 Chapter 5 of The Nigger of the Narcissus A heavy atmosphere of oppressive quietude pervaded the ship, and the afternoon men went about washing clothes and hanging them out to dry in the unprosperous breeze with the meditative languor of disenchanted philosophers. Very little was said. The problem of life seemed too voluminous for the narrow limits of human speech, and by common consent it was abandoned to the great sea that had from the beginning unfolded it in its immense grip to the sea that knew all, and would in time infallibly unveil to each the wisdom hidden in all the errors the certitude that works in doubts, the realm of safety and peace beyond the frontiers of sorrow and fear. And in the confused current of impotent thoughts that set unceasingly this way and that through bodies of men, Jimmy bobbed up upon the surface, compelling attention, like a black buoy chained to the bottom of a muddy stream, falsehood triumphed. It triumphed through doubt, through stupidity, through pity, through sentimentalism. We set ourselves to bolster it up from compassion, from recklessness, from a sense of fun. Jimmy's steadfastness to his untruthful attitude in the face of the inevitable truth had the proportions of a colossal enigma, of a manifestation grand and incomprehensible that at times inspired a wandering awe, and there was also, to many, something exquisitely droll and fooling him thus to the top of his bent. The latent egoism of tenderness to suffering appeared in the developing anxiety not to see him die. His obstinate non-recognition of the only certitude whose approach we could watch from day to day was as disquieting as the failure of some law of nature. He was so utterly wrong about himself that one could not but suspect him of having access to some source of supernatural knowledge. He was absurd to the point of inspiration. He was unique, and as fascinating as only something inhuman could be, he seemed to shout his denials already from beyond the awful border. He was becoming immaterial like an apparition. His cheekbones rose, the forehead slanted more, the face was all hollows, patches of shade, and the fleshless head resembled a disinterred black skull fitted with two restless globes of silver in the sockets of eyes. He was demoralizing. Through him we were becoming highly humanized, tender, complex, excessively decadent. We understood the subtlety of his fear, sympathized with all his revolutions, shrinkings, evasions, delusions, as though we had been overcivilized and rotten, and without any knowledge of the meaning of life. We had the error of being initiated in some infamous mysteries. We had the profound grimaces of conspirators exchanged meaning-glances, significant short words. We were inexpressibly vile and very much pleased with ourselves. We lied to him with gravity, with emotion, with unction, as if performing some moral trick with a view to an eternal reward. We made a chorus of affirmation to his wildest assertions, as though he had been a millionaire, a politician, or a reformer, and we a crowd of ambitious lovers. When we ventured to question his statements we did it after the manner of obsequitist sycophants to the end that his glory should be augmented by the flattery of our descent. He influenced the moral tone of our world, as though he had it in his power to distribute honors, treasure, or pain, and he could give us nothing but his contempt. It was immense, it seemed to grow gradually larger, as his body day by day shrank a little more while we looked. It was the only thing about him, of him, that gave the impression of durability and vigor. It lived within him with an unquenchable life. It spoke through the eternal pout of his black lips. It looked at us through the impertinent mournfulness of his languid and enormous stare. We watched him intently. He seemed unwilling to move, as if distrustful of his own solidity. The slightest gesture must have disclosed to him it could not surely be otherwise. His bodily weakness had caused a pang of mental suffering. He was charry of movements. He lay stretched out, chin on blanket, in a kind of sly, cautious immobility. Only his eyes roamed over his faces, his eyes disdainful, penetrating, and sad. It was at that time that Belfast's devotion, and also his pugnacity, secured universal respect. He spent every moment of his spare time in Jimmy's cabin. He tended him, talked to him, was as gentle as a woman, as tenderly gay as an old philanthropist, as sentimentally careful of his nigger as a model slave owner. But outside he was irritable, explosive as gunpowder, somber, suspicious, and never more brutal than one most sorrowful. With him it was a tear and a blow, a tear for Jimmy, a blow for anyone who did not seem to take his group-feelously orthodox view of Jimmy's case. We talked about nothing else. The two Scandinavians even discussed the situation, but it was impossible to know and what spirit, because they quarreled in their own language. Belfast suspected one of them of irreverence, and in this insurditude thought that there was no option but to fight them both. They became very much terrified by his tracheolence, and henceforth lived amongst us, dejected like a pair of mutes. When Mebo never spoke intelligibly, but he was as smile-less as an animal, seemed to know much less about it all than the cat, and consequently was safe. Moreover he had belonged to the chosen band of Jimmy's rescuers and was above suspicion. Archie was silent generally, but often spent an hour or so talking to Jimmy quietly with an air of proprietorship. At any time of the day and often through the night some man could be seen sitting on Jimmy's box. In the evening, between six and eight, the cabin was crowded, and there was an interested group at the door. Everyone stared at the nigger. He basked in the warmth of our interest. As I gleamed ironically and in a weak voice he reproached us with our cowardice. He would say, If you fellows had stuck out for me, I would be now on deck. We hung our heads. Yes, but if you think I am going to let them put me in irons just to show you sport, well, no. It ruins my health this line up, it does. You don't care. We were as abashed as if it had been true. His superb impudence carried all before it. We would not have dared to revolt. We didn't want to, really. We wanted to keep him alive till home, to the end of the voyage. Everyone as usual held aloft, appearing to score in the insignificant events of an ended life. Once only he came along and unexpectedly stopped in the doorway. He peered at Jimmy in profound silence, as if desire was to add that black image to the crowd of shades that peopled his old memory. We kept very quiet, and for a long time Singleton stood there as though he had come by appointment to call for someone, or to see some important event. James Waite lay perfectly still, and apparently not aware of the gaze scrutinizing him with a steadiness full of expectation. There was a sense of a contest in the air. We felt the inward strain of men watching a wrestling bout. Alas, Jimmy, with perceptible apprehension, turned his head on the pillow. Good evening, he said, in a conciliating tone. Mmm. answered the old seaman grumpily. For a moment longer he looked at Jimmy with severe fixity, then suddenly went away. It was a long time before anyone spoke in the little cabin, though we all breathed more freely as men do after an escape from some dangerous situation. We all knew the old man's ideas about Jimmy, and no one dared to combat them. They were unsettling, they caused pain, and what was worse, they may have been true for all we knew. Only once did he condense to explain them fully, but the impression was lasting. He said that Jimmy was the cause of the headwinds. Mortally sick men, he maintained, linger till the first side of land and then die, and Jimmy knew that the very first land would draw his life from him. It is so in every ship. Didn't we know it? He asked us with austere contempt, what did we know? What would we doubt next? Jimmy's desire encouraged by us, and aided by Wumiebo's. He was a fin, wasn't he? Very well. By Wumiebo's spells delayed the ship in the open sea. Only leverly fools couldn't see it. Who ever heard of such a run of calms and headwinds? It wasn't natural. We could not deny that it was strange. We fell down easy. The common saying, more days, more dollars, did not give the usual comfort because the stores were running short. Much had been spoiled off the cape, and we were on half allowance of biscuit. Peas, sugar, and tea had been finished long ago. Salt meat was giving out. We had plenty of coffee, but very little water to make it with. We took up another hole in our belts, and went on scraping, polishing, painting the ship from morning to night. And soon she looked as though she had come out of a bandbox. But hunger lived on board of her. Not dead starvation, but steady, living hunger that stalked about the decks, slept in the folk soul, the tormentor of waking moments, the disturber of dreams. We looked to winward for signs of change. Every few hours of night and day we put her around with the hope that she would come up on that tack at last. She didn't. She seemed to have forgotten the way home. She rushed to and fro, heading northwest, heading east. She ran backwards and forwards, distracted, like a timid creature at the foot of a wall. Sometimes, as if tired to death, she would wallow languidly for a day in the smooth swell of an unruffled sea. All up the swinging masks, the sails thrashed furiously through the hot stillness of the calm. We were weary, hungry, thirsty. We commenced to believe singleton, but with unshaken fidelity, dissembled to Jimmy. We spoke to him with jokas, a louvishness, like cheerful accomplices in a clever plot. But we looked to the westward over the rail, with longing eyes for a sign of hope, for a sign of fair wind, even if its first breath should bring death to a reluctant Jimmy. In vain the universe conspired with James' weight. Light airs from the northward sprang up again, the sky remained clear, and round our weariness, the glittering sea, touched by the breeze, basked voluptuously in the great sunshine, as though it had forgotten our life in trouble. Duncan looked out for a fair wind along with the rest. No one knew the venom of his thoughts now. He was silent, appeared thinner, as if consumed slowly by an inward rage at the injustice of man and of fate. He was ignored by all and spoke to no one, but his hate for every man dwelt in his furtive eyes. He talked with the cook only, having somehow persuaded the good man that he, Duncan, was a much-columniated and persecuted person. Together they bewailed the immorality of the ship's company. There could be no greater criminals than we, who by our lies conspired to send the unprepared soul of a poor, ignorant black man to everlasting predation. Bodmore cooked what there was to cook remorsefully, and felt all the time that by preparing the food of such sinners he imperiled his own salvation. As to the captain, he had sailed with him for seven years now, he said, and would not have believed it possible that such a man—well, well, there it was—can't get out of it, judgment capsized all in a minute, struck in all his pride, more like a sudden visitation than anything else. Duncan perched solemnly on the coal-locker, swung his legs, and concurred. He paid in the coin of spurious assent for the privilege to sit in the galley. He was disheartened and scandalized. He agreed with the cook, could find no word severe enough to criticize our conduct, and went in the heat of reprobation he swore at us. Bodmore, who would have liked to swear also if it hadn't been for his principles, pretended not to hear. So Duncan, unrebuked, cursed enough for two, caged for matches, borrowed tobacco, and loathed for hours, very much at home, before the stove. From there he could hear us on the other side of the bulkhead, talking to Jimmy. The cook knocked the saucepans about, slammed the oven door, muttered prophecies of damnation for all the ship's company, and Duncan, who did not admit of any hereafter, except for the purposes of blasphemy, listened, concentrated, and angry, gloating fiercely over his called-up image of infinite torment, as men gloat over the accursed images of cruelty and revenge of greed and of power. On clear evenings this island ship, under the cold sheen of the dead moon, took on a false aspect of passionless repose resembling the winter of the earth. Under her a long band of gold barred the black disk of the sea. Footsteps echoed on her quiet decks. The moonlight clung to her like a frosted mist, and the white sails stood out in dazzling cones as of stainless snow. In the magnificence of the panum rays the ship appeared pure like a vision of ideal beauty, elusive like a tender dream of serene peace. And nothing in her was real, nothing was distinct and solid but the heavy shadows that filled her decks with her unceasing and noiseless stir, the shadows darker than the night and more restless than the thoughts of men. Duncan prowled spiteful and alone amongst the shadows, thinking that Jimmy too long delayed to die. That evening land had been reported from La Loft in the master, while adjusting the tubes of the long glass, had observed with quiet bitterness to Mr. Baker that, after fighting our way inch by inch to the western islands, there was nothing to expect now but a spell of calm. The sky was clear and the barometer high. The light breeze dropped with the sun and an enormous stillness, forerunner of a night without wind, descended upon the heated waters of the ocean. As long as daylight lasted, the hands collected on the folksal head watched on the eastern sky the Isle of Flores that rose above the level expanse of the sea with irregular and broken outlines like a somber ruin upon a vast and deserted plain. It was the first land seen for nearly four months. Charlie was excited, and in the midst of general indulgence took liberties with his betters. Men strangely elated without knowing why, talked in groups, and pointed with beard arms. For the first time that barred Jimmy's sham existence seemed, for a moment, forgotten in the face of a solid reality. We had gotten so far, anyhow. Belfast discorsed, quoting imaginary examples of short homeward runs from the islands. Them smart fruit-screwners do it in five days, he affirmed. What do you want? Only a good little breeze. Archie maintained that seven days was the record passage, and they disputed amicably with insulting words. Knowles declared he could already smell home from there, and with a heavy list on his short leg, laughed fit to split his sides. A group of grizzled sea dogs looked out for a time in silence, and with grim, absorbed faces. One said suddenly, "'Tain't far to London now. My first night ashore, Blame me if I haven't steak and onions for supper.' And a pint of bitter, said another. A barrel ye mean, shouted someone. Ham and eggs three times a day. That's the way I live," cried an excited voice. There was a stir, appreciative murmurs, eyes began to shine, jaws champed, short nervous laughs were heard. Archie smiled with reserve all to himself. Singleton came up, gave a careless glance, and went down again without saying a word, indifferent, like a man who had seen flores an incalculable number of times. The night traveling from the east blotted out of the limpid sky the purple stain of the high land. "'Dead column,' said somebody quietly. The murmur of lively talk suddenly wavered, died out, and the clusters broke up. Men began to drift away one by one, descending the ladders slowly and with serious faces, as if sobered by that reminder of their dependence upon the invisible. And when the big yellow moon ascended gently above the sharp rim of the clear horizon, it found the ship wrapped up in a breathless silence, a fearless ship that seemed to sleep profoundly, dreamlessly on the bosom of the sleeping and terrible sea. CHAPTER V. II Donken shafed at the peace, at the ship, at the sea that stretching away on all sides merged into the inimitable silence of all creation. He felt himself pulled up sharp by unrecognized grievances. He had been physically cowed, but his injured dignity remained indomitable, and nothing could heal his lacerated feelings. Here was land already, home very soon, a bad payday, no clothes, more hard work. How offensive all this was! Land. The land that draws away life from six sailors. That nigger there had money, clothes, easy times, and would not die. Land draws life away. He felt tempted to go and see whether it did. Perhaps already. It would be a bit of luck. There was money in the beggar's chest. He stepped briskly out of the shadows into the moonlight, and, instantly, his craving, hungry face from shallow became livid. He opened the door of the cabin and had a shock. Sure enough, Jimmy was dead. He moved no more than a recumbent figure with clasped hands, carved on the lid of a stone coffin. Donken glared with avidity. Then Jimmy, without stirring, blinked his eyelids, and Donken had another shock. Those eyes were rather startling. He shut the door behind his back with gentle care, looking intently the vile at James' weight, as though he had come in there at a great risk to tell some secret of startling importance. Jimmy did not move but glanced languidly out of the corner of his eyes. Calm, he asked. Yoss said Donken very disappointed, and sat down on the box. Jimmy was used to such visits at all times of night, of day. Men succeeded one another. They spoke in clear voices, pronounced cheerful words, repeated old jokes, listened to him, and each, going out, seemed to leave behind the little of his own vitality, surrender some of his own strength, renew the assurance of life, the indestructible thing. He did not like to be left alone in his cabin, because, when he was alone, it seemed to him as if he hadn't been there at all. There was nothing, no pain, not now. Perfectly right, but he couldn't enjoy his healthy repose unless someone was by to see it. This man would do as well as anybody. Donken watched him stethily. Soon home now, observed weight. Videre whisper, said Donken with interest, can't you speak up? Jimmy looked annoyed and said nothing for a while, then in a lifeless, unringing voice. Why should I shout? You ain't deaf that I know. Oh, I can ear-ride enough, answered Donken in a low tone, and look down. He was thinking sadly of going out when Jimmy spoke again. Time we did get home, to get something decent to eat. I am always hungry. Donken felt angry all of a sudden. What about me, he hissed. I am hungry too, and got to work. You, hungry? Your work won't kill you, commented weight feebly. There's a couple of biscuits in the lower bunk there. You may have one. I can't eat them. Donken dived in, groped in the corner, and when he came up again his mouth was full. He munched with ardor. Jimmy seemed to doze with open eyes. Donken finished his hard bread and got up. You're not going, asked Jimmy, staring at the ceiling. No said Donken impulsively, and instead of going out, leaned his back against the closed door. He looked at James' weight and saw him long, leaned, dried up, as though all his flesh had shriveled on his bones in the heat of a white furnace. The meager fingers of one hand moved lightly upon the edge of the bunk playing an endless tune. To look at him was irritating and fatiguing. He could last like this for days. He was outrageous, belonging holy, neither to death nor life, and perfectly invulnerable in his apparent ignorance of both. Donken felt tempted to enlighten him. What are you thinking of? he asked, surly. James' weight had a grimacing smile that passed over the deathlike impassiveness of his bony face, incredible and frightful as wood and a dream have been the sudden smile of a corpse. There is a girl, whispered weight, Canton Street girl. She chucked a third engineer of a rainy boat, for me. Cook's oyster's just as I like. She says she would chuck any toff louder. Donken could hardly believe his ears. He was scandalized. Would she? There wouldn't be any good there, or, he said, with unrestrained disgust. It was not there to hear him. He was swaggering up East India Dock Road, saying kindly. Come along for a treat, pushing glass-swing doors, posing with superb assurance in the gaslight above a mahogany counter. Do you think your will ever get ashore, asked Donken, angrily? Weight came back with a start. Ten days, he said promptly, and returned at once to the regions of memory that know nothing of time. He felt untired, calm, and safely withdrawn within himself beyond the reach of every grave and certitude. There was something of the immutable quality of eternity in the slow moments of his complete restfulness. He was very quiet and easy amongst his vivid reminiscences, which he mistook joyfully for the images of an undoubted future. He cared for no one. Donken felt this vaguely like a blind man, feeling in his darkness the fatal antagonism of all the surrounding existences that to him shall forever remain unreliable, unseen, and enviable. He had the desire to assert his importance, to break, to crush, to be even with everybody for everything, to tear the veil, unmask, expose, leave no refuge, a perfidious desire of truthfulness. He laughed in the mocking splutter and said, Ten days, strike me blind, if lever. You will be dead by this time tomorrow, perhaps. Ten days, he waited for a while. Do you hear me? Blimey, if you don't look dead already. Weight must have been collecting the strength for, he said, almost aloud. You're a stinking, catching liar. Everyone knows you. And setting up, against all probability, startled his visitor horribly. But very soon Donken recovered himself. He blustered, What? What? Who's a liar? You are. The crowd are. The skipper. Everybody. I ain't. Puttin' on errors. Who's your? He nearly choked himself with indignation. Who's your to put on errors? He repeated, trembling. Eve one, Eve one says ye, and can't eat him is self. Now I'll have both, by God I will. You're nobody. He plunged into the lower bunk, brewed it in there, and brought to light another dusty biscuit. He held it up before Jimmy, then took a bite defiantly. What now, he asked, with feverish impudence. You may take one, says your. Why not get me both? No, I'm a mangy dog. One for a mangy dog. I'll take both. Can you stop me? Try. Come on, try. Jimmy was clasping his legs and hiding his face on the knees. His shirt clung to him. Every rib was visible. His emaciated back was shaken in repeated jerks by the panting catches of his breath. You're won't, you're can't. What did I say, when undonkin' fiercely? He swallowed another dry mouthful with a hasty effort. The other silent helplessness, his weakness, his shrinking attitude exasperated him. You're done, he cried. Who's you to be lied to, to be waited on, and in foot like a bloomin' amper? You're nobody. You're no one at all. He spluttered with such a strength of unerring conviction that it shook him from head to foot in coming out and left him vibrating like a released string. James Waite rallied again. He lifted his head and turned bravely at donkin' who saw a strange face, an unknown face, a fantastic and grimacing mask of despair and fury. Its lips moved rapidly and hollow, moaning whistling sounds filled the cabin with a vague mutter full of menace, complaint, and desolation like a far-off murmur of a rising wind. Waite shook his head, rolled his eyes. He denied, cursed, threatened, and not a word had the strength to pass beyond the sorrowful pout of those black lips. It was incomprehensible and disturbing, a gibberish of emotions, a frantic dem-show of speech pleading for impossible things, promising a shadowy vengeance. It sobered donkin' into a scrutinizing watchfulness. You can't allar, see. What did I tell you? He said slowly, after a moment of attentive examination. The other kept on headlong and unheard, nodding passionately, grinning with grotesque and appalling flashes of big white teeth. Men, as if fascinated by the dumb eloquence and anger of that black phantom, approached, stretching his neck out with distrustful curiosity. And it seemed to him suddenly that he was looking only at the shadow of a man crouching high in the bunk on the level with his eyes. What? What? He said. He seemed to catch the shape of some words in the continuous panning hiss. You'll tell Belfast, will you? Are you a blooming kid? He trembled with alarm and rage. Tell your grandmother, you're a feared. Who's your to be a feared-born anyone? His passionate sense of his own importance ran away with the last remnant of caution. Tell and be damned. Tell, if you can, he cried, I've been treated worse than a dog by your blooming back-leckers. They have set me on only to turn against me. I am the only man here. They clouded me, kicked me, and you laughed. Your black rotten encumbrance, you. You will pay for it. They give you their grub, their water. Your will pay for it to me, by God. Who asked me to have a drink of water? They put their blooming rags on you that night. And what did they give to me? A cloud on the blooming mouth. Blast there. So help me. You will pay for it with your money. I'm going to avid in a minute as soon as you're dead to your blooming useless fraud. That's the man I am. And you're a thing, a bloody thing. Yeah, you corpse. He flung at Jimmy's head the biscuit. He had been all the time clutching hard, but it only grazed, and striking with a loud crack the bulkhead beyond, burst like a hand grenade into flying pieces. James Wade, as if wounded mortally, fell back on the pillow. His lips ceased to move, and the rolling eyes became quiet and stared upwards with an intense and steady persistence. Duncan was surprised. He sat suddenly on the chest and looked down, exhausted and gloomy. After a moment he began to mutter to himself. Die, you beggar. Die. Somebody will come in. I wish I was drunk. 10 days. Oysters. He looked up and spoke louder. No. No more for your. No more blooming gals that cook oysters. Who's your? It's my turn now. I wish I was drunk. I would soon give you a leg up. That's where you're bound to go. Feet fussed through a port splish. Never see your any more. Overboard. Good enough for your. Jimmy's head moved slightly, and he turned his eyes to Duncan's face, a gaze unbelieving, desolated and appealing of a child frightened by the menace of being shot up alone in the dark. Duncan observed him from the chest with hopeful eyes. Then, without rising, tried the lid. Locked. I wish I was drunk, he muttered, and getting up listened anxiously to the distant sound of footsteps on the deck. They approached, ceased. Someone yawned interminably just outside the door, and the footsteps went away shuffling lazily. Duncan's fluttering heart eased his pace, and when he looked towards the bunk again, Jimmy was staring as before at the white beam. Our your feel now, he asked. Bad breathed out, Jimmy. Duncan sat down patient and purposeful. Every half hour the bells spoke to one another, ringing along the whole length of the ship. Jimmy's respiration was so rapid that it couldn't be counted, so faint that it couldn't be heard. His eyes were terrified as though he had been looking at unspeakable horrors, and by his face one could see that he was thinking of abominable things. Suddenly, with an incredibly strong and heartbreaking voice, he sobbed out. Overboard, I, my God! Duncan writhed a little on the box. He looked unwillingly. James Waite was mute. His two long bony hands smoothed the blanket upwards as though he had wished to gather it all up under his chin. A tear, a big solitary tear, escaped from the corner of his eye, and without touching the hollow cheek, fell on the pillow. His throat rattled faintly. And Duncan, watching the end of that hateful nigger, felt the anguishing grasp of a great sorrow in his heart at the thought that he himself, some day, would have to go through it all. Just like this, perhaps, his eyes became moist. Poor beggar, he murmured. The night seemed to go by in a flash. It seemed to him he could hear the irremediable brush of precious moments. How long was this blooming affair last? Too long, surely. No luck. He did not restrain himself. He got up and approached the bunk. Waite did not stir. Only his eyes appeared alive, and his hands continued their smoothing movement with the horrible and tireless industry. Duncan bent over. Jimmy, he called low. There was no answer, but the rattle stopped. Do you see me? He asked, trembling. Jimmy's chest heaved. Duncan, looking away, bent his ear to Jimmy's lips, and heard a sound like the rustle of a single dry leaf driven along the smooth sand of a beach. It shaped itself. Waite, the lamp, and go, breathed out weight. Duncan instinctively glanced over his shoulder at the brilliant flame, then, still looking away, fell down to the pillow for a key. He got it at once, and for the next few minutes remained on his knees shakily, but swiftly busy inside the box. When he got up, his face, for the first time in his life, had a pink flesh, perhaps of triumph. He slipped the key under the pillow again, avoiding to glance at Jimmy, who had not moved. He turned his back squarely from the bunk and started to the door as though he were going to walk a mile. At his second stride, he had his nose against it. He clutched the handle cautiously, but at that moment he received the irresistible impression of something happening behind his back. He spun round as though he had been tapped on the shoulder. He was just in time to see Waite's eyes blaze up and go out at once, like two lamps, overturned together by a sweeping blow. Something resembling the scarlet thread hung down his chin out of the corner of his lips, and he had ceased to breathe. Donken closed the door behind him gently but firmly. Sleeping men huddled under jackets, made on the lighted deck, shapeless dark mounds that had the appearance of neglected graves. Nothing had been done all through the night, and he hadn't been missed. He stood motionless and perfectly astounded to find the world outside as he had left it. There was the sea, the ship, sleeping men, and he wondered absurdly at it, as though he had expected to find the men dead, familiar things gone forever, as though, like a wanderer returning after many years, he had expected to see bewildering changes. He shuddered a little in the penetrating freshness of the air, and hugged himself forlornly. The declining moon drooped sadly in the western board, as if withered by the cold touch of a pale dawn. The ship slept, and the immortal seas stretched away immense and hazy, like the image of life with a glittering surface and lightless depths. Donken gave it a defiant glance, and slunk off noiselessly as if judged and cast out by the august silence of its might. Jimmy's death, after all, came as a tremendous surprise. We did not know till then how much faith we had put in his delusions. We had taken his chances of life so much at his own valuation that his death, like the death of an old belief, shook the foundations of our society. A common bond was gone, the strong, effective and respectable bond of a sentimental lie. All that day we mooned at our work, with suspicious looks and the disabused air. In our hearts we thought that in the manner of his departure Jimmy had acted in a perverse and unfriendly manner. He didn't back us up as the shipmate should. In going he took away with himself the gloomy and solemn shadow in which our folly had posed, with humane satisfaction, as a tender arbiter of fate. And now we saw it was no such thing. It was just common foolishness, a silly and ineffectual meddling with issues of majestic import. That is, if Podmore was right. Perhaps he was. Doubt survived, Jimmy, and like a community of banded criminals disintegrated by a touch of grace, we were profoundly scandalized with each other. Men spoke unkindly to their best chums. Others refused to speak at all. Singleton only was not surprised. Dead is he, of course, he said, pointing at the island right of beam, for the calm still held the ship spellbound within sight of Flores. Dead, of course. He wasn't surprised. Here was the land, and there, on the forehatch and waiting for the sailmaker. There was that corpse. And for the first time that voyage, the old seaman became quite cheery and garulous, explaining and illustrating from the stores of experience how, in sickness, the sight of an island, even a very small one, is generally more fatal than the view of a continent. But he couldn't explain why. Jimmy was to be buried at five, and it was a long day until then, a day of mental disquiet and even of physical disturbance. We took no interest in our work, and, very properly, were rebuked for it. This, in our constant state of hungry irritation, was exasperating. Duncan worked with his brow bound in a dirty rag, and looked so ghastly that Mr. Baker was touched with compassion at the sight of this plucky suffering. You, Duncan, put down your work and go lay up this watch. You look ill. I am bad, sir, in my head, he said in a subdued voice, and vanished speedily. This annoyed many, and they thought they'd made bloom and soft today. Captain Olliston could be seen on the poop watching the sky to the southwest, and it soon got to be known about the decks that the barometer had begun to fall in the night, and that a breeze might be expected before long. This, by a subtle association of ideas, led to violent quarreling as to the exact moment of Jimmy's death. Was it before or after that air-glass started down? It was impossible to know, and it caused much contemptuous growling at one another. All of a sudden there was a great tumult forward. Pacific gnolls and good-natured Davis had come to blows over it. The watch below interfered with spirit, and for 10 minutes there was a noisy scrimmage round the hatch, where, in the balancing shade of the sails, Jimmy's body, wrapped up in a white blanket, was watched over by this oracle Belfast, who, in his desolation, disdained the fray. When the noise had ceased and the passions had calmed into surly silence, he stood up at the head of the swathed body, lifting both arms on high, cried with pain indignation. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. We were. Belfast took his bereavement very hard. He gave proofs of inextinguable devotion. It was he, and no other man, who would help the sailmaker to prepare what was left of Jimmy for a solemn surrender to the insatiable sea. He arranged the weights carefully at the feet, two holy stones, an old anchor shackle without its pin, some broken links of a worn-out stream-cable. He arranged them this way and then that. Bless my soul, you aren't afraid he will shave his heel, said the sailmaker, who hated the job. He pushed the needle, purring furiously, with his head in a cloud of tobacco smoke. He turned the flaps over, pulled at the stitches, stretched at the canvas, lifted shoulders, pulled to you a bit. So steady. Belfast obeyed, pulled, lifted, overcome with sorrow, dropping tears on the tarred twine. Don't you drag the canvas too taut over his poor face, sails, he entreated tearfully. What are you fashion yourself for? He will be comfortable enough, assured the sailmaker, cutting the thread after the last stitch, which came about the middle of Jimmy's forehead. He rolled up the remaining canvas, put away the needles. What makes you take on so, he asked. Belfast looked down at a long package of gray sailcloth. I pulled him out, he whispered, and he did not want to go. If I had sat up with him last night, he would have kept alive for me, but something made me tired. The sailmaker took vigorous draws that his pipe had mumbled when I, West India Station, in the Blanche frigate, Yellowjack, sewed in twenty men a week, Portsmouth Devon Portman, townies, knew their fathers, mothers, sisters, the whole boiling of them, thought nothing of it. And these niggers like this one, you don't know where it comes from. Got nobody. No use to nobody. Who will miss him? I do. I pulled him out, more in Belfast, dismally. On two planks nailed together and apparently resigned and still under the folds of the Union Jack with a white border, James Waite, carried aft by four men, was deposited slowly with his feet pointing at an open port. As well had set in from the westward and following on the roll of the ship, the red ensign, at half-mast, darted out and collapsed again on the gray sky, like a tongue of flickering fire. Charlie told the bell, and at every swing to starboard the whole vast semi-circle of steely waters, visible on that side, seemed to come up with a rush to the edge of the port, as if impatient to get it, our Jimmy. Everyone was there but Donkin, who was too ill to come. The captain and Mr. Crichton stood bareheaded on the break of the poop, Mr. Baker directed by the master who had said to him gravely, You know more about the prayer book than I do, came out of the captain door quickly and a little embarrassed. All the caps went off. He began to read in a low tone, and with his usual harmlessly menacing utterance, as though he had been, for the last time, reproving confidentially that dead semen at his feet. The men listened in scattered groups. They leaned on the fife rail, gazing on the deck. They held their chins in their hands thoughtfully, or with crossed arms, and one knee slightly bent, hung their heads in an attitude of upright meditation. Womebo dreamed. Mr. Baker read on, grunting reverently at the turn of every page. The words, missing the unsteady hearts of men, rolled out to wander without a home upon the heartless sea, and James Wade, silenced forever, lay uncritical and passive under the hoarse murmur of despair and hopes. Two men made ready and waited for those words that sent so many of our brothers to their last plunge. Mr. Baker began the passage. Stand by, muttered the boatsman. Mr. Baker read out to the deep and paused. The men lifted the inboard end of the planks. The boatsmen snatched off the Union Jack, and James Wade did not move. Higher, muttered the boatsman angrily. But all the heads were raised, every man stirred uneasily, but James Wade gave no sign of going. In death and swathed up for all eternity, he yet seemed to cling to the ship with a grip of an undying fear. Higher, lift, whispered the boatsman fiercely. He won't go, stammered one of the men, shakily, and both appeared ready to drop everything. Mr. Baker waited, burying his face in the book and shuffling his feet nervously. All the men looked profoundly disturbed, from their midst a faint humming noise spread out, growing louder. Jimmy cried Belfast in a wailing tone, and there was a second of shuddering dismay. Jimmy, be a man, he shrieked passionately. Every mouth was wide open, not an eyelid winked. He stared wildly, twitching all over. He bent his body forward like a man peering at a horror. Go! he shouted, and sprang out of the crowd with his arm extended. Go, Jimmy! Jimmy, go! Go! His fingers touched the head of the body, and the gray package started reluctantly to whiz off the lifted planks all at once with the suddenness of a flash of lightning. The crowd stepped forward like one man, a deep ah, came out vibrating from the broad chests. The ship rolled as if relieved of an unfair burden. The sails flapped. Belfast, supported by Archie, gassed hysterically, and Charlie, who anxious to see Jimmy's last dive, leaped headlong on a rail, was too late to see anything but the faint circle of a vanishing ripple. Mr. Baker, perspiring abundantly, read out the last prayer in a deep rumor of excited men and fluttering sails. Amen, he said in an unsteady growl, and closed the book. Square the yards, thundered a voice above his head. All hands gave a jump, one or two dropped their caps. Mr. Baker looked up surprised. The master, standing on the break of the poop, pointed to the westward. Breeze coming, he said. Man the weather braces. Mr. Baker crammed the book hurriedly into his pocket. Forward there, let go the foretack, he hailed joyfully, bareheaded and brisk. Square the four-yard, you port watch. Fair wind, fair wind, muttered the men going to the braces. What did I tell you, mumbled old Singleton, flinging down coil after coil with hasty energy? I knowed it. He's gone, and here it comes. It came with the sound of a lofty and powerful sigh. The sails filled, the ship gathered way, and the waking sea began to murmur screfully of home to the years of men. That night, while the ship rushed foaming to the northward before a freshening gale, the boats had unboosened himself to the petty officer's berth. The chap was nothing but trouble, and he said, from the moment he came aboard, do you remember that night in Bombay? Benbole, in all that softy crowd, cheeked the old man. We had to go fooling all over a half-drowned ship to save him. Damned I am mutiny, all for him. And now the mate abused me like a pickpocket before forgetting to dab a lump of grease on them planks. So I did, but you ought to have known better, too, than to leave a nail sticking up, eh, chips? And you ought to have known better than chuck all my tools overboard for him, like a skeery greenhorn, retorted the morose carpenter. Well, he's gone after him now. He added in an unforgiving tone. On the china station, I remember once the admiral, he says to me, began the sail-maker. End of Chapter 5 Part 2 A week afterwards, the Narcissus entered the chops of the channel. Under white wings, she skimmed low over the blue sea, like a great-tired bird speeding to its nest. The clouds raced with her mast heads. They rose as stern, enormous, and white. Soared to the zenith, flew past, and falling down the wide curve of the sky, seemed to dash headlong into the sea. The clouds swifter than the ship, more free, but without a home. The coast to welcome her stepped out of space into the sunshine. The lofty headlands trod masterfully into the sea. The white bay smiled in the light. The shadows of homeless clouds ran along the sunny plains, leaped over valleys, without a check darted up the hills, rolled down the slopes, and the sunshine pursued them with patches of running brightness. On the brows of dark cliffs, white lighthouses, shone in pillars of light. The channel glittered like a blue mantle, shot with gold, and starred by the silver of the capping seas. The Narcissus rushed past the headlands in the bays, outward bound vessels crossed her track, lying over, and with her mast stripped for a slogging fight with a hard-saw wester. And in shore, a string of smoking steamboats waddled, hugging the coast like migrating and amphibious monsters, distrustful of the restless waves. At night, the headlands retreated. The bays advanced into one unbroken line of gloom. The lights of the earth mingled with the lights of heaven, and above the tossing lanterns of a trawling fleet, a great lighthouse shone steadily, like an enormous riding light, burning above a vessel of fabulous dimensions. Below, at steady glow, the coast, stretching away straight and black, resembled the high side of an indestructible craft riding motionless upon the immortal and unresting sea. The dark land lay alone in the midst of waters, like a mighty ship bestowed with vigilant lights, of a ship carrying the burden of millions of lives, a ship freighted with dross and with jewels, with gold and with steel. She towered up immense and strong, guarding priceless traditions and untold suffering, sheltering glorious memories and base forgetfulness, ignomal virtues and splendid transgressions. A great ship, for ages, had the ocean battered in vain, her enduring sides. She was there when the world was faster and darker, when the sea was great and mysterious, and ready to surrender the prize of fame to audacious men. A ship mother of fleets and nations. The great flagship of the race, stronger than the storms, and anchored in the open sea. The Narcissus, healing over to offshore gusts, rounded the south foreland, passed through the downs, and, in tow, entered the river. Shorn of the glory of her white wings, she wound obediently after the tug through the maze of invisible channels. As she passed them, the red-painted light-vessels swung at their moorings, seemed for an instant to sail with great speed in the rush of tide, and the next moment were left hopelessly behind. The great buoys on the tails of banks slipped past her sides very low, and, dropping in her wake, tugged at their chains like fierce watchdogs. The reach narrowed from both sides the land approached the ship. She went steadily up the river. On the riverside slopes, the houses appeared in groups, seemed to stream down the declivities at a run to see her pass, and, checked by the mud of the foreshore, crowded on the banks. Further on, the tall factory chimneys appeared in insolent bands, and watched her go by like a straggling crowd of swim giants, swaggering and upright under the black pommants of smoke, cavilarially aslant. She swept round the bends, and in pure breeze shrieked a welcome between her stripped spars, and the land, closing in, stepped between the ship and the sea. A low cloud hung before her, a great opalescent and tremulous cloud that seemed to rise from the steaming brows of millions of men. Long drifts of smoky vapors soiled it with vivid trails, it throbbed to the beat of millions of hearts, and from it came an immense and lamentable murmur. The murmur of millions of lips praying, cursing, sighing, jeering. The undying murmur of folly, regret, and hope exhaled by the crowds of the anxious earth. The narcissist entered the cloud, the shadows deepened. On all sides there was the clang of iron, the sound of mighty blows, shrieks, yells. Black barges drifted stethily on the murky stream. A mad jumble of begrimmed walls bloomed up vaguely in the smoke, bewildering and mournful like a vision of disaster. The tugs backed and filled in the stream to hold the ship steady at the dock gates. From her bows two lines went through the air whistling and struck at the land viciously, like a pair of snakes. A bridge broken too before her, as if by enchantment. Big hydraulic capstans began to turn all by themselves, as though animated by a mysterious and unholy spell. She moved through a narrow lane of water between two low walls of granite, and men with check ropes in their hands kept pace with her, walking on the broad flagstones. A group waited impatiently on each side of the vanished bridge. Rough heavy men in caps, sour-faced men in high hats, two bare-headed women, ragged children, fascinated and with wide eyes. A cart coming at a jerky trot pulled up sharply. One of the women screamed at this island ship, hello Jack, without looking at anyone in particular, and all hands looked at her from the folksal head. Stand clear, stand clear of that rope, cried the document, bending over stone posts. The crowd murmured, stamped where they stood. Let go your quarter-checks, let go, sang out a ruddy-faced old man on the kay. The rope splashed heavily, falling in the water, and the narcissists entered the dock. The stony shores ran away right and left in straight lines, enclosing a somber and rectangular pool. Brick walls rose high above the water, soulless walls staring through hundreds of windows, as troubled and dull as the eyes of overfed brutes. At their base, monstrous iron cranes scratched, with chains hanging from their long necks, balancing cruel-looking hooks over the decks of lifeless ships. A noise of wheels rolling over stones, the thump of heavy things falling, the racket of feverish winches, the grinding of strained chains floated on the air. Between high buildings, the dust of all the continent's sword and short flights, and a penetrating smell of perfumes and dirt, of spices and hides, of things costly and of things filthy, pervaded the space, made for it an atmosphere precious and disgusting. The narcissists came gently into her birth. The shadows of soulless walls fell upon her. The dust of all the continents leaped upon her deck, and a swarm of strange men clambering up her sides, took possession of her in the name of the sordid earth. She had ceased to live. A toffin, a black coat and hi-hat scrambled with agility, came up to the second mate, shook hands, and said, hello, Herbert, it was his brother. A lady appeared suddenly, a real lady in a black dress and with a parasol. She looked extremely elegant in the midst of us, and as strange as if she had fallen there from the sky. Mr. Baker touched his cap to her. It was the master's wife. And very soon the captain, dressed very smartly and in a white shirt, went with her over the side. We didn't recognize him at all till, turning up the K, he called to Mr. Baker, don't forget to wind up the chronometers tomorrow morning. An underhand lot of seedy-looking chaps with shifty eyes wandered in and out of the folks still looking for a job, they said. More likely for something to steal, commented Knowles cheerfully. Poor Baker's. Who cared? Weren't we home? But Mr. Baker went for one of them who had given him some cheek, and we were delighted. Everything was delightful. I finished half, sir, called out Mr. Crichton. No water in the well, sir, reported for the last time the carpenter's sounding rod in hand. Mr. Baker glanced along the decks at the expectant group of sailors, glanced aloft at the yards. Ah, that will do, men, he grunted. The crowd broke up. The voyage was ended. Rolled up beds went flying over the rail. Lice chests went sliding down the gangway. Mighty few of both at that. The rest is having the crews off the cape, explained Knowles, connecting them magnetically to a dock loafer with whom he had struck a sudden friendship. Men ran, calling to one another, hailing utter strangers to lend a hand with the donnage. Then with sudden decorum approached the mate to shake hands before going ashore. Good-bye, sir, they repeated in various tones. Mr. Baker grasped hard palms, grunted in a friendly manner at every one, his eyes twinkled. Take care of your money, Knowles. Ah, soon get a nice wife, if you do. The lame man was delighted. Good-bye, sir, said Belfast, with emotion ringing the mate's hand, and looked up with swimming eyes. I thought I would take him ashore with me. He went on, plainly. Mr. Baker did not understand, but said kindly. Take care of yourself, Craig, and the bereaved Belfast went over the rail morning and alone. Mr. Baker, in a sudden piece of the ship, moved about solitary and grunting, trying door handles, peering into dark places, never done. A model chief mate. No one waited for him ashore. Mother dead, father and two brothers, Yarmouth fishermen, drowned together on the doggere bank, sister married and unfriendly. Quite a lady. To the leading tailor of a little town, and its leading politician, he did not think his sailor brother-in-law quite respectable enough for him. Quite a lady, quite a lady, he thought, sitting down for a moment's rest on the quarter-deck. Time enough to go ashore and get a bite and sip, and a bed somewhere. He didn't like to part with the ship. No one to think about then. The darkness of a misty evening fell, cold and damp, upon the deserted deck, and Mr. Baker sought smoking, thinking of all the successive ships to whom, through many a long years, he had given the best of his eamon's care, and never a command in sight, not once. I haven't somehow the cut of his kipper about me. He meditated placidly, while the shipkeeper, who had taken possession of the golly, a wizened old man with bliered eyes, cursed him and whispers for hanging about so. Now, frightened, he pursued the unenvious train of thought. Quite a gentleman, swell friends, we'll get on, find the young fellow, a little more experience. He got up and shook himself. I'll be back first thing to-morrow morning for the hatches. Don't you let them touch anything before I come, shipkeeper, he called out. Then, at last, he went ashore, a model chiefmate. The men, scattered by the dissolving contact of land, came together once more in the shipping office. Then our sissus pays off, shouted outside a glazed door, a brass-bound old fellow with a crown and the capitol's BT on his cap. A lot trooped in at once, but many were late. The room was large, whitewashed and bare, a counter surmounted by a brass wire grating fenced off a third of the dusty space, and behind the grating a pasty-faced clerk, with his hair parted in the middle, had the quick glittering eyes and the vivacious jerky movements of a caged bird. Poor Captain Alaston, also in there, and sitting before a little table with piles of gold and notes on it, appeared subdued by his captivity. Another board of trade bird was perching on a high stool near the door, an old bird that did not mind the shaft of a lighted sailor's. The crew of the Narcissus, broken up into knots, pushed in the corners. They had new shore-togs, smart jackets that looked as if they had been shaped with an axe, glossy trousers that seemed made of crumpled sheet-iron, colorless flannel shirts, shiny new boots. They tapped on shoulders, button-hold one another, asked where did you sleep last night, whispered gaily, slapped their thighs with bursts of subdued laughter. Most had clean, radiant faces, only one or two turned up disheveled and sad. The two young Norwegians looked tidy, meek, and altogether of a promising material for the kind ladies who patronized the Scandinavian home. Lamebo, still on his working clothes, dreamed upright and burly in the middle of the room, and, when Archie came in, woke up for a smile. But the wide-awake clerk called out a name, and the paying-off business began. One by one they came up to the pay-table to get the wages of their glorious and obscure toil. They swept the money with care into broad palms, rammed it trustfully into trousers pockets, or, turning their backs on the table, reckoned with difficulty in the hollow with their stiff hands. Money right? Sign the relays. There, there, repeated the clerk impatiently. How stupid those sailors are, he thought. Singleton came up, venerable, and uncertain as to daylight. Brown drops of tobacco juice hung in his white beard. His hands, that never hesitated in the great light of the open sea, could hardly find the small pile of gold in the profound darkness of the shore. Can't write, asked the clerk, shocked? Make a mark, then. Singleton, painfully sketched in a heavy cross, blotted the page. What a disgusting old brute, muttered the clerk. Somebody opened the door for him, and the patriarchal seamen passed through unsteadily, without as much as a glance at any of us. Archie displayed a pocketbook. He was shaved. Belfast, who looked wild as though he had already left up through a public house or two, gave signs of emotion and wanted to speak to the captain privately. The master was surprised. They spoke through the wires, and we could hear the captain saying, I've given it up to the board of trade. I should have liked to get something of his, mumbled Belfast. But you can't, my man. It's given up, locked, and sealed, to the marine office, expostulated the master. And Belfast stood back with drooping mouth and troubled eyes. In the pause of the business, we heard the master and the clerk talking. We got James Waite, deceased, found no papers of any kind, no relations, no trace. The office must hold his wages, then. Duncan entered. He seemed out of breath, was grave, full of business. He went straight to the desk, talked with animation to the clerk, without him an intelligent man. They discussed the account, dropping h's against one another as if for a wager, very friendly. Captain Alliston paid. I give you a bad discharge, he said quietly. Duncan raised his voice. I don't want your Bloomin' discharge. Keep it. I'm going to have a job ashore. He turned to us. No more Bloomin' C for me, he said aloud. All looked at him. He had better clothes, had an easy air, appeared more at home than any of us. He stared with assurance and joined the effect of his declaration. Yoss, I have friends well off. That's more than you got. But I am a man. You're shipmates for all that. Who's coming for a drink? No one moved. There was a silence, a silence of blank faces and stony looks. He waited a moment, smiled bitterly, and went to the door. There he faced round once more. You won't? You Bloomin' lot of hyper-kits? No? What have I done to your? Did I bully your? Did I hurt your? Did I? You won't drink? No. Then may ye die of thirst every mother's son of your, not one of your as the spirit of a bug. Ye are the scum of the world, work and starve. He went out and slammed the door of such violence that the old board of trade-bird nearly fell off his perch. He's mad, declared Archie. No, no, he's drunk, consisted Belfast, lurching about, and in a modeling tone. Captain Holliston sat smiling thoughtfully at the cleared pay table. Outside, on Tower Hill, they blinked, hesitated clumsily as if blinded by the strange quality of the hazy light, as if discomposed by the view of so many men, and they who could hear one another in the howl of gales seemed deafened and distracted by the dull roar of the busy earth. To the black horse, to the black horse, cried some, let us have a drink together before we part. They crossed the road, clinging to one another. Only Charlie and Belfast wandered off alone. As I came up, I saw a red-faced, blousy woman in a gray shawl, and with dusty, fluffy hair, fall on Charlie's neck. It was his mother. She slobbered over him. Oh, my boy, my boy! Legola me, said Charlie. Legola, mother. I was passing him at the time and over the untidy head of the blubbering woman he gave me a humorous smile and a glance ironic, courageous, and profound that seemed to put all my knowledge of life to shame. I nodded and passed on, but heard him say again goodnaturedly. If you let go of me this minute, you shall have a bob for a drink out of my pay. In the next few steps I came upon Belfast. He caught my arm with tremulous enthusiasm. I couldn't go with him, he stammered, indicating by a knob our noisy crowd that drifted slowly along the other sidewalk. When I think of Jimmy, poor Jim, when I think of him I have no heart for drink. You were his chum, too, but I pulled him out, didn't I? Short wool he had. Yes, and I stole the blooming pie. He wouldn't go. He wouldn't go for nobody. He burst into tears. I never touched him. Never, never, he sobbed. He went for me like a lamb. I disengaged myself gently. Belfast's crying fits generally ended in a fight with someone, and I wasn't anxious to stand the brunt of his inconsolable sorrow. Moreover, two bulky policemen stood nearby, looking at us with a disapproving and incorruptible gaze. So long, I said, and went on my way. But at the corner I stopped to take my last look at the crew of the Narcissus. They were swaying irresolute and noisy on the broad flagged stones before the mint. They were bound for the black horse, where men in fur caps with brutal faces and in shirt sleeves disperse out of varnished barrels, the illusions of strength, mirth, happiness, the illusion of splendor and poetry of life to the paid-off crew of southern-going ships. From afar I saw them discoursing with jovial eyes and clumsy gestures, while the sea of life thundered into their ears, ceaseless and unheeded. And swaying about there on the white stones surrounded by the hurry and clamor of men, they appeared to be creatures of another kind. Alone, forgetful, and doomed, they were like castaways, like reckless and joyous castaways, like mad castaways making merry in the storm and upon an insecure ledge of a treacherous rock. The roar of the town resembled the roar of the topping breakers, merciless and strong, with a loud voice and cruel purpose, but overhead the clouds broke, a flood of sunshine streamed down the walls of grimy houses. The dark knot of seamen drifted in sunshine. To the left of them the trees and tower-garden side, the stones of the tower gleaming seemed to stir in the play of light, as if remembering suddenly all those great joys and sorrows of the past, the fighting prototypes of these men, press gangs, mutinous cries, the wailing of women by the riverside, and the shouts of men welcoming victories. The sunshine of heaven fell like a gift of grace on the mud of the earth, on the remembering and mute stones, on greed, selfishness, on the anxious faces of the forgetful men. And to the right of the dark group, the stained front of the men, cleansed by the flood of light, stood out for a moment dazzling and white like a marble palace in a fairy tale. The crew of the Narcissus drifted out of sight. I never saw them again. The sea took some, the steamers took others, the graveyards of the earth will account for the rest. Singleton is no doubt taken with him the long record of his faithful work into the peaceful depths of a hospitable sea. In Duncan, who never did a decent day's work in his life, no doubt earns his living by discoursing with filthy eloquence upon the right of labor to live. So be it. Let the earth and the sea each have its own. A gone shipmate, like any other man, has gone forever. And I never met one of them again. But at times the spring flood of memory sets with the force up the dark river of the nine bends. Then on the waters of the four-learned stream drifts a ship, a shadowy ship manned by a crew of shades. They pass and make a sign and a shadowy hail. Haven't we, together and upon the immortal sea, rung out a meaning from our sinful lives? Goodbye, brothers. You were a good crowd. As good a crowd is ever fisted with wild cries, the beating canvas of a heavy foresail, or tossing a loft invisible in the night, gave back yell for yell to a westerly gale. The end. End of chapter 5, End of the Nigger of the Narcissus. The Nigger of the Narcissus was recorded by Tom Crawford in Kool, California, USA, and proof listened by Sheila Mitchell and Nadine M. Sher England in spring and summer of 2010.