The Brassbounder Part 16

"Aye ... all right," he said, feeling for his sea-boots. (South'ard of the 'forties' Old Jock slept 'all standing,' as we say.) .... "Thick, eh? ... Tell th' Mate t' keep th' horn goin'! ... A ship, ye say? ...

Running, eh? ... Aye! All right ... I'll be up...."

I had scarcely reached the p.o.o.p again before the Old Man was at my back. "Thick, b'Goad," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Man, man! Why was I not called before?"

The Mate muttered something about the mist having just closed in....

"Clear enough t' be goin' on before that," he said.

"Aye, aye! Where d'ye mak' this ship? Ye would see her before the mist cam' doon, eh?"

"Sound that horn, forrard there!" shouted the Mate, moving off to the gangway. "Keep that horn going, there!"

John pumped a stirring blast.... R-R-R-R-R-AH! ... R-R-R-R-R-AH! ...

R-R-R-R-R-AH!

We bent forward with ears strained to catch the distant note.

... _R-r-r-r-eh!_ ... At the first answering blast Old Jock raised his head, glancing fearfully round.... _R-r-r-r-eh! ... R-r-r-r----_ "Down h.e.l.lum! DOWN h.e.l.lUM! DOWN," he yelled, running aft to the wheel! "Haul yards forrard! Le'go port braces! Let 'm rip! Le'go an' haul! ... Quick, Mist'r! Christ! What ye standin' at? ...

Ice! Ice, ye bluidy eedi't! Ice! Th' echo! Let go! LE'GO AN' HAUL!

LE'GO!"

Ice! The Mate stood stupid for an instant--then jumped to the waist--to the brace pins--roaring hoa.r.s.e orders. "All hands on deck!

Haul away, there! All hands! On deck, men--for your lives!"

Ice! At the dread cry we ran to the ropes and tailed on with desperate energy! Ice! The watch below, part dressed, swarmed from house and fo'cas'le and hauled with us--a light of terror in their eyes--the terror that comes with stark reason--when the brain reels from restful stupor at a trumpet of alarms!

Ice! The decks, that so late had been quiet as the air about us, resounded to the din of sudden action! Yards swinging forward with a crash--blocks _whirring_--ropes hurtling from the pins--sails lifting and thrashing to the masts--shouts and cries from the swaying haulers at the ropes--hurried orders--and, loud over all, the raucous bellow of the fog-horn when Dago Joe, dismayed at the confusion, pumped furiously, _Ra! Ra! Ra! Ra! Ra!_

... _Reh! Reh! Reh! Reh! Reh!_ ... Note for note--the echo--out of the mist!

"Belay, all! Well, mainyards!" The order steadied us. We had time now to look! ... There was nothing in sight! ... No towering monster looming in our path--no breakers--no sea--no sky; nothing! Nothing but the misty wall that veiled our danger! The Unknown! The Unseen!

She was swinging slowly against the scend of the running swell--laying up to the wind. Martin had the wheel and was holding the helm down, his keen eyes watching for the lift that would mark the limit of steering-way. The Old Man stood by the compa.s.s, bending, peering, smiling--nosing at the keen air--his quick eyes searching the mist--ahead--abeam--astern.... Martin eased the helm; she lay quietly with sails edged to the wind, the long swell heaving at her--broadside on.

Suddenly a light grew out of the mist and spread out on both bows--a luminous sheen, low down on the narrowed sea-line! The 'ice-blink'!

Cold! White!

At the first glow the Old Man started--his lips framed to roar an order! ... No order came!

Quickly he saw the hopelessness of it; what was to happen was plain, inevitable! Broad along the beam, stretching out to leeward, the great dazzling 'ice-blink' warned him of a solid barrier, miles long, perhaps! The barque lay to the wind, at mercy of the swell, drifting dead to leeward at every heave! ... On the other tack, perhaps? There was a misty gap to the south of us; no 'ice-blink' there! ... If she could be put about? ... No, there was no chance! ... To gather speed to put her about he would have to bear off towards the brightening sheen! Already the roar of the swell, lashing at the base, was loud in our ears! ... There was no room! No sea-room to wear or stay!

"Embayed!" he said bitterly, turning his palms up! ... "All hands aft and swing th' port boat out!"

The port boat? The big boat? Had it come, so soon, to that? More than one of us cast an anxious look at the broad figure of our Master as we ran aft. He stood quite still, glaring out at the ice ring.

"This is it, eh!" he muttered, unheeding the stir and cries of us.

"This is it--after forty year!"

Madly we tore and knifed at the lashings, working to clear the big boat. She was turned down on the skids (the fashion of thrifty 'limejuicers'), bound and bolted to stand the heavy weather. We were handless, unnerved by the suddenness of it all, faulty at the task.

The roar of breaking water spurred us on.... A heave together! ....

Righted, we hooked the falls and swayed her up. The Mate looked aft for the word. "Aye," said the Old Man. "Oot wi' her, an' try tae tow th' heid roun'! On th' ither tack we micht----" He left the words unfinished! Well he knew we could never drag three thousand tons against that swell!

A wild outcry turns our eyes forward. Dago Joe (forgotten on the lookout) is running aft, his precious horn still slung from his shoulders. "_Arretto! Arretto! Arretto!_" He yells as he runs.

"_Arretto, Capitan!_" waving his arms and signing to the Old Man to stop the ship! Behind him, over the bows, we see the clear outline of a small berg--an outflung 'calf' of the main ice! There is no time!

Nothing can be done! Small as the berg is--not the height of our lower yards--it has weight enough to sink us, when aided by the heaving swell!

"Quick with th' boat, there," yells the Old Man! He runs over to the companion-way and dives below, jostling the Second Mate, who is staggering up under a weight of biscuit bags.

In a moment we have closed with the ice and are hammering and grinding at the sheer glistening wall. At the first impact the boom goes with a crash! Then fore-to'gallant mast--yards--sails--rigging--all hurtling to the head, driving the decks in! A shelf of solid ice, tons weight of it, crashes aboard and shatters the fore-hatch! Now there is a grind and scream of buckling iron, as the beams give to the strain--ring of stays and guy-ropes, parting at high tension--crash of splintering wood! The heaving monster draws off, reels, and comes at us again! Another blow and----

"'Vast lowering! Hold on! Hold on the boat there!" The Old Man, come on deck with his treasured papers, has seen more than the wreck of the head! He runs to the compa.s.s--a look--then casts his eyes aloft.

"Square mainyards!" His voice has the old confident ring: the ring we know. "Square main yards! ... A hand t' th' wheel!"

Doubting, we hang around the boat. She swings clear, all ready! The jar of a further blow sets us staggering for foothold! What chance?

... "A hand t' th' wheel, here," roars the Old Man. Martin looks up ... goes back to his post.

A man at the wheel again! No longer the fearful sight of the main post deserted; no longer the jar and rattle of a handless helm! Martin's action steadies us. What dread, when the oldest of us all stands there grasping the spokes, waiting the order? ... We leave the swinging boat and hurry to the braces!

A 'chance' has come! The power of gales long since blown out is working a way for us: the ghostly descendants of towering Cape Horn 'greybeards' have come to our aid!

As we struck, sidling on the bows, the swell has swept our stern round the berg. Now we are head to wind and the big foresail is flat against the mast, straining sternward!

It is broad day, and we see the 'calf' plainly as we drift under stern-way apart. The gap widens! A foot--a yard--an oar's-length!

Now the wind stirs the canvas on the main--a clew lifts--the tops'ls rustle and blow out, drawing finely! Her head still swings!

"Foreyards! Le'go an' haul!" roars the Old Man. We are stern on to the main ice. Already the swell--recurving from the sheer base--is hissing and breaking about us. There is little room for sternboard.

"Le'go an' haul!" We roar a heartening chorus as we drag the standing head yards in.

Slowly she brings up ... gathers way ... moves ahead! The 'calf' is dead to windward, the loom of the main ice astern and a-lee. The wind has strengthened: in parts the mist has cleared. Out to the south'ard a lift shows clear water. We are broad to the swell now, but sailing free as Martin keeps her off! From under the bows the broken boom (still tethered to us by stout guy-ropes) thunders and jars as we move through the water.

"Cut and clear away!" roars Old Jock. "Let her go!"

Aye, let her go! ... We are off ... crippled an' all ... out for open sea again!

XIX

IN LITTLE 'SCOTLAND'

It was to no purpose that Lloyds' agent pointed out the convenience and advantage of the inner port: it was as useless for the local pilot to look grave and recall dire happenings to Captains who had elected to effect their repairs in the outer harbour--just here, at Port William.

Old Jock's square jaw was set firm, his eyes were narrowed to a crafty leer; he looked on everyone with unconcealed suspicion and distrust.

He was a shipmaster of the old school, 'looking after his Owners'

interest.' He had put in 'in distress' to effect repairs.... He was being called upon to spend _money_!

"No, no!" he said to all their reasoning. "My anchor's doon, an' here I stoap! I've conseedered a' that ye've pit furrit! 'Convenience tae th' toon, if supplies are needit'? (I'll no' need that mony!) ... 'Nae distance tae bring th' workin' gang'? (I've a wheen men here mysel'!) ... 'Nae dues tae pay'? (We're jist as cheap here!) ... No, no, Maister Fordyce! Ye can jist mak' up yeer mind on that! We'll dae a'

th' repairs oot here! I'm no' comin' in!"