The Nigger of the Narcissus

chief mate with a cold gaze, piercing like a dart.⁠—“Get sail on the ship,” he said, speaking authoritatively and with an inflexible snap of his thin lips. “Get sail on her as soon as you can. This is a fair wind. At once, sir⁠—Don’t give the men time to feel themselves. They will get done up and stiff, and we will never⁠ ⁠… We must get her along now”⁠ ⁠… He reeled to a long heavy roll; the rail dipped into the glancing, hissing water. He caught a shroud, swung helplessly against the mate⁠ ⁠… “now we have a fair wind at last⁠—Make⁠—sail.” His head rolled from shoulder to shoulder. His eyelids began to beat rapidly. “And the pumps⁠—pumps, Mr. Baker.” He peered as though the face within a foot of his eyes had been half a mile off. “Keep the men on the move to⁠—to get her along,” he mumbled in a drowsy tone, like a man going off into a doze. He pulled himself together suddenly. “Mustn’t stand. Won’t do,” he said with a painful attempt at a smile. He let go his hold, and, propelled by the dip of the ship, ran aft unwillingly, with small steps, till he brought up against the binnacle stand. Hanging on there he looked up in an aimless manner at Singleton, who, unheeding him, watched anxiously the end of the jib-boom⁠—“Steering gear works all right?” he asked. There was a noise in the old seaman’s throat, as though the words had been rattling together before they could come out.⁠—“Steers⁠ ⁠… like a little boat,” he said, at last, with hoarse tenderness, without giving the master as much as half a glance⁠—then, watchfully, spun the wheel down, steadied, flung it back again. Captain Allistoun tore himself away from the delight of leaning against the binnacle, and began to walk the poop, swaying and reeling to preserve his balance.⁠ ⁠…

The pump-rods, clanking, stamped in short jumps while the flywheels turned smoothly, with great speed, at the foot of the mainmast, flinging back and forth with a regular impetuosity two limp clusters of men clinging to the handles. They abandoned themselves, swaying from the hip with twitching faces and stony eyes. The carpenter, sounding from time to time, exclaimed mechanically: “Shake her up! Keep her going!” Mr. Baker could not speak, but found his voice to shout; and under the goad of his objurgations, men looked to the lashings, dragged out new sails; and thinking themselves unable to move, carried heavy blocks aloft⁠—overhauled the gear. They went up the rigging with faltering and desperate efforts. Their heads swam as they shifted their hold, stepped blindly on the yards like men in the dark; or trusted themselves to the first rope at hand with the negligence of exhausted strength. The narrow escapes from falls did not disturb the languid beat of their hearts; the roar of the seas seething far below them sounded continuous and faint like an indistinct noise from another world: the wind filled their eyes with tears, and with heavy gusts tried to push them off from where they swayed in insecure positions. With streaming faces and blowing hair they flew up and down between sky and water, bestriding the ends of yardarms, crouching on foot-ropes, embracing lifts to have their hands free, or standing up against chain ties. Their thoughts floated vaguely between the desire of rest and the desire of life, while their stiffened fingers cast off head-earrings, fumbled for knives, or held with tenacious grip against the violent shocks of beating canvas. They glared savagely at one another, made frantic signs with one hand while they held their life in the other, looked down on the narrow strip of flooded deck, shouted along to leeward: “Light-to!”⁠ ⁠… “Haul out!”⁠ ⁠… “Make fast!” Their lips moved, their eyes started, furious and eager with the desire to be understood, but the wind tossed their words unheard upon the disturbed sea. In an unendurable and unending strain they worked like men driven by a merciless dream to toil in an atmosphere of ice or flame. They burnt and shivered in turns. Their eyeballs smarted as if in the smoke of a conflagration; their heads were ready to burst with every shout. Hard fingers seemed to grip their throats. At every roll they thought: Now I must let go. It will shake us all off⁠—and thrown about aloft they cried wildly: “Look out there⁠—catch the end.”⁠ ⁠… “Reeve clear”⁠ ⁠… “Turn this block.⁠ ⁠…” They nodded desperately; shook infuriated faces, “No! No! From down up.” They seemed to hate one another with a deadly hate. The longing to be done with it all gnawed their breasts, and the wish to do things well was a burning pain. They cursed their fate, contemned their life, and wasted their breath in deadly imprecations upon one another. The sailmaker, with his bald head bared, worked feverishly, forgetting his intimacy with so many admirals. The boatswain, climbing up with marlinspikes and bunches of spunyarn rovings, or kneeling on the yard and ready to take a turn with the midship-stop, had acute and fleeting visions of his old woman and the youngsters in a moorland village. Mr. Baker, feeling very weak, tottered here and there, grunting and inflexible, like a man of iron. He waylaid those who, coming from aloft, stood gasping for breath. He ordered, encouraged, scolded. “Now then⁠—to the main topsail now! Tally on to that gantline. Don’t stand about there!”⁠—“Is there no rest for us?” muttered voices. He spun round fiercely, with a sinking heart.⁠—“No! No rest till the work is done. Work till you drop. That’s what you’re here for.” A bowed seaman at his elbow gave a short laugh.⁠—“Do or die,” he croaked bitterly, then spat into his broad palms, swung up his long arms, and grasping the rope high above his head sent out a mournful, wailing cry for a pull all together. A sea boarded the quarterdeck and sent the whole lot sprawling to leeward. Caps, handspikes floated. Clenched hands, kicking