The Brassbounder: A Tale of the Sea. David W. Bone

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ