We are homeward bound; the beef and biscuits go down. After them, "a tarn sail—jest a rag, d'ye moind, t' make a jib f'r th' ould boat"; then, "a pat av paint an' a brush"—it becomes quite exciting with Ould Andy abusing his boat's crew at every prompted request. We are beginning to wager on the nature of the next, when sent to the stations for anchoring. Ould Andy, with an indignant gesture and shake of his fists, turns away to attend to his more legitimate business, and, at his direction, we anchor to seaward of the Bar.
The wind that has served us so well has died away in faint airs, leaving a long glassy swell to score the placid surface of the Bay and set a pearly fringe on the distant shore. The tide moves steadily in flood, broadening in ruffling eddies at the shoals of the Bar. On a near beacon a tide gauge shows the water, and when sail is furled and the yards in harbour trim we have naught to do but reckon our wages, and watch the rising water lapping, inch by inch, on the figured board. From seaward there is little to be seen of the countryside. The land about is low to the coast, but far inland blue, mist-capped ranges stand bold and rugged against the clear northern sky. Beyond the Bar the harbour lies bare of shipping—only a few fishing skiffs putting out under long sweeps, and the channel buoys bobbing and heaving on the long swell. A deserted port we are come to after our long voyage from the West!
"That'll be th' Maid o' th' Moy, Cyaptin," said Ould Andy, squinting through the glasses at smoke-wrack on the far horizon. "Hot-fut from Ballina, t' tow ye in. An' Rory Kilgallen may save his cowl, bedad, f'r we'll naade two fut av watther yet before we get acrost. Bedad"—in high glee—"he'll nat-t be after knowin' that it's twinty faate, no liss, that Ould Andy is bringin' in this day!"
With a haste that marks her skipper's anxiety to get a share of the good things going, the Maid, a trim little paddle tug, draws nigh, and soon a high bargaining begins between Old Jock and the tugman, with an eager audience to chorus, "D'ye hear that-t, now!" at each fiery period. Rory has the whip hand—and knows it. No competition, and the tide making inch by inch on the beacon gauge!
For a time Old Jock holds out manfully. "Goad, no! I'll kedge th' hooker up t' Sligo Quay before I give ye that!" But high water at hand and no sign of wind, he takes the tug on at a stiff figure, and we man the windlass, tramping the well-worn round together for the last time.
Leave her is the set chantey for finish of a voyage, and we roar a lusty chorus to Granger, the chanteyman.
"O! Leave 'r John-ny, leave 'r like a man,
(An' leave 'r, John-ny, leave 'r!)
Oh! Leave 'r, John-ny, leave 'r when ye can,
(An' it's time—for us—t' leave 'r!")
A hard heave, and the tug lying short. A Merseyman would have the weight off the cable by this.
"O! Soon we'll 'ear 'th Ol' Man say,
(Leave 'r, John-ny, leave 'r!)
Ye kin go ashore an' take yer pay,
(An' it's time—for us—t' leave 'r!")
"Heave, byes," the gossoons bearing stoutly on the bars with us. "Heave, now! He's got no frin's!"