III. Davies
I DOZED but fitfully, with a fretful sense of sore elbows and neckand many a draughty hiatus among the blankets. It was broad daylightbefore I had reached the stage of torpor in which such slumbermerges. That was finally broken by the descent through the skylightof a torrent of water. I started up, bumped my head hard against thedecks, and blinked leaden-eyed upwards.
'Sorry! I'm scrubbing decks. Come up and bathe. Slept well?' I hearda voice saying from aloft.
'Fairly well,' I growled, stepping out into a pool of water on theoilcloth. Thence I stumbled up the ladder, dived overboard, andburied bad dreams, stiffness, frowsiness, and tormented nerves in theloveliest fiord of the lovely Baltic. A short and furious swim and Iwas back again, searching for a means of ascent up the smooth blackside, which, low as it was, was slippery and unsympathetic. Davies,in a loose canvas shirt, with the sleeves tucked up, and flannelsrolled up to the knee, hung over me with a rope's end, and chattedunconcernedly about the easiness of the job when you know how,adjuring me to mind the paint, and talking about an accommodationladder he had once had, but had thrown overboard because it was sohorribly in the way. When I arrived, my knees and elbows were pickedout in black paint, to his consternation. Nevertheless, as I pliedthe towel, I knew that I had left in those limpid depths yet anothercrust of discontent and self-conceit.
As I dressed into flannels and blazer, I looked round the deck, andwith an unskilled and doubtful eye took in all that the darkness hadhitherto hidden. She seemed very small (in point of fact she wasseven tons), something over thirty feet in length and nine in beam, asize very suitable to week-ends in the Solent, for such as liked thatsort of thing; but that she should have come from Dover to the Balticsuggested a world of physical endeavour of which I had never dreamed.I passed to the ?sthetic side. Smartness and beauty were essentialto yachts, in my mind, but with the best resolves to be pleased Ifound little encouragement here. The hull seemed too low, and themainmast too high; the cabin roof looked clumsy, and the skylightssaddened the eye with dull iron and plebeian graining. What brassthere was, on the tiller-head and elsewhere, was tarnished withsickly green. The decks had none of that creamy purity which Cowesexpects, but were rough and grey, and showed tarry exhalations roundthe seams and rusty stains near the bows. The ropes and rigging werein mourning when contrasted with the delicate buff manilla sosatisfying to the artistic eye as seen against the blue of a June skyat Southsea. Nor was the whole effect bettered by many signs ofrecent refitting. An impression of paint, varnish, and carpentry wasin the air; a gaudy new burgee fluttered aloft; there seemed to be anew rope or two, especially round the diminutive mizzen-mast, whichitself looked altogether new. But all this only emphasized thegeneral plainness, reminding one of a respectable woman of theworking-classes trying to dress above her station, and soon likely togive it up.
That the _ensemble_ was businesslike and solid even my untrained eyecould see. Many of the deck fittings seemed disproportionatelysubstantial. The anchor-chain looked contemptuous of its charge; thebinnacle with its compass was of a size and prominence almostcomically impressive, and was, moreover the only piece of brass whichwas burnished and showed traces of reverent care. Two huge coils ofstout and dingy warp lay just abaft the mainmast, and summed up theweather-beaten aspect of the little ship. I should add here that inthe distant past she had been a lifeboat, and had been clumsilyconverted into a yacht by the addition of a counter, deck, and thenecessary spars. She was built, as all lifeboats are, diagonally, oftwo skins of teak, and thus had immense strength, though, in thematter of looks, all a hybrid's failings.
Hunger and 'Tea's made!' from below brought me down to the cabin,where I found breakfast laid out on the table over the centreboardcase, with Davies earnestly presiding, rather flushed as to the face,and sooty as to the fingers. There was a slight shortage of plate andcrockery, but I praised the bacon and could do so truthfully, for itscrisp and steaming shavings would have put to shame the efforts of myLondon cook. Indeed, I should have enjoyed the meal heartily were itnot for the lowness of the sofa and table, causing a curvature of thebody which made swallowing a more lengthy process than usual, andinduced a periodical yearning to get up and stretch--a relief whichspelt disaster to the skull. I noticed, too, that Davies spoke with azest, sinister to me, of the delights of white bread and fresh milk,which he seemed to consider unusual luxuries, though suitable to aninaugural banquet in honour of a fastidious stranger. 'One can't bealways going on shore,' he said, when I showed a discreet interest inthese things. 'I lived for ten days on a big rye loaf over in theFrisian Islands.'
'And it died hard, I suppose?'
'Very hard, but' (gravely) 'quite good. After that I taught myself tomake rolls; had no baking powder at first, so used Eno's fruit salt,but they wouldn't rise much with that. As for milk, condensed is--Ihope you don't mind it?'
I changed the subject, and asked about his plans.
'Let's get under way at once,' he said, 'and sail down the fiord.' Itried for something more specific, but he was gone, and his voicedrowned in the fo'c'sle by the clatter and swish of washing up.Thenceforward events moved with bewildering rapidity. Humbly desirousof being useful I joined him on deck, only to find that he scarcelynoticed me, save as a new and unexpected obstacle in his round ofactivity. He was everywhere at once--heaving in chain, hooking onhalyards, hauling ropes; while my part became that of the clown whodoes things after they are already done, for my knowledge of a yachtwas of that floating and inaccurate kind which is useless inpractice. Soon the anchor was up (a great rusty monster it was!), thesails set, and Davies was darting swiftly to and fro between thetiller and jib-sheets, while the _Dulcibella_ bowed a lingeringfarewell to the shore and headed for the open fiord. Erratic puffsfrom the high land behind made her progress timorous at first, butsoon the fairway was reached and a true breeze from Flensburg and thewest took her in its friendly grip. Steadily she rustled down thecalm blue highway whose soft beauty was the introduction to a passagein my life, short, but pregnant with moulding force, through stressand strain, for me and others.
Davies was gradually resuming his natural self, with abstractedintervals, in which he lashed the helm to finger a distant rope, withsuch speed that the movements seemed simultaneous. Once he vanished,only to reappear in an instant with a chart, which he studied, whilesteering, with a success that its reluctant folds seemed to renderimpossible. Waiting respectfully for his revival I had full time tolook about. The fiord here was about a mile broad. From the shore wehad left the hills rose steeply, but with no rugged grandeur; theoutlines were soft; there were green spaces and rich woods on thelower slopes; a little white town was opening up in one place, andscattered farms dotted the prospect. The other shore, which I couldjust see, framed between the gunwale and the mainsail, as I satleaning against the hatchway, and sadly missing a deck-chair, waslower and lonelier, though prosperous and pleasing to the eye.Spacious pastures led up by slow degrees to ordered clusters of wood,which hinted at the presence of some great manor house. Behind us,Flensburg was settling into haze. Ahead, the scene was shut in by thecontours of hills, some clear, some dreamy and distant. Lastly, asingle glimpse of water shining between the folds of hill far awayhinted at spaces of distant sea of which this was but a secludedinlet. Everywhere was that peculiar charm engendered by theassociation of quiet pastoral country and a homely human atmospherewith a branch of the great ocean that bathes all the shores of ourglobe.
There was another charm in the scene, due to the way in which I wasviewing it--not as a pampered passenger on a 'fine steam yacht', oreven on 'a powerful modern schooner', as the yacht agents advertise,but from the deck of a scrubby little craft of doubtful build anddistressing plainness, which yet had smelt her persistent way to thisdistant fiord through I knew not what of difficulty and danger, withno apparent motive in her single occupant, who talked as vaguely andunconcernedly about his adventurous cruise as though it were all aprotracted afternoon on Southampton Water.
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bsp; I glanced round at Davies. He had dropped the chart and was sitting,or rather half lying, on the deck with one bronzed arm over thetiller, gazing fixedly ahead, with just an occasional glance aroundand aloft. He still seemed absorbed in himself, and for a moment ortwo I studied his face with an attention I had never, since I hadknown him, given it. I had always thought it commonplace, as I hadthought him commonplace, so far as I had thought at all about either.It had always rather irritated me by an excess of candour andboyishness. These qualities it had kept, but the scales were fallingfrom my eyes, and I saw others. I saw strength to obstinacy andcourage to recklessness, in the firm lines of the chin; an older anddeeper look in the eyes. Those odd transitions from bright mobilityto detached earnestness, which had partly amused and chiefly annoyedme hitherto, seemed now to be lost in a sensitive reserve, not coldor egotistic, but strangely winning from its paradoxical frankness.Sincerity was stamped on every lineament. A deep misgiving stirred methat, clever as I thought myself, nicely perceptive of the right andcongenial men to know, I had made some big mistakes--how many, Iwondered? A relief, scarcely less deep because it was unconfessed,stole in on me with the suspicion that, little as I deserved it, thepatient fates were offering me a golden chance of repairing at leastone. And yet, I mused, the patient fates have crooked methods,besides a certain mischievous humour, for it was Davies who had askedme out--though now he scarcely seemed to need me--almost tricked meinto coming out, for he might have known I was not suited to such alife; yet trickery and Davies sounded an odd conjuncture.
Probably it was the growing discomfort of my attitude which producedthis backsliding. My night's rest and the 'ascent from the bath' had,in fact, done little to prepare me for contact with sharp edges andhard surfaces. But Davies had suddenly come to himself, and with an'I say, are you comfortable? Have something to sit on?' jerked thehelm a little to windward, felt it like a pulse for a moment, with arapid look to windward, and dived below, whence he returned with acouple of cushions, which he threw to me. I felt perversely resentfulof these luxuries, and asked:
'Can't I be of any use?'
'Oh, don't you bother,' he answered. 'I expect you're tired. Aren'twe having a splendid sail? That must be Ekken on the port bow,'peering under the sail, 'where the trees run in. I say, do you mindlooking at the chart?' He tossed it over to me. I spread it outpainfully, for it curled up like a watch-spring at the leastslackening of pressure. I was not familiar with charts, and thissudden trust reposed in me, after a good deal of neglect, made menervous.
'You see Flensburg, don't you?' he said. 'That's where we are,'dabbing with a long reach at an indefinite space on the crowdedsheet. 'Now which side of that buoy off the point do we pass?'
I had scarcely taken in which was land and which was water, much lessthe significance of the buoy, when he resumed:
'Never mind; I'm pretty sure it's all deep water about here. I expectthat marks the fairway for steamers.
In a minute or two we were passing the buoy in question, on the wrongside I am pretty certain, for weeds and sand came suddenly into viewbelow us with uncomfortable distinctness. But all Davies said was:
'There's never any sea here, and the plate's not down,' a darkutterance which I pondered doubtfully. 'The best of these Schleswigwaters,' he went on, 'is that a boat of this size can go almostanywhere. There's no navigation required. Why----' At this moment afaint scraping was felt, rather than heard, beneath us.
'Aren't we aground?' I asked with great calmness.
'Oh, she'll blow over,' he replied, wincing a little.
She 'blew over', but the episode caused a little na?ve vexation inDavies. I relate it as a good instance of one of his minorpeculiarities. He was utterly without that didactic pedantry whichyachting has a fatal tendency to engender in men who profess it. Hehad tossed me the chart without a thought that I was an ignoramus, towhom it would be Greek, and who would provide him with an admirablesubject to drill and lecture, just as his neglect of me throughoutthe morning had been merely habitual and unconscious independence. Inthe second place, master of his _m?tier_, as I knew him afterwards tobe, resourceful, skilful, and alert, he was liable to lapse into acertain amateurish vagueness, half irritating and half amusing. Ithink truly that both these peculiarities came from the same source,a hatred of any sort of affectation. To the same source I traced thefact that he and his yacht observed none of the superficial etiquetteof yachts and yachtsmen, that she never, for instance, flew anational ensign, and he never wore a 'yachting suit'.
We rounded a low green point which I had scarcely noticed before.
'We must jibe,' said Davies: 'just take the helm, will you?' and,without waiting for my co-operation, he began hauling in themainsheet with great vigour. I had rude notions of steering, butjibing is a delicate operation. No yachtsman will be surprised tohear that the boom saw its opportunity and swung over with a mightycrash, with the mainsheet entangled round me and the tiller.
'Jibed all standing,' was his sorrowful comment. 'You're not used toher yet. She's very quick on the helm.'
'Where am I to steer for?' I asked, wildly.
'Oh, don't trouble, I'll take her now,' he replied.
I felt it was time to make my position clear. 'I'm an utter duffer atsailing,' I began. 'You'll have a lot to teach me, or one of thesedays I shall be wrecking you. You see, there's always been acrew----'
'Crew!'--with sovereign contempt--'why, the whole fun of thething is to do everything oneself.'
'Well, I've felt in the way the whole morning.'
'I'm awfully sorry!' His dismay and repentance were comical. 'Why,it's just the other way; you may be all the use in the world.' Hebecame absent.
We were following the inward trend of a small bay towards a cleft inthe low shore.
'That's Ekken Sound,' said Davies; 'let's look into it,' and a minuteor two later we were drifting through a dainty little strait, with apeep of open water at the end of it. Cottages bordered either side,some overhanging the very water, some connecting with it by a ricketywooden staircase or a miniature landing-stage. Creepers and rosesrioted over the walls and tiny porches. For a space on one side, arude quay, with small smacks floating off it, spoke of some minutecommercial interests; a very small tea-garden, with neglected-lookingbowers and leaf-strewn tables, hinted at some equally minute trippinginterest. A pervading hue of mingled bronze and rose came partly fromthe weather-mellowed woodwork of the cottages and stages, and partlyfrom the creepers and the trees behind, where autumn's subtle fingerswere already at work. Down this exquisite sea-lane we glided till itended in a broad mere, where our sails, which had been shivering andcomplaining, filled into contented silence.
'Ready about!' said Davies, callously. 'We must get out of thisagain.' And round we swung.
'Why not anchor and stop here?' I protested; for a view oftantalizing loveliness was unfolding itself.
'Oh, we've seen all there is to be seen, and we must take this breezewhile we've got it.' It was always torture to Davies to feel a goodbreeze running to waste while he was inactive at anchor or on shore.The 'shore' to him was an inferior element, merely serving as auseful annexe to the water--a source of necessary supplies.
'Let's have lunch,' he pursued, as we resumed our way down the fiord.A vision of iced drinks, tempting salads, white napery, and anattentive steward mocked me with past recollections.
'You'll find a tongue,' said the voice of doom, 'in the starboardsofa-locker; beer under the floor in the bilge. I'll see her roundthat buoy, if you wouldn't mind beginning.' I obeyed with a badgrace, but the close air and cramped posture must have benumbed myfaculties, for I opened the port-side locker, reached down, andgrasped a sticky body, which turned out to be a pot of varnish.Recoiling wretchedly, I tried the opposite one, combating theembarrassing heel of the boat and the obstructive edges of thecentreboard case. A medley of damp tins of varied sizes showed inthe gloom, exuding a mouldy odour. Faded legends on dissolving paper,like the remnants of old posters on a disused hoarding,
spoke ofsoups, curries, beefs, potted meats, and other hidden delicacies. Ipicked out a tongue, re-imprisoned the odour, and explored for beer.It was true, I supposed, that bilge didn't hurt it, as I tugged atthe plank on my hands and knees, but I should have myself preferred amore accessible and less humid wine-cellar than the cavities amongslimy ballast from which I dug the bottles. I regarded my hard-wonand ill-favoured pledges of a meal with giddiness and discouragement.
'How are you getting on?' shouted Davies; 'the tin-opener's hangingup on the bulkhead; the plates and knives are in the cupboard.'
I doggedly pursued my functions. The plates and knives met mehalf-way, for, being on the weather side, and thus having a downwardslant, its contents, when I slipped the latch, slid affectionatelyinto my bosom, and overflowed with a clatter and jingle on to thefloor.
'That often happens,' I heard from above. 'Never mind! There are nobreakables. I'm coming down to help.' And down he came, leaving the_Dulcibella_ to her own devices.
'I think I'll go on deck,' I said. 'Why in the world couldn't youlunch comfortably at Ekken and save this infernal pandemonium of apicnic? Where's the yacht going to meanwhile? And how are we to lunchon that slanting table? I'm covered with varnish and mud, andankle-deep in crockery. There goes the beer!'
'You shouldn't have stood it on the table with this list on,' saidDavies, with intense composure, 'but it won't do any harm; it'lldrain into the bilge' (ashes to ashes, dust to dust, I thought). 'Yougo on deck now, and I'll finish getting ready.' I regretted myexplosion, though wrung from me under great provocation.
'Keep her straight on as she's going,' said Davies, as I clambered upout of the chaos, brushing the dust off my trousers and varnishingthe ladder with my hands. I unlashed the helm and kept her as she wasgoing.
We had rounded a sharp bend in the fiord, and were sailing up a broadand straight reach which every moment disclosed new beauties, sightsfair enough to be balm to the angriest spirit. A red-roofed hamletwas on our left, on the right an ivied ruin, close to the water,where some contemplative cattle stood knee-deep. The view ahead was awhite strand which fringed both shores, and to it fell wooded slopes,interrupted here and there by low sandstone cliffs of warm redcolouring, and now and again by a dingle with cracks of greensward.
I forgot petty squalors and enjoyed things--the coy tremble of thetiller and the backwash of air from the dingy mainsail, and, with asomewhat chastened rapture, the lunch which Davies brought up to meand solicitously watched me eat.
Later, as the wind sank to lazy airs, he became busy with a largertopsail and jib; but I was content to doze away the afternoon,drenching brain and body in the sweet and novel foreign atmosphere,and dreamily watching the fringe of glen cliff and cool white sand asthey passed ever more slowly by.
The Riddle of the Sands Page 4
