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

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

       Table of Contents

      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,