It was about half-past seven in the evening. We had passed the Ile d’Ouessant early in the afternoon; it had been fine enough to distinguish it away on the quarter, and then the wall of fog had come up again, and we ran away into this with the land left far astern. I had been up on the bridge, taking my stand at the wheel. The skipper had been beside me for a while, but when we came into the fog once more he shrugged his shoulders as though this was some trick the fates had played him, and after peering about him he altered the course he had just given me, then called to the mate for some sort of conference - mainly, I think, to impress me with their joint efficiency, and finally disappeared and leaving me with no confidence at all. The mate remained on the bridge, nervous, restless, and his very manner unsettled me, especially the way he kept turning his head and listening - straining his eyes into the bank of fog. It was as though he expected to hear something.
There was no protection from the weather on the bridge.The rain drove into my eyes, and I could not see ahead of us more than two cables’ length or so. The ship groaned and plunged in an ugly cross sea. Deep inside me I had a feeling that neither the skipper nor the mate, nor any of us upon the ship, knew for certain where we were going.
Later I was relieved by one of the Belgians, and I went down from the bridge, and then for’ard to the fo’c’sle.
This mist had made everything dark. Somebody had lit the lamp, it swung in gimbals against the bulkhead, casting a yellow reflection on the faces of the men. One of them lay stretched in his berth, his hands over his eyes.There was a smell of wet oilskin, stale tobacco, and cheese. A torn magazine without a cover lay upon the floor. I lit a cigarette and went and sat beside Jake.
‘What’s happened?’ he said.
‘Nothing,’ I told him; ‘you can’t see a yard ahead, and the glass is falling. I don’t think the bloody little fool has any idea where we are.’
‘He’s keeping too close in,’ said Jake; ‘I don’t know what his game is.’
‘He’s afraid of the high seas farther out,’ I suggested; ‘maybe he thinks she’ll settle down to it and wallow. He must have realized by now she won’t stand it. Do you think he’ll try for Brest?’
‘We’re miles from Brest,’ said Jake; ‘this coast is hell - he ought to know that!’
‘He doesn’t seem to make any effort,’ I said; ‘you’d think if he wasn’t afraid for his own skin he’d give some thought to the owners of the blasted ship. He’d lose his job even if he saved himself.’
‘Not necessarily, Dick.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘It might be a put-up job,’ he said.
‘Good God!’
‘Yes, I know. But that sort of thing happens at sea. When a ship is losing money over freights and she’s not worth reconditioning, what’s to prevent an owner making a bit on the insurance? Broken ships don’t tell any tales.’
‘Listen, Jake, no skipper’s going to risk his life for the sake of his owner’s pocket.’
‘What about the skipper’s pocket?’ said Jake. ‘He’d make on the deal, too, you may depend on that. A fellow like this Belgian of ours would split himself if he stood to gain anything by it. I know the type. Lazy, ignorant, good-natured, but crooked as hell.’
‘I don’t believe he’d have the guts to carry through with the job,’ I said.
‘Perhaps not. It needs an odd sort of courage. It wouldn’t be so difficult, Dick, to run a vessel ashore on a quiet stretch of coast. There wouldn’t be much danger, I mean. A skipper would blame the fog - and then invent a highly-coloured story of the fight he’d had.While all the time he’d waded ashore, and watched his ship break up on the rocks where he’d put her himself.’
‘What about the mate - and the men?’
‘Bribes, Dick, can quieten a whole lot of nonsense.’
It sounded convincing, this theory of Jake’s, but even if it were true, I did not see how the knowledge of it would help us at all.
‘Oh, well!’ I said, ‘he can send her to the bottom for all I care. I’m game for a swim or anything else.’
‘Yes,’ said Jake, ‘so would I be if we were heading for a sand-bank off the coast of Holland, but if this fellow thinks he’s being clever, running ashore round the Pointe du Raz, he’s making the biggest mistake of his life, and the last one.’
I looked at Jake through the haze of smoke.
‘You can’t scare me,’ I laughed; ‘come on deck.’
He followed me without a word.The seas were running higher now than when I had been upon the bridge, and the mist had not lifted. The seas were grey, foam-crested, rearing into the air like strange giants with sloping shoulders, turning and rushing upon us out of the mist. A thin rain blew in our faces. Every now and then the deck was swept with a sheet of water, and the ship rolled heavily, wearily, as if she had no wish to shake free.
It would be dark soon. I could see the figures of the mate and the skipper on the bridge, standing beside the man at the wheel. The mate was gesticulating with his hands, and I could imagine the torrent of words pouring from his mouth. It seemed as though the skipper turned a helpless face and shrugged his shoulders.The chap at the wheel gazed stolidly before him, solemn as a mule. They were like dumb shadows in a moving-picture show. I knew how they would be in a crisis, pitiful, impotent, and swept aside. We watched them in silence, and we watched the curling seas sweep astern of the Romanie, and we listened to the rain. The mist closed in upon us, grey now and stifling, and night came like a dark cloud to cover us.
‘I don’t think,’ said Jake, ‘we can do any good by staying here.’ This time it was I who made no answer, and he led the way back into the fo’c’sle, where the flickering lamp shone as a glow of queer comfort, and the Belgian boy blowing his mouth-organ seemed symbolical and a defiance of fear.
I can see them now without closing my eyes, dark figures on a dim background, sprawling in the cramped fo’c’sle under a guttering light. The boy with the mouth-organ sat on the edge of his cot with his legs swinging over, dangling to the berth below. He leant sideways, his cheeks puffed out, and his eyes closed, and ever and again he took the instrument from his mouth and wiped it on his trouser knee. One of the firemen lay on his back asleep, even the wail of the mouth-organ would not wake him. His face was upturned, and he had one arm stretched above his head, and one leg drawn up, a weird, strained position. He snored loudly, quivering on a scale with a tremulous shudder, followed by a deep, satisfying intake of breath. The sound of his snores was distinct and apart; it did not mingle with the tuneless jerky whimper played by the boy. Another fellow sat cross-legged, a jacket across his knees, biting at a piece of coarse black thread, and turning his eyes up to the boy with the mouth-organ, chaffing him, keeping up a barrage of words. He spoke a mixture of Flemish and bad French; I could not distinguish half of what he said. I think this was the fellow who had drawn the pornographic figures in the galley. He grinned at Jake and me, showing a great empty mouth and two yellow fangs drooping from black gums.
‘Tu l’as vu, le petit, avec son foutu machin,’ he said, ‘quand on ne le regarde pas il s’en sert comme d’une petite amie, quoi! Assez, mon vieux, assez - tu me fais chier avec ton bruit. C’est pas une femme ça -’
I hated his voice, and his high thin cackle of laughter. The boy up in the cot puffed out his cheeks and a high-pitched wail came from his mouth-organ, while the sleeping man spluttered and tremored beneath him.
I could feel the rush of the sea against the bows of the vessel, the thud and plunge of her head in the trough, and the walls of the ship groaned and screamed for relief, shuddering like a live thing in pain. There was a hiss of air above me, coming from some crack, a hollow echo of the wind on deck, and the water sucked and gurgled in the bilges beneath the planks.
‘Oh! hell,’ I said to Jake, ‘I can’t turn in and sleep and I can’t sit here and wait. If there’s going to be a row in this hole, let’s make it loud and strong.’ He smiled, he did not say anything.
I climbed on a berth, waving my hands in the air.
‘Moi, je suis conductor,’ I shouted, ‘suivez, everybody.’ I kicked the Dutch fireman in the pants. ‘Wake up, you lousy bum, and sing.’ He turned over, cursing, shaking his great fat head at me. The Belgians laughed, the boy climbed up beside me, screaming his mouth-organ in my ear. He played something, and we all joined in the chorus, whistling, yelling and stamping our feet. Somebody started improvising words to another tune, the boy followed it up, and I bent forward gravely, swaying from the waist.
‘Messieurs, mesdames, permettez-moi de vous présenter ma petite camarade . . .’
The boy and I clung to each other lovingly, the Belgians hooted and jeered, singing at the top of their voices.
The ship rolled heavily from side to side, and we crashed down from the bunk, struggling, cursing, and we tried to dance on the floor, the boy sobbing for breath on his mouth-organ, the others clapping and stamping their feet.
There was a song about ‘une blonde’, whose something-or-other was ‘profonde’. We sang, with actions of course, I following the words and grimaces of the boy, scarcely knowing what I said, shaking with laughter, forcing myself. ‘Il y avait une blonde,’ answering a back-chat of questions.
‘C’était comme ça?’
‘Deux fois ça, mon vieux.’
‘Quoi! Plus grande encore? Pas possible.’
‘Cherche-la - alors, ta blonde. Tout le monde va passer dedans.’
There was another burst of laughter as the ship lurched again, and we lost our balance, sliding helplessly into a corner.
I saw Jake push the door, and a gust of wind came tearing through, sending the lamp a-quiver, while he kept his head and shoulder in the entrance, watching the weather.
I could tell that the seas had increased, and at that moment a sheet of water ran along the deck, sweeping its way for’ard, and part of it washing through the open door of the fo’c’sle.
‘Keep it shut, you damn fool,’ I said to Jake; ‘d’you want to drown us?’ - and one glimpse had shown us that the mist had now become part of the dark night, shrouded, horrible, and we could not even see the bridge because of it. We were sober in an instant, the laughter dying away, and the mouth-organ breaking off suddenly in the middle of a note. The bell rang then from the direction of the bridge, and we heard the voice of the mate shouting, while one of the watch staggered along the deck towards us from amidships, a swaying ineffectual figure in his streaming oilskin, his head bent, the wind tugging at him. We came out on deck as we were, I close to Jake, somebody following behind me dragging at a boot, muttering under his breath, and I saw one man look at another with white scared eyes.
The Romanie rolled now like a turtle in the water. The bell rang again, and she plunged from side to side, as though she had no power within her, but must drift wherever the seas should sweep her.
We were making no progress now, our speed was dead slow, and we stood about peering at each other in the gloom, waiting for orders, waiting for some signal.The men called to one another excitedly, each one suggesting what should have been done, no one listening to anyone but himself.The hoarse cries of the mate seemed to come from very far away. I looked up at Jake standing beside me; he was very still, as though drawn within himself, and quieter than I had ever seen him. Then he turned to me with the smile I knew, bringing relief and a denial of trouble.
‘If there’s a panic,’ he said, ‘you’ll be all right, won’t you?’ He spoke calmly, without a suggestion of fear, and I knew that wherever he was there would be safety.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’ll be all right.’
We stood by, ready, expectant, straining our eyes through the mist and the darkness, turning our heads first one way and then another, listening - always listening.
It seemed to me that many hours must have passed, and there was no change, no new thing to force itself upon us, making a diversion however terrible, and we went on waiting there with the ship rising and falling in the high seas, and the soft rain blowing on our faces.
I wondered why the jerky, horrible rhythm of the tune of the mouth-organ should turn and twist itself in my mind, its little patter and jingle hurting me, keeping me from the full realization of what might come. I thought of the Romanie lying beside the wharf at Stockholm, the tall crane above her, the lights, and the thunder of the coal pouring down the shaft into the hold.
I saw Jake and myself running away from the café, a man stretched hideously with a knife in his back, and mingled now with the pattern of this was the Belgian boy, his hand to his mouth, wailing a tune.
‘Jake,’ I said, ‘why don’t they do something? What in the name of God is the use of all this hanging about - this waiting about? Why doesn’t somebody do something?’
I listened to the pitch of my own voice; it was higher than usual, strained somehow. I caught hold of Jake’s arm.
‘You don’t have to worry,’ he said. I knew that, and I knew it would not do any good, whatever I did, whether I cursed or whether I stayed silent. I could not stand waiting, though; I wanted to be able to move about, to haul at things, to work in some way. I saw that there was relief in the excited chatter of the other fellows, in the string of curses.
‘How long are we going to carry on like this?’ I asked.
I went on talking without expecting an answer.
‘They oughtn’t to have left Stockholm,’ I said; ‘that’s where the mistake was made, in ever leaving Stockholm . . .’
How I clung to them, my silly patter of words. ‘To put some idiot in command of a vessel, who can’t find his way in a fog - especially on this coast. A lot of bastards - that’s what they are - a lot of bastards . . .’ I said. Maybe if the mist cleared we would be able to get away, perhaps Jake was wrong in his calculations and Brest was not far, not really far. Yes, no doubt Brest would be quite close. When the mist cleared we could look around, and the skipper would realize he could not make a fool of us any longer. Brest would be all right. I was glad I had thought of this. I saw myself walking in the streets there, having a drink somewhere, leaning against a bridge. It was impossible that these things should not be.
‘Jake,’ I said, ‘why in hell doesn’t he go back to Brest?’ My words were not convincing, though, not angry enough - they trembled in spite of myself, pleading a question. Jake looked down on me. His hair and his lashes were wet with the fog.
‘We’re not near there,’ he said, ‘we’re not near anywhere.’ ‘Yes, but look here,’ I started, and then I trailed off, unable to finish my sentence, unaware of the very words I should choose - ‘Yes, but look here. . . .’ I did not speak any more, I felt dazed and bewildered, as though some sort of stupor had taken hold of me and would not let me go. The silly jingle of the mouth-organ no longer haunted me. I made up a dream of standing in the garden at home, pointing the library window to Jake and saying carelessly: ‘If we go in we should disturb my father.’ It was funny how clearly the picture came to me. And I saw Jake walk through the open window, and touch my father on the shoulder, and they smiled as though they had known each other for a long while, and their faces seemed suddenly incredibly alike - merging finally into one.
‘You know,’ said Jake, the Jake in my picture, ‘you know that Dick writes too,’ and my father nodded, while I stood a little aloof, almost superior, rocking backwards and forwards on my heels.
‘Il y avait une blonde . . .’
but then that had not anything to do with it at all. There was no need to bring that in. ‘Jake,’ I said, ‘Jake . . .’ and the picture went, and I was here on the deck of the Romanie beside him, peering through the curtain of mist.The bell rang from the bridge again. Somebody called out hoarsely from the fo’c’sle head. It was the Belgian boy, who had been stationed there as a look-out. He stumbled down t
he ladder towards us waving his arms. There was an answering shout from the bridge.
‘Listen,’ said Jake, ‘listen . . .’
I caught at my breath, shuddering from head to foot, cold, alive. Suddenly there came to our ears the sound for which we had waited - the sound I had so often conjured in my imagination at safe moments, and now unmistakable and sinister, demanding to be heard. The roar of it drummed in my ears, horrible, unseen, so near yet intangible, drawing closer - triumphant and mocking at us who swept so steadily towards it, driven on and on, helpless in the cloud of mist.
Sullen and insistent it would not let us go, this sound of the sea shattered against rock, this crash of breakers on a hidden shore.
They ran blindly here and there upon the deck, sobbing, shouting, little figures of men, their faces grey with fear. I ran with them. I was one of them. We tore at the lashings of a boat. The mate passed me, lifting his hands, screaming something in my ear. I hit out at him, I struck him down, and my feet passed over his fallen body. Someone tore at my throat with his fingers, clinging to me, babbling like a little idiot child. I shook him from me, I pushed and thrust my way against the shoulders of the others, who fought wildly and helplessly with one another, caged animals bereft of all humanity.
And while we ripped the covers from the boat we turned our faces hither and thither in the darkness, aware of the roar of the breakers coming to us out of the mist, and we cursed helplessly - bent backwards against each other in confusion, pitiless, unutterably lost.
Now the boat was swung out on the davits, and we clung to it, listening to no order, hearing no order, trampling upon one another in our fear and our distress. There were too many of us; we fought for our places with hatred in our souls, striking out desperately in a wild despair.
I'll Never Be Young Again Page 15