“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
