Alone on a Wide Wide Sea, Vol. 2 (of 3)

by William Clark Russell

The wind had increased during the afternoon, and the ship was leaning over with steep decks, which reminded me of the French brig. But how different was her motion as she rose stately to the seas, every massive heave of her satisfying and inspiring one with its suggestion of victorious power! I felt that the ship was rushing through the water. There was a peculiar tingling throughout her frame, as though she was thrilled from end to end by the sting and hiss of the milk-white brine which poured from either bow and raced in hills along her side, again and again clouding my cabin-window with a leap of seething dazzle, the blow and dissolving roar of which fell like a thunder-shock upon the ear.

But for my unwillingness to meet the passengers I should have gone on deck. I felt a sort of madness upon me that afternoon. It came and went, but when the feeling was upon me I craved for the open air, for the sweep and trumpeting of the wind, for a sight of the great ship hurling onwards, for a sight too of the warring waters; and at these moments I said to myself, I will not go on deck now and meet the passengers; I will wait until the darkness comes; I will wait until the people are sleeping, and the silence of the slumber of many is upon the ship, as it was last night, and then I will steal on deck and ease the torments of my sightless mind by blending my thoughts with the dark picture of ship and white-peaked seas and rushing black-winged sky; and this I will do in some obscure corner of the ship, where I shall not be seen.

But when the inscrutable horror, the insupportable agitation which drove me into this resolution of going on deck at midnight had passed, I shivered and stealthily wept, for then I seemed to see an awful shadow, a menacing shape of darkness, crouching and skulking behind my impulse—a spectre of self-murder, whose first step it would be to impel me on deck in the darkness of the night, and whose next step after I should have stood lonely for some time on deck would be to tempt me to leap overboard into the ocean grave, where my memory lay! Yes, there could be no doubt that I was a little mad, sometimes more than a little mad at intervals during that afternoon, and one cause of those fits of horror and despair, and of the desire to mingle my spirit with the wild commotion outside, and to pass out of myself into the starry freedom of the blowing ocean-night, lay in a sort of dumb, blind anguish that racked me when the clouding of my cabin-window by the passing foam carried my thoughts to the speeding of the ship through the sea. Though I knew not from what or where, yet I seemed to feel with God knows what muteness, and blindness and faintness of instinct, that I was being borne away—that, wherever my home might be, from it I was being swept. Feeling indeed was no more than seeming; I could be sure of nothing; thought was absolutely indeterminate; nevertheless there was a secret movement in my dark mind that goaded me, as though the tooth of something venomous, unreachable, and unconjecturable was subtly at work within me.

But having fallen into a short doze, I awoke calm, and then I resolved that I would not go on deck that night, for I feared, if I should be visited whilst on deck, and in darkness, by such moods as had tormented me throughout the afternoon, I should destroy myself.

Some dinner was brought to me by a very civil under-steward, who stated that Mrs. Richards was too busy to attend upon me, but that she would be having occasion to call upon me later on. Being without the power of contrasting, I was unable to understand how fortunate I was in having fallen into the hands of such a man as Captain Frederick Ladmore. I did not imagine that other captains would not use me equally well; indeed, I never gave that view of the matter a thought. I ate and drank, and accepted all the kindnesses which were done me as a child might, and yet I was grateful, and the tears would stand in my eyes when I sat alone and thought of what had been done for me; but my gratitude and my appreciation were not those of a person whose faculties are whole.

The under-steward had lighted the lamp, and when he fetched the tray I got into my bunk and sat in it and asked myself all the questions which occurred to me. I then arose and took the glass from the cabin wall, and returning to my bunk fixed my eyes upon my reflection. It may be, I thought to myself, that I do not know who I am, because ever since I returned to consciousness my face has been obscured and deformed by sticking-plaister and a bandage. If I remove the bandage I may know myself. So I took the bandage off and looked. The lint dressing came away with the bandage and exposed the injury, and I saw that my right eyebrow was of a pale red, with a long dark scar going from the temple to above the bridge of the nose. The hair on the brow was entirely gone, and my face, having but one eyebrow, had a wild odd foreign look. I also perceived that my nose, where it was indented betwixt the brow and the bridge, was injured. It was necessary to view myself in profile to gather the extent of this injury; and this I could not do, having but one glass.

Then I said to myself, it may be that I am disfigured beyond recognition of my own eyes. In the case of my face it is not my memory that is at fault. Calamity and horror of mind have ravaged my face, and I do not know myself. If my face was now as it had been prior to the disaster that has blinded my mind and rendered me the loneliest woman in the world, the sight of it would give me back my memory. I continued to gaze at my reflection in the mirror. I then readjusted the bandage, hung up the glass, and resumed my seat in my bunk.

I was sitting motionless, with my eyes rooted to the deck, when the door was vigorously thumped and thrown open, and Mr. McEwan entered. He stood awhile looking at me, swaying on wide-spread feet to the movements of the ship, and then exclaimed:

‘I thought as much. But it won’t do. Ye’ll have to come out of this.’ I looked at him. ‘And you’ve been meddling with your bandage. Did not I tell you to leave it alone? Oh, vanity, vanity! is not thy name woman? Did ye want to see how much beauty you’ve lost? Come to the light that I may see what you’ve been doing to yourself.’ He undid the bandage, and said: ‘Well, it’s mending apace, it’s mending apace. Another day of that wrap and you shall have my permission to appear as you are.’

He then with an air of roughness, but with a most tender hand, bound my brow afresh.