The Dauber felt a mountain of water fall.It covered him deep, deep, he felt it fill,Over his head, the deck, the fife-rails, all,Quieting the ship, she trembled and lay still.Then with a rush and shatter and clanging shrillOver she went; he saw the water creamOver the bitts; he saw the half-deck stream.
Then in the rush he swirled, over she went;Her lee-rail dipped, he struck, and something gave;His legs went through a port as the roll spent;She paused, then rolled, and back the water drave.He drifted with it as a part of the wave,Drowning, half-stunned, exhausted, partly frozen,He struck the booby hatchway; then the Bosun
Leaped, seeing his chance, before the next sea burst,And caught him as he drifted, seized him, held,Up-ended him against the bitts, and cursed."This ain't the George's Swimming Baths," he yelled;"Keep on your feet!" Another grey-back felledThe two together, and the Bose, half-blind,Spat: "One's a joke," he cursed, "but two's unkind."
"Now, damn it, Dauber!" said the Mate. "Look out,Or you'll be over the side!" The water freed;Each clanging freeing-port became a spout.The men cleared up the decks as there was need.The Dauber's head was cut, he felt it bleedInto his oilskins as he clutched and coiled.Water and sky were devils' brews which boiled,
Boiled, shrieked, and glowered; but the ship was saved.Snugged safely down, though fourteen sails were split.Out of the dark a fiercer fury raved.The grey-backs died and mounted, each crest litWith a white toppling gleam that hissed from itAnd slid, or leaped, or ran with whirls of cloud,Mad with inhuman life that shrieked aloud.
The watch was called; Dauber might go below."Splice the main brace!" the Mate called. All laid aftTo get a gulp of momentary glowAs some reward for having saved the craft.The steward ladled mugs, from which each quaff'dWhisky, with water, sugar, and lime-juice, hot,A quarter of a pint each made the tot.
Beside the lamp-room door the steward stoodLadling it out, and each man came in turn,Tipped his sou'-wester, drank it, grunted "Good!"And shambled forward, letting it slowly burn.When all were gone the Dauber lagged astern,Torn by his frozen body's lust for heat,The liquor's pleasant smell, so warm, so sweet,
And by a promise long since made at homeNever to taste strong liquor. Now he knewThe worth of liquor; now he wanted some.His frozen body urged him to the brew;Yet it seemed wrong, an evil thing to doTo break that promise. "Dauber," said the Mate,"Drink, and turn in, man; why the hell d'ye wait?"
"Please, sir, I'm temperance." "Temperance are you, hey?That's all the more for me! So you're for slops?I thought you'd had enough slops for to-day.Go to your bunk and ease her when she drops.And—damme, steward! you brew with too much hops!Stir up the sugar, man!—and tell your girlHow kind the Mate was teaching you to furl."
Then the Mate drank the remnants, six men's share,And ramped into his cabin, where he strippedAnd danced unclad, and was uproarious there.In waltzes with the cabin cat he tripped,Singing in tenor clear that he was pipped—That "he who strove the tempest to disarm,Must never first embrail the lee yard-arm,"
And that his name was Ginger. Dauber creptBack to the round-house, gripping by the rail.The wind howled by; the passionate water leapt;The night was all one roaring with the gale.Then at the door he stopped, uttering a wail;His hands were perished numb and blue as veins,He could not turn the knob for both the Spains.
A hand came shuffling aft, dodging the seas,Singing "her nut-brown hair" between his teeth;Taking the ocean's tumult at his easeEven when the wash about his thighs did seethe.His soul was happy in its happy sheath;"What, Dauber, won't it open? Fingers cold?You'll talk of this time, Dauber, when you're old."
He flung the door half open, and a seaWashed them both in, over the splashboard, down"You silly, salt miscarriage!" sputtered he."Dauber, pull out the plug before we drown!That's spoiled my laces and my velvet gown.Where is the plug?" Groping in pitch dark water,He sang between his teeth "The Farmer's Daughter."
It was pitch dark within there; at each rollThe chests slid to the slant; the water rushed,Making full many a clanging tin pan bowlInto the black below-bunks as it gushed.The dog-tired men slept through it; they were hushed.The water drained, and then with matches dampThe man struck heads off till he lit the lamp.
"Thank you," the Dauber said; the seaman grinned."This is your first foul weather?" "Yes." "I thoughtUp on the yard you hadn't seen much wind.Them's rotten sea-boots, Dauber, that you brought.Now I must cut on deck before I'm caught."He went; the lamp-flame smoked; he slammed the door;A film of water loitered across the floor.
The Dauber watched it come and watched it go;He had had revelation of the liesCloaking the truth men never choose to know;He could bear witness now and cleanse their eyes.He had beheld in suffering; he was wise;This was the sea, this searcher of the soul—This never-dying shriek fresh from the Pole.
He shook with cold; his hands could not undoHis oilskin buttons, so he shook and sat,Watching his dirty fingers, dirty blue.Hearing without the hammering tackle slat,Within, the drops from dripping clothes went pat,Running in little patters, gentle, sweet,And "Ai, ai!" went the wind, and the seas beat.
His bunk was sopping wet; he clambered in.None of his clothes were dry; his fear recurred.Cramps bunched the muscles underneath his skin.The great ship rolled until the lamp was blurred.He took his Bible and tried to read a word;Trembled at going aloft again, and thenResolved to fight it out and show it to men.
Faces recurred, fierce memories of the yard,The frozen sail, the savage eyes, the jests,The oaths of one great seaman syphilis-scarred,The tug of leeches jammed beneath their chests,The buntlines bellying bunts out into breasts.The deck so desolate-grey, the sky so wild,He fell asleep, and slept like a young child.
But not for long; the cold awoke him soon,The hot-ache and the skin-cracks and the cramp,The seas thundering without, the gale's wild tune,The sopping misery of the blankets damp.A speaking-trumpet roared; a sea-boot's stampClogged at the door. A man entered to shout:"All hands on deck! Arouse here! Tumble out!"
The caller raised the lamp; his oilskins clickedAs the thin ice upon them cracked and fell."Rouse out!" he said. "This lamp is frozen wicked.Rouse out!" His accent deepened to a yell."We're among ice; it's blowing up like hell.We're going to hand both topsails. Time, I guess,We're sheeted up. Rouse out! Don't stay to dress!"
"Is it cold on deck?" said Dauber. "Is it cold?We're sheeted up, I tell you, inches thick!The fo'c'sle's like a wedding-cake, I'm told.Now tumble out, my sons; on deck here, quick!Rouse out, away, and come and climb the stick.I'm going to call the half-deck. Bosun! Hey!Both topsails coming in. Heave out! Away!"
He went; the Dauber tumbled from his bunk,Clutching the side. He heard the wind go past,Making the great ship wallow as if drunk.There was a shocking tumult up the mast."This is the end," he muttered, "come at last!I've got to go aloft, facing this cold.I can't. I can't. I'll never keep my hold.
"I cannot face the topsail yard again.I never guessed what misery it would be."The cramps and hot-ache made him sick with pain.The ship stopped suddenly from a devilish sea,Then, with a triumph of wash, a rush of glee,The door burst in, and in the water rolled,Filling the lower bunks, black, creaming, cold.
The lamp sucked out. "Wash!" went the water back,Then in again, flooding; the Bosun swore."You useless thing! You Dauber! You lee slack!Get out, you heekapoota! Shut the door!You coo-ilyaira, what are you waiting for?Out of my way, you thing—you useless thing!"He slammed the door indignant, clanging the ring.
And then he lit the lamp, drowned to the waist;"Here's a fine house! Get at the scupper-holes"—He bent against it as the water raced—"And pull them out to leeward when she rolls.They say some kinds of landsmen don't have souls.I well believe. A Port Mahon baboonWould make more soul than you got with a spoon."
Down in the icy water Dauber gropedTo find the plug; the racing water sluicedOver his head and shoulders as she sloped.Without, judged by the sound, all hell was loosed.He felt cold Death about him tightly noosed.That Death was better than the misery thereIced on the quaking foothold high in air.
And then the thought came: "I'm a failure. AllMy life has been a failure. They were right.It will not matter if I go and fall;I should be free then from this hell's delight.I'll never paint. Best let it end to-night.I'll slip over the side. I've tried and failed."So in the ice-cold in the night he quailed.
Death would be better, death, than this long hellOf mockery and surrender and dismay—This long defeat of doing nothing well,Playing the part too high for him to play."O Death! who hides the sorry thing away,Take me; I've failed. I cannot play these cards."There came a thundering from the topsail yards.
And then he bit his lips, clenching his mind,And staggered out to muster, beating backThe coward frozen self of him that whined.Come what cards might he meant to play the pack."Ai!" screamed the wind; the topsail sheets went clack;Ice filled the air with spikes; the grey-backs burst."Here's Dauber," said the Mate, "on deck the first.
"Why, holy sailor, Dauber, you re a man!I took you for a soldier. Up now, come!"Up on the yards already they beganThat battle with a gale which strikes men dumb.The leaping topsail thundered like a drum.The frozen snow beat in the face like shots.The wind spun whipping wave-crests into clots.
So up upon the topsail yard again,In the great tempest's fiercest hour, beganProbation to the Dauber's soul, of painWhich crowds a century's torment in a span.For the next month the ocean taught this man,And he, in that month's torment, while she wested,Was never warm nor dry, nor full nor rested.
But still it blew, or, if it lulled, it roseWithin the hour and blew again; and stillThe water as it burst aboard her froze.The wind blew off an ice-field, raw and chill,Daunting man's body, tampering with his will;But after thirty days a ghostly sunGave sickly promise that the storms were done.
A great grey sea was running up the sky,Desolate birds flew past; their mewings cameAs that lone water's spiritual cry,Its forlorn voice, its essence, its soul's name.The ship limped in the water as if lame.Then in the forenoon watch to a great shoutMore sail was made, the reefs were shaken out.
A slant came from the south; the singers stoodClapped to the halliards, hauling to a tune,Old as the sea, a fillip to the blood.The upper topsail rose like a balloon."So long, Cape Stiff. In Valparaiso soon,"Said one to other, as the ship lay over,Making her course again—again a rover.
Slowly the sea went down as the wind fell.Clear rang the songs, "Hurrah! Cape Horn is bet!"The combless seas were lumping into swell;The leaking fo'c'sles were no longer wet.More sail was made; the watch on deck was setTo cleaning up the ruin broken bareBelow, aloft, about her, everywhere.
The Dauber, scrubbing out the round-house, foundOld pantiles pulped among the mouldy gear,Washed underneath the bunks and long since drownedDuring the agony of the Cape Horn year.He sang in scrubbing, for he had done with fear—Fronted the worst and looked it in the face;He had got manhood at the testing-place.
Singing he scrubbed, passing his watch below,Making the round-house fair; the Bosun watched,Bringing his knitting slowly to the toe.Sails stretched a mizen skysail which he patched;They thought the Dauber was a bad egg hatched."Daubs," said the Bosun cheerly, "can you knit?I've made a Barney's bull of this last bit."
Then, while the Dauber counted, Bosun tookSome marline from his pocket. "Here," he said,"You want to know square sennit? So fash. Look!Eight foxes take, and stop the ends with thread.I've known an engineer would give his headTo know square sennit." As the Bose began,The Dauber felt promoted into man.
It was his warrant that he had not failed—That the most hard part in his difficult climbHad not been past attainment; it was scaled:Safe footing showed above the slippery slime.He had emerged out of the iron time,And knew that he could compass his life's scheme;He had the power sufficient to his dream.
Then dinner came, and now the sky was blue.The ship was standing north, the Horn was rounded;She made a thundering as she weltered through.The mighty grey-backs glittered as she bounded.More sail was piled upon her; she was houndedNorth, while the wind came; like a stag she ranOver grey hills and hollows of seas wan.
She had a white bone in her mouth: she sped;Those in the round-house watched her as they ateTheir meal of pork-fat fried with broken bread."Good old!" they cried. "She's off; she's gathering gait!"Her track was whitening like a Lammas spate."Good old!" they cried. "Oh, give her cloth! Hurray!For three weeks more to Valparaiso Bay!"
"She smells old Vallipo," the Bosun cried."We'll be inside the tier in three weeks more,Lying at double-moorings where they rideOff of the market, half a mile from shore,And bumboat pan, my sons, and figs galore,And girls in black mantillas fit to make aPoor seaman frantic when they dance the cueca."
Eight bells were made, the watch was changed, and nowThe Mate spoke to the Dauber: "This is better.We'll soon be getting mudhooks over the bow.She'll make her passage still if this'll let her.Oh, run, you drogher! dip your fo'c'sle wetter.Well, Dauber, this is better than Cape Horn.Them topsails made you wish you'd not been born.
"Yes, sir," the Dauber said. "Now," said the Mate,"We've got to smart her up. Them Cape Horn seasHave made her paint-work like a rusty grate.Oh, didn't them topsails make your fish-hooks freeze?A topsail don't pay heed to 'Won't you, please?'Well, you have seen Cape Horn, my son; you've learned.You've dipped your hand and had your fingers burned.
"And now you'll stow that folly, trying to paint.You've had your lesson; you're a sailor now.You come on board a female ripe to faint.All sorts of slush you'd learned, the Lord knows how.Cape Horn has sent you wisdom over the bowIf you've got sense to take it. You're a sailor.My God! before you were a woman's tailor.
"So throw your paints to blazes and have done.Words can't describe the silly things you didSitting before your easel in the sun,With all your colours on the paint-box lid.I blushed for you ... and then the daubs you hid.My God! you'll have more sense now, eh? You've quit?""No, sir." "You've not?" "No, sir." "God give you wit."
"I thought you'd come to wisdom." Thus they talked,While the great clipper took her bit and rushedLike a skin-glistening stallion not yet baulked,Till fire-bright water at her swing-ports gushed;Poising and bowing down her fore-foot crushedBubble on glittering bubble; on she went.The Dauber watched her, wondering what it meant.
To come, after long months, at rosy dawn,Into the placid blue of some great bay.Treading the quiet water like a fawnEre yet the morning haze was blown away.A rose-flushed figure putting by the grey,And anchoring there before the city smokeRose, or the church-bells rang, or men awoke.
And then, in the first light, to see grow clearThat long-expected haven filled with strangers—Alive with men and women; see and hearIts clattering market and its money-changers;And hear the surf beat, and be free from dangers,And watch the crinkled ocean blue with calmDrowsing beneath the Trade, beneath the palm.
Hungry for that he worked; the hour went by,And still the wind grew, still the clipper strode,And now a darkness hid the western sky,And sprays came flicking off at the wind's goad.She stumbled now, feeling her sail a load.The Mate gazed hard to windward, eyed his sail,And said the Horn was going to flick her tail.
Boldly he kept it on her till she staggered,But still the wind increased; it grew, it grew,Darkening the sky, making the water haggard;Full of small snow the mighty wester blew."More fun for little fish-hooks," sighed the crew.They eyed the taut topgallants stiff like steel;A second hand was ordered to the wheel.
The Captain eyed her aft, sucking his lip,Feeling the sail too much, but yet refrainingFrom putting hobbles on the leaping ship,The glad sea-shattering stallion, halter-straining,Wind-musical, uproarious, and complaining;But, in a gust, he cocked his finger, so:"You'd better take them off, before they go."
All saw. They ran at once without the word"Leeay! Leeay!" Loud rang the clew-line cries;Sam in his bunk within the half-deck heard.Stirred in his sleep, and rubbed his drowsy eyes."There go the lower to'gallants." Against the skiesRose the thin bellying strips of leaping sail.The Dauber was the first man over the rail.
Three to a mast they ran; it was a race."God!" said the Mate; "that Dauber, he can go."He watched the runners with an upturned faceOver the futtocks, struggling heel to toe,Up to the topmast cross-trees into the blowWhere the three sails were leaping. "Dauber wins!"The yards were reached, and now the race begins.
Which three will furl their sail first and come down?Out to the yard-arm for the leech goes one,His hair blown flagwise from a hatless crown,His hands at work like fever to be done.Out of the gale a fiercer fury spun.The three sails leaped together, yanking high,Like talons darting up to clutch the sky.
The Dauber on the fore-topgallant yardOut at the weather yard-arm was the firstTo lay his hand upon the buntline-barredTopgallant yanking to the wester's burst;He craned to catch the leech; his comrades cursed;One at the buntlines, one with oaths observed,"The eye of the outer jib-stay isn't served."
"No," said the Dauber. "No," the man replied.They heaved, stowing the sail, not looking round,Panting, but full of life and eager-eyed;The gale roared at them with its iron sound."That's you," the Dauber said. His gasket woundSwift round the yard, binding the sail in bands;There came a gust, the sail leaped from his hands,
So that he saw it high above him, grey,And there his mate was falling; quick he clutchedAn arm in oilskins swiftly snatched away.A voice said "Christ!" a quick shape stooped and touched.Chain struck his hands, ropes shot, the sky was smutchedWith vast black fires that ran, that fell, that furled,And then he saw the mast, the small snow hurled,
The fore-topgallant yard far, far aloft,And blankness settling on him and great pain;And snow beneath his fingers wet and softAnd topsail-sheet-blocks shaking at the chain.He knew it was he who had fallen; then his brainSwirled in a circle while he watched the sky.Infinite multitudes of snow blew by.
"I thought it was Tom who fell," his brain's voice said."Down on the bloody deck!" the Captain screamed.The multitudinous little snow-flakes sped.His pain was real enough, but all else seemed.Si with a bucket ran, the water gleamedTilting upon him; others came, the Mate ...They knelt with eager eyes like things that wait
For other things to come. He saw them there."It will go on," he murmured, watching Si.Colours and sounds seemed mixing in the air,The pain was stunning him, and the wind went by."More water," said the Mate. "Here, Bosun, try.Ask if he's got a message. Hell, he's gone!Here, Dauber, paints." He said, "It will go on."
Not knowing his meaning rightly, but he spokeWith the intenseness of a fading soulWhose share of Nature's fire turns to smoke,Whose hand on Nature's wheel loses control.The eager faces glowered red like coal.They glowed, the great storm glowed, the sails, the mast."It will go on," he cried aloud, and passed.
Those from the yard came down to tell the tale."He almost had me off," said Tom. "He slipped.There come one hell of a jump-like from the sail....He clutched at me and almost had me pipped.He caught my 'ris'band, but the oilskin ripped....It tore clean off. Look here. I was near gone.I made a grab to catch him; so did John.
"I caught his arm. My God! I was near done.He almost had me over; it was near.He hit the ropes and grabbed at every one.""Well," said the Mate, "we cannot leave him here.Run, Si, and get the half-deck table clear.We'll lay him there. Catch hold there, you, and you.He's dead, poor son; there's nothing more to do,"
Night fell, and all night long the Dauber layCovered upon the table; all night longThe pitiless storm exulted at her prey,Huddling the waters with her icy thong.But to the covered shape she did no wrong.He lay beneath the sailcloth. Bell by bellThe night wore through; the stars rose, the stars fell.
Blowing most pitiless cold out of clear skyThe wind roared all night long; and all night throughThe green seas on the deck went washing by,Flooding the half-deck; bitter hard it blew.But little of it all the Dauber knew—The sopping bunks, the floating chests, the wet,The darkness, and the misery, and the sweat.
He was off duty. So it blew all night,And when the watches changed the men would comeDripping within the door to strike a lightAnd stare upon the Dauber lying dumb,And say, "He come a cruel thump, poor chum."Or, "He'd a-been a fine big man;" or, "He ...A smart young seaman he was getting to be."
Or, "Damn it all, it's what we've all to face! ...I knew another fellow one time..." thenCame a strange tale of death in a strange placeOut on the sea, in ships, with wandering men.In many ways Death puts us into pen.The reefers came down tired and looked and slept.Below the skylight little dribbles crept
Along the painted woodwork, glistening, slow,Following the roll and dripping, never fast,But dripping on the quiet form below,Like passing time talking to time long past.And all night long "Ai, ai!" went the wind's blast,And creaming water swished below the pale,Unheeding body stretched beneath the sail.
At dawn they sewed him up, and at eight bellsThey bore him to the gangway, wading deep,Through the green-clutching, white-toothed water-hellsThat flung his carriers over in their sweep.They laid an old red ensign on the heap,And all hands stood bare-headed, stooping, swaying,Washed by the sea while the old man was praying
Out of a borrowed prayer-book. At a signThey twitched the ensign back and tipped the gratingA creamier bubbling broke the bubbling brine.The muffled figure tilted to the weighting;It dwindled slowly down, slowly gyrating.Some craned to see; it dimmed, it disappeared;The last green milky bubble blinked and cleared.
"Mister, shake out your reefs," the Captain called."Out topsail reefs!" the Mate cried; then all hands.Hurried, the great sails shook, and all hands hauled.Singing that desolate song of lonely lands,Of how a lover came in dripping bands,Green with the wet and cold, to tell his loverThat Death was in the sea, and all was over.
Fair came the falling wind; a seaman saidThe Dauber was a Jonah; once againThe clipper held her course, showing red lead,Shattering the sea-tops into golden rain.The waves bowed down before her like blown grain;Onwards she thundered, on; her voyage was short,Before the tier's bells rang her into port.
Cheerly they rang her in, those beating bells,The new-come beauty stately from the sea,Whitening the blue heave of the drowsy swells,Treading the bubbles down. With three times threeThey cheered her moving beauty in, and sheCame to her berth so noble, so superb;Swayed like a queen, and answered to the curb.
Then in the sunset's flush they went aloft,And unbent sails in that most lovely hour,When the light gentles and the wind is soft,And beauty in the heart breaks like a flower.Working aloft they saw the mountain tower,Snow to the peak; they heard the launchmen shout;And bright along the bay the lights came out.
And then the night fell dark, and all night longThe pointed mountain pointed at the stars,Frozen, alert, austere; the eagle's songScreamed from her desolate screes and splintered scars.On her intense crags where the air is sparseThe stars looked down; their many golden eyesWatched her and burned, burned out, and came to rise.
Silent the finger of the summit stood,Icy in pure, thin air, glittering with snows.Then the sun's coming turned the peak to blood,And in the rest-house the muleteers arose.And all day long, where only the eagle goes,Stones, loosened by the sun, fall; the stones fallingFill empty gorge on gorge with echoes calling.
Backstays. Wire ropes which support the masts against lateral and after strains.
Barney's bull. A figure in marine proverb. A jewel in marine repartee.
Bells. Two bells (one forward, one aft), which are struck every half-hour in a certain manner to mark the passage of the watches.
Bitts. Strong wooden structures (built round each mast) upon which running rigging is secured.
Block. A sheaved pulley.
Boatswain. A supernumerary or idler, generally attached to the mate's watch, and holding considerable authority over the crew.
Bouilli tin. Any tin that contains, or has contained, preserved meat.
Bows. The forward extremity of a ship.
Brace-blocks. Pulleys through which the braces travel.
Braces. Ropes by which the yards are inclined forward or aft.
Bumboat pan. Soft bread sold by the bumboat man, a kind of sea costermonger who trades with ships in port.
Bunt. Those cloths of a square sail which are nearest to the mast when the sail is set. The central portion of a furled square sail. The human abdomen (figuratively).
Buntlines. Ropes which help to confine square sails to the yards in the operation of furling.
Chocks. Wooden stands on which the boats rest.
Cleats. Iron or wooden contrivances to which ropes may be secured.
Clew-lines. Ropes by which the lower corners of square sails are lifted.
Clews. The lower corners of square sails.
Clipper. A title of honour given to ships of more than usual speed and beauty.
Coaming. The raised rim of a hatchway; a barrier at a doorway to keep water from entering.
Courses. The large square sails set upon the lower yards of sailing ships. The mizen course is called the "crojick."
Cringled. Fitted with iron rings or cringles, many of which are let into sails or sail-roping for various purposes.
Crojick(or cross-jack). A square sail set upon the lower yard of the mizen mast.
Dungarees. Thin blue or khaki-coloured overalls made from cocoanut fibre.
Fairleads. Rings of wood or iron by means of which running rigging is led in any direction.
Fife-rails. Strong wooden shelves fitted with iron pins, to which ropes may be secured.
Fish-hooks.I.e., fingers.
Foot-ropes. Ropes on which men stand when working aloft.
Fo'c'sle. The cabin or cabins in which the men are berthed. It is usually an iron deck-house divided through the middle into two compartments for the two watches, and fitted with wooden bunks. Sometimes it is even fitted with lockers and an iron water-tank.
Foxes. Strands, yarns, or arrangements of yarns of rope.
Freeing-ports. Iron doors in the ship's side which open outwards to free the decks of water.
Frap. To wrap round with rope.
Futtock-shrouds. Iron bars to which the topmast rigging is secured. As they project outward and upward from the masts they are difficult to clamber over.
Galley. The ship's kitchen.
Gantline(girtline). A rope used for the sending of sails up and down from aloft.
Gaskets. Ropes by which the sails are secured in furling.
Half-deck. A cabin or apartment in which the apprentices are berthed. Its situation is usually the ship's waist; but it is sometimes further aft, and occasionally it is under the poop or even right forward under the top-gallant fo'c'sle.
Halliards. Ropes by which sails are hoisted.
Harness-room. An office or room from which the salt meat is issued, and in which it is sometimes stored.
Hawse. The bows or forward end of a ship.
Head. The forward part of a ship. That upper edge of a square sail which is attached to the yard.
House-flag. The special flag of the firm to which a ship belongs.
Idlers. The members of the round-house mess, generally consisting of the carpenter, cook, sailmaker, boatswain, painter, etc. are known as the idlers.
Jack(or jackstay). An iron bar (fitted along all yards in sailing ships) to which the head of a square sail is secured when bent.
Kites. Light upper sails.
Leeches. The outer edges of square sails. In furling some square sails the leech is dragged inwards till it lies level with the head upon the surface of the yard. This is done by the first man who gets upon the yard, beginning at the weather side.
Logship. A contrivance by which a ship's speed is measured.
Lower topsail. The second sail from the deck on square-rigged masts. It is a very strong, important sail.
Marline. Tarry line or coarse string made of rope-yarns twisted together.
Mate. The First or Chief Mate is generally called the Mate.
Mizen-topmast-head. The summit of the second of the three or four spars which make the complete mizen-mast.
Mudhooks. Anchors.
Pins. Iron or wooden bars to which running rigging is secured.
Pointing. A kind of neat plait with which ropes are sometimes ended off or decorated.
Poop-break. The forward end of the after superstructure.
Ratlines. The rope steps placed across the shrouds to enable the seamen to go aloft.
Reefers. Apprentices.
Reef-points. Ropes by which the area of some sails may be reduced in the operation of reefing. Reef-points are securely fixed to the sails fitted with them, and when not in use their ends patter continually upon the canvas with a gentle drumming noise.
Reel. A part of the machinery used with a logship.
Round-house. A cabin (of all shapes except round) in which the idlers are berthed.
Royals. Light upper square sails; the fourth, fifth, or sixth sails from the deck according to the mast's rig.
Sail-room. A large room or compartment in which the ship's sails are stored.
"Sails." The sailmaker is meant.
Scuttle-butt. A cask containing fresh water.
Shackles. Rope handles for a sea-chest.
Sheet-blocks. Iron blocks, by means of which sails are sheeted home. In any violent wind they beat upon the mast with great rapidity and force.
Sheets. Ropes or chains which extend the lower corners of square sails in the operation of sheeting home.
Shifting suits(of sails). The operation of removing a ship's sails, and replacing them with others.
Shrouds. Wire ropes of great strength, which support lateral strains on masts.
Shroud-screws. Iron contrivances by which shrouds are hove taut.
Sidelights. A sailing ship carries two of these between sunset and sunrise: one green, to starboard; one red, to port.
Sights. Observations to help in the finding of a ship's position.
Skid. A wooden contrivance on which ship's boats rest.
Skysails. The uppermost square sails; the fifth, sixth, or seventh sails from the deck according to the mast's rig.
Slatting. The noise made by sails flogging in the wind.
Slush. Grease, melted fat.
South-wester. A kind of oilskin hat. A gale from the south-west.
Spit brown. To chew tobacco.
Square sennit. A cunning plait which makes a four-square bar.
Staysails. Fore and aft sails set upon the stays between the masts.
Stow. To furl.
Strop(the, putting on). A strop is a grummet or rope ring. The two players kneel down facing each other, the strop is placed over their heads, and the men then try to pull each other over by the strength of their neck-muscles.
Swing ports. Iron doors in the ship's side which open outwards to free the decks from water.
Tackle(pronounced "taykel"). Blocks, ropes, pulleys etc.
Take a caulk. To sleep upon the deck.
Topsails. The second and third sails from the deck on the masts of a modern square-rigged ship are known as the lower and upper topsails.
Trucks. The summits of the masts.
Upper topsail. The third square sail from the deck on the masts of square-rigged ships.
Yards. The steel or wooden spars (placed across masts) from which square sails are set.
BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD
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NEW VOLUMES OF POETRY
THE DAFFODIL FIELDS, by JOHN MASEFIELD.
MAN, OTHER POEMS, AND A PREFACE, by MARIE C. STOPES.
APHRODITE, AND OTHER POEMS, by JOHN HELSTON.
RHYMES OF A ROUSEABOUT, by W. MONRO ANDERSON.
POEMS, by JOHN HELSTON.
KNAVE OF HEARTS, by ARTHUR SYMONS.
AUGURIES, by LAURENCE BINYON.
THE BIRD OF TIME, by SAROJINI NAIDU. With portrait of Author, and Introduction by EDMUND GOSSE.
THE POETICAL WORKS OF EDMUND GOSSE.
MOODS, SONGS AND DOGGERELS, by JOHN GALSWORTHY.
THE LURE OF THE SEA, by J. E. PATTERSON.
WM. HEINEMANN, 21 BEDFORD STREET, W.C.