The Skipper, on this day that our decks were swept, swore about the men and the bugs during dinner, muttered with foreboding about the glass, which was still falling, and the coals, which were being burnt to no purpose. We were hardly doing more than holding our place on our course. The saloon was delirious, and when she flung up her heels, the varied noises rose with the racing propeller to a crescendo of furious castenets. The mate let us. The Skipper sat glooming, eyeing his cigar resentfully, his leg over the arm of his chair. The Doctor was swaying with the ship, weary and forlorn. Tinker had an appeal in his eyes, and made timorous noises. The Purser wondered why he was there at all, and blamed his silly dreams. The night boomed without. What a night!
Skipper. If this southerly wind goes round to the west and north, look out. I saw porpoises to-day too.
Doctor. When are we due at Para?
Skipper. Huh! What’s this talk of Para? You wait. All this talk about when we shall get there’s no good.... Now in those Newfoundland schooners where I served my time—I wouldn’t have no talk in them about getting anywhere. Seems as if somebody heard. You always run into it. There was the “Lizzie Polwith.” She was about 80 tons. Those west country schooners in the fish trade are never more than 100 tons, else they’d have to carry more than a master and one mate. I was her master, and a kid of eighteen. We left Falmouth for Cadiz. Now look what happened. My mate was old Tregenna. He was a regular misery. I never knew such a dead homer, not so much as he was, always wanting to talk about his wife. I say, when you’ve cast off, it’s best not to have a home. The ship wants all you can give her. Tregenna, he looked back a lot. You know what I mean. Couldn’t keep his mind on his job, but wished he was through with it. There he’d be cutting bread at dinner, and it ’ud remind him, and he’d be wishing he was cutting it at home. When things began to go stiff, he’d say, “who wouldn’t sell his little farm to go to sea?” Used to figure out on paper how long we’d be before we’d be back. Why, you never know when you’ll get back.
See what happened. We left Cadiz that year on the first of January, and got things just right. The winds chased us over. There were big following seas, but you know those schooners ride like ducks. Up and over they go. Never a drop did we ship. Though they’re lively enough to bruise and sicken all but good sailors. And old Tregenna was rubbing his hands and making out his figures better and better.
We arrived off St. Johns in a bit more than three weeks. I reckon I’d done it all right, being such a young chap too. Well, I was turning in that night, and just as I got into the companion a man said, “There goes a lump of ice.” I jumped out again. Why, there was ice all round us. The sea was full of it as far as I could see into the night. “This is all along of your figuring,” I sang out to Tregenna. “But you’ll have a lot of time to reckon it up afresh,” I said.
So he had. Do you know when we got in? We got in on April 15. We were two months and a half getting in. And we came over in three weeks. There’s something in that Jonah story. Always some fool who can’t keep his mouth shut and his mind on his job.
We did have a time. Two and a half months, and our provisions ran out. We were living on a little meal and dried peas. The ice chafed the “Lizzie” till the rudder was worn down to the stock. It roughed up her wooden sides till they looked as if they were covered with long coarse hair. We were a sight when we got in. You wouldn’t have known us, hardly. We looked as if we’d come up from the bottom.... Don’t ask me when we shall get to Para. Wait till we’re out of this. Listen to that dog. Shut up, you Tinker. Making that noise, sir! Go and lie down.
The Skipper clapped on his cap aggressively and went out. The Doctor had a long and eloquent silence. Then he turned to me. “This beats all,” he said. “Come and have a drop of gin, old dear.” He led the way to his berth, which smelt of varnish and of lamp, and we swayed in chorus as the ship rolled, and had a heartening mourn together. But for its accidental compensations travel would not be worth the trouble. In proof of that there is the entry in my diary some days after:
“December 22. Awoke at four a.m. with the ship rolling as brutally as ever. A great noise of waters and things banging. The seas huge at sunrise, when the light came over their tops. Depressing sight. The sky was blue at first, but was soon overcast with squalls. The horizon ahead gets slate coloured, and low clouds underneath, like ragged bales of dirty wool, come towards us heavy and fast. Then the squall and waves rush down on us express, and the ship buries herself. Constantly hearing engine-room bell sounded from bridge to slacken speed as a big sea appears. The captain popped in his head as I was deciding whether to get up or stay where I was. He gazed sternly at me and said he was looking for Jonah. I half believe he means it too. Everybody is weary of this. The men have been in oilskins since the start.