Then with a rush and a thump it would be done. He never had to pick himself up; but it took him a minute or so to pull himself together after the descent.
“Watchman!”
“Sir.”
“Captain aboard?”
“Yes, sir.”
Pause.
“Dog aboard?”
“Yes, sir.”
Pause.
Our dog was a gaunt and unpleasant beast, more like a wolf in poor health than a dog, and I never noticed Mr. B⸺ at any other time show the slightest interest in the doings of the animal. But that question never failed.
“Let’s have your arm to steady me along.”
I was always prepared for that request. He leaned on me heavily till near enough the cabin-door to catch hold of the handle. Then he would let go my arm at once.
“That’ll do. I can manage now.”
And he could manage. He could manage to find his way into his berth, light his lamp, get into his bed—ay, and get out of it when I called him at half-past five, the first man on deck, lifting the cup of morning coffee to his lips with a steady hand, ready for duty as though he had virtuously slept ten solid hours—a better chief officer than many a man who had never tasted grog in his life. He could manage all that, but could never manage to get on in life.
Only once he failed to seize the cabin-door handle at the first grab. He waited a little, tried again, and again failed. His weight was growing heavier on my arm. He sighed slowly.
“D⸺n that handle!”
Without letting go his hold of me he turned about, his face lit up bright as day by the full moon.
“I wish she were out at sea,” he growled savagely.
“Yes, sir.”
I felt the need to say something, because he hung on to me as if lost, breathing heavily.
“Ports are no good—ships rot, men go to the devil!”
I kept still, and after a while he repeated with a sigh.
“I wish she were at sea out of this.”
“So do I, sir,” I ventured.
Holding my shoulder, he turned upon me.
“You! What’s that to you where she is? You don’t—drink.”
And even on that night he “managed it” at last. He got hold of the handle. But he did not manage to light his lamp (I don’t think he even tried), though in the morning as usual he was the first on deck, bull-necked, curly-headed, watching the hands turn-to with his sardonic expression and unflinching gaze.
I met him ten years afterwards, casually, unexpectedly, in the street, on coming out of my consignee office. I was not likely to have forgotten him with his “I can manage now.” He recognized me at once, remembered my name, and in what ship I had served under his orders. He looked me over from head to foot.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I am commanding a little barque,” I said, “loading here for Mauritius.” Then, thoughtlessly, I added: “And what are you doing, Mr. B-?”
“I,” he said, looking at me unflinchingly, with his old sardonic grin—“I am looking for something to do.”
I felt I would rather have bitten out my tongue. His jet-black, curly hair had turned iron-grey; he was scrupulously neat as ever, but frightfully threadbare. His shiny boots were worn down at heel. But he forgave me, and we drove off together in a hansom to dine on board my ship. He went over her conscientiously, praised her heartily, congratulated me on my command with absolute sincerity. At dinner, as I offered him wine and beer he shook his head, and as I sat looking at him interrogatively, muttered in an undertone:
“I’ve given up all that.”
After dinner we came again on deck. It seemed as though he could not tear himself away from the ship. We were fitting some new lower rigging, and he hung about, approving, suggesting, giving me advice in his old manner. Twice he addressed me as “My boy,” and corrected himself quickly to “Captain.” My mate was about to leave me (to get married), but I concealed the fact from Mr. B⸺. I was afraid he would ask me to give him the berth in some ghastly jocular hint that I could not refuse to take. I was afraid. It would have been impossible. I could not have given orders to Mr. B⸺, and I am sure he would not have taken them from me very long. He could not have managed that, though he had managed to break himself from drink—too late.
He said goodbye at last. As I watched his burly, bull-necked figure walk away up the street, I wondered with a sinking heart whether he had much more than the price of a night’s lodging in his pocket. And I understood that if that very minute I were to call out after him, he would not even turn his head. He, too, is no more than a shadow, but I seem to hear his words spoken on the moonlit deck of the old Duke of S⸺:
“Ports are no good—ships rot, men go to the devil!”
Initiation
XXXV
“Ships!” exclaimed an elderly seaman in clean shore togs. “Ships”—and his keen glance, turning away from my face, ran along the vista of magnificent figureheads that in the late seventies used to overhang in a serried rank the muddy pavement by the side of the New South Dock—“ships are all right; it’s the men in ’em …”
Fifty hulls, at least, moulded on lines of beauty and speed—hulls of wood, of iron, expressing in their forms the highest achievement of modern shipbuilding—lay moored all in a row, stem to quay, as if assembled there for an exhibition, not of a great industry, but of a great art. Their
