IV
THE 'DEAD HORSE'
Fine weather, if hot as the breath of Hades, and the last dying airs ofthe nor'-east trades drifting us to the south'ard at a leisured threeknots.
From the first streak of daylight we had been hard at work finishing upthe general overhaul cf gear and rigging that can only be done in thesteady trade winds. Now it was over; we could step out aloft, sure ofour foothold; all the treacherous ropes were safe in keeping of the'shakin's cask,' and every block and runner was working smoothly, inreadiness for the shifting winds of the doldrums that would soon bewith us.
The work done, bucket and spar were manned and, for the fourth timethat day, the sun-scorched planks and gaping seams of the deck weresluiced down--a job at which we lingered, splashing the limpid water asfast the wetted planks steamed and dried again. A grateful coolnesscame with the westing of the tyrant sun, and when our miserable eveningmeal had been hurried through we sought the deck again, to sit underthe cool draught of the foresail watching the brazen glow that attendedthe sun's setting, the glassy patches of windless sea, the faintripples that now and then swept over the calm--the dying breath of astout breeze that had lifted us from 27 deg. North. What talk there wasamong us concerned our voyage, a never-failing topic; and old Martin,to set the speakers right, had brought his 'log'--a slenderyardstick--from the forecastle.
"... ty-seven ... ty-eight ... twenty-nine," he said, counting a row ofnotches. "Thirty days hout t'morrer, an' th' 'dead 'orse' is hup t'day, sons!"
"'Dead 'oss' hup t' dye? 'Ow d'ye mike that aht?" said 'Cockney'Hicks, a man of importance, now promoted to bo'sun. "Fust Sunday wewos in Channel, runnin' dahn th' Irish lights, worn't it?"
"Aye!"
"Secon' Sunday we wos routin' abaht in them strong southerly win's,hoff th' Weste'n Isles?"
"That's so," said Martin, patting his yard-stick, "Right-o!"
"Third Sunday we 'ad th' trides, runnin' south; lawst Sunday wos fourthSunday hout, an' this 'ere's Friday--'peasoup-dye,' ain't it? 'Ow d'yemike a month o' that? 'Dead 'oss' ain't up till t'morrer, I reckon!"
"Well, ye reckons wrong, bo'sun! Ye ain't a-countin' of th' day wot welay at anchor at th' Tail o' th' Bank!"
"Blimy, no! I'd forgotten that dye!"
"No! An' I tell ye th' 'dead 'orse' is hup, right enuff. I don't makeno mistake in my log.... Look at 'ere," pointing to a cross-cut at thehead of his stick. "That's the dye wot we lay at anchor--w'en you an'me an' the rest ov us wos proper drunk. 'Ere we starts away," turningto another side; "them up strokes is 'ead win's, an' them downs isfair; 'ere's where we got that blow hoff th' Weste'n Isles," puttinghis finger-nail into a deep cleft; "that time we carries away th'topmas' stays'l sheet; an' 'ere's th' trade win's wot we're 'avin' now!... All k'rect, I tell ye. Ain't no mistakes 'ere, sons!" He put thestick aside the better to fill his pipe.
"Vat yo' calls dem holes in de top, Martin, _zoone_? Dot vasssometings, aind't id?"
Vootgert, the Belgian, picked the stick up, turning it over carelessly.
Martin snatched it away.
"A course it's 'sometings,' ye Flemish 'og! If ye wants to knowpertiklar, them 'oles is two p'un' o' tebaccer wot I had sence I comeaboard. Don't allow no Ol' Man t' do _me_ in the bloomin' hye w'en itcomes t' tottin' th' bill! ... I'll watch it! I keeps a good tally ovwot I gets, tho' I can't read nor write like them young 'know-alls'over there" (Martin had no love for 'brassbounders'), "them wot orterbe aft in their proper place, an' not sittin' 'ere, chinnin' wi' th'sailormen!"
"Who's chinnin'?" said Jones, Martin's particular enemy. "Ain't said aword! Not but what I wanted to ... sittin' here, listenin' to a lot ofbally rot about ye'r dead horses an' logs an' that!"
Jones rose with a great pantomime of disgust (directed especially atthe old man), and went aft, leaving Munro and me to weather Martin'srage.
"Oh, shut up, Martin!" said the bo'sun. "They ain't doin' no 'arm!Boys is boys!"
"Ho no, they ain't, bo'sun: not in this ship, they ain't. Boys is men,an' men's old beggars, 'ere! I don't 'old wi' them a-comin' forrard'ere at awl! A place fer everything, an' everybody 'as 'is place, Isays! Captin' on the bloomin' poop o' her, an' cook t' th' foresheet!That's shipshape an' Bristol fashion, ain't it?"
"That's so, that's so! ... But them young 'uns is 'ere forhin-for-mashun, eh?"
Martin grumbled loudly and turned to counting his notches. "Know-alls!That's wot _they_ is--ruddy know-alls! Told me I didn't know wot afair win' wos!" he muttered as he fingered his 'log.'
"'Dead 'oss?'" said the bo'sun, turning to Munro. "'Dead 'oss' is th'fust month out, w'en ye're workin' for ye'r boardin'-mawster. 'E getsye'r month's advawnce w'en ye sails, an' ye've got to work that hoffafore ye earns any pay!"
"Who vass ride your 'dead 'oss,' Martin?" asked the Belgian when quietwas restored.
"Oh, Jemmy Grant; 'im wot 'as an 'ouse in Springfield Lane. Come in t'th' Clyde in th' _Loch Ness_ from Melb'un--heighty-five days, an' adamn good passage too, an' twel' poun' ten of a pay day! Dunno' 'ow itwent.... Spent it awl in four or five days. I put up at Jemmy Grant'sfor a week 'r two arter th' money was gone, an' 'e guv' me five bob an'a new suit of oilskins out 'er my month's advawnce on this 'ere 'ooker!"
"Indeed to goodness, now! That iss not pad at all, indeed," said JohnLewis, our brawny Welshman. "I came home in th' _Wanderer_, o' St.Johnss, an' wass paid off with thirty-fife poun'ss, I tell 'oo. Istayed in Owen Evanss' house in Great Clyde Street, an' when I wentthere I give him ten poun'ss t' keep for me. 'Indeed, an' I will, m'lad,' he sayss, 'an' 'oo can have it whenever 'oo likes,' he sayss....Damn him for a rogue, I tell 'oo!"
Martin laughed. "Well, ye was soft. Them blokes' bizness is keepin',ain't it?"
"Iss, indeed! Well, I tell 'oo, I got in trouble with a policeman inth' Broomielaw. It took four o' them to run me in, indeed!" pleasantlyreminiscent; "an' the next mornin' I wass put up for assaultin' th'police. 'I don't know nothin' about it,' I sayss, when the old fella'asked me. 'Thirty shillins' or fourteen days,' he sayss! ... Well, Ididn't haf any money left, but I told a policeman, and he said he wouldsend for Owen Evanss.... After a while Evanss come to the office, an'they took me in. I was quite quiet, indeed, bein' sober, I tell'oo.... 'Owen, _machgen-i_,' I sayss, 'will 'oo pay the thirtyshillin's out of the ten poun'ss I give 'oo?' 'What ten poun'ss?' hesayss. 'What ten poun'ss?' I sayss. '_Diwedd-i_, the ten poun'ss Igive 'oo t' keep for me,' I sayss. 'Ten poun'ss,' he sayss, 'tenpoun'ss to keep for 'oo, an' it iss two weeks' board an' lodgin' 'ooare owin' me, indeed!' 'Damn 'oo!' I sayss. 'Did I not give 'oo tenpoun'ss when I wass paid off out of the _Wanderer_, an' 'oo said 'oowould keep it for ne and give it back again when I wanted it?' Isayss.... 'What are 'oo talkin' about?' he sayss. ''Oo must be drunk,indeed!' ... 'Have 'oo got a receipt for it, m' lad?' sayss theSergeant. 'No, indeed,' I sayss. 'I didn't ask him for a receipt.'... 'Oh,' he sayss, 'we've heard this pefore,' he sayss, shuttin' th'book an' signin' to the policeman to put me away. I made for OwenEvanss, but there wass too many policemen indeed.... So I had to servethe month, I tell 'oo!" John stroked his beard mournfully, muttering,"Ten poun'ss, indeed! Ten poun'ss, py damm!"
"An' didn't ye git square wi' th' bloke wot done ye?" asked the bo'sun.
"Oh, iss! Iss, indeed!" John brightened up at thought of it. "When Icame out I went straight to Great Clyde Street an' give him th' besthidin' he effer got, I tell 'oo! I took ten poun'ss of skin an' hairout of him pefore th' police came. Fine! I think it wass fine, an' Ihad to do two months for that.... When I come out the street wass fullof policemen, indeed, so I signed in this barque an' sold my advancenote to a Jew for ten pob!"
Ten shillings! For what, if the discounter saw to it that his man wentto sea, was worth three pounds when the ship had cleared the Channel!On the other hand, Dan Nairn, a Straits of Canso sailor-farmer (mostlyfarmer), had something to say.
"Waall, boy-ees, they ain't awl like that, I guess! I came acrausc
aow-punchin' on a Donalds'n cattle boat, an' landed in Glasgow withdamn all but a stick ov chewin' tebaccer an' two dallars, Canad'n, inmy packet. I put up with a Scowwegian in Centre Street; a stiff goodfeller too! Guess I was 'baout six weeks or more in 'is 'aouse, an' hegive me a tidy lot 'er fixin's--oilskins an' sea-boots an' awl--out 'ermy month's advance."
"Oh, some is good and some ain't," said Martin. "Ah knowed a fellerwot 'ad an 'ard-up boardin'-'ouse in Tiger Bay. Awl th' stiffs inCardiff use' ter lay back on 'im w'en nobody else 'ud give 'em 'ouseroom--hoodlums and Dagos an' Greeks wot couldn't get a ship proper. 'E'ad rooms in 'is 'ouse fitted up wi' bunks like a bloomin' fo'cs'le,ah' 'is crowd got their grub sarved out, same's they wos at sea. Everytide time 'e wos down at th' pier-'ead wi' six or seven of 'isgang--'ook-pots an' pannikins, an' bed an' piller--waitin' their chanstov a 'pier-'ead jump.' That wos th' only way 'e could get 'is menaway, 'cos they worn't proper sailormen as c'd go aboard a packet 'nast for a sight like you an' me. Most of 'em 'ad bad discharges ordead-'un's papers or somethin'! 'Pier-'ead jumps,' they wos, an' theywouldn't never 'a' got a ship, only f'r that feller an' 'is 'ard-upboardin'-'ouse."
Martin picked up his precious 'log' and turned to go below. "Anyways,good or bad," he said, "them 'sharks' 'as got my ol' iron fer the lastmonth, an' if this worn't a starvation bloomin' Scotch packet, an' acrew of bloomin' know-alls, fixing me with a fancy curl of lip, we'd a_chanteyed_ th' 'dead 'orse' aft t'night an' ast th' Ol' Man t' splicethe mainbrace."
He passed into the forecastle, and through the open door we could hearhim sing a snatch of the 'dead horse' _chantey_:--
"_But now th' month is up, ol' turk!_ (_An' we says so, an' we 'opes so._) _Get up, ye swine, an' look fer work!_ (_Oh! Poor--ol'--man!_)
"_Get up, ye swine, an' look fer graft!_ (_An' we says so, an' we 'opes so._) _While we lays on an' yanks ye aft!_ (_Oh! Poor--ol'--man!_)"
The Brassbounder: A Tale of the Sea Page 4