A black, threatening sky, with heavy banks of indigo-tinted clouds massed about the sea-line. A sickly, greenish light high up in the zenith. Elsewhere the gloom of warring elements broken only by flashes of sheet lightning, vivid but noiseless. The sea, rolling up from the sou'-west in a long glassy swell, was ruffled here and there by the checks of a fitful breeze. It needed not a deadly low barometer to tell us of a coming storm; we saw it in the tiers of hard-edged fearsome clouds, breaking up and re-forming, bank upon bank, in endless figurations. Some opposing force was keeping the wind in check; there was conflict up there, for, though masses of detached cloud were breaking away and racing o'er the zenith, we held but a fitful gusty breeze, and our barque, under low sail, was lurching uneasily for want of a steadying wind.
It was a morning of ill-omen, and the darkling sky but reflected the gloom of our faces; our thoughts were in keeping with the day, for we had lost a shipmate, one among us was gone, Old Martin was dead.
He died sometime in the middle watch, no one knew when. He was awake when the watch came below at midnight, for Welsh John had given him matches for his pipe before turning in. That was the last, for when they were called at four, Martin was cold and quiet. There was no trouble on his face, no sign of pain or suffering. Belike the old man had put his pipe aside, and finding no shipmate awake to 'pass the word,' had gently claimed his Pilot.
There was no great show of grief when it was known. Perhaps a bit catch in the voice when speaking of it, an unusual gentleness in our manner towards one another, but no resemblance of mourning, no shadow of woe. His was no young life untimely ended, there was no accident to be discussed, no blame to be apportioned. It was just that old lamp had flickered out at last. Ours was a sense of loss, we had lost a shipmate. There would be another empty bunk in the fo'cas'le, a hand less at the halyards, a name passed over at muster; we would miss the voice of experience that carried so much weight in our affairs—an influence was gone.
At daybreak we stood around to have a last look at the strong old face we had known so long. The sailmaker was sewing him up in the clew of an old topsail, a sailorly shroud that Martin would have chosen. The office was done gently and soberly, as a shipmate has a right to expect. A few pieces of old chain were put in to weight him down, all ship-shape and sailor-fashion, and when it was done we laid him out on the main hatch with the Flag he had served cast over him.
"There goes a good sailorman," said one of the crowd; "'e knowed 'is work," said another.
"A good sailorman—'e knowed 'is work!" That was Martin's epitaph—more, he would not want.
His was no long illness. A chill had settled into bronchitis. Martin had ever a fine disregard for weatherly precautions; he had to live up to the name of a 'hard case.' Fits of coughing and a high temperature came on him, and he was ordered below. At first he was taken aft to a spare room, but the unaccustomed luxury of the cabin so told on him that when he begged to be put in the fo'cas'le again, the Old Man let him go. There he seemed to get better. He had his shipmates to talk to; he was even in a position to rebuke the voice of youth and inexperience when occasion required, though with but a shadow of his former vehemence. Though he knew it would hurt him, he would smoke his pipe; it seemed to afford him a measure of relief. The Old Man did what he could for him, and spent more time in the fo'cas'le than most masters would have done. Not much could be done, for a ship is ill-fitted for an ailing man. At times there were relapses; times when his breathing would become laboured. Sometimes he became delirious and raved of old ships, and storms, and sails, then he would recover, and even seemed to get better. Then came the end. The tough old frame could no longer stand the strain, and he passed off quietly in the silence of middle night.
He was an old man, none knew how old. The kindly clerks in the shipping office had copied from one discharge note to the other when 'signing him on,' and he stood at fifty-eight on our articles; at sixty, he would never have got a 'sight.' He talked of old ships long since vanished from the face of the waters; if he had served on these he must have been over seventy years. Sometimes, but only to favoured shipmates, he would tell of his service aboard a Yankee cruiser when Fort Sumter fell, but he took greater pride in having been bo'sun of the famousSovereign of the Seas.
"Three hundred an' seventy miles," he would say; "that wos 'er day's travellin'! That's wot Ah calls sailin' a ship. None o' yer damn 'clew up an' clew down,' but give 'er th' ruddy canvas an'—let 'er go, boys!"
He was of the old type, bred in a hard sea-school. One of his boasts was that he had sailed for five years in packet ships, 'an' never saw th' pay table.' He would 'sign on' at Liverpool, giving his boarding-master a month's advance note for quittance. At New York he would desert, and after a bout ashore would sail for Liverpool in a new ship. There was a reason for this seeming foolish way of doing.
"None o' yer slavin' at harbour jobs an' cargo work; not fer me, me sons! Ah wos a sailorman an' did only sailorin' jobs. Them wos th' days w'en sailormen wos men, an' no ruddy cargo-wrastlin', coal-diggin' scallywags, wot they be now!"
A great upholder of the rights of the fo'cas'le, he looked on the Mates as his natural enemies, and though he did his work, and did it well, he never let pass an opportunity of trying a Mate's temper by outspoken criticism of the Officers' way of handling ship or sail. Apprentices he bore with, though he was always suspicious of a cabin influence.
That was Martin, our gallantly truculent, overbearing Old Martin; and, as we looked on the motionless figure outlined by folds of the Flag, we thought with regret of the time we took a pleasure in rousing him to a burst of sailorly invective. Whistling about the decks, or flying past him in the rigging with a great shaking of the shrouds when the 'crowd' was laying aloft to hand sail. "Come on, old 'has-been'!" Jones once shouted to him as he clambered over the futtock shrouds. Martin was furious.
"Has-been," he shouted in reply. "Aye, mebbe a 'has-been,' but w'en ye comes to my time o' life, young cock, ye can call yerself a 'never-bloody-wos'!"
Well! His watch was up, and when the black, ragged clouds broke away from the sou'-west and roused the sea against us, we would be one less to face it, and he would have rest till the great call of 'all hands'; rest below the heaving water that had borne him so long.
Surely there is nothing more solemn than a burial at sea. Ashore there are familiar landmarks, the nearness of the haunts of men, the neighbourly headstones, the great company of the dead, to take from the loneliness of the grave. Here was nothing but a heaving ship on the immensity of mid-ocean, an open gangway, a figure shrouded in folds of a Flag, and a small knot of bare-headed men, bent and swaying to meet the lurches of the vessel, grouped about the simple bier. The wind had increased and there was an ominous harping among the backstays. The ship was heaving unsteadily, and it was with difficulty we could keep a balance on the wet, sloping deck. Overhead the sky was black with the wrack of hurrying clouds, and the sullen grey water around us was already white-topped by the bite of freshening wind.
"I am th' Resurrection an' the Life, saith th' Loard"—Martin, laid on a slanted hatch, was ready for the road, and we were mustered around the open gangway. The Old Man was reading the service in his homely Doric, and it lost nothing of beauty or dignity in the translation—"an' whosoever liveth an' believeth in me sall never die." He paused and glanced anxiously to windward. There was a deadly check in the wind, and rain had commenced to fall in large, heavy drops. "A hand t' th' tops'l halyards, Mister," quietly, then continuing, "I know that my Redeemer liveth, an' that He sail stand at th' latter day upon th' airth. An' though ... yet in my flesh sail I see Goad...." Overhead, the sails were thrashing back and fore, for want of the breeze—still fell the rain, lashing heavily now on us and on the shrouded figure, face up, that heeded it not.
Hurriedly the Old Man continued the service—"Foreasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty Goad of his gre—at merrcy t' take unto Himself th' so-al of oor de-ar brother, here departed, we therefore commit he's boady t' th' deep ... when th' sea sall give up her daid, an' th' life of th' worl-d t' come, through oor Loard, Jesus Christ."
At a sign, the Second Mate tilted the hatch, the two youngest boys held the Flag, and Martin, slipping from its folds, took the water feet first in a sullen, almost noiseless, plunge.
"Oor Father which airt in heaven"—with bent head the Old Man finished the service. He was plainly ill at ease. He felt that the weather was 'making' on him, that the absence from the post of command (the narrow space between wheel and binnacle) was ill-timed. Still, his sense of duty made him read the service to a finish, and it was with evident relief he closed the book, saying, "Amen! Haul th' mains'l up, Mister, an' stand by t' square mainyards! ... Keep th' watch on deck; it's 'all hands'—thon," pointing to the black murk spreading swiftly over the weather sky.
We dragged the wet and heavy mains'l to the yard and stood by, waiting for the wind. Fitful gusts came, driving the rain in savage, searching bursts; then would come a deadly lull, and the rain beating on us, straight from above—a pitiless downpour. It was bitter cold, we were drenched and depressed as we stood shivering at the braces, and we wished for the wind to come, to get it over; anything would be better than this inaction.
A gust came out of the sou'-west, and we had but squared the yards when we heard the sound of a master wind on the water.
Shrieking with fury long withheld, the squall was upon us. We felt the ship stagger to the first of the blast; a furious plunge and she was off—smoking through the white-lashed sea, feather-driven before the gale. It could not last; no fabric would stand to such a race. "Lower away tops'l halyards!" yelled the Old Man, his voice scarce audible in the shrilling of the squall. The bo'sun, at the halyards, had but started the yard when the sheet parted; instant, the sail was in ribbons, thrashing savagely adown the wind. It was the test for the weakest link, and the squall had found it, but our spars were safe to us, and, eased of the press, we ran still swiftly on. We set about securing the gear, and in action we gave little thought to the event that had marked our day; but there was that in the shriek of wind in the rigging, in the crash of sundered seas under the bows, in the cries of men at the downhauls and the thundering of the torn canvas that sang fitting Requiem for the passing of our aged mariner.
"Lee fore-brace!"
Mister M'Kellar stepped from the poop and cast off the brace coils with an air of impatience. It wanted but half an hour of 'knocking off time'—and that half-hour would be time enough, for his watch to finish the scraping of the deck-house—but the wind waits on no man, and already the weather clew of the mainsail was lifting lazily to a shift. It was hard to give up the prospect of having the house all finished and ship-shape before the Mate came on deck (and then trimming yards and sail after theworkwas done); but here was the wind working light into the eastward, and the sails nearly aback, and any minute might bring the Old Man on deck to inquire, with vehemence, "What the —— somebody was doing with the ship?" There was nothing else for it; the house would have to stand.
"T—'tt, lee-fore-brace, the watch there!" Buckets and scrapers were thrown aside, the watch mustered at the braces, and the yards were swung slowly forward, the sails lifting to a faint head air.
This was the last of the south-east trades, a clean-running breeze that had carried us up from 20° S., and brace and sheet blocks, rudely awakened from their three weeks' rest, creaked a long-drawn protest to the failing wind; ropes, dry with disuse, ran stiffly over the sheaves, and the cries of the men at the braces added the human note to a chorus of ship sounds that marked the end of steady sailing weather.
"He—o—ro, round 'm in, me sons;ho—io—io—lay-back-an'-get-yer-muscle-up-fer ghostin' through th' doldrums!" Roused by the song (broad hints and deep-sea pleasantries) of the chanteyman, the Old Man came on deck, and paced slowly up and down the poop, whistling softly for wind, and glancing expectantly around the horizon. Whistle as he might, there was no wisp of stirring cloud, no ruffling of the water, to meet his gaze, and already the sea was glassing over, deserted by the wind. Soon what airs there were died away, leaving us flat becalmed, all signs of movement vanished from the face of the ocean, and we lay, mirrored sharply in the windless, silent sea, under the broad glare of an equatorial sun.
For a space of time we were condemned to a seaman's purgatory; we had entered the 'doldrums,' that strip of baffling weather that lies between the trade winds. We would have some days of calm and heavy rains, sudden squalls and shifting winds, and a fierce overhead sun; and through it all there would be hard labour for our crew (weak and short-handed as we were), incessant hauling of the heavy yards, and trimming of sail. Night or day, every faint breath of wind a-stirring, every shadow on the water, must find our sail in trim for but a flutter of the canvas that would move us on; any course with north in it would serve. "Drive her or drift her," by hard work only could we hope to win into the steady trade winds again, into the gallant sailing weather when you touch neither brace nor sheet from sunset to sunrise.
Overhead the sails hung straight from the head-ropes, with not even a flutter to send a welcome draught to the sweltering deck below. Everywhere was a smell of blistering paint and molten pitch, for the sun, all day blazing on our iron sides, had heated the hull like a furnace wall. Time and again we sluiced the decks, but still pitch oozed from the gaping seams to blister our naked feet, and the moisture dried from the scorched planking almost as quickly as we could draw the water. We waited for relief at sundown, and hoped for a tropical downpour to put us to rights.
Far to the horizon the sea spread out in a glassy stillness, broken only by an occasional movement among the fish. A widening ring would mark a rise—followed by the quick, affrighted flutter of a shoal of flying fish; then the dolphin, darting in eager pursuit, the sun's rays striking on their glistening sides at each leap and flurry. A few sharp seconds of glorious action, then silence, and the level sea stretching out unbroken to the track of the westing sun.
Gasping for a breath of cooler air, we watched the sun go down, but there was no sign of wind, no promise of movement in the faint, vapoury cirrhus that attended his setting.
Ten days of calms (blazing sun or a torrent of rain) and a few faint airs in the night time—and we had gained but a hundred miles. 'Our smart passage,' that we had hoped for when winds were fair and fresh, was out of question; but deep-sea philosophy has a counter for every occasion, and when the wind headed us or failed, someone among us would surely say, "Well, wot's th' odds, anyway? More bloomin' days, more bloomin' dollars, ain't it?" Small comfort this to the Old Man, who was now in the vilest of tempers, and spent his days in cursing the idle steersman, and his nights in quarrelling with the Mates about the trim. If the yards were sharp up, it would be, "What are ye thinkin' about, Mister? Get these yards braced in, an' look damn smart about it!" If they were squared, nothing would do but they must be braced forward, where the sails hung straight down, motionless, as before. Everything and everybody was wrong, and the empty grog bottles went 'plomp' out of the stern ports with unusual frequency. When we were outward bound, the baffling winds that we met off Cape Horn found him calm enough; they were to be expected in that quarter, and in the stir and action of working the ship in high winds, he could forget any vexation he might have felt; but this was different, there was the delay at the Falklands, and here was a further check to the passage—a hundred miles in ten days—provisions running short, grass a foot long on the counter, and still no sign of wind. There would be no congratulatory letter from the owners at the end of this voyage, no kindly commending phrase that means so much to a shipmaster. Instead it would be, "We are at a loss to understand why you have not made a more expeditious passage, considering that theElsinora, which sailed," etc., etc. It is always a fair wind in Bothwell Street! It was maddening to think of. "Ten miles a day!" Old Jock stamped up and down the poop, snarling at all and sundry. To the steersman it was, "Blast ye, what are ye lookin' round for? Keep yer eye on th' royals, you!" The Mates fared but little better. "Here, Mister," he would shout; "what's th' crowd idlin' about for? Can't ye find no work t' do? D'ye want me t' come and roust them around? It isn't much use o' me keepin' a dog, an' havin' t' bark myself!"
It was a trying time. If the Old Man 'roughed' the Mates, the Mates 'roughed' us, and rough it was. All hands were 'on the raw,' and matters looked ugly between the men and Officers, and who knows what would have happened, had not the eleventh day brought the wind.
It came in the middle watch, a gentle air, that lifted the canvas and set the reef points drumming and dancing at each welcome flutter, and all our truculence and ill-temper vanished with the foam bubbles that rose under our moving fore-foot.
The night had fallen dark and windless as any, and the first watch held a record for hauling yards and changing sheets. "'Ere ye are, boys," was the call at eight bells. "Out ye comes, an' swigs them b——y yards round; windmill tatties, an' th' Old Man 'owlin' like a dancin' —— dervish on th' lid!" The Old Man had been at the bottle, and was more than usually quarrelsome; two men were sent from the wheel for daring to spit over the quarter, and M'Kellar was on a verge of tears at some coarse-worded aspersion on his seamanship. The middle watch began ill. When the wind came we thought it the usual fluke that would last but a minute or two, and then, "mains'l up, an' square mainyards, ye idle hounds!" But no, three bells, four bells, five, the wind still held, the water was ruffling up to windward, the ship leaning handsomely; there was the welcome heave of a swell running under.
So the watch passed. There were no more angry words from the poop. Instead, the Old Man paced to and fro, rubbing his hands, in high good humour, and calling the steersman "m' lad" when he had occasion to con the vessel. After seeing that every foot of canvas was drawing, he went below, and the Second Mate took his place on the weather side, thought things over, and concluded that Old Jock wasn't such a bad sort, after all. We lay about the decks, awaiting further orders. None came, and we could talk of winds and passages, or lie flat on our backs staring up at the gently swaying trucks, watching the soft clouds racing over the zenith; there would be a spanking breeze by daylight. A bell was struck forward in the darkness, and the 'look-out' chanted a long "Awl—'s well!"
All was, indeed, well; we had picked up the north-east trades.
Sunday is the day when ships are sailed in fine style. On week days, when the round of work goes on, a baggy topsail or an ill-trimmed yard may stand till sundown, till theworkbe done, but Sunday is sacred to keen sailing; a day of grace, when every rope must be a-taut-o, and the lifts tended, and the Mates strut the weather poop, thinking at every turn of suitable manoeuvres and sail drill that will keep the sailormen from wearying on this, their Day of Rest.
On a fine Sunday afternoon we lay at ease awaiting the Mate's next discovery in the field of progress. She was doing well, six knots or seven, every stitch of sail set and drawing to a steady wind. From under the bows came the pleasingthrusshof the broken water, from aloft the creak of block and cordage and the sound of wind against the canvas. For over an hour we had been sweating at sheets and halyards, the customary Sunday afternoon service, and if theFlorence, of Glasgow, wasn't doing her best it was no fault of ours.
Now it was, "That'll do, the watch!" and we were each following our Sunday beat.
Spectacled and serious, 'Sails' was spelling out the advertisements on a back page of an oldHome Notes; the two Dutchmen were following his words with attentive interest. The Dagos, after the manner of their kind, were polishing up their knives, and the 'white men' were brushing and airing their 'longshore togs,' in readiness for a day that the gallant breeze was bringing nearer. A scene of peaceful idling.
"As shair's daith, he's gotten his e'e on that fore-tops'l sheet. Ah telt ye; Ah telt ye!" Houston was looking aft. "Spit oan yer hauns, lauds! He's seen it. We're gaun tae ha'e anither bit prayer for th' owners!"
The Mate had come off the poop, and was standing amidships staring steadily aloft.
"Keep 'oor eyes off that tops'l sheet, I tell 'oo," said Welsh John angrily. "He can't see it unless he comes forra'd; if he sees 'oo lookin', it's forra'd he'll be, soon, indeed!"
There were perhaps a couple of links of slack in the tops'l sheet, a small matter, but quite enough to call for the watch tackle—on a Sunday. The crisis passed; it was a small matter on the main that had called him down, and soon a 'prentice boy was mounting the rigging with ropeyarns in his hand, to tell the buntlines what he thought of them—and of the Mate.
Bo'sun Hicks was finishing off a pair of 'shackles,' sailor handles for Munro's sea-chest—a simple bit of recreation for a Sunday afternoon. They were elaborate affairs of four stranded 'turks-heads' and double rose knots, and showed several distinct varieties of 'coach whipping.' One that was finished was being passed round an admiring circle of shipmates, and Hicks, working at the other, was feigning a great indifference to their criticisms of his work.
"Di—zy, Di—zy, gimme yer awnswer, do," he sang with feeling, as he twisted the pliant yarns.
"Mind ye, 'm not sayin' as them ain't fine shackles"—Granger was ever the one to strike a jarring note—"As fine a shackles as ever I see; but there was a Dutchman, wot I was shipmates with in th'Ruddy-mantus, o' London, ascouldturn 'em out! Wire 'earts, 'e made 'em, an' stuffin', an' made up o' round sinnet an' dimon' 'itchin'! Prime! W'y! Look a here! If ye was t' see one ov 'is shackles on th' hend ov a chest—all painted up an' smooth like—ye couldn't 'elp a liftin' ov it, jest t' try th' grip; an' it 'ud come nat'ral t' th' 'and, jes' like a good knife. Them wos shackles as 'e made, an'——"
"Ho, yus! Shackles, wos they? An' them ain't no shackles wot 'm a-finishin' of? No bloomin' fear! Them's garters f'r bally dancers, ain't they? Or nose rings for Sullimans, or ——, or ——. 'Ere!" Hicks threw aside the unfinished shackle and advanced threateningly on his critic.
"'Ere! 'Oo th' 'ell are ye gettin' at, anywye? D'ye siy as I cawn't make as good a shackles as any bloomin' Dutchman wot ever saidyawf'r yes? An' yerRuddy-mantus, o' London? I knows yerRuddy-bloomin-mantus, o' London! Never 'ad a sailorman acrost 'er fo'cas'le door! Men wot knowed their work wouldn't sail in 'er, anyhow, an' w'en she tided out at Gravesen', all th' stiffs out o' th' 'ard-up boardin'-'ouses wos windin' 'er bloomin' keeleg up!Ruddymantus? 'Er wot 'ad a bow like the side o' 'n 'ouse—comin' up th' Mersey Channel a-shovin' th' sea afore 'er, an' makin' 'igh water at Liverpool two hours afore th' Halmanack! That's yerRuddy-mantus! An' wot th' 'ell d'you know 'bout sailorizin', anywye? Yer never wos in a proper ship till ye come 'ere, on a dead 'un's discharge, an' ye couldn't put dimon' 'itchin' on a broom 'andle, if it wos t' get ye a pension!"
Here was a break to our peaceful Sunday afternoon; nothing short of a round or two could set matters fair after such an insult to a man's last ship!
Someone tried to pacify the indignant bo'sun.
"'Ere, bo'sun! Wot's about it if 'e did know a blanky Dutchman wot made shackles? Them o' yourn's good enough. I don't see nuthin' th' matter wi' them!"
"No—no! A-course ye don't, 'cos ye'r like that b——y Granger there, ye knows damn all 'bout sailorizin' anywye! Didn't ye 'ear 'im say as I couldn't make shackles?"
A chorus of denials, a babel of confused explanation.
"A-course 'e did," shouted the maker of shackles. "'E sed as I didn't know 'ow t' work round sennit an' dimon' 'itchin', as I wos never in a proper ship afore, as 'e knowed a bloomin' Dutchman wot could make better shackles nor me; sed as 'ow my shackles worn't fit f'r a grip——"
"'Ere! 'Ere!! bo'sun—I never sed nuthin' ov th' kind!" The unfortunate Granger was bowing to the blast. "Wot I sed wos, 'ow them was good shackles; as fine a shackles as ever I see—an' I wos only tellin' my mates 'ere 'bout a Dutchman wot was in th'Ruddymanthusalong o' me as could make 'em as smooth to the 'and——"
"An' wot's the matter wi' them?" Hicks picked up the discarded shackle and threw it at Granger, striking him smartly on the chest. "Ain't them smooth enough for yer lubberly 'an's, ye long-eared son of a——"
"Fore-tops'l sheet, the watch there!!"
The Mate had seen the slack links and the row in progress at the same moment. The order came in time; strife was averted.
Three sulky pulls at a tackle on the sheets, a tightening of the braces, then: "That'll do, the watch there! Coil down and put away the tackle!" Again the gathering at the fore-hatch. Hicks picked up his work and resumed the twisting of the yarns.
A great knocking out and refilling of pipes.
"'Bout that 'ere Dutchman, Granger? 'Im wot ye wos shipmates with."
Granger glanced covertly at the bo'sun. There was no sign of further hostilities; he was working the yarns with a great show of industry, and was whistling dolefully the while.
"Well, 'e worn't a proper Dutchman, neither," he began pleasantly; "'im bein' married on a white woman in Cardiff, wot 'ad a shop in Bute Road. See? Th' Ole Man o' th'Ruddymanthus, 'e wos a terror on sailorizin'——" Granger paused.
Again a squint at the bo'sun. There was no sign, save that the whistling had ceased, and the lips had taken a scornful turn. "'E wos a terror on sailorizin', an' w'en we left Sydney f'r London, 'e said as 'ow 'e'd give two pun' fer th' best pair o' shackles wot 'is men could make. There worn't many o' us as wor 'ands at shackles, an' there wor only th' Dutchman an' a white man in it—a Cockney 'e wos, name o' Linnet——"
The bo'sun was staring steadily at the speaker, who added hastily, "'an a damn good feller 'e wos, too, one o' th' best I ever wos shipmates with; 'e wos a prime sailorman—there worn't many as could teach 'im anythin'——"
Bo'sun had resumed work, and was again whistling.
"It lay a-tween 'im an' this 'ere Dutchman. All the w'yage they wos at it. They wos in diff'rent watches, an' th' other fellers wos allus a-settin' 'em up. It would be, ''Ere, Dutchy, you min' yer eye. Linnet, 'e's got a new turn o' threads jes' below th' rose knots'; or, 'Look-a-here, Linnet, me son, that Dutchman's puttin' in glossy beads, an' 'e's waxin' 'is ends wi' stuff wot th' stooard giv' 'im.' The watches wos takin' sides. 'Linnet's th' man,' says th' Mate's watch. 'Dutchy, he's th' fine 'and at sailorizin',' says th' starbowlines. Worn't takin' no sides meself"—a side glance at the bo'sun—"me bein' 'andy man along o' th' carpenter, an' workin' all day."
The bo'sun put away his unfinished work, and, lighting his pipe—a sign of satisfaction—drew nearer to the group.
"Off th' Western Islands they finished their jobs," continued Granger (confidently, now that the bo'sun had lit a pipe and was listening as a shipmate ought). "They painted 'em, an' 'ung 'em up t' dry. Fine they looked, dark green, an' th' rose knots all w'ite. Dutchy's shackles wos werry narrer; worn't made f'r a sailorman's 'and at all, but 'e knowed wot e' wos a-doin' of, for th' Ole Man wos one o' them dandy blokes wot sails out o' London; 'an's like a lidye's 'e 'ad, an' w'en they takes their shackles aft, 'e cottons t' Dutchy's at onest. 'Now, them's wot I calls shackles, Johnson, me man,' sez 'e. 'Jest fits me 'and like a glove,' 'e sez, 'oldin' ov 'em up, an' lettin' 'em fall back an' forrard acrost 'is wrist. 'Linnet's is too broad,' 'e sez. 'Good work, hexellint work,' 'e sez, 'but too broad for th' 'ands.' Linnet, 'e sed as 'ow 'e made shackles for sailormen's 'ands; sed 'e didn't 'old wi' Captains 'andlin' their own sea-chests, but it worn't no use—Dutchy got th' two quid, an' th' stooard got cramp ov 'is 'ands hevery time 'e took out th' Ole Man's chest ov a mornin'. An' th' Mate giv' Linnet five bob an' an ole pair o' sea-boots f'r 'is pair, an' cheap they wos, for Linnet, 'e wos a man wot knowed 'is work."
"A Mate's th' best judge ov a sailorman's work, anywye," said the bo'sun pleasantly.
"'Im? 'E wor a good judge, too," said the wily Granger. "'E said as 'ow Linnet's wos out-an-out th' best pair. I knowed they wos, for them Dutchmen ain't so 'andy at double rose knots as a white man!"
"No! Sure they ain't!"
In the dark of the morning a dense fog had closed around us, shutting in our horizon when we had most need of a clear outlook. We had expected to sight the Lizard before dawn to pick up a Falmouth pilot at noon, to be anchored in the Roads by nightfall—we had it all planned out, even to the man who was to stand the first anchor-watch—and now, before the friendly gleam of the Lizard Lights had reached us, was fog—damp, chilling, dispiriting, a pall of white, clammy vapour that no cunning of seamanship could avail against.
Denser it grew, that deep, terrifying wall that shut us off, shipmate from shipmate. Overhead, only the black shadow of the lower sails loomed up; forward, the ship was shrouded ghostly, unreal. Trailing wreaths of vapour passed before and about the side-lamps, throwing back their glare in mockery of the useless rays. All sense of distance was taken from us: familiar deck fittings assumed huge, grotesque proportions; the blurred and shadowy outlines of listening men about the decks seemed magnified and unreal. Sound, too, was distorted by the inconstant sea-fog; a whisper might carry far, a whole-voiced hail be but dimly heard.
Lifting lazily over the long swell, under easy canvas, we sailed, unseeing and unseen. Now and on, the hand fog-trumpet rasped out a signal of our sailing, a faint, half-stifled note to pit against the deep reverberation of a liner's siren that seemed, at every blast, to be drawing nearer and nearer.
The Old Man was on the poop, anxiously peering into the void, though keenest eyes could serve no purpose. Bare-headed, that he might the better hear, he stepped from rail to rail—listening, sniffing, striving, with every other sense acute, to work through the fog-banks that had robbed him of his sight. We were in evil case. A dense fog in Channel, full in the track of shipping—a weak wind for working ship. Small wonder that every whisper, every creak of block or parrel, caused him to jump to the compass—a steering order all but spoken.
"Where d'ye mark that, now?" he cried, as again the liner's siren sounded out.
"Where d'ye mark ... d'ye mark ... mark?" The word was passed forward from mouth to mouth, in voices faint and muffled.
"About four points on th' port bow, Sir!" The cry sounded far and distant, like a hail from a passing ship, though the Mate was but shouting from the bows.
"Aye, aye! Stan' by t' hand that foresheet! Keep the foghorn goin'!"
"... Foresheet ... 'sheet ... th' fog'orn ... goin'!" The invisible choir on the main-deck repeated the orders.
Again the deep bellow from the steamer, now perilously close—the futile rasp of our horn in answer.
Suddenly an alarmed cry: "O Chris'! She's into us! ... The bell, you! The bell! ..." A loud clanging of the forward bell, a united shout from our crew, patter of feet as they run aft, the Mate shouting: "Down hellum, Sir—down hellum, f'r God's sake!"
"Hard down helm! Le' go foresheet!" answered to the Mate's cry, the Old Man himself wrenching desperately at the spokes of the wheel. Sharp ring of a metal sheave, hiss of a running rope, clank and throb of engines, thrashing of sails coming hard to the mast, shouts!
Out of the mist a huge shadowy hull ranges alongside, the wash from her sheering cutwater hissing and spluttering on our broadside.
Three quick, furious blasts of a siren, unintelligible shouts from the steamer's bridge, a churning of propellers; foam; a waft of black smoke—then silence, the white, clammy veil again about us, and only the muffled throb of the liner's reversed engines and the uneasy lurch of our barque, now all aback, to tell of a tragedy averted.
"Oh! The murderin' ruffians! The b——y sojers!" The crisis over, the Old Man was beside himself with rage and indignation. "Full speed through weather like this! Blast ye!" he yelled, hollowing his hands. "What—ship—is—that?"
No answer came out of the fog. The throb of engines died away in a steady rhythm; they would be on their course again, 'slowed down,' perhaps, to twelve knots, now that the nerves of the officer of the watch had been shaken.
Slowly our barque was turned on heel, the yards trimmed to her former course, and we moved on, piercing the clammy barrier that lay between us and a landfall.
"Well, young fellers? Wha' d'ye think o' that now?" Bo'sun was the first of us to regain composure. "Goin' dead slow, worn't 'e? 'Bout fifteen, I sh'd siy! That's the wye wi' them mail-boat fellers: Monday, five 'undred mile; Toosd'y, four-ninety-nine; We'n'sd'y, four-ninety-height 'n 'arf—'slowed on haccount o' fog'—that's wot they puts it in 'er bloomin' log, blarst 'em!"
"Silence, there—main-deck!" The Old Man was pacing across the break of the poop, pausing to listen for sound of moving craft.
Bo'sun Hicks, though silenced, had yet a further lesson for us youngsters, who might one day be handling twenty-knot liners in such a fog. In the ghostly light of fog and breaking day he performed an uncanny pantomime, presenting a liner's officer, resplendent in collar and cuff, strutting, mincing, on a steamer's bridge. (Sailormen walk fore and aft; steamboat men, athwart.)
"Haw!" he seemed to say, though never a word passed his lips. "Haw! Them wind-jammers—ain't got no proper fog'orns. Couldn't 'ear 'em at th' back o' a moskiter-net! An' if we cawn't 'ear 'em, 'ow do we know they're there, haw! So we bumps 'em, an' serve 'em dem well right, haw!"
It was extraordinary! Here was a man who, a few minutes before, might, with all of us, have been struggling for his life!
Dawn broke and lightened the mist about us, but the pall hung thick as ever over the water. At times we could hear the distant note of a steamer's whistle; once we marked a sailing vessel, by sound of her horn, as she worked slowly across our bows, giving the three mournful wails of a running ship. Now and again we cast the lead, and it was something to see the Channel bottom—grains of sand, broken shell-pebbles—brought up on the arming. Fog or no fog, we were, at least, dunting the 'blue pigeon' on English ground, and we felt, as day wore on and the fog thinned and turned to mist and rain, that a landfall was not yet beyond hope.
A change of weather was coming, a change that neither the Old Man nor the Mate liked, to judge by their frequent visits to the barometers. At noon the wind hauled into the sou'-west and freshened, white tops curled out of the mist and broke in a splutter of foam under the quarter, Channel gulls came screaming and circling high o'er our heads—a sure sign of windy weather. A gale was in the making; a rushing westerly gale, to clear the Channel and blow the fog-rack inland.
"I don't like the looks o' this, Mister." The Old Man was growing anxious; we had seen nothing, had heard nothing to make us confident of our reckoning. "That aneroid's dropped a tenth since I tapped it last, an' th' mercurial's like it had no bottom! There's wind behind this, sure; and if we see naught before 'four bells,' I'm goin' out t' look for sea-room. Channel fogs, an' sou'-westers, an' fifteen-knot liners in charge o' b——y lunatics! Gad! there's no room in th' English Channel now for square sail, an' when ye——"
"Sail O! On the port bow, Sir!" Keen, homeward-bound eyes had sighted a smudge on the near horizon.
"Looks like a fisherman," said the Mate, screwing at his glasses. "He's standing out."
"Well, we'll haul up t' him, anyway," answered the Old Man. "Starboard a point—mebbe he can give us the bearin' o' th' Lizard."
Bearing up, we were soon within hailing distance. She was a Cardiff pilot cutter; C.F. and a number, painted black on her mains'l, showed us that. As we drew on she hoisted the red and white of a pilot on station.
"The barque—ahoy! Where—are—'oo—bound?" A cheering hail that brought all hands to the rails, to stare with interest at the oilskin-clad figures of the pilot's crew.
"Falmouth—for orders!"
"Ah!"—a disappointed note—"'oo are standin' too far t' th' west'ard, Capt'in. I saw the Falmouth cutter under th' land, indeed, before the fog came down. Nor'-by-east—that'll fetch 'm!"
"Thank 'ee! How does the Lizard bear?"
"'Bout nor'-nor'-west, nine mile, I sh'd say. Stand in—as—far—as—thirty-five—fathoms—no less!" The pilot's Channel voice carried far.
"Thank Heaven! That's definite, anyway," said the Old Man, turning to wave a hand towards the cutter, now fast merging into the mist astern. "Nor'-nor'-west, nine mile," he said. "That last sight of ours was a long way out. A good job I held by th' lead. Keep 'er as she's goin', Mister; I'll away down an' lay her off on th' chart—nor'-nor'-west, nine mile," he kept repeating as he went below, fearing a momentary forgetfulness.
In streaks and patches the mist was clearing before the westering wind. To seaward we saw our neighbours of the fog setting on their ways. Few were standing out to sea, and that, and the sight of a fleet of fishermen running in to their ports, showed that no ordinary weather lay behind the fast-driving fog-wreaths. North of us heavy masses of vapour, banked by the breeze, showed where the land lay, but no land-mark, no feature of coast or headland, stood clear of the mist to guide us. Cautiously, bringing up to cast the lead at frequent intervals, we stood inshore, and darkness, falling early, found us a-lee of the land with the misty glare of the Lizard lights broad on our beam. Here we 'hove-to' to await a pilot—"Thirty-five fathoms, no less," the Welshman had advised—and the frequent glare of our blue-light signals showed the Old Man's impatience to be on his way again to Falmouth and shelter.
Eight we burnt, guttering to their sockets, before we saw an answering flare, and held away to meet the pilot. A league or so steady running, and then—to the wind again, the lights of a big cutter rising and falling in the sea-way, close a-lee.
"What—ship?" Not Stentor himself could have bettered the speaker's hail.
"TheFlorence, of Glasgow: 'Frisco t' Channel. Have ye got my orders?"
A moment of suspense. Hull, it might be, or the Continent: the answer might set us off to sea again.
"No—not now! (We're right—for Falmouth.) We had 'm a fortnight agone, but they'm called in since. A long passage, surely, Captain?"
"Aye! A hundred an' thirty-two days—not countin' three week at th' Falklan's, under repair. ... Collision with ice in fifty-five, south! ... No proper trades either; an' 'doldrums'! ... A long passage, Pilot!"
"Well, well! You'm be goin' on t' Falmouth, I reckon—stan' by t' put a line in my boat!" A dinghy put off from the cutter; a frail cockle-shell, lurching and diving in the short Channel sea, and soon our pilot was astride the rail, greeting us, as one sure of a welcome.
"You'm jest in time, Capten. It's goin' t' blow, I tell 'ee—(Mainyard forrard, Mister Mate!)—an' a West-countryman's allowance, for sure!" He rubbed his sea-scarred hands together, beamed jovially, as though a 'West-countryman's allowance' were pleasant fare.... "Th' glass started fallin' here about two—(Well—the mainyard!—a bit more o' th' lower tawps'l-brace, Mister!)—two o'clock yesterday afternoon—(How's the compass, Capten? Half a point! Keep 'er nor'-east b' nor', when she comes to it, m' lad!)—an' it's been droppin' steady ever since. Lot o' craft put in for shelter sin'—(Check in th' foreyards now, will 'ee?)—since th' marnin', an' the Carrick Roads 'll be like West India Dock on a wet Friday. A good job the fog's lifted. Gad! we had it thick this marnin'. We boarded a barque off th' Dodman.... Thought he was south o' th' Lizard, he did, an' was steerin' nor'-east t' make Falmouth! A good job we sighted 'im, or he'd a bin—(Well—th' foreyard, Mister!)—hard upon th' Bizzie's Shoal, I reckon."
The look-out reported a light ahead.
"'St. Ant'ny's, Capten," said our pilot. "Will 'ee give 'er th' main to'galns'l, an' we'll be gettin' on?"
High dawn broke on a scene of storm, on the waters of Falmouth Bay, white-lashed and curling, on great ragged storm-clouds racing feather-edged over the downs and wooded slopes that environ the fairest harbour of all England.
To us, so long habited to the lone outlook of sea and sky, the scene held much of interest, and, from the first grey break of morning, our eyes went a-roving over the windy prospect, seeing incident and novelty at every turn. In the great Bay, many ships lay anchored, head to wind, at straining cables. Laden ships with trim spars and rigging, red-rusty of hull, and lifting at every scend to the rough sea, the foul green underbody of long voyaging; tall clippers, clean and freshly painted without, but showing, in disorder of gear and rigging, the mark of the hastily equipped outward bound coasters, steam and sail, plunging and fretting at short anchor or riding to the swell in sheltered creeks; lumbermen, with high deck loads bleached and whitened by wind and salt-spume of a winter passage; drifters and pilot cruisers, sea trawlers, banksmen—a gathering of many craft that the great west wind had turned to seek a shelter.
Riding with the fleet, we lay to double anchor. Overhead the high wind whistled eerily through spar and cordage—a furious blast that now and then caught up a crest of the broken harbour sea and flung the icy spray among us. Frequent squalls came down—rude bursts of wind and driving sleet that set the face of the harbour white-streaked under the lash, and shut out the near land in a shroud of wind-blown spindrift. To seaward, in the clearings, we could see the hurtling outer seas, turned from the sou'-west, shattering in a high column of broken water at the base of St. Anthony's firm headland. We were well out of that, with good Cornish land our bulwark.
Ahead of us lay Falmouth town, dim and misty under the stormy sky. A 'sailor-town,' indeed, for the grey stone houses, clustered in irregular masses, extended far along the water front—on the beach, almost, as though the townsfolk held only to business with tide and tide-load, and had set their houses at high-water mark for greater convenience. In spite of the high wind and rough sea, a fleet of shore boats were setting out toward the anchorage. Needs a master wind, in truth, to keep the Falmouth quay-punts at their moorings when homeward-bound ships lie anchored in the Roads, whose lean, ragged sailormen have money to spend!
Under close-reefed rags of straining canvas, they came at us, lurching heavily in the broken seaway, and casting the spray mast-high from their threshing bows. To most of them our barque was the sailing mark. Shooting up in the wind's eye with a great rattle of blocks andslattof wet canvas, they laid us aboard. There followed a scene of spirited action. A confusion of wildly swaying masts and jarring broadsides—shouts and curses, protest and insult; fending, pushing, sails and rigging entangled in our out-gear. Struggling to a foothold, where any offered on our rusty topsides, the boatmen clambered aboard, and the Captain was quickly surrounded by a clamorous crowd, extending cards and testimonials, and loudly praying for the high honour of 'sarving' the homeward bound.
"Capten! I sarved 'ee when 'ee wos mate o' th'Orion! Do 'ee mind Pengelly—Jan Pengelly, Capten!"—"Boots, Capten? Damme, if them a'nt boots o' my makin', 'ee 're a-wearin' nah!"—"... can dew 'ee cheaper 'n any man on th' Strand, Capten!"—"Trevethick's th' man, Capten! Fort—(th' 'ell 'ee shovin' at?)—Forty year in Falmouth, Capten!"
Old Jock was not to be hurried in his bestowal of custom. From one he took a proffered cigar; from another a box of matches. Lighting up, he seated himself on the skylight settee.
"Aye, aye! Man, but ye're the grand talkers," he said.
The crowd renewed their clamour, making bids and offers one against the other.
"Come down t' th' cabin, one of ye," said the Old Man, leading the way. A purposeful West-countryman, brushing the crowd aside, followed close at heel. The others stood around, discussing the prospect of business.
"Scotch barque, a'n't she?" said one. "Not much to be made o' them Scotch Captens! Eh, Pengelly, 'ee knows? Wot about th' Capten o' th'Newtonend, wot 'ee sarved last autumn?"
The man addressed looked angrily away, the others laughed: a sore point!
"Paid 'ee wi' tawps'l sheets, didn't 'e?" said another. "A fair wind, an' him bound West!Tchutt! 'ee must 'a bin sleepin' sound when th' wind come away, Pengelly, m' son!"
Pengelly swore softly.
"Don't 'ee mind un, Jan, m' boy?" added a third. "Mebbe th' Capten 'll send 'ee 'Spanish notes' when 'e arrives out—Santa Rosalia, worn't it?"
A bustle at the companionway put a stop to the chaff, the purposeful man having come on deck, glum of countenance.
"You'm struck a right 'hard case,' boys," he said. "Twenty per cent ain't in it—an' I'm off. So long!"
One by one the tradesmen had their interview, and returned to deck to talk together, with a half laugh, of Scotch 'Jews' and hard bargains. Hard bargains being better than no business, the contracts were taken up, the crowd dispersed, and we were soon in a position to order our longshore togs and table luxuries—at prices that suggested that someone was warming his boots at our fire.
With Jan Pengelly we bargained for foodstuffs. It was something of a task to get comfortably aboard his 'bumboat,' heaving and tossing as she was in the short sea. In the little cabin, securely battened and tarpaulined against the drenching sprays that swept over the boat, he kept his stock—a stock of everything that a homeward-bounder could possibly require; but his silk scarves and velvet slippers, silver-mounted pipes and sweet tobacco hats, held no attraction for us: it was food we sought—something to satisfy the hunger of five months' voyaging on scant rations—and at that we kept Jan busy, handing out and taking a careful tally of our purchases.
On deck there was little work for us to do. Little could be done, for, as the day wore on to a stormy setting, wind and sea increased, forcing even the hardy boatmen to cast off and run to a sheltered creek at St. Mawes. The icy, biting spray, scattered at every plunge of our ground-fast barque, left no corner of the deck unsearched, and, after a half-hearted attempt to keep us going, the Mate was forced to order 'stand by.' In half-deck and fo'cas'le we gathered round the red-hot bogies, and talked happily of the voyage's end, of the pay-table, of resolves to stop there when we had come ashore.
Then came the night, at anchor-watch. Tramping for a brief hour, two together, sounding, to mark that she did not drive a-lee; listening to the crash of seas, the harping of the rigging, to thethrap, thrapof wind-jarred halliards; struggling to the rigging at times, to put alight an ill-burning riding lamp; watching the town lights glimmer awhile, then vanish as quick succeeding squalls of snow enwrapped the Bay. A brief spell of duty, not ill-passed, that made the warmth of the half-deck and the red glow of the bogie fire more grateful to return to.
As day broke the gale was at its height. Out of a bleak and threatening west the wind blew ominously true—a whole gale, accompanied by a heavy fall of snow. There could be no boat communication with the shore in such a wind, but, as soon as the light allowed, we engaged the Signal Station with a string of flags, and learnt that our orders had not yet come to hand, that they would be communicated by signal, if received during the day.
After we had re-stowed sails and secured such gear and tackle as had blown adrift in the night, 'stand by' was again the order, reluctantly given, and all hands took advantage of the rare circumstance of spare time and a free pump to set our clothes cleanly and in order.
Near noon the Mate spied fluttering wisps of colour rising on the signal yard ashore. Steadying himself in a sheltered corner, he read the hoist: W.Q.H.L.—our number.
"Aft here, you boys, an' hand flags," he shouted. Never was order more willingly obeyed; we wanted to know.
The news went round that our orders had come. With bared arms, dripping of soapsuds, the hands came aft, uncalled, and the Mate was too busy with telescope and signal-book to notice (and rebuke) the general muster of expectant mariners.
As our pennant was run up, the hoist ashore was hauled down, to be replaced by a new. The Mate read out the flags, singly and distinct, and turned to the pages of the signal-book.
"'You—are—ordered—to—proceed—to'—Answering pennant up, lively now; damme, I can't rest you boys a minute, but ye run to seed an' sodgerin'!"
A moment of suspense; to proceed to—where? The Old Man was on deck now, with code-book in hand, open at the 'geographicals.' "'B—D—S—T,'" sang out the Mate. "B.D.S.T.," repeated the Old Man, whetting a thumb and turning the pages rapidly. "B.D.S.T., B.D.S—Sligo! Sligo, where's that, anyway?"
"North of Ireland, sir," said M'Kellar. "Somewhere east of Broadhaven. I wass in there once, mysel'."
"Of course, of course! Sligo, eh? Well, well! I never heard of a square-rigger discharging there—must see about th' charts. Ask them to repeat, Mister, and make sure."
Our query brought the same flags to the yard. B.D.S.T.—Sligo, without a doubt—followed by a message, "Letters will be sent off as soon as weather moderates."
There was a general sense of disappointment when our destination was known; Ireland had never even been suggested as a possible finish to our voyage. Another injustice!
As the afternoon wore on, the wind lessened and hauled into the north. The bleak storm-clouds softened in outline, and broke apart to show us promise of better weather in glimpses of clear blue behind. Quickly, as it had got up, the harbour sea fell away. The white curling crests no longer uprose, to be caught up and scattered afar in blinding spindrift. Wind, their fickle master, had proved them false, and now sought, in blowing from a new airt, to quell the tumult he had bidden rise.
With a prospect of letters—of word from home—we kept an eager look-out for shore-craft putting out, and when our messenger arrived after a long beat, the boat warp was curled into his hand and the side ladder rattled to his feet before he had time to hail the deck. With him came a coasting pilot seeking employ, a voluble Welshman, who did not leave us a minute in ignorance of the fact that "he knew th' coast, indeed, ass well ass he knew Car—narvon!"
Then to our letters. How we read and re-read, and turned them back and forward, scanning even the post-mark for further news!
Early astir, we had the lee anchor at the bows before dawn broke. A bright, clear frosty morning, a cloudless sky of deepest blue, the land around wrapped in a mantle of snow—a scene of tranquillity in sea and sky, in marked contrast to the bitter weather of the day before. At the anchorage all was haste and stirring action. A gentle breeze from the north was blowing—a 'soldier's' wind that set fair to east and west, and the wind-bound ships were hurrying to get their anchors and be off, to make the most of it. A swift pilot cutter, sailing tack and tack through the anchorage, was serving pilots on the outward bound, and as each was boarded in turn, the merryclank-clankof windlass pawls broke out, and the chorus of an anchor chantey woke the echoes of the Bay. Quay punts passed to and fro from ship to shore, lurching, deep-laden with stores, or sailing light to reap the harvest that the west wind had blown them. Among them came Jan Pengelly (anxious that payment 'by tops'l sheets' did not again occur with him), and the Welsh coasting pilot who was to sail with us.
The weather anchor was strong bedded and loth to come home, and it was as the last of the fleet that we hoisted our number and ran out between Pendennis and the Head. The Old Man was in high good humour that he had no towing bills to settle, and walked the poop, rubbing his hands and whistling a doleful encouragement to the chill north wind.
Safely past the dread Manacles, the Falmouth pilot left us. We crowded sail on her, steering free, and dark found us in open channel, leaning to a steady breeze, and the Lizard lights dipping in the wake astern.