Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated)

by Joseph Conrad

  “Man! But ye made a rare lot of noise in here,” observed Archie, thoughtfully.

  “You chaps kicked up such a confounded row above.... Enough to scare any one.... I didn’t know what you were up to.... Bash in the blamed planks... my head.... Just what a silly, scary gang of fools would do.... Not much good to me anyhow.... Just as well... drown.... Pah.”

  He groaned, snapped his big white teeth, and gazed with scorn. Belfast lifted a pair of dolorous eyes, with a broken-hearted smile, clenched his fists stealthily; blue-eyed Archie caressed his red whiskers with a hesitating hand; the boatswain at the door stared a moment, and brusquely went away with a loud guffaw. Wamibo dreamed.... Donkin felt all over his sterile chin for the few rare hairs, and said, triumphantly, with a sidelong glance at Jimmy: — ”Look at ‘im! Wish I was ‘arf has ‘ealthy as ‘ee is — I do.” He jerked a short thumb over his shoulder towards the after end of the ship. “That’s the blooming way to do ‘em!” he yelped, with forced heartiness. Jimmy said: — ”Don’t be a dam’ fool,” in a pleasant voice. Knowles, rubbing his shoulder against the doorpost, remarked shrewdly: — ”We can’t all go an’ be took sick — it would be mutiny.” — ”Mutiny — gawn!” jeered Donkin, “there’s no bloomin’ law against bein’ sick.” — ”There’s six weeks’ hard for refoosing dooty,” argued Knowles, “I mind I once seed in Cardiff the crew of an overloaded ship — leastways she weren’t overloaded, only a fatherly old gentleman with a white beard and an umbreller came along the quay and talked to the hands. Said as how it was crool hard to be drownded in winter just for the sake of a few pounds more for the owner — he said. Nearly cried over them — he did; and he had a square mainsail coat, and a gaff-topsail hat too — all proper. So they chaps they said they wouldn’t go to be drownded in winter — depending upon that ‘ere Plimsoll man to see ‘em through the court. They thought to have a bloomin’ lark and two or three days’ spree. And the beak giv’ ‘em six weeks — coss the ship warn’t overloaded. Anyways they made it out in court that she wasn’t. There wasn’t one overloaded ship in Penarth Dock at all. ‘Pears that old coon he was only on pay and allowance from some kind people, under orders to look for overloaded ships, and he couldn’t see no further than the length of his umbreller. Some of us in the boarding-house, where I live when I’m looking for a ship in Cardiff, stood by to duck that old weeping spunger in the dock. We kept a good look-out, too — but he topped his boom directly he was outside the court.... Yes. They got six weeks’ hard....”

  They listened, full of curiosity, nodding in the pauses their rough pensive faces. Donkin opened his mouth once or twice, but restrained himself. Jimmy lay still with open eyes and not at all interested. A seaman emitted the opinion that after a verdict of atrocious partiality “the bloomin’ beaks go an’ drink at the skipper’s expense.” Others assented. It was clear, of course. Donkin said: — ”Well, six weeks ain’t much trouble. You sleep all night in, reg’lar, in chokey. Do it on my ‘ead.” “You are used to it ainch’ee, Donkin?” asked somebody. Jimmy condescended to laugh. It cheered up every one wonderfully. Knowles, with surprising mental agility, shifted his ground. “If we all went sick what would become of the ship? eh?” He posed the problem and grinned all round. — ”Let ‘er go to ‘ell,” sneered Donkin. “Damn ‘er. She ain’t yourn.” — ”What? Just let her drift?” insisted Knowles in a tone of unbelief. — ”Aye! Drift, an’ be blowed,” affirmed Donkin with fine recklessness. The other did not see it — meditated. — ”The stores would run out,” he muttered, “and... never get anywhere... and what about payday?” he added with greater assurance. — ”Jack likes a good pay-day,” exclaimed a listener on the doorstep. “Aye, because then the girls put one arm round his neck an’ t’other in his pocket, and call him ducky. Don’t they, Jack?” — ”Jack, you’re a terror with the gals.” — ”He takes three of ‘em in tow to once, like one of ‘em Watkinses two-funnel tugs waddling away with three schooners behind.” — ”Jack, you’re a lame scamp.” — ”Jack, tell us about that one with a blue eye and a black eye. Do.” — ”There’s plenty of girls with one black eye along the Highway by...”

  — ”No, that’s a speshul one — come, Jack.” Donkin looked severe and disgusted; Jimmy very bored; a grey-haired sea-dog shook his head slightly, smiling at the bowl of his pipe, discreetly amused. Knowles turned about bewildered; stammered first at one, then at another. — ”No!... I never!... can’t talk sensible sense midst you.... Always on the kid.” He retired bashfully — muttering and pleased. They laughed, hooting in the crude light, around Jimmy’s bed, where on a white pillow his hollowed black face moved to and fro restlessly. A puff of wind came, made the flame of the lamp leap, and outside, high up, the sails fluttered, while near by the block of the foresheet struck a ringing blow on the iron bulwark. A voice far off cried, “Helm up!” another, more faint, answered, “Hard-up, sir!” They became silent — waited expectantly. The grey-haired seaman knocked his pipe on the doorstep and stood up.’ The ship leaned over gently and the sea seemed to wake up, murmuring drowsily. “Here’s a little wind comin’,” said some one very low. Jimmy turned over slowly to face the breeze. The voice in the night cried loud and commanding: — ”Haul the spanker out.” The group before the door vanished out of the light. They could be heard tramping aft while they repeated with varied intonations: — ”Spanker out!”... “Out spanker, sir!” Donkin remained alone with Jimmy. There was a silence. Jimmy opened and shut his lips several times as if swallowing draughts of fresher air; Donkin moved the toes of his bare feet and looked at them thoughtfully.

  “Ain’t you going to give them a hand with the sail?” asked Jimmy.

  “No. If six ov ‘em ain’t ‘nough beef to set that blamed, rotten spanker, they ain’t fit to live,” answered Donkin in a bored, far-away voice, as though he had been talking from the bottom of a hole. Jimmy considered the conical, fowl-like profile with a queer kind of interest; he was leaning out of his bunk with the calculating, uncertain expression of a man who reflects how best to lay hold of some strange creature that looks as though it could sting or bite. But he said only: — ”The mate will miss you — and there will be ructions.”

  Donkin got up to go. “I will do for ‘im some dark night; see if I don’t,” he said over his shoulder.

  Jimmy went on quickly: — ”You’re like a poll-parrot, like a screechin’ poll-parrot.” Donkin stopped and cocked his head attentively on one side. His big ears stood out, transparent and veined, resembling the thin wings of a bat.

  “Yuss?” he said, with his back towards Jimmy.

  “Yes! Chatter out all you know — like... like a dirty white cockatoo.”

  Donkin waited. He could hear the other’s breathing, long and slow; the breathing of a man with a hundredweight or so on the breastbone. Then he asked calmly: — ”What do I know?”

  “What?... What I tell you... not much. What do you want... to talk about my health so...”

  “It’s a blooming imposyshun. A bloomin’, stinkin’, first-class imposyshun — but it don’t tyke me in. Not it.”

  Jimmy kept still. Donkin put his hands in his pockets, and in one slouching stride came up to the bunk.

  “I talk — what’s the odds. They ain’t men ‘ere — sheep they are. A driven lot of sheep. I ‘old you up... Vy not? You’re well orf.”

  “I am... I don’t say anything about that....”

  “Well. Let ‘em see it. Let ‘em larn what a man can do. I am a man, I know all about yer....” Jimmy threw himself further away on the pillow; the other stretched out his skinny neck, jerked his bird face down at him as though pecking at the eyes. “I am a man. I’ve seen the inside of every chokey in the Colonies rather’n give up my rights....”

  “You are a jail-prop,” said Jimmy, weakly.

  “I am... an’ proud of it, too. You! You ‘aven’t the bloomin’ nerve — so you inventyd this ‘ere dodge....” He paused; then with marked afterthought accentuated slowly: — ”Yer ain’t sick — a
re yer?”

  “No,” said Jimmy, firmly. “Been out of sorts now and again this year,” he mumbled with a sudden drop in his voice.

  Donkin closed one eye, amicable and confidential. He whispered: — ”Ye ‘ave done this afore’aven’tchee?” Jimmy smiled — then as if unable to hold back he let himself go: — ”Last ship — yes. I was out of sorts on the passage. See? It was easy. They paid me off in Calcutta, and the skipper made no bones about it either.... I got my money all right. Laid up fifty-eight days! The fools! O Lord! The fools! Paid right off.” He laughed spasmodically. Donkin chimed in giggling. Then Jimmy coughed violently. “I am as well as ever,” he said, as soon as he could draw breath.

  Donkin made a derisive gesture. “In course,” he said, profoundly, “any one can see that.” — ”They don’t,” said Jimmy, gasping like a fish. — ”They would swallow any yarn,” affirmed Donkin. — ”Don’t you let on too much,” admonished Jimmy in an exhausted voice. — ”Your little gyme? Eh?” commented Donkin, jovially. Then with sudden disgust: “Yer all for yerself, s’long as ye’re right...”

  So charged with egoism James Wait pulled the blanket up to his chin and lay still for a while. His heavy lips protruded in an everlasting black pout. “Why are you so hot on making trouble?” he asked without much interest.

  “‘Cos it’s a bloomin’ shayme. We are put upon... bad food, bad pay... I want us to kick up a bloomin’ row; a blamed ‘owling row that would make ‘em remember! Knocking people about... brain us indeed! Ain’t we men?” His altruistic indignation blazed. Then he said calmly: — ”I’ve been airing yer clothes.” — ”All right,” said Jimmy, languidly, “bring them in.” — ”Giv’ us the key of your chest, I’ll put ‘em away for yer,” said Donkin with friendly eagerness. — ”Bring ‘em in, I will put them away myself,” answered James Wait with severity. Donkin looked down, muttering.... “What d’you say? What d’you say?” inquired Wait anxiously. — ”Nothink. The night’s dry, let ‘em ‘ang out till the morning,” said Donkin, in a strangely trembling voice, as though restraining laughter or rage. Jimmy seemed satisfied. — ”Give me a little water for the night in my mug — there,” he said. Donkin took a stride over the doorstep. — ”Git it yerself,” he replied in a surly tone. “You can do it, unless you are sick.” — ”Of course I can do it,” said Wait, “only... “ — ”Well, then, do it,” said Donkin, viciously, “if yer can look after yer clothes, yer can look after yerself.” He went on deck without a look back.

  Jimmy reached out for the mug. Not a drop. He put it back gently with a faint sigh — and closed his eyes. He thought: — That lunatic Belfast will bring me some water if I ask. Fool. I am very thirsty.... It was very hot in the cabin, and it seemed to turn slowly round, detach itself from the ship, and swing out smoothly into a luminous, arid space where a black sun shone, spinning very fast. A place without any water! No water! A policeman with the face of Donkin drank a glass of beer by the side of an empty well, and flew away flapping vigorously. A ship whose mastheads protruded through the sky and could not be seen, was discharging grain, and the wind whirled the dry husks in spirals along the quay of a dock with no water in it. He whirled along with the husks — very tired and light. All his inside was gone. He felt lighter than the husks — and more dry. He expanded his hollow chest. The air streamed in, carrying away in its rush a lot of strange things that resembled houses, trees, people, lamp-posts.... No more! There was no more air — and he had not finished drawing his long breath. But he was in jail! They were locking him up. A door slammed. They turned the key twice, flung a bucket of water over him — Phoo! What for?

  He opened his eyes, thinking the fall had been very heavy for an empty man — empty — empty. He was in his cabin. Ah! All right! His face was streaming with perspiration, his arms heavier than lead. He saw the cook standing in the doorway, a brass key in one hand and a bright tin hook-pot in the other.

  “I have locked up the galley for the night,” said the cook, beaming benevolently. “Eight bells just gone. I brought you a pot of cold tea for your night’s drinking, Jimmy. I sweetened it with some white cabin sugar, too. Well — it won’t break the ship.”

  He came in, hung the pot on the edge of the bunk, asked perfunctorily, “How goes it?” and sat down on the box. — ”H’m,” grunted Wait, inhospitably. The cook wiped his face with a dirty cotton rag, which, afterwards, he tied round his neck. — ”That’s how them firemen do in steamboats,” he said, serenely, and much pleased with himself. “My work is as heavy as theirs — I’m thinking — and longer hours. Did you ever see them down the stokehold? Like fiends they look — firing — firing — firing — down there.”

  He pointed his forefinger at the deck. Some gloomy thought darkened his shining face, fleeting, like the shadow of a travelling cloud over the light of a peaceful sea. The relieved watch tramped noisily forward, passing in a body across the sheen of the doorway. Some one cried, “Good-night!” Belfast stopped for a moment and looked at Jimmy, quivering and speechless with repressed emotion. He gave the cook a glance charged with dismal foreboding, and vanished. The cook cleared his throat. Jimmy stared upwards and kept as still as a man in hiding.

  The night was clear, with a gentle breeze. Above the mastheads the resplendent curve of the Milky Way spanned the sky like a triumphal arch of eternal light, thrown over the dark pathway of the earth. On the forecastle head a man whistled with loud precision a lively jig, while another could be heard faintly, shuffling and stamping in time. There came from forward a confused murmur of voices, laughter — snatches of song. The cook shook his head, glanced obliquely at Jimmy, and began to mutter. “Aye. Dance and sing. That’s all they think of. I am surprised that Providence don’t get tired.... They forget the day that’s sure to come... but you....”

  Jimmy drank a gulp of tea, hurriedly, as though he had stolen it, and shrank under his blanket, edging away towards the bulkhead. The cook got up, closed the door, then sat down again and said distinctly: —

  “Whenever I poke my galley fire I think of you chaps — swearing, stealing, lying, and worse — as if there was no such thing as another world.... Not bad fellows, either, in a way,” he conceded, slowly; then, after a pause of regretful musing, he went on in a resigned tone: — ”Well, well. They will have a hot time of it. Hot! Did I say? The furnaces of one of them White Star boats ain’t nothing to it.”

  He kept very quiet for a while. There was a great stir in his brain; an addled vision of bright outlines; an exciting row of rousing songs and groans of pain. He suffered, enjoyed, admired, approved. He was delighted, frightened, exalted — as on that evening (the only time in his life — twenty-seven years ago; he loved to recall the number of years) when as a young man he had — through keeping bad company — become intoxicated in an East-end music-hall. A tide of sudden feeling swept him clean out of his body. He soared. He contemplated the secret of the hereafter. It commended itself to him. It was excellent; he loved it, himself, all hands, and Jimmy. His heart overflowed with tenderness, with comprehension, with the desire to meddle, with anxiety for the soul of that black man, with the pride of possessed eternity, with the feeling of might. Snatch him up in his arms and pitch him right into the middle of salvation... The black soul — blacker — body — rot — Devil. No! Talk-strength — Samson.... There was a great din as of cymbals in his ears; he flashed through an ecstatic jumble of shining faces, lilies, prayer-books, unearthly joy, white skirts, gold harps, black coats, wings. He saw flowing garments, clean shaved faces, a sea of light — a lake of pitch. There were sweet scent, a smell of sulphur — red tongues of flame licking a white mist. An awesome voice thundered!... It lasted three seconds.

  “Jimmy!” he cried in an inspired tone. Then he hesitated. A spark of human pity glimmered yet through the infernal fog of his supreme conceit.

  “What?” said James Wait, unwillingly. There was a silence. He turned his head just the least bit, and stole a cautious glance. The cook’s lips moved without a sound
; his face was rapt, his eyes turned up. He seemed to be mentally imploring deck beams, the brass hook of the lamp, two cockroaches.

  “Look here,” said Wait, “I want to go to sleep. I think I could.”

  “This is no time for sleep!” exclaimed the cook, very loud. He had prayerfully divested himself of the last vestige of his humanity. He was a voice — a fleshless and sublime thing, as on that memorable night — the night when he went walking over the sea to make coffee for perishing sinners. “This is no time for sleeping,” he repeated with exaltation. “I can’t sleep.”