The other one made a move towards me, knife in hand, but the mate came along the deck just then and caught hold of him. On learning the cause of the row, he put him in irons. The insensible man was carried aft, and it was seen he had a severe scalp wound. The captain dressed it, and the man on slowly coming to his senses was locked in a spare room until later on in the day.
I told the mate that the Turk threatened to knife him. He smiled and told me not to be alarmed as he was not. “I have sailed with those sort of men before” he said, and taking a six chambered revolver from his hip pocket, he showed it to me, remarking at the same time, “I am prepared for them one and all.”
Strange though it may seem, from that day we had no trouble with them. They all seemed to pull together. Old George the Greek, in some way, got complete control over them. He was the most powerful man on board, standing six feet two in his stockings and built in proportion, with a long bristling moustache, and hair as white as snow. He was sixty years of age, the strongest and most active man on board, and withal, in his bearing and manner a courteous gentleman. I often thought what a model he would have made for a picture of a brigand chief.
CHAPTER IX
Christmas at Sea and George the Greek’s Story
After losing the south-east trades we had light winds and fine weather with smooth calm sea until we sighted the Falkland Islands; standing like two silent sentinels of that stormy region of the South Atlantic Ocean, they have been the scene of many a shipwreck. A cold, bleak, inhospitable rock-bound coast, around which almost perpetual gales blow. There are two large islands and several smaller ones with an area of about thirteen thousand square miles, very mountainous, situated in latitude 51° 40′ south, longitude 59° 30′ west. They are right in the track of vessels going to and fro around Cape Horn.
We sighted the islands on Christmas Eve, my first Christmas at sea. It being summer time, we had twenty-two hours daylight, and very little darkness. The sun rose at 3 a.m., and set at 11 p.m. The mountains on the island were covered with pure white dazzling snow, while in the valleys you could see cattle grazing in beautiful green pastures, and the rocks by the water’s edge were literally covered with seals.
Christmas day broke fine and clear, with the most beautiful sunrise human eyes had ever gazed upon. I have been in many parts of the world since then, but never have I beheld a sky like that on Christmas morning off the Falkland Islands. No words could describe it, for it was indescribable. There was just a gentle breeze, the sea rising and falling in gentle undulations, with a soft murmuring sound, whitened by the ivory of crumbling foam, then shaken into sparkle as though a rain of splintered diamonds was falling, each breath bringing with it the smell of the kelp from the rock-bound coast. The sky to the westward was slightly overcast, thinning out towards the meridian—and towards the east small feathery patches of cloud floated about in a silver sea, while down near the horizon it was a clear soft grey. Then the wonderful sight burst upon us, heralding the rising of the sun the most magnificent coloured rays spread over the sky. It would need a painter’s brush, and a poet’s language to describe their beauty. The watch on deck actually called out to the watch below to come and see it, it seemed to me a fitting scene to celebrate the day on which the Saviour of the world was born. Many years have passed since I stood spellbound by that sight, and my Christmas days have been spent in many lands, but it is as fresh in my mind as though it were yesterday, and every Christmas day has brought back the memory of that glorious sunrise off the Falklands.
About eight a.m. the breeze freshened from the eastward, and the “Stormy Petrel” had every stitch of canvas set, and was making about ten knots per hour. A course was set for the Straits of Le Maire, which separate Staten Island from the southern extremity of the South American Continent. We washed the decks before breakfast, and from then the day was as a Sunday. The captain ordered the steward to give us soft tack for breakfast, a luxury you don’t often get at sea, and an eight bell dinner for all hands in honour of the day, with a bottle of rum to each watch.
We heard eight bells strike with more relish than usual, as the captain screwed the sun’s meridian altitude on his sextant, and the second mate glanced across and actually smiled from the weather side of the poop. Then forrard one of the men and I went to the galley for the kids, or food tins. Chaff and good humour were the order of the day at the galley door, and I rather think cook was not sorry when it was all over. Then followed the tramp tramp along the deck with the steaming kids, and at last we had the food all served up and sat down to eat it. There was real fresh pork, none ever tasted so sweet, rice soup and potatoes, followed by plum duff, real genuine plum pudding, with some left over for tea. This was a luxury, and we made the most of it and for once at sea we had a meal which made us satisfied with ourselves and things in general. We cleared away and put things tidy. The day passed away very quietly among the men, and after supper, the weather being fine, they all sat round the fore-hatch and spun yarns, real sailors’ yarns, not stories of goblins and ghosts, but real stern facts out of their own hard lives. Before they started they tossed up who should begin, and the lot fell to old George the Greek, and thus he began his story, which was the best of all.