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The Honour Of The Ship
by
“We had dropped hook in the Merchant Shipping Anchorage, as they call it; which is the eastern side of the Sound, by Jennycliff Bay. That last day of the regattas–a Saturday–the wind had been almost true north, and freshish, but nothing to mention: beautiful sailing weather for the small boats. The big cracks had finished their engagements and were making back for Southampton.
“Well, as I say, this north wind was a treat; especially coming, as it did, after a week of light airs and calms that had spoilt most of the yacht-racing. Some time in the afternoon I heard talk that our skipper–well, I won’t mention names–and, as it turned out in the end, everyone was implicated. Anyhow, at six o’clock or thereabouts the gig was ordered out, and every blessed officer on board went ashore in her; which was clean contrary to regulations, of course, but there happened to be a cinematograph show they all wanted to see at the big music-hall–some prize-fight or other. I don’t set much store by prize-fights for my part, and living pictures give me the headache: so, to salve everybody’s conscience, I was left in sole charge of the ship.
“Everything went smooth as a buttered cake until about nine o’clock, when the wind, that had been dying down all the time, suddenly flew west and began to gather strength hand over fist. . . . I never, not being a seaman, could have believed–till I saw and felt it–the change that came over Plymouth Sound in the space of one half-hour. The gig had been ordered again for nine-thirty, to pull to the Barbican Steps and be ready at ten to bring the officers on board. But before nine-thirty I began to have my serious doubts about sending her. It was just as well I had.
“For by nine-forty-five it was blowing a real gale, and by ten o’clock something like a hurricane. Just then, to top my terror, Master Link Andrew came aft to me–the wind seemed to blow him along–and ‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Wilkins,’ said he, ‘but in my opinion she’s dragging.’
“Just think of it, sir! There was I, in sole charge of a hundred boys or so, and knowing no more what to do than the ship’s cat. . . . She was dragging, too; sagging foot by foot in towards the dark of Jennycliff Bay.
“‘If you’ll take a word from me, sir,’ said Link, ‘we’d best up sail and get out of this.’
“‘What about the other anchor?’ I suggested.
“‘ Try it if you like,’ said he. ‘In my belief it won’t hold any more than a tin mustard-pot.’
“Nor did it, when we let go. He came back after a few minutes from the darkness forward. ‘No go,’ said he. ‘Nothing to do but slip and clear.’
“There was no question, either, that he spoke sense. ‘But where?’ I shouted at him. ‘Drake’s Island? . . . And who’s to do it, even so?’
“‘The anchorage is crowded under Drake’s Island,’ he shouted back. ‘It’s the devil-among-the-tailors we’d play there, if we ever fetched. . . . Breakwater’s no shelter either.’
“He seemed to whistle to himself for a moment; and the next I heard him yell out sharply to the boys forward to tumble on the mainsail, strip her covers off, double-reef and hoist her. He took command from that moment. While a score of them flew to tackle this job, he beat his way forward and called on another lot to get out the staysail. Back he ran again, cursing and calling on all and sundry to look smart. Next he was at my side ordering me to unlash the wheel and stand by. ‘It’s touch-and-go, sir.’
“‘Hadn’t we better send up a flare?’ I suggested feebly.
“‘Flare your bloomin’ grandmother!’ From this moment I regret to say that Link Andrew treated me with contempt. He next ordered a dozen small boys aloft, to reef and set her upper square-sail. When I urged that it was as good as asking them to commit suicide, he cursed me openly. ‘Drown the poor pups, will I? I thought–damn you all!– you laid yourselves out to breed seamen! You say you do, at prize-givings!’ He ran forward again to get the hawsers buoyed before slipping them.