Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) (78 page)

Jimmy reached out for the mug. Not a drop. He put it back gently with a faint sigh — and closed his eyes. He thought: — That lunatic Belfast will bring me some water if I ask. Fool. I am very thirsty.... It was very hot in the cabin, and it seemed to turn slowly round, detach itself from the ship, and swing out smoothly into a luminous, arid space where a black sun shone, spinning very fast. A place without any water! No water! A policeman with the face of Donkin drank a glass of beer by the side of an empty well, and flew away flapping vigorously. A ship whose mastheads protruded through the sky and could not be seen, was discharging grain, and the wind whirled the dry husks in spirals along the quay of a dock with no water in it. He whirled along with the husks — very tired and light. All his inside was gone. He felt lighter than the husks — and more dry. He expanded his hollow chest. The air streamed in, carrying away in its rush a lot of strange things that resembled houses, trees, people, lamp-posts.... No more! There was no more air — and he had not finished drawing his long breath. But he was in jail! They were locking him up. A door slammed. They turned the key twice, flung a bucket of water over him — Phoo! What for?

He opened his eyes, thinking the fall had been very heavy for an empty man — empty — empty. He was in his cabin. Ah! All right! His face was streaming with perspiration, his arms heavier than lead. He saw the cook standing in the doorway, a brass key in one hand and a bright tin hook-pot in the other.

“I have locked up the galley for the night,” said the cook, beaming benevolently. “Eight bells just gone. I brought you a pot of cold tea for your night’s drinking, Jimmy. I sweetened it with some white cabin sugar, too. Well — it won’t break the ship.”

He came in, hung the pot on the edge of the bunk, asked perfunctorily, “How goes it?” and sat down on the box. — ”H’m,” grunted Wait, inhospitably. The cook wiped his face with a dirty cotton rag, which, afterwards, he tied round his neck. — ”That’s how them firemen do in steamboats,” he said, serenely, and much pleased with himself. “My work is as heavy as theirs — I’m thinking — and longer hours. Did you ever see them down the stokehold? Like fiends they look — firing — firing — firing — down there.”

He pointed his forefinger at the deck. Some gloomy thought darkened his shining face, fleeting, like the shadow of a travelling cloud over the light of a peaceful sea. The relieved watch tramped noisily forward, passing in a body across the sheen of the doorway. Some one cried, “Good-night!” Belfast stopped for a moment and looked at Jimmy, quivering and speechless with repressed emotion. He gave the cook a glance charged with dismal foreboding, and vanished. The cook cleared his throat. Jimmy stared upwards and kept as still as a man in hiding.

The night was clear, with a gentle breeze. Above the mastheads the resplendent curve of the Milky Way spanned the sky like a triumphal arch of eternal light, thrown over the dark pathway of the earth. On the forecastle head a man whistled with loud precision a lively jig, while another could be heard faintly, shuffling and stamping in time. There came from forward a confused murmur of voices, laughter — snatches of song. The cook shook his head, glanced obliquely at Jimmy, and began to mutter. “Aye. Dance and sing. That’s all they think of. I am surprised that Providence don’t get tired.... They forget the day that’s sure to come... but you....”

Jimmy drank a gulp of tea, hurriedly, as though he had stolen it, and shrank under his blanket, edging away towards the bulkhead. The cook got up, closed the door, then sat down again and said distinctly: —

“Whenever I poke my galley fire I think of you chaps — swearing, stealing, lying, and worse — as if there was no such thing as another world.... Not bad fellows, either, in a way,” he conceded, slowly; then, after a pause of regretful musing, he went on in a resigned tone: — ”Well, well. They will have a hot time of it. Hot! Did I say? The furnaces of one of them White Star boats ain’t nothing to it.”

He kept very quiet for a while. There was a great stir in his brain; an addled vision of bright outlines; an exciting row of rousing songs and groans of pain. He suffered, enjoyed, admired, approved. He was delighted, frightened, exalted — as on that evening (the only time in his life — twenty-seven years ago; he loved to recall the number of years) when as a young man he had — through keeping bad company — become intoxicated in an East-end music-hall. A tide of sudden feeling swept him clean out of his body. He soared. He contemplated the secret of the hereafter. It commended itself to him. It was excellent; he loved it, himself, all hands, and Jimmy. His heart overflowed with tenderness, with comprehension, with the desire to meddle, with anxiety for the soul of that black man, with the pride of possessed eternity, with the feeling of might. Snatch him up in his arms and pitch him right into the middle of salvation... The black soul — blacker — body — rot — Devil. No! Talk-strength — Samson.... There was a great din as of cymbals in his ears; he flashed through an ecstatic jumble of shining faces, lilies, prayer-books, unearthly joy, white skirts, gold harps, black coats, wings. He saw flowing garments, clean shaved faces, a sea of light — a lake of pitch. There were sweet scent, a smell of sulphur — red tongues of flame licking a white mist. An awesome voice thundered!... It lasted three seconds.

“Jimmy!” he cried in an inspired tone. Then he hesitated. A spark of human pity glimmered yet through the infernal fog of his supreme conceit.

“What?” said James Wait, unwillingly. There was a silence. He turned his head just the least bit, and stole a cautious glance. The cook’s lips moved without a sound; his face was rapt, his eyes turned up. He seemed to be mentally imploring deck beams, the brass hook of the lamp, two cockroaches.

“Look here,” said Wait, “I want to go to sleep. I think I could.”

“This is no time for sleep!” exclaimed the cook, very loud. He had prayerfully divested himself of the last vestige of his humanity. He was a voice — a fleshless and sublime thing, as on that memorable night — the night when he went walking over the sea to make coffee for perishing sinners. “This is no time for sleeping,” he repeated with exaltation. “I can’t sleep.”

“Don’t care damn,” said Wait, with factitious energy. “I can. Go an’ turn in.”

“Swear... in the very jaws!... In the very jaws! Don’t you see the everlasting fire... don’t you feel it? Blind, chockfull of sin! Repent, repent! I can’t bear to think of you. I hear the call to save you. Night and day. Jimmy, let me save you!” The words of entreaty and menace broke out of him in a roaring torrent. The cockroaches ran away. Jimmy perspired, wriggling stealthily under his blanket. The cook yelled.... “Your days are numbered!... “ — ”Get out of this,” boomed Wait, courageously. — ”Pray with me!... “ — ”I won’t!...” The little cabin was as hot as an oven. It contained an immensity of fear and pain; an atmosphere of shrieks and moans; prayers vociferated like blasphemies and whispered curses. Outside, the men called by Charley, who informed them in tones of delight that there was a holy row going on in Jimmy’s place, crowded before the closed door, too startled to open it. All hands were there. The watch below had jumped out on deck in their shirts, as after a collision. Men running up, asked: — ”What is it?” Others said: — ”Listen!” The muffled screaming went on: — ”On your knees! On your knees!” — ”Shut up!” — ”Never! You are delivered into my hands.... Your life has been saved.... Purpose.... Mercy.... Repent.” — ”You are a crazy fool!...” — ”Account of you... you... Never sleep in this world, if I...” — ”Leave off.” — ”No!... stokehold... only think!...” Then an impassioned screeching babble where words pattered like hail. — ”No!” shouted Wait. — ”Yes. You are!... No help.... Everybody says so.” — ”You lie!” — ”I see you dying this minnyt... before my eyes... as good as dead already.” — ”Help!” shouted Jimmy, piercingly. — ”Not in this valley.... look upwards,” howled the other. — ”Go away! Murder! Help!” clamoured Jimmy. His voice broke. There were moanings, low mutters, a few sobs.

“What’s the matter now?” said a seldom-heard voice. — ”Fall back, men! Fall back, there!” repeated Mr. Creighton, sternly, pushing through. — ”Here’s the old man,” whispered some. — ”The cook’s in there, sir,” exclaimed several, backing away. The door clattered open; a broad stream of light darted out on wondering faces; a warm whiff of vitiated air passed. The two mates towered head and shoulders above the spare, grey-haired man who stood revealed between them, in shabby clothes, stiff and angular, like a small carved figure, and with a thin, composed face. The cook got up from his knees. Jimmy sat high in the bunk, clasping his drawn-up legs. The tassel of the blue night-cap almost imperceptibly trembled over his knees. They gazed astonished at his long, curved back, while the white corner of one eye gleamed blindly at them. He was afraid to turn his head, he shrank within himself; and there was an aspect astounding and animal-like in the perfection of his expectant immobility. A thing of instinct — the unthinking stillness of a scared brute. “What are you doing here?” asked Mr. Baker, sharply. — ”My duty,” said the cook, with ardour. — ”Your... what?” began the mate. Captain Allistoun touched his arm lightly. — ”I know his caper,” he said, in a low voice. “Come out of that, Podmore,” he ordered, aloud.

The cook wrung his hands, shook his fists above his head, and his arms dropped as if too heavy. For a moment he stood distracted and speechless. — ”Never,” he stammered, “I... he I.” —

“What — do — you — say?” pronounced Captain Allistoun. “Come out at once — or...” — ”I am going,” said the cook, with a hasty and sombre resignation. He strode over the doorstep firmly — hesitated — made a few steps. They looked at him in silence. — ”I make you responsible!” he cried, desperately, turning half round. “That man is dying. I make you.. “ — ”You there yet?” called the master in a threatening tone. — ”No, sir,” he exclaimed, hurriedly, in a startled voice. The boatswain led him away by the arm; some one laughed; Jimmy lifted his head for a stealthy glance, and in one unexpected leap sprang out of his bunk; Mr. Baker made a clever catch and felt him very limp in his arms; the group at the door grunted with surprise. — ”He lies,” gasped Wait, “he talked about black devils — he is a devil — a white devil — I am all right.” He stiffened himself, and Mr. Baker, experimentally, let him go. He staggered a pace or two; Captain Allistoun watched him with a quiet and penetrating gaze; Belfast ran to his support. He did not appear to be aware of any one near him; he stood silent for a moment, battling single-handed with a legion of nameless terrors, amidst the eager looks of excited men who watched him far off, utterly alone in the impenetrable solitude of his fear. The sea gurgled through the scuppers as the ship heeled over to a short puff of wind.

“Keep him away from me,” said James Wait at last in his fine baritone voice, and leaning with all his weight on Belfast’s neck. “I’ve been better this last week:... I am well... I was going back to duty... to-morrow — now if you like — Captain.” Belfast hitched his shoulders to keep him upright.

“No,” said the master, looking at him, fixedly. Under Jimmy’s armpit Belfast’s red face moved uneasily. A row of eyes gleaming stared on the edge of light. They pushed one another with elbows, turned their heads, whispered. Wait let his chin fall on his breast and, with lowered eyelids, looked round in a suspicious manner.

“Why not?” cried a voice from the shadows, “the man’s all right, sir.”

“I am all right,” said Wait, with eagerness. “Been sick... better... turn-to now.” He sighed. — ”Howly Mother!” exclaimed Belfast with a heave of the shoulders, “stand up, Jimmy.” — ”Keep away from me then,” said Wait, giving Belfast a petulant push, and reeling fetched against the doorpost. His cheekbones glistened as though they had been varnished. He snatched off his night-cap, wiped his perspiring face with it, flung it on the deck. “I am coming out,” he declared without stirring.

“No. You don’t,” said the master, curtly. Bare feet shuffled, disapproving voices murmured all round; he went on as if he had not heard: — ”You have been skulking nearly all the passage and now you want to come out. You think you are near enough to the pay-table now. Smell the shore, hey?”

“I’ve been sick... now — better,” mumbled Wait, glaring in the light. — ”You have been shamming sick,” retorted Captain Allistoun with severity; “Why...” he hesitated for less than half a second. “Why, anybody can see that. There’s nothing the matter with you, but you choose to lie-up to please yourself — and now you shall lie-up to please me. Mr. Baker, my orders are that this man is not to be allowed on deck to the end of the passage.”

There were exclamations of surprise, triumph, indignation. The dark group of men swung across the light. “What for?” “Told you so...” “Bloomin’ shame...” — ”We’ve got to say somethink about that,” screeched Donkin from the rear. — ”Never mind, Jim — we will see you righted,” cried several together. An elderly seaman stepped to the front. “D’ye mean to say, sir,” he asked, ominously, “that a sick chap ain’t allowed to get well in this ‘ere hooker?” Behind him Donkin whispered excitedly amongst a staring crowd where no one spared him a glance, but Captain Allistoun shook a forefinger at the angry bronzed face of the speaker. — ”You — you hold your tongue,” he said, warningly. — ”This isn’t the way,” clamoured two or three younger men. — ”Are we bloomin’ masheens?” inquired Donkin in a piercing tone, and dived under the elbows of the front rank. — ”Soon show ‘im we ain’t boys...” — ”The man’s a man if he is black.” — ”We ain’t goin’ to work this bloomin’ ship shorthanded if Snowball’s all right...” — ”He says he is.” — ”Well then, strike, boys, strike!” — ”That’s the bloomin’ ticket.” Captain Allistoun said sharply to the second mate: “Keep quiet, Mr. Creighton,” and stood composed in the tumult, listening with profound attention to mixed growls and screeches, to every exclamation and every curse of the sudden outbreak. Somebody slammed the cabin door to with a kick; the darkness full of menacing mutters leaped with a short clatter over the streak of light, and the men became gesticulating shadows that growled, hissed, laughed excitedly. Mr. Baker whispered: — ”Get away from them, sir.” The big shape of Mr. Creighton hovered silently about the slight figure of the master. — ”We have been hymposed upon all this voyage,” said a gruff voice, “but this ‘ere fancy takes the cake.” — ”That man is a shipmate.” — ”Are we bloomin’ kids?” — ”The port watch will refuse duty.” Charley carried away by his feeling whistled shrilly, then yelped: — ”Giv’ us our Jimmy!” This seemed to cause a variation in the disturbance. There was a fresh burst of squabbling uproar. A lot of quarrels were set going at once. — ”Yes.” — ”No.” — ”Never been sick.” — ”Go for them to once.” — ”Shut yer mouth, youngster — -this is men’s work.” — ”Is it?” muttered Captain Allistoun, bitterly. Mr. Baker grunted: “Ough! They’re gone silly. They’ve been simmering for the last month.” — ”I did notice,” said the master. — ”They have started a row amongst themselves now,” said Mr. Creighton with disdain, “better get aft, sir. We will soothe them. — ”Keep your temper, Creighton,” said the master. And the three men began to move slowly towards the cabin door.