He sits up on his mattress, looks around, but is unable to understand anything.
The wind is hissing like a robber summoning other robbers, and filling the night with disquieting phantoms. It seems as if the sea were full of sinking vessels, of people who are drowning and desperately struggling with death. Voices are heard. Somewhere near by people are shouting, scolding each other, laughing and singing, like madmen, or talking sensibly and rapidly—it seems that soon one will see a strange human face distorted by horror or laughter, or fingers bent convulsively. But there is a strong smell of the sea, and that, together with the cold, brings Khorre to his senses.
“Noni!” he calls hoarsely, but Haggart does not hear him. After a moment’s thought, he calls once more:
“Captain. Noni! Get up.”
But Haggart does not answer and the sailor mutters:
“Noni is drunk and he sleeps. Let him sleep. Oh, what a cold night it is. There isn’t enough warmth in it even to warm your nose. I am cold. I feel cold and lonesome, Noni. I can’t drink like that, although everybody knows I am a drunkard. But it is one thing to drink, and another to drown in gin—that’s an entirely different matter. Noni—you are like a drowned man, simply like a corpse. I feel ashamed for your sake, Noni. I shall drink now and—”
He rises, and staggering, finds an unopened bottle and drinks.
“A fine wind. They call this a storm—do you hear, Noni? They call this a storm. What will they call a real storm?”
He drinks again.
“A fine wind!”