The Saga of Cimba by Richard Maury

Author:Richard Maury
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9789085241522
Publisher: For the Benefit of Mr. Kite
Published: 1970-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Quite suddenly the bell sounds – and he awakes. Midnight already! Half asleep, he feels for the bell-clapper over the bunk, striking an answer before turning up the wick and going to the stove for the hot tea the helmsman had jumped down to boil. Before sipping the tea he turns the lamp low, that his eyes will be ready for the deck. The cup empty, he buttons his collar, puts a piece of ginger in his mouth, and, feeling the wind of the deck, appears as a welcome apparition to the helmsman, who would be quite ready to converse if he didn’t know that the last thing the twelve-to-six man is capable of is talk. Handing over the woollen windbreaker and a stocking cap, the departing man states the course briefly and makes for the cabin.

The new watch usually begins by scooping up sea-water to wet his face, then inspecting the trim of the sails and the promise in the weather sky. The bow waves are coughing loudly at the time, for the sea is wilder than it was during the day. The sails scud like black wings against the stars as the helmsman, knowing that the trades have held unusually long, thinks it time something happened.

Steadying at course, he reaches inside the binnacle at the extreme end of the after-cabin, turns off the little lamp, climbs on to the cabin-top, and, facing aft, steers from stars astern, from Cleopatra’s Stairs, and from one star whose name he does not know, steering a truer course than if he used those forward, which time and again are blotted out by rolling sails. For an hour or more no change overtakes the unlighted schooner, whose running lights, except when in traffic, are kept below to save fuel. But at last the helmsman grows restless, and, making fast the helm, climbs below, returning with a ‘night lunch’, a surplus of provisions set aside for the slow-moving ages of the graveyard watch. He is just finishing the sardines and biscuit when the wind, which has held overlong, drops suddenly. The sea becomes noisier than ever, the wind slacks yet more, and for two hours nothing happens, nothing at all.

The clouds climb, hiding the stars. A minute after the binnacle has been relighted a heavy rain begins to fall. There is a cry of wind; the sails are hurled out stiff, and the helmsman goes forward to make sure that lines are clear for running, feeling over-deck cautiously, ever on guard against the false move that may spill him. There is an exciting moment as the wing, wet and straining overside, drives its boom into a fast-pacing sea; then the blow loses force, wanders off into space, and the craft labours quite slowly in the rain. The helmsman sighs, takes a sponge, and attempts to wipe his face, no longer salted, and to clear the binnacle deadlight as well. His eyes smarting somewhat from the glare, he opens the binnacle and fixes a piece of cardboard, crudely slotted to show only a narrow arc of the compass, over the light.

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