from mouth to mouth, in voices faint and muffled.
"About four points on th' port bow, Sir!" The cry sounded far and
distant, like a hail from a passing ship, though the Mate was but
shouting from the bows.
"Aye, aye! Stan' by t' hand that foresheet! Keep the foghorn goin'!"
"... Foresheet ... 'sheet ... th' fog'orn ... goin'!" The invisible
choir on the main-deck repeated the orders.
Again the deep bellow from the steamer, now perilously close--the
futile rasp of our horn in answer.
Suddenly an alarmed cry: "O Chris'! She's into us! ... The bell,
you! The bell! ..." A loud clanging of the forward bell, a united
shout from our crew, patter of feet as they run aft, the Mate shouting:
"Down hellum, Sir--down hellum, f'r God's sake!"
"Hard down helm! Le' go foresheet!" answered to the Mate's cry, the
Old Man himself wrenching desperately at the spokes of the wheel.
Sharp ring of a metal sheave, hiss of a running rope, clank and throb
of engines, thrashing of sails coming hard to the mast, shouts!
Out of the mist a huge shadowy hull ranges alongside, the wash from her
sheering cutwater hissing and spluttering on our broadside.
Three quick, furious blasts of a siren, unintelligible shouts from the
steamer's bridge, a churning of propellers; foam; a waft of black
smoke--then silence, the white, clammy veil again about us, and only
the muffled throb of the liner's reversed engines and the uneasy lurch
of our barque, now all aback, to tell of a tragedy averted.
"Oh! The murderin' ruffians! The b----y sojers!" The crisis over,
the Old Man was beside himself with rage and indignation. "Full speed
through weather like this! Blast ye!" he yelled, hollowing his hands.
"What--ship--is--that?"
No answer came out of the fog. The throb of engines died away in a
steady rhythm; they would be on their course again, 'slowed down,'
perhaps, to twelve knots, now that the nerves of the officer of the
watch had been shaken.
Slowly our barque was turned on heel, the yards trimmed to her former
course, and we moved on, piercing the clammy barrier that lay between
us and a landfall.
"Well, young fellers? Wha' d'ye think o' that now?" Bo'sun was the
first of us to regain composure. "Goin' dead slow, worn't 'e? 'Bout
fifteen, I sh'd siy! That's the wye wi' them mail-boat fellers:
Monday, five 'undred mile; Toosd'y, four-ninety-nine; We'n'sd'y,
four-ninety-height 'n 'arf--'slowed on haccount o' fog'--that's wot
they puts it in 'er bloomin' log, blarst 'em!"
"Silence, there--main-deck!" The Old Man was pacing across the break
of the poop, pausing to listen for sound of moving craft.
Bo'sun Hicks, though silenced, had yet a further lesson for us
youngsters, who might one day be handling twenty-knot liners in such a
fog. In the ghostly light of fog and breaking day he performed an
uncanny pantomime, presenting a liner's officer, resplendent in collar
and cuff, strutting, mincing, on a steamer's bridge. (Sailormen walk
fore and aft; steamboat men, athwart.)
"Haw!" he seemed to say, though never a word passed his lips. "Haw!
Them wind-jammers--ain't got no proper fog'orns. Couldn't 'ear 'em at
th' back o' a moskiter-net! An' if we cawn't 'ear 'em, 'ow do we know
they're there, haw! So we bumps 'em, an' serve 'em dem well right,
haw!"
It was extraordinary! Here was a man who, a few minutes before, might,
with all of us, have been struggling for his life!
Dawn broke and lightened the mist about us, but the pall hung thick as
ever over the water. At times we could hear the distant note of a
steamer's whistle; once we marked a sailing vessel, by sound of her
horn, as she worked slowly across our bows, giving the three mournful
wails of a running ship. Now and again we cast the lead, and it was
something to see the Channel bottom--grains of sand, broken
shell-pebbles--brought up on the arming. Fog or no fog, we were, at
least, dunting the 'blue pigeon' on English ground, and we felt, as day
wore on and the fog thinned and turned to mist and rain, that a
landfall was not yet beyond hope.
A change of weather was coming, a change that neither the Old Man nor
the Mate liked, to judge by their frequent visits to the barometers.
At noon the wind hauled into the sou'-west and freshened, white tops
curled out of the mist and broke in a splutter of foam under the
quarter, Channel gulls came screaming and circling high o'er our
heads--a sure sign of windy weather. A gale was in the making; a
rushing westerly gale, to clear the Channel and blow the fog-rack
inland.
"I don't like the looks o' this, Mister." The Old Man was growing
anxious; we had seen nothing, had heard nothing to make us confident of
our reckoning. "That aneroid's dropped a tenth since I tapped it last,
an' th' mercurial's like it had no bottom! There's wind behind this,
sure; and if we see naught before 'four bells,' I'm goin' out t' look
for sea-room. Channel fogs, an' sou'-westers, an' fifteen-knot liners
in charge o' b----y lunatics! Gad! there's no room in th' English
Channel now for square sail, an' when ye----"
"Sail O! On the port bow, Sir!" Keen, homeward-bound eyes had sighted
a smudge on the near horizon.
"Looks like a fisherman," said the Mate, screwing at his glasses.
"He's standing out."
"Well, we'll haul up t' him, anyway," answered the Old Man. "Starboard
a point--mebbe he can give us the bearin' o' th' Lizard."
Bearing up, we were soon within hailing distance. She was a Cardiff
pilot cutter; C.F. and a number, painted black on her mains'l, showed
us that. As we drew on she hoisted the red and white of a pilot on
station.
"The barque--ahoy! Where--are--'oo--bound?" A cheering hail that
brought all hands to the rails, to stare with interest at the
oilskin-clad figures of the pilot's crew.
"Falmouth--for orders!"
"Ah!"--a disappointed note--"'oo are standin' too far t' th' west'ard,
Capt'in. I saw the Falmouth cutter under th' land, indeed, before the
fog came down. Nor'-by-east--that'll fetch 'm!"
"Thank 'ee! How does the Lizard bear?"
"'Bout nor'-nor'-west, nine mile, I sh'd say. Stand
in--as--far--as--thirty-five--fathoms--no less!" The pilot's Channel
voice carried far.
"Thank Heaven! That's definite, anyway," said the Old Man, turning to
wave a hand towards the cutter, now fast merging into the mist astern.
"Nor'-nor'-west, nine mile," he said. "That last sight of ours was a
long way out. A good job I held by th' lead. Keep 'er as she's goin',
Mister; I'll away down an' lay her off on th' chart--nor'-nor'-west,
nine mile," he kept repeating as he went below, fearing a momentary
forgetfulness.
In streaks and patches the mist was clearing before the westering wind.
To seaward we saw our neighbours of the fog setting on their ways. Few
were standing out to sea, and that, and the sight of a fleet of
fishermen running in to their ports, showed that no ordinary weather
lay behind the fast-driving fog-wreaths. North of us heavy masses of
vapour, banked by the breeze, showed where the land lay, but no
land-mark, no feature of coast or headland, stood clear of the mist to
guide us. Cautiously, bringing up to cast the lead at frequent
intervals, we stood inshore, and darkness, falling early, found us
a-lee of the land with the misty glare of the Lizard lights broad on
our beam. Here we 'hove-to' to await a pilot--"Thirty-five fathoms, no
less," the Welshman had advised--and the frequent glare of our
blue-light signals showed the Old Man's impatience to be on his way
again to Falmouth and shelter.
Eight we burnt, guttering to their sockets, before we saw an answering
flare, and held away to meet the pilot. A league or so steady running,
and then--to the wind again, the lights of a big cutter rising and
falling in the sea-way, close a-lee.
"What--ship?" Not Stentor himself could have bettered the speaker's
hail.
"The _Florence_, of Glasgow: 'Frisco t' Channel. Have ye got my
orders?"
A moment of suspense. Hull, it might be, or the Continent: the answer
might set us off to sea again.
"No--not now! (We're right--for Falmouth.) We had 'm a fortnight
agone, but they'm called in since. A long passage, surely, Captain?"
"Aye! A hundred an' thirty-two days--not countin' three week at th'
Falklan's, under repair. ... Collision with ice in fifty-five, south!
... No proper trades either; an' 'doldrums'! ... A long passage,
Pilot!"
"Well, well! You'm be goin' on t' Falmouth, I reckon--stan' by t' put
a line in my boat!" A dinghy put off from the cutter; a frail
cockle-shell, lurching and diving in the short Channel sea, and soon
our pilot was astride the rail, greeting us, as one sure of a welcome.
"You'm jest in time, Capten. It's goin' t' blow, I tell 'ee--(Mainyard
forrard, Mister Mate!)--an' a West-countryman's allowance, for sure!"
He rubbed his sea-scarred hands together, beamed jovially, as though a
'West-countryman's allowance' were pleasant fare.... "Th' glass
started fallin' here about two--(Well--the mainyard!--a bit more o' th'
lower tawps'l-brace, Mister!)--two o'clock yesterday afternoon--(How's
the compass, Capten? Half a point! Keep 'er nor'-east b' nor', when
she comes to it, m' lad!)--an' it's been droppin' steady ever since.
Lot o' craft put in for shelter sin'--(Check in th' foreyards now, will
'ee?)--since th' marnin', an' the Carrick Roads 'll be like West India
Dock on a wet Friday. A good job the fog's lifted. Gad! we had it
thick this marnin'. We boarded a barque off th' Dodman.... Thought he
was south o' th' Lizard, he did, an' was steerin' nor'-east t' make
Falmouth! A good job we sighted 'im, or he'd a bin--(Well--th'
foreyard, Mister!)--hard upon th' Bizzie's Shoal, I reckon."
The look-out reported a light ahead.
"'St. Ant'ny's, Capten," said our pilot. "Will 'ee give 'er th' main
to'galns'l, an' we'll be gettin' on?"
XXIV
FALMOUTH FOR ORDERS
High dawn broke on a scene of storm, on the waters of Falmouth Bay,
white-lashed and curling, on great ragged storm-clouds racing
feather-edged over the downs and wooded slopes that environ the fairest
harbour of all England.
To us, so long habited to the lone outlook of sea and sky, the scene
held much of interest, and, from the first grey break of morning, our
eyes went a-roving over the windy prospect, seeing incident and novelty
at every turn. In the great Bay, many ships lay anchored, head to
wind, at straining cables. Laden ships with trim spars and rigging,
red-rusty of hull, and lifting at every scend to the rough sea, the
foul green underbody of long voyaging; tall clippers, clean and freshly
painted without, but showing, in disorder of gear and rigging, the mark
of the hastily equipped outward bound coasters, steam and sail,
plunging and fretting at short anchor or riding to the swell in
sheltered creeks; lumbermen, with high deck loads bleached and whitened
by wind and salt-spume of a winter passage; drifters and pilot
cruisers, sea trawlers, banksmen--a gathering of many craft that the
great west wind had turned to seek a shelter.
Riding with the fleet, we lay to double anchor. Overhead the high wind
whistled eerily through spar and cordage--a furious blast that now and
then caught up a crest of the broken harbour sea and flung the icy
spray among us. Frequent squalls came down--rude bursts of wind and
driving sleet that set the face of the harbour white-streaked under the
lash, and shut out the near land in a shroud of wind-blown spindrift.
To seaward, in the clearings, we could see the hurtling outer seas,
turned from the sou'-west, shattering in a high column of broken water
at the base of St. Anthony's firm headland. We were well out of that,
with good Cornish land our bulwark.
Ahead of us lay Falmouth town, dim and misty under the stormy sky. A
'sailor-town,' indeed, for the grey stone houses, clustered in
irregular masses, extended far along the water front--on the beach,
almost, as though the townsfolk held only to business with tide and
tide-load, and had set their houses at high-water mark for greater
convenience. In spite of the high wind and rough sea, a fleet of shore
boats were setting out toward the anchorage. Needs a master wind, in
truth, to keep the Falmouth quay-punts at their moorings when
homeward-bound ships lie anchored in the Roads, whose lean, ragged
sailormen have money to spend!
Under close-reefed rags of straining canvas, they came at us, lurching
heavily in the broken seaway, and casting the spray mast-high from
their threshing bows. To most of them our barque was the sailing mark.
Shooting up in the wind's eye with a great rattle of blocks and _slatt_
of wet canvas, they laid us aboard. There followed a scene of spirited
action. A confusion of wildly swaying masts and jarring
broadsides--shouts and curses, protest and insult; fending, pushing,
sails and rigging entangled in our out-gear. Struggling to a foothold,
where any offered on our rusty topsides, the boatmen clambered aboard,
and the Captain was quickly surrounded by a clamorous crowd, extending
cards and testimonials, and loudly praying for the high honour of
'sarving' the homeward bound.
"Capten! I sarved 'ee when 'ee wos mate o' th' _Orion_! Do 'ee mind
Pengelly--Jan Pengelly, Capten!"--"Boots, Capten? Damme, if them a'nt
boots o' my makin', 'ee 're a-wearin' nah!"--"... can dew 'ee cheaper
'n any man on th' Strand, Capten!"--"Trevethick's th' man, Capten!
Fort--(_th' 'ell 'ee shovin' at?_)--Forty year in Falmouth, Capten!"
Old Jock was not to be hurried in his bestowal of custom. From one he
took a proffered cigar; from another a box of matches. Lighting up, he
seated himself on the skylight settee.
"Aye, aye! Man, but ye're the grand talkers," he said.
The crowd renewed their clamour, making bids and offers one against the
other.
"Come down t' th' cabin, one of ye," said the Old Man, leading the way.
A purposeful West-countryman, brushing the crowd aside, followed close
at heel. The others stood around, discussing the prospect of business.
"Scotch barque, a'n't she?" said one. "Not much to be made o' them
Scotch Captens! Eh, Pengelly, 'ee knows? Wot about th' Capten o' th'
_Newtonend_, wot 'ee sarved last autumn?"
The man addressed looked angrily away, the others laughed: a sore point!
"Paid 'ee wi' tawps'l sheets, didn't 'e?" said another. "A fair wind,
an' him bound West! _Tchutt_! 'ee must 'a bin sleepin' sound when th'
wind come away, Pengelly, m' son!"
Pengelly swore softly.
"Don't 'ee mind un, Jan, m' boy?" added a third. "Mebbe th' Capten 'll
send 'ee 'Spanish notes' when 'e arrives out--Santa Rosalia, worn't it?"
A bustle at the companionway put a stop to the chaff, the purposeful
man having come on deck, glum of countenance.
"You'm struck a right 'hard case,' boys," he said. "Twenty per cent
ain't in it--an' I'm off. So long!"
One by one the tradesmen had their interview, and returned to deck to
talk together, with a half laugh, of Scotch 'Jews' and hard bargains.
Hard bargains being better than no business, the contracts were taken
up, the crowd dispersed, and we were soon in a position to order our
longshore togs and table luxuries--at prices that suggested that
someone was warming his boots at our fire.
With Jan Pengelly we bargained for foodstuffs. It was something of a
task to get comfortably aboard his 'bumboat,' heaving and tossing as
she was in the short sea. In the little cabin, securely battened and
tarpaulined against the drenching sprays that swept over the boat, he
kept his stock--a stock of everything that a homeward-bounder could
possibly require; but his silk scarves and velvet slippers,
silver-mounted pipes and sweet tobacco hats, held no attraction for us:
it was food we sought--something to satisfy the hunger of five months'
voyaging on scant rations--and at that we kept Jan busy, handing out
and taking a careful tally of our purchases.
On deck there was little work for us to do. Little could be done, for,
as the day wore on to a stormy setting, wind and sea increased, forcing
even the hardy boatmen to cast off and run to a sheltered creek at St.
Mawes. The icy, biting spray, scattered at every plunge of our
ground-fast barque, left no corner of the deck unsearched, and, after a
half-hearted attempt to keep us going, the Mate was forced to order
'stand by.' In half-deck and fo'cas'le we gathered round the red-hot
bogies, and talked happily of the voyage's end, of the pay-table, of
resolves to stop there when we had come ashore.
Then came the night, at anchor-watch. Tramping for a brief hour, two
together, sounding, to mark that she did not drive a-lee; listening to
the crash of seas, the harping of the rigging, to the _thrap, thrap_ of
wind-jarred halliards; struggling to the rigging at times, to put
alight an ill-burning riding lamp; watching the town lights glimmer
awhile, then vanish as quick succeeding squalls of snow enwrapped the
Bay. A brief spell of duty, not ill-passed, that made the warmth of
the half-deck and the red glow of the bogie fire more grateful to
return to.
As day broke the gale was at its height. Out of a bleak and
threatening west the wind blew ominously true--a whole gale,
accompanied by a heavy fall of snow. There could be no boat
communication with the shore in such a wind, but, as soon as the light
allowed, we engaged the Signal Station with a string of flags, and
learnt that our orders had not yet come to hand, that they would be
communicated by signal, if received during the day.
After we had re-stowed sails and secured such gear and tackle as had
blown adrift in the night, 'stand by' was again the order, reluctantly
given, and all hands took advantage of the rare circumstance of spare
time and a free pump to set our clothes cleanly and in order.
Near noon the Mate spied fluttering wisps of colour rising on the
signal yard ashore. Steadying himself in a sheltered corner, he read
the hoist: W.Q.H.L.--our number.
"Aft here, you boys, an' hand flags," he shouted. Never was order more
willingly obeyed; we wanted to know.
The news went round that our orders had come. With bared arms,
dripping of soapsuds, the hands came aft, uncalled, and the Mate was
too busy with telescope and signal-book to notice (and rebuke) the
general muster of expectant mariners.
As our pennant was run up, the hoist ashore was hauled down, to be
replaced by a new. The Mate read out the flags, singly and distinct,
and turned to the pages of the signal-book.
"'You--are--ordered--to--proceed--to'--Answering pennant up, lively
now; damme, I can't rest you boys a minute, but ye run to seed an'
sodgerin'!"
A moment of suspense; to proceed to--where? The Old Man was on deck
now, with code-book in hand, open at the 'geographicals.'
"'B--D--S--T,'" sang out the Mate. "B.D.S.T.," repeated the Old Man,
whetting a thumb and turning the pages rapidly. "B.D.S.T.,
B.D.S--Sligo! Sligo, where's that, anyway?"
"North of Ireland, sir," said M'Kellar. "Somewhere east of Broadhaven.
I wass in there once, mysel'."
"Of course, of course! Sligo, eh? Well, well! I never heard of a
square-rigger discharging there--must see about th' charts. Ask them
to repeat, Mister, and make sure."
Our query brought the same flags to the yard. B.D.S.T.--Sligo, without
a doubt--followed by a message, "Letters will be sent off as soon as
weather moderates."
There was a general sense of disappointment when our destination was
known; Ireland had never even been suggested as a possible finish to
our voyage. Another injustice!
As the afternoon wore on, the wind lessened and hauled into the north.
The bleak storm-clouds softened in outline, and broke apart to show us
promise of better weather in glimpses of clear blue behind. Quickly,
as it had got up, the harbour sea fell away. The white curling crests
no longer uprose, to be caught up and scattered afar in blinding
spindrift. Wind, their fickle master, had proved them false, and now
sought, in blowing from a new airt, to quell the tumult he had bidden
rise.
With a prospect of letters--of word from home--we kept an eager
look-out for shore-craft putting out, and when our messenger arrived
after a long beat, the boat warp was curled into his hand and the side
ladder rattled to his feet before he had time to hail the deck. With
him came a coasting pilot seeking employ, a voluble Welshman, who did
not leave us a minute in ignorance of the fact that "he knew th' coast,
indeed, ass well ass he knew Car--narvon!"
Then to our letters. How we read and re-read, and turned them back and
forward, scanning even the post-mark for further news!
* * * * *
Early astir, we had the lee anchor at the bows before dawn broke. A
bright, clear frosty morning, a cloudless sky of deepest blue, the land
around wrapped in a mantle of snow--a scene of tranquillity in sea and
sky, in marked contrast to the bitter weather of the day before. At
the anchorage all was haste and stirring action. A gentle breeze from
the north was blowing--a 'soldier's' wind that set fair to east and
west, and the wind-bound ships were hurrying to get their anchors and
be off, to make the most of it. A swift pilot cutter, sailing tack and
tack through the anchorage, was serving pilots on the outward bound,
and as each was boarded in turn, the merry _clank-clank_ of windlass
pawls broke out, and the chorus of an anchor chantey woke the echoes of
the Bay. Quay punts passed to and fro from ship to shore, lurching,
deep-laden with stores, or sailing light to reap the harvest that the
west wind had blown them. Among them came Jan Pengelly (anxious that
payment 'by tops'l sheets' did not again occur with him), and the Welsh
coasting pilot who was to sail with us.
The weather anchor was strong bedded and loth to come home, and it was
as the last of the fleet that we hoisted our number and ran out between
Pendennis and the Head. The Old Man was in high good humour that he
had no towing bills to settle, and walked the poop, rubbing his hands
and whistling a doleful encouragement to the chill north wind.
Safely past the dread Manacles, the Falmouth pilot left us. We crowded
sail on her, steering free, and dark found us in open channel, leaning
to a steady breeze, and the Lizard lights dipping in the wake astern.
XXV
"T' WIND'ARD!"
For over a week of strong westerly gales we had kept the open sea,
steering to the north as best the wind allowed. A lull had come--a
break in the furious succession, though still the sea ran high--and the
Old Man, in part satisfied that he had made his northing, put the helm
up and squared away for the land. In this he was largely prompted by
the coasting pilot (sick of a long, unprofitable, passage--on a
'lump-sum' basis), who confidently asked to be shown but one speck of
Irish land, and, "I'll tell 'oo the road t' Dub-lin, Capt'in!"
Moderately clear at first, but thickening later, as we closed the land,
it was not the weather for running in on a dangerous coast, ill-lighted
and unmarked, but, had we waited for clear weather, we might have
marked time to the westward until the roses came; the wind was fair, we
were over-long on our voyage; sheet and brace and wind in squared sail
thrummed a homeward song for us as we came in from the west.
At close of a day of keen sailing, the outposts of the Irish coast,
bleak, barren, inhospitable, lay under our lee--a few bold rocks,
around and above wreathed in sea-mist, and the never-dying Atlantic
swell breaking heavily at base.
"Iss, indeed, Capt'in! The Stags! The Stags of Broad-haven, I tell
'oo," said the pilot, scanning through his glasses with an easy
assurance. "Indeed to goodness, it iss the best landfall I haf ever
seen, Capt'in!"
Though pleased with his navigation, the Old Man kept his head. "Aye,
aye," he said. "The Stags, eh? Well, we'll haul up t' th' wind
anyway--t' make sure!" He gave the order, and went below to his charts.