“Haesome o’ these beans, Donal’!” urged Joak, piling his old chum’s plate, “they’re good an’ fillin’ an’ I cooked them masel’ Boston fashion. Jist tae think we sh’d meet like this! (Here’s some broon bread.) It’s simply astonishin’! (There’s new-made dough-nuts.) Ah, canny get over it! (There’s apple pie an’ coffee—help yersel’.) Wonders’ll never cease!”
Donald hadn’t gotten over his surprise, and with a mouth full of the food which his chum was pressing upon him, he stared at McGlashan—a big strapping lad of eighteen, with a cook’s white apron around his waist. “How did you get out here, Joak?” he asked eventually.
“I came oot as a cook’s helper in a C.P.R. boat—a new ship what was built on the Clyde,” explained Joak. “Then I went cookin’ on tugs towin’ logs, and I made a trip to the coast o’ Japan an’ th’ Behring Sea on yin o’ they sealers. I’m anxious to get hame noo, so I took this job. An’ you, Donal’, hoo did you come tae hit th’ West Coast?”
Captain Nickerson and Thompson dropped down for breakfast. “Sailors meet oldtillicumsin all sorts of odd places,” remarked the former, when he heard of McKenzie and McGlashan. “It’s not surprising. I met my brother Asa aboard a barque in Antwerp one time. I was ’fore-the-mast and he was second mate, and I was kinder slow gettin’ along to man the windlass and he hustledme. When I looked around, it was brother Asa. ‘Where’n hell did you spring from, Jud?’ he says. I told him I had just shipped so’s to git home. ‘Waal,’ says he, ‘I’m headin’ for home also, but don’t you forget I’m second mate o’ this hooker. So slide along an’ put some beef on them windlass brakes or I’ll make you wish you’d never seen me!’” He chuckled over the recollection.
While eating breakfast, Donald had a chance to size up theHelen Starbuck’scompany. In addition to McGlashan, who had shipped as cook, there were two able Scandinavians—Axel Hansen and Einar Olsen—quiet young fellows about thirty years of age with the heavy build of their breed—good muscle and beef for a tussle with wind and canvas. With six hands and the Captain, theHelen Starbuckwas well manned.
Jenkins had some fear of Nickerson, and the latter perceived it. “Don’t look as ef I was goin’ to eat you, boy,” he said with a laugh. “I’m no bucko! I cal’late you’re thinkin’ o’ th’Kelvinhaugh, eh? Waal, son, I had to be a taut hand there. She was short-handed and a lime-juicer. The hands were a scrap lot, and ef I didn’t run them an’ keep them up to the mark, they’d have run me. I had to drive the crew to drive the ship. Slack-up with those scum, and they’d lay-back an’ take it easy. A little touch of down-east fashion is great med’cine for putting ginger into a hard-bitten crowd an’ keepin’ ’em spry. But we don’t need that here. It sh’d be a reg’lar yachtin’ trip ef we all pull together.” And he smiled in a manner which reassured the anxious “Chubby.”
Breakfast over, they tumbled up on deck and hoisted the big mainsail. It was quite a heavy pull, but they all tallied on to a halliard at a time and got peak and throat up by stages. “Naow, boys,” said the skipper. “You square-rig men’ll have to get on to fore’n aft sail. The mains’l is h’isted by peak an’ throat halliards as far as they’ll go, then ye’ll take up the slack an’ sweat up by these two jig-tackles which are made fast to the other end of the halliards. The throat-jig and the peak-jig are on opposite sides the deck and are made fast by the rigging. There’sjigs on the fores’l and on the forestays’l and sometimes on the jib. This schooner carries mains’l, fores’l, forestays’l or jumbo, as we sometimes call it, and jib. These are known as the four lowers. Then for light sails, we carry a main and fore-gaff-tops’l, and a stays’l which sets between the masts. On the fore, we kin set a balloon jib, an’ for running in a long steady breeze like the Trades, we have a square-sail setting on a yard which we kin h’ist up the forem’st. Naow, ye have it all. Ship yer windlass brakes an’ heave short the anchor!”
With a pleasant westerly breeze they got outside of Victoria harbor under four lowers and into the Straits of San Juan de Fuca. Here they set the watches for the voyage—Captain Nickerson, Axel Hansen and Donald in the starboard; Jack Thompson, Einar Olsen and Chubby Jenkins in the port. McGlashan, as cook, stood no watch, but was expected to give a hand whenever called upon.
TheHelen Starbuckwas a Nova Scotia built, clipper-bowed schooner of 95 tons and about 100 feet overall by 23 feet beam. She was originally built for the Grand Bank fisheries, and was of the model known as “tooth-pick”—so-called from her clipper bow and long pole bowsprit. With a hardwood hull, plentifully strengthened by hanging knees between deck-beams and ribs, and fine lines with a deep skeg aft, she was of a type of craft which could sail fast and stand the hardest kind of weather. For sealing, her bottom to the water-line was sheathed with copper—preventive of marine growths and toredo borings in tropical waters. The forecastle was located under the main-deck and ran right up into the bows. The galley was situated in the afterpart of the fore-castle, and the rest of the apartment was lined, port and starboard, with two tiers of bunks which ran right up into the peak. A table was fixed between the fore-mast and the windlass pawl-post, and lockers ran around the lower-bunks and were used as seats. The after part of the fo’c’sle was fitted with numerous cupboards and shelves for the storage of supplies, and in handy proximity to the cooking range there was a built-in table and a sink.
Under the fo’c’sle floor an iron water-tank capable of carrying 1,200 gallons was fitted, and fresh water could be procured at the sink by means of a hand-pump. Entrance to this sea-parlor was obtained through a companion way and a ladder leading down from the deck. Light came from a small skylight above the galley and by deck-lights.
Amidships, and in what would be the fish hold of a fishing schooner, there was a room fitted with bunks and known as the steerage. In sealing, the hunters would berth in this place. Directly aft, the cabin was located between the main-mast and the wheel. It was a small apartment containing four double bunks—two on each side—with lockers all around. A table took up the forward bulk-head, and a small heating stove stood in the centre of the apartment. Upon the bulk-head for’ard hung a clock and a barometer, and a small shelf contained books of Sailing Directions, Coast Pilots and other nautical literature. As the cabin floor was only four feet below the main-deck, full head-room was given by means of a cabin trunk or house which rose about two and a half feet above the deck. A companion on the after-part of the house gave entrance into the cabin.
The wheel was of iron and operated a patent screw-gear which turned the rudder post. The compass was in a wooden binnacle placed on the starboard side of the cabin roof, where it could be readily seen by the steersman who usually steered on the starboard side of the wheel. The schooner steered like a yacht, and a spoke or two of the wheel swung her either way almost instantly.
The mainsail was a big stretch of canvas and carried a main-boom sixty-five feet long. The main-mast was eighty feet from deck to mast-head, and the topmast thrust itself another forty feet higher. The fore-mast with topmast was some ten feet shorter, and the foresail was a long narrow sail with a 25-foot boom. Amidships, the schooner carried two carver-built boats, lashed bottom-up to deck ring-bolts, the other boats usually carried by a sealer having been disposed of.
This then briefly describes the little craft which theseseven adventurers planned to sail down and up the combined length of two oceans—from the North Pacific to the North Atlantic—a run of from thirteen to fourteen thousand miles. “I’m out to do it in less than a hundred days,” said Captain Nickerson grimly, “an’ barring accidents, we’ll do it!”
They worked down the Straits of San Juan de Fuca in the teeth of a light westerly, and Donald was charmed at the manner in which the schooner sailed and tacked. “Not like theKelvinhaugh, sir,” he remarked to the skipper. “And how easy she steers! A touch of the spokes swings her.” “You’re right there, son,” said the other. “Let me tell you that you’re aboard one of the finest kind o’ craft whittled out o’ wood. You’re not in a steel barge this time. This packet will lay up to less’n four points of the wind an’ sail; theKelvinhaughwould never steer closer’n seven. And when we strike some weather and wind you’ll find a difference too. No sloshing decks on this hooker onless she trips up.”
When Cape Flattery blinked a fare-well to them that night, Captain Nickerson set the course for a Great Circle swing to Cape Horn. “I’m goin’ to shoot her right daown and I reckon we won’t haul up anywhere this side of Cape Stiff,” he remarked to Donald and Thompson that evening. “Are you going to try the Straits of Magellan, sir?” asked Donald. The skipper shook his head. “I have thought it over, but as I’ve never been through them, and seein’ as it’s a reg’lar hell-hole of narrow channels an’ currents an’ chock-full o’ willy-waws an’ squalls, I cal’late we’re safer in open water. We’ll runHelenaround the Horn an’ we’ll stop in at Monte Video for fresh meat, water and a run ashore. Naow, boys, we’ll hang out the patch an’ let her go!” And with the balloon-jib and stays’l hoisted and sheets aft, theHelen Starbuckswung away on the old deep-waterman’s track for the Line and Cape Horn.
They took their departure from Cape Flattery, and Donald streamed the patent taff-rail log. The schooner was snoring ahead to a brisk westerly, and rising and falling gently over a long rolling sea with but a slight heelto port. Axel Hansen had the wheel and Donald stood by the windlass for’ard keeping a look-out and giving an occasional glance at the side-lights in the fore-rigging. The night was spangled with stars and the bow-wave sang a low grumbling note which was conducive to sleep, but McKenzie had been too well trained aboard theKelvinhaughto nod on watch, so he leaned over a windlass bitt and held communion with his thoughts.
He was genuinely happy now, and something of real appreciation and love for the sea was beginning to awaken in his heart. In theKelvinhaughhe never got a chance to become enamoured of sea-faring. His first hour aboard that ship in the Glasgow dock was the beginning of the disillusionment which finished at Royal Roads. The bullying, rough treatment, hard work and poor food on the barque had stifled the romantic spirit which had sent him aroving, but on this schooner, with good fare, warm comfortable quarters and chummy ship-mates, everything was different. Captain Nickerson—whom he had regarded with feelings akin to terror on the barque—seemed to have changed utterly. No longer did the Nova Scotian rip out strident commands punctuated with bitter oaths, nor did he maintain the Olympian aloofness of other days. The chummy, even-tempered, good-humored Canadian in command of theHelen Starbuckseemed to have no connection with the truculent, swearing, heavy-handed “bucko” mate of the lumberingKelvinhaugh.
It was a grateful change all ’round. The bitterness and misery of other days was but a reflection of the nature of theKelvinhaugh’sowner. David McKenzie’s harsh and vindictive soul was re-incarnated in his ship. She, like him, was ugly in form and character; her crew were the sweepings of the port—ill-fed, over-worked and driven like dogs to do the work which was required of them; her master was a “wrong ’un”—a tool of the owner and half-incompetent. Hinkel—another incompetent and another “wrong ’un”—helped to complete the sordid combination into which young McKenzie was thrust ... to be “polished off.” What was his uncle’s object?
Donald did not know a great deal about his Uncle David. His father had seldom mentioned his name, and his mother knew nothing of her husband’s brother save what little that Alec had told her, and her impressions from two interviews—both unpleasant. He did know that David McKenzie was a rich man and had interests in many ships. He knew also that he had married late in life and that he had one child. (Donald wondered if his manner to his wife and child was as coarse and as cruel as his treatment of Alec’s wife and boy.)
Thinking of his relative led him to his father’s uncle, Sir Alastair McKenzie. Was he involved in this peculiar business? Was there any way in which Donald might interfere with a succession to the McKenzie title and estate? He pondered over this conjecture, but was forced to dismiss it as improbable. Sir Alastair had a son, and the McKenzie heritage was nothing to covet. The estate was mortgaged to the hilt and Sir Alastair was nothing more than a plain Scotch farmer. If Sir Alastair and his son died, the title would go to David McKenzie. Therefore, Donald reasoned, this motive must be eliminated. It was a mystifying business, and the ship-owner’s desire to get rid of his nephew must be put down to sheer hatred or to a motive unknown.
“I’m away clear of the beast now, so why should I worry my head about him?” said the boy to himself. “I’ll make this trip with Nickerson and follow his fortunes in Nova Scotia, and as soon as I get money enough I’ll send for mother and bring her to Canada.” He squinted around at the side-lights, and seeing nothing in the shape of a vessel ahead, went aft to relieve Hansen at the wheel.
With no untoward incident to mar their passage, theHelen Starbuckromped down the parallels and swung into “the heel of the North East Trade.” Boomed out, and with square fores’l set, the schooner made brave sailing in the grip of the steady Trade wind and the patent log recorded twelve knot speeds hour after hour. These were glorious days under azure skies flecked only by the fleecy Trade clouds and brilliant with warm sunshine, and steering theable schooner in such weather was a period of rare delight to a lover of the sea and sail. Under the drive of the unvarying breeze, the deep blue of the sea rolled to the horizons in regular corrugations—their crests a broil of foam which flashed in the sun. Running before the wind, theHelen Starbuckstormed over the watery undulations with a roaring welter of foam under her sharp fore-foot, and the wake of her passage seethed like champagne and streamed astern—a path of foam-lacings defined for miles in which the log-rotator spun up the knots and the gulls dived for illusive food.
Lazy days, truly! When the crew, bare-footed and clad only in shirt and trousers, steered or worked in the sun. When the Skipper, similarly attired, smoked and paced the quarter, hour after hour, or lounged on the cabin house reading old papers and magazines—breaking off only to take morning and afternoon sights for longitude, with Thompson or Donald jotting down the chronometer time, and the noon observation for latitude. On clear nights, he invariably amused himself taking star sights and working them up. Navigation was a hobby with Nickerson, and during the run down the Trades, he initiated Donald into its mysteries until he was able to work out the ship’s position accurately. Many a night the skipper would stop in his deck pacing and say to McKenzie, “Skip below, son, an’ bring up my sextant. We’ll take a star.” And when the workings of the celestial triangulation were explained, he would hand the sextant over to Donald and ask him to take a sight and work it out alone. These diversions, with a trick at the wheel, a spell on look-out, and some scraping, painting and “sailorizing” during the day, helped to make the watches pass pleasantly.
There was no loafing on theHelen Starbuck. Loafing breeds discontent, and Nickerson found enough work to keep the hands busy apart from steering and sail-trimming. The vessel was painted from stem to stern, inside and out, and when nothing more in the painting line appeared to be done, the Skipper had all the bitts, sky-lights, companions, fife-rails and ladders—previously painted—scraped, sand-and-canvased, and varnished. Every scrap of brass-work on the schooner was polished bright; anchors and cable chipped and painted, and then a complete overhaul of the rigging was started.
Though Donald had picked up a good deal of sailorizing aboard theKelvinhaugh, yet it was on theHelen Starbuckwhere he really completed his knowledge of knotting and splicing, worming, parcelling and serving. On the barque, iron turn-screws took the place of the lanyards and dead-eyes which the schooner used to set up her rigging; iron rods were seized to the shrouds in place of rope rattlins, and wire rope and iron blocks were used wherever possible. On theHelen Starbuck, with the exception of the stays and shrouds, it was honest hemp and manilla—grand stuff for a sailor’s hands, and under the tutelage of the Norwegian seamen, Donald learnt all the fine points of “marline-spike seamanship,” in setting up rigging, stropping blocks, hitching and seizing rattlins, turning in dead-eyes, making chafing-mats and sennet, and the hundred and one accomplishments of fingers, fid, marline-spike, and serving mallet. Sailorizing was fine work for a “Trade” day when one could sit in the sun “passing the ball” in a serving job, or sit, perched aloft, seizing new rattlins, or overhauling some of the gear in the cross-trees. Engaged in such pleasant tasks, Donald would feel a returning wave of the romantic sea-fever which had caused him to choose a sailor’s life. Under the better auspices of his present existence, he began to love his chosen profession, but it was only on this small schooner that he really understood and appreciated the lure of the sea and sail. Sea-faring on theKelvinhaughhad been a nightmare.
Young McKenzie’s eight months from home had worked a wonderful change in him, both mentally and physically. The hard grind on theKelvinhaughhad toughened his muscles and steadied his nerves, while the discipline had mentally improved him by making him a “do-er” rather than a “dreamer.” With the contented mind, better food and better quarters on the schooner, he had put on flesh and filled out. There was a healthy tan in his cheeks, andhis dark brown eyes sparkled with vitality and keen intelligence. The Skipper noticed the change and remarked: “By Godfrey, son, you’re starting to beef up! Your mammy’ll never know you now for the skinny, pasty-faced kid that left her apron strings in auld ‘Glesca’ a while ago. Well, boy, ye’re getting stout and strong—see’n don’t lose it by drinkin’ an’ muckin’ about in shore dives, for many a good sailor has bin dumped to the fish rotten with drink and the diseases of vice.” He paused and gave Donald a keen glance. “Are you religious, son?”
The boy returned his gaze. “I’m not a crank on it, sir, but I read my Bible on Sundays and say my prayers at night,” he replied.
The Captain nodded. “Good,” he said. “Carry on with that an’ you won’t go wrong. It’s when a lad gets adrift from his mother’s teachings and kinder loose about religion that he trips up. Of course, there are times when a man can’t be too much of a devil-dodger or a Holy Joe—such as when you have to drive a deep-laden ship with a poor, spineless bunch o’ hands an’ feet. They won’t do anything by preachin’ to ’em or askin’ ’em politely. No, siree! You have to bang ’em some an’ haze ’em and curse ’em to get the work done. That’s what I had to do on theKelvinhaugh, but don’t imagine that I’m a heathen or anything like that. I was well brought up, and read my Bible and went to church and all that, and I still believe in God and the Ten Commandments, though I don’t put much stock on the rest of the frills. Religion for a sailor should be simple and free from the gadgets of ritual and all that sort of truck. And this hell-fire bunk! Who believes that? Aye, as sailors say—‘To work hard, live hard, die hard an’ go to hell after all would be hard indeed!’”
Nickerson often talked in this strain—especially in the quiet night watches, and as this calmer side of the young Nova Scotian’s character revealed itself, Donald began to regard the man with affection mixed with admiration for his capable two-fisted manhood and iron nerve. Judson Nickerson was the type of Nova Scotian who built ships and sailed them: whose seamanship was renowned amongsailormen the world over, and whose ships were to be found all over the seven seas in the palmy days of wooden hulls—the days of “wooden ships and iron men.”
He regaled Donald with tales of the Grand Bank fishermen: their seamanship: their wonderful schooners, and the freedom and camaraderie of their life. “And these fellows make money, too,” he explained. “Skipper of a Bank schooner can make a sight more money in a year than most of your brass-bound liner masters. And they live well—best o’ grub and the best o’ cooks. None of yer hard biscuit, bull-meat an’ salt junk aboard those hookers. All of them have comfortable homes ashore with a bit of land which they farm a little ... snug an’ comfortable. I know the game on the Banks, son, for I first went seafaring on a fisherman and put in three years at the life off and on, and believe me, when we reach home this time I’m agoin’ back to it. No more of this knockin’ about the world for me, shovin’ lime-juice windjammers south an’ north-about. I’ve had my spell at it, and now I’m goin’ home to God’s country. And, son, ef you’re wise, you’ll keep under my lee and get in on my game!”
Fishing for cod on the Grand Banks of the North Atlantic did not appeal much to Donald. To him, it seemed a poor life, and he had the notion that fishermen were wretched creatures who lived in a state of semi-poverty and who toiled, year in and year out, barely making a living. Fishing seemed a messy business—an uncouth trade among uncouth men. With his ideals and education, how was he going to fit into that life? Captain Nickerson’s anecdotes of the Nova Scotia fishermen failed to awaken in him a fair idea of their type, their work, and their industry. He listened to the yarns, however, and endeavoured to appreciate them in proper perspective, but when one is absolutely ignorant of fishing and unacquainted with colonial life, a lack of understanding can be forgiven. Donald often wondered why Nickerson—splendid seaman and skilled navigator and holding a Liverpool certificate of competency as master foreign—should be anxious to return to the existence and labor of adeep-sea fisherman. A man of Nickerson’s ability would, in time, rise to command a liner. He was well educated, though in his conversation he slipped into vernacular and ungrammatical phrases, and he had studied and delved deep into the profound sciences of nautical astronomy, oceanography and the errors and attractions of the compass. The man had read a great deal of thoughtful literature, and surprised Donald on numerous occasions with his intimate acquaintance of such subjects as political economics, histories of ancient civilizations, shipbuilding, sea trade and sea power in vogue in many countries. Truly, he was a strange character, and Judson Nickerson, mate of theKelvinhaughand Captain Nickerson of theHelen Starbuckseemed to be a typical Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of the sea.
He talked a great deal with young McKenzie—possibly because the youngster was better read and more thoughtful than the others of theStarbuck’scompany, and one night, when Donald was on the look-out, he sat on the cable-box and told how he had met the boy’s father.
“Ye know, son, I didn’t know you were Alec McKenzie’s boy until that night after you rove the main truck flag halliard when you told me your story. I told you a while back that I knew your dad, and that he did me a good turn. He was skipper of theAnsoniaat the time, and I came out to New York in her as quartermaster. I got ashore in the Big Burg and went out on a drunk, and returned to the ship just before sailing day with only what I stood up in—having sold my shore-clothes and overcoat for rum. When I got aboard there was a letter awaiting me from my father saying that mother was very ill and for me to come home at once. I hadn’t a cent, but when I went to the skipper—your father—and told him the circumstances, he gave me a hell of a raking over and loaned me fifty dollars to get home.... I’m ashamed to admit, Donald, that I never paid it back. I was pretty wild in those days.... I always intended to pay him the money, but I never had it. Fifty dollars was a mate’s monthly wages in those days an’ not easilypicked up. However, I’ll square it up with you when we get to Halifax, for it’s always bin on my mind. It was darn decent of him to do what he did for a blame’ quarter-master, but Alec McKenzie was famous for his open-handedness. So that’s how I came to be under obligations to your daddy.” He chatted for a little while and went aft—leaving Donald with yet another incident of the strange manner in which sailormen from the ends of the earth get acquainted with each other.
The North-east Trades flickered out in fitful breezes and thunderstorms, and they ran out of the pleasant “flying-fish weather” into the calms and the cats-paws of the “Doldrums.” In the light airs theHelen Starbuckseemed to ghost along as though she had an engine in her, and Captain Nickerson saw to it that all sail was trimmed to take advantage of every puff. They sighted several square-riggers lying becalmed and Thompson chuckled when he saw them swinging their yards to the flickering zephyrs. “Look at that pound an’ pint limey off to starb’d,” he would say. “Aren’t you thankful you’re not aboard that blighter now? There’s a puff! It’ll be ‘Lee-fore-brace, you hounds!’ There they go wind-milling. Jupiter! who would want to go to sea in one of them after being in a fore-and-after like this?”
One morning they drifted close to a big full-rigged ship with painted ports, bound south. She was thePhaleropeof Liverpool from San Francisco with grain to Falmouth for orders, and her master hailed the schooner.
“What ship? Where bound?”
“Helen Starbuck—Victoria to Halifax, Nova Scotia!” bawled Captain Nickerson.
“Come aboard an’ have a yarn, captain!” came the invitation.
Nickerson grinned. “Sorry—can’t stop!” he hailed. “I’ll report you in Monte Video. So long!”
They glided past the towering ship, and Thompson yelled to the men peering over the for’ard rail. “What’s the matter—anchor down?”
“G’wan you sliver!” returned a voice. “’Ow did you git aht ’ere? Wos you blowed off?”
“Run along you an’ get your weather braces off the pins!” shouted theStarbuck’s. “You’re due for another slew around if your mate’s awake!”
They had no sooner shouted this jeering advice before a bellow from the ship’s poop echoed along her decks. “Round in your weather braces!” At which the schooner’s crew laughed noisily. TheHelen Starbuckglided ahead with Donald jocularly coiling up the main-sheet and heaving it over the taff-rail—suggestive of a tow.
From the blistering heat of the Line they slid into the “Variables” and picked up the dying breath of the Southeast Trade winds. For two days they trimmed sheets to the ever-increasing puffs—each watch betting with the other as to who would have the log spinning for at least an hour of steady going—and it was “Lucky” McKenzie who picked the wind up and won the tobacco. It came after a heavy rain-storm in the middle-watch, and he was standing naked at the wheel enjoying a wash and a cooling-off at the same time. When the rain died away the sails flapped to a cool southerly breeze. The skipper was below, but when he heard Donald singing out to Hansen to “sheet in jib and fores’l” he came up on deck and assisted in bringing the main boom aboard. Light at first, the breeze stiffened until the schooner was snoring along with a flash of hissing foam streaming aft, and Donald was shivering at the wheel. “That’s right, son,” said the captain, jocularly. “You jest coax her along as you are. Anytime we want to raise wind you’ll shed your duds.” And for an hour he kept Donald steering in his nakedness.
With the steady Trade shoving them along on the starboard tack they crossed the latitude of 25° south, and one morning at dawn Donald came on deck to find the skipper gazing through his binoculars at a black spot abreast of the rising sun-glow. “What is that, sir? A ship?”
The captain handed the glasses over. “That’s Easter Island, son! Have a squint, for it’s the last land you’ll see between here an’ Cape Horn!”
JoakMcGlashan’s troubles started when theStarbuckcrossed 45° south. The pleasant zephyrs of the Trades were a memory of the past; the gentle undulations of the fine weather latitudes which hove the schooner gently along their swelling bosoms gave place to long rollers, which had the vessel sliding down their declivities and almost standing on her bowsprit, and then climbing up a watery hill with her long toothpick looking for the Southern Cross.
Joak had to work around his stove during this ocean fandango; he had to cook and prepare meals with his galley floor sliding and sloping under him at angles which called for gimballed joints and adhesive feet. When they swung into the “Roaring Forties” the skipper had given Joak a warning of what was to come. “Mouse your pots an’ kettles, cook, theStarbuck’sbound to the east’ard!” he said with a grin. “See all yer cut glass an’ silver well stowed, chocked up, tommed off, an’ shored, for she’ll do some queer prancing from now on!”
“Aye, captain,” returned Joak ruefully. “She’s beginnin’ tae jump aboot, but let me tell ye, ef ye want guid bread ye’ll hae tae rin her steadier fur I canna get ma dough tae rise wi’ th’ shup jugglin’ about like a jumpin’-jack!” And with this dire remark he grabbed at a sliding pot and chocked it off on top of the stove with a rolling rod.
The fiddles were shipped on the fo’c’sle table, and a minimum of dishes were placed upon it at a time. The men ate with their mugs of tea or coffee in their hands, and with a protective arm around their plates, forHelenwas beginning to dance. On deck, everything was double-lashed for heavy weather; the foretopmast had been sent down, and the balloon jib and foretopsail rolled up and stowed away in the sail locker. Under winter rig of four lowers the schooner was swinging into the long rollers of the “Forties” and getting ready for her “easting.”
The cold weather came upon them quickly, and Donald donned his winter clothes and saw to boots, mittens, socks, and oil-skins. Though it was supposed to be summer time down south, yet it was bitterly cold and the only tangible evidence of the season was the long daylight—the duration of darkness being but four hours, as the sun was south of the Line. The blue color of the middle-latitude seas had changed to a chill grey-green, and as they made their southing the wind hauled more westerly and blew hard with a vigor and intensity which reminded Donald of other days in this part of the world. At times they glimpsed on the far horizon great islands of dazzling white—outriders of the Antarctic ice, lofty, immense in area, and dangerous in calms and thick weather.
With the single-reefed mainsail boomed over the quarter, whole fores’l, jumbo and jib, theHelen Starbuckcommenced to show her heels in the windy latitudes south of fifty. Twelve knots, thirteen knots, fourteen knots were common hourly readings in the gusts, and Nickerson would grunt with satisfaction when he picked off noon to noon runs of three hundred sea miles. Rare travelling, surely! And he would pace the weather alley glancing at sail and sheet to scent a job for the watch in jigging-up slack canvas or yanking a boom inboard. Occasional snow flurries came down the wind and it was bitter on deck o’ nights, but there was always a warm bunk in a warm cabin or fo’c’sle to turn into; good eatable grub at meal times, and a “mug up” of hot coffee ora bite of soft bread or pie for a man to warm his blood with during, or after, a chilly watch.
Then came the day, when, steering east by south, they started to “run their easting down.” They were south of Cape Piller and had got into the swing of the tremendous sea which sweeps around the world in that latitude. The western wind blew hard and strong and Nickerson had the mainsail stowed, the big main boom in the crotch well secured by the crotch-tackles, chain guys and topping-lift, the jib furled and triced up on the fore-stay to keep it from freezing on to the bowsprit, and the jumbo was in the stops.
Under the whole foresail and the squaresail, they were running her before it—a job for nervy men—and the great rollers of the Southern Ocean were piling up in vast battalions, crowned with acres of seething, roaring foam, and almost half a mile from crest to crest. In these mighty undulations, theHelen Starbuckwas storming along with the wind whistling in her rigging and a bawling welter of white water sheering away from her sharp bows.
Joak, imprisoned in the fo’c’sle, was endeavouring to cook under conditions which rendered culinary work a herculean task. It was one hand for himself and one for the ship, and he hung between sink and stove doing his best and feeling half sick with the heat of his battened-down fo’c’sle, and the violent swoops and leaps of the ship. Aft in the cabin the watch below slept in the spare bunks so as to be handy for a sudden call. Two men steered, lashed to the wheel-box, and Nickerson stood, muffled to the eyes, in oil-skins and sea-boots, on top of the cabin house with an arm thrust through a stop of the furled mainsail. He was constantly on deck watching ship and sea, looking out for ice, and, ever and anon, grunting advice to the wheelsmen. Steering a running ship in such a sea called for vigilance and skill. Once let her broach-to amid those Cape Horn grey-beards, and she would be gone—rolled over and smashed into kindling in the twinkling of an eye.
Up, up, up, the slopes of these frightful hills of brine she would climb—poise for a moment amidst the roaring white water of the crests with her keel showing clear to the foremast—and then, with a wild swoop, her bows would drive down the fore-front of the comber into the trough with the creaming surge-tops growling, roaring and curling above and behind her. Many times they piled up astern—walls of grey-green water full thirty feet above their heads—and when almost under their toppling crests, the brave little vessel would leap forward and the giant comber would plunge over and break on each quarter in a thundering broil of foam which drowned all other sounds.
The two Norwegians and Donald were the only hands who would steer the schooner running in this sea. Thompson and Jenkins refused to tackle the wheel, and Nickerson would not insist. Good steersmen are born, not made, and only men who had an instinctive knowledge of a vessel’s ways, who could forecast what she would do a few seconds after, were able to twirl the spokes to correct that little swing which might lead to broaching and disaster. Most seamen can steer a good trick by compass or by the wind in a moderate breeze, but it takes a master-helmsman to steer running before a gale and a giant sea. The Norwegians inherited their steersmanship through centuries of Viking ancestry; McKenzie, through quick wit, sensitiveness and steady nerve.
The wonderful seaworthiness of the schooner was fully apparent during that storming to the east’ard. She was as buoyant as a cork and no heavy water struck her decks. Sprays would slop in over the waist or over the bows when she over-ran a sea, but the quarters were dry and never a dollop came over the taff-rail. “Ef ye were in theKelvinhaughnaow,” remarked the skipper, “I’d hate to think o’ what she’d be doing. I cal’late she’d be pooped in this a dozen times in a watch and her main deck ’ud be full to the rail with them greybeards overtaking her.”
They wolfed their food in the fo’c’sle, mug and food in hand, and they had to watch their chance to jump below without bringing an unwelcome sea down the half-opened hatch. Joak did his best to cook something, but after many disasters, he confined his efforts to tea and coffee, biscuits and soup, and the others did not grumble but praised him for his efforts.
“This ain’t nawthin’,” remarked the skipper with a grin. “I’ve seen it ten times worse’n this daown here. I recollect once bein’ two weeks in the hollow o’ one sea an’ when we came up on the crest of it we c’d look daown the chimneys in China, by Godfrey!”
It was dangerous going, and the skipper fully appreciated it. He was anxious, and when the black squalls of rain and sleet came driving down upon them, he watched the straining sails and spars with eyes of concern. It was now that the sailorizing of the Trade latitudes would be put to the test. A drawn splice, a slip-shod mousing, a stranded rope or a broken shackle ... and disaster might follow swiftly. He spent his time between his cabin-roof look-out and the vicinity of the foremast scanning the over-taxed gear. When the squalls came driving down, he was doubly concerned.
West of the Ramirez in the grey dawn, the gale stiffened into a wind which her sail could not stand. A violent gust carried the squaresail away and it flew down the wind like a snowflake. The schooner was trembling under the weight of the whole foresail and the mast threatened to go by the board. Nickerson called all hands, cook as well, and said: “We’ve got to reef that fores’l and reef it running as we can’t come to the wind in this sea. Donald will take the wheel, and the rest of us will tackle the sail.” And to Donald he said in words pregnant with meaning, “Son, you want to steer as you never steered before. Watch her like a hawk and give her jest th’ least little shake so’s we kin git that fores’l daown a bit ... and don’t let her lose way or come up!”
Donald took the spokes and the others went for’ard along the swaying, sloshing decks. A terrible sea wasrunning and the air was white with driving sleet, while the wind screamed in the shrouds and plastered the naked main-mast with wet snow.
The six men for’ard cast off the halliards and four had hold of the gaff-downhaul. “Shake her a mite, son!” roared Nickerson in the teeth of the wind. Donald glanced astern at the sea, then eased the wheel down gently—watching the sail anxiously and murmuring a heartfelt prayer. The schooner tore along, yawing and plunging, but she started to come up with the turn of her rudder and Donald met her with unerring instinct. The vessel swung around in the trough, the sail commenced to flutter, and the men hauled the gaff down with lurid deep-water oaths and yells of encouragement. “Swing her off! Swing her off!” bawled Nickerson, fearfully eyeing a big greybeard which was racing down on them, but McKenzie had acted ere he sung out.
With the fore-gaff held fast by the down-haul, and the reef cringle on the leach sweated down to the boom by a tackle, the sail bellied out like a balloon in the squalls, and as the schooner raced off before the wind again the six men and boys started to get the tack of the sail down to the goose-neck of the fore-boom. They tugged and hauled with numb fingers, but the sail was iron-hard and full and refused to “light up.” “It ’ud take a whole fishing gang o’ twenty men to reef that fores’l naow!” panted the skipper. “We’ll hev to shoot her up again to git that tack-earring passed.” He clawed his way aft to the wheel.
“Ye’ll hev to shake her again, son,” he shouted. “Be damned careful, naow, an’ don’t let her lose way or git tripped up.”
Watching his chance, Donald eased the helm down and yelled, “Now!” The sail flapped and jerked at the restraining sheet and down-haul while Nickerson and the gang hove down the tack-cringle with tugs and oaths. The schooner was sidling along in a momentary lull in the squalls with way upon her, when Donald saw the shadow of a big sea before him. He flashed a look astern;saw it piling up with a crest of foam, roaring and seething, and he screamed, “Look out, ahead!” and clawed the helm up as it thundered over the taff-rail and engulfed him in tons of chilly brine.
The water tore at his lashing and he hung to the wheel with his arms thrust through the spokes. While under water he instinctively shouldered the wheel up a bit to prevent a gybe; there was a roaring as of Niagara in his ears; red lights danced before his eyes; his lungs filled to bursting, while his strained muscles pained fearfully. Then his eyes glimpsed the daylight, and he straightened up off the wheel-box with a dull pain in his left side, while the gallant little vessel lifted ahead and rolled the water off her decks over both rails.
“All right, nipper?” came a voice from for’ard.
“Aye, all right!” he gasped faintly, steadying the schooner in a violent yaw. Dazed and panting for breath, he stood hanging on to the spokes and steering by instinct. They had got the fores’l tack tied down and were tying the reef-points. In a few minutes the sail was reefed, the down-haul cast off, and the gaff hoisted up again. Then they trooped aft, clawing their way along the slushy decks.
“Yer face is all over blood!” cried the skipper staring at Donald. “Did that sea hurt ye?”
The boy wiped the blood away from a wound in his forehead where his head had struck the handholds of the wheel-spokes. “That’s nothing, sir,” he replied. “I, couldn’t help letting that sea come aboard ... it caught us as she was coming to in the trough.”
“Of course you couldn’t help it,” said the other. “You did blame’ fine! You must ha’ swung her off an’ steadied her while that comber had you under. From for’ard, there was nawthin’ to be seen aft here but th’ main-boom stickin’ aout! Waal, she’s all right naow. Under that rag of a fores’l she’ll run like a hound. Ain’t there th’ hell of a sea runnin’ though? A square-rigger ’ud be sloshin’ through this under a fore-lower-tops’l—” He stopped and pointed at the smother down to starboard.“Look!” he shouted. “There’s a poor devil of an outward-bounder! See him? Hove to!”
TheStarbuck’screw stared in the direction indicated and glimpsed in the lift of the sleet squalls a big grey-painted barque lying under a mizzen stays’l and a goose-winged lower maintops’l with the lee clew hauled out. “Poor devils ... beatin’ to the west’ard off th’ pitch o’ th’ Horn ... sooner be on this hooker, captain!” shouted Thompson, and his remarks seemed strange when one made comparisons between the big wall-sided barque with her spacious decks and human complement of twenty-five or thirty men, and the little 95-tonHelen Starbuckand her seven hands all told. But Thompson was learning that size did not mean seaworthiness or even comfort, and an able little schooner of Bank fisherman model was to be preferred to a huge steel box like theKelvinhaughfor ocean ranging.
The pain in McKenzie’s side was beginning to make him wince when a kick of the wheel jarred his body, and the skipper noticed it. He came close to the lad and shouted in order to be heard above the noise of wind and sea, “Hurt anywhere?”
The boy nodded and grinned stoically. “Think I’ve bust a ‘slat,’ sir!”—using West Coast slang. “Got hove down on wheel ... left side ... when sea hit her that time.” Nickerson shoved back the hatch. “Olsen! Relieve the wheel!” And when he came up he motioned to Donald to go down into the cabin.
When McKenzie was divested of his upper clothing, examination revealed an ugly bruise just below the heart. With Thompson and Chubby holding the boy from sliding off the locker, the skipper examined the spot, tenderly feeling the bruise with his fingers. “You sure have, son!” he murmured. “Two slats are sprung, me son! Waal, can’t be helped, but ye’ll do no deck work or steering for a spell, boy. You’ve done yer trick, anyway, so we’ll doctor ye up without kickin’!” And he first proceeded to doctor Donald by giving him a stiff dose of salts!
“Ugh!” protested McKenzie after he had swallowed the nauseous dose. “Is this a sailor’s cure-all? If a man breaks a leg or a rib, why should he be dosed with this muck?”
Nickerson laughed. “It may seem unnecessary, but it ain’t, for the salts will put your system into a condition which will help the bones to knit. There’s good medical logic in that, son!” Dosed, rubbed with liniment and bandaged, Donald was shored by pillows and rolled up blankets into a cabin bunk and ordered to remain there for the rest of the day.
“Durned plucky kid!” remarked the skipper to Thompson.
“Always was,” answered the other. “Game to the core! Good stuff in him! Always plays cricket!” An odd British Public School expression, the latter. Fulsome praise, truly, from two such men—English and Canadian master-seamen!
Flying along on the wings of the wind theHelen Starbuckmade brave running of it under the reefed foresail, and when Nickerson managed to get a noon sight in spite of successive squalls and sliding decks, he figured out the ship’s position and remarked gleefully to Donald, “She’s run ahead of the log, son! We’ll haul her up this afternoon. Cape Stiff’ll be in sight off the port bow in a while. She’s run sixty miles in four hours—good travelling! Thought I sighted the Ramirez rocks at eight this morning ... to th’ norrad. Old Man Horn should be loomin’ up from th’ riggin’ naow ef it’s anyways clear inshore.” Cape Horn in sight! The storied Stormy Horn—locale of a thousand epics of the sea since Schouten and Drake braved its tempestuous corner. “’Round Cape Horn!” A sailor’s boast—conferring a brevet rank on the man who had gone through the mill off Cape Stiff! Donald’s imagination thrilled at the thought of viewing the wind-and-wave-beaten milestone at the foot of the world. “I’d like to see it, sir,” he pleaded. “Call me when it is sighted, please!”
Nickerson laughed. “Waal, son, ye’re more eagerthan I am. I wouldn’t care a cuss ef I never saw it. Ef it was old Cape Sable or Nigger Cape or Sambro or Eastville Heads, naow! Why, I’d jump to the spreaders for a squint, but Cape Stiff? Ugh!” And he spat disgustedly. He buttoned up his oilcoat and clambered on deck, and a minute or two later Donald could hear his voice. “Aye ... to th’ norrad ... high peak with smaller ones. See it? Aye ... alright.” The companion hatch was shoved back and Donald was out of his bunk and pulling on his boots when the captain came down. “Hell’s main hatch is in sight,” he cried with a laugh. “Where they brew the gales and sailor’s misery.... Lemme help ye with yer coat. It ain’t rainin’ naow an’ th’ sun’s aout. I’ll bowse ye up on th’ cabin roof.”
About eight miles distant, the Ultima Thule of the South American continent reared its hoary head—a pinnacle of weather-worn granite, which, with the lower hills of Horn Island and the land behind, made the whole appear like a crouching lion facing the west. It stood clearly defined for a space—blue against the rain and mist behind and dull red where its northern slopes caught the sun—a monument of strenuous endeavour; a monolithic memorial to seamen’s a courage and suffering, and the bones of ships and men in the waters below. Around its splintered base the mighty combers of a world-around wind-hounding smashed themselves in acres of foam, roaring and hissing in sullen fury at the implacability of the rock which forever bars their passage. Tremendous! Inspiring! Irresistible! The storied, stormy Horn!
A moment later it was blotted out by a snarling snow squall just as though the God of those seas had rung down the curtain on a sight not given to every sailor’s eyes. Donald was assisted to his bunk again. He had seen the Horn and his romance-hunger was satisfied.
When Horn Island had swung to the port quarter, Captain Nickerson called the hands. “We’ll gybe that fores’l over naow and make our northing. Hook the boom-tackle into that fore-boom and ease her over, andlook out in case she ships a sea!” The relieving tackle was hooked on to ease the fore-sheet when the boom came over, and Hansen was instructed to put the helm up. The vessel swung to the nor’rad, the fores’l gave a mighty flap, and with a “whish!” and a “crash!” and the screech of the tackle-rope whirring through the blocks, the sail swooped over and brought up on the patent gybing gear with a jarring shock. “Let ’er go nothe-east by east!” cried the skipper. “We’ll run her through the LeMaire Straits an’ dodge this sea. I cal’late the rips o’ the Pacific drift and the Patagonia current ain’t agoin’ to bother us much in there ... we’ll try it. Can’t be worse’n the Bay o’ Fundy ’round Brier Island.”
They negotiated the Strait without difficulty—sighting the high cliffs of Staten Island and Terra del Fuego in their passage through the treacherous channel, and after leaving the sterile, snow-capped highlands of Cape San Diego astern, they swung off shore again, and ran over by the West Falklands and up the South American coast.
Back into warmer climes, they busied themselves overhauling the schooner’s rigging after the strain of the easting run, and on the morning of a fine summer’s day they struck soundings in the muddy estuary of the River Plate. Under all sail with the wind blowing down the river, they snored through the muddy water and picked up the English Bank light-ship. Four hours later, they stood in and dropped head-sails and anchor in the outer roadstead of Monte Video.
Reporting at the Customs House that they only came in for water, wood and supplies, they procured these necessities and spent a couple of days seeing the sights of the beautiful Uruguayan city. Donald sent off a long letter to his mother telling her of the voyage so far and his future prospects. Before sunrise one morning, theHelen Starbuckslipped away on the last leg of her long, long trail.
The voyage up the South Atlantic, over the Line, and into the North Atlantic was practically a repetition of their Pacific passage, and with much the same daily round of duties. It was not all plain sailing. They experiencedseveral blows, and some they had to ride out hove-to under foresail and jumbo. The worst of these was near home, between La Have and Western Bank, and here, for the first time, Donald saw numerous Bank fishing schooners lying-to like themselves.
“Son, these are fishermen!” cried Nickerson, pointing to six or eight vessels riding out the blow around them. “They’re hanging on to the ground until it moderates. Ef they had a full trip below, they’d be hoofin’ it for Boston or Gloucester under all she’d stand. It takes a breeze o’ wind to stop those fellers—they’re sail-draggers from ’way-back. You’ll see some joker giving her ‘main-sheet’ for home in a while.”
In a blurry easterly squall of sleet that night, Donald saw one of them “giving her main-sheet” for home. She stormed out of the smother—a long, lean schooner under reefed mainsail, whole foresail and jumbo, and she flew ahead of theStarbuckon the wings of the wind—riding over the seas like a duck, with the main-boom over the quarter and well topped up to keep it clear of the wave-crests when she rolled to loo’ard. There was something inspiring in the manner in which she raced out of the gloom—a ghostly vessel literally bounding over the seas. A pile of dories were nested on her deck amidships, and as she swung past, someone hailed, “Hi-yi! haow’s fishin’?”
Nickerson chuckled delightedly. “Naow, there’s a hound!” he remarked. “Swinging off for Boston or Gloucester with a hundred thousand o’ cod and haddock below. Dory-handliner, by the looks o’ her. Her gang will be below playing cards or mugging-up or snoozing, and only two on deck seeing her home! These fellers are sailors, my son! Winter and summer, they’re sloggin’ in and aout, and nawthin’ bothers them. I’d sooner be skipper of that hooker than commander of theTeutonic! I’d have more fun and I’d make more money.”
When theStarbuckgot under way again under reefed canvas, fishing schooners passed her bound west under their whole four lowers. Sometimes two vessels would come driving up out of the snow squalls—racing for portwith sheets flat aft and the lee rail under in a broil of white water, and a mob of oilskinned men lounging around the quarters of the respective ships watching the going and betting on the outcome. Beautiful schooners they were, and Donald could not believe that such yacht-like craft were employed in the humble pursuits of fishing.
“There’s hundreds of these craft on this coast,” remarked Captain Nickerson, “and they’re all fine-lined, able vessels. They’re built to sail fast and they’re rigged an’ sparred to stand the drag. They draw a lot of water aft and they carry a pile of iron and stone ballast. That’s why they can sail an’ make a passage while we’re lying-to. Even in this able packet, we wouldn’t dare to try to sail by the wind like those jokers in that snifter.”
Donald was profoundly impressed and he began to regard casting his lot with the North American Bank fishermen as something to be desired—a phase of seafaring with remunerative and romantic attractions, and when he saw more of them, crossing the southern edge of Western Bank, the spell of this adventurous, daring, sailorly life began to get a hold on his imagination, and he made up his mind to give it a trial. Incidents, related by Nickerson, of the camaraderie among the crews, their superb seamanship, and the good living aboard their vessels also influenced his decision to experience these things himself.
On a bright winter’s morning when the sea, ruffled by a moderate westerly breeze, rolled blue under a clear, cloudless sky, to the horizon, the skipper pointed over the port bow. “Old Nova Scotia’s showin’ up naow!” he said with a grin. “Ye’ll see the rocks and spruce in a while, and if it holds like this, we’ll drop the killick in Halifax to-day. We’re running in to the shores of God’s Country—Nova Scotia!” He uttered the last sentence with unusual feeling in his voice.... Judson Nickerson—hard-case blue-waterman, world ranger, and a perfect seaman—was glad to be nearing home after many years.
The faint haze on the horizon ahead defined itself, as they drew near, into wooded hills—green with spruce and coniferous trees—and patched, here and there with snowwhich gleamed dazzling white in the sunshine. A depression in the land, over which smoke could be discerned, marked the City of Halifax, and, ahead of them an Atlantic liner was standing in for the port.
Captain Nickerson was pacing up and down the quarter, smoking and talking to the runaway apprentices, and Thompson lounging aft. “You two chaps”—meaning Thompson and Jenkins—“will have no trouble in getting a ship for England here. You can either go as a passenger or ship as quarter-master or ’fore-the-mast. It’s only a ten-day jump across the pond and a mere hoot-in-hell to the fifteen thousand mile we’ve traversed in this hooker. There’s Chebucto Head to port an’ Devil’s Island to starb’d ... we’re gettin’ inside the harbor naow ... due north by compass takes her right up.” And he chatted and joked with the boys in buoyant spirits at getting home—a vastly different Nickerson from the bawling, truculent wind-jammer officer of other days.
Slipping along in smooth water, they found themselves once more encompassed by green earth and human habitation, and it was good to look upon by eyes wearied by countless leagues of restless sea. Herring Cove, with its fishermen’s cottages nestling among the winter greenery, slipped past to port, and the village looked snug and homey and “landish” to these world sailors. Thrumcap, Maugher’s Beach, and McNab Island glided by, and they lowered the stays’l for the last time as they ran through the passage of George Island at the neck of the harbor. The fair city of Halifax burst upon their vision then—row upon row of houses rising from the wharves and warehouses of Water Street to the Citadel Hill, which overlooked the eastern outpost to the Dominion which theHelen Starbuckhad run the length of two oceans to span from west to east. Victoria to Halifax! A long traverse truly for a small schooner around the Horn, and when they let the headsails run and dropped the anchor behind George Island, Captain Nickerson smacked his fist on the wheel-box and laughed. “Victoria to Halifax raound Cape Stiff in a hundred an’ twenty days! Not too badfor a little hooker—not too bad! With a little more ballast and a couple more hands to fist sail in a breeze, we’d ha’ done it in a hundred! But, it was a fair sail ... a fair sail!”
Donald and Thompson pulled the skipper ashore, and loafed for an hour on Water Street. The paving stones felt hard to their feet after months of a vessel’s decks, and they kept their body muscles instinctively keyed up to meet the lurch and sway which did not come. “Looks something like an Old Country town,” said Thompson, after they had strolled around a bit. “Let’s get a newspaper an’ see what’s happened since we left. Chubby will want to know if there’s been anything doing in soccer.”
Captain Nickerson joined them after a while. “We’re to leave the schooner where she is,” he said. “The new owners will tow her in to their own wharf to-morrow. We’ll strike our flag and pay off in the morning.”
By the next day afternoon, they had their dunnage out of theHelen Starbuckand Donald cast a regretful glance at the wonderful little vessel in which they worked such a long, watery traverse. As he gazed at her lying quiet and still behind the Island, he thought of those wild and windy days “running the easting”; of Cape Horn and the Le-Maire Straits, the wild seas and the scorching calms “down to the south’ard!” Aye! these were romantic days—days he would never forget, and as he clambered up on the wharf, he waved an adieu to the anchored schooner. “Good-bye and good luck!” he murmured. “You’re a brave and gallant little ship—Helen Starbuck!”
The little band of adventurers parted company shortly afterwards—Olsen and Hansen to a boarding house where they would meet others of their kind, and Chubby and Thompson to try their luck at getting over to Liverpool by working their way, or as steerage passengers.
“So-long, nipper!” said Thompson to Donald. “Good luck to you in future. We’ll maybe meet again some day!” Chubby wrung Donald’s hand but said nothing. His heart was too full for words. “So long, Chubby!” said McKenzie.“Try and make Uncle give you your premium back, but don’t say that I’m alive. So long!”
Joak McGlashan remained with Captain Nickerson and Donald. He would stay a while and try his hand “cookin’ at the fushin’” before going home, and he, like Donald, would sail in the wake of the redoubtable Judson Nickerson, and see where that worthy would lead them.