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THE GALLEY BOY OF THE RAVENSWOOD

He stood dreaming on the sponson, tamped a Woodbine on a Ronson,
Watching paddles do the bidding of the gleaming engine room.
With the Powder House a’beam and a good full head of steam
He was off to be a sailor, he was off to Ilfracombe.

His chest had swelled with pride as they’d caught the morning tide;
In his mind: The Bristol voices filled the air,
Where the sailing ships had moored as their powder had been stored;
In years to come they’d hang his bellrope there.

But that was later on, when the years had come and gone,
When the ‘iron ships and wooden men’ neared the end;
Now, with dinner spuds all peeled, the Campbell Steamer heeled,
And fled (with burgee straight,) round Horseshoe Bend.

Making smoke tracks in the sky, the Dagmar Bratt went by,
And The Ravenswood steamed "slow a’head" again;
Like she did, back at Sea Mills, for one of Charlie Hill’s,
And the Starling back from Portugal and Spain.

With the wind ‘In from the West’ there was only Hungroad left;
The last bend in the Avon’s winding track.
Big brass whistle blowing steam, there’s the Dunkerton a’beam,
With Flatholm sand to off-load at Welsh Back.

Now it’s straight down to ‘The Mouth’, there, (with compass west of south)
You could look to Steepholm, fine on starboard bow;
Past the unique browny surge, where the West’s twin waters merge,
Christ! I’d give an arm (not mine!!) to be there now.

Where ships anchor at Kingroad, (they wait there to be towed
By the tugs from Rae’s or King’s to help them berth,)
With ship’s colours on each stack, like some seamen’s almanac,
For a seaman it’s the best place on this earth.

But there’s hot work to be done, (galley life is not all fun,)
And the Dixie pots and pans were piled high,
So he deep-sixed his fag end, nonchalantly, with the wind,
Squared his shoulders, then went mid-ships with a sigh.

He’d had trouble with his feet, (wearing plimsolls in the heat,)
Well; in Bristol, "They was daps, tha’s what they was,")
And his toes had gone all red, and "The two big un’s had bled,"
And in between he’d found some light green fuzz.

"Salt water’s good for them," (the cook dropped this little gem,)
"Soak em innit for ‘aff hour every day;
"In the meantime, clean them fish; over there on that big dish,
"We serve lunch when we’re a’beam of Porlock Bay,"

Heaving lines were being cast, then the mooring line from aft
Was bowsed in tight, to keep the sponson near.
Bristol fashion’d along side, on the Severn’s rising tide.
More day trippers came aboard at Weston Pier.

Now with raw toes screaming pain, (Fletcher Christian stalked his brain,)
The boy cleaned piles of fish with curse and groan;
So, the bucket housed his feet, and the spuds prepared to eat,
Lightly salted; it was two birds with one stone.

Just about three weeks before, in the Sea of Labrador,
Some small ripples grew to wavesize overnight.
Whipped along by wind and tide on a trans-Atlantic ride,
‘Til they fetched up huge, around the Breaksea Light.

Well the boy, (taking a blow, from the fish pile down below,)
Leaning on the weather bulwark in the spray,
Saw the Glen Usk and Glen Gower head for Cardiff at full power,
‘Cause the storm cones had been hoisted for that day.

And the big ships from deep sea were spectacular to see,
Tramps and Tankers, framed against the hills of Gwent,
Over there, towards Porthcawl, limping back from Montreal,
The Delilian with all her lifeboats bent.

There were Port Boats, P.& O. one of Ropner’s going slow,
The Cavina bound for Kingston in the sun;
And a veteran of big seas rode with customary ease,
The New York City from the Western Ocean run.

Now with Steepholm well a’stern, the boy began to learn
about sea legs, and a seaman’s rule at sea;
When she starts to ‘ship em green’ and Sam Plimsoll can’t be seen,
Then it’s ‘one hand for the ship and one for me’.

This nautical romance, just up north east from Penzance,
Left the boy with ‘deep sea fever ‘ in his bones;
He was destined to become, (besides allotments for his Mum,)
Well aquainted with ‘Skin Boat’s holystones.

They crept into Ilfracombe, paddling softly through the spume,
Till they berthed, snug in the lee of Lantern Hill;
But they sailed within the hour, heading due north for the Gower,
While the boy was armpit deep in galley swill.

In his heart he longed to be, like the real men of the sea;
Men like Dampier and John Cabot, even Drake;
But he couldn’t reconcile all those dead fish in a pile,
With the kind of epic voyage they would make.

Still, the Campbell’s was a start, and would ease a longing heart,
And the need for foreign parts and mystery;
Was met, moments before dusk, berthed at Newport, on the Usk,
When the boy had spent his first full day at sea.



© Reg Kear… Australia. 1997.