The Voyage of the Norman D. (continued 2)

Sunset at Sea

I believe there is no other din aboard a sailing vessel that is anywhere nearly so loud, tiresome, or monotonous as that which the tackle makes in a calm. First the sails would swing out to the full stretch of their sheets, either when the schooner rolled forward or when a tiny spurt of wind suddenly rose; then they would bring up short against the sheet with a terrific groaning as the ropes became taut with a jerk; then, on the return, the booms would swing back in again and every bit of breeze would go out of the sails. They would flap, and billow and roll uncannily, with the reef points jigging about like live creatures. This would go on while the schooner rolled back, and then, as she dived forward again, the sails jerked back on the full reach of the sheet. The sails would fill for a brief moment, and during that moment each reef point would tap its tip upon the taut canvas, each at a slightly different time, so that there was a sort of purr‑r‑r‑r‑r‑r‑r‑r! and almost at the same time the sails would relax. Again they would billow and flap, and again swing back inwards. And a terrible creaking and groaning was going on all the time, until, if you listened to it, it would almost drive you crazy.

The schooner was now rolling deeply. Below in the cabin, everything was banging about. The inside of it was so much more like a house than the deck was, that I could scarcely persuade myself I was on a ship; and it seemed strange to feel a house rolling and swinging.

The air, in spite of the calm, remained clear and sharp, and there was a glorious sunset. Long fingers of fire reached out in fan-like shapes from the horizon, and the sky was all flushed with rose. To see a sunset from a schooner! We were so enchanted with our new kind of life that we stayed up very late that night. It grew dark quickly; night came down upon us like a sudden black cloud, and it grew cold. A breeze came up⁠—just enough to hold the beautiful great sails steady as though they had been carved of marble, and to make a glimmering pair of foamwings along the sides of the ship.

It was then, standing by the wheel in the dark, that I had my first real talk with the mate. It was also the first time I thought of him as piratical-looking. He was, when I stopped to think about it, the most piratical-looking person I ever laid eyes upon. He is very dark and swarthy, with luxuriant black hair and eyes the most wicked-looking on earth; wicked, yet strangely playful at the same time, and with a curious twinkle which shows when anything amuses him. And he is a silent, mysterious, soft-footed person, who looks as though he were brooding dark and treacherous things⁠—perhaps concocting a mutiny. And, standing there in the dark, his pirate face sharply silhouetted against the brightness of the starry sky, he made me feel as though I were cabin-boy on a pirate ship. But this is looking at him from only one side. In the morning, and on sunny days, one wouldn’t suspect that he was piratical. There is only a hidden suggestion of it⁠—a faint smile of treachery in his eyes, and something that is evil in his chuckle. It is on foggy days, and in the late of the afternoon when it begins to grow dark, that the pirate in him shows. He is the one for us to sail with, Alan, if we ever start off on a treasure-expedition!

A Rolling Sky

When I saw the stars, I had a strange experience. In spite of the small breeze which kept the sails from making their infernal racket, there was quite a roll and swing and swoop to the ship; she dipped her prow like the wings of a sea gull. But when, looking up at the high stars, I picked out one bright one above the truck of the mizzen-mast, and was just beginning to try to identify it, I saw it swinging about the mast in bewildering and beautiful curves and flashes of gold; and, to my puzzled eyes, it seemed to leave a burning track behind it. I have seen shooting stars; I saw one two years ago which glided very slowly and softly across the northern half of the sky⁠—so slowly that I could watch every motion of it. And my first thought was that this revolving star was a specially magical shooting star. But I never saw a shooting star make bewildering curves and circles. I looked at the other stars, and they all seemed to be gyrating crazily about the sky, sometimes fast, sometimes slowly. And then I could feel the mighty ocean throbbing beneath me, and again I looked at the mast, and it seemed stock-still against the wheeling sky; yet I could feel the schooner rolling and pitching in the swell. Of course, the sky was just as it ought to be: it was the mast, the schooner, that rolled as the sea heaved.

The moon had not yet risen, and everything was pitch dark except for magical sparks of starlight. All the afternoon we had been continually passing small steamers and barges, and I had never thought they were beautiful until now. I was too devoted to my original idea of vessels with sails to pay much attention to little “chuggers,” as the crew often called them. But now, at night, they suddenly became fairy-like. A small steamer would click slowly by across our bow, with a swash of foam, and she looked like an enchanted ship out of some mysterious land of stars. Then a long string of barges passed us far ahead, all towed by a small power boat, and each one gleaming with red and green and yellow lights. One after another they passed, at even intervals, until we had begun to think that there would never be an end to them. And when they had gone, we were again alone in the darkness, except for the far-away lights on shore.

I ran up forward as soon as it was dark, to watch Roy set our side lights. These are large, strong lanterns, one red, one green, which are set in cases a few steps up the rigging. The green one is to starboard, the red to port. They cast mysterious color-shadows on to the sea by our sides.

Moon-magic

Then the captain began to tell us about the small power boats known as “rum-chasers.” You are likely to see them at any time, cruising about and keeping an eye on all the sea traffic. Sometimes, he said, they board a schooner and examine her cabins and cargo. We had seen several of these boats ploughing at terrific speed through the waves, piling up mountains of foam. One of them now speeded up to us through the darkness and cast a powerful search-light upon our stern, apparently to read our name. And those long rays shone out strangely in the darkness. Then the boat wheeled about and tore off, diving and rearing and plunging.

And now I began to see a strange, soft light over in the east. I watched and watched, and then I began to see the top of the full moon’s circle. Up and up she came, huge in the darkness, and shining like sunlight on snow. I had often dreamed of sailing by moonlight. And now my dreams were realized. Now the breeze held everything quiet, and, except for the swing and roll of the ship and the rushing of the foam divided by her cutwater, everything was silent⁠—oh, so silent and beautiful!

We were on a long run with the wind on our port beam, so that the sails were blown mysteriously over to starboard. They were so still, so soft and still and rounded, that I could scarcely believe they were full of wind. Of course the binnacle lamp was now lighted; and strange it seemed to be steering by that faint glimmer. And now the moon was rising higher⁠—higher. I looked forward at the front part of the ship, and saw the moonlight full on those taut sails, making the moon’s side of them shine like newfallen snow, while the inside was dark, gray, and shadowed. How lovely it was to see them gleaming with that strange light, while on and on they bore us without a sound!

I ran up forward on the fo’c’sle deck. The lookout was sitting there, whistling faintly. It gave me a curious feeling to find him there. Ships had lately become so mysterious that I had actually begun to think such things as two-hour tricks, lookouts, and the like were slightly too romantic to be true⁠—though, in the nature of the case, they must be true. And, though I knew that there must be a lookout at night, yet, when I found the man sitting there, alone, on the fo’c’sle deck, I was surprised. This was growing more like the old sailing days with every minute!

I had gone up forward for the simple purpose of looking at those moonlit sails from all parts of the ship. Now I saw the jibs once more from close up; and beautiful they were, rounded with wind, running up their slender points into the sky, and flooded with the snowy moonlight like all the other great, majestic sails. Sometimes their rounded outer sides were huge, dome-like mountains with crowns of snow⁠—mountains whose flanks were shadowed, but whose summits loomed out into the full moonlight. Then I looked over the bow, and saw the foam down there, looking more than ever like two white wings. With the moonlight shining on it, it was ghostly white and curling⁠—moonlight on newfallen mountain snow! The sea itself, very dark green, mysteriously heaving and throbbing, was shadowy except on the eastern side, where the moonlight changed it to a delicate mass of quivering, shifting silver.

A Sailor on Seafaring

When I returned aft, after I had sat there on the fo’c’sle deck in the moonlight for a long time, the mate was standing just where I had left him. Evidently it was his watch on deck. He began talking to me immediately⁠—telling me about what a miserable business sailor life was. “It’s all right in summer,” he said; “yes, it’s real fun in summer when there’s no rough weather, but, I tell you, it’s a rotten, beastly business in winter. Imagine how it would be to get down the sails in a blizzard, when there’s snow and hail and sleet flyin’ around so thick you can’t see, and when your hands freeze up, and you can’t keep warm no matter how many clothes you have on⁠—and when you have to stand your four hours, whether you want to or not, no matter in what kind of weather, and when you have to be ready for a call, whether it’s your watch or not. I tell you, it’s no fun. You know, Barbara, I could get plenty of good jobs ashore, with just as good pay as I get here. But⁠—there’s somethin’ about it, in spite of the hard work, and so on; and I just stay and stay, and I don’t seem to leave the sea. So I guess I’m a sailor for life, now!”

I had discovered that Bill was his name, and for fun I always used to call him Mate Bill, because of Billy Bones in Treasure Island. I told Bill my opinion of sailing, and how I had always wanted to sail, and how glad I was to see that there still were sailing vessels in the world besides fishing schooners. Also we discussed the weather for tomorrow. I told Bill that I wished we could have a real gale of wind, because I had never been at sea, and had never seen anything in the way of rough weather except some of the breezes we used to have on inland lakes. I told him there would be whitecaps, and good white foam, and black squalls, but that they were nothing compared with even the little wind I had seen that afternoon.

Soon Bill strode over to the port bulwarks and looked down into the water. I looked down, too, and to my surprise there were mysterious sparkles in the sea, close to the side of the ship. They were much like firefly sparkles, except that they stayed longer and faded slowly. Bill didn’t know what caused them, but he said that they were always a sign of a strong northeast wind. I expressed my delight and said that I hoped for a terrific gale. Bill thought he would tease a little; he said: “Oh, you want to get there too fast! I guess you’re eager to be leavin’ us.”

Words on the Weather

“No, it isn’t that, mate. I should just like to see some rough weather, never having seen any on the sea.”

“And right you are. I should like you to see some weather out here, except that I know you’d be seasick⁠—and then I should lose my quarter!” he added, chuckling slyly. That man has an irresistible chuckle⁠—very piratical and treacherous indeed. “But,” he went on, “I don’t believe we’ll have any really rough weather out here⁠—’cause it’s June, and it’s summer, and you almost never get much wind then. But I guess it wouldn’t take much to have you call it a gale!”

“No, I guess not.”

“You know,” he said, “I don’t like the idea one bit of a northeaster, ’cause that is exactly the way we’re trying to sail⁠—northeast⁠—and it will slow us up a lot.”

“Well, that won’t be so bad,” said I. “Because then I’ll have my rough weather, and yet I shan’t have to leave you so soon! And I should like very much to see how a big sailing vessel tacks, too.”

“Well,” said Bill, “you’ll see some tacking, all right, if we have a northeast gale.”

He talked about the whales which he had seen. He said we were always likely to see one, and that they had seen one seventy-five feet long on the trip down from Nova Scotia. (But I didn’t ask whether he had measured it with a tape measure.) He said that there were also a great number of blackfish in the sea, which swam and blew just like whales, but were ever so much smaller.

At last he went back to the life at sea. “I’ve sailed as cook quite a lot, Barbara, too.”

“Which do you like better, being mate or cook?” I asked.

“Well, ’t’s hard to tell. There’s good things to say for both. I kinda think I like bein’ mate. The cook’s job is a mighty pleasant one, though. He don’t have to stand no watch, or git wet ’n’ cold in bad weather⁠—he jist sits tight in a warm galley and cooks the meals. You may want t’ be mate, but there are some times, I tell you, when you’d like bein’ cook. ’t’s no fun taking in the sails in winter, in a blizzard; ’n’ ’t’s no fun standin’ four hours’ watch in freezin’ weather.”

It was getting on to ten o’clock⁠—four bells⁠—and we turned in, leaving the mate alone with his watch. I think I have never⁠—even on mountain-tops⁠—slept more soundly. The roll was like that of a cradle, and it wasn’t enough to be uncomfortable, as it grew to be later⁠—only a gentle, easy motion that put me off to sleep in a flash.

Teasing a Landsman

I woke up bright and early, and went on deck. The day started off with just enough breeze to feel fresh and cool and to keep the sails steady. We were passing Martha’s Vineyard, and the big island looked very green over on the horizon⁠—a long, rather high green bar, in sudden contrast to the bright sea-blue.

We were now getting into the shoals which Captain Avery had showed us two or three times on the charts. There were buoys, lightships, and lobster-trap buoys everywhere. Every now and then we would pass a lightship with, painted on it, the name of the shoal at which it was stationed. There were odd names⁠—Handkerchief, Half Moon, Stone Horse.

Going down to breakfast with a very good appetite, I couldn’t help counting off on my fingers the number of meals I had had without the slightest seasick feeling. The crew were very teasing and bothersome all day about it. They kept asking me, every time I was silent and stood gazing down into the water, whether I were seasick. I laughed⁠—I couldn’t become angered with those people whom I had always wanted for companions⁠—took their teasing as a matter of course, and determined to make them respect me later on. I had already won the esteem of the cook. I dried dishes for him again after breakfast. Then I saw that the mate had a broom out and was sweeping the deck. Wishing to be of service, I said: “Don’t you want me to help?”

“Do you like to sweep?” said he.

“Sure!” I replied.

He gave a curious, pleased grin and left the broom where he had been working. I picked it up and began, rather deftly, I thought, to sweep in narrow corners of the deck and under coils of rope. I started working down from the port bow; the mate went to fetch another broom and swept down from the starboard bow; and together we made quite brisk work of it. Then the mate fetched a shovel, dumped the débris overboard, and thanked me. Yes, I would show that crew that I was no more afraid of work than any of them.

Steward on Skipper

I rather liked Bob, the bo’s’n. The youngest aboard, except possibly Richardson, he had been at sea only two years, but already he had risen in rank. He was a most amusing lad. He told me all about his family, and about himself, and about Bill; and, when I asked him if he didn’t like having Bill for a mate (I believe I forgot to say that Bill and Bob are brothers), he replied that it didn’t make the slightest difference to him, except that perhaps he didn’t get so much blame for things. He is remarkably careless when he is steering. If the captain orders the spanker to be close-hauled, Bob leaves the wheel in mid-air, as it were, and fixes the sail. He told me that all the other boys made a mess of steering⁠—that they were always turning the wheel this way or that way; but that he found the right position and then let it take care of itself, as it would for some time.

The day turned out remarkably exciting. To begin with, my shipmate and I went forward, in the middle of the morning, to talk with the cook, who was sitting sedately in the galley doorway, looking very curious and sad. He seemed mighty glad to have someone to talk to. He rattled on for a while in a delightful way, about this and that and the other thing; really he was much more entertaining than Captain Avery, and he stuck to one subject longer. But I was watching the sea and the sky and the sails, and I didn’t pay much attention to him until I heard something that made me prick up my ears.

Oral Portrait of the Skipper

“As for Captain Avery,” he was saying, “I never knew an uglier, more nasty, more contemptible man. I never knew a man that could do one half the mean things he does. Why, he’s famed all along the coast of Nova Scotia for being a rascal! I tell you, he’s never paid a bill in his life without making a row over it. Why, even the men who came to buy the lumber we brought down⁠—he tried to cheat them out of the few dollars they earned. Now, here, I get sixty dollars a month for cookin’ for this schooner. I can’t even get that much without some kind of a bally row. And every man of this crew is dissatisfied. If you don’t believe me, go ask some of them. They’ll tell you what they think of him! You know, I’ve been cook of this vessel before, and, when the owner enlisted me agin, I didn’t want to go. Says I: ‘Now I just can’t get along with Captain Avery, and I refuse to sail on this vessel while he’s skipper.’ But the owner says: ‘Now, Si, you’re all wrong about the captain.’ ‘He hates me,’ says I. ‘now, Si,’ says he, ‘he told me with his own lips that he thought you was a fine cook, and that he thought very highly of you.’ ‘Oh, nonsense,’ says I, ‘I’ve sailed with Captain Avery before, and I know what I know⁠—he hates me!’ Well, the owner coaxed and coaxed, and finally I said I would go, for sixty dollars a month. But Captain Avery don’t play fair with me. He tells me to my face he dislikes my cooking. How can I help that, when he won’t give a fellow anything to cook with? You wouldn’t believe it when I tell you, but I haven’t got a drop of flavoring extract of any kind on board this vessel. And he always buys provisions of the very poorest kind⁠—the poorest, cheapest, dirtiest brands of coffee and tea they make. Why, I asked him if he didn’t think he ought to get some fancy biscuits or cookies of some kind, for you folks⁠—and do you know what he got? By the Lord, do you know what he got? Uneeda Biscuits! Do you want me to tell you why he never plays the graphophone? ’cause he almost never does. Do you want me to tell you? He’s too stingy to use the needles! Once that man was made captain of a Chinese vessel, with a Chinese crew and cook. Before he had been on the ship ten minutes the cook chased him ashore with a drawn cutlass. Do you know why? ’cause he come nosing around and poking his blasted head into the cook’s galley. Now, the galley belongs to the cook, and no one else is supposed to interfere with the cook’s work, and it made the Chinese cook mad to see him come interfering. So he just drew his cutlass and chased the man ashore.” (I had an idea that it would be untactful to inquire how Captain Avery happened to be in China.)

“Why, I’m very surprised to hear all this about Captain Avery,” said I. “When he came up to lunch we thought he was very entertaining and delightful. He strikes me as a very nice old sailor.”

It must have taken the cook fifteen or twenty minutes to get the captain denounced to his satisfaction. His voice had been growing louder and more vehement, with more and more small oaths intermingled, and when I interrupted him he was talking with a force that almost shook the galley, so that I felt that it was going to rise up and blow away any minute. I think he would have gone on until supper if I hadn’t interrupted.

He soon began again. “So you thought he was a nice old fellow, did you? Well, I’m surprised. Couldn’t you see by the look in the face of him what he was like?”

“Why, no. It struck me he was a very good-looking old fellow⁠—very kind and quiet.”

“Well, if you had lived as long as I have, you would know,” he went on savagely. “And, I tell you, I seen a fellow that the owner wanted to enlist for a voyage some time back, with Captain Avery for skipper, and the fellow had it all arranged; but when he seen the look in the face of that man, he backed out right off, and said: ‘Not me, thanks! Why, to look at that man, I wouldn’t sail along of him for a hundred dollars!’ and he didn’t, neither.”

Consequences of Deafness

So here was the key to that hatred in the face of the cook whenever he looked at the captain! And immediately we began to see Captain Avery in a new light. We didn’t really believe all that had been said about him, but we began to open our ears and eyes and look about us more sharply. We began to hear things which the crew said about him; and we noticed a small, shrill cry, like the peep of a bird, which the bo’s’n uttered now and then. At first we had supposed this to be the bo’s’n’s giggle, but we soon discovered that he was mocking the captain. And, listening closely, we could make out the words of this mockery. Whenever the captain gave an order, the mate, usually in the forward part of the vessel, would repeat it, and then would come this shrill, small, mocking voice of the bo’s’n, croaking out the order⁠—echoing word for word everything the skipper had said.

Captain Avery would stand on deck, with his head thrust forward, his back hunched up, and his mouth open. And his voice seemed uglier and harsher than ever to us. Also, he was slightly deaf, and he had an annoying habit of saying “Hey?” every time anyone spoke to him, whether he had really heard or not. This used to amuse us, because when he said that word “Hey?” he would drawl it out into space, squeezing the last drop out of it; but now it began to annoy us a great deal. We formed a habit of waiting when he said “Hey?” until sure whether he had really heard us or not. Often after “Hey?” he would answer what had been asked him.

Sad to relate, the wind died down soon before dinner. The sails went through the same noisy tactics as during the afternoon of the first day. I couldn’t believe that anything could be noisier than the way they had banged about at that time, but it was nothing to this. We could hardly hear ourselves think, and the inside of the cabin was pandemonium. The doors were banging, dishes were jingling, the whole cabin was swinging back and forth crazily. Through it all the cook was standing very firmly on his two legs, getting dinner ready. If I wanted to stand up for a moment, I had to brace my feet far apart; but the cook was standing at ease, his body yielding gracefully to every motion, while pots and pans were swinging about on the walls, and the tea slopping every which way. As the cook said, I hadn’t got my “sea legs on yit.” I didn’t feel one speck seasick, though the crew redoubled their efforts to irritate me by teasing; and I went dancing down to dinner. But⁠—something about the hotness and stuffiness down below, and the unsteady way in which the chairs were tipping about, and the way the table rose and fell, and the smell⁠—the greasy, fat gravy smell which always saturated the cook’s cooking⁠—turned me almost inside out; and, though I ate dinner, I found, just as I was almost through, that I must get out into the open air⁠—there was not a moment to lose! I grabbed the piece of bread and butter which I had been eating, and raced up the stairs without one word of apology or explanation.

Acquiring Sea Legs

The fresh air braced me right up. I didn’t get over my weak and dizzy feeling for two or three days, and I ate nothing but oranges and crackers, and those out on deck; but I was never actually sick. I hardened myself during those two or three days; and when the real weather came I minded it no more than dirt. What I did when I began to feel qualmy was to lie down cautiously on top of the deckhouse, in the cool shadow of the sails, and sleep it off. Then I would feel myself for two or three hours; then do the same thing again. In this way I found some very delightful places for naps. My favorite was on the spanker boom⁠—right on the broad saddle of the boom, of course on the windward side of the sail. But this was impossible except in weather when there was enough breeze to hold the sail steady. In calm weather I was often jerked and flapped right off by the sudden reverse motion of the sail, or by the endless tugging and pulling of the boom, or by the way it lifted whenever the sail filled, and then let down with a jerk when the sail emptied. It was fun enough for a short time; but it quickly grew tiring, and I would find a more comfortable place to sleep.

My dizziness gradually wore off, even during the course of that day, and, especially when I did something about the decks, I forgot all about it. The only trouble was that I couldn’t go into the galley to dry the dishes for my friend the old cook. As soon as I sniffed the smell of greasy gravy⁠—So I sat in the doorway, poking my head in now and then to talk, and then breathing out into the fresh air again. I have forgotten to say that early that morning the captain had complimented us on our endurance, saying that he had thought we should both be turning our toes up by morning, because of the rolling we had had on the first afternoon.

Just after dinner, as I emerged from the cabin in that mad dash of mine, we saw far off on the horizon a beautiful four-masted schooner coming down from the northeast. What small wind there was was behind us, and it was a head wind for her. She was on the starboard tack. Now, I hadn’t realized that at sea there is a definite system of traffic laws among ships. Being on the starboard tack, she had right of way of us, and she crossed our bows very near us, but not so near that we had to heave to. She managed it very neatly, shaving right across clean as an arrow. I was surprised at the progress we were making, in spite of what seemed like the total absence of wind; we approached each other quite fast, and had passed before long. It struck me that the breeze might be coming up a little. Yes, evidently it was, for the sails weren’t making so much racket, and the surface of the murmuring ocean seemed bluer and more restless.

Weather Prophecy

The lofty four-master passed us, and we could see that her sails were rippling and banging about like our own. I watched and watched her until she disappeared. If we looked as lovely as she did to us, we must have been a beautiful sight. I noticed that both her helmsman and ours turned their heads and looked at each other.

Bill and I got to talking again about the weather. It struck me that this was a pretty poor apology for the northeast gale which he had promised, and I told him so. He only chuckled, shrugged his shoulders meaningly, and said: “You wait! We’ll have a little breeze-o’-wind yet.” That phrase, “breeze-o’-wind,” somehow always delighted me. Then he added, as a tiny bluish squall, a kitten’s-paw, swept over the quiet silver sea: “See! There comes that breeze-o’-wind now!”

The breeze, what there was, swung around gradually into the northeast; but it was light and variable, and it was really hard to tell where it was coming from. We beat and floundered about all the afternoon, making attempts at tacking, though we hardly moved. We kept seeing the same shore line, only it changed its location in a very puzzling way. Sometimes it would be on our larboard bow, sometimes on our starboard, while the ship appeared to be standing still. Sometime during the afternoon a two-topmaster hove in sight and beat about for an interminable length of time, doing as puzzling things as the land⁠—appearing here, and then rising up mysteriously in the other hemisphere, showing now her beam and now her slender bow.

We gave up in despair and dropped anchor. At this I was rather nervous, for the mate had told me how many a sailor who had never been seasick before in his life was likely to succumb when anchor was dropped in a swell. Afterwards the mate told me that he was very sorry for me when he heard that we were going to drop anchor. We rolled about like a bottle. But it didn’t bother me. Already I was remarkably on the improve.

Man the Capstan!

Then it struck the captain that the wind seemed to be coming up and swinging around to its former position. After a few hours of lying there we started the engine and hauled up the mudhook. I was interested to see how this was done, and I went forward to watch. The mate leaned far over the side, watching the cable like a cat⁠—giving orders, and stopping the winch every time the chain managed to get fouled, or when anything else went wrong. The head of the anchor slowly appeared through the sea, as that huge rusty chain inched up slowly, disappearing into the cable-hole. Then the head of the anchor lifted its uncanny, sea-ghostlike arms out of the water, dripping, and looking like the risen skeleton of a drowned pirate. Then the whole great mudhook rose up, accompanied by the roaring of the engine, until the head of it reached the mysterious cable-hole. At that the mate gave a signal and stopped the winch. Then a very interesting thing happened: They dragged the great cat block (a block and tackle attached near the crosstrees of the foremast) over to the side of the ship, slipped around the tail of the anchor a great hook with a link in the end of it, and caught the hook of the cat block into that link. The tackle was wound around the winch, which was again started, and thus the tail of the anchor was lifted up until the upper fluke slid into place in the anchor plate. There it was made fast, and that operation was over.

When we had dropped anchor we had not taken down the sails⁠—they could hardly be any trouble in such a calm⁠—and we got under way again easily and quickly. Now, for the first time, on looking down into the water beside the ship, I noticed huge herds of what the crew called “sunfish”⁠—really a kind of jellyfish. I can give no better description of them than that they looked a good deal like exceptionally juicy and delicious fried eggs, each with a round orange or yellow lump in the center, surrounded by a fancy frill of whitish. But they had what fried eggs have not: long and very elegant tails, bunches of long, long streamers, waving behind them, whitish in color, very narrow and very numerous⁠—perhaps fifteen or twenty trailing behind one fried egg. These streamers are waved about in a curious way, and the white of the egg, also, is expanded and then contracted like a mysterious umbrella opening and shutting.

The Fried-egg Tribe

They drifted along in great shoals and herds, seemingly unable to move except by the motion of the waves and tides. I had a great deal of pleasure in watching them. I leaned over the side of the ship and gazed and gazed at them. I so far forgot my dizziness that I almost began to hanker for some nice, juicy, delicious fried eggs. Those jellyfish made my mouth actually water. Every single one of them was slightly different from every other. At first they seemed all alike, but after you had watched them closely for a while you could see the differences right off. To begin with, there was a great variation in size. Some were as much as eight inches in diameter when spread out, others no more than three. Some looked as though they had been off to war, and appeared rather ragged and shabby. And then there was a great variation in color, in brilliance. The white part was just about the same in all of them, except that some seemed to be much more elegantly and fancily frilled. But the yolk of the egg varied from pale yellow to a fiery scarlet. Some had small and insignificant yolks and very fine whites; others seemed nothing but yolk with a tiny edging, a frilled collar. The ones with both large yolks and fancy whites were, of course, the finest.

And these curious creatures certainly had expression in their faces. Some looked as though they were in a great hurry⁠—as though they were gathering up their robes of state around them and hastening on; others were small, dainty, modest, and very scornful of the more splendid ones; some went sailing by, looking, for all the world, as though they were lost in a remote dream. These had far-away, vacant expressions. Others went by with an extremely haughty, self-conscious air; and some, usually the most gorgeous, drifted past with a bland smile of self-satisfaction. These fried-egg creatures certainly are a race by themselves, different from anything else on land or sea, and with their own characters and personalities. I am sure they have characters and personalities!

The wind was coming up slightly, and, though the roll was increasing steadily as we drew nearer to the open sea, we thought the sails didn’t flap or the booms swing and groan quite so much as before. We had high hopes of getting out of the shoals by dark. We passed more and more lightships, and buoys of all kinds; and since we were now, on account of the changing tide and the high swell from the open sea, making leeway very fast, it was often quite tricky work to dodge them. Captain Avery took the wheel a good deal, and was constantly changing the sails, especially the important spanker, in order to get every bit of breeze⁠—to get more steerageway on and diminish the leeway. This constant changing of the great spanker was quite a joke among the crew. I would say: “Why, it’s a long time since you’ve done anything to the spanker!” and they would laugh. But I didn’t want to appear as though I didn’t know why they did this and that to the sails⁠—as a matter of fact, I quite surprised myself with my comprehension of their tactics⁠—and I hope I didn’t overdo the matter.

Too Much Leeway

When it was almost dark we could see, not far ahead, the exit from the dreaded shoals, and beyond that the wild, free ocean, a gleam of gray-blue. When I looked off across our part of it, I could see how it heaved and throbbed. It was like watching a human heart beating. It seemed strange to look away over it, and, instead of seeing it steady, firm, fretted with ripples, to find it rising high and then mysteriously subsiding again⁠—sinking back down. One could not distinguish between the swells, or even detect their summits or their valleys. Only, when I saw the sea rise near the side of the schooner, I would know that the schooner, too, would rise in an instant, and instinctively I learned to prepare myself for the rise, and then for the sinking into the hollow. In that way I began, gradually and painfully, to get my sea legs on, and with a little practice (which I took walking about the ship) I learned to walk in the midst of it without staggering and stumbling and clutching the taffrail too much. I would win the respect of the cook, yet! I didn’t blame him in the least for being amused at the antics of a landlubber.

Our exit from the shoals was exciting. It was a difficult bit of navigation, especially in such a slight breeze, with so much swell and tide and leeway. Here the captain, in spite of his nervousness and his habit of becoming hectic if anything went the least wrong, showed his real skill. But we had a narrow escape if ever there was one. We looked ahead at the narrow opening, beyond which rose and fell the sea. What a sense of isolation and solitude! I know nothing comparable to it, except possibly being mist-bound, alone, on a mountain-top. It gives you just about the same spellbound feeling. And we weren’t really out in the open sea yet: we could only see it, stretching away, boundless, ahead. Yet we were already beginning to feel the edges of that solitary spell, fanning our cheeks, as it were, and wrapping the little schooner in its fringes.

The exit was dotted with buoys and lightships. Whistling buoys droned and roared. Somehow the uncanny sound of them is like a knell bidding drowned mariners rise from the sea; and in the midst of that spell and that quiet I half expected to see ghosts rising, folded in their shrouds. The bell buoys are strange, too. Some of the bells are harsh and realistic, but others have a soft, mellow ring, like an unearthly deep church bell. Immediately they recalled to me the far-away church bells sounding through the sea from the above-world in Arnold’s “Forsaken Merman.”

The captain knows the passage of the shoals very thoroughly, and on which side to sail of every single buoy. He guided the Norman D. among them very deftly and surely, in spite of the adverse weather conditions.

Flocks of foam-white gulls swooped, uttering their uncanny cries. In spite of the amount which I wrote about sea gulls in The House Without Windows, I had never until now realized what their call is like. It is a shrill, shrill mew, like that of a cat when it cries faintly⁠—a forlorn note to hear from a swift bird in flight.

Encounter with a Dragon

Now we could see the huge surf booming on the sand bars at the exit, where the high swells would come pounding in, wholly different from the quiet, even monsters they are farther out. We could see the long crests of surf where the waves broke, then, champing, galloped up the bar and settled back once more. We were near enough to hear their roaring.

There was a large bell buoy just before the exit. We were to go to starboard of it. We headed as far to starboard as we could without sailing on the wrong side of other buoys. But not quite enough room was allowed for leeway. With the tide sweeping us down, we were washed toward that buoy alarmingly fast. The nearer we came, the huger and more sinister it looked, while the boom of its swinging bell became more and more like howling. Now it loomed like some dark red dragon from the midst of those mysterious swells. Every billow carried us toward it; the breeze failed us when we needed it most; we could see with half an eye that it was unlikely we should clear. Happily, the constant swinging and banging of the sails helped; at every roll, and every time they filled with a spurt, the schooner was carried on a little. But still we simply went skidding across the sea sideways. I believe we could have sailed to Nova Scotia quicker side-on than head-on! Faster and faster we glided toward the buoy, which became more and more uncanny as the high, round swells half buried it and then uncovered it again. Finally we were within six feet of it⁠—and, on a forward roll, we cleared it, just; it slid mysteriously beneath our davits. A close shave! Probably, if we had hit it, it would have done us more damage than we did it. Those buoys are made to stand the wildest weather. They are strong, though rather unsteady monsters.

A few moments afterward we had slid neatly out the exit, and were now in the open sea. There was no appreciable difference except that the roll was steadily increasing; the sea gave it more room to increase. Now that the hot sun of midday had set, the roll seemed only pleasant to me.

We turned in a good deal earlier that night; there was nothing in particular to stay up for. The roll was fairly heavy, and when I lay down in my hard bunk it was like sleeping in a treetop all night during a high wind, or in a cradle; but it was more delightful than a cradle, because we were riding upon the heart of the sea. It was strange to feel the roll so heavy that there was a strain on first one side and then the other, and if I relaxed entirely my head rocked from side to side.

Infinity

In the morning I had to be waked up; the roll had made me sleep more soundly than I ever slept in my life. When I went on to the throbbing deck there was nothing but blue, blue ocean around me, stretching out to the thirty-two horizons; stretching away, a vast, boundless space⁠—stretching away⁠—away⁠—forever. What isolation, what terrible isolation!

The weather conditions were monotonous all day. There was no wind⁠—no wind at all⁠—and one could not have told that we were moving. We were in the midst of space; we might have been marooned on the cold, desolate moon. Of course the sails flapped, the booms creaked; and somehow I felt myself trying to hold back that sound. It was as if I hardly dared breathe or speak myself; as though nothing should make a sound in the midst of the silence and the space that surrounded us. Oh! then was the sea like a living creature⁠—cold, but with a mighty, throbbing heart. I was walking on the heart of the sea; I was sleeping on it; and I could always, night and day, feel it beating beneath my feet, or beneath my back. Or perhaps it was the life, the heart, of the ship that I felt. For now I knew that our schooner was superbly alive. She carried, amid the snow of her sails, a living heart and soul.

My shipmate was returning from a visit to the galley. I accosted him: “Well, how does the cook seem this morning?”

“Oh, the cook is getting wonderfully rabid! He talks about busting the captain’s jaw⁠—and not only his jaw, but his blankety-blank jaw. And holds he could do it, and would if a chance offered!”

Exciting! It looked as though a real mutiny might start at any moment now, with the cook as ringleader. I did so wish there would be a mutiny⁠—a little of the piratical on this seemingly peaceful schooner! I went forward to have a yarn or two with him, hoping that I should get the edges of this sudden burst of violence. I was not in the least disappointed. Evidently the cook made no difference between ladies and anyone else; he went swearing right along. And I never could get over my surprise at the way he swore, his whole character seemed so very, very inconsistent. In appearance he was a delightful little old man, gentle and kind as a lamb, not hurting a fly. Yet, when you knew him, there was the most wonderful spark of temper, of pride, of malice. He had the sad face of an old monkey, and his apron strings flopped behind him, and he wore suspenders⁠—but how he could swear! I used to think that I could feel the galley shake around me, and I felt that at any moment the ship might blow up or burst into flames.

“Well, mate,” said I, when I approached him, “good morning to you!”

Disrespectful

“Good morning.” A deep sigh; profound silence. He was sitting in the galley door, as usual, with his back against the starboard side of the doorway. He was smoking, and looking altogether so harmless and peaceful!

“Well,” said I, “and how’s life treating you, mate?”

“Oh, Lordy, Lordy,” said he. “Captain Avery⁠—I’d like to bust his mildewed old jaw for him⁠—and I could do it, too!”

Apparently he was repeating exactly what he had said before. How delightful to get this explosion from that embodiment of all peacefulness!

“Why, what’s the matter, steward? What’s the skipper done to you now?”

“Well, he says he don’t like my grub. How kin he expect any man to cook when there’s nothing to cook with? Now, look a’ this old stove, and this rotten old oven. Why, when I bake my bread, I’ve got to keep it in hours longer than it ought to be in, in order to get it done at all. I haven’t a drop of flavoring extract on board this ship; I haven’t a bit of anything to make nice things out of; I can’t make cakes, I can’t make good pastry with what I’ve got here; I have no jams or jellies of any kind⁠—how can he expect me to do any cooking for him? That’s what I’d like to know!”

And again this sad little old man seemed to sink down into himself.

All day long I walked around the decks, talking to the sailors, spinning yarns with Bill and Bob, and even with Captain Avery. We felt, to be sure, a little distant from the skipper. His attitude suggested that he was getting tired of his passengers. He always seemed to draw off by himself in a corner of the deck; or he would study his charts, down in the dark of the cabin, spreading them out flat on the floor, and getting down on top of them on his knees and elbows; or else he would come around and interfere in other persons’ conversation, by saying “Hey?” in the middle of sentences not addressed to him at all. Sometimes he would come around where we were talking and “jine in” very freely, without asking permission. Then, of course, the conversation would be entirely transferred to his side; for when he got going there was no hope for anyone else to talk unless, by mistake, the old man asked a question. On and on he would go, taking up the talk just where we had left off, and continuing it in his own way, strangely distorting it. Moreover, we began to see truth as well as exaggeration in the cook’s statements. We had begun, too, to become more interested in the crew than in the skipper. But, in spite of all this, the captain was the captain; and he was very amusing and entertaining as well as boring, if you looked at him in the right light.

All as it Should Be

Somehow, in spite of the calm and the tides, we were making headway. I didn’t understand it at all⁠—especially as the sails did nothing but flap and apparently carried us backwards as much as forwards. But the captain said we were off Cape Cod, though we didn’t go in sight of it. There were a few jellyfish about; not nearly so many as there had been during our passage through the shoals, for apparently those queer creatures stick to the shallower water. I couldn’t help wishing for a wind. But I was on a ship; and, after all, that was enough. Moreover, at this rate I had the prospect of being on a ship for several days to come. Here I was, leading the life I had madly wanted, living with the sailors, forming a companionship with them, gazing upon the expanse of the shuddering, boundless sea, watching the sails shaking above me⁠—studying the tactics and the working of a sailing vessel.

And here I was, chinning in an extremely familiar way with my friend Mate Bill, who had somehow or other become quite intimate with me. I mocked him considerably about his “breeze-o’-wind.” “Where’s that ‘breeze-o’-wind’ you promised us, mate?” “Coming! You wait and see.” The length of time which we could spend talking about that “breeze-o’-wind” was extraordinary. The mate maintained, more in joke than seriously, that there was going to be a northeast gale. And I laughed, not because I disagreed with him, for I believed him perfectly, but because it did seem so fantastic that this silence, this terrible calmness, could change into a ripping northeaster. The mate understood this feeling of mine perfectly. He chuckled his sly, mysterious, piratical chuckle and said that the wind was coming; he wouldn’t be at all surprised if it came the next day, and he was sure it would come the day after that, at latest.

Economy in Paint

A trifle more about our skipper. By this time we were winning the great favor of the crew, and especially of the mate, with whom both of us talked for hours at a stretch. The Norman D. badly needed a coat or two of paint. The skipper was most desirous to have the painting done during the voyage, and this very calm, lazy weather seemed the ideal time. Two or three of the crew were usually at work; also, my shipmate made the time go by painting. The captain’s desire was to have the whole inside of the ship painted by the time we reached Bridgewater, but he seemed doubtful that it would be possible to do this. “You wait,” said he to us⁠—“you’ll see how much painting there’ll be done!” But Mate Bill would come over and say to me: “It’s his own fault if we don’t get the vessel painted by the time we get down to Nova Scotia. ’Cause we could do it perfectly well; a three-years’ child could do it if only he could be let alone! But here’s the old man bothering us and looking over our shoulders at every stroke. What does he know about painting? Lord! He paints worse than any of us. I tell you, if he had the chance he’d make one can of paint go for the whole vessel! He takes a brush, and dips it, and then daubs⁠—a daub here, a daub there, and not enough anywheres. Look a’ that bit of the taffrail he painted. A cat could do it better! Then, after he’s done three inches of that, he goes forrard, daubing all the time, till he gits to the fo’c’sle; and then he puts a daub on that, and a daub on this!”

“I think, mate, it makes the cook mad to see him come forward at all.”

“Certainly it does! It makes any sailor mad! What’s he got to do forrard? That ain’t his place. His place is aft, and I wish to brimstone he’d stay there. He ain’t supposed to come off that poop deck. He ain’t supposed to come no further ’n them steps. Forrard’s my place⁠—there’s no sense in both of us there. ’N’ if he comes forrard, I go aft. Forrard’s my place. I’m supposed to do the work there, and see that the work gets done. The old man’s supposed to tell me anything he wants done, and then I’m to see that it gets done. But I can’t, and I lay ’tain’t my fault. Why, anyone comin’ aboard this vessel⁠—if the owner come aboard and saw a little paint here, ’n’ a little there, he’d ask the captain: ‘Who’s your mate aboard here?’ ’n’ the old man’d say: ‘Bill McLeod.’ ‘Well, he’s a shockin’ poor mate!’ There, you see! all the blame gets round on to me again. If he’d only let us alone, we’d get the whole ship done. We’d get it done within three days, if this calm weather keeps up.”

Bill was right. He had described the tactics of the “old man” perfectly. (He used to make a great to-do, Bill did, about that phrase, “old man.” “I dunno why it is,” he would say, “but I allus called any cap’n I ever had ‘old man’; whether he’s young or old, it’s all the same⁠—he’s allus the ‘old man.’”)

“I don’t think the cook cares much about Captain Avery.”

“Oh, the cook hates him!” Again Bill chuckled, and his wicked black eyes twinkled. “He hates ’im like bitter p’ison!”

“I think it’s very funny, the way Bob mocks at him so much.”

High Words in a Crisis

“Yes, it’s funny. But you get tired of it. Now, Bob is young, and he’s awful fresh and careless; everythin’s a game to him. He has a lot of fun mocking the old fellow that way. But I wouldn’t do it; not me! One thing I was always taught, ’n’ that was to respect people older’n myself. Now Cap’n Avery’s old, and he’s a meddlin’ old cat, but I niver sass him; not me! I’ve niver sassed him but once in me life, ’n’ I’ve sailed with him a lot, too. I’ve sailed with him a lot, ’n’ he’s got to know me good, so he sometimes calls me Bill.”

“When was it that you sassed him, mate?”

“Oh, that was a couple o’ years ago, on another voyage I took with him.”

“And what did Captain Avery do that made you sass him?”

“Well, it was in the evenin’, and a terrible squall come up, and we had to get down the sails in a hurry. He orders us to take down the jibs first, and we was just gettin’ the jibs down when somethin’ went wrong with the tackle. The old man see what was the matter, and he come runnin’ up forrard, giving orders and shouting. He was awful nervous. He allus was a nervous old cat. Well, somehow I didn’t stop to think, and it made me kind of mad to see him come runnin’ up forrard, shouting that way, and I sassed him back, ’n’ I said: ‘I wish to Beelzebub you’d get aft to your own place!’ Well, the old man went. But a’terwards I see the tears runnin’ down the poor old fellow’s cheeks, he was so excited. Well, I niver, niver sassed him back again. But sometimes it riles me, the things he does. I think that’s why he likes me, ’cause I am respec’ful to him. So it sometimes does rile me, the way Bob mocks him, and I talk to Bob a lot. But it niver does no good.”

“And is Captain Avery a good man, supposing you get into a gale?”

“Oh, yes, he’s a skillful old fellow. But anyone that’s been to sea as long as he has ought to be skillful. He is clever and quick, but awful nervous, and he shouts and calls a lot. One good thing about Captain Avery is this: he has a good loud voice. You never have to come aft to ask what he says!” And Bill’s eyes sparkled again.

“Do you think he ever has happened to hear when Bob mocks at him?”

“Well, I dunno. Bob does sometimes mock awful loud⁠—but then, the old man is good and deef. But I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

Halcyon Days

Indeed, Bob seemed to be growing steadily more daring. He used often to mock, even when the old man hadn’t given an order, just for the sake of amusing the rest of the crew. It was amusing to hear the captain call the crew “boys.” If he wanted anything done, it was always “Here, boys! Here, boys!” until someone came to execute his orders. (It rather disappointed me that he didn’t call them “mates,” or “my hearties,” or “my bullies,” in true piratical fashion. But one can’t expect too much!) And Bob would stretch out his neck, and lift up his head like a bird about to sing, and screech, quite as loudly as the skipper himself: “Here, boys! Here, boys!” You could see his bronze throat quivering when he called, just like that of a bird. And then he would lower his head into himself and chuckle.

Bob was especially good-looking in a bright red sweater. He used to wear this sweater whenever it was the least bit chilly, and then he was usually so busy, or perhaps so lazy, that he never seemed to have a chance to take it off, even when it grew warm. Of him, more later.

During those calm days there was a great deal of warm weather. I went about, in my old blue shirt with a sailor collar and my old black pants, very gaily indeed, feeling sailorly and wanting to show the crew that I didn’t put on airs or try to be superior to them. In fact, I admitted my inferiority by asking them questions about ropes, their names and uses. The ropes on a schooner are surely the most complicated things on earth, except those of a square-rigger, which both Mr. Rasmussen and our cook told me were a thousand times more complicated. As for the schooner, there was only about one rope which I could always be sure of⁠—the fore-topsail clew line. That particular rope had broken, and the mate had run in a brand-new one⁠—a bright rope, white among the dark, weather-beaten, dirty ones. I could always tell it by a glance⁠—until it began to get dirty, too.

Again we turned in early. We had discovered that it was really much simpler to do so, because we had neglected bringing a flashlight. There were no lights on the ship except lamps, and there was no lamp in the “bathroom,” and consequently no way to find the water bucket without lighting a match. (I had overturned it two or three times in the rolling.) The ship’s lamps, by the way, were arranged in little rings of brass which projected on arms from the wall, and as the ship rolled crazily the lamps, too, would swing about, but keeping themselves upright in the gimbals.

Suspended Weather

The next day the weather conditions were annoyingly the same. There was no wind; there was nothing but that steady roll, which I now began to enjoy quite a lot, though it did wear on one. I would look up at the horizon as the bow of the ship plunged down, and I would see it away up in the sky above me somewhere. Then, as the bow swung back, the horizon would vanish beneath the forefoot of the schooner. When the bow swung down, how far above it we, on the poop deck, seemed! and then how formidably the bow would loom above us on the return roll!

I joked more than ever with Bill about his “breeze-o’-wind.” But he only chuckled and told me that I wanted to get there too fast, and that we should have the wind yet, and plenty of it, too. I would look out over the restless ocean and see where a tiny breath of air made blue ripples on the silver-gray, and I would nudge Bill and say: “Well, the breeze seems to be coming up a little now!” And Bill would reply: “Yes, we’ll have that wind in no time now!” And the breath of air would die down, and again there would be nothing to break the monotony of the sea.

But, aside from the weather, the day turned out to be a remarkably exciting one for me. For one thing, I had been forbidden by my strict family to do anything whatsoever without the consent of Captain Avery. “Just because you’re not told not to do anything,” they said, “you’re not to assume that you can do it. You have to ask first.” “Oh, that’s easily managed,” I replied. I must ask every time I wanted to go up in the rigging (though, on account of my dizziness, I had not as yet gone up); I should certainly have to ask before going out on the jibboom; I should not be allowed to steer, even though I knew the points of the compass. The most I could do was to ask the names and uses of things. For this I usually sought out Mate Bill. When he was off duty, the two of us would sit together in some concealed corner behind the fo’c’sle, or on the fo’c’sle deck, or on the other side of the after deckhouse from where Captain Avery was at that time; and then we would have “a go of it.” I would ask him questions, and he would take them seriously. He didn’t joke over it, and he didn’t laugh because I didn’t know. He would say: “Now, I approve of answering questions that anyone asks me, if so I can. The steward here, he’d fool you half the time.”

“Take the Wheel!”

But I wanted my privileges! I decided that I would begin to acquire them again. I climbed up on the spanker boom often; I had been told that that was all right. I used to walk out on it, leaning against the sail and walking on the windward side of it, until I came almost to where the boom overhung the water. Then, feeling a slight disgust at the strictness of everything, I would stop. Of course I could do this only when the breeze held the sails steady. (Two or three times during that day this happened.) Otherwise I should be flapped off the boom. I used to go by myself on the fo’c’sle deck a good deal, and I would climb around and sit on the forward capstan or on the staysail boom or on the very forward part of the bow, as near the tip as I could. Then I would have a longing upon me to go out on the jibboom. But when I saw those frail footropes, overhanging the open sea itself, and the whole jibboom waving up and down, I decided that, even if I were given permission, it was a little precarious for me. But I said I should come around to it sooner or later⁠—and, after all, it was only my first voyage⁠—and, after all, I could climb better than Richardson⁠—and, after all, I was really doing very well for such an amateur!

I did long to steer, though. How I wished someone would give me a hint or two! I was a little worried about asking anyone save my friend the mate. I resolved that, sometime when he had the wheel, I would ask him. But I found that the mate, because of his rank, hardly ever took the wheel. Sometimes he would take it for a while, during Bob’s trick, so that Bob could go down to dinner; that would be after he had had his own. But I had an itch on me to steer that day. It was after dinner when I felt the itch; they were constantly tampering with the sails, and it was, as usual, Bob’s trick (it seemed to me as though it were almost always Bob’s trick), and Bob had just left the wheel to help close-haul the spanker. I came walking slowly aft at that moment, and Bob called out to me: “Here, take the wheel while I fix this bally sail.”

To be requested to steer!

“Do you know the points?” he shouted.

“Yes!”

“East by north.”

“East by north, bo’s’n!”

A moment afterwards I had picked out the point, and, with the feeling of those hand-worn wooden spokes in my palms, I guided the lubber line about and kept the schooner at east by north. I found it was not so hard; I could really do it! The only thing about it that puzzled me was that, when the ship swung off her course by a tiny eighth of a point, it took a very generous motion of the tiller to bring her back. But oh, how like a sailor I felt! And when Bob left close-hauling the sail, with Roy to help him, and came back to his trick, and saw that the lubber line was still on the dot of east by north, he certainly was pleased. He said: “I’ll have to stand with you, ’cause if I don’t the old man won’t like it. But you’ll get to steer good before long. Now I’m going to do something up forrard. If the old man asks you why you’re steerin’, you tell him I said you could.”

“Can you trust me with her all right?”

“Oh, sure! You’re gettin’ to steer good!”

“East by North, Bo’s’n!”

Well, the old man didn’t happen to pass by at that particular moment⁠—perhaps he was down in the cabin⁠—but I certainly did feel a huge sense of responsibility. There I stood, holding the ship to her course very neatly. And, though it took all my concentration at first to keep that tiny black line on that tiny black point, I grew more and more used to it, and before long I got so that I didn’t mind it at all. The bo’s’n came back after a little and looked anxiously at the compass in the binnacle. But it was still all right, and he grinned. Presently the old man really did come by, and he saw that I had the wheel all to myself, and that Bob was standing doing nothing behind me, but watching like a cat. He, too, looked at the compass, and then at me, and then at the compass again. I grinned at him. He looked rather anxiously at Bob, and I heard him whisper: “Don’t let her keep it too long. Do look out for her!” And then I heard Bob’s careless voice reply: “Oh, sure! She’s all right. She steers better than Richardson now.” But, evidently to please the captain, he took the wheel, too. It was companionable to steer with another; yet I liked the feeling of having it alone. I steered more and more accurately all the time, and I got so that I could see when the schooner was about to slide off her point, and would head her off with the wheel.

I had the wheel for the second half of Bob’s trick, and for the first half of Roy’s. That made a whole trick; and the time went like foam. But toward the end of that time my eyes, unused to the strain, grew rather blurred. I could no longer see the line or the point very well, and, afraid of mistakes, I stopped. But I was becoming a sailor! My first voyage, and here I was “jining in” with the crew and the work like anything!

Tussle with the Spanker

That morning, before the steering, I had had a rather amusing and exciting experience. The breeze seemed to be coming up a little, but it was just a whim. The sails were steady for a moment, and the captain wanted the spanker close-hauled. They were always doing something or other with that spanker; I never knew anything like it. Well, the captain decided, there was such a very light breeze, that he could do it himself. He loosed the sheet from the belaying pin on the starboard side of the schooner, leaving only one turn of the rope around the pin, and began to haul, letting all the strain go on to the pin⁠—the true nautical way of close-hauling a sail when you want to do it alone. But the captain, as Bill often said, was “weaker’n a cat,” and to see him leaning back on the rope, clasping his horny hands around it desperately, and yet with the strength of that mighty sail all the time pulling him back toward the belaying pin, was comical. He raised his head, and I could see that at any moment he would begin his call of “Here, boys! Here, boys! Here, boys!” I wanted to be helpful as a sailor, and I immediately took hold of the sheet above the belaying pin and hauled and hauled, with the desperate strength which I always had when I wanted to be sailor-like, or wanted to show the crew and the skipper that I was sailor-like. I hauled while Captain Avery took up the slack which I made, by hauling it taut around the belaying pin. The two of us could just hold the sail and close-haul it half-inch by half-inch; but we weren’t making very rapid progress, and the skipper was getting tired of it. And, after all and after all, he began to sing out: “Here, boys! Here, boys! Here, boys!”

The bo’s’n came aft in a bound or two, and, with a look of disgust at me to show that he was sick of that infernal “Here, boys!” he, too, began to haul. He took the sheet close under the block, I took it a little farther down, and the captain still stood on the other side of the belaying pin, making frantic gestures and taking up the slack. But evidently the sheet had been working towards the top of the belaying pin, for in a little spurt of wind it crept up to the top and over. The captain started shouting. The boom was too much for Bob and me without that extra turn around the pin, and both Bob and I were dragged rapidly, roughly, and resistingly across the deck. We went fast, because of the savage pull of the boom, but I had time to think quite a lot. I thought that it would pull me overboard; I thought of letting go; then I thought that I mustn’t let go, I must just hang on like grim death and show them that I was sailorly. I felt myself come into a bit too sudden contact with the after capstan, and heard the bo’s’n say “Let go, quick!” Then I saw that he had let go. And, next, everything was a blurred whirling. At last, as I neared the port taffrail, I let go, and the boom went wandering gently out until it was at right angles to the rail. I fell on my knees just against the rail; then, in spite of my jarring encounter with that capstan, I got up briskly and laughed. With Roy helping, all of us hauled the boom in again and made it fast.

In the afternoon the crew, having less than nothing to do, all gathered on deck, sitting on hatches between the poop and the fo’c’sle, in the sun of the mid-afternoon, to talk. They all came out with the exception of Richardson and another Bill⁠—an Irish Bill. There were the mate, the bo’s’n, Roy, the cook, and I. It was the first time the crew had really shown signs of being friendly with one another. Not that they had quarrelled, but they never seemed to have anything much to say; they were gloomy and silent.

In Conference

We carried a spare gaff on the starboard side, under the bulwarks ’way forrard. It seemed to be a favorite place to sit. The mate and I sat down on this gaff, side by side, while the bo’s’n and Roy, who seemed to be great pals, sat on a forward hatch-cover, facing us. I began joking Bill about his “breeze-o’-wind.” “When is it coming, mate?” said I. “Oh, sometime next month!” “We’ll have to publish that,” said I⁠—“‘Bill predicts a breeze-o’-wind for next month.’” “But you wait,” says Bill. “It’s a-comin’ yet, sometime tomorrow!” “That’s far better,” said I.

Then I subsided entirely and let the crew rattle on in their own way. Richardson had now come out of the fo’c’sle and was very feebly and painstakingly splitting up pieces of wood with the steward’s little hatchet. He was doing it slowly, though neatly, and it looked as though he were not accustomed to it. The mate saw him, and I could tell at once, by the way his black eyes began to sparkle so maliciously, that he was going to say something to Richardson. And he said, in that solemn way of his, yet with a downward twist to the corners of his mouth: “Hey, Dick, don’t hurry too much over that!” Richardson is very pleasant, no matter what is said to him, and he replied only with chuckles⁠—rather gloomy ones. Then he fell to work sawing up some boards which had been left over from the lumber cargo; he brought out a small sawhorse and a saw and fell to work. But it went no better. Every stroke seemed to be painful, and he made very slow progress. Again the mate struck in, and said: “Don’t kill yourself over that, Dick!”

The mate began to tell about various incidents of his career, which seems, on the whole, to have been a fairly interesting one. He has stuck to the sea for fifteen years, with hankerings now and then to do landsman’s work, but always sooner or later returning to sailor life. He said: “Once they wanted me to go as mate on a schooner, fer seventy a month. I was workin’ ashore then, an’ I didn’t want to go. But I was wanted badly enough⁠—somehow, it seems I never had no trouble gettin’ a berth as mate⁠—”

“Well, no wonder,” interposed Richardson from his sawhorse. “If you resigned up there at Bridgewater, I would too, by heaven! I wouldn’t stand bein’ hazed by the old man; not I! Why, Bill, it’s you as keeps this crew together at all.”

In the Old Days

“Well,” continued Bill (it seems customary for them to begin everything with a “well”; even I do it, more or less), “the owner of that vessel offered me seventy-five. But ’twas no better. I didn’t want to go. I said I wouldn’t, no matter how much he give me. ‘Not for eighty?’ says he. ‘No, sir!’ says I. ‘Eighty-five?’ ‘No,’ says I, ‘’N’ you might as well make up your mind to it, sir! I’m not goin’ to do a sailor’s work no more.’ ‘Wouldn’t you go fer ninety, Bill?’ ‘No. Don’t you coax no more. I’m not goin’!’ But he kep’ on arguin’, and he riz five dollars every time he opened his mouth, and, by thunder, I went, fer a hundred and ten. That’s how bad I’m wanted! And here I am with Cap’n Avery, fer sixty flat, and a row over that, too!”

The cook had now come out of his galley, and he stood listening, his apron tied behind him, and a curious expression of scorn and disdain on his face. Said he: “You think ye’re so badly off, don’t you? Why, when I used to sail in the old square-riggers, we used to get thirteen dollars a month, flat⁠—no more. And the mate⁠—he didn’t get no more than seventeen. You think the work is so awful hard here, don’t you? Why, listen to me! Every single morning all hands was called on deck at four o’clock; some ships had it half-past three. Then we had to wash, and scrub, and sooge,[1] and sand, and holystone, and squeegee the decks, forrard and aft. ’N’ when that was done we had to go aloft and polish up all the brass work, ’n’ the brass along the bulwarks, and the cook had to polish his kids and pans, and put them in the front of the galley for the old man to examine when he come forrard in the morning. It took till breakfast t’ get all that done. Why, you sluggards would take all day over the work that we used t’ do in an hour! And do you know what? Listen to me⁠—”

But here an interruption came in the shape of an incident which made the crew laugh a great deal. The cook decided that he would come and mingle with us; he would sit on the gaff and swing his legs around, and be chummy. So he walked robustly over to the spare gaff, his hands up under his apron in front. But somehow or other, nimble though the little man is, he missed his aim, as it were, and, instead of sitting on the gaff, he sat down behind it, with his knees over it. By that small miscue the dignity of the little old cook was suddenly spilled, turned upside down. But he pulled himself together again, hitched forward on to the gaff, blinking in the sun, and rocked himself back and forth. Then he began again where he had left off:

“Listen to me a minute. You talked about being hazed by the old man: you listen, and if you call this hazin’, what you’re havin’, I eat rats fer dinner! When our old man used to come on deck, at eight bells, after everythin’ aboard was all fixed up tidy as tidy, ’n’ the deck holystoned ’ntil it was white as chalk all over, he used to bring his glass and come forrard and look away up at the riggin’, t’ see ’f the brass work was shining enough. And if we hadn’t polished it to suit him, he would make us go up aloft and do it all over agin.”

Peppery Suggestion

All this time the cook had an imaginary glass in his hand, and was peering aloft through it, to see if the brass work were polished. He would peer and peer up at the mizzen-mast, and peer and peer at the mainmast, and then peer and peer indefinitely at the foremast. And very queer he looked, peering and peering that way through his imaginary glass.

“’N’ then,” he went on, “after he had looked at that a while, he would come to the door of the galley and look at all the cook’s tin pans and kids, that was spread out in the sun. ’N’ if they wasn’t polished to suit him, they would have t’ be done over, ’n’ the cook would get a good callin’ down, too.⁠—Fer the love o’ Mike, what you laughin’ at, bo’s’n?”

The bo’s’n had been chuckling and giggling, and now he was absolutely bursting with restrained merriment. “I was thinkin’,” said he, “someone ought to have put pepper in the old man’s eyeglass. Then, when he come along and tipped it ’way back to look up, he’d go around howlin’ and howlin’ and stampin’ and swearin’, and be a fine show⁠—and then, if the fust mate ast him what was the matter, he wouldn’t dare say, ’n’ he’d say that the brass was polished so poor it made him curse!” The bo’s’n delivered this strange harangue in the craziest voice you ever heard in your life, all the time chuckling as though about to burst.

“Well,” returned the cook, vehemently, yet very solemnly⁠—“I guess you nor no one else, neither, would dare to do anythin’ like that. He’d regret it all his life, let me tell you! And you wouldn’t do anything about the grub, neither. I suppose all you fellows think you’re in a awful bad way with food. Do you want me to tell you what we used to have to live on? We had salt pork ’n’ hard tack. ’N’ that’s about all. We used to have what we called ‘duff’ on Sundays, but that wasn’t so good as the grub you have all the time. And they didn’t even have potaters! Now, you shrimps git potaters all the time. Then, they on’y had ’em aft! Once we had a great hunk o’ salt beef. It got all soaked up with salt water, but the cook made us eat it. It was hard as a rock, ’n’ it lasted fer days and days, ’cause no one would eat it. ’n’ it kept cropping up, and cropping up, and we couldn’t get rid of it nohow. But we had to keep on chewin’ it (’n’ it was jist like leather), ’ntil every bit of it was gone. Why, we used to have food that cats and dogs wouldn’t ’a’ touched, ’n’ that turkey-buzzards wouldn’t ’a’ picked up.”

“Well!” said the bo’s’n, in a voice of careless scorn, “blamed if I’d eat it, if ’twas as bad as all that.”

“Now, my young man,” said the cook, very severely, “you’d do exactly what everyone else did, you would.”

Dietetic Argument

“Wither me if I would! I’d fire it overboard. Why didn’t you fire it overboard?”

“It was different then,” said the cook⁠—“very different. Sailors couldn’t get fresh and flip then, by thunder. Why, every man of them would be fired and flogged, if they did that.”

“Well,” said the bo’s’n, “why didn’t they come aft and complain? Strikes me it ain’t up to them to eat what’s fit for hounds.”

“Of course it wasn’t up to them!” said the cook, “but they had to do ’t all the same. I tell you, sailors weren’t treated as men at all, then; they weren’t so good as dogs! You think ye’re so hard off, don’t you? I’d like to have seen you in them times. Yes, by thunder, I would!”

“Well, but,” said the bo’s’n, whose careless brain was still working on the meat, “I’d take it out of the fo’c’sle with me, a little piece at a time, every time it come round⁠—and then, when the old man or the steward wasn’t around, I’d fire it over. That’s what I’d do.”

“No you wouldn’t. You’d do what everyone else did⁠—eat it ’ntil it was gone!”

“Well now,” I interposed, “I think the bo’s’n made an intelligent remark then. It would have been simple enough to do that⁠—a little piece at a time.”

“Sure it would!” said the bo’s’n, evidently glad to have someone agree with him. “’Twould be the easiest thing in the world. I’m surprised none o’ you thought of it.”

“Huh!” said the cook⁠—and that was all of that subject.

“Speakin’ o’ dogs and cats,” said the mate, evidently deciding that it was about his turn⁠—“once I was second mate in a schooner, ’n’ the old man had a cat. He was fond o’ that animal, I tell you! But the boys, they got kind o’ mischievous ’bout it ’n’ decided they’d play a trick on the skipper and get rid o’ that cat. So, one time when we was gettin’ a tug out o’ the harbor, one o’ the boys picked up the cat by the tail and threw him down into the tug. Gee! I’ll niver ferget how surprised the boys in the tug looked, to see a cat come flyin’ down. An’ I’ll niver ferget the skipper. He didn’t know what had happened to the beast; he niver did know. ’Cause he’d ’a’ been powerful mad if he’d found out⁠—but he niver did find out what happened to his cat.”

Analysis of a Lubber

There was a silence, as the old man emerged from the cabin door, walked over to the port taffrail, and peered over at us, with a strange look of meddlesome curiosity on his visage, and an ugly, trembling glare. Everyone looked at him, and the bo’s’n said: “Here, boys! Here, boys! Here, boys!” in his mocking voice. “You wait!” he added. “He’ll be hollering in a minute.” As a matter of fact, the skipper didn’t start calling; he only looked forrard as though he would like to eat us. I suppose it enraged him to see me preferring the crew’s company to his; and perhaps it also enraged him to see the crew lying all over the deck, so “’xcruciating idle.” Then he went to see about the steering.

“Well,” began the mate, “last night I tried again to beat the points of the compass into Richardson’s head.” This was to me, the crew having dispersed momentarily. “But he can’t learn, and he won’t learn. I never seen a dumber lad.”

“He can’t box the compass, mate?”

“Indeed he can’t! He can’t remember them points for a minute. And he does make the dumbest mistakes, too. Why, early this mornin’, when ’twas his trick, he almost steered us right into a small fisherman crossin’ our bow. The boat got swept towards us, on account o’ leeway, and Richardson held us right to our course ’n’ didn’t know enough to heave to. And the lad was goin’ t’ keep right on goin’ ’ntil we hit the fisherman, but I see what was happenin’, and I come aft and took the wheel out of his hands and hove us to. But he’s dumb!”

“I’m getting so I can steer pretty easily, mate.”

“Oh, you can steer good. A few more tries at it, and you’ll be steerin’ as good as anybody. You steer a good sight better ’n Dick, now.”

How I did love the mate’s flattery of my seamanship!

At this point something occurred which sent a mighty roar of laughter from the crew and gathered them together again for more yarns. Richardson had been steering for a long time. Most of his trick was over, and he was listening impatiently for the welcome sound of eight bells from the ship’s clock below. The clock struck after a few seconds⁠—seven bells. But Richardson was so elated with the idea that his trick was over, and that the watch would now be changed, that he never stopped to wait until the bells had finished striking; he took it for granted that it was eight, and pulled the cord of the after bell (on the deckhouse just over the binnacle, within reach of the helmsman) eight times. First the crew looked puzzled, and then, amid shouts of laughter, Bob yelled out: “Hey there, Dick! What you strikin’?” Richardson looked foolish for a moment. But he quickly recovered his good nature, and said, blushing: “Wasn’t that eight bells?” This time the crew was too convulsed to reply. Only the cook remained solemn. He gave one disgusted look from the galley door. He felt that it was altogether beneath his dignity to laugh. He wouldn’t condescend even to smile.

Interlude on a Grisly Theme

The boys were now back again, sprawled over the hatchways and the deck. But the cook, evidently rather disgusted, as always, with the freshness and the greenness of our crew, went back into his galley, muttering: “Oh, Lordy, Lordy!” and we didn’t see him again that afternoon.

The conversation of the crew changed to an extraordinary subject: teeth. (I won’t repeat all the gory, gory details.) The mate began by saying: “Well, I think when I get to Bridgewater, I’ll have all my teeth pulled out, and get me a set of false ones.”

“Well,” said the bo’s’n, “I imagine that would be a good plan. Does it hurt?”

“What do you want to know for?”

“Well, I think some day I’ll do the same. Is’t ’xpensive?”

“Some is and some isn’t. A couple o’ years ago I wanted to have a tooth pulled out, and I see in the paper where a dentist pulled teeth fer twenty-five cents apiece. So I says: ‘That’s the place fer you, Bill,’ ’n’ off I went. Well, when I got there, I had a tooth pulled. ‘How much is it?’ says I. ‘Fifty cents,’ says he. ‘But I see in the paper where you pull teeth fer a quarter!’ ’so I do,’ says he, ’when you have more than one pulled. Fifty cents fer one. A quarter fer each tooth, if you have more than one pulled.’ ‘All right,’ says I, ‘go ahead!’ And he went on pullin’ and pullin’, and he took out nine teeth. I’ve only got seven in my upper jaw now.”

“But,” said the bo’s’n, “does it hoit?”

“No.”

“Well, I’ve got a couple o’ teeth that I’ll have pulled. What do you say we go somewheres in Bridgewater?”

“All right with me,” said mate.

“You have yours pulled first, and see if it hoits, and then I’ll have mine pulled.”

“Agreed.”

“And say, Roy,” went on the bo’s’n, “if you’ll pay fer mine I’ll have three pulled.”

“Agreed,” replied Roy, and that was the end of that. I was rather glad. Enough is enough.

Through the rest of that day the weather was monotonous, but very beautiful. The sea heaved and throbbed endlessly⁠—dappled waves of silver-gray, constantly shifting shadows, pools of dark blue. The sky was clear all day, and the weather was very warm⁠—in fact, uncomfortably so during the early afternoon. The sails stayed white with sunlight, and there were always sun-sparkles on the sea. Of course I had to have my little joke with Bill about the “breeze-o’-wind.” He said that if it didn’t come tomorrow he would never attempt a weather-prophecy again, but that he was almost sure it would come.

Mate and Bo’s’n

And that leads me to say more of Bill. He is the best of mates; at least, in these modern times. In the days of the old clippers he would have needed a great deal of hardening down before he would be acceptable as an officer. But now he is just about as perfect as the mate of a lumber schooner could be. He is unutterably patient, and more willing to work than the men before the mast. In fact, he has a paintbrush in his hand as much as anyone. Of course this attitude⁠—especially his willingness to do small jobs about the deck⁠—wins the crew to him. You remember what Richardson said about his holding the crew together? Well, that’s a fact; he does. They were all dissatisfied with Captain Avery; if it weren’t for Mate Bill, they would certainly resign. And his willingness to work keeps them at work. None of his orders are slighted⁠—except possibly by Bob, the bo’s’n, who, being his brother, is naturally very careless.

I asked Bill if he didn’t like to have Bob for his bo’s’n. He replied that it was nice in some ways to sail with part of the family, but that at the same time he wished that Bob weren’t the bo’s’n, but only a man before the mast, because, being his brother, he was often careless about important orders. And the mate said that Bob often used to sass him back. “Once,” he said, “just the other day, I ast Bob to get to work painting the bulwarks, and I give him the can and the paintbrush and everything. Then Bob says: ‘Aw, drop yerself overboard! I’ve done enough paintin’ t’day!’ Well, I didn’t say nothing; I jist turned around and left him. If I’d done what I ought to have done, I would have heaved him overboard. But I’m not made that way⁠—I have a tender heart. And that’s the trouble with me as a mate: I’m not hard enough.”

Bill had pronounced his one fault⁠—tender-heartedness. But when I looked at him, so brawny, and strong, and brown, and piratical, it seemed rather ridiculous to define him of all persons as tender-hearted. I should rather have liked to see him heave Bob overboard⁠—and then hoist him on deck again by the throat halyards! I imagine that the mate really did have hard times getting things done, with Bob as bo’s’n. Bill used to say that any of the rest of the crew, even Richardson, would probably have made a better bo’s’n than Bob; though Bob was all right, he said, when he didn’t have Bill for mate.

Steerageway at Last

Bill’s weather-prophecies, however belated their fulfillment may be, certainly are true, and no joke. When I went on deck the next (and fifth) morning, after a hard sleep and another waking-up by force, the sea was agitated, the sails were full and steady, and the proud Norman D. was leaning a very little. The man at the helm seemed to have an easier time of it, now that steerageway was on her. And the whole atmosphere of everything had changed somewhat. Instead of the gloomy, drowsy atmosphere, everything was gay, alert, alive. And yet the sea was not really boisterous, either⁠—only playful and laughing. The sun was out brilliantly, and the whitecapped waves danced. I could feel the wind all through me, and the sails could feel it, and the schooner loved it⁠—loved it. It was not yet so strong as it had been for that short time on the afternoon of the first day; but as it came up, I could feel the schooner leaning more and more, and, though still it was only a playful breeze, there was something ominous in the sound of it. The waves pounded the side of the ship, breaking and breaking; the wings of foam rushed and roared, louder and louder. And then⁠—what did I hear aloft? It was a gentle, high, shrill singing⁠—an unearthly, indescribable sound which for a moment I could not identify. Then I knew: it was the song of the wind through the sails.