XXV
"T' WIND'ARD!"
For over a week of strong westerly gales we had kept the open sea,steering to the north as best the wind allowed. A lull had come--abreak in the furious succession, though still the sea ran high--and theOld Man, in part satisfied that he had made his northing, put the helmup and squared away for the land. In this he was largely prompted bythe coasting pilot (sick of a long, unprofitable, passage--on a'lump-sum' basis), who confidently asked to be shown but one speck ofIrish land, and, "I'll tell 'oo the road t' Dub-lin, Capt'in!"
Moderately clear at first, but thickening later, as we closed the land,it was not the weather for running in on a dangerous coast, ill-lightedand unmarked, but, had we waited for clear weather, we might havemarked time to the westward until the roses came; the wind was fair, wewere over-long on our voyage; sheet and brace and wind in squared sailthrummed a homeward song for us as we came in from the west.
At close of a day of keen sailing, the outposts of the Irish coast,bleak, barren, inhospitable, lay under our lee--a few bold rocks,around and above wreathed in sea-mist, and the never-dying Atlanticswell breaking heavily at base.
"Iss, indeed, Capt'in! The Stags! The Stags of Broad-haven, I tell'oo," said the pilot, scanning through his glasses with an easyassurance. "Indeed to goodness, it iss the best landfall I haf everseen, Capt'in!"
Though pleased with his navigation, the Old Man kept his head. "Aye,aye," he said. "The Stags, eh? Well, we'll haul up t' th' windanyway--t' make sure!" He gave the order, and went below to his charts.
Rolling heavily, broad to the sea and swell, we lay awhile. There wasno sign of the weather clearing, no lift in the grey mist that hungdense over the rugged coast-line. On deck again, the Old Man staredlong and earnestly at the rocky islets, seeking a further guidemark.In the waning daylight they were fast losing shape and colour. Onlythe breaking sea, white and sightly, marked them bold in the greymist-laden breath of the Atlantic. "----'present themselves,consisting of four high rocky islets of from two thirty-three to threeought-six feet in height, an' steep-to,'" he said, reading from a bookof sailing directions. "Damme! I can only see three." To the pilot,"D'ye know the Stags well, Mister? Are ye sure o' ye're ground?"
"_Wel, wel_! Indeed, Capt'in" (Mr. Williams laughed). "I know theStags, yess! Ass well ass I know Car-narvon! The Stags ofBroad-haven, I tell 'oo. When I wass master of the _Ann Pritchard_, ofBeaumaris, it wass always to the West of Ireland we would be goin'.Summer and winter, three years, I tell 'oo, before I came topilotin'--an' there iss not many places between the Hull and MissenHead that I haf not seen in daylight an' dark. It iss the Stags,indeed! East, south-east now, Capt'in, an' a fine run to Sligo Bar!"
Still unassured, the Old Man turned his glasses on the rocky group."One--two--three--perhaps that was the fourth just open to thesouth'ard"--they certainly tallied with the description in thebook--"high, steep-to." A cast of the lead brought no decision.Forty-seven! He might be ten miles north and south by that and formersoundings. It was rapidly growing dark, the wind freshening. If hedid not set course by the rocks--Stags they seemed to be--he would loseall benefit of landfall--would spend another week or more to thewestward, waiting for a rare slant on this coast of mist and foulweather! Already eighteen days from Falmouth! The chance of runningin was tempting! Hesitating, uncertain, he took a step or two up anddown the poop, halting at turns to stare anxiously at the rocks, in thewind's eye, at the great Atlantic combers welling up and lifting thebarque to leeward at every rise. On the skylight sat Mr. Williams,smiling and clucking in his beard that "he did not know the Stags,indeed!"
"We haul off, Pilot," said stout Old Jock, coming at a decision. "Ifit had been daylight ... perhaps ... but I'm for takin' no risks. Theymay be th' Stags, belike they are, but I'm no' goin' oan in weatherlike this! We'll stand out t' th' norrard--'mainyards forrard,Mister'--till daylight onyway!"
Sulkily we hauled the yards forward and trimmed sail, leaving the rocksto fade under curtain of advancing night, our high hopes of making portdismissed. The 'navigators' among us were loud of their growling, asthe ship lurched and wallowed in the trough of the sea, the deckswaist-high with a wash of icy water--a change from the steadiness andcomfort of a running ship.
Night fell black dark. The moon not risen to set a boundary to sea andsky; no play of high light on the waste of heaving water; naught butthe long inky ridges, rolling out of the west, that, lifting giddily tocrest, sent us reeling into the windless trough. On the poop the OldMan and Pilot tramped fore and aft, talking together of landfalls andcoasting affairs. As they came and went, snatches of their talk wereborne to us, the watch on deck--sheltering from the weather at thebreak. The Old Man's "Aye, ayes," and "Goad, man's," and the volubleWelshman's "iss, indeed, Capt'in," and "I tell 'oo's." The Pilot waslaying off a former course of action. "... Mister Williams, he said, Ican see that 'oo knows th' coast, he said, an' ... I 'oodn't go inmyself, he said; but if 'oo are sure----"
"_Brea--kers a-head!_"--a stunning period to his tale, came in a longshout, a scream almost, from the look-out!
Both sprang to the lee rigging, handing their eyes to shield the windand spray. Faint as yet against the sombre monotone of sea and sky, along line of breaking water leapt to their gaze, then vanished, as thestaggering barque drove to the trough; again--again; there could be nodoubt. Breakers! On a lee shore!!
"_Mawdredd an'l_! O Christ! The Stags, Capt'in.... My God! My God!"Wholly unmanned, muttering in Welsh and English, Mr. Williams ran tothe compass to take bearings.
Old Jock came out of the rigging. Then, in a steady voice, moreominous than a string of oaths, "Luff! Down helm, m' lad, an' keep herclose!" And to the pilot, "Well? What d'ye mak' of it, Mister?"
"Stags, Capt'in! _Diwedd i_! That I should be mistake.... The others... God knows! ... If it iss th' Stags, Capt'in ... the passage t'th' suth'ard.... I know it ... we can run ... if it iss th' Stags,Capt'in!"
"An' if it's no' th' Stags! M' Goad! Hoo many Stags d'ye know,Mister? No! No! We'll keep th' sea, if she can weather thae rocks... an' if she canna!!" A mute gesture--then, passionately, "T' hellwi' you an' yer b----y Stags: I back ma ship against a worthless pilot!All hands, there, Mister--mains'l an' to'galn's'l oan her! Up, yehounds; up, if ye look fur dry berryin'!"
All hands! No need for a call! "Breakers ahead"--the words that sentus racing to the yards, to out knife and whip at the gaskets that heldour saving power in leash. Quickly done, the great mainsail blew out,thrashing furiously till steadied by tack and sheet. Then topgal'n'sail, the spars buckling to overstrain; staysail, spanker--never wascanvas crowded on a ship at such a pace; a mighty fear at our heartsthat only frenzied action could allay.
Shuddering, she lay down to it, the lee rail entirely awash, the deckscanted at a fearsome angle; then righted--a swift, vicious lurch, andher head sweeping wildly to windward till checked by the heavinghelmsman. The wind that we had thought moderate when running before itnow held at half a gale. To that she might have stood weatherly, butthe great western swell--spawn of uncounted gales--was matched againsther, rolling up to check the windward snatches and sending her reelingto leeward in a smother of foam and broken water.
A gallant fight! At the weather gangway stood Old Jock, legs apart andsturdy, talking to his ship.
"Stand, good spars," he would say, casting longing eyes aloft. Or,patting the taffrail with his great sailor hands, "Up tae it, ye bitch!Up!! Up!!!" as, raising her head, streaming in cascade from asail-pressed plunge, she turned to meet the next great wall of waterthat set against her. "She'll stand it, Mister," to the Mate at hisside. "She'll stand it, an' the head gear holds. If she startsthat!"--he turned his palms out--"If she starts th' head gear, Mister!"
"They'll hold, Sir! ... good gear," answered the Mate, hugging himselfat thought of the new lanyards, the stout Europe gammon lashings, hehad rove off when the boom was rigged. Now was the time when SannyArmstrong's s
pars would be put to the test. The relic of the ill-fated_Glenisla_, now a shapely to'gallant mast, was bending like a whip!"Good iron," he shouted as the backstays twanged a high note of utmoststress.
Struggling across the heaving deck, the Pilot joined the group.Brokenly, shouting down the wind, "She'll never do it, Capt'in, I tell'oo! ... An' th' tide.... Try th' south passage.... Stags, sure! ...See them fair now! ... Th' south passage, Capt'in.... It iss someyears, indeed, but ... I know. _Diwedd an'l_! She'll never weatherit, Capt'in!"
"Aye ... and weather it ... an' the gear holds! Goad, man! Are yesailor enough t' know what'll happen if Ah start a brace, wi' thispress o' sail oan her? T' wind'ard ... she goes. Ne'er failed meyet"--a mute caress of the stout taffrail, a slap of his great hand."Into it, ye bitch! T' wind'ard! T' wind'ard!"
Staggering, taking the shock and onset of the relentless seas, but everturning the haughty face of her anew to seek the wind, she struggledon, nearing the cruel rocks and their curtain of hurtling breakers.Timely, the moon rose, herself invisible, but shedding a diffused lightin the east, showing the high summits of the rocks, upreared above theblinding spindrift. A low moaning boom broke on our strained ears,turning to the hoarse roar of tortured waters as we drew on.
"How does 't bear noo, M'Kellar? Is she makin' oan't?" shouted the OldMan.
The Second Mate, at the binnacle, sighted across the wildly swingingcompass card. "No' sure, Sir. ... Th' caird swingin' ... thinkthere's hauf a p'int.... Hauf a p'int, onyway!"
"Half a point!" A great comber upreared and struck a deep resoundingblow--"That for yeer half a point"--as her head swung wildly off--off,till the stout spanker, the windward driver, straining at the sternsheets, drove her anew to a seaward course.
Nearer, but a mile off, the rocks plain in a shaft of breakingmoonlight.
"How now, M'Kellar?"
"Nae change, Sir! ... 'bout east, nor'-east ... deefecult ... th' cairdswingin'...."
The Old Man left his post and struggled to the binnacle. "East,nor'-east ... east o' that, mebbe," he muttered. Then, to 'Dutchy,' atthe weather helm, "Full, m' lad! Keep 'er full an' nae mair! Goad,man! Steer as ye never steered ... th' wind's yer mairk.... Goad!D'na shake her!"
Grasping the binnacle to steady himself against the wild lurches of thestaggering hull, the Old Man stared steadily aloft, unheeding the roarand crash of the breakers, now loud over all--eyes only for thestraining canvas and standing spars above him.
"She's drawin' ahead, Sir," shouted M'Kellar, tense, excited. "East,b' nor' ... an' fast!"
The Old Man raised a warning hand to the steersman. "Nae higher! Naehigher! Goad, man! Dinna let 'r gripe!"
Dread suspense! Would she clear? A narrow lane of open water layclear of the bow--broadening as we sped on.
"Nae higher! Nae higher! Aff! Aff! Up hellum, up!" His voice ascream, the Old Man turned to bear a frantic heave on the spokes.
Obedient to the helm and the Mate's ready hand at the driver sheets,she flew off, free of the wind and sea--tearing past the toweringrocks, a cable's length to leeward. Shock upon shock, the greatAtlantic sea broke and shattered and fell back from the scarred graniteface of the outmost Stag; a seething maelstrom of tortured waters,roaring, crashing, shrilling into the deep, jagged fissures--a shriekof Furies bereft. And, high above the tumult of the waters and theloud, glad cries of us, the hoarse, choking voice of the man who hadbacked his ship.
"Done it, ye bitch!"--a now trembling hand at his old grey head. "Doneit! Weathered--by Goad!"
The Brassbounder: A Tale of the Sea Page 25