the poop. In the dark and on all fours he resembled some carnivorous
animal prowling amongst corpses. At the break, propped to windward of a
stanchion, he looked down on the main deck. It seemed to him that the
ship had a tendency to stand up a little more. The wind had eased a
little, he thought, but the sea ran as high as ever. The waves foamed
viciously, and the lee side of the deck disappeared under a hissing
whiteness as of boiling milk, while the rigging sang steadily with
a deep vibrating note, and, at every upward swing of the ship, the
wind rushed with a long-drawn clamour amongst the spars. Mr. Baker
watched very still. A man near him began to make a blabbing noise with
his lips, all at once and very loud, as though the cold had broken
brutally through him. He went on:—“Ba—ba—ba—brrr—brr—ba—ba.”—“Stop
that!” cried Mr. Baker, groping in the dark. “Stop it!” He went on
shaking the leg he found under his hand.—“What is it, sir?” called
out Belfast, in the tone of a man awakened suddenly; “we are looking
after that ’ere Jimmy.”—“Are you? Ough! Don’t make that row then. Who’s
that near you?”—“It’s me—the boatswain, sir,” growled the West-country
man; “we are trying to keep life in that poor devil.”—“Aye, aye!”
said Mr. Baker. “Do it quietly, can’t you?”—“He wants us to hold him
up above the rail,” went on the boatswain, with irritation, “says
he can’t breathe here under our jackets.”—“If we lift ’im, we drop
’im overboard,” said another voice, “we can’t feel our hands with
cold.”—“I don’t care. I am choking!” exclaimed James Wait in a clear
tone.—“Oh, no, my son,” said the boatswain, desperately, “you don’t go
till we all go on this fine night.”—“You will see yet many a worse,”
said Mr. Baker, cheerfully.—“It’s no child’s play, sir!” answered the
boatswain. “Some of us further aft, here, are in a pretty bad way.”—“If
the blamed sticks had been cut out of her she would be running along
on her bottom now like any decent ship, an’ giv’ us all a chance,”
said some one, with a sigh.—“The old man wouldn’t have it... much he
cares for us,” whispered another.—“Care for you!” exclaimed Mr. Baker,
angrily. “Why should he care for you? Are you a lot of women passengers
to be taken care of? We are here to take care of the ship—and some of
you ain’t up to that. Ough!... What have you done so very smart to
be taken care of? Ough!... Some of you can’t stand a bit of a breeze
without crying over it.”—“Come, sorr. We ain’t so bad,” protested
Belfast, in a voice shaken by shivers; “we ain’t ... brr ...”—“Again,”
shouted the mate, grabbing at the shadowy form; “again!... Why, you’re
in your shirt! What have you done?”—“I’ve put my oilskin and jacket
over that half-dead nayggur—and he says he chokes,” said Belfast,
complainingly.—“You wouldn’t call me nigger if I wasn’t half dead,
you Irish beggar!” boomed James Wait, vigorously.—“You... brrr... You
wouldn’t be white if you were ever so well ... I will fight you ...
brrrr ... in fine weather ... brrr ... with one hand tied behind my
back ... brrrrrr ...”—“I don’t want your rags—I want air,” gasped out
the other faintly, as if suddenly exhausted.
The sprays swept over whistling and pattering. Men disturbed in
their peaceful torpor by the pain of quarrelsome shouts, moaned,
muttering curses. Mr. Baker crawled off a little way to leeward
where a water-cask loomed up big, with something white against it.
“Is it you, Podmore?” asked Mr. Baker, He had to repeat the question
twice before the cook turned, coughing feebly.—“Yes, sir. I’ve been
praying in my mind for a quick deliverance; for I am prepared for any
call.... I——”—“Look here, cook,” interrupted Mr. Baker, “the men are
perishing with cold.”—“Cold!” said the cook, mournfully; “they will
be warm enough before long.”—“What?” asked Mr. Baker, looking along
the deck into the faint sheen of frothing water.—“They are a wicked
lot,” continued the cook solemnly, but in an unsteady voice, “about as
wicked as any ship’s company in this sinful world! Now, I”—he trembled
so that he could hardly speak; his was an exposed place, and in a
cotton shirt, a thin pair of trousers, and with his knees under his
nose, he received, quaking, the flicks of stinging, salt drops; his
voice sounded exhausted—“now. I—any time ... My eldest youngster, Mr.
Baker ... a clever boy ... last Sunday on shore before this voyage he
wouldn’t go to church, sir. Says I, ‘You go and clean yourself, or
I’ll know the reason why!’ What does he do?... Pond, Mr. Baker—fell
into the pond in his best rig, sir!... Accident?... ‘Nothing will save
you, fine scholar though you are!’ says I.... Accident!... I whopped
him, sir, till I couldn’t lift my arm....” His voice faltered. “I
whopped ’im!” he repeated, rattling his teeth; then, after a while,
let out a mournful sound that was half a groan, half a snore. Mr.
Baker shook him by the shoulders. “Hey! Cook! Hold up, Podmore! Tell
me—is there any fresh water in the galley tank? The ship is lying
along less, I think; I would try to get forward. A little water would
do them good. Hallo! Look out! Look out!” The cook struggled.—“Not
you, sir—not you!” He began to scramble to windward. “Galley!... my
business!” he shouted.—“Cook’s going crazy now,” said several voices.
He yelled:—“Crazy, am I? I am more ready to die than any of you,
officers incloosive—there! As long as she swims I will cook! I will
get you coffee.”—“Cook, ye are a gentleman!” cried Belfast. But the
cook was already going over the weather-ladder. He stopped for a moment
to shout back on the poop:—“As long as she swims I will cook!” and
disappeared as though he had gone overboard. The men who had heard sent
after him a cheer that sounded like a wail of sick children. An hour or
more afterwards some one said distinctly: “He’s gone for good.”—“Very
likely,” assented the boatswain; “even in fine weather he was as smart
about the deck as a milch-cow on her first voyage. We ought to go and
see.” Nobody moved. As the hours dragged slowly through the darkness
Mr. Baker crawled back and forth along the poop several times. Some
men fancied they had heard him exchange murmurs with the master, but
at that time the memories were incomparably more vivid than anything
actual, and they were not certain whether the murmurs were heard now or
many years ago. They did not try to find out. A mutter more or less did
not matter. It was too cold for curiosity, and almost for hope. They
could not spare a moment or a thought from the great mental occupation
of wishing to live. And the desire of life kept them alive, apathetic
and enduring, under the cruel persistence of wind and cold; while the
bestarred black dome of the sky revolved slowly above the ship, that
drifted, bearing their patience and their suffering, through the stormy
solitude of the sea.
Huddled close to one another, they fancied themselves utterly alone.
They heard sustained loud noises, and again bore the pain of existence
through long hours of profound silence. In the night they saw sunshine,
felt warmth, and suddenly, with a start, thought that the sun would
never rise upon a freezing world. Some heard laughter, listened to
songs; others, near the end of the poop, could hear loud human shrieks,
and opening their eyes, were surprised to hear them still, though very
faint, and far away. The boatswain said:—“Why, it’s the cook, hailing
from forward, I think.” He hardly believed his own words or recognised
his own voice. It was a long time before the man next to him gave a
sign of life. He punched hard his other neighbour and said:—“The cook’s
shouting!” Many did not understand, others did not care; the majority
further aft did not believe. But the boatswain and another man had the
pluck to crawl away forward to see. They seemed to have been gone for
hours, and were very soon forgotten. Then suddenly men who had been
plunged in a hopeless resignation became as if possessed with a desire
to hurt. They belaboured one another with fists. In the darkness they
struck persistently anything soft they could feel near, and, with a
greater effort than for a shout, whispered excitedly:—“They’ve got some
hot coffee.... Boss’en got it....” “No!... Where?” ... “It’s coming!
Cook made it.” James Wait moaned. Donkin scrambled viciously, caring
not where he kicked, and anxious that the officers should have none of
it. It came in a pot, and they drank in turns. It was hot, and while it
blistered the greedy palates, it seemed incredible. The men sighed out
parting with the mug:—“How ’as he done it?” Some cried weakly:—“Bully
for you, doctor!”
He had done it somehow. Afterwards Archie declared that the thing
was “meeraculous.” For many days we wondered, and it was the one
ever-interesting subject of conversation to the end of the voyage. We
asked the cook, in fine weather, how he felt when he saw his stove
“reared up on end.” We inquired, in the north-east trade and on serene
evenings, whether he had to stand on his head to put things right
somewhat. We suggested he had used his bread-board for a raft, and
from there comfortably had stoked his grate; and we did our best to
conceal our admiration under the wit of fine irony. He affirmed not
to know anything about it, rebuked our levity, declared himself, with
solemn animation, to have been the object of a special mercy for the
saving of our unholy lives. Fundamentally he was right, no doubt; but
he need not have been so offensively positive about it—he need not
have hinted so often that it would have gone hard with us had he not
been there, meritorious and pure, to receive the inspiration and the
strength for the work of grace. Had we been saved by his recklessness
or his agility, we could have at length become reconciled to the fact;
but to admit our obligation to anybody’s virtue and holiness alone was
as difficult for us as for any other handful of mankind. Like many
benefactors of humanity, the cook took himself too seriously, and
reaped the reward of irreverence. We were not un-ungrateful, however.
He remained heroic. His saying—the saying of his life—became proverbial
in the mouth of men as are the sayings of conquerors or sages. Later,
whenever one of us was puzzled by a task and advised to relinquish it,
he would express his determination to persevere and to succeed by the
words:—“As long as she swims I will cook!”
The hot drink helped us through the bleak hours that precede the dawn.
The sky low by the horizon took on the delicate tints of pink and
yellow like the inside of a rare shell. And higher, where it glowed
with a pearly sheen, a small black cloud appeared, like a forgotten
fragment of the night set in a border of dazzling gold. The beams of
light skipped on the crests of waves. The eyes of men turned to the
eastward. The sunlight flooded their weary faces. They were giving
themselves up to fatigue as though they had done for ever with their
work. On Singleton’s black oilskin coat the dried salt glistened like
hoar frost. He hung on by the wheel, with open and lifeless eyes.
Captain Allistoun, unblinking, faced the rising sun. His lips stirred,
opened for the first time in twenty-four hours, and with a fresh firm
voice he cried, “Wear ship!”
The commanding sharp tones made all these torpid men start like a
sudden flick of a whip. Then again, motionless where they lay, the
force of habit made some of them repeat the order in hardly audible
murmurs. Captain Allistoun glanced down at his crew, and several, with
fumbling fingers and hopeless movements, tried to cast themselves
adrift. He repeated impatiently, “Wear ship. Now then, Mr. Baker,
get the men along. What’s the matter with them?”—“Wear ship. Do you
hear there?—Wear ship!” thundered out the boatswain suddenly. His
voice seemed to break through a deadly spell. Men began to stir and
crawl.—“I want the fore-topmast staysail run up smartly,” said the
master, very loudly; “if you can’t manage it standing up you must do it
lying down—that’s all. Bear a hand!”—“Come along! Let’s give the old
girl a chance,” urged the boatswain.—“Aye! aye! Wear ship!” exclaimed
quavering voices. The forecastle men, with reluctant faces, prepared to
go forward. Mr. Baker pushed ahead, grunting, on all fours to show the
way, and they followed him over the break. The others lay still with a
vile hope in their hearts of not being required to move till they got
saved or drowned in peace.
After some time they could be seen forward appearing on the forecastle
head, one by one in unsafe attitudes; hanging on to the rails,
clambering over the anchors; embracing the cross-head of the windlass
or hugging the fore-capstan. They were restless with strange exertions,
waved their arms, knelt, lay flat down, staggered up, seemed to
strive their hardest to go overboard. Suddenly a small white piece
of canvas fluttered amongst them, grew larger, beating. Its narrow
head rose in jerks—and at last it stood distended and triangular in
the sunshine.—“They have done it!” cried the voices aft. Captain
Allistoun let go the rope he had round his wrist and rolled to leeward
headlong. He could be seen casting the lee main braces off the pins
while the backwash of waves splashed over him.—“Square the main yard!”
he shouted up to us—who stared at him in wonder. We hesitated to stir.
“The main brace, men. Haul! haul anyhow! Lay on your backs and haul!”
he screeched, half drowned down there. We did not believe we could
move the main yard, but the strongest and the less discouraged tried
to execute the order. Others assisted half-heartedly. Singleton’s
eyes blazed suddenly as he took a fresh grip of the spokes. Captain
Allistoun fought his way up to windward.—“Haul, men! Try to move it!
Haul, and help the ship.” His hard face worked suffused and furious.
“Is she going off, Singleton?” he cried.—“Not a move yet, sir,” croaked
the old seaman in a horribly hoarse voice.—“Watch the helm, Singleton,”
spluttered the master. “Haul, men! Have you no more strength than rats?
Haul, and earn your salt.” Mr. Creighton, on his back, with a swollen
leg and a face as white as a piece of paper, blinked his eyes; his
bluish lips twitched. In the wild scramble men grabbed at him, crawled
over his hurt leg, knelt on his chest. He kept perfectly still, setting
his teeth without a moan, without a sigh. The master’s ardour, the
cries of that silent man inspired us. We hauled and hung in bunches
on the rope. We heard him say with violence to Donkin, who sprawled
abjectly on his stomach,—“I will brain you with this belaying pin if
you don’t catch hold of the brace,” and that victim of men’s injustice,
cowardly and cheeky, whimpered:—“Are you goin’ to murder us now?” while
with sudden desperation he gripped the rope. Men sighed, shouted,
hissed meaningless words, groaned. The yards moved, came slowly square
against the wind, that hummed loudly on the yard-arms.—“Going off,
sir,” shouted Singleton, “she’s just started.”—“Catch a turn with that
brace. Catch a turn!” clamoured the master. Mr. Creighton, nearly
suffocated and unable to move, made a mighty effort, and with his left
hand managed to nip the rope.—“All fast!” cried some one. He closed his
eyes as if going off into a swoon, while huddled together about the
brace we watched with scared looks what the ship would do now.
She went off slowly as though she had been weary and disheartened like
the men she carried. She paid off very gradually, making us hold our
breath till we choked, and as soon as she had brought the wind abaft
the beam she started to move, and fluttered our hearts. It was awful to
see her, nearly overturned, begin to gather way and drag her submerged
side through the water. The dead-eyes of the rigging churned the
breaking seas. The lower half of the deck was full of mad whirlpools
and eddies; and the long line of the lee rail could be seen showing
black now and then in the swirls of a field of foam as dazzling and
white as a field of snow. The wind sang shrilly amongst the spars; and
at every slight lurch we expected her to slip to the bottom sideways
from under our backs. When dead before it she made the first distinct
attempt to stand up, and we encouraged her with a feeble and discordant
howl. A great sea came running up aft and hung for a moment over us
with a curling top; then crashed down under the counter and spread out
on both sides into a great sheet of bursting froth. Above its fierce
hiss we heard Singleton’s croak:—“She is steering!” He had both his
feet now planted firmly on the grating, and the wheel spun fast as he
eased the helm.—“Bring the wind on the port quarter and steady her!”
called out the master, staggering to his feet, the first man up from
amongst our prostrate heap. One or two screamed with excitement:—“She
rises!” Far away forward, Mr. Baker and three others were seen erect
and black on the clear sky, lifting their arms, and with open mouths as
though they had been shouting all together. The ship trembled, trying
to lift her side, lurched back, seemed to give up with a nerveless dip,
and suddenly with an unexpected jerk swung violently to windward, as
though she had torn herself out from a deadly grasp. The whole immense
volume of water, lifted by her deck, was thrown bodily across to
starboard. Loud cracks were heard. Iron ports breaking open thundered
with ringing blows. The water topped over the starboard rail with the
rush of a river falling over a dam. The sea on deck, and the seas on
every side of her, mingled together in a deafening roar. She rolled
violently. We got up and were helplessly run or flung about from side
to side. Men, rolling over and over, yelled,—“The house will go!”—“She
clears herself!” Lifted by a towering sea she ran along with it for a
moment, spouting thick streams of water through every opening of her
wounded sides. The lee braces having been carried away or washed off
the pins, all the ponderous yards on the fore swung from side to side
and with appalling rapidity at every roll. The men forward were seen
crouching here and there with fearful glances upwards at the enormous
spars that whirled about over their heads. The torn canvas and the ends
of broken gear streamed in the wind like wisps of hair. Through the
clear sunshine, over the flashing turmoil and uproar of the seas, the
ship ran blindly, dishevelled and headlong, as if fleeing for her life;
and on the poop we spun, we tottered about, distracted and noisy. We
all spoke at once in a thin babble; we had the aspect of invalids and
the gestures of maniacs. Eyes shone, large and haggard, in smiling,
meagre faces that seemed to have been dusted over with powdered chalk.
We stamped, clapped our hands, feeling ready to jump and do anything;
but in reality hardly able to keep on our feet.
Captain Allistoun, hard and slim, gesticulated madly from the poop at
Mr. Baker: “Steady these fore-yards! Steady them the best you can!” On
the main deck, men excited by his cries, splashed, dashing aimlessly,
here and there with the foam swirling up to their waists. Apart, far
aft, and alone by the helm, old Singleton had deliberately tucked his
white beard under the top button of his glistening coat. Swaying upon
the din and tumult of the seas, with the whole battered length of the
ship launched forward in a rolling rush before his steady old eyes,
he stood rigidly still, forgotten by all, and with an attentive face.
In front of his erect figure only the two arms moved crosswise with a
swift and sudden readiness, to check or urge again the rapid stir of
circling spokes. He steered with care.
CHAPTER FOUR
On men reprieved by its disdainful mercy, the immortal sea confers in
its justice the full privilege of desired unrest. Through the perfect
wisdom of its grace they are not permitted to meditate at ease upon
the complicated and acrid savour of existence. They must without pause
justify their life to the eternal pity that commands toil to be hard
and unceasing, from sunrise to sunset, from sunset to sunrise; till the
weary succession of nights and days tainted by the obstinate clamour of
sages, demanding bliss and an empty heaven, is redeemed at last by the
vast silence of pain and labour, by the dumb fear and the dumb courage
of men obscure, forgetful, and enduring.
The master and Mr. Baker coming face to face stared for a moment, with
the intense and amazed looks of men meeting unexpectedly after years
of trouble. Their voices were gone, and they whispered desperately
at one another.—“Any one missing?” asked Captain Allistoun.—“No. All
there.”—“Anybody hurt?”—“Only the second mate.”—“I will look after him
directly. We’re lucky.”—“Very,” articulated Mr. Baker, faintly. He
gripped the rail and rolled bloodshot eyes. The little grey man made
an effort to raise his voice above a dull mutter, and fixed his chief
mate with a cold gaze, piercing like a dart.—“Get sail on the ship,”
he said, speaking authoritatively and with an inflexible snap of his
thin lips. “Get sail on her as soon as you can. This is a fair wind.
At once, sir—Don’t give the men time to feel themselves. They will
get done up and stiff, and we will never ... We must get her along
now” ... He reeled to a long heavy roll; the rail dipped into the
glancing, hissing water. He caught a shroud, swung helplessly against
the mate ... “now we have a fair wind at last—Make—sail.” His head
rolled from shoulder to shoulder. His eyelids began to beat rapidly.
“And the pumps—pumps, Mr. Baker.” He peered as though the face within
a foot of his eyes had been half a mile off. “Keep the men on the move
to—to get her along,” he mumbled in a drowsy tone, like a man going
off into a doze. He pulled himself together suddenly. “Mustn’t stand.
Won’t do,” he said with a painful attempt at a smile. He let go his
hold, and, propelled by the dip of the ship, ran aft unwillingly, with
small steps, till he brought up against the binnacle stand. Hanging on
there he looked up in an aimless manner at Singleton, who, unheeding
him, watched anxiously the end of the jib-boom—“Steering gear works
all right?” he asked. There was a noise in the old seaman’s throat,
as though the words had been rattling together before they could come
out.—“Steers ... like a little boat,” he said, at last, with hoarse
tenderness, without giving the master as much as half a glance—then,
watchfully, spun the wheel down, steadied, flung it back again. Captain
Allistoun tore himself away from the delight of leaning against the
binnacle, and began to walk the poop, swaying and reeling to preserve
his balance....