The Seven Seas Part 6

Silver and gray ran spit and bay to meet the steel-backed tide, And pinched and white in the clearing light the crews stared overside.

O rainbow-gay the red pools lay that swilled and spilled and spread, And gold, raw gold, the spent sh.e.l.l rolled between the careless dead-- The dead that rocked so drunkenwise to weather and to lee, And they saw the work their hands had done as G.o.d had bade them see!

And a little breeze blew over the rail that made the headsails lift, But no man stood by wheel or sheet, and they let the schooners drift.

And the rattle rose in Reuben's throat and he cast his soul with a cry, And "Gone already?" Tom Hall he said. "Then it's time for me to die."

His eyes were heavy with great sleep and yearning for the land, And he spoke as a man that talks in dreams, his wound beneath his hand.

"Oh, there comes no good in the westering wind that backs against the sun; Wash down the decks--they're all too red--and share the skins and run, Baltic, Stralsund, and Northern Light,--clean share and share for all, You'll find the fleets off Tolstoi Mees, but you will not find Tom Hall.

Evil he did in shoal-water and blacker sin on the deep, But now he's sick of watch and trick, and now he'll turn and sleep.

He'll have no more of the crawling sea that made him suffer so, But he'll lie down on the killing-grounds where the holluschickie go.

And west you'll turn and south again, beyond the sea-fog's rim, And tell the Yos.h.i.+wara girls to burn a stick for him.

And you'll not weight him by the heels and dump him overside, But carry him up to the sand-hollows to die as Bering died, And make a place for Reuben Paine that knows the fight was fair, And leave the two that did the wrong to talk it over there!"

_Half-steam ahead by guess and lead, for the sun is mostly veiled-- Through fog to fog, by luck and log, sail ye as Bering sailed; And, if the light shall lift aright to give your landfall plain, North and by west, from Zapne Crest, ye raise the Crosses Twain.

Fair marks are they to the inner bay, the reckless poacher knows, What time the scarred see-catchie lead their sleek seraglios.

Ever they hear the floe-pack clear, and the blast of the old bull-whale, And the deep seal-roar that beats off sh.o.r.e above the loudest gale.

Ever they wait the winter's hate as the thundering_ boorga _calls, Where northward look they to St. George, and westward to St. Paul's.

Ever they greet the hunted fleet--lone keels off headlands drear-- When the sealing-schooners flit that way at hazard year by year.

Ever in Yokohama Port men tell the tale anew Of a hidden sea and a hidden fight, When the Baltic ran from the Northern Light And the Stralsund fought the two!_

THE DERELICT.

"And reports the derelict _Mary Pollock_ still at sea."

_s.h.i.+pping News._

_I was the staunchest of our fleet Till the Sea rose beneath our feet Unheralded, in hatred past all measure.

Into his pits he stamped my crew, Buffeted, blinded, bound and threw; Bidding me eyeless wait upon his pleasure._

Man made me, and my will Is to my maker still, Whom now the currents con, the rollers steer-- Lifting forlorn to spy Trailed smoke along the sky, Falling afraid lest any keel come near.

Wrenched as the lips of thirst, Wried, dried, and split and burst, Bone-bleached my decks, wind-scoured to the graining; And, jarred at every roll, The gear that was my soul Answers the anguish of my beams' complaining.

For life that crammed me full, Gangs of the prying gull That shriek and scrabble on the riven hatches.

For roar that dumbed the gale My hawse-pipes guttering wail, Sobbing my heart out through the uncounted watches.

Blind in the hot blue ring Through all my points I swing-- Swing and return to s.h.i.+ft the sun anew.

Blind in my well-known sky I hear the stars go by, Mocking the prow that can not hold one true!

White on my wasted path Wave after wave in wrath Frets 'gainst his fellow, warring where to send me.

Flung forward, heaved aside, Witless and dazed I bide The mercy of the comber that shall end me.

North where the bergs careen, The spray of seas unseen Smokes round my head and freezes in the falling; South where the corals breed, The footless, floating weed Folds me and fouls me, strake on strake upcrawling.

I that was clean to run My race against the sun-- Strength on the deep, am bawd to all disaster-- Whipped forth by night to meet My sister's careless feet, And with a kiss betray her to my master!

Man made me, and my will Is to my maker still-- To him and his, our peoples at their pier: Lifting in hope to spy Trailed smoke along the sky; Falling afraid lest any keel come near!

THE SONG OF THE BANJO.

You couldn't pack a Broadwood half a mile-- You mustn't leave a fiddle in the damp-- You couldn't raft an organ up the Nile, And play it in an Equatorial swamp.

_I_ travel with the cooking-pots and pails-- _I_'m sandwiched 'tween the coffee and the pork-- And when the dusty column checks and tails, You should hear me spur the rearguard to a walk!

With my "_Pilly-w.i.l.l.y-winky-winky popp!_"

[O it's any tune that comes into my head!]

So I keep 'em moving forward till they drop; So I play 'em up to water and to bed.

In the silence of the camp before the fight, When it's good to make your will and say your prayer, You can hear my _strumpty-tumpty_ overnight Explaining ten to one was always fair.

I'm the prophet of the Utterly Absurd, Of the Patently Impossible and Vain-- And when the Thing that Couldn't has occurred, Give me time to change my leg and go again.

With my "_Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tum-pa tump!_"

In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled There was never voice before us till I led our lonely chorus, I--the war-drum of the White Man round the world!

By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread, Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own,-- 'Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed, In the silence of the herder's hut alone-- In the twilight, on a bucket upside down, Hear me babble what the weakest won't confess-- I am Memory and Torment--I am Town!

I am all that ever went with evening dress!

With my "_Tunk-a tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!_"

[So the lights--the London lights--grow near and plain!]

So I rowel 'em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh, Till I bring my broken rankers home again.

In desire of many marvels over sea, Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars, I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger sh.o.r.es.

He is blooded to the open and the sky, He is taken in a snare that shall not fail, He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die, Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale.

With my "_Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!_"

[O the green that thunders aft along the deck!]

Are you sick o' towns and men? You must sign and sail again, For it's "Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!"

Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear-- Up the pa.s.s that packs the scud beneath our wheel-- Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer-- Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal: Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow, Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine, So I lead my reckless children from below Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine.

With my "_Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!_"

[And the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!]

So we ride the iron stallions down to drink, Through the canons to the waters of the West!

And the tunes that mean so much to you alone-- Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose, Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan-- I can rip your very heartstrings out with those; With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun-- And the lying, and the l.u.s.ting, and the drink, And the merry play that drops you, when you're done, To the thoughts that burn like irons if you think.

With my "_Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!_"

Here's a trifle on account of pleasure past, Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your sin And the heavier repentance at the last.

Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof-- I have told the naked stars the grief of man.

Let the trumpets snare the foeman to the proof-- I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran.

My bray ye may not alter nor mistake When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things, But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make, Is it hidden in the tw.a.n.ging of the strings?

With my "_Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!_"