'She rolled bad just now. Tolled the bell herself.'
'Humph!' said the man in the bunk thoughtfully.
'Shut up!' called a voice. 'I want to sleep.'
Bill lowered his voice. 'How's the weather?' he inquired, looking down
anxiously at the smoker's glistening oilskins.
'Heavy. The Old Man hain't left the deck for a minute.'
After that the man in the bunk could not sleep again. He heard the other
leave the forecastle, and swear as the flying spray struck his face; he
heard a great body of water come over the bows and wash aft; he heard
the heavy breathing about him. He lay in his clothing (it was wet and
his blankets were wet--'Warm wet, anyhow,' he thought), and shivered at
the sound of the water washing about in the darkness below him, and at
the thought of the weather outside. He counted the minutes grudgingly,
and lay dreading the sound of the opening door. Wide-eyed, he watched
the lantern swinging in the gloom, the pendulous clothing on the wall,
the starting shadows, until some one beat frantically on the door, and,
staggering into the forecastle, turned up the light and called the
watch.
'A-a-all hands! Eight bells there! D' ye hear the news, you port watch?
Eight bells there!'
Men stirred and yawned. Tired men kicked off blankets and sat up,
swearing. Cramped men eased themselves from their bunks, and pulled on
sodden boots. They stumbled about the heaving deck, cursing their cold
oilskins, cursing the ship, cursing the sea.
'Come, shake a leg, bullies!' continued the inexorable voice. 'Weather
bad an' goin' to be worse! Get a move on you, or the mate 'll be for'ard
with a belayin'-pin!'
'Anything up?' inquired one.
'Heard the Old Man tell the mate to take in the fore-lower tops'l.'
Thereupon they fell anew to cursing the captain, his seamanship, and,
above all, his want of knowledge of the weather.
The watch went out into the tumult of the night, out into a chaos of
smashing seas and howling wind, out into a furious abyss of darkness and
uproar.
They collided blindly with other men; they called out angrily. Great
seas crashed over the bulwarks and smothered them; invisible torrents
poured off the forecastle-head and washed aft, beating them down,
stunning them. From somewhere out of the darkness came the voice of the
mate, bawling orders. They felt for the clewlines, making the most of
the intervals between the boarding seas. High above them they knew a man
was making his way aloft in the darkness to ease up the chain sheets.
They hauled and swore, arching their backs against the seas that tore at
their gripping fingers and washed their feet from under them. And always
the mate's voice sounded, cheerful, threatening, dauntless. Then up into
the black night, ratline by ratline, panting, clutching, and climbing;
out upon the invisible yard, along invisible foot-ropes, grasping
invisible jack-stays; swaying in the darkness, spat upon by the storm,
beating the stiff canvas with bleeding hands; unheeding the tumult of
the sea, the pounding wind, the lurching yard; with no thought save for
the mate's voice below, and the lashing canvas under their hands. From
the foretop, as they descended, they looked far down on the narrow hull,
rolling, pitching, and shivering, beneath them. Out from the darkness
pale seas rushed, roaring, toward the ship; and, roaring, passed to
leeward. Seething masses of water rose over the bows, smashed down on
the deck, and surged aft, forward, and over the side. Hissing foam
creamed about the lee chains; vicious rain-squalls drove across the
flooded decks; the cold was penetrating.
In the empty forecastle the lantern swung, the shadows rose and
crouched, the voice of the storm sounded deep and steady. Ends of
blankets dangled from the deserted bunks and flicked at the murmuring
water on the floor. The deck soared and swooped, soared and swooped,
minute after minute, hour after hour, and still the lantern swung, and
the shadows moved and waited.
The door slid back, the storm bellowed, and three men staggered into the
forecastle, bearing another. They laid him awkwardly in one of the lower
bunks, and stood for a moment looking down at him. The ship rolled, and
the shadows on the wall started as if they, too, would gather around
that gloomy berth. Again the deck dropped, the shadows retreated, and
the three men turned and left the forecastle.
The man in the bunk lay inert, as they had left him. His body sagged
lumpishly to the roll of the ship. A dark stain appeared and spread
slowly on the thin pillow.
A little later another man entered. He came to the edge of the bunk and
gazed for a few minutes, then deliberately removed his dripping oilskin
coat and sou'wester. The man in the bunk began to moan, and the other
leaned over him. The moans continued, and the watcher sat down on a
chest beside the bunk. Soon the sufferer's eyes opened and he spoke.
'What time is it?' he asked.
'Lie quiet, Bill,' the other cautioned. 'It's gone six bells.'
'My head hurts,' complained Bill. He tried to raise it, and moaned a
little.
The elder man placed a hand gently on his shoulder. 'Don't you worry,'
he said. 'You got hurted a little when the spar carried away. That's
all.'
'Spar!' repeated Bill, and pondered. 'What watch is it?'
'Middle watch.'
'I thought I been on deck,' said Bill. 'It was blowin'.' His hands were
groping about. 'Who bandaged my head?'
'The steward. They carried ye down into the cabin, first. Want a drink,
Bill?'
Bill assented, and the other, bracing himself against the chest, lifted
the injured man's head slightly and he drank.
'I may as well go to sleep,' he said, and closed his eyes. Instantly he
reopened them. 'Why ain't you on deck, Jansen?' he asked.
'The Old Man sent me in to sit by you.' Jansen fingered his long gray
beard, and the bright eyes under the shaggy brows blinked uneasily. 'You
see, it's this way, Bill. You was hurt, an' the Old Man thought mebbe
you'd want something.' He looked at the swinging lantern as if seeking
inspiration. 'Anything I can do for ye, Bill?' he asked at last.
The other stirred. 'I can't move me legs,' he complained.
'Mebbe the spar hurt your back a little,' suggested Jansen timidly. 'You
remember, don't ye, Bill?'
Again the injured man pondered. 'Me back's broke?' he said finally, and
Jansen nodded.
'Me back's broke, an' me head's broke,' Bill went on, 'an' there's a
pain in me side like Dago knives.'
'D' ye want another drink?' asked Jansen.
'It's eight bells, an' my watch below for me,' said Bill; and again
Jansen nodded.
Silence fell. The muffled roar of the storm, the plunging forecastle,
the waiting man on the chest, the dim light, the swinging lantern, the
pendulous clothing, and the shadows, all seemed accessory to the great
event about to take place.
'The pain in me side is awful!' groaned Bill; and Jansen shivered.
'The Old Man said he'd come for'ard as soon as he could leave the poop,'
he said, as if hoping there might be comfort in the thought.
'I don't need him,' gasped the sufferer. 'I'm goin', I think.'
Old Jansen folded his hands, and repeated the Lord's Prayer. Then he
leaned forward. 'Is--is there anybody ashore you'd want me to write to?'
he asked.
'No,' answered Bill between his moans. 'Me mother's dead, an' there's
nobody else that matters. I never was no good to any of 'em.'
After a time the moans ceased. A great sea boomed on the deck outside,
and washed aft. The lantern swung violently, and the ship's bell tolled.
Jansen looked into the bunk; Bill's eyes were fixed on him.
'I want to ask you, Jansen,' he said in a low voice. 'D'ye think there
is any chance for me?'
The other hesitated. 'I--I'm afraid not,' he stammered.
'I don't mean a chance to live,' explained Bill. 'I mean, d'ye think
I've got to go to hell?'