group of men swung across the light. “What for?” “Told you so...”
“Bloomin’ shame...”—“We’ve got to say somethink about that,” screeched
Donkin from the rear.—“Never mind, Jim—we will see you righted,”
cried several together. An elderly seaman stepped to the front. “D’ye
mean to say, sir,” he asked, ominously, “that a sick chap ain’t
allowed to get well in this ’ere hooker?” Behind him Donkin whispered
excitedly amongst a staring crowd where no one spared him a glance,
but Captain Allistoun shook a forefinger at the angry bronzed face of
the speaker.—“You—you hold your tongue,” he said, warningly.—“This
isn’t the way,” clamoured two or three younger men.—“Are we bloomin’
masheens?” inquired Donkin in a piercing tone, and dived under the
elbows of the front rank.—“Soon show ’im we ain’t boys...”—“The man’s
a man if he is black.”—“We ain’t goin’ to work this bloomin’ ship
shorthanded if Snowball’s all right...”—“He says he is.”—“Well then,
strike, boys, strike!”—“That’s the bloomin’ ticket.” Captain Allistoun
said sharply to the second mate: “Keep quiet, Mr. Creighton,” and stood
composed in the tumult, listening with profound attention to mixed
growls and screeches, to every exclamation and every curse of the
sudden outbreak. Somebody slammed the cabin door to with a kick; the
darkness full of menacing mutters leaped with a short clatter over the
streak of light, and the men became gesticulating shadows that growled,
hissed, laughed excitedly. Mr. Baker whispered:—“Get away from them,
sir.” The big shape of Mr. Creighton hovered silently about the slight
figure of the master.—“We have been hymposed upon all this voyage,”
said a gruff voice, “but this ’ere fancy takes the cake.”—“That man
is a shipmate.”—“Are we bloomin’ kids?”—“The port watch will refuse
duty.” Charley carried away by his feeling whistled shrilly, then
yelped:—“Giv’ us our Jimmy!” This seemed to cause a variation in the
disturbance. There was a fresh burst of squabbling uproar. A lot of
quarrels were set going at once.—“Yes.”—“No.”—“Never been sick.”—“Go
for them to once.”—“Shut yer mouth, youngster—-this is men’s work.”—“Is
it?” muttered Captain Allistoun, bitterly. Mr. Baker grunted: “Ough!
They’re gone silly. They’ve been simmering for the last month.”—“I did
notice,” said the master.—“They have started a row amongst themselves
now,” said Mr. Creighton with disdain, “better get aft, sir. We will
soothe them.”—“Keep your temper, Creighton,” said the master. And the
three men began to move slowly towards the cabin door.
In the shadows of the fore rigging a dark mass stamped, eddied,
advanced, retreated. There were words of reproach, encouragement,
unbelief, execration. The elder seamen, bewildered and angry, growled
their determination to go through with something or other; but the
younger school of advanced thought exposed their and Jimmy’s wrongs
with confused shouts, arguing amongst themselves. They clustered
round that moribund carcass, the fit emblem of their aspirations,
and encouraging one another they swayed, they tramped on one spot,
shouting that they would not be “put upon.” Inside the cabin, Belfast,
helping Jimmy into his bunk, twitched all over in his desire not to
miss all the row, and with difficulty restrained the tears of his
facile emotion. James Wait, flat on his back under the blanket, gasped
complaints.—“We will back you up, never fear,” assured Belfast, busy
about his feet.—
“I’ll come out to-morrow morning—take my chance—-you fellows must—”
mumbled Wait, “I come out to-morrow—skipper or no skipper.” He lifted
one arm with great difficulty, passed the hand over his face; “Don’t
you let that cook...” he breathed out.—“No, no,” said Belfast, turning
his back on the bunk, “I will put a head on him if he comes near
you.”—“I will smash his mug!” exclaimed faintly Wait, enraged and weak;
“I don’t want to kill a man, but...” He panted fast like a dog after a
run in sunshine. Some one just outside the door shouted, “He’s as fit
as any ov us!” Belfast put his hand on the door-handle.—“Here!” called
James Wait, hurriedly, and in such a clear voice that the other spun
round with a start. James Wait, stretched out black and deathlike in
the dazzling light, turned his head on the pillow. His eyes stared at
Belfast, appealing and impudent. “I am rather weak from lying-up so
long,” he said, distinctly. Belfast nodded. “Getting quite well now,”
insisted Wait.—“Yes. I noticed you getting better this ... last month,”
said Belfast, looking down. “Hallo! What’s this?” he shouted and ran
out.
He was flattened directly against the side of the house by two men
who lurched against him. A lot of disputes seemed to be going on all
round. He got clear and saw three indistinct figures standing along
in the fainter darkness under the arched foot of the mainsail, that
rose above their heads like a convex wall of a high edifice. Donkin
hissed:—“Go for them ... it’s dark!” The crowd took a short run aft
in a body—then there was a check. Donkin, agile and thin, flitted
past with his right arm going like a windmill—and then stood still
suddenly with his arm pointing rigidly above his head. The hurtling
flight of some heavy object was heard; it passed between the heads
of the two mates, bounded heavily along the deck, struck the after
hatch with a ponderous and deadened blow. The bulky shape of Mr. Baker
grew distinct. “Come to your senses, men!” he cried, advancing at the
arrested crowd. “Come back, Mr. Baker!” called the master’s quiet
voice. He obeyed unwillingly. There was a minute of silence, then a
deafening hubbub arose. Above it Archie was heard energetically:—“If ye
do oot ageen I wull tell!” There were shouts. “Don’t!” “Drop it!”—“We
ain’t that kind!” The black cluster of human forms reeled against the
bulwark, back again towards the house. Ringbolts rang under stumbling
feet.—“Drop it!” “Let me!”—“No!”—“Curse you ... hah!” Then sounds as
of some one’s face being slapped; a piece of iron fell on the deck; a
short scuffle, and some one’s shadowy body scuttled rapidly across the
main hatch before the shadow of a kick. A raging voice sobbed out a
torrent of filthy language ...—“Throwing things—good God!” grunted Mr.
Baker in dismay.—“That was meant for me,” said the master, quietly; “I
felt the wind of that thing; what was it—an iron belaying-pin?”—“By
Jove!” muttered Mr. Creighton. The confused voices of men talking
amidships mingled with the wash of the sea, ascended between the silent
and distended sails seemed to flow away into the night, further than
the horizon, higher than the sky. The stars burned steadily over the
inclined mastheads. Trails of light lay on the water, broke before the
advancing hull, and, after she had passed, trembled for a long time as
if in awe of the murmuring sea.
Meantime the helmsman, anxious to know what the row was about, had let
go the wheel, and, bent double, ran with long, stealthy footsteps to
the break of the poop. The Narcissus, left to herself, came up gently
in to the wind without any one being aware of it. She gave a slight
roll, and the sleeping sails woke suddenly, coming all together with
a mighty flap against the masts, then filled again one after another
in a quick succession of loud reports that ran down the lofty spars,
till the collapsed mainsail flew out last with a violent jerk. The
ship trembled from trucks to keel; the sails kept on rattling like a
discharge of musketry; the chain sheets and loose shackles jingled
aloft in a thin peal; the gin blocks groaned. It was as if an invisible
hand had given the ship an angry shake to recall the men that peopled
her decks to the sense of reality, vigilance, and duty.—“Helm up!”
cried the master, sharply. “Run aft, Mr. Creighton, and see what that
fool there is up to.”—“Flatten in the head sheets. Stand by the weather
fore-braces,” growled Mr. Baker. Startled men ran swiftly repeating the
orders. The watch below, abandoned all at once by the watch on deck,
drifted towards the forecastle in twos and threes, arguing noisily as
they went—“We shall see to-morrow!” cried a loud voice, as if to cover
with a menacing hint an inglorious retreat. And then only orders were
heard, the falling of heavy coils of rope, the rattling of blocks.
Singleton’s white head flitted here and there in the night, high above
the deck, like the ghost of a bird.—“Going off, sir!” shouted Mr.
Creighton from aft.—“Full again.”—“All right ...”—“Ease off the head
sheets. That will do the braces. Coil the ropes up,” grunted Mr. Baker,
bustling about.
Gradually the tramping noises, the confused sound of voices, died out,
and the officers, coming together on the poop, discussed the events.
Mr. Baker was bewildered and grunted; Mr. Creighton was calmly furious;
but Captain Allistoun was composed and thoughtful. He listened to Mr.
Baker’s growling argumentation, to Creighton’s interjected and severe
remarks, while looking down on the deck he weighed in his hand the
iron belaying-pin—that a moment ago had just missed his head—as if it
had been the only tangible fact of the whole transaction. He was one
of those commanders who speak little, seem to hear nothing, look at
no one—and know everything, hear every whisper, see every fleeting
shadow of their ship’s life. His two big officers towered above his
lean, short figure; they talked over his head; they were dismayed,
surprised, and angry, while between them the little quiet man seemed
to have found his taciturn serenity in the profound depths of a larger
experience. Lights were burning in the forecastle; now and then a loud
gust of babbling chatter came from forward, swept over the decks, and
became faint, as if the unconscious ship, gliding gently through the
great peace of the sea, had left behind and for ever the foolish noise
of turbulent mankind. But it was renewed again and again. Gesticulating
arms, profiles of heads with open mouths appeared for a moment in the
illuminated squares of doorways; black fists darted—withdrew ... “Yes.
It was most damnable to have such an unprovoked row sprung on one,”
assented the master.... A tumult of yells rose in the light, abruptly
ceased.... He didn’t think there would be any further trouble just
then.... A bell was struck aft, another, forward, answered in a deeper
tone, and the clamour of ringing metal spread round the ship in a
circle of wide vibrations that ebbed away into the immeasurable night
of an empty sea.... Didn’t he know them! Didn’t he! In past years.
Better men, too. Real men to stand by one in a tight place. Worse than
devils too sometimes—downright, horned devils. Pah! This—nothing. A
miss as good as a mile.... The wheel was being relieved in the usual
way.—“Full and by,” said, very loud, the man going off.—“Full and
by,” repeated the other, catching hold of the spokes.—“This head wind
is my trouble,” exclaimed the master, stamping his foot in sudden
anger; “head wind! all the rest is nothing.” He was calm again in a
moment. “Keep them on the move to-night, gentlemen; just to let them
feel we’ve got hold all the time—quietly, you know. Mind you keep
your hands off them, Creighton. To-morrow I will talk to them like a
Dutch Uncle. A crazy crowd of tinkers! Yes, tinkers! I could count the
real sailors amongst them on the fingers of one hand. Nothing will do
but a row—if—you—please.” He paused. “Did you think I had gone wrong
there, Mr. Baker?” He tapped his forehead, laughed short. “When I saw
him standing there, three parts dead and so scared—black amongst that
gaping lot—no grit to face what’s coming to us all—the notion came to
me all at once, before I could think. Sorry for him—like you would be
for a sick brute. If ever creature was in a mortal funk to die!...
I thought I would let him go out in his own way. Kind of impulse.
It never came into my head, those fools.... H’m! Stand to it now—of
course.” He stuck the belaying-pin in his pocket, seemed ashamed of
himself, then sharply:—“If you see Podmore at his tricks again tell
him I will have him put under the pump. Had to do it once before. The
fellow breaks out like that now and then. Good cook tho’.” He walked
away quickly, came back to the companion. The two mates followed him
through the starlight with amazed eyes. He went down three steps, and
changing his tone, spoke with his head near the deck:—“I shan’t turn in
to-night, in case of anything; just call out if... Did you see the eyes
of that sick nigger, Mr. Baker? I fancied he begged me for something.
What? Past all help. One lone black beggar amongst the lot of us, and
he seemed to look through me into the very hell. Fancy, this wretched
Podmore! Well, let him die in peace. I am master here after all. Let
him be. He might have been half a man once ... Keep a good look-out.”
He disappeared down below, leaving his mates facing one another, and
more impressed than if they had seen a stone image shed a miraculous
tear of compassion over the incertitudes of life and death....
In the blue mist spreading from twisted threads that stood upright in
the bowls of pipes, the forecastle appeared as vast as a hall. Between
the beams a heavy cloud stagnated; and the lamps surrounded by halos
burned each at the core of a purple glow in two lifeless flames without
rays. Wreaths drifted in denser wisps. Men sprawled about on the deck,
sat in negligent poses, or, bending a knee, drooped with one shoulder
against a bulkhead. Lips moved, eyes flashed, waving arms made sudden
eddies in the smoke. The murmur of voices seemed to pile itself higher
and higher as if unable to run out quick enough through the narrow
doors. The watch below in their shirts, and striding on long white
legs, resembled raving somnambulists; while now and then one of the
watch on deck would rush in, looking strangely over-dressed, listen
a moment, fling a rapid sentence into the noise and run out again;
but a few remained near the door, fascinated, and with one ear turned
to the deck. “Stick together, boys,” roared Davis. Belfast tried to
make himself heard. Knowles grinned in a slow, dazed way. A short
fellow with a thick clipped beard kept on yelling periodically:—“Who’s
afeard? Who’s afeard?” Another one jumped up, excited, with blazing
eyes, sent out a string of unattached curses and sat down quietly.
Two men discussed familiarly, striking one another’s breast in turn,
to clinch arguments. Three others, with their heads in a bunch, spoke
all together with a confidential air, and at the top of their voices.
It was a stormy chaos of speech where intelligible fragments tossing,
struck the ear. One could hear:—“In the last ship”—“Who cares? Try it
on any one of us if—.”
“Knock under”—“Not a hand’s turn”—“He says he is all right”—“I always
thought”—“Never mind....” Donkin, crouching all in a heap against the
bowsprit, hunched his shoulderblades as high as his ears, and hanging
a peaked nose, resembled a sick vulture with ruffled plumes. Belfast,
straddling his legs, had a face red with yelling, and with arms thrown
up, figured a Maltese cross. The two Scandinavians, in a corner, had
the dumbfounded and distracted aspect of men gazing at a cataclysm.
And, beyond the light, Singleton stood in the smoke, monumental,
indistinct, with his head touching the beam; like a statue of heroic
size in the gloom of a crypt.
He stepped forward, impassive and big. The noise subsided like a
broken wave: but Belfast cried once more with uplifted arms:—“The man
is dying I tell ye!” then sat down suddenly on the hatch and took
his head between his hands. All looked at Singleton, gazing upwards
from the deck, staring out of dark corners, or turning their heads
with curious glances. They were expectant and appeased as if that old
man, who looked at no one, had possessed the secret of their uneasy
indignations and desires, a sharper vision, a clearer knowledge. And
indeed standing there amongst them, he had the uninterested appearance
of one who had seen multitudes of ships, had listened many times to
voices such as theirs, had already seen all that could happen on the
wide seas. They heard his voice rumble in his broad chest as though the
words had been rolling towards them out of a rugged past. “What do you
want to do?” he asked. No one answered. Only Knowles muttered—“Aye,
aye,” and somebody said low:—“It’s a bloomin’ shame.” He waited, made
a contemptuous gesture.—“I have seen rows aboard ship before some of
you were born,” he said, slowly, “for something or nothing; but never
for such a thing.”—“The man is dying, I tell ye,” repeated Belfast,
woefully, sitting at Singleton’s feet.—“And a black fellow, too,” went
on the old seaman, “I have seen them die like flies.” He stopped,
thoughtful, as if trying to recollect gruesome things, details of
horrors, hecatombs of niggers. They looked at him fascinated. He was
old enough to remember slavers, bloody mutinies, pirates perhaps; who
could tell through what violences and terrors he had lived! What would
he say? He said:—“You can’t help him; die he must.” He made another
pause. His moustache and beard stirred. He chewed words, mumbled behind
tangled white hairs; incomprehensible and exciting, like an oracle
behind a veil....—“Stop ashore—sick.—Instead—bringing all this head
wind. Afraid. The sea will have her own.—Die in sight of land. Always
so. They know it—long passage—more days, more dollars.—You—”
He seemed to wake up from a dream. “You can’t help yourselves,” he
said, austerely, “Skipper’s no fool. He has something in his mind.
Look out—say! I know ’em!” With eyes fixed in front he turned his head
from right to left, from left to right, as if inspecting a long row
of astute skippers.—“’Ee said ’ee would brain me!” cried Donkin in a
heartrending tone. Singleton peered downwards with puzzled attention,
as though he couldn’t find him.—“Damn you!” he said, vaguely, giving it
up. He radiated unspeakable wisdom, hard unconcern, the chilling air
of resignation. Round him all the listeners felt themselves somehow
completely enlightened by their disappointment, and mute, they lolled
about with the careless ease of men who can discern perfectly the
irremediable aspect of their existence. He, profound and unconscious,
waved his arm once, and strode out on deck without another word.
Belfast was lost in a round-eyed meditation. One or two vaulted
heavily into upper berths, and, once there, sighed; others dived head
first inside lower bunks—swift, and turning round instantly upon
themselves, like animals going into lairs. The grating of a knife
scraping burnt clay was heard. Knowles grinned no more. Davis said,
in a tone of ardent conviction: “Then our skipper’s looney.” Archie
muttered: “My faith! we haven’t heard the last of it yet!” Four bells
were struck.—“Half our watch below gone!” cried Knowles in alarm, then
reflected. “Well, two hours’ sleep is something towards a rest,” he
observed, consolingly. Some already pretended to slumber; and Charley,
sound asleep, suddenly said a few slurred words in an arbitrary, blank
voice.—“This blamed boy has worrums!” commented Knowles from under a
blanket, in a learned manner. Belfast got up and approached Archie’s
berth.—“We pulled him out,” he whispered, sadly.—“What?” said the
other, with sleepy discontent.—“And now we will have to chuck him
overboard,” went on Belfast, whose lower lip trembled.—“Chuck what?”
asked Archie.—“Poor Jimmy,” breathed out Belfast.—“He be blowed!” said
Archie with untruthful brutality, and sat up in his bunk; “It’s all
through him. If it hadn’t been for me, there would have been murder
on board this ship!”—“’Tain’t his fault, is it?” argued Belfast, in a
murmur; “I’ve put him to bed ... an’ he ain’t no heavier than an empty
beef-cask,” he added, with tears in his eyes. Archie looked at him
steadily, then turned his nose to the ship’s side with determination.
Belfast wandered about as though he had lost his way in the dim
forecastle, and nearly fell over Donkin. He contemplated him from
on high for a while. “Ain’t ye going to turn in?” he asked. Donkin
looked up hopelessly.—“That black’earted Scotch son of a thief kicked
me!” he whispered from the floor, in a tone of utter desolation.—“And
a good job, too!” said Belfast, still very depressed; “You were as
near hanging as damn-it to-night, sonny. Don’t you play any of your
murthering games around my Jimmy! You haven’t pulled him out. You just
mind! ’Cos if I start to kick you”—he brightened up a bit—“if I start
to kick you, it will be Yankee fashion—to break something!” He tapped
lightly with his knuckles the top of the bowed head. “You moind that,
my bhoy!” he concluded, cheerily. Donkin let it pass.—“Will they split
on me?” he asked, with pained anxiety.—“Who—split?” hissed Belfast,
coming back a step. “I would split your nose this minyt if I hadn’t
Jimmy to look after! Who d’ye think we are?” Donkin rose and watched
Belfast’s back lurch through the doorway. On all sides invisible men
slept, breathing calmly. He seemed to draw courage and fury from the
peace around him. Venomous and thin-faced, he glared from the ample
misfit of borrowed clothes as if looking for something he could smash.
His heart leaped wildly in his narrow chest. They slept! He wanted to
wring necks, gouge eyes, spit on faces. He shook a dirty pair of meagre
fists at the smoking lights. “Ye’re no men!” he cried, in a deadened
tone. No one moved. “Yer ’aven’t the pluck of a mouse!” His voice rose
to a husky screech. Wamibo darted out a dishevelled head, and looked at
him wildly. “Ye’re sweepings ov ships! I ’ope you will all rot before
you die!” Wamibo blinked, uncomprehending but interested. Donkin sat
down heavily; he blew with force through quivering nostrils, he ground
and snapped his teeth, and, with the chin pressed hard against the
breast, he seemed busy gnawing his way through it, as if to get at the
heart within....
* * * * *
In the morning the ship, beginning another day of her wandering life,
had an aspect of sumptuous freshness, like the spring-time of the
earth. The washed decks glistened in a long clear stretch; the oblique
sunlight struck the yellow brasses in dazzling splashes, darted over
the polished rods in lines of gold, and the single drops of salt water
forgotten here and there along the rail were as limpid as drops of dew,
and sparkled more than scattered diamonds. The sails slept, hushed by a
gentle breeze. The sun, rising lonely and splendid in the blue sky, saw
a solitary ship gliding close-hauled on the blue sea.