SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3610, 22 May 1923, Page 66

SHORT STORIES.

A TALE OF THE TASMAN.

Bv

“JASON.”

I met him on the promenade deck of the “Paremata” as we were clearing Wellington Heads. I had just completed arranging my luggage in my cabin, and had come on deck in search of old friends. When a man lias made the WellingtonSydney trip on the regular inter-coionial boats 'as often as I have he can always count on meeting someone he knows. And in any case the commander, old Captain Ted -Morrison, was one of my oldest friends, and as one of the most popular skippers in Australasian waters was known to and knew all the regular travellers. Coming aft from the companionway along the crowded deck, I was hailed jovially bv him, am found myself being introduced to one of the most remarkable men I had ever met. Picture a man in the prime of life, over six feet in height, probably two hundred pounds in weight, with a ii<mre and bearing that one of the old Greek divinities might well have envied. But it was the face that attracted my attention. Eyes of a bright blue, which had that direct glance one usually associates with men who go down to the sea in ships: a straight, shapely nose, and firm lies which a close cropped beard did not altogether conceal. And stamped on every feature a look of ineffable, brooding sadness which seemed to struggle with an expression of rood aloofness. ‘ Warrington —Mr Hilton,” I heard the captain say, and the stranger gave me a heartv grip. We chatted together for a moment, then Captain Morrison left us with a hurried excuse. Mr Warrington and I strolled the deck until dinner time, and he proved an excellent companion. A chance remark of mine relative to a newspaper paragraph led us into a discussion on European politics, in which he showed a more than ordinary knowledge of the subject, a keen and active mind, and a power of debate which rnanv a public man would have coveted. I was astonished to find how quickly time had fiown when dinner time came. But once during the afternoon did I get a glimpse of that other side of his nature—the melancholy, the sadness, which had first attracted my attention. An inward-bound ship hove in sight, and proved to be that most graceful of man s worKs, a sailing ship under full sail, gently careening to the breeze. As the two ships approached each other, our fellow ■ passengers crowded to the rail, and expressions of admiration were frequent. For myself, I never behold such a sight without a quickening of the pulse-even a life of commercialism cannot altogether deaden a man to the romance which is inseparable from sailing-ships. •‘By Joye,” I said, “that looks like the ‘Goltfen Gate,’ ” naming one of the most famous clippers of the last decade. Mv companion made no answer, and I glanced at him casually, to find him staring at the sailer with an intensity, a fixity of expression which was almost startling. As the ship passed close to our beam he seemed to be devouring every detail of her structure with his eyes; his right hand gripped the rail beside us with a force which showed in the whitening knuckles; he seemed oblivious of everything save that perfect picture before When at last we had left it far astern he turned to me again, looking a tired old man. Murmuring an apology, he went to his cabin, but inside five minutes he was back again. “You must think me rather queer,” he said, “but I am off colour just now;” and we plunged back into our conversation on the affairs of the nations. ~ , . , orooking a final cigarette m the captain s quarters that evening—Warrington ha-d pleaded a headache and retired early— I mentioned the episode to mv host. Somehow the thing was worrying me; the hopeless, yearning look which I had detected on my new friend s face when he was regarding the “Golden Gate seemed to haunt me. ... Captain Ted smoked in silence for a minute or two, a heavy frown on his brows. Then he turned to me with the expression of a man who has made no his mind—“ Hook here, Harrv. there are not rnanv fellows I would tell tins yarn to for it is Warrington’s business. But 1 am worried about the fellow, and I want your help. The facts are these: ‘T met Tom Warrington thirtv years ago. when he was a cadet on the old “Te Horo,’’ and I was third officer. lie was a fine bov. a real sailor every inch of him. and bovn to the sea. After I left the sh ; p I alwavs kept in touch with him, and followed his career with interest He was making a name for himself among shipping men. and it seemed no time before he got his first command, and from then on he never looked back. Tie married happily, and every thing went wc*ll with him. , , , T . .. “Then his hick changed. His wife was hurt in a motor accident, and the doctors said she would never walk again. However, there was a chance that some special treatment or other might fix her up, and Tom told them to fire ahead. Tt appeared to be a darned expensive business, though, and while he never said a word, f knew lie was prettv well pinched to make both ends meet. Even a skipper doesn’t draw such a very fat screw, von know. Then came the next blow—the big maritime strike of 19—, when nverv shin on the New Zealand coast was laid up for months. We all had mv troubles— I had the wife and three kiddies to provide for mvsdf—hut poor old Tom was half mad with anxietv. Mrs Warrington had made practically no progress, and it looked like being a long job. Tom did pick and shovel work or anything else he could get. hut the labour market was overcrowded. Timn all of a sudden Ris luck seemed to he turning—a big

Yankee barque arrived in Wellington minus her skipper, who had died at sea. Out of a big crowd of applications Tom got the job of taking her out. He managed to get an advance against his pay from' an alien shipping agent, and the cheque went straight to the hospital people in reduction of his account with them. The following day a case of smallpox was discovered on board, and the barque was quarantined. Warrington had not signed on, and was left to walk the wharves again. When the strike broke the Yankee was still in quarantine, and his old owners had decided to lav their boats up a while longer, until things settled down a bit more. The consequence was he somehow got left, and when the harbour emptied Tom was still on the wharf. In the meantime the agent had been pressing for the return of his money, and the hospital people were also looking for a cheque. Tom had never been the sort to worry much about money, but this time he was right up against it. For himself he didn’t care a tinker’s, but his wife had to have her chance, and the hospital seemed to be run by pretty shrewd business people, who didn t believe in taking risks with their debtors. Then the agent offered him a way out—he had an old tub of a steamer, a thousand - tenner, which he had announced he was sending to Africa for river work, which was all she was really fit for. To be brief, he wanted Warrington to take her out and scuttle her; the old game, you know. She was practically worthless, and heavily insured. Of course Tom consigned him to the hot place. Then th agent started to talk money. The old hound has picked his man for the job, and he seemed to know just about as much about Warrington’s affairs as he did himself. And when the old tub sailed out Tom was on the bridge. It’s not for ns to judge him. But if you know anything of sailors of Toni's type, you can perhaps guess at what it cost him. The man was half mad with liis troubles at the time, and high as he held his honour, his wife had the first claim. It was the only way out, and he took it. “Well, he did his job all right. The agent’s boat sank in calm water near Hobart. All hands got away safely in the boats, W arrington being the last to leave. The subsequent inquiry revealed nothing suspicious, beyond the fa-ct of the heavy insurance, of course. Tom came out of it with a clean 'ticket, and returned to New Zealand, only to receive a further exposition of the strange ways of Fate. A forgotten relative in Australia had died, leaving him something like £6OO a year. Tne lawyers had actually been on his track when he left the port. Tom has never been to sea since. He bought a little place in tire Wairaraua, and went in for farming. Think of it—xom, with the blood of generations of sailors in his veins, cow-spanking! His wife finally recovered under the treatment which his' wealth ensured her, and she joined him on the farm. I have visited them there, but not very often, because I think Tom preferred to forget he had ever been a sailor. The first time I went, he told me this story—l think it helped him a bit to unburden his soul to me. Mis wife knew all, but he seemed to want a sailor’s judgment on his crime. That was the way he put it.’’ “That is the story,” concluded the captain. “To-day he came on board and told me he had booked a passage to Sydney. He is looking more ghastly than ever, and I feel awfully uneasy about him. I particularly want someone to help me to keep an eye on him until we get to Sydney. If he is left to himself, goodness knows what he might do. You seemed to get on with him excellently to-day—-try "and draw him out of his shell a bit. I can’t very well devote all my time to ■pne passengei-j and you will take a weight off my ipind if you can help to keep him from his memories.” The captain smoked in silence, while I turned over the facts of this strange story in my mind. “You can count on me,” I said. “Thanks, old chap,” lie replied. “I knew you would help me.” He dropped his cigarette butt in the ash-trav and stood up, yawning. “I know you think I am a bit of a crank on Omar Khayyam, but how dees this suit the case,” and he quoted : “ ’Tis all a chequer-board of nights and days Where Destiny with men for pieces plays; Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays, And one by one back in the closet laye.” I cultivated Warrington’s friendship assiduously during the next day or two, and while successful in that respect, I could not help sharing the caotain’s anxiety-. If our conversation lagged for even a minute or two, that hopeless, desperate expression would come into his eyes at once, and he seemed to slide back into the Slough of Despond. The man appeared to be dying of a broken heart—his w-.oie nature crying out for him to return to the old sea-life, even while he adjudged himself unworthy to again command a ship. tlie unexpected happened once again in his remarkable career. Captain morrison had been chatting with us on the deck when he left us to speak to his chief and second officers, who were standing by the foremast. Even as he reached them there was an ominous crack up aloft, and a heavy spar, part of the loadinggear, crasher! to the deck. Yes, I know there are inspectors of loading gear, and these things are not supposed to happen, but I expect this was what the underwriters would have called an “act of God.” Well, the chief officer was killed instantly, the second was picked up unconscious, suffering from concussion, and the skipper sustained a broken thigh. A pretty state of affairs indeed ! The third officer found himself in charge of the ship, and the third happened to be a particularly juvenile third, capable enough, and sound theoretically, but lacking in experience. And lie had certainly never found himself in command before. To crown all, within a few hours the “Paremata” ran into the

biggest gale experienced on the Tasman for years, a gale which taxed the seamanship of every skipper between Australia and New Zealand. In three days there were half a dozen casualties, entailing the loss of hundreds of lives, and many a ship limped into port looking like a collection of junk. Our young commander stuck to his post for ten. hours, fighting for liis ship like a veteran. At the end of that time, however, with the storm just really- reaching its height, the boy was done. The strain of such a fight is not for an untried junioT, unused to responsibility, and he knew his limitations. In the meantime, Captain Morrison, nursing his injury in the cabin, in an agony of mind that his ship should be in danger while he lay helpless, lard, in desperation, taken a bold step. A steward had been dispatched on a hurried errand, another hastened to the bridge with a note for the harassed third officer, and five minutes later Thomas Warrington, master mariner, assumed command of the “Paremata.” Of course, if anything had gone wrong, with a passenger in charge of the ship, Ted Morrison would have been damned to all eternity. As it was there were many who screamed of precedent, rules and regulations, and so on when the news got out, but Morrison gambled, and won ! He knew there was only one man on board who could lake the ship to Sydney in saf< by through such a gale. It was a mansize jc.j, and Warrington was the one man : more, Warrington knew it, and the third was prepared to take Morrison's word for it that, as the captain put it, “ i-c finest sailor on the Tasman was aboard.’’ The third officer handed over to Tom, and forthwith collapsed where he stood, and was carried to his cabin. And the farmer from the Wairarapa was fio-ht-ing the fight of his life, fighting for his friend's ship, for the hundreds of lives in his care, and, though only two others in the snip knew it, he was fighting to regain his self-respect as a sailor. On the third day we dropped anchor in Sydney harbour, and Tom Warrington left the bridge for the first time since he had taken over from the third officer. I met him at the foot of the ladder. Words seemed to be out of place just then —I wrung his hand, and he smiled at me a great, happy, smile. He wag upkempt, haggard and worn, but lie looked marvellously happy. Of course there was a great noise about it all, and the news papers featured the affair at great length. Bue before the passengers dispersed, we had a gathering in the saloon, into which Tom Warrington was inveigled. And when the cheering and handshaking .had died down, Warrington found himself the possessor of a new gold watch, a fine pair of binoculars, and one or two other trifles. But what really completed his happiness was the inscription on the watch, for which I am afraid I must acknowledge some responsibility—“To Captain Tnomas Warrington-—-the finest sanor on the Tasman.’’ It y ou should travel by the “Paremata” nowadays you will find that the veteran “Captain Ted” has retired on his wellearned pension, and “Captain Tom” rules in his stead. And Captain and Mrs Warrington are without doubt the two happiest people of my acquaintance.