CHAPTER EIGHT.
THE GRINDING OF THE SCREW.
It is proverbial that incidents in themselves trivial frequently formthe hinges on which great events turn. When Edgar Berrington went toLondon he learned that the owners of the fine ocean-steamer the_Warrior_ wished him to become their chief engineer for that voyage, theprevious chief having been suddenly taken ill and obliged to leave them.Although flattered by the proposal, and the terms in which it was made,Edgar declined it, for, having acquired all the knowledge he desiredabout marine engines during the voyage out and home, he did not wish towaste more time at sea. The owner, however, being aware of his worth,was not to be put off with a first refusal. He took Edgar into hisprivate room and reasoned with him.
"Come now, Mr Berrington, consider my proposal again. You'll go, won'tyou?"
"Impossible," replied Edgar. "You are very kind, and I assure you thatI fully appreciate your offer, but--"
He was interrupted by a clerk who entered at the moment and spoke a fewwords in an under tone to the owner.
"Excuse me one minute, Mr Berrington," said the latter, rising quickly."I shall return immediately. There is a newspaper, to look--no--whereis it? Ah! No matter: here is a list of the passengers going out toChina in the _Warrior_. It may amuse you. Perhaps you may find afriend amongst them."
Left alone, Edgar ran his eye carelessly over the names--thinking thewhile of the disagreeables of another long sea-voyage, and strengtheninghis resolves not to be tempted to go.
Now, the careless glance at this passenger-list was the apparentlytrifling incident on which hinged the whole of our hero's future career;his careless glance became suddenly fixed and attentive; his eyebrowslifted to their utmost elevation and his face flushed crimson, for therehe beheld the names of Charles Hazlit, Esquire, and his daughter, MissAileen Hazlit.
Just at that moment the owner of the _Warrior_ returned. This owner wasan intelligent, shrewd man--quick to observe. He noted the flush onEdgar's countenance, and Edgar immediately blew his nose with violenceto account for the flush.
"Well now, Mr Berrington, what say you?" he resumed.
Poor Edgar knew not what to say. A reply had to be given at once. Hehad no time to think. Aileen going to China! An offer of a situationin the same vessel!
"Well, sir," said our hero, with sudden decision, "I will go."
Of course the owner expressed himself well pleased, and then therefollowed a deal of nautico-scientific talk, after which Edgar venturedto say--
"I observe the name of Mr Charles Hazlit on your list. He is anacquaintance of mine. Do you happen to know what takes him so far fromhome?"
"Can't say exactly," replied the other. "I think some one told me hisaffairs in China require looking after, and his daughter's healthnecessitates a long sea-voyage."
"Health!" exclaimed Edgar, striving to look and speak in a comparativelyindifferent manner. "She was quite well when I saw her last."
"Very likely," said the owner, with a smile, "but it does not take longto make a young lady ill--especially when her heart is touched. Somesort of rumour floats in my mind to the effect that Miss Hazlit is goingout to China to be married, or requires to go out because she doesn'twant to be married--I forget which. But it comes pretty much to thesame thing in the end!"
"Hah!" said Edgar shortly.
If he had said "Oh!" in tones of agony, it would have been more trulyexpressive of his feelings.
The moment he got out of the office and felt the cool air of the streethe repented of his decision and pronounced himself to be a consummatedonkey!
"There," thought he, "I've made a fool of myself. I've engaged for along voyage in a capacity which precludes the possibility of myassociating with the passengers, for not only must nearly all my wakinghours be spent down beside the engine, but when I come up to cool myselfI must perforce do so in dirty costume, with oily hands and face, quitein an unfit state to be seen by Aileen, and without the slightest rightto take any notice of her. Oh! Donkey--goose that you are, Eddy! Butyou've done it now, and can't undo it, therefore you must go throughwith it."
Thinking of himself in this lowly strain he went home to the solitude ofhis lodging, sat down before his tea-table, thrust both hands into hispockets, and, in a by no means unhappy frame of mind, brooded over histrials and sorrows.
Let us change the scene now. We are out upon the sea--in a floatingpalace. And oh how that palace rushes onward, ever onward, withoutrest, without check, night and day, cleaving its way irresistiblythrough the mighty deep. Mighty! Ah! _how_ mighty no one on board cantell so well as that thin, gentle, evidently dying youth who leans overthe stern watching the screws and the "wake" that seems to rush behind,marking off, as it were mile by mile, the vast and ever-increasingspace--never to be re-traversed he knows full well--that separates himfrom home and all that is dear to him on earth.
The palace is made of iron--hard, unyielding, unbeautiful,uncompromising iron,--but her cushions are soft, her gilding isgorgeous, her fittings are elegant, her food is sumptuous, her society--at least much of it--is refined. Of course representatives of theunrefined are also there--in the after-cabin too--just as there arespecimens of the refined in the fore-cabin. But, taking them all inall, they are a remarkably harmonious band, the inhabitants of this ironpalace, from the captain to the cabin-boy inclusive. The latter is asprightly imp; the former is--to use the expression of one of theunrefined--"a brick." He is not tall--few sea-captains seem to be so--but he is very broad, and manly, and as strong as an elephant. He is apattern captain. Gallant to the lady passengers, chatty with thegentlemen, polite to the unrefined, sedately grave among the officersand crew, and jocular to the children; in short, he is all things to allmen--and much of the harmony on board is due to his unconsciousinfluence. He has a handsome face, glittering black eyes, an aquilinenose that commands respect, and a black beard and moustache that covereda firm mouth and chin.
Grinding is one of the prominent ideas that are suggested on board theiron palace. There are many other ideas, no doubt. Among seventy oreighty educated and intelligent human beings of both sexes and all agesit could not be otherwise. We allude, however, to the boat--not to thepassengers. The screw grinds and the engine grinds incessantly. Whenone thinks of a thing, or things, going round and round, or up and down,regularly, uninterruptedly, vigorously, doggedly, obstinately, hourafter hour, one is impressed, to say the least; and when one thinks ofthe said thing, or things, going on thus, night and day without rest,one is solemnised; but when one meditates on these motions beingcontinued for many weeks together, one has a tendency to feel mentallyoverwhelmed.
The great crank that grinds the screw, and is itself ground by thepiston--not to mention the cylinder and boiler--works in a dark placedeep down in the engine-room, like a giant hand constantly engaged ondeeds of violence and evil.
Here Edgar Berrington, clothed in white canvas and oil, finds genialcompanionship. He dotes on the great crank. It is a sympathetic thing.It represents his feelings wonderfully. Returning from the deck afterinhaling a little fresh air, he leans against the iron bulkhead in theseclanking depths and gazes gloomily and for prolonged periods at thecrank while it grinds with a sort of vicious energy that seems instrange harmony with his soul. Sometimes he grinds his teeth as a sortof obbligato accompaniment--especially if he has while on deck, during awistful gaze at the distant perspective of the aft-regions, beheld, (orfancied he has beheld) a familiar and adored form.
At first the passengers were sick--very sick, most of them--insomuchthat there were some who would gladly, if possible, have surrenderedtheir lives with their dinners; but by degrees they began to improve,and to regard meals with anticipation instead of loathing. When thesunny and calm latitudes near the line were reached, every one grew welland hearty, and at last there was not a sad soul on board except thepoor sick lad who studied the screw and measured the ever-increasingdistance from home. One of the first evidences of the re
turn of healthwas the sound of song. When the nights were clear and calm, and naughtwas audible save the grinding of the screw, the passengers crystallisednaturally into groups in the same way that ice-particles arrangethemselves in sympathetic stars; and from several such constellationsthe music of the spheres was naturally evolved.
One of these crystals was formed, usually in a tent on deck, by theattractive influence of smoke. It was consequently not a brightcrystal, and included particles both refined and otherwise. Its musicwas gruff for the most part, sometimes growly. There was anothercrystal which varied its position occasionally--according to theposition of the moon, for it was a crystal formed of romantic elements.One of its parts was a Scottish maiden whose voice was melodious,flexible, and very sweet. Her face and spirit had been made to match.She had many admirers, and a bosom-friend of kindly heart and aspect,with wealth of golden hair, in some respects like herself.
Our heroine Aileen, being passionately fond of music, and herself asweet singer, attached herself to this crystal, and became as it wereanother bosom-friend.
Two bearded men were also much given to seek attachment to this crystal.They also seemed knit to each other in bosom-friendship--if we mayventure to use such a term with reference to bearded men. One wasamateurly musical, the other powerfully sympathetic. A pastor, ofunusually stalwart proportions, with a gentle pretty wife and lovablefamily, also had a decided leaning to this crystal.
One evening the group, finding its favourite part of the deck occupied,was driven to a position near the tent of the smoky crystal, and,sitting down not far from the engineer's quarters, began to indulge insong. Grave and gay alternated. Duets followed; trios ensued, andmiscellaneous new forms of harmony sometimes intervened.
"Do sing a solo, Miss Hazlit," said the Scottish maiden. "I like yourvoice _so_ much, and want to hear it alone. Will you sing?"
Aileen had an obliging spirit. She at once began, in a low contraltovoice, "I cannot sing the old songs."
Sometimes in private life one hears a voice so sweet, so thrilling, witha "something" so powerful in it, that one feels, amid other sensationsof pleasure, great satisfaction to think that none of the public singersin the world could "bat that" if they were to try their best, and thatfew of them could equal it!
Such a voice was that of our heroine. It drew towards her the soul,body, and spirit of the music-lovers who listened. Of course we do notdeny that there were some who could not be drawn thus. There were afew, among the smoky crystals, for whom a draw of the pipe or a mildlydrawn pot of bitter beer had greater charms than sweet sounds, howevermelting. With the exceptions of these, nearly all who chanced to bewithin hearing drew near to the musical group, and listened while thatmost, beautiful of songs was being warbled in tones not loud butinexpressibly pathetic.
Among the listeners was our friend Edgar Berrington. Seated, as usual,in front of the great crank, with bare muscular arms folded on his broadchest and a dark frown on his forehead, he riveted his eyes on the crankas if it were the author of all his anxieties. Suddenly the terminatinglines, "I cannot sing the old songs, they are too dear to me," risingabove the din of machinery, floated gently down through ironlattice-work, beams, rods, cranks, and bars, and smote upon his ear.
Like a galvanised man he sprang on his legs and stood erect. Then, ifwe may say so, like a human rocket, he shot upwards and stood on themargin of the crowd. Being head and shoulders over most of them heobserved a clear space beside the singer. The night was dark, featurescould not be discerned, even forms were not easily recognisable. Heglided into the open space, and silently but promptly sat down on thedeck beside Aileen. His elbow even touched one of the folds of hergarment. He went straight into paradise and remained there!
As for Aileen, if she observed the action at all, she probably set itdown to the enthusiasm of a more than usually musical member of theship's crew.
While she was still dwelling on the last note, a grinding sound washeard and a slight tremor felt that not only stopped the song abruptlybut checked the applause that was ready to burst from every lip andhand. Edgar vanished from the spot where he sat quite as quickly as hehad appeared, and in a moment was at his station. The captain's voicewas heard on the bridge. The signal was given to stop the engines--toback them--to stop again. Eager inquiries followed--"What's that? Didyou feel it? Hear it? Could it be a rock? Impossible, surely?" Noone could answer with knowledge or authority, save those who were toobusy to be spoken to. Accustomed as they all were for many weeks pastto the ceaseless motion of the engines, the sudden stoppage had astrange and solemnising effect on most of the passengers. Presently theorder was given to steam ahead, and once more they breathed more freelyon hearing again the familiar grinding of the screw.
To the anxious inquiries afterwards made of him, the captain only smiledand said he could not tell what it was--perhaps it might have been apiece of wreck. "But it did not feel like that, captain," objected oneof the passengers, who, having frequently been to sea before, wasregarded as being semi-nautical; "it was too like a touch on somethingsolid. You've heard, I suppose, of coral reefs growing in places wherenone are marked on our charts?"
"I have," answered the captain drily.
"Might it not be something of the kind?"
"It might," replied the captain.
"We are not far from the coast of China, are we?" asked thesemi-nautical passenger.
"Not very far."
Seeing that the captain was not disposed to be communicative, thesemi-nautical passenger retired to persecute and terrify some of theladies with his surmises. Meanwhile the well was sounded and a slightincrease of water ascertained, but nothing worth speaking of, and thepumps were set to work.
The anxiety of the passengers was soon allayed, everything going on assmoothly as before. The evening merged into night. The moon roseslowly and spread a path of rippling silver from the ship to thehorizon. The various groups began to un-crystallise. Sleepy ones wentbelow and melted away somehow. Sleepless ones went to their greatpanacea, smoke. Lights were put out everywhere save where the duties ofthe ship required them to burn continually. At last the latest of thesleepless turned in, and none were wakeful through the iron palaceexcept the poor youth who mentally measured the distance from home, andthe officers and men on duty. Among the latter was Edgar Berrington,who, standing at his accustomed post down in his own iron depths,pondered the events of the evening while he watched the motions of thegreat crank and listened to the grinding of the screw.
Under the Waves: Diving in Deep Waters Page 8
