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

and the workmen, humoured by the dockman's jest, give us a hoarse cheer as they scurry across the still moving bridge. In time-honoured fashion our Cockney humorist calls for, 'Three cheers f'r ol' Pier-'ead, boys,' and such of the 'boys' as are able chant a feeble echo to his shout. The tugs straighten us up in the river, and we breast the flood cautiously, for the mist has not yet cleared and the coasting skippers are taking risks to get to their berths before the stevedores have picked their men. In the shipyards workmen are beginning their day's toil, the lowe of their flares light up the gaunt structures of ships to be. Sharp at the last wailing note of the whistle, the din of strenuous work begins, and we are fittingly drummed down the reaches to a merry tune of clanging hammers—the shipyard chorus "Let Glasgow flourish!"

      Dawn finds us off Bowling, and as the fog clears gives us misty views of the Kilpatrick Hills. Ahead, Dumbarton Rock looms up, gaunt and misty, sentinel o'er the lesser heights. South, the Renfrew shore stretches broadly out under the brightening sky—the wooded Elderslie slopes and distant hills, and, nearer, the shoal ground behind the lang Dyke where screaming gulls circle and wheel. The setting out is none so ill now, with God's good daylight broad over all, and the flags flying—the 'Blue Peter' fluttering its message at the fore.

      On the poop, the Captain (the 'Old Man,' be he twenty-one or fifty) paces to and fro—a short sailor walk, with a pause now and then to mark the steering or pass a word with the River Pilot. Of medium height, though broad to the point of ungainliness, Old Jock Leish (in his ill-fitting broadcloth shore-clothes) might have passed for a prosperous farmer, but it needed only a glance at the keen grey eyes peering from beneath bushy eyebrows, the determined set of a square lower jaw, to note a man of action, accustomed to command. A quick, alert turn of the head, the lift of shoulders as he walked—arms swinging in seaman-like balance—and the trick of pausing at a windward turn to glance at the weather sky, marked the sailing shipmaster—the man to whom thought and action must be as one.

      Pausing at the binnacle to note the direction of the wind, he gives an exclamation of disgust.

      "A 'dead muzzler,' Pilot. No sign o' a slant in the trend o' th' upper clouds. Sou'west, outside, I'm afraid.... Mebbe it's just as weel; we'll have t' bring up at th' Tail o' th' Bank, anyway, for these three hands, damn them.... An' th' rest are useless.... Drunk t' a man, th' Mate says. God! They'd better sober up soon, or we'll have to try 'Yankee music' t' get things shipshape!"

      The Pilot laughed. "I thought the 'Yankee touch' was done with at sea now," he said. "Merchant Shippin' Act, and that sort of thing, Captain?"

      "Goad, no! It's no bye wi' yet, an' never will be as long as work has to be done at sea. I never was much taken with it myself, but, damn it, ye've got to sail the ship, and ye can't do it without hands. Oh, a little of it at the setting off does no harm—they forget all about it before long; but at the end of a voyage, when ye're getting near port, it's not very wise. No, not very wise—an' besides, you don't need it!"

      The Pilot grins again, thinking maybe of his own experiences, before he 'swallowed part of the anchor,' and Old Jock returns to his walk.

      Overhead the masts and spars are black with the grime of a 'voyage' in Glasgow Harbour, and 'Irish pennants' fluttering wildly on spar and rigging tell of the scamped work of those whose names are not on our 'Articles.' Sternly superintended (now that the Mate has given up all hope of getting work out of the men), we elder boys are held aloft, reeving running gear through the leads in the maintop. On the deck below the new apprentices gaze in open-mouthed admiration at our deeds: they wonder why the Mate should think such clever fellows laggard, why he should curse us for clumsy 'sodgers,' as a long length of rope goes (wrongly led) through the top. In a few months more they themselves will be criticising the 'hoodlums,' and discussing the wisdom of the 'Old Man' in standing so far to the south'ard.

      Fog comes dense on us at Port Glasgow, and incoming steamers, looming large on the narrowed horizon, steer sharply to the south to give us water. Enveloped in the driving wraiths we hear the deep notes of moving vessels, the clatter of bells on ships at anchor, and farther down, loud over all, the siren at the Cloch, bellowing a warning of thick weather beyond the Point. Sheering cautiously out of the fairway, we come to anchor at Tail of the Bank to wait for our 'pier-head jumps.' At four in the afternoon, a launch comes off with our recruits and our whipper-in explains his apparent delay.

      "Hilt nor hair o' th' men that left ye hae I seen. I thocht I'd fin' them at 'Dirty Dick's' when th' pubs opened ... but no, no' a sign: an' a wheen tailor buddies wha cashed their advance notes huntin' high an' low! I seen yin o' them ower by M'Lean Street wi' a nicht polis wi 'm t' see he didna get a heid pit on 'm!—'sss! A pant! So I cam' doon here, an' I hiv been lookin' for sailormen sin' ten o'clock. Man, they'll no' gang in thae wind-jammers, wi' sae mony new steamers speirin' hauns, an' new boats giein' twa ten fur th' run tae London.... Thir's th' only yins I can get, an' ye wadna get them, but that twa's feart o' th' polis an' Jorgensen wants t' see th' month's advance o' th' lang yin!"

      The Captain eyes the men and demands of one:

      "Been to sea before?"

      "Nach robh mhi? Twa years I wass a 'bow rope' in the I-on-a, an' I wass a wheelhouse in the Allan Line."

      A glance at his discharges confirms his claim, slight as it is, to seamanship, and Duncan M'Innes, of Sleat, in Skye, after being cautioned as to his obligations, signs his name and goes forward.

      Patrick Laughlin has considerable difficulty in explaining his absence from the sea for two years, but the Captain, after listening to a long, rambling statement... "i' th' yairds ... riggin' planks fur th' rivitter boys.... Guid-brither a gaffer in Hamilton's, at the 'Poort' ... shoart time" ... gives a quick glance at the alleged seaman's cropped head and winks solemnly at the Shipping-master, who is signing the men on. Hands being so scarce, however, Patrick is allowed to touch the pen.

      One glance at the third suffices. Blue eyes and light colourless hair, high cheek-bones and lithe limbs, mark the Scandinavian. Strong, wiry fingers and an indescribable something proclaim the sailor, and though Von Shmit can hardly say 'yes' in English, he looks the most likely man of the three.

      The Shipping-master, having concluded his business, steps aboard his launch, leaving us with a full crew, to wait the weather clearing, and the fair wind that would lift us down Channel.

      Daybreak next morning shows promise of better weather, and a light S.S.E. wind with a comparatively clear sky decides the Old Man to take the North Channel for it. As soon as there is light enough to mark their colours, a string of flags brings off our tug-boat from Princes Pier, and we start to heave up the anchor. A stout coloured man sets up a 'chantey' in a very creditable baritone, and the crew, sobered now by the snell morning air, give sheet to the chorus.

      'Blow, boy-s, blow,—for Califor-ny, oh! For there's lot's of gold, so I've been told, On the banks—of Sa-cramen-to!'

      The towing-hawser is passed aboard, and the tug takes the weight off the cable. The nigger having reeled off all he knows of 'Californy,' a Dutchman sings lustily of 'Sally Brown.' Soon the Mate reports, "Anchor's short, Sir," and gets the order to weigh. A few more powerful heaves with the seaman-like poise between each—"Spent my mo-ney on Sa-lley Brown!"—and the shout comes, "Anchor's a-weigh!"

      Down comes the Blue Peter from the fore, whipping at shroud and backstay in quick descent—our barque rides ground-free, the voyage begun!

      The light is broad over all now, and the Highland hills loom dark and misty to the norr'ard. With a catch at the heart, we pass the well-known places, slowly making way, as if the flood-tide were striving still to hold us in our native waters. A Customs boat hails, and asks of us, "Whither bound?" "'Frisco away!" we shout, and they wave us a brief God-speed. Rounding the Cloch, we meet the coasting steamers scurrying up the Firth.

      "'Ow'd ye like t' be a stiy-at-'ome, splashin' abaht in ten fathoms, like them blokes, eh?" the Cockney asks me, with a deep-water man's contempt in his tone.

      How indeed? Yearning eyes follow their glistening stern-wash as they speed past, hot-foot for the river berths.

      Tide