"All right, get it in then, gormless. Can't you see we're not far off now?" The Mate turned away muttering bitterly; he felt that such interviews were his stern duty, and never realized how much cruel pleasure they gave him, nor that Jim Robbins was paying for all the blows and taunts suffered thirty years ago by a Fleetwood trawler's deck-boy. That was how he'd had to learn the trade of the sea — with the boot and the rope's end. These young apprentices out of the nautical college — what did they know about the sea? And this Robbins, with his smooth dark hair and his pink and white cheeks and his southern accent — well, he was typical. He'd show him what the sea was like. He couldn't resist a final humiliation, and turned to the helmsman: "Watch that steering now, Jordan, or I'll get Mr Robbins to show you how it's done."
Rather to his disappointment, the sneer had little effect on Mr Robbins, who was far too concerned about what would happen when the log was streamed. He made the free end of the rope fast to the clock on the taffrail; then, holding the "fish" itself in one hand, he paid out the rope in a long bight or loop which streamed behind in the yeasty wake. "Now, Heaven help me!" he whispered, as he let go the log. Everything seemed normal about the way the log was "running"; the thin line disappeared into the wake at about the right place. He watched, in a misery of fear, the little four-spoked brass wheel; any moment now it should start to turn briskly, for the quick throbbing of the engines told him that they were doing at least ten knots. The long seconds dragged, and though he dared not look round, Jim could feel the Mate's cold eyes boring into him; it wasn't turning; the rope was fully tight, but it wasn't turning. Give it a count of three. If it wasn't going by then, tell him. One . . . two . . . it moved. Wait a second longer. Yes, it went right round, it was turning steadily, it would be all right. Of course, now he thought about it, the log would have to put a good many turns in the rope itself before there was enough force to turn the wheel. And now that everything was over, and the odd little wheel, apparently suspended in space (for the rope could hardly be seen) spun steadily, Jim suddenly felt the bitter cold seeping through his thick blue serge, chilling the sweat of his fear. "Log running correctly, sir," he called to the Mate's broad back (so he had not been watching, after all!)
"Very good. You've got morning watch with Mr Brodie, haven't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Right. Away and get yer head down, then. Can't have Nelson dropping off when 'e's in command, can we, Jordan?" The short, contemptuous grunts of amusement were the last human sounds that Jim heard as he made his way forward to the cold draughty deck-house, in which he had his tiny cabin or "caboosh". Soon the mad, rising whistle of the wind in the myriads of ropes overhead blotted out everything else, even thoughts. Sardis was cracking on into the gale, which screamed out of the dark at her from the port bow. She was travelling fast, and every time she met solid water with the shoulder of her bow she threw a quick, light flurry of spray across the deck. Out of the darkness above him came another sound like a savage percussion accompaniment to the wind's scream — the incessant snapping of taut ropes against the masts up which they were led. For, like most vessels of the day, Sardis did not rely entirely on her engines, but had the masts, yards and sails of a barque as well; the shrewd, bald old men of the Caledonian Orient Line saw no point in wasting any favourable winds that the good Lord might send, with steam coal the terrible price that it was and Australia an awful way off. In fact, the departure of Sardis from Leith, so puzzling to Able Seaman Sinclair, had been decided on by her Captain, James Cameron, as soon as he saw the low clouds scudding from the north-east, and thought how she would spin away down the North Sea and down Channel with that weight of wind behind her. Jim remembered his words to the handsome young wife of their chairman: "Ay, we'll mebbe steam as far as St Abb's, Mrs McTaggart, ma'am, but I'll wager we'll be away down past the Lizard before I use another pound of Company steam. She'll be a flier under sail, I'm thinking."
Jim remembered these fragments of the conversation from that day's splendid and awe-inspiring luncheon for directors and officers, as he lay in his bunk waiting for sleep, and heard the shrill wail of the Bosun's pipe summoning the watch-on-deck from the nooks of warmth and shelter they had found. "Lay aloft! Set upper and lower tops'ls, top-mast stays'ls and spanker! Hands to starboard braces!" Through the grateful feelings of growing warmth and drowsiness, as he slipped away from the real world, Jim was faintly aware of thudding feet outside, of grumbling oaths, of squealing blocks. And — how much later he couldn't say — a deep thundering of heavy canvas, which was suddenly stilled. It had, of course, been a long and exciting day, and he must have slept soundly, for outside the thin metal skin of his caboosh was an orderly tumult. Half a dozen men, heaving the huge yards round to face the wind, timed their quick hauls perfectly to the Bosun's curious chant: "Right, then, lads! One-two-six HEAVY! One-two-six HEAVY! 'Two-six HEAVY!"
The sudden sharp plunging, dipping and rolling ceased as one sail after another caught the wind with a snap and held it. The throb of the engines tailed off into stillness; everything above and below decks took a steady cant over to starboard. Before long the slope eased and the white foam tore past even faster, as the Mate slanted her round the corner of North Berwick, away from the driving wind; a small figure now on the lonely poop, he paced from the weather rail to the binnacle. Now he muttered sharp syllables to the helmsman: "Meet her, now, meet her, damn you." Now he squinted up into the taut forest of pine, hemp and canvas. Ten centuries were in the words and the look; he could feel, as if with his own nerves, what his ship was feeling — from the rudder biting the bitter water to the seams of the canvas tugged remorselessly by the gale. And behind him, part of his brain almost, the brass wheel turned, the neat clock ticked up the miles; but not all the miles. One in thirty or thirty-five perhaps, it forgot; from the crippled fin the lie went spinning up the taut cord, into the ship, where men could stoop, peering in the dark, to read it, and, seamen though they were, believe it.
Chapter II
For over four hours there was something like peace in the tiny cabin; the shriek of the wind and the thunder of the sea sounded distantly, the unlit lamp took up its alternate slants noiselessly and a fine silver watch given to Jim by an aunt measured away the minutes of his warm rest. But at a quarter to four the harsh world burst in upon him: heavy sea-boots sounded on the deck outside, there was a rough thump on the door, which was at the same time flung open, and the noise, the wind and the oil-skinned seaman took possession of the cabin. Jim was jarred painfully out of his sleep and found himself looking blearily into the steam and grease of a cup of ship's cocoa.
"Quarter to four, Mr Robbins, and blowing straight from hell, sir." The seaman was about to go off watch, while the young "brass-bounder" was just going on, so the former grinned cheerfully. Jim felt the small beginnings of fear stirring in his stomach. In the gloom he could faintly see thawing snow dripping from every ridge of the man's stiff oilskins.
"Snow too?"
"Snow, sir? It's that thick we cannae see the foc's'le. Mr McDougall's stuck on that lee rail there like a poor old snowman. But I'm thinking he's a good man for keeping warm inside, sir, if ye get my meaning."
More insolence! He'd no business to make remarks about the Third Mate; Jim wasn't quite sure what he meant, but anyway it wouldn't do.
"Leave the cocoa on that chest," he said.