Part 8 (1/2)

Faces recurred, fierce memories of the yard, The frozen sail, the savage eyes, the jests, The oaths of one great seaman, syphilis-scarred, The tug of leeches jammed beneath their chests, The buntlines bellying bunts out into b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

The deck so desolate-grey, the sky so wild, He fell asleep, and slept like a young child.

But not for long; the cold awoke him soon, The hot-ache and the skin-cracks and the cramp, The seas thundering without, the gale's wild tune, The sopping misery of the blankets damp.

A speaking-trumpet roared; a sea-boot's stamp Clogged at the door. A man entered to shout: ”All hands on deck! Arouse here! Tumble out!”

The caller raised the lamp; his oilskins clicked As the thin ice upon them cracked and fell.

”Rouse out!” he said. ”This lamp is frozen wick'd.

Rouse out!” His accent deepened to a yell.

”We're among ice; it's blowing up like h.e.l.l.

We're going to hand both topsails. Time, I guess, We're sheeted up. Rouse out! Don't stay to dress!”

”Is it cold on deck?” said Dauber. ”Is it cold?

We're sheeted up, I tell you, inches thick!

The fo'c'sle's like a wedding-cake, I'm told.

Now tumble out, my sons; on deck here, quick!

Rouse out, away, and come and climb the stick.

I'm going to call the half-deck. Bosun! Hey!

Both topsails coming in. Heave out! Away!”

He went; the Dauber tumbled from his bunk, Clutching the side. He heard the wind go past, Making the great s.h.i.+p wallow as if drunk.

There was a shocking tumult up the mast.

”This is the end,” he muttered, ”come at last!

I've got to go aloft, facing this cold.

I can't. I can't. I'll never keep my hold.

”I cannot face the topsail yard again.

I never guessed what misery it would be.”

The cramps and hot-ache made him sick with pain.

The s.h.i.+p stopped suddenly from a devilish sea, Then, with a triumph of wash, a rush of glee, The door burst in, and in the water rolled, Filling the lower bunks, black, creaming, cold.

The lamp sucked out. ”Was.h.!.+” went the water back, Then in again, flooding; the Bosun swore.

”You useless thing! You Dauber! You lee slack!

Get out, you heekapoota! Shut the door!

You coo-ilyaira, what are you waiting for?

Out of my way, you thing--you useless thing!”

He slammed the door indignant, clanging the ring.

And then he lit the lamp, drowned to the waist; ”Here's a fine house! Get at the scupper-holes”-- He bent against it as the water raced-- ”And pull them out to leeward when she rolls.

They say some kinds of landsmen don't have souls.

I well believe. A Port Mahon baboon Would make more soul than you got with a spoon.”

Down in the icy water Dauber groped To find the plug; the racing water sluiced Over his head and shoulders as she sloped.

Without, judged by the sound, all h.e.l.l was loosed.

He felt cold Death about him tightly noosed.

That Death was better than the misery there Iced on the quaking foothold high in air.

And then the thought came: ”I'm a failure. All My life has been a failure. They were right.

It will not matter if I go and fall; I should be free then from this h.e.l.l's delight.