F. F. Nicholls
THE LOG OF THE SARDIS
Nicholls, F. F. (Frederick Francis), 1926-
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Publisher: New York, Norton, 1963
Chapter I
The seaman striking four bells in the first watch — ten o'clock at night — was red-nosed and shivering with the cold of that north-easterly gale in spite of his thick watch-coat. He thrust his red, split hands into its pockets: "Yon's the lights o' Methil, sir. No doubt it'll be a few months before I'm having a wet ashore there again."
Apprentice Jim Robbins, to whom he spoke, did not know what to reply, and merely said, "Ay, ay" — trying to force his eighteen-year-old voice down to its lowest pitch of gruffness.
"Ay, sir, and is it not a daft time to be leaving Leith — eight o'clock at night? Couldn't the Old Man get rid of all those toffs from the Company an' catch the forenoon tide? Or wait till tomorrow? I mean, I know it's this packet's first trip, and all that..."
Just a minute, Jim thought, that's cheek. Have to stop him. "Very good, Sinclair; carry on for'ard."
"Och, I'm goin', sir, don't fash yersel'."
Apprentices don't get much respect then, thought Jim. Good job that brute the First Mate wasn't listening. Half-closing his eyes, and lining the rigging up against the twinkling lights of the little port, he could see that Sardis was just beginning to roll, as the north shore of the Firth of Forth gradually fell away, and the waves thrown up by the brisk wind gradually got larger. That was the best part of sea-going — the ship trembling again with the life given by engines and live water; everyone aboard again, and the whole sea ahead, after weeks lying lifeless and deserted in the dock, watching greasy cabbage-stalks swilling in the oil-tinted waters alongside.
"Hey — Captain Cook! 'Ow many times I got to call you?" Jim had been too engrossed to notice, until he heard the hated sound of that grating Lancashire voice, that White, the First Mate, had come across the deck to where the helmsman stood. That was the end of any pleasantness for a while. White never laughed, never understood, never helped you. "Get the log up here. It's in my cabin. Watch what you're doing with it."
"Ay, ay, sir!" Jim was away fast. He had learnt that any subordinate of White's who didn't leap to it was asking for a quick, brutal knock-down. But he was young, and by the time he had clattered down the brass companion-way sailor-fashion — facing outwards — he felt a sailor again. Making history, in a way; for the new year 1870 was only two days old, and here they were sailing for the far corners of the world in the Sardis, the Company's new screw steamer, all of steel, all 3,000 tons of her. And all the emigrants below — they were making history too, cutting out a new life for themselves in Australia.
The patent log was easy enough to find. It was a new navigational gadget, and there it was on his desk, still neatly stowed in the maker's box; for it was jealously guarded by the Mate, who would never leave it in the chart-room. Jim hadn't really had a good chance to look at it before, and turned it over in his hands. It was something like a streamlined fish, shaped in brass; except that instead of a mouth there was a ring-bolt, and at the tail end there were four fins twisted like the blades of a screw. He picked up the beautiful snowy coil of plaited rope which was fastened to the ring-bolt in its nose; he knew all about its use, of course: the other end of the rope, on which there was a brass wheel, was fastened to a little clock on the stern-rail, and when the "fish" was pitched into the water its screw tail would make it turn; and it would turn and turn, a strange thin fine rising from the wake to turn a little brass wheel to tick up the miles on the clock to the world's end or for the rest of time. With this ingenious gadget, navigation lost a lot of its old magic and guesswork, for it simply told you in neat little figures how many miles it had travelled. And it was Mr White's pride and joy.
Still, even that sarcastic brute couldn't see through a teak deck, which was why Jim Robbins, being full of high spirits to be under way at last, started to twirl the brass fish on the end of its rope, swinging it briskly round in time to his cheerful whistling. He was nearly at the bottom of the companion-way to the deck when the ship dived hard, forward and to port, into the first really big trough. Jim's hands were full, he charged heavily against the bulkhead with his right shoulder, and the brass log rang loudly against a projecting pipe.
The sick taste of fear was in his mouth before he looked at it, for he knew exactly what he would see. Yes, one of the fins that made it turn had hit the pipe, and was now bent back, away from the proper angle. It would need a skilled smith before it would work properly again. And White was just above his head, not eight feet away!
A gust of bitter air blew down the hatchway, and he saw the flat, broad face of the Mate looking down: "Come on, come on, you useless ullage, you. Been gone ten minutes. Well, what's the matter with you, stood there like a dummy?"
This was the moment to tell him if at all. There was a spare one aboard. But those fists! That bitter tongue! He was in trouble already about a lost mooring-rope. Why tell the swine ? Let him find out for himself, if he could. Jim could easily keep his hand where it was now, covering up the bent fin.
"Nothing, sir. Lost my balance for a minute when she rolled." There, it was out. No going back now. It was pitch dark on deck if he kept out of the small circle of the binnacle light. Once the log was over the side . . .
"Lost your balance! Not fit to drive an old horse up the cut." Sullen, confused and afraid, Jim stood hesitantly before him, his right hand closed over the damaged log, his left holding the coil of rope. "An' we're supposed t' make a sailor out of you. Look, gormless, can you see that flashing light down there? No, not there, right ahead!" His great ham-hand had closed round Jim's upper arm, crushing the muscle agonizingly, as it swung him round. He couldn't keep back the wince. "What's the matter now, mother's darling ? Now then - that light's the light on Bass Rock; that'll soon be close abeam to starboard. So now then. Nelson" — the great paw spun the boy round again to face his tormentor, and Jim could see, over the Mate's shoulder, the strangely-lit face of the helmsman set in a grin — "Why do I want the log overside now ?"
"Well, sir, so that the log will — I mean the rope will—"
"God 'elp us when you're captain, that's all I say. Come on now, spit it out!"
"So that the log will be settled down and registering properly by the time the light is abeam."
"Ay, but why?"
"Well, sir, then it can be set to nought, and the dead-reckoning of the ship's run starts from there." As Jim repeated the parrot-phrases his present plight suddenly leapt at him. "Registering properly" — would it do that now — would it register at all ?