Chapter C: Hilton Brown

Sept. 20, 1916.

The Lone Hand

She took her tide and she passed the Bar with the
first o' the morning light;
She dipped her flag to the coast patrol at the
coming down of the night;
She has left the lights of the friendly shore and
the smell of the English land,
And she's somewhere South o' the Fastnet now--
God help her ... South o' the Fastnet now,
Playing her own lone hand.

She is ugly and squat as a ship can be, she was new
when the Ark was new,
But she takes her chance and she runs her risk as
well as the best may do;
And it's little she heeds the lurking death and
little she gets of fame,
Out yonder South o' the Fastnet now--
God help her ... South o' the Fastnet now,
Playing her own lone game.

She has played it once, she has played it twice,
she has played it times a score;
Her luck and her pluck are the two trump cards
that have won her the game before;
And life is the stake where the tin fish run and
Death is the dealer's name,
Out yonder South o' the Fastnet now--
God help her ... South o' the Fastnet now,
Playing her own lone game.

MISS C. FOX SMITH.
Jan. 2, 1918.

A Dream Ship

Oh I wish I had a clipper ship with carvings on her counter,
With lanterns on her poop-rail of beaten copper wrought;
I would dress her like a lady in the whitest cloth and mount her
With a long bow-chasing swivel and a gun at every port.

I would sign me on a master who had solved MERCATOR'S riddle,
A nigger cook with earrings who neither chewed nor drank,
Who wore a red bandanna and was handy on the fiddle,
I would take a piping bos'un and a cabin-boy to spank.

Then some fine Summer morning when the Falmouth cocks were crowing
I would set my capstan spinning to the chanting of all hands,
And the milkmaids on the uplands would lament to see me going
As I beat for open Channel and away to foreign lands,
_Singing--_
Fare ye well, O lady mine,
Fare ye well, my pretty one,
For the anchor's at the cat-head and the voyage is begun,
The wind is in the mainsail, we're slipping from the land
Hull-down with all sail making, close-hauled with
the white-tops breaking,
Bound for the Rio Grande.
Fare ye well!

With the flying-fish around us and a porpoise school before us,
Full crowded under royals to the south'ard we would sweep;
We would hear the bull whales blowing and the mermaids
sing in chorus,
And perhaps the white seal mummies hum their chubby calves to sleep.

We would see the hot towns paddling in the surf of Spanish waters,
And prowl beneath dim balconies and twang discreet guitars,
And sigh our adoration to Don Juan's lovely daughters
Till they lifted their mantillas and their dark eyes shone like stars.

We would cruise by fairy islands where the gaudy parrot screeches
And the turtle in his soup-tureen floats basking in the calms;
We would see the fire-flies winking in the bush above the beaches
And a moon of honey yellow drifting up behind the palms.

We would crown ourselves with garlands and tread a frolic measure
With the nut-brown island beauties in the firelight by the huts;
We would give them rum and kisses; we would hunt for pirate treasure,
And bombard the apes with pebbles in exchange for coco-nuts.

When we wearied of our wand'rings 'neath the blazing Southern heaven
And dreamed of Kentish orchards fragrant-scented after rain,
Of the cream there is in Cornwall and the cider brewed in Devon,
We would crowd our yards with canvas and sweep foaming home again,
_Singing--_
Cheerily, O lady mine,
Cheerily, my sweetheart true,
For the blest Blue Peter's flying and I'm rolling home to you;
For I'm tired of Spanish ladies and of tropic afterglows,
Heart-sick for an English Spring-time, all afire
for an English ring-time,
In love with an English rose.
Rolling home!

CROSBIE GARSTIN.
Jan. 17, 1917.

The Voyage of H.M.S. _President_

A DREAM

[Mr. Punch means no disrespect to H.M.S. _President_, which, being moored in the Thames off Bouverie Street, he has always looked upon as his guardship, but he has often wondered what would happen if only a few thousands of the officers and men borne on her books were to issue from the Admiralty and elsewhere--but especially from the Admiralty--and go on board their ship; hence the disquieting dream that follows.]

It was eighteen bells in the larboard watch with
a neap-tide running free,
And a gale blew out of the Ludgate Hills when
the _President_ put to sea;
An old mule came down Bouverie Street to give
her a helping hand,
And I didn't think much of the ship as such, but
the crew was something grand.

The bo'sun stood on a Hoxton bus and blew the
Luncheon Call,
And the ship's crew came from the four wide
winds, but chiefly from Whitehall;
They came like the sand on a wind-swept strand,
like shots from a Maxim gun,
And the old mule stood with the tow-rope on and
said, "It can't be done."

With a glitter of wiggly braid they came, with a
clatter of forms and files,
The little A.P.'s they swarmed like bees, the
Commodores stretched for miles;
Post-Captains came with hats in flame, and
Admirals by the ell,
And which of the lot was the biggest pot there
was never a man could tell.

They choked the staggering quarter-deck and did
the thing no good;
They hung like tars on the mizzen-spars (or those
of the crowd that could);
Far out of view still streamed the queue when the
moke said, "Well, I'm blowed
If I'll compete with the 'ole damn Fleet," and he
pushed off down the road.

And the great ship she sailed after him, though
the Lord knows how she did,
With her gunwales getting a terrible wetting and
a brace of her stern sheets hid,
When up and spoke a sailor-bloke and he said,
"It strikes me queer,
And I've sailed the sea in the R.N.V. this five-and
forty year;

"But a ship as can't 'old 'arf 'er crew, why, what
sort of a ship is 'er?
And oo's in charge of the pore old barge if dangers
do occur?
And I says to you, I says, "'Eave to, until this
point's agreed';"
And some said, "Why?" and the rest, "Ay,
ay," but the mule he paid no heed.

So the old beast hauled and the Admirals bawled
and the crew they fought like cats,
And the ship went dropping along past Wapping
and down by the Plumstead Flats;
But the rest of the horde that wasn't aboard they
trotted along the bank,
Or jumped like frogs from the Isle of Dogs, or
fell in the stream and sank.

But while they went by the coast of Kent up spoke
an aged tar--
"A joke's a joke, but this 'ere moke is going a bit
too far;
I can tell by the motion we're nearing the ocean--and
_that's_ too far for me;"
But just as he spoke the tow-rope broke and the
ship sailed out to sea.

And somewhere out on the deep, no doubt, they
probe the problems through
Of who's in charge of the poor old barge and what
they ought to do;
And the great files flash and the dockets crash and
the ink-wells smoke like sin,
But many a U-boat tells the tale how the _President_
did her in.

For many have tried to pierce her hide and flung
torpedoes at her,
But the vessel, they found, was barraged round
with a mile of paper matter;
The whole sea swarms with Office Forms and the
U-boats stick like glue,
So nothing can touch the _President_ much, for
nothing at all gets through.

* * * *

But never, alack, will the ship come back, for the
_President_ she's stuck too.

A. P. HERBERT.
May 15, 1918.

The Old Ships

They called 'em from the breakers' yards, the
shores of Dead Men's Bay,
From coaling wharves the wide world round,
red-rusty where they lay,
And chipped and caulked and scoured and tarred
and sent 'em on their way.

It didn't matter what they were nor what they
once had been,
They cleared the decks of harbour-junk and
scraped the stringers clean
And turned 'em out to try their luck with the
mine and submarine...

With a scatter o' pitch and a plate or two,
And she's fit for the risks o' war--
Fit for to carry a freight or two,
The same as she used before;
To carry a cargo here and there,
And what she carries she don't much care
Boxes or barrels or baulks or bales,
Coal or cotton or nuts or nails,
Pork or pepper or Spanish beans,
Mules or millet or sewing-machines,
Or a trifle o' lumber from Hastings Mill...
She's carried 'em all and she'll carry 'em still,
The same as she's done before.

And some were waiting for a freight, and some were laid away,
And some were liners that had broke all records in their day,
And some were common eight-knot tramps that couldn't make it pay.

And some were has-been sailing cracks of famous old renown,
Had logged their eighteen easy when they ran their easting down
With cargo, mails and passengers bound South from London Town...

With a handful or two o' ratline stuff,
And she's fit for to sail once more;
She's rigged and she's ready and right enough,
The same as she was before;
The same old ship on the same old road
She's always used and she's always knowed,
For there isn't a blooming wind can blow
In all the latitudes, high or low,
Nor there isn't a kind of sea that rolls,
From both the Tropics to both the Poles,
But she's knowed 'em all since she sailed sou' Spain,
She's weathered the lot, and she'll do it again,
The same as she's done before.

And sail or steam or coasting craft, the big ships with the small,
The barges which were steamers once, the hulks that once were tall,
They wanted tonnage cruel bad, and so they fetched 'em all.

And some went out as fighting-craft and shipped a fighting crew,
But most they tramped the same old road they always used to do,
With a crowd of merchant-sailormen, as might be me or you...

With a lick o' paint and a bucket o' tar,
And she's fit for the seas once more,
To carry the Duster near and far,
The same as she used before;
The same old Rag on the same old round,
Bar Light vessel and Puget Sound,
Brass and Bonny and Grand Bassam,
Both the Rios and Rotterdam--
Dutch and Dagoes, niggers and Chinks,
Palms and fire-flies, spices and stinks--
Portland (Oregon), Portland (Maine),
She's been there once and she'll go there again,
The same as she's been before.

* * * *

Their bones are strewed to every tide from Torres Strait to Tyne--
God's truth, they've paid their blooming dues to
the tin-fish and the mine,
By storm or calm, by night or day, from Longships light to Line.

With a bomb or a mine or a bursting shell,
And she'll follow the seas no more,
She's fetched and carried and served you well,
The same as she's done before--
They've fetched and carried and gone their way,
As good ships should and as brave men may...
And we'll build 'em still, and we'll breed 'em again,
The same good ships and the same good men,
The same--the same--the same as we've done before!

MISS C. FOX SMITH.
April 9, 1919.

The Three Ships

I had tramped along through dockland till the day was all but spent,
But for all the ships I there did find I could not be content;
By the good pull-ups for carmen and the Chinese dives I passed,
And the streets of grimy houses each one grimier than the last,
And the shops whose shoddy oilskins many a sailorman has cursed
In the wintry Western ocean when it's weather of the worst--
All among the noisy graving docks and waterside saloons
And the pubs with punk pianos grinding out their last year's tunes,
And the rattle of the winches handling freights from near and far;
And the whiffs of oil and engines, and the smells of bilge and tar;
And of all the craft I came across, the finest for to see
Was a dandy ocean liner--but she wasn't meant for me!
She was smart as any lady, and the place was fair alive
With the swarms of cooks and waiters, just like bees about a hive;
It was nigh her time for sailing, and a man could hardly stir
For the piles of rich folks' dunnage here and there and everywhere.
But the stewards and the awnings and the white paint and the gold
Take a deal o' living up to for a chap that's getting old;
And the mailboat life's a fine one, but a shellback likes to be
Where he feels a kind o' homelike after half his life at sea.

So I sighed and passed her by--"Fare you well, my dear," said I,
"You're as smart and you're as dainty as can be;
You're a lady through and through, but I know it wouldn't do--
You're a bit too much a rich man's gal for me!"

So I rambled on through dockland, but I couldn't seem to find
Out of all the craft I saw there just the one to please my mind;
There were tramps and there were tankers, there were freighters
large and small,
There were concrete ships and standard ships and motor ships
and all,
And of all the blessed shooting-match the one I liked the best
Was a saucy topsail schooner from some harbour in the West.
She was neat and she was pretty as a country lass should be,
And the girl's name on her counter seemed to suit her to a T;
You could almost smell the roses, almost see the red and green
Of the Devon plough and pasture where her home port must have been,
And I'll swear her blocks were creaking in a kind o' Devon drawl--
Oh, she took my fancy rarely, but I left her after all!
For it's well enough, is coasting, when the summer days are long,
And the summer hours slip by you just as sweetly as a song,
When you catch the scent of clover blowing to you off the shore,
And there's scarce a ripple breaking from the Land's End to the Nore;
But I like a bit more sea-room when the short dark days come in,
And the Channel gales and sea-fogs and the nights as black as sin,
When you're groping in a fairway that's as crowded as a town
With the whole damned Channel traffic looking out to run you down,
Or a bloody lee shore's waiting with its fierce and foaming lips
For the bones of poor drowned sailormen and broken ribs of ships.

So I sighed and shook my head--"Fare you well, my dear," I said,
"You're a bit too fond o' soundings, lass, for me;
Oh, you're Devon's own dear daughter--but my fancy's for deep water
And I think I'll set a course for open sea!"

So I tramped along through dockland, through the Isle of Dogs I went,
But for all the ships I found there still I couldn't be content,
Till, not far from Millwall Basin, in a dingy, dreary pond,
Mouldy wharf-sheds all around it and a breaker's yard beyond,
With its piles of rusty anchors and chain-cables large and small,
Broken bones of ships forgotten--there I found her after all!
She was foul from West Coast harbours, she was worn with
wind and tide,
There was paint on all the bright work that was once her
captain's pride,
And her gear was like a junk-store, and her decks a shame to see,
And her shrouds they wanted rattling down as badly as could be;
But she lay there on the water just as graceful as a gull,
Keeping some old builder's secret in her strong and slender hull;
By her splendid sweep of sheer-line and her clean, keen clipper bow
You might know she'd been a beauty, and, by God, she was one now!
And the river gulls were crying, and the sluggish river tide
Made a kind of running whisper by her red and rusted side,
And the river breeze came murmuring her tattered gear among,
Like some old shellback, known of old, that sings a sailor's song,
That whistles through his yellow teeth an old deepwater tune
(The same did make the windows shake in the Boomerang Saloon!),
Or by the steersman's elbow stays to tell a seaman's tale
About the skippers and the crews in great old days of sail!

And I said: "My dear, although you are growing old, I know,
And as crazy and as cranky as can be,
If you'll take me for your lover, oh we'll sail the wide seas over,
You're the ship among them all that's meant for me!'

MISS C. FOX SMITH.
Oct. 1, 1919.

Spanish Ledges

SCILLY.

The bells of Cadiz clashed for them
When they sailed away;
The Citadel guns, saluting, crashed for them
Over the Bay;
With banners of saints aloft unfolding,
Their poops a glitter of golden moulding,
Tambours throbbing and trumpets neighing,
Into the sunset they went swaying.
But the port they sought they wandered wide of,
And they won't see Spain again this side of Judgment Day.

For they're down, deep down, in Dead Man's Town,
Twenty fathoms under the clean green waters.
No more hauling sheets in the rolling treasure fleets,
No more stinking rations and dread red slaughters;
No galley oars shall bow them nor shrill whips cow them,
Frost shall not shrivel them nor the hot sun smite,
No more watch to keep, nothing now but sleep--
Sleep and take it easy in the long twilight.

The bells of Cadiz tolled for them
Mournful and glum;
Up in the Citadel requiems rolled for them
On the black drum;
Priests had many a mass to handle,
Nuestra Señora many a candle,
And many a lass grew old in praying
For a sight of those topsails homeward swaying--
But it's late to wait till a girl is bride of
A Jack who won't be back this side of Kingdom Come.

But little they care down there, down there,
Hid from time and tempest by the jade-green waters;
They have loves a-plenty down at fathom twenty,
Pearly-skinned silver-finned mer-kings' daughters.
At the gilt quarter-ports sit the Dons at their sports,
A-dicing and drinking the red wine and white,
While the crews forget their wrongs in the sea-maids' songs
And dance upon the foc'sles in the grey ghost light.

CROSBIE GARSTIN.
Sept. 22, 1920.

A Cornish Lullaby

A.D. 1760.

Sleep, my little ugling,
Daddy's gone a-smuggling,
Daddy's gone to Roscoff in the _Mevagissey Maid_,
A sloop of ninety tons
With ten brass-carriage guns,
To teach the King's ships manners and respect for honest trade.

Hush, my joy and sorrow,
Daddy'll come to-morrow
Bringing baccy, tea and snuff and brandy home from France;
And he'll run the goods ashore
While the old Collectors snore
And the wicked troopers gamble in the dens of Penzance.

Rock-a-bye, my honey,
Daddy's making money;
You shall be a gentleman and sail with privateers,
With a silver cup for sack
And a blue coat on your back,
With diamonds on your finger-bones and gold rings in your ears.

CROSBIE GARSTIN.
June 30, 1920.

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THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW.