"Queer histories, sir?" Jim was calmer after his outburst, and now felt mainly a commonplace curiosity about MacDougall. "Is it because of something that's happened that he drinks?"
"Ay, so they say, Jim, so they say. When you know you've not got what it takes, when you know you've drowned a dozen hands, it's hard to get along with yourself when you're cold sober. Poor devil! And seeing yourself a Third Mate at his time of life when you've been a master on your own poop. How would you feel? Eh? Be honest, now!"
"So that's it — conscience! Fancy — Dougie a master! What happened?'
"I'll break your neck if you ever tell anyone a word about this, mind you! Well, it was ten years ago or more — quite a case at the time on this coast. MacDougall was master of a decent little barque — Eileen. .. something or other — coal from South Shields to Falmouth. One of those cursed thick autumn fogs in the Tyne — suppose he should have anchored, really. Anyway, going down river on the ebb he ran down a loaded collier brig at anchor. Hands all turned in, poor devils, what chance had they got with all that coal under them? By the time he'd let go an anchor and got his boats down there wasn't a thing afloat, not a solitary thing. Of course, the skipper of the brig should have had a bell sounding — that was the only thing that saved MacDougall's ticket. But who'd ever make him a master again? You can think what it would mean, can't you, Jim? Third Mate till you're thrown — what the devil are you playing at, man ? Hard-a-port, for God's sake!' And he threw himself across the deck to help the scared, struggling seaman to spin the great wheel over.
The man turned to him a face as livid-white as a corpse: "She won't answer the wheel, sir, she won't answer!" He let go of the spokes with one hand to point at the huge bearded crest hanging over the taffrail astern. "It's that sea, sir, it's got a-hold of her!" In another second he would let go of the wheel altogether and dash forward, and a few seconds after that the next sea — a hundred tons of furious white water — would crash down upon, and through, Sardis's hatches. Brodie reached out to snatch a heavy wooden pin from the rail at the foot of the mizen. Still holding the wheel hard over, he thrust his improvised truncheon in front of the staring eyes: "See that, Tulloch ? I swear to God that next time you look round you'll get that across the back of your head, and we'll see whether you've got any brains or not. Look at her head, man, she's answering now. Now meet the swing — ease your wheel — midships! There you are." He turned again to Jim: "Get another hand on the wheel. My compliments to the Captain, request permission to shorten sail. And look lively!"
When Jim tapped fearfully at the smooth panelling of the Captain's door there was little sign of the pompously genial Cameron who had earlier beamed and bowed and strutted among his Directors. Instead, a peevish voice called out: "Ay, what is it now ?"
"From Mr Brodie, sir, permission to shorten sail."
"Has the breeze freshened, then, boy?"
"Yes, sir. Well, I think so."
"An officer on my ship doesn't think, Mr Robbins, he knows. Tell Mr Brodie I'm coming up."
Brodie's reception of the message was interesting. He made no comment, but the twitch at the corners of his mouth showed his annoyance, and he was plainly uneasy. Even Jim could see his reason: Sardis was now going nearly as fast as the following seas, and was therefore becoming almost unmanageable. Sooner or later, at this rate, she would be "pooped", overwhelmed and swung round by a following sea, to be left a helpless victim of the next wave. Many of the glorious flying clippers had met their end in this way.
"Now then, mister, what's this, what's this?" said Cameron as he stepped out on deck, with the same condescension that he had shown to Jim.
"Freshened a lot, sir. Had to double up on the wheel, but she's still yawing. I should like to shorten sail to slow her; or bring her round and heave-to, better still."
The Captain's irritation increased: "Heave-to, mister ? Do you not mind this is a deep-sea passage? It's not a Saturday afternoon trip down the Clyde, y'know. You miss all this fair wind, you add three days to the voyage. Don't you realize the cost to the Company, mister? These emigrants eat an awful lot, you know, in three days. You can snug her down to lower tops'ls, and let's have no more of this nonsense."
Out of the corner of his eye Jim saw the working of the strong muscles of Brodie's jaw, and his vice-like grip on the rail as he roared into the dark: "Watch on deck! Take in spanker and upper tops'ls! Close-reef lower tops'ls! Jump to it!"
Chapter III
Curious, Jim thought, how an ordinary ventilator acts like a perfect voice-pipe. His two-hour dog-watch on deck was over, it being just after six o'clock the following evening, and a hot dinner was no doubt ready for him below, and yet curiosity tied him guiltily to the chart-room ventilator, which brought up to him the voices of Brodie and the First Mate.
"What do I think of it, mister?" he heard White say. "I'll soon tell you that. I don't like it one little bit. Look here" — there was a rustle as he unrolled a chart — "here's the next stage. Look at all these blasted banks off the Thames! 'Ow close would you want to go to those if you were master ? When did we last have a proper fix?"
"Bass Rock."
"Ay, eleven o'clock last night — nineteen hours ago!"
"And nothing but snow and sleet ever since."
"Exactly — not a blasted sight of anything. And don't forget old Bougie's had two watches since then, so God alone knows where we are now!"
"What did the Old Man say when you saw him?"
"You'd not believe it if you weren't there. I had a job ter get him interested. He kept wittering on about a twopenny-a'penny mooring-rope we lost yesterday — that daft young fool Robbins wants his backside kicked. In the end I kept on, and he said: 'Och, we'll keep on down-Channel outside the Goodwins'."
There was another rustle of paper, then Brodie's voice came up again: "Well, I've marked this six o'clock position on the chart, but I wouldn't trust it within five miles. You never know what a wind like this will do to the tides. We might be miles east or west of that fix."
"Well, I tell you, I've been thirty-two years at sea, and I've seen nothing like it. It's like running down a street in the dark with your eyes shut and your head down."
"He usually comes on deck for some fresh air before his supper."
"Should be there all the time in this weather. I would."
"Shall we both try him, then?"
"Can if you like. It's like banging your head against a ruddy brick wall, though — Ey-up! That's his cabin door: on deck, lad."
Jim started furtively away from the mouth of the ventilator, and made himself inconspicuous in the forward corner of the poop as the Old Man himself came on deck, closely followed by the First and Second Mates. The great man rubbed his hands cheerfully, and beamed upon them: "What's your six o'clock position, Mr Brodie?"
"Twenty-eight miles east of Lowestoft, sir. But of—"
"Ay, ay, very good, very good! It's a grand run we've had from the Forth, ay, a grand run. And all stick and string — not a pound of steam. I told the Chairman, Mr McTaggart, she'd be a flier, ay, a flier."
Jim just caught the gleam of the whites as Brodie turned his eyes significantly to the First Mate. Then the Second spoke: "I was going to say, sir, that I'm not happy about that position. We've not had a sight of anything since Bass Rock — it's all dead reckoning from there on. I mean, it's a long way in this weather."
The smile had faded from the Captain's face: "Mr Brodie, did you not sign on as a qualified officer?"