Rudyard Kipling - Rudyard Kipling - The Complete Novels and Stories

‘There’s a power av vartue in keepin’ things sep’rate,’ said Long Jack, intent on stilling the storm. ‘That’s fwhat Steyning of Steyning and Hare’s f’und when he sent Counahan fer skipper on the Marilla D. Kuhn , instid o’ Cap. Newton that was took with inflam’try rheumatism, an’ couldn’t go. Counahan the Navigator we called him.’

‘Nick Counahan he never went aboard fer a night ’thout a pond o’ rum somewheres in the manifest,’ said Tom Platt, playing up to the lead. ‘He used to bum araound the c’mission houses to Boston lookin’ fer the Lord to make him captain of a tow-boat on his merits. Sam Coy, up to Atlantic Avenoo, give him his board free fer a year or more on account of his stories. Counahan the Navigator! Tck! Tck! Dead these fifteen year, ain’t he?’

‘Seventeen, I guess. He died the year the Caspar M‘Veagh was built; but he could niver keep things sep’rate. Steyning tuk him fer the reason the thief tuk the hot stove—bekaze there was nothin’ else that season. The men was all to the Banks, and Counahan he whacked up an iverlastin’ hard crowd fer crew. Rum! Ye cud ha’ floated the Marilla , insurance an’ all, in fwhat they stowed aboard her. They lef’ Boston Harbour for the great Grand Bank wid a roarin’ nor’wester behind ’em an’ all hands full to the bung. An’ the hivens looked after thim, for divil a watch did they set, an’ divil a rope did they lay hand to, till they’d seen the bottom av a fifteen-gallon cask o’ bug-juice. That was about wan week, so far as Counahan remembered. (If I cud only tell the tale as he told ut!) All that whoile the wind blew like ould glory, an’ the Marilla —’twas summer, and they’d give her a fore-topmast—struck her gait and kept ut. Then Counahan tuk the hog-yoke an’ thrembled over it for a whoile, an’ made out, betwix’ that an’ the chart an’ the singin’ in his head, that they was to the south’ard o’ Sable Island, gettin’ along glorious; but speakin’ nothin’. Then they broached another keg, an’ quit speculatin’ about anythin’ fer another spell. The Marilla she lay down whin she dropped Boston Light, and she never lufted her lee-rail up to that time—hustlin’ on one an’ the same slant. But they saw no weed, nor gulls, nor schooners; an’ prisintly they obsarved they’d bin out a matter o’ fourteen days, and they mistrusted the Bank had suspinded payment. So they sounded, an’ got sixty fathom. “That’s me,” sez Counahan. “That’s me iv’ry time! I’ve run her slat on the Bank fer you, an’ when we get thirty fathom we’ll turn in like little men. Counahan is the b’y,” sez he. “Counahan the Navigator!”

‘Nex’ cast they got ninety. Sez Counahan: “Either the lead-line’s tuk to stretchin’ or else the Bank’s sunk.”

‘They hauled ut up, bein’ just about in that state when ut seemed right an’ reasonable, and sat down on the deck countin’ the knots, an’ gettin’ her snarled up hijjus. The Marilla she’d struck her gait, an’ she hild ut, an’ prisintly along come a tramp, an’ Counahan spoke her.

‘“Hev ye seen any fishin’-boats now?” sez he, quite casual.

‘“There’s lashin’s av them off the Irish coast,” sez the tramp.

‘“Aah! go shake yerself,” sez Counahan. “Fwhat have I to do wid the Irish coast?”

‘“Then fwhat are ye doin’ here?” sez the tramp.

‘“Sufferin’ Christianity!” sez Counahan (he always said that whin his pumps sucked, an’ he was not feelin’ good)—“Sufferin’ Christianity!” he sez, “where am I at?”

‘“Thirty-five mile west-sou’west o’ Cape Clear,” sez the tramp, “if that’s any consolation to you.”

‘Counahan fetched wan jump, four feet sivin inches, measured by the cook.

‘“Consolation!” sez he, bould as brass. “D’ye take me fer a dialect? Thirty-five mile from Cape Clear, an’ fourteen days from Boston Light. Sufferin’ Christianity, ’tis a record, an’ by the same token I’ve a mother to Skibbereen!” Think av ut! The gall av um! But ye see he could niver keep things sep’rate.

‘The crew was mostly Cork an’ Kerry men, barrin’ one Marylander that wanted to go back, but they called him a mutineer, an’ they ran the ould Marilla into Skibbereen, an’ they had an illigant time visitin’ around with frinds on the ould sod fer a week. Thin they wint back, an’ it cost ’em two an’ thirty days to beat to the Banks again. ’Twas gettin’ on towards fall, and grub was low, so Counahan ran her back to Boston, wid no more bones to ut.’

‘And what did the firm say?’ Harvey demanded.

‘Fwhat could they? The fish was on the Banks, an’ Counahan was at T-wharf talkin’ av his record trip, east! They tuk their satisfaction out av that, an’ ut all came av not keepin’ the crew and the rum sep’rate in the first place; an’ confusin’ Skibbereen wid ’Queereau, in the second. Counahan the Navigator, rest his sowl! He was an imprompju citizen!’

‘Once I was in the Lucy Holmes ,’ said Manuel, in his gentle voice. ‘They not want any of her feesh in Gloucester. Eh, wha-at? Give us no price. So we go across the water, and think to sell to some Fayal man. Then it blow fresh, and we cannot see well. Eh, wha-at? Then it blow some more fresh, and we go down below and drive very fast—no one know where. By and by we see a land, and it get some hot. Then come two, three nigger in a brick. Eh, wha-at? We ask where we are, and they say—now, what you all think?’

‘Grand Canary,’ said Disko, after a moment. Manuel shook his head, smiling.

‘Blanco,’ said Tom Platt.

‘No. Worse than that. We was below Bezagos, and the brick she was from Liberia! So we sell our feesh there ! Not bad, so? Eh, wha-at?’

‘Can a schooner like this go right across to Africa?’ said Harvey.

‘Go araound the Horn ef there’s anythin’ worth goin’ fer, and the grub holds aout,’ said Disko. ‘My father he run his packet, an’ she was a kind o’ pinkey, abaout fifty ton, I guess,—the Rupert ,—he run her over to Greenland’s icy mountains the year ha’af our fleet was tryin’ after cod there. An’ what’s more, he took my mother along with him,—to show her haow the money was earned, I presoom,—an’ they was all iced up, an’ I was born at Disko. Don’t remember nothin’ abaout it, o’ course. We come back when the ice eased in the spring, but they named me fer the place. Kinder mean trick to put up on a baby, but we’re all baound to make mistakes in aour lives.’

‘Sure! Sure!’ said Salters, wagging his head. ‘All baound to make mistakes, an’ I tell you two boys here thet after you’ve made a mistake—ye don’t make fewer ’n a hundred a day—the next best thing’s to own up to it, like men.’

Long Jack winked one tremendous wink that embraced all hands except Disko and Salters, and the incident was closed.

Then they made berth after berth to the northward, the dories out almost every day, running along the east edge of the Grand Bank in thirty to forty fathom water, and fishing steadily.

It was here Harvey first met the squid, who is one of the best cod-baits, but uncertain in his moods. They were waked out of their bunks one black night by yells of ‘Squid O!’ from Salters, and for an hour and a half every soul aboard hung over his squid-jig—a piece of lead painted red and armed at the lower end with a circle of pins bent backward like half-opened umbrella ribs. The squid—for some unknown reason—likes, and wraps himself round, this thing, and is hauled up ere he can escape from the pins. But as he leaves his home, he squirts first water and next ink into his captor’s face; and it was curious to see the men waving their heads from side to side, to dodge the shot. They were as black as sweeps when the flurry ended; but a pile of fresh squid lay on the deck, and the large cod thinks very well of a little shiny piece of squid-tentacle at the tip of a clam-baited hook. Next day they caught many fish, and met the Carrie Pitman , to whom they shouted their luck, and she wanted to trade—seven cod for one fair-sized squid; but Disko would not agree at the price, and the Carrie dropped sullenly to leeward and anchored half a mile away, in the hope of striking on to some for herself.