no sign of the weather clearing, no lift in the grey mist that hung
dense over the rugged coast-line. On deck again, the Old Man stared
long and earnestly at the rocky islets, seeking a further guidemark.
In the waning daylight they were fast losing shape and colour. Only
the breaking sea, white and sightly, marked them bold in the grey
mist-laden breath of the Atlantic. "----'present themselves,
consisting of four high rocky islets of from two thirty-three to three
ought-six feet in height, an' steep-to,'" he said, reading from a book
of sailing directions. "Damme! I can only see three." To the pilot,
"D'ye know the Stags well, Mister? Are ye sure o' ye're ground?"
"_Wel, wel_! Indeed, Capt'in" (Mr. Williams laughed). "I know the
Stags, yess! Ass well ass I know Car-narvon! The Stags of
Broad-haven, I tell 'oo. When I wass master of the _Ann Pritchard_, of
Beaumaris, it wass always to the West of Ireland we would be goin'.
Summer and winter, three years, I tell 'oo, before I came to
pilotin'--an' there iss not many places between the Hull and Missen
Head that I haf not seen in daylight an' dark. It iss the Stags,
indeed! East, south-east now, Capt'in, an' a fine run to Sligo Bar!"
Still unassured, the Old Man turned his glasses on the rocky group.
"One--two--three--perhaps that was the fourth just open to the
south'ard"--they certainly tallied with the description in the
book--"high, steep-to." A cast of the lead brought no decision.
Forty-seven! He might be ten miles north and south by that and former
soundings. It was rapidly growing dark, the wind freshening. If he
did not set course by the rocks--Stags they seemed to be--he would lose
all benefit of landfall--would spend another week or more to the
westward, waiting for a rare slant on this coast of mist and foul
weather! Already eighteen days from Falmouth! The chance of running
in was tempting! Hesitating, uncertain, he took a step or two up and
down the poop, halting at turns to stare anxiously at the rocks, in the
wind's eye, at the great Atlantic combers welling up and lifting the
barque to leeward at every rise. On the skylight sat Mr. Williams,
smiling and clucking in his beard that "he did not know the Stags,
indeed!"
"We haul off, Pilot," said stout Old Jock, coming at a decision. "If
it had been daylight ... perhaps ... but I'm for takin' no risks. They
may be th' Stags, belike they are, but I'm no' goin' oan in weather
like this! We'll stand out t' th' norrard--'mainyards forrard,
Mister'--till daylight onyway!"
Sulkily we hauled the yards forward and trimmed sail, leaving the rocks
to fade under curtain of advancing night, our high hopes of making port
dismissed. The 'navigators' among us were loud of their growling, as
the ship lurched and wallowed in the trough of the sea, the decks
waist-high with a wash of icy water--a change from the steadiness and
comfort of a running ship.
Night fell black dark. The moon not risen to set a boundary to sea and
sky; no play of high light on the waste of heaving water; naught but
the long inky ridges, rolling out of the west, that, lifting giddily to
crest, sent us reeling into the windless trough. On the poop the Old
Man and Pilot tramped fore and aft, talking together of landfalls and
coasting affairs. As they came and went, snatches of their talk were
borne to us, the watch on deck--sheltering from the weather at the
break. The Old Man's "Aye, ayes," and "Goad, man's," and the voluble
Welshman's "iss, indeed, Capt'in," and "I tell 'oo's." The Pilot was
laying off a former course of action. "... Mister Williams, he said, I
can see that 'oo knows th' coast, he said, an' ... I 'oodn't go in
myself, he said; but if 'oo are sure----"
"_Brea--kers a-head!_"--a stunning period to his tale, came in a long
shout, a scream almost, from the look-out!
Both sprang to the lee rigging, handing their eyes to shield the wind
and spray. Faint as yet against the sombre monotone of sea and sky, a
long line of breaking water leapt to their gaze, then vanished, as the
staggering barque drove to the trough; again--again; there could be no
doubt. Breakers! On a lee shore!!
"_Mawdredd an'l_! O Christ! The Stags, Capt'in.... My God! My God!"
Wholly unmanned, muttering in Welsh and English, Mr. Williams ran to
the compass to take bearings.
Old Jock came out of the rigging. Then, in a steady voice, more
ominous than a string of oaths, "Luff! Down helm, m' lad, an' keep her
close!" And to the pilot, "Well? What d'ye mak' of it, Mister?"
"Stags, Capt'in! _Diwedd i_! That I should be mistake.... The others
... God knows! ... If it iss th' Stags, Capt'in ... the passage t'
th' suth'ard.... I know it ... we can run ... if it iss th' Stags,
Capt'in!"
"An' if it's no' th' Stags! M' Goad! Hoo many Stags d'ye know,
Mister? No! No! We'll keep th' sea, if she can weather thae rocks
... an' if she canna!!" A mute gesture--then, passionately, "T' hell
wi' you an' yer b----y Stags: I back ma ship against a worthless pilot!
All hands, there, Mister--mains'l an' to'galn's'l oan her! Up, ye
hounds; up, if ye look fur dry berryin'!"
All hands! No need for a call! "Breakers ahead"--the words that sent
us racing to the yards, to out knife and whip at the gaskets that held
our saving power in leash. Quickly done, the great mainsail blew out,
thrashing furiously till steadied by tack and sheet. Then topgal'n'
sail, the spars buckling to overstrain; staysail, spanker--never was
canvas crowded on a ship at such a pace; a mighty fear at our hearts
that only frenzied action could allay.
Shuddering, she lay down to it, the lee rail entirely awash, the decks
canted at a fearsome angle; then righted--a swift, vicious lurch, and
her head sweeping wildly to windward till checked by the heaving
helmsman. The wind that we had thought moderate when running before it
now held at half a gale. To that she might have stood weatherly, but
the great western swell--spawn of uncounted gales--was matched against
her, rolling up to check the windward snatches and sending her reeling
to leeward in a smother of foam and broken water.
A gallant fight! At the weather gangway stood Old Jock, legs apart and
sturdy, talking to his ship.
"Stand, good spars," he would say, casting longing eyes aloft. Or,
patting the taffrail with his great sailor hands, "Up tae it, ye bitch!
Up!! Up!!!" as, raising her head, streaming in cascade from a
sail-pressed plunge, she turned to meet the next great wall of water
that set against her. "She'll stand it, Mister," to the Mate at his
side. "She'll stand it, an' the head gear holds. If she starts
that!"--he turned his palms out--"If she starts th' head gear, Mister!"
"They'll hold, Sir! ... good gear," answered the Mate, hugging himself
at thought of the new lanyards, the stout Europe gammon lashings, he
had rove off when the boom was rigged. Now was the time when Sanny
Armstrong's spars would be put to the test. The relic of the ill-fated
_Glenisla_, now a shapely to'gallant mast, was bending like a whip!
"Good iron," he shouted as the backstays twanged a high note of utmost
stress.
Struggling across the heaving deck, the Pilot joined the group.
Brokenly, shouting down the wind, "She'll never do it, Capt'in, I tell
'oo! ... An' th' tide.... Try th' south passage.... Stags, sure! ...
See them fair now! ... Th' south passage, Capt'in.... It iss some
years, indeed, but ... I know. _Diwedd an'l_! She'll never weather
it, Capt'in!"
"Aye ... and weather it ... an' the gear holds! Goad, man! Are ye
sailor enough t' know what'll happen if Ah start a brace, wi' this
press o' sail oan her? T' wind'ard ... she goes. Ne'er failed me
yet"--a mute caress of the stout taffrail, a slap of his great hand.
"Into it, ye bitch! T' wind'ard! T' wind'ard!"
Staggering, taking the shock and onset of the relentless seas, but ever
turning the haughty face of her anew to seek the wind, she struggled
on, nearing the cruel rocks and their curtain of hurtling breakers.
Timely, the moon rose, herself invisible, but shedding a diffused light
in the east, showing the high summits of the rocks, upreared above the
blinding spindrift. A low moaning boom broke on our strained ears,
turning to the hoarse roar of tortured waters as we drew on.
"How does 't bear noo, M'Kellar? Is she makin' oan't?" shouted the Old
Man.
The Second Mate, at the binnacle, sighted across the wildly swinging
compass card. "No' sure, Sir. ... Th' caird swingin' ... think
there's hauf a p'int.... Hauf a p'int, onyway!"
"Half a point!" A great comber upreared and struck a deep resounding
blow--"That for yeer half a point"--as her head swung wildly off--off,
till the stout spanker, the windward driver, straining at the stern
sheets, drove her anew to a seaward course.
Nearer, but a mile off, the rocks plain in a shaft of breaking
moonlight.
"How now, M'Kellar?"
"Nae change, Sir! ... 'bout east, nor'-east ... deefecult ... th' caird
swingin'...."
The Old Man left his post and struggled to the binnacle. "East,
nor'-east ... east o' that, mebbe," he muttered. Then, to 'Dutchy,' at
the weather helm, "Full, m' lad! Keep 'er full an' nae mair! Goad,
man! Steer as ye never steered ... th' wind's yer mairk.... Goad!
D'na shake her!"
Grasping the binnacle to steady himself against the wild lurches of the
staggering hull, the Old Man stared steadily aloft, unheeding the roar
and crash of the breakers, now loud over all--eyes only for the
straining canvas and standing spars above him.
"She's drawin' ahead, Sir," shouted M'Kellar, tense, excited. "East,
b' nor' ... an' fast!"
The Old Man raised a warning hand to the steersman. "Nae higher! Nae
higher! Goad, man! Dinna let 'r gripe!"
Dread suspense! Would she clear? A narrow lane of open water lay
clear of the bow--broadening as we sped on.
"Nae higher! Nae higher! Aff! Aff! Up hellum, up!" His voice a
scream, the Old Man turned to bear a frantic heave on the spokes.
Obedient to the helm and the Mate's ready hand at the driver sheets,
she flew off, free of the wind and sea--tearing past the towering
rocks, a cable's length to leeward. Shock upon shock, the great
Atlantic sea broke and shattered and fell back from the scarred granite
face of the outmost Stag; a seething maelstrom of tortured waters,
roaring, crashing, shrilling into the deep, jagged fissures--a shriek
of Furies bereft. And, high above the tumult of the waters and the
loud, glad cries of us, the hoarse, choking voice of the man who had
backed his ship.
"Done it, ye bitch!"--a now trembling hand at his old grey head. "Done
it! Weathered--by Goad!"
XXVI
LIKE A MAN!
Spring in the air of it, a bright, keen day, and the mist only strong
enough to soften the bold, rugged outline of Knocknarea, our sailing
mark, towering high and solitary above Sligo Harbour. The strong west
wind that we had fought and bested at the Stags turned friendly, had
blown us fair to our voyage's end, and now, under easy canvas, we
tacked on shore and off, waiting for tide to bear up and float our
twenty feet in safety across the Bar.
At Raghly, our signal for a local pilot was loyally responded to. A
ship of tonnage was clearly a rare sight in these parts, for the entire
male population came off to see us safely in--to make a day of it! Old
pilots and young, fishermen and gossoons, they swept out from creek and
headland in their swift Mayo skiffs, and though only one was Trinity
licensed for our draft of water, the rest remained, to bear willing
hands at the braces on the chance of a job at the cargo being given.
'Ould Andy' was the official pilot--a hardy old farmer-fisherman,
weazened by years and the weather. He had donned his best in honour of
the occasion--a coarse suit of fearnought serges, quaintly cut, and an
ancient top hat, set at a rakish angle. Hasty rising showed in razor
cuts on his hard blue jowl, and his untied shoes made clatter as he
mounted the poop, waving a yellow time-stained license. An odd figure
for a master-pilot; but he made a good impression on Old Jock when he
said, simply, "... but bedad, now, Cyaptin! Sure, Oim no hand at thim
big yards ov yours, but Oi kin show ye where th' daape watther is!"
The ship steered to his liking, and all in trim, he walked the poop,
showing a great pride of his importance as a navigator of twenty feet.
Suddenly--at no apparent call--he stepped to the side where his boat
was towing.
"What-t," he yelled. "Ach, hoult yer whisht! What-t are yez shoutin'
about? What-t? Ast the Cyaptin f'r a bit av 'baccy f'r th' byes in
th' boat! Indade, an' Oi will natt ast th' dacent gintilman f'r a bit
av 'baccy f'r th' byes in th' boat! What-t? Ach, hoult yer whisht,
now!"
Joining the Captain he resumed the thread of his description of Sligo
Port, apparently unheeding the Old Man's side order to the steward that
sent a package of hard tobacco over the rail.
"... an' ye'll lie at Rosses Point, Cyaptin, till ye loighten up t'
fourteen faate. Thin, thr'll be watther f'r yes at th' Quay, but..."
(Another tangent to the lee rail.) ... "Ach! What-t's th' matther wit'
ye now. Be m' sowl, it's heart-breakin' ye are, wit' yer shoutin' an'
that-t! What-t? Salt baafe an' a few bisskits! No! Oi will natt!!
Ast 'im yersilf f'r a bit av salt baafe an' a few bisskits, bad scran
t' ye, yes ongrateful thaaves!"
We are homeward bound; the beef and biscuits go down. After them, "a
tarn sail--jest a rag, d'ye moind, t' make a jib f'r th' ould boat";
then, "a pat av paint an' a brush"--it becomes quite exciting with Ould
Andy abusing his boat's crew at every prompted request. We are
beginning to wager on the nature of the next, when sent to the stations
for anchoring. Ould Andy, with an indignant gesture and shake of his
fists, turns away to attend to his more legitimate business, and, at
his direction, we anchor to seaward of the Bar.
The wind that has served us so well has died away in faint airs,
leaving a long glassy swell to score the placid surface of the Bay and
set a pearly fringe on the distant shore. The tide moves steadily in
flood, broadening in ruffling eddies at the shoals of the Bar. On a
near beacon a tide gauge shows the water, and when sail is furled and
the yards in harbour trim we have naught to do but reckon our wages,
and watch the rising water lapping, inch by inch, on the figured board.
From seaward there is little to be seen of the countryside. The land
about is low to the coast, but far inland blue, mist-capped ranges
stand bold and rugged against the clear northern sky. Beyond the Bar
the harbour lies bare of shipping--only a few fishing skiffs putting
out under long sweeps, and the channel buoys bobbing and heaving on the
long swell. A deserted port we are come to after our long voyage from
the West!
"That'll be th' _Maid o' th' Moy_, Cyaptin," said Ould Andy, squinting
through the glasses at smoke-wrack on the far horizon. "Hot-fut from
Ballina, t' tow ye in. An' Rory Kilgallen may save his cowl, bedad,
f'r we'll naade two fut av watther yet before we get acrost.
Bedad"--in high glee--"he'll nat-t be after knowin' that it's twinty
faate, no liss, that Ould Andy is bringin' in this day!"
With a haste that marks her skipper's anxiety to get a share of the
good things going, the _Maid_, a trim little paddle tug, draws nigh,
and soon a high bargaining begins between Old Jock and the tugman, with
an eager audience to chorus, "D'ye hear that-t, now!" at each fiery
period. Rory has the whip hand--and knows it. No competition, and the
tide making inch by inch on the beacon gauge!
For a time Old Jock holds out manfully. "Goad, no! I'll kedge th'
hooker up t' Sligo Quay before I give ye that!" But high water at hand
and no sign of wind, he takes the tug on at a stiff figure, and we man
the windlass, tramping the well-worn round together for the last time.
_Leave her_ is the set chantey for finish of a voyage, and we roar a
lusty chorus to Granger, the chanteyman.
"O! Leave 'r John-ny, leave 'r like a man,
(_An' leave 'r, John-ny, leave 'r!_)
Oh! Leave 'r, John-ny, leave 'r when ye can,
(_An' it's time--for us--t' leave 'r!_")
A hard heave, and the tug lying short. A Merseyman would have the
weight off the cable by this.
"O! Soon we'll 'ear 'th Ol' Man say,
(_Leave 'r, John-ny, leave 'r!_)
Ye kin go ashore an' take yer pay,
(_An' it's time--for us--t' leave 'r!_")
"Heave, byes," the gossoons bearing stoutly on the bars with us.
"Heave, now! He's got no frin's!"
"O! Th' times wos 'ard, an' th' wages low,
(_Leave 'r, John-ny, leave 'r!_)
Th' w'yage wos long, an' th' gales did blow,
(_An' it's time--for us--t' leave 'r!"_)
Check--and rally; check--a mad rush round--the anchor dripping at the
bows, and we move on across the eddies of the Bar in wake of the
panting tug.
A short tow, for all the bargaining, and at Rosses Point we bring up to
moorings--the voyage at an end.
"That'll do, you men," said the Mate, when the last warp was turned.
"Pay off at th' Custom House at twelve to-morrow!"
"That'll do!" Few words and simple; but the meaning! Free at last!
No man's servant! With a hurricane whoop the crew rush to quarters to
sling their bags for the road.
Then the trafficking with the shore, the boatmen reaping a harvest. "A
bob th' trip, yer 'anner, on a day like this." The doors of the
village inn swinging constantly, and the white-aproned landlord
(mopping a heated brow at royal orders), sending messengers to ransack
the village cupboards for a reserve of glasses. And when at last the
boats are ready for the long pull up to Sligo town, and the impatient
boatmen shouting, "Coom on now, byes! Before th' toide tarns; byes,
now!" The free men embark, and we, the afterguard (who draw no pay),
are left to watch them set off, and wish that our day were quickly come.
For a time we hear their happy voices, and answer cheer for cheer, then
the dark comes, and the last is a steady _clack_ of rowlocks, and the
men singing "_Leave 'r, John-ny ... like a man!_"
* * * * *
Two days later, on deck of the Glasgow boat, I gazed on my old ship for
the last time. At the narrow bend we steamed slow, to steer cautiously
past her. The harbour watch were there to give me a parting cheer, and
Old Jock, from the poop, waved a cheery response to my salute. Past
her, we turned water again, and sped on to sea.
It was a day of mist and low clouds, and a weakly sun breaking through
in long slanting shafts of light. Over the Point a beam was fleeting,
playing on the house-tops, shimmering in window glasses, lighting on
the water, on the tracery of spar and rigging, and showing golden on
the red-rusty hull of the old barque--my home for so long in fair
weather and foul.
A turn of the steering shut her from my sight, and I turned to go below.
"Fine ships! Fine ships--t' look aat!"
The Mate of the steamer, relieved from duty, had stopped at my side,
sociable. He would be a Skye-man by the talk of him. It was good to
hear the old speech again.
"Aye! she's a fine ship."
"Haf you been th' voyage in her? Been long away?"
"Oh yes! Sixteen months this trip!"
"Saxteen munss! Ma grasshius! Y'll haf a fine pey oot o' her?"
"Not a cent! Owing, indeed; but my time'll be out in a week, an I'll
get my indentures."
"Oh, yiss! Oh, yiss! A bressbounder, eh!" Then he gave a half-laugh,
and muttered the old formula about "the man who would go to sea for
pleasure, going to hell for a pastime!"
"Whatna voyage did ye haf, now?" he asked, after filling a pipe with
good 'golden bar,' that made me empty the bowl of mine, noisily.
"Oh, pretty bad. Gales an' gales. Hellish weather off the Horn, an'
short-handed, an' the house full o' lashin' water--not a dry spot, fore
an' aft. 'Gad! we had it sweet down there. Freezin', too, an' th'
sails hard as old Harry. Ah! a fine voyage, wi' rotten grub an' short
commons at that!"
"Man, man! D'ye tell me that, now! Ma grasshius! Ah wouldna go in
them if ye wass t' gif me twenty pounds a munss!"
No; I didn't suppose he would, looking at the clean, well-fed cut of
him, and thinking of the lean, hungry devils who had sailed with me.
"Naw! Ah wouldna go in them if ye wass t' gif me thirrty pounss a
munss! Coaffins, Ah caall them! Aye, coaffins, that iss what they
are!"
Coffin! I thought of a ship staggering hard-pressed to windward of a
ledge of cruel rocks, the breakers shrieking for a prey, and the old
grey-haired Master of her slapping the rail and shouting, "Up t'it, m'
beauty! T' windward, ye bitch!"
"Aye, coaffins," he repeated. "That iss what they are!"
I had no answer--he was a steamboat man, and would not have understood.
EPILOGUE
"1910"
Into a little-used dock space remote from harbour traffic she is put
aside--out of date and duty, surging at her rusted moorings when the
dock gates are swung apart and laden steamships pass out on the road
she may no longer travel. The days pass--the weeks--the months; the
tide ebbs, and comes again; fair winds carry but trailing smoke-wrack
to the rim of a far horizon; head winds blow the sea mist in on
her--but she lies unheeding. Idle, unkempt, neglected; and the haughty
figurehead of her is turned from the open sea.
Black with the grime of belching factories, the great yards, that could
yet spread broad sails to the breeze, swing idly on untended braces,
trusses creaking a note of protest, sheet and lift chains clanking
dismally against the mast. Stout purchase blocks that once _chirrped_
in chorus to a seaman's chantey stand stiffened with disuse; idle rags
of fluttering sailcloth mar the tracery of spar and cordage; in every
listless rope, every disordered ratline, she flies a signal of
distress--a pennant of neglect.
Her decks, encumbered with harbour gear and tackle, are given over to
the rude hands of the longshoreman; a lumber yard for harbour refuse, a
dumping ground for the ashes of the bustling dock tugs. On the hatch
covers of her empty holds planks and stages are thrown aside, left as
when the last of the cargo was dragged from her; hoist ropes, frayed
and chafed to feather edges, swing from the yardarms; broken cargo
slings lie rotting in a mess of grain refuse. The work is done. There
is not a labourer's pay in her; the stevedores are gone ashore.
Though yet staunch and seaworthy, she stands condemned by modern
conditions: conditions that call for a haste she could never show, for
a burthen that she could never carry. But a short time, and her owners
(grown weary of waiting a chance charter at even the shadow of a
freight) may turn their thumbs down, and the old barque pass to her
doom. In happy case, she may yet remain afloat--a sheer hulk, drowsing
the tides away in some remote harbour, coal-hulking for her
steam-pressed successor.
And of her crew, the men who manned and steered her? Scattered afar on
seven seas, learning a new way of seafaring; turning the grip that had
held to a life aloft to the heft of a coalman's shovel, the deft
fingers that had fashioned a wondrous plan of stay and shroud to the
touch of winch valve and lever. Only an old man remains, a warden, in
keeping with the lowly state of his once trim barque. Too old
(conservative, may be) to start sea life anew, he has come to
shipkeeping--a not unpleasant way of life for an aged mariner, so that
he can sit on the hatch on fine nights, with a neighbourly dock
policeman or Customs watcher and talk of the sea as only he knows it.
And when his gossip has risen to go the rounds, what links to the chain
of memory may he not forge, casting his old eyes aloft to the gaunt
spars and their burden of useless sail? Who knows what kindly ghosts
of bygone shipmates walk with him in the night watches, when the dock
lies silent and the flickering harbour lights are shimmering, reflected
in a broad expanse?
THE END
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