The Cruise of the Dry Dock/Sail Ho!
CHAPTER V
SAIL HO!
Caradoc lay stretched out in a deck chair, on top of the broad wall of the dock, a cool dawn breeze playing over him. He looked across the motley sea toward an opalescent sky reddening in the east.
"No," replied Madden without great interest, from his seat on the rail, "I've no idea what you mean by a 'remittance man.'"
The Englishman's eyes strayed wearily from the limpid dawn to the tiny image of a lion couchant on a small blue enameled shield which he used as a watch fob.
"Among the English—" He paused and began again: "Among a certain class of English families," he proceeded in an impersonal tone, "when a member goes hopelessly astray, that member is sent abroad to travel indefinitely. Remittances are forwarded to him from place to place, wherever he wishes to go, but—” there was a scarcely noticeable pause—“he can't come back to England any more.”
“O-o-h!” dragged out Madden in a low voice, comprehending the man before him for the first time.
“So they are called remittance men—always remitted to.” Caradoc's long fever-worn face, that was filling out in convalescence, colored momentarily.
“So that's what you were,” said the American after a pause; “a remittance man, simply drifting over the face of the earth, supported by your family, boozing your life away, and always longing to see England again?”
“You can put things so raw, Madden,” responded Caradoc with a ghost of a smile. “I am, not were.”
“Were,” insisted the American quickly. “Before your collapse you were a confirmed alcoholic, but you are slightly different now. Your eight days of fever, when Hogan and I had to hold you in bed, must have burned you out, cleaned up your whole system. You are nearer normal now than you were. You have a fresh start. It's up to you what you do with it.“
The Englishman looked at his friend with a sort of slow surprise on his face. “I hadn't noticed it, but I don't believe I do crave drink as keenly.”
“No, sickness is often not so bad a thing as folks think. It is nature's way of putting us right. Sometimes,” he added thoughtfully, “we crumple up in the process, but we can hardly blame the old lady for that.”
“You're an odd fellow, Madden,” laughed Caradoc, getting slowly out of his chair and stretching his arms. “Well, for some reason or other, I feel fine this morning—let's take a constitutional around the dock.”
The young men walked off, side by side, and began the circuit of the dock's quarter-mile outline. The breeze was such a rarity in the becalmed region that the two paused now and then to take long grateful breaths, and to watch the little wind waves ripple the glassy Sargasso lanes.
As they walked, navvies came out with buckets brushes and set to work painting the maze of iron stanchions that lined the long interior of the dock.
“I'm afraid I'll have to stop that painting,” remarked Leonard after watching them a moment.
“They'll be very glad of it—but why?”
“It consumes too much energy. The men can live on less if they quit work.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I think I shall have to cut their food down to half rations. We've been adrift nearly sixteen days now and not a smoke plume from the Vulcan. She has lost us—if she didn't founder.”
“Any chance of meeting some other vessel?”
“Here in the ocean's graveyard?”
“Are we far in?” inquired Smith with rising concern.
“Close to three hundred miles, and getting deeper every day.”
The two walked on mechanically, with the precise step of those who seek exercise. The rim of the sun cut the edge of the ocean and a long trail of light made the east difficult for their eyes.
“Any danger of starving?” questioned Caradoc, staring moth-like at the blinding disc of flame.
“Perhaps not,” meditated Madden. “I've been thinking about it. As a last resort this seaweed is edible, at any rate certain species of it. The Chinese and Japanese eat it, but that isn't much of a recommendation to a European. Then the water is full of fish that come to nibble at the stuff.”
Caradoc was obviously inattentive to this consoling information. “Yes,” he murmured politely, “Japanese do nibble at the fish.”
Madden looked around at his abstracted friend, who was still staring into the molten sunrise.
“When the Japanese come to nibble at the fish, we might get some food from them,” suggested Madden with American delight in the ridiculous.
“Perhaps so.”
“And fans, parasols, and little ivory curios—souvenirs of the Sargasso, when we roll up the dock and take it home.”
Smith nodded soberly, still gazing.
“What are you looking at, Caradoc?” laughed the American.
“I say, Madden, just look at that sun, will you? I thought I saw a little black fleck against it straightaway to the east right down on the horizon.”
“You're injuring your sight, that's all,” the American was still smiling. “You know black specks will dance before your eyes if you stare at the sun too long.”
“But this was shaped like a sail,” persisted Smith, staring again.
“Illusion,” diagnosed Madden promptly, but his eyes followed Caradoc's eastward nevertheless.
As far as his sight could reach up the golden path, he saw the black markings of seaweed; then his vision became lost in a mist of illumination. However, in this region, he could distinguish things dimly and in flashes.
Presently, in one of these clear instants, he saw flashed, like the single film of a moving picture, the tiny black silhouette of a ship's sail against the dazzling east. Next moment it was lost in light.
“I told you!” cried Caradoc, getting his friend's expression. “It's there! We've both seen it! A ship, Madden!”
Then he turned with more strength than Madden thought was in him. “Sail ho, men!” he sang out. “A sail!”
“Come up, fellows, and take a look!” chimed in Madden just as eagerly. “We believe we see a sail!”
The crew dropped work at once, and came climbing the ladder up the deep side of the canyon like a string of monkeys; then they came running across the red decking.
“Where?” “Wot direction?” “Where ees eet?” came a chorus of inquiries.
The two were pointing and soon the whole crew was lined up staring into the brilliance. Their fresh eyes caught the glimpse immediately and held it long enough to make sure.
“A sail!” “There she is!” “Oi see her!” bellowed half a dozen voices.
The whole crew fell into tense, happy confusion, laughing, staring, yelling, speculating, slapping backs.
“Will she see us?” cried someone.
“Do ye think she'd overlook the whole west half o' th' sea, Galton?”
“She weel run against us eef she cooms thees way.”
“But she might not know we are in distress?”
“Disthress, is it ye're sayin'? We're not in disthress, ye loon. This is th' happiest day o' me loife.”
Leonard turned to the Irishman. “Hogan, go dip that flag on the jury mast—wiggle it up and down—let 'em know something is wrong—make 'em think we have the rickets if nothing else.”
Two men ran off with Hogan to the forward bridge; the others stared, waved, shouted and let their excitement bubble down.
“But I don't understand a sailing vessel in these waters,” speculated Leonard.
“Maybe it's a derelick?” surmised Galton. “I've 'card as 'ow this was a great place for derelicks.”
“'Ow could she be a derelick,” argued Mulcher, “w'en she 'as so much canvas aloft? You run up on derelicks an' git sunk, ever' cove knows that.”
“I carn't think of hall these things at once!” retorted Galton.
“Perhaps she ees the Vulcan under sail with deesabled engines?” suggested Deschaillon.
This explanation was accepted unanimously and joy broke out afresh.
“Why sure, th' Vulcan, th' good old Vulcan! Now, lads, let's give three cheers and maybe it'll reach 'er!”
Madden left the men trying to reach her with their bellows and went below after the mate's binoculars. When he returned the sun had swung up above the rim of the ocean and the sail was plainly discernible. He leveled his glasses and his eyes went searching among the distant markings of seaweed, until it finally rested on the sail. The vessel was hull down. There was nothing to see except a little canvas stretched neatly aloft and ship-shape masts and spars. He observed her attentively for some time. She seemed to be making very little headway. All in all, Madden made little of the craft, so he handed the glass to Smith. The Englishman was likewise puzzled, and the binoculars went down the line of curious men.
There was something in the way the youth named Farnol Greer handled the instrument that caused Madden to ask:
“What do you make out, Greer?”
“She is lying to, sir. She's backing her tops'ls flat against the breeze, and her mains'l's reefed and drawing with it.”
“Lying to!” cried three or four voices. “W'ot does she mean by that? Looks as if she'd be bloomin' glad to get out o' such a bally place as this!”
“Let me have another look.” Madden resumed the binoculars.
Now that Madden's attention was called to this unusual disposition of the sails, he could make out their position for himself.
This started another tide of speculation buzzing among the castaways. Was the Vulcan crippled? Had she run short of coal? But why should she voluntarily lay-to in the very sight of her quarry?
“They're fishin',” surmised Deschaillon, “off in th' boats fishin'; they're weethout food also.”
This wild surmise was the only reasonable hypothesis that had been struck on. Another group of men rushed for the jury mast to show the fishermen that their presence was desired. At any rate the faint breeze was very slowly bringing the two vessels together.
If the men had been heretofore anxious that the cool breeze continue, now their anxiety was redoubled. At any moment it might die away and leave the Vulcan stranded beyond communication. In painful uncertainty, they watched the tug drag her hull slowly into sight, then slowly eat her way down the long mazy lanes of the Sargasso.
Then, when she was well in view, Farnol Greer said:
“She is not the Vulcan, sir.”
By this time all the men had their brown faces wrinkled up against the glare of the sunshine. Now they redoubled their gaze on the distant vessel.
“Faith, and sure enough she isn't!” cried Hogan.
Greer was right; the strange vessel was not the tug. She had a funnel amidship and two masts, but there her resemblance to the Vulcan ceased.
The crew stared, talked, speculated, until the sun swung up like a white-hot metal ball in the sky, and the quivering heat drove them below under the awnings. From here they could still view the stranger, but not to so good advantage. The breeze, by good fortune lasted till deep in the morning, but finally dropped down in the blanketing heat, with the unknown craft a good three miles distant.
The dock's crew could make out no sign of life as they strained their eyes through the glare of tropical brilliance. The high-lights of the schooner's reversed topsails and the luminous shadows of her mainsail stood out vividly against the hot copper sky. The multi-colored markings of the ocean and the sharp line of the horizon finished a very picture of pitiless heat.
The men stood beneath the awning, legs apart, arms held away from bodies, and stared from under dripping brows for some signs of recognition from the stranger.
“'Asn't she got up a single rag to show us she sees us?” puffed Galton, swiping his hand across his forehead and flinging drops on the iron deck, where they evaporated the moment they hit.
"Don't see none," replied the navvy who possessed the binoculars at that moment.
"'Ave they any boats?"
"One cleated down for'ard, one slung on the midship davits, and I think I make hout one on t'other side past the booby hatch."
"And not a soul on deck?"
"Not unless they're settin' on th' fur side o' th' superstructure."
"Wot would they want to be settin' in th' sun for?" demanded Galton brusquely.
"'Ow do I know? If they was Eth'opians, wouldn't they set in th' sun?"
"This is as clost as we'll ever git," surmised another voice. "The night breeze'll blow 'er back where she come from."
"Well, w'ere's that?" demanded Mulcher savagely.
"Why, Eth'opia, I reckon, if she's got a crew of Eth'opians settin' on t'other side of 'er superstructure."
"They ain't a man-jack aboard; and you know it," snarled Galton, "or 'e'd be poppin' 'is eyes hout at such a 'orrible big sight as we must be.”
“Anyway, I'll bet she blows back w'ere she come from, to-night,” persisted the advocate of this theory.
The men caviled on at each other endlessly, disputing, denying, upbraiding, and once in a while coming to blows.
In order to keep any sort of discipline, Leonard and Caradoc kept to themselves under a separate awning, for all sea-faring experience has shown that a separation of officers and men is necessary for the management of sailors.
However, Madden heard most of the arguments that went on under the men's canvas, and he became convinced that the sailor was right; the evening breeze would carry the schooner away from the dock. He measured the long distance through the sea lanes from dock to schooner with his eyes.
“Caradoc,” he said to his friend, “if we ever reach that vessel now's our time.”
“How do you hope to do it?”
For answer Madden turned to the men. “Mulcher, bring me a life buoy, will you?”
Mulcher arose and started on his errand.
Caradoc stared. “You don't intend to swim that distance—through this heat?”
“There's a boat over there, and provisions, perhaps.”
“And the crew?”
“It is quite possible that they sleep through the day which is utterly becalmed and make some little headway at night with the slight evening and morning breezes—it would be a task for a sailing vessel to work herself out of the Sargasso.”
“Why I never thought of that. I suppose it is possible.”
Mulcher was returning with a buoy. The crew came forward behind the navvy, on the qui vive over this new undertaking.
“Faith, and hadn't ye betther sind one o' th' min, sir,” suggested Hogan, “an if he drowns, sir, Oi would take it to be a sign that it's a dangerous swim.”
“An' the sharks, Meester Madden,” warned Deschaillon.
As Madden kicked off his clothes, he observed Caradoc stripping likewise. Then Farnol Greer came running down the deck with another buoy and a big clasp knife.
The American looked at these fellows. “Caradoc, you can't possibly hold out that distance; you're weak.”
“I've done ten miles in—at home.”
Greer said nothing, but rapidly undressed.
All three kept on their hats and undershirts as protection against sunburn. As Madden walked from the awning through the stinging sun rays, crimping up his naked feet from the blistering deck, Galton called to him.
“If we git a lot of grub, sir, couldn't it be hextra, and carn't we 'ave a spread to-night, sir?”
“Something like that,” agreed Madden, tossing his buoy into the water. The two other swimmers followed example, then all three dived off the twelve foot pontoon toward their floats. They came up shaking the water from ears and eyes. Madden was immersed in tepid water. His men were cheering stolidly. The schooner looked very, very far away now that he was at the surface of the water. Between him and his goal streaked mazes of sargassum. It suddenly struck the American that he might have trouble getting through those barriers.
However, the three swimmers were progressing boldly.