The sails flapped over their heads. The water chuckled and slapped the
sides of the boat, which drowsed motionless in the sun. Now and then
the sails rippled with a little breeze in them, but the ripple ran over them
and ceased. The boat made no motion at all. Mr Ramsay sat in the
middle of the boat. He would be impatient in a moment, James thought,
and Cam thought, looking at her father, who sat in the middle of the
boat between them (James steered; Cam sat alone in the bow) with his
legs tightly curled. He hated hanging about. Sure enough, after fidgeting
a second or two, he said something sharp to Macalister's boy, who got
out his oars and began to row. But their father, they knew, would never
be content until they were flying along. He would keep looking for a
breeze, fidgeting, saying things under his breath, which Macalister and
and Macalister's boy would overhear, and they would both be made horribly
uncomfortable. He had made them come. He had forced them to
come. In their anger they hoped that the breeze would never rise, that he
might be thwarted in every possible way, since he had forced them to
come against their wills.
All the way down to the beach they had lagged behind together,
though he bade them "Walk up, walk up," without speaking. Their heads
were bent down, their heads were pressed down by some remorseless
gale. Speak to him they could not. They must come; they must follow.
They must walk behind him carrying brown paper parcels. But they
vowed, in silence, as they walked, to stand by each other and carry out
the great compact—to resist tyranny to the death. So there they would
sit, one at one end of the boat, one at the other, in silence. They would
say nothing, only look at him now and then where he sat with his legs
twisted, frowning and fidgeting, and pishing and pshawing and muttering
things to himself, and waiting impatiently for a breeze. And they
hoped it would be calm. They hoped he would be thwarted. They hoped
the whole expedition would fail, and they would have to put back, with
their parcels, to the beach.
137
But now, when Macalister's boy had rowed a little way out, the sails
slowly swung round, the boat quickened itself, flattened itself, and shot
off. Instantly, as if some great strain had been relieved, Mr Ramsay uncurled
his legs, took out his tobacco pouch, handed it with a little grunt
to Macalister, and felt, they knew, for all they suffered, perfectly content.
Now they would sail on for hours like this, and Mr Ramsay would ask
old Macalister a question—about the great storm last winter probably—
and old Macalister would answer it, and they would puff their
pipes together, and Macalister would take a tarry rope in his fingers, tying
or untying some knot, and the boy would fish, and never say a word
to any one. James would be forced to keep his eye all the time on the sail.
For if he forgot, then the sail puckered and shivered, and the boat
slackened, and Mr Ramsay would say sharply, "Look out! Look out!" and
old Macalister would turn slowly on his seat. So they heard Mr Ramsay
asking some question about the great storm at Christmas. "She comes
driving round the point," old Macalister said, describing the great storm
last Christmas, when ten ships had been driven into the bay for shelter,
and he had seen "one there, one there, one there" (he pointed slowly
round the bay. Mr Ramsay followed him, turning his head). He had seen
four men clinging to the mast. Then she was gone. "And at last we
shoved her off," he went on (but in their anger and their silence they only
caught a word here and there, sitting at opposite ends of the boat, united
by their compact to fight tyranny to the death). At last they had shoved
her off, they had launched the lifeboat, and they had got her out past the
point—Macalister told the story; and though they only caught a word
here and there, they were conscious all the time of their father—how he
leant forward, how he brought his voice into tune with Macalister's
voice; how, puffing at his pipe, and looking there and there where Macalister
pointed, he relished the thought of the storm and the dark night
and the fishermen striving there. He liked that men should labour and
sweat on the windy beach at night; pitting muscle and brain against the
waves and the wind; he liked men to work like that, and women to keep
house, and sit beside sleeping children indoors, while men were
drowned, out there in a storm. So James could tell, so Cam could tell
(they looked at him, they looked at each other), from his toss and his vigilance
and the ring in his voice, and the little tinge of Scottish accent
which came into his voice, making him seem like a peasant himself, as he
questioned Macalister about the eleven ships that had been driven into
the bay in a storm. Three had sunk.
138
