The Nigger of the Narcissus | Page 7

that
meant to be hearty but was impudent.--"Blamme if you don't look a

blamed sight worse than a broken-down fireman," was the comment in
a convinced mutter. Charley lifted his head and piped in a cheeky voice:
"He is a man and a sailor"--then wiping his nose with the back of his
hand bent down industriously over his bit of rope. A few laughed.
Others stared doubtfully. The ragged newcomer was indignant--"That's
a fine way to welcome a chap into a fo'c'sle," he snarled. "Are you men
or a lot of 'artless canny-bals?"--"Don't take your shirt off for a word,
shipmate," called out Belfast, jumping up in front, fiery, menacing, and
friendly at the same time.--"Is that 'ere bloke blind?" asked the
indomitable scarecrow, looking right and left with affected surprise.
"Can't 'ee see I 'aven't got no shirt?"
He held both his arms out crosswise and shook the rags that hung over
his bones with dramatic effect.
"'Cos why?" he continued very loud. "The bloody Yankees been tryin'
to jump my guts out 'cos I stood up for my rights like a good 'un. I am
an Englishman, I am. They set upon me an' I 'ad to run. That's why.
A'n't yer never seed a man 'ard up? Yah! What kind of blamed ship is
this? I'm dead broke. I 'aven't got nothink. No bag, no bed, no blanket,
no shirt--not a bloomin' rag but what I stand in. But I 'ad the 'art to
stand up agin' them Yankees. 'As any of you 'art enough to spare a pair
of old pants for a chum?"
He knew how to conquer the naïve instincts of that crowd. In a moment
they gave him their compassion, jocularly, contemptuously, or surlily;
and at first it took the shape of a blanket thrown at him as he stood
there with the white skin of his limbs showing his human kinship
through the black fantasy of his rags. Then a pair of old shoes fell at his
muddy feet. With a cry:--"From under," a rolled-up pair of canvas
trousers, heavy with tar stains, struck him on the shoulder. The gust of
their benevolence sent a wave of sentimental pity through their
doubting hearts. They were touched by their own readiness to alleviate
a shipmate's misery. Voices cried:--"We will fit you out, old man."
Murmurs: "Never seed seech a hard case.... Poor beggar.... I've got an
old singlet.... Will that be of any use to you?... Take it, matey...." Those
friendly murmurs filled the forecastle. He pawed around with his naked

foot, gathering the things in a heap and looked about for more.
Unemotional Archie perfunctorily contributed to the pile an old cloth
cap with the peak torn off. Old Singleton, lost in the serene regions of
fiction, read on unheeding. Charley, pitiless with the wisdom of youth,
squeaked:--"If you want brass buttons for your new unyforms I've got
two for you." The filthy object of universal charity shook his fist at the
youngster.--"I'll make you keep this 'ere fo'c'sle clean, young feller," he
snarled viciously. "Never you fear. I will learn you to be civil to an able
seaman, you ignerant ass." He glared harmfully, but saw Singleton shut
his book, and his little beady eyes began to roam from berth to
berth.--"Take that bunk by the door there--it's pretty fair," suggested
Belfast. So advised, he gathered the gifts at his feet, pressed them in a
bundle against his breast, then looked cautiously at the Russian Finn,
who stood on one side with an unconscious gaze, contemplating,
perhaps, one of those weird visions that haunt the men of his
race.--"Get out of my road, Dutchy," said the victim of Yankee
brutality. The Finn did not move--did not hear. "Get out, blast ye,"
shouted the other, shoving him aside with his elbow. "Get out, you
blanked deaf and dumb fool. Get out." The man staggered, recovered
himself, and gazed at the speaker in silence.--"Those damned furriners
should be kept under," opined the amiable Donkin to the forecastle. "If
you don't teach 'em their place they put on you like anythink." He flung
all his worldly possessions into the empty bed-place, gauged with
another shrewd look the risks of the proceeding, then leaped up to the
Finn, who stood pensive and dull.--"I'll teach you to swell around," he
yelled. "I'll plug your eyes for you, you blooming square-head." Most
of the men were now in their bunks and the two had the forecastle clear
to themselves. The development of the destitute Donkin aroused
interest. He danced all in tatters before the amazed Finn, squaring from
a distance at the heavy, unmoved face. One or two men cried
encouragingly: "Go it, Whitechapel!" settling themselves luxuriously in
their beds to survey the fight. Others shouted: "Shut yer row!...