XXI
DOLDRUMS
"Lee fore-brace!"
Mister M'Kellar stepped from the poop and cast off the brace coils withan air of impatience. It wanted but half an hour of 'knocking offtime'--and that half-hour would be time enough, for his watch to finishthe scraping of the deck-house--but the wind waits on no man, andalready the weather clew of the mainsail was lifting lazily to a shift.It was hard to give up the prospect of having the house all finishedand ship-shape before the Mate came on deck (and then trimming yardsand sail after the _work_ was done); but here was the wind workinglight into the eastward, and the sails nearly aback, and any minutemight bring the Old Man on deck to inquire, with vehemence, "What the---- somebody was doing with the ship?" There was nothing else for it;the house would have to stand.
"_T--'tt_, lee-fore-brace, the watch there!" Buckets and scrapers werethrown aside, the watch mustered at the braces, and the yards wereswung slowly forward, the sails lifting to a faint head air.
This was the last of the south-east trades, a clean-running breeze thathad carried us up from 20 deg. S., and brace and sheet blocks, rudelyawakened from their three weeks' rest, creaked a long-drawn protest tothe failing wind; ropes, dry with disuse, ran stiffly over the sheaves,and the cries of the men at the braces added the human note to a chorusof ship sounds that marked the end of steady sailing weather.
"_He--o--ro_, round 'm in, me sons;_ho--io--io_--lay-back-an'-get-yer-muscle-up-fer ghostin' through th'doldrums!" Roused by the song (broad hints and deep-sea pleasantries)of the chanteyman, the Old Man came on deck, and paced slowly up anddown the poop, whistling softly for wind, and glancing expectantlyaround the horizon. Whistle as he might, there was no wisp of stirringcloud, no ruffling of the water, to meet his gaze, and already the seawas glassing over, deserted by the wind. Soon what airs there weredied away, leaving us flat becalmed, all signs of movement vanishedfrom the face of the ocean, and we lay, mirrored sharply in thewindless, silent sea, under the broad glare of an equatorial sun.
For a space of time we were condemned to a seaman's purgatory; we hadentered the 'doldrums,' that strip of baffling weather that liesbetween the trade winds. We would have some days of calm and heavyrains, sudden squalls and shifting winds, and a fierce overhead sun;and through it all there would be hard labour for our crew (weak andshort-handed as we were), incessant hauling of the heavy yards, andtrimming of sail. Night or day, every faint breath of wind a-stirring,every shadow on the water, must find our sail in trim for but a flutterof the canvas that would move us on; any course with north in it wouldserve. "Drive her or drift her," by hard work only could we hope towin into the steady trade winds again, into the gallant sailing weatherwhen you touch neither brace nor sheet from sunset to sunrise.
Overhead the sails hung straight from the head-ropes, with not even aflutter to send a welcome draught to the sweltering deck below.Everywhere was a smell of blistering paint and molten pitch, for thesun, all day blazing on our iron sides, had heated the hull like afurnace wall. Time and again we sluiced the decks, but still pitchoozed from the gaping seams to blister our naked feet, and the moisturedried from the scorched planking almost as quickly as we could draw thewater. We waited for relief at sundown, and hoped for a tropicaldownpour to put us to rights.
Far to the horizon the sea spread out in a glassy stillness, brokenonly by an occasional movement among the fish. A widening ring wouldmark a rise--followed by the quick, affrighted flutter of a shoal offlying fish; then the dolphin, darting in eager pursuit, the sun's raysstriking on their glistening sides at each leap and flurry. A fewsharp seconds of glorious action, then silence, and the level seastretching out unbroken to the track of the westing sun.
Gasping for a breath of cooler air, we watched the sun go down, butthere was no sign of wind, no promise of movement in the faint, vapourycirrhus that attended his setting.
* * * * *
Ten days of calms (blazing sun or a torrent of rain) and a few faintairs in the night time--and we had gained but a hundred miles. 'Oursmart passage,' that we had hoped for when winds were fair and fresh,was out of question; but deep-sea philosophy has a counter for everyoccasion, and when the wind headed us or failed, someone among us wouldsurely say, "Well, wot's th' odds, anyway? More bloomin' days, morebloomin' dollars, ain't it?" Small comfort this to the Old Man, whowas now in the vilest of tempers, and spent his days in cursing theidle steersman, and his nights in quarrelling with the Mates about thetrim. If the yards were sharp up, it would be, "What are ye thinkin'about, Mister? Get these yards braced in, an' look damn smart aboutit!" If they were squared, nothing would do but they must be bracedforward, where the sails hung straight down, motionless, as before.Everything and everybody was wrong, and the empty grog bottles went'_plomp_' out of the stern ports with unusual frequency. When we wereoutward bound, the baffling winds that we met off Cape Horn found himcalm enough; they were to be expected in that quarter, and in the stirand action of working the ship in high winds, he could forget anyvexation he might have felt; but this was different, there was thedelay at the Falklands, and here was a further check to the passage--ahundred miles in ten days--provisions running short, grass a foot longon the counter, and still no sign of wind. There would be nocongratulatory letter from the owners at the end of this voyage, nokindly commending phrase that means so much to a shipmaster. Insteadit would be, "We are at a loss to understand why you have not made amore expeditious passage, considering that the _Elsinora_, whichsailed," etc., etc. It is always a fair wind in Bothwell Street! Itwas maddening to think of. "Ten miles a day!" Old Jock stamped up anddown the poop, snarling at all and sundry. To the steersman it was,"Blast ye, what are ye lookin' round for? Keep yer eye on th' royals,you!" The Mates fared but little better. "Here, Mister," he wouldshout; "what's th' crowd idlin' about for? Can't ye find no work t'do? D'ye want me t' come and roust them around? It isn't much use o'me keepin' a dog, an' havin' t' bark myself!"
It was a trying time. If the Old Man 'roughed' the Mates, the Mates'roughed' us, and rough it was. All hands were 'on the raw,' andmatters looked ugly between the men and Officers, and who knows whatwould have happened, had not the eleventh day brought the wind.
It came in the middle watch, a gentle air, that lifted the canvas andset the reef points drumming and dancing at each welcome flutter, andall our truculence and ill-temper vanished with the foam bubbles thatrose under our moving fore-foot.
The night had fallen dark and windless as any, and the first watch helda record for hauling yards and changing sheets. "'Ere ye are, boys,"was the call at eight bells. "Out ye comes, an' swigs them b----yyards round; windmill tatties, an' th' Old Man 'owlin' like a dancin'---- dervish on th' lid!" The Old Man had been at the bottle, and wasmore than usually quarrelsome; two men were sent from the wheel fordaring to spit over the quarter, and M'Kellar was on a verge of tearsat some coarse-worded aspersion on his seamanship. The middle watchbegan ill. When the wind came we thought it the usual fluke that wouldlast but a minute or two, and then, "mains'l up, an' square mainyards,ye idle hounds!" But no, three bells, four bells, five, the wind stillheld, the water was ruffling up to windward, the ship leaninghandsomely; there was the welcome heave of a swell running under.
So the watch passed. There were no more angry words from the poop.Instead, the Old Man paced to and fro, rubbing his hands, in high goodhumour, and calling the steersman "m' lad" when he had occasion to conthe vessel. After seeing that every foot of canvas was drawing, hewent below, and the Second Mate took his place on the weather side,thought things over, and concluded that Old Jock wasn't such a badsort, after all. We lay about the decks, awaiting further orders.None came, and we could talk of winds and passages, or lie flat on ourbacks staring up at the gently swaying trucks, watching the soft cloudsracing over the zenith; there would be a spanking breeze by daylight.A bell was struck forward in the darkness, and the 'look-out' chanted along "Awl--'s well!"
&nbs
p; All was, indeed, well; we had picked up the north-east trades.