Rudyard Kipling : The Complete Novels and Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

to each plunge. Up and up the foc’sle climbed, yearning and surging and quivering, and then, with a clear, sickle-like swoop, came down into the seas. He could hear the flaring bows cut and squelch, and there was a pause ere the divided waters came down on the deck above, like a volley of buck-shot. Followed the woolly sound of the cable in the hawse-hole; a grunt and squeal of the windlass; a yaw, a punt, and a kick, and the We’re Here gathered herself together to repeat the motions.

      ‘Now, ashore,’ he heard Long Jack saying; ‘ye’ve chores, an’ ye must do thim in any weather. Here we’re well clear of the fleet, an’ we’ve no chores—an’ that’s a blessin’. Good-night, all.’ He passed like a big snake from the table to his bunk, and began to smoke. Tom Platt followed his example; Uncle Salters, with Penn, fought his way up the ladder to stand his watch, and the cook set for the ‘second half.’

      It came out of its bunks as the others had entered theirs, with a shake and a yawn. It ate till it could eat no more; and then Manuel filled his pipe with some terrible tobacco, crotched himself between the pawl-post and a forward bunk, cocked his feet up on the table, and smiled tender and indolent smiles at the smoke. Dan lay at length in his bunk, wrestling with a gaudy, gilt-stopped accordion, whose tunes went up and down with the pitching of the We’re Here. The cook, his shoulders against the locker, where he kept the fried pies (Dan was fond of fried pies), peeled potatoes, with one eye on the stove in event of too much water finding its way down the pipe; and the general smell and smother were past all description.

      Harvey considered affairs, wondered that he was not deathly sick, and crawled into his bunk again, as the softest and safest place, while Dan struck up ‘I don’t want to play in your yard,’ as accurately as the wild jerks allowed.

      ‘How long is this for?’ Harvey asked of Manuel.

      ‘Till she get a little quiet, and we can row to trawl. Perhaps to-night. Perhaps two days more. You do not like? Eh, wha-at?’

      ‘I should have been crazy sick a week ago, but it doesn’t seem to upset me now—much.’

      ‘That is because we make you fisherman, these days. If I was you, when I come to Gloucester, I would give two, three big candles for my good luck.’

      ‘Give who?’

      ‘To be sure—the Virgin of our Church on the Hill. She is very good to fishermen all the time. That is why so few of us Portugee men ever are drowned.’

      ‘You’re a Roman Catholic, then?’

      ‘I am a Madeira man. I am not a Porto Pico boy. Shall I be Baptist, then? Eh, wha-at? I always give candles—two, three more when I come to Gloucester. The good Virgin she never forgets me, Manuel.’

      ‘I don’t sense it that way,’ Tom Platt put in from his bunk; his scarred face lit up by the glare of a match as he sucked at his pipe. ‘It stands to reason the sea’s the sea; and you’ll git jest about what’s goin’, candles or kerosene, fer that matter.’

      ‘’Tis a mighty good thing,’ said Long Jack, ‘to have a frind at coort, though. I’m o’ Manuel’s way o’ thinkin’. About tin years back I was crew to a Sou’ Boston market-boat. We was off Minot’s Ledge wid a northeaster, butt first, atop of us, thicker’n burgoo. The ould man was dhrunk, his chin waggin’ on the tiller, an’ I sez to myself, “If iver I stick my boat-huk into T-wharf again, I’ll show the saints fwhat manner o’ craft they saved me out av.” Now, I’m here, as ye can well see, an’ the model of the dhirty ould Kathleen that took me a month to make, I gave ut to the priest, an’ he hung ut up forninst the altar. There’s more sense in givin’ a model that’s by way o’ bein’ a work av art than any candle. Ye can buy candles at store, but a model shows the good saints ye’ve tuk trouble an’ are grateful.’

      ‘D’you believe that, Irish?’ said Tom Platt, turning on his elbow.

      ‘Would I do ut if I did not, Ohio?’

      ‘Wa-al, Enoch Fuller he made a model o’ the old Ohio, and she’s to Salem museum now. Mighty pretty model, too, but I guess Enoch he never done it fer no sacrifice; an’ the way I take it is——’

      There were the makings of an hour-long discussion of the kind that fishermen love, where the talk runs in shouting circles, and no one proves anything at the end, had not Dan struck up this cheerful rhyme:

      ‘Up jumped the mackerel with his stripèd back.

      Reef in the mainsail and haul on the tack;

      For it’s windy weather——’

      Here Long Jack joined in.

      ‘And it’s blowy weather;

      When the winds begin to blow, pipe all hands together!’

      Dan went on, with a cautious look at Tom Platt, holding the accordion low in the bunk:

      ‘Up jumped the cod with his chuckle-head,

      Went to the main-chains to heave at the lead,

      For it’s windy weather,’ etc.

      Tom Platt seemed to be hunting for something. Dan crouched lower, but sang louder:

      ‘Up jumped the flounder that swims to the ground.

      Chuckle-head! Chuckle-head! Mind where ye sound!’

      Tom Platt’s huge rubber boot whirled across the foc’sle and caught Dan’s uplifted arm. There was war between the man and the boy ever since Dan had discovered that the mere whistling of that tune would make him angry as he heaved the lead.

      ‘Thought I’d fetch yer,’ said Dan, returning the gift with precision. ‘Ef you don’t like my music, git out your fiddle. I ain’t goin’ to lie here all day an’ listen to you an’ Long Jack arguin’ ’baout candles. Fiddle, Tom Platt; or I’ll learn Harve here the tune!’

      Tom Platt leaned down to a locker and brought up an old white fiddle. Manuel’s eye glistened, and from somewhere behind the pawl-post he drew out a tiny, guitar-like thing with wire strings, which he called a machette.

      ‘’Tis a concert,’ said Long Jack, beaming through the smoke. ‘A reg’lar Boston concert.’

      ‘’tis a concert,’ said long jack, beaming through the smoke. ‘a reg’lar boston concert.’

      There was a burst of spray as the hatch opened, and Disko, in yellow oilskins, descended.

      ‘Ye’re just in time, Disko. Fwhat’s she doin’ outside?’

      ‘Jest this!’ He dropped on to the lockers with the push and heave of the We’re Here.

      ‘We’re singin’ to kape our breakfasts down. Ye’ll lead, av course, Disko,’ said Long Jack.

      ‘Guess there ain’t more’n ’baout two old songs I know, an’ ye’ve heerd them both.’

      His excuses were cut short by Tom Platt launching into a most dolorous tune, like unto the moaning of winds and the creaking of masts. With his eyes fixed on the beams above, Disko began this ancient, ancient ditty, Tom Platt flourishing all round him to make the tune and words fit a little:

      ‘There is a crack packet—crack packet o’ fame,

      She hails from Noo York, an’ the Dreadnought’s her name,

      You may talk o’ your fliers—Swallow-tail and Black Ball—

      But the Dreadnought’s the packet that can beat them all.

      ‘Now the Dreadnought she lies in the River Mersey,

      Because of the tug-boat to take her to sea;

      But