and the row in progress at the same
moment. The order came in time; strife was averted.
Three sulky pulls at a tackle on the sheets, a tightening of the
braces, then: "That'll do, the watch there! Coil down and put away the
tackle!" Again the gathering at the fore-hatch. Hicks picked up his
work and resumed the twisting of the yarns.
A great knocking out and refilling of pipes.
"'Bout that 'ere Dutchman, Granger? 'Im wot ye wos shipmates with."
Granger glanced covertly at the bo'sun. There was no sign of further
hostilities; he was working the yarns with a great show of industry,
and was whistling dolefully the while.
"Well, 'e worn't a proper Dutchman, neither," he began pleasantly; "'im
bein' married on a white woman in Cardiff, wot 'ad a shop in Bute Road.
See? Th' Ole Man o' th' _Ruddymanthus_, 'e wos a terror on
sailorizin'----" Granger paused.
Again a squint at the bo'sun. There was no sign, save that the
whistling had ceased, and the lips had taken a scornful turn. "'E wos
a terror on sailorizin', an' w'en we left Sydney f'r London, 'e said as
'ow 'e'd give two pun' fer th' best pair o' shackles wot 'is men could
make. There worn't many o' us as wor 'ands at shackles, an' there wor
only th' Dutchman an' a white man in it--a Cockney 'e wos, name o'
Linnet----"
The bo'sun was staring steadily at the speaker, who added hastily, "'an
a damn good feller 'e wos, too, one o' th' best I ever wos shipmates
with; 'e wos a prime sailorman--there worn't many as could teach 'im
anythin'----"
Bo'sun had resumed work, and was again whistling.
"It lay a-tween 'im an' this 'ere Dutchman. All the w'yage they wos at
it. They wos in diff'rent watches, an' th' other fellers wos allus
a-settin' 'em up. It would be, ''Ere, Dutchy, you min' yer eye.
Linnet, 'e's got a new turn o' threads jes' below th' rose knots'; or,
'Look-a-here, Linnet, me son, that Dutchman's puttin' in glossy beads,
an' 'e's waxin' 'is ends wi' stuff wot th' stooard giv' 'im.' The
watches wos takin' sides. 'Linnet's th' man,' says th' Mate's watch.
'Dutchy, he's th' fine 'and at sailorizin',' says th' starbowlines.
Worn't takin' no sides meself"--a side glance at the bo'sun--"me bein'
'andy man along o' th' carpenter, an' workin' all day."
The bo'sun put away his unfinished work, and, lighting his pipe--a sign
of satisfaction--drew nearer to the group.
"Off th' Western Islands they finished their jobs," continued Granger
(confidently, now that the bo'sun had lit a pipe and was listening as a
shipmate ought). "They painted 'em, an' 'ung 'em up t' dry. Fine they
looked, dark green, an' th' rose knots all w'ite. Dutchy's shackles
wos werry narrer; worn't made f'r a sailorman's 'and at all, but 'e
knowed wot e' wos a-doin' of, for th' Ole Man wos one o' them dandy
blokes wot sails out o' London; 'an's like a lidye's 'e 'ad, an' w'en
they takes their shackles aft, 'e cottons t' Dutchy's at onest. 'Now,
them's wot I calls shackles, Johnson, me man,' sez 'e. 'Jest fits me
'and like a glove,' 'e sez, 'oldin' ov 'em up, an' lettin' 'em fall
back an' forrard acrost 'is wrist. 'Linnet's is too broad,' 'e sez.
'Good work, hexellint work,' 'e sez, 'but too broad for th' 'ands.'
Linnet, 'e sed as 'ow 'e made shackles for sailormen's 'ands; sed 'e
didn't 'old wi' Captains 'andlin' their own sea-chests, but it worn't
no use--Dutchy got th' two quid, an' th' stooard got cramp ov 'is 'ands
hevery time 'e took out th' Ole Man's chest ov a mornin'. An' th' Mate
giv' Linnet five bob an' an ole pair o' sea-boots f'r 'is pair, an'
cheap they wos, for Linnet, 'e wos a man wot knowed 'is work."
"A Mate's th' best judge ov a sailorman's work, anywye," said the
bo'sun pleasantly.
"'Im? 'E wor a good judge, too," said the wily Granger. "'E said as
'ow Linnet's wos out-an-out th' best pair. I knowed they wos, for them
Dutchmen ain't so 'andy at double rose knots as a white man!"
"No! Sure they ain't!"
XXIII
A LANDFALL
In the dark of the morning a dense fog had closed around us, shutting
in our horizon when we had most need of a clear outlook. We had
expected to sight the Lizard before dawn to pick up a Falmouth pilot at
noon, to be anchored in the Roads by nightfall--we had it all planned
out, even to the man who was to stand the first anchor-watch--and now,
before the friendly gleam of the Lizard Lights had reached us, was
fog--damp, chilling, dispiriting, a pall of white, clammy vapour that
no cunning of seamanship could avail against.
Denser it grew, that deep, terrifying wall that shut us off, shipmate
from shipmate. Overhead, only the black shadow of the lower sails
loomed up; forward, the ship was shrouded ghostly, unreal. Trailing
wreaths of vapour passed before and about the side-lamps, throwing back
their glare in mockery of the useless rays. All sense of distance was
taken from us: familiar deck fittings assumed huge, grotesque
proportions; the blurred and shadowy outlines of listening men about
the decks seemed magnified and unreal. Sound, too, was distorted by
the inconstant sea-fog; a whisper might carry far, a whole-voiced hail
be but dimly heard.
Lifting lazily over the long swell, under easy canvas, we sailed,
unseeing and unseen. Now and on, the hand fog-trumpet rasped out a
signal of our sailing, a faint, half-stifled note to pit against the
deep reverberation of a liner's siren that seemed, at every blast, to
be drawing nearer and nearer.
The Old Man was on the poop, anxiously peering into the void, though
keenest eyes could serve no purpose. Bare-headed, that he might the
better hear, he stepped from rail to rail--listening, sniffing,
striving, with every other sense acute, to work through the fog-banks
that had robbed him of his sight. We were in evil case. A dense fog
in Channel, full in the track of shipping--a weak wind for working
ship. Small wonder that every whisper, every creak of block or parrel,
caused him to jump to the compass--a steering order all but spoken.
"Where d'ye mark that, now?" he cried, as again the liner's siren
sounded out.