“This iss not familiar watters for the Vital Spark,” he said a few minutes later as we settled to a table near the fire, “but I have Hurricane Jeck with us on this trup and it iss certainly familiar to him.”
I remarked that I had not been aware that that intrepid mariner had had much experience in the islands trade.
“Cot bless you, yes” said Para Handy. “For aboot eight months he wass aal over the Hebrides for Mr MacBrayne, chust after his spell as master of the clupper Port Jackson.
“Jeck had a hankerin’ to settle doon, for that wass the time he wass walkin’ oot wi’ the widow MacLachlan from Oban, before the problem he had at the Gleska Mull and Iona Soiree, Concert and Ball wi’ her and Lucy Cameron.
“Nothin’ worked oot for him, he had the very duvvle’s own luck ass usual, he lost the gyurl and then he lost the shup and in chust a matter of months he wass back goin’ foreign again, this time on the Dora Young.”
I indicated that I would be more than interested in the story by calling for the Captain’s glass to be refilled.
“It wass this way,” he continued, sniffing the amber liquid with some satisfaction. “Mr MacBrayne took him on ass skipper on the Handa when she wass on the Oban to Tiree service.
“You’ll mind she wiss aal hold, very broad in the beam and she carries only a couple o’ dozen passengers, but Jeck ran her ass if she wass the Columba and his manners wass that sublime that folk thocht it a rare preevilege chust to be allowed on board the shup.
“Wheneffer Jeck took the pier at Tobermory he’d be oot on the wing o’ the brudge, wi’ his kep on three hairs and wi’ a cheery wave for aal the world. When he had docked her he wud sweep off the kep wi’ a most dapper bow to the gyurls on the quayside and it soon wass that the maist o’ the weemenfolk o’ Tobermory wud come doon each mornin’ chust to waatch the Handa berthin’.
“It wassna chust his manners that wass sublime, it wass his cheneral agility ass well. Ass he came into Tobermory Bay he’d be leanin’ maist elegant ower the enchine-room telegraph on the wing o’ the brudge, and he’d run her in at full speed, headin’ straight for the pier, and leave it till the very last moment afore he’d ring doon for full speed astern, and caal to the helmsman to birl the wheel, and lay her alangside ass delicate ass if she wass an egg.
“It wass a performance that became namely wi’ visitors ass weel and efter a month or two of Jeck bein’ on the run the pier wass bleck wi’ folk each mornin’ aal come to see the show. And he wass that dapper, and such a perfect chentleman, that it wass a preevilege to watch it aal, though Jeck’s critics (maist of them ither captains who was chust jealous for his success) said he wud get his come-uppance wan o’ these days.
“You probably ken that the Handa is no chicken. She wass built in 1878 at Port Gleska, and ass the years went on she has needed mair and mair upkeep.
“That wass Jeck’s undoin’. Wan mornin’ he wass oot on the wing of the brudge ass usual, waitin’ till the last meenit to ring for full power astern, and when he chudged the last meenit had come and pulled on the telegraph lever, did the dam’ thing no come awa’ in his hands, the base of it aal rusted to nothin’, and wi’ the force o’ the pull Jeck went tumblin’ backwards doon the brudge ladder and landed sprauchled oot on the main deck.
“It wass aal of a half-meenit afore the folk on the pier realised that the Handa wassna goin’ to pull up in time that mornin’ and there wass wan richt clamjamfrey ass they aal struggled to get out o’ the path of the shup!
“She rammed the pierhead bow first, and embedded hersel’ eight feet into it! It wass two days afore they could get her pulled oot and two weeks till the pier wass fully repaired!”
“Mr MacBrayne would be none too pleased,” I ventured.
“He wass really quite reasonable,” said the Captain. “It had to be admutted that if the telegraph-handle had stayed in the wan piece the accident would never have happened, so part of the blame had to be wi’ the shup.
“Forbye, the reputation o’ the man had reached Gleska and the clerks in the Heid Office wass able to see that the Handa wass earnin’ more money than ever for Mr MacBrayne, what wi’ aal the folk thinkin’ it wass a privilege to sail wi’ sich a chentleman for Captain.
“So while the Handa wass awa’ bein’ repaired, Mr MacBrayne made Jeck First Officer on the Flowerdale on the Outer Isles service. Though she wassna his own command, she wass a much bigger shup wi’ a lot o’ prestige, and Jeck took to her to the manner born.
“Pretty soon he wass enchoyin’ the same sort of reputation wi’ the Flowerdale in Castlebay ass wi’ the Handa in Tobermory. She used to lie over at Barra from six in the evening till early the followin’ mornin’ and Jeck wass aye welcome in the hooses in Castlebay, for he wass a fine cheerie chap and carried a perty aboot wi’ him whereffer he went. There wass many a gyurl in Castlebay had her kep set on Jeck but he wass havin’ too mich of a spree to be thinkin’ o’ settlin’ doon, and mony’s the hert he broke in the months that followed.
“The trouble came at the year’s end. The Flowerdale tied up at Castlebay on Hogmanay evenin’ and since she wassna sailin’ till fower o’clock next mornin’ Jeck went ashore to tak’ a ne’erday dram or two with a wheen o’ his Barra friends. He took the enchineers wi’ him, for Jeck wass aye verra considerate of the boys who made possible aal the speed he could get oot o’ the shup, and aal the manoeuvrability she had, for Jeck could turn her on a postage stamp, her havin’ two propellers.
“He could caal for full astern port, full ahead starboard, and spin her roon’ in her ain length like a peerie in a close. Jeck took great pleasure in showin’ his agility wi’ the shup and it’s a good thing that Captain McKissock was fast asleep in his cabin when Jeck wass in cherge, for he wass a true chentleman of the old school and would not have looked kindly on Jeck’s high-jinks and cheneral frivolity.
“Onyway, that Hogmanay nicht, Jeck and the enchineers got back on board chust before sailing time. Jeck wass in fine trum, but he could carry his dram like a chentleman and nobody wud have known it. The enchineers wass feelin’ no pain either, but since they were oot o’ sight o’ the cheneral public it didna really matter what they looked like.
“Jeck headed for the brudge, the enchineers for their control room, and at fower o’clock off they set like hey-ma-nanny for Coll and Tiree.
“For more than three hoors Flowerdale tore through the watter like a greyhound, Jeck hummin’ a whole repertaree of Gaelic song to himsel’ in the wheelhouse and the helmsman on watch tap-tappin’ the time wi’ his feet.
“Chust gone half past seven in the mornin’, wi the dawn comin’ up fast over the hills of Ardnamurchan, Jeck wass connin’ her into the bay at Arinagour on Coll at near on 18 knots, a beautiful sight for the folk launchin’ the passenger flitboat aff the beach, as the shup came hurtlin’ roon’ the headland wi’ a rake on her like Jeck’s kep on a Setturday night.
“The lads in the flitboat had seen the sheer poetry and drama o’ Jeck’s arrivals at Arinagour often enough in the past weeks but it wass aalways an impressive performance. He wud head her straight for the beach and wait till the very last possible moment on the brudge wing afore he rang doon for full astern port, full ahead starboard, and spun her roond in her length and dropped the anchor.
“He wass determined to get the New Year aff wi’ a bang and he hung on and on, draped casual across the brudge wing and never movin’, till even the boys in the flitboat began to get anxious: but then he snapped to like a sodger, rang his instructions to the enchine room, and gave the flitboat a smert naval salute.
“And nothin’ happened. She kept racin’ for the beach at a good 18 knots. Jeck rang and better rang on the telegraph till he wass near demented, but there wass neffer a cheep frae doon below.
“He ran into the brudge-hoose and grabbed the wheel, and spun it desperate-like to starboard to try and steer the Flowerdale oot the bay. It wass too late. She had too much pace and he had too little space to mak’ it wo
rk, and he ran her straight onto the sandbar at the eastern headland at full speed. Mercifully it wass a chentle slope, and she slowed doon ass sweetly ass if she wass under control. Nobody wass hurt and there wass no real damage to the hull, either. But they had to wait three days before the tides wass right for the Fusilier and the Chevalier to be able to tow her back into deep water.
“By that time, Jeck wass lookin’ for another chob.
“Tuppical of the man’s ill-fortune. You wud have thocht it wass his fault, the way MacBrayne treated him.
“It wass the enchineers should have got the seck. There wassna a man jack o’ them sober doon below. There wassna wan o’ them awake either, come to that. They’d all had mair nor they could tak’ at Castlebay, and they wass aal fast asleep in the enchine room. Jeck could huv rung the telegraph till he wass black in the face!
“He’s neffer had a good word to say for enchineers till this day: I think that’s why he’s often so nippy wi’ Macphail. But he still has the hert of a child, and the chenerosity of Mr Carnegie!”
At which hint, I felt it incumbent on me to arrange for the Captain’s glass to be replenished.
FACTNOTE
Fact can sometimes be stranger than fiction — or maybe simply mirror it. Whatever the truth of the matter, the two incidents which provided me with the idea for this story were reputed to have happened to real-life MacBrayne ships and were told to me some years ago by a former MacBrayne seaman as historical fact.
The collision with Tobermory pier was said to have taken place in the early 1930s, exactly as described. The vessel involved was the regular Sound of Mull steamer Lochinvar, which had been built in 1908: and was fully refurbished in 1934.
She was a strange-looking ship, and a strangely-powered one as well. Only 145ft overall, she was originally constructed with three six-cylinder paraffin engines driving three screws: in 1926 these were replaced by four-cylinder diesel engines. The engine-room was placed at the stern, with her cargo hold immediately forward of it: and the passenger accommodation and bridge forward of that again. Cargo was loaded and unloaded by a jib-crane and her only mast was a simple pole mast on the foredeck. As built, she had one very thin, very tall smokestack later replaced by the complete opposite — one very short, very squat funnel. In either guise she looked something of an ugly duckling, though her actual hull was finely proportioned.
The incident at Arinagour is reputed to have occurred in the 1960s and there must be witnesses who could confirm if it did really take place. The vessel was the Claymore, mainstay of the thrice-weekly link from Oban to Lochboisdale, the second ship to carry that name. Her predecessor gave nearly 50 years service to MacBrayne, mostly on the Glasgow to Stornoway run.
The second Claymore was commissioned in 1955, a handsome ship with comfortable accommodation in two classes — the last of her kind in that respect. However, she was notoriously tender in heavy weather. She had the fatal combination of substantial top-hamper (thanks to the generous public space offered in her lounges, dining-saloons and bars): linked to a shallow draft (necessary for access to island piers at all states of the tide, and to places like Coll which in those days had no pier but relied on flitboats to attend ships — which came as close in shore as they could).
I can vouch for her lack of sea-going qualities! Blessed with the happy fortune to have been born a good sailor, I sympathise strongly with those who are not so lucky. I remember with wry amusement the throwaway line from the skipper of the Claymore to a passenger enquiring as we left Oban what the weather ahead was likely to be. “Well I hope you like rock-and-roll,” he said, “for you’re certainly going to get it today!” And indeed we did — not just on that occasion but on many others too.
MACBRAYNE’S GLADSTONE BAG — Such, thanks to her carrying capacity, was the nickname bestowed on the little Handa, seen here at an unidentified pier somewhere on the West Coast. Though they lacked the glamour of the big paddlers such vessels were the workhorses of the Highlands and provided the crucial link to the outside world. The engine-room telegraph on the port wing of the bridge, and the ladder behind it, can be clearly seen!
11
The Vital Spark at the Games
It was a fine August morning and the Vital Spark, having made an early start from Colintraive where she had spent the last two days unloading a cargo of roadstone, was punching round Toward Point into a light northerly breeze.
There was something of a holiday atmosphere aboard, what with the sun glinting on the spray of her (modest) bow wave: but more particularly because the crew had succeeded in selling a few sacks of the owner’s coal to the Colintraive merchant, and were planning a clandestine spree once they were docked at the Broomielaw and before heading for their weekends at home.
“Rothesay’s gey quiet the day, Peter,” said the mate, gesturing towards the curving esplanade and phalanx of boarding houses of Rothesay Bay in the middle distance. “No’ mony steamers there at aal this mornin’.”
Indeed, the usually bustling pier of the capital of Bute was all but deserted. Only the diminutive Texa lay alongside, her derrick swinging the crates of a mixed cargo to the quay, while MacBrayne’s majestic Columba was edging out on her daily mail run to Ardrishaig.
“Well, Dougie,” replied the Captain, “ whit else wud ye expect on the last Setturday of August? Aal the boats’ll be runnin’ in and out o’ Dunoon right noo, and since you’ve reminded me o’ that, I’ve a good mind that we should maybe chust go to join them. What d’ye think yourself?”
“Mercy, I’d clean forgot what day it wass,” said Dougie. “But aye — why not, why not indeed!
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” said Para Handy: and after making a great show of whistling through the speaking tube to an engine room and an engineer he could have bent down and touched, he called down it: “Richt, Macphail, if for wance you can get that neb o’ yours oot o’ they novelles for a meenit, ye could maybe get up some steam and see if we can get to Dunoon sometime this month!”
“What’s the great attraction aboot Dunoon?” asked Sunny Jim curiously, looking up from the forehatch, where he sat peeling an enormous potful of potatos which, with salt herring to encourage the thirst, had been planned for dinner prior to berthing in Glasgow.
“We’re goin’ to see Cowal Gaithering,” replied the skipper.
“Cowal?” queried Jim with a puzzled expression. “Wha’s Cowal? And whit’s he gaitherin’?”
“Man, Jum,” said the skipper. “There iss times when I think you are nothin’ but an ignorant lowland neep to be sure: but of course I blame your time on the Cluthas. Your world ends at the Yoker Ferry. You havna the advantage nor the concept o’ the great traditions of the west. Cowal’s no’ a person — it’s yon whole lump o’ land” — he pointed towards the hills on the port side — “and a Gaitherin’s a Games. D’ye tell me ye never heard of the Cowal Hieland Gaitherin? It’s namely aal over the world ass the snappiest Games of them aal, bar nane. Iss that not so, Dougie?”
“Whateffer you say, Peter,” observed the mate agreeably. “For they’re certainly the snappiest for a dram. Every time you find your gless iss empty there’s aye somewhere fine and handy to get it refilled. If you’ve the coin.”
“And that we have,” rejoined the skipper, “for ye’ll mind o’ the wee deal we struck wi’ Mackintosh in Colintraive, eh? But not a cheep tae the owner!” And he laid an index finger along the side of his nose with a conspiratorial grin.
“But whit happens at a Games,” queried Sunny Jim, ignoring the snort of disgust which came echoing up from the engine-room. “Is it like the fitba’?”
“Jum, Jum, I despair o’ ye. A Games iss what has made us Brutain’s hardy sons. It’s the very bedrock o’ the nation, the true tradition o’ the Hielan’s. Bonnie lasses in tartan skirts louping aboot like things possessed: laddies skirling the pipes: big fellas, that well built they wud mak’ Hurricane Jeck look like a skelf, tossin’ tree-trunks aboot chust the same ass if they were matchsti
cks: pipe baun’s merchin’ up and doon the streets: an’ grown men that should ken better sneakin’ off from their wives and weans to hae a few drams mair nor’s guid for them.”
“What he means,” cried Macphail from the sooty depths of the boiler-room, “is that it’s jist a lot of weel-oiled tumshies a’ dressed up like kahouchy balls cavortin’ through the toon, and frichtening the lieges: an’ a bunch of wee nyaffs jumpin through girrs an’ that.”
“Ye’re a leear, Macphail,” cried the affronted skipper, “chust the nearest thing tae a Sassenach, ye should be right ashamed tae call yerself a Scot!”
“But I thocht a’ these Games things wiz jist somethin’ invented for the towerists,” said Jim, “naethin’ but chaps in hired kilts wi’ the wrang legs for them and their behinds stickin’ oot, and accents ye could saw wud wi’?”
“Naw Jum,” said the Captain. “In Braemar maybe, or even Inverness forbye, for they’re a’ saft in the heid up there and the countryside’s fair stuffed wi’ toffs and sich. But no’ at Cowal. Cowal’s aal chust for the people. Brutain’s hardy sons! Chust wait till ye see!”
And — the puffer by then being off Bullwood with the Gantocks rocks dead ahead — Para Handy concentrated on navigating safely through the twin hazards of the reef and the constant stream of paddle-steamers depositing their quota of revellers on the main Dunoon pier, till he coaxed the Vital Spark into the very last remaining space at the puffers’ traditional berth, the little Coal Pier in the East Bay.
The misanthropic engineer was more than pleased to nominate himself as the unanimous choice for shore watchman. Wild horses would not have dragged him to the festivities as he settled back into his bunk — for all that it was but mid-day — with the latest penny dreadful, an unread novelette, and a quarter of candy-striped balls.
The remainder of the crew, with Sunny Jim under the skipper’s patient tutelage, fought their way through the colourful crowds on Argyll Street and on up to the Dunoon stadium: paid their admission moneys (with some reluctance) and spent the next few hours enthralled by a harlequinade of sight and sound as the very finest of Scottish music, dance and athletic prowess was put through its paces.
Complete New Tales of Para Handy Page 8