The Story Of A Round-House And Other Poems Part 8

Faces recurred, fierce memories of the yard, The frozen sail, the savage eyes, the jests, The oaths of one great seaman, syphilis-scarred, The tug of leeches jammed beneath their chests, The buntlines bellying bunts out into b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

The deck so desolate-grey, the sky so wild, He fell asleep, and slept like a young child.

But not for long; the cold awoke him soon, The hot-ache and the skin-cracks and the cramp, The seas thundering without, the gale's wild tune, The sopping misery of the blankets damp.

A speaking-trumpet roared; a sea-boot's stamp Clogged at the door. A man entered to shout: "All hands on deck! Arouse here! Tumble out!"

The caller raised the lamp; his oilskins clicked As the thin ice upon them cracked and fell.

"Rouse out!" he said. "This lamp is frozen wick'd.

Rouse out!" His accent deepened to a yell.

"We're among ice; it's blowing up like h.e.l.l.

We're going to hand both topsails. Time, I guess, We're sheeted up. Rouse out! Don't stay to dress!"

"Is it cold on deck?" said Dauber. "Is it cold?

We're sheeted up, I tell you, inches thick!

The fo'c'sle's like a wedding-cake, I'm told.

Now tumble out, my sons; on deck here, quick!

Rouse out, away, and come and climb the stick.

I'm going to call the half-deck. Bosun! Hey!

Both topsails coming in. Heave out! Away!"

He went; the Dauber tumbled from his bunk, Clutching the side. He heard the wind go past, Making the great s.h.i.+p wallow as if drunk.

There was a shocking tumult up the mast.

"This is the end," he muttered, "come at last!

I've got to go aloft, facing this cold.

I can't. I can't. I'll never keep my hold.

"I cannot face the topsail yard again.

I never guessed what misery it would be."

The cramps and hot-ache made him sick with pain.

The s.h.i.+p stopped suddenly from a devilish sea, Then, with a triumph of wash, a rush of glee, The door burst in, and in the water rolled, Filling the lower bunks, black, creaming, cold.

The lamp sucked out. "Was.h.!.+" went the water back, Then in again, flooding; the Bosun swore.

"You useless thing! You Dauber! You lee slack!

Get out, you heekapoota! Shut the door!

You coo-ilyaira, what are you waiting for?

Out of my way, you thing--you useless thing!"

He slammed the door indignant, clanging the ring.

And then he lit the lamp, drowned to the waist; "Here's a fine house! Get at the scupper-holes"-- He bent against it as the water raced-- "And pull them out to leeward when she rolls.

They say some kinds of landsmen don't have souls.

I well believe. A Port Mahon baboon Would make more soul than you got with a spoon."

Down in the icy water Dauber groped To find the plug; the racing water sluiced Over his head and shoulders as she sloped.

Without, judged by the sound, all h.e.l.l was loosed.

He felt cold Death about him tightly noosed.

That Death was better than the misery there Iced on the quaking foothold high in air.

And then the thought came: "I'm a failure. All My life has been a failure. They were right.

It will not matter if I go and fall; I should be free then from this h.e.l.l's delight.

I'll never paint. Best let it end to-night.

I'll slip over the side. I've tried and failed."

So in the ice-cold in the night he quailed.

Death would be better, death, than this long h.e.l.l Of mockery and surrender and dismay-- This long defeat of doing nothing well, Playing the part too high for him to play.

"O Death! who hides the sorry thing away, Take me; I've failed. I cannot play these cards."

There came a thundering from the topsail yards.

And then he bit his lips, clenching his mind, And staggered out to muster, beating back The coward frozen self of him that whined.

Come what cards might he meant to play the pack.

"Ai!" screamed the wind; the topsail sheet went clack; Ice filled the air with spikes; the grey-backs burst.

"Here's Dauber," said the Mate, "on deck the first.

"Why, holy sailor, Dauber, you're a man!

I took you for a soldier. Up now, come!"

Up on the yards already they began That battle with a gale which strikes men dumb.

The leaping topsail thundered like a drum.

The frozen snow beat in the face like shots.

The wind spun whipping wave-crests into clots.

So up upon the topsail yard again, In the great tempest's fiercest hour, began Probation to the Dauber's soul, of pain Which crowds a century's torment in a span.

For the next month the ocean taught this man, And he, in that month's torment, while she wested, Was never warm nor dry, nor full nor rested.

But still it blew, or, if it lulled, it rose Within the hour and blew again; and still The water as it burst aboard her froze.

The wind blew off an ice-field, raw and chill, Daunting man's body, tampering with his will; But after thirty days a ghostly sun Gave sickly promise that the storms were done.

VII

A great grey sea was running up the sky, Desolate birds flew past; their mewings came As that lone water's spiritual cry, Its forlorn voice, its essence, its soul's name.

The s.h.i.+p limped in the water as if lame.

Then in the forenoon watch to a great shout More sail was made, the reefs were shaken out.

A slant came from the south; the singers stood Clapped to the halliards, hauling to a tune, Old as the sea, a fillip to the blood.

The upper topsail rose like a balloon.

"So long, Cape Stiff. In Valparaiso soon,"

Said one to other, as the s.h.i.+p lay over, Making her course again--again a rover.

Slowly the sea went down as the wind fell.

Clear rang the songs, "Hurrah! Cape Horn is bet!"

The combless seas were lumping into swell; The leaking fo'c'sles were no longer wet.

More sail was made; the watch on deck was set To cleaning up the ruin broken bare Below, aloft, about her, everywhere.

The Dauber, scrubbing out the roundhouse, found Old pantiles pulped among the mouldy gear, Washed underneath the bunks and long since drowned During the agony of the Cape Horn year.

He sang in scrubbing, for he had done with fear-- Fronted the worst and looked it in the face; He had got manhood at the testing-place.

Singing he scrubbed, pa.s.sing his watch below, Making the round-house fair; the Bosun watched, Bringing his knitting slowly to the toe.

Sails stretched a mizen skysail which he patched; They thought the Dauber was a bad egg hatched.

"Daubs," said the Bosun cheerly, "can you knit?

I've made a Barney's bull of this last bit."