A smoky lantern, suspended from the roof by a piece of spun-yarn,
described intricate curves in the obscurity of the forecastle. Black
chasms gaped on every side. Oil-skins and sodden clothing slapped
against the walls. The air was impure, saturated with moisture, and
vibrant with the muffled roar of the storm outside. A thin sheet of
water washed over the floor as the ship rolled.
A sea-chest broke from its lashings, and carried away to leeward. The
deck rose, and the chest slipped aft, amid a raffle of wet boots and
sou'westers; it sank, and the heavy chest shot forward across the
slippery floor, to fetch up sharply against one of the bunks. Again the
ship rolled, and the chest glided to leeward. Mutterings came from the
chasms, and pale faces, distorted with yawns, appeared above the bunk
boards. The owner of the chest awoke and crept stiffly from his bunk;
the ship rolled, the water splashed about his feet, and the chest
swooped toward him. He made it fast and climbed into his bunk again
without drying his feet. The faces had disappeared. The ship rose and
fell, the lantern swung, the hanging clothes bulged and flattened and
bulged again; gloomy shadows wavered and seemed ever threatening to
advance from the walls. The sound of the storm outside was dull and
persistent.
Boom! A solemn stroke of the bell on the forecastle-head woke one of the
sleepers. He sat up, expectant, for a moment, and then sank back. As he
did so the door slid open, the storm bellowed as a man stepped through,
and was deadened again as he forced the door to behind him. He vanished
into the starboard forecastle, and reappeared with a short pipe that
gurgled as he smoked. He seated himself on a chest, and the man who had
awakened looked down on him.
'What time is it?' he asked.