Meantime, McKenzie was living in the seventh heaven of delight. His feet trod air and his head was in the clouds. In his mind, Ruth’s action gave her to him. They had sealed their pledge without words and she would become his wife on the asking. In his exhilaration of spirit he was not above feeling sorry for Moodey. “Poor chap,” he murmured. “I hope he don’t take it too hard, and may he get a girl as good as Ruth.” Happy, with love in his heart and a song on his lips McKenzie went to the Banks.
The Windrush “wet her gear” on the Western grounds most of the time, but the spring trip was a rough and windy one and fishing was below the average. Donald was anxious to make money—it was now an obsession with him—and Archie Surrette, his dory-mate, would curse his excess of zeal when he rolled, bone-tired, into his bunk o’ nights. “By Judas Priest!” he’d growl, “McKenzie’s killin’ me! I’m rushed from mornin’ to night. He don’t want to stop even to eat, an’ to-day, after we’d hauled an’ baited six tubs o’ gear agin’ that tide an’ wind an’ my back near busted an’ dark acomin’ and me wishin’ I wuz aboard and in me bunk, he says, ‘By gorry, Archie, if I had another bucket o’ bait I’d haul an’ spin ’em out again!’ I ups an’ says, says I, ‘Donald McKenzie! ef you have a mind to do that, ye kin put me aboard th’ vessel and ye kin take th’ dory yerself and spin ’em out agin, for I be damned ef I will!’”
And when the bait was finished and the schooner was heading for Eastville to land her spring catch, it was McKenzie who went to her wheel and swung her off as the skipper gave the course. “West Nor’West and drive her, you!”
“West Nor’West, and I’ll drive her! I’ll tear the mains’l off this peddler before she slacks her gait!” McKenzie grinned cheerfully. He was directing her course for home and Ruth, and in a moderate gale, with a tuck in the big mainsail, the Windrush was storming through the night with a bone in her teeth. Watch after watch came aft to relieve him, but he waved them away with a laugh. “Leave her to me, boys,” he shouted. “I’m a steersman and I’ll walk her along. If I leave her to some of you Jonahs, the wind’ll drop or come away a nose-ender!”
The for’ard gang christened him “Stormalong McKenzie” that night. In the weight of the breeze blowing the schooner commenced that peculiar leaping and plunging which indicates a “driven” vessel, and whole seas were coming over the bows and washing as far aft as the gurry-kid. In the forecastle the men lay in their bunks and listened to the continuous “barroombing” outside—the drumming of the bow-wave, the crashes of the water falling on deck and the swash and trickle across the planks overhead. Now and again she would swipe a big one and the jar of its impact against the bowsprit and the windlass above would douse the lamp screwed to the pawl-post; the anchor stock would thump against the bows, and the vessel would creak and groan in every straining timber.
Crash! A heavy thud and a rolling noise on deck as if huge boulders were being thrown along the planks. “He’s capsized th’ chain-box this time,” growled a nautical Sherlock Holmes from the depths of his bunk. Crash! Thud! Swish! Another comber aboard, and Sherlock remarked, “That one fetched agin th’ dories, I’ll bet. McKenzie’ll start somethin’ overboard afore long!” But the snores from the bunks proved that most of the gang were not worrying.
A nervous look-out man scrambled aft in the dark and shouted to Donald, “Th’ starb’d nest o’ dories is workin’ aft, Mac!” And the other, with a laugh, replied, “Don’t let that scare you, John! Get a gripe around their sterns and let me know when the windlass comes aft. Time enough then to shout!” And thus he drove her storming—a slugging twelve to fourteen knots throughout the night—and next morning, before the dawn, the light on Eastville Cape blinked them a homeward-bounder’s welcome.
Aye! ’Tis not always Boreas that drives a vessel into port; oft-times Cupid is more of a driver than the breezy god!
Donald surprised his mother just as she was bringing in a pail of milk from the little barn, and he also whirled her off her feet with the gladness of his welcome. Then he sat down to a breakfast such as seamen dream about—not that they didn’t fare well on the Windrush, but much seafaring provender comes out of cans and salt brine, and fresh milk, eggs and vegetables can be appreciated after weeks of preserved food.
“Ruth Nickerson is home,” observed the mother, well aware of the importance of her announcement even though Donald had skilfully concealed from her all ideas of serious intentions. Mother’s instincts are keen, however, especially where love and another woman is concerned, and she smiled to herself at Don’s look of false surprise and his careless “Is that so? And how is she?” Just as if he wasn’t dying to know if she were home!