Chapter 3

Then the ship’s
wake, long and straight, stretched itself out through a day of immense
solitude. The setting sun, burning on the level of the water, flamed
crimson below the blackness of heavy rain clouds. The sunset squall,
coming up from behind, dissolved itself into the short deluge of a
hissing shower. It left the ship glistening from trucks to water-line,
and with darkened sails. She ran easily before a fair monsoon, with
her decks cleared for the night; and, moving along with her, was heard
the sustained and monotonous swishing of the waves, mingled with the
low whispers of men mustered aft for the setting of watches; the short
plaint of some block aloft; or, now and then, a loud sigh of wind.

Mr. Baker, coming out of his cabin, called out the first name sharply
before closing the door behind him. He was going to take charge of the
deck. On the homeward trip, according to an old custom of the sea, the
chief officer takes the first night-watch—from eight till midnight.
So Mr. Baker, after he had heard the last “Yes, sir!” said moodily,
“Relieve the wheel and look-out”; and climbed with heavy feet the poop
ladder to windward. Soon after Mr. Creighton came down, whistling
softly, and went into the cabin. On the doorstep the steward lounged,
in slippers, meditative, and with his shirt-sleeves rolled up to the
armpits.

On the main deck the cook, locking up the galley doors, had an
altercation with young Charley about a pair of socks. He could be heard
saying impressively, in the darkness amidships: “You don’t deserve a
kindness. I’ve been drying them for you, and now you complain about
the holes—and you swear, too! Right in front of me! If I hadn’t been a
Christian—which you ain’t, you young ruffian—I would give you a clout
on the head.... Go away!” Men in couples or threes stood pensive or
moved silently along the bulwarks in the waist. The first busy day of
a homeward passage was sinking into the dull peace of resumed routine.
Aft, on the high poop, Mr. Baker walked shuffling and grunted to
himself in the pauses of his thoughts. Forward, the look-out man, erect
between the flukes of the two anchors, hummed an endless tune, keeping
his eyes fixed dutifully ahead in a vacant stare. A multitude of stars
coming out into the clear night peopled the emptiness of the sky. They
glittered, as if alive above the sea; they surrounded the running ship
on all sides; more intense than the eyes of a staring crowd, and as
inscrutable as the souls of men.

The passage had begun, and the ship, a fragment detached from the
earth, went on lonely and swift like a small planet. Round her the
abysses of sky and sea met in an unattainable frontier. A great
circular solitude moved with her, ever changing and ever the same,
always monotonous and always imposing. Now and then another wandering
white speck, burdened with life, appeared far off—disappeared; intent
on its own destiny. The sun looked upon her all day, and every morning
rose with a burning, round stare of undying curiosity. She had her
own future; she was alive with the lives of those beings who trod her
decks; like that earth which had given her up to the sea, she had an
intolerable load of regrets and hopes. On her lived timid truth and
audacious lies; and, like the earth, she was unconscious, fair to
see—and condemned by men to an ignoble fate. The august loneliness of
her path lent dignity to the sordid inspiration of her pilgrimage. She
drove foaming to the southward, as if guided by the courage of a high
endeavour. The smiling greatness of the sea dwarfed the extent of time.
The days raced after one another, brilliant and quick like the flashes
of a lighthouse, and the nights, eventful and short, resembled fleeting
dreams.

The men had shaken into their places, and the half-hourly voice of the
bells ruled their life of unceasing care. Night and day the head and
shoulders of a seaman could be seen aft by the wheel, outlined high
against sunshine or starlight, very steady above the stir of revolving
spokes. The faces changed, passing in rotation. Youthful faces, bearded
faces, dark faces: faces serene, or faces moody, but all akin with
the brotherhood of the sea; all with the same attentive expression of
eyes, carefully watching the compass or the sails. Captain Allistoun,
serious, and with an old red muffler round his throat, all day long
pervaded the poop. At night, many times he rose out of the darkness
of the companion, such as a phantom above a grave, and stood watchful
and mute under the stars, his night-shirt fluttering like a flag—then,
without a sound, sank down again. He was born on the shores of the
Pentland Firth. In his youth he attained the rank of harpooner in
Peterhead whalers. When he spoke of that time his restless grey eyes
became still and cold, like the loom of ice. Afterwards he went
into the East Indian trade for the sake of change. He had commanded
the Narcissus since she was built. He loved his ship, and drove her
unmercifully; for his secret ambition was to make her accomplish some
day a brilliantly quick passage which would be mentioned in nautical
papers. He pronounced his owner’s name with a sardonic smile, spoke but
seldom to his officers, and reproved errors in a gentle voice, with
words that cut to the quick. His hair was iron-grey, his face hard and
of the colour of pump-leather. He shaved every morning of his life—at
six—but once (being caught in a fierce hurricane eighty miles southwest
of Mauritius) he had missed three consecutive days. He feared naught
but an unforgiving God, and wished to end his days in a little house,
with a plot of ground attached—far in the country—out of sight of the
sea.

He, the ruler of that minute world, seldom descended from the Olympian
heights of his poop. Below him—at his feet, so to speak—common mortals
led their busy and insignificant lives. Along the main deck, Mr. Baker
grunted in a manner bloodthirsty and innocuous; and kept all our noses
to the grindstone, being—as he once remarked—paid for doing that very
thing. The men working about the deck were healthy and contented—as
most seamen are, when once well out to sea. The true peace of God
begins at any spot a thousand miles from the nearest land; and when He
sends there the messengers of His might it is not in terrible wrath
against crime, presumption, and folly, but paternally, to chasten
simple hearts—ignorant hearts that know nothing of life, and beat
undisturbed by envy or greed.

* * * * *

In the evening the cleared decks had a reposeful aspect, resembling
the autumn of the earth. The sun was sinking to rest, wrapped in a
mantle of warm clouds. Forward, on the end of the spare spars, the
boatswain and the carpenter sat together with crossed arms; two men
friendly, powerful, and deep-chested. Beside them the short, dumpy
sailmaker—who had been in the Navy—related, between the whiffs of his
pipe, impossible stories about Admirals. Couples tramped backwards
and forwards, keeping step and balance without effort, in a confined
space. Pigs grunted in the big pigstye. Belfast, leaning thoughtfully
on his elbow, above the bars, communed with them through the silence of
his meditation. Fellows with shirts open wide on sunburnt breasts sat
upon the mooring bits, and all up the steps of the forecastle ladders.
By the foremast a few discussed in a circle the characteristics of a
gentleman. One said:—“It’s money as does it.” Another maintained:—“No,
it’s the way they speak.” Lame Knowles stumped up with an unwashed face
(he had the distinction of being the dirty man of the forecastle),
and showing a few yellow fangs in a shrewd smile, explained craftily
that he “had seen some of their pants.” The backsides of them—he had
observed—were thinner than paper from constant sitting down in offices,
yet otherwise they looked first-rate and would last for years. It was
all appearance. “It was,” he said, “bloomin’ easy to be a gentleman
when you had a clean job for life.” They disputed endlessly, obstinate
and childish; they repeated in shouts and with inflamed faces their
amazing arguments; while the soft breeze, eddying down the enormous
cavity of the foresail, distended above their bare heads, stirred the
tumbled hair with a touch passing and light like an indulgent caress.

They were forgetting their toil, they were forgetting themselves.
The cook approached to hear, and stood by, beaming with the inward
consciousness of his faith, like a conceited saint unable to forget
his glorious reward; Donkin, solitary and brooding over his wrongs on
the forecastle-head, moved closer to catch the drift of the discussion
below him; he turned his sallow face to the sea, and his thin nostrils
moved, sniffing the breeze, as he lounged negligently by the rail.
In the glow of sunset faces shone with interest, teeth flashed, eyes
sparkled. The walking couples stood still suddenly, with broad grins;
a man, bending over a wash-tub, sat up, entranced, with the soapsuds
flecking his wet arms. Even the three petty officers listened leaning
back, comfortably propped, and with superior smiles. Belfast left off
scratching the ear of his favourite pig, and, open mouthed, tried with
eager eyes to have his say. He lifted his arms, grimacing and baffled.
From a distance Charley screamed at the ring:—“I know about gentlemen
more’n any of you. I’ve been intermit with ’em.... I’ve blacked their
boots.” The cook, craning his neck to hear better, was scandalised.
“Keep your mouth shut when your elders speak, you impudent young
heathen—you.” “All right, old Hallelujah, I’m done,” answered Charley,
soothingly. At some opinion of dirty Knowles, delivered with an air of
supernatural cunning, a ripple of laughter ran along, rose like a wave,
burst with a startling roar. They stamped with both feet; they turned
their shouting faces to the sky; many, spluttering, slapped their
thighs; while one or two, bent double, gasped, hugging themselves with
both arms like men in pain. The carpenter and the boatswain, without
changing their attitude, shook with laughter where they sat; the
sailmaker, charged with an anecdote about a Commodore, looked sulky;
the cook was wiping his eyes with a greasy rag; and lame Knowles,
astonished at his own success, stood in their midst showing a slow
smile.

Suddenly the face of Donkin leaning high-shouldered over the after-rail
became grave. Something like a weak rattle was heard through the
forecastle door. It became a murmur; it ended in a sighing groan. The
washerman plunged both his arms into the tub abruptly; the cook became
more crestfallen than an exposed backslider; the boatswain moved his
shoulders uneasily; the carpenter got up with a spring and walked
away—while the sailmaker seemed mentally to give his story up, and
began to puff at his pipe with sombre determination. In the blackness
of the doorway a pair of eyes glimmered white, and big, and staring.
Then James Wait’s head protruding, became visible, as if suspended
between the two hands that grasped a doorpost on each side of the face.
The tassel of his blue woollen nightcap, cocked forward, danced gaily
over his left eyelid. He stepped out in a tottering stride. He looked
powerful as ever, but showed a strange and affected unsteadiness in
his gait; his face was perhaps a trifle thinner, and his eyes appeared
rather startlingly prominent. He seemed to hasten the retreat of
departing light by his very presence; the setting sun dipped sharply,
as though fleeing before our nigger; a black mist emanated from him; a
subtle and dismal influence; a something cold and gloomy that floated
out and settled on all the faces like a mourning veil. The circle
broke up. The joy of laughter died on stiffened lips. There was not a
smile left among all the ship’s company. Not a word was spoken. Many
turned their backs, trying to look unconcerned; others, with averted
heads, sent half-reluctant glances out of the corners of their eyes.
They resembled criminals conscious of misdeeds more than honest men
distracted by doubt; only two or three stared frankly, but stupidly,
with lips slightly open. All expected James Wait to say something, and,
at the same time, had the air of knowing beforehand what he would say.
He leaned his back against the doorpost, and with heavy eyes swept over
them a glance domineering and pained, like a sick tyrant overawing a
crowd of abject but untrustworthy slaves.

No one went away. They waited in fascinated dread. He said ironically,
with gasps between the words:—

“Thank you ... chaps. You ... are nice ... and ... quiet ... you are!
Yelling so ... before ... the door....”

He made a longer pause, during which he worked his ribs in an
exaggerated labour of breathing. It was intolerable. Feet were
shuffled. Belfast let out a groan; but Donkin above blinked his red
eyelids with invisible eyelashes, and smiled bitterly over the nigger’s
head.

The nigger went on again with surprising ease. He gasped no more, and
his voice rang, hollow and loud, as though he had been talking in an
empty cavern. He was contemptuously angry.

“I tried to get a wink of sleep. You know I can’t sleep o’ nights.
And you come jabbering near the door here like a blooming lot of old
women.... You think yourselves good shipmates. Do you?... Much you care
for a dying man!”

Belfast spun away from the pigstye. “Jimmy,” he cried tremulously, “if
you hadn’t been sick I would—”

He stopped. The nigger waited awhile, then said, in a gloomy tone:—“You
would.... What? Go an’ fight another such one as yourself. Leave me
alone. It won’t be for long. I’ll soon die.... It’s coming right
enough!”

Men stood around very still and with exasperated eyes. It was just what
they had expected, and hated to hear, that idea of a stalking death,
thrust at them many times a day like a boast and like a menace by this
obnoxious nigger. He seemed to take a pride in that death which, so
far, had attended only upon the ease of his life; he was overbearing
about it, as if no one else in the world had ever been intimate
with such a companion; he paraded it unceasingly before us with an
affectionate persistence that made its presence indubitable, and at
the same time incredible. No man could be suspected of such monstrous
friendship! Was he a reality—or was he a sham—this ever-expected
visitor of Jimmy’s? We hesitated between pity and mistrust, while, on
the slightest provocation, he shook before our eyes the bones of his
bothersome and infamous skeleton. He was for ever trotting him out. He
would talk of that coming death as though it had been already there,
as if it had been walking the deck outside, as if it would presently
come in to sleep in the only empty bunk; as if it had sat by his side
at every meal. It interfered daily with our occupations, with our
leisure, with our amusements. We had no songs and no music in the
evening, because Jimmy (we all lovingly called him Jimmy, to conceal
our hate of his accomplice) had managed, with that prospective decease
of his, to disturb even Archie’s mental balance. Archie was the owner
of the concertina; but after a couple of stinging lectures from Jimmy
he refused to play any more. He said:—“Yon’s an uncanny joker. I dinna
ken what’s wrang wi’ him, but there’s something verra wrang, verra
wrang. It’s nae manner of use asking me. I won’t play.” Our singers
became mute because Jimmy was a dying man. For the same reason no
chap—as Knowles remarked—could “drive in a nail to hang his few poor
rags upon,” without being made aware of the enormity he committed in
disturbing Jimmy’s interminable last moments. At night, instead of the
cheerful yell, “One bell! Turn out! Do you hear there? Hey! hey! hey!
Show leg!” the watches were called man by man, in whispers, so as not
to interfere with Jimmy’s, possibly, last slumber on earth. True, he
was always awake, and managed, as we sneaked out on deck, to plant in
our backs some cutting remark that, for the moment, made us feel as if
we had been brutes, and afterwards made us suspect ourselves of being
fools. We spoke in low tones within that fo’c’sle as though it had
been a church. We ate our meals in silence and dread, for Jimmy was
capricious with his food, and railed bitterly at the salt meat, at the
biscuits, at the tea, as at articles unfit for human consumption—“let
alone for a dying man!” He would say:—“Can’t you find a better slice
of meat for a sick man who’s trying to get home to be cured—or buried?
But there! If I had a chance, you fellows would do away with it. You
would poison me. Look at what you have given me!” We served him in his
bed with rage and humility, as though we had been the base courtiers
of a hated prince; and he rewarded us by his unconciliating criticism.
He had found the secret of keeping for ever on the run the fundamental
imbecility of mankind; he had the secret of life, that confounded dying
man, and he made himself master of every moment of our existence. We
grew desperate, and remained submissive. Emotional little Belfast
was for ever on the verge of assault or on the verge of tears. One
evening he confided to Archie:—“For a ha’penny I would knock his ugly
black head off—the skulking dodger!” And the straightforward Archie
pretended to be shocked! Such was the infernal spell which that casual
St. Kitt’s nigger had cast upon our guileless manhood! But the same
night Belfast stole from the galley the officers’ Sunday fruit pie, to
tempt the fastidious appetite of Jimmy. He endangered not only his long
friendship with the cook but also—as it appeared—his eternal welfare.
The cook was overwhelmed with grief; he did not know the culprit but he
knew that wickedness flourished; he knew that Satan was abroad amongst
those men, whom he looked upon as in some way under his spiritual care.
Whenever he saw three or four of us standing together he would leave
his stove, to run out and preach. We fled from him; and only Charley
(who knew the thief) affronted the cook with a candid gaze which
irritated the good man. “It’s you, I believe,” he groaned, sorrowful
and with a patch of soot on his chin. “It’s you. You are a brand for
the burning! No more of your socks in my galley.” Soon, unofficially,
the information was spread about that, should there be another case
of stealing, our marmalade (an extra allowance: half a pound per man)
would be stopped. Mr. Baker ceased to heap jocular abuse upon his
favourites, and grunted suspiciously at all. The captain’s cold eyes,
high up on the poop, glittered mistrustful, as he surveyed us trooping
in a small mob from halyards to braces for the usual evening pull at
all the ropes. Such stealing in a merchant ship is difficult to check,
and may be taken as a declaration by men of their dislike for their
officers. It is a bad symptom. It may end in God knows what trouble.
The Narcissus was still a peaceful ship, but mutual confidence was
shaken. Donkin did not conceal his delight. We were dismayed.

Then illogical Belfast reproached our nigger with great fury. James
Wait, with his elbow on the pillow, choked, gasped out:—“Did I ask
you to bone the dratted thing? Blow your blamed pie. It has made me
worse—you little Irish lunatic, you!” Belfast, with scarlet face and
trembling lips, made a dash at him. Every man in the forecastle rose
with a shout. There was a moment of wild tumult. Some one shrieked
piercingly:—“Easy, Belfast! Easy!...” We expected Belfast to strangle
Wait without more ado. Dust flew. We heard through it the nigger’s
cough, metallic and explosive like a gong. Next moment we saw Belfast
hanging over him. He was saying plaintively:—“Don’t! Don’t, Jimmy!
Don’t be like that. An angel couldn’t put up with ye—sick as ye
are.” He looked round at us from Jimmy’s bedside, his comical mouth
twitching, and through tearful eyes; then he tried to put straight
the disarranged blankets. The unceasing whisper of the sea filled the
forecastle. Was James Wait frightened, or touched, or repentant? He
lay on his back with a hand to his side, and as motionless as if his
expected visitor had come at last. Belfast fumbled about his feet,
repeating with emotion:—“Yes. We know. Ye are bad, but.... Just say
what ye want done, and.... We all know ye are bad—very bad....” No!
Decidedly James Wait was not touched or repentant. Truth to say, he
seemed rather startled. He sat up with incredible suddenness and
ease. “Ah! You think I am bad, do you?” he said gloomily, in his
clearest baritone voice (to hear him speak sometimes you would never
think there was anything wrong with that man). “Do you?... Well,
act according! Some of you haven’t sense enough to put a blanket
shipshape over a sick man. There! Leave it alone! I can die anyhow!”
Belfast turned away limply with a gesture of discouragement. In the
silence of the forecastle, full of interested men, Donkin pronounced
distinctly:—“Well, I’m blowed!” and sniggered. Wait looked at him. He
looked at him in a quite friendly manner. Nobody could tell what would
please our incomprehensible invalid: but for us the scorn of that
snigger was hard to bear.

Donkin’s position in the forecastle was distinguished but unsafe. He
stood on the bad eminence of a general dislike. He was left alone;
and in his isolation he could do nothing but think of the gales of
the Cape of Good Hope and envy us the possession of warm clothing
and waterproofs. Our sea-boots, our oilskin coats, our well-filled
sea-chests, were to him so many causes for bitter meditation:
he had none of those things, and he felt instinctively that no
man, when the need arose, would offer to share them with him. He
was impudently cringing to us and systematically insolent to the
officers. He anticipated the best results, for himself, from such
a line of conduct—and was mistaken. Such natures forget that under
extreme provocation men will be just—whether they want to be so or
not. Donkin’s insolence to long-suffering Mr. Baker became at last
intolerable to us, and we rejoiced when the mate, one dark night, tamed
him for good.

It was done neatly, with great decency and decorum, and with little
noise. We had been called—just before midnight—to trim the yards,
and Donkin—as usual—made insulting remarks. We stood sleepily in a
row with the forebrace in our hands waiting for the next order, and
heard in the darkness a scuffly trampling of feet, an exclamation of
surprise, sounds of cuffs and slaps, suppressed, hissing whispers:—“Ah!
Will you!” ... “Don’t ... Don’t” ... “Then behave”.... “Oh! Oh!...”
Afterwards there were soft thuds mixed with the rattle of iron things
as if a man’s body had been tumbling helplessly amongst the main-pump
rods. Before we could realise the situation, Mr. Baker’s voice was
heard very near and a little impatient:—“Haul away, men! Lay back on
that rope!” And we did lay back on the rope with great alacrity. As if
nothing had happened, the chief mate went on trimming the yards with
his usual and exasperating fastidiousness. We didn’t at the time see
anything of Donkin, and did not care. Had the chief officer thrown
him overboard, no man would have said as much as “Hallo! he’s gone!”
But, in truth, no great harm was done—even if Donkin did lose one of
his front teeth. We perceived this in the morning, and preserved a
ceremonious silence: the etiquette of the forecastle commanded us to
be blind and dumb in such a case, and we cherished the decencies of
our life more than ordinary landsmen respect theirs. Charley, with
unpardonable want of savoir vivre, yelled out:—“’Ave you been to your
dentyst?... Hurt ye, didn’t it?” He got a box on the ear from one of
his best friends. The boy was surprised, and remained plunged in grief
for at least three hours. We were sorry for him, but youth requires
even more discipline than age. Donkin grinned venomously. From that day
he became pitiless; told Jimmy that he was a “black fraud”; hinted to
us that we were an imbecile lot, daily taken in by a vulgar nigger. And
Jimmy seemed to like the fellow!

Singleton lived untouched by human emotions. Taciturn and unsmiling,
he breathed amongst us—in that alone resembling the rest of the crowd.
We were trying to be decent chaps, and found it jolly difficult; we
oscillated between the desire of virtue and the fear of ridicule; we
wished to save ourselves from the pain of remorse, but did not want
to be made the contemptible dupes of our sentiment. Jimmy’s hateful
accomplice seemed to have blown with his impure breath undreamt of
subtleties into our hearts. We were disturbed and cowardly. That we
knew. Singleton seemed to know nothing, understand nothing. We had
thought him till then as wise as he looked, but now we dared, at times,
suspect him of being stupid—from old age. One day, however, at dinner,
as we sat on our boxes round a tin dish that stood on the deck within
the circle of our feet, Jimmy expressed his general disgust with men
and things in words that were particularly disgusting. Singleton lifted
his head. We became mute. The old man, addressing Jimmy, asked:—“Are
you dying?” Thus interrogated, James Wait appeared horribly startled
and confused. We all were startled. Mouths remained open; hearts
thumped, eyes blinked; a dropped tin fork rattled in the dish; a man
rose as if to go out, and stood still. In less than a minute Jimmy
pulled himself together:—“Why? Can’t you see I am?” he answered
shakily. Singleton lifted a piece of soaked biscuit (“his teeth”—he
declared—“had no edge on them now”) to his lips.—“Well, get on with
your dying,” he said with venerable mildness; “don’t raise a blamed
fuss with us over that job. We can’t help you.” Jimmy fell back in his
bunk, and for a long time lay very still wiping the perspiration off
his chin. The dinner-tins were put away quickly. On deck we discussed
the incident in whispers. Some showed a chuckling exultation. Many
looked grave. Wamibo, after long periods of staring dreaminess,
attempted abortive smiles; and one of the young Scandinavians, much
tormented by doubt, ventured in the second dog-watch to approach
Singleton (the old man did not encourage us much to speak to him) and
ask sheepishly:—“You think he will die?” Singleton looked up.—“Why,
of course he will die,” he said deliberately. This seemed decisive.
It was promptly imparted to every one by him who had consulted the
oracle. Shy and eager, he would step up and with averted gaze recite
his formula:—“Old Singleton says he will die.” It was a relief! At last
we knew that our compassion would not be misplaced, and we could again
smile without misgivings—but we reckoned without Donkin. Donkin “didn’t
want to ’ave no truck with ’em dirty furriners.” When Nilsen came to
him with the news: “Singleton says he will die,” he answered him by a
spiteful “And so will you—you fat-headed Dutchman. Wish you Dutchmen
were all dead—’stead comin’ takin’ our money inter your starvin’
country.” We were appalled. We perceived that after all Singleton’s
answer meant nothing. We began to hate him for making fun of us. All
our certitudes were going; we were on doubtful terms with our officers;
the cook had given us up for lost; we had overheard the boatswain’s
opinion that “we were a crowd of softies.” We suspected Jimmy, one
another, and even our very selves. We did not know what to do. At every
insignificant turn of our humble life we met Jimmy overbearing and
blocking the way, arm-in-arm with his awful and veiled familiar. It was
a weird servitude.

It began a week after leaving Bombay and came on us stealthily like
any other great misfortune. Every one had remarked that Jimmy from
the first was very slack at his work; but we thought it simply the
outcome of his philosophy of life. Donkin said:—“You put no more weight
on a rope than a bloody sparrer.” He disdained him. Belfast, ready
for a fight, exclaimed provokingly:—“You don’t kill yourself, old
man!”—“Would you?” he retorted with extreme, scorn—and Belfast retired.
One morning, as we were washing decks, Mr. Baker called to him:—“Bring
your broom over here, Wait.” He strolled languidly.

“Move yourself! Ough!” grunted Mr. Baker; “what’s the matter with your
hind legs?” He stopped dead short.