Men of the Deep Waters by William Hope Hodgson (best book club books of all time TXT) 📖

Slowly and painfully, the boat’s crew scrambled up the side-ladder, and the boat was hoisted aboard; but they had no time then to tell their tale; for the storm was upon them.

It came half an hour later, sweeping down in a cloud of white fury from the Eastward, and blotting out all vestiges of the mysterious derelict and the little barque which had proved her victim. And after that, for a weary day and night, they battled with the storm. When it passed, nothing was to be seen, either of the two vessels or of the weed which had studded the sea before the storm; for they had been blown many a score of leagues to the Westward of the spot, and so had no further chance—nor, I ween, inclination—to investigate further the mystery of that strange old derelict of a past time, and her habitants of rats.

Yet, many a time, and in many fo’cas’les has this story been told; and many a conjecture has been passed as to how came that ancient craft abroad there in the ocean. Some have suggested—as indeed I have made bold to put forth as fact—that she must have drifted out of the lonesome Sargasso Sea. And, in truth, I cannot but think this the most reasonable supposition. Yet, of the rats that evidently dwelt in her, I have no reasonable explanation to offer. Whether they were true ship’s rats, or a species that is to be found in the weed-haunted plains and islets of the Sargasso Sea, I cannot say. It may be that they are the descendants of rats that lived in ships long centuries lost in the Weed Sea, and which have learned to live among the weed, forming new characteristics, and developing fresh powers and instincts. Yet, I cannot say; for I speak entirely without authority, and do but tell this story as it is told in the fo’cas’le of many an old-time sailing ship—that dark, brine-tainted place where the young men learn somewhat of the mysteries of the all mysterious sea.

THE SHAMRAKEN HOMEWARD-BOUNDER

The old Shamraken, sailing-ship, had been many days upon the waters. She was old—older than her masters, and that was saying a good deal. She seemed in no hurry, as she lifted her bulging, old, wooden sides through the seas. What need for hurry! She would arrive some time, in some fashion, as had been her habit heretofore.

Two matters were especially noticeable among her crew—who were also her masters—; the first the agedness of each and everyone; the second the family sense which appeared to bind them, so that the ship seemed manned by a crew, all of whom were related one to the other; yet it was not so.

A strange company were they, each man bearded, aged and grizzled; yet there was nothing of the inhumanity of old age about them, save it might be in their freedom from grumbling, and the calm content which comes only to those in whom the more violent passions have died.

Had anything to be done, there was nothing of the growling, inseparable from the average run of sailor men. They went aloft to the “job”—whatever it might be—with the wise submission which is brought only by age and experience. Their work was gone through with a certain slow pertinacity—a sort of tired steadfastness, born of the knowledge that such work had to be done. Moreover, their hands possessed the ripe skill which comes only from exceeding practice, and which went far to make amends for the feebleness of age. Above all, their movements, slow as they might be, were remorseless in their lack of faltering. They had so often performed the same kind of work, that they had arrived, by the selection of utility, at the shortest and most simple methods of doing it.

They had, as I have said, been many days upon the water, though I am not sure that any man in her knew to a nicety the number of those days. Though Skipper Abe Tombes—addressed usually as Skipper Abe—may have had some notion; for he might be seen at times gravely adjusting a prodigious quadrant, which suggests that he kept some sort of record of time and place.

Of the crew of the Shamraken, some half dozen were seated, working placidly at such matters of seamanship as were necessary. Besides these, there were others about the decks. A couple who paced the lee side of the main deck, smoking, and exchanging an occasional word. One who sat by the side of a worker, and made odd remarks between draws at his pipe. Another, out upon the jibboom, who fished, with a line, hook and white rag, for bonito. This last was Nuzzie, the ship’s boy. He was grey-bearded, and his years numbered five and fifty. A boy of fifteen he had been, when he joined the Shamraken, and “boy” he was still, though forty years had passed into eternity, since the day of his “signing on”; for the men of the Shamraken lived in the past, and thought of him only as the “boy” of that past.

It was Nuzzie’s watch below—his time for sleeping. This might have been said also of the other three men who talked and smoked; but for themselves they had scarce a thought of sleep. Healthy age sleeps little, and they were in health, though so ancient.

Presently, one of those who walked the lee side of the main deck, chancing to cast a glance forrard, observed Nuzzie still to be out upon the jibboom, jerking his line so as to delude some foolish bonito into the belief that the white rag was a flying-fish.

The smoker nudged his companion.

“Time thet b’y ‘ad ‘is sleep.”

“i, i, mate,” returned the other, withdrawing his pipe, and giving a steadfast look at the figure seated out upon the jibboom.

For the half of a minute they stood there, very effigies of Age’s implacable determination to rule rash Youth. Their pipes were held in their hands, and the smoke rose up in little eddies from the smouldering contents of the bowls.

“Thar’s no tamin’ of thet b’y!” said the first man, looking very stern and determined. Then he remembered his pipe, and took a draw.

“B’ys is tur’ble queer critters,” remarked the second man, and remembered his pipe in turn.

“Fishin’ w’en ‘e orter be sleepin’,” snorted the first man.

“B’ys needs a tur’ble lot er sleep,” said the second man. “I ‘member w’en I wor a b’y. I reckon it’s ther growin’.”

And all the time poor Nuzzie fished on.

“Guess I’ll jest step up an’ tell ‘im ter come in outer thet,” exclaimed the first man, and commenced to walk towards the steps leading up on to the fo’cas’le head.

“B’y!” he shouted, as soon as his head was above the level of the fo’cas’le deck. “B’y!”

Nuzzie looked round, at the second call.

“Eh?” he sung out.

“Yew come in outer thet,” shouted the older man, in the somewhat shrill tone which age had brought to his voice. “Reckon we’ll be ‘avin’ yer sleepin’ at the wheel ter night.”

“i,” joined in the second man, who had followed his companion up on to the fo’cas’le head. “Come in, b’y, an’ get ter yer bunk.”

“Right,” called Nuzzie, and commenced to coil up his line. It was evident that he had no thought of disobeying. He came in off the spar, and went past them without a word, on the way to turn in.

They, on their part, went down slowly off the fo’cas’le head, and resumed their walk fore and aft along the lee side of the main deck.

“I reckon, Zeph,” said the man who sat upon the hatch and smoked, “I reckon as Skipper Abe’s ‘bout right. We’ve made a trifle o’ dollars outer the old ‘ooker, an’ we don’t get no younger.”

“Ay, thet’s so, right ‘nuff,” returned the man who sat beside him, working at the stropping of a block.

“An’ it’s ‘bout time’s we got inter the use o’ bein’ ashore,” went on the first man, who was named Job.

Zeph gripped the block between his knees, and fumbled in his hip pocket for a plug. He bit off a chew and replaced the plug.

“Seems cur’ous this is ther last trip, w’en yer comes ter think uv it,” he remarked, chewing steadily, his chin resting on his hand.

Job took two or three deep draws at his pipe before he spoke.

“Reckon it had ter come sumtime,” he said, at length. “I’ve a purty leetle place in me mind w’er’ I’m goin’ ter tie up. ‘Ave yer thought erbout it, Zeph?”

The man who held the block between his knees, shook his head, and stared away moodily over the sea.

“Dunno, Job, as I know what I’ll do w’en ther old ‘ooker’s sold,” he muttered. “Sence M’ria went, I don’t seem nohow ter care ‘bout bein’ ‘shore.”

“I never ‘ad no wife,” said Job, pressing down the burning tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. “I reckon seafarin’ men don’t ought ter have no truck with wives.”

“Thet’s right ‘nuff, Job, fer yew. Each man ter ‘is taste. I wer’ tur’ble fond uv M’ria–-” he broke off short, and continued to stare out over the sea.

“I’ve allus thought I’d like ter settle down on er farm o’ me own. I guess the dollars I’ve arned ‘ll do the trick,” said Job.

Zeph made no reply, and, for a time, they sat there, neither speaking.

Presently, from the door of the fo’cas’le, on the starboard side, two figures emerged. They were also of the “watch below.” If anything, they seemed older than the rest of those about the decks; their beards, white, save for the stain of tobacco juice, came nearly to their waists. For the rest, they had been big vigorous men; but were now sorely bent by the burden of their years. They came aft, walking slowly. As they came opposite to the main hatch, Job looked up and spoke—

“Say, Nehemiah, thar’s Zeph here’s been thinkin’ ‘bout M’ria, an’ I ain’t bin able ter peek ‘im up nohow.”

The smaller of the two newcomers shook his head slowly.

“We hev oor trubbles,” he said. “We hev oor trubbles. I hed mine w’en I lost my datter’s gell. I wor powerful took wi’ thet gell, she wor that winsome; but it wor like ter be—it wor like ter be, an’ Zeph’s hed his trubble sence then.”

“M’ria wer’ a good wife ter me, she wer’,” said Zeph, speaking slowly. “An’ now th’ old ‘ooker’s goin’, I’m feared as I’ll find it mighty lonesome ashore yon,” and he waved his hand, as though suggesting vaguely that the shore lay anywhere beyond the starboard rail.

“Ay,” remarked the second of the newcomers. “It’s er weary thing tu me as th’ old packet’s goin’. Six and sixty year hev I sailed in her. Six and sixty year!” He nodded his head, mournfully, and struck a match with shaky hands.

“It’s like ter be,” said the smaller man. “It’s like ter be.”

And, with that, he and his companion moved over to the spar that lay along under the starboard bulwarks, and there seated themselves, to smoke and meditate.

Skipper Abe, and Josh Matthews, the First Mate, were standing together beside the rail which ran across the break of the poop. Like the rest of the men of the Shamraken, their age had come upon them, and the frost of eternity had touched their beards and hair.

Skipper Abe was speaking:—

“It’s harder ‘n I’d thought,” he said, and looked away from the Mate, staring hard along the worn, white-scoured decks.

“Dunno w’at I’ll du, Abe, w’en she’s gone,” returned the old Mate. “She’s been a ‘ome fer us these sixty years an’ more.” He knocked out