That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Phillips joined us. "We're discussing nautical history, chief." Being
assured that this really was so, Phillips said he was uncertain about the
true story of the _Golden Hind's_ boatswain, but he felt certain about our
not reaching Buenos Aires in the morning. If he were not a moral man,
he would "bet you, sir, two pence on the point."
The pilot, a tan-brown moustached little man, came in--not for his
black straw hat, but for his oilskins and goloshes. "That's right," said
Phillips with malevolent sympathy, "that's right, pilot, always keep
your feet thoroughly dry." The pilot had at least the excuse that it
was drizzling outside.
It blew hard and harder all night; and the next morning, Sunday, one
thought of the collapse of an English October. About half-past seven we
dropped anchor in the "roads" outside our promised port; on all sides
bleakly lapping and passing the pea-soup waters of the River Plate. Father
Prout's whimsical haunting old lines pervaded my mind as I stared and
warmed myself with pacing up and down:
With deep affection and recollection
I often think of the Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood,
Fling round my cradle their magic spells.
On this I ponder, where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee,
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.
Not far from his old loves, how did some of us once for a brief stay,
with those whirlpools in Flanders still roaring more hungrily in our
destiny, hear other bells ring in enchanting coolness over the gliding
boat, borne on the bosom of wooded Blackwater!
But these bleak and turbid waters turned the ringing song to parody, nor
did the _Bonadventure's_ bell, a war product, sound particularly grand
upon them as those past bells on their importal streams. The outlook and
the chilliness made breakfast unusually welcome. The pilot came in, but
having no English to speak of (or with) he could not tell us his real
views on the weather and such important matters. The chief loudly--for
more clarity--pressed him with such questions as "When does your next
STRIKE begin?" but he smiled and ate on.
About dinner-time a fine white launch came out to us; and a number of
authorities, including some doctors, came aboard. The ship's company
assembled aft like an awkward squad, and the doctors came along the
line feeling pulses; a task which they did genially and without strain.
That done, and no one being set aside for a further examination, all
dispersed. The authorities (a generous allowance of them) proceeded to
Hosea's quarters, no doubt to wind up the morning's work in comfort. I
listened meanwhile to Mead, who leaning over above their launch, amused
himself with making noisy and scandalous observations upon its crew,
their careers and their faces. Why this fury? I really believe it was
his way of expressing fraternity.
So there was nothing to do but wait for our new pilot on Monday morning:
to play cards with a pack whose age had given each card characteristic
markings besides those upon its face; to "yarn." At tea, Bicker was in
his most assiduous narrative mood. "We were in the West Indies in a boat
bringing the bumboat woman aboard--well, she started to climb up the
rope ladder and this fellow thought he'd lay his hand on her ankle. So he
made a move to do so. Just then" (his broad grin grew almost incredibly
broad), "the boat gave a roll, and as he had one foot on the gunwale, and
one on the rope ladder he fell into the water. Well, he went down past
rows and rows of plates, and we looked out for him to come up.--First a
hat, his black hat, came up. And then, a newspaper came up"--[_Chief_
(_ignored_) "To say he wasn't coming up?"]--and then, _he_ came up. Stern
first. We dragged him on deck, and there he was all spluttering, and
then he said as solemn as a judge:
'That's the fruits of Blacklegging.'"
This closed the proceedings.
Under the sunset the river's dingy current began to take on a strange
glory, and changed into a tawny golden wilderness moving down to sea. Then
presently it was full moon and pale splendours. A great quiet prevailed;
but led by the moon, like the tide and the poets, Mead and myself paced
the decks for hours recalling the local colour of war apart from fighting.