Section 10

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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, suffer- ing 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 unfortu- nate you didn’t know beforehand!’ I said with every unkind intention; but the perfidious shaft fell harm- less— dropped at his feet like a spent arrow, as it were, and he did net think of picking it up. Perhaps he had not even seen it. Presently, lolling at ease, he said, ‘Dash it ad! 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. ‘Tne 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 bulk-lamp falling on a small portion of the bulk-
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head 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 straight away make all those people leap out of sleep into terror; but such an overwhelm- ing 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 s^mnd, then, he scrambled out on deck through the number one hatch. A wind-sail rigged down there swung against him acci- dentally, 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 sleep- ing 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 con- fusion 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
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as it would for ever remain incomprehensible. It oc- curred 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 dowm 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 des- perate 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 har- rowing detail. I think he went through it again while he was telling me these things he could not tell the court.
“T 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.
“T thought I would choke before I got drowned,’ he said.
“He protested he did not think of saving himself.
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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 remi- niscences 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
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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 imagi- nation 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 readi- ness 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.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“How long he stood stock-still by the hatch expect- ing every moment to feel the ship dip under his feet and the rush of water to take him at the back and toss him like a chip, I cannot say. Not very long — two minutes perhaps. A couple of men he could not make out began to converse drowsily, and also, he could not tell where, he detected a curious noise of shuffling feet. Above these faint sounds there was that awful stillness preceding a catastrophe, that trying silence of the moment before the crash; then it came into his head that perhaps he would have time to rush along and cut all the lanyards of the gripes, so that the boats would float off as the ship went down.
“The Patna had a long bridge, and all the boats were up there, four on one side and three on the other — the smallest of them on the port-side and nearly abreast of the steering gear. He assured me, with evident anxiety to be believed, that he had been most careful to keep them ready for instant service. He knew his duty. I dare say he was a good enough mate as far as that went. ‘I always believed in being pre- pared for the worst/ he commented, staring anxiously in my face. I nodded my approval of the sound prin- ciple, averting my eyes before the subtle unsoundness of the man.
“He started unsteadily to run. He had to step over legs, avoid stumbling against the heads. Sud- denly some one caught hold of his coat from below, and a distressed voice spoke under his elbow. The 89
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light of the lamp he carried in his right hand fell upon an upturned dark face whose eyes entreated him to- gether with the voice. He had picked up enough of the language to understand the word water, repeated several times in a tone of insistence, of prayer, almost of despair. He gave a jerk to get away, and felt an arm embrace his leg.
“‘The beggar clung to me like a drowning man,’ he said, impressively. ‘Water, water! What water did he mean? What did he know? As calmly as I could I ordered him to let go. He was stopping me, time was pressing, other men began to stir; I wanted time — time to cut the boats adrift. He got hold of my hand now, and I felt that he would begin to shout. It flashed upon me it was enough to start a panic, and I hauled off with my free arm and slung the lamp in his face. The glass jingled, the light went out, but the blow made him let go, and I ran off — I wanted to get at the boats; I wanted to get at the boats. He leaped after me from behind. I turned on him. He would not keep quiet; he tried to shout; I had half throttled him before I made out what he wanted. He wanted some water — water to drink; they were on strict allowance,' you know, and he had with him a young boy I had noticed several times. His child was sick — and thirsty. He had caught sight of me as I passed by, and was begging for a little water. That’s all. We were under the bridge, in the dark. He kept on snatching at my wrists; there was no getting rid of him. I dashed into my berth, grabbed my water-bottle, and thrust it into his hands. He vanished. I didn’t find out till then how much I was in want of a drink my- self.’ He leaned on one elbow with a hand over his eyes.
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“I felt a creepy sensation all down my backbone; there was something peculiar in all this. The fingers of the hand that shaded his brow trembled slightly. He broke the short silence.
“‘These things happen only once to a man and . . . Ah! well! When I got on the bridge at last
the beggars were getting one of the boats off the chocks. A boat! I was running up the ladder when a heavy blow fell on my shoulder, just missing my head. It didn’t stop me, and the chief engineer — they had got him out of his bunk by then — raised the boat-stretcher again. Somehow I had no mind to be surprised at any- thing. All this seemed natural — and awful — and awful. I dodged that miserable maniac, lifted him off the deck as though he had been a little child, and he started whispering in my arms: “Don’t! don’t! I thought you were one of them niggers.” I flung him away, he skidded along the bridge and knocked the legs from under the little chap — the second. The skipper, busy about the boat, looked round and came at me head down, growling like a wild beast. I flinched no more than a stone. I was as solid standing there as this,’ he tapped lightly with his knuckles the wall beside his chair. ‘It was as though I had heard it all, seen it all, gone through it all twenty times already. I wasn’t afraid of them. I drew back my fist and he stopped short, muttering —
“‘“Ah! it’s you. Lend a hand quick.”
“‘That’s what he said. Quick! As if anybody could be quick enough. “Aren’t you going to do something?” I asked. “Yes. Clear out,” he snarled over his shoulder.
“‘I don’t think I understood then what he meant. The other two had picked themselves up by that time, and they rushed together to the boat. They
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tramped, they wheezed, they shoved, they cursed the boat, the ship, each other — cursed me. All in mutters. I didn’t move, I didn’t speak. I watched the slant of the ship. She was as still as if landed on the blocks in a dry dock — only she was like this.’ He held up his hand, palm under, the tips of the fingers inclined downwards. ‘Like this,’ he repeated. ‘I could see the line of the horizon before me, as clear as a bell, above her stem-head; I could see the water far off there black and sparkling, and still — still as a pond, deadly still, more still than ever sea was before — more still than I could bear to look at. Have you watched a ship floating head down, checked in sink- ing by a sheet of old iron too rotten to stand being shored up. Have you? Oh yes, shored up? I thought of that — I thought of every mortal thing; but can you shore up a bulkhead in five minutes — or in fifty for that matter? Where was I going to get men that would go down below? And the timber — the timber! Would you have had the courage to swing the maul for the first blow if you had seen that bulkhead? Don’t say you would: you had not seen it; nobody would. Hang it — to do a thing like that you must believe there is a chance, one in a thousand, at least, some ghost of a chance; and you would not have believed. Nobody would have believed. You think me a cur for standing there, but what would you have done? What! You can’t tell — nobody can tell. One must have time to turn round. What would you have me do? Where was the kindness in making crazy with fright all those people I could not save single-handed — that nothing could save? Look here! As true as I sit on this chair before you . . .’
“He drew quick breaths at every few wTords and shot quick glances at my face, as though in his anguish
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he were watchful of the effect. He was not speaking to me, he was only speaking before me, in a dispute with an invisible personality, an antagonistic and in- separable partner of his existence — another possessor of his soul. These were issues beyond the competency of a court of inquiry: it was a subtle and momentous quarrel as to the true essence of life, and did not want a judge. He wanted an ally, a helper, an accomplice. I felt the risk I ran of being circumvented, blinded, decoyed, bullied, perhaps, into taking a definite part in a dispute impossible of decision if one had to be fair to all the phantoms in possession — to the reputable that had its claims and to the disreputable that had its exigencies. I can’t explain to you who haven’t seen him and who hear his words only at second hand the mixed nature of my feelings. It seemed to me I was being made to comprehend the Inconceivable — and I know of nothing to compare with the discomfort of such a sensation. I was made to look at the convention that lurks in all truth and on the essential sincerity of false- hood. He appealed to all sides at once — to the side turned perpetually to the light of day, and to that side of us which, like the other hemisphere of the moon, exists stealthily in perpetual darkness, with only a fear- ful ashy light falling at times on the edge. He swayed me. I own to it, I own up. The occasion was obscure, insignificant — what you will : a lost youngster, one in a million — but then he was one of us; an incident as com- pletely devoid of importance as the flooding of an ant- heap, and yet the mystery of his attitude got hold of me as though he had been an individual in the forefront of his kind, as if the obscure truth involved were momentous enough to affect mankind’s conception of itself. . .