Who is there among British seafarers that does not know the “chain-locker”—that den just opposite the Mint like an exaggerated bear-pit? The homeward-bounder, his heart light as thistle-down with the first taste of liberty after his voyage’s long imprisonment, takes no heed of its squalor; no, not even in the drear December slushiness, following upon a Shadwell snowstorm. If he does glance around shudderingly at the haggard faces of the unshipped for a moment, the feel of the beloved half-sheet of blue foolscap ostentatiously displayed in his club-fingered right hand brings the departing look of satisfaction back swiftly enough. It is his “account of wages,” his passport within the swing doors of the office, which he will presently exchange for the few pieces of gold for which he has given such a precious slice of his life.

But the outward-bounder, his hands thrust deep into empty pockets, the bitter taste of begrudged bread parching his mouth, and the scowling face of his boarding master refusing to pass from his mind’s eye; he it is who feels the utter desolation of the crowded “chain-locker” corrode his very soul. After a long day’s tramp around the docks, sneaking on board vessels like a thief, and asking the mate for a “chance” with bated breath, as if begging for pence, unsuccessful and weary, he returns to this walled-in pit of gloom, and jealously eyes the company of miserables like himself, as if in each one he saw a potential snatcher of his last hope of a berth.

Outward-bounders have little to say to each other in the “chain-locker.” They wait, not like honest labourers seeking legitimate employment, but like half-tried prisoners awaiting sentence. This characteristic is so universal that, although we who bided the coming of the Gareth’s skipper had all got our discharges in, and so felt reasonably sure of her, we had not exchanged half a dozen words among the fourteen of us.

But there suddenly appeared in our midst a square-built, rugged-faced man of middle height, whose grey eyes twinkled across his ruined nose, and whose mouth had that droll droop of the lower lip that shows a readiness, not only to laugh in and out of season, but almost pathetically invites the beholder to laugh too. He it was who broke the stony silence by saying in the richest brogue, “Is it all av us bhoys that does be goin’ in the wan ship, I wondher?” Even the most morose among us felt an inclination to smile, we hardly knew why, but just then the swing door of the engaging office burst open, and a hoarse voice shouted, “Crew o’ the Gareth here.”

The words, like some irresistible centripetal force, sucked in from the remotest corner of the large area every man, and in a moment all of us, who had, as we thought, secured our chances by lodging our discharges beforehand, were seized with something of a panic lest we should lose the ship after all. Heavens! how we thrust and tore our way into the office, past the burly policeman who held every one of us at the pinch of the door until he was satisfied of our right to enter. Once within, we felt safe, and stood nervously fingering our caps while the clerk gabbled over the usual formula, to which none of us gave the slightest heed. “Signing on” began and proceeded apace, to the accompaniment of a running fire of questions as to age, nationality, last ship, etc., to which answers, if not promptly forthcoming, were, I am afraid, supplied by the questioner. There was a subdued chuckle, and the man who had spoken outside stood at the counter.

“What name?” snapped the clerk.

“Alphonso M’Ginty, yer anner,” was the answer. No exquisite witticism ever raised a more wholesome burst of laughter. It positively brightened that dull hole like a ray of sea-sunshine.

“How old?” said the clerk, in a voice still tremulous.

“God befrind me, I forgot! Say tirty-five, sor.”

“Your discharge says twenty-five?” returned the clerk.

“Ah yes, yer anner, but it’s said that for the last tirty years!”

“Isn’t it time it was altered then?” retorted the clerk, magisterial again, as he entered fifty-five on the articles. The old fellow’s quaint speech, added to an indefinable aureole of good humour about him, had completely changed the sullen aspect of our crowd, so that for the moment we quite forget that but fourteen of us were engaged to take the 4000-ton ship Gareth to New Zealand first, and then to any other part of the world, voyage not to exceed three years.

So, with even the Dutchmen laughing and chuckling in sympathy with the fun they felt, but didn’t understand, we all dispersed with our advance notes to get such discount as fate and the sharks would allow. In good time we were all aboard, for ships were scarce, and all of us anxious to get away. But when we saw the vast, gaunt hull well down to Plimsoll’s Mark, and the four towering steel giants of masts with their immense spreading branches, and thought of the handful we were to manage them, we felt a colder chill than even the biting edge of the bitter east wind had given us.

We mustered in the dark, iron barn of the fo’c’sle, and began selecting bunks temporarily, until we were picked for watches, when our attention was arrested by the voice of M’Ginty, saying—

“Bhoys!”

All turned towards him where he stood, with a bottle of rum and a tea-cup, and no one needed a second call. When the bottle was empty, and our hearts had gone out to the donor, he said, clearing his throat once or twice—

“Bhoys, fergive me, I’m a —— imposhtor. I broke me right knee-cap an’ five ribs comin’ home from ’Frisco in the Lamech—fell from the fore-t’galant yard—an’ I bin three months in Poplar Hospital. I can’t go aloft, but I didn’t think what a crime it wuz goin’ to be agin ye all until I see this awful over-sparred brute here. Don’t be harrd on me, bhoys; ye wouldn’t have me starrve ashore, wud yez now, or fret me poor owld hearrt out in the wurrkhouse afther forty-five year on the open sea?”

He stopped and looked around distressfully, and in that moment all our hearts warmed to him. We were a mixed crowd, of course, but nearly half of us were British, and there would have been a stormy scene if any of the aliens had ventured to raise a protest against M’Ginty’s incapacity. We didn’t express our sympathy, but we felt it, and he with native quickness knew that we did. And never from that day forward did the brave old chap hear a word of complaint from any of us about having to do his work.

Just then the voice of the bos’un sounded outside, “Turn to!” and as we departed to commence work, although not a word was said, there was a fierce determination among us to protect M’Ginty against any harshness from the officers on account of his disablement. There was too much of a bustle getting out of dock for any notice to be taken of his stiff leg, which he had so cleverly concealed while shipping, but the mate happening to call him up on to the forecastle head for something, his lameness was glaringly apparent at once to the bos’un, who stood behind him. For just a minute it looked like trouble as the bos’un began to bluster about his being a —— cripple, but we all gathered round, and the matter was effectually settled at once.

We never regretted our consideration. For, while it was true that he couldn’t get aloft, and those mighty sails would have been a handful for double our number in a breeze of wind, there never was a more willing, tireless worker on deck, and below he was a perfect godsend. His sunny temper, bubbling fun, and inexhaustible stock of yarns, made our grey lives happier than they had ever been at sea before. If we would have allowed it, he would have been a slave to all of us, for we carried no boys, and all the odd domestic jobs of the fo’c’sle had to be done by ourselves. As it was, he was always doing something for somebody, and as he was a thorough sailor in his general handiness and ability, his services were highly appreciated. He made the Gareth a comfortable ship, in spite of her manifold drawbacks.

In due time we reached the “roaring forties” and began to run the easting down. The long, tempestuous stretch of the Southern Ocean lay before us, and the prospect was by no means cheering. The Gareth, in spite of her huge bulk, had given us a taste of her quality when running before a heavy breeze of wind shortly after getting clear of the Channel, and we knew that she was one of the wettest of her class, a vessel that welcomed every howling sea as an old friend, and freely invited it to range the whole expanse of her decks from poop to forecastle. And, in accordance with precedent, we knew that she would be driven to the last extremity of canvas endurance, not only in the hope of making a quick passage, but because shortening sail after really hard running was such an awful strain upon the handful of men composing the crew. So that when once the light sails were secure, an attempt would always be made to “hang on” to the still enormous spread of sail remaining, until the gale blew itself out, or we had run out of its vast area. But for some days the brave west wind lingered in its lair, and we slowly crept to the s’uthard and east’ard with trumpery little spurts of northerly and nor’-westerly breeze. We had reached 47° S. and about 10° E. when, one afternoon, it fell calm.

One of the most magnificent sunsets imaginable spread its glories over the western sky. Great splashes of gorgeous colouring stained the pale blue of the heavens, and illuminated the fantastic crags and ranges of cloud that lay motionless around the horizon, like fragments of a disintegrated world. A long, listless swell came solemnly from the west at regular intervals, giving the waiting ship a stately rhythmical motion in the glassy waters, and making the immense squares of canvas that hung straight as boards from the yards slam against the steel masts with a sullen boom. Except for that occasionally recurring sound, a solemn stillness reigned supreme, while the wide mirror of the ocean reflected faithfully all the flaming tints of the sky. Quietly all of us gathered on the fo’c’sle head for the second dog-watch smoke, but for some time all seemed strangely disinclined for the desultory chat that usually takes place at that pleasant hour. Pipes were puffed in silence for half an hour, until suddenly M’Ginty broke the spell (his voice sounding strangely clear and vibrant), by saying—

“I had a quare dhrame lasht night.”

No one stirred or spoke, and after a few meditative pulls at his pipe, he went on—

“I dhreamt that I was a tiny gorsoon again, at home in owld Baltimore. I’d been wandherin’ and sthrayin’, God alone knows where, fur a dhreadful long while, it seemed, until at lasht, whin I wuz ready t’ die from sheer weariness an’ fright, I hearrd me dear mother’s sweet voice cryin’, ‘Where’s Fonnie avic iver got to this long while?’ Oh!’twas as if an angel from hiven shpoke to me, an’ I cried wid all me hearrt an’ me tongue, ‘Here, mother, here I am!’ An’ she gathered me up in her arrums that wuz so soft an’ cosy, till I felt as if I was a little tired chick neshtlin’ into its mother’s feathers in the snuggest of nests. I didn’t go to sleep, I just let meself sink down, down into rest, happy as any saint in glory. An’ thin I woke up wid a big, tearin’ ache all over me poor owld broken-up body. But bad as that wuz, ’twuz just nothin’ at all to the gnawin’ ache at me hearrt.”

Silence wrapped us round again, for who among us could find any words to apply to such a story as that? And it affected us all the more because of its complete contrast to M’Ginty’s usual bright, cheery, and uncomplaining humour. Not another word was spoken by any one until the sharp strokes on the little bell aft cleft the still air, and, in immediate response, one rose and smote the big bell hanging at the break of the forecastle four double blows, ushering in the first watch of the night. The watch on deck relieved wheel and look-out, and we who were fortunate enough to have the “eight hours in,” lost no time in seeking our respective bunks, since in those stern latitudes we might expect a sudden call at any moment. We had hardly been asleep five minutes, it seemed, when a hoarse cry came pealing in through the fo’c’sle door of “All hands on deck! Shorten sail!” And as we all started wide awake, we heard the furious voice of the southern tempest tearing up the face of the deep, and felt the massive fabric beneath our feet leaping and straining under the tremendous strain of her great breadths of canvas, that we had left hanging so idly at eight bells.

Out into the black night we hurried, meeting the waiting mate at the foremast, and answering his first order of “man the fore tops’ls downhaul” with the usual repetition of his words. Weird cries arose as we hauled with all our strength on the downhauls and spilling lines, while overhead we could hear, even above the roar of the storm, the deep boom of the topsails fiercely fighting against the restraining gear. Then, with a hissing, spiteful snarl, came snow and sleet, lashing us like shotted whips, and making the darkness more profound because of the impossibility of opening the eyes against the stinging fragments of ice. But, after much stumbling and struggling, we got the four huge tops’ls down, and, without waiting for the order, started aloft to furl, the pitiful incapacity of our numbers most glaringly apparent. The pressure of the wind was so great that it was no easy matter to get aloft, but clinging like cats, we presently found ourselves (six of the port watch) on the fore topsailyard.

The first thing evident was that the great sail was very slightly subdued by the gear; it hovered above the yard like a white balloon, making it both difficult and dangerous to get out along the spar. The storm scourged us pitilessly, the great round of the sail resisted all our attempts to “fist” it, and we seemed as helpless as children. Some bold spirits clutched the lifts, and, swinging above the sail, tried to stamp a hollow into it with their feet; but against the increasing fury of the tempest we seemed to be utterly impotent. We were so widely separated, too, that each man appeared to be essaying a giant’s task single-handed, and that horrible sense of fast-oozing strength was paralyzing us. Feeling left our hands; we smote them savagely against that unbending sail without sensation, and still we seemed no nearer the conclusion of our task. But suddenly the ship gave a great lurch to windward, and just for one moment the hitherto unyielding curve of the sail quivered. In that instant every fist had clutched a fold, and with a flash of energy we strained every sinew to conquer our enemy.

Tugging like a madman to get the sail spilled, I glanced sideways, and saw to my horror, by a jagged flash of lightning, the rugged face of M’Ginty.

I had hardly recognized him when, with a roar like the combined voices of a troop of lions, the sail tore itself away from us, and with bleeding hands I clutched at the foot-rope stirrup as I fell back. But at the same moment M’Ginty’s arms flew up. He caught at the empty gloom above him, gasping, “In manus tuas, Domine——” and fell. Far beneath us the hungry sea seethed and whirled, its white glare showing ghastly against the thick darkness above. For two or three seconds I hung as if irresolute whether to follow my poor old shipmate or not; then the heavy flapping of the sail aroused me, and springing up again, I renewed my efforts. The ship had evidently got a “wipe up” into the wind, for the sail was now powerless against us, and in less than five minutes it was fast, and we were descending with all speed to renew our desperate fight with the mizen and jigger topsails. The decks were like the sea overside, for wave after wave toppled inboard, and it was at the most imminent risk to life and limb that we scrambled aft, quite a sense of relief coming as we swung out of that turbulent flood into the rigging again.

But I was almost past feeling now. A dull aching sense of loss clung around my heart, and the patient, kindly face of my shipmate seemed branded upon my eyes, as he had lifted it to the stormy skies in his last supplicatory moan. I went about my work doggedly, mechanically; indifferent to cold, fatigue, or pain, until, when at last she was snugged down, and, under the fore lower topsails and reefed foresail, was flying through the darkness like some hunted thing, I staggered wearily into the cheerless fo’c’sle, dropped upon a chest, and stared moodily at vacancy.

Somebody said, “Where’s M’Ginty?” That roused me. It seemed to put new life and hope into me, for I replied quite brightly, “He’s gone to the rest he was talking about in the dog-watch. He’ll never eat workhouse bread, thank God!”

Eager questioning followed, mingled with utter amazement at his getting aloft at all. But when all had said their say one feeling had been plainly manifested—a feeling of deep thankfulness that such a grand old sailor as our shipmate M’Ginty was where he fain would be, taking his long and well-earned rest.