Strangely enough, in both cases I took to that sort of thing in circumstances in which I did not expect, in colloquial phrase, “to come out of it.” Neither could I expect the record to outlast me. This shows that it was purely a personal need for intimate relief and not a call of egotism.
Here I must give another sample of it, a few detached lines, now looking very ghostly to my own eyes, out of the part scribbled that very evening:
“There is something going on in the sky like a decomposition; like a corruption of the air, which remains as still as ever. After all, mere clouds, which may or may not hold wind or rain. Strange that it should trouble me so. I feel as if all my sins had found me out. But I suppose the trouble is that the ship is still lying motionless, not under command; and that I have nothing to do to keep my imagination from running wild amongst the disastrous images of the worst that may befall us. What’s going to happen? Probably nothing. Or anything. It may be a furious squall coming, butt end foremost. And on deck there are five men with the vitality and the strength of, say, two. We may have all our sails blown away. Every stitch of canvas has been on her since we broke ground at the mouth of the Mei-nam, fifteen days ago … or fifteen centuries. It seems to me that all my life before that momentous day is infinitely remote, a fading memory of lighthearted youth, something on the other side of a shadow. Yes, sails may very well be blown away. And that would be like a death sentence on the men. We haven’t strength enough on board to bend another suit; incredible thought, but it is true. Or we may even get dismasted. Ships have been dismasted in squalls simply because they weren’t handled quick enough, and we have no power to whirl the yards around. It’s like being bound hand and foot preparatory to having one’s throat cut. And what appals me most of all is that I shrink from going on deck to face it. It’s due to the ship, it’s due to the men who are there on deck—some of them, ready to put out the last remnant of their strength at a word from me. And I am shrinking from it. From the mere vision. My first command. Now I understand that strange sense of insecurity in my past. I always suspected that I might be no good. And here is proof positive. I am shirking it. I am no good.”
At that moment, or, perhaps, the moment after, I became aware of Ransome standing in the cabin. Something in his expression startled me. It had a meaning which I could not make out. I exclaimed: “Somebody’s dead.”
It was his turn then to look startled.
“Dead? Not that I know of, sir. I have been in the forecastle only ten minutes ago and there was no dead man there then.”
“You did give me a scare,” I said.
His voice was extremely pleasant to listen to. He explained that he had come down below to close Mr. Burns’ port in case it should come on to rain. He did not know that I was in the cabin, he added.
“How does it look outside?” I asked him.
“Very black, indeed, sir. There is something in it for certain.”
“In what quarter?”
“All round, sir.”
I repeated idly: “All round. For certain,” with my elbows on the table.
Ransome lingered in the cabin as if he had something to do there, but hesitated about doing it. I said suddenly:
“You think I ought to be on deck?”
He answered at once but without any particular emphasis or accent: “I do, sir.”
I got to my feet briskly, and he made way for me to go out. As I passed through the lobby I heard Mr. Burns’ voice saying:
“Shut the door of my room, will you, steward?” And Ransome’s rather surprised: “Certainly, sir.”
I thought that all my feelings had been dulled into complete indifference. But I found it as trying as ever to be on deck. The impenetrable blackness beset the ship so close that it seemed that by thrusting one’s hand over the side one could touch some unearthly substance. There was in it an effect of inconceivable terror and of inexpressible mystery. The few stars overhead shed a dim light upon the ship alone, with no gleams of any kind upon the water, in detached shafts piercing an atmosphere which had turned to soot. It was something I had never seen before, giving no hint of the direction from which any change would come, the closing in of a menace from all sides.
There was still no man at the helm. The immobility of all things was perfect. If the air had turned black, the sea, for all I knew, might have turned solid. It was no good looking in any direction, watching for any sign, speculating upon the nearness of the moment. When the time came the blackness would overwhelm silently the bit of starlight falling upon the ship, and the end of all things would come without a sigh, stir, or murmur of any kind, and all our hearts would cease to beat like rundown clocks.
It was impossible to shake off that sense of finality. The quietness that came over me was like a foretaste of annihilation. It gave me a sort of comfort, as though my soul had become suddenly reconciled to an eternity of blind stillness.
The seaman’s instinct alone survived whole in my moral dissolution. I
