But the sea!
My friend asked me once, of the Mediterranean--Is it really blue? And
I replied that I could give him no notion of the colour of it. And
that is true. From the real "sea-green" of the shallow North Sea to
the turquoise-blue of the Bay; from the grey-white rush of the
Irish Sea to the clear-cut emerald of the Clyde Estuary; from the
colourless, oily swell of the Equatorial Atlantic to the paraffin-hued
rollers of the Tropic of Cancer, the sea varies as human nature
itself. To the artist, I imagine, no two square miles are alike, no
two sunsets, no two sunrises:
"_His sea in no showing the same,
His sea, yet the same in all showing._"
As I climbed the steep side of the almost-empty steamer, lying at the
Tyne-main Buoys, a keen, alert, bearded face looked over the gunwale
above me. I stepped aboard and spoke to the owner of this face. I
said, "Is the Chief aboard?"
"He is not."
"Is the Captain aboard?"
"He is not."
"Then who _is_ aboard?"
"The Mate's aboard."
"Are you the Mate?"
"I am that."
"My name is McAlnwick. I am signing on with this steamer."
"Ye're welcome." And we shook hands.
He is the very image of my old Headmaster, is this mate of the
_Benvenuto_. The trim beard, the keen, blue, deep-set eyes, the
smile--how often have I seen them from my vantage-point at the bottom
of the Sixth Form! On his head is an old uniform cap with two gold
bands and an obliterated badge. He wears a soiled mess-jacket with
brass buttons in the breast-pocket of which I see the mouthpiece of a
certain ivory-stemmed pipe. His hands are in his trouser pockets, and
he turns from me to howl into the cavernous hold some directions to
the cargo-men below. In the gathering gloom of a short January
afternoon, with the rush and roar of the winches in my ears, I stumble
aft to my quarters, thinking pleasantly of my first acquaintance.
And our friendship grows as we proceed. When we have slipped out of
the Tyne one grey evening, when the lights of Shields and Sunderland
die away, we are friends. For, as I prophesied, my whiskey would open
hearts. It was on a cold, bleak morning, ere we left Newcastle, that
I heard a stealthy step down the stairs to my room, and a husky
whisper--had I a nip o' whiskey? Yes, I had a nip. The bottle is
opened, and I fill two glasses. Evidently the First Officer is no
believer in dilution. With a hushed warning of "Ould Maun!" as a dull
snoring comes through the partition, he tosses my whiskey "down his
neck," rubs his stomach, and vanishes like--like a spirit! Later in
the day, as I stare across at some huge ships-of-war (for we are
opposite Elswick now), I hear a voice, a hearty voice, at my elbow.
"Thank ye, Mister McAlnwick, for the whiskey. 'Twas good!"