The Brassbounder: A Tale of the Sea

by David W. Bone

  XXVI

  LIKE A MAN!

  Spring in the air of it, a bright, keen day, and the mist only strongenough to soften the bold, rugged outline of Knocknarea, our sailingmark, towering high and solitary above Sligo Harbour. The strong westwind that we had fought and bested at the Stags turned friendly, hadblown us fair to our voyage's end, and now, under easy canvas, wetacked on shore and off, waiting for tide to bear up and float ourtwenty feet in safety across the Bar.

  At Raghly, our signal for a local pilot was loyally responded to. Aship of tonnage was clearly a rare sight in these parts, for the entiremale population came off to see us safely in--to make a day of it! Oldpilots and young, fishermen and gossoons, they swept out from creek andheadland in their swift Mayo skiffs, and though only one was Trinitylicensed for our draft of water, the rest remained, to bear willinghands at the braces on the chance of a job at the cargo being given.

  'Ould Andy' was the official pilot--a hardy old farmer-fisherman,weazened by years and the weather. He had donned his best in honour ofthe occasion--a coarse suit of fearnought serges, quaintly cut, and anancient top hat, set at a rakish angle. Hasty rising showed in razorcuts on his hard blue jowl, and his untied shoes made clatter as hemounted the poop, waving a yellow time-stained license. An odd figurefor a master-pilot; but he made a good impression on Old Jock when hesaid, simply, "... but bedad, now, Cyaptin! Sure, Oim no hand at thimbig yards ov yours, but Oi kin show ye where th' daape watther is!"

  The ship steered to his liking, and all in trim, he walked the poop,showing a great pride of his importance as a navigator of twenty feet.Suddenly--at no apparent call--he stepped to the side where his boatwas towing.

  "What-t," he yelled. "Ach, hoult yer whisht! What-t are yez shoutin'about? What-t? Ast the Cyaptin f'r a bit av 'baccy f'r th' byes inth' boat! Indade, an' Oi will natt ast th' dacent gintilman f'r a bitav 'baccy f'r th' byes in th' boat! What-t? Ach, hoult yer whisht,now!"

  Joining the Captain he resumed the thread of his description of SligoPort, apparently unheeding the Old Man's side order to the steward thatsent a package of hard tobacco over the rail.

  "... an' ye'll lie at Rosses Point, Cyaptin, till ye loighten up t'fourteen faate. Thin, thr'll be watther f'r yes at th' Quay, but..."(Another tangent to the lee rail.) ... "Ach! What-t's th' matther wit'ye now. Be m' sowl, it's heart-breakin' ye are, wit' yer shoutin' an'that-t! What-t? Salt baafe an' a few bisskits! No! Oi will natt!!Ast 'im yersilf f'r a bit av salt baafe an' a few bisskits, bad scrant' ye, yes ongrateful thaaves!"

  We are homeward bound; the beef and biscuits go down. After them, "atarn sail--jest a rag, d'ye moind, t' make a jib f'r th' ould boat";then, "a pat av paint an' a brush"--it becomes quite exciting with OuldAndy abusing his boat's crew at every prompted request. We arebeginning to wager on the nature of the next, when sent to the stationsfor anchoring. Ould Andy, with an indignant gesture and shake of hisfists, turns away to attend to his more legitimate business, and, athis direction, we anchor to seaward of the Bar.

  The wind that has served us so well has died away in faint airs,leaving a long glassy swell to score the placid surface of the Bay andset a pearly fringe on the distant shore. The tide moves steadily inflood, broadening in ruffling eddies at the shoals of the Bar. On anear beacon a tide gauge shows the water, and when sail is furled andthe yards in harbour trim we have naught to do but reckon our wages,and watch the rising water lapping, inch by inch, on the figured board.From seaward there is little to be seen of the countryside. The landabout is low to the coast, but far inland blue, mist-capped rangesstand bold and rugged against the clear northern sky. Beyond the Barthe harbour lies bare of shipping--only a few fishing skiffs puttingout under long sweeps, and the channel buoys bobbing and heaving on thelong swell. A deserted port we are come to after our long voyage fromthe West!

  "That'll be th' _Maid o' th' Moy_, Cyaptin," said Ould Andy, squintingthrough the glasses at smoke-wrack on the far horizon. "Hot-fut fromBallina, t' tow ye in. An' Rory Kilgallen may save his cowl, bedad,f'r we'll naade two fut av watther yet before we get acrost.Bedad"--in high glee--"he'll nat-t be after knowin' that it's twintyfaate, no liss, that Ould Andy is bringin' in this day!"

  With a haste that marks her skipper's anxiety to get a share of thegood things going, the _Maid_, a trim little paddle tug, draws nigh,and soon a high bargaining begins between Old Jock and the tugman, withan eager audience to chorus, "D'ye hear that-t, now!" at each fieryperiod. Rory has the whip hand--and knows it. No competition, and thetide making inch by inch on the beacon gauge!

  For a time Old Jock holds out manfully. "Goad, no! I'll kedge th'hooker up t' Sligo Quay before I give ye that!" But high water at handand no sign of wind, he takes the tug on at a stiff figure, and we manthe windlass, tramping the well-worn round together for the last time.

  _Leave her_ is the set chantey for finish of a voyage, and we roar alusty chorus to Granger, the chanteyman.

  "O! Leave 'r John-ny, leave 'r like a man, (_An' leave 'r, John-ny, leave 'r!_) Oh! Leave 'r, John-ny, leave 'r when ye can, (_An' it's time--for us--t' leave 'r!_")

  A hard heave, and the tug lying short. A Merseyman would have theweight off the cable by this.

  "O! Soon we'll 'ear 'th Ol' Man say, (_Leave 'r, John-ny, leave 'r!_) Ye kin go ashore an' take yer pay, (_An' it's time--for us--t' leave 'r!_")

  "Heave, byes," the gossoons bearing stoutly on the bars with us."Heave, now! He's got no frin's!"

  "O! Th' times wos 'ard, an' th' wages low, (_Leave 'r, John-ny, leave 'r!_) Th' w'yage wos long, an' th' gales did blow, (_An' it's time--for us--t' leave 'r!"_)

  Check--and rally; check--a mad rush round--the anchor dripping at thebows, and we move on across the eddies of the Bar in wake of thepanting tug.

  A short tow, for all the bargaining, and at Rosses Point we bring up tomoorings--the voyage at an end.

  "That'll do, you men," said the Mate, when the last warp was turned."Pay off at th' Custom House at twelve to-morrow!"

  "That'll do!" Few words and simple; but the meaning! Free at last!No man's servant! With a hurricane whoop the crew rush to quarters tosling their bags for the road.

  Then the trafficking with the shore, the boatmen reaping a harvest. "Abob th' trip, yer 'anner, on a day like this." The doors of thevillage inn swinging constantly, and the white-aproned landlord(mopping a heated brow at royal orders), sending messengers to ransackthe village cupboards for a reserve of glasses. And when at last theboats are ready for the long pull up to Sligo town, and the impatientboatmen shouting, "Coom on now, byes! Before th' toide tarns; byes,now!" The free men embark, and we, the afterguard (who draw no pay),are left to watch them set off, and wish that our day were quickly come.

  For a time we hear their happy voices, and answer cheer for cheer, thenthe dark comes, and the last is a steady _clack_ of rowlocks, and themen singing "_Leave 'r, John-ny ... like a man!_"

  * * * * *

  Two days later, on deck of the Glasgow boat, I gazed on my old ship forthe last time. At the narrow bend we steamed slow, to steer cautiouslypast her. The harbour watch were there to give me a parting cheer, andOld Jock, from the poop, waved a cheery response to my salute. Pasther, we turned water again, and sped on to sea.

  It was a day of mist and low clouds, and a weakly sun breaking throughin long slanting shafts of light. Over the Point a beam was fleeting,playing on the house-tops, shimmering in window glasses, lighting onthe water, on the tracery of spar and rigging, and showing golden onthe red-rusty hull of the old barque--my home for so long in fairweather and foul.

  A turn of the steering shut her from my sight, and I turned to go below.

  "Fine ships! Fine ships--t' look aat!"

  The Mate of the steamer, relieved from duty, had stopped at my side,sociable. He would be a Skye-man by the talk of him. It was good tohear the old speech again.

  "Aye! she's a fine ship."


  "Haf you been th' voyage in her? Been long away?"

  "Oh yes! Sixteen months this trip!"

  "Saxteen munss! Ma grasshius! Y'll haf a fine pey oot o' her?"

  "Not a cent! Owing, indeed; but my time'll be out in a week, an I'llget my indentures."

  "Oh, yiss! Oh, yiss! A bressbounder, eh!" Then he gave a half-laugh,and muttered the old formula about "the man who would go to sea forpleasure, going to hell for a pastime!"

  "Whatna voyage did ye haf, now?" he asked, after filling a pipe withgood 'golden bar,' that made me empty the bowl of mine, noisily.

  "Oh, pretty bad. Gales an' gales. Hellish weather off the Horn, an'short-handed, an' the house full o' lashin' water--not a dry spot, forean' aft. 'Gad! we had it sweet down there. Freezin', too, an' th'sails hard as old Harry. Ah! a fine voyage, wi' rotten grub an' shortcommons at that!"

  "Man, man! D'ye tell me that, now! Ma grasshius! Ah wouldna go inthem if ye wass t' gif me twenty pounds a munss!"

  No; I didn't suppose he would, looking at the clean, well-fed cut ofhim, and thinking of the lean, hungry devils who had sailed with me.

  "Naw! Ah wouldna go in them if ye wass t' gif me thirrty pounss amunss! Coaffins, Ah caall them! Aye, coaffins, that iss what theyare!"

  Coffin! I thought of a ship staggering hard-pressed to windward of aledge of cruel rocks, the breakers shrieking for a prey, and the oldgrey-haired Master of her slapping the rail and shouting, "Up t'it, m'beauty! T' windward, ye bitch!"

  "Aye, coaffins," he repeated. "That iss what they are!"

  I had no answer--he was a steamboat man, and would not have understood.