Chapter 10

As the light grew, it seemed to bring intenser cold. Jackets were not enough; we donned coats and oilskins and stamped and stamped on the foredeck, yawning and muttering and wishing it was five o'clock and the 'doctor' ready with the blessed coffee: the coffee that would make men of us; vile 'hogwash' that a convict would turn his face at, but what seemed nectar to us at daybreak, down there in fifty-five!

By one bell the mist had grown denser, and the Mate sung out sudden and angrily for the foghorn to be sounded.

"Three blasts, d'ye 'ear," said the bo'sun, passing the horn up to Dago, the look-out. "_Uno! ... Doo! ... Tray!_" (Three fingers held up.) ... "_Tray_, ye burnt scorpion! ... An' see that ye sounds 'em proper, or I'll come up there an' hide th' soul-case out o' ye! ... (Cow-punchin' hoodlum! Good job I knows 'is bloomin' lingo!)"

Now we had a tune to our early rising, a doleful tune, a tune set to the deepening mist, the heaving sea, at dismal break of day. _R-r-ah! ... R-r-ah! Ra!_ was the way it ran; a mournful bar, with windy gasps here and there, for Dago Joe was more accustomed to a cowhorn.

"A horn," said Welsh John suddenly. "Did 'oo hear it?"

No one had heard. We were gathered round the galley door, all talking, all telling the 'doctor' the best way to light a fire quickly.

"_Iss_! A horn, I tell 'oo! ... Listen! ... Just after ours is sounded!"

_R-r-ah! ... R-r-ah! ... R-ah!_ Joe was improving.

We listened intently.... "There now," said John!

Yes! Sure enough! Faint rasps answering ours. Ulrichs said three; two, I thought!

"Don't ye 'ear that 'orn, ye dago fiddler," shouted the bo'sun.... "'Ere! Hup there, one of ye, an' blow a proper blast! That damn hoodlum! Ye couldn't 'ear 'is trumpetin' at th' back of an area railin's!"

John went on the head; the bo'sun aft to report.

A proper blast! The Welshman had the trick of the wheezing 'gad jet.' ... Ah! There again! ... Three blasts, right enough! ... She would be a square rigger, running, like ourselves! ... Perhaps we were making on her! ... The sound seemed louder.... It came from ahead!

R-R-R-R-R-AH! ... R-R-R-R-R-AH! ... R-R-R-R-R-AH!

_... R-r-r-r-eh! ... R-r-r-r-eh! ... R-r-r-r-eh!_

The Mate was now on the alert, peering and listening. At the plain answer to our horn, he rapped out orders. "Lower away main an' fore-to'gal'ns'ls ... let 'em hang, an' lay aft and haul th' mains'l up! Come aft here, one of you boys, and call th' Captain! Tell him it's come down thick! Sharp, now!"

I went below and roused the Old Man.

"Aye ... all right," he said, feeling for his sea-boots. (South'ard of the 'forties' Old Jock slept 'all standing,' as we say.) .... "Thick, eh? ... Tell th' Mate t' keep th' horn goin'! ... A ship, ye say? ... Running, eh? ... Aye! All right ... I'll be up...."

I had scarcely reached the poop again before the Old Man was at my back. "Thick, b'Goad," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Man, man! Why was I not called before?"

The Mate muttered something about the mist having just closed in.... "Clear enough t' be goin' on before that," he said.

"Aye, aye! Where d'ye mak' this ship? Ye would see her before the mist cam' doon, eh?"

"Sound that horn, forrard there!" shouted the Mate, moving off to the gangway. "Keep that horn going, there!"

John pumped a stirring blast.... R-R-R-R-R-AH! ... R-R-R-R-R-AH! ... R-R-R-R-R-AH!

We bent forward with ears strained to catch the distant note.

... _R-r-r-r-eh!_ ... At the first answering blast Old Jock raised his head, glancing fearfully round.... _R-r-r-r-eh! ... R-r-r-r----_ "Down hellum! DOWN HELLUM! DOWN," he yelled, running aft to the wheel! "Haul yards forrard! Le'go port braces! Let 'm rip! Le'go an' haul! ... Quick, Mist'r! Christ! What ye standin' at? ... Ice! Ice, ye bluidy eedi't! Ice! Th' echo! Let go! LE'GO AN' HAUL! LE'GO!"

Ice! The Mate stood stupid for an instant--then jumped to the waist--to the brace pins--roaring hoarse orders. "All hands on deck! Haul away, there! All hands! On deck, men--for your lives!"

Ice! At the dread cry we ran to the ropes and tailed on with desperate energy! Ice! The watch below, part dressed, swarmed from house and fo'cas'le and hauled with us--a light of terror in their eyes--the terror that comes with stark reason--when the brain reels from restful stupor at a trumpet of alarms!

Ice! The decks, that so late had been quiet as the air about us, resounded to the din of sudden action! Yards swinging forward with a crash--blocks _whirring_--ropes hurtling from the pins--sails lifting and thrashing to the masts--shouts and cries from the swaying haulers at the ropes--hurried orders--and, loud over all, the raucous bellow of the fog-horn when Dago Joe, dismayed at the confusion, pumped furiously, _Ra! Ra! Ra! Ra! Ra!_

... _Reh! Reh! Reh! Reh! Reh!_ ... Note for note--the echo--out of the mist!

"Belay, all! Well, mainyards!" The order steadied us. We had time now to look! ... There was nothing in sight! ... No towering monster looming in our path--no breakers--no sea--no sky; nothing! Nothing but the misty wall that veiled our danger! The Unknown! The Unseen!

She was swinging slowly against the scend of the running swell--laying up to the wind. Martin had the wheel and was holding the helm down, his keen eyes watching for the lift that would mark the limit of steering-way. The Old Man stood by the compass, bending, peering, smiling--nosing at the keen air--his quick eyes searching the mist--ahead--abeam--astern.... Martin eased the helm; she lay quietly with sails edged to the wind, the long swell heaving at her--broadside on.

Suddenly a light grew out of the mist and spread out on both bows--a luminous sheen, low down on the narrowed sea-line! The 'ice-blink'! Cold! White!

At the first glow the Old Man started--his lips framed to roar an order! ... No order came!

Quickly he saw the hopelessness of it; what was to happen was plain, inevitable! Broad along the beam, stretching out to leeward, the great dazzling 'ice-blink' warned him of a solid barrier, miles long, perhaps! The barque lay to the wind, at mercy of the swell, drifting dead to leeward at every heave! ... On the other tack, perhaps? There was a misty gap to the south of us; no 'ice-blink' there! ... If she could be put about? ... No, there was no chance! ... To gather speed to put her about he would have to bear off towards the brightening sheen! Already the roar of the swell, lashing at the base, was loud in our ears! ... There was no room! No sea-room to wear or stay!

"Embayed!" he said bitterly, turning his palms up! ... "All hands aft and swing th' port boat out!"

The port boat? The big boat? Had it come, so soon, to that? More than one of us cast an anxious look at the broad figure of our Master as we ran aft. He stood quite still, glaring out at the ice ring.

"This is it, eh!" he muttered, unheeding the stir and cries of us. "This is it--after forty year!"

Madly we tore and knifed at the lashings, working to clear the big boat. She was turned down on the skids (the fashion of thrifty 'limejuicers'), bound and bolted to stand the heavy weather. We were handless, unnerved by the suddenness of it all, faulty at the task. The roar of breaking water spurred us on.... A heave together! .... Righted, we hooked the falls and swayed her up. The Mate looked aft for the word. "Aye," said the Old Man. "Oot wi' her, an' try tae tow th' heid roun'! On th' ither tack we micht----" He left the words unfinished! Well he knew we could never drag three thousand tons against that swell!

A wild outcry turns our eyes forward. Dago Joe (forgotten on the lookout) is running aft, his precious horn still slung from his shoulders. "_Arretto! Arretto! Arretto!_" He yells as he runs. "_Arretto, Capitan!_" waving his arms and signing to the Old Man to stop the ship! Behind him, over the bows, we see the clear outline of a small berg--an outflung 'calf' of the main ice! There is no time! Nothing can be done! Small as the berg is--not the height of our lower yards--it has weight enough to sink us, when aided by the heaving swell!

"Quick with th' boat, there," yells the Old Man! He runs over to the companion-way and dives below, jostling the Second Mate, who is staggering up under a weight of biscuit bags.

In a moment we have closed with the ice and are hammering and grinding at the sheer glistening wall. At the first impact the boom goes with a crash! Then fore-to'gallant mast--yards--sails--rigging--all hurtling to the head, driving the decks in! A shelf of solid ice, tons weight of it, crashes aboard and shatters the fore-hatch! Now there is a grind and scream of buckling iron, as the beams give to the strain--ring of stays and guy-ropes, parting at high tension--crash of splintering wood! The heaving monster draws off, reels, and comes at us again! Another blow and----

"'Vast lowering! Hold on! Hold on the boat there!" The Old Man, come on deck with his treasured papers, has seen more than the wreck of the head! He runs to the compass--a look--then casts his eyes aloft. "Square mainyards!" His voice has the old confident ring: the ring we know. "Square main yards! ... A hand t' th' wheel!"

Doubting, we hang around the boat. She swings clear, all ready! The jar of a further blow sets us staggering for foothold! What chance? ... "A hand t' th' wheel, here," roars the Old Man. Martin looks up ... goes back to his post.

A man at the wheel again! No longer the fearful sight of the main post deserted; no longer the jar and rattle of a handless helm! Martin's action steadies us. What dread, when the oldest of us all stands there grasping the spokes, waiting the order? ... We leave the swinging boat and hurry to the braces!

A 'chance' has come! The power of gales long since blown out is working a way for us: the ghostly descendants of towering Cape Horn 'greybeards' have come to our aid!

As we struck, sidling on the bows, the swell has swept our stern round the berg. Now we are head to wind and the big foresail is flat against the mast, straining sternward!

It is broad day, and we see the 'calf' plainly as we drift under stern-way apart. The gap widens! A foot--a yard--an oar's-length! Now the wind stirs the canvas on the main--a clew lifts--the tops'ls rustle and blow out, drawing finely! Her head still swings!

"Foreyards! Le'go an' haul!" roars the Old Man. We are stern on to the main ice. Already the swell--recurving from the sheer base--is hissing and breaking about us. There is little room for sternboard. "Le'go an' haul!" We roar a heartening chorus as we drag the standing head yards in.

Slowly she brings up ... gathers way ... moves ahead! The 'calf' is dead to windward, the loom of the main ice astern and a-lee. The wind has strengthened: in parts the mist has cleared. Out to the south'ard a lift shows clear water. We are broad to the swell now, but sailing free as Martin keeps her off! From under the bows the broken boom (still tethered to us by stout guy-ropes) thunders and jars as we move through the water.

"Cut and clear away!" roars Old Jock. "Let her go!"

Aye, let her go! ... We are off ... crippled an' all ... out for open sea again!

XIX

IN LITTLE 'SCOTLAND'

It was to no purpose that Lloyds' agent pointed out the convenience and advantage of the inner port: it was as useless for the local pilot to look grave and recall dire happenings to Captains who had elected to effect their repairs in the outer harbour--just here, at Port William. Old Jock's square jaw was set firm, his eyes were narrowed to a crafty leer; he looked on everyone with unconcealed suspicion and distrust. He was a shipmaster of the old school, 'looking after his Owners' interest.' He had put in 'in distress' to effect repairs.... He was being called upon to spend _money_!

"No, no!" he said to all their reasoning. "My anchor's doon, an' here I stoap! I've conseedered a' that ye've pit furrit! 'Convenience tae th' toon, if supplies are needit'? (I'll no' need that mony!) ... 'Nae distance tae bring th' workin' gang'? (I've a wheen men here mysel'!) ... 'Nae dues tae pay'? (We're jist as cheap here!) ... No, no, Maister Fordyce! Ye can jist mak' up yeer mind on that! We'll dae a' th' repairs oot here! I'm no' comin' in!"

"Oh weel! Jist as ye like, Captain! Jist as ye like! ... But--as th' pilot here 'll tell ye--ye're in a verra bad poseetion if it comes on tae blow f'ae the south-east! An' south-east 's a hard win', I'm tellin' ye!"

"Aye, aye! Jist that! ... Weel, if it comes tae blow frae th' south-east (I'm no much feart o' that at this time o' th' year) we're in a guid berth tae slip anchor an' run her in tae Port Stanley. It'll be time enough then! But I'm no' goin' in there if I can help it! ... If I brocht her in therr"--pointing to the narrows that led to the inner harbour--"I micht hae tae wait for a fair win' tae bring her oot, when oor bit damage is sortit.... No, no! We'll dae fine oot here. Smooth watter! Guid holdin' ground!"

"Oh, the holding ground is all right," said the pilot. "Eight fathom ... mud and stones! Good enough for anything but south or southeast."

"Oh, aye!" continued the Old Man. "We'll dae fine here.... If it wisna' for that bowsprit bein' steeved up and th' rivets stertit in th' bows o' her, I widna' be here at a'.... Spars? ... We can mak' a' th' spars oorsel's; tho' I'm no' sayin' but that I'd be glad o' a spar or twa--at a moderate cost. A moderate cost, mind ye!"

The agent laughed. "Oh weel, Captain! We're no' exactly Jews doon here, though they say an Aberdonian (I'm fa'e Aberdeen mysel') is th' next thing! We can gi'e ye yeer spaurs--at a moderate cost! ... But I'll tell ye again, Captain, ye'll lose time by stoappin' oot here. A' this traffiking back an' furrit tae Port Stanley! Bringin' th' workmen aff in th' mornin', an' takin' them hame at e'en! Ye'll no' get th' smiths tae stey oan th' ship. It'll be, 'Hey, Jimmy! Whaur's ma lang drift?' or, 'Jock, did ye bring oot th' big "Monday?"' ... an' then naethin' 'll dae but they maun be awa' back tae th' Port, tae look for theer tools in th' bar o' th' Stanley Airms!"

"Oh, aye!" said the Old Man. "I ken them! They'll be as keen for a dram doon here as onywhere! But we'll attend tae that. As for th' traffiking, I've a big boat an' a wheen idle lauds therr that'll be nane the waur o' a lang pull! ... Onyway, I'm no' goin' t' risk bein' held up for a fair win' when th' time comes ... an' ye may tak' it that we're no' goin' t' lose time owre th' joab! A wheen smiths, an' mebbe a carpenter or twa, is a' I want ... an' if we can arrange wi' th' Captain o' this schooner--ye were speakin' aboot--t' tak' a hunner' or a hunner' an' fifty ton o' cargo ... for th' time bein'.... No! Jist twa beams tae be cut an' strappit.... A screw-jack an' a forge or twa! We can ... straighten them oot in their place! ... Naethin' wrang below th' sheer strake! ... Jist plain rivettin'...."

Talking of the repairs and their relation to the great god of Economy, Old Jock led the way to the gangway and watched his visitors depart.

In all he said the Old Man spoke his 'braidest' Scotch. This was right! We had reached the Falkland Islands in safety, and what more natural than that he should speak the language of the country? Even the German saloon-keepers who had boarded us on arrival--to proffer assistance in our distress--said 'aye' for yes, and 'Ach! Awa' wi' ye'--a jocular negative! Nor did the resemblance to our 'ain countree' end there. Port William was typical of a misty Scotch countryside: the land about us was as bleak and home-like as a muirland in the Stewartry.

A bare hill-side sloping to the sea, with here and there straggling acres of cultivated land. A few wooden houses nestling in the bends and gullies, where small streamlets ran. Uplands, bare of trees and hedge growth, stretching away inland in a smooth coat of waving grass. Grass, grass, grass--a sheep fank--a patch of stony hill-side--a solitary hut, with blue smoke curling above--a misty sky-line--lowering clouds, and the setting sun breaking through in fleeting patches. Port William! A quiet place for anchorage after our stormy times! No ships riding with us under the lee of the land! No sign of human life or movement in the lonely bay! No noise! Quiet! Only the plaintive cries of sea-birds that circled and wheeled about us, and the distant _baa-ing_ of sheep on the green hill-side!

* * * * *

'No time was to be lost,' as the Old Man had said. Soon the quiet of our lonely anchorage was broken by a din of strenuous work. The sea-birds flew affrighted from the clang of fore-hammers and the roar of forge fires.

Our damage was all on the bows. The to'gallan'mast, in its fall, had wrecked the starboard side of the fo'cas'le; the decks were smashed in; some beams were broken, others were twisted and bent. The hull plating had not escaped, and a big rent showed where the grinding ice had forced the stout cat-head from its solid bed. These were minor affairs--something might have been done to put them right without coming to port--but the bowsprit! Ah! It was the bowsprit that had brought us in!

"It's no use talking," the Old Man had said when he and the Mate were considering the damage. "That bowsprit! ... Spars? ... We could make th' spars good; ... an' we could do a fair joab wi' th' ironwork! ... But th' bowsprit! ... No, no! We can't sail th' ship unless we're sure o' th' head-gear! ... No use! No use talking, Mister! We'll have t' bear up for th' Falklands, and get that put to rights!"

If further cause were needed to justify the serious course of 'putting in,' they had it when the carpenter reported water in the forepeak; and it was discovered that the broken jibboom had not hammered at the bows for nothing. No hesitation then! No talk! The course was set!

Although the Falklands are famed as a refuge for vessels 'in distress,' there was then no great facilities for repair. It is enough if the ships stagger into port in time to save the lives of their crews. Port Stanley had many such sheer hulks lying to rust and decay in the landlocked harbour. Good ships that had cleared from the Channel in seaworthiness; crossed the Line with a boastful "_All well!_" to a homeward-bounder; steered south into the 'roaring forties'--to meet disaster in fire, or wind, or sea, and falter into the Falklands with the boats swung out!

There was then no firm of ship repairers on the Islands. The most Mr. Fordyce could do for us was to find workmen, and a schooner to take part of our cargo and lighten us sufficiently to get at the leaky rivets. Old Jock had to set up as a master shipwright and superintend the repairs himself. And who better? Had he not set Houston's leg as straight as a Gilmorehill Professor could? He was the man; and there was no sign of hesitation when he got out his piece of chalk and made marks (as many and as mysterious as a Clydeside gaffer's) on the damaged ironwork! Such skilled labour as he could get--'smiths' from the sheep camps (handy men, who were by turns stonemasons or woolpackers or ironworkers)--were no great hands at ship-work; but the Old Man, with his rough, chalked sketches, could make things plain; he had, too, the great advantage of knowing the Islanders' language and its proper application to the ordering of 'wis'like' men! What might have been put elsewhere as, "What th' hell sort of work do you call this?" he translated to, "Man, man, Jock Steel! Could ye no' pit a fairer bend oan that knee?" ... Jock (who would have thrown down his tools, and "on with his jacket" at the first) would perhaps turn red at the kindlier reproof, mutter "Well, well," and have another try at the stubborn knee.

It was slow work, for all the din and clatter. Forge fires are devilish in the hands of an unskilled blower; rivets break and twist and get chilled when the striking is squint and irregular; iron is tough and stubborn when leverage is misapplied. There were difficulties. (Difficulties that wee Jonny Docherty, a Partick rivet 'b'ye,' would have laughed at!) The difficulty of strapping cut beams to make them span their former length; the difficulty of small rivets and big holes, of small holes and big rivets ... the sheer despair when sworn measurements go unaccountably and mysteriously wrong in practice.

All difficulties! Difficulties to be met and overcome!

Every one of us had a turn at the ironwork. There was odd work that we could do while the 'smiths' were heating and hammering at the more important sections. We made a feeble show, most of us; but Joe Granger gained honour in suggesting ways and showing how things were done. It was the time of Granger's life. He was not even a good sailorman. His steering was pitiful. Didn't Jones have to show him how the royal buntlines led? What did Martin say about the way he passed a head-earring? A poor sailorman! ... Yet here he was: bossing us around; Able Seamen carrying tools to him; Old Man listening quite decently to his suggestions--even the hard-case Mate (who knew Granger, if anyone did) not above passing a word now and then! ... And all because Granger had worked in the Union Ironworks at 'Frisco. At first I am sure it was a _holder-on_ he told us he had been, but before our job had gone far it was a whilom _foreman shipwright_ who told us what was to be done! ... If Armstrong, the carpenter, had not taken up a firm stand when it came to putting in the deck, there would have been hints that we had a former _under-manager_ among us! It was the time of Joe's life, and the bo'sun could only chuckle and grin and wag his head in anticipation of 'proper sailor-work' on the mast and spars.

It was good for us brassbounders to lie at Port William, where there was little but the work in progress to interest us. In the half-deck we were full of ship repairs. Little else was talked about when we were below. Each of us carried a small piece of chalk, all ready to make rough drawings to explain our ideas. We chalked on the walls, the table, the deck, the sea-chests, lines and cross-lines, and bends and knees--no matter what, so long as there were plenty of round "O's" to show where the rivets were to go. We explained to one another the mysteries of ship construction, talked loftily of breasthooks and sheer strakes, and stringers and scantlings ... and were as wise after the telling! That was while the ironwork repairs were in progress. In a week or more we were spar-makers. Jock Steel and his mates put down their drifts and hammers, and took up adzes and jack-planes. We were getting on! We had no time for anyone who drew sketches of riveting. It was 'striking cambers' and 'fairing' and 'tapering' now, and Joe Granger got a cool reception when he came along to the half-deck after work was over for the day. Poor Joe had fallen from his high place! With the bowsprit hove down and securely strapped and riveted, and the last caulking blow dealt at the leaky doubling, his services became of small account. No one in the fo'cas'le would listen any longer to his tales of structural efficiency. There was no spar-making in the Union Ironworks at 'Frisco. Joe had to shut up, and let Martin and the bo'sun instruct the ship's company in the art of masting and rigging--illustrated by match-sticks and pipe-stems!