Blow The Man Down: A Romance Of The Coast
yourself out with a new one, of course?”
“Yes, sir.” Mayo's cheeks flushed slightly when he recollected how he
had strutted before the mirror in his room at the hotel. But he had been
ashamed to hurry into his gilt-incrusted coat in the presence of Captain
Jacobs.
“Get it on as soon as you can,” ordered the general manager. “I want you
to make a general inspection of the boat with me.”
They made the tour, and in spite of his misgivings, when he saw the
mists sweeping past the end of the pier Captain Mayo, receiving the
salutes of respectful subalterns, felt the proud joy of one who has at
last arrived at the goal of his ambition.
Master of the crack _Montana_, queen of the Vose fleet, at the age of
twenty-six!
He glanced into each of the splendid mirrors of the great saloon to make
sure of the gold letters on his cap.
The thick carpet seemed grateful to his step. The ship's orchestra was
rehearsing in its gallery.
If only that devilish fog would lift! But still it surged in from the
sea, and the glass, down to 29.40, promised no clearing weather.
“Safety to the minutest detail--that's my motto,” declared Manager Fogg.
“Order a fire drill.”
It was accomplished, and Mr. Fogg criticized the lack of snap. He was
rather severe after the life-boat drill, was over. He ordered a second
rehearsal. He commanded that the crew do it a third time. The warmth
of his insistence on this feature of shipboard discipline was very
noticeable.
“And when you put those boats back see to it that every line is free and
coiled and every cover loose. It costs a lot of good money if you kill
off passengers in these days.” Then he hurried away. “I'll see you
before sailing-time,” he informed Captain Mayo.
The new skipper was glad to be alone and to have leisure for study of
the steamer's log-books. He had been accustomed to a freighter's
slower time on the courses. He did a little figuring. He found that at
seventy-five revolutions per minute the _Montana_ would log off about
the same speed that the freighter made when doing her best. He resolved
to make the fog an excuse and slow down to the _Nequasset's_ familiar
rate of progress. He reflected that he would feel pretty much at home
under those circumstances. He was heartened, and went about the ship
looking less like a malefactor doomed to execution.
When General-Manager Fogg, bustled on board a few minutes prior to the
advertised sailing-time at five o'clock, he commented on Captain Mayo's
improved demeanor.
“Getting one of the best jobs on this coast seemed to make considerable
of a mourner out of you. Perhaps a mirror has shown you how well you
look in that new uniform. At any rate, I'm glad to see you have chirked
up. And now I'll give you a piece of news that ought to make you look
still happier: I'm going along on this trip with you. If you show me
that you can do a good job in this kind of weather you needn't worry
about your position.”
The expression on Captain Mayo's face did not indicate unalloyed delight
when he heard this “good news.” Unaccustomed as he was to the ship, he
could not hope to make a smooth showing.
“And still you refuse to cheer up!” remonstrated the manager.
“I am glad you are going along, sir. Don't misunderstand me. But a
sailor is a pretty serious chap when he feels responsibility. I'm
undertaking a big stunt.”
“It's the best way to find out whether you're the man for the
job--whether you're the man I think you are. It's a test that beats
sailing ships on a puddle.”
“I'm glad you're aboard,” repeated the captain. “It's going to shade
down my responsibility just a little.”
“It is, is it?” cried Manager Fogg, his tones sharp. “Not by a blamed
sight! You're the captain of this craft. I'm a passenger. Don't try to
shirk. You aren't afraid, are you?”
They were standing beside the dripping rail outside the pilot-house.
Far below them, in the spacious depths of the steamer, a bugle sounded
long-drawn notes and the monotonous calls of stewards warned “All
ashore!”
The gangways were withdrawn with dull “clackle” of wet chains over
pulleys, and Captain Mayo, after a swift glance at his watch, to make
sure of the time, ordered a quartermaster to sound the signal for “Cast
off!” The whistle yelped a gruff note, and, seeing that all was clear,
the captain yanked the auxiliary bell-pulls at the rail. Two for the
port engine, two for the starboard, and the _Montana_ began to back into
the gray pall which shrouded the river.
Captain Mayo saw the lines of faces on the pier, husbands and wives,
mothers and sweethearts, bidding good-by to those who waved farewell
from the steamer's decks. He gathered himself with supreme grip of
resolve. It was up to him! He almost spoke it aloud.
Tremors of doubt did not agitate him any longer. It was unthinking
faith, nevertheless it was implicit confidence, that all those folks
placed in him. They were intrusting themselves to his vessel with the
blind assurance of travelers who pursue a regular route, not caring how
the destination is reached as long as they come to their journey's end.
The hoarse, long, warning blast which announced to all in the river that
the steamer was leaving her dock drowned out the shouts of farewell and
the strains of the gay air the orchestra was playing.
“See you later,” said General-Manager Fogg. “I think I'll have an early
dinner.”
Captain Mayo climbed the short ladder and entered his pilot-house.
It was up to him!
XX ~ TESTING OUT A MAN
Now the first land we made is call-ed The Deadman,
The Ramhead off Plymouth, Start, Portland and Wight.
We sail-ed by Beachy,
By Fairlee and Dungeness,
Until we came abreast of the South Foreland Light.
--Farewell and Adieu.
With starboard engine clawing her backward, and the port engine driving
her ahead, the Montana swung her huge bulk when she was free of the
penning piers. The churning propellers, offsetting, turned her in her
tracks. Then she began to feel her way out of the maze of the traffic.
The grim, silent men of the pilot-houses do not talk much even when they
are at liberty on shore. They are taciturn when on duty. They do not
relate their sensations when they are elbowing their way through the
East River in a fog; they haven't the language to do so.
A psychologist might make much out of the subject by discussing
concentration sublimated, human senses coordinating sight and sound
on the instant, a sort of sixth sense which must be passed on into the
limbos of guesswork as instinct.
The man in the pilot-house would not in the least understand a word of
what the psychologist was talking about.
The steamboat officer merely understands that he must be on his job!
The _Montana_ added her voice to the bedlam of river yawp.
The fog was so dense that even the lookout posted at her fore windlasses
was a hazy figure as seen from the pilot-house. A squat ferryboat, which
was headed across the river straight at the slip where her shore gong
'was hailing her, splashed under the steamer's bows, two tugs loafed
nonchalantly across in the other direction--saucy sparrows of the river
traffic, always underfoot and dodging out of danger by a breathless
margin.
Whistle-blasts piped or roared singly and in pairs, a duet of steam
voices, or blended at times into a puzzling chorus.
A steamer's whistle in the fog conveys little information except to
announce that a steam-propelled craft is somewhere yonder in the white
blank, unseen, under way. No craft is allowed to sound passing signals
unless the vessel she is signaling is in plain sight.
Captain Mayo could see nothing--even the surface of the water was almost
indistinguishable.
Ahead, behind, to right and left, everything that could toot was busy
and vociferous. Here and there a duet of three staccato blasts indicated
that neighbors were threatening to collide and were crawfishing to the
best of their ability.
Twice the big steamer stopped her engines and drifted until the squabble
ahead of her seemed to have been settled.
A halt mixes the notations of the log, but the mates of the steamer made
the Battery signals, and after a time the spidery outlines of the first
great bridge gave assurance that their allowances were correct.
Providentially there was a shredding of the fog at Hell Gate, a
shore-breeze flicking the mists off the surface of the water.
Then was revealed the situation which lay behind the particularly
emphatic and uproarious “one long and two short” blasts of a violent
whistle. A Lehigh Valley tug was coming down the five-knot current with
three light barges, which the drift had skeowowed until they were taking
up the entire channel. With their cables, the tug and tow stretched for
at least four thousand feet, almost a mile of dangerous drag.
“Our good luck, sir,” vouchsafed the first mate. “She was howling so
loud, blamed if I could tell whether she was coming or going. She's got
no business coming down the Sound.”
Captain Mayo, his teeth set hard, his rigid face dripping with moisture,
as he stood in the open window, stopped the engines of his giant charge
and jingled for full speed astern in order to halt her. He had no desire
to battle for possession of the channel with what he saw ahead.
At that moment Manager Fogg came into the pilothouse, disregarding the
“No Admittance” sign by authority of his position. He lighted a cigar
and displayed the contented air of a man who has fed fully.
“You have been making a pretty slow drag of it, haven't you, Captain
Mayo? I've had time to eat dinner--and I'm quite a feeder at that! And
we haven't made the Gate yet!”
“We couldn't do a stroke better and be safe,” said the captain over his
shoulder, his eyes on the tow.
“What's the matter now?”
“A tug and three barges in the way.”
“Do you mean to say you're holding up a Vose liner with eight hundred
passengers, waiting for a tugboat? Look here, Mayo, we've got to hustle
folks to where they want to go, and get them there in time.”
“That tow is coming down with the current and has the right of way, sir.
And there's no chance of passing, for she's sweeping the channel.”
“I don't believe there's any law that makes a passenger-boat hold up
for scows,” grumbled Fogg. “If there is one, a good man knows how to
get around it and keep up his schedule.” He paced the pilot-house at the
extreme rear, puffing his cigar.
He grunted when Mayo gave the go-ahead bells and the throb of the
engines began.
“Now ram her along, boy. People in these days don't want to waste time
on the road. They're even speeding up the automobile hearses.”
Captain Mayo did not reply. He was grateful that the dangers of Hell
Gate had been revealed. The mists hung in wisps against North Brother
Island when he swung into the channel of the Gate, and he could see,
far ahead, the shaft of the lighthouse. It was a stretch where close
figuring was needed, and this freak of the mists had given him a fine
chance. He jingled for full speed and took a peep to note the bearing of
Sunken Meadow spindle.
“Nothe-east, five-eighths east!” he directed the quartermaster at the
wheel.
The man repeated the command mechanically and brought her to her course
for the Middle Ground passage.
After they had rounded North Brother, Whitestone Point tower was
revealed. It really seemed as if the fog were clearing, and even in the
channel between Execution Rocks and Sands Point his hopes were rising.
But in the wider waters off Race Rock the _Montana_ drove her black
snout once more into the white pall, and her whistle began to bray
again.
The young captain sighed. “East, a half nothe!”
“East, a half nothe, it is, sir!”