Down the deserted wind-swept streets we drive steadily on, till house lights glinting behind the blinds and hurrying figures of a 'night-shift' show that we are near the river and the docks. A turn along the waterside, the dim outlines of the ships and tracery of mast and spar looming large and fantastic in the darkness, and the driver, questioning, brings up at a dim-lit shed, bare of goods and cargo—the berth of a full-laden outward-bounder. My barque—the Florence, of Glasgow—lies in a corner of the dock, ready for sea. Tugs are churning the muddy water alongside, getting into position to drag her from the quay wall; the lurid side-light gleams on a small knot of well-wishers gathered at the forward gangway exchanging parting words with the local seamen of our crew. I have cut my time but short.
"Come en there, you!" is my greeting from the harassed Chief Mate. "Are you turned a —— passenger, with your gloves and overcoat? You sh'd have been here an hour ago! Get a move on ye, now, and bear a hand with these warps.... Gad! A drunken crew an' skulkin' 'prentices, an' th' Old Man growlin' like a bear with a sore——"
Grumbling loudly, he goes forward, leaving me the minute for 'good-bye,' the late 'remembers,' the last long hand-grip.
Into the half-deck, to change hurriedly into working clothes. Time enough to note the guttering lamp, evil smell, the dismal aspect of my home afloat—then, on deck again, to haul, viciously despondent, at the cast-off mooring ropes.
Forward the crew—drunk to a man—are giving the Chief Mate trouble, and it is only when the gangway is hauled ashore that anything can be done. The cook, lying as he fell over his sailor bag, sings, "'t wis ye'r vice, ma gen-tul Merry!" in as many keys as there are points in the compass, drunkenly indifferent to the farewells of a sad-faced woman, standing on the quayside with a baby in her arms. Riot and disorder is the way of things; the Mates, out of temper with the muddlers at the ropes, are swearing, pushing, coaxing—to some attempt at getting the ship unmoored. Double work for the sober ones, and for thanks—a muttered curse. Small wonder that men go drunk to the sea: the wonder is that any go sober!
At starting there is a delay. Some of the men have slipped ashore for a last pull at a neighbourly 'hauf-mutchkin,' and at a muster four are missing. For a time we hold on at single moorings, the stern tug blowing a 'hurry-up' blast on her siren, the Captain and a River Pilot stamping on the poop, angrily impatient. One rejoins, drunken and defiant, but of the others there is no sign. We can wait no longer.
"Let go, aft!" shouts the Captain. "Let go, an' haul in. Damn them for worthless sodjers, anyway! Mister"—to a waiting Board of Trade official—"send them t' Greenock, if ye can run them in. If not, telephone down that we're three A.B.'s short.... Lie up t' th' norr'ard, stern tug, there. Hard a-port, Mister? All right! Let go all, forr'ard!" ... We swing into the dock passage, from whence the figures of our friends on the misty quayside are faintly visible. The little crowd raises a weakly cheer, and one bold spirit (with his guid-brither's 'hauf-pey note' in his pocket) shouts a bar or two of "Wull ye no' come back again!" A few muttered farewells, and the shore folk hurry down between the wagons to exchange a last parting word at the Kelvinhaugh. '... Dong ... ding ... DONG ... DONG....' Set to a fanfare of steam whistles, Old Brazen Tongue of Gilmorehill tolls us benison as we steer between the pierheads. Six sonorous strokes, loud above the shrilling of workshop signals and the nearer merry jangle of the engine-house chimes.
Workmen, hurrying to their jobs, curse us for robbing them of a 'quarter,' the swing-bridge being open to let us through. "Come oon! Hurry up wi' that auld 'jeely-dish,' an' see's a chance tae get tae wur wark," they shout in a chorus of just irritation. A facetious member of our crew shouts:
"Wot—oh, old stiy-at-'omes. Cahmin' aat t' get wandered?"—and a dockman answers:
"Hello, Jake, 'i ye therr? Man, th' sailormen maun a' be deid when th' Mate gied you a sicht! Jist you wait tae he catches ye fanklin' th' cro'-jeck sheets!"