CHAPTER XI
An air of belligerence still hung about the boat, thick as the smell of the cattle. The twelve stallions, ranged amidships, bickered like the men. The alleyway before them was narrow; they could stretch their necks all the way across it, and they were everlastingly doing so—not in the friendly way of the long-horned steers that stretched out merely to draw attention to themselves lest somebody might have food for them, but stretched out crankily, even at their mildest, and at their worst, devilishly. When one did so thrust out its head the ears were always laid back, the teeth showing, the eyes rolled white, glinting round to see what the neighbour was up to. Out would come that neighbour's head like a darting snake, and snap would go the teeth left and right. Out came the next head, and so on along the line—till every horse was snapping left and right save the end ones, that had only to keep alert inwards. Thus were they with each other, and when human beings came along each tried to take a piece out of the passer by; and when he succeeded in running the gauntlet, tried to take a piece out of its neighbour for having wished to share the human being's head.
Most of the men attempted the "Whoa now! Steady boy!" method, not only for their own sakes, but for those who were to handle the horses later. The night watchman used to go past them on hands and knees. Scholar saw him do so once, and immediately gave up his practice of going on to the upper deck, and passing over them so, and descending again; gave up even descending to the lower deck and running the gauntlet of the men there (which was not quite as bad as that of the stallions, for not all were unfriendly) when coming and going. Now, when he had occasion to go forward alone, he always did so by way of the horses, the direct way, and passed them slowly. Each one of them seemed to be possessed of a devil. Cockney had an ear torn off—and the temper of the stallions was not improved thereby. That fellow was a marvel. He got the bandage off the dent of the taffrail on the third day, and that afternoon he had his head bound up afresh because of his torn ear. He expressed no opinion about these stallions, he voiced no threat, not even to the steward who bandaged him, fresh from the accident; but after the steward had done with him, and he had brought the odour of iodoform into our midst and been decently sympathised with, he stole away armed with a cudgel. Those who saw him slip it up under his jacket said nothing. He swung with flapping trousers, a vigorous bag of bones, along the alley where the stallions challenged all comers. Out came the head of stallion one at his approach, and crash went the cudgel on its nose. That brought out the head and neck of the second, brought out the craning necks of all of them; and Cockney flailed his way along the line, flailed up and down, and flailed his way back again, and returned to the cattlemen's den and sat down upon the bunk's edge, with the spreading stain of a fresh hemorrhage upon the bandage. Men looked at the head between those thin hands.
Flailed his way along the line.
"Your ear's a-bleedin' again," said one.
"Never mind me hear," he answered. "I give them socks."
But another man eventually advised him to go back to the steward and have his ear re-dressed. The stallions were not improved by this treatment. It was impossible now to "stay with" any one of them, hanging on to its upper lip and stroking the forehead, whether it would or not, and crooning: "Whoa there! Steady boy!" They raised their heads high, and launched downwards. Later on, Cockney, back again from the doctoring, put his hand to his head and said: "I tell you this 'urts, it does!" suddenly rose and went out again; and once more some men guessed what manner of errand he went upon, but said nothing. William saw him at his flailing this time.
"What are you doing?" he said, charging upon him. "I'd give you the same if you hadn't got enough already."
"Wot for?" asked Cockney, and as he thrust forward his face his eyes danced and blazed feverishly, like the eyes of one at bay, under the white bandage.
"For hitting them," replied William.
"Bit off my hear, didn't they?" said Cockney.
"You leave them alone," William advised.
"You keep 'em from bitin' off people's 'eads, then. They're your stallions, ain't they?"
"You leave them alone."
Cockney fired one word at William, his eyes as if a lamp was reflected in them. William wrestled inwardly, clenched his hands at his side, and Cockney moved on. William turned back from him, letting the matter rest there in consideration of Cockney's state; but he did not look where he was going, still had a lingering inclination to punch Cockney anyhow, and had his head turned so that Cockney could see that thought in his eye. The end stallion flung its head up and down, with a sidewise swing, loose necked, and William got the blow full on the side of his face and head, and went down.
"Yah!" jeered Cockney, as William dragged himself up on one palm, clapping the flat of his other hand to his temple, and he returned by way of the upper deck (for he was at the far end of the stallion row) with a dancing step, to narrate to those in the cattlemen's quarters what had befallen. And they were quietly satisfied, for William was no favourite. They all remembered how he had come to their door one morning, and stood behind Candlass in the attitude of a prize-fighter being photographed for the posters.
The steers were not like that. Many of the men had pets among them. There was a big fellow on the main deck that won almost all the men over, all those that could be won over by anything. He began his engaging ways about the third day, and kept them up thereafter. As soon as he saw anything on two legs advancing he thrust his head across the alley, holding it a little tilted like a cat that asks to have its neck scratched. After the feeding and watering was over knots would linger there, beside that wise long-horn. The hand was not enough; he preferred the edge of a piece of board rubbed up and down. Seeing how he enjoyed a scratch, various men offered themselves as scratchers to other beasts. You could see the men all along the alley, each with a piece of board, arms going up and down automaton-like, the steers with their heads slowly turning, gratified. And as the men like clock-work figures scratched the beasts' necks, they carried on shouting discussions each to each. But this big fellow who inaugurated the scratching was especially charming. When one side was scratched sufficiently for the time being, he would raise his head up and over, carefully, so that his long horns might not smite his human friend, and then present the other side of the neck for treatment. If the movement was not observed he would turn his head slowly to the side, pushing—none of your swinging blows from him, no suggestion ever of drawing back his head and launching it forward with sharp horn projecting.
The bulls, too, that had been unruly the first day, were now all friendly. If a man happened to lean against their pen, he would be reminded of where he was, not by a prod of a horn, but by a ringed nose nuzzling into the hands held behind.
After the glorious scent of balsam, blown out to us from the south shore, became so thin it was scarcely perceptible amid the smell of beasts, the whoop of the siren, thrilling the decks, on and on, was added to the lowing of the steers and the bleating of sheep. The Glory slowed down slightly and glided into the Newfoundland fog.