The Sailmaker's Yarn

I

I WAS boatswain of a full-rigger. It was the second dogwatch, and I was sitting in the forecastle with the able seamen. My room was in the midship house, abaft the galley. I shared it with the carpenter. Chips had turned in early, so I had gone to the forecastle to pass the time away till eight bells.

I had not been in the forecastle long when the sailmaker appeared outside the open door. He had been forward for something or other, and was returning to his room, which was aft, under the break of the poop. It was a small room with only one bunk, and he had it to himself.

‘Come on in, Sails!’ called one of the foremast hands.

‘Come on in and sit down, Sails!’ called another.

Sails paused, and looked into the forecastle.

He was a queer sort of fellow, Sails was. His name was Bethune. He kept to himself — never mixed with the foremast hands, never came to visit Chips and me in our room in the dogwatches, never asked us to come and visit him. And somehow or other he was the sort of fellow you don’t butt in on uninvited. There never was a finer sailmaker. With his sail needles, roping twine, seaming twine, palm and needle and sail hook, he was as neat, as quick and clever, as ever any seamstress woman could be at her fancywork ashore. But an odd thing about it was that he seemed to do his work mechanically, appearing to take no interest in it. Sometimes when I’d speak to him, coming on him from behind maybe when he was bent over his work, saying, ‘Bethune, how’s this or how’s that?’ he’d not seem to hear me, or he’d start and look up in a sort of lost way, and seem for a moment not to understand that he was being spoken to. The dreamiest-seeming fellow that ever I ’d been shipmates with, he was.

Once in a while you meet a solitary fellow at sea, a man who does n’t seem to want companionship, but you don’t often meet with a man such as Sails, He must have been about fifty; there was a good deal of gray in his hair. He had a crippled leg and walked with a limp, but was quick on his feet in spite of it. The limp never seemed to bother him at all. We’d had an unusually fine weather passage, though, with no storm.

I was surprised that Sails paused when they called to him; I expected to see him pass right on. One of the hands called again, ‘Come on in and sit down!’ But he took no notice. With his back to us he leaned against the door, looking out beyond the railing to the fast-shadowing sea.

There were a dozen able seamen in the forecastle. None of them were playing checkers that evening, and no one had fetched out the cards. We were just sitting yarning about one thing and another. It was close to the end of the voyage and everyone was feeling fine and free and careless.

There were some oldish men in the forecastle — fellows with thinning hair and bent shoulders, their limbs getting a bit stiff. There were men in their forties. There were young fellows, too, agile as monkeys.

One of the older men was telling of a time he’d been wrecked south of the Crozets. Nine days in an open boat he’d been. The boat was picked up only just in the nick of time. Even another few hours and it would have been too late. Some of the men were already more than half dead of the cold.

‘That was tough,’ said a ruddyhaired sailor in his forties; ‘but it was n’t so awful bad, at that.’

‘I don’t want no open boat south o’ the Crozets for mine,’ said a young fellow. ‘Wot’s worse than that, eh?’

The ruddy-haired man began telling of a time he’d been on a voyage out of Cardiff, with a coal cargo.

‘I don’t like a coal cargo,’ interrupted a young fellow. ‘ There’s always too many fleas in the ship.’

‘It’s fleas you’d kick about, is it?’ said the ruddy-haired man. He paused and looked up at the sailmaker. ‘Sails, was you ever in a ship wot took fire in her cargo?’

The sailmaker did n’t pay any attention — seemed not to have heard.

The ruddy-haired man went on with his yarn. ‘We’d a hell of a time,’ he said. ‘South of the Horn with a gale dead in her teeth.’ He paused and looked up at Sails again.

‘Get on with your yarn,’ said Sails, in a bored sort of way.

So the ruddy fellow told how it took them twelve days to make the Falklands, with the ship red-hot and the sea sizzling at her sides.

‘Open boats an’ burnin’ ships is tough sure enough, but I ’ll tell ye wot happened to me one time. Three blasted years of it I had,’ said a middleaged man.

‘Cast away on some bloody little island, was you?’ interrupted a young fellow.

The sailmaker sat down on the door coaming and took out his pipe.

‘Was there bananas an’ lots of fruit to eat?’ asked the young fellow.

‘Like hell there was bananas an’ lots o’ fruit! ’ retorted the other. ‘ Fruit was wot done it, though,’ he continued gloomily. ‘I was in a big four-poster called the Crocodile, loadin’ canned fruit in Frisco.’

The sailmaker glanced round. ‘I was in Frisco that time,’ he said.

‘There you are!’ exclaimed the talker. ‘I got the notion one night when the stevedores worked late, after dark. She was a hard-livin’ ship an’ I figured fruit’d go down good. I swiped two whole cases an’ got ’em into the fo’c’sle an’ had ’em opened an’ was stowin’ the cans in my sea chest when a lousy longshoreman looked in an’ saw me. Manager of the cannery the fruit was from, ’e was. They give me three years in the penitentiary.’

‘Go on. Wot next? ’ asked the young fellow.

‘Gawd, wot more d’ye want?’ exclaimed the talker.

‘Well, that ain’t no sea yarn nohow!’ said the young fellow.

‘It ain’t, ain’t it?’ said the expenitentiary man. ‘Well,’ turning to a man seated beside him. ‘you tell ’em about the Coral Bird, Peter!’

‘I was at the wheel,’ began Peter, and added, gloomily, ‘My chum, Bill Patrick, was aloft. The watch was gone up to furl the fore-tops’l. Eight men on the footrope there was, an’ two still in the riggin’.’ He stopped, and stared disconsolately, from unseeing eyes, at the sailmaker.

‘Get on with your yarn,’ said Sails, in a bored sort of tone.

‘The tops’l yard carried away an’ went over the side,’ said Peter.

There was silence, everyone picturing the yard crashing down with eight men on it.

‘Seven of ’em was smothered under the sail or caught in the gear,’ continued Peter. ‘It was an iron yard an’ sank at once.'

‘Could the other feller swim?’ someone asked.

‘Bill Patrick was the best swimmer ever I seen. I watched ’im till a rain squall hid him. ’T was far too rough to put a boat out.’

A man seated away back in a dark corner broke the silence. ‘The sea’s a devil,’ he said.

The sailmaker had risen. You could tell by the look on his face that he was far away. But he started and glanced round at those last words. Then he was about to move off when someone called, ‘Tell us the worst you ever seen at sea. Sails! ’

Sails did n’t seem to hear. But when several of us called to hint he turned again. ‘Those sort of things can happen to any sailor,’ he said. ‘It’s the sort of thing a man expects at sea. The unexpected is what hurts.’

‘Spin us a yarn, Sails,’ said the man in the dark corner.

Sails sat down on the door coaming again, with his back to us. It seemed as though he would take the rest of the dogwatch getting started. No one spoke or moved. He turned toward us at last.

II

‘There was a ship one time,’ began Sails, ‘where the skipper had his wife aboard with him. I was in her. She was the happiest ship that ever I was in — a sort of home ship. They say a woman’s out of place in a ship. It did n’t hold that time, that old saying did n’t. No man aboard — mate, sailor, no man, young or old — had any fault to find with that woman. She never interfered, or tried to, with the ship’s affairs; only if some sailor in the fo’c’sle was sick she’d go forward with the skipper and try to help the man. On Sundays she’d cook little things in the steward’s pantry, little delicacies for the foremast hands — just a bit of something of the sort men don’t get or look for in a ship at sea. It did n’t matter if the weather was calm and hot or if a gale was blowing and the snow was coming down — she’d never miss sending the men some little trifle she’d prepared with her own fingers.

‘She was a beautiful woman, too — just a girl lately come to womanhood. Fresh and lovely she was. The skipper had only been skipper for a little while, just a few years. He’d worked his way up from being a poor common foremast sailor. He’d had a hard time doing it, for he was a plain, rough man without any education. It was his first voyage with his wife; they’d been married only a few days before the voyage began. They were very happy in each other — very happy. He was a good deal older than she was.’

The sailmaker’s voice trailed away, and he fell silent. We looked knowingly at each other, the world-wise ones among us. We guessed what was coming: an oldish husband with a young wife; a young mate, or second mate, probably; temptation; human nature; trouble.

‘Yes, Sails?’ said the ruddy man, for Sails had relapsed into thoughtful silence and we feared the yarn might not be done by eight bells.

‘The ship had been away from her home port almost two years when there was a baby,’ continued Sails. He spoke so low that everyone edged a bit nearer to the door.

‘A skipper should n’t take a young girl to sea like that. It is n’t fair,’ continued the sailmaker, and paused again.

‘W’y ain’t it fair, Sails?’ asked one of the younger men.

‘Shut up, damn ye!’ growled one of the older men.

‘The woman died,’ said Sails. It was as though he were talking to himself; as though he had not heard the question; as though he were not conscious of us.

‘Wot about the baby?’ asked an old fellow.

‘The ship was far offshore. The nearest port was leagues across the sea. She was a good ship, a fast sailer; but things were hopeless. Everyone knew it as soon as the word went round,’ said Sails.

‘Wot word, Sails?’ asked someone.

‘That there were just four cans of condensed milk in the ship,’ replied the sailmaker.

‘Gawd!’ exclaimed one of the older men.

‘How long did they make it last?’ asked a young man, and again an elderly fellow growled, ‘Damn ye, shut up! ’

‘There was only one thing to do,’ said Sails. ‘Feed the child and drive the ship. The skipper drove her. The wind was fair, so that she lay her course. She raced, with her lee rail dipping down to the water and her decks all awash. There was no common ship work done. The mates did n’t put anyone to any ordinary work. No one touched a paintbrush or a holystone, or anything like that. All hands kept handy day and night, ready to trim the canvas for any new slant of wind when it came. No one took off his clothes. They slept “all standing,” fully dressed, so as never to lose an instant’s time. She crashed through the sea hour after hour, with every inch of canvas straining.’

‘Who tended the baby, Sails?’ asked someone.

‘All hands tended the baby,’ answered the sailmaker. ‘All hands.’ There was a queer light in his face, as though he were back in that ship again, racing to save a little child from starvation. ‘The skipper saw his child less than anyone else. The ship was taking all his care, all his time. Sometimes you’d see the mate carrying the baby in his big arms, sometimes you’d see the second mate. The hands took turns going aft to carry it. It never was laid down; it was unthinkable to anyone that it could be laid down. The only time the skipper ever held it was sometimes when it must be fed. He held it then, if he could leave the ship; he could n’t, or he would n’t, leave her often. The skipper held the baby while the mate fed it, giving it as little as he dared. They eked the canned milk out, drop by drop.

‘The clouds whirled overhead, the dark seas roared. By night the mastheads swung dizzily amongst the stars, while spray in great cold clouds whipped savagely across the canting deck. In the fo’c’sle the hands never brought out the cards or checkerboard; they just sat waiting. Coming and going from the wheel, they’d ask one another, “How’s the little kid?” They’d argue, and once two of them fought furiously over whose turn it was to go and carry it. You’d see big bearded men bending their chins above its tiny face, chuckling to it like any nurse girl would, holding their bristly beards away lest they scratch its soft skin. No one complained or cared a whit for loss of sleep when it was necessary for all hands to stay close to the ropes all night. Not a man thought of anything except the baby.

‘ It was a little girl — a little blackhaired thing with deep blue eyes. It’d take a sailor’s hard thumb and suck at it and look entirely blissful, as though it had a bit of sugar in its mouth. Whenever a foremast hand went aft to carry it he’d wash his thumb in drinking water, lest the baby taste salt, or tar, or tobacco. There was n’t a thumb in the forecastle that did n’t get a deal whiter than it had ever been.

‘Always the measuring of the milk, and the feeding, were left to the mate. He was a family man — had youngsters of his own ashore. “Not another drop,” he’d say. “That’s enough for this time.” He was far more important than ever he had been as mere mate — the most important man in the ship. The skipper hung on his words.’

‘Did you sometimes carry the baby, Sails?’ asked a young fellow.

‘Yes, sometimes I carried her,’ said Sails.

‘How long would a can of milk last?’ asked someone.

‘We rinsed the cans out, one by one, with warm water till the last drop was gone,’ continued Sails. ‘That was one morning, early. The baby was just awake. It was hungry and there was barely enough for a meal. After that there was nothing in the ship that it could eat. The mate fixed up some sugar in a bit of cloth. It sucked the cloth all day, and wailed. The skipper carried it all that day. The ship did n’t matter now — to drive her was no use. He left the ship to the mate, who acted like a crazy man. So did the second mate, and so did everyone. The mate drove the ship till it looked as though the masts must be ripped out of her. He knew it was no good, and so did all hands. But still he drove her. He cursed her and the men, and the men cursed back and swore at each other — everyone blaming everyone else for not moving fast enough. The skipper saw nothing but the baby all that day, paid no attention at all to anything. All day he went in and out of the chart room, in and out of the saloon, paced up and down the poop, carrying his child and staring hopelessly across the rolling sea.’

‘How far was you from land, Sails?’ someone asked.

‘A long way. There was n’t any hope,’ said Sails. ‘The sun dipped low and the sea began to get dark. And then, just while there was still light enough for us to see it, a white speck showed on the sea far ahead. Another ship, going our way, sailing the course we sailed. The mate and everyone quit cursing then. All hands were voiceless. We had n’t seen another ship since a few days before the woman died. Hope wakened in everyone. While the mate drove the ship all hands leaped at each sharp order to take a pull on this rope or on that. When night fell and the other ship was lost, the mate had an old tar barrel brought up from the fore peak. We hoisted it to the lee foreyard arm and set it afire. Its flame blew down to leeward. So that there could be no danger of the foresail catching fire, we guyed the barrel with wires. It lifted and rolled with the pitch and the roll of the ship and could n’t sway except as she swayed — could n’t sway in under the sails.

‘It was n’t long after dark when we saw an answering light ahead. The other ship had seen our signal flame. A great shout rose at that, and then, knowing that this hope might be quite vain, all hands fell deathly silent. The skipper stood on the poop, his child in his arms, his face and its face lit by the blaze from the barrel, until the mate ordered the barrel lowered down. It fell to the sea, hissed, and went out. The darkness was pitchy then. But presently we saw the lights of the other ship. She had come about to wait for us, and soon we were up with her. We lowered the high sails away, hove to, and dropped a boat.

‘The second mate took four strong rowers and went off in the boat. In a few minutes we heard him shouting, bawling in the dark. We heard his words clear above the wind and the wash of the lapping water. “Any milk aboard? Any milk aboard? — We’ve got a baby and its mother’s dead!” No answer came at first. Those in the other ship were maybe puzzled, thought maybe that they did n’t hear aright. His voice rose again: “Any milk aboard? — Any milk aboard? —We’ve got a baby and its mother’s dead!” Then in a moment we saw a lantern on the other ship’s deck. Someone ran from her lamp room, carrying a lit lantern. And then we heard a cheer from our boat.’

‘By Gawd!’ said someone, as Sails paused.

' Go on, Sails! ’ cried another. ' Sails’s yarn beats all! ’

‘The other ship lay her course and went on again,’ continued Sails, ‘and soon our boat was back. The other ship had had four cans of milk. Just what we’d had at first! Our mate took it from the second’s hands and ran to the cabin with it. The skipper hurried down to the cabin. The steward came running, with warm water all ready to dilute the milk. The second mate, the cook, the carpenter, all hands, gathered at the cabin door. No one thought of the ship till suddenly the mate looked up from feeding the baby and saw them all there. “Drive her!” he called to the second mate. “Drive her! We’re far from the land yet.” Then all hands realized that danger was n’t done, and raced for the braces, to trim the yards and put the ship upon her course again.

‘There was a sort of peace in the ship that night. The skipper fell asleep on the settee in his chart room, exhausted. The baby lay sleeping in his arm. The wind roared and the sea roared all that night. She drove upon her course. She passed the other ship and we heard her company all cheering. No one answered their cheers. We were too far from land for any cheering yet.’

III

We sat staring at Sails. Every man’s pipe had gone out. Everyone was still. No one asked any question now. We waited for Sails to go on, and when he went on he did n’t seem to be aware of us at all. It was as though he talked to the night, to the wind, to the sea.

‘Four cans of milk,’ he said, ‘and miles to go. No telling when the fine fair wind might leave us. No knowing when a high head wind might come, or a flat calm. The mate set a lookout man at the fore-royal masthead and had another tar barrel swung, for we were coming close to latitudes where we might meet some steamer. If we could see and stop a steamer, all would be well.

‘Morning came, and the wind fell. The ship slackened her pace, and nothing could be done to speed her. And then, toward noon, we saw a smoke trail, a dim trail low down on the horizon dead ahead. We lit the barrel, hoping the steamer might see its smoke. If she did, she took it for the smoke of another steamer, for she passed on below the sea rim and was gone without our having glimpsed her hull at all. We lowered the barrel to the sea and quenched its flames, then brought it back aboard, set new tar in it, and hoisted it again, ready in case another steamer should pass. But none appeared. Night came, and day again, and still the ship loitered, scarce making headway on the well-nigh windless water.’

A sailor pulled his watch out and interrupted: ‘It’s nigh eight bells, Sails. Dogwatch an’ talkin’ time’ll soon be done.’

‘The wind came back that day,’ continued the sailmaker, ‘and things were just as they had been in those first days after the woman died. We lived the same minutes, the same eternal hours, over again. The ship raced on and on, drawing her port continually closer. With every mile she clipped away we shuddered at the miles still left to go, dreading a sudden wind shift, or another calm. We saw no smoke, no steamer, no other vessel on the whole wide empty sea.

‘When the wind died again we were just fifty miles from land. A flat calm fell. It was near dawn, but with the dawn a drizzling mist set in. As day drew on, it thickened. We sent off rockets, for we were in the track of ships and thought that some must hear us. Forenoon, and noon, and afternoon dragged by. The fog was like a blanket. Dark fell. We set the tar barrel ablaze again, lest in the fog a steamer should pass near by. The rockets were all gone. We beat the bells. Hour after hour we beat upon the bells. The last can of milk was gone.’

Sails stopped.

‘Close on eight bells,’ said someone. ‘Go on, Sails! ’

‘The baby’s wailing sounded all along the deck. The skipper paced the poop with it in his arms. The mate stood on the poop, the second mate beside him. The tar flame lit their faces. They looked like ghosts. The man at the wheel, the man upon lookout, the idle men upon the idle deck, all looked like ghosts. The ship seemed a ghost ship.’

‘Gawd!’ someone cried. ‘Go on, Sails! Quick!’

‘A wind came suddenly, in a quick puff. The mate leaped for the deck, but before he was down the ladder the skipper called him back. “Here,” he said, “take the baby! I’ll take the ship now.” He called an order to the helmsman, bidding him steer, laying the ship’s course a little closer to the hidden shore. He ordered the sails trimmed, and all hands raced at his bidding. The ship lay over, with foghid water swirling at her down-dipped side. The squall passed on and a fair, steady breeze blew. Less than fifty miles to port now; we should be in soon after dawn. The mate took the child to the chart room, out of the wind and the fog. The skipper ordered the tar barrel lowered. All was well now. We’d beaten the sea. We left the bells unstruck.’

‘Sails’s yarn’s the best!’ cried a young fellow.

‘Shut up!’ growled an older man, scowling at the speaker. ‘Go on, Sails!’

For a space it was as though Sails had forgotten us and his yarn. Then presently he spoke once more. It was but a moment or so till eight bells now. Our talking time was all but over.

‘An hour before the dawn was due,’ continued Sails, ‘there came a sudden jar. We were thrown from our feet. High spars came crashing down. Wild cries of pain arose from the men hurt by the falling gear.’

‘My Gawd! Ashore in the fog!’ an old man muttered.

‘Lodged on a rocky reef,’ the sailmaker replied. ‘Helpless; and in midmorning, when the tide had ebbed, left almost high and dry.’

‘How far was you from port, Sails?' asked the ruddy-haired man.

‘Right at the harbor mouth. The fog cleared, and we lay in full view of the town,’ Sails answered.

‘Wot did they do to the skipper for losin’ his ship?’ asked someone.

‘Took his ticket away,’ the sailmaker replied. ‘Took it away for good.’

‘ ’E ’d ’ave to leave the sea, then, an’ look after his little kid,’ said someone.

‘The sea was all he knew. He could n’t leave the sea,’ said Sails.

Eight bells struck, and we piled out to the deck.

‘Keep handy the watch!’ ordered the mate when he’d called our names over. The wind was freshening, and the sea beginning to make.

As we went forward the ex-penitentiary man looked in at Sails’s door. ‘Wot was that skipper’s name, Sails?’ he asked.

‘His name was Murchison,’ replied the sailmaker.

IV

I’d no more than closed my eyes, it seemed, when one of the watch was at my door bawling, ‘All hands on deck! Shorten sail!’

The night was a regular pandemonium when I stepped to the deck. You could n’t see your hand before your face. As I made for the gear I heard the mate shout, ‘Look out for yourselves!’ And then, the next minute, a great, awful sea thundered aboard — a dozen feet high, maybe. I was buried in that sea a year, it seemed, breathless and choking, my feet braced, and my hands, by blessed good luck, fast to a stanchion.

That night was hell’s inky-black picnic. When dawn came at last, we were done in with toil, weary and sleepy-eyed. But soon after dawn the wind eased, and by sunup we brought her to harbor.

There was a little crowd of idlers on the dock, to stare at the ship come in from sea. The second mate was forward with the hands, all but the ruddyhaired man, who had recognized someone in the crowd and was staying to talk with him. I stood close by, and a few feet away was the mate, puffing his pipe by the gangway.

A young girl pushed her way through the crowd and hurried across the gangway. ‘ I’m looking for Mr. Murchison,’ she said. ‘Where’s Mr. Murchison, please?’

Blue eyes and black hair, the girl had. She was about twenty. I did n’t catch on. But the ruddy-haired man did, and he stared at me wide-eyed.

‘ By Gawd!’ he murmured. ‘ Where’s Sails?’

And then, of a sudden, it came to me that I’d seen naught of Sails, nor heard his voice at all, since that great sea thundered aboard.

‘Let’s get out o’ here, bos’n,’ whispered the ruddy-haired man.

So we went forward, and left the mate to tell her about Sails.