Читать книгу The Brassbounder: A Tale of the Sea - David W. Bone - Страница 11

Fine weather, if hot as the breath of Hades, and the last dying airs of the nor'-east trades drifting us to the south'ard at a leisured three knots.

From the first streak of daylight we had been hard at work finishing up the general overhaul cf gear and rigging that can only be done in the steady trade winds. Now it was over; we could step out aloft, sure of our foothold; all the treacherous ropes were safe in keeping of the 'shakin's cask,' and every block and runner was working smoothly, in readiness for the shifting winds of the doldrums that would soon be with us.

The work done, bucket and spar were manned and, for the fourth time that day, the sun-scorched planks and gaping seams of the deck were sluiced down—a job at which we lingered, splashing the limpid water as fast the wetted planks steamed and dried again. A grateful coolness came with the westing of the tyrant sun, and when our miserable evening meal had been hurried through we sought the deck again, to sit under the cool draught of the foresail watching the brazen glow that attended the sun's setting, the glassy patches of windless sea, the faint ripples that now and then swept over the calm—the dying breath of a stout breeze that had lifted us from 27° North. What talk there was among us concerned our voyage, a never-failing topic; and old Martin, to set the speakers right, had brought his 'log'—a slender yardstick—from the forecastle.

"... ty-seven ... ty-eight ... twenty-nine," he said, counting a row of notches. "Thirty days hout t'morrer, an' th' 'dead 'orse' is hup t' day, sons!"

"'Dead 'oss' hup t' dye? 'Ow d'ye mike that aht?" said 'Cockney' Hicks, a man of importance, now promoted to bo'sun. "Fust Sunday we wos in Channel, runnin' dahn th' Irish lights, worn't it?"

"Aye!"

"Secon' Sunday we wos routin' abaht in them strong southerly win's, hoff th' Weste'n Isles?"

"That's so," said Martin, patting his yard-stick, "Right-o!"

"Third Sunday we 'ad th' trides, runnin' south; lawst Sunday wos fourth Sunday hout, an' this 'ere's Friday—'peasoup-dye,' ain't it? 'Ow d'ye mike a month o' that? 'Dead 'oss' ain't up till t'morrer, I reckon!"

"Well, ye reckons wrong, bo'sun! Ye ain't a-countin' of th' day wot we lay at anchor at th' Tail o' th' Bank!"

"Blimy, no! I'd forgotten that dye!"

"No! An' I tell ye th' 'dead 'orse' is hup, right enuff. I don't make no mistake in my log.... Look at 'ere," pointing to a cross-cut at the head of his stick. "That's the dye wot we lay at anchor—w'en you an' me an' the rest ov us wos proper drunk. 'Ere we starts away," turning to another side; "them up strokes is 'ead win's, an' them downs is fair; 'ere's where we got that blow hoff th' Weste'n Isles," putting his finger-nail into a deep cleft; "that time we carries away th' topmas' stays'l sheet; an' 'ere's th' trade win's wot we're 'avin' now! ... All k'rect, I tell ye. Ain't no mistakes 'ere, sons!" He put the stick aside the better to fill his pipe.

"Vat yo' calls dem holes in de top, Martin, zoone? Dot vass sometings, aind't id?"

Vootgert, the Belgian, picked the stick up, turning it over carelessly.

Martin snatched it away.

"A course it's 'sometings,' ye Flemish 'og! If ye wants to know pertiklar, them 'oles is two p'un' o' tebaccer wot I had sence I come aboard. Don't allow no Ol' Man t' do me in the bloomin' hye w'en it comes t' tottin' th' bill! ... I'll watch it! I keeps a good tally ov wot I gets, tho' I can't read nor write like them young 'know-alls' over there" (Martin had no love for 'brassbounders'), "them wot orter be aft in their proper place, an' not sittin' 'ere, chinnin' wi' th' sailormen!"

"Who's chinnin'?" said Jones, Martin's particular enemy. "Ain't said a word! Not but what I wanted to ... sittin' here, listenin' to a lot of bally rot about ye'r dead horses an' logs an' that!"

Jones rose with a great pantomime of disgust (directed especially at the old man), and went aft, leaving Munro and me to weather Martin's rage.

"Oh, shut up, Martin!" said the bo'sun. "They ain't doin' no 'arm! Boys is boys!"

"Ho no, they ain't, bo'sun: not in this ship, they ain't. Boys is men, an' men's old beggars, 'ere! I don't 'old wi' them a-comin' forrard 'ere at awl! A place fer everything, an' everybody 'as 'is place, I says! Captin' on the bloomin' poop o' her, an' cook t' th' foresheet! That's shipshape an' Bristol fashion, ain't it?"

"That's so, that's so! ... But them young 'uns is 'ere for hin-for-mashun, eh?"

Martin grumbled loudly and turned to counting his notches. "Know-alls! That's wot they is—ruddy know-alls! Told me I didn't know wot a fair win' wos!" he muttered as he fingered his 'log.'

"'Dead 'oss?'" said the bo'sun, turning to Munro. "'Dead 'oss' is th' fust month out, w'en ye're workin' for ye'r boardin'-mawster. 'E gets ye'r month's advawnce w'en ye sails, an' ye've got to work that hoff afore ye earns any pay!"

"Who vass ride your 'dead 'oss,' Martin?" asked the Belgian when quiet was restored.

"Oh, Jemmy Grant; 'im wot 'as an 'ouse in Springfield Lane. Come in t' th' Clyde in th' Loch Ness from Melb'un—heighty-five days, an' a damn good passage too, an' twel' poun' ten of a pay day! Dunno' 'ow it went.... Spent it awl in four or five days. I put up at Jemmy Grant's for a week 'r two arter th' money was gone, an' 'e guv' me five bob an' a new suit of oilskins out 'er my month's advawnce on this 'ere 'ooker!"

"Indeed to goodness, now! That iss not pad at all, indeed," said John Lewis, our brawny Welshman. "I came home in th' Wanderer, o' St. Johnss, an' wass paid off with thirty-fife poun'ss, I tell 'oo. I stayed in Owen Evanss' house in Great Clyde Street, an' when I went there I give him ten poun'ss t' keep for me. 'Indeed, an' I will, m' lad,' he sayss, 'an' 'oo can have it whenever 'oo likes,' he sayss.... Damn him for a rogue, I tell 'oo!"

Martin laughed. "Well, ye was soft. Them blokes' bizness is keepin', ain't it?"

"Iss, indeed! Well, I tell 'oo, I got in trouble with a policeman in th' Broomielaw. It took four o' them to run me in, indeed!" pleasantly reminiscent; "an' the next mornin' I wass put up for assaultin' th' police. 'I don't know nothin' about it,' I sayss, when the old fella' asked me. 'Thirty shillins' or fourteen days,' he sayss! ... Well, I didn't haf any money left, but I told a policeman, and he said he would send for Owen Evanss.... After a while Evanss come to the office, an' they took me in. I was quite quiet, indeed, bein' sober, I tell 'oo.... 'Owen, machgen-i,' I sayss, 'will 'oo pay the thirty shillin's out of the ten poun'ss I give 'oo?' 'What ten poun'ss?' he sayss. 'What ten poun'ss?' I sayss. 'Diwedd-i, the ten poun'ss I give 'oo t' keep for me,' I sayss. 'Ten poun'ss,' he sayss, 'ten poun'ss to keep for 'oo, an' it iss two weeks' board an' lodgin' 'oo are owin' me, indeed!' 'Damn 'oo!' I sayss. 'Did I not give 'oo ten poun'ss when I wass paid off out of the Wanderer, an' 'oo said 'oo would keep it for ne and give it back again when I wanted it?' I sayss.... 'What are 'oo talkin' about?' he sayss. ''Oo must be drunk, indeed!' ... 'Have 'oo got a receipt for it, m' lad?' sayss the Sergeant. 'No, indeed,' I sayss. 'I didn't ask him for a receipt.' ... 'Oh,' he sayss, 'we've heard this pefore,' he sayss, shuttin' th' book an' signin' to the policeman to put me away. I made for Owen Evanss, but there wass too many policemen indeed.... So I had to serve the month, I tell 'oo!" John stroked his beard mournfully, muttering, "Ten poun'ss, indeed! Ten poun'ss, py damm!"

"An' didn't ye git square wi' th' bloke wot done ye?" asked the bo'sun.

"Oh, iss! Iss, indeed!" John brightened up at thought of it. "When I came out I went straight to Great Clyde Street an' give him th' best hidin' he effer got, I tell 'oo! I took ten poun'ss of skin an' hair out of him pefore th' police came. Fine! I think it wass fine, an' I had to do two months for that.... When I come out the street wass full of policemen, indeed, so I signed in this barque an' sold my advance note to a Jew for ten pob!"

Ten shillings! For what, if the discounter saw to it that his man went to sea, was worth three pounds when the ship had cleared the Channel! On the other hand, Dan Nairn, a Straits of Canso sailor-farmer (mostly farmer), had something to say.

"Waall, boy-ees, they ain't awl like that, I guess! I came acraus caow-punchin' on a Donalds'n cattle boat, an' landed in Glasgow with damn all but a stick ov chewin' tebaccer an' two dallars, Canad'n, in my packet. I put up with a Scowwegian in Centre Street; a stiff good feller too! Guess I was 'baout six weeks or more in 'is 'aouse, an' he give me a tidy lot 'er fixin's—oilskins an' sea-boots an' awl—out 'er my month's advance."

"Oh, some is good and some ain't," said Martin. "Ah knowed a feller wot 'ad an 'ard-up boardin'-'ouse in Tiger Bay. Awl th' stiffs in Cardiff use' ter lay back on 'im w'en nobody else 'ud give 'em 'ouse room—hoodlums and Dagos an' Greeks wot couldn't get a ship proper. 'E 'ad rooms in 'is 'ouse fitted up wi' bunks like a bloomin' fo'cs'le, ah' 'is crowd got their grub sarved out, same's they wos at sea. Every tide time 'e wos down at th' pier-'ead wi' six or seven of 'is gang—'ook-pots an' pannikins, an' bed an' piller—waitin' their chanst ov a 'pier-'ead jump.' That wos th' only way 'e could get 'is men away, 'cos they worn't proper sailormen as c'd go aboard a packet 'n ast for a sight like you an' me. Most of 'em 'ad bad discharges or dead-'un's papers or somethin'! 'Pier-'ead jumps,' they wos, an' they wouldn't never 'a' got a ship, only f'r that feller an' 'is 'ard-up boardin'-'ouse."

Martin picked up his precious 'log' and turned to go below. "Anyways, good or bad," he said, "them 'sharks' 'as got my ol' iron fer the last month, an' if this worn't a starvation bloomin' Scotch packet, an' a crew of bloomin' know-alls, fixing me with a fancy curl of lip, we'd a chanteyed th' 'dead 'orse' aft t'night an' ast th' Ol' Man t' splice the mainbrace."

He passed into the forecastle, and through the open door we could hear him sing a snatch of the 'dead horse' chantey:—

"But now th' month is up, ol' turk! (An' we says so, an' we 'opes so.) Get up, ye swine, an' look fer work! (Oh! Poor—ol'—man!)

"Get up, ye swine, an' look fer graft! (An' we says so, an' we 'opes so.) While we lays on an' yanks ye aft! (Oh! Poor—ol'—man!)"