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قراءة كتاب The First Mate: The Story of a Strange Cruise
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The First Mate: The Story of a Strange Cruise
o’ a hunner and feefty to drive the dynamos and work the capstan and winches. Man, I tell ye this bonnie boat is richt up-to-date, and dinna forget it. As to the propeller, naiturally ye wadna see’t, the watter bein’ sae thick.”
At Kennedy’s pressing invitation I remained aboard to dine, and incidentally to be introduced to the remaining members of the wardroom mess—Mr Samuel Briscoe, the second officer, and Mr Robert Mackintosh, the second engineer. Before the meal was over I had come to agree with the purser that in selecting Briscoe for her second officer Mrs Vansittart had not been quite so happily inspired as in the case of the other members of the mess. He was a pasty-faced fellow of about forty years of age, baggy under his watery-looking, almost colourless blue eyes, slow in his movements, glum and churlish of manner, and unpolished of speech; also I had a suspicion that he was more addicted to drink than was at all desirable in a man occupying such a responsible position in such a ship. He would doubtless have done well enough as “dicky” in an ordinary wind-jammer, but on the quarterdeck of such a craft as the Stella Maris I considered he was distinctly out of place.
During the progress of the meal I learned that, as I had already suspected, the yacht was a brand-new ship, this being her first voyage. Her exact measurement, it appeared, was two thousand six hundred and seventeen tons. She had originated in the office of Herreshoff, the world-famous yacht designer, and embraced in her construction every last refinement known to the most up-to-date naval constructor. She had been built to the order of Mr Julius Vansittart, the multi-millionaire engineer and steel magnate, as a birthday present to his wife. Mrs Vansittart’s passion was yachting, and she was wont to knock about New York Bay, the Hudson River, and Long Island Sound, with occasional adventurous stretches down the coast as far as Delaware Bay, or even to Baltimore, in a sturdy little ten-ton sloop, the while she studied seamanship and navigation and Mr Vansittart attended to his business.
I further learned that the lady’s boast to me, that she was captain of the yacht in fact as well as in name, was literally true, she having not only picked and shipped the entire crew, officers as well as men, but taken command of the ship when the pilot left her, and sailed and navigated her across the Atlantic and up the English Channel with no more assistance from her officers than a shipmaster usually receives.
“I tell you, sor, it’s a treat to see her put this ship about, blow high, blow low,” Kennedy remarked admiringly; “though how the mischief she learned the way to handle a square-rigger it puzzles the sowl of me to know.”
It transpired that Mrs Vansittart was accompanied on this trip by her daughter Anthea, aged sixteen—“as bonnie a lassie as you e’er set eyes upon,” Mackintosh interjected—and her son Julius, a lad of twelve—“and thoroughly spoiled at that, more’s the pity,” the doctor added. There was also a certain Reverend Henry James Monroe, M.A., a middle-aged, refined, and very scholarly man, who served in the dual capacity of chaplain of the ship and tutor to the aforesaid Julius. He was one of the saloon party, and was held in the highest honour and respect by Mrs Vansittart, who deferred to his opinion in all things save in the matter of discipline where her darling boy was concerned. I also learned that the yacht was manned by a crew of no less than eighty seamen, every one of whom was rated as A.B.; so that, with the saloon party, officers, petty officers, stewards, and stewardesses, we should make the respectable muster of one hundred and eight all told when we went to sea on the morrow.
Chapter Two.
We go to Sea.
It was past nine o’clock, and a cold, dreary night, with a drizzle of rain, when at length I quitted the hospitable wardroom of the yacht and wended my way back to my rather frowsy lodging in Nightingale Lane. Arrived there, I forthwith proceeded to write a letter to my mother, whose home was in the picturesque little village of Newton Ferrers, near Plymouth, informing her of my good fortune in having secured so satisfactory a berth, and explaining my inability to run down and see her before my departure owing to the fact that we were to sail on the following day. Then, having posted my letter, I got my few traps together, bundled them all into my sea chest, and turned in to take my last sleep on English soil for many a long day to come.
I was up and astir again by seven o’clock the next morning, my first move being to go along to the yacht and interview Snip, the tailor, in accordance with my arrangement of the previous evening. To my amazement, I found that the man, with characteristic American “hustle”, had got my working suit of uniform far enough advanced for me to try it on. The cut and fit proved to be everything: that could be desired, and I was faithfully promised that the suit should be ready for me to don upon joining the ship after signing articles.
In keeping with our pretensions to be a “swagger” ship and crew, the wardroom mess took lunch, instead of dinner, at one o’clock, dining at seven o’clock in the evening. This was the hour adopted by the saloon party, who, I learned, were regularly reinforced by one or more members of the wardroom contingent, by special invitation from Mrs Vansittart.
It was just two o’clock in the afternoon when the boatswain piped “All hands unmoor ship”; and by half-past two we were through the dock gates and heading down the river, impelled by our own engine.
Bearing out what Kennedy and the others had already told me as to Mrs Vansittart being the actual as well as nominal captain of the yacht, at the call of “All hands” the lady had appeared on deck. She was arrayed in an exceedingly neat and workmanlike costume of navy-blue serge, the jacket of which was fastened with gilt buttons bearing the insignia of the New York Yacht Club, the cuffs being adorned with four rows of gold braid, the top row showing the “executive curl”, while her smartly dressed chestnut hair was surmounted by a navy cap of the most approved pattern, the peak edged with the usual trimming of a wreath of oak leaves embroidered in gold thread, while the front of the cap bore the New York Yacht Club badge.
True, she did not give her orders respecting the unmooring of the ship directly to the crew, as this would probably have resulted in unduly straining her voice, singularly sweet and pure in quality, of which, as I subsequently discovered, she was very justly proud. She gave her orders to Kennedy, who acted as her aide and repeated them in trumpet-like notes that could be distinctly heard all over the ship.
It was then, while we were hauling out of dock, that I got my first glimpse of Miss Anthea, Master Julius, and the Reverend Henry James Monroe, all of whom came on deck to witness the passage of the ship through the dock gates and down the river. I was stationed in the waist, and therefore only obtained at that moment a comparatively distant glimpse of the saloon party on the poop, but even that sufficed to confirm the testimony of the second engineer as to Miss Anthea’s physical charms. But I did not altogether like her expression, which was a blank, save for a hint of hauteur mingled with dissatisfaction at things in general.
Her brother was so exactly like her in features that the two might have been twins, but he was a good three inches shorter than his sister, as well as a trifle thinner in the face. He talked incessantly in a sharp, high-pitched, and most unmusical voice, the unattractiveness of which was further heightened by a pronounced nasal American accent. From such scraps of his conversation as reached me from time to time I gathered that his talk was almost wholly about himself, his doings, his opinions, his likes and