Great Sea Stories Part 26

The Germans spurted.

We yelled encouragement to the Rhonddas. "Give 'em beans, old sons! . . ."

"_Rhondda_! _Rhondda_! . . . Shake 'er up" Gallantly the white boat strove to keep her place, but the greens were too strong. With a rush, they took the lead and held it to the finish, though two lengths from the line their stroke faltered, the swing was gone, and they were dabbling feebly when the shot rang out.

"A grand race," said every one around. "A grand race"--but old Burke had something to say when he steamed up to put our c.o.x'n among us.

"Byes, byes," he said, "if there had been twinty yards more the _Rhondda_ would have won. Now d'ye moind, Takia, ye divil . . . d'ye moind! Keep th' byes in hand till I give ye th' wurrd! . . . An' whin ye get th' wurrd, byes! . . . Oh, Saints! Shake her up when ye get th' wurrd!"

The third heat was closely contested. All three boats, two Liverpool barques and a Nova Scotiaman, came on steadily together. A clean race, rowed from start to finish, and the _Tuebrook_ winning by a short length.

The afternoon was well spent when we stripped for the final, and took up our positions on the line. How big and muscular the Germans looked!

How well the green boat sat the water! With what inward quakings we noted the clean fine lines of stem and stern! . . . Of the _Tuebrook_ we had no fear. We knew they could never stand the pace the Germans would set. Could we?

Old Burke, though in a fever of excitement when we came to the line, had little to say. "Keep the byes in hand, Takia--till ye get th'

wurrd," was all he muttered. We swung our oar-blades forward.

"Ready?" The starter challenged us.

Suddenly Takia yelped! We struck and lay back as the shot rang out! A stroke gained! Takia had taken the flash; the others the report!

The j.a.p's clever start gave us confidence and a lead. Big Jones at stroke worked us up to better the advantage. The green boat sheered a little, then steadied and came on, keeping to us, though nearly a length astern. The _Tuebrook_ had made a bad start, but was thrashing away pluckily in the rear.

So we hammered at it for a third of the course, when Takia took charge.

Since his famous start he had left us to take stroke as Jones pressed us, but now he saw signs of the waver that comes after the first furious burst--shifting grip or change of foothold.

"'_Trok_!--'_trok_!--'_trok_!" he muttered, and steadied the pace.

"'_Troke_!--'_troke_!--'_troke_!" in monotone, good for soothing tension.

Past midway the green boat came away. The ring of the German's rowlocks rose to treble pitch. Slowly they drew up, working at top speed. Now they were level--level! and Takia still droning "'_troke_!--'_troke_!--'_troke_!"--as if the lead was ours!

Wild outcry came from the crowd as the green boat forged ahead! Deep roars from Schenke somewhere in the rear! Now, labouring still to Takia's '_troke_!--'_troke_! we had the foam of the German's stern wash at our blades! "Come away, _Hilda's_!" . . . "_Shake her up, there_!" . . . "_Hilda-h_! _Hilda-h_!"--Takia took no outward heed of the cries. He was staring stolidly ahead, bending to the pulse of the boat. No outward heed--but '_troke_!--'_troke_! came faster from his lips. We strained, almost holding the Germans' ensign at level with our bow pennant.

Loud over the wild yells of the crowd we heard the voice we knew--old Burke's bull-roar: "Let 'er rip, Taki'! Let 'er rip, bye!"

Takia's eyes gleamed as he sped us up--up--up! '_Troke_ became a yelp like a wounded dog's. He crouched, standing, in the sternsheets, and lashed us up to a furious thrash of oars! Still quicker! . . . The eyes of him glared at each of us, as if daring us to fail! The yelp became a scream as we drew level--the Germans still at top speed.

"_Up_! _Up_! _Up_!" yells Takia, little yellow devil with a white froth at his lips! "_Up_! _Up_! _Up_!" swaying unsteadily to meet the furious urging.

The ring of the German rowlocks deepens--deepens--we see the green bow at our blades again. Her number two falters--jars--recovers again--and pulls stubbornly on. Their "shot" is fired! They can do no more!

Done!

And so are we! Takia drops the yoke ropes and leans forward on the gunwale! Oars jar together! Big Jones bends forward with his mouth wide--wide! Done!

But not before a hush--a solitary pistol shot--then roar of voices and shrilling of steamer syrens tell us that the Cup is ours!

IV

A month later there was a stir in the western seaports. No longer the ships lay swinging idly at their moorings. The harvest of grain was ready for the carriers, and every day sail was spread to the free wind outside the Golden Gates, and laden ships went speeding on their homeward voyages. The days of boat-races and pleasant time-pa.s.sing harbour jobs were gone; it was now work--work--to get the ship ready for her burden, and, swaying the great sails aloft, to rig harness for the power that was to bear us home. From early morning till late evening we were kept hard at it; for Captain Burke and the mate were as keen on getting the _Hilda_ to sea after her long stay in port as they were on jockeying us up to win the Cup. Often, when we turned to in the morning, we would find a new shipmate ready to bear a hand with us.

The old man believed in picking up a likely man when he offered. Long experience of Pacific ports had taught him how difficult it is to get a crew at the last moment.

So when at length the cargo was stowed, we were quite ready to go to sea, while many others--the _Hedwig Rickmers_ among them--were waiting for men.

On the day before sailing a number of the ship captains were gathered together in the chandler's store, talking of freights and pa.s.sages, and speculating on the runs they hoped to make. Burke and Schencke were the loudest talkers, for we were both bound to Falmouth "for orders,"

and the _Rickmers_ would probably sail three days after we had gone.

"Vat 'bout dot bett you make mit me, Cabtin?" said Schenke. "Dot is all recht, no?"

"Oh, yess," answered the old man, but without enthusiasm. "That stands."

"Hoo! Hoo! Hoo! Tventig dollars to feefty--dot you goes home quicker as me, no?" Schencke turned to the other men. "Vat you tinks, yenthelmen? Ah tinks Ah sbend der tventig dollars now--so sure Ah va.s.s."

The others laughed. "Man, man," said Findlayson of the _Rhondda_.

"You don't tell me Burke's been fool enough to take that bet. Hoo!

You haven't the ghost of a chance, Burke."

"Och, ye never know," said the now doleful sportsman. "Ye never know ye're luck."

"Look here, Cabtin," said Schencke (good-humoured by the unspoken tribute to his vessel's sailing powers)--"Ah gif you a chanst. Ah make de bett dis vay--look. Ve goes to Falmouth--you _und_ me, _hein_?

Now, de first who comes on de sh.o.r.e vins de money. Dot vill gif you t'ree days' start, no?"

"That's more like it," said the other captains. "I wish you luck, Burke," said Findlayson. "Good luck--you'll need it too--if you are to be home before the big German."

So the bet was made.

At daybreak next morning we put out to sea. The good luck that the _Rhondda_ wished us came our way from the very first. When the tug left us we set sail to a fine fair wind, and soon were bowling along in style. We found the nor'-east Trades with little seeking; strong Trades, too, that lifted us to the Line almost before the harbour dust was blown from our masts and spars. There calms fell on us for a few days, but we drifted south in the right current, and in less than forty days had run into the "westerlies" and were bearing away for the Horn.

Old Burke was "cracking on" for all the _Hilda_ could carry canvas.

Every morning when he came on deck the first question to the mate would be: "Any ships in sight, mister?" . . . "Any ships astern," he meant, for his first glance was always to where the big green four-master might be expected to heave in sight. Then, when nothing was reported, he would begin his day-long strut up and down the p.o.o.p, whistling "Garryowen" and rubbing his hands.

Nor was the joy at our good progress his alone. We in the half-deck knew of the bet, and were keen that the ship which carried the Merchants' Cup should not be overhauled by the runner-up! We had made a fetish of the trophy so hardly won. The Cup itself was safely stowed in the ship's strong chest, but the old man had let us have custody of the flag. Big Jones had particular charge of it; and it had been a custom while in 'Frisco to exhibit it on the Sat.u.r.day nights to admiring and envious friends from other ships. This custom we continued when at sea. True, there were no visitors to set us up and swear what l.u.s.ty chaps we were, but we could frank one another and say, "If you hadn't done this or that, we would never have won the race."

On a breezy Sat.u.r.day evening we were busy at these rites. The _Hilda_ was doing well before a steady nor'-west wind, but the weather--though nothing misty--was dark as a pall. Thick clouds overcast the sky, and there seemed no dividing line between the darkling sea and the windy banks that shrouded the horizon. A dirty night was in prospect; the weather would thicken later; but that made the modest comforts of the half-deck seem more inviting by comparison; and we came together for our weekly "sing-song"--all but Gregson, whose turn it was to stand the lookout on the fo'c'sle-head.

The flag was brought out and hung up--Jones standing by to see that no pipe-lights were brought near--and we ranted at "Ye Mariners of England" till the mate sent word that further din would mean a "work-up" job for all of us.

Little we thought that we mariners would soon be facing dangers as great as any we so glibly sang about. Even as we sang, the _Hilda_ was speeding on a fatal course! Across her track the almost submerged hull of a derelict lay drifting. Black night veiled the danger from the keenest eyes.

A frenzied order from the p.o.o.p put a stunning period to our merriment.

"Helm up, f'r G.o.d's sake! . . . _Up_!--_oh G.o.d_!--_Up_! _Up_!" A furious impact dashed us to the deck. Staggering, bruised, and bleeding, we struggled to our feet. Outside the yells of fear-stricken men mingled with hoa.r.s.e orders, the crash of spars hurtling from aloft vied with the thunder of canvas, as the doomed barque swung round broadside to the wind and sea.

Even in that dread moment Jones had heed of his precious flag. As we flew to the door, he tore the flag down, stuffing it in his jumper as he joined us at the boats.

There was no time to hoist out the life-boats--it was pinnace and gig or nothing. Already the bows were low in the water. "She goes. She goes!" yelled some one. "Oh, Christ! She's going!"

We bore frantically on the tackles that linked the gig, swung her out, and lowered by the run; the mate had the pinnace in the water, men were swarming into her. As the gig struck water, the barque heeled to the rail awash. We crowded in, old Burke the last to leave her, and pushed off. Our once stately _Hilda_ reeled in a swirl of broken water, and the deep sea took her!

Sailor work! No more than ten minutes between "Ye Mariners" and the foundering of our barque!