XXXVI.
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.
