Part III

It took a month to get the little barque squared up for sea. Mr. Carver, the Tasmanian mate, and Sandy McNab, the bos'n, superintended the rigging work day after day, and I learned more about rigging in that month than I ever learned in the rest of my life. Mr. Carver was one of those sailor-Tasmanians who used to abound in the Tasman Sea and round the Islands. Tasmania, then, had a few remnants left of the island's once great sailing fleet, which in former days had rivalled the clippers in the wool trade round the Horn, and there was still some tradition there of following the sea under sail. Mr. Carver knew his business, though he spoke no Gaelic and could not blow the pipes.

In port there we did not see much of our captain, who was a dark and very pleasant Scot from the barque Lobo, and the Scottish Lochs before that. He hailed originally from Ross-shire, but had been in Colonial barques since 1903. He spent much of his time ashore on the ship's business, as a shipmaster must. The men said he had been magnificent when she'd been struck by the southerly buster off the Gabo, and they'd thought she'd sink. She would have sunk, they declared, under almost any other man. They swore by Captain Murchison to a man.

My own stay in Sydney was spoiled by an incident ashore very shortly after I signed in the Craig. I went to the city (which I seldom did) in order to send my pay home to my mother in Melbourne. Sharkey Keen came with me to show me the way, but soon after we landed a pretty girl smiled at him and that was the last I saw of Sharkey. I had not sent money by mail before, never having had any, nor had I been in a post office. I proposed to send the cash, which was in six new crisp notes, by money order. I drew a bad blank in the first post office I tried.

"Get a form," snapped the clerk when I asked how I could send my wealth.

I looked about. There were lots of forms. Most of them seemed to be intended for writing telegrams.

"What sort of form, please?" I asked.

The clerk gave me a scornful glance and went on with this work. After a few minutes I left that post office and searched for another, somewhat bewildered. As I looked about the busy Sydney streets a cheerful stranger, very affable and pleasant spoken, chummed up with me. He looked like a seaman, though somehow not quite the type I should expect to find signing in the Craig or the Bay. He was a little oily in his manner. I was glad of his friendship. He soon discovered what I was trying to do, and, saying that he had a lot of experience in such matters, offered to help.

"I know just where there's a good quiet post office," he said. "I'll be glad to help. Those forms take careful filling in, you know. Least thing wrong and those pigheaded cows behind the desk won't send your money for you. A nasty lot, son, a nasty lot. So you're in the old James Craig? I knew her well when she was one of the J. and J.'s. She's a lovely one, if you like. And sail! She used to offer her mooring lines to half the steamers on the Tasman Sea, to help tow 'em along as she left 'em behind. Aye, son, you're the lucky one, now, to be in a little honey of a windbag like that! Are there jobs in her, you say?"

We got along famously, though we seemed to be walking a long way, and I thought I had already noticed two post offices we had passed.

"It's a special one I'm looking for, son," said my cheerful guide. "Aye, a very special one."

When at last we found the special post office of his choice I readily accepted his suggestion that he could deal with the cows of clerks better than I could , and the best thing to do was to hand him the money to buy my order for me.

"Just wait in the sun here," he said. "It's no use depressing yourself inside. I'll be out with the receipt in two shakes of a dead lamb's backside. That I will."

I handed over my six crisp notes, and in he went. He never came out again. I waited and waited, at first sorry that he should be put to such trouble on my behalf, for I thought he was having an argument with some dreadful clerk. But after a while I began to be a little anxious. It must be an awfully long argument. Perhaps there was something wrong.

I looked inside. There was no sign of my kind-hearted friend at all.

Then I saw that the post office had an exit to another street. I'd been fleeced by a shore bastard! I felt as if I had been let down by the whole human race. The mean, thieving rascal had pretended to be a sailor. I found my way, hungry and depressed, back to the ship; it was years before I landed in Sydney again.

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Reproduced with the kind permission of Laurence Pollinger Limited and the estate of the late Alan J Villiers.