lifted a pair of dolorous eyes, with a broken-hearted smile, clenched
his fists stealthily; blue-eyed Archie caressed his red whiskers with
a hesitating hand; the boatswain at the door stared a moment, and
brusquely went away with a loud guffaw. Wamibo dreamed.... Donkin
felt all over his sterile chin for the few rare hairs, and said,
triumphantly, with a sidelong glance at Jimmy:—“Look at ’im! Wish I
was ’arf has ’ealthy as ’ee is—I do.” He jerked a short thumb over his
shoulder towards the after end of the ship. “That’s the blooming way
to do ’em!” he yelped, with forced heartiness. Jimmy said:—“Don’t be a
dam’ fool,” in a pleasant voice. Knowles, rubbing his shoulder against
the doorpost, remarked shrewdly:—“We can’t all go an’ be took sick—it
would be mutiny.”—“Mutiny—gawn!” jeered Donkin, “there’s no bloomin’
law against bein’ sick.”—“There’s six weeks’ hard for refoosing
dooty,” argued Knowles, “I mind I once seed in Cardiff the crew of an
overloaded ship—leastways she weren’t overloaded, only a fatherly old
gentleman with a white beard and an umbreller came along the quay and
talked to the hands. Said as how it was crool hard to be drownded in
winter just for the sake of a few pounds more for the owner—he said.
Nearly cried over them—he did; and he had a square mainsail coat, and a
gaff-topsail hat too—all proper. So they chaps they said they wouldn’t
go to be drownded in winter—depending upon that ’ere Plimsoll man to
see ’em through the court. They thought to have a bloomin’ lark and two
or three days’ spree. And the beak giv’ ’em six weeks—coss the ship
warn’t overloaded. Anyways they made it out in court that she wasn’t.
There wasn’t one overloaded ship in Penarth Dock at all. ’Pears that
old coon he was only on pay and allowance from some kind people, under
orders to look for overloaded ships, and he couldn’t see no further
than the length of his umbreller. Some of us in the boarding-house,
where I live when I’m looking for a ship in Cardiff, stood by to duck
that old weeping spunger in the dock. We kept a good look-out, too—but
he topped his boom directly he was outside the court.... Yes. They got
six weeks’ hard....”
They listened, full of curiosity, nodding in the pauses their rough
pensive faces. Donkin opened his mouth once or twice, but restrained
himself. Jimmy lay still with open eyes and not at all interested. A
seaman emitted the opinion that after a verdict of atrocious partiality
“the bloomin’ beaks go an’ drink at the skipper’s expense.” Others
assented. It was clear, of course. Donkin said:—“Well, six weeks ain’t
much trouble. You sleep all night in, reg’lar, in chokey. Do it on my
’ead.” “You are used to it ainch’ee, Donkin?” asked somebody. Jimmy
condescended to laugh. It cheered up every one wonderfully. Knowles,
with surprising mental agility, shifted his ground. “If we all went
sick what would become of the ship? eh?” He posed the problem and
grinned all round.—“Let ’er go to ’ell,” sneered Donkin. “Damn ’er.
She ain’t yourn.”—“What? Just let her drift?” insisted Knowles in a
tone of unbelief.—“Aye! Drift, an’ be blowed,” affirmed Donkin with
fine recklessness. The other did not see it—meditated.—“The stores
would run out,” he muttered, “and ... never get anywhere ... and what
about payday?” he added with greater assurance.—“Jack likes a good
pay-day,” exclaimed a listener on the doorstep. “Aye, because then
the girls put one arm round his neck an’ t’other in his pocket, and
call him ducky. Don’t they, Jack?”—“Jack, you’re a terror with the
gals.”—“He takes three of ’em in tow to once, like one of ’em Watkinses
two-funnel tugs waddling away with three schooners behind.”—“Jack,
you’re a lame scamp.”—“Jack, tell us about that one with a blue eye
and a black eye. Do.”—“There’s plenty of girls with one black eye
along the Highway by ...”—“No, that’s a speshul one—come, Jack.”
Donkin looked severe and disgusted; Jimmy very bored; a grey-haired
sea-dog shook his head slightly, smiling at the bowl of his pipe,
discreetly amused. Knowles turned about bewildered; stammered first at
one, then at another.—“No!... I never!... can’t talk sensible sense
midst you.... Always on the kid.” He retired bashfully—muttering and
pleased. They laughed, hooting in the crude light, around Jimmy’s
bed, where on a white pillow his hollowed black face moved to and fro
restlessly. A puff of wind came, made the flame of the lamp leap, and
outside, high up, the sails fluttered, while near by the block of the
foresheet struck a ringing blow on the iron bulwark. A voice far off
cried, “Helm up!” another, more faint, answered, “Hard-up, sir!” They
became silent—waited expectantly. The grey-haired seaman knocked his
pipe on the doorstep and stood up. The ship leaned over gently and
the sea seemed to wake up, murmuring drowsily. “Here’s a little wind
comin’,” said some one very low. Jimmy turned over slowly to face the
breeze. The voice in the night cried loud and commanding:—“Haul the
spanker out.” The group before the door vanished out of the light.
They could be heard tramping aft while they repeated with varied
intonations:—“Spanker out!” ... “Out spanker, sir!” Donkin remained
alone with Jimmy. There was a silence. Jimmy opened and shut his lips
several times as if swallowing draughts of fresher air; Donkin moved
the toes of his bare feet and looked at them thoughtfully.
“Ain’t you going to give them a hand with the sail?” asked Jimmy.
“No. If six ov ’em ain’t ’nough beef to set that blamed, rotten
spanker, they ain’t fit to live,” answered Donkin in a bored, far-away
voice, as though he had been talking from the bottom of a hole.
Jimmy considered the conical, fowl-like profile with a queer kind
of interest; he was leaning out of his bunk with the calculating,
uncertain expression of a man who reflects how best to lay hold of some
strange creature that looks as though it could sting or bite. But he
said only:—“The mate will miss you—and there will be ructions.”
Donkin got up to go. “I will do for ’im some dark night; see if I
don’t,” he said over his shoulder.
Jimmy went on quickly:—“You’re like a poll-parrot, like a screechin’
poll-parrot.” Donkin stopped and cocked his head attentively on one
side. His big ears stood out, transparent and veined, resembling the
thin wings of a bat.
“Yuss?” he said, with his back towards Jimmy.
“Yes! Chatter out all you know—like ... like a dirty white cockatoo.”
Donkin waited. He could hear the other’s breathing, long and slow; the
breathing of a man with a hundredweight or so on the breastbone. Then
he asked calmly:—“What do I know?”
“What?... What I tell you ... not much. What do you want ... to talk
about my health so...”
“It’s a blooming imposyshun. A bloomin’, stinkin’, first-class
imposyshun—but it don’t tyke me in. Not it.”
Jimmy kept still. Donkin put his hands in his pockets, and in one
slouching stride came up to the bunk.
“I talk—what’s the odds. They ain’t men ’ere—sheep they are. A driven
lot of sheep. I ’old you up ... Vy not? You’re well orf.”
“I am ... I don’t say anything about that....”
“Well. Let ’em see it. Let ’em larn what a man can do. I am a man, I
know all about yer....” Jimmy threw himself further away on the pillow;
the other stretched out his skinny neck, jerked his bird face down at
him as though pecking at the eyes. “I am a man. I’ve seen the inside of
every chokey in the Colonies rather’n give up my rights....”
“You are a jail-prop,” said Jimmy, weakly.
“I am ... an’ proud of it, too. You! You ’aven’t the bloomin’ nerve—so
you inventyd this ’ere dodge....” He paused; then with marked
afterthought accentuated slowly:—“Yer ain’t sick—are yer?”
“No,” said Jimmy, firmly. “Been out of sorts now and again this year,”
he mumbled with a sudden drop in his voice.
Donkin closed one eye, amicable and confidential. He whispered:—“Ye
’ave done this afore’aven’tchee?” Jimmy smiled—then as if unable to
hold back he let himself go:—“Last ship—yes. I was out of sorts on
the passage. See? It was easy. They paid me off in Calcutta, and the
skipper made no bones about it either.... I got my money all right.
Laid up fifty-eight days! The fools! O Lord! The fools! Paid right
off.” He laughed spasmodically. Donkin chimed in giggling. Then Jimmy
coughed violently. “I am as well as ever,” he said, as soon as he could
draw breath.
Donkin made a derisive gesture. “In course,” he said, profoundly,
“any one can see that.”—“They don’t,” said Jimmy, gasping like a
fish.—“They would swallow any yarn,” affirmed Donkin.—“Don’t you let on
too much,” admonished Jimmy in an exhausted voice.—“Your little gyme?
Eh?” commented Donkin, jovially. Then with sudden disgust: “Yer all for
yerself, s’long as ye’re right....”
So charged with egoism James Wait pulled the blanket up to his chin and
lay still for a while. His heavy lips protruded in an everlasting black
pout. “Why are you so hot on making trouble?” he asked without much
interest.
“’Cos it’s a bloomin’ shayme. We are put upon ... bad food, bad pay ...
I want us to kick up a bloomin’ row; a blamed ’owling row that would
make ’em remember! Knocking people about ... brain us indeed! Ain’t we
men?” His altruistic indignation blazed. Then he said calmly:—“I’ve
been airing yer clothes.”—“All right,” said Jimmy, languidly, “bring
them in.”—“Giv’ us the key of your chest, I’ll put ’em away for
yer,” said Donkin with friendly eagerness.—“Bring ’em in, I will put
them away myself,” answered James Wait with severity. Donkin looked
down, muttering.... “What d’you say? What d’you say?” inquired Wait
anxiously.—“Nothink. The night’s dry, let ’em ’ang out till the
morning,” said Donkin, in a strangely trembling voice, as though
restraining laughter or rage. Jimmy seemed satisfied.—“Give me a little
water for the night in my mug—there,” he said. Donkin took a stride
over the doorstep.—“Git it yerself,” he replied in a surly tone. “You
can do it, unless you are sick.”—“Of course I can do it,” said Wait,
“only ...”—“Well, then, do it,” said Donkin, viciously, “if yer can
look after yer clothes, yer can look after yerself.” He went on deck
without a look back.
Jimmy reached out for the mug. Not a drop. He put it back gently with a
faint sigh—and closed his eyes. He thought:—That lunatic Belfast will
bring me some water if I ask. Fool. I am very thirsty.... It was very
hot in the cabin, and it seemed to turn slowly round, detach itself
from the ship, and swing out smoothly into a luminous, arid space where
a black sun shone, spinning very fast. A place without any water! No
water! A policeman with the face of Donkin drank a glass of beer by
the side of an empty well, and flew away flapping vigorously. A ship
whose mastheads protruded through the sky and could not be seen, was
discharging grain, and the wind whirled the dry husks in spirals along
the quay of a dock with no water in it. He whirled along with the
husks—very tired and light. All his inside was gone. He felt lighter
than the husks—and more dry. He expanded his hollow chest. The air
streamed in, carrying away in its rush a lot of strange things that
resembled houses, trees, people, lamp-posts.... No more! There was no
more air—and he had not finished drawing his long breath. But he was
in jail! They were locking him up. A door slammed. They turned the key
twice, flung a bucket of water over him—Phoo! What for?
He opened his eyes, thinking the fall had been very heavy for an empty
man—empty—empty. He was in his cabin. Ah! All right! His face was
streaming with perspiration, his arms heavier than lead. He saw the
cook standing in the doorway, a brass key in one hand and a bright tin
hook-pot in the other.
“I have locked up the galley for the night,” said the cook, beaming
benevolently. “Eight bells just gone. I brought you a pot of cold tea
for your night’s drinking, Jimmy. I sweetened it with some white cabin
sugar, too. Well—it won’t break the ship.”
He came in, hung the pot on the edge of the bunk, asked perfunctorily,
“How goes it?” and sat down on the box.—“H’m,” grunted Wait,
inhospitably. The cook wiped his face with a dirty cotton rag,
which, afterwards, he tied round his neck.—“That’s how them firemen
do in steamboats,” he said, serenely, and much pleased with
himself. “My work is as heavy as theirs—I’m thinking—and longer
hours. Did you ever see them down the stokehold? Like fiends they
look—firing—firing—firing—down there.”
He pointed his forefinger at the deck. Some gloomy thought darkened
his shining face, fleeting, like the shadow of a travelling cloud
over the light of a peaceful sea. The relieved watch tramped noisily
forward, passing in a body across the sheen of the doorway. Some one
cried, “Good-night!” Belfast stopped for a moment and looked at Jimmy,
quivering and speechless with repressed emotion. He gave the cook a
glance charged with dismal foreboding, and vanished. The cook cleared
his throat. Jimmy stared upwards and kept as still as a man in hiding.
The night was clear, with a gentle breeze. Above the mastheads the
resplendent curve of the Milky Way spanned the sky like a triumphal
arch of eternal light, thrown over the dark pathway of the earth. On
the forecastle head a man whistled with loud precision a lively jig,
while another could be heard faintly, shuffling and stamping in time.
There came from forward a confused murmur of voices, laughter—snatches
of song. The cook shook his head, glanced obliquely at Jimmy, and
began to mutter. “Aye. Dance and sing. That’s all they think of. I
am surprised that Providence don’t get tired.... They forget the day
that’s sure to come... but you....”
Jimmy drank a gulp of tea, hurriedly, as though he had stolen it, and
shrank under his blanket, edging away towards the bulkhead. The cook
got up, closed the door, then sat down again and said distinctly:—
“Whenever I poke my galley fire I think of you chaps—swearing,
stealing, lying, and worse—as if there was no such thing as another
world.... Not bad fellows, either, in a way,” he conceded, slowly;
then, after a pause of regretful musing, he went on in a resigned
tone:—“Well, well. They will have a hot time of it. Hot! Did I say? The
furnaces of one of them White Star boats ain’t nothing to it.”
He kept very quiet for a while. There was a great stir in his brain;
an addled vision of bright outlines; an exciting row of rousing songs
and groans of pain. He suffered, enjoyed, admired, approved. He was
delighted, frightened, exalted—as on that evening (the only time in
his life—twenty-seven years ago; he loved to recall the number of
years) when as a young man he had—through keeping bad company—become
intoxicated in an East-end music-hall. A tide of sudden feeling swept
him clean out of his body. He soared. He contemplated the secret of the
hereafter. It commended itself to him. It was excellent; he loved it,
himself, all hands, and Jimmy. His heart overflowed with tenderness,
with comprehension, with the desire to meddle, with anxiety for the
soul of that black man, with the pride of possessed eternity, with the
feeling of might. Snatch him up in his arms and pitch him right into
the middle of salvation... The black soul—blacker—body—rot—Devil. No!
Talk—strength—Samson.... There was a great din as of cymbals in his
ears; he flashed through an ecstatic jumble of shining faces, lilies,
prayer-books, unearthly joy, white skirts, gold harps, black coats,
wings. He saw flowing garments, clean shaved faces, a sea of light—a
lake of pitch. There were sweet scents, a smell of sulphur—red tongues
of flame licking a white mist. An awesome voice thundered!... It lasted
three seconds.
“Jimmy!” he cried in an inspired tone. Then he hesitated. A spark
of human pity glimmered yet through the infernal fog of his supreme
conceit.
“What?” said James Wait, unwillingly. There was a silence. He turned
his head just the least bit, and stole a cautious glance. The cook’s
lips moved without a sound; his face was rapt, his eyes turned up. He
seemed to be mentally imploring deck beams, the brass hook of the lamp,
two cockroaches.
“Look here,” said Wait, “I want to go to sleep. I think I could.”
“This is no time for sleep!” exclaimed the cook, very loud. He had
prayerfully divested himself of the last vestige of his humanity.
He was a voice—a fleshless and sublime thing, as on that memorable
night—the night when he went walking over the sea to make coffee for
perishing sinners. “This is no time for sleeping,” he repeated with
exaltation. “I can’t sleep.”
“Don’t care damn,” said Wait, with factitious energy. “I can. Go an’
turn in.”
“Swear ... in the very jaws!... In the very jaws! Don’t you see the
everlasting fire ... don’t you feel it? Blind, chockfull of sin!
Repent, repent! I can’t bear to think of you. I hear the call to save
you. Night and day. Jimmy, let me save you!” The words of entreaty
and menace broke out of him in a roaring torrent. The cockroaches ran
away. Jimmy perspired, wriggling stealthily under his blanket. The
cook yelled.... “Your days are numbered!...”—“Get out of this,” boomed
Wait, courageously.—“Pray with me!...”—“I won’t!...” The little cabin
was as hot as an oven. It contained an immensity of fear and pain; an
atmosphere of shrieks and moans; prayers vociferated like blasphemies
and whispered curses. Outside, the men called by Charley, who informed
them in tones of delight that there was a holy row going on in Jimmy’s
place, crowded before the closed door, too startled to open it. All
hands were there. The watch below had jumped out on deck in their
shirts, as after a collision. Men running up, asked:—“What is it?”
Others said:—“Listen!” The muffled screaming went on:—“On your knees!
On your knees!”—“Shut up!”—“Never! You are delivered into my hands....
Your life has been saved.... Purpose.... Mercy.... Repent.”—“You are a
crazy fool!...”—“Account of you ... you ... Never sleep in this world,
if I ...”—“Leave off.”—“No!... stokehold ... only think!...” Then an
impassioned screeching babble where words pattered like hail.—“No!”
shouted Wait.—“Yes. You are!... No help.... Everybody says so.”—“You
lie!”—“I see you dying this minnyt ... before my eyes ... as good
as dead already.”—“Help!” shouted Jimmy, piercingly.—“Not in this
valley.... look upwards,” howled the other.—“Go away! Murder! Help!”
clamoured Jimmy. His voice broke. There were moanings, low mutters, a
few sobs.
“What’s the matter now?” said a seldom-heard voice.—“Fall back,
men! Fall back, there!” repeated Mr. Creighton, sternly, pushing
through.—“Here’s the old man,” whispered some.—“The cook’s in there,
sir,” exclaimed several, backing away. The door clattered open; a
broad stream of light darted out on wondering faces; a warm whiff
of vitiated air passed. The two mates towered head and shoulders
above the spare, grey-haired man who stood revealed between them, in
shabby clothes, stiff and angular, like a small carved figure, and
with a thin, composed face. The cook got up from his knees. Jimmy sat
high in the bunk, clasping his drawn-up legs. The tassel of the blue
night-cap almost imperceptibly trembled over his knees. They gazed
astonished at his long, curved back, while the white corner of one eye
gleamed blindly at them. He was afraid to turn his head, he shrank
within himself; and there was an aspect astounding and animal-like in
the perfection of his expectant immobility. A thing of instinct—the
unthinking stillness of a scared brute.
“What are you doing here?” asked Mr. Baker, sharply.—“My duty,” said
the cook, with ardour.—“Your ... what?” began the mate. Captain
Allistoun touched his arm lightly.—“I know his caper,” he said, in a
low voice. “Come out of that, Podmore,” he ordered, aloud.
The cook wrung his hands, shook his fists above his head, and his
arms dropped as if too heavy. For a moment he stood distracted and
speechless.—“Never,” he stammered, “I ... he ... I.”—“What—do—you—say?”
pronounced Captain Allistoun. “Come out at once—or ...”—“I am going,”
said the cook, with a hasty and sombre resignation. He strode over
the doorstep firmly—hesitated—made a few steps. They looked at him in
silence.—“I make you responsible!” he cried, desperately, turning half
round. “That man is dying. I make you ...”—“You there yet?” called
the master in a threatening tone.—“No, sir,” he exclaimed, hurriedly,
in a startled voice. The boatswain led him away by the arm; some one
laughed; Jimmy lifted his head for a stealthy glance, and in one
unexpected leap sprang out of his bunk; Mr. Baker made a clever catch
and felt him very limp in his arms; the group at the door grunted with
surprise.—“He lies,” gasped Wait, “he talked about black devils—he is
a devil—a white devil—I am all right.” He stiffened himself, and Mr.
Baker, experimentally, let him go. He staggered a pace or two; Captain
Allistoun watched him with a quiet and penetrating gaze; Belfast ran
to his support. He did not appear to be aware of any one near him; he
stood silent for a moment, battling single-handed with a legion of
nameless terrors, amidst the eager looks of excited men who watched him
far off, utterly alone in the impenetrable solitude of his fear. The
sea gurgled through the scuppers as the ship heeled over to a short
puff of wind.
“Keep him away from me,” said James Wait at last in his fine baritone
voice, and leaning with all his weight on Belfast’s neck. “I’ve been
better this last week ... I am well ... I was going back to duty ...
to-morrow—now if you like—Captain.” Belfast hitched his shoulders to
keep him upright.
“No,” said the master, looking at him, fixedly. Under Jimmy’s armpit
Belfast’s red face moved uneasily. A row of eyes gleaming stared on the
edge of light. They pushed one another with elbows, turned their heads,
whispered. Wait let his chin fall on his breast and, with lowered
eyelids, looked round in a suspicious manner.
“Why not?” cried a voice from the shadows, “the man’s all right, sir.”
“I am all right,” said Wait, with eagerness. “Been sick ... better ...
turn-to now.” He sighed.—“Howly Mother!” exclaimed Belfast with a heave
of the shoulders, “stand up, Jimmy.”—“Keep away from me then,” said
Wait, giving Belfast a petulant push, and reeling fetched against the
doorpost. His cheekbones glistened as though they had been varnished.
He snatched off his night-cap, wiped his perspiring face with it, flung
it on the deck. “I am coming out,” he declared without stirring.
“No. You don’t,” said the master, curtly. Bare feet shuffled,
disapproving voices murmured all round; he went on as if he had not
heard:—“You have been skulking nearly all the passage and now you want
to come out. You think you are near enough to the pay-table now. Smell
the shore, hey?”
“I’ve been sick ... now—better,” mumbled Wait, glaring in the
light.—“You have been shamming sick,” retorted Captain Allistoun with
severity; “Why...” he hesitated for less than half a second. “Why,
anybody can see that. There’s nothing the matter with you, but you
choose to lie-up to please yourself—and now you shall lie-up to please
me. Mr. Baker, my orders are that this man is not to be allowed on deck
to the end of the passage.”