Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated)

by Joseph Conrad

  Shortly afterwards, Mr. Smith came up alone and manifested a desire for a little conversation. He, too, if not so mysterious as the captain, was not very comprehensible to Mr. Powell’s uninformed candour. He often favoured thus the second officer. His talk alluded somewhat enigmatically and often without visible connection to Mr. Powell’s friendliness towards himself and his daughter. “For I am well aware that we have no friends on board this ship, my dear young man,” he would add, “except yourself. Flora feels that too.”

  And Mr. Powell, flattered and embarrassed, could but emit a vague murmur of protest. For the statement was true in a sense, though the fact was in itself insignificant. The feelings of the ship’s company could not possibly matter to the captain’s wife and to Mr. Smith — her father. Why the latter should so often allude to it was what surprised our Mr. Powell. This was by no means the first occasion. More like the twentieth rather. And in his weak voice, with his monotonous intonation, leaning over the rail and looking at the water the other continued this conversation, or rather his remarks, remarks of such a monstrous nature that Mr. Powell had no option but to accept them for gruesome jesting.

  “For instance,” said Mr. Smith, “that mate, Franklin, I believe he would just as soon see us both overboard as not.”

  “It’s not so bad as that,” laughed Mr. Powell, feeling uncomfortable, because his mind did not accommodate itself easily to exaggeration of statement. “He isn’t a bad chap really,” he added, very conscious of Mr. Franklin’s offensive manner of which instances were not far to seek. “He’s such a fool as to be jealous. He has been with the captain for years. It’s not for me to say, perhaps, but I think the captain has spoiled all that gang of old servants. They are like a lot of pet old dogs. Wouldn’t let anybody come near him if they could help it. I’ve never seen anything like it. And the second mate, I believe, was like that too.”

  “Well, he isn’t here, luckily. There would have been one more enemy,” said Mr. Smith. “There’s enough of them without him. And you being here instead of him makes it much more pleasant for my daughter and myself. One feels there may be a friend in need. For really, for a woman all alone on board ship amongst a lot of unfriendly men . . . “

  “But Mrs Anthony is not alone,” exclaimed Powell. “There’s you, and there’s the . . . “

  Mr. Smith interrupted him.

  “Nobody’s immortal. And there are times when one feels ashamed to live. Such an evening as this for instance.”

  It was a lovely evening; the colours of a splendid sunset had died out and the breath of a warm breeze seemed to have smoothed out the sea. Away to the south the sheet lightning was like the flashing of an enormous lantern hidden under the horizon. In order to change the conversation Mr. Powell said:

  “Anyway no one can charge you with being a Jonah, Mr. Smith. We have had a magnificent quick passage so far. The captain ought to be pleased. And I suppose you are not sorry either.”

  This diversion was not successful. Mr. Smith emitted a sort of bitter chuckle and said: “Jonah! That’s the fellow that was thrown overboard by some sailors. It seems to me it’s very easy at sea to get rid of a person one does not like. The sea does not give up its dead as the earth does.”

  “You forget the whale, sir,” said young Powell.

  Mr. Smith gave a start. “Eh? What whale? Oh! Jonah. I wasn’t thinking of Jonah. I was thinking of this passage which seems so quick to you. But only think what it is to me? It isn’t a life, going about the sea like this. And, for instance, if one were to fall ill, there isn’t a doctor to find out what’s the matter with one. It’s worrying. It makes me anxious at times.”

  “Is Mrs. Anthony not feeling well?” asked Powell. But Mr. Smith’s remark was not meant for Mrs. Anthony. She was well. He himself was well. It was the captain’s health that did not seem quite satisfactory. Had Mr. Powell noticed his appearance?

  Mr. Powell didn’t know enough of the captain to judge. He couldn’t tell. But he observed thoughtfully that Mr. Franklin had been saying the same thing. And Franklin had known the captain for years. The mate was quite worried about it.

  This intelligence startled Mr. Smith considerably. “Does he think he is in danger of dying?” he exclaimed with an animation quite extraordinary for him, which horrified Mr. Powell.

  “Heavens! Die! No! Don’t you alarm yourself, sir. I’ve never heard a word about danger from Mr. Franklin.”

  “Well, well,” sighed Mr. Smith and left the poop for the saloon rather abruptly.

  As a matter of fact Mr. Franklin had been on deck for some considerable time. He had come to relieve young Powell; but seeing him engaged in talk with the “enemy” — with one of the “enemies” at least — had kept at a distance, which, the poop of the Ferndale being aver seventy feet long, he had no difficulty in doing. Mr. Powell saw him at the head of the ladder leaning on his elbow, melancholy and silent. “Oh! Here you are, sir.”

  “Here I am. Here I’ve been ever since six o’clock. Didn’t want to interrupt the pleasant conversation. If you like to put in half of your watch below jawing with a dear friend, that’s not my affair. Funny taste though.”

  “He isn’t a bad chap,” said the impartial Powell.

  The mate snorted angrily, tapping the deck with his foot; then: “Isn’t he? Well, give him my love when you come together again for another nice long yarn.”

  “I say, Mr. Franklin, I wonder the captain don’t take offence at your manners.”

  “The captain. I wish to goodness he would start a row with me. Then I should know at least I am somebody on board. I’d welcome it, Mr. Powell. I’d rejoice. And dam’ me I would talk back too till I roused him. He’s a shadow of himself. He walks about his ship like a ghost. He’s fading away right before our eyes. But of course you don’t see. You don’t care a hang. Why should you?”

  Mr. Powell did not wait for more. He went down on the main deck. Without taking the mate’s jeremiads seriously he put them beside the words of Mr. Smith. He had grown already attached to Captain Anthony. There was something not only attractive but compelling in the man. Only it is very difficult for youth to believe in the menace of death. Not in the fact itself, but in its proximity to a breathing, moving, talking, superior human being, showing no sign of disease. And Mr. Powell thought that this talk was all nonsense. But his curiosity was awakened. There was something, and at any time some circumstance might occur . . . No, he would never find out . . . There was nothing to find out, most likely. Mr. Powell went to his room where he tried to read a book he had already read a good many times. Presently a bell rang for the officers’ supper.

  CHAPTER SIX — . . . A MOONLESS NIGHT, THICK WITH STARS ABOVE, VERY DARK ON THE WATER

  In the mess-room Powell found Mr. Franklin hacking at a piece of cold salt beef with a table knife. The mate, fiery in the face and rolling his eyes over that task, explained that the carver belonging to the mess-room could not be found. The steward, present also, complained savagely of the cook. The fellow got things into his galley and then lost them. Mr. Franklin tried to pacify him with mournful firmness.

  “There, there! That will do. We who have been all these years together in the ship have other things to think about than quarrelling among ourselves.”

  Mr. Powell thought with exasperation: “Here he goes again,” for this utterance had nothing cryptic for him. The steward having withdrawn morosely, he was not surprised to hear the mate strike the usual note. That morning the mizzen topsail tie had carried away (probably a defective link) and something like forty feet of chain and wire-rope, mixed up with a few heavy iron blocks, had crashed down from aloft on the poop with a terrifying racket.

  “Did you notice the captain then, Mr. Powell. Did you notice?”

  Powell confessed frankly that he was too scared himself when all that lot of gear came down on deck to notice anything.

  “The gin-block missed his head by an inch,” went on the mate impressively. “I wasn’t three feet from him
. And what did he do? Did he shout, or jump, or even look aloft to see if the yard wasn’t coming down too about our ears in a dozen pieces? It’s a marvel it didn’t. No, he just stopped short — no wonder; he must have felt the wind of that iron gin-block on his face — looked down at it, there, lying close to his foot — and went on again. I believe he didn’t even blink. It isn’t natural. The man is stupefied.”

  He sighed ridiculously and Mr. Powell had suppressed a grin, when the mate added as if he couldn’t contain himself:

  “He will be taking to drink next. Mark my words. That’s the next thing.”

  Mr. Powell was disgusted.

  “You are so fond of the captain and yet you don’t seem to care what you say about him. I haven’t been with him for seven years, but I know he isn’t the sort of man that takes to drink. And then — why the devil should he?”

  “Why the devil, you ask. Devil — eh? Well, no man is safe from the devil — and that’s answer enough for you,” wheezed Mr. Franklin not unkindly. “There was a time, a long time ago, when I nearly took to drink myself. What do you say to that?”

  Mr. Powell expressed a polite incredulity. The thick, congested mate seemed on the point of bursting with despondency. “That was bad example though. I was young and fell into dangerous company, made a fool of myself — yes, as true as you see me sitting here. Drank to forget. Thought it a great dodge.”

  Powell looked at the grotesque Franklin with awakened interest and with that half-amused sympathy with which we receive unprovoked confidences from men with whom we have no sort of affinity. And at the same time he began to look upon him more seriously. Experience has its prestige. And the mate continued:

  “If it hadn’t been for the old lady, I would have gone to the devil. I remembered her in time. Nothing like having an old lady to look after to steady a chap and make him face things. But as bad luck would have it, Captain Anthony has no mother living, not a blessed soul belonging to him as far as I know. Oh, aye, I fancy he said once something to me of a sister. But she’s married. She don’t need him. Yes. In the old days he used to talk to me as if we had been brothers,” exaggerated the mate sentimentally. “‘Franklin,’ — he would say — ’this ship is my nearest relation and she isn’t likely to turn against me. And I suppose you are the man I’ve known the longest in the world.’ That’s how he used to speak to me. Can I turn my back on him? He has turned his back on his ship; that’s what it has come to. He has no one now but his old Franklin. But what’s a fellow to do to put things back as they were and should be. Should be — I say!”

  His starting eyes had a terrible fixity. Mr. Powell’s irresistible thought, “he resembles a boiled lobster in distress,” was followed by annoyance. “Good Lord,” he said, “you don’t mean to hint that Captain Anthony has fallen into bad company. What is it you want to save him from?”

  “I do mean it,” affirmed the mate, and the very absurdity of the statement made it impressive — because it seemed so absolutely audacious. “Well, you have a cheek,” said young Powell, feeling mentally helpless. “I have a notion the captain would half kill you if he were to know how you carry on.”

  “And welcome,” uttered the fervently devoted Franklin. “I am willing, if he would only clear the ship afterwards of that . . . You are but a youngster and you may go and tell him what you like. Let him knock the stuffing out of his old Franklin first and think it over afterwards. Anything to pull him together. But of course you wouldn’t. You are all right. Only you don’t know that things are sometimes different from what they look. There are friendships that are no friendships, and marriages that are no marriages. Phoo! Likely to be right — wasn’t it? Never a hint to me. I go off on leave and when I come back, there it is — all over, settled! Not a word beforehand. No warning. If only: ‘What do you think of it, Franklin?’ — or anything of the sort. And that’s a man who hardly ever did anything without asking my advice. Why! He couldn’t take over a new coat from the tailor without . . . first thing, directly the fellow came on board with some new clothes, whether in London or in China, it would be: ‘Pass the word along there for Mr. Franklin. Mr. Franklin wanted in the cabin.’ In I would go. ‘Just look at my back, Franklin. Fits all right, doesn’t it?’ And I would say: ‘First rate, sir,’ or whatever was the truth of it. That or anything else. Always the truth of it. Always. And well he knew it; and that’s why he dared not speak right out. Talking about workmen, alterations, cabins . . . Phoo! . . . instead of a straightforward — ’Wish me joy, Mr. Franklin!’ Yes, that was the way to let me know. God only knows what they are — perhaps she isn’t his daughter any more than she is . . . She doesn’t resemble that old fellow. Not a bit. Not a bit. It’s very awful. You may well open your mouth, young man. But for goodness’ sake, you who are mixed up with that lot, keep your eyes and ears open too in case — in case of . . . I don’t know what. Anything. One wonders what can happen here at sea! Nothing. Yet when a man is called a jailer behind his back.”

  Mr. Franklin hid his face in his hands for a moment and Powell shut his mouth, which indeed had been open. He slipped out of the mess-room noiselessly. “The mate’s crazy,” he thought. It was his firm conviction. Nevertheless, that evening, he felt his inner tranquillity disturbed at last by the force and obstinacy of this craze. He couldn’t dismiss it with the contempt it deserved. Had the word “jailer” really been pronounced? A strange word for the mate to even imagine he had heard. A senseless, unlikely word. But this word being the only clear and definite statement in these grotesque and dismal ravings was comparatively restful to his mind. Powell’s mind rested on it still when he came up at eight o’clock to take charge of the deck. It was a moonless night, thick with stars above, very dark on the water. A steady air from the west kept the sails asleep. Franklin mustered both watches in low tones as if for a funeral, then approaching Powell:

  “The course is east-south-east,” said the chief mate distinctly.

  “East-south-east, sir.”

  “Everything’s set, Mr. Powell.”

  “All right, sir.”

  The other lingered, his sentimental eyes gleamed silvery in the shadowy face. “A quiet night before us. I don’t know that there are any special orders. A settled, quiet night. I dare say you won’t see the captain. Once upon a time this was the watch he used to come up and start a chat with either of us then on deck. But now he sits in that infernal stern-cabin and mopes. Jailer — eh?”

  Mr. Powell walked away from the mate and when at some distance said, “Damn!” quite heartily. It was a confounded nuisance. It had ceased to be funny; that hostile word “jailer” had given the situation an air of reality.

  * * * * *

  Franklin’s grotesque mortal envelope had disappeared from the poop to seek its needful repose, if only the worried soul would let it rest a while. Mr. Powell, half sorry for the thick little man, wondered whether it would let him. For himself, he recognized that the charm of a quiet watch on deck when one may let one’s thoughts roam in space and time had been spoiled without remedy. What shocked him most was the implied aspersion of complicity on Mrs. Anthony. It angered him. In his own words to me, he felt very “enthusiastic” about Mrs. Anthony. “Enthusiastic” is good; especially as he couldn’t exactly explain to me what he meant by it. But he felt enthusiastic, he says. That silly Franklin must have been dreaming. That was it. He had dreamed it all. Ass. Yet the injurious word stuck in Powell’s mind with its associated ideas of prisoner, of escape. He became very uncomfortable. And just then (it might have been half an hour or more since he had relieved Franklin) just then Mr. Smith came up on the poop alone, like a gliding shadow and leaned over the rail by his side. Young Powell was affected disagreeably by his presence. He made a movement to go away but the other began to talk — and Powell remained where he was as if retained by a mysterious compulsion. The conversation started by Mr. Smith had nothing peculiar. He began to talk of mail-boats in general and in the end seemed anxious to discover what were the se
rvices from Port Elizabeth to London. Mr. Powell did not know for certain but imagined that there must be communication with England at least twice a month. “Are you thinking of leaving us, sir; of going home by steam? Perhaps with Mrs. Anthony,” he asked anxiously.

  “No! No! How can I?” Mr. Smith got quite agitated, for him, which did not amount to much. He was just asking for the sake of something to talk about. No idea at all of going home. One could not always do what one wanted and that’s why there were moments when one felt ashamed to live. This did not mean that one did not want to live. Oh no!

  He spoke with careless slowness, pausing frequently and in such a low voice that Powell had to strain his hearing to catch the phrases dropped overboard as it were. And indeed they seemed not worth the effort. It was like the aimless talk of a man pursuing a secret train of thought far removed from the idle words we so often utter only to keep in touch with our fellow beings. An hour passed. It seemed as though Mr. Smith could not make up his mind to go below. He repeated himself. Again he spoke of lives which one was ashamed of. It was necessary to put up with such lives as long as there was no way out, no possible issue. He even alluded once more to mail-boat services on the East coast of Africa and young Powell had to tell him once more that he knew nothing about them.

  “Every fortnight, I thought you said,” insisted Mr. Smith. He stirred, seemed to detach himself from the rail with difficulty. His long, slender figure straightened into stiffness, as if hostile to the enveloping soft peace of air and sea and sky, emitted into the night a weak murmur which Mr. Powell fancied was the word, “Abominable” repeated three times, but which passed into the faintly louder declaration: “The moment has come — to go to bed,” followed by a just audible sigh.