And the schooling bullet leaped across and led them whence they came. And in the waiting silences the rudder whined beneath, And each man drew his watchful breath slow taken 'tween the teeth Trigger and ear and eye acock, knit brow and hard-drawn lips Bracing his feet by chock and cleat for the rolling of the ships. Till they heard the cough of a wounded man that fought in the fog for breath, Till they heard the torment of Reuben Paine that wailed upon his death: "The tides they'll go through Fundy Race, but I'll go never more "And see the hogs from ebb-tide mark turn scampering back to shore. 66 "No more I'll see the trawlers drift below the Bass Rock ground, "Or watch the tall Fall steamer lights tear blazing up the Sound. "Sorrow is me, in a lonely sea and a sinful fight I fall, "But if there's law o' God or man you'll swing for it yet, Tom Hall!" Tom Hall stood up by the quarter-rail. "Your words in your teeth," said he. “There's never a law of God or man runs north of Fifty-Three. "So go in grace with Him to face, and an ill-spent life behind, "And I'll be good to your widows, Rube, as many as I shall find." A Stralsund man shot blind and large, and a warlock Finn was he, And he hit Tom Hall with a bursting ball a hand's-breadth over the knee. Tom Hall caught hold by the topping-lift, and sat him down with an oath, "You'll wait a little, Rube," he said, "the Devil has called for both. "The Devil is driving both this tide, and the killing-grounds are close, "And we'll go up to the Wrath of God as the holluschickie1 goes. "O men, put back your guns again and lay your rifles by, "We've fought our fight, and the best are down. Let up and let us die! "Quit firing, by the bow there-quit! Call off the Baltic's crew! "You're sure of Hell as me or Rube - but wait till we get through." There went no word between the ships, but thick and quick and loud The life-blood drummed on the dripping decks, with the fogdew from the shroud, The sea-pull drew them side by side, gunnel to gunnel laid, And they felt the sheerstrakes pound and clear, but never a word was said. Then Reuben Paine cried out again before his spirit passed: "Have I followed the sea for thirty years to die in the dark at last? "Curse on her work that has nipped me here with a shifty trick unkind "I have gotten my death where I got my bread, but I dare not face it blind. "Curse on the fog! Is there never a wind of all the winds I knew "To clear the smother from off my chest, and let me look at the blue?" The good fog heard - like a splitten sail, to left and right she tore, And they saw the sun-dogs in the haze and the seal upon the shore. Silver and grey ran spit and bay to meet the steel-backed tide, And pinched and white in the clearing light the crews stared overside. The young seal. O rainbow-gay the red pools lay that swilled and spilled and spread, And gold, raw gold, the spent shell rolled between the careless dead The dead that rocked so drunkenwise to weather and to lee, And they saw the work their hands had done as God had bade them see! And a little breeze blew over the rail that made the headsails lift, But no man stood by wheel or sheet, and they let the schooners drift. And the rattle rose in Reuben's throat and he cast his soul with a cry, And "Gone already?" Tom Hall he said. "Then it's time for me to die. His eyes were heavy with great sleep and yearning for the land, And he spoke as a man that talks in dreams, his wound beneath his hand. "Oh, there comes no good o' the westering wind that backs against the sun; "Wash down the decks skins and run, they're all too red—and share the "Baltic, Stralsund, and Northern Light — clean share and share for all, "You'll find the fleets off Tolstoi Mees, but you will not find Tom Hall. "Evil he did in shoal-water and blacker sin on the deep, "But now he's sick of watch and trick and now he'll turn and sleep. "He'll have no more of the crawling sea that made him suffer so, "But he'll lie down on the killing-grounds where the hollu 66 schickie go. And west you'll sail and south again, beyond the sea-fog's rim, "And tell the Yoshiwara girls to burn a stick for him. "And you'll not weight him by the heels and dump him overside, "But carry him up to the sand-hollows to die as Bering died, "And make a place for Reuben Paine that knows the fight was fair, "And leave the two that did the wrong to talk it over there!" Half-steam ahead by guess and lead, for the sun is mostly veiled — Fair marks are they to the inner bay, the reckless poacher knows, And the deep seal-roar that beats off-shore above the loudest gale. Ever they greet the hunted fleet - lone keels off headlands drearWhen the sealing-schooners flit that way at hazard year by year. Ever in Yokohama port men tell the tale anew Of a hidden sea and a hidden fight, When the Baltic ran from the Northern Light And the Stralsund fought the two. M'ANDREW'S HYMN 1893 LORD, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream, An', taught by time, I tak' it so exceptin' always Steam. From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God Predestination in the stride o' yon connectin'-rod. slow enorrmous, certain, Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame-my "Institutio." My engines, after ninety days o' race an' rack an' strain Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin' home again. Slam-bang too much- they knock a wee the crossheadgibs are loose, But thirty thousand mile o' sea has gied them fair excuse. Fine, clear an' dark — a full-draught breeze, wi' Ushant out o' sight, An' Ferguson relievin' Hay. Old girl, ye 'll walk to-night! His wife's at Plymouth. . . . Seventy-One-TwoThree since he began Three turns for Mistress Ferguson the man? and who's to blame There's none at any port for me, by drivin' fast or slow, Since Elsie Campbell went to Thee, Lord, thirty years ago. (The year the Sarah Sands was burned. Oh roads we used to tread, Fra' Maryhill to Pollokshaws fra' Govan to Parkhead!) Not but they're ceevil on the Board. Ye'll hear Sir Kenneth say: "Good morrn, M'Andrew! Back again? An' how's your bilge to-day?" Miscallin' technicalities but handin' me my chair To drink Madeira wi' three Earls the auld Fleet Engineer That started as a boiler-whelp when steam and he were low. I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi' tow! wad drive; a man An' here, our workin' gauges give one hunder sixty-five! |