by Bartimeus
*III.*
*A GALLEY'S DAY.*
Boom! On board the Flagship a puff of smoke rose and dissolved in thebreeze; the cluster of whalers and gigs that had been hovering about thestarting-line sped away before the wind. The bay to windward resembledthe shallows near the nesting-ground of white-winged gulls as theremaining gigs, whalers, and cutters zigzagged tentatively to and fro,and a couple of belated 25-feet whalers, caught napping, went tearingdown among them.
The launches and pinnaces do not start for another hour, and are for themost part still at the booms of their respective ships. There are threemore classes before us, and it only remains to keep out of the way andan eye on the stop-watch. The breeze is freshening, and it looks like a"Galley's day." A 32-feet cutter (handiest and sweetest of all Serviceboats to sail) goes skimming past on a trial run. Her gilded badgegleams in the spray, and there is a sheen of brasswork and enamel abouther that proclaims the pampered darling of a ship. The Midshipman at thehelm--to show a mere galley what he can do--chooses a squall in which heput her about; she spins round like a top, and is off on her new tack inthe twinkling of an eye.
Casey, Petty Officer and Captain's Coxswain, is busy forward with theawning and an additional halliard rove through a block at the foremasthead. This, steadied by the boat-hook, will serve us as a spinnakerduring the three-mile run down-wind; and, in a Service rig race, is theonly additional fitting allowed beyond what is defined as "the rig theboat uses on service, made of service canvas by service labour."
Only half a minute now.... Check away the sheets. Spinnaker halliardsin hand.
Boom! We are off! Hoist spinnaker!
As we cross the line the 32-ft. cutter and a couple of gigs slip overabreast of us; astern a host of white sails come bellying in our wake;up to windward the pinnaces and launches are manoeuvring for positions.The cutter has "goose-winged" her dipping-lug and is running dead beforethe wind. In a narrow boat like a galley this is dangerous and does notpay. Luffing a little, we get the wind on our quarter, and the gigsfollow suit. Presently the cutter gybes and loses ground; the gigs, too,have dropped astern a little.
Our galley's crew settle down in the bottom of the boat, and producingpipes and cigarettes from inside their caps, speculate on the chances ofthe day. Far ahead the smaller fry are negotiating the mark-buoy.Imperceptibly the breeze freshens, till the wind is whipping a wet smokeoff the tops of the waves. Casey, tending the main-sheet, removes hispipe and spits overside. "I reckons we'll want our weather-boardsbefore we'm done, sir," he prophesies. We have shown the rest of ourclass a clean pair of heels by now, and are fast overhauling thewhalers. At last the mark-buoy.
"Down spinnaker!" and round we go, close hauled. Now the work starts.A white squall tearing down the bay blinds us with spray and fine desertsand. The water pours over the gunwale as we luff and luff again.There's nothing for it: we must reef, and while we do so, round come theremainder, some reefed and labouring, others lying up in the wind withflapping sails. A nasty short sea has set in, and at the snub of eachwave, the galley, for all the careful nursing she receives, quivers likea sensitive being.
"She can't abear that reef in her foresail," says Casey; "it do make herthat sluggish." As he spoke, our rival, the 32-ft. cutter, wentthrashing past under full sail, her crew crouched to windward. It wasgoing to be neck or nothing with them. Then, by James--
"Got anything to bail with, forward there?"
"Yessir!" replied seven voices as one.
"Stand-by to shake out that reef!" We luffed for a second while twogigs and a pinnace crept up on our quarter, and then off we went in theseething wake of the cutter. Even Casey's big toe curled convulsively ashe braced himself against the thwart and spat on his hands to get afresh grip on the main-sheet. The spray hissed over us like rain, and,under cover of his oilskin, I believe No. 5, perched on the weathergunwale, was sorrowfully unlacing his boots.
"If it don't get no worse," says Casey, "we'll do all right." With hisbull-dog chin above the gunwale he commenced a running commentary on theproceedings. "... 'Strewth! There's 'is foremast gorn!" He gazedastern enraptured. "Commander's weather-shroud carried away, sir, an''im a-drifting 'elpless.... Them whalers is bailin' like loo-natics--"he gave a hoarse chuckle, "like proper loo-natics, sir.... That therelaunch precious near fouled the mark-buoy.... 'E'll run down that gig if'e don't watch it. Their owner sailing 'er too."
Then the squalls died away and the breeze steadied. I could hear thesurge of a launch as she came crashing along on our quarter, but onceround the second mark-buoy and on the port tack no one could touchus--at least so Casey vowed.
Suddenly, the half-drowned bowman gave the first sign of animation thathe had displayed since the green seas began to break over him. "She'smissed stays," he announced with gruff relish, peering under the lip ofthe foresail.
"'Oo? Not that cutter...?" Casey so far forgot himself as to squirttobacco juice into the sacred bottom of his own boat. "Yessir, an' sohelp me," he added in confirmation, "she's in Hirons!"[#]
[#] A boat is said to be "in irons" when she lies dead head-to-wind andcannot pay off on either tack.
The next minute we passed to windward of our rival, as with flappingsheets and reversed helm she drifted slowly astern. Her Midshipmanavoided our eyes as we passed, but his expression of incredulousexasperation I have seen matched only on the face of one whose loved andtrusted hunter has refused a familiar jump. Above the noise of the windand waves I heard his angry wail--
"O-o-oh! Isn't she a cow!"
The wind held fair and true, and, as Casey prophesied, it proved aGalley's day after all. A launch and two pinnaces raced us for theFlagship's ram, and our rudder missed the cable by inches as we wore tobring us on to the finishing line. Even then the launch nearly had it;but I think that the observations exchanged, as we slipped round side byside (_sotto voce_ and perfectly audible to every one in both boats),between Casey and the launch's Coxswain, did much to spoil the nerve ofthe First Lieutenant who was sailing her.
Much of that day I have forgotten. But the sheen of white sailssprinkled along the triangular nine-mile course, the grey hulls of theFleet against the blue of sea and sky, the tremor of the boat's frame asthe water raced hissing past her clinker-built sides, the bucket andshrug, the lurch and reel and plunge as she fought her way towindward,--all these things have combined to make a blur of infinitelypleasant memories.
* * * * *
Casey gave a sigh of contentment and handed back an empty glass throughthe pantry door.
"Well, sir," he said, "I reckon that was a proper caper!" Then, as ifrealising that his summing up of the race required adequateembellishment, and less formal surroundings in which to do the occasionjustice, he wiped his mouth on the back of a huge paw and moved forwardout of sight along the mess-deck.