The Nigger of the Narcissus | Page 9

flavour of insolence in the forced simplicity of its tone. On both sides
of the deck subdued titters were heard.--"That'll do. Go over," growled
Mr. Baker, fixing the new hand with steady blue eyes. And Donkin
vanished suddenly out of the light into the dark group of mustered men,
to be slapped on the back and to hear flattering whispers:--"He ain't
afeard, he'll give sport to 'em, see if he don't.... Reg'lar Punch and Judy
show.... Did ye see the mate start at him?... Well! Damme, if I ever!..."
The last man had gone over, and there was a moment of silence while

the mate peered at his list.--"Sixteen, seventeen," he muttered. "I am
one hand short, bo'sen," he said aloud. The big west-countryman at his
elbow, swarthy and bearded like a gigantic Spaniard, said in a rumbling
bass:--"There's no one left forward, sir. I had a look round. He ain't
aboard, but he may, turn up before daylight."--"Ay. He may or he may
not," commented the mate, "can't make out that last name. It's all a
smudge.... That will do, men. Go below."
The distinct and motionless group stirred, broke up, began to move
forward.
"Wait!" cried a deep, ringing voice.
All stood still. Mr. Baker, who had turned away yawning, spun round
open-mouthed. At last, furious, he blurted out:--"What's this? Who said
'Wait'? What...."
But he saw a tall figure standing on the rail. It came down and pushed
through the crowd, marching with a heavy tread towards the light on
the quarterdeck. Then again the sonorous voice said with
insistence:--"Wait!" The lamplight lit up the man's body. He was tall.
His head was away up in the shadows of lifeboats that stood on skids
above the deck. The whites of his eyes and his teeth gleamed distinctly,
but the face was indistinguishable. His hands were big and seemed
gloved.
Mr. Baker advanced intrepidly. "Who are you? How dare you..." he
began.
The boy, amazed like the rest, raised the light to the man's face. It was
black. A surprised hum--a faint hum that sounded like the suppressed
mutter of the word "Nigger"--ran along the deck and escaped out into
the night. The nigger seemed not to hear. He balanced himself where he
stood in a swagger that marked time. After a moment he said
calmly:--"My name is Wait--James Wait."
"Oh!" said Mr. Baker. Then, after a few seconds of smouldering silence,
his temper blazed out. "Ah! Your name is Wait. What of that? What do

you want? What do you mean, coming shouting here?"
The nigger was calm, cool, towering, superb. The men had approached
and stood behind him in a body. He overtopped the tallest by half a
head. He said: "I belong to the ship." He enunciated distinctly, with soft
precision. The deep, rolling tones of his voice filled the deck without
effort. He was naturally scornful, unaffectedly condescending, as if
from his height of six foot three he had surveyed all the vastness of
human folly and had made up his mind not to be too hard on it. He
went on:--"The captain shipped me this morning. I couldn't get aboard
sooner. I saw you all aft as I came up the ladder, and could see directly
you were mustering the crew. Naturally I called out my name. I thought
you had it on your list, and would understand. You misapprehended."
He stopped short. The folly around him was confounded. He was right
as ever, and as ever ready to forgive. The disdainful tones had ceased,
and, breathing heavily, he stood still, surrounded by all these white men.
He held his head up in the glare of the lamp--a head vigorously
modelled into deep shadows and shining lights--a head powerful and
misshapen with a tormented and flattened face--a face pathetic and
brutal: the tragic, the mysterious, the repulsive mask of a nigger's soul.
Mr. Baker, recovering his composure, looked at the paper close. "Oh,
yes; that's so. All right, Wait. Take your gear forward," he said.
Suddenly the nigger's eyes rolled wildly, became all whites. He put his
hand to his side and coughed twice, a cough metallic, hollow, and
tremendously loud; it resounded like two explosions in a vault; the
dome of the sky rang to it, and the iron plates of the ship's bulwarks
seemed to vibrate in unison, then he marched off forward with the
others. The officers lingering by the cabin door could hear him say:
"Won't some of you chaps lend a hand with my dunnage? I've got a
chest and a bag." The words, spoken sonorously, with an even
intonation, were heard all over the ship, and the question was put in a
manner that made refusal impossible. The short, quick shuffle of men
carrying something heavy went away forward,