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

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      "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!)

      Now her head paid off, and the order was given, 'Square mainyards!' Someone wailed a hauling cry and the great yards swung round, tops'l lifting to the quartering wind. As the wind drew aft she gathered weight and scudded before the gale. Seas raced up and crashed their bulk at us when, at the word, we strained together to drag the foreyards from the backstays. Now she rolled the rails under—green, solid seas to each staggering lift. At times it seemed as if we were all swept overboard there was no hold to the feet! We stamped and floundered to find a solid place to brace our feet and knees against; trailed out on the ropes—all afloat—when she scooped the ocean up, yet stood and hauled when the chance was ours. A back roll would come. "Hold all! ... Stand to it, sons! ..." With a jerk that seemed to tear at the limbs of us, the heavy yards would weigh against us. There was no pulling ... only "stand and hold" ... "hold hard." Then, to us again: "Hay ... o ... Ho.... Hay ... o! ... Round 'em in, boys! ..." Quick work, hand over hand, the blocks rattling cheerily as we ran in the slack.

      "Vast haulin' foreyards! Turn all and lay aft!" We belayed the ropes, and struggled aft to where the weaker watch were hauling manfully. The sea was now on the other quarter, and lashing over the top rail with great fury. Twice the Second Mate, who was 'tending the weather braces, was washed down among us, still holding by the ropes. "Haul awaay, lauds!" he would roar as he struggled back to his perilous post. "Haul, you!"

      We dragged the yards to a new tack; then to the fore, where again we stood the buffet till we had the ship in trim for heaving-to.

      "All hands off the deck!" roared the Mate when the headyards were steadied. "Lay aft, all hands!"

      Drenched and arm weary as we were, there was no tardiness in our scramble for safe quarters—some to the poop, some to the main rigging. We knew what would come when she rounded-to in a sea like that.

      "All ready, Sir," said the Mate when he came aft to report. "All hands are off the deck!"

      "Aye, aye!" Old Jock was peering out to windward, watching keenly for a chance to put his helm down. There was a perceptible lull in the wind, but the sea was high as ever. The heavy, racing clouds had broken in the zenith; there were rifts here and there through which shone fleeting gleams from the moon, lighting the furious ocean for a moment, then vanishing as the storm-wrack swept over.

      It seemed a long time before the Old Man saw the 'smooth' he was waiting for. A succession of big seas raced up, broke, and poured aboard: one, higher than all, swept by, sending her reeling to the trough. Now—the chance! "Ease th' helm down!" he shouted. "Stand by, all!" Her head swung steadily to windward, the steering way was well timed.

      Suddenly, as we on the poop watched ahead, a gleam of light shone on the wet decks. The half-deck door was swung out—a figure blocked the light, sprawling over the washboard—Munro! "Back!" we yelled. "Go back!"

      There was time enough, but the youngster, confused by the shouts, ran forward, then aft, bewildered.

      The ship was bearing up to the wind and sea. Already her head was driving down before the coming of the wave that was to check her way. In a moment it would be over us. The Mate leapt to the ladder, but, as he balanced, we saw one of the men in the main rigging slide down a backstay, drop heavily on deck, recover, and dash on towards the boy.

      Broad on the beam of her, the sea tore at us and brimmed the decks—a white-lashing fury of a sea, that swept fore and aft, then frothed in a whelming torrent to leeward.

      When we got forward through the wash of it, we found Jones crouching under the weather rail. One arm was jammed round the bulwark stanchion, the wrist stiffened and torn by the wrench, the other held the Kid—a limp, unconscious figure.

      "Carry him aft," said Jones. "I think ... he's ... all right ... only half drowned!" He swayed as he spoke, holding his hand to his head, gasping, and spitting out. "D-damn young swine! What ... he ... w-want t' come on deck f-for? T-told ... him t' ... s-stay below!"

IV

       Table of Contents

      THE 'DEAD HORSE'

      Fine weather, if hot as the breath of Hades, and the last dying airs of the nor'-east trades drifting us to the south'ard at a leisured three knots.

      From the first streak of daylight we had been hard at work finishing up the general overhaul cf gear and rigging that can only be done in the steady trade winds. Now it was over; we could step out aloft, sure of our foothold; all the treacherous ropes were safe in keeping of the 'shakin's cask,' and every block and runner was working smoothly, in readiness for the shifting winds of the doldrums that would soon be with us.

      The work done, bucket and spar were manned and, for the fourth time that day, the sun-scorched planks and gaping seams of the deck were sluiced down—a job at which we lingered, splashing the limpid water as fast the wetted planks steamed and dried again. A grateful coolness came with the westing of the tyrant sun, and when our miserable evening meal had been hurried through we sought the deck again, to sit under the cool draught of the foresail watching the brazen glow that attended the sun's setting, the glassy patches of windless sea, the faint ripples that now and then swept over the calm—the dying breath of a stout breeze that had lifted us from СКАЧАТЬ