The Brassbounder: A Tale of the Sea

by David W. Bone

  Produced by Al Haines

  THE BRASSBOUNDER

  _A Tale of the Sea_

  by

  DAVID W. BONE

  AUTHOR OF "BROKEN STOWAGE"

  DUCKWORTH

  3 HENRIETTA STREET

  LONDON, W.C.2.

  All Rights Reserved

  First published 1910. Reprinted (twice) 1910.

  Reprinted 1911. Popular Edition printed 1913.

  Reprinted 1916 and 1924.

  Reprinted (New Readers Library) 1927.

  Made and Printed in Great Britain by

  The Camelot Press Limited

  London and Southampton

  TO

  JAMES HAMILTON MUIR

  THE NEW READERS LIBRARY

  1. GREEN MANSIONS by W. H. HUDSON 2. THE POLYGLOTS by WILLIAM GERHARDI 3. THE SEA AND THE JUNGLE by H. M. TOMLINSON 4. THE ROADMENDER by MICHAEL FAIRLESS 5. THE TERROR by ARTHUR MACHEN 6. LOST DIARIES by MAURICE BARING 7. THE BONADVENTURE by EDMUND BLUNDEN 8. SUCCESS by CUNNINGHAM GRAHAM 9. BIRDS AND MAN by W. H. HUDSON 10. THE BLACK MONK by ANTON TCHEKOFF 11. GOD'S COUNTRY by JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD 12. BUCOLIC COMEDIES by EDITH SITWELL 13. THE BRASSBOUNDER by DAVID W. BONE 14. THE PURPLE LAND by W. H. HUDSON 15. CALABAN'S GUIDE TO LETTERS AND LAMKIN'S REMAINS by HILAIRE BELLOC 16. OBITER DICTA by AUGUSTINE BIRRELL 17. AMARYLLIS AT THE FAIR by RICHARD JEFFERIES 18. A CRYSTAL AGE by W. H. HUDSON 19. THE KISS by ANTON TCHEKOFF 20. GOSSIP OF THE 17TH AND 18TH CENTURIES by JOHN BERESFORD 21. FUTILITY by WILLIAM GERHARDI 22. TRIPLE FUGUE by OSBERT SITWELL 23. EL OMBU by W. H. HUDSON 24. SIX SHORT PLAYS by JOHN GALSWORTHY

  CONTENTS

  I. THE 'BLUE PETER' II. STEERSMANSHIP III. THE WAY OF THE HALF-DECK IV. THE 'DEAD HORSE' V. 'SEA PRICE' VI. ROUNDING THE HORN VII. A HOT CARGO VIII. WORK! IX. IN 'FRISCO TOWN X. THE DIFFICULTY WITH THE 'TORREADOR'S' XI. THE 'CONVALESCENT' XII. ON THE SACRAMENTO XIII. HOMEWARD! XIV. A TRICK AT THE WHEEL XV. ''OLY JOES' XVI. EAST, HALF SOUTH! XVII. ADRIFT XVIII. "----AFTER FORTY YEAR!" XIX. 'IN LITTLE SCOTLAND' XX. UNDER THE FLAG XXI. 'DOLDRUMS' XXII. ON SUNDAY XXIII. A LANDFALL XXIV. FALMOUTH FOR ORDERS XXV. "T' WIND'ARD!" XXVI. LIKE A MAN EPILOGUE: "1910"

  THE BRASSBOUNDER

  I

  THE 'BLUE PETER'

  Ding ... dong.... Ding ... dong. The university bells toll out instrength of tone that tells of south-west winds and misty weather. Onthe street below my window familiar city noises, unheeded by day,strike tellingly on the ear--hoof-strokes and rattle of wheels, trampof feet on the stone flags, a snatch of song from a late reveller, thensilence, broken in a little by the deep mournful note of a steamer'ssiren, wind-borne through the Kelvin Valley, or the shrilling of anengine whistle that marks a driver impatient at the junction points.Sleepless, I think of my coming voyage, of the long months--years,perhaps--that will come and go ere next I lie awake hearkening to thenight voices of my native city. My days of holiday--an all too briefspell of comfort and shore living--are over; another peal or more ofthe familiar bells and my emissary of the fates--a Gorbals cabman,belike--will be at the door, ready to set me rattling over the granitesetts on the direct road that leads by Bath Street, Finnieston, andCape Horn--to San Francisco. A long voyage and a hard. And wherenext? No one seems to know! Anywhere where wind blows and square-sailcan carry a freight. At the office on Saturday, the shipping clerkturned his palms out at my questioning.

  "Home again, perhaps. The colonies! Up the Sound or across to Japan,"he said, looking in his _Murray's Diary_ and then at the clock, to seeif there was time for him to nip home for his clubs and catch the 1.15for Kilmacolm.

  Nearly seventeen months of my apprenticeship remain to be served.Seventeen months of a hard sea life, between the masts of a starvationScotch barque, in the roughest of seafaring, on the long voyage, thestormy track leading westward round the Horn.

  It will be February or March when we get down there. Not the worstmonths, thank Heaven! but bad enough at the best. And we'll be badlyoff this voyage, for the owners have taken two able seamen off ourcomplement. "Hard times!" they will be saying. Aye! hard times--forus, who will now have to share two men's weight in working our heavilysparred barque.

  Two new apprentices have joined. Poor little devils! they don't knowwhat it is. It seemed all very fine to that wee chap from Inverary whocame with his father to see the ship before he joined. How the eyes ofhim glinted as he looked about, proud of his brass-bound clothes andbadge cap. And the Mate, all smiles, showing them over the ship andtelling the old Hielan' clergyman what a fine vessel she was, and whatan interest he took in boys, and what fine times they had on boardship, and all that! Ah yes--fine times! It's as well the old chapdoesn't know what he is sending his son to! How can he? We know--butwe don't tell.... Pride! Rotten pride! We come home from our firstvoyage sick of it all.... Would give up but for pride.... Afraid tobe called 'stuck sailors' ... of the sneers of our old schoolmates....So we come home in a great show of bravery and swagger about in ourbrass-bound uniform and lie finely about the fine times we had ... outthere! ... And then nothing will do but Jimmy, next door, must be offto the sea too--to come back and play the same game on young Alick!That's the way of it! ...

  Then when the Mate and them came to the half-deck, it was: "Oh yes,Sir! This is the boys' quarters. Well! Not always like that,Sir--when we get away to sea, you know, and get things shipshape. Oh,well no! There's not much room aboard ship, you see. This is one ofour boys--Mister Jones." (Jones, looking like a miller's man--he hadbeen stowing ship's biscuits in the tanks--grinned foolishly at theMate's introduction: 'Mister!') "We're very busy just now, gettingready for sea. Everything's in a mess, as you see, Sir. Only joined,myself, last week. But, oh yes! It will be all right when we get tosea--when we get things shipshape and settled down, Sir!"

  Oh yes! Everything will be all right then, eh? Especially when we getdown off the Horn, and the dingy half-deck will be awash most of thetime with icy water. The owners would do nothing to it this trip, inspite of our complaints. They sent a young man down from the officelast week who poked at the covering boards with his umbrella and wantedto know what we were growling at. Wish we had him out there--off DiegoRamirez. Give him something to growl at with the ship working, andgreen seas on deck, and the water lashing about the floor of the house,washing out the lower bunks, bed and bedding, and soaking every stitchof the clothing that we had fondly hoped would keep us moderately dryin the next bitter night watch. And when (as we try with trembling,benumbed fingers to buckle on the sodden clothes) the ill-hinged doorswings to, and a rush of water and a blast of icy wind chills us to themarrow, it needs but a hoarse, raucous shout from without to crown thesummit of misery. "Out there, the watch! Turn out!" in tone thatadmits of no protest. "Turn out, damn ye, an' stand-by t' wear ship!"

  (A blast of wind and rain rattles on my window-pane. _Ugh_! I turnthe more cosily amid my blankets.)

  Oh yes! He would have something to growl at, that young man who askedif the 'Skipp-ah' was aboard, and said he "was deshed if he could seewhat we hed to complain of."

  He would learn, painfully, that a ship, snugly moored in the south-eastcorner of the Queen's Dock (stern-on to a telephone call-box), and thesame craft, labouring in the teeth of a Cape Horn gale, present somepoints of difference; that it is a far cry from 58 deg. South to theClyde Repair Works, and that the business of shipping is not entirely amatter of ledgers.

  Oh well! Just have to stick it, though. After all, it won't always behard times. Think of the long, sunny days drowsing along down the'Trades,' of the fine times out there in 'Frisco, of joys of s
trenuousaction greater than the shipping clerk will ever know, even if heshould manage to hole out in three. Seventeen months! It will soonpass, and I'll be a free man when I get back to Glasgow again.Seventeen months, and then--then----

  Ding ... dong.... Ding ... dong.... Ding dong....

  Quarter to! With a sigh for the comfort of a life ashore, I rise anddress. Through the window I see the Square, shrouded in mist, thenearer leafless shrubs swaying in the chill wind, pavement glisteningin the flickering light of street lamps. A dismal morning to besetting off to the sea! Portent of head winds and foul weather that wemay meet in Channel before the last of Glasgow's grime and smoke-wrackis blown from the rigging.

  A stir in the next room marks another rising. Kindly old '_Ding ...dong_' has called a favourite brother from his rest to give me convoyto the harbour.

  Ready for the road, he comes to my room. Sleepy-eyed, yawning. "Fouro'clock! _Ugh_! Who ever heard of a man going to sea at four in themorning! Ought to be a bright summer's day, and the sun shining andflags flying an'----" A choked laugh.

  "Glad I'm not a sailorman to be going out on a morning like this! Sureyou've remembered everything? Your cab should be here now. Just gonefour. Heard the bells as I was dressing----"

  Rattle of wheels on the granite setts--sharp, metallic ring of shodheels--a moment of looking for a number--a ring of the door-bell.

  "Perty that's tae gang doon tae th' Queen's Dock wi' luggage.... A'richt, Mister! Ah can cairry them ma'sel'.... Aye! Weel! Noo thatye menshun it, Sur ... oon a mornin' like this.... Ma respeks, gents!"

  There are no good-byes: the last has been said the night before. Therecould be no enthusiasm at four on a raw November's morning; it is bestthat I slip out quietly and take my seat, with a last look at the quietstreet, the darkened windows, the quaint, familiar belfry of St. Jude's.

  "A' richt, Sur. G'up, mere! Haud up, mere, ye!"

  At a corner of the Square the night policeman, yawning whole-heartedly,peers into the cab to see who goes. There is nothing to investigate;the sea-chest, sailor-bag, and bedding, piled awkwardly on the'dickey,' tell all he wants to know.

  "A sailor for aff!"

  Jingling his keys, he thinks maybe of the many 'braw laads' fromLochinver who go the same hard road.

  * * * * *

  Down the deserted wind-swept streets we drive steadily on, till houselights glinting behind the blinds and hurrying figures of a'night-shift' show that we are near the river and the docks. A turnalong the waterside, the dim outlines of the ships and tracery of mastand spar looming large and fantastic in the darkness, and the driver,questioning, brings up at a dim-lit shed, bare of goods and cargo--theberth of a full-laden outward-bounder. My barque--the _Florence_, ofGlasgow--lies in a corner of the dock, ready for sea. Tugs arechurning the muddy water alongside, getting into position to drag herfrom the quay wall; the lurid side-light gleams on a small knot ofwell-wishers gathered at the forward gangway exchanging parting wordswith the local seamen of our crew. I have cut my time but short.

  "Come en there, you!" is my greeting from the harassed Chief Mate."Are you turned a ---- passenger, with your gloves and overcoat? Yoush'd have been here an hour ago! Get a move on ye, now, and bear ahand with these warps.... Gad! A drunken crew an' skulkin''prentices, an' th' Old Man growlin' like a bear with a sore----"

  Grumbling loudly, he goes forward, leaving me the minute for'good-bye,' the late 'remembers,' the last long hand-grip.

  Into the half-deck, to change hurriedly into working clothes. Timeenough to note the guttering lamp, evil smell, the dismal aspect of myhome afloat--then, on deck again, to haul, viciously despondent, at thecast-off mooring ropes.

  Forward the crew--drunk to a man--are giving the Chief Mate trouble,and it is only when the gangway is hauled ashore that anything can bedone. The cook, lying as he fell over his sailor bag, sings, "_'t wisye'r vice, ma gen-tul Merry!_" in as many keys as there are points inthe compass, drunkenly indifferent to the farewells of a sad-facedwoman, standing on the quayside with a baby in her arms. Riot anddisorder is the way of things; the Mates, out of temper with themuddlers at the ropes, are swearing, pushing, coaxing--to some attemptat getting the ship unmoored. Double work for the sober ones, and forthanks--a muttered curse. Small wonder that men go drunk to the sea:the wonder is that any go sober!

  At starting there is a delay. Some of the men have slipped ashore fora last pull at a neighbourly 'hauf-mutchkin,' and at a muster four aremissing. For a time we hold on at single moorings, the stern tugblowing a 'hurry-up' blast on her siren, the Captain and a River Pilotstamping on the poop, angrily impatient. One rejoins, drunken anddefiant, but of the others there is no sign. We can wait no longer.

  "Let go, aft!" shouts the Captain. "Let go, an' haul in. Damn themfor worthless sodjers, anyway! Mister"--to a waiting Board of Tradeofficial--"send them t' Greenock, if ye can run them in. If not,telephone down that we're three A.B.'s short.... Lie up t' th'norr'ard, stern tug, there. Hard a-port, Mister? All right! Let goall, forr'ard!" ... We swing into the dock passage, from whence thefigures of our friends on the misty quayside are faintly visible. Thelittle crowd raises a weakly cheer, and one bold spirit (with hisguid-brither's 'hauf-pey note' in his pocket) shouts a bar or two of"Wull ye no' come back again!" A few muttered farewells, and the shorefolk hurry down between the wagons to exchange a last parting word atthe Kelvinhaugh. '_... Dong ... ding ... DONG ... DONG...._' Set to afanfare of steam whistles, Old Brazen Tongue of Gilmorehill tolls usbenison as we steer between the pierheads. Six sonorous strokes, loudabove the shrilling of workshop signals and the nearer merry jangle ofthe engine-house chimes.

  Workmen, hurrying to their jobs, curse us for robbing them of a'quarter,' the swing-bridge being open to let us through. "Come oon!Hurry up wi' that auld 'jeely-dish,' an' see's a chance tae get tae wurwark," they shout in a chorus of just irritation. A facetious memberof our crew shouts:

  "Wot--oh, old stiy-at-'omes. Cahmin' aat t' get wandered?"--and adockman answers:

  "Hello, Jake, 'i ye therr? Man, th' sailormen maun a' be deid when th'Mate gied you a sicht! Jist you wait tae he catches ye fanklin' th'cro'-jeck sheets!"

  We swing slowly between the pierheads, and the workmen, humoured by thedockman's jest, give us a hoarse cheer as they scurry across the stillmoving bridge. In time-honoured fashion our Cockney humorist callsfor, 'Three cheers f'r ol' Pier-'ead, boys,' and such of the 'boys' asare able chant a feeble echo to his shout. The tugs straighten us upin the river, and we breast the flood cautiously, for the mist has notyet cleared and the coasting skippers are taking risks to get to theirberths before the stevedores have picked their men. In the shipyardsworkmen are beginning their day's toil, the lowe of their flares lightup the gaunt structures of ships to be. Sharp at the last wailing noteof the whistle, the din of strenuous work begins, and we are fittinglydrummed down the reaches to a merry tune of clanging hammers--theshipyard chorus "Let Glasgow flourish!"

  Dawn finds us off Bowling, and as the fog clears gives us misty viewsof the Kilpatrick Hills. Ahead, Dumbarton Rock looms up, gaunt andmisty, sentinel o'er the lesser heights. South, the Renfrew shorestretches broadly out under the brightening sky--the wooded Elderslieslopes and distant hills, and, nearer, the shoal ground behind the langDyke where screaming gulls circle and wheel. The setting out is noneso ill now, with God's good daylight broad over all, and the flagsflying--the 'Blue Peter' fluttering its message at the fore.

  On the poop, the Captain (the 'Old Man,' be he twenty-one or fifty)paces to and fro--a short sailor walk, with a pause now and then tomark the steering or pass a word with the River Pilot. Of mediumheight, though broad to the point of ungainliness, Old Jock Leish (inhis ill-fitting broadcloth shore-clothes) might have passed for aprosperous farmer, but it needed only a glance at the keen grey eyespeering from beneath bushy eyebrows, the determined set of a squarelower jaw, to note a man of action, accustomed to
command. A quick,alert turn of the head, the lift of shoulders as he walked--armsswinging in seaman-like balance--and the trick of pausing at a windwardturn to glance at the weather sky, marked the sailing shipmaster--theman to whom thought and action must be as one.

  Pausing at the binnacle to note the direction of the wind, he gives anexclamation of disgust.

  "A 'dead muzzler,' Pilot. No sign o' a slant in the trend o' th' upperclouds. Sou'west, outside, I'm afraid.... Mebbe it's just as weel;we'll have t' bring up at th' Tail o' th' Bank, anyway, for these threehands, damn them.... An' th' rest are useless.... Drunk t' a man, th'Mate says. God! They'd better sober up soon, or we'll have to try'Yankee music' t' get things shipshape!"

  The Pilot laughed. "I thought the 'Yankee touch' was done with at seanow," he said. "Merchant Shippin' Act, and that sort of thing,Captain?"

  "Goad, no! It's no bye wi' yet, an' never will be as long as work hasto be done at sea. I never was much taken with it myself, but, damnit, ye've got to sail the ship, and ye can't do it without hands. Oh,a little of it at the setting off does no harm--they forget all aboutit before long; but at the end of a voyage, when ye're getting nearport, it's not very wise. No, not very wise--an' besides, you don'tneed it!"

  The Pilot grins again, thinking maybe of his own experiences, before he'swallowed part of the anchor,' and Old Jock returns to his walk.

  Overhead the masts and spars are black with the grime of a 'voyage' inGlasgow Harbour, and 'Irish pennants' fluttering wildly on spar andrigging tell of the scamped work of those whose names are not on our'Articles.' Sternly superintended (now that the Mate has given up allhope of getting work out of the men), we elder boys are held aloft,reeving running gear through the leads in the maintop. On the deckbelow the new apprentices gaze in open-mouthed admiration at our deeds:they wonder why the Mate should think such clever fellows laggard, whyhe should curse us for clumsy 'sodgers,' as a long length of rope goes(wrongly led) through the top. In a few months more they themselveswill be criticising the 'hoodlums,' and discussing the wisdom of the'Old Man' in standing so far to the south'ard.

  Fog comes dense on us at Port Glasgow, and incoming steamers, loominglarge on the narrowed horizon, steer sharply to the south to give uswater. Enveloped in the driving wraiths we hear the deep notes ofmoving vessels, the clatter of bells on ships at anchor, and fartherdown, loud over all, the siren at the Cloch, bellowing a warning ofthick weather beyond the Point. Sheering cautiously out of thefairway, we come to anchor at Tail of the Bank to wait for our'pier-head jumps.' At four in the afternoon, a launch comes off withour recruits and our whipper-in explains his apparent delay.

  "Hilt nor hair o' th' men that left ye hae I seen. I thocht I'd fin'them at 'Dirty Dick's' when th' pubs opened ... but no, no' a sign: an'a wheen tailor buddies wha cashed their advance notes huntin' high an'low! I seen yin o' them ower by M'Lean Street wi' a nicht polis wi 'mt' see he didna get a heid pit on 'm!--'_sss_! A pant! So I cam' doonhere, an' I hiv been lookin' for sailormen sin' ten o'clock. Man,they'll no' gang in thae wind-jammers, wi' sae mony new steamersspeirin' hauns, an' new boats giein' twa ten fur th' run tae London....Thir's th' only yins I can get, an' ye wadna get them, but that twa'sfeart o' th' polis an' Jorgensen wants t' see th' month's advance o'th' lang yin!"

  The Captain eyes the men and demands of one:

  "Been to sea before?"

  "_Nach robh mhi_? Twa years I wass a 'bow rope' in the _I-on-a_, an' Iwass a wheelhouse in the Allan Line."

  A glance at his discharges confirms his claim, slight as it is, toseamanship, and Duncan M'Innes, of Sleat, in Skye, after beingcautioned as to his obligations, signs his name and goes forward.

  Patrick Laughlin has considerable difficulty in explaining his absencefrom the sea for two years, but the Captain, after listening to a long,rambling statement... "i' th' yairds ... riggin' planks fur th'rivitter boys.... Guid-brither a gaffer in Hamilton's, at the 'Poort'... shoart time" ... gives a quick glance at the alleged seaman'scropped head and winks solemnly at the Shipping-master, who is signingthe men on. Hands being so scarce, however, Patrick is allowed totouch the pen.

  One glance at the third suffices. Blue eyes and light colourless hair,high cheek-bones and lithe limbs, mark the Scandinavian. Strong, wiryfingers and an indescribable something proclaim the sailor, and thoughVon Shmit can hardly say 'yes' in English, he looks the most likely manof the three.

  The Shipping-master, having concluded his business, steps aboard hislaunch, leaving us with a full crew, to wait the weather clearing, andthe fair wind that would lift us down Channel.

  * * * * *

  Daybreak next morning shows promise of better weather, and a lightS.S.E. wind with a comparatively clear sky decides the Old Man to takethe North Channel for it. As soon as there is light enough to marktheir colours, a string of flags brings off our tug-boat from PrincesPier, and we start to heave up the anchor. A stout coloured man setsup a 'chantey' in a very creditable baritone, and the crew, sobered nowby the snell morning air, give sheet to the chorus.

  '_Blow, boy-s, blow,--for Califor-ny, oh!_ _For there's lot's of gold, so I've been told,_ _On the banks--of Sa-cramen-to!_'

  The towing-hawser is passed aboard, and the tug takes the weight offthe cable. The nigger having reeled off all he knows of 'Californy,' aDutchman sings lustily of 'Sally Brown.' Soon the Mate reports,"Anchor's short, Sir," and gets the order to weigh. A few morepowerful heaves with the seaman-like poise between each--"_Spent mymo-ney on Sa-lley Brown!_"--and the shout comes, "Anchor's a-weigh!"

  Down comes the Blue Peter from the fore, whipping at shroud andbackstay in quick descent--our barque rides ground-free, the voyagebegun!

  The light is broad over all now, and the Highland hills loom dark andmisty to the norr'ard. With a catch at the heart, we pass thewell-known places, slowly making way, as if the flood-tide werestriving still to hold us in our native waters. A Customs boat hails,and asks of us, "Whither bound?" "'Frisco away!" we shout, and theywave us a brief God-speed. Rounding the Cloch, we meet the coastingsteamers scurrying up the Firth.

  "'Ow'd ye like t' be a stiy-at-'ome, splashin' abaht in ten fathoms,like them blokes, eh?" the Cockney asks me, with a deep-water man'scontempt in his tone.

  How indeed? Yearning eyes follow their glistening stern-wash as theyspeed past, hot-foot for the river berths.

  Tide has made now. A short period of slack water, and the ebb bears usseaward, past the Cowal shore, glinting in the wintry sunlight, theblue smoke in Dunoon valley curling upward to Kilbride Hill, pastSkelmorlie Buoy (tolling a doleful benediction), past Rothesay Bay,with the misty Kyles beyond. The Garroch Head, with a cluster of ClydeTrust Hoppers, glides abaft the beam, and the blue Cock o' Arran showsup across the opening water. All is haste and bustle. Aloft,spider-like figures, black against the tracery of the rigging, castdown sheets and clew lines in the one place where they must go. Shoutsand hails--"Fore cross-trees, there! Royal buntline inside th'crin'line, _in_-side, damn ye!"

  "Aye, aye! Stan' fr' under!"

  ..._rrup_! A coil of rope hurtling from a height comes rattling to therail, to be secured to its own particular belaying-pin. Out of aseeming chaos comes order. Every rope has its name and its place andits purpose; and though we have 'sodjers' among us, before Arran isastern we are ready to take to the wind. Off Pladda we set staysailsand steer to the westward, and, when the wind allows, hoist topsailsand crowd the canvas on her. The short November day has run its coursewhen we cast off the tow-rope. As we pass the standing tug, all herhands are hauling the hawser aboard. Soon she comes tearing in ourwake to take our last letters ashore and to receive the Captain's'blessing.' A heaving-line is thrown aboard, and into a small oilskinbag are put our hastily written messages and the Captain's material'blessing.' Shades of Romance! Our last link with civilisationsevered by a bottle of Hennessy's Three Star!

  The tugmen (after satisfying themselves as to the contents
of the bag)give us a cheer and a few parting 'skreichs' on their siren and,turning quickly, make off to a Norwegian barque, lying-to, off AilsaCraig.

  All hands, under the Mates, are hard driven, sweating on sheet andhalyard to make the most of the light breeze. At the wheel I havelittle to do; she is steering easily, asking no more than a spoke ortwo, when the Atlantic swell, running under, lifts her to the wind.Ahead of us a few trawlers are standing out to the Skerryvore Banks.Broad to the North, the rugged, mist-capped Mull of Cantyre looms upacross the heaving water. The breeze is steady, but a fallingbarometer tells of wind or mist ere morning.

  Darkness falls, and coast lights show up in all airts. Forward, allhands are putting a last drag on the topsail halyards, and the voice ofthe nigger tells of the fortunes of--

  '_Renzo--boys, Renzo!_'