turned smoothly, with great speed, at the foot of the mainmast,
flinging back and forth with a regular impetuosity two limp clusters of
men clinging to the handles. They abandoned themselves, swaying from
the hip with twitching faces and stony eyes. The carpenter, sounding
from time to time, exclaimed mechanically: “Shake her up! Keep her
going!” Mr. Baker could not speak, but found his voice to shout;
and under the goad of his objurgations, men looked to the lashings,
dragged out new sails; and thinking themselves unable to move, carried
heavy blocks aloft—overhauled the gear. They went up the rigging with
faltering and desperate efforts. Their heads swam as they shifted their
hold, stepped blindly on the yards like men in the dark; or trusted
themselves to the first rope at hand with the negligence of exhausted
strength. The narrow escapes from falls did not disturb the languid
beat of their hearts; the roar of the seas seething far below them
sounded continuous and faint like an indistinct noise from another
world: the wind filled their eyes with tears, and with heavy gusts
tried to push them off from where they swayed in insecure positions.
With streaming faces and blowing hair they flew up and down between sky
and water, bestriding the ends of yard-arms, crouching on foot-ropes,
embracing lifts to have their hands free, or standing up against chain
ties. Their thoughts floated vaguely between the desire of rest and the
desire of life, while their stiffened fingers cast off head-earrings,
fumbled for knives, or held with tenacious grip against the violent
shocks of beating canvas. They glared savagely at one another, made
frantic signs with one hand while they held their life in the other,
looked down on the narrow strip of flooded deck, shouted along to
leeward: “Light-to!”... “Haul out!”... “Make fast!” Their lips moved,
their eyes started, furious and eager with the desire to be understood,
but the wind tossed their words unheard upon the disturbed sea. In
an unendurable and unending strain they worked like men driven by a
merciless dream to toil in an atmosphere of ice or flame. They burnt
and shivered in turns. Their eyeballs smarted as if in the smoke of a
conflagration; their heads were ready to burst with every shout. Hard
fingers seemed to grip their throats. At every roll they thought: Now I
must let go. It will shake us all off—and thrown about aloft they cried
wildly: “Look out there—catch the end.”... “Reeve clear”... “Turn this
block....” They nodded desperately; shook infuriated faces, “No! No!
From down up.” They seemed to hate one another with a deadly hate. The
longing to be done with it all gnawed their breasts, and the wish to
do things well was a burning pain. They cursed their fate, contemned
their life, and wasted their breath in deadly imprecations upon one
another. The sailmaker, with his bald head bared, worked feverishly,
forgetting his intimacy with so many admirals. The boatswain, climbing
up with marlinspikes and bunches of spunyarn rovings, or kneeling on
the yard and ready to take a turn with the midship-stop, had acute and
fleeting visions of his old woman and the youngsters in a moorland
village. Mr. Baker, feeling very weak, tottered here and there,
grunting and inflexible, like a man of iron. He waylaid those who,
coming from aloft, stood gasping for breath. He ordered, encouraged,
scolded. “Now then—to the main topsail now! Tally on to that gantline.
Don’t stand about there!”—“Is there no rest for us?” muttered voices.
He spun round fiercely, with a sinking heart.—“No! No rest till the
work is done. Work till you drop. That’s what you’re here for.” A
bowed seaman at his elbow gave a short laugh.—“Do or die,” he croaked
bitterly, then spat into his broad palms, swung up his long arms, and
grasping the rope high above his head sent out a mournful, wailing cry
for a pull all together. A sea boarded the quarter-deck and sent the
whole lot sprawling to leeward. Caps, handspikes floated. Clenched
hands, kicking legs, with here and there a spluttering face, stuck
out of the white hiss of foaming water. Mr. Baker, knocked down with
the rest, screamed—“Don’t let go that rope! Hold on to it! Hold!” And
sorely bruised by the brutal fling, they held on to it, as though it
had been the fortune of their life. The ship ran, rolling heavily,
and the topping crests glanced past port and starboard flashing their
white heads. Pumps were freed. Braces were rove. The three topsails and
foresail were set. She spurted faster over the water, outpacing the
swift rush of waves. The menacing thunder of distanced seas rose behind
her—filled the air with the tremendous vibrations of its voice. And
devastated, battered, and wounded she drove foaming to the northward,
as though inspired by the courage of a high endeavour....
The forecastle was a place of damp desolation. They looked at their
dwelling with dismay. It was slimy, dripping; it hummed hollow with the
wind, and was strewn with shapeless wreckage like a half-tide cavern in
a rocky and exposed coast. Many had lost all they had in the world, but
most of the starboard watch had preserved their chests; thin streams of
water trickled out of them, however. The beds were soaked; the blankets
spread out and saved by some nail squashed under foot. They dragged wet
rags from evil-smelling corners, and wringing the water out, recognised
their property. Some smiled stiffly. Others looked round blank and
mute. There were cries of joy over old waistcoats, and groans of sorrow
over shapeless things found among the splinters of smashed bed boards.
One lamp was discovered jammed under the bowsprit. Charley whimpered a
little. Knowles stumped here and there, sniffing, examining dark places
for salvage. He poured dirty water out of a boot, and was concerned
to find the owner. Those who, overwhelmed by their losses, sat on the
forepeak hatch, remained elbows on knees, and, with a fist against
each cheek, disdained to look up. He pushed it under their noses.
“Here’s a good boot. Yours?” They snarled, “No—get out.” One snapped
at him, “Take it to hell out of this.” He seemed surprised. “Why? It’s
a good boot,” but remembering suddenly that he had lost every stitch
of his clothing, he dropped his find and began to swear. In the dim
light cursing voices clashed. A man came in and, dropping his arms,
stood still, repeating from the doorstep, “Here’s a bloomin’ old go!
Here’s a bloomin’ old go!” A few rooted anxiously in flooded chests for
tobacco. They breathed hard, clamoured with heads down. “Look at that
Jack!”... “Here! Sam! Here’s my shore-going rig spoilt for ever.” One
blasphemed tearfully, holding up a pair of dripping trousers. No one
looked at him. The cat came out from somewhere. He had an ovation. They
snatched him from hand to hand, caressed him in a murmur of pet names.
They wondered where he had “weathered it out;” disputed about it. A
squabbling argument began. Two men brought in a bucket of fresh water,
and all crowded round it; but Tom, lean and mewing, came up with every
hair astir and had the first drink. A couple of hands went aft for oil
and biscuits.
Then in the yellow light and in the intervals of mopping the deck they
crunched hard bread, arranging to “worry through somehow.” Men chummed
as to beds. Turns were settled for wearing boots and having the use
of oilskin coats. They called one another “old man” and “sonny” in
cheery voices. Friendly slaps resounded. Jokes were shouted. One or
two stretched on the wet deck, slept with heads pillowed on their bent
arms, and several, sitting on the hatch, smoked. Their weary faces
appeared through a thin blue haze, pacified and with sparkling eyes.
The boatswain put his head through the door. “Relieve the wheel, one
of you”—he shouted inside—“it’s six. Blamme if that old Singleton
hasn’t been there more’n thirty hours. You are a fine lot.” He slammed
the door again. “Mate’s watch on deck,” said some one. “Hey, Donkin,
it’s your relief!” shouted three or four together. He had crawled into
an empty bunk and on wet planks lay still. “Donkin, your wheel.” He
made no sound. “Donkin’s dead,” guffawed some one, “Sell ’is bloomin’
clothes,” shouted another. “Donkin, if ye don’t go to the bloomin’
wheel they will sell your clothes—d’ye hear?” jeered a third. He
groaned from his dark hole. He complained about pains in all his bones,
he whimpered pitifully. “He won’t go,” exclaimed a contemptuous voice,
“your turn, Davis.” The young seaman rose painfully, squaring his
shoulders. Donkin stuck his head out, and it appeared in the yellow
light, fragile and ghastly. “I will giv’ yer a pound of tobaccer,”
he whined in a conciliating voice, “so soon as I draw it from aft.
I will—s’elp me ...” Davis swung his arm backhanded and the head
vanished. “I’ll go,” he said, “but you will pay for it.” He walked
unsteady but resolute to the door. “So I will,” yelped Donkin, popping
out behind him. “So I will—s’elp me ... a pound ... three bob they
chawrge.” Davis flung the door open. “You will pay my price ... in
fine weather,” he shouted over his shoulder. One of the men unbuttoned
his wet coat rapidly, threw it at his head. “Here, Taffy—take that,
you thief!” “Thank you!” he cried from the darkness above the swish of
rolling water. He could be heard splashing; a sea came on board with a
thump. “He’s got his bath already,” remarked a grim shellback. “Aye,
aye!” grunted others. Then, after a long silence, Wamibo made strange
noises. “Hallo, what’s up with you?” said some one grumpily. “He says
he would have gone for Davy,” explained Archie, who was the Finn’s
interpreter generally. “I believe him!” cried voices.... “Never mind,
Dutchy ... You’ll do, muddle-head.... Your turn will come soon enough
... You don’t know when ye’re well off.” They ceased, and all together
turned their faces to the door. Singleton stepped in, advanced two
paces, and stood swaying slightly. The sea hissed, flowed roaring past
the bows, and the forecastle trembled, full of deep murmurs; the lamp
flared, swinging like a pendulum. He looked with a dreamy and puzzled
stare, as though he could not distinguish the still men from their
restless shadows. There were awestruck exclamations:—“Hallo, hallo”
... “How does it look outside now, Singleton?” Those who sat on the
hatch lifted their eyes in silence, and the next oldest seaman in the
ship (those two understood one another, though they hardly exchanged
three words in a day) gazed up at his friend attentively for a moment,
then taking a short clay pipe out of his mouth, offered it without
a word. Singleton put out his arm towards it, missed, staggered,
and suddenly fell forward, crashing down, stiff and headlong like
an uprooted tree. There was a swift rush. Men pushed, crying:—“He’s
done!”... “Turn him over!”... “Stand clear there!” Under a crowd of
startled faces bending over him he lay on his back, staring upwards
in a continuous and intolerable manner. In the breathless silence
of a general consternation, he said in a grating murmur:—“I am all
right,” and clutched with his hands. They helped him up. He mumbled
despondently:—“I am getting old ... old.”—“Not you,” cried Belfast,
with ready tact. Supported on all sides, he hung his head.—“Are you
better?” they asked. He glared at them from under his eyebrows with
large black eyes, spreading over his chest the bushy whiteness of a
beard long and thick.—“Old! old!” he repeated sternly. Helped along,
he reached his bunk. There was in it a slimy soft heap of something
that smelt, as does at dead low water a muddy foreshore. It was his
soaked straw bed. With a convulsive effort he pitched himself on
it, and in the darkness of the narrow place could be heard growling
angrily, like an irritated and savage animal uneasy in its den:—“Bit
of breeze ... small thing ... can’t stand up ... old!” He slept at
last, high-booted, sou’wester on head, and his oilskin clothes rustled,
when with a deep sighing groan he turned over. Men conversed about him
in quiet, concerned whispers. “This will break’im up” ... “Strong as
a horse” ... “Aye. But he ain’t what he used to be.” In sad murmurs
they gave him up. Yet at midnight he turned out to duty as if nothing
had been the matter, and answered to his name with a mournful “Here!”
He brooded alone more than ever, in an impenetrable silence and with
a saddened face. For many years he had heard himself called “Old
Singleton,” and had serenely accepted the qualification, taking it
as a tribute of respect due to a man who through half a century had
measured his strength against the favours and the rages of the sea. He
had never given a thought to his mortal self. He lived unscathed, as
though he had been indestructible, surrendering to all the temptations,
weathering many gales. He had panted in sunshine, shivered in the cold;
suffered hunger, thirst, debauch; passed through many trials—known all
the furies. Old! It seemed to him he was broken at last. And like a
man bound treacherously while he sleeps, he woke up fettered by the
long chain of disregarded years. He had to take up at once the burden
of all his existence, and found it almost too heavy for his strength.
Old! He moved his arms, shook his head, felt his limbs. Getting old ...
and then? He looked upon the immortal sea with the awakened and groping
perception of its heartless might; he saw it unchanged, black and
foaming under the eternal scrutiny of the stars; he heard its impatient
voice calling for him out of a pitiless vastness full of unrest, of
turmoil, and of terror. He looked afar upon it, and he saw an immensity
tormented and blind, moaning and furious, that claimed all the days of
his tenacious life, and, when life was over, would claim the worn-out
body of its slave....
* * * * *
This was the last of the breeze. It veered quickly, changed to a black
south-easter, and blew itself out, giving the ship a famous shove to
the northward into the joyous sunshine of the trade. Rapid and white
she ran homewards in a straight path, under a blue sky and upon the
plain of a blue sea. She carried Singleton’s completed wisdom, Donkin’s
delicate susceptibilities, and the conceited folly of us all. The hours
of ineffective turmoil were forgotten; the fear and anguish of these
dark moments were never mentioned in the glowing peace of fine days.
Yet from that time our life seemed to start afresh as though we had
died and had been resuscitated. All the first part of the voyage, the
Indian Ocean on the other side of the Cape, all that was lost in a
haze, like an ineradicable suspicion of some previous existence. It had
ended—then there were blank hours: a livid blurr—and again we lived!
Singleton was possessed of sinister truth; Mr. Creighton of a damaged
leg; the cook of fame—and shamefully abused the opportunities of his
distinction. Donkin had an added grievance. He went about repeating
with insistence:—“’E said ’e would brain me—did yer ’ear? They are
goin’ to murder us now for the least little thing.” We began at last
to think it was rather awful. And we were conceited! We boasted of
our pluck, of our capacity for work, of our energy. We remembered
honourable episodes: our devotion, our indomitable perseverance—and
were proud of them as though they had been the outcome of our unaided
impulses. We remembered our danger, our toil—and conveniently forgot
our horrible scare. We decried our officers—who had done nothing—and
listened to the fascinating Donkin. His care for our rights, his
disinterested concern for our dignity, were not discouraged by the
invariable contumely of our words, by the disdain of our looks. Our
contempt for him was unbounded—and we could not but listen with
interest to that consummate artist. He told us we were good men—a
“bloomin’ condemned lot of good men.” Who thanked us? Who took any
notice of our wrongs? Didn’t we lead a “dorg’s loife for two poun’
ten a month?” Did we think that miserable pay enough to compensate
us for the risk to our lives and for the loss of our clothes? “We’ve
lost every rag!” he cried. He made us forget that he, at any rate,
had lost nothing of his own. The younger men listened, thinking—this
’ere Donkin’s a long-headed chap, though no kind of man, anyhow.
The Scandinavians were frightened at his audacities; Wamibo did not
understand; and the older seamen thoughtfully nodded their heads making
the thin gold earrings glitter in the fleshy lobes of hairy ears.
Severe, sunburnt faces were propped meditatively on tattooed forearms.
Veined, brown fists held in their knotted grip the dirty white clay
of smouldering pipes. They listened, impenetrable, broad-backed, with
bent shoulders, and in grim silence. He talked with ardour, despised
and irrefutable. His picturesque and filthy loquacity flowed like a
troubled stream from a poisoned source. His beady little eyes danced,
glancing right and left, ever on the watch for the approach of an
officer. Sometimes Mr. Baker going forward to take a look at the head
sheets would roll with his uncouth gait through the sudden stillness
of the men; or Mr. Creighton limped along, smooth-faced, youthful, and
more stern than ever, piercing our short silence with a keen glance
of his clear eyes. Behind his back Donkin would begin again darting
stealthy, sidelong looks.—“’Ere’s one of ’em. Some of yer ’as made ’im
fast that day. Much thanks yer got for it. Ain’t ’ee a-drivin’ yer
wusse’n ever?... Let ’im slip overboard.... Vy not? It would ’ave been
less trouble. Vy not?” He advanced confidentially, backed away with
great effect; he whispered, he screamed, waved his miserable arms no
thicker than pipe-stems—stretched his lean neck—spluttered—squinted. In
the pauses of his impassioned orations the wind sighed quietly aloft,
the calm sea unheeded murmured in a warning whisper along the ship’s
side. We abominated the creature and could not deny the luminous truth
of his contentions. It was all so obvious. We were indubitably good
men; our deserts were great and our pay small. Through our exertions we
had saved the ship and the skipper would get the credit of it. What had
he done? we wanted to know. Donkin asked:—“What ’ee could do without
hus?” and we could not answer. We were oppressed by the injustice
of the world, surprised to perceive how long we had lived under its
burden without realising our unfortunate state, annoyed by the uneasy
suspicion of our undiscerning stupidity. Donkin assured us it was all
our “good ’eartedness,” but we would not be consoled by such shallow
sophistry. We were men enough to courageously admit to ourselves our
intellectual shortcomings; though from that time we refrained from
kicking him, tweaking his nose, or from accidentally knocking him
about, which last, after we had weathered the Cape, had been rather a
popular amusement. Davis ceased to talk at him provokingly about black
eyes and flattened noses. Charley, much subdued since the gale, did not
jeer at him. Knowles deferentially and with a crafty air propounded
questions such as:—“Could we all have the same grub as the mates? Could
we all stop ashore till we got it? What would be the next thing to try
for if we got that?” He answered readily with contemptuous certitude;
he strutted with assurance in clothes that were much too big for him
as though he had tried to disguise himself. These were Jimmy’s clothes
mostly—though he would accept anything from anybody; but nobody, except
Jimmy, had anything to spare. His devotion to Jimmy was unbounded. He
was for ever dodging in the little cabin, ministering to Jimmy’s wants,
humouring his whims, submitting to his exacting peevishness, often
laughing with him. Nothing could keep him away from the pious work of
visiting the sick, especially when there was some heavy hauling to be
done on deck. Mr. Baker had on two occasions jerked him out from there
by the scruff of the neck to our inexpressible scandal. Was a sick chap
to be left without attendance? Were we to be ill-used for attending a
shipmate?—“What?” growled Mr. Baker, turning menacingly at the mutter,
and the whole half-circle like one man stepped back a pace. “Set the
topmast stunsail. Away aloft, Donkin, overhaul the gear,” ordered the
mate inflexibly. “Fetch the sail along; bend the down-haul clear. Bear
a hand.” Then, the sail set, he would go slowly aft and stand looking
at the compass for a long time, careworn, pensive, and breathing hard
as if stifled by the taint of unaccountable ill-will that pervaded
the ship. “What’s up amongst them?” he thought. “Can’t make out this
hanging back and growling. A good crowd, too, as they go nowadays.” On
deck the men exchanged bitter words, suggested by a silly exasperation
against something unjust and irremediable that would not be denied,
and would whisper into their ears long after Donkin had ceased
speaking. Our little world went on its curved and unswerving path
carrying a discontented and aspiring population. They found comfort of
a gloomy kind in an interminable and conscientious analysis of their
unappreciated worth; and inspired by Donkin’s hopeful doctrines they
dreamed enthusiastically of the time when every lonely ship would
travel over a serene sea, manned by a wealthy and well-fed crew of
satisfied skippers.
It looked as if it would be a long passage. The south-east trades,
light and unsteady, were left behind; and then, on the equator and
under a low grey sky, the ship, in close heat, floated upon a smooth
sea that resembled a sheet of ground glass. Thunder squalls hung on
the horizon, circled round the ship, far off and growling angrily,
like a troop of wild beasts afraid to charge home. The invisible sun,
sweeping above the upright masts, made on the clouds a blurred stain
of rayless light, and a similar patch of faded radiance kept pace with
it from east to west over the unglittering level of the waters. At
night, through the impenetrable darkness of earth and heaven, broad
sheets of flame waved noiselessly; and for half a second the becalmed
craft stood out with its masts and rigging, with every sail and every
rope distinct and black in the centre of a fiery outburst, like a
charred ship enclosed in a globe of fire. And, again, for long hours
she remained lost in a vast universe of night and silence where gentle
sighs wandering here and there like forlorn souls, made the still sails
flutter as in sudden fear, and the ripple of a beshrouded ocean whisper
its compassion afar—in a voice mournful, immense, and faint....
* * * * *
When the lamp was put out, and the door thrown wide open, Jimmy,
turning on his pillow, could see vanishing beyond the straight line
of top-gallant rail, the quick, repeated visions of a fabulous world
made up of leaping fire and sleeping water. The lightning gleamed in
his big sad eyes that seemed in a red flicker to burn themselves out
in his black face, and then he would lie blinded and invisible in the
midst of an intense darkness. He could hear on the quiet deck soft
footfalls, the breathing of some man lounging on the doorstep; the
low creak of swaying masts; or the calm voice of the watch-officer
reverberating aloft, hard and loud, amongst the unstirring sails. He
listened with avidity, taking a rest in the attentive perception of the
slightest sound from the fatiguing wanderings of his sleeplessness.
He was cheered by the rattling of blocks, reassured by the stir and
murmur of the watch, soothed by the slow yawn of some sleepy and weary
seaman settling himself deliberately for a snooze on the planks. Life
seemed an indestructible thing. It went on in darkness, in sunshine, in
sleep; tireless, it hovered affectionately round the imposture of his
ready death. It was bright, like the twisted flare of lightning, and
more full of surprises than the dark night. It made him safe, and the
calm of its overpowering darkness was as precious as its restless and
dangerous light.
But in the evening, in the dog-watches, and even far into the first
night-watch, a knot of men could always be seen congregated before
Jimmy’s cabin. They leaned on each side of the door peacefully
interested and with crossed legs; they stood astride the doorstep
discoursing, or sat in silent couples on his sea-chest; while against
the bulwark along the spare topmast, three or four in a row stared
meditatively, with their simple faces lit up by the projected glare of
Jimmy’s lamp. The little place, repainted white, had, in the night, the
brilliance of a silver shrine where a black idol, reclining stiffly
under a blanket, blinked its weary eyes and received our homage. Donkin
officiated. He had the air of a demonstrator showing a phenomenon, a
manifestation bizarre, simple, and meritorious that, to the beholders,
should be a profound and an everlasting lesson. “Just look at ’im, ’ee
knows what’s what—never fear!” he exclaimed now and then, flourishing a
hand hard and fleshless like the claw of a snipe. Jimmy, on his back,
smiled with reserve and without moving a limb. He affected the languor
of extreme weakness, so as to make it manifest to us that our delay
in hauling him out from his horrible confinement, and then that night
spent on the poop among our selfish neglect of his needs, had “done for
him.” He rather liked to talk about it, and of course we were always
interested. He spoke spasmodically, in fast rushes with long pauses
between, as a tipsy man walks.... “Cook had just given me a pannikin
of hot coffee.... Slapped it down there, on my chest—banged the door
to.... I felt a heavy roll coming; tried to save my coffee, burnt my
fingers ... and fell out of my bunk.... She went over so quick....
Water came in through the ventilator.... I couldn’t move the door ...
dark as a grave ... tried to scramble up into the upper berth.... Rats
... a rat bit my finger as I got up.... I could hear him swimming below
me.... I thought you would never come ... I thought you were all gone
overboard ... of course ... Could hear nothing but the wind.... Then
you came ... to look for the corpse, I suppose. A little more and...”
“Man! But ye made a rare lot of noise in here,” observed Archie,
thoughtfully.
“You chaps kicked up such a confounded row above.... Enough to scare
any one.... I didn’t know what you were up to.... Bash in the blamed
planks ... my head.... Just what a silly, scary gang of fools would
do.... Not much good to me anyhow.... Just as well ... drown.... Pah.”