“Mahn, A’am nae carin’ a snap wut ye think aboot ma. A’am a Scoetchman, ye ken, fra Fogieloan; an’ them ’at disna laik ma th’ wye Ah aam, c’n juist dicht ther nebs an’ ma bachle-vamps. Tha rampin’, roarin’ lion uv Auld Scoetland aye gaed his ain wye, an’ A’am thinkin’ ’at maist o’ his weans ’ll dae the same thing. An’ if tha canna dae’t yin day, they’ll dae’t the neist, an’ muckle Auld Hornie himsel’ winna stap them a’thegither.”
It was a long speech for Jock MacTavish, our taciturn shipmate aboard the Yankee whaling-barque Ursus. Like several other luckless deep-water sailors, he had been “shanghaied” in San Francisco, awaking from the combined effects of a drug that would have killed anybody but a sailor, and sundry ugly blows on the head, to find himself booked for a cruise in a “spouter” for an indefinite length of time, and at a remuneration that none of us were ever able to understand. This was bad enough, in all conscience, but it might easily have been much worse, for the Ursus was a really good ship, as whalers go.
At the time when this yarn begins, we had been employing a slackness in the fishing by having a thorough clean up. It was very nearly time, for she was158 beginning to stink so badly that every morsel of food we ate seemed saturated with rancid whale-oil. So we worked, if possible, harder than usual, with sand and ley, to remove the clotted fat from decks, bulwarks, and boats, until on Christmas Eve she was almost her old clean self again. There remained only the tryworks, but they were certainly in a vile condition of black grease.
At knock-off time (all hands had been working all day) we began discussing our chances of having a merry Christmas on the morrow, and, with the usual argumentativeness of sailors, had got a dozen different theories started. But running through them all there seemed to be a fixed idea that no notice whatever would be taken of a day that we all regarded as the one festival of the year which could, by no possible means, be allowed to pass unhonoured.
No, not all, for when the discussion was at its height, Conkey, a lithe Londoner, whose epithet of Cockney had somehow taken this form, suddenly looked straight to where Mac was sitting stolidly munching a gigantic fragment of prime East India mess beef (it hadn’t been round Cape Horn more than four times), and said, “Wot d’yer sye, Mac? Ain’t ’erd from yer. ’Ow d’yer feel abart workin’ a Crissmuss dye?”
There was an instant silence, while every one fastened his eyes on Mac and awaited his answer. Slowly, as if the words were being squeezed out of him, he replied, “It disna matter a snuff tae me what wye ’tis. Ah belong tae the Free Kirk o’ Scoetland, an’ she159 disna gie ony suppoert tae siccan heathen practusses as th’ obsairvin’ o’ days, an’ months, an’ yeers.”
Conkey sprang to his feet full of fury, and, in choicest Mile End, informed Mac that, “hif ’e thawt ’e wuz blanky well goin’ ter call ’im a bloomin’ ’eathen an’ not goin’ ter git bashed over it, ’e wuz a bigger blank fool then ’e’d ever seen a-smokin’ tea-leaves ter sive terbacker.” To this outburst Mac only said what begins this yarn, and, in so saying, brought all hands down on him at once. Conkey was restrained from his meditated attack while one after another tried to argue the point with Mac, and to convince him that no man who neglected to keep Christmas Day as a feast of jollity and respite from all work, except under the direst pressure of necessity, could possibly be a Christian.
The contract we had on hand, though, was much too large for us. Metaphorically speaking, Mac wiped the fo’c’sle deck with each of us in succession. His arguments, in the first place, were far too deep for our capacity, had they been intelligible; but couched in the richest Aberdeenshire dialect, and bristling with theological terminology utterly foreign to us, we stood no chance. One by one we were reduced to silence. It was broken by Conkey, who said finally, “Hi don’t know wot ’e bloomin’ well sez, but Hi c’n punch ’is hugly carrotty mug for ’im, an’ ’ere goes.”
Again we restrained our shipmate’s primitive instincts, while Mac slowly rose from his donkey, wiped his sheath-knife deliberately on his pants, put it away, and then, quietly as if it had just occurred to him,160 turned to the raging Conkey, saying, “See heer, ma laddie, A’al mak’ y’ an oafer. A’al fecht ye. If ye gie ma a lickin’ A’al hae naethin’ mair tae dae wi’ the business; bud if Ah lick you, A’al dae aal Ah can tae get, no juist the day aff, but a guid blow-out o’ vittles in the bairgin, altho’ Ah misdoot ma muckle ther’s naethin’ aft that ye cud mak’ a decent meal o’. Hoo diz that shoot ye?”
For all answer Conkey, breaking away from those who had held him, sprang at Mac, dealing, as he came, two blows, right and left, like flashes. Mac did not attempt to parry them, but seemed to stoop quietly; and suddenly Conkey’s heels banged against the beam overhead. Immediately afterwards there came the dull thump of his head upon the floor. Mac just disengaged himself, and stood waiting till his opponent should feel able or willing to resume.
Truly the latter’s head must have been as thick as his courage was high, for, before any of us had begun to offer assistance, he had struggled to his feet, looking a bit dazed, it is true, but evidently as full of fight as ever. He had learned a lesson, however—that caution in dealing with his sturdy adversary was necessary, and that he must accommodate his undoubted boxing powers to new conditions.
In a crouching attitude, and with two arms held bow-wise in front, he moved nearer the rugged, square-set figure of the Scotchman, who, as before, stood strictly on the defensive. There was a feint by Conkey—we saw Mac’s head go down again—but then came a sharp thud and a swinging, sidelong blow from161 Conkey, and Mac seemed to crumble into a heap, for, as he stooped to repeat his former successful grip, Conkey had shot upward his right knee with such force that Mac’s nose was a red ruin, and the blow on the ear from Conkey’s left could have done Mac very little good. So far, the advantage undoubtedly lay with the Londoner, but, after a brief spell, Mac pulled himself together, and the two clinched again. Locked together like a pair of cats, except that they neither bit, scratched, nor made a sound, they writhed all over the fo’c’sle unable to strike, but so equally matched that neither could loose himself. Had they been alone, I believe only death would have parted them; but at last, in sheer admiration for the doggedness of their pluck, we laid hold on them and tore them apart, declaring that two such champions ought to be firm friends. As soon as they got their breath, Conkey held out his hand, saying, “Scotty, me cock, ye’re as good a man as me, but Hi’m——hif ye’re a better. If yer think y’are, wy, we’ll just ply the bloomin’ ’and art, but if ye’re satisfied, Hi am.” Taking the proffered hand, Scotty replied, “Mahn, A’am no thet petickler. Ah haena a pickle o’ ambeeshun tae be thocht a better mahn than ma neebours, neither am Ah a godless fule that henkers aefther fechtin’ for fechtin’s sake; but as ye say, we’re baith’s guid’s yin anither, an’ there’s ma han’ upo’ th’ maetter. Ah dinna see ’at we’re ony forrader wi’ oor bairgin tho’.”
Then a regular clamour of voices arose, all saying the same thing, viz. that the heroes should “pull sticks”—that is, one should hold two splinters of wood162 concealed in his hand with the ends just protruding for the other to choose from, and whichever got the shortest piece should be the loser. It is a time-honoured fo’c’sle way of settling disputes or arranging watches.
They drew, and Scotty won. All faces fell at this, for if we were going to make a bold bid for our Christmas privileges we needed unity, and especially we wanted such a tough nut as Jock MacTavish actively enlisted on our side. The winner lifted our gloom by saying quietly, “Sae A’m with ye, aefther aal, ut seems.” Then, noting the surprise on our faces, he went on, “What’s the differ, think ye, whether Ah win at fechtin’ or drawin’. Ah said Ah’d be with ye if Ah won, sae that’s a’ richt.” And, easy in our minds, ............