The Spuddy Read online

‘Ship’s dog,’ replied Jake laconically.

  ‘Where’s his kid, then?’ asked the youngest crewman, recognizing the dog and when Jake gave a brief explanation they murmured small pretended grumbles about having a dog aboard and hoped he would not be responsible for another run of bad luck.

  ‘Not him.’ Jake spoke with conviction as he gave the Spuddy a rough stroking. ‘He’s goin’ to be our mascot, you’ll see.’

  And as their mascot they came to regard him since on his first night at sea with them they ran into an enormous shoal of herring and came back gunwale deep with their load. The crew were jubilant with the knowledge that their run of ill-luck had ended.

  ‘I told you he’d be our mascot,’ Jake reminded them and the crew accepted his remark with such seriousness that the Spuddy, had he allowed it, would have become more of a ship’s pet than a ship’s dog.

  ‘He’s worth his weight in steak every week,’ asserted the cook as if daring any of them to question the sudden increase in the butcher’s bill.

  The Spuddy took readily to life at sea and as he saw the catches of herring coming aboard the obvious excitement of the men infected him and he raced from stem to stern, from stern to stem, careful to keep out of everyone’s way yet still making sure he was sharing in the activity. By the third night he was so anxious to join in that he grabbed at the net ropes as the men were hauling and bracing himself pulled with every ounce of muscle in his body.

  ‘By God! We’ve got a dog an’ a half,’ the crew congratulated one another.

  After the third successive night of good catches the ‘Silver Crest’ seemed to lose the shoal and on the fourth night again they searched in vain while the Spuddy spent his time running restlessly around the deck or sitting wistfully in the bow staring, into the night-black water. He was repeating this performance the following night when Jake, in the wheelhouse, was surprised to hear him start to bark. Jake was puzzled. It was the first time since he had been aboard that the Spuddy had been heard to bark. Jake was even more puzzled when a few moments later the dog came aft and began scratching at the wheelhouse door. Jake liked to have the Spuddy’s company when he was alone on deck and kicking open the door he waited for the dog to come in. Instead of joining him the Spuddy only pawed at him and whined.

  ‘What is it, boy?’ Jake asked. But the dog ran back to stand with his two front feet on the bow while he peered down into the water and his tail wagged ecstatically. Jake eased the throttle and immediately a head appeared at the fo’ c’sle hatch. ‘See what’s botherin’ him!’ Jake shouted.

  The youngest member of the crew came aft, pulling on an oilskin. ‘What’s wrong, skipper?’

  ‘See what’s botherin’ the Spuddy,’ Jake repeated. ‘He’s behavin’ kind of queer, as if he can see or hear somethin’.’ The man went forward and as he reached the bow the Spuddy’s tail began to thrash even more ecstatically and again he started to bark. The young man knelt down beside him, concentrating his attention on the sea. The cook came aft to join Jake.

  ‘What’s excitin’ the dog?’ the cook asked.

  ‘Damned if I know,’ admitted Jake, and added uncertainly, ‘You’d think he must be hearin’ or seein’ somethin’ the way he’s actin’.’

  The man in the bow stood up and turning gave a wide negative sweep of his arms.

  ‘He can’t see anythin’ seemingly,’ said the cook.

  Shouting to the Spuddy to be quiet Jake throttled the engine down to a murmur and handing over the wheel to the cook with the instruction to steer in a wide circle he went out on deck and listened and looked intently. A minute later he was back in the wheelhouse.

  ‘Go an’ tell them to stand by to shoot the nets,’ he snapped. ‘It’s my belief that dog’s tryin’ to tell us there’s herrin’.’

  Flashing him an incredulous glance the cook rushed forward to pass the command. An hour later they were gloatingly hauling in their loaded nets while the Spuddy looked on with smug triumph. Afterwards down in the fo’c’sle the crew looked at one another in amazement and asked, ‘How did he do it, d’you reckon? By smell or by sight or by hearin’?’

  ‘It’s enough that he did it,’ the oldest crew member declared. ‘What we must wait an’ see now is, can he do it again?’

  The Spuddy not only did it again and again but he became such a reliable herring spotter that if he showed no interest in the area they were searching for fish they knew there was little likelihood of finding any there. In Gaymal when the stories got around the Spuddy, instead of being regarded as a stray, became a star and though there were some fishermen who at first refused to believe in the dog’s ability to detect the presence of herring the ‘Silver Crest’s’ consistently good catches were irrefutable evidence of his powers and it was not long before skipper Jake was pointing out to his crew how even the most sceptical of the fishermen tended when at sea to keep the ‘Silver Crest’ close company in the hope of sharing the Spuddy’s largesse.

  When Andy heard of the Spuddy’s faculty for herring spotting he was both thrilled and proud to know that he was his friend for though Andy was attending school now, on Saturday mornings he was always waiting at the pier for the ‘Silver Crest’ to come in so that he could greet the Spuddy and take him for the long hill walks Jake said the dog needed after the week at sea. In the evenings when the time came for him to return to his aunt’s house Andy liked, before giving the Spuddy a special farewell fussing, to accompany him aboard the boat and watch him eat one of the meals the cook had left for him. When the Spuddy had become a sea dog he had to get used to taking his meals in the evening the same as the crew and when at weekends he was left in charge of the boat the cook always put two bowls of food out for him – one at each end of the galley – explaining to the dog that one was to be eaten on the Saturday night and the other on the Sunday night. To test his theory that the Spuddy was intelligent enough to understand and obey the cook came down to the boat on the first Sunday morning and found to his satisfaction that only one of the meals had been eaten; the other was untouched. When he came down later that evening again to test his theory he found the second meal had been eaten. For three successive weekends the cook visited the boat, not always at the same times, and invariably he found that the Spuddy did not touch the second bowl of food until the Sunday evening.

  A year passed and the Spuddy became a cherished and indispensable member of the crew of the ‘Silver Crest’. In addition to herring spotting he had resumed his war with the gulls, protecting the herring at unloading time as fiercely as he had at one time protected the fish for which Joe had been responsible. At weekends he guarded the boat like a sentry so that crews from other boats moored outside the ‘Silver Crest’ were heard to complain that though the Spuddy allowed them to cross his boat in daylight when returning drunk at night they had to ‘give the password like bloody soldiers before he’d let you cross.’

  On board he could be trusted to keep out of the way of the crew’s feet when they were busy on deck and except for falling overboard one pitch black night into a heaving sea while the skipper and crew were all too busy hauling to notice his disappearance he did nothing that would cause them concern, that night the Spuddy had been really frightened but sensibly he had fought the sea to swim round the boat to the side where the nets were being hauled and gripping the footrope of the net with teeth and legs he clung on. It was not until the incredulous crew saw him being hauled in with the net that they realised he must have fallen overboard and how near they must have been to losing him. Jake’s fear had erupted into a flash of anger and he swore at the Spuddy vehemently, ordering him down to the fo’c’sle but afterwards when things had quietened down Jake laughed to himself, thinking he had never seen the dignified Spuddy look so utterly ridiculous and dejected as he had when he was being hauled aboard along with a load of herring. Jake called the dog back to the wheelhouse to give him a teasing and patting but following that night he always made sure the Spuddy was shut safely in the fo’ c’sle when they w
ere actually fishing and he never dared tell Andy of the incident.

  There was no doubt the ‘Silver Crest’ became a happier boat after the Spuddy had become its mascot. The crew liked him to be there because it made the boat seem more homely. Jake was glad of his companionship in the wheel-house during the long hours alone on deck; glad too of the dog’s apparent need of him for though Jake knew there wasn’t a skipper in the port who wouldn’t be glad to offer the Spuddy ‘bunk and bait’ he felt that the dog, having accepted him as his skipper, would feel betrayed if Jake were to desert him now. As for the Spuddy, he now had what he had always wanted: a home and a man on whom he could at last bestow the loyalty and love which he had not previously cared to give. He was in no danger of forgetting Andy but his feeling for him was that of a staunch friend; a loved companion and a playmate. But his skipper was his skipper and in the Spuddy’s eyes supreme. After the weekends Jake would come down to the boat on Monday mornings and step straight into the Spuddy’s welcome and as Jake gave him the accustomed rough caress the dog’s top lip would lift in an attempt at a smile and he would snort and paw at Jake until the skipper bent down to receive the approving lick behind the ear which the dignified Spuddy never bestowed on any of the crew.

  Chapter Eleven

  Andy’s father came home on leave three times that year and so reassuring was his son’s appearance and his obvious enjoyment of life in Gaymal that he was able to return to his ship with a contented mind. Andy was indeed happy: he had affection: he had school which so far he had not learned to dislike and above all he had weekends with the Spuddy. Also during the summer holidays he had been lucky enough to make several short trips on the ‘Silver Crest’ but, though Jake had invited him more than once, he had not been lucky enough to go on one of her longer trips lasting four or five days! His first chance to go he had missed through being down with mumps; his second chance had come when he was in bed with measles and when the next school holiday came along it coincided with the annual laying-up of the boats for ‘paint-up’. Andy grew despondent about ever achieving his ambition to go on what he thought of as a real fishing trip: one lasting long enough to necessitate his sleeping aboard and which would take him to strange ports where he could step ashore with the crew and perhaps be mistaken for one of them instead of always being recognized as ‘Andy, the dummy you see around the pier.’

  The following year, when the spring holiday was approaching Andy was elated to hear Jake say one Saturday morning: ‘I believe you’re gettin’ a holiday from school next week. We’re aimin’ to land our catch at a different port so it’ll be a kind of longish trip. See now you don’t go takin’ anythin’ that will keep you to your bed an’ I’ll speak to your Uncle Ben about you comin’ with us.’

  Andy’s response was a broad smile which cut itself off as he remembered his father was due home on leave next week. But Andy was sure his father would understand. He wouldn’t want him to miss his chance yet again, he told himself and anyway since his father’s leaves always lasted at least three weeks there would be plenty of time for them to be together when he returned from his trip.

  The spring holiday came with un-springlike wet and cold and sleet and when the ‘Silver Crest’ speared out to sea at first light on the Monday morning, Andy was glad to be able to share the shelter of the wheelhouse with Skipper Jake and the Spuddy. Inevitably, it being a Monday, the crew were suffering from sore heads and Jake, whose wife was again away from home, was miserably aware of his own hangover and of the pain stabbing at his stomach. Hunched over the wheel he scowled at the tossing sea as he steered for the thick, grey horizon. The cook came aft, ducking his head against the spray and sleet.

  ‘Are you goin’ to get your head down, skipper?’ he asked, reaching for the wheel.

  ‘Aye, I’ll do that,’ replied Jake. ‘It’s not much of a day so how about makin’ for that Rhuna place of yours; seein’ you’re always tellin’ us how sheltered it is in this wind? We could maybe lie to in the bay for a whiley until we see what the weather’s goin’ to do.’

  ‘Aye, aye, skipper,’ agreed the cook.

  Jake spoke to Andy. ‘You’d best get some kip yourself boy while you can,’ he instructed. ‘If we’re fishin’ tonight you’ll not get a chance.’ Obediently Andy went to his bunk where he lay listening to the heavy thump of the boat into the seas; the scrunch of the waves and the smacking of spray on the deck. Thump, scrunch, smack; thump, scrunch, smack. The rhythm was like a cradle-song.

  Andy woke to the noise of the chain rattling through the fairlead as the ‘Silver Crest’ dropped anchor in Rhuna bay. He slid quickly out of his bunk and went on deck to stand shivering in the first bite of the wind. Rhuna bay, hugged by two arms of jagged land was relatively quiet though the waves were fussing and hissing around the black rocks and the wind in the boat’s rigging had a high-pitched note of menace. Andy could see the low, grey stone croft houses set close to the shore and beyond them, where the land rose to meet the hills, he discerned drifts of brown and black cattle grazing on the tawny grass. Skipper Jake who had been up on deck to supervise the anchoring paused to glare at the livid sky above the plump grey clouds that sagged over the hill peaks before returning to the fo’c’sle where, his face taut with pain, he threw himself into his bunk. Andy, aware of his own sea appetite, joined the rest of the crew in a meal of bacon, eggs and sausages along with hot dark tea, thickened with condensed milk and sipped from pint size enamelled mugs. Just as they were finishing the meal they heard a boat scrape alongside and the youngest crew member went up to investigate. He returned a few minutes later with two middle-aged men dressed in what Andy took to be their Sunday clothes. The cook was quick to recognize the men and when they had exchanged a few sentences in Gaelic he translated. ‘They’re sayin’ there’s a weddin’ on here today. One of my relatives it’s supposed to be too.’

  There were questioning murmurs from the rest of the crew. ‘Aye, an’ they’re after askin’ us over an’ take a wee dram with them an’ maybe have a crack an’ wish the bride an’ groom good luck.’ The cook’s expression was eager. ‘How about it boys? Just for an hour or two?’

  It needed only a short discussion to reveal that all the crew liked the idea of going ashore for an hour and when they woke Jake to submit their plan to him he not only agreed but insisted they take Andy with them.

  ‘You may as well take the Spuddy too, Andy,’ Jake said, dragging himself out of his bunk to see them go. ‘A run ashore won’t harm him.’ But surprisingly, when the time came for the Spuddy to jump down into the dinghy he refused to go. Even when Andy tried coaxing by patting the seat beside him and by pointing to the hills the Spuddy still did not yield. Andy noticed a slight quiver passing through the dog’s body and immediately he stood up in the dinghy intent on climbing back aboard the ‘Silver Crest’. The youngest crew member pulled him down again. ‘You can come to the party instead of goin’ for a walk, Andy. You’ll fairly enjoy yourself,’ he asserted. Andy still looked troubled but by now the dinghy was pushing off. The cook who had also noticed the Spuddy quivering, called banteringly up to Jake: ‘Ach, I believe the Spuddy’s feelin’ his age the same as the rest of us. The fishin’ life’s as hard on a dog as it is on a man. We all age quicker than we should.’

  Jake gave the Spuddy a pat. ‘Aye, we’re all feelin’ our age,’ he responded with a sardonic smile. He was glad to be left alone for a little while. An hour’s quiet and Jake was confident he’d be himself again. The anchor was good; the sea was quiet enough in the bay and even though the crew were ashore Jake trusted them to keep an eye open for anything going amiss. He went back to his bunk to collapse in a stupor of pain. The Spuddy having watched the dinghy reach the safety of the shore followed his skipper to the fo’c’sle and stretched himself out in his own bunk.

  Jake was roused by the Spuddy’s sharp, insistent barking. He was out of his bunk in a second. ‘What the hell?’ he asked himself, recognizing by the motion of the boat that something was wrong, �
��The bloody anchor’s dragged,’ he muttered, consternated, and stumbled on deck to be met by a blinding blizzard that made him bend double as his eyes flinched shut. Close at hand he could hear the noise of breakers muffled by the snow but still far too loud. God! She was almost ashore! He rushed to start the engine. Where in hell’s name were the crew? Why hadn’t they noticed the change in the weather, blast them! He’d trusted them, hadn’t he? Fool that he was. Once the engine began to throb confidently his mind could grapple with the next problem. The anchor! Dismissing the possibility of trying to get it aboard himself he ran forward to cast off the anchor rope. That was a loss the crew could pay for, he thought grimly as he raced back to the wheelhouse and put the engine in gear. He tried to peer through the blizzard for a sign of the dinghy bringing out the crew but the snow was impenetrable, obliterating everything beyond the outline of the boat. Cautiously Jake began to dodge the ‘Silver Crest’ towards the entrance of the bay while cursing himself for being rash enough to allow all the crew to go ashore at the same time; for relying on the cook to pilot him through the narrow Rhuna passage. Where was that bloody cook? What was it he’d said to avoid? Remembered snatches of fo’c’sle talk rushed confusedly through his mind and Jake recalled with mounting panic something about there being a couple of rocks, submerged at high tide and well out beyond the coast to the west of the island. Just where were the rocks? And how far out must he steer to avoid them? He was shouting curses now; cursing himself, the cook and the snow. How near was he coming to the entrance of the bay? How soon could he risk turning? Gradually he became aware of a sharp lift to the sea and he heaved a sigh of relief knowing that he must be approaching open water. Resolving to turn westward rather than risk the hazardous passage between Rhuna and the mainland he headed the ‘Silver Crest” directly into the seas, revving up the engine to combat the rapidly worsening conditions. Despite the cold his body was running with sweat; his hands, even his arms were shaking as he clutched the wheel and he found himself no longer shouting curses but murmuring prayer after fervent prayer as the boat leaped and plunged.