Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) (67 page)

Some one cried at him: “What’s your name?” — ”Donkin,” he said, looking round with cheerful effrontery. — ”What are you?” asked another voice. — ”Why, a sailor like you, old man,” he replied, in a tone that meant to be hearty but was impudent. — ”Blamme if you don’t look a blamed sight worse than a broken-down fireman,” was the comment in a convinced mutter. Charley lifted his head and piped in a cheeky voice: “He is a man and a sailor” — then wiping his nose with the back of his hand bent down industriously over his bit of rope. A few laughed. Others stared doubtfully. The ragged newcomer was indignant — ”That’s a fine way to welcome a chap into a fo’c’sle,” he snarled. “Are you men or a lot of ‘artless canny-bals?” — ”Don’t take your shirt off for a word, shipmate,” called out Belfast, jumping up in front, fiery, menacing, and friendly at the same time. — ”Is that ‘ere bloke blind?” asked the indomitable scarecrow, looking right and left with affected surprise. “Can’t ‘ee see I ‘aven’t got no shirt?”

He held both his arms out crosswise and shook the rags that hung over his bones with dramatic effect.

“‘Cos why?” he continued very loud. “The bloody Yankees been tryin’ to jump my guts out ‘cos I stood up for my rights like a good ‘un. I am an Englishman, I am. They set upon me an’ I ‘ad to run. That’s why. A’n’t yer never seed a man ‘ard up? Yah! What kind of blamed ship is this? I’m dead broke. I ‘aven’t got nothink. No bag, no bed, no blanket, no shirt — not a bloomin’ rag but what I stand in. But I ‘ad the ‘art to stand up agin’ them Yankees. ‘As any of you ‘art enough to spare a pair of old pants for a chum?”

He knew how to conquer the naïve instincts of that crowd. In a moment they gave him their compassion, jocularly, contemptuously, or surlily; and at first it took the shape of a blanket thrown at him as he stood there with the white skin of his limbs showing his human kinship through the black fantasy of his rags. Then a pair of old shoes fell at his muddy feet. With a cry: — ”From under,” a rolled-up pair of canvas trousers, heavy with tar stains, struck him on the shoulder. The gust of their benevolence sent a wave of sentimental pity through their doubting hearts. They were touched by their own readiness to alleviate a shipmate’s misery. Voices cried: — ”We will fit you out, old man.” Murmurs: “Never seed seech a hard case.... Poor beggar.... I’ve got an old singlet.... Will that be of any use to you?... Take it, matey....” Those friendly murmurs filled the forecastle. He pawed around with his naked foot, gathering the things in a heap and looked about for more. Unemotional Archie perfunctorily contributed to the pile an old cloth cap with the peak torn off. Old Singleton, lost in the serene regions of fiction, read on unheeding. Charley, pitiless with the wisdom of youth, squeaked: — ”If you want brass buttons for your new unyforms I’ve got two for you.” The filthy object of universal charity shook his fist at the youngster. — ”I’ll make you keep this ‘ere fo’c’sle clean, young feller,” he snarled viciously. “Never you fear. I will learn you to be civil to an able seaman, you ignerant ass.” He glared harmfully, but saw Singleton shut his book, and his little beady eyes began to roam from berth to berth. — ”Take that bunk by the door there — it’s pretty fair,” suggested Belfast. So advised, he gathered the gifts at his feet, pressed them in a bundle against his breast, then looked cautiously at the Russian Finn, who stood on one side with an unconscious gaze, contemplating, perhaps, one of those weird visions that haunt the men of his race. — ”Get out of my road, Dutchy,” said the victim of Yankee brutality. The Finn did not move — did not hear. “Get out, blast ye,” shouted the other, shoving him aside with his elbow. “Get out, you blanked deaf and dumb fool. Get out.” The man staggered, recovered himself, and gazed at the speaker in silence. — ”Those damned furriners should be kept under,” opined the amiable Donkin to the forecastle. “If you don’t teach ‘em their place they put on you like anythink.” He flung all his worldly possessions into the empty bed-place, gauged with another shrewd look the risks of the proceeding, then leaped up to the Finn, who stood pensive and dull. — ”I’ll teach you to swell around,” he yelled. “I’ll plug your eyes for you, you blooming square-head.” Most of the men were now in their bunks and the two had the forecastle clear to themselves. The development of the destitute Donkin aroused interest. He danced all in tatters before the amazed Finn, squaring from a distance at the heavy, unmoved face. One or two men cried encouragingly: “Go it, Whitechapel!” settling themselves luxuriously in their beds to survey the fight. Others shouted: “Shut yer row!... Go an’ put yer ‘ed in a bag!...” The hubbub was recommencing. Suddenly many heavy blows struck with a handspike on the deck above boomed like discharges of small cannon through the forecastle. Then the boatswain’s voice rose outside the door with an authoritative note in its drawl: — ”D’ye hear, below there? Lay aft! Lay aft to muster all hands!”

There was a moment of surprised stillness. Then the forecastle floor disappeared under men whose bare feet flopped on the planks as they sprang clear out of their berths. Caps were rooted for amongst tumbled blankets. Some, yawning, buttoned waistbands. Half-smoked pipes were knocked hurriedly against woodwork and stuffed under pillows. Voices growled: — ”What’s up?... Is there no rest for us?” Donkin yelped: — ”If that’s the way of this ship, we’ll ‘ave to change all that.... You leave me alone.... I will soon....” None of the crowd noticed him. They were lurching in twos and threes through the doors, after the manner of merchant Jacks who cannot go out of a door fairly, like mere landsmen. The votary of change followed them. Singleton, struggling into his jacket, came last, tall and fatherly, bearing high his head of a weather-beaten sage on the body of an old athlete. Only Charley remained alone in the white glare of the empty place, sitting between the two rows of iron links that stretched into the narrow gloom forward. He pulled hard at the strands in a hurried endeavour to finish his knot. Suddenly he started up, flung the rope at the cat, and skipped after the black tom which went off leaping sedately over chain compressors, with its tail carried stiff and upright, like a small flag pole.

Outside the glare of the steaming forecastle the serene purity of the night enveloped the seamen with its soothing breath, with its tepid breath flowing under the stars that hung countless above the mastheads in a thin cloud of luminous dust. On the town side the blackness of the water was streaked with trails of light which undulated gently on slight ripples, similar to filaments that float rooted to the shore. Rows of other lights stood away in straight lines as if drawn up on parade between towering buildings; but on the other side of the harbour sombre hills arched high their black spines, on which, here and there, the point of a star resembled a spark fallen from the sky. Far off, Byculla way, the electric lamps at the dock gates shone on the end of lofty standards with a glow blinding and frigid like captive ghosts of some evil moons. Scattered all over the dark polish of the roadstead, the ships at anchor floated in perfect stillness under the feeble gleam of their riding-lights, looming up, opaque and bulky, like strange and monumental structures abandoned by men to an everlasting repose.

Before the cabin door Mr. Baker was mustering the crew. As they stumbled and lurched along past the mainmast, they could see aft his round, broad face with a white paper before it, and beside his shoulder the sleepy head, writh dropped eyelids, of the boy, who held, suspended at the end of his raised arm, the luminous globe of a lamp. Even before the shuffle of naked soles had ceased along the decks, the mate began to call over the names. He called distinctly in a serious tone befitting this roll-call to unquiet loneliness, to inglorious and obscure struggle, or to the more trying endurance of small privations and wearisome duties. As the chief mate read out a name, one of the men would answer: “Yes, sir!” or “Here!” and, detaching himself from the shadowy mob of heads visible above the blackness of starboard bulwarks, would step bare-footed into the circle of light, and in two noiseless strides pass into the shadows on the port side of the quarterdeck. They answered in divers tones: in thick mutters, in clear, ringing voices; and some, as if the whole thing had been an outrage on their feelings, used an injured intonation: for discipline is not ceremonious in merchant ships, where the sense of hierarchy is weak, and where all feel themselves equal before the unconcerned immensity of the sea and the exacting appeal of the work. Mr. Baker read on steadily: — ”Hansen — Campbell — Smith — Wamibo. Now, then, Wamibo. Why don’t you answer? Always got to call your name twice.” The Finn emitted at last an uncouth grunt, and, stepping out, passed through the patch of light, weird and gaudy, with the face of a man marching through a dream. The mate went on faster: — ”Craik — Singleton — Donkin.... O Lord!” he involuntarily ejaculated as the incredibly dilapidated figure appeared in the light. It stopped; it uncovered pale gums and long, upper teeth in a malevolent grin. — ”Is there any-think wrong with me, Mister Mate?” it asked, with a flavour of insolence in the forced simplicity of its tone. On both sides of the deck subdued titters were heard. — ”That’ll do. Go over,” growled Mr. Baker, fixing the new hand with steady blue eyes. And Donkin vanished suddenly out of the light into the dark group of mustered men, to be slapped on the back and to hear flattering whispers: — ”He ain’t afeard, he’ll give sport to ‘em, see if he don’t.... Reg’lar Punch and Judy show.... Did ye see the mate start at him?... Well! Damme, if I ever!...” The last man had gone over, and there was a moment of silence while the mate peered at his list. — ”Sixteen, seventeen,” he muttered. “I am one hand short, bo’sen,” he said aloud. The big west-countryman at his elbow, swarthy and bearded like a gigantic Spaniard, said in a rumbling bass: — ”There’s no one left forward, sir. I had a look round. He ain’t aboard, but he may, turn up before daylight.” — ”Ay. He may or he may not,” commented the mate, “can’t make out that last name. It’s all a smudge.... That will do, men. Go below.”

The distinct and motionless group stirred, broke up, began to move forward.

“Wait!” cried a deep, ringing voice.

All stood still. Mr. Baker, who had turned away yawning, spun round open-mouthed. At last, furious, he blurted out: — ”What’s this? Who said ‘Wait’? What....”

But he saw a tall figure standing on the rail. It came down and pushed through the crowd, marching with a heavy tread towards the light on the quarterdeck. Then again the sonorous voice said with insistence: — ”Wait!” The lamplight lit up the man’s body. He was tall. His head was away up in the shadows of lifeboats that stood on skids above the deck. The whites of his eyes and his teeth gleamed distinctly, but the face was indistinguishable. His hands were big and seemed gloved.

Mr. Baker advanced intrepidly. “Who are you? How dare you...” he began.

The boy, amazed like the rest, raised the light to the man’s face. It was black. A surprised hum — a faint hum that sounded like the suppressed mutter of the word “Nigger” — ran along the deck and escaped out into the night. The nigger seemed not to hear. He balanced himself where he stood in a swagger that marked time. After a moment he said calmly: — ”My name is Wait — James Wait.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Baker. Then, after a few seconds of smouldering silence, his temper blazed out. “Ah! Your name is Wait. What of that? What do you want? What do you mean, coming shouting here?”

The nigger was calm, cool, towering, superb. The men had approached and stood behind him in a body. He overtopped the tallest by half a head. He said: “I belong to the ship.” He enunciated distinctly, with soft precision. The deep, rolling tones of his voice filled the deck without effort. He was naturally scornful, unaffectedly condescending, as if from his height of six foot three he had surveyed all the vastness of human folly and had made up his mind not to be too hard on it. He went on: — ”The captain shipped me this morning. I couldn’t get aboard sooner. I saw you all aft as I came up the ladder, and could see directly you were mustering the crew. Naturally I called out my name. I thought you had it on your list, and would understand. You misapprehended.” He stopped short. The folly around him was confounded. He was right as ever, and as ever ready to forgive. The disdainful tones had ceased, and, breathing heavily, he stood still, surrounded by all these white men. He held his head up in the glare of the lamp — a head vigorously modelled into deep shadows and shining lights — a head powerful and misshapen with a tormented and flattened face — a face pathetic and brutal: the tragic, the mysterious, the repulsive mask of a nigger’s soul.

Mr. Baker, recovering his composure, looked at the paper close. “Oh, yes; that’s so. All right, Wait. Take your gear forward,” he said.

Suddenly the nigger’s eyes rolled wildly, became all whites. He put his hand to his side and coughed twice, a cough metallic, hollow, and tremendously loud; it resounded like two explosions in a vault; the dome of the sky rang to it, and the iron plates of the ship’s bulwarks seemed to vibrate in unison, then he marched off forward with the others. The officers lingering by the cabin door could hear him say: “Won’t some of you chaps lend a hand with my dunnage? I’ve got a chest and a bag.” The words, spoken sonorously, with an even intonation, were heard all over the ship, and the question was put in a manner that made refusal impossible. The short, quick shuffle of men carrying something heavy went away forward, but the tall figure of the nigger lingered by the main hatch in a knot of smaller shapes. Again he was heard asking: “Is your cook a coloured gentleman?” Then a disappointed and disapproving “Ah! h’m!” was his comment upon the information that the cook happened to be a mere white man. Yet, as they went all together towards the forecastle, he condescended to put his head through the galley door and boom out inside a magnificent “Good evening, doctor!” that made all the saucepans ring. In the dim light the cook dozed on the coal locker in front of the captain’s supper. He jumped up as if he had been cut with a whip, and dashed wildly on deck to see the backs of several men going away laughing. Afterwards, when talking about that voyage, he used to say: — ”The poor fellow had scared me. I thought I had seen the devil.” The cook had been seven years in the ship with the same captain. He was a serious-minded man with a wife and three children, whose society he enjoyed on an average one month out of twelve. When on shore he took his family to church twice every Sunday. At sea he went to sleep every evening with his lamp turned up full, a pipe in his mouth, and an open Bible in his hand. Some one had always to go during the night to put out the light, take the book from his hand, and the pipe from between his teeth. “For” — Belfast used to say, irritated and complaining — ”some night, you stupid cookie, you’ll swallow your ould clay, and we will have no cook.” — ”Ah! sonny, I am ready for my Maker’s call... wish you all were,” the other would answer with a benign serenity that was altogether imbecile and touching. Belfast outside the galley door danced with vexation. “You holy fool! I don’t want you to die,” he howled, looking up with furious, quivering face and tender eyes. “What’s the hurry? You blessed wooden-headed ould heretic, the divvle will have you soon enough. Think of Us... of Us... of Us!” And he would go away, stamping, spitting aside, disgusted and worried; while the other, stepping out, saucepan in hand, hot, begrimed and placid, watched with a superior, cock-sure smile the back of his “queer little man” reeling in a rage. They were great friends.