“I wish she were at sea out of this.”
“So do I, sir,” I ventured.
Holding my shoulder, he turned upon me.
“You! What’s that to you where she is? You don’t—drink.”
And even on that night he “managed it” at last. He got hold of the
handle. But he did not manage to light his lamp (I don’t think he even
tried), though in the morning as usual he was the first on deck,
bull-necked, curly-headed, watching the hands turn-to with his sardonic
expression and unflinching gaze.
I met him ten years afterwards, casually, unexpectedly, in the street, on
coming out of my consignee office. I was not likely to have forgotten
him with his “I can manage now.” He recognised me at once, remembered my
name, and in what ship I had served under his orders. He looked me over
from head to foot.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I am commanding a little barque,” I said, “loading here for Mauritius.”
Then, thoughtlessly, I added: “And what are you doing, Mr. B-?”
“I,” he said, looking at me unflinchingly, with his old sardonic grin—“I
am looking for something to do.”
I felt I would rather have bitten out my tongue. His jet-black, curly
hair had turned iron-gray; he was scrupulously neat as ever, but
frightfully threadbare. His shiny boots were worn down at heel. But he
forgave me, and we drove off together in a hansom to dine on board my
ship. He went over her conscientiously, praised her heartily,
congratulated me on my command with absolute sincerity. At dinner, as I
offered him wine and beer he shook his head, and as I sat looking at him
interrogatively, muttered in an undertone:
“I’ve given up all that.”
After dinner we came again on deck. It seemed as though he could not
tear himself away from the ship. We were fitting some new lower rigging,
and he hung about, approving, suggesting, giving me advice in his old
manner. Twice he addressed me as “My boy,” and corrected himself quickly
to “Captain.” My mate was about to leave me (to get married), but I
concealed the fact from Mr. B—. I was afraid he would ask me to give him
the berth in some ghastly jocular hint that I could not refuse to take.
I was afraid. It would have been impossible. I could not have given
orders to Mr. B—, and I am sure he would not have taken them from me very
long. He could not have managed that, though he had managed to break
himself from drink—too late.
He said good-bye at last. As I watched his burly, bull-necked figure
walk away up the street, I wondered with a sinking heart whether he had
much more than the price of a night’s lodging in his pocket. And I
understood that if that very minute I were to call out after him, he
would not even turn his head. He, too, is no more than a shadow, but I
seem to hear his words spoken on the moonlit deck of the old _Duke_ —:
“Ports are no good—ships rot, men go to the devil!”