There he was wrong. I never went into steam—not really. If I only live long enough I shall become a bizarre relic of a dead barbarism, a sort of monstrous antiquity, the only seaman of the dark ages who had never gone into steam—not really.
Before the examination was over he imparted to me a few interesting details of the transport service in the time of the Crimean War.
“The use of wire rigging became general about that time too,” he observed. “I was a very young master then. That was before you were born.”
“Yes, sir. I am of the year 1857.”
“The Mutiny year,” he commented, as if to himself, adding in a louder tone that his ship happened then to be in the Gulf of Bengal, employed under a Government charter.
Clearly the transport service had been the making of this examiner, who so unexpectedly had given me an insight into his existence, awakening in me the sense of the continuity of that sea-life into which I had stepped from outside; giving a touch of human intimacy to the machinery of official relations. I felt adopted. His experience was for me, too, as though he had been an ancestor.
Writing my long name (it has twelve letters) with laborious care on the slip of blue paper, he remarked:
“You are of Polish extraction.”
“Born there, sir.”
He laid down the pen and leaned back to look at me as it were for the first time.