Read Online Complete New Tales of Para Handy by Stuart Donald - Free Book Online

swept across the bleak landscape in stinging horizontal sheets.
    Most frightening of all, though, was the state of the sea itself. Between Tiree and Mull, 15 miles away, the ocean seemed to boil in fury as the wind whipped the tops off the steep waves: and the rocky sentinels of the tiny Treshnish islands which lay off the Mull coast at times disappeared under the cataracts of flying spray exploding from the mountainous breakers which disintegrated against their low black cliffs.
    â€œMy Cot,” said Para Handy, as he slammed the fo’c’sle hatch behind him after a quick peek out to assess the situation, “I doot we’re goin’ nowhere today, laads: indeed I doot if even Mr MacBrayne’ll be goin’ anywhere. Heaven help any shup that’s been caught oot in this.”
    Macphail — whose stock of novelettes lay out-of-reach for the moment in the engine-room — looked up from his perusal of the only reading matter to hand, a copy of the Oban Times which the Mate had purchased the previous day in the Scarinish shop. “If the Mountaineer so mich as pits her nose oot o’ Tobermory in this, they’re askin’ for trouble,” he agreed. “This is aboot as bad a storm as I can mind of for mony years.”
    Sunny Jim, whose previous sea-going experience — as a hand on the Cluthas — stopped at Yoker, was mightily relieved to have confirmation that the puffer was not intending to venture into a storm the very sound, never mind the sight, of which had given him an apprehensive, sleepless night.
    â€œWhit’s the worst experience at sea that ye’ve ever had wi’ the Vital Spark , Captain?” he asked.
    Para Handy scratched his right ear reflectively.
    â€œThat would have to be a time a few years back, when we wass bringin’ a cargo o’ brand new herrin’ boxes from a Campbeltown factory up to wan o’ the fush-merchants in Oban. But it wass a bad experience not because it wass dangerous at aal, Jum, but chust because it wass so doonright vexatious.
    â€œWe had to sail to Oban roond the Mull o’ Kintyre, because they wass repairin’ wan o’ the locks in the Crinan canal and it wass closed to aal shups for three weeks. For several days afore we set oot from Campbeltown, there wass a steady wund from the west: not a gale, you understand, but chust this constant, constant wund.
    â€œCaairyin’ a bulky, light cargo like herrin’ boxes meant that even wi’ the hold cham-packed wi’ them we still had a lot of freeboard, so we wass able to pile up a great mass o’ them as deck cargo as weel. Even then, though her stern wass doon, her bows wass still up, and there wass a wall o’ the boxes aboot eight foot high streetched right across the hatchway.
    â€œYe couldna see a dam’ thing ahead of the shup from the brudge, and the Tar had to sit on the tap o’ the deck cargo to gi’e us directions.
    â€œEffery time we roonded the Mull and the wund hit us, we chust got pushed back! Even wi’ Dan’s predecessor, McCulloch, pilin’ on the coals and near burstin’ the biler wi’ the steam pressure we couldna get enough power to mak’ ony headway into thon wund! The pile o’ boxes wass chust like a sail and we wass doin’ mair speed under wund-power — but goin’ astern — than we effer did under steam-power goin’ ahead!
    â€œI wass bleck-affronted. Effery mornin’ for fower days we left the harbour at Campbeltown, and effery evenin’ for fower days we had to turn back there to anchor overnight and try again the next day. I have neffer been so embarrassed aboot the shup even though it wass not her fault — it wass the wund. And when the fishermen in Campbeltown foond oot what wass goin’ on they took a real rise oot o’ us. My Chove, wan night someone cam’ oot in an oarin’-boat while we wass aal asleep