Authors: James Hanley
He sat down again on the box, reverting to the same crouched position. The bulwarks opposite him were thickly studded with ejected tobacco quids. His jaws moved continuously. It was as if the life in him had to express itself in the movements of his mouth, the rest of the body was dead. The figure never stirred, but the jaws moved incessantly. It was a sort of uncontrollable machine. Energy and purpose fleshed itself there. The man was – his mouth. If he raised his head and allowed his eyes to wander he would see the long, low-lying cargo shed in front of him, whose roof was now almost flush with her boat-deck, for she was empty of all cargo, carrying only sand ballast.
From the shed there rose the strong and sour odour of newly piled grain, old ropes, and salt-scarred canvas, for there was a sail-loft at the top end of the shed facing the dock road. On a level with his eye there were also the giant cranes, now silent, their long arms raised skywards, the funereal gestures of machines into which men could breathe life and energy and movement. Higher still there was the control-man's hut. Above this the sky, in which one could discern fast-gathering banks of cloud.
The rain made a low whirring sound as it struck the concrete surface of the shed. The movement of the man's jaws stopped; he spat out a fresh quid, then pulled the plug of hard stuff from his pocket, and bit on it. The jaws were in motion again.
Between the quay and the ship's side the narrow strip of water shone dully. When the hawsers moved a fraction, the ship too appeared to move, the water gurgled. Looking to his right the man on the box saw the derricks raised. The nearest one caught the light of the cluster above his head. He could see the gin-block quite clearly. He turned his head again, fixing his eyes upon the gangway. Its lower end was indistinguishable, being one with the darkness. He raised his hand and drew the canvas shelter farther over his head. He was conscious of two things. The sounds of rain on the canvas, and that part of the gangway where light and darkness appeared to meet. His gaze had the dull fixity of a lunatic.
He pulled a metal watch from his pocket and stared at it. 'Um,' he said, without arresting the rhythmical movement of his jaws. The tower clock at the top of the graving-dock struck half-past ten. To his left all was shrouded in darkness, except for the faint glitter of a long object that covered the area near the poop. He knew what the glitter was. His eye focusing itself upon that glittering point, he could trace back to where the object began. From where he sat it looked like the point of a long steel finger. In the saloon at his back a single light shone. It had a red paper shade over it. Its glare fell upon the top stair of the flight that led down to the lower deck. The stairs were thickly carpeted.
At that moment his attention was aroused by a sound of footsteps on the gangway. Instantly he was all attention. His eyes seemed to free themselves from the sheaths of hair that cupped them, to search the gangway. He had heard those footsteps quite clearly. He got up from the box, leaned his body forward and peered down. Yes. Somebody was on the gangway. His attitude was tense, expectant, furtive. Somebody was talking down there. Suddenly the man Bradshaw loomed into view. He stepped to the deck, looked at the old man, said casually, 'Night, Rajah!' then disappeared into the saloon. He closed the door behind him.
All was silent again. But the man on the box remained standing, head thrown forward, listening. He was certain somebody else was on the gangway. He could hear Bradshaw whistling as he descended the stairs in the saloon. Then he heard voices in the shed, the sounds of hurrying feet. 'Oh!' he said.
He sat down on the box again. The voices drew nearer. Then the gangway became flooded with men. They passed up quickly, turning to right and left, talking amongst themselves, ignoring the man in the box. He might never have existed. He could hear hatch-coverings being flung aside, chains rattling, the premature creak of a drum-end as a man tried the winch, the low hiss of steam. Ropes moved noiselessly through the blocks, falls hung motionless in the air.
The rain had ceased. He could hear men descending the ladders in the hatches, hear their swelled voices in the cavernous 'tween-decks. The concourse of sounds increased. He appeared to have fallen asleep. His head rested on his breast. The ship had sprung to life beneath many urgent hands. But the Rajah was indifferent. The light over his head had ceased to swing. The slight breeze had gone with the rain. More clusters appeared, their lights splashing uncertainly in the darkness, as men carried them to and fro, rigging them up over hatches, lowering them to the 'tween-decks. There was something phantomlike about the men's movements.
More and more men descended her open hatches. Then the hammering began. But the man on the box was deaf to it all.
In the cabin on the bridge-deck Mr. Dunford woke. He had been dreaming. He jumped from the bunk, put his coat and hat on and went outside. He saw the long gun on the poop as he reached the ladder. He went down. The ship seemed to throb beneath his feet. Down in the holds he could hear the monotonous sing-song voices again, the deafening sound of hammers, the rattle of the winches. The whole ship throbbed with life.
He walked towards the saloon, then stopped to inspect some port-holes and their dead-lights. He leaned against a stanchion, his eyes following the port-holes until they reached the saloon door. The man on the wooden box appeared to have fallen asleep. He went on, passed the still figure and turned into the saloon. He made his way below. After a while he was standing in the 'tween-decks between number two and three hatch. He could see the men working, the bright cluster shining down on them. They worked quickly, almost feverishly, the air was thick with the smell of new wood and strong varnish. Wood to his right and left. Tiers of wood, hands fashioning it into shapes, voices filling the air, hammers driven against nails. He thought of what they were fashioning. He was caught in the unrest again. It was like this sudden madness weaved itself secretly into the wood.
There was the secrecy, too. One was imprisoned by it. He leaned against a ladder, one hand in his trousers' pocket, his eyes following the movements of the many hands. He glimpsed a face now and then, a mere flash and it was gone. He could not hold them. Looking at their hands he imagined that they existed separately from the bodies, that did not move. The hands swept this way and that, rose and fell, the hold was alive with them. 'She'll slip out quietly to-morrow,' he was thinking, 'Just like a thief.' Those restless hands would be still then, they would have given place to something else
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but he did not want to think about that. The work was almost completed.
He went away towards number five. Nobody noticed his presence nor his departure. For them he did not exist. He was something alien, outside their purpose, their goal. There was a break in the hammering now, a kind of hush fell upon the 'tween-decks. Mr. Dunford now saw that work in number five was hardly begun.
He climbed the ladder and landed on the flush-deck a little out of breath. He took the clear air into his lungs. Here on the main-deck men were moving about, but nobody was speaking. The man went to the rail and looking over allowed his eyes to travel into the shed. He saw the edge of a big crate containing a machine. Grain trailed itself out to the quayside. He turned round and looked across the river. There was a red glare in the sky. The river was alive with craft, unlighted, moving silently towards sea and shore. To-morrow they would pass out the same way. But where? The chart loomed large in his mind, and he said aloud, 'But where?' The secrecy was insidious, foully poisonous, one never knew. Then he turned on his heel and walked right aft, climbing to the poop.
Here was the area of wood, but the large object upon it was stilled. It was covered with a canvas hood, excepting for the nose. He felt it with his hand. It was smooth to the touch. He stepped back and surveyed it. Monstrous. To look at it filled him with apprehension. A dull squat beast. If it came alive
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This was the personification of uncontrollable madness, it harboured evil, it was there before him, on his ship. The mathematics of annihilation were hidden there. Its bed was made of steel. Once he had seen it come to life. That was whilst they were proceeding towards a place that was known as X on the chart. He heard footsteps below him, and looking over saw a tall man standing near the wheel-house door. He descended to the deck. The newcomer turned round: 'Oh, I didn't know you were up there,' he said.
'So you're back, Bradshaw,' Mr. Dunford said. 'Are the crew on board?'
'Not till midnight,' Bradshaw said.
'I see they're still working on number three,' Mr. Dunford said. 'Yes,' he added quickly. 'Let's go to my room.'
They went on to the bridge and passed into the cabin. The man Bradshaw closed the door. Mr. Dunford said, 'Lock it, Bradshaw.' The man locked it. They sat down side by side on the settee. Mr. Dunford said:
'You think those men will have finished in that hold by 2 a.m.?'
'Oh, yes,' Bradshaw replied. 'They've done pretty well up to now. But what about those boxes running fore and aft on the flush-deck?'
'They'll be moved,' Mr. Dunford said. Then he pulled the chart from his pocket and spread it out on his knee. They both looked down at it. The man's finger pointed to the little red ball. He held it there, looking into the other man's face. 'What do you think?' he asked.
'It may be that,' Bradshaw said. 'If so, it's suicide.'
'Others would call it bravery,' Mr. Dunford said. 'So that's your opinion. Mine inclines towards L. Funny, isn't it?'
The words O and L and X began moving to and fro on the surface of his mind. Whichever point it was, madness would flower there. He moved his finger higher still to an area that was wholly white. Bradshaw said, 'That's the sea!'
'Yes. Even that isn't safe. They've harnessed water to their ends, too.' The remark made Bradshaw laugh. But the other's expression remained the same. After a long silence Mr. Dunford said:
'Smoke that gunpowder of yours if you wish.'
Mr. Bradshaw immediately took his pipe from his pocket. Whilst he filled it he watched the finger move higher up the chart, thinking, 'That's the limit, it's nowhere at all. The end of things.'
Mr. Dunford was breathing heavily, like a man who has just climbed a high mountain. Bradshaw struck a match. It seemed to stir the still finger to life again, for now it made a rapid descent, stopped over a blue dot, and the man exclaimed excitedly, 'If it were there I could understand. As it is I can't,' and he visioned the scenes in the 'tween-decks again.
The veritable mountain of wood that rose from the quay and was lowered into the hold. Refuge for flesh and blood. The smell of it. The sharp acrid smell of burning paint. Bradshaw puffed contentedly at his pipe. He kept looking at Mr. Dunford's face in profile, noticing how, from time to time, there came to the skin the faintest flush. The nostrils seemed to quiver, the whole surface of the skin mirrored his agitation. 'I can't believe those men will finish the job in time for her to leave on the night's tide. It seems impossible. However, they know best. Oh, by the way, have you mentioned that little matter of the bad hydrant to the bosun? I was looking at it a while ago. It must be seen to. You know the one I mean. Lying abreast of the saloon door.' He saw Bradshaw nod his head.
'I saw to that.' Looking at his watch, he added: 'They'll be aboard any minute now.'
'Is the bosun in his room?'
'Yes.'
'Then you had best tell him to take up a position on the gangway head. That man on the box is most troublesome.'
Bradshaw laughed. 'You mean him they call "The Rajah"?'
'Yes. Who is he? The man reminds me of a monkey.'
'The firm's old watchman. Everybody calls him the Rajah. I believe he made trips on this very ship just after her first trials.'
Mr. Dunford did not seem to be greatly interested. He folded up the chart, and leaning over the end of the settee, pushed it into the open drawer. Bradshaw said: 'We'll know in three days' time.'
'We may never know,' replied Mr. Dunford.
The other made no reply. He understood. He knew Mr. Dunford so very well. Suddenly they both jumped to their feet. Bradshaw said: 'That must be the crew, Mr. Dunford.' He hurried out.
'The crew,' Dunford said under his breath. 'Of course, the crew.' He went out to the bridge. The air was filled with voices. Men were hurrying down the sheds in twos and threes, the gangway swaying beneath their weight. Mr. Dunford was tapping the wooden rail with his fingers, his eyes following the men as they turned from the gangway and made their way for'ard. 'Bradshaw is dull,' he was thinking. 'Bradshaw sees method in their madness.' He smiled. He put his elbows on the rail and rested his head in his hands. He heard a harsh voice shout, 'Nobody'll get you, Rajah. Nothing'll get you save rats.' He heard the monkey laugh.
The wind had come up suddenly. The light was swinging again. It was like a watchful eye keeping sentry. Figures were still ascending the gangway. A man came out of the saloon. He stood in shadow. Mr. Dunford, alone on the bridge, suddenly heard the monkey talking.
'Aye! I said to him: "Stop! Where you goin'?" He was a funny-looking cove, I tell you. He said to me: "I want my parcel." I said: "You can't get no parcel – see?" I remember how he looked at me. His eyes were like a cat's "Can't a man board his own ship?" he said. I shook my head. "You can't go aboard no ship," I said to him; but he came on. "Where'd you think you're goin'?" I said. "Hey! Where'd you think you're goin'?" "Aboard my own ship," he said. He swore then. I wasn't scared. "I got to get that parcel," he said. "Can't get aboard here; not now," I said. "I'm Quartermaster Leech," he said. "I got to get that parcel." "I don't care if you're the King of England," I said. "You get down that gangway as quick as you like. See! Hear that?" I said. I reckon he got scared then. "You get down there right now," I said. "Want me to blow you to pieces, eh? This'n ain't no ordinary ship any longer. See! Ain't even a ship. Let me tell you that. I don't care who you are – I got me orders." He backed away then. Then he made a rush and I jumped off my box. "I got to get my parcel," he said. "Only an hour or so ago I left it behind me in the fo'c'sle. It's for my wife. I got
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" but he wouldn't say anything else. I got suspicious then. I said to him: "I don't care what the hell you got in that parcel. You get down that gangway. See! This'n's no ordinary boat now. Reckon she came under new hands a while ago. You come to-morrow," I said. "All respectable men board ships in broad daylight. I reckon nobody'll take that parcel that's for your missus. See! But you ain't gettin' aboard this'n. Understand?"
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