Round the Horn

I

I WAS twenty years old and eldest apprentice on the clipper Silberhorn bound for Frisco round the Horn. When I joined my ship at Liverpool, Pat O’Brien was there, and Alphonse and five green apprentices. You would have thought I was at least an admiral, the way those green kids looked at me.

‘Come on! Let’s go uptown,’ I said to Pat and Alphonse, and to the green kids, ‘You kids, too. You’ll soon be at sea. Make the best of your time. God help you! ’

We rode uptown on top of a tram. Alphonse told me he had ‘anuzzer meestrees.’ Pat O’Brien had kissed his first girl. The green kids stared at them, and blushed. We entered a pub, where there were some apprentices from other ships.

‘Tarpaulin muster,’ I said, and took off my cap and passed it round. Everyone chucked into it some money for drinks for the gang. And then the door opened and in came a squareshouldered man of medium height, with black hair and sharp brown eyes.

‘Where’s the third mate of the Silberhorn?’ he asked. No one replied.

‘By God, where’s the eldest apprentice of the Silberhorn?’ he asked.

I said, ‘That’s me, sir.’

He asked, ‘Why in hell did n’t you say so? Six times round the Horn you’ve been, by God! I’ve heard of you. You’re going to do my work for me. Think I’m going to waste a fellow your size?’

‘Suits me, sir,’ said I. And was I gay-hearted when I rolled into my bunk that night! My last night in the half deck! To-morrow I’d sleep in the second mate’s cabin.

Morning came and I gave my first order. ‘Wash the decks down!’ The second mate was not yet aboard. And what a sorry sight the old girl was! Her big belly was full of coke, coal, cement, railroad steel, firebricks, pig iron, for Frisco. Grime on her teakwood, on her paint; her ropes, her gear, all thick with harbor grime. It would take a lot more than one washing even to begin to get it off. I could see the aching of the green kids’ arms. All forenoon I kept them busy hauling at her gear. The Old Man came aboard during the afternoon. The mate said, ‘I’m going to tell him I want you third mate.’ And off he went, and soon came back.

‘All right,’ said John Martin, ‘you’re third mate. The Old Man says you’re to live in the half deck still. He says you’re so big it’d cost too much to feed you in the saloon.’

And was I disgusted! For over three years I’d served the ship, served that fat-jowled owner, and now — I was to act third mate, but draw no pay, of course, and still live in the half deck. Oh, well! Being big makes trouble for a fellow sometimes!

The second mate appeared. His name was Alwyn. A big man, bigger than myself, he smelt of drink. Blackhaired, black-eyed, muscular — a big bull of a man. The minute he spoke I knew him for a Geordie — a native of the North Sea coast thereabout.

The crew came aboard after dark that night. We pulled out early next morning. A gray day — sea and sky sombre and chill. Five of the crew had failed to show up. So, as we glided past the pierhead, whereon stood a crowd of loafers, Martin called, ‘Who wants to make a voyage in a good ship? Five good men here! ’ And five of those fellows jumped to her deck. ‘Pierhead jumps’ we called such men. Often amongst pierhead jumps were rattling good sailors, but those five did n’t look like much to me. Oh, well, I thought, maybe it was that the booze was n’t out of them yet. Once they were sobered up, perhaps things would be all right.

Getting all sail on her, I pulled my arms out, trying by example to get some life into the mob. I heaved, and hauled, and shouted. No response, Alwyn swore at and damned them; but I noted that he did n’t do any pulling his arms out.

Everything seemed wrong, and the old girl had a feel in her as though she herself were aware of that wrongness. A ship knows. Ask any sailor.

II

We had not been a week at sea when the Old Man reduced five of the crew from ‘able’ to ‘ordinary’ seamen, cutting their wages from fifty to thirtyfive shillings a month. One of the pierhead jumps was lately out of jail for robbery; another was wanted for cutting a man with a knife. The knifer’s name was Andersen. One jump had come across from Norway as cook in a fishing boat — that was all the sea experience he had had. There was a hulking great man named Nicholson, who vowed he was an able seaman and had discharge papers to prove it. He ’d stolen them, of course, from some drunken sailor whose name he’d taken. He’d been a pugilist. The other jump was a poor little devil of a Negro from Jamaica.

Alwyn was always cursing his watch. I did n’t curse my mob. I tried the gentler way. ‘Look here,’ I’d say, and show one or other how to do some sailor job. But, Lord, there was no response. There was n’t a pennyworth of pride in the lot of them. Only in the Dane, Pedersen.

We’d been but a little while at sea when Alwyn began to suck up to me, trying to make friends. He came and sat by me on the hatch one evening. ‘Wot koind o’ bloodie luck d’ye ’ave wi’ the girls, Bill?’ he asked.

I replied, ‘I’m wondering what kind of luck we’re going to have with this old girl, sir.’

‘The bloodie owld bitch,’ he sneered, and went to talking of his last ship and what a much finer one she was. There was a sort of sliminess in his voice. And then one day when I came on duty he strode up to me and shouted, ‘I ain’t afraid o’ no bloodie mon, not if ’ee’s as big as the bloodie mainmast!’

I looked him in the eyes and said, ‘That’s good, sir. We’ll need all the guts we ’ve got when we get down to the Horn.’ Pat O’Brien tittered behind me. And Alwyn went off mumbling about a bloodie third mate who thought he was somebody.

With a good crew, you carry sail on a ship till the last minute. You drive her for all she’s worth. And when that last minute comes you clew up sail in a rush, and go up and furl it in a rush. But, with the crew we had, we had to take sail off long before the ship was feeling it too much. To try to carry on with a crew who were so slow at everything would have been to risk losing sails and spars.

It was right enough while we were running down the steady trade winds where you carry full sail all day, day after day. There the old girl overhauled and passed other ships in the usual fashion. I kept Pedersen and Alphonse at work in the rigging, getting things into shape for the wild weather we’d meet by and by. The rest I kept scouring the paint work, polishing the brass, holystoning the deck. They were good for naught else. Always I worked in the rigging myself, working my fastest. ‘Alphonse, if you ever want to see a mistress again, by God, do your job right!’ I’d say. And the little Frenchman’s eyes would shine and he would answer me, ‘We see ze sheep through, my friend! ’

And by and by we came out of the tropics, out from the trade winds, into the windy regions of the south. And then the Old Man, seeing other clippers pass us by because we dared not carry sail, was like an ancient bull whale that has been run out of the pod by younger bulls.

And so we took the old girl southward, the weather growing colder daily, the sea, the sky, ever more sombre; Alwyn forever cursing his mob, and I still trying to get a little sailor pride into mine; and Pat O’Brien and Alphonse, caring not a cuss for anything, yarning each evening in the half deck about the Horn to the green kids, and, of course, making the Horn even worse than it was. So there was a little fun after all. Oh, you can always find something to grin about!

III

There came a night when I was on the bridge with Martin — a bright night with a big round white moon high over the mizzen royal masthead. You could see every rope and block and ratlin. The wind was light. The sea soughed gently. Glancing aloft, I saw a wisp of cloud no bigger than a handkerchief whip across the moon’s orb swift as though fired from a gun. ‘Take a look at the sky, sir,’ I suggested. And as he looked up another wisp of frayed cloud whipped over the moon’s face. There was a sort of faint haze coming in the high sky. So Martin called the Old Man.

‘All hands shorten sail!’ roared the Old Man. Out came the watches. Alwyn came from his cabin.

‘Wot’s the bloodie owld fool gettin’ cold feet about now? ’E’s got no bloodie guts, by Goad!’ I heard Alwyn say. And, hearing him, some of the men began muttering about an Old Man who’d call all hands on deck to take sail in on such a fine bright night.

There was no fooling that night. Martin came down to the deck. We drove the mob. Carpenter, cook, steward, and sailmaker were called. And Alwyn was oddly silent. Before we had the topgallant sails off the old girl, the sprays were driving over her full length in blinding, stinging sheets. We took in every sail save the main and mizzen lower topsails. It was round ten o’clock by then. The moon was hid in a driving haze. There was no roar, no scream, no howl, no yell, to that wind. There was no roar or thunder to that sea. There was only a long sibilant hiss. The wind was a solid thing, a wall that pushed its way, merciless, steady, never varying in pressure.

‘Double lashings, Bill!’ the mate yelled in my ear. I could just catch the words. I fetched out more gaskets and led the mob aloft, and we put double lashings round each and every sail. I did n’t know where Alwyn was. I did n’t for a time, at least. And all that night, despite the double lashings, the sails kept working free. You’d see a tiny scrap of a sail start from beneath its gaskets, and in a minute half the sail would have worked loose. And sails cost lots of money. So up I went, and down I came, and went up again, leading the mob. I mind I had to mash my fist into the face of one fellow who hung back, afraid of the mast. You can’t spare men in times such as that. I mind that in the moon’s wan light I saw one rope that had got loose from its pin on the deck in the fore rigging — the longest rope aboard, the jib topsail halliard. It goes from the rail to the royal masthead, maybe a hundred and eighty feet from the deck. It’s as thick and half as thick again as a large man’s thumb. And that rope stood straight out, stiff as a rigid steel rod, stretching upon the air from the royal masthead, without a quiver in its length — until its end began to fray. Then in a few moments there was no rope there. It was all frayed away, and maybe blown half across South America.

At some time after midnight I went to look for Alwyn. I had n’t seen him in some time and thought maybe he was gone overboard. I saw a light in his cabin, and there he was, sitting on the settee, his head bowed in his hands, his face hidden — moaning, I guess, though had a million cowards moaned that night, or bawled their heads off, you’d not have heard a whimper.

Day came at last. It always does, though you may think it never will again. And all that day I led the mob and pointed, and shook my fist in faces, and tried like a fool to make my voice heard.

It was about midmorning when, looking aloft, I saw the windward half of the fore topgallant sail was all worked loose. It was a tight balloon, without flap or shiver. I drove three men up, and followed them, and Alphonse followed me. And in the rigging you could not budge at all when the ship lurched to windward or lay still. The wind held you, flattened you to the shrouds. And then she’d give a horrid lifeless lurch to leeward, and up you’d dash a little way, till as she came lifelessly to windward again you were flattened once more. We came to the topgallant at last and walked out along its footrope. Five of us — ten fists; and all beating on the canvas together we could not make a tiny dent. And all the time the yard kept clacking — clacking. I knew the mast must splinter and go.

And then I thought of Alphonse beside me. What use letting Alphonse die? I beat my fist on his shoulder. He glanced at me, his wide blue eyes a question. I pointed down to the deck. Only there was no deck — you could not see the ship at all. All you could see was her masts, rising from a white hissing fury. You could not see the sea. There was no sea. All you could see was the whole ocean’s surface flying on the air — a hissing haze of tortured spray. Finer than any spray, though. Atomized, the ocean’s surface was. There was no sky. There was something low and whitish that went hissing past above your head.

So Alphonse started down, not knowing why I sent him down. And we four pounded bloody knuckles on the sail again. Clack — clack — clack the yard went on the mast. At any minute now the mast would go. And I was not afraid — not one bit. There is a time when you forget all fear. There’s no such thing. There’s neither fear, nor joy, nor hope, nor thought of any sort. You know you’re going to die — that’s all.

And then I felt someone at my side whence Alphonse was gone. How long it was that he’d been gone I do not know. John Martin had come up. Our eyes met. His held no expression of any sort. And somehow we got that sail gathered up and lashed down, and down we went. All day that wind blew. No man had slept all night, and no man slept all day. No man had eaten. Night came again, and still the old girl lived. And still the same, on, on, and ever on.

Sometime a bit before the dawn the wind ceased — ceased as though a door had been shut. And sound came back. Why, you could hear a voice again! And you could hear the ship groan as she lurched with a lifeless, weary lurch. You heard her blocks squeak. Her royal masts, her poles, her trucks, were white with salt; from truck to rails she was coated with salt. A gray ship. And the hurricane was done, and you were living! But —

John Martin called the Old Man from the chartroom. He looked at the ship. And I knew what he’d say, and so did Martin. The ship was lying like a bird with a broken wing — far over to one side. She’d shifted cargo. Cargo had slipped. And it had slipped — it must have — just at the last of the hurricane; or she would have been gone. Saved by a tick!

The Old Man said, ‘All hands trim cargo! ’

We let them eat hardtack and swig some coffee down. Then out we herded them. Oh, a bleary-eyed, weary lot! We took the hatch off the sail locker before the foremast. Alwyn appeared.

‘By Goad, the bloodie bitch!’ he growled. Oh, innocent as pie!

We dragged all her spare sails up and under the forecastle head, and so got down to the deck of the sail locker. And then we opened the hatches in that deck. Under them was coke. We shoveled coke into buckets, hoisted the buckets, and dumped the coke to the sea. I was at the hoist. No arms so strong as mine. But lordy, was I tired! Well, you forget your tiredness with a ship to save. You shout, ‘ Yo — ho! Hi — leee — oh! ’ You shout, ‘Oh, can’t you get a move on there!’

I’d see the weary shovelers look up, their faces coky-black, their eye whites showing. They looked like sinners doomed to feed old Satan’s fires. ‘Shovel, my bullies!’ John Martin said. And Alwyn shoveled too. He was n’t quite so weary. He yelled, ‘By Goad! Wot t’ell’s the bloodie matter? Can’t ye bloodie move?’

When they had dug down to the bottom of the coke they came to pig iron. So then they hoisted pig iron, and bore it, pig by pig, — two men needed to lift a pig, and weight a-plenty for two men, — to the old girl’s higher side. Good heavy stuff pig iron is, to straighten a ship up. We shifted pigs all morning. And when we had let the mob go nibble at some pork and gulp some pea soup down we put the hatches on at the bottom of the sail locker, then led them to the quarter-deck and opened the afterhatch. All afternoon we toiled in murky lantern light, shifting great crates and moving railroad steel. And talk about tired!

IV

Two nights later I stood with Martin on the bridge. It was dark, but not pitch dark. There were no stars. I could just make out the dim shape of the mizzenmast maybe some twenty feet before me. The wind was on her port quarter, and she was running under topgallant sails at a good clip — at maybe fourteen an hour. Running for the Horn! A fair wind! Glory! We’d passed, without seeing it, the corner of Staten Land. The seas rolled high, lifted, and dropped her; cried noisily after her, trying to leap over her railing, but not quite able to do so with her running so gayly away from them. With that wind from the east laying its lash on her fearless heel, the old girl was laughing to herself. You could sense the joy in her.

And then came a cry from the lookout man on the forecastle head: ‘Light right ahead, sir!’

The Old Man came from the chartroom, and, seeing the light, said, ‘A steamer coming home round the Horn.’

And I thought — oh, I did n’t think exactly; it was too swift for thought — that it was odd for a steamer to be coming home round the Horn, for steamers go through Magellan Straits always. Somehow there came on me again that sense of foreboding. And I dropped from the bridge and ran forward and up to the forecastle head. And I was no sooner there than I was racing back, shouting at the top of my voice. But I need not have shouted, for the Old Man had seen by then what I had seen.

There is, or was in those days, on the east corner of Staten Land a small lighthouse. Chileans who herded sheep on Staten Land tended it. If their ewes were lambing and they were busy, they’d not light it. Only when all was well with their flocks was it lit. And it was a poor feeble sort of light at best, set above the murderous foreshore rocks at the east end of Staten Land. And now the old girl was driving hell for leather, under her bellied topgallants, straight for those night-hid, murderous rocks.

‘Down helm! — Let go weather braces! — Lower away topgallant sails! All hands on deck!’ roared the Old Man.

Martin dropped from the bridge to the quarter-deck and ran, and I ran after him. And as the helmsman hove the wheel down, and brought the ship rushing up toward the wind and meeting that high wild quartering sea, the seas came crashing over the full length of her railing in a thunderous, shoulderhigh cataract. Martin, just ahead of me, was swept from his feet and vanished from my sight. But, grasping a shroud, I held fast till that first crash of water was gone.

The second mate’s watch were rushing to the deck, their eyes useless as yet because of the lamplight they’d come from. I heard a cry of alarm from Alwyn. And then I was throwing the ropes from their pins, to let the sails swing up. With water tearing at my thighs, I rushed from rope to rope, and Martin, on his feet again, raced too, both of us bawling orders. And added to the thunder of wind and sea came the sharp running rattle of halliard blocks, and the thresh of the lowered topgallants high in the dark. You could feel the masts straining, feel the tension of the rigging — you could sense the old girl’s sudden fear. And then I saw, down to leeward in the darkness, a long blackness — and, between that blackness and the ship, the ghostly white of the breakers hurling themselves high on the murderous rocks. At the very edge of the breakers the old girl was. And then I heard young Pat O’Brien’s voice — Pat, hauling at the ropes with the crew.

‘Alphonse, by God, we’ll be taking a walk ashore in a minute,’ he said, cool as though we were bringing the ship to moorings in port. And I heard a laugh from Alphonse. Oh, there’s always laughter where youth is!

And then, in a minute, all was well, and the old girl was running away from those rock teeth that had waited her swift keel’s coming. She must wellnigh have scraped the seaweed from those waiting rocks!

And then we hauled her braces tight, and hoisted the gallants again, and that fellow Pedersen sang: —

The mob was getting to be fair now at rousing a chantey chorus. They were learning the way of a sailor at last.

The second mate and his watch went below again, and to my mob I called, ‘All right, boys! Get the ropes coiled!’ And I passed here and there amongst them, to see that all was rightly done. And then, with things as they should be, I sauntered into the half deck. Pat was lighting his pipe. Alphonse, leaning on the edge of his bunk, was looking at the photograph of his mistress. And a little first-voyage lad, not yet fifteen, — Bryant his name was, — was on his knees by his sea chest. Every night since the old girl had pulled out to sea he had said his prayers by his sea chest. A mother’s boy — nice little kid. And, of course, never once had Pat or Alphonse so much as smiled to see him praying. And the other green kids were sitting on their sea chests, looking a bit breathless, aware that there had been danger, but unaware of what a close squeak it had been.

Little Bryant rose from his knees, and blinked a bit at the lamplight shining in his eyes. And I set a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Fair wind for the Horn, son! Is n’t that dandy, eh?’ And he looked up at me and smiled, thinking, maybe, that Jesus had answered his prayer.

When I came on duty at eight next morning, there was the Horn a few miles away in the north. Black old Cape Stiff, staring at the old girl, seeming to say, ‘So — you come my way again, do you? All right. Watch out!’ Snow on the summit of Cape Stiff. Snow on the highlands behind it. Snow everywhere. And the wind was fallen quite away, and the sea was flat. The ship lay erect, motionless, on a cold gray sea beneath a cold gray sky, with a million sea birds round her, resting on the lifeless water. And presently thin snow began to fall, half hiding the Horn. And then presently the snow came thicker.

All morning it snowed, great flakes, slow-falling. On into the afternoon the great flakes fell. Not a sound, not a motion — just the great flakes falling. And toward evening John Martin said, ‘ Best have ’em shovel the snow off her, Bill. It’ll warm their blood.’ So I called out my mob and they went to shoveling the snow off her. So thick it fell, you could not see her deck’s length. And after a bit I missed that big hulking fellow Nicholson. I called him, and had no answer. Again I called. No answer. And then in a minute I found him skulking under the forecastlehead. Well, the forecastlehead beams were but six feet from the deck, and I was six feet three; and he was yet a bit taller than I. So I said, ‘Come out on deck. I want to speak to you, and there’s no room here.’ He followed me out to the deck, to where the mob was shoveling.

’Why did n’t you come when I called you?’ I asked.

‘I did n’t hear you,’ he answered, lying — and without a ‘sir.’

And then I thought, ‘Someone’s going to get a hell of a licking, and it may be me.’ I clicked my right fist to his jaw. Instantly he was at me; and all the mob quit shoveling to watch.

Well, it was all right. Had we been ashore he could have whipped me. But we were at sea, and I was fighting for my old girl. You have to have discipline if you’re to bring a ship safe in.

‘Go get a shovel and shovel the snow off her!’ I ordered.

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ he replied, and went to work, one of his eyes closed and his lips bloody.

V

Dark fell. A long uneasy swell arose, from the westerly. The ship began to roll and to pitch. The snow ceased. Freezing, it was. And as the swell rose higher and higher she rolled ever more heavily. And presently her bells began to clang — a clang every now and then. Clang — clang — clang. Somehow it reminded me of funerals ashore. And again I had that sense of foreboding.

‘By God, Bill, we’re going to get it, eh?’ John Martin said to me.

And I replied, ’I guess we are, sir.'

So I called out my mob and went to getting sail off her. And that chap Nicholson was a grand man! He led them all — first man into the rigging, last man down. I could scarce give an order but he was carrying it out almost ere it was given. And it was n’t through any fear of me. It was just that he wanted to show me he was a man. It’s queer how you can whip a man and make a friend, eh?

We got it all right. In an hour or two it was yelling from the west, and the graybacks were flooding all her length; and we had her stripped down to two lower topsails.

Ten days we were off the pitch of the Horn. The green apprentices were all sea-soaked, of course, from the first day; all their palms were split, and all their knuckles were bloody. And when I’d enter the half deck they’d look at me as though I were an admiral at least. For the Horn was an old song and dance with me now. My palms were split, my knuckles bloody, and I’d no dry rag anywhere. What of it? And little Bryant would kneel and say his prayers. And Alphonse would talk about his ‘meestrees.’ And Pat would talk about that first girl he’d kissed. And there was a tall lad named Smith whose sea boots were too tight; so he wore bluchers only, and ever had numb feet. I never once heard him complain, though his eyes were misery if I saw him when he did n’t know I was seeing him. Two of the other green lads took things well, with youth’s exasperated defiance. They cursed, of course, but what odds? Maybe when Jesus hears a sea-soaked hungry bloody-knuckled green young sailor cursing, shouting His name in the midnight’s dark, He smiles.

Oh, well, we drove the old girl hither and thither; wearing her round from one tack to the other again and again; sometimes piling the upper topsails on her for a brief while, then having to furl them in a big hurry because of the everlasting murderous wind from the black west. Ice on the rigging; snow flying; always the long decks flooded from end to end. And one night that fellow Pedersen got his right hand caught in a brace block and all his fingers mashed. He refused to lay up. With a bloody old rag round his mashed fingers, he stayed on duty. He’d go aloft and hang on somehow with his mashed hand, and work with the other. And with him and Nicholson to lead them the mob did well enough. Even the little shivering Negro from Jamaica, whimpering about how the sun shines there, did his poor best.

‘By God, Bill, we’ll have a crew yet, eh?’ John Martin said to me one day. And then Alwyn went along the deck, and, looking at him, Martin shrugged his shoulders.

There came a day when I joined Martin on the bridge after breakfast. The old girl had six topsails set, and the foresail. Wind and sea were savage. All morning we stood side by side, watching her fight. Trying to battle her way to the westward, the ship was — and she could n’t make it. Steadily, mocking, the wind drove her sideways— crab-fashion. ‘Makingleeway,’ we call it when a ship is in that fix. The wind would n’t let her claw her way ahead at all, despite the six topsails and foresail. So at noon we took in the three upper topsails and the foresail. There was a yet darker darkness in the western sky. The wind was bringing up fresh battalions to mock her. When we had the sail off her, we wore her round, brought her on to the other tack.

It was a few minutes to four o’clock when we were finished with that little job. The mate’s watch, who should have gone off duty at noon, had missed their rest, and their dinner too. Now we went for our dinner. There was n’t any. A grayback had swamped the galley, flooded the cook’s stove. The little Malay cook sat on his coal locker, looking like a frozen tarantula. So we ate hardtack. Taking the sail off her, and wearing her round, I’d shouted and yelled, trying to keep good heart in the mob. It’s what a third mate’s for. And was I fagged! Soaked to the hide, of course, just as everyone was. And now, since it was four o’clock, the mate’s watch were on duty again — on duty till six. It was getting dark already, and I took up a few of my mob to see that all was well aloft for the night ahead. I spent the whole two hours aloft. At six I should by rights have been off duty till eight. Two hours’ blessed rest! Lordy, I wanted it! But John Martin came to me as the bells struck and he said, ‘You’ll have to keep the bridge, Bill.’ I did n’t ask him why. I knew. Alwyn had gone to pieces again.

Yes, we were getting close to death once more! The old girl was a few miles to the westward of the Hermite Islands, which lie a bit west of the Horn. And the mocking wind was driving her down to leeward, toward those rocks that have taken so many good ships. So on the bridge I stayed till Martin came back at eight. Side by side we stood. Pitch dark — dark as the middle of an ink bottle. Now and then the Old Man came from the chartroom, stared into the pitchy night, and went back.

None of the mob were allowed to go below that night. We stretched a life line along the poop, and ordered all hands to the poop. Men and apprentices, carpenter, sailmaker, steward, and cook, stood behind the life line, between it and the taffrail. Too scared to go to his cabin, too scared to stay on deck, Alwyn went moaning here and there about the poop.

VI

An hour passed, and another. The old girl labored in the mad seas. You could sense her fear. We’d hear the tinkle of her small bell in front of the wheel. We’d catch, faint on the wind’s roar, the deep clang — clang — clang of the great bronze bell upon her forecastlehead. Like funeral bells, they were.

And in the chartroom sat the Old Man, and his Old Woman with him; and they held one another’s hands. Gray-headed, they were. For thirty years they’d sailed the rolling sea together.

‘She’s going this time, Bill,’ John Martin said. ‘The jig is up.’

And later, in the pitch darkness, I felt a hand that grasped my hand. I heard John Martin say, ‘She’ll strike at eleven o’clock, Bill. The jig’s up. Good-bye! Good luck, shipmate!’

And I said, ‘ Good luck, sir! Good-bye, shipmate!’ Ah, you don’t know how much of meaning is in that word shipmate if you’re not a sailor!

And I could see the chartroom clock. Tick, tick — tick, tick . . .

You wonder how it will be, to go down in the utter dark. You’ll not be able to see a comrade anywhere. But will you hear their screaming? And will you scream? You’ll not see the old girl go. There’ll be a sudden grinding deep under you, and then you’ll feel her drop. You wonder if her masts will go crashing over when she strikes. Maybe a mast will fall upon and crush you. That might be merciful, perhaps. And, if not, how long will it take? You, and your comrades, in the utter dark. And, by and by, the day, and maybe killer whales and hungry albatross. Oh, well! . . . Sailor, sailor, sailor!

It takes a lot of things to make a sailor, does n’t it? You learn to knot, and splice, and reef, and furl, and steer, and sing the good old ‘Maid of Amsterdam,’ and take a landsman’s girl away from him when you go strolling on the shore. Maybe you drink two glasses of shore beer, and then you’re drunk. And then the lubbers say, ‘A drunken sailor,’ and look at you with scorn. Oh, well, you’re sorry for them in a sort of way. Even to-night, deep down within, you do not envy them! The sea’s the sea. A ship’s a ship, and you are part of her, and she of you. The world’s a sort of star, swinging midst other stars. Who fixed things so? You do not pray. Maybe you shout Lord Jesus’ name. Maybe a curse can be a prayer. Who knows?

Tick, tick — tick, tick . . . And now it was a quarter to eleven.

And now there came a sudden little rain flurry. And often when it rains you get a shift of wind. So it was now.

And down I ran, and down John Martin ran, and all the mob behind us, to check her topsails in.

‘Haul, lads! Lay back and haul now, bullies!’

And from the weary mob a longdrawn ‘Yo — ho — ho—hi—lee—oh!'

For ten good minutes the wind blew from that new quarter, a thin rain falling. And then the rain let up, and that mad wind came back like all the demons hooting. But our old girl was safe. She’d needed but a mile or so more sea room. Now she had it.

So then the carpenter, and sailmaker, and steward, and cook, and all the second mate’s watch, went below. And I stayed on the bridge with Martin.

And midnight came, and then, as though frustrated, its venom spent, the mad wind fell. A new wind wakened — a waft from out the south. And we put sail on her. Setting the main upper topsail, that fellow with crushed fingers sang, hauling with one good hand:—

Because of ice on the gear, the topsail went up slowly. So to hoist the mizzen upper topsail we took the halliards to the quarter-deck capstan, and tramp, tramp, tramp went the feet of all the weary mob; clank, clank, clank went the capstan pawls; and, falling from the frozen topsail, ice clittered on the deck. And Pat O’Brien sang:—

And some man laughed, and then a ripple of laughter ran from man to man till all that weary mob were laughing in the pitchy dark. We toiled till almost two o’clock, piling the sail on her, our tired feet slipping on the rolling icy deck. Nicholson sang, and the sail flapped, and the sea lapped, and the blocks creaked, all in tune with his song: —

And the little Negro asked, ‘Wot’s dem huckleberries?’ And he added, ‘Boy, de sugar cane grow in Jamaica!’

And as we gave her sail on sail the old girl gathered speed, and when at last the mate’s watch went below she had the bit in her teeth. ‘Fair wind for Frisco, bullies!’ someone cried.

We’d beat Cape Horn once more. And turning into my bunk I thought, ‘Next time I come this way I’ll be second mate.’ But I’d not stay in the old ship; I’d find another ship to serve. And then sleep took me.