At midnight the ship wallowed in a world of sheer blackness, in which neither sea or sky could be defined. Albatrosses, driven to rest on the water through lack of wind to bear their mighty pinions, squawked mournfully in the dark, and their cries, mingling with the tolling of the ship’s bell as she rolled, filled the night with eerie warnings distinct from the screeching, clanking, flap and rattle of the sails, chains and gear aloft. “That’s an auld sailor frae Fiddler’s Green,” remarked McLean, when the squawks of the albatross came out of the murk. “He’s givin’ us warnin’ tae stand by fur dirt. Auld sailormen never die ... they gang tae Fiddler’s Green, which is a pleasant harbor seven miles tae loo’ard o’ hell, whaur ye never pay fur yer drinks. It’s all free tae auld sailors—smokes an’ drinks. When ye wants a cruise around, ye jist turn intae yin o’ them albatrosses.... Aye! A great-place fur sailormen is Fiddler’s Green!”
“Is there no Heaven or Hell for sailors, Mac?” asked Donald.
“Nane ava’, laddie! Jist Fiddler’s Green—that’s Heaven. There’s nae hell fur sailors. Tae wurrk hard, live hard, die hard an’ go tae hell after all would be hard indeed! Na! na! we get oor taste o’ hell in these things ... up on a tops’l yard ... doon hereabouts!” And he sighed—content with his philosophy.
One bell had struck when Nickerson’s voice cut through the darkness and brought the standing-by watch to vigilance. “Lee fore brace!” The helmsman stood stolidly at the wheel staring into the binnacle and awaiting orders to swing the ship in the direction the wind and master dictated. “How’s her head?”—the nasal tones again.
“South by west, sir!” came the answer, and the man had no sooner spoken when the sails gave a thunderous flap and a shrieking squall came out of the west. The ship, without way upon her, rolled her monkey-rail under to loo’ard and the sea plunged over the bulwarks and filled the lee deck. Nickerson cursed. “West again, blast it! Another nose-ender!”
The sails, braced sharp up, took the wind and lifted the vessel through the water and away she plunged—smashing her blunt bows into the seas, and with her jib-boom pointed for the South Pole. Down the wind came the sleet, which blew athwart the ship like chaff from a blower, and which adhered to the gear and froze in the increasing chill—adding to the misery of the crew in handling ropes, jammed in the blocks and fair-leads, and sails, hard as iron with frost and snow-skin. The long swell began to define itself in the darkness with ghostly foam caps which grumbled, hissed and roared, and the Kelvinhaugh invited them aboard in every part of her except the poop—which, rejecting the solid green, nevertheless had to accept the sprays, and these, freezing in their flight through the air, slashed the poop’s occupants with shot-like hail.
Within an hour of its coming, the squall proved too much for the barque, but Nickerson had no intention of wearing ship and letting her scud before its fury. He was out to make westing, and if he could not pick up a slant in the vicinity of the Cape, he would drive her south—aye, even to the edge of the Antarctic ice—and work to the west’ard from there. He kept her on her southerly course and ordered a further reduction of sail.
It was in getting the big foresail to the yard that Donald, in company with both watches, got a taste of Cape Horn devilishness. Strung along the ice-coated foot-ropes—ten hands on each yard-arm, with the gaskets aft of them, struggled and fought like demons with the threshing canvas, endeavoring to burst the confining bunt-lines and leach-lines. Clutching the jack-stay with one hand for self and using the other for the ship was no use. In the Kelvinhaugh, short-handed and with heavy gear, it had to be two hands for the ship and God help the man who was caught unawares by a back-flap of the rebellious canvas, or who lost his footing or balance on the foot-rope!
Slashed with hail-like spray, cut with slivers of ice flicked from the sail or the gear aloft, and chilled with the biting cold, they struggled in the dark, panting, swearing, clutching at canvas, rigid, bellying, iron-hard and full of wind, and spurred on by the oath-besprinkled exhortations of Martin and Thompson and McLean at the bunt and lee and weather yard-arms. “Up with her, ye hounds!” they were encouraged. “Put yer guts into it an’ grab ahold! Lay back, you swine, an’ I’ll boot you off th’ yard inter th’ drink! Now, me sons—an’ ye know what sons I mean—altogether! Up with her!”
Each man and boy clutched his portion of sail with numb fingers and muzzled it between his chest and the yard, and paused for breath. Then another clutch, another heave up, and another band of sail was added to the imprisoned roll. Many times, a fiercer gust would fill an opening of the canvas and battle for the mastery, and often, in spite of a roared “Hang on all!” the hard-won portions would be wrested from a weak clutch and the wind would claim the sail from all and the awful fight would have to be waged again.