Chapter 2

Tide has made now. A short period of slack water, and the ebb bears us seaward, past the Cowal shore, glinting in the wintry sunlight, the blue smoke in Dunoon valley curling upward to Kilbride Hill, past Skelmorlie Buoy (tolling a doleful benediction), past Rothesay Bay, with the misty Kyles beyond. The Garroch Head, with a cluster of Clyde Trust Hoppers, glides abaft the beam, and the blue Cock o' Arran shows up across the opening water. All is haste and bustle. Aloft, spider-like figures, black against the tracery of the rigging, cast down sheets and clew lines in the one place where they must go. Shouts and hails--"Fore cross-trees, there! Royal buntline inside th' crin'line, _in_-side, damn ye!"

"Aye, aye! Stan' fr' under!"

..._rrup_! A coil of rope hurtling from a height comes rattling to the rail, to be secured to its own particular belaying-pin. Out of a seeming chaos comes order. Every rope has its name and its place and its purpose; and though we have 'sodjers' among us, before Arran is astern we are ready to take to the wind. Off Pladda we set staysails and steer to the westward, and, when the wind allows, hoist topsails and crowd the canvas on her. The short November day has run its course when we cast off the tow-rope. As we pass the standing tug, all her hands are hauling the hawser aboard. Soon she comes tearing in our wake to take our last letters ashore and to receive the Captain's 'blessing.' A heaving-line is thrown aboard, and into a small oilskin bag are put our hastily written messages and the Captain's material 'blessing.' Shades of Romance! Our last link with civilisation severed by a bottle of Hennessy's Three Star!

The tugmen (after satisfying themselves as to the contents of the bag) give us a cheer and a few parting 'skreichs' on their siren and, turning quickly, make off to a Norwegian barque, lying-to, off Ailsa Craig.

All hands, under the Mates, are hard driven, sweating on sheet and halyard to make the most of the light breeze. At the wheel I have little to do; she is steering easily, asking no more than a spoke or two, when the Atlantic swell, running under, lifts her to the wind. Ahead of us a few trawlers are standing out to the Skerryvore Banks. Broad to the North, the rugged, mist-capped Mull of Cantyre looms up across the heaving water. The breeze is steady, but a falling barometer tells of wind or mist ere morning.

Darkness falls, and coast lights show up in all airts. Forward, all hands are putting a last drag on the topsail halyards, and the voice of the nigger tells of the fortunes of--

'_Renzo--boys, Renzo!_'

II

STEERSMANSHIP

Wee Laughlin, dismissed from the wheel for bad steering, was sitting on the fore-hatch, a figure of truculence and discontent, mouthing a statement on the Rights of Man, accompanied by every oath ever heard on Clydeside from Caird's to Tommy Seath's at Ru'glen. It was not the loss of his turn that he regretted--he was better here, where he could squirt tobacco juice at will, than on the poop under the Mate's eye--but, hardened at the 'Poort' as he was, he could not but feel the curious glances of his watchmates, lounging about in dog-watch freedom and making no secret of their contempt of an able seaman who couldn't steer, to begin with.

"'Ow wos she 'eadin', young feller, w'en ye--left?" Cockney Hicks, glancing away from the culprit, was looking at the trembling leaches of top'gal'nsails, sign of head winds.

"'Er heid? Ach, aboot Nor' thurty west!"

"Nor' thirty west? Blimy! Where th' 'ell's that? 'Ere! Give us it in points! None o' yer bloomin' degrees aboard square-sail, young feller!"

"Weel, that's a' th' wye I ken it!" Sullen, mouth twisted askew in the correct mode of the 'Poort,' defiant.

"It wis aye degrees in a' th' boats I hiv been in--none o' thae wee black chats ye ca' p'ints; we niver heeded thim. Degrees, an' 'poort' an' 'starboord '--t' hell wit' yer 'luffs' an' 'nae highers'!"

"Blimy!"

"Aye, blimy! An' I cud steer them as nate's ye like; but I'm no guid enough fur that swine o' a Mate, aft there!" He spat viciously. "'Nae higher,' sez he t' me. 'Nae higher, Sur,' says I, pitten' the wheel a bit doon. 'Up,' says he, 'up, blast ye! Ye're lettin 'r come up i' th' win',' says he. I pit th' ---- wheel up, keepin' ma 'ee on th' compass caird; but that wis a fau't tae.... 'Damn ye!' says he; 'keep yer 'ee on th' to'gallan' leaches,' ... 'Whaur's that?' sez I. 'Oh, holy smoke!' sez he. 'Whit hiv we got here?' An' he cam' ower and hut me a kick, an' shouts fur anither haun' t' th' wheel! ... By ----" mumbling a vicious formula, eyes darkening angrily as he looked aft at the misty figure on the poop.

Cockney looked at him curiously.

"Wot boats 'ave ye bin in, anyway?" he said. "Them boats wot ye never steered by th' win' before?"

"---- fine boats! A ban' sicht better nor this bluidy ould wreck. Boats wi' a guid gaun screw at th' stern av thim! Steamers, av coorse! This is th' furst bluidy win'-jammer I hae been in, an' by ---- it'll be th' last! An' that Mate! Him! ... Oh! If I only hid 'm in Rue-en' Street ... wi' ma crood aboot,"--kicking savagely at a coil of rope--"he widna be sae smert wi' 'is fit! Goad, no!"

"Ye' fust win'-jammer, eh?" said Cockney pleasantly. "Oh well--ye'll l'arn a lot! Blimy, ye'll l'arn a lot before ye sees Rue-hend Street again. An' look 'ere!"--as if it were a small matter--"if ye cawn't steer th' bloomin' ship afore we clears th' bloomin' Channel, ye kin count _hon_ me fer a bloomin' good 'idin'! I ain't agoin' t' take no other bloomin' bloke's w'eel! Not much, I ain't!"

"Nor me!" "Nor me!" said the others, and Wee Laughlin, looking round at the ring of threatening faces, realised that he was up against a greater power than the Officer tramping the poop beyond.

"Wull ye no'?" he said, spitting with a great show of bravery. "Wull ye no'? Mebbe I'll hae sumthin' t' say aboot th' hidin'.... An' ye'll hae twa av us tae hide whin ye're a' it. I'm nut th' only yin. There's the Hielan'man ... him wi' th' fush scales on's oilskins. He nivvir wis in a win'-jammer afore, he telt me; an'----"

"An' whaat eef I nefer wass in a win'-chammer pefore?" M'Innes, quick to anger, added another lowering face to the group. "Wait you till I am sent awaay from th' wheel ... an' thaat iss not yet, no! ... Hielan'man? ... Hielan'man? ... Tamm you, I wass steerin' by th' win' pefore you wass porn, aye! ... An' aal t' time you wass in chail, yess!"

In the face of further enmity, Wee Laughlin said no more, preferring to gaze darkly at the unknowing Mate, while his lips made strange formations--excess of thought! The others, with a few further threats--a word or two about 'hoodlums' and 'them wot signed for a man's wage, an' couldn't do a man's work'--returned to their short dog-watch pacings, two and two, talking together of former voyages and the way of things on their last ships.

We were in the North Channel, one day out, with the Mull of Cantyre just lost to view. The light wind that had carried us out to the Firth had worked to the westward, to rain and misty weather, and all day we had been working ship in sight of the Irish coast, making little headway against the wind. It was dreary work, this laggard setting out--hanging about the land, tack and tack, instead of trimming yards to a run down Channel. Out on the open sea we could perforce be philosophic, and talk of 'the more days, the more dollars'; but here in crowded waters, with the high crown of Innistrahull mocking at our efforts, it was difficult not to think of the goodness of a shore life. As the close of each watch came round the same spirit of discontent prompted the question of the relief, officer or man. On the poop it was, "Well, Mister! How's her head now? Any sign of a slant?" On the foredeck, "'Ere! Wot th' 'ell 'ave ye bin doin' with 'er? Got th' bloomin' anchor down or wot?"

At nightfall the rain came down heavily before fitful bursts of chill wind. Ours was the first watch, and tramping the deck in stiff, new oilskins, we grumbled loudly at the ill-luck that kept us marking time.

"I wonder w'y th' Old Man don't put abaht an' run dahn th' Gawges Channel. Wot's 'e 'angin' abaht 'ere for, hanyw'y? Wot does 'e expeck?" said Cockney, himself a 'navigator'--by his way of it.

"Oh, shift o' wind, or something," said I. "I was aft at th' binnacles an' heard him talkin' t' th' Mate about it. Says th' wind 'll back t' th' south'ard if th' barometer don't rise. Told the Mate to call him if the glass went up before twelve. I see old 'Steady-all'" (we are one day out, but all properly named) "popping up and down the cabin stairs. He'll be building a reef of burnt matches round the barometers before that fair wind comes."

"Sout' vass fair vind, ass ve goes now, aind't id?" asked Dutch John, a pleasant-faced North German.

"Fair wind? 'Oo th' 'ell's talkin' 'bout fair win's, an' that Shmit at th' w'eel? 'Ow d'ye expeck a fair win' with a Finn--a bloody Rooshian Finn's a-steerin' ov 'er?" Martin, a tough old sea-dog, with years of service, claimed a hearing.

"No, an' we won't 'ave no fair win' till a lucky steers 'er! Ain't much that way myself--me bein' a Liverpool man--but there's Collins there--the nigger.... Niggers is lucky, an' West-country-men, an' South of Ireland men--if they ain't got black 'air--but Finns! Finns is the wu'st o' bloody bad luck! ... Knowed a Finn onst wot raised an 'owlin' gale agin us, just a-cos th' Ol' Man called 'im a cross-eyed son ef a gun fur breakin' th' p'int ov a marlinspike! Raised an 'owlin' gale, 'e did! No, no! Ye won't 'ave no fair win' till a lucky man goes aft. 'Ere, Collins! Your nex' w'eel, ain't it?"

Collins grinned an affirmative.

"Right-o! Well, young fellers, ye kin spit on yer 'an's fur squarin' them yards somewheres between four an' eight bells. Nuthin' like a nigger for bringin' fair win's.... An' 'e's a speshul kind o' nigger, too.... Nova Scotiaman, Pictou way ... talks the same lingo as th' 'ilandman ... 'im on th' look-out, there."

"Not the Gaelic, surely?" said I.

"Aye, Gaelic. That's it. They speak that lingo out there, black an' w'ite. Knowed lots o' niggers wot spoke it ... an' chows too!"

I turned to Collins--a broad, black nigger with thick lips, woolly hair, white, gleaming teeth--the type! He grinned.

"Oh yass," he said. "Dat's ri'! Dey speak de Gaelic dere--dem bluenose Scotchmen, an' Ah larn it when Ah wass small boy. Ah doan' know much now ... forgot it mos' ... but Ah know 'nuff t' ask dat boy Munro how de wass. _Hoo! Ho!! Hoo!!!_ 'Cia mar tha thu nis,' Ah says, an' he got so fright', he doan' be seasick no mo'!"

A wondrous cure!

At ten Collins relieved the wheel and we looked for the shift that old Martin had promised, but there was no sign of it--no lift to the misty horizon, no lessening in the strength of the squalls, now heavy with a smashing of bitter sleet. Bunched up against the helm, a mass of oilskins glistening in the compass light, our 'lucky man' scarce seemed to be doing anything but cower from the weather. Only the great eyes of him, peering aloft from under the peak of his sou'wester, showed that the man was awake; and the ready turns of the helm, that brought a steering tremor to the weather leaches, marked him a cunning steersman, whichever way his luck lay.

Six bells struck, the Mate stepped below to the barometers, and a gruff "Up! up!" (his way of a whisper) accompanied the tapping of the aneroid. There he found encouragement and soon had the Old Man on deck, peering with him in the wind's eye at the brightening glare of Innistrahull Light out in the west.

"Clearing, eh? And the glass risin'," said the Old Man. "Looks like nor'-west! Round she goes, Mister: we'll lose no more time. Stan' by t' wear ship!"

"Aye, aye, Sir! Stan' by t' square mainyards, the watch, there!"

Shouting as he left the poop, the Mate mustered his men at the braces.

"Square mainyards! That's th' talk," said old Martin, throwing the coils down with a swing. "Didn't Ah tell ye it wos a nigger as'd bring a fair win'!"

"But it ain't fair yet," said I. "Wind's west as ever it was; only th' Old Man's made up his mind t' run her down th' George's Channel. Might ha' done that four hours ago!"

"Wot's th' use o' talkin' like that? 'Ow th' 'ell could 'e make up 'is min' wi' a Rooshian Finn at th' w'eel, eh? Don't tell me! Ah knows as niggers is lucky an' Finns ain't; an' don't ye give me none o' yer bloody sass, young feller, cos ..." ("Haul away mainyards, there!") ... "_Ho! ... io ... io...._ Ho! round 'em in, me sons. ... _Ho! ... io ... io...._ Twenty days t' th' Line, boys! ... _Ho ... io ... ho!_"

A hard case, Martin!

Turning on heel, we left Innistrahull to fade away on the quarter, and, under the freshening breeze, made gallant steering for the nigger. This was more like the proper way to go to sea, and when eight bells clanged we called the other watch with a rousing shout.

"Out, ye bloomin' Jonahs! Turn out, and see what the port watch can do for ye. A fair wind down Channel, boys! Come on! Turn out, ye hungry Jonahs, and coil down for your betters!"

* * * * *

After two days of keen sailing, running through the Channel traffic, we reached the edge of soundings. The nor'-west breeze still held, though blowing light, and under a spread of canvas we were leaning away to the south'ard on a course for the Line Crossing. We sighted a large steamer coming in from the west, and the Old Man, glad of a chance to be reported, hauled up to 'speak' her. In hoists of gaily coloured bunting we told our name and destination, and a wisp of red and white at the liner's mast acknowledged our message. As she sped past she flew a cheering signal to wish us a 'pleasant voyage,' and then lowered her ensign to ours as a parting salute.

"Keep her off to her course again--sou'-west, half south!" ordered the Old Man when the last signal had been made.

"Aff tae her coorse ag'in, Sur! Sou'-west, hauf south, Sur!"

At sound of the steersman's answer I turned from my job at the signal locker. Wee Laughlin, eyes on the weather clew of the royals, was learning!

III

THE WAY OF THE HALF-DECK

The guttering lamp gave little light in the half-deck; its trimming had been neglected on this day of storm, so we sat in semi-gloom listening to the thunder of seas outside. On the grimy deal table lay the remains of our supper--crumbs of broken sea-biscuits, a scrap of greasy salt horse, dirty plates and pannikins, a fork stabbed into the deal to hold the lot from rolling, and an overturned hook-pot that rattled from side to side at each lurch of the ship, the dregs of the tea it had held dripping to the weltering floor. For once in a way we were miserably silent. We sat dourly together, as cheerless a quartette as ever passed watch below. "Who wouldn't sell his farm and go to sea?" asked Hansen, throwing off his damp jacket and boots and turning into his bunk. "'A life on th' ocean wave,' eh? Egad! here's one who wishes he had learned to drive a wagon!"

"And another," said Eccles. "That--or selling matches on th' highway! ... Come on, Kid! Get a move on ye and clear away! ... And mind ye jamm the gear off in the locker. No more o' these tricks like ye did in Channel--emptyin' half the bloomin' whack into th' scupper! You jamm the gear off proper, or I'll lick ye!"

Young Munro, the 'peggy' of our watch, swallowed hard and set about his bidding. His small features were pinched and drawn, and a ghastly pallor showed that a second attack of sea-sickness was not far off. He staggered over to the table and made a half-hearted attempt to put the gear away,

"What's th' matter with ye?" said Eccles roughly. "Ye've been long enough away from ye'r mammy t' be able t' keep ye'r feet. A fortnight at sea, an' still comin' th' 'Gentle Annie'! You look sharp now, an' don't----"

"Eccles!"

"Eh?"

"You let the Kid alone," said Hansen in a dreamy, half-sleepy tone. "You let the Kid alone, or I'll twist your damn neck! Time enough for you to start chinnin' when your elders are out o' sight. You shut up!"

"Oh, all right! Ye needn't get ratty. If you want t' pamper the bloomin' Kid, it's none of my business, I s'pose.... All the same, you took jolly good care I did _my_ 'peggy' last voyage! There was no pamperin' that I remember!"

"Different!" said Hansen, still in the same sleepy tone. "Different! You were always big enough an' ugly enough t' stand the racket. You leave the Kid alone!"

Eccles turned away to his bunk and, seeking his pipe, struck match after match in a vain attempt to light the damp tobacco. Now and then the ship would falter in her swing--an ominous moment of silence and steadiness--before the shock of a big sea sent her reeling again. The crazy old half-deck rocked and groaned at the battery as the sea ran aft, and a spurt of green water came from under the covering board. Some of the sea-chests worked out of the lashings and rattled down to leeward. Eccles and I triced them up, then stowed the supper gear in the locker.

"A few more big 'uns like that," said I, "and this rotten old house 'll go a-voyagin'! ... Wonder it has stood so long."

"Do ye think there's danger?" asked the Kid, in a falter, and turning terrified eyes on one after another.

"Course," said Hansen--we had thought him asleep--"course there is! That's what ye came here for, isn't it? This is when th' hero stands on th' weather taffrail, graspin' th' tautened backst'y an' hurlin' defiance at th' mighty elements--'Nick Carter,' chap. one!"

Eccles and I grinned. Munro took heart.

"Danger," still the drowsy tone, "I should think there is! Why, any one o' these seas might sweep the harness-cask and t'morrow's dinner overboard! Any one of 'em might----"

The door swung to with a crash, a blast of chill wind and rain blew in on us, the lamp flickered and flared, a dripping oilskin-clad figure clambered over the washboard.

"Door! door!" we yelled as he fumbled awkwardly with the handle.

"Oh, shut up! Ye'd think it was the swing-door of a pub. t' hear ye shouting!" He pulled heavily, and the broken-hinged baulk slammed into place. It was Jones, of the other watch, come in to turn us out.

"Well, I'm hanged!" He looked around the house--at the litter on the floor, at the spurting water that lashed across with the lurch of her. "Why don't some of ye bale the place out 'stead of standing by t' shout 'Door, door!' when there's no need? Damn! Look at that!" She lurched again. A foot or more of broken water dashed from side to side, carrying odds of loose gear with it. "Egad! The port watch for lazy sojers--every time! Why don't ye turn to an' dry the half-deck out? Oh no; not your way! It's 'Damn you, Jack--I'm all right!' with you chaps. Goin' on deck again soon, eh? Why should ye dry up for the other watch, eh? ... Oh! all right. Just you----"

"Oh, dry up yourself, Jones!" Hansen sat up in his bunk and turned his legs out. "What you making all the noise about? We've been balin' and balin', and it's no use! No use at all ... with that covering board working loose and the planks opening out at every roll.... What's up, anyway? ... All hands, eh?"

"Yes. 'All hands wear ship' at eight bells! We've just set the fore lower tops'l. Think we must be getting near the Western Islands by the way th' Old Man's poppin' up and down. It's pipin' outside! Blowin' harder than ever, and that last big sea stove in the weather side of the galley. The watch are at it now, planking up and that.... Well, I'm off! Ye've quarter an hour t' get your gear on. Lively, now! ..." At the door he turned, eyeing the floor, now awash. "Look here, young 'un"--to poor, woebegone Munro--"the Mate says you're not to come on deck. You stay here and bale up, an' if the damn place isn't dry when we come below I'll hide the life out o' ye! ... Oh, it's no use screwin' your face up. 'Cry baby' business is no good aboard a packet! You buck up an' bale the house ... or ... look out!" He heaved at the door, sprawled over, and floundered out into the black night.

Munro turned a white, despairing face on us elders. We had no support for him. Hansen was fumbling with his belt. I was drawing on my long boots. Both of us seemed not to have heard. This was the way of the half-deck. With Eccles it had been different. He was only a second voyager, a dog-watch at sea--almost a 'greenhorn.' There was time enough for him to 'chew the rag' when he had got the length of keeping a regular 'wheel and look out.' Besides, it was a 'breach' for him to start bossing about when there were two of his elders in the house. We could fix him all right!

Ah! But Jones! ... It was not that we were afraid of him. Either of us would have plugged him one at the word 'Go!' if it had been a straight affair between us. But this was no business of ours. Jones was almost a man. In a month or two his time would be out. There could be no interference, not a word could be said; it was--the way of the half-deck.

Swaying, sailor-like, on the reeling deck, we drew on our oilskins and sea-boots, buckled our belts, tied down the flaps of our sou'westers, and made ready. While we were at it Munro started on his task. He filled the big bucket, dragged it half-way to the door, then sat down heavily with a low cry of dismay.

"What's the matter, Kid, eh?" said Hansen kindly. "Got the blues, eh? Buck up, man! Blue's a rotten colour aboard ship! Here, hand me the bucket!"

He gripped the handle, stood listening for a chance, then swung the door out an inch or two, and tipped the bucket.

"It ... it's ... not ... that," said the youngster. "It's ... s-s-staying in here w-when you fellows are on d-deck! ... Ye ... s-said th' house m-might go ... any time! ... Let me come!..."

"No, no! Th' Mate said you weren't t' come on deck! You stay here! You'd only be in th' way! You'll be all right here; the rotten old box 'll stand a few gales yet! ... What's that?"

Above the shrilling of the gale we heard the Mate's bull roar: "All ... hands ... wear ... ship!"

We took our chance, swung the door to, and dashed out. Dismayed for a moment--the sudden change from light to utter darkness--we brought up, grasping the life-lines in the waist, and swaying to meet the wild lurches of the ship. As our eyes sobered to the murk we saw the lift of the huge seas that thundered down the wind. No glint of moon or star broke through the mass of driving cloud that blackened the sky to windward; only when the gleam of a breaking crest spread out could we mark the depth to which we drove, or the height when we topped a wall of foaming water. The old barque was labouring heavily, reeling to it, the decks awash to our knees. Only the lower tops'ls and a stays'l were set; small canvas, but spread enough to keep her head at the right angle as wave after wave swept under or all but over her. "Stations!" we heard the Mate calling from his post at the lee fore braces. "Lay along here! Port watch, forrard!"

We floundered through the swirl of water that brimmed the decks and took our places. Aft, we could see the other watch standing by at the main. Good! It would be a quick job, soon over! The Old Man was at the weather gangway, conning the ship and waiting for a chance. Below him, all hands stood at his orders--twenty-three lives were in his keeping at the moment; but there was no thought of that--we knew our Old Jock, we boasted of his sea cunning. At length the chance came; a patch of lesser violence after a big sea had been met and surmounted. The sure, steady eye marked the next heavy roller. There was time and distance! ... "Helm up, there!" (Old Jock for a voice!)