Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated)

by Joseph Conrad

  And he swung from one enemy to another, showing about as much life as an old bolster would do. His eyes made two narrow white slits in the black face. The air escaped through his lips with a noise like the sound of bellows. We reached the poop ladder at last, and it being a comparatively safe place, we lay for a moment in an exhausted heap to rest a little. He began to mutter. We were always incurably anxious to hear what he had to say. This time he mumbled peevishly, “It took you some time to come! I began to think the whole smart lot of you had been washed overboard. What kept you back? Hey? Funk?” We said nothing. With sighs we started again to drag him up. The secret and ardent desire of our hearts was the desire to beat him viciously with our fists about the head; and we handled him as tenderly as though he had been made of glass....

  The return on the poop was like the return of wanderers after many years amongst people marked by the desolation of time. Eyes were turned slowly in their sockets, glancing at us. Faint murmurs were heard, “Have you got ‘im after all?” The well-known faces looked strange and familiar; they seemed faded and grimy; they had a mingled expression of fatigue and eagerness. They seemed to have become much thinner during our absence, as if all these men had been starving for a long time in their abandoned attitudes. The captain, with a round turn of a rope on his wrist, and kneeling on one knee, swung with a face cold and stiff; but with living eyes he was still holding the ship up, heeding no one, as if lost in the unearthly effort of that endeavour. We fastened up James Wait in a safe place. Mr. Baker scrambled along to lend a hand. Mr. Creighton, on his back, and very pale, muttered, “Well done,” and gave us, Jimmy and the sky, a scornful glance, then closed his eyes slowly. Here and there a man stirred a little, but most of them remained apathetic, in cramped positions, muttering between shivers. The sun was setting. A sun enormous, unclouded and red, declining low as if bending down to look into their faces. The wind whistled across long sunbeams that, resplendent and cold, struck full on the dilated pupils of staring eyes without making them wink. The wisps of hair and the tangled beards were grey with the salt of the sea. The faces were earthy, and the dark patches under the eyes extended to the ears, smudged into the hollows of sunken cheeks. The lips were livid and thin, and when they moved it was with difficulty, as though they had been glued to the teeth. Some grinned sadly in the sunlight, shaking with cold. Others were sad and still. Charley, subdued by the sudden disclosure of the insignificance of his youth, darted fearful glances. The two smooth-faced Norwegians resembled decrepit children, staring stupidly. To leeward, on the edge of the horizon, black seas leaped up towards the glowing sun. It sank slowly, round and blazing, and the crests of waves splashed on the edge of the luminous circle. One of the Norwegians appeared to catch sight of it, and, after giving a violent start, began to speak. His voice, startling the others, made them stir. They moved their heads stiffly, or turning with difficulty, looked at him with surprise, with fear, or in grave silence. He chattered at the setting sun, nodding his head, while the big seas began to roll across the crimson disc; and over miles of turbulent waters the shadows of high waves swept with a running darkness the faces of men. A crested roller broke with a loud hissing roar, and the sun, as if put out, disappeared. The chattering voice faltered, went out together with the light. There were sighs. In the sudden lull that follows the crash of a broken sea a man said wearily, “Here’s that blooming Dutchman gone off his chump.” A seaman, lashed by the middle, tapped the deck with his open hand with unceasing quick flaps. In the gathering greyness of twilight a bulky form was seen rising aft, and began marching on all fours with the movements of some big cautious beast. It was Mr. Baker passing along the line of men. He grunted encouragingly over every one, felt their fastenings. Some, with half-open eyes, puffed like men oppressed by heat; others mechanically and in dreamy voices answered him, “Aye! aye! sir!” He went from one to another grunting, “Ough!... See her through it yet;” and unexpectedly, with loud angry outbursts, blew up Knowles for cutting off a long piece from the fall of the relieving tackle. “Ough! — — — Ashamed of yourself — — — Relieving tackle — — — Don’t you know better! — — — Ough! — — — Able seaman! Ough!” The lame man was crushed. He muttered, “Get som’think for a lashing for myself, sir.” — ”Ough! Lashing — — — yourself. Are you a tinker or a sailor — — — What? Ough! — — — May want that tackle directly — — — Ough! — — — More use to the ship than your lame carcass. Ough! — — — Keep it! — — — Keep it, now you’ve done it.”

  He crawled away slowly, muttering to himself about some men being “worse than children.” It had been a comforting row. Low exclamations were heard: “Hallo... Hallo.”... Those who had been painfully dozing asked with convulsive starts, “What’s up?... What is it?” The answers came with unexpected cheerfulness: “The mate is going bald-headed for lame Jack about something or other.” “No!”.... “What ‘as he done?” Some one even chuckled. It was like a whiff of hope, like a reminder of safe days. Donkin, who had been stupefied with fear, revived suddenly and began to shout: — ”‘Ear ‘im; that’s the way they tawlk to us. Vy donch ‘ee ‘it ‘im — one ov yer? ‘It ‘im. ‘It ‘im! Comin’ the mate over us. We are as good men as ‘ee! We’re all goin’ to ‘ell now. We ‘ave been starved in this rotten ship, an’ now we’re goin’ to be drowned for them black ‘earted bullies! ‘It ‘im!” He shrieked in the deepening gloom, he blubbered and sobbed, screaming: — ”‘It ‘im! ‘It ‘im!” The rage and fear of his disregarded right to live tried the steadfastness of hearts more than the menacing shadows of the night that advanced through the unceasing clamour of the gale. From aft Mr. Baker was heard: — ”Is one of you men going to stop him — must I come along?” “Shut up!”... “Keep quiet!” cried various voices, exasperated, trembling with cold. — ”You’ll get one across the mug from me directly,” said an invisible seaman, in a weary tone, “I won’t let the mate have the trouble.” He ceased and lay still with the silence of despair. On the black sky the stars, coming out, gleamed over an inky sea that, speckled with foam, flashed back at them the evanescent and pale light of a dazzling whiteness born from the black turmoil of the waves. Remote in the eternal calm they glittered hard and cold above the uproar of the earth; they surrounded the vanquished and tormented ship on all sides: more pitiless than the eyes of a triumphant mob, and as unapproachable as the hearts of men.

  The icy south wind howled exultingly under the sombre splendour of the sky. The cold shook the men with a resistless violence as though it had tried to shake them to pieces. Short moans were swept unheard off the stiff lips. Some complained in mutters of “not feeling themselves below the waist;” while those who had closed their eyes, imagined they had a block of ice on their chests. Others, alarmed at not feeling any pain in their fingers, beat the deck feebly with their hands — obstinate and exhausted. Wamibo stared vacant and dreamy. The Scandinavians kept on a meaningless mutter through chattering teeth. The spare Scotchmen, with determined efforts, kept their lower jaws still. The West-country men lay big and stolid in an invulnerable surliness. A man yawned and swore in turns. Another breathed with a rattle in his throat. Two elderly hard-weather shellbacks, fast side by side, whispered dismally to one another about the landlady of a boarding-house in Sunderland, whom they both knew. They extolled her motherliness and her liberality; they tried to talk about the joint of beef and the big fire in the downstairs kitchen. The words dying faintly on their lips, ended in light sighs. A sudden voice cried into the cold night, “O Lord!” No one changed his position or took any notice of the cry. One or two passed, with a repeated and vague gesture, their hand over their faces, but most of them kept very still. In the benumbed immobility of their bodies they were excessively wearied by their thoughts, which rushed with the rapidity and vividness of dreams. Now and then, by an abrupt and startling exclamation, they answered the weird hail of some illusion; then, again, in silence contemplated the vision of known faces and familiar things. They recall
ed the aspect of forgotten shipmates and heard the voice of dead and gone skippers. They remembered the noise of gaslit streets, the steamy heat of tap-rooms or the scorching sunshine of calm days at sea.

  Mr. Baker left his insecure place, and crawled, with stoppages, along the poop. In the dark and on all fours he resembled some carnivorous animal prowling amongst corpses. At the break, propped to windward of a stanchion, he looked down on the main deck. It seemed to him that the ship had a tendency to stand up a little more. The wind had eased a little, he thought, but the sea ran as high as ever. The waves foamed viciously, and the lee side of the deck disappeared under a hissing whiteness as of boiling milk, while the rigging sang steadily with a deep vibrating note, and, at every upward swing of the ship, the wind rushed with a long-drawn clamour amongst the spars. Mr. Baker watched very still. A man near him began to make a blabbing noise with his lips, all at once and very loud, as though the cold had broken brutally through him. He went on: — ”Ba — ba — ba — brrr — brr — ba — ba.” — ”Stop that!” cried Mr. Baker, groping in the dark. “Stop it!” He went on shaking the leg he found under his hand. — ”What is it, sir?” called out Belfast, in the tone of a man awakened suddenly; “we are looking after that ‘ere Jimmy.” — ”Are you? Ough! Don’t make that row then. Who’s that near you?” — ”It’s me — the boatswain, sir,” growled the West-country man; “we are trying to keep life in that poor devil.” — ”Aye, aye!” said Mr. Baker. “Do it quietly, can’t you?” — ”He wants us to hold him up above the rail,” went on the boatswain, with irritation, “says he can’t breathe here under our jackets.” — ”If we lift ‘im, we drop ‘im overboard,” said another voice, “we can’t feel our hands with cold.” — ”I don’t care. I am choking!” exclaimed James Wait in a clear tone. — ”Oh, no, my son,” said the boatswain, desperately, “you don’t go till we all go on this fine night.” — ”You will see yet many a worse,” said Mr. Baker, cheerfully. — ”It’s no child’s play, sir!” answered the boatswain. “Some of us further aft, here, are in a pretty bad way.” — ”If the blamed sticks had been cut out of her she would be running along on her bottom now like any decent ship, an’ giv’ us all a chance,” said some one, with a sigh. — ”The old man wouldn’t have it... much he cares for us,” whispered another. — ”Care for you!” exclaimed Mr. Baker, angrily. “Why should he care for you? Are you a lot of women passengers to be taken care of? We are here to take care of the ship — and some of you ain’t up to that. Ough!... What have you done so very smart to be taken care of? Ough!... Some of you can’t stand a bit of a breeze without crying over it.” — ”Come, sorr. We ain’t so bad,” protested Belfast, in a voice shaken by shivers; “we ain’t... brr...” — ”Again,” shouted the mate, grabbing at the shadowy form; “again!... Why, you’re in your shirt! What have you done?” — ”I’ve put my oilskin and jacket over that half-dead nayggur — and he says he chokes,” said Belfast, complainingly. — ”You wouldn’t call me nigger if I wasn’t half dead, you Irish beggar!” boomed James Wait, vigorously. — ”You... brrr... You wouldn’t be white if you were ever so well... I will fight you... brrrr... in fine weather... brrr ... with one hand tied behind my back... brrrrrr...” — ”I don’t want your rags — I want air,” gasped out the other faintly, as if suddenly exhausted.

  The sprays swept over whistling and pattering. Men disturbed in their peaceful torpor by the pain of quarrelsome shouts, moaned, muttering curses. Mr. Baker crawled off a little way to leeward where a water-cask loomed up big, with something white against it. “Is it you, Podmore?” asked Mr. Baker, He had to repeat the question twice before the cook turned, coughing feebly. — ”Yes, sir. I’ve been praying in my mind for a quick deliverance; for I am prepared for any call.... I — — — ” — ”Look here, cook,” interrupted Mr. Baker, “the men are perishing with cold.” — ”Cold!” said the cook, mournfully; “they will be warm enough before long.” — ”What?” asked Mr. Baker, looking along the deck into the faint sheen of frothing water. — ”They are a wicked lot,” continued the cook solemnly, but in an unsteady voice, “about as wicked as any ship’s company in this sinful world! Now, I” — he trembled so that he could hardly speak; his was an exposed place, and in a cotton shirt, a thin pair of trousers, and with his knees under his nose, he received, quaking, the flicks of stinging, salt drops; his voice sounded exhausted — ”now. I — any time ... My eldest youngster, Mr. Baker.. a clever boy... last Sunday on shore before this voyage he wouldn’t go to church, sir. Says I, ‘You go and clean yourself, or I’ll know the reason why!’ What does he do?... Pond, Mr. Baker — fell into the pond in his best rig, sir!... Accident?... ‘Nothing will save you, fine scholar though you are!’ says I.... Accident!... I whopped him, sir, till I couldn’t lift my arm....” His voice faltered. “I whopped ‘im!” he repeated, rattling his teeth; then, after a while, let out a mournful sound that was half a groan, half a snore. Mr. Baker shook him by the shoulders. “Hey! Cook! Hold up, Podmore! Tell me — is there any fresh water in the galley tank? The ship is lying along less, I think; I would try to get forward. A little water would do them good. Hallo! Look out! Look out!” The cook struggled. — ”Not you, sir — not you!” He began to scramble to windward. “Galley!... my business!” he shouted. — ”Cook’s going crazy now,” said several voices. He yelled: — ”Crazy, am I? I am more ready to die than any of you, officers incloosive — there! As long as she swims I will cook! I will get you coffee.” — ”Cook, ye are a gentleman!” cried Belfast. But the cook was already going over the weather-ladder. He stopped for a moment to shout back on the poop: — ”As long as she swims I will cook!” and disappeared as though he had gone overboard. The men who had heard sent after him a cheer that sounded like a wail of sick children. An hour or more afterwards some one said distinctly: “He’s gone for good.” — ”Very likely,” assented the boatswain; “even in fine weather he was as smart about the deck as a milch-cow on her first voyage. We ought to go and see.” Nobody moved. As the hours dragged slowly through the darkness Mr. Baker crawled back and forth along the poop several times. Some men fancied they had heard him exchange murmurs with the master, but at that time the memories were incomparably more vivid than anything actual, and they were not certain whether the murmurs were heard now or many years ago. They did not try to find out. A mutter more or less did not matter. It was too cold for curiosity, and almost for hope. They could not spare a moment or a thought from the great mental occupation of wishing to live. And the desire of life kept them alive, apathetic and enduring, under the cruel persistence of wind and cold; while the bestarred black dome of the sky revolved slowly above the ship, that drifted, bearing their patience and their suffering, through the stormy solitude of the sea.

  Huddled close to one another, they fancied themselves utterly alone. They heard sustained loud noises, and again bore the pain of existence through long hours of profound silence. In the night they saw sunshine, felt warmth, and suddenly, with a start, thought that the sun would never rise upon a freezing world. Some heard laughter, listened to songs; others, near the end of the poop, could hear loud human shrieks, and opening their eyes, were surprised to hear them still, though very faint, and far away. The boatswain said: — ”Why, it’s the cook, hailing from forward, I think.” He hardly believed his own words or recognised his own voice. It was a long time before the man next to him gave a sign of life. He punched hard his other neighbour and said: — ”The cook’s shouting!” Many did not understand, others did not care; the majority further aft did not believe. But the boatswain and another man had the pluck to crawl away forward to see. They seemed to have been gone for hours, and were very soon forgotten. Then suddenly men who had been plunged in a hopeless resignation became as if possessed with a desire to hurt. They belaboured one another with fists. In the darkness they struck persistently anything soft they could feel near, and, with a greater effort than for a shout, whispered excitedly: — ”They’ve got some hot coffee.... Boss’
en got it....” “No!... Where?”.... “It’s coming! Cook made it.” James Wait moaned. Donkin scrambled viciously, caring not where he kicked, and anxious that the officers should have none of it. It came in a pot, and they drank in turns. It was hot, and while it blistered the greedy palates, it seemed incredible. The men sighed out parting with the mug: — ”How ‘as he done it?” Some cried weakly: — ”Bully for you, doctor!”