Donald laughed. “Judson, you are developing a wonderful faculty for moralizing. I like your phrase ‘we harvest Neptune’s pastures when his watch-dog Boreas sleeps!’ That’s a motto for a fisherman. It should be painted on the wheel-box like the ‘Don’t give up the ship’s’ and ‘England expects,’ which they carve in the poop-breaks of British and American men-o-war.”
McKenzie accompanied his old ship-mate to the station, where he took train for Matanzas again. “So long, Donny-boy,” cried Judson as they pulled out. “I’ll see you in Eastville unless our courses cross. I’m loading molasses an’ I’ll be getting away in a day or so. I’ll tell your mother I saw you here an’ helped you to celebrate your twenty-first birthday—”
“You’ll tell my mother will you?” shouted the other with a grin. “Not if the Alameda has a rag of canvas on her. I’ll be home a fortnight before your old square-rig hooker sights Cape Sable.”
Early next morning the Alameda slipped out of Havana and ran south-east down the Cuban coast to the Turks or Caicos Islands—there to load a cargo of salt for fishery use. At Salt Cay, they came to an anchor and filled up the schooner’s hold with a cargo of the evaporated sea-water salt, which is the principal manufacture of the inhabitants of these easterly atolls of the Bahama group. When a full lading of the saline crystals was secured, the crew of six hands hoisted sails and anchor and with the steady trades filling their canvas they bowled off for Eastville and home.
“I’d like to make a fast run up,” said McKenzie to McGlashan. “It has been done in seven days, but I don’t think this old hooker can stand the driving and travel like those new model Lunenburg vessels. However, we’ll try her.”
With the Bahama current behind them and the steady north-east trade blowing strong, the Alameda showed her heels and ploughed through the deep blue of the tropical sea at a ten-knot clip. McKenzie paced the quarter, luxuriating in the bright sunshine and watching the flying-fish, which every now and again skittered up from the sapphire water as the on-rushing schooner drove upon them. Blue skies and bluer seas; water that boiled and hissed like champagne in the furrows of the vessel’s passage, and foam that gleamed snow-white against the deep colors of the Main; flashes of low sandy islets with graceful tufted palms leaning to loo’ard as the constant trade wind rudely swayed them.... Truly, these were enchanting seas! Little wonder, he mused, that the old sea-dogs of northern climes sought these waters and plied their nefarious occupations until Port Royal gallows and cruising frigates made the “trade” no longer safe or profitable. Aye, aye, no wonder the old buccaneer would lament the pleasant times in pleasant weather in—
“The pleasant Isle of Aves,
Beside the Spanish Main.”
For five days they ran thus and McKenzie lazied the hours away—reading and basking in genial sunshine and taking three sextant squints daily to fix the schooner’s position. Then they crossed the Gulf Stream and the chill breath of February struck them just as suddenly as the sea changed from blue to green at the fringes of the great current. Off came the light clothing of summer weather, and on went the heavy underwear, sweaters, sea-boots, mittens and caps of frigid seafaring, and a fire was kindled in the cabin stove to unlimber stiffened fingers and toes.