The Story Of A Round-House And Other Poems Part 9

Then, while the Dauber counted, Bosun took Some marline from his pocket. "Here," he said, "You want to know square sennit? So fash. Look!

Eight foxes take, and stop the ends with thread.

I've known an engineer would give his head To know square sennit." As the Bose began, The Dauber felt promoted into man.

It was his warrant that he had not failed-- That the most hard part in his difficult climb Had not been past attainment; it was scaled: Safe footing showed above the slippery slime.

He had emerged out of the iron time, And knew that he could compa.s.s his life's scheme; He had the power sufficient to his dream.

Then dinner came, and now the sky was blue.

The ship was standing north, the Horn was rounded; She made a thundering as she weltered through.

The mighty grey-backs glittered as she bounded.

More sail was piled upon her; she was hounded North, while the wind came; like a stag she ran Over grey hills and hollows of seas wan.

She had a white bone in her mouth: she sped; Those in the round-house watched her as they ate Their meal of pork-fat fried with broken bread.

"Good old!" they cried. "She's off; she's gathering gait!"

Her track was whitening like a Lammas spate.

"Good old!" they cried. "Oh, give her cloth! Hurray!

For three weeks more to Valparaiso Bay!

"She smells old Vallipo," the Bosun cried.

"We'll be inside the tier in three weeks more, Lying at double-moorings where they ride Off of the market, half a mile from sh.o.r.e, And b.u.mboat pan, my sons, and figs galore, And girls in black mantillas fit to make a Poor seaman frantic when they dance the cueca."

Eight bells were made, the watch was changed, and now The Mate spoke to the Dauber: "This is better.

We'll soon be getting mudhooks over the bow.

She'll make her pa.s.sage still if this'll let her.

Oh, run, you drogher! dip your fo'c'sle wetter.

Well, Dauber, this is better than Cape Horn.

Them topsails made you wish you'd not been born."

"Yes, sir," the Dauber said. "Now," said the Mate, "We've got to smart her up. Them Cape Horn seas Have made her paint-work like a rusty grate.

Oh, didn't them topsails make your fishhooks freeze?

A topsail don't pay heed to 'Won't you, please?'

Well, you have seen Cape Horn, my son; you've learned.

You've dipped your hand and had your fingers burned.

"And now you'll stow that folly, trying to paint.

You've had your lesson; you're a sailor now.

You come on board a female ripe to faint.

All sorts of slush you'd learned, the Lord knows how.

Cape Horn has sent you wisdom over the bow If you've got sense to take it. You're a sailor.

My G.o.d! before you were a woman's tailor.

"So throw your paints to blazes and have done.

Words can't describe the silly things you did Sitting before your easel in the sun, With all your colours on the paint-box lid.

I blushed for you ... and then the daubs you hid.

My G.o.d! you'll have more sense now, eh? You've quit?"

"No, sir." "You've not?" "No, sir." "G.o.d give you wit.

"I thought you'd come to wisdom." Thus they talked, While the great clipper took her bit and rushed Like a skin-glistening stallion not yet baulked, Till fire-bright water at her swing ports gushed; Poising and bowing down her fore-foot crushed Bubble on glittering bubble; on she went.

The Dauber watched her, wondering what it meant.

To come, after long months, at rosy dawn, Into the placid blue of some great bay.

Treading the quiet water like a fawn Ere yet the morning haze was blown away.

A rose-flushed figure putting by the grey, And anchoring there before the city smoke Rose, or the church-bells rang, or men awoke.

And then, in the first light, to see grow clear That long-expected haven filled with strangers-- Alive with men and women; see and hear Its clattering market and its money-changers; And hear the surf beat, and be free from dangers, And watch the crinkled ocean blue with calm Drowsing beneath the Trade, beneath the palm.

Hungry for that he worked; the hour went by, And still the wind grew, still the clipper strode, And now a darkness hid the western sky, And sprays came flicking off at the wind's goad.

She stumbled now, feeling her sail a load.

The Mate gazed hard to windward, eyed his sail, And said the Horn was going to flick her tail.

Boldly he kept it on her till she staggered, But still the wind increased; it grew, it grew, Darkening the sky, making the water haggard; Full of small snow the mighty wester blew.

"More fun for little fish-hooks," sighed the crew.

They eyed the taut topgallants stiff like steel; A second hand was ordered to the wheel.

The Captain eyed her aft, sucking his lip, Feeling the sail too much, but yet refraining From putting hobbles on the leaping ship, The glad sea-shattering stallion, halter-straining, Wing-musical, uproarious, and complaining; But, in a gust, he c.o.c.ked his finger, so: "You'd better take them off, before they go."

All saw. They ran at once without the word "Lee-ay! Lee-ay!" Loud rang the clew-line cries; Sam in his bunk within the half-deck heard, Stirred in his sleep, and rubbed his drowsy eyes.

"There go the lower to'gallants." Against the skies Rose the thin bellying strips of leaping sail.

The Dauber was the first man over the rail.

Three to a mast they ran; it was a race.

"G.o.d!" said the Mate; "that Dauber, he can go."

He watched the runners with an upturned face Over the futtocks, struggling heel to toe, Up to the topmast cross-trees into the blow Where the three sails were leaping. "Dauber wins!"

The yards were reached, and now the race begins.

Which three will furl their sail first and come down?

Out to the yard-arm for the leech goes one, His hair blown flagwise from a hatless crown, His hands at work like fever to be done.

Out of the gale a fiercer fury spun.

The three sails leaped together, yanking high, Like talons darting up to clutch the sky.

The Dauber on the fore-topgallant yard Out at the weather yard-arm was the first To lay his hand upon the buntline-barred Topgallant yanking to the wester's burst; He craned to catch the leech; his comrades cursed; One at the buntlines, one with oaths observed, "The eye of the outer jib-stay isn't served."

"No," said the Dauber. "No," the man replied.

They heaved, stowing the sail, not looking round, Panting, but full of life and eager-eyed; The gale roared at them with its iron sound.

"That's you," the Dauber said. His gasket wound Swift round the yard, binding the sail in bands; There came a gust, the sail leaped from his hands,

So that he saw it high above him, grey, And there his mate was falling; quick he clutched An arm in oilskins swiftly s.n.a.t.c.hed away.

A voice said "Christ!" a quick shape stooped and touched, Chain struck his hands, ropes shot, the sky was s.m.u.tched With vast black fires that ran, that fell, that furled, And then he saw the mast, the small snow hurled,

The fore-topgallant yard far, far aloft, And blankness settling on him and great pain; And snow beneath his fingers wet and soft, And topsail sheet-blocks shaking at the chain.

He knew it was he who had fallen; then his brain Swirled in a circle while he watched the sky.

Infinite mult.i.tudes of snow blew by.

"I thought it was Tom who fell," his brain's voice said.

"Down on the b.l.o.o.d.y deck!" the Captain screamed.

The mult.i.tudinous little snow-flakes sped.

His pain was real enough, but all else seemed.

Si with a bucket ran, the water gleamed Tilting upon him; others came, the Mate ...

They knelt with eager eyes like things that wait