ism of Fire

Opotiki News, Volume II, Issue 266, 1 December 1939, Page 8 (Supplement)

ism of Fire

tod ler ev. nd, itow r en y’s he sen the ily lea hism ler rears ate lad era ind ges vas pot ike ■ to :. i in a >led vvsnan

eyed him rather disdainfully, and he had to push open the door himself. He looked incongruous enough in his blue suit, all creases, for he had just taken it out of his kit bag, where it had lain for many months and yet it was his best suit. The marble hall reminded him somewhat of a church; he hadn’t been in one since he was a youth, but the impressive feeling was still with him. Rather awed, he took his hat off and approached the inquiry desk. If the doorman had disdained him, the girl behind the little counter looked at him with scorn, for he was bald, his cheeks were red, and he wore a celluloid collar with a made-up tie.

He who could roar out orders in the teeth of a storm was out of his element here. He had some difficulty in explaining who he was and what he wanted, but when all was understood he was ushered into the editor’s office with quite a great deal of ceremony.

Aitchison rose to greet him. “You’re right on time, Captain Seaforcl but then, you always are.” He shook him heartily by the hand and introduced him to the editor. “My senior captain, Mr. Rossitor and no finer seaman afloat!”

The editor looked at the captain with great interest as Aitchison went on:

“Must apologise, Captain, for springing this on you all of a sudden and getting you to come here, but the fact is, Rossitor has so little time to spare at present that we couldn’t get down to the ship to see you. Hope you’ll forgive us for bringing you up here.” The Captain nodded, still rather at sea. “Yes, certainly, but what’s it all about?”

“Well,” continued the shipowner, “I would like you to take Rossitor here on the “Loch Ailsa’s” next voyage. He wants a holiday to get away from everything for a few months.” . Captain Seaford was silent for a .'moment; What a thing to ;stfripgjA>rt v anybody ! He was of his ship. Passengers, w;ere a damn nuisance as a rule. Still, this fellow looked a T--.', : ■< /

MICHAEL GRANT

decent sort, and Aitcliison was always good to him.

“Why, of course, I’ll be delighted ; but, you know, you’ll have to rough it a bit. She’s an old ship—no fancy fittings but she’s a good ’ifn, none better.”

Aitchison shook his hand again, delighted, as Rossitor began to ply him with questions.

It was soon all settled.

‘‘We sail a week from to-day, mister, and I’ll get the spare cabin fixed up for you.”

Left to himself, Rossitor began to make his final plans. He had been looking forward to this ever since his friend Aitcliison had suggested it. He wanted a holiday badly, also an opportunity to write that book he had planned so long but for which he never had time. What an opportunity to get some real first-hand experience and colour for his story, which was to be about the sea. It was a heaven-sent opportunity. The old captain looked a bit queer, devoid of romance, but his ship, the “Loch Ailsa,” was a four masted full-rigged ship, one of the finest still left sailing the seas. Wliat a-name : “Loch Ailsa” —it simply breathed romance, and beneath his cold exterior, the editor was extremely romantic.

Under a stiff westerly, the ship was making- good headway in the high latitudes. It was bitterl} r cold, for there was ice about. With the wind on the quarter and tending to increase, the sailors were continually busied aloft furling the royals and taking a reef to ‘ gans’ls. A full-rigged ship under practically full sail presents a fine picture at any time, but to Rossitor, as he walked up and down the poop, it was the finest picture he had ever seen. Spray whipped up from the quarter and blew across his face as he leant forwards, bracing himself to the breeze. The wind sang through the rigging, making the most perfect music he had ever heard. It filled the sails with a deep booming note as from a drum, and the flap of the buntlines and reef points were like the staccato notes of a clarionettc. Above it all rose the voice of the captain shouting his orders to those aloft no discordant note, but rather like that of a battle cry. Rossi tor's mind sang, too, with inward ecstasy. Here was nature at its finest and man at his greatest. He wanted to shout, too, and fling his challenge into the teeth of the rising storm.

He went below and started to write. Never before had such words flowed from his brain. The whole ship was one epic. Words poured out on to the paper as he scribbled off his descriptions of all that was happening on deck. He felt that at last he had reached magnificence. His story would be an epic, too.

As the night closed in the storm had risen considerably. There was to be no sleep for him this night, for he might never again' get the opportunity to describe a storm as it actually raged.

With the increasing wind the sea began to rise—steep, whipping combers slashed the rails, then tore across the deck in a slither of foam, and washed, slapping and spluttering, into the scuppers. Up aloft the men were still at work. The to’gans’ls had been taken in and the tops’ls were being reefed. Rossitor watched the men on the yardarms, clinging like flies, as inch by inch they pulled in the bellying sails. It seemed superhuman.

“Better go below, mister, it's going to be a wet night.” The captain’s voice spoke in Rossitor’s ear. Rossitor turned and looked at the captain. He looked somewhat different now to that day when he first came into his office. lie distinctly remembered the celluloid collar and bowler hat. Even now the captain in no way resembled the traditional picture of what the master of a ship should look like. He wore an old oilskin without buttons, g.nd instead of which were pieces 11 1 1if**i ijj

“Couldn’t turn in on a night like this. Captain,” answered Rossitor, his eyes shining with excitement. “Why, it isn’t given to everybody to witness a storm at sea. Why, man, it’s magnificent ! I want to experience it, all of it, so that I can describe it at first hand. My book’s going to be an epic.”

The captain grunted something, and making his way over to the binnacle, gave orders to the helmsman. Rossitor braced himself against the lee side of the mast and watched the scene with awe. Great seas swept up and dashed themselves against the ship. In a moment the deck was a swirling mass of foam. It seem as if the ship could never right herself, but each time she came up, with the sea pouring from her forecastle head like some strange sea monster rising from the deep. Shining oilskinned men, like ants, tailed across the deck, heaving on one of the halyards. A mountain of water swept over them. It seemed that they would be lost but no; up they came, dripping like fish, a little more straggling but all there.

Rossi tor staggered down to his cabin again and got out his notebook. Words flowed from his pen as they had never flowed before : "Mountainous seas ribbed witli foam, with the wind tearing at their crests, like some roaring Valkeries in Valhalla'” frenziedly Rossitor poured out his soul on to the paper. All night long he wrote while the Homeric battle with nature was going on above him. He felt that never before had it been the experience of a writer to witness such a spectacle, and he was glad that he was able to do justice to it. He was writing something that would live.

He went up on deck again as dawn was breaking. The gale had abated somewhat and already the to’gans’ls were set. The sea looked cold and grey. Ahead of them the sky was diffused pink that betokened a glorious day. Somehow Rossitor expected something. A ship could never go through the experience of the night without some memorial of thanksgiving. At the back of his mind was the picture of sailors kneeling down and offering thanks for the safety of their ship and their lives. Did not the old ships carry a crucifix on the

poop? Was not that why sailors always saluted the quarter deck? Divine Providence! Yes, that was it. It was quite true only by a miracle that the ship had come through unscarred and with no loss of life.

And yet everything seemed to be as usual. The mate was standing by the poop rail giving orders to the men on the deck below. They were getting out some new rope. To Rossitor it seemed sacrilegious that they should appear so unconcerned over the events of the night. before. it had meant something; to v tliem ?. .He \Vondered/ what the Kind see what was written in tl I log. Here would be the ■port of the storm and f ship pulled through. Me a sailor’s words, but in

But there were the words in the captain’s crabbed handwriting—a sailor’s words—

“Strong wind from the south west —shipped some water forard.”

Slowly Rossitor slunk back to his cabin and tore up all he had written during- the night. Without taking off his clothes he climbed into his bunk.