CHAPTER III.

GOOD-BYE TO THE SEA.

Again we were approaching the Australian coast. On this trip from Valparaiso we had experienced fine weather, for a wonder, and made (for us) a record run of twenty-five days. The weather had been beautifully fine.

A faint breeze right ahead brought us a heart-quickening perfume--that smell of the land which even the most desert place seems to possess, and which only the "deep-waterman" knows how to appreciate to the full. Your landlubber's nose couldn't detect it. As I climbed to the bridge after tea, and took a good long sniff of it, I determined that this would be my last trip. To the devil with ploughing the raging main! It would be ploughing the flowering earth after this, I thought.

Out of the South-East a long, low swell came slowly sliding, telling of wind to come, which we would just escape, and making our old hooker roll regularly and not at all unpleasantly. Silence; broken only by the quick muffled beat of the propeller, or the musical tattoo of a fireman's shovel below, indicative to the trimmer that more coal is wanted in the stokehold; or by a sudden laugh or burst of rough song from the fo'c'sles. I strolled back and forth on the bridge, thinking how sick of the sea I was, and scheming how the devil to break my iniquitous three years' agreement without going to the length of deserting.

Slowly dusk settled down, and the brilliant colours of the sunset faded out. No land yet. Heigh-ho! Well, 'twon't be long now, and please the pigs, I won't leave it again once I get my hoofs on to it. Suddenly the captain's voice broke in on my reverie.

"If you don't sight Sugarloaf by eight bells, Mr. Senex, pass the word to the third mate to keep a bright lookout, and let me know when he sees it."

"Ay, ay, sir!"

More reverie, leaning on the rail gazing ahead. Now, if I'd a farm, I'd put in ten acres of spuds, and get so many tons, etc., etc., and there'd be a couple of cows to milk, of course, and the girl 'ud be in the house singin' away ... and I'd get a good night's sleep instead of this cursed turning out every time old Fuz-buz wants you ... and I'd have a few quid in the bank likely; different to this tenner-a-month job, and----

Seven bells! "All's wel-l-l-," in musical cadence from the crow's nest. Right!

A few minutes later, and a momentary faint glow on the rapidly darkening horizon attracted my attention.

"Ha! Revolving light. That's her."

I sent down to the captain, who came up at once and took a squint through the night glasses. "All right. Sugarloaf. How's her head?"

"S. 69 degrees W., sir."

He takes a bearing and pops below. A moment later--"Steer 72 degrees, Mr. Senex."

"Seventy-two degrees it is, sir," and course altered accordingly.

Sometime in the wee small hours beyond twelve I am roused out by the sudden stoppage of the ship's steady heart-beat, and find we are off Newcastle, burning a blue light for the pilot, who comes out to us in a few minutes, and we are soon anchored off the Dyke, pending medical inspection later in the morning. On this occasion the fumigation launch, with its cargo of brimstone and crew of attendant imps, left us in peace for the time being. We got it before noon though, as usual good and hearty, and ate our lunch with streaming eyes and rasped throats in, literally, a hell of an atmosphere.

When we went alongside to our usual berth in the afternoon we were informed cheerfully by the stevedore, as we were used to being informed, that we "would be away by Sunday."

"Not I, if I can help it," thinks I to myself. "How to get out of this damn ship without leaving my money behind?"

First I packed up all my gear; got the Customs to examine and pass it; engaged a launch to come alongside at a time when I reckoned the skipper would be up town; had the chests taken right up to the railway station, and consigned to Brisbane forthwith--to be left till called for. Thus I committed myself: I couldn't go to sea without the garbage, and the same was safe and handy if I cleared out. I had made up my mind to do this if there was no other way, for I had just received news that my brother had got his second mate's ticket, and had cheerfully shouldered the responsibility of supporting our mother in England; and I had no other ties. Anyway I thought I would have a good showing with the medical officer of the port, for I had been troubled with migraine and nerve troubles for months--"all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy" with a vengeance.

First, however, I put the acid on the skipper.

"Want to be paid off, sir; sorry, but really I can't stand this life any more."

"You? What? How the Sheol am I to get another man in your place?" he answered. "Why! Even if I could get a man mad or drunk enough to go on this run, I'd have to give him L12 a month, and what do you think the owners would say at my paying off a L10 man to engage another at L12? No fear, Senex, here you stay, old chap, and don't make any mistake about it."

"Thanks, sir. But look, er--you'd better look out for another man, sir, all the same."

"Humph!" and off he trotted ashore.

He was a decent chap to me, and I was sorry to give him trouble, but----

Here I may mention one of the injustices of English maritime law. On being engaged at home, one signs articles for three years. This is a survival of old sailing-ship days, when ships were often away that period. Nowadays no man expects to be away anything like that time. If he did never a man would sign on. But if the ship happens to be pitchforked on to a run like this Pacific trade, well--there you are, stuck fast, and you can't get out except on one plea--a medical certificate of unfitness.

I went to the best private practitioner in Newcastle. He made a thorough examination, and gave his opinion that I had been for months unfit to hold my responsible position, and gave me a certificate to that effect. Armed with this, I again bearded the captain.

"No good, old chap," he said. "I'm sorry, but I have my own position with the owners to look at if I let you go."

So off I went to the port medical officer, a grave and courteous gentleman, who listened sympathetically to my tale of woe.

"Well," he said, "of course I can't possibly issue an order for your discharge if there isn't something radically wrong with you. You know that. However, strip, and let's have a look at you." A long examination, then, "Hum! There'll be no difficulty about _you_. Y'ought to have been out of it long since. But, understand now, I'm going to emphasize your attacks of migraine--blindness--and if you come here looking for a job again I won't pass you. You burn your boats behind you if I issue this order."

I was willing, and with the order for my discharge like a waving battle flag, I metaphorically knocked out the captain, who capitulated to that mandate, and paid me off on Saturday. On Sunday morning, 28th February, 1912, I watched, from the balcony of my hotel, the old ship pass between the breakwaters and proceed to sea. I did have a pang or two, for she had been my home for four years, and I had enjoyed many a good time aboard her. Good-bye, old hooker, and good luck go with you! A last long look, and I slowly turned away and faced the unknown future. I was twenty-seven years of age, with L70 in my pocket, and all Australia to pick a home in.

"The chance of my life," I thought. "It'll be my own fault if I don't make the most of it." And so downstairs to lunch, the slight cloud of regret at leaving the old ship dissipating as I hummed to myself the sailor's chantey, "Off to Philadelphia in the Morning"--only it was Brisbane, not Philadelphia, in my case.