V
I HEARD the clatter of the scissors escaping from
his hand, noted the perilous heave of his whole
person over the edge of the bunk after them, and
then, returning to my first purpose, pursued my
course on the deck. The sparkle of the sea filled
my eyes. It was gorgeous and barren, monotonous
and without hope under the empty curve of the
sky. The sails hung motionless and slack, the
very folds of their sagging surfaces moved no more
than carved granite. The impetuosity of my ad-
vent made the man at the helm start slightly. A
block aloft squeaked incomprehensibly, for what
on earth could have made it do so? It was a
whistling note like a bird's. For a long, long time
I faced an empty world, steeped in an infinity of
silence, through which the sunshine poured and
flowed for some mysterious purpose. Then I heard
Ransome's voice at my elbow.
"I have put Mr. Burns back to bed, sir."
"You have."
"Well, sir, he got out, all of a sudden, but when
he let go the edge of his bunk he fell down. He
isn't light-headed, though, it seems to me."
"No," I said dully, without looking at Ransome.
He waited for a moment, then cautiously, as if not
to give offence: "I don't think we need lose much
of that stuff, sir," he said, "I can sweep it up, every
bit of it almost, and then we could sift the glass out.
I will go about it at once. It will not make the
breakfast late, not ten minutes."
"Oh, yes," I said bitterly. "Let the breakfast
wait, sweep up every bit of it, and then throw
the damned lot overboard!"
The profound silence returned, and when I
looked over my shoulder, Ransome--the intelli-
gent, serene Ransome--had vanished from my
side. The intense loneliness of the sea acted like
poison on my brain. When I turned my eyes to the
ship, I had a morbid vision of her as a floating
grave. Who hasn't heard of ships found floating,
haphazard, with their crews all dead? I looked at
the seaman at the helm, I had an impulse to speak
to him, and, indeed, his face took on an expectant
cast as if he had guessed my intention. But in the
end I went below, thinking I would be alone with
the greatness of my trouble for a little while. But
through his open door Mr. Burns saw me come down,
and addressed me grumpily: "Well, sir?"
I went in. "It isn't well at all," I said.
Mr. Burns, reestablished in his bed-place, was
concealing his hirsute cheek in the palm of his
hand.
"That confounded fellow has taken away the
scissors from me," were the next words he said.
The tension I was suffering from was so great
that it was perhaps just as well that Mr. Burns had
started on his grievance. He seemed very sore
about it and grumbled, "Does he think I am mad,
or what?"
"I don't think so, Mr. Burns," I said. I looked
upon him at that moment as a model of self-
possession. I even conceived on that account a
sort of admiration for that man, who had (apart
from the intense materiality of what was left of his
beard) come as near to being a disembodied spirit
as any man can do and live. I noticed the pre-
ternatural sharpness of the ridge of his nose, the
deep cavities of his temples, and I envied him. He
was so reduced that he would probably die very
soon. Enviable man! So near extinction--while
I had to bear within me a tumult of suffering
vitality, doubt, confusion, self-reproach, and an in-
definite reluctance to meet the horrid logic of the
situation. I could not help muttering: "I feel as
if I were going mad myself."
Mr. Burns glared spectrally, but otherwise
wonderfully composed.
"I always thought he would play us some deadly trick,"
he said, with a peculiar emphasis on the HE.
It gave me a mental shock, but I had neither the
mind, nor the heart, nor the spirit to argue with
him. My form of sickness was indifference. The
creeping paralysis of a hopeless outlook. So I
only gazed at him. Mr. Burns broke into further
speech.
"Eh! What! No! You won't believe it? Well,
how do you account for this? How do you think it
could have happened?"
"Happened?" I repeated dully. "Why, yes,
how in the name of the infernal powers did this
thing happen?"
Indeed, on thinking it out, it seemed incompre-
hensible that it should just be like this: the bottles
emptied, refilled, rewrapped, and replaced. A sort
of plot, a sinister attempt to deceive, a thing re-
sembling sly vengeance, but for what? Or else a
fiendish joke. But Mr. Burns was in possession of
a theory. It was simple, and he uttered it solemnly
in a hollow voice.
"I suppose they have given him about fifteen
pounds in Haiphong for that little lot."
"Mr. Burns!" I cried.
He nodded grotesquely over his raised legs, like
two broomsticks in the pyjamas, with enormous
bare feet at the end.
"Why not? The stuff is pretty expensive in this
part of the world, and they were very short of it in
Tonkin. And what did he care? You have not
known him. I have, and I have defied him. He
feared neither God, nor devil, nor man, nor wind,
nor sea, nor his own conscience. And I believe he
hated everybody and everything. But I think he
was afraid to die. I believe I am the only man
who ever stood up to him. I faced him in that
cabin where you live now, when he was sick, and I
cowed him then. He thought I was going to twist
his neck for him. If he had had his way we would
have been beating up against the Nord-East mon-
soon, as long as he lived and afterward, too, for ages
and ages. Acting the Flying Dutchman in the
China Sea! Ha! Ha!"
"But why should he replace the bottles like
this?" . . . I began.
"Why shouldn't he? Why should he want to
throw the bottles away? They fit the drawer.
They belong to the medicine chest."
"And they were wrapped up," I cried.
"Well, the wrappers were there. Did it from
habit, I suppose, and as to refilling, there is always
a lot of stuff they send in paper parcels that burst
after a time. And then, who can tell? I suppose
you didn't taste it, sir? But, of course, you are
sure. . . ."
"No," I said. "I didn't taste it. It is all over-
board now."
Behind me, a soft, cultivated voice said: "I have
tasted it. It seemed a mixture of all sorts, sweet-
ish, saltish, very horrible."
Ransome, stepping out of the pantry, had been
listening for some time, as it was very excusable
in him to do.
"A dirty trick," said Mr. Burns. "I always
said he would."
The magnitude of my indignation was un-
bounded. And the kind, sympathetic doctor, too.
The only sympathetic man I ever knew . . .
instead of writing that warning letter, the very re-
finement of sympathy, why didn't the man make a
proper inspection? But, as a matter of fact, it was
hardly fair to blame the doctor. The fittings were
in order and the medicine chest is an officially ar-
ranged affair. There was nothing really to arouse
the slightest suspicion. The person I could never
forgive was myself. Nothing should ever be taken
for granted. The seed of everlasting remorse was
sown in my breast.
"I feel it's all my fault," I exclaimed, "mine and
nobody else's. That's how I feel. I shall never
forgive myself."
"That's very foolish, sir," said Mr. Burns fiercely.
And after this effort he fell back exhausted on
his bed. He closed his eyes, he panted; this affair,
this abominable surprise had shaken him up, too.
As I turned away I perceived Ransome looking at
me blankly. He appreciated what it meant, but
managed to produce his pleasant, wistful smile.
Then he stepped back into his pantry, and I rushed
up on deck again to see whether there was any
wind, any breath under the sky, any stir of the air,
any sign of hope. The deadly stillness met me
again. Nothing was changed except that there
was a different man at the wheel. He looked ill.
His whole figure drooped, and he seemed rather to
cling to the spokes than hold them with a controll-
ing grip. I said to him:
"You are not fit to be here."
"I can manage, sir," he said feebly.
As a matter of fact, there was nothing for him to do.
The ship had no steerage way. She lay with her
head to the westward, the everlasting Koh-ring
visible over the stern, with a few small islets, black
spots in the great blaze, swimming before my
troubled eyes. And but for those bits of land there
was no speck on the sky, no speck on the water, no
shape of vapour, no wisp of smoke, no sail, no boat,
no stir of humanity, no sign of life, nothing!
The first question was, what to do? What could
one do? The first thing to do obviously was to tell
the men. I did it that very day. I wasn't going
to let the knowledge simply get about. I would
face them. They were assembled on the quarter-
deck for the purpose. Just before I stepped out to
speak to them I discovered that life could hold
terrible moments. No confessed criminal had ever
been so oppressed by his sense of guilt. This is
why, perhaps, my face was set hard and my voice
curt and unemotional while I made my declaration
that I could do nothing more for the sick in the way
of drugs. As to such care as could be given them
they knew they had had it.
I would have held them justified in tearing me
limb from limb. The silence which followed upon
my words was almost harder to bear than the
angriest uproar. I was crushed by the infinite
depth of its reproach. But, as a matter of fact, I
was mistaken. In a voice which I had great diffi-
culty in keeping firm, I went on: "I suppose, men,
you have understood what I said, and you know
what it means."
A voice or two were heard: "Yes, sir. . . . We
understand."
They had kept silent simply because they
thought that they were not called to say anything;
and when I told them that I intended to run into
Singapore and that the best chance for the ship
and the men was in the efforts all of us, sick and
well, must make to get her along out of this, I re-
ceived the encouragement of a low assenting mur-
mur and of a louder voice exclaiming: "Surely
there is a way out of this blamed hole."
***
Here is an extract from the notes I wrote at the time.
"We have lost Koh-ring at last. For many days
now I don't think I have been two hours below al-
together. I remain on deck, of course, night and
day, and the nights and the days wheel over us in
succession, whether long or short, who can say?
All sense of time is lost in the monotony of ex-
pectation, of hope, and of desire--which is only
one: Get the ship to the southward! Get the ship
to the southward! The effect is curiously me-
chanical; the sun climbs and descends, the night
swings over our heads as if somebody below the
horizon were turning a crank. It is the prettiest,
the most aimless! . . . and all through that
miserable performance I go on, tramping, tramp-
ing the deck. How many miles have I walked on
the poop of that ship! A stubborn pilgrimage of
sheer restlessness, diversified by short excursions
below to look upon Mr. Burns. I don't know
whether it is an illusion, but he seems to become
more substantial from day to day. He doesn't say
much, for, indeed, the situation doesn't lend itself
to idle remarks. I notice this even with the men as
I watch them moving or sitting about the decks.
They don't talk to each other. It strikes me that
if there exists an invisible ear catching the whispers
of the earth, it will find this ship the most silent
spot on it. . . .
"No, Mr. Burns has not much to say to me. He
sits in his bunk with his beard gone, his moustaches
flaming, and with an air of silent determination on
his chalky physiognomy. Ransome tells me he
devours all the food that is given him to the last
scrap, but that, apparently, he sleeps very little.
Even at night, when I go below to fill my pipe, I
notice that, though dozing flat on his back, he
still looks very determined. From the side glance
he gives me when awake it seems as though he were
annoyed at being interrupted in some arduous
mental operation; and as I emerge on deck the
ordered arrangement of the stars meets my eye, un-
clouded, infinitely wearisome. There they are:
stars, sun, sea, light, darkness, space, great waters;
the formidable Work of the Seven Days, into which
mankind seems to have blundered unbidden. Or
else decoyed. Even as I have been decoyed into
this awful, this death-haunted command. . . ."
***
The only spot of light in the ship at night was
that of the compass-lamps, lighting up the faces of
the succeeding helmsmen; for the rest we were lost
in the darkness, I walking the poop and the men
lying about the decks. They were all so reduced
by sickness that no watches could be kept. Those
who were able to walk remained all the time on
duty, lying about in the shadows of the main deck,
till my voice raised for an order would bring them
to their enfeebled feet, a tottering little group, mov-
ing patently about the ship, with hardly a mur-
mur, a whisper amongst them all. And every
time I had to raise my voice it was with a pang of
remorse and pity.
Then about four o'clock in the morning a light
would gleam forward in the galley. The unfailing
Ransome with the uneasy heart, immune, serene,
and active, was getting ready for the early coffee for
the men. Presently he would bring me a cup up
on the poop, and it was then that I allowed myself
to drop into my deck chair for a couple of hours of
real sleep. No doubt I must have been snatching
short dozes when leaning against the rail for a mo-
ment in sheer exhaustion; but, honestly, I was not
aware of them, except in the painful form of con-
vulsive starts that seemed to come on me even
while I walked. From about five, however, until
after seven I would sleep openly under the fading
stars.
I would say to the helmsman: "Call me at
need," and drop into that chair and close my eyes,
feeling that there was no more sleep for me on
earth. And then I would know nothing till, some
time between seven and eight, I would feel a touch
on my shoulder and look up at Ransome's face,
with its faint, wistful smile and friendly, gray
eyes, as though he were tenderly amused at my
slumbers. Occasionally the second mate would
come up and relieve me at early coffee time. But
it didn't really matter. Generally it was a dead
calm, or else faint airs so changing and fugitive
that it really wasn't worth while to touch a brace
for them. If the air steadied at all the seaman at
the helm could be trusted for a warning shout:
"Ship's all aback, sir!" which like a trumpet-
call would make me spring a foot above the deck.
Those were the words which it seemed to me would
have made me spring up from eternal sleep. But
this was not often. I have never met since such
breathless sunrises. And if the second mate hap-
pened to be there (he had generally one day in
three free of fever) I would find him sitting on the
skylight half senseless, as it were, and with an
idiotic gaze fastened on some object near by--a
rope, a cleat, a belaying pin, a ringbolt.
That young man was rather troublesome. He
remained cubbish in his sufferings. He seemed to
have become completely imbecile; and when the re-
turn of fever drove him to his cabin below, the next
thing would be that we would miss him from there.
The first time it happened Ransome and I were
very much alarmed. We started a quiet search
and ultimately Ransome discovered him curled up
in the sail-locker, which opened into the lobby by a
sliding door. When remonstrated with, he mut-
tered sulkily, "It's cool in there." That wasn't
true. It was only dark there.
The fundamental defects of his face were not im-
proved by its uniform livid hue. The disease dis-
closed its low type in a startling way. It was not
so with many of the men. The wastage of ill-
health seemed to idealise the general character of
the features, bringing out the unsuspected nobility
of some, the strength of others, and in one case re-
vealing an essentially comic aspect. He was a
short, gingery, active man with a nose and chin of
the Punch type, and whom his shipmates called
"Frenchy." I don't know why. He may have
been a Frenchman, but I have never heard him
utter a single word in French.
To see him coming aft to the wheel comforted
one. The blue dungaree trousers turned up the
calf, one leg a little higher than the other, the clean
check shirt, the white canvas cap, evidently made
by himself, made up a whole of peculiar smartness,
and the persistent jauntiness of his gait, even, poor
fellow, when he couldn't help tottering, told of his
invincible spirit. There was also a man called
Gambril. He was the only grizzled person in the
ship. His face was of an austere type. But if I re-
member all their faces, wasting tragically before my
eyes, most of their names have vanished from my
memory.
The words that passed between us were few and
puerile in regard of the situation. I had to force
myself to look them in the face. I expected to
meet reproachful glances. There were none. The
expression of suffering in their eyes was indeed
hard enough to bear. But that they couldn't help.
For the rest, I ask myself whether it was the temper
of their souls or the sympathy of their imagination
that made them so wonderful, so worthy of my un-
dying regard.
For myself, neither my soul was highly tempered,
nor my imagination properly under control. There
were moments when I felt, not only that I would go
mad, but that I had gone mad already; so that I
dared not open my lips for fear of betraying myself
by some insane shriek. Luckily I had only orders
to give, and an order has a steadying influence upon
him who has to give it. Moreover, the seaman,
the officer of the watch, in me was sufficiently sane.
I was like a mad carpenter making a box.
Were he ever so convinced that he was King of
Jerusalem, the box he would make would be a sane
box. What I feared was a shrill note escaping me
involuntarily and upsetting my balance. Luckily,
again, there was no necessity to raise one's voice.
The brooding stillness of the world seemed sensitive
to the slightest sound, like a whispering gallery.
The conversational tone would almost carry a
word from one end of the ship to the other. The
terrible thing was that the only voice that I ever
heard was my own. At night especially it reverber-
ated very lonely amongst the planes of the un-
stirring sails.
Mr. Burns, still keeping to his bed with that air
of secret determination, was moved to grumble at
many things. Our interviews were short five-
minute affairs, but fairly frequent. I was everlast-
ingly diving down below to get a light, though I did
not consume much tobacco at that time. The pipe
was always going out; for in truth my mind was not
composed enough to enable me to get a decent
smoke. Likewise, for most of the time during the
twenty-four hours I could have struck matches on
deck and held them aloft till the flame burnt my
fingers. But I always used to run below. It was
a change. It was the only break in the incessant
strain; and, of course, Mr. Burns through the open
door could see me come in and go out every time.
With his knees gathered up under his chin and
staring with his greenish eyes over them, he was a
weird figure, and with my knowledge of the crazy
notion in his head, not a very attractive one for me.
Still, I had to speak to him now and then, and one
day he complained that the ship was very silent.
For hours and hours, he said, he was lying there, not
hearing a sound, till he did not know what to do
with himself.
"When Ransome happens to be forward in his
galley everything's so still that one might think
everybody in the ship was dead," he grumbled.
"The only voice I do hear sometimes is yours, sir,
and that isn't enough to cheer me up. What's the
matter with the men? Isn't there one left that can
sing out at the ropes?"
"Not one, Mr. Burns," I said. "There is no
breath to spare on board this ship for that. Are
you aware that there are times when I can't muster
more than three hands to do anything?"
He asked swiftly but fearfully:
"Nobody dead yet, sir?"
"No."
"It wouldn't do," Mr. Burns declared forcibly.
"Mustn't let him. If he gets hold of one he will
get them all."
I cried out angrily at this. I believe I even
swore at the disturbing effect of these words.
They attacked all the self-possession that was left
to me. In my endless vigil in the face of the enemy
I had been haunted by gruesome images enough. I
had had visions of a ship drifting in calms and
swinging in light airs, with all her crew dying slowly
about her decks. Such things had been known to
happen.
Mr. Burns met my outburst by a mysterious
silence.
"Look here," I said. "You don't believe your-
self what you say. You can't. It's impossible.
It isn't the sort of thing I have a right to expect
from you. My position's bad enough without
being worried with your silly fancies."
He remained unmoved. On account of the way
in which the light fell on his head I could not be
sure whether he had smiled faintly or not. I
changed my tone.
"Listen," I said. "It's getting so desperate
that I had thought for a moment, since we can't
make our way south, whether I wouldn't try to
steer west and make an attempt to reach the mail-
boat track. We could always get some quinine
from her, at least. What do you think?"
He cried out: "No, no, no. Don't do that, sir.
You mustn't for a moment give up facing that old
ruffian. If you do he will get the upper hand of
us."
I left him. He was impossible. It was like a
case of possession. His protest, however, was
essentially quite sound. As a matter of fact, my
notion of heading out west on the chance of sight-
ing a problematical steamer could not bear calm
examination. On the side where we were we had
enough wind, at least from time to time, to struggle
on toward the south. Enough, at least, to keep
hope alive. But suppose that I had used those
capricious gusts of wind to sail away to the west-
ward, into some region where there was not a
breath of air for days on end, what then? Perhaps
my appalling vision of a ship floating with a dead
crew would become a reality for the discovery
weeks afterward by some horror-stricken mariners.
That afternoon Ransome brought me up a cup
of tea, and while waiting there, tray in hand, he re-
marked in the exactly right tone of sympathy:
"You are holding out well, sir."
"Yes," I said. "You and I seem to have been
forgotten."
"Forgotten, sir?"
"Yes, by the fever-devil who has got on board
this ship," I said.
Ransome gave me one of his attractive, intelli-
gent, quick glances and went away with the tray.
It occurred to me that I had been talking some-
what in Mr. Burns' manner. It annoyed me. Yet
often in darker moments I forgot myself into an
attitude toward our troubles more fit for a contest
against a living enemy.
Yes. The fever-devil had not laid his hand yet
either on Ransome or on me. But he might at any
time. It was one of those thoughts one had to
fight down, keep at arm's length at any cost. It
was unbearable to contemplate the possibility of
Ransome, the housekeeper of the ship, being laid
low. And what would happen to my command if
I got knocked over, with Mr. Burns too weak to
stand without holding on to his bed-place and the
second mate reduced to a state of permanent im-
becility? It was impossible to imagine, or rather,
it was only too easy to imagine.
I was alone on the poop. The ship having no
steerage way, I had sent the helmsman away to sit
down or lie down somewhere in the shade. The
men's strength was so reduced that all unnecessary
calls on it had to be avoided. It was the austere
Gambril with the grizzly beard. He went away
readily enough, but he was so weakened by re-
peated bouts of fever, poor fellow, that in order to
get down the poop ladder he had to turn sideways
and hang on with both hands to the brass rail. It
was just simply heart-breaking to watch. Yet he
was neither very much worse nor much better than
most of the half-dozen miserable victims I could
muster up on deck.
It was a terribly lifeless afternoon. For several
days in succession low clouds had appeared in the
distance, white masses with dark convolutions rest-
ing on the water, motionless, almost solid, and yet
all the time changing their aspects subtly. To-
ward evening they vanished as a rule. But this
day they awaited the setting sun, which glowed and
smouldered sulkily amongst them before it sank
down. The punctual and wearisome stars re-
appeared over our mastheads, but the air remained
stagnant and oppressive.
The unfailing Ransome lighted the binnacle-
lamps and glided, all shadowy, up to me.
"Will you go down and try to eat something,
sir?" he suggested.
His low voice startled me. I had been standing
looking out over the rail, saying nothing, feeling
nothing, not even the weariness of my limbs, over-
come by the evil spell.
"Ransome," I asked abruptly, "how long have I
been on deck? I am losing the notion of time."
"Twelve days, sir," he said, "and it's just a
fortnight since we left the anchorage."
His equable voice sounded mournful somehow.
He waited a bit, then added: "It's the first time
that it looks as if we were to have some rain."
I noticed then the broad shadow on the horizon,
extinguishing the low stars completely, while those
overhead, when I looked up, seemed to shine down
on us through a veil of smoke.
How it got there, how it had crept up so high, I
couldn't say. It had an ominous appearance. The
air did not stir. At a renewed invitation from
Ransome I did go down into the cabin to--in his
own words--"try and eat something." I don't
know that the trial was very successful. I sup-
pose at that period I did exist on food in the usual
way; but the memory is now that in those days life
was sustained on invincible anguish, as a sort of
infernal stimulant exciting and consuming at the
same time.
It's the only period of my life in which I at-
tempted to keep a diary. No, not the only one.
Years later, in conditions of moral isolation, I did
put down on paper the thoughts and events of a
score of days. But this was the first time. I don't
remember how it came about or how the pocket-
book and the pencil came into my hands. It's in-
conceivable that I should have looked for them on
purpose. I suppose they saved me from the crazy
trick of talking to myself.
Strangely enough, in both cases I took to that
sort of thing in circumstances in which I did not ex-
pect, in colloquial phrase, "to come out of it."
Neither could I expect the record to outlast me.
This shows that it was purely a personal need for
intimate relief and not a call of egotism.
Here I must give another sample of it, a few de-
tached lines, now looking very ghostly to my own
eyes, out of the part scribbled that very evening:
***
"There is something going on in the sky like
a decomposition; like a corruption of the air,
which remains as still as ever. After all, mere
clouds, which may or may not hold wind or rain.
Strange that it should trouble me so. I feel as if all
my sins had found me out. But I suppose the
trouble is that the ship is still lying motionless, not
under command; and that I have nothing to do to
keep my imagination from running wild amongst
the disastrous images of the worst that may befall
us. What's going to happen? Probably nothing.
Or anything. It may be a furious squall coming,
butt end foremost. And on deck there are five
men with the vitality and the strength, of say, two.
We may have all our sails blown away. Every
stitch of canvas has been on her since we broke
ground at the mouth of the Mei-nam, fifteen days
ago . . . or fifteen centuries. It seems to me
that all my life before that momentous day is in-
finitely remote, a fading memory of light-hearted
youth, something on the other side of a shadow.
Yes, sails may very well be blown away. And that
would be like a death sentence on the men. We
haven't strength enough on board to bend another
suit; incredible thought, but it is true. Or we may
even get dismasted. Ships have been dismasted in
squalls simply because they weren't handled quick
enough, and we have no power to whirl the yards
around. It's like being bound hand and foot pre-
paratory to having one's throat cut. And what
appals me most of all is that I shrink from going on
deck to face it. It's due to the ship, it's due to the
men who are there on deck--some of them, ready
to put out the last remnant of their strength at a
word from me. And I am shrinking from it. From
the mere vision. My first command. Now I
understand that strange sense of insecurity in my
past. I always suspected that I might be no good.
And here is proof positive. I am shirking it. I
am no good."
***
At that moment, or, perhaps, the moment after,
I became aware of Ransome standing in the cabin.
Something in his expression startled me. It had a
meaning which I could not make out. I exclaimed:
"Somebody's dead."
It was his turn then to look startled.
"Dead? Not that I know of, sir. I have been in
the forecastle only ten minutes ago and there was
no dead man there then."
"You did give me a scare," I said.
His voice was extremely pleasant to listen to.
He explained that he had come down below to close
Mr. Burns' port in case it should come on to rain.
"He did not know that I was in the cabin," he added.
"How does it look outside?" I asked him.
"Very black, indeed, sir. There is something in
it for certain."
"In what quarter?"
"All round, sir."
I repeated idly: "All round. For certain," with
my elbows on the table.
Ransome lingered in the cabin as if he had some-
thing to do there, but hesitated about doing it. I
said suddenly:
"You think I ought to be on deck?"
He answered at once but without any particular
emphasis or accent: "I do, sir."
I got to my feet briskly, and he made way for me
to go out. As I passed through the lobby I heard
Mr. Burns' voice saying:
"Shut the door of my room, will you, steward?"
And Ransome's rather surprised: "Certainly, sir."
I thought that all my feelings had been dulled
into complete indifference. But I found it as try-
ing as ever to be on deck. The impenetrable black-
ness beset the ship so close that it seemed that by
thrusting one's hand over the side one could touch
some unearthly substance. There was in it an
effect of inconceivable terror and of inexpressible
mystery. The few stars overhead shed a dim light
upon the ship alone, with no gleams of any kind
upon the water, in detached shafts piercing an at-
mosphere which had turned to soot. It was some-
thing I had never seen before, giving no hint of the
direction from which any change would come, the
closing in of a menace from all sides.
There was still no man at the helm. The im-
mobility of all things was perfect. If the air had
turned black, the sea, for all I knew, might have
turned solid. It was no good looking in any di-
rection, watching for any sign, speculating upon
the nearness of the moment. When the time came
the blackness would overwhelm silently the bit of
starlight falling upon the ship, and the end of all
things would come without a sigh, stir, or murmur
of any kind, and all our hearts would cease to beat
like run-down clocks.
It was impossible to shake off that sense of
finality. The quietness that came over me was
like a foretaste of annihilation. It gave me a sort
of comfort, as though my soul had become suddenly
reconciled to an eternity of blind stillness.
The seaman's instinct alone survived whole in
my moral dissolution. I descended the ladder to
the quarter-deck. The starlight seemed to die out
before reaching that spot, but when I asked
quietly: "Are you there, men?" my eyes made out
shadow forms starting up around me, very few,
very indistinct; and a voice spoke: "All here, sir."
Another amended anxiously:
"All that are any good for anything, sir."
Both voices were very quiet and unringing; with-
out any special character of readiness or discour-
agement. Very matter-of-fact voices.
"We must try to haul this mainsail close up," I said.
The shadows swayed away from me without a
word. Those men were the ghosts of themselves,
and their weight on a rope could be no more than
the weight of a bunch of ghosts. Indeed, if ever a
sail was hauled up by sheer spiritual strength it
must have been that sail, for, properly speaking,
there was not muscle enough for the task in the
whole ship let alone the miserable lot of us on deck.
Of course, I took the lead in the work myself.
They wandered feebly after me from rope to rope,
stumbling and panting. They toiled like Titans.
We were half-an-hour at it at least, and all the time
the black universe made no sound. When the last
leech-line was made fast, my eyes, accustomed to
the darkness, made out the shapes of exhausted
men drooping over the rails, collapsed on hatches.
One hung over the after-capstan, sobbing for
breath, and I stood amongst them like a tower of
strength, impervious to disease and feeling only the
sickness of my soul. I waited for some time fight-
ing against the weight of my sins, against my sense
of unworthiness, and then I said:
"Now, men, we'll go aft and square the mainyard.
That's about all we can do for the ship; and for the
rest she must take her chance."
