– but he felt pity for the boy. His own boyhood had not been happy – he had suffered much both in the Achgammie fields and in the over-crowded house at the Suie. He had come out to meet David so that their meeting might be private.
They had not been talking long when David broached the subject dearest to his heart. Richard feared for the question: he could recall the ache in the boy’s voice. That ache was deeper now and it would go deeper in the boy – unless he could be spared the disillusionment that lay ahead of him; unless some one warned him, guided him clear of the pitfalls. Richard realised he could not completely dash his hopes.
‘Well, you know, Davie boy, the sea is not all that you might think. There’s hard work hereabouts – damned hard on Achgammie as I well know. But there’s hard work at sea too – a damned sight. Aye: and the sea’s not what it was – sailing’s finished I doubt. It’s engineers that are wanted nowadays, not sailors. I wouldna set your heart too much on it, Davie, if I were you.’
‘My mind’s made up, Richard.’
‘Well now, I wouldn’t be just so quick making it up, boy. If you get the chance of a bit education – take it. And if your father suggests that you go to college, don’t cross him. Don’t you think you’d like to be a doctor, maybe?’
‘No: my mind’s made up, Richard. I want to go to sea. Could I no’ get sailing wi’ ye, Richard?’
‘We’ll see, we’ll see – if your mind’s made up. But I don’t think your mind’s made up – fully. There’s plenty of time, boy, plenty of time. And if you ever go, you’re going into steam: there’s no future for sail. If I could get a job ashore I’d take it to-morrow.’
David was torn with conflicting emotions. First was the elation that he was sitting beside his brother and that his brother was treating him like an equal and, second, the actual disappointment that his brother should so disparage his cherished wish to go to sea. He had hoped that Richard would support him with enthusiasm. His heart did not lie to the Achgammie fields and the word college had a strange intimidating sound. He just wanted to escape from everything and go to sea. It did not matter that the work would be hard – he had already reconciled himself to the knowledge that there would always be work, hard work to be done; but it would be work he liked. He was cast down in spirit. Though hunger had left him, a heavier sense of physical tiredness came over him: he wanted to crawl away into a corner by himself: like a sick dog.
Richard was quick to note his brother’s reaction. He did his best to rally him. To hell: there should be some other way of life than this. He had gone to sea full of the happiest anticipations. And long before he had taken his ticket he had become disillusioned. Now he was sick and tired of it all. He knew he could never come back to the Suie; knew he could never bear to spend a night under his father’s roof again. But David would need to stay there for many a day yet eating the rotten food and sleeping neck and crop with his brothers. It was natural that the boy should have made up his mind to run away. He would have been disappointed had he shown no spirit of revolt. Only he must be saved the disillusionment of the sea – another way of escape must be found.
‘You’d better get some supper, boy. Tell your father I’m waiting for him. And don’t get down-hearted. We’ll find something for you to do – you won’t have to muck around Achgammie all your days. Come on now – and I’ll be seeing you to-morrow.’
David rose wearily. But he must extract some grain of comfort from their first meeting.
‘Will we go down to the shore on Sunday, Richard?’
‘The shore? Sure: I’ll remember that. The shore: it’s a long time since I went down the heughs, Dave – a hell of a long while.’
Bob MacHaffie who owned the Plough Inn was a typical landlord: he was fat and cheery and though he laughed like a woman he could tell more bawdy stories than any ten men in the Rhinns. His inn was a poor place. It had two bedrooms upstairs and a parlour downstairs that served as a general common-room. But when he had visitors the parlour was reserved for them. It was a dimly-lit low-roofed musty room with an enormous mahogany table and sideboard and twelve massive horse-hair dining chairs. Above the mantelshelf hung a large steel engraving which seemed to be a mixture of public bar and slaughter house. In addition to various individuals in different postures in the act of drinking, having drunk or about to drink, there were hounds, shot birds and the carcass of a stag lying on the floor, its head so twisted as to give the best view of its magnificant antlers. The white-washed ceiling above the picture was badly discoloured by the smoke of the oil lamp. The room had a musty smell because the window could not be opened. The only ventilation was by way of the chimney. Warm though the summer night had been the landlord had a fire burning because, as he said, the place looked a damned cold hole without it.
Bob MacHaffie was of an age with Captain Ramsay and he enjoyed his company. He was a man who enjoyed company though he preferred company of his own age – mostly young farmers or the sons of farmers. But to-night he was content to sit and listen to the Captain and old Sam exchanging reminiscences.
As the clock went round and they were well on in drink he took a hand in the conversation.
‘Ah, to hell wi’ they foreign parts – what’s wrong wi’ Stranraer? Market day’s worth a’ your damned Bombays and Calcuttas – what dae you say, Andra?’
‘There’s a lot to be said for hame, Bob.’
‘Damned true there is. You know, Captain, you miss many a tare on Market day. God, the drink that’s swallowed in the Cock and Hen would sail ye half-roads to Australia. You’ll come in wi’ me next Wednesday and I’ll let ye see life. How Tam MacBurnie gets hame is more than I can understand. By God, I’m telling ye, if he loses that mare o’ his he’s finished.’
But Old Sam was not to have the sea disparaged.
‘Ye ken nothing about it, Bob. Not a thing. There’s no life to be seen about Stranraer.’
But Bob stoutly defended his capital town.
‘Aye, heth, but there’s life about Stranraer. And the best o’ lassies – none o’ your damned French hizzies or yellow whores – but just our ain kind. Some of them buxom hizzies up from Stoneykirk or Kirkmaiden would gar ye loup. And plenty o’ Scotch whisky and a feed o’ tatties and one o’ Jimmy Craig’s haggis and ye can have a’ your fushionless foreign trash for me. What d’ye say to that, Captain?’
‘It’s the last thing I can mind, Bob: tatties and haggis. It makes my teeth water to think of it. Damn it man, Sam, you know yourself sailing foreign’s all right for a while but the novelty wears off. East or west: hame’s best.’
‘It takes the drink to get the truth out o’ folk.’
‘Ye’re right enough, Richard. But, still, the sea gets into your blood. I was like you many a time – when I could have grat like a bairn for hame – but I always went back. And you’ll go back, Richard – and be glad to go back.’
‘Maybe: it’s so damned stupid. The sea gets into your blood and you’re finished – neither happy ashore nor afloat. What life have you at sea? You’re a bloody slave from the moment you leave port till you reach another. And what’s the difference when it comes to that between this port and that? You can never drop anchor. Afloat the grub’s lousy: ashore you’re liable to be poisoned—’
‘What do ye do for a woman afloat?’
‘What d’ye do for water in a desert? I tell you, the captains and mates I’ve met are either half mad or half brutes – and in some of those coffin ships they’re both. Half the owners should be hung, drawn and quartered. To hell! I want to forget the sea for a while: I’m sick of it – sick to death of it. Fill up the glasses, MacHaffie, and let’s talk about something pleasant.’
‘Say when: damn ye for a thrawn beggar! There’s some sense in murderers and criminals running away to sea – but a man that goes of his own free will’s a bloody eediot. Have ye heard the one about the