XIV
A TRICK AT THE WHEEL
"Keep 'r full an' by!"
"Full 'n by!"
Houston, relieved from the wheel, reports to the Mate and goes forward,and I am left to stand my trick.
We are in the south-east trades; a gentle breeze, and all sail set.Aloft, the ghostly canvas stands out against a star-studded sky, andthe masthead trucks sway in a stately circle as we heave on the lightswell. She is steering easily, asking nothing but a spoke or two whena fluttering tremor on the weather leach of the royals shows that sheis nearing the wind. The light in the binnacle is dim and spluttering,the glass smoke-blackened, and one can but see the points on thecompass card. South sou'-west, she heads, swinging a little west attimes, but making a good course. Eccles, who should see to the lights,is stretched out on the wheel-box grating, resuming the thread of hisslumbers; a muttered "'ware!" will bring him to his feet when the Matecomes round; meantime, there are stars ahead to steer by, and thebinnacle-lamp may wait.
South of the Line, at four in the morning, is a fine time to see thestars, if one be but properly awake. Overhead, Orion has reached hisheight, and is now striding towards the western horizon. The Dog-staris high over the mizzen truck, and Canopus, clear of the weatherbackstays, is a friend to a drowsy helmsman. The Southern Cross isclearing the sea-line, and above it many-eyed Argus keeps watch overthe Pole. Old friends, all of them, companions of many a night watchon leagues of lonely sea. A glow to the eastward marks where the dawnwill break, and the fleecy trade-clouds about the horizon are alreadyassuming shape and colour. There the stars are paling, but a planet,Jupiter, perhaps, stands out in brilliance on the fast lightening sky.
Forward one bell is struck, and the look-out chants a long-drawn,"Aw--ll's well!"
The Mate, who until now has been leaning lazily over the poop rail,comes aft, yawning whole-heartedly, as men do at sea. He peers intothe dimly-lighted binnacle, turns his gaze to the sail aloft, sniffsthe wind, and fixes me with a stern though drowsy eye.
"H-mm! You, is it?" (I have but a modest reputation as a steersman.)"Jest you keep 'r full now, or I'll teach ye steerin' in your watchbelow. Keep 'r full, an' no damned shinnanikin!" He goes forward.
'Shinnanikin' is a sailor word; it means anything at all; it may bemade an adjective or a verb, or almost any part of speech, to serve apurpose or express a thought. Here it meant that there was to be nofooling at the helm, that she was to be steered as by Gunter himself."Full an' by," was the word. "Full an' by, an' no damned shinnanikin!"Right!
The light grows, and the towering mass of canvas and cordage showsfaint shadows here and there. The chickens in the quarter coops stirand cackle; a cock crows valiantly. Eccles, sleeping his watch on thelee side of the poop, stirs uneasily, finds a need for movement, andtramps irresolutely up and down his appointed station. From somewhereout of sight the Mate shouts an order, and he goes forward to take inthe sidelights; dim and sickly they shine as he lifts them inboard.
There is now some sign of life about the decks. A keen smell ofburning wood and a glare from the galley show that the cook has takenup the day's duties. Some men of the watch are already gathered aboutthe door waiting for their morning coffee, and the 'idlers' (as theword is at sea), the steward, carpenter, and sailmaker, in variousstates of attire, are getting ready for their work.
Two bells marks five o'clock, and the crowd about the galley door growsimpatient. The cook has a difficulty with his fire, and is behind time.
"Come on, 'doctor'!" shouts Old Martin; "get a move on yer! Themtawps'l 'alyards is screechin' fer a pull, an' th' Mate's got 'isheagle heye on that 'ere fore-tack. 'E'll be a-floggin' th' clockafore ye knows it!"
The Mate hears this, as Martin intended he should, and scowls darkly atthat ancient mariner. Martin will have his 'old iron' worked up forthat before the watch is out. He's a hard case. Coffee is served out,and the crowd disperses. It is now broad daylight, and the sun is onthe horizon. The east is a-fire with his radiance; purest gold therechanging to saffron and rose overhead; and in the west, where fadingstars show, copper-hued clouds are working down to the horizon in trackof the night. Our dingy sails are cut out in seemly curves and glowingcolours against the deep of the sky; red-gold where the light strikes,and deepest violet in the shadows. Blue smoke from the galley funnelis wafted aft by the draught from the sails, and gives a kindly scentto the air; there is no smell like that of wood fires in the pride ofthe morning. This is a time to be awake and alive; a morning to be atthe wheel of a leaning ship.
Presently I am relieved for a few minutes that I may have my coffee.Being the last man, I get a bo'sun's share of the grounds. To myprotests the cook gives scant heed.
"Ach, sure! Phwat are yez growlin' at? Sure, if ye'd been in my lastship, yez wouldn't have none at all! Devil the coffee would yez gettill eight bells ov a marnin', an' tay at thatt, bedad!"
The 'doctor,' being Irish, is beyond argument, so I take my pannikinalong to our quarters to sift the grounds as best I can. There isnaught but dry ship's biscuit to put down with it, for it is well on inthe week--Thursday, indeed--and only Hansen among us can make hisweek's rations last out beyond that; he was bred in the north. Thehalf-deck is in its usual hopeless disorder--stuffy and close anddismal in the shuttered half-light. Four small ports give little air,and sea clothes hanging everywhere crowd up the space. The beams,blackened by tobacco smoke, are hacked and carved, covered by theinitials and remarks of bygone apprentices. Only the after one is keptclear; there the Board of Trade inscription (slightly altered by someinspiring genius), reads, "Certified to suffocate eight seamen." Adismal hole on a bright morning! Happily, one has not far to go for abreath of keen air. Ten minutes is my time, and I am back at the wheelagain.
The Mate is seated on the cabin skylight, smoking. This is his time toconsider the trim of the sails. It is no matter that the eveningbefore the gear was sweated up to the tautest of sailing trim; the windis unchanged, but morning shows wrinkles in the clew of the royals or asag in the foot of a topsail. Ropes give mysteriously, and this mustall be righted before the Old Man comes on deck. So he smokesleisurely and considers the trim.
The day's work begins at half-past five. The Mate strikes three bellshimself, exact, on the tick of the minute, and goes forward to turn themen to.
"Fore tack," as Martin said, is the first order. The Mate signs to meto luff her up, and when the sail shakes the tack is hove hard down.Then sheets and halyards are sweated up, ropes coiled, and a boy sentaloft to stop up the gear. At the main they have the usual morningwrestle with the weather topsail sheet--a clew that never did fit.Macallison's loft must have been at sixes and sevens the day theyturned that sail out; a Monday after Glasgow Fair, belike. When thetrim is right, wash deck begins. A bucket and spar is rigged, and theclear sparkling water is drawn from overside. This is the fine job ofthe morning watch in summer seas. The sound of cool sluicing water andthe swish of scrubbing brooms is an invitation that no one can resist.There is something in it that calls for bare feet and trousers rolledabove the knee. There is grace in the steady throwing of thewater--the brimming bucket poised for the throw, left foot cocked a fewinches above the deck, the balance, and the sweeping half-circle withthe limpid water pouring strongly and evenly over the planking; thenthe recovery, and the quick half-turn to pass the empty bucket andreceive a full--a figure for a stately dance!
Now it is six, and I strike four bells. Martin has the next trick, butI see no signs of my relief. The Mate will have him at some lowly'work-up' job, cleaning pig-pens or something like that, for his hintabout flogging the clock in the morning. The cranky old 'shellback' isalways 'asking for it.'
In the waist a row begins, a bicker between the sailmaker and bo'sun.Old Dutchy is laying it off because someone has spilt water on themain-hatch, where a sail is spread out, ready for his work. In course,the bo'sun has called him a 'squarehead,' and 'Sails,' a decent oldSwede, is justly indignant a
t the insult; only Germans are squareheads,be it known. "Skvarehedd! Jou calls me skvarehedd! Ah vass no moreskvarehedd as jou vass," he says, excited. "Jou tinks d' sheep vassjours, mit jour vash-backet und deck-scrub. Dere vass no places for d'sailmake, aindt it? Skvarehedd! Skvarehedd jourselluf, dam Cockneyloafer!" There are the makings of a tidy row, but the Mate, comingfrom forrard, cuts it short.
"Now, then, you men there, quit yer chinning an' get on with the work!"
'Sails' tries to explain his grievance, but meets with little sympathy.
"Squarehead? Well, what the hell's th' odds, anyhow? If ye ain't asquarehead, ye'r as near it 's can be!"
This is rough on old 'Sails,' whose proud boast is that he has been"for thirty jahrs sailmake mit British sheeps in!" He goes sorrowfullyto his work, and bends over his seam with many shakings of the head."Skvarehedd!"
Time is drawing on, and I am getting tired of my long trick, when I seeMartin coming round the deck-house. He has donned the familiar old redflannel shirt that he stands his wheel in, and, bareheaded as he alwaysis at sea, he looks a typical old salt, a Western Ocean warrior. Hemounts the lee ladder, crosses to windward in the fashion of the sea,and stands behind me. Here, I thought, is a rare chance to get atMartin. I give him the Mate's last steering order as I got it.
"Full an' by," I said, concealing a foolish grin; "full an' by, and nodamned shinnanikin!" Martin looked at me curiously. "No shinnanikin,"was a new order to a man who could steer blindfold, by the wind on hischeek; to a man who had steered great ships for perhaps half a century.On the other hand, orders were orders, meant to be repeated as theywere given, seamanlike.
Martin squared himself, put a fresh piece of tobacco in position, andgripped the spokes. "Full 'n' by," he said, lifting his keen old eyesto the weather clews of the royals, "full 'n' by, 'n' no damnedshinnanikin, it is!"
The Brassbounder: A Tale of the Sea Page 14