Bab Bab 7 · ‘An outward-bound mail-boat had come in that afternoon, and the

. ‘An outward-bound mail-boat had come in that afternoon, and the

big dining-room of the hotel was more than half full of people with

a-hundred-pounds-round-the-world tickets in their pockets. There were

married couples looking domesticated and bored with each other in the

midst of their travels; there were small parties and large parties,

and lone individuals dining solemnly or feasting boisterously, but all

thinking, conversing, joking, or scowling as was their wont at home;

and just as intelligently receptive of new impressions as their trunks

upstairs. Henceforth they would be labelled as having passed through

this and that place, and so would be their luggage. They would cherish

this distinction of their persons, and preserve the gummed tickets on

their portmanteaus as documentary evidence, as the only permanent trace

of their improving enterprise. The dark-faced servants tripped without

noise over the vast and polished floor; now and then a girl’s laugh

would be heard, as innocent and empty as her mind, or, in a sudden hush

of crockery, a few words in an affected drawl from some wit embroidering

for the benefit of a grinning tableful the last funny story of shipboard

scandal. Two nomadic old maids, dressed up to kill, worked acrimoniously

through the bill of fare, whispering to each other with faded lips,

wooden-faced and bizarre, like two sumptuous scarecrows. A little wine

opened Jim’s heart and loosened his tongue. His appetite was good, too,

I noticed. He seemed to have buried somewhere the opening episode of

our acquaintance. It was like a thing of which there would be no more

question in this world. And all the time I had before me these blue,

boyish eyes looking straight into mine, this young face, these capable

shoulders, the open bronzed forehead with a white line under the roots

of clustering fair hair, this appearance appealing at sight to all

my sympathies: this frank aspect, the artless smile, the youthful

seriousness. He was of the right sort; he was one of us. He talked

soberly, with a sort of composed unreserve, and with a quiet bearing

that might have been the outcome of manly self-control, of impudence, of

callousness, of a colossal unconsciousness, of a gigantic deception. Who

can tell! From our tone we might have been discussing a third person,

a football match, last year’s weather. My mind floated in a sea of

conjectures till the turn of the conversation enabled me, without being

offensive, to remark that, upon the whole, this inquiry must have been

pretty trying to him. He darted his arm across the tablecloth, and

clutching my hand by the side of my plate, glared fixedly. I was

startled. “It must be awfully hard,” I stammered, confused by this

display of speechless feeling. “It is--hell,” he burst out in a muffled

voice.

‘This movement and these words caused two well-groomed male

globe-trotters at a neighbouring table to look up in alarm from their

iced pudding. I rose, and we passed into the front gallery for coffee

and cigars.

‘On little octagon tables candles burned in glass globes; clumps of

stiff-leaved plants separated sets of cosy wicker chairs; and between

the pairs of columns, whose reddish shafts caught in a long row the

sheen from the tall windows, the night, glittering and sombre, seemed

to hang like a splendid drapery. The riding lights of ships winked afar

like setting stars, and the hills across the roadstead resembled rounded

black masses of arrested thunder-clouds.

‘“I couldn’t clear out,” Jim began. “The skipper did--that’s all very

well for him. I couldn’t, and I wouldn’t. They all got out of it in one

way or another, but it wouldn’t do for me.”

‘I listened with concentrated attention, not daring to stir in my chair;

I wanted to know--and to this day I don’t know, I can only guess. He

would be confident and depressed all in the same breath, as if some

conviction of innate blamelessness had checked the truth writhing within

him at every turn. He began by saying, in the tone in which a man would

admit his inability to jump a twenty-foot wall, that he could never

go home now; and this declaration recalled to my mind what Brierly had

said, “that the old parson in Essex seemed to fancy his sailor son not a

little.”

‘I can’t tell you whether Jim knew he was especially “fancied,” but the

tone of his references to “my Dad” was calculated to give me a notion

that the good old rural dean was about the finest man that ever had been

worried by the cares of a large family since the beginning of the world.

This, though never stated, was implied with an anxiety that there should

be no mistake about it, which was really very true and charming, but

added a poignant sense of lives far off to the other elements of the

story. “He has seen it all in the home papers by this time,” said Jim.

“I can never face the poor old chap.” I did not dare to lift my eyes

at this till I heard him add, “I could never explain. He wouldn’t

understand.” Then I looked up. He was smoking reflectively, and after

a moment, rousing himself, began to talk again. He discovered at once

a desire that I should not confound him with his partners in--in crime,

let us call it. He was not one of them; he was altogether of another

sort. I gave no sign of dissent. I had no intention, for the sake of

barren truth, to rob him of the smallest particle of any saving grace

that would come in his way. I didn’t know how much of it he believed

himself. I didn’t know what he was playing up to--if he was playing up

to anything at all--and I suspect he did not know either; for it is my

belief no man ever understands quite his own artful dodges to escape

from the grim shadow of self-knowledge. I made no sound all the time

he was wondering what he had better do after “that stupid inquiry was

over.”

‘Apparently he shared Brierly’s contemptuous opinion of these

proceedings ordained by law. He would not know where to turn, he

confessed, clearly thinking aloud rather than talking to me. Certificate

gone, career broken, no money to get away, no work that he could obtain

as far as he could see. At home he could perhaps get something; but it

meant going to his people for help, and that he would not do. He

saw nothing for it but ship before the mast--could get perhaps a

quartermaster’s billet in some steamer. Would do for a quartermaster.

. . . “Do you think you would?” I asked pitilessly. He jumped up, and

going to the stone balustrade looked out into the night. In a moment he

was back, towering above my chair with his youthful face clouded yet by

the pain of a conquered emotion. He had understood very well I did not

doubt his ability to steer a ship. In a voice that quavered a bit he

asked me why did I say that? I had been “no end kind” to him. I had not

even laughed at him when--here he began to mumble--“that mistake, you

know--made a confounded ass of myself.” I broke in by saying rather

warmly that for me such a mistake was not a matter to laugh at. He sat

down and drank deliberately some coffee, emptying the small cup to the

last drop. “That does not mean I admit for a moment the cap fitted,”

he declared distinctly. “No?” I said. “No,” he affirmed with quiet

decision. “Do you know what _you_ would have done? Do you? And you

don’t think yourself” . . . he gulped something . . . “you don’t think

yourself a--a--cur?”

‘And with this--upon my honour!--he looked up at me inquisitively. It

was a question it appears--a bona fide question! However, he didn’t wait

for an answer. Before I could recover he went on, with his eyes straight

before him, as if reading off something written on the body of the

night. “It is all in being ready. I wasn’t; not--not then. I don’t want

to excuse myself; but I would like to explain--I would like somebody to

understand--somebody--one person at least! You! Why not you?”

‘It was solemn, and a little ridiculous too, as they always are, those

struggles of an individual trying to save from the fire his idea of what

his moral identity should be, this precious notion of a convention, only

one of the rules of the game, nothing more, but all the same so terribly

effective by its assumption of unlimited power over natural instincts,

by the awful penalties of its failure. He began his story quietly

enough. On board that Dale Line steamer that had picked up these four

floating in a boat upon the discreet sunset glow of the sea, they had

been after the first day looked askance upon. The fat skipper told some

story, the others had been silent, and at first it had been accepted.

You don’t cross-examine poor castaways you had the good luck to save,

if not from cruel death, then at least from cruel suffering. Afterwards,

with time to think it over, it might have struck the officers of the

Avondale that there was “something fishy” in the affair; but of course

they would keep their doubts to themselves. They had picked up the

captain, the mate, and two engineers of the steamer Patna sunk at sea,

and that, very properly, was enough for them. I did not ask Jim about

the nature of his feelings during the ten days he spent on board. From

the way he narrated that part I was at liberty to infer he was partly

stunned by the discovery he had made--the discovery about himself--and

no doubt was at work trying to explain it away to the only man who

was capable of appreciating all its tremendous magnitude. You must

understand he did not try to minimise its importance. Of that I am sure;

and therein lies his distinction. As to what sensations he experienced

when he got ashore and heard the unforeseen conclusion of the tale in

which he had taken such a pitiful part, he told me nothing of them, and

it is difficult to imagine.

‘I wonder whether he felt the ground cut from under his feet? I wonder?

But no doubt he managed to get a fresh foothold very soon. He was ashore

a whole fortnight waiting in the Sailors’ Home, and as there were six or

seven men staying there at the time, I had heard of him a little.

Their languid opinion seemed to be that, in addition to his other

shortcomings, he was a sulky brute. He had passed these days on the

verandah, buried in a long chair, and coming out of his place of

sepulture only at meal-times or late at night, when he wandered on the

quays all by himself, detached from his surroundings, irresolute and

silent, like a ghost without a home to haunt. “I don’t think I’ve spoken

three words to a living soul in all that time,” he said, making me very

sorry for him; and directly he added, “One of these fellows would have

been sure to blurt out something I had made up my mind not to put up

with, and I didn’t want a row. No! Not then. I was too--too . . . I

had no heart for it.” “So that bulkhead held out after all,” I remarked

cheerfully. “Yes,” he murmured, “it held. And yet I swear to you I felt

it bulge under my hand.” “It’s extraordinary what strains old iron will

stand sometimes,” I said. Thrown back in his seat, his legs stiffly out

and arms hanging down, he nodded slightly several times. You could not

conceive a sadder spectacle. Suddenly he lifted his head; he sat up;

he slapped his thigh. “Ah! what a chance missed! My God! what a chance

missed!” he blazed out, but the ring of the last “missed” resembled a

cry wrung out by pain.

‘He was silent again with a still, far-away look of fierce yearning

after that missed distinction, with his nostrils for an instant dilated,

sniffing the intoxicating breath of that wasted opportunity. If you

think I was either surprised or shocked you do me an injustice in more

ways than one! Ah, he was an imaginative beggar! He would give himself

away; he would give himself up. I could see in his glance darted into

the night all his inner being carried on, projected headlong into the

fanciful realm of recklessly heroic aspirations. He had no leisure to

regret what he had lost, he was so wholly and naturally concerned for

what he had failed to obtain. He was very far away from me who watched

him across three feet of space. With every instant he was penetrating

deeper into the impossible world of romantic achievements. He got to

the heart of it at last! A strange look of beatitude overspread his

features, his eyes sparkled in the light of the candle burning between

us; he positively smiled! He had penetrated to the very heart--to

the very heart. It was an ecstatic smile that your faces--or mine

either--will never wear, my dear boys. I whisked him back by saying, “If

you had stuck to the ship, you mean!”

‘He turned upon me, his eyes suddenly amazed and full of pain, with a

bewildered, startled, suffering face, as though he had tumbled down

from a star. Neither you nor I will ever look like this on any man. He

shuddered profoundly, as if a cold finger-tip had touched his heart.

Last of all he sighed.

‘I was not in a merciful mood. He provoked one by his contradictory

indiscretions. “It is unfortunate you didn’t know beforehand!” I

said with every unkind intention; but the perfidious shaft fell

harmless--dropped at his feet like a spent arrow, as it were, and he did

not think of picking it up. Perhaps he had not even seen it. Presently,

lolling at ease, he said, “Dash it all! I tell you it bulged. I was

holding up my lamp along the angle-iron in the lower deck when a

flake of rust as big as the palm of my hand fell off the plate, all of

itself.” He passed his hand over his forehead. “The thing stirred and

jumped off like something alive while I was looking at it.” “That made

you feel pretty bad,” I observed casually. “Do you suppose,” he said,

“that I was thinking of myself, with a hundred and sixty people at my

back, all fast asleep in that fore-’tween-deck alone--and more of them

aft; more on the deck--sleeping--knowing nothing about it--three times

as many as there were boats for, even if there had been time? I expected

to see the iron open out as I stood there and the rush of water going

over them as they lay. . . . What could I do--what?”

‘I can easily picture him to myself in the peopled gloom of the

cavernous place, with the light of the globe-lamp falling on a small

portion of the bulkhead that had the weight of the ocean on the other

side, and the breathing of unconscious sleepers in his ears. I can see

him glaring at the iron, startled by the falling rust, overburdened by

the knowledge of an imminent death. This, I gathered, was the second

time he had been sent forward by that skipper of his, who, I rather

think, wanted to keep him away from the bridge. He told me that his

first impulse was to shout and straightway make all those people

leap out of sleep into terror; but such an overwhelming sense of his

helplessness came over him that he was not able to produce a sound. This

is, I suppose, what people mean by the tongue cleaving to the roof of

the mouth. “Too dry,” was the concise expression he used in reference to

this state. Without a sound, then, he scrambled out on deck through

the number one hatch. A windsail rigged down there swung against him

accidentally, and he remembered that the light touch of the canvas on

his face nearly knocked him off the hatchway ladder.

‘He confessed that his knees wobbled a good deal as he stood on the

foredeck looking at another sleeping crowd. The engines having been

stopped by that time, the steam was blowing off. Its deep rumble made

the whole night vibrate like a bass string. The ship trembled to it.

‘He saw here and there a head lifted off a mat, a vague form uprise in

sitting posture, listen sleepily for a moment, sink down again into the

billowy confusion of boxes, steam-winches, ventilators. He was aware

all these people did not know enough to take intelligent notice of

that strange noise. The ship of iron, the men with white faces, all the

sights, all the sounds, everything on board to that ignorant and pious

multitude was strange alike, and as trustworthy as it would for ever

remain incomprehensible. It occurred to him that the fact was fortunate.

The idea of it was simply terrible.

‘You must remember he believed, as any other man would have done in

his place, that the ship would go down at any moment; the bulging,

rust-eaten plates that kept back the ocean, fatally must give way, all

at once like an undermined dam, and let in a sudden and overwhelming

flood. He stood still looking at these recumbent bodies, a doomed man

aware of his fate, surveying the silent company of the dead. They _were_

dead! Nothing could save them! There were boats enough for half of them

perhaps, but there was no time. No time! No time! It did not seem worth

while to open his lips, to stir hand or foot. Before he could shout

three words, or make three steps, he would be floundering in a sea

whitened awfully by the desperate struggles of human beings, clamorous

with the distress of cries for help. There was no help. He imagined

what would happen perfectly; he went through it all motionless by the

hatchway with the lamp in his hand--he went through it to the very last

harrowing detail. I think he went through it again while he was telling

me these things he could not tell the court.

‘“I saw as clearly as I see you now that there was nothing I could do.

It seemed to take all life out of my limbs. I thought I might just as

well stand where I was and wait. I did not think I had many

seconds. . . .” Suddenly the steam ceased blowing off. The noise, he

remarked, had been distracting, but the silence at once became

intolerably oppressive.

‘“I thought I would choke before I got drowned,” he said.

‘He protested he did not think of saving himself. The only distinct

thought formed, vanishing, and re-forming in his brain, was: eight

hundred people and seven boats; eight hundred people and seven boats.

‘“Somebody was speaking aloud inside my head,” he said a little wildly.

“Eight hundred people and seven boats--and no time! Just think of it.”

He leaned towards me across the little table, and I tried to avoid his

stare. “Do you think I was afraid of death?” he asked in a voice very

fierce and low. He brought down his open hand with a bang that made the

coffee-cups dance. “I am ready to swear I was not--I was not. . . . By

God--no!” He hitched himself upright and crossed his arms; his chin fell

on his breast.

‘The soft clashes of crockery reached us faintly through the high

windows. There was a burst of voices, and several men came out in high

good-humour into the gallery. They were exchanging jocular reminiscences

of the donkeys in Cairo. A pale anxious youth stepping softly on long

legs was being chaffed by a strutting and rubicund globe-trotter about

his purchases in the bazaar. “No, really--do you think I’ve been done

to that extent?” he inquired very earnest and deliberate. The band moved

away, dropping into chairs as they went; matches flared, illuminating

for a second faces without the ghost of an expression and the flat glaze

of white shirt-fronts; the hum of many conversations animated with the

ardour of feasting sounded to me absurd and infinitely remote.

‘“Some of the crew were sleeping on the number one hatch within reach of

my arm,” began Jim again.

‘You must know they kept Kalashee watch in that ship, all hands sleeping

through the night, and only the reliefs of quartermasters and look-out

men being called. He was tempted to grip and shake the shoulder of the

nearest lascar, but he didn’t. Something held his arms down along his

sides. He was not afraid--oh no! only he just couldn’t--that’s all. He

was not afraid of death perhaps, but I’ll tell you what, he was afraid

of the emergency. His confounded imagination had evoked for him all

the horrors of panic, the trampling rush, the pitiful screams, boats

swamped--all the appalling incidents of a disaster at sea he had ever

heard of. He might have been resigned to die but I suspect he wanted

to die without added terrors, quietly, in a sort of peaceful trance. A

certain readiness to perish is not so very rare, but it is seldom

that you meet men whose souls, steeled in the impenetrable armour of

resolution, are ready to fight a losing battle to the last; the desire

of peace waxes stronger as hope declines, till at last it conquers the

very desire of life. Which of us here has not observed this, or maybe

experienced something of that feeling in his own person--this extreme

weariness of emotions, the vanity of effort, the yearning for rest?

Those striving with unreasonable forces know it well,--the shipwrecked

castaways in boats, wanderers lost in a desert, men battling against the

unthinking might of nature, or the stupid brutality of crowds.’