A month later there was a stir in the western seaports. No longer the
ships lay swinging idly at their moorings. The harvest of grain was
ready for the carriers, and every day sail was spread to the free wind
outside the Golden Gates, and laden ships went speeding on their
homeward voyages. The days of boat-races and pleasant time-passing
harbour jobs were gone; it was now work--work--to get the ship ready
for her burden, and, swaying the great sails aloft, to rig harness for
the power that was to bear us home. From early morning till late
evening we were kept hard at it; for Captain Burke and the mate were as
keen on getting the _Hilda_ to sea after her long stay in port as they
were on jockeying us up to win the Cup. Often, when we turned to in
the morning, we would find a new shipmate ready to bear a hand with us.
The old man believed in picking up a likely man when he offered. Long
experience of Pacific ports had taught him how difficult it is to get a
crew at the last moment.
So when at length the cargo was stowed, we were quite ready to go to
sea, while many others--the _Hedwig Rickmers_ among them--were waiting
for men.
On the day before sailing a number of the ship captains were gathered
together in the chandler's store, talking of freights and passages, and
speculating on the runs they hoped to make. Burke and Schencke were
the loudest talkers, for we were both bound to Falmouth "for orders,"
and the _Rickmers_ would probably sail three days after we had gone.
"Vat 'bout dot bett you make mit me, Cabtin?" said Schenke. "Dot is
all recht, no?"
"Oh, yess," answered the old man, but without enthusiasm. "That
stands."
"Hoo! Hoo! Hoo! Tventig dollars to feefty--dot you goes home quicker
as me, no?" Schencke turned to the other men. "Vat you tinks,
yenthelmen? Ah tinks Ah sbend der tventig dollars now--so sure Ah
vass."
The others laughed. "Man, man," said Findlayson of the _Rhondda_.
"You don't tell me Burke's been fool enough to take that bet. Hoo!
You haven't the ghost of a chance, Burke."
"Och, ye never know," said the now doleful sportsman. "Ye never know
ye're luck."
"Look here, Cabtin," said Schencke (good-humoured by the unspoken
tribute to his vessel's sailing powers)--"Ah gif you a chanst. Ah make
de bett dis vay--look. Ve goes to Falmouth--you _und_ me, _hein_?
Now, de first who comes on de shore vins de money. Dot vill gif you
t'ree days' start, no?"
"That's more like it," said the other captains. "I wish you luck,
Burke," said Findlayson. "Good luck--you'll need it too--if you are to
be home before the big German."
So the bet was made.
At daybreak next morning we put out to sea. The good luck that the
_Rhondda_ wished us came our way from the very first. When the tug
left us we set sail to a fine fair wind, and soon were bowling along in
style. We found the nor'-east Trades with little seeking; strong
Trades, too, that lifted us to the Line almost before the harbour dust
was blown from our masts and spars. There calms fell on us for a few
days, but we drifted south in the right current, and in less than forty
days had run into the "westerlies" and were bearing away for the Horn.
Old Burke was "cracking on" for all the _Hilda_ could carry canvas.
Every morning when he came on deck the first question to the mate would
be: "Any ships in sight, mister?" . . . "Any ships astern," he meant,
for his first glance was always to where the big green four-master
might be expected to heave in sight. Then, when nothing was reported,
he would begin his day-long strut up and down the poop, whistling
"Garryowen" and rubbing his hands.
Nor was the joy at our good progress his alone. We in the half-deck
knew of the bet, and were keen that the ship which carried the
Merchants' Cup should not be overhauled by the runner-up! We had made
a fetish of the trophy so hardly won. The Cup itself was safely stowed
in the ship's strong chest, but the old man had let us have custody of
the flag. Big Jones had particular charge of it; and it had been a
custom while in 'Frisco to exhibit it on the Saturday nights to
admiring and envious friends from other ships. This custom we
continued when at sea. True, there were no visitors to set us up and
swear what lusty chaps we were, but we could frank one another and say,
"If you hadn't done this or that, we would never have won the race."
On a breezy Saturday evening we were busy at these rites. The _Hilda_
was doing well before a steady nor'-west wind, but the weather--though
nothing misty--was dark as a pall. Thick clouds overcast the sky, and
there seemed no dividing line between the darkling sea and the windy
banks that shrouded the horizon. A dirty night was in prospect; the
weather would thicken later; but that made the modest comforts of the
half-deck seem more inviting by comparison; and we came together for
our weekly "sing-song"--all but Gregson, whose turn it was to stand the
lookout on the fo'c'sle-head.
The flag was brought out and hung up--Jones standing by to see that no
pipe-lights were brought near--and we ranted at "Ye Mariners of
England" till the mate sent word that further din would mean a
"work-up" job for all of us.
Little we thought that we mariners would soon be facing dangers as
great as any we so glibly sang about. Even as we sang, the _Hilda_ was
speeding on a fatal course! Across her track the almost submerged hull
of a derelict lay drifting. Black night veiled the danger from the
keenest eyes.
A frenzied order from the poop put a stunning period to our merriment.
"Helm up, f'r God's sake! . . . _Up_!--_oh God_!--_Up_! _Up_!" A
furious impact dashed us to the deck. Staggering, bruised, and
bleeding, we struggled to our feet. Outside the yells of fear-stricken
men mingled with hoarse orders, the crash of spars hurtling from aloft
vied with the thunder of canvas, as the doomed barque swung round
broadside to the wind and sea.
Even in that dread moment Jones had heed of his precious flag. As we
flew to the door, he tore the flag down, stuffing it in his jumper as
he joined us at the boats.
There was no time to hoist out the life-boats--it was pinnace and gig
or nothing. Already the bows were low in the water. "She goes. She
goes!" yelled some one. "Oh, Christ! She's going!"
We bore frantically on the tackles that linked the gig, swung her out,
and lowered by the run; the mate had the pinnace in the water, men were
swarming into her. As the gig struck water, the barque heeled to the
rail awash. We crowded in, old Burke the last to leave her, and pushed
off. Our once stately _Hilda_ reeled in a swirl of broken water, and
the deep sea took her!
Sailor work! No more than ten minutes between "Ye Mariners" and the
foundering of our barque!
We lay awhile with hearts too full for words; then the pinnace drew
near, and the mate called the men. All there but one!
"Gregson!" . . . No Gregson! The bosun knew. He had seen what was
Gregson lying still under the wreck of the topmost spars.
The captain and mate conferred long together. We had no sail in the
gig, but the larger boat was fully equipped. "It's the only chance,
mister," said Burke at last. "No food--no water! We can't hold out
for long. Get sail on your boat and stand an hour or two to the
east'ard. Ye may fall in with a ship; she w'was right in th' track
whin she s-struck. We can but lie to in th' gig an' pray that a ship
comes by."
"Aye, aye, sir." They stepped the mast and hoisted sail. "Good-bye
all: God bless ye, captain," they said as the canvas swelled. "Keep
heart!" For a time we heard their voices shouting us God-speed--then
silence came!
V
Daybreak!
Thank God the bitter night was past. Out of the east the
long-looked-for light grew on us, as we lay to sea-anchor, lurching
unsteadily in the teeth of wind and driving rain. At the first grey
break we scanned the now misty horizon. There was no sign of the
pinnace; no God-sent sail in all the dreary round!
We crouched on the bottom boards of the little gig and gave way to
gloomy thoughts. What else could be when we were alone and adrift on
the broad Pacific, without food or water, in a tiny gig already
perilously deep with the burden of eight of us? What a difference to
the gay day when we manned the same little boat and set out in pride to
the contest! Here was the same spare oar that we held up to the
judges--the long oar that Jones was now swaying over the stern, keeping
her head to the wind and sea! Out there in the tumbling water the
sea-anchor held its place; the ten fathoms of good hemp "painter" was
straining at the bows!
The same boat! The same gear! The same crew, but how different! A
crew of bent heads and wearied limbs! Listless-eyed, despairing! A
ghastly crew, with black care riding in the heaving boat with us!
Poor old Burke had hardly spoken since his last order to the mate to
sail the pinnace to the east in search of help. When anything was put
to him, he would say, "Aye, aye, b'ye," and take no further heed. He
was utterly crushed by the disaster that had come so suddenly on the
heels of his "good luck." He sat staring stonily ahead, deaf to our
hopes and fears.
Water we had in plenty as the day wore on. The rain-soaked clothes of
us were sufficient for the time, but soon hunger came and added a
physical pain to the torture of our doubt. Again and again we stood up
on the reeling thwarts and looked wildly around the sea-line. No
pinnace--no ship--nothing! Nothing, only sea and sky, and circling
sea-birds that came to mock at our misery with their plaintive cries.
A bitter night! A no less cruel day! Dark came on us again, chill and
windy, and the salt spray cutting at us like a whiplash.
Boo-m-m!
Big Jones stood up in the stern-sheets, swaying unsteadily. "D'ye hear
anything there? . . . Like a gun?"
A gun? Gun? . . . Nothing new! . . . We had been hearing guns,
seeing sails--in our minds--all the day! All day . . . guns . . . and
sail! Boom-m-m-m!
"Gun! Oh God . . . a gun! Capt'n, a gun, d'ye hear! Hay--Hay-H. Out
oars, there! A gun!" Hoarse in excitement Jones shook the old man and
called at his ear. "Aye, aye, b'ye. Aye, aye," said the broken old
man, seeming without understanding.
Jones ceased trying to rouse him, and, running out the steering oar,
called on us to haul the sea-anchor aboard. We lay to our oars,
listening for a further gunfire.
Whooo-o. . . . Boom-m-m.
A rocket! They were looking for us then! The pinnace must have been
picked up! A cheer--what a cheer!--came brokenly from our lips; and we
lashed furiously at the oars, steering to where a glare in the mist had
come with the last report.
Roused by the thrash of our oars, the old man sat up. "Whatt now,
b'ye? Whatt now?"
"Ship firin' rockets, sir," said Jones. "Rockets . . . no mistake."
As he spoke, another coloured streamer went flaming through the eastern
sky. "Give way, there! We'll miss her if she's running south! Give
way, all!" The glare of the rocket put heart into our broken old
skipper. "Steady now, b'yes," he said, with something of his old
enthusiasm.
We laboured steadily at the oars, but our strength was gone. The sea
too, that we had thought moderate when lying to sea-anchor, came at us
broadside on and set our light boat to a furious dance. Wave crests
broke and lashed aboard, the reeling boat was soon awash, and the spare
men had to bale frantically to keep her afloat. But terror of the ship
running south from us nerved our wearied arms, and we kept doggedly
swinging the oars. Soon we made out the vessel's sidelight--the gleam
of her starboard light, that showed that she was hauled to the wind,
not running south as we had feared. They could not see on such a
night, we had nothing to make a signal, but the faint green flame gave
us heart in our distress.
The old man, himself again, was now steering, giving us Big Jones to
bear at the oars. As we drew on we made out the loom of the vessel's
sails--a big ship under topsails only, and sailing slowly to the west.
We pulled down wind to cross her course, shouting together as we rowed.
Would they never hear? . . . Again! . . . Again!
Suddenly there came a hail from the ship, a roar of orders, rattle of
blocks and gear, the yards swung round and she layed up in the wind,
while the ghostly glare of a blue light lit up the sea around.
A crowd of men were gathered at the waist, now shouting and cheering as
we laboured painfully into the circle of vivid light. Among them a big
man (huge he looked in that uncanny glare) roared encouragement in
hoarse gutturals.
Old Schenke? The _Hedwig Rickmers_?
Aye--Schenke! But a different Schenke to the big, blustering,
overbearing "Square-head" we had known in 'Frisco. Schenke as kind as
a brother--a brother of the sea indeed. Big, fat, honest Schenke,
passing his huge arm through that of our broken old skipper, leading
him aft to his own bed, and silencing his faltering story by words of
cheer. "_Ach, du lieber Gott_! It is all right, no? All right,
Cabtin, now you come on board. Ah know all 'bout it! . . . Ah pick de
oder boat up in de morning, und dey tells me. You come af mit me,
Cabtin. . . . Goot, no?"
* * * * * *
"Ninety-six days, Schenke, and here we are at the mouth of the
Channel!" Old Burke had a note of regret in the saying. "Ninety-six
days! Sure, this ship o' yours can sail. With a bit o' luck, now,
ye'll be in Falmouth under the hundred."
"So. If de vind holds goot. Oh, de _Hedwig Rickmers_ is a goot sheep,
no? But if Ah dond't get de crew of de poor lettle _Hilda_ to work
mein sheep, Ah dond't t'ink ve comes home so quick as hundert days,
no?'"
"God bless us, man. Shure, it's the least they cud do, now. An' you
kaaping' us in food an' drink an' clothes, bedad--all the time."
"Vat Ah do, Cabtin. Ah leaf you starfe, no?"
"Oh. Some men would have put into the Falklands and landed----"
"Und spoil a goot bassage, eh? Ach nein. More better to go on. You
know dese men Ah get in 'Frisco is no goot. Dem "hoodlums," they
dond't know de sailorman vork. But your beoble is all recht, eh!
Gott! If Ah dond't haf dem here, it is small sail ve can carry on de
sheep."
"Och, now, ye just say that, Schenke, ye just say that! But it's glad
I am if we're any use t' ye."
"Hundert days to Falmouth, eh?" Schenke grinned as he said it. "Vat
'bout dot bett now, Cabtin?"
"Oh that," said Burke queerly. "You win, of course. I'm not quite
broke yet, Captain Schenke. I'll pay the twenty dollars all right."
"No, no. De bett is not von. No? De bett vass--'who is de first on
shore come,' _Heim_? Goot. Ven de sheep comes to Falmouth ve goes on
shore, you und me, together. Like dis, eh?" He seized Burke by the
arm and made a motion that they two should thus step out together.