The love that is given to ships is profoundly different from the love men
feel for every other work of their hands—the love they bear to their
houses, for instance—because it is untainted by the pride of possession.
The pride of skill, the pride of responsibility, the pride of endurance
there may be, but otherwise it is a disinterested sentiment. No seaman
ever cherished a ship, even if she belonged to him, merely because of the
profit she put in his pocket. No one, I think, ever did; for a
ship-owner, even of the best, has always been outside the pale of that
sentiment embracing in a feeling of intimate, equal fellowship the ship
and the man, backing each other against the implacable, if sometimes
dissembled, hostility of their world of waters. The sea—this truth must
be confessed—has no generosity. No display of manly qualities—courage,
hardihood, endurance, faithfulness—has ever been known to touch its
irresponsible consciousness of power. The ocean has the conscienceless
temper of a savage autocrat spoiled by much adulation. He cannot brook
the slightest appearance of defiance, and has remained the irreconcilable
enemy of ships and men ever since ships and men had the unheard of
audacity to go afloat together in the face of his frown. From that day
he has gone on swallowing up fleets and men without his resentment being
glutted by the number of victims—by so many wrecked ships and wrecked
lives. To-day, as ever, he is ready to beguile and betray, to smash and
to drown the incorrigible optimism of men who, backed by the fidelity of
ships, are trying to wrest from him the fortune of their house, the
dominion of their world, or only a dole of food for their hunger. If not
always in the hot mood to smash, he is always stealthily ready for a
drowning. The most amazing wonder of the deep is its unfathomable
cruelty.
I felt its dread for the first time in mid-Atlantic one day, many years
ago, when we took off the crew of a Danish brig homeward bound from the
West Indies. A thin, silvery mist softened the calm and majestic
splendour of light without shadows—seemed to render the sky less remote
and the ocean less immense. It was one of the days, when the might of
the sea appears indeed lovable, like the nature of a strong man in
moments of quiet intimacy. At sunrise we had made out a black speck to
the westward, apparently suspended high up in the void behind a stirring,
shimmering veil of silvery blue gauze that seemed at times to stir and
float in the breeze which fanned us slowly along. The peace of that
enchanting forenoon was so profound, so untroubled, that it seemed that
every word pronounced loudly on our deck would penetrate to the very
heart of that infinite mystery born from the conjunction of water and
sky. We did not raise our voices. “A water-logged derelict, I think,
sir,” said the second officer quietly, coming down from aloft with the
binoculars in their case slung across his shoulders; and our captain,
without a word, signed to the helmsman to steer for the black speck.
Presently we made out a low, jagged stump sticking up forward—all that
remained of her departed masts.
The captain was expatiating in a low conversational tone to the chief
mate upon the danger of these derelicts, and upon his dread of coming
upon them at night, when suddenly a man forward screamed out, “There’s
people on board of her, sir! I see them!” in a most extraordinary
voice—a voice never heard before in our ship; the amazing voice of a
stranger. It gave the signal for a sudden tumult of shouts. The watch
below ran up the forecastle head in a body, the cook dashed out of the
galley. Everybody saw the poor fellows now. They were there! And all
at once our ship, which had the well-earned name of being without a rival
for speed in light winds, seemed to us to have lost the power of motion,
as if the sea, becoming viscous, had clung to her sides. And yet she
moved. Immensity, the inseparable companion of a ship’s life, chose that
day to breathe upon her as gently as a sleeping child. The clamour of
our excitement had died out, and our living ship, famous for never losing
steerage way as long as there was air enough to float a feather, stole,
without a ripple, silent and white as a ghost, towards her mutilated and
wounded sister, come upon at the point of death in the sunlit haze of a
calm day at sea.
With the binoculars glued to his eyes, the captain said in a quavering
tone: “They are waving to us with something aft there.” He put down the
glasses on the skylight brusquely, and began to walk about the poop. “A
shirt or a flag,” he ejaculated irritably. “Can’t make it out. . . Some
damn rag or other!” He took a few more turns on the poop, glancing down
over the rail now and then to see how fast we were moving. His nervous
footsteps rang sharply in the quiet of the ship, where the other men, all
looking the same way, had forgotten themselves in a staring immobility.
“This will never do!” he cried out suddenly. “Lower the boats at once!
Down with them!”
Before I jumped into mine he took me aside, as being an inexperienced
junior, for a word of warning:
“You look out as you come alongside that she doesn’t take you down with
her. You understand?”
He murmured this confidentially, so that none of the men at the falls
should overhear, and I was shocked. “Heavens! as if in such an emergency
one stopped to think of danger!” I exclaimed to myself mentally, in scorn
of such cold-blooded caution.
It takes many lessons to make a real seaman, and I got my rebuke at once.
My experienced commander seemed in one searching glance to read my
thoughts on my ingenuous face.
“What you’re going for is to save life, not to drown your boat’s crew for
nothing,” he growled severely in my ear. But as we shoved off he leaned
over and cried out: “It all rests on the power of your arms, men. Give
way for life!”
We made a race of it, and I would never have believed that a common
boat’s crew of a merchantman could keep up so much determined fierceness
in the regular swing of their stroke. What our captain had clearly
perceived before we left had become plain to all of us since. The issue
of our enterprise hung on a hair above that abyss of waters which will
not give up its dead till the Day of Judgment. It was a race of two
ship’s boats matched against Death for a prize of nine men’s lives, and
Death had a long start. We saw the crew of the brig from afar working at
the pumps—still pumping on that wreck, which already had settled so far
down that the gentle, low swell, over which our boats rose and fell
easily without a check to their speed, welling up almost level with her
head-rails, plucked at the ends of broken gear swinging desolately under
her naked bowsprit.
We could not, in all conscience, have picked out a better day for our
regatta had we had the free choice of all the days that ever dawned upon
the lonely struggles and solitary agonies of ships since the Norse rovers
first steered to the westward against the run of Atlantic waves. It was
a very good race. At the finish there was not an oar’s length between
the first and second boat, with Death coming in a good third on the top
of the very next smooth swell, for all one knew to the contrary. The
scuppers of the brig gurgled softly all together when the water rising
against her sides subsided sleepily with a low wash, as if playing about
an immovable rock. Her bulwarks were gone fore and aft, and one saw her
bare deck low-lying like a raft and swept clean of boats, spars,
houses—of everything except the ringbolts and the heads of the pumps. I
had one dismal glimpse of it as I braced myself up to receive upon my
breast the last man to leave her, the captain, who literally let himself
fall into my arms.
It had been a weirdly silent rescue—a rescue without a hail, without a
single uttered word, without a gesture or a sign, without a conscious
exchange of glances. Up to the very last moment those on board stuck to
their pumps, which spouted two clear streams of water upon their bare
feet. Their brown skin showed through the rents of their shirts; and the
two small bunches of half-naked, tattered men went on bowing from the
waist to each other in their back-breaking labour, up and down, absorbed,
with no time for a glance over the shoulder at the help that was coming
to them. As we dashed, unregarded, alongside a voice let out one, only
one hoarse howl of command, and then, just as they stood, without caps,
with the salt drying gray in the wrinkles and folds of their hairy,
haggard faces, blinking stupidly at us their red eyelids, they made a
bolt away from the handles, tottering and jostling against each other,
and positively flung themselves over upon our very heads. The clatter
they made tumbling into the boats had an extraordinarily destructive
effect upon the illusion of tragic dignity our self-esteem had thrown
over the contests of mankind with the sea. On that exquisite day of
gently breathing peace and veiled sunshine perished my romantic love to
what men’s imagination had proclaimed the most august aspect of Nature.
The cynical indifference of the sea to the merits of human suffering and
courage, laid bare in this ridiculous, panic-tainted performance extorted
from the dire extremity of nine good and honourable seamen, revolted me.
I saw the duplicity of the sea’s most tender mood. It was so because it
could not help itself, but the awed respect of the early days was gone.
I felt ready to smile bitterly at its enchanting charm and glare
viciously at its furies. In a moment, before we shoved off, I had looked
coolly at the life of my choice. Its illusions were gone, but its
fascination remained. I had become a seaman at last.
We pulled hard for a quarter of an hour, then laid on our oars waiting
for our ship. She was coming down on us with swelling sails, looking
delicately tall and exquisitely noble through the mist. The captain of
the brig, who sat in the stern sheets by my side with his face in his
hands, raised his head and began to speak with a sort of sombre
volubility. They had lost their masts and sprung a leak in a hurricane;
drifted for weeks, always at the pumps, met more bad weather; the ships
they sighted failed to make them out, the leak gained upon them slowly,
and the seas had left them nothing to make a raft of. It was very hard
to see ship after ship pass by at a distance, “as if everybody had agreed
that we must be left to drown,” he added. But they went on trying to
keep the brig afloat as long as possible, and working the pumps
constantly on insufficient food, mostly raw, till “yesterday evening,” he
continued monotonously, “just as the sun went down, the men’s hearts
broke.”
He made an almost imperceptible pause here, and went on again with
exactly the same intonation:
“They told me the brig could not be saved, and they thought they had done
enough for themselves. I said nothing to that. It was true. It was no
mutiny. I had nothing to say to them. They lay about aft all night, as
still as so many dead men. I did not lie down. I kept a look-out. When
the first light came I saw your ship at once. I waited for more light;
the breeze began to fail on my face. Then I shouted out as loud as I was
able, ‘Look at that ship!’ but only two men got up very slowly and came
to me. At first only we three stood alone, for a long time, watching you
coming down to us, and feeling the breeze drop to a calm almost; but
afterwards others, too, rose, one after another, and by-and-by I had all
my crew behind me. I turned round and said to them that they could see
the ship was coming our way, but in this small breeze she might come too
late after all, unless we turned to and tried to keep the brig afloat
long enough to give you time to save us all. I spoke like that to them,
and then I gave the command to man the pumps.”
He gave the command, and gave the example, too, by going himself to the
handles, but it seems that these men did actually hang back for a moment,
looking at each other dubiously before they followed him. “He! he! he!”
He broke out into a most unexpected, imbecile, pathetic, nervous little
giggle. “Their hearts were broken so! They had been played with too
long,” he explained apologetically, lowering his eyes, and became silent.
Twenty-five years is a long time—a quarter of a century is a dim and
distant past; but to this day I remember the dark-brown feet, hands, and
faces of two of these men whose hearts had been broken by the sea. They
were lying very still on their sides on the bottom boards between the
thwarts, curled up like dogs. My boat’s crew, leaning over the looms of
their oars, stared and listened as if at the play. The master of the
brig looked up suddenly to ask me what day it was.
They had lost the date. When I told him it was Sunday, the 22nd, he
frowned, making some mental calculation, then nodded twice sadly to
himself, staring at nothing.
His aspect was miserably unkempt and wildly sorrowful. Had it not been
for the unquenchable candour of his blue eyes, whose unhappy, tired
glance every moment sought his abandoned, sinking brig, as if it could
find rest nowhere else, he would have appeared mad. But he was too
simple to go mad, too simple with that manly simplicity which alone can
bear men unscathed in mind and body through an encounter with the deadly
playfulness of the sea or with its less abominable fury.
Neither angry, nor playful, nor smiling, it enveloped our distant ship
growing bigger as she neared us, our boats with the rescued men and the
dismantled hull of the brig we were leaving behind, in the large and
placid embrace of its quietness, half lost in the fair haze, as if in a
dream of infinite and tender clemency. There was no frown, no wrinkle on
its face, not a ripple. And the run of the slight swell was so smooth
that it resembled the graceful undulation of a piece of shimmering gray
silk shot with gleams of green. We pulled an easy stroke; but when the
master of the brig, after a glance over his shoulder, stood up with a low
exclamation, my men feathered their oars instinctively, without an order,
and the boat lost her way.
He was steadying himself on my shoulder with a strong grip, while his
other arm, flung up rigidly, pointed a denunciatory finger at the immense
tranquillity of the ocean. After his first exclamation, which stopped
the swing of our oars, he made no sound, but his whole attitude seemed to
cry out an indignant “Behold!” . . . I could not imagine what vision of
evil had come to him. I was startled, and the amazing energy of his
immobilized gesture made my heart beat faster with the anticipation of
something monstrous and unsuspected. The stillness around us became
crushing.
For a moment the succession of silky undulations ran on innocently. I
saw each of them swell up the misty line of the horizon, far, far away
beyond the derelict brig, and the next moment, with a slight friendly
toss of our boat, it had passed under us and was gone. The lulling
cadence of the rise and fall, the invariable gentleness of this
irresistible force, the great charm of the deep waters, warmed my breast
deliciously, like the subtle poison of a love-potion. But all this
lasted only a few soothing seconds before I jumped up too, making the
boat roll like the veriest landlubber.
Something startling, mysterious, hastily confused, was taking place. I
watched it with incredulous and fascinated awe, as one watches the
confused, swift movements of some deed of violence done in the dark. As
if at a given signal, the run of the smooth undulations seemed checked
suddenly around the brig. By a strange optical delusion the whole sea
appeared to rise upon her in one overwhelming heave of its silky surface,
where in one spot a smother of foam broke out ferociously. And then the
effort subsided. It was all over, and the smooth swell ran on as before
from the horizon in uninterrupted cadence of motion, passing under us
with a slight friendly toss of our boat. Far away, where the brig had
been, an angry white stain undulating on the surface of steely-gray
waters, shot with gleams of green, diminished swiftly, without a hiss,
like a patch of pure snow melting in the sun. And the great stillness
after this initiation into the sea’s implacable hate seemed full of dread
thoughts and shadows of disaster.
“Gone!” ejaculated from the depths of his chest my bowman in a final
tone. He spat in his hands, and took a better grip on his oar. The
captain of the brig lowered his rigid arm slowly, and looked at our faces
in a solemnly conscious silence, which called upon us to share in his
simple-minded, marvelling awe. All at once he sat down by my side, and
leaned forward earnestly at my boat’s crew, who, swinging together in a
long, easy stroke, kept their eyes fixed upon him faithfully.
“No ship could have done so well,” he addressed them firmly, after a
moment of strained silence, during which he seemed with trembling lips to
seek for words fit to bear such high testimony. “She was small, but she
was good. I had no anxiety. She was strong. Last voyage I had my wife
and two children in her. No other ship could have stood so long the
weather she had to live through for days and days before we got dismasted
a fortnight ago. She was fairly worn out, and that’s all. You may
believe me. She lasted under us for days and days, but she could not
last for ever. It was long enough. I am glad it is over. No better
ship was ever left to sink at sea on such a day as this.”
He was competent to pronounce the funereal oration of a ship, this son of
ancient sea-folk, whose national existence, so little stained by the
excesses of manly virtues, had demanded nothing but the merest foothold
from the earth. By the merits of his sea-wise forefathers and by the
artlessness of his heart, he was made fit to deliver this excellent
discourse. There was nothing wanting in its orderly arrangement—neither
piety nor faith, nor the tribute of praise due to the worthy dead, with
the edifying recital of their achievement. She had lived, he had loved
her; she had suffered, and he was glad she was at rest. It was an
excellent discourse. And it was orthodox, too, in its fidelity to the
cardinal article of a seaman’s faith, of which it was a single-minded
confession. “Ships are all right.” They are. They who live with the
sea have got to hold by that creed first and last; and it came to me, as
I glanced at him sideways, that some men were not altogether unworthy in
honour and conscience to pronounce the funereal eulogium of a ship’s
constancy in life and death.
After this, sitting by my side with his loosely-clasped hands hanging
between his knees, he uttered no word, made no movement till the shadow
of our ship’s sails fell on the boat, when, at the loud cheer greeting
the return of the victors with their prize, he lifted up his troubled
face with a faint smile of pathetic indulgence. This smile of the worthy
descendant of the most ancient sea-folk whose audacity and hardihood had
left no trace of greatness and glory upon the waters, completed the cycle
of my initiation. There was an infinite depth of hereditary wisdom in
its pitying sadness. It made the hearty bursts of cheering sound like a
childish noise of triumph. Our crew shouted with immense
confidence—honest souls! As if anybody could ever make sure of having
prevailed against the sea, which has betrayed so many ships of great
“name,” so many proud men, so many towering ambitions of fame, power,
wealth, greatness!
As I brought the boat under the falls my captain, in high good-humour,
leaned over, spreading his red and freckled elbows on the rail, and
called down to me sarcastically, out of the depths of his cynic
philosopher’s beard:
“So you have brought the boat back after all, have you?”
Sarcasm was “his way,” and the most that can be said for it is that it
was natural. This did not make it lovable. But it is decorous and
expedient to fall in with one’s commander’s way. “Yes. I brought the
boat back all right, sir,” I answered. And the good man believed me. It
was not for him to discern upon me the marks of my recent initiation.
And yet I was not exactly the same youngster who had taken the boat
away—all impatience for a race against death, with the prize of nine
men’s lives at the end.
Already I looked with other eyes upon the sea. I knew it capable of
betraying the generous ardour of youth as implacably as, indifferent to
evil and good, it would have betrayed the basest greed or the noblest
heroism. My conception of its magnanimous greatness was gone. And I
looked upon the true sea—the sea that plays with men till their hearts
are broken, and wears stout ships to death. Nothing can touch the
brooding bitterness of its heart. Open to all and faithful to none, it
exercises its fascination for the undoing of the best. To love it is not
well. It knows no bond of plighted troth, no fidelity to misfortune, to
long companionship, to long devotion. The promise it holds out
perpetually is very great; but the only secret of its possession is
strength, strength—the jealous, sleepless strength of a man guarding a
coveted treasure within his gates.