“And did you know the man who was here before you?”
“No,” said young Powell, “I didn’t know anybody belonging to this ship before I joined.”
“He was much older than you. Twice your age. Perhaps more. His hair was iron-grey. Yes. Certainly more.”
The low, repressed voice paused, but the old man did not move away. He added: “Isn’t it unusual?”
Mr Powell was surprised not only by being engaged in conversation, but also by its character. It might have been the suggestion of the word uttered by this old man, but it was distinctly at that moment that he became aware of something unusual not only in this encounter but generally around him, about everybody, in the atmosphere. The very sea, with short flashes of foam bursting out here and there in the gloomy distances, the unchangeable, safe sea sheltering a man from all passions, except its own anger, seemed queer to the quick glance he threw to windward where the already effaced horizon traced no reassuring limit to the eye. In the expiring, diffused twilight, and before the clouded night dropped its mysterious veil, it was the immensity of space made visible—almost palpable. Young Powell felt it. He felt it in the sudden sense of his isolation; the trustworthy, powerful ship of his first acquaintance reduced to a speck, to something almost undistinguishable, the mere support for the soles of his two feet before that unexpected old man becoming so suddenly articulate in a darkening universe.
It took him a moment or so to seize the drift of the question. He repeated slowly: ‘Unusual... Oh, you mean for an elderly man to be the second of a ship. I don’t know. There are a good many of us who don’t get on. He didn’t get on, I suppose.’
The other, his head bowed a little, had the air of listening with acute attention.
“And now he has been taken to the hospital,” he said.
“I believe so. Yes. I remember Captain Anthony saying so in the shipping office.”
“Possibly about to die,” went on the old man, in his careful deliberate tone. “And perhaps glad enough to die.”
Mr Powell was young enough, to be startled at the suggestion, which sounded confidential and blood-curdling in the dusk. He said sharply that it was not very likely, as if defending the absent victim of the accident from an unkind aspersion. He felt, in fact, indignant. The other emitted a short stifled laugh of a conciliatory nature. The second bell rang under the poop. He made a movement at the sound, but lingered.
“What I said was not meant seriously,” he murmured, with that strange air of fearing to be overheard. “Not in this case. I know the man.”
The occasion, or rather the want of occasion, for this conversation, had sharpened the perceptions of the unsophisticated second officer of the
“Whereas you have never seen him. Nevertheless, when you have gone through as many years as I have, you will understand how an event putting an end to one’s existence may not be altogether unwelcome. Of course there are stupid accidents. And even then one needn’t be very angry. What is it to be deprived of life? It’s soon done. But what would you think of the feelings of a man who should have had his life stolen from him? Cheated out of it, I say!”
He ceased abruptly, and remained still long enough for the astonished Powell to stammer out an indistinct: “What do you mean? I don’t understand.” Then, with a low ‘Good-night’ glided a few steps, and sank through the shadow of the companion into the lamplight below which did not reach higher than the turn of the staircase.
The strange words, the cautious tone, the whole person left a strong uneasiness in the mind of Mr Powell. He started walking the poop in great mental confusion. He felt all adrift. This was funny talk and no mistake. And this cautious low tone as though he were watched by someone was more than funny. The young second officer hesitated to break the established rule of every ship’s discipline; but at last could not resist the temptation of getting hold of some other human being, and spoke to the man at the wheel.
“Did you hear what this gentleman was saying to me?”
“No, sir,” answered the sailor quietly. Then, encouraged by this evidence of laxity in his officer, made bold to add, “A queer fish, sir.” This was tentative, and Mr Powell, busy with his own view, not saying anything, he ventured further. “They are more like passengers. One sees some queer passengers.”
“Who are like passengers?” asked Powell gruffly.
“Why, these two, sir.”
Part 2—Chapter 3. Devoted Servants—and the Light of a Flare.
Young Powell thought to himself: “The men, too, are noticing it.” Indeed, the captain’s behaviour to his wife and to his wife’s father was noticeable enough. It was as if they had been a pair of not very congenial passengers. But perhaps it was not always like that. The captain might have been put out by something.
When the aggrieved Franklin came on deck Mr Powell made a remark to that effect. For his curiosity was aroused.
The mate grumbled “Seems to you? ... Put out? ... eh?” He buttoned his thick jacket up to the throat, and only then added a gloomy “Ay, likely enough,” which discouraged further conversation. But no encouragement would have induced the newly-joined second mate to enter the way of confidences. His was an instinctive prudence. Powell did not know why it was he had resolved to keep his own counsel as to his colloquy with Mr Smith. But his curiosity did not slumber. Some time afterwards, again at the relief of watches, in the course of a little talk, he mentioned Mrs Anthony’s father quite casually, and tried to find out from the mate who he was.
“It would take a clever man to find that out, as things are on board now,” Mr Franklin said, unexpectedly communicative. “The first I saw of him was when she brought him alongside in a four-wheeler one morning about half-past eleven. The captain had come on board early, and was down in the cabin that had been fitted out for him. Did I tell you that if you want the captain for anything you must stamp on the port side of the deck? That’s so. This ship is not only unlike what she used to be, but she is like no other ship, anyhow. Did you ever hear of the captain’s room being on the port side? Both of them stern-cabins have been fitted up afresh like a blessed palace. A gang of people from some tip-top West-End house were fussing here on board with hangings and furniture for a fortnight, as if the Queen were coming with us. Of course the starboard cabin is the bedroom one, but the poor captain hangs out to port on a couch, so that in case we want him on deck at night, Mrs Anthony should not be startled. Nervous! Phoo! A woman who marries a sailor and makes up her mind to come to sea should have no blamed jumpiness
