CHAPTER XIV
When Scholar descended out of the tearing night he choked like an asthmatical man. It was not now a smell as of fresh cattle that filled the cattlemen's safe, called cabin; it was a suffocating smell as of ammonia. Somebody was singing in the cabin that rose and fell with steely and wooden screams, and with whispers of the sea running round it, the tremendous sea that swirled and broke and sprayed on the other side of the thin iron plates. The tobacco smoke was perhaps not quite so thick to-night, for tobacco was growing scarce; but there were still plenty of pipes a-going for blue clouds to temper the callous glare of the electric light.
Scholar slipped into the cabin, feeling for a moment almost shy. He had learned how to come into the cabin when it was a kind of bedlam; but to come into it now, and find it a kind of temperance sing-song hall for poor seamen, with several of the poor seamen glancing at him in a way that suggested their thought was: "Ah! we'll ask him to sing next!" was a little upsetting. He tried to efface himself in his bunk. The applause following a heartrending solo about "For the flag he gave his young life!" had just ended.
"Charles will give us a solo upon the mouth organ," said someone.
Charles looked bashful; it was one thing to play the mouth organ on the dock front while the others double-shuffled (or, for that matter, to play it on an ordinary evening when the ordinary life was going on, some listening, others talking, voices roaring: "You're a liar!" others bellowing: "Shut up!") but quite another to have everybody quiet even before he began to play. Charles screamed that he was "fed up with the thing!" and very likely felt a qualm in his heart so soon as the words left his lips, for he was not at all "fed up" with his mouth organ; he was very keen on it.
Many coaxed him, and one-eyed Michael said: "Well, never mind if you don't want to play. Don't worry the young fellow if he doesn't feel inclined. Jimmy there will play."
Jimmy had been shouting: "Go on, Charlie!" For a moment he was like a sailing ship taken aback, but he plucked up courage, and accepting the instrument that Charles handed to him, wiped it with his sleeve and began to play. Some rose and tried to dance, but did not find dancing easy, for the gale was rising, and the stern rose and swung and fell and leapt up. They danced, collided, and fell, danced again, and the onlookers whooped with amusement, or smiled with mild disdain and pity; and the mouth organ warbled, while the sea echoed and whispered round. Candlass, appearing unexpectedly with a lamp, brought the man with the mouth organ to a stop, and the dancers reeled to their bunks, where they sat down laughing.
"Mike!" said Candlass. "Oh, you're there, Mike. Bring two or three of the men forward with you."
Mike slipped over his bunk side; three or four others rolled out of their own accord, the Inquisitive One among them, for though it must be a call to work of some kind, and he was not eager for extra work, he simply must know what was afoot.
"That will do," said Candlass. "I just want you to come along here and see to some of these ropes before you turn in."
Away they went along the reeking decks. The cattle were not in a bad plight at all; they had their four legs to stand upon, and propped each other as well. It was those upon the lee side that gave most concern to Candlass now. He carried the lamp high, casting weird shadows, and directing the men in the slacking of a rope here, the hauling up of one yonder. There was no doubt that the gale was rising; sailors were battening down a hatch overhead, and their voices, as they hailed each other before they got the whole hatch covered, shutting out the night, came down broken and blown. Seas came over the decks, smacking like the flat of a great hand, and rushed past. Now that the hatches were battened down there was a kind of confined feeling—the long deck above, and the steer-packed deck below, converged in the perspective, and gave a feeling as of being buried alive in a monstrous box full of a dance of weird lights and shadows.
Their work over, Candlass said: "That'll do, men. I'd better have a man or two up to-night, along with the watchman."
"All right," answered Mike, looking forward to the variety.
"No, no—not you," said Candlass. "You fellows can go back."
Away they went along the choking decks, one or another pausing now and then to scratch, with closed fists—fingers being useless to the big beasts—some head that thrust forward inviting. Others, when a head leant out determinedly, smote at it to make way—but most, by this time, had desisted from such methods, and were more inclined to make friends with the steers. They met Rafferty as they were on their way back.
"Where's Candlass?" he asked them.
"He's behind."
"Oh, he's behind, is he? Are you fellows going to have another man or two up with the watchman?"
"I was just talking about it," came Candlass's voice, he walking aft in the rear; "but I guess I'll stop up myself."
"All right," said Rafferty. "I'll relieve you then, if you tell me when."
They passed on to the cabin, Candlass following to thrust his head in and look sharply till silence fell.
"You fellows," he said, "if I come and call on you to-night, turn out lively."
"All right, boss," several shouted, but Candlass had already turned away.
All were soon asleep; but, as it happened, there was no night call. On a night like this, even if the bosses had not been about on the decks, the little trick of loosening some steers in distaste for the night-watchman or for Rafferty would have been allowed to lapse. All slept, or at least all were silent; for perhaps here and there, in a bunk, someone lay staring at the electric lights that were never put out, and could not be put out, there being no switch in the cabin, lay staring and wondering at the whole business, the deep breathing, the occasional sighs, the place ringing to the blows of the sea, and echoing, as though someone whispered to the sweep of the spray without; the whirl of the driving propeller going on and on, as if for ever, under foot.
They thought at first, when they were called, that it was a night call, woke gasping in the reek of ammonia, to find Candlass going his rounds along a sloping deck, the Glory now having a tremendous list on, never swinging up to a level, but rolling all the time from the degrees of that list to a slope comparable with that of a church steeple, an almost anxious slope, then back up again, and pitching, too. The men who were already wakened began to shout: "Tumble up! Tumble up!" even before Rafferty appeared; and there was little need for him to raise his cry, for almost all were awake and rolling from their bunks as he lurched in at the door and glared round. The wind shrieked outside, the cabin echoed more than ever like a steel drum, the screams and groanings were infinitely louder. Candlass looked at his men to see what fettle they were in, but he had already arrived at an opinion and a computation regarding what men could be relied on in the event of emergency.
"Come on!" said Mike, and led the way.
Scholar followed, Michael came next. It was very dark. They went along on the windward side. All the cattle there had their broad fronts against the making-fast board, their heads over it. The men moved along, propped against the hoardings to leeward. The cattle on that side were standing well back, leaning against each other, tails against the backboards. As they manoeuvred forward a faint glow showed to starboard, which had nothing to do with the scattered lamps that, from the beams above, swung round and round in circles. One hatch (and only one) was still uncovered, and down that the shrieking and roaring song of the gale came. Mike poised along ahead like one walking on a steep roof. Up soared the Glory, and down she plunged, and over she rolled—farther over, trembling down. The cattle staggered; there was a sound of clicking horns, there were sounds of things going slide and crash all over, and still she rolled. She had a list on her beyond anything that Mike had ever known. He hung on with his right hand; he was under the hatch now, Scholar a pace or two behind, and both could look up at the dark sky overhead showing purple before the beginning of another day. It was then four o'clock. And as she hung over thus they watched the stars rush wildly up the sky like soaring rockets, up and over, and then up came the sea, following the soaring stars. It gave them pause. So far over did she hang that, from where they held tight upon the windward side, they could see clean through the hatch above, and over its lee edge, right out to the junction of sky and sea (a strip of awesome whiteness, or less whiteness than the colourless look of a glass of water) beyond an unforgettable tremendous tossing waste of a deep and velvety purple. And still she hung over, so that they saw more and more of the sea. It seemed to be rushing at them with all its great dark purple hollows, its purple hillsides, its snowy crests. And in that moment Scholar averted his eyes from it and looked toward Mike, and found Mike—hanging on—looking over his shoulder rearward. Their eyes met. And Scholar believed that perhaps Mike was right in his view of him that he had voiced the day before when the gale was rising—believed that when it came to the "bit" he would not be found wanting.
It seemed to be rushing at them with all its dark purple
hollows, its purple hillsides, its snowy crests.
Then the stars that had rushed up came rushing down again, bringing the sky with them, and it fitted over in place. The Glory rolled and pitched onward, still with something of a list, but no following roll sent her so far over, and from no succeeding roll was she so slow to rise again.