Halfhyde Outward Bound

by Philip McCutchan

  HALFHYDE WAS there to learn: it seemed that his first lesson was to be in how to haze the apprentices. The hands were standing by the tug’s line, and the braces, the latter so that the yards could be hauled round in a trice once the sails had been shaken out, to take the fullest advantage of the first sniff of a breeze and so be able to dispense with the tug—but there was as yet no hint of a breeze, and it was clearly going to be necessary to tow right out, perhaps even as far as the Skerries. The water was dead flat and oily-looking, pocked by the rain. One of the newly-joined apprentices, a somewhat oafish youth named Mainprice, decided this was an idle moment, and took the opportunity to rest his weary back against the fo’c’sle guardrail.

  He was spotted by Bullock.

  “Damn your eyes, boy,” came the sudden rasp of the First Mate’s voice. “You’re here to work, not to dream of home. Do you understand me, God damn you, boy?”

  “Yes, sir.” Pig-like eyes met the First Mate’s. “But there’s nothing to do, is there?”

  “Nothing to do you say, is it?” Bullock was scandalized. “Nothing to do, aboard a sailing ship away down the river?”

  “Well, sir—”

  “Stand up straight, when you speak to me, boy!”

  Mainprice stood straight but now there was a sullen look in his face. Bullock said, “Go to the half-deck this instant, Mainprice. Fetch your toothbrush.”

  “What?” Mainprice appeared non-plussed.

  “You heard me. Just go.” Bullock’s fists clenched.

  Mainprice went; he came back with the toothbrush. Still, there was no wind. Bullock said, “Good. Now, the starboard anchor’s dirty. Isn’t it?”

  Mainprice went across to where the starboard anchor was catted outboard of the guardrail, secure to the clump cathead. He looked, turned, and said, “I don’t think so, sir. It looks quite clean to me.”

  Bullock scowled. “You say it’s clean. I say it’s dirty. Look again.”

  Mainprice’s eyes flickered around the fo’c’sle. No one said a word, but all the men were grinning. Mainprice took a deep breath and said, “All right, sir, it’s dirty.”

  “I’m glad you agree, boy So clean it. Scrub it. With the toothbrush.”

  Mainprice opened his mouth, saw the look on Bullock’s face, and shut it again. With smouldering mutiny in every movement, he climbed over the rail, hung on with one hand, and began scrubbing with the other. Bullock watched him for a few moments, then turned to one of the older hands, a man with a brown, wizened face like a monkey and no teeth. He said, “Finney, you’ll give us a send-off. We’ll have a capstan shanty—just while Mister Mainprice learns that when I say a thing’s dirty it bloody well drips filth and corruption.”

  “Yessir,” Finney said, and scurried down the fo’c’sle ladder. He was back within a couple of minutes carrying a fiddle, and he sat himself cross-legged on the capstan and drew a bow across the strings in a preliminary movement. He grinned, gums agape, at the First Mate.

  “Play, then,” Bullock ordered. “And all hands sing.”

  All hands did. As Finney played they sang in strong voices that were accustomed to call across wide spaces and into the teeth of gales; and the finest voice of all, oddly, was that of Bullock, who sang in a full-throated bass that would have done credit to any professional singer. For the first time, Halfhyde heard the words that ever after would stay in his memory, stay long after such shanties had become a thing of the romantic past, dead and buried and forgotten along with the grey ghosts of the legions of seafarers who had sung them in all the world’s ports:

  And it’s home, dearie, home! Oh, it’s home I want to be,

  My tops’ls are hoisted and I must out to sea;

  For the oak, and the ash, and the bonnie birchen tree

  They’re all a-growing green in the North Countree…

  THE AYSGARTH FALLS came up towards Point Lynas in Anglesey, standing well clear of the land. Here she found her wind. Captain McRafferty reacted to it on the instant and passed his orders for sail to be made and the tug to be cast off. Seamen swarmed up the ratlines and laid out along the yards; those remaining on deck stood by the sheets and braces under Mr Bullock, who shouted Halfhyde aloft under the Second Mate, Mr Patience, a young man not long out of his apprenticeship. Patience sent Halfhyde to the foretop, from which he was to climb further and go out along the foot-rope of the fore topgallant yard. All sail was to be made to the royals. As the bosun sent some hands to haul out the clew of the maincourse, Halfhyde began climbing. He went nimbly up the foremast ratlines, disdained the lubber’s hole which Bullock was clearly expecting him to use, reaching the foretop via the outward-leaning futtock shrouds. From there he climbed higher and stepped on to the swaying foot-rope hanging below the topgallant yard. The deck looked minute beneath him; he was not far short of a hundred and twenty feet up, and the thin foot-rope seemed but a poor, insubstantial thing to which to entrust any man’s life. Working from bottom to top the sails were loosed and hauled out, then the yards were hoisted to their positions by the halliards. As the sails filled Captain McRafferty trimmed them to the wind, sending the apprentices to tail on to the lee mainbrace, with a turn around the drum of a rail winch, to haul the yard to the correct angle. It was efficiently and quickly done even though some of the hands were greenhorns and soon the Aysgarth Falls was moving ahead for the turn south into the Irish Sea, making some four knots through only slightly ruffled water. When all the gear had been overhauled and the decks cleared up, all hands were mustered aft for the watches to be picked. They were told off into two watches under the mates, port and starboard, with Bullock having first choice. This done the hands, except for the watch currently on deck, were dismissed to go below and eat a late dinner.

  The meal, Halfhyde found, not unexpectedly, was as unappetising as their surroundings in the damp, creaking fo’c’sle: a porridgey mess called burgoo, washed down with strong tea. The complaints were many; a big man sitting next to Halfhyde said that Slushy, referring to the cook, would get a knife in the gut if he didn’t quickly mend his ways. The man, who was addressed by his messmates as Shotgun, looked as if he meant it. Halfhyde didn’t comment but was dragged into the conversation when Shotgun elbowed him in the ribs and repeated his remark in a loud voice. “I was talking to you. It’s polite to give a bloody answer.”

  Halfhyde detected an American accent. He said, “I’m sorry. Perhaps Slushy hasn’t got his galley organized yet.”

  “Then he’d bloody well better.” Shotgun turned and stared at Halfhyde. “Where you come from, eh? Been to sea before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thought so. I see you use the futtock shrouds. What line?”

  Halfhyde said, “I was in the Royal Navy.”

  “Queen’s ships, eh. Then you got a thing or two to learn.”

  “No doubt. You?”

  Shotgun laughed. “Me, I done a lot of things. Prospected for gold, lumberjack, cowhand on a ranch. Then I came to sea.”

  “In a British ship?”

  “Sure. Any objections?”

  Halfhyde shrugged. “None at all.” Shotgun didn’t carry on the conversation; Halfhyde had a shrewd idea he’d got out of America one jump ahead of the law. Such men were not unusual in the fo’c’sles of the windjammers, and there were probably others aboard the Aysgarth Falls. In the dim light from the lantern that hung smokily from a deckhead beam, Halfhyde studied his companions. They were a strange mixture of seasoned sailormen and men of the same kidney as Shotgun, men who had drifted to sea rather than chosen it as an occupation, Halfhyde guessed. Some of them would prove to be no-hopers and wouldn’t last; some might well desert on the Australian coast. Many of the eyes were watchful, suspicious that every man might be against them. Once again Halfhyde found himself thinking of Mildred: if she could see him now…Before joining the ship he had found time to write her a letter telling her that he was Australia bound; and another to Henry Willard with a similar content. He grinned to himself: the face of Vice-Ad
miral Sir John Willard would be frosty in the extreme when his letter to Mildred arrived in Portsmouth.

  Shotgun began another conversation. “The Old Man, he’s as mean as a shark. Food’s not all Slushy’s fault. Owners, they’re all the same. McRafferty owns this ship. Know what you’re in for?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Okay. You’re in for filthy rotten food and bloody little water to drink or wash in. The afterguard’ll have what fresh vegetables there are, and they won’t last long. We’ll not re-provision before Iquique and by that time the water’ll be foul, unless we catch any rainwater on deck.”

  Halfhyde nodded non-committally. He was not going to admit to the fact that McRafferty had told him of his ownership; that would indicate too great a familiarity between himself and the Master and he would suffer for it, besides which McRafferty had wanted nothing of that sort to be known in the fo’c’sle. But that McRafferty was mean was not news either; in the Bear’s Paw McRafferty had said that a shipmaster who was also his own owner could not afford high living. Money was not to be spent lavishly; owners were in the business to make a profit, which was not the case in the Navy, where the Queen was lavish enough and could afford to be. Halfhyde had remarked that the men must be kept happy and that the best way for that was a full stomach. McRafferty’s answer had been short: their stomachs were quite full enough. And a mean Irishman, especially over drink as Halfhyde also remembered from the Bear’s Paw, was something of a rarity. Shotgun went on to say that the Old Man was mean with his daughter also, and that she needed to kick over the traces for her own good. He came the master and owner over her as much as over the hands and never allowed her any freedom. Last voyage, Shotgun said, the old bastard had taken his revolver to Patience and threatened to shoot him if he went too near the girl.

  LATE THE following afternoon the Aysgarth Falls had passed the Tuskar Rocks and had altered course to starboard towards the Fastnet whence she would take her final departure from the United Kingdom to head down through the South Atlantic for the passage of the Horn. Bullock was on watch on the poop; and Captain McRafferty was pacing the deck and looking anxiously from time to time at the glass: he had noted a fall in the barometric pressure, a slow but steady drop that confirmed the heavy weather on their track ahead that his seaman’s eye had noted already in the cloud formation.

  “I don’t like it, Mr Bullock,” he said. “Pass the word for all hands.”

  Bullock raised a shout for the bosun, and the watch below was turned out, grumbling, to prepare the Aysgarth Falls for dirty weather. Below decks, everything movable was doubly secured against the heave of wind and water. On the deck itself, all lashings were carefully examined and where necessary double-banked. Bullock, accompanied by the bosun, opened up the tween-deck hatches and carried out such inspection of the cargo and the shifting-boards as was possible. Aloft, the gear was overhauled for good measure—foot-ropes, ratlines, one or two new buntlines and leechlines were rove. From the main yard, where he had been sent by the First Mate, Halfhyde looked down on the work proceeding on deck: all skylights were being battened down and secured with tarpaulins, and all inessential deckhouse doors were being caulked up to prevent any inrush of water if they should ship a heavy sea. Men stood by the halliards and braces as McRafferty, from the poop, ordered the royal yards to be sent down and the flying jib unbent. The Captain, Halfhyde saw, was watching the sails closely, and spoke now and again to the man at the wheel, occasionally lending a hand himself to bring the ship quickly to the shifts of wind, which was already beginning to become oddly erratic and in fact had decreased if anything in strength. When the blow came and the preparations on deck had been completed, an extra hand would be sent to the wheel to help hold it steady. Looking ahead in the fading light Halfhyde found the Atlantic flat but somehow threatening, like a bottomless, evil pool. He had seldom seen the sea like this in home waters. There was a bad sign insofar as the wind seemed to have gone almost altogether now; there was a slatting sound as limp canvas flapped back against the masts and yards, and a rattle of blocks as an occasional light gust shook through the ropes. The feeling of threat increased, and Halfhyde saw the tension in the faces of the men alongside him on the yard as, to McRafferty’s orders, the storm mainsail was sent up.

  “The Old Man expects a real blow,” one of them said. “It won’t be just playing about, not tonight.” He looked aside at Halfhyde. “Best watch it. There’s a golden rule aboard the windjammers: one hand for the ship and one for yourself.”

  Halfhyde smiled. “Thank you for the warning,” he said. “It’s not my first time aloft, however, and I don’t expect to die just yet!”

  The last of the daylight was going now. Ahead, on the starboard bow, a long low line of black cloud had formed and above this, the colour seeming to rise out of it, the sky was green-shot and dangerous. As Halfhyde looked towards this great bank of cloud, he saw a curious transformation of the sea’s surface, a sort of ruffling movement that spread from ahead with extreme rapidity and came down towards the Aysgarth Falls. As Halfhyde looked aft in expectation of orders from McRafferty, he saw the daughter’s head emerging from the poop hatch, which had not yet been battened down. Miss McRafferty—Halfhyde had never so much as heard her christian name mentioned—stepped across the poop to speak to her father, who was in fact too preoccupied with his ship to notice her sudden appearance. He had cupped his hands to call out to the First Mate, and Halfhyde heard his shout.

  “Mr Bullock, we have the wind west-nor’-westerly. Take in—”

  Very suddenly, the voice broke off. Something seemed to have gone badly wrong on the poop; the spanker boom had swung wildly across the deck, heavy, fast and lethal. Men were shouting, and when the boom went smartly back the other way Halfhyde saw that the Captain’s daughter had gone. Then something in the water, no more than a break of spray in the near darkness, caught his eye and he was aware of the white face staring up and the mouth open, calling desperately.

  With no hesitation, Halfhyde dived from the main yard.

  Chapter 3

  HALFHYDE WENT in cleanly, came up well clear of the ship’s side. He dashed water from his eyes. From the poop someone had thrown a lifebelt; Halfhyde saw it bobbing about on the waves, already white-topped and breaking. There was no sign of the girl now. Aboard the ship, the First Mate was running to the lee skids to lend a hand with sending away the lifeboat; already the chain gripes had been freed. On the poop, Patience and two of the hands had managed to get a line over the end of the spanker boom—it had parted its 3½-inch hemp guy pendant—and the wild swinging was coming under control.

  With strong strokes, Halfhyde swam for the lifebelt, reached it and got an arm through it. Then he saw the girl breaking surface not far away.

  He went for her, fast.

  The wind was gusting strongly now, hitting the Aysgarth Falls with hammer blows out of the darkness and laying her over to leeward. McRafferty had passed the order to back the topsails and take the way off, and the royals and topgallants were already furled along their yards. Even so, and though scarcely two minutes had passed since the girl had gone overboard, the ship was drawing away as Halfhyde reached the half-drowned figure, laid his hands on her roughly, and drew her close in an attempt to get the lifebelt over her head and shoulders. Like any person in danger of drowning, she struggled violently.

  “Easy!” Halfhyde shouted. “Relax, and leave yourself to me. You’ll be all right now, I promise you.”

  It was no use; the struggling continued. All Halfhyde could do was to retain his own grip on the lifebelt and press the girl close to his body, pinning her arms. She was gasping like a landed fish, and Halfhyde guessed she would have swallowed a good deal of seawater and would have doubtless drawn some into her lungs as well. Meanwhile, the two of them were being hauled to the ship’s side on the line attached to the lifebelt; Bullock was heaving away with the assistance of McRafferty and one of the seamen who had been helping to snatch in the spanker boom.
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  Within another minute or two they were alongside, surging up and down the iron hull of the windjammer. A heavier line was sent down quickly, and Halfhyde slipped a bowline around the girl, grasping the line himself above her head. They were hauled up and assisted over the rail to the waist. For a moment McRafferty, who had come for’ard from the poop, held his daughter in his arms, then released her as the saloon steward came up to carry her below.

  McRafferty seized Halfhyde’s hand. “That was a brave thing to do,” he said. “Thank you. I shall not forget it.”

  Halfhyde made a gesture of negation then said, “Your daughter, sir. She has taken water for a certainty. It must be got out of her lungs.”

  “The steward—”

  “I know how to do it, sir. Leave her to me. Your steward will not have had my training.”

  McRafferty met his eyes then nodded. “Very well,” he said curtly. “Do your best.” He turned away, making back for the poop ladder where his duty lay. Halfhyde lifted the girl, who seemed to him feather light, and with the steward in attendance carried her up the poop ladder behind her father, and then down through the hatch to the saloon. He laid her gently on the settee that ran below a line of ports, now with their deadlights clamped down hard. Stripping away the soaked clothing and working quickly, he leaned his weight on the palms of his hands and bore down on her chest. Behind him stood the steward, Goss, apparently acting as chaperone.