“A sorry mess,” McRafferty said. He listened for a moment to the sounds of the storm and the thump and rattle of the blocks. “There’ll be much work for the hands when it’s blown itself out, Halfhyde. We must bend new sails and renew a number of ropes and there’ll be more overhauling to be done.”
Halfhyde was not in the best of tempers, in no mood to accept the lowly status of the fo’c’sle. His response was caustic and insubordinate. “One would have thought,” he said, “that more such work should have been done before sailing.”
“You are an impertinent fellow, Halfhyde—”
“I have been told that before, sir. I tend to say what I think, however.” He gave an acid smile. “At least you will find me honest!”
McRafferty didn’t answer for some moments. Then he said grudgingly, “I shall not fault you for that. But you must understand—and as an owner, you will understand in due course—that running gear costs hard-earned money and everything must be made to play its full part before it is discarded. It is all a question of money in a hard commercial world.”
“A short-sighted policy in my view. Worn-out gear leads to men being lost.”
The Captain gave a short laugh. “Lives are the cheapest of commodities in the sailing ships, as you’ll learn.” He turned away and went aft to pace the poop, hands behind his back, his eye lifted constantly to his masts and yards. Halfhyde could appreciate his enforced frugality, if not to the point of risking men’s lives. To drive a windjammer through the seas for long hauls was a hard business, and no doubt it tended to make a man hard. But things would go differently aboard his own ship; Halfhyde had no intention of burdening his conscience with avoidable death.
MCRAFFERTY’S WORDS were to prove prophetic, and quickly: Halfhyde learned the following afternoon that death at sea was accepted philosophically and that men could be covered for more easily and cheaply than a ripped-out maincourse. The wind had moderated considerably during the forenoon, leaving behind it a cold grey overcast and close horizons. After the men had had their midday meal the Captain ordered them aloft to shake out the topgallants’ls on the fore and main masts. A young seaman, who looked clumsy enough to Halfhyde, lost his footing below the fore topgallant yard and went crashing downward. As he fell he hit a man on the upper tops’l yard, and this man, who happened to be the Second Mate, also lost his balance. The first man went into the water on the flat of his back. Patience came down hard across the bulwarks, gave a wild shriek of agony and collapsed inboard. Men ran to pick him up while Bullock sent away the lee lifeboat to search for the first man, who meanwhile had disappeared. The lifeboat’s crew failed to find him during an hour’s search, after which time McRafferty ordered the boat to return to the davits for hoisting. In the meantime, Patience had died. His back had been broken and there was nothing to be done about that: the Ship Captain’s Medical Guide was not adequate to the task of repairing broken backs and Patience had died in sheer agony. As soon as the Captain had pronounced him dead, the body was removed to the sailmaker’s cubby-hole to be sewn into its canvas shroud for sea burial. That burial took place as soon as possible, for bodies aboard ships were unlucky things and sailormen were a superstitious breed. Once the service had been read by Captain McRafferty in the presence of the hands, and the body had been slid from a plank into the sea, the work of the ship went on as before. The bosun was sent for and informed that he had been promoted to the position of Uncertificated Acting Second Mate.
“There will be no extra pay, Mr O’Connor,” McRafferty said in Halfhyde’s hearing. The bosun seemed not to be worried about that; the accolade of the “Mister” in the Captain’s mouth was good enough to be going on with. Halfhyde grinned sardonically. Mr Patience, out of sight now beneath the waves and dropping astern as the Aysgarth Falls proceeded away from England, was already becoming nothing but a memory and now Captain McRafferty had acquired a replacement Second Mate at the bargain price of a bosun’s pay. Halfhyde thought that the saving should go a long way towards some new deck gear.
THE DAYS passed into weeks; after the gale had abated the Aysgarth Falls had picked up a fair wind from the north-east and had run with all sail set to the royals, making a fast passage down into the South Atlantic to the equator. Now she had met the doldrums, that area of light, changeable winds or, more often than not, of no wind at all.
This was one of the times of no wind, and Captain McRafferty was on deck, whistling vigorously. This was the first time Halfhyde had seen the old sailing-ship adage in action: McRafferty was whistling for a wind. The ship lay motionless beneath a hot sun; sail had been shifted, the oldest suit of canvas being sent aloft to slat monotonously against the masts. Miss McRafferty sat
