That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.
Not far from his old loves, how did some of us once for a brief stay, with those whirlpools in Flanders still roaring more hungrily in our destiny, hear other bells ring in enchanting coolness over the gliding boat, borne on the bosom of wooded Blackwater!
But these bleak and turbid waters turned the ringing song to parody, nor did the Bonadventure’s bell, a war product, sound particularly grand upon them as those past bells on their importal streams. The outlook and the chilliness made breakfast unusually welcome. The pilot came in, but having no English to speak of (or with) he could not tell us his real views on the weather and such important matters. The chief loudly–for more clarity–pressed him with such questions as “When does your next Strike begin?” but he smiled and ate on.
About dinner-time a fine white launch came out to us; and a number of authorities, including some doctors, came aboard. The ship’s company assembled aft like an awkward squad, and the doctors came along the line feeling pulses; a task which they did genially and without strain. That done, and no one being set aside for a further examination, all dispersed. The authorities (a generous allowance of them) proceeded to Hosea’s quarters, no doubt to wind up the morning’s work in comfort. I listened meanwhile to Mead, who leaning over above their launch, amused himself with making noisy and scandalous observations upon its crew, their careers and their faces. Why this fury? I really believe it was his way of expressing fraternity.
So there was nothing to do but wait for our new pilot on Monday morning: to play cards with a pack whose age had given each card characteristic markings besides those upon its face; to “yarn.” At tea, Bicker was in his most assiduous narrative mood. “We were in the West Indies in a boat bringing the bumboat woman aboard–well, she started to climb up the rope ladder and this fellow thought he’d lay his hand on her ankle. So he made a move to do so. Just then” (his broad grin grew almost incredibly broad), “the boat gave a roll, and as he had one foot on the gunwale, and one on the rope ladder he fell into the water. Well, he went down past rows and rows of plates, and we looked out for him to come up.–First a hat, his black hat, came up. And then, a newspaper came up”–[Chief (ignored) “To say he wasn’t coming up?”]–and then, he came up. Stern first. We dragged him on deck, and there he was all spluttering, and then he said as solemn as a judge:
‘That’s the fruits of Blacklegging.’”
This closed the proceedings.
Under the sunset the river’s dingy current began to take on a strange glory, and changed into a tawny golden wilderness moving down to sea. Then presently it was full moon and pale splendours. A great quiet prevailed; but led by the moon, like the tide and the poets, Mead and myself paced the decks for hours recalling the local colour of war apart from fighting.