THE THIRD VOYAGE
_Mossamedes_ was hauling out from the mole, and Kit, on his way to his
room, stopped to look about. The deck was strewn with cargo, for a small
steamer that had tied up alongside had just moved astern. Winches
rattled and a gang of men lowered some heavy wooden cases into the hold.
Another gang got in the slack of a big rope made fast on the wall. There
was much shouting; the pilot in front of the wheel-house roared orders,
Don Erminio ran up and down the bridge and the mate was vociferous on
the forecastle.
Macallister looked out with ironical amusement from the door of the
engine-room. As a rule the Scot is not theatrical, and when others were
noisy Macallister's dour calm was marked.
"They're pretty clothes," he said, indicating Kit's white uniform. "For
a' that, if I had your figure, I'd wear something thick. I alloo Miss
Brown thought ye like a tablecloth on a pump. But why are ye no' helping
the ithers at the comic opera?"
"I have another job," Kit rejoined, putting a bundle of documents in his
pocket. "It doesn't look as if you bothered about yours!"
The engines had begun to throb, and the telegraph rang violently.
Macallister signed to somebody below and grinned.
"Yon's Don Erminio taking the floor. He means naething and I dinna mind
him. When the action kin' o' drags he shouts and gives the telegraph
handle a bit pull. When ye think aboot it, temperament's a curious
thing. Maybe ye have seen a big boat haul out on the Clyde? Noo an' then
an officer lifts his hand, ye hear a whistle, and a winch starts. All's
calm and quiate. She's away, ten thousand tons o' her, before ye ken
what's gaun on!"
"You're a grim, efficient lot," Kit remarked. "Just now it looks as if
the pilot meant to hit the coaling tug. I don't know if you can stop
him; that's your business and his. I'll get to mine before she starts to
roll."
He went to his room, pulled up his folding stool, and threw the
documents on his desk, for he was rather puzzled about some cases of
agricultural machinery and tools. Perhaps these were the boxes
transhipped from the other boat, but, so far as Kit knew, agricultural
machinery was not much used in Morocco. In fact, he thought the Moors'
methods were the methods of Abraham. In the meantime, the shouts got
louder, and Kit imagined Juan on the forecastle, disputed with the pilot
on the bridge.
"_Pero, Senor!_" the mate's expostulating cry pierced the turmoil, and
then Kit's inkpot jumped from the desk.
He saw a dark smear on his new clothes, _Mossamedes_ trembled, and he
felt a heavy shock. His stool tilted, and he went over backwards and
struck his head against the locker.
Getting up rather shakily, he remarked that the ship had listed, for the
floor of his room was sharply inclined. When she lurched upright with a
jerk he seized the doorpost and then, since it was obvious she was not
capsizing, put the cork in the inkpot and began to pick up his papers.
He had something of the sobriety that marks the puritan temperament, and
it was characteristic that he occupied himself with his proper job. The
papers for which he was accountable must not get stained by ink. When he
had put all straight he went on deck.
Not far off, the coaling tug circled back for the wharf. Her bulwarks
were broken, some plates were bent, and she had let go the string of
barges she towed. On board _Mossamedes_ Don Erminio leaned against the
bridge-screens and his face was very white. The pilot stated loudly the
course the tug's _patron_ ought to have steered, and the mate and a
number of sailors ran about the deck. Kit did not think they were
usefully employed.
Going to the forecastle, he found Macallister leaning over the rails. A
plate was bulged and the stem was bent, but it looked as if all the
damage were above the water. Lines of foam ran by and melted ahead, for
_Mossamedes_ was steaming stern-foremost out of port.
"She's no' much the worse; I dinna ken aboot the tug," Macallister
remarked, and took Kit to a spot beneath the bridge. "Tell the captain
to brace up and get away to sea," he resumed. "If he's no' quick, the
_Commandancia_ launch will come off and stop us to make reports. They'll
forget a' aboot it before we're back."
Kit translated and Don Erminio, pulling himself together, advanced upon
the pilot. A savage dispute began, but presently the captain stopped and
spread out his hands.
"The animal is not satisfied. He will not go."
"Aweel, I'll come up and pit him off," Macallister remarked and climbed
the ladder.
The pilot hesitated. His duty was to take the ship outside the mole, but
the engineer's look was resolute, and he retreated to the ladder at the
opposite end of the bridge. When Macallister reached the top the pilot
had reached the bottom, and a few moments afterwards, went down a rope
to his boat.
"Noo, if ye'll put the helm across, I'll give her a bit shove ahead and
we'll get away," Macallister said to the captain and rejoined Kit.
"Nane o' it was my job and maybe on board a British ship I'd no' ha'
done as much," he observed and vanished below.
_Mossamedes_ circled, the engines throbbed harder, the mole dropped
back, and Kit began to laugh. He agreed that Macallister would not have
done as much on board a British ship. For all that, his rude but cool
efficiency was rather fine.
Half an hour afterwards Kit took some documents to the captain's room.
Don Erminio was stretched on a locker, and a bottle of vermouth and some
Palma cigars balanced the swing-table. When he saw the documents he
frowned.
"Another day. Just now I am ill," he said. "When one has an assassin for
a pilot, to command a ship is not amusing. I bear much, but some time I
take Enrique Maria Contallan y Clavijo by the neck and throw him in the
sea. In the meantime, I have saved the ship and we will take a drink."
Kit refused politely and did not smile. He liked Don Erminio and the
captain was not a fool. Kit had known him calm and steady when things
were awkward, and sometimes his pluck was rash. All the same, he was
unstable; one could not foresee the line he would take. The Spanish
character frankly puzzled Kit. It was marked by sharp contrasts, and one
could use no rules. Macallister and Jefferson were not like that. Their
qualities, so to speak, were constant. When the strain was heavy one
knew they would be cool.
_Mossamedes_ steered for the eastern islands, and in the morning the
parched rocks of Lanzarote melted in the glitter on the horizon. Then
she headed for Africa and at sunset Don Erminio stopped the ship and
used the lead. He got soundings on the coast-shelf, and Kit, passing the
chart-room, imagined the mate and captain argued about the ship's
position, but when _Mossamedes_ went on again the compass indicated that
Don Erminio had hauled out to avoid shoals. When the moon rose one saw
nothing but sparkling water, the swell was long and measured, and the
leadsman, making another cast, got no bottom. It looked as if they had
left the hummocks on the coast-shelf astern, and _Mossamedes_ went
full-speed.
About midnight Kit lounged and smoked on a locker in the engine-room. He
was not sleepy, and since _Mossamedes_ sailed, had thought much about
Olivia. On the whole, his thoughts were disturbing. When he was with
Olivia he forgot his poverty; all he saw was her charm. She was
beautiful, she was clever and now and then he got a hint of tenderness
that gave him a strange thrill. The thrill moved and braced him; while
it lasted all looked possible. Somehow he would mend his fortune and
make his mark. Austin, who had held Kit's post, had done so and married
Olivia's sister.
Afterwards, when Olivia was not about, Kit knew himself to be a fool. To
begin with, he had not Austin's talents and must be satisfied to keep
his proper level. Then supposing he did get rich? After all, he was not
Olivia's sort. Kit was staunch and stopped there; he would not admit
that sometimes he vaguely doubted if Olivia were the girl for him.
Instincts he had inherited from sober and frugal ancestors were strong.
Yet for the most part he resisted unconsciously. When one is young and
carried away by an attractive girl one is not logical.
Lighting a fresh cigarette, he looked about. _Mossamedes_ rolled and
light and shadow played about the machinery. In front, the bright cranks
flashed and faded in a shallow pit, the crossheads slammed between their
guides and the connecting-rods, shining like silver, swung out of the
gloom. Above, the big cylinders throbbed and shook with the impulse that
drove the ship ahead. Men like shadows moved about with oilcans and
tallow-swabs, but now and then a moving beam touched a face beaded by
sweat. Macallister occupied the top of a tool box and smoked a black
pipe.
Kit liked the engine-room. The steady beat of the machine was soothing.
One got a sense of order, measured effort and strength that matched the
strain. Force was not wasted but sternly controlled. In the engine-room
Macallister was another man, quiet, keen, concentrated, and Kit
understood the Scots' satisfaction when all ran well. They sprang from a
stock that counted rule and effort to be worth more than beauty.
There was a crash, and Kit jumped from the locker. _Mossamedes_ stopped
and the shock threw him against a column. He seized the iron and held
on, conscious that he trembled. The jar was terrifying because it was
not expected. A sea broke about the vessel, she shook and water rolled
across the deck. A greaser shouted and Kit saw Macallister on the grated
platform above. He had not seen him go, but his hand was on the
throttle-wheel. He did not look disturbed, and signed a man to the
control of the reversing-gear. If the link were pulled across, the
engines would go astern. The telegraph, however, was silent and
Macallister did not turn the wheel.
The ship lifted, lurched forward, as if a sea had borne her up, and went
on. Macallister waited for a few moments and then went up to the door
with Kit. The door on the starboard side looked out towards Africa, but
nothing broke the furrowed plain of glittering sea.
"I'm thinking she bumped a bit hummock," Macallister remarked. "She got
a jolt, but the old boat was built by men who dinna scamp their job.
Where ye see yon house's name, ye ken the work is good."
"All the same, you have started the bilge pump," said Kit, for a sharp
throbbing pierced the beat of machinery.
"Pepe will let her rin a few minutes. Although I dinna expect she'll
draw much water, ye keep the rules," Macallister replied and turned to
Miguel, who came along the alleyway. "What do you think about it,
friend? The third voyage has not begun well."
Macallister's Castilian was uncouth, but Miguel understood. "It is not
good, Don Pedro! A bad coast and a treacherous people, but one is not
disturbed. Some of the saints were fishermen, and mine is king of all.
But I go to try the after well."
He went off, but Kit had noted that the line he carried was neatly
coiled and the sounding-rod was wet. He thought it typical that the old
quartermaster had tried the forward well a few moments after the ship
struck. Moreover his talk about his saint somehow was not extravagant.
One felt that Miguel knew and trusted his great patron.
"A most queer fellow," Macallister remarked. "A believer in wax images
and pented boards."
"Pented boards?" said Kit.
"Just that," Macallister rejoined. "Ye'll no ken the Scottish classics.
When the great reformer was a galley slave they gave him the image to
worship. 'A pented brod, mair fit for swimming than praying til,' says
he and threw't overboard. Weel, for Miguel, the images are not pented
things, and I've met weel-grounded Scots I wouldna trust like him. He
kens his job and his word goes. I alloo it's much."
Kit went on deck. The sea sparkled in the moon and long regular combers
rolled up from the north. One could not see land and nothing indicated
shoals ahead. _Mossamedes_ dipped her bows to the knight-heads and
showers of spray leaped about the rail. Then her stern went down and the
rising forecastle cut the sky. For a time Kit forgot Olivia and mused
about the engineer and Miguel.
Macallister's mood was sometimes freakish and his humour rude, but
behind this was a stern, honest efficiency. The quartermaster was a
mystic, but when the big white combers chased the cargo launch one could
trust him with the steering oar. After all to know one's job was much.