Читать книгу The Mutiny of the Flying Spray - Arthur Hunt Chute - Страница 10
Оглавление“SAFETY LAST”
Our pinkie was full of the sheer joyousness of life, as she ran down the wind, scattering sea beauties into a wake of milk-white foam. With the sturdy craft gamboling and dancing over the deep-backed swells, I came to realize something of the vivacity that might be locked up in a vessel.
“What do you think of her, now?” inquired Tug.
“Almost human.”
“Just made to order for us chaps. Couldn’t have struck it better.”
“How’s she steer?”
“Want to try?”
“Sure.”
With sheets well off, and boom trailing into the seas, I exchanged with my partner, taking a place to weather, where I might get the best grip on the tiller.
“Watch her so’s she don’t broach to, or pay off.”
“Aye, aye, she’ll sure take some watching,” I answered, struggling with both hands, and gripping with both feet.
“You’ll catch on soon. But of course she’ll require more strength than a yacht.”
My chief difficulty was to prevent her running off the wind. Several times Tug called to me. But gradually I got the hang of it. With the buoyancy of that vessel underneath my grasp, I began to taste the sheer exhilaration of the morning. The very winds and seas seemed to be laughing with us.
Once, I was able to catch Tug at the jib sheets, in an unguarded moment, and slapping the tiller hard to meet an oncoming crest, I drenched him thoroughly, to the accompaniment of huge laughter from us both.
Nothing could have offended at that moment. We had sailed out of New York harbor scores of times, but never with such overflowing happiness. At last, we were off on the trail of gold. It seemed too good to be true.
“How do you like this, Laurie?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for thousands.”
“Better than a high stool in the office, eh?”
“Never again,” I answered fervently.
As we ran to seaward, Tug divulged to me his plan to get to California. His idea was for us to skirt the coast, so as to be able to run in for dirty weather, and finally, at Panama to abandon our vessel and join the trek of gold seekers across the Isthmus.
“But what are we going to do on the other side?” I inquired.
“Never mind about the other side,” answered Tug, with lofty disdain. “One problem at a time is quite enough. The only thing I’m sure of is, we’re on our way, and what’s more, we’re going to get there. Ain’t nothing can stop us.”
Tug said the last with such conviction that I could not fail to be impressed.
For three hours we held our course, running straight to sea. By noon, we were about twenty-five miles offshore.
“This is quite far enough,” I cautioned.
“Aye, aye,” sang our my chum, and we hauled up onto the wind.
Running was decidedly the best point of sailing for the pinkie. A heavy swell was making, and now, close hauled, she began to stuff her nose into the big green seas, and bury herself forward, until at times, sitting aft, I lost sight of her bowsprit completely.
“A regular diving bell,” sang out Tug.
“Ain’t the diving stuff I’m scared of. It’s the way she’s banging that gets me. Just look at that one, will you.”
Plunging down another sea, she hit the trough a shivering smack.
“I hope she doesn’t keep it up. A few hours of that kind of stuff would be enough to knock the boltheads loose, and ring the masts clean out of her.”
Clouds of spindrift mantled us, while with every blow the pinkie trembled ominously.
“She’s smashing too hard, close hauled. It might be better to keep her running,” said Tug.
“Nothing doing,” I answered. “First thing you know we’ll be blown off soundings, and in a nice mess, if we want to turn tail and scoot for harbor. If you ask me, I think we’re too far off already.”
As the jib sheet broke loose again, Tug condescended to put on his oilskins, before going forward. But in spite of oilskins, he received a thorough soaking.
Coming back from his second trip to the bowsprit, he began to look like a drowned rat. His constant wettings had ceased to amuse us.
“This infernal poundin’ and bangin’ ain’t good enough,” I allowed.
“Got to expect rough stuff.”
“Dunno about that. She’s straining terribly, and knocking the calking out o’ her forrard seams; first thing ye know she’ll be down by the head.”
“Rats.”
The strain of steering the stubborn craft in a strong wind and a beam sea gave me a chance to imagine things. The more I thought of it, the more attractive became the idea of seeking shelter.
“She’s too deep in the water to suit me, Tug.”
“What d’ye mean?”
“I’m beginning to think that perhaps we can’t trust her as much as we thought. Looks as if it might be the sensible thing to ’bout ship, and beat for harbor.”
“You ain’t goin’ to be a quitter like that, are ye?”
“Better be safe than sorry.”
“She’s safe enough.”
“Dunno.”
“You’re gettin’ cold feet.”
Tug faced me with such furious challenge, that I quenched my misgivings for the time being, and at his suggestion went below to prepare a meal, while he relieved me at the tiller.
