There was then no firm of ship repairers on the Islands. The most Mr. Fordyce could do for us was to find workmen, and a schooner to take part of our cargo and lighten us sufficiently to get at the leaky rivets. Old Jock had to set up as a master shipwright and superintend the repairs himself. And who better? Had he not set Houston's leg as straight as a Gilmorehill Professor could? He was the man; and there was no sign of hesitation when he got out his piece of chalk and made marks (as many and as mysterious as a Clydeside gaffer's) on the damaged ironwork! Such skilled labour as he could get—'smiths' from the sheep camps (handy men, who were by turns stonemasons or woolpackers or ironworkers)—were no great hands at ship-work; but the Old Man, with his rough, chalked sketches, could make things plain; he had, too, the great advantage of knowing the Islanders' language and its proper application to the ordering of 'wis'like' men! What might have been put elsewhere as, "What th' hell sort of work do you call this?" he translated to, "Man, man, Jock Steel! Could ye no' pit a fairer bend oan that knee?" ... Jock (who would have thrown down his tools, and "on with his jacket" at the first) would perhaps turn red at the kindlier reproof, mutter "Well, well," and have another try at the stubborn knee.
It was slow work, for all the din and clatter. Forge fires are devilish in the hands of an unskilled blower; rivets break and twist and get chilled when the striking is squint and irregular; iron is tough and stubborn when leverage is misapplied. There were difficulties. (Difficulties that wee Jonny Docherty, a Partick rivet 'b'ye,' would have laughed at!) The difficulty of strapping cut beams to make them span their former length; the difficulty of small rivets and big holes, of small holes and big rivets ... the sheer despair when sworn measurements go unaccountably and mysteriously wrong in practice.
All difficulties! Difficulties to be met and overcome!
Every one of us had a turn at the ironwork. There was odd work that we could do while the 'smiths' were heating and hammering at the more important sections. We made a feeble show, most of us; but Joe Granger gained honour in suggesting ways and showing how things were done. It was the time of Granger's life. He was not even a good sailorman. His steering was pitiful. Didn't Jones have to show him how the royal buntlines led? What did Martin say about the way he passed a head-earring? A poor sailorman! ... Yet here he was: bossing us around; Able Seamen carrying tools to him; Old Man listening quite decently to his suggestions—even the hard-case Mate (who knew Granger, if anyone did) not above passing a word now and then! ... And all because Granger had worked in the Union Ironworks at 'Frisco. At first I am sure it was a holder-on he told us he had been, but before our job had gone far it was a whilom foreman shipwright who told us what was to be done! ... If Armstrong, the carpenter, had not taken up a firm stand when it came to putting in the deck, there would have been hints that we had a former under-manager among us! It was the time of Joe's life, and the bo'sun could only chuckle and grin and wag his head in anticipation of 'proper sailor-work' on the mast and spars.
It was good for us brassbounders to lie at Port William, where there was little but the work in progress to interest us. In the half-deck we were full of ship repairs. Little else was talked about when we were below. Each of us carried a small piece of chalk, all ready to make rough drawings to explain our ideas. We chalked on the walls, the table, the deck, the sea-chests, lines and cross-lines, and bends and knees—no matter what, so long as there were plenty of round "O's" to show where the rivets were to go. We explained to one another the mysteries of ship construction, talked loftily of breasthooks and sheer strakes, and stringers and scantlings ... and were as wise after the telling! That was while the ironwork repairs were in progress. In a week or more we were spar-makers. Jock Steel and his mates put down their drifts and hammers, and took up adzes and jack-planes. We were getting on! We had no time for anyone who drew sketches of riveting. It was 'striking cambers' and 'fairing' and 'tapering' now, and Joe Granger got a cool reception when he came along to the half-deck after work was over for the day. Poor Joe had fallen from his high place! With the bowsprit hove down and securely strapped and riveted, and the last caulking blow dealt at the leaky doubling, his services became of small account. No one in the fo'cas'le would listen any longer to his tales of structural efficiency. There was no spar-making in the Union Ironworks at 'Frisco. Joe had to shut up, and let Martin and the bo'sun instruct the ship's company in the art of masting and rigging—illustrated by match-sticks and pipe-stems!
There were pleasant intervals to our work on board—days when we rowed the big boat through the Narrows to Port Stanley and idled about the 'town,' while the Old Man and Mr. Fordyce were transacting business (under good conditions) in the bar-parlour of the Stanley Arms. We made many friends on these excursions. The Falklanders have warm hearts, and down there the Doric is the famous passport. We were welcome everywhere, though Munro and I had to do most of the talking. It was something for the Islanders to learn how the northern Scottish crops had fared (eighteen months ago), or 'whatna'' catch of herrings fell to the Loch Fyne boats (last season but one).
There was no great commercial activity in the 'town.' The 'Great Britian' hulk, storehouse for the wool, was light and high in the water. The sawmill hulks were idle for want of lumber to be dressed. It was the slack time, they told us; the slack time before the rush of the wool-shearing. In a week, or a month at the most, the sheep would be ready for the shears. Then—ah, then!—Wully Ramsey (who had a head for figures) would be brought forward, and, while his wind held out, would hurl figures and figures at us, all proving that 'Little Scotland,' for its size, was a 'ferr wunner' at wool production.
The work of the moment was mostly at breaking up the wreck of the Glenisla, a fine four-masted barque that had come in 'with the flames as high as th' foreyard,' and had been abandoned as a total wreck. Her burnt-out shell lay beached in the harbour, and the plates were being drifted out, piece by piece, to make sheep tanks and bridge work. It was here that the Old Man—'at a moderate cost, mind ye'—picked up a shell-plate and knees and boom irons to make good our wants. A spar, too (charred, but sound), that we tested by all the canons of carpentry—tasting, smelling, twanging a steel at one end and listening for the true, sound note at the other. It was ours, after hard bargaining, and Mason, the foreman wrecker, looked ill-pleased with his price when we rolled the timber down to tide mark, launched, and towed it away.
Pleasant times! But with the setting up of the new boom the Old Man was anxious to get under weigh. The to'gallant mast could wait till the fine weather of the 'trades.' We were sound and seaworthy again! Outside the winds were fair and southerly. We had no excuse to lie swinging at single anchor. Jock Steel and his mates got their blessing, our 'lawin'' was paid and acquitted, and on a clear November morning we shook out the topsails and left Port William to the circling sea-birds.