The Nigger of the Narcissus | Page 4

through the
open doors of the forecastle, two streaks of brilliant light cut the
shadow of the quiet night that lay upon the ship. A hum of voices was
heard there, while port and starboard, in the illuminated doorways,
silhouettes of moving men appeared for a moment, very black, without
relief, like figures cut out of sheet tin. The ship was ready for sea. The
carpenter had driven in the last wedge of the mainhatch battens, and,
throwing down his maul, had wiped his face with great deliberation,
just on the stroke of five. The decks had been swept, the windlass oiled
and made ready to heave up the anchor; the big tow-rope lay in long
bights along one side of the main deck, with one end carried up and
hung over the bows, in readiness for the tug that would come paddling
and hissing noisily, hot and smoky, in the limpid, cool quietness of the
early morning. The captain was ashore, where he had been engaging
some new hands to make up his full crew; and, the work of the day
over, the ship's officers had kept out of the way, glad of a little
breathing-time. Soon after dark the few liberty-men and the new hands
began to arrive in shore-boats rowed by white-clad Asiatics, who
clamoured fiercely for payment before coming alongside the
gangway-ladder. The feverish and shrill babble of Eastern language
struggled against the masterful tones of tipsy seamen, who argued
against brazen claims and dishonest hopes by profane shouts. The
resplendent and bestarred peace of the East was torn into squalid tatters
by howls of rage and shrieks of lament raised over sums ranging from
five annas to half a rupee; and every soul afloat in Bombay Harbour
became aware that the new hands were joining the Narcissus.

Gradually the distracting noise had subsided. The boats came no longer
in splashing clusters of three or four together, but dropped alongside
singly, in a subdued buzz of expostulation cut short by a "Not a pice
more! You go to the devil!" from some man staggering up the
accommodation-ladder--a dark figure, with a long bag poised on the
shoulder. In the forecastle the newcomers, upright and swaying
amongst corded boxes and bundles of bedding, made friends with the
old hands, who sat one above another in the two tiers of bunks, gazing
at their future shipmates with glances critical but friendly. The two
forecastle lamps were turned up high, and shed an intense hard glare;
shore-going round hats were pushed far on the backs of heads, or rolled
about on the deck amongst the chain-cables; white collars, undone,
stuck out on each side of red faces; big arms in white sleeves
gesticulated; the growling voices hummed steady amongst bursts of
laughter and hoarse calls. "Here, sonny, take that bunk!... Don't you do
it!... What's your last ship?... I know her.... Three years ago, in Puget
Sound.... This here berth leaks, I tell you!... Come on; give us a chance
to swing that chest!... Did you bring a bottle, any of you shore toffs?...
Give us a bit of 'baccy.... I know her; her skipper drank himself to
death.... He was a dandy boy!... Liked his lotion inside, he did!... No!...
Hold your row, you chaps!... I tell you, you came on board a hooker,
where they get their money's worth out of poor Jack, by--!..."
A little fellow, called Craik and nicknamed Belfast, abused the ship
violently, romancing on principle, just to give the new hands something
to think over. Archie, sitting aslant on his sea-chest, kept his knees out
of the way, and pushed the needle steadily through a white patch in a
pair of blue trousers. Men in black jackets and stand-up collars, mixed
with men bare-footed, bare-armed, with coloured shirts open on hairy
chests, pushed against one another in the middle of the forecastle. The
group swayed, reeled, turning upon itself with the motion of a
scrimmage, in a haze of tobacco smoke. All were speaking together,
swearing at every second word. A Russian Finn, wearing a yellow shirt
with pink stripes, stared upwards, dreamy-eyed, from under a mop of
tumbled hair. Two young giants with smooth, baby faces--two
Scandinavians--helped each other to spread their bedding, silent, and
smiling placidly at the tempest of good-humoured and meaningless

curses. Old Singleton, the oldest able seaman in the ship, set apart on
the deck right under the lamps, stripped to the waist, tattooed like a
cannibal chief all over his powerful chest and enormous biceps.
Between the blue and red patterns his white skin gleamed like satin; his
bare back was propped against the heel of the bowsprit, and he held a
book at arm's length before his big, sunburnt face. With his spectacles
and a venerable white beard,