The Nigger of the Narcissus | Page 8

Go an'
put yer 'ed in a bag!..." The hubbub was recommencing. Suddenly
many heavy blows struck with a handspike on the deck above boomed
like discharges of small cannon through the forecastle. Then the
boatswain's voice rose outside the door with an authoritative note in its
drawl:--"D'ye hear, below there? Lay aft! Lay aft to muster all hands!"

There was a moment of surprised stillness. Then the forecastle floor
disappeared under men whose bare feet flopped on the planks as they
sprang clear out of their berths. Caps were rooted for amongst tumbled
blankets. Some, yawning, buttoned waistbands. Half-smoked pipes
were knocked hurriedly against woodwork and stuffed under pillows.
Voices growled:--"What's up?... Is there no rest for us?" Donkin
yelped:--"If that's the way of this ship, we'll 'ave to change all that....
You leave me alone.... I will soon...." None of the crowd noticed him.
They were lurching in twos and threes through the doors, after the
manner of merchant Jacks who cannot go out of a door fairly, like mere
landsmen. The votary of change followed them. Singleton, struggling
into his jacket, came last, tall and fatherly, bearing high his head of a
weather-beaten sage on the body of an old athlete. Only Charley
remained alone in the white glare of the empty place, sitting between
the two rows of iron links that stretched into the narrow gloom forward.
He pulled hard at the strands in a hurried endeavour to finish his knot.
Suddenly he started up, flung the rope at the cat, and skipped after the
black tom which went off leaping sedately over chain compressors,
with its tail carried stiff and upright, like a small flag pole.
Outside the glare of the steaming forecastle the serene purity of the
night enveloped the seamen with its soothing breath, with its tepid
breath flowing under the stars that hung countless above the mastheads
in a thin cloud of luminous dust. On the town side the blackness of the
water was streaked with trails of light which undulated gently on slight
ripples, similar to filaments that float rooted to the shore. Rows of other
lights stood away in straight lines as if drawn up on parade between
towering buildings; but on the other side of the harbour sombre hills
arched high their black spines, on which, here and there, the point of a
star resembled a spark fallen from the sky. Far off, Byculla way, the
electric lamps at the dock gates shone on the end of lofty standards
with a glow blinding and frigid like captive ghosts of some evil moons.
Scattered all over the dark polish of the roadstead, the ships at anchor
floated in perfect stillness under the feeble gleam of their riding-lights,
looming up, opaque and bulky, like strange and monumental structures
abandoned by men to an everlasting repose.

Before the cabin door Mr. Baker was mustering the crew. As they
stumbled and lurched along past the mainmast, they could see aft his
round, broad face with a white paper before it, and beside his shoulder
the sleepy head, writh dropped eyelids, of the boy, who held,
suspended at the end of his raised arm, the luminous globe of a lamp.
Even before the shuffle of naked soles had ceased along the decks, the
mate began to call over the names. He called distinctly in a serious tone
befitting this roll-call to unquiet loneliness, to inglorious and obscure
struggle, or to the more trying endurance of small privations and
wearisome duties. As the chief mate read out a name, one of the men
would answer: "Yes, sir!" or "Here!" and, detaching himself from the
shadowy mob of heads visible above the blackness of starboard
bulwarks, would step bare-footed into the circle of light, and in two
noiseless strides pass into the shadows on the port side of the
quarterdeck. They answered in divers tones: in thick mutters, in clear,
ringing voices; and some, as if the whole thing had been an outrage on
their feelings, used an injured intonation: for discipline is not
ceremonious in merchant ships, where the sense of hierarchy is weak,
and where all feel themselves equal before the unconcerned immensity
of the sea and the exacting appeal of the work. Mr. Baker read on
steadily:--"Hansen--Campbell--Smith--Wamibo. Now, then, Wamibo.
Why don't you answer? Always got to call your name twice." The Finn
emitted at last an uncouth grunt, and, stepping out, passed through the
patch of light, weird and gaudy, with the face of a man marching
through a dream. The mate went on
faster:--"Craik--Singleton--Donkin.... O Lord!" he involuntarily
ejaculated as the incredibly dilapidated figure appeared in the light. It
stopped; it uncovered pale gums and long, upper teeth in a malevolent
grin.--"Is there any-think wrong with me, Mister Mate?" it asked, with
a