The Brassbounder Part 22

XXV

"T' WIND'ARD!"

For over a week of strong westerly gales we had kept the open sea, steering to the north as best the wind allowed. A lull had come--a break in the furious succession, though still the sea ran high--and the Old Man, in part satisfied that he had made his northing, put the helm up and squared away for the land. In this he was largely prompted by the coasting pilot (sick of a long, unprofitable, pa.s.sage--on a 'lump-sum' basis), who confidently asked to be shown but one speck of Irish land, and, "I'll tell 'oo the road t' Dub-lin, Capt'in!"

Moderately clear at first, but thickening later, as we closed the land, it was not the weather for running in on a dangerous coast, ill-lighted and unmarked, but, had we waited for clear weather, we might have marked time to the westward until the roses came; the wind was fair, we were over-long on our voyage; sheet and brace and wind in squared sail thrummed a homeward song for us as we came in from the west.

At close of a day of keen sailing, the outposts of the Irish coast, bleak, barren, inhospitable, lay under our lee--a few bold rocks, around and above wreathed in sea-mist, and the never-dying Atlantic swell breaking heavily at base.

"Iss, indeed, Capt'in! The Stags! The Stags of Broad-haven, I tell 'oo," said the pilot, scanning through his gla.s.ses with an easy a.s.surance. "Indeed to goodness, it iss the best landfall I haf ever seen, Capt'in!"

Though pleased with his navigation, the Old Man kept his head. "Aye, aye," he said. "The Stags, eh? Well, we'll haul up t' th' wind anyway--t' make sure!" He gave the order, and went below to his charts.

Rolling heavily, broad to the sea and swell, we lay awhile. There was no sign of the weather clearing, no lift in the grey mist that hung dense over the rugged coast-line. On deck again, the Old Man stared long and earnestly at the rocky islets, seeking a further guidemark.

In the waning daylight they were fast losing shape and colour. Only the breaking sea, white and sightly, marked them bold in the grey mist-laden breath of the Atlantic. "----'present themselves, consisting of four high rocky islets of from two thirty-three to three ought-six feet in height, an' steep-to,'" he said, reading from a book of sailing directions. "Damme! I can only see three." To the pilot, "D'ye know the Stags well, Mister? Are ye sure o' ye're ground?"

"_Wel, wel_! Indeed, Capt'in" (Mr. Williams laughed). "I know the Stags, yess! a.s.s well a.s.s I know Car-narvon! The Stags of Broad-haven, I tell 'oo. When I wa.s.s master of the _Ann Pritchard_, of Beaumaris, it wa.s.s always to the West of Ireland we would be goin'.

Summer and winter, three years, I tell 'oo, before I came to pilotin'--an' there iss not many places between the Hull and Missen Head that I haf not seen in daylight an' dark. It iss the Stags, indeed! East, south-east now, Capt'in, an' a fine run to Sligo Bar!"

Still una.s.sured, the Old Man turned his gla.s.ses on the rocky group.

"One--two--three--perhaps that was the fourth just open to the south'ard"--they certainly tallied with the description in the book--"high, steep-to." A cast of the lead brought no decision.

Forty-seven! He might be ten miles north and south by that and former soundings. It was rapidly growing dark, the wind freshening. If he did not set course by the rocks--Stags they seemed to be--he would lose all benefit of landfall--would spend another week or more to the westward, waiting for a rare slant on this coast of mist and foul weather! Already eighteen days from Falmouth! The chance of running in was tempting! Hesitating, uncertain, he took a step or two up and down the p.o.o.p, halting at turns to stare anxiously at the rocks, in the wind's eye, at the great Atlantic combers welling up and lifting the barque to leeward at every rise. On the skylight sat Mr. Williams, smiling and clucking in his beard that "he did not know the Stags, indeed!"

"We haul off, Pilot," said stout Old Jock, coming at a decision. "If it had been daylight ... perhaps ... but I'm for takin' no risks. They may be th' Stags, belike they are, but I'm no' goin' oan in weather like this! We'll stand out t' th' norrard--'mainyards forrard, Mister'--till daylight onyway!"

Sulkily we hauled the yards forward and trimmed sail, leaving the rocks to fade under curtain of advancing night, our high hopes of making port dismissed. The 'navigators' among us were loud of their growling, as the s.h.i.+p lurched and wallowed in the trough of the sea, the decks waist-high with a wash of icy water--a change from the steadiness and comfort of a running s.h.i.+p.

Night fell black dark. The moon not risen to set a boundary to sea and sky; no play of high light on the waste of heaving water; naught but the long inky ridges, rolling out of the west, that, lifting giddily to crest, sent us reeling into the windless trough. On the p.o.o.p the Old Man and Pilot tramped fore and aft, talking together of landfalls and coasting affairs. As they came and went, s.n.a.t.c.hes of their talk were borne to us, the watch on deck--sheltering from the weather at the break. The Old Man's "Aye, ayes," and "Goad, man's," and the voluble Welshman's "iss, indeed, Capt'in," and "I tell 'oo's." The Pilot was laying off a former course of action. "... Mister Williams, he said, I can see that 'oo knows th' coast, he said, an' ... I 'oodn't go in myself, he said; but if 'oo are sure----"

"_Brea--kers a-head!_"--a stunning period to his tale, came in a long shout, a scream almost, from the look-out!

Both sprang to the lee rigging, handing their eyes to s.h.i.+eld the wind and spray. Faint as yet against the sombre monotone of sea and sky, a long line of breaking water leapt to their gaze, then vanished, as the staggering barque drove to the trough; again--again; there could be no doubt. Breakers! On a lee sh.o.r.e!!

"_Mawdredd an'l_! O Christ! The Stags, Capt'in.... My G.o.d! My G.o.d!"

Wholly unmanned, muttering in Welsh and English, Mr. Williams ran to the compa.s.s to take bearings.

Old Jock came out of the rigging. Then, in a steady voice, more ominous than a string of oaths, "Luff! Down helm, m' lad, an' keep her close!" And to the pilot, "Well? What d'ye mak' of it, Mister?"

"Stags, Capt'in! _Diwedd i_! That I should be mistake.... The others ... G.o.d knows! ... If it iss th' Stags, Capt'in ... the pa.s.sage t'

th' suth'ard.... I know it ... we can run ... if it iss th' Stags, Capt'in!"

"An' if it's no' th' Stags! M' Goad! Hoo many Stags d'ye know, Mister? No! No! We'll keep th' sea, if she can weather thae rocks ... an' if she canna!!" A mute gesture--then, pa.s.sionately, "T' h.e.l.l wi' you an' yer b----y Stags: I back ma s.h.i.+p against a worthless pilot!

All hands, there, Mister--mains'l an' to'galn's'l oan her! Up, ye hounds; up, if ye look fur dry berryin'!"

All hands! No need for a call! "Breakers ahead"--the words that sent us racing to the yards, to out knife and whip at the gaskets that held our saving power in leash. Quickly done, the great mainsail blew out, thras.h.i.+ng furiously till steadied by tack and sheet. Then topgal'n'

sail, the spars buckling to overstrain; staysail, spanker--never was canvas crowded on a s.h.i.+p at such a pace; a mighty fear at our hearts that only frenzied action could allay.

Shuddering, she lay down to it, the lee rail entirely awash, the decks canted at a fearsome angle; then righted--a swift, vicious lurch, and her head sweeping wildly to windward till checked by the heaving helmsman. The wind that we had thought moderate when running before it now held at half a gale. To that she might have stood weatherly, but the great western swell--sp.a.w.n of uncounted gales--was matched against her, rolling up to check the windward s.n.a.t.c.hes and sending her reeling to leeward in a smother of foam and broken water.

A gallant fight! At the weather gangway stood Old Jock, legs apart and st.u.r.dy, talking to his s.h.i.+p.

"Stand, good spars," he would say, casting longing eyes aloft. Or, patting the taffrail with his great sailor hands, "Up tae it, ye b.i.t.c.h!

Up!! Up!!!" as, raising her head, streaming in cascade from a sail-pressed plunge, she turned to meet the next great wall of water that set against her. "She'll stand it, Mister," to the Mate at his side. "She'll stand it, an' the head gear holds. If she starts that!"--he turned his palms out--"If she starts th' head gear, Mister!"

"They'll hold, Sir! ... good gear," answered the Mate, hugging himself at thought of the new lanyards, the stout Europe gammon las.h.i.+ngs, he had rove off when the boom was rigged. Now was the time when Sanny Armstrong's spars would be put to the test. The relic of the ill-fated _Glenisla_, now a shapely to'gallant mast, was bending like a whip!

"Good iron," he shouted as the backstays tw.a.n.ged a high note of utmost stress.

Struggling across the heaving deck, the Pilot joined the group.

Brokenly, shouting down the wind, "She'll never do it, Capt'in, I tell 'oo! ... An' th' tide.... Try th' south pa.s.sage.... Stags, sure! ...

See them fair now! ... Th' south pa.s.sage, Capt'in.... It iss some years, indeed, but ... I know. _Diwedd an'l_! She'll never weather it, Capt'in!"

"Aye ... and weather it ... an' the gear holds! Goad, man! Are ye sailor enough t' know what'll happen if Ah start a brace, wi' this press o' sail oan her? T' wind'ard ... she goes. Ne'er failed me yet"--a mute caress of the stout taffrail, a slap of his great hand.

"Into it, ye b.i.t.c.h! T' wind'ard! T' wind'ard!"

Staggering, taking the shock and onset of the relentless seas, but ever turning the haughty face of her anew to seek the wind, she struggled on, nearing the cruel rocks and their curtain of hurtling breakers.

Timely, the moon rose, herself invisible, but shedding a diffused light in the east, showing the high summits of the rocks, upreared above the blinding spindrift. A low moaning boom broke on our strained ears, turning to the hoa.r.s.e roar of tortured waters as we drew on.

"How does 't bear noo, M'Kellar? Is she makin' oan't?" shouted the Old Man.

The Second Mate, at the binnacle, sighted across the wildly swinging compa.s.s card. "No' sure, Sir. ... Th' caird swingin' ... think there's hauf a p'int.... Hauf a p'int, onyway!"

"Half a point!" A great comber upreared and struck a deep resounding blow--"That for yeer half a point"--as her head swung wildly off--off, till the stout spanker, the windward driver, straining at the stern sheets, drove her anew to a seaward course.

Nearer, but a mile off, the rocks plain in a shaft of breaking moonlight.

"How now, M'Kellar?"

"Nae change, Sir! ... 'bout east, nor'-east ... deefecult ... th' caird swingin'...."

The Old Man left his post and struggled to the binnacle. "East, nor'-east ... east o' that, mebbe," he muttered. Then, to 'Dutchy,' at the weather helm, "Full, m' lad! Keep 'er full an' nae mair! Goad, man! Steer as ye never steered ... th' wind's yer mairk.... Goad!

D'na shake her!"

Grasping the binnacle to steady himself against the wild lurches of the staggering hull, the Old Man stared steadily aloft, unheeding the roar and crash of the breakers, now loud over all--eyes only for the straining canvas and standing spars above him.

"She's drawin' ahead, Sir," shouted M'Kellar, tense, excited. "East, b' nor' ... an' fast!"

The Old Man raised a warning hand to the steersman. "Nae higher! Nae higher! Goad, man! Dinna let 'r gripe!"

Dread suspense! Would she clear? A narrow lane of open water lay clear of the bow--broadening as we sped on.

"Nae higher! Nae higher! Aff! Aff! Up h.e.l.lum, up!" His voice a scream, the Old Man turned to bear a frantic heave on the spokes.

Obedient to the helm and the Mate's ready hand at the driver sheets, she flew off, free of the wind and sea--tearing past the towering rocks, a cable's length to leeward. Shock upon shock, the great Atlantic sea broke and shattered and fell back from the scarred granite face of the outmost Stag; a seething maelstrom of tortured waters, roaring, cras.h.i.+ng, shrilling into the deep, jagged fissures--a shriek of Furies bereft. And, high above the tumult of the waters and the loud, glad cries of us, the hoa.r.s.e, choking voice of the man who had backed his s.h.i.+p.

"Done it, ye b.i.t.c.h!"--a now trembling hand at his old grey head. "Done it! Weathered--by Goad!"