The Brassbounder Part 19

"As shair's daith, he's gotten his e'e on that fore-tops'l sheet. Ah telt ye; Ah telt ye!" Houston was looking aft. "Spit oan yer hauns, lauds! He's seen it. We're gaun tae ha'e anither bit prayer for th'

owners!"

The Mate had come off the p.o.o.p, and was standing amidships staring steadily aloft.

"Keep 'oor eyes off that tops'l sheet, I tell 'oo," said Welsh John angrily. "He can't see it unless he comes forra'd; if he sees 'oo lookin', it's forra'd he'll be, soon, indeed!"

There were perhaps a couple of links of slack in the tops'l sheet, a small matter, but quite enough to call for the watch tackle--on a Sunday. The crisis pa.s.sed; it was a small matter on the main that had called him down, and soon a 'prentice boy was mounting the rigging with ropeyarns in his hand, to tell the buntlines what he thought of them--and of the Mate.

Bo'sun Hicks was finishing off a pair of 'shackles,' sailor handles for Munro's sea-chest--a simple bit of recreation for a Sunday afternoon.

They were elaborate affairs of four stranded 'turks-heads' and double rose knots, and showed several distinct varieties of 'coach whipping.'

One that was finished was being pa.s.sed round an admiring circle of shipmates, and Hicks, working at the other, was feigning a great indifference to their criticisms of his work.

"Di--zy, Di--zy, gimme yer awnswer, do," he sang with feeling, as he twisted the pliant yarns.

"Mind ye, 'm not sayin' as them ain't fine shackles"--Granger was ever the one to strike a jarring note--"As fine a shackles as ever I see; but there was a Dutchman, wot I was shipmates with in th'

_Ruddy-mantus_, o' London, as _could_ turn 'em out! Wire 'earts, 'e made 'em, an' stuffin', an' made up o' round sinnet an' dimon'

'itchin'! Prime! W'y! Look a here! If ye was t' see one ov 'is shackles on th' hend ov a chest--all painted up an' smooth like--ye couldn't 'elp a liftin' ov it, jest t' try th' grip; an' it 'ud come nat'ral t' th' 'and, jes' like a good knife. Them wos shackles as 'e made, an'----"

"Ho, yus! Shackles, wos they? An' them ain't no shackles wot 'm a-finishin' of? No bloomin' fear! Them's garters f'r bally dancers, ain't they? Or nose rings for Sullimans, or ----, or ----. 'Ere!"

Hicks threw aside the unfinished shackle and advanced threateningly on his critic.

"'Ere! 'Oo th' 'ell are ye gettin' at, anywye? D'ye siy as I cawn't make as good a shackles as any bloomin' Dutchman wot ever said _yaw_ f'r yes? An' yer _Ruddy-mantus_, o' London? I knows yer _Ruddy-bloomin-mantus_, o' London! Never 'ad a sailorman acrost 'er fo'cas'le door! Men wot knowed their work wouldn't sail in 'er, anyhow, an' w'en she tided out at Gravesen', all th' stiffs out o' th'

'ard-up boardin'-'ouses wos windin' 'er bloomin' keeleg up!

_Ruddymantus_? 'Er wot 'ad a bow like the side o' 'n 'ouse--comin' up th' Mersey Channel a-shovin' th' sea afore 'er, an' makin' 'igh water at Liverpool two hours afore th' Halmanack! That's yer _Ruddy-mantus_!

An' wot th' 'ell d'you know 'bout sailorizin', anywye? Yer never wos in a proper ship till ye come 'ere, on a dead 'un's discharge, an' ye couldn't put dimon' 'itchin' on a broom 'andle, if it wos t' get ye a pension!"

Here was a break to our peaceful Sunday afternoon; nothing short of a round or two could set matters fair after such an insult to a man's last ship!

Someone tried to pacify the indignant bo'sun.

"'Ere, bo'sun! Wot's about it if 'e did know a blanky Dutchman wot made shackles? Them o' yourn's good enough. I don't see nuthin' th'

matter wi' them!"

"No--no! A-course ye don't, 'cos ye'r like that b----y Granger there, ye knows d.a.m.n all 'bout sailorizin' anywye! Didn't ye 'ear 'im say as I couldn't make shackles?"

A chorus of denials, a babel of confused explanation.

"A-course 'e did," shouted the maker of shackles. "'E sed as I didn't know 'ow t' work round sennit an' dimon' 'itchin', as I wos never in a proper ship afore, as 'e knowed a bloomin' Dutchman wot could make better shackles nor me; sed as 'ow my shackles worn't fit f'r a grip----"

"'Ere! 'Ere!! bo'sun--I never sed nuthin' ov th' kind!" The unfortunate Granger was bowing to the blast. "Wot I sed wos, 'ow them was good shackles; as fine a shackles as ever I see--an' I wos only tellin' my mates 'ere 'bout a Dutchman wot was in th' _Ruddymanthus_ along o' me as could make 'em as smooth to the 'and----"

"An' wot's the matter wi' them?" Hicks picked up the discarded shackle and threw it at Granger, striking him smartly on the chest. "Ain't them smooth enough for yer lubberly 'an's, ye long-eared son of a----"

"_Fore-tops'l sheet, the watch there!!_"

The Mate had seen the slack links and the row in progress at the same moment. The order came in time; strife was averted.

Three sulky pulls at a tackle on the sheets, a tightening of the braces, then: "That'll do, the watch there! Coil down and put away the tackle!" Again the gathering at the fore-hatch. Hicks picked up his work and resumed the twisting of the yarns.

A great knocking out and refilling of pipes.

"'Bout that 'ere Dutchman, Granger? 'Im wot ye wos shipmates with."

Granger glanced covertly at the bo'sun. There was no sign of further hostilities; he was working the yarns with a great show of industry, and was whistling dolefully the while.

"Well, 'e worn't a proper Dutchman, neither," he began pleasantly; "'im bein' married on a white woman in Cardiff, wot 'ad a shop in Bute Road.

See? Th' Ole Man o' th' _Ruddymanthus_, 'e wos a terror on sailorizin'----" Granger paused.

Again a squint at the bo'sun. There was no sign, save that the whistling had ceased, and the lips had taken a scornful turn. "'E wos a terror on sailorizin', an' w'en we left Sydney f'r London, 'e said as 'ow 'e'd give two pun' fer th' best pair o' shackles wot 'is men could make. There worn't many o' us as wor 'ands at shackles, an' there wor only th' Dutchman an' a white man in it--a c.o.c.kney 'e wos, name o'

Linnet----"

The bo'sun was staring steadily at the speaker, who added hastily, "'an a d.a.m.n good feller 'e wos, too, one o' th' best I ever wos shipmates with; 'e wos a prime sailorman--there worn't many as could teach 'im anythin'----"

Bo'sun had resumed work, and was again whistling.

"It lay a-tween 'im an' this 'ere Dutchman. All the w'yage they wos at it. They wos in diff'rent watches, an' th' other fellers wos allus a-settin' 'em up. It would be, ''Ere, Dutchy, you min' yer eye.

Linnet, 'e's got a new turn o' threads jes' below th' rose knots'; or, 'Look-a-here, Linnet, me son, that Dutchman's puttin' in glossy beads, an' 'e's waxin' 'is ends wi' stuff wot th' stooard giv' 'im.' The watches wos takin' sides. 'Linnet's th' man,' says th' Mate's watch.

'Dutchy, he's th' fine 'and at sailorizin',' says th' starbowlines.

Worn't takin' no sides meself"--a side glance at the bo'sun--"me bein'

'andy man along o' th' carpenter, an' workin' all day."

The bo'sun put away his unfinished work, and, lighting his pipe--a sign of satisfaction--drew nearer to the group.

"Off th' Western Islands they finished their jobs," continued Granger (confidently, now that the bo'sun had lit a pipe and was listening as a shipmate ought). "They painted 'em, an' 'ung 'em up t' dry. Fine they looked, dark green, an' th' rose knots all w'ite. Dutchy's shackles wos werry narrer; worn't made f'r a sailorman's 'and at all, but 'e knowed wot e' wos a-doin' of, for th' Ole Man wos one o' them dandy blokes wot sails out o' London; 'an's like a lidye's 'e 'ad, an' w'en they takes their shackles aft, 'e cottons t' Dutchy's at onest. 'Now, them's wot I calls shackles, Johnson, me man,' sez 'e. 'Jest fits me 'and like a glove,' 'e sez, 'oldin' ov 'em up, an' lettin' 'em fall back an' forrard acrost 'is wrist. 'Linnet's is too broad,' 'e sez.

'Good work, hexellint work,' 'e sez, 'but too broad for th' 'ands.'

Linnet, 'e sed as 'ow 'e made shackles for sailormen's 'ands; sed 'e didn't 'old wi' Captains 'andlin' their own sea-chests, but it worn't no use--Dutchy got th' two quid, an' th' stooard got cramp ov 'is 'ands hevery time 'e took out th' Ole Man's chest ov a mornin'. An' th' Mate giv' Linnet five bob an' an ole pair o' sea-boots f'r 'is pair, an'

cheap they wos, for Linnet, 'e wos a man wot knowed 'is work."

"A Mate's th' best judge ov a sailorman's work, anywye," said the bo'sun pleasantly.

"'Im? 'E wor a good judge, too," said the wily Granger. "'E said as 'ow Linnet's wos out-an-out th' best pair. I knowed they wos, for them Dutchmen ain't so 'andy at double rose knots as a white man!"

"No! Sure they ain't!"

XXIII

A LANDFALL

In the dark of the morning a dense fog had closed around us, shutting in our horizon when we had most need of a clear outlook. We had expected to sight the Lizard before dawn to pick up a Falmouth pilot at noon, to be anch.o.r.ed in the Roads by nightfall--we had it all planned out, even to the man who was to stand the first anchor-watch--and now, before the friendly gleam of the Lizard Lights had reached us, was fog--damp, chilling, dispiriting, a pall of white, clammy vapour that no cunning of seamanship could avail against.

Denser it grew, that deep, terrifying wall that shut us off, shipmate from shipmate. Overhead, only the black shadow of the lower sails loomed up; forward, the ship was shrouded ghostly, unreal. Trailing wreaths of vapour pa.s.sed before and about the side-lamps, throwing back their glare in mockery of the useless rays. All sense of distance was taken from us: familiar deck fittings a.s.sumed huge, grotesque proportions; the blurred and shadowy outlines of listening men about the decks seemed magnified and unreal. Sound, too, was distorted by the inconstant sea-fog; a whisper might carry far, a whole-voiced hail be but dimly heard.

Lifting lazily over the long swell, under easy canvas, we sailed, unseeing and unseen. Now and on, the hand fog-trumpet rasped out a signal of our sailing, a faint, half-stifled note to pit against the deep reverberation of a liner's siren that seemed, at every blast, to be drawing nearer and nearer.

The Old Man was on the p.o.o.p, anxiously peering into the void, though keenest eyes could serve no purpose. Bare-headed, that he might the better hear, he stepped from rail to rail--listening, sniffing, striving, with every other sense acute, to work through the fog-banks that had robbed him of his sight. We were in evil case. A dense fog in Channel, full in the track of shipping--a weak wind for working ship. Small wonder that every whisper, every creak of block or parrel, caused him to jump to the compa.s.s--a steering order all but spoken.