To the Ends of the Earth

by William Golding

  “No, indeed. I propose to obtain from you a watertight and buoyant container for my manuscripts, so that they, at least, may stand some chance of reaching a reader.”

  That was a joke, of course, but so weak that Mr Jones nodded seriously.

  We turned to watch once more. Men were climbing back to the rope. All at once I saw that Charles Summers was gesticulating at Mr Benét with a fierceness which was unwonted in him. The two gentlemen fell into an animated argument. The purser stirred, I thought, uneasily.

  “Is something really wrong, do you suppose, Mr Talbot?”

  All at once it came upon me that Charles Summers had been—was—my friend and it was improper in me to discuss him. I shrugged lightly, turned away and climbed the stairway to the quarterdeck. Captain Anderson was standing again by the forrard rail and staring at his ship broodingly.

  “An operation for harbour, Captain?”

  He glanced across at me, opened his mouth, then shut it again. I turned too. From this elevation it was possible to see more clearly the plan of what was being executed. The dragrope was not a simple unadorned cable. From regular intervals at either end subsidiary ropes were stretched or coiled on the deck. But the intricacy is beyond my seamanship or my powers of description.

  “Is that really weed, sir, that great patch at the waterline?”

  The captain grunted. “Some has been cut away from under her now. There will be more yet.”

  “And our speed will increase again?”

  “So it is hoped.”

  “How much, Captain?”

  Captain Anderson gave the sign of his displeasure which many found so daunting. That is to say he projected his jaw and lowered the sullen mass of his face onto it.

  “Oh, do not answer, Captain! It is, of course, none of my business—though come to think of it I have as great a stake in the affair as anyone!”

  “Stake, sir! What stake?”

  “My life.”

  Now the captain did look at me. But it was from deep inside and loweringly. A seventh wave, which washed the fo’castle, filled the waist and made the quarterdeck shudder. It took my attention from anything but the need to keep my feet. Was it my imagination or did the quarterdeck move in a way which was not repeated by the rest of the ship? The wind felt very cold and I regretted not having my oilskins. Nevertheless I watched a whole series of waves and rolls but could not detect that peculiarly local movement again.

  “I am told she has been badly wrung.”

  Captain Anderson drew in his breath sibilantly. His knuckles on the rail showed dirty white. He roared. “Mr Summers!”

  Charles stopped and picked up a speaking trumpet. His voice came the length of the ship with that curious, otherworldly resonance which such an instrument imparts.

  “Sir?”

  “What is the delay?”

  “A foul lead, sir. We are trying to clear it.”

  “‘Trying’, Mr Summers?”

  “‘Trying.’”

  Charles turned aside his head. He spoke briefly to Mr Benét who saluted and came racing aft. He spoke up from the waist.

  “We think it is old coral, sir. Her last commission was in the West Indies. We believe it is dead coral down there which may need more than pully-haully.”

  “‘We’, Mr Benét?”

  “Mr Summers thinks it possible. I suggested taking a lead to the forrard warping capstan but he does not want to go as far as that for a number of reasons.”

  “And you, Mr Benét?”

  “I believe we should try a tackle to begin with.”

  Captain Anderson said nothing for a while. He made small chewing movements. Other than that, all that moved was his right leg—his starboard leg which flexed and straightened without, I am sure, his being aware of it. After all, my own starboard leg, and Mr Benét’s—no. As Mr Benét was facing aft was it not his port leg? It depends whether, et cetera. I am so deucedly tired of this nautical rigmarole! We all flexed and straightened our appropriate legs and did so in the ship whenever we were not sitting or lying. It was a small piece of unconscious behaviour to have attached to us and no kind of compensation for the suffering surely implied in its acquirement.

  Captain Anderson nodded. “Very well, Mr Benét. But—”

  “Handsomely, sir?”

  Captain Anderson smiled! He did! He shook his forefinger at the young man.

  “Now now, Mr Benét! Wait for it! Yes. Handsomely.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Good God—but this was arch!

  Now there occurred one of those timeless pauses in a ship when men seem to do nothing but paw at ropes. Leads, it appeared, had to be rerun. Mr Summers, it seemed, was making use of a freeing port next to the break of the fo’castle and also the bitts—oh, lord! And a positive cat’s cradle of ropes and blocks—there was argument. At last a party of men was mustered at the tail of a rope they were adjured to pull with a cry of “Gee up, horsies!” This producing no useful effect they were then adjured to “Walk away,” then “Put your backs into it!”, then “Sweat out your guts” which did indeed produce a result. There was a report like a pistol shot, I was about to say, but why not like a rope breaking? For that is what it was and they all fell down. The cat’s cradle was a long time repairing. I myself went to the passenger saloon and ate some more cold beef, then came back. The cat’s cradle was in place again and the men went through their motions. The lead to the dragrope stretched rigid and remained motionless.

  Mr Benét cantered aft again.

  “We believe we should use the capstan, sir.”

  Captain Anderson straightened up abruptly. He turned and began to stump up and down with his hands behind his back. Lieutenant Benét waited. Another big wave passed under us—

  I was certain. Where the captain was walking away from me, his legs straddled apart, the deck had moved and moved in a way that the fo’castle had not, nor the waist either!

  Now the captain came back.

  “Mr Summers agrees?”

  “He believes you yourself should give the order, sir.”

  “The man on the spot, Mr Benét. And can you not move the rope forrard?”

  “I—we think that the rope has sawn its way into the coral and now cannot be moved forrard or aft.”

  “What does Mr Gibbs think?”

  Mr Benét smiled.

  “He says, ‘Maybe it’s coral and maybe it isn’t,’ sir.”

  “Very well. My compliments to the first lieutenant and ask him to be good enough to step up here.”

  Was it my imagination or had Captain Anderson shared with Lieutenant Benét some kind of reference, reminder, opinion, in the way he said “first lieutenant”? But I was versed enough now in the customs of the sea service to realize what a monstrous dereliction from duty that would be! No, it was my imagination; for Captain Anderson had lowered his face glumly again and Lieutenant Benét was cantering in his usual fashion towards the fo’castle. Summers came back quickly enough but walking. His face was expressionless. He and the captain walked away from me to the very stern of the vessel and stood there together. I heard nothing of their conversation but occasional words which flew from them like leaves on the wind. Forrard, I could see that Lieutenant Benét with the briskness I was coming to expect from him had gathered together some men from the other parties.

  “Responsibility.”

  That word flew by. It had been said in a rather raised tone as if Charles Summers had said it before and now was repeating it with emphasis.

  How could they be certain that when they dragged off or broke off the coral that they would not break off wood with it? And that word again and in the captain’s voice this time!

  “Responsibility.”

  Gone on the wind.

  Mr Summers came back. He passed me without speaking. His face was stony, but his whole demeanour that of an anxious and angry man. How we were all changed! Charles who had been so equable, now as often in the sulks as out of them; Anderson once so al
oof, now said to be eating out of Mr Benét’s hand; and I—? Well, I have put down, it may be, more that I might regret about Edmund Talbot.

  There were now lines stretching from the dragrope itself and a master rope which gathered all the subsidiaries together and led them, not to a warping capstan below deck, but to the huge drum of the capstan on the fo’castle. Some men were putting in the capstan bars. It came to me on the cold wind that this operation carried on along there at an angle to the sea, washed with salt water and spray-shot; that this work by those ear-ringed fellows with their pigtails and quiffs was employed about my life; was something which might well see the end of that precious career towards which my godfather had impelled me!

  Without much thought I abandoned my station on the quarterdeck and went down to the waist, meaning to look along the ship’s side and catch if I could a glimpse of the dragrope where it vanished under water. I do not know what impulse made me do it other than a new sense of urgency which made me want to “do something!” It was an impulse not peculiar to me. This ship resounded to rumour, scandal and nightmare as a stringed instrument resounds to the bow. Our passengers, or those of them who were at all capable of leaving their bunks, were now grouped, I might say crowded, at our entry to the waist. Bowles was there, wrapped in a greatcoat and peering forward I thought shortsightedly, his face screwed up, dark curls fluttering all over his hatless head. Mr Brocklebank of all people, our marine painter, was there, still out of his bunk, though for the first time since we had struck bad weather! But what a change! That belly which had once included his chest and seemed to descend to his knees had now contracted to a shelflike protuberance positioned between his navel and the upper part of the thigh. He and it were draped in a travelling shawl or blanket, a carriage rug perhaps which had seen far better days. His beaver was bound on his head by a length of material which passed over the crown and under his chin. I do not think I was mistaken in believing it to be a lady’s stocking! The former owner of the stocking, Mrs Brocklebank, crouched under his lee. As I passed them she opened the carriage rug and huddled herself inside it against her husband and beneath his right armpit. Her pretty face was pale. No one said anything. All eyes were on the distant capstan.

  And now, as if the rumour, the “buzz”, had been too loud to be endured in those forrard parts of the ship where the emigrants lived as best they could, they began to issue into the waist, and then to swarm into it. There were angry shouts from the officers. Summers descended from the fo’castle and spoke with them. He gestured at the ropes. Behind me firm steps descended the stairs to the quarterdeck and poop. It was Captain Anderson, of course, and he made his majestic way forrard over the streaming deck. He spoke with Summers. He spoke with the emigrants. Like bees returning to their hive they retreated backwards into the entry to the fo’castle and the operation saw them no more. Captain Anderson picked his careful way round the cat’s cradle and climbed to the fo’castle itself. He stationed himself forrard of the capstan and on our larboard side where the “foul lead” was occurring. I myself clambered to the raised rail of our larboard side, and held it, then looked over.

  Colley said much of colour! I must remember the colour of things. Greyness had gone. The sky was dense blue and the sea a deeper blue over which white horses dragged their varying humps and hummocks and walls of water. The sea was covered with them to the sharp horizon, and the sun blazed down from a sky carved here and there with white and rounded clouds. The side of our ship was wasp-coloured as befits a warship, black and yellow and streaming. Certainly the first operation of the dragrope had been successful until it jammed. There was no doubt of that. A great carpet of weed floated many yards out from the side of the ship. As we rolled, the green weed along the waterline came up through the darker weed from lower down, a whole carpet of it, still attached to the ship but easy enough to cut away or be dragged away should our forward movement increase or the dragrope be moved further aft. The carpet was as nasty a sight I thought as there could well be. Now and then, at the outer edge of the carpet whole waggonloads of the pipy, bagged and leathery stuff together with a helping of small crabs and shellfish would detach itself and float away in a sloth which told only too clearly that for all her rolling, her hogging and sagging, her bucking, and her wringing, the ship was nearly stationary in the water. Yet the dragrope had worked and would continue to do so. Weed had come off her hull.

  Someone sighed. It was Wheeler at my elbow and not staring into the water but into my face.

  “It’s true, isn’t it, sir?”

  I whispered back—in all that wind and spray, noise, commotion!

  “What’s true, man?”

  “They’re taking a chance, aren’t they, sir? You’ve spoken to the officers, sir, haven’t you?”

  The man irritated me beyond bearing.

  “For God’s sake, Wheeler! You’ll have to put up with whatever happens like the rest of us!”

  Wheeler moved away.

  On the fo’castle, Mr Gibbs knuckled his forehead in obedience before the captain and departed downwards. A detached load of weed drifted slowly by.

  But Mr Brocklebank was approaching. He had shuffled over with much caution and now took up the position at my elbow which had been vacated by Wheeler.

  “A scene fit for your brush, Mr Brocklebank.”

  “Are you offering to commission me, Mr Talbot?”

  “I? Good God! The idea—”

  Mrs Brocklebank who had come along with her husband peeped up at me out of the carriage rug.

  “If only the motion were to be easier I’m sure Mr Brocklebank—Wilmot—would be happy to paint your portrait, Mr Talbot!”

  Was there ever so silly and pointless an interruption? I did not answer it but stared forrard where our fate was being decided. This will indicate how wrought on I was, and indeed how tense and anxious all we passengers were. I cannot speak for the seamen but after all they are human and had each a life to lose. Indeed my own anxiety may be judged by the fact that I preferred to ignore Mrs Brocklebank, for she was, in good weather, a pretty little thing and I had enjoyed the few moments of conversation I had ever passed with her. Indeed, in those distant days before we lost our masts—but that is irrelevant.

  The purser had reappeared and stood wedged between me and Mr Brocklebank.

  “They are very slow about it, Mr Talbot, the lazy dogs.”

  “Perhaps they do not care for the possible outcome, Mr Jones, and are putting off the evil moment.”

  “Debt-ridden and dissolute. What should the outcome matter to such?”

  “If you prick us do we not bleed?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir!”

  Mr Brocklebank edged in a trifle closer.

  “Mr Talbot was quoting from The Merchant of Venice. No, no, Mr Talbot. You do not know the lower orders as I do who have been forced to live among them at one time and another. It is fashionable to talk about the corruption and vice of high society. That is nothing to the corruption and vice of low society, sir! We should never forget that the vicious we have always with us, as some poet or other may have said. Even aboard here—I have been robbed, sir. Lying on a bed of pain—”

  Mrs Brocklebank emerged again.

  “Now, Wilmot, we agreed to say nothing of the matter. As far as I am concerned I am glad to see the thing go!”

  The men at the capstan began to walk around it.

  “Handsomely!”

  Charles Summers was leaning over the side and watching the dragrope.

  “Roundly, now!”

  The men went a little faster. What ropes on the deck had been slack now rose from it and their individual catenaries disappeared. There came a loud creaking and groaning from the ship or the rope or the capstan or all of them together. I looked over the side as the ship’s side rose out of the water with all its streaming weed, then swung down again. The dragrope was visible from the deck down to the weed. It did not seem to be moving but water was spurting from it. There was a sudden con
fusion round the capstan. Men were falling over each other. The dragrope moved.

  I have seen all this and much else which was to come in nightmare, not once but several times, and shall do so again. In nightmare the shape is bigger and rises wholly awesome and dreadful. My dreaming spirit fears as my waking spirit fears that one night the thing will emerge, bringing with it a load of weed that only half conceals a face. I do not know what face and do not care to dally longer with the thought. But then, that morning in the wind, the salt air, the rocking, heaving ship, I saw with waking eyes down by the crazily unstable waterline something like the crown of a head pushing up through the weed. Someone screamed by my shoulder, a horrible, male scream. The thing rose, a waggonload of weed festooned round and over it. It was a head or a fist or the forearm of something vast as Leviathan. It rolled in the weed with the ship, lifted, sank, lifted again—

  “Vast heaving!”

  I know now that this was a foolish order and unnecessary. For the men had first fallen with the sudden movement of the dragrope, then fled from the capstan as if their work had been unlawful. I am told that the petty officers used their starters and that the ship was in confusion from one end to the other. But I saw none of that. I could not look anywhere but at this awful creature which was rising from the unknown regions. Its appearance cancelled the insecure “facts” of the deep sea and seemed to illustrate instead the horribly unknown. Impossible as this is, but with a rolling and pitching ship the sea was where it could not be and the thing towered black and streaming above me. Then it slid sideways, showed a glimpse of weedy tar and timber massive as the king tree of a tythe barn, slid sideways and disappeared.

  (17)

  “Still!”

  That was the captain’s famous roar, late this time but to be obeyed on pain of death. It came from the waist. Somehow he had got himself there in the seconds during which I had been mesmerized by the apparition. Even we, the passengers, felt the compulsion of that roar and froze where we stood.

  Captain Anderson now continued in a very loud voice.