IV

The company is dwindling now, for, as Tommy gulps his drink and orders two more, it is on the stroke of nine, when the bars close, and folks are melting group by group into the darkness. Some are bound for home, some for ‘Eldorado,’ a dusty barn where one watches dreadful melodramatic films and faints with the heat. The lights are turned still lower. The few shops which have been open in a stealthy way now shut up close. The moonlight throws sharp blue-black shadows on the white dust of the Rue el Nil. The orchestra fades away; chairs are stacked between the tubs, and reproachful glances are cast upon the dozen or so of us who still linger in the gloom.

I become aware that Tommy, in his own odd little semi-articulate fashion, is regarding me as though he had some extraordinary anxiety on his mind. That is the way his expression strikes me. As though he had had some tremendous experience and didn’t know what to make of it. I remember seeing something like it in the face of a youth, religiously brought up, who was listening for the first time to an atheist attempting to shake the foundations of his faith. And while I ruminate upon this unusual portent in Tommy’s physiognomy, he plunges into the second part of his story. It has its own appeal to those who love and understand the sea.

For the rest of the day the Polynesian’s course was a series of intricate convolutions on the face of the Atlantic. As the Third Mate put it in his lively way, you could have played it on a piano. Owing to the wireless room havingbeen partially demolished, they were out of touch with the world, and the commander felt lonely. He even regretted for a while that he had not retired. Was just going to, when the War came. He was sixty years old, and had been an easygoing skipper for twenty years now. This,—and he wiped his moist face with his handkerchief,—this wasn’t at all what he had bargained for when he had volunteered to carry on ‘for the duration of the War.’ Men dead and dying and mutilated, ship torn asunder—He sat on his settee and stared hard at the head and shoulders of the man at the wheel, adumbrated on the ground-glass window in front of him. He had turned sick at the sight down there—

But the Polynesian was still going. Not a bolt, rivet, plate, or rod of her steering and propelling mechanism had been touched, and she was galloping northwest by west at thirteen knots. The commander hoped for a dark night, for in his present perturbed state the idea of being torpedoed at night was positively horrible. The Brobdingnagian, now, was hit at midnight and sunk in three minutes with all hands but two. He wiped his face again. He felt that he wasn’t equal to it.

It was dark. All night it was dark and moonless. All night they galloped along up-Channel. All night the Old Man walked the bridge, watching the blackness ahead. At four o’clock the Mate came on watch and the Old Man felt that he must lie down. He was over sixty years old, remember, and he had been on his feet for eighteen hours. The Chief Mate, who had been strangely shy since his outrageous behavior, merely remarked that it looked as if it might be thick presently, and began to pace to and fro.

What happened,—if anything did happen,—nobody seemed to know; but Tommy, who came off at four, and was enjoying a pipe, a cup of cocoa, and a game of patiencein his room, was suddenly flung endways against his wardrobe, and a series of grinding crashes, one of which sent his porthole glass in a burst of fragments over his bed-place, buckled the plates of the ship’s side. He remembered that the wardrobe door flew open as he sprang up, and his derby hat bounced to the floor.

He at once skipped down below, where he found the Second and Chief trying to carry out a number of rapid contradictory orders from the telegraph. And as he joined them the telegraph whirled fromFull asterntoStand by, and stopped. They stood by. Tommy was told to go and finish ‘changing over,’ which involves opening and shutting several mysterious valves. Having achieved this, he took up his station by the telegraph.

The Chief, clad in a suit of rumpled but elegant pink-and-saffron-striped pajamas, prowled to and fro in front of the engines like one of the larger carnivora in front of his cage. The Second, with the sleeves of his coat rolled up, as if he were a conjuror and wished to show there was no deception, produced a cigarette from his ear, a match from an invisible ledge under the log-desk, and then caused himself to disappear into the stokehold, whistling a tune at one time very popular in Dublin called ‘Mick McGilligan’s Daughter Mary Ann.’ He returned in some mysterious fashion, smoking with much enjoyment, and reporting greaser, firemen, and Tommies all gone up on deck.

And so they waited, those three, and waited, and waited; and the dawn came up, ineffably tender, and far up above them through the skylights they saw the stars through the fog turn pale, and still there was no sign, the telegraph finger pointing, in its mute peremptory way, atStand by. They were standing by.

And at length it grew to be past endurance. The Chiefspoke sharply into the telephone. Nothing. Suddenly he turned and ordered Tommy to go up and see what was doing. The Second, coming in from the stokehold, reported water in the cross-bunker, but the doors were down. So Tommy went up the long ladders and out on deck and stood stock-still before the great experience of his life. For they were alone on the ship, those three. The boats were gone. There was no sound, save the banging of the empty blocks and the gurgle and slap of the sea against her sides.

For a moment, Tommy said, he ‘had no heart.’ The sheer simplicity of the thing unmanned him, as well it might. He hadn’t words—Gone! Behind the horror lay another horror, and it was the reminiscence of this ultimate apprehension that I saw in his face to-night. And then he threw himself backward (a North Country football trick), turned, and rushed for the ladder. The other two, down below, saw him there, his eyes feverish, his face dark and anxious, his usually low voice harsh and strident, as he prayed them to drop everything and come up quick—come on—and his voice trailed off into huskiness and heavy breathing.

When they came up, which happened immediately, four steps at a time, they found him sprawled against the bulwarks, his chin on his hands, looking as though to fix the scene forever on his brain. And they looked too, and turned faint, for there, far across the darkling sparkle of the sea, were the boats, and on the sky-line a smear of smoke. So they stood, each in a characteristic attitude—Tommy asprawl on the rail, the Second halfway up the bridge-deck ladder, one hand on his hip, the Chief with his hands behind him, his long legs widely planted, his head well forward, scowling. They were as Tommy put it, ‘in a state.’ It wasn’t, you know, the actual danger; it was the carrying away of their faith in the world of living men.Good God! And I imagine the prevailing emotion in their hearts at this moment was instinct in the lad’s query to me—‘What was the use of goin’ back, or making a fight of it, ifthatwas all they thought of us?’ And then the Polynesian recalled them from speculations as to the ultimate probity of the human soul by giving a sudden lunge forward. She was sinking.

For a moment, Tommy says, they were ‘in a state.’ I should imagine they were. They began running round and round the deck, picking up pieces of wood and dropping them in a shamefaced manner. Suddenly the Chief remembered the raft—an unfortunate structure of oil-barrels and hatches. It was on the foredeck, a frowsy incumbrance devised by the Mate in a burst of ingenuity against the fatal day. When the three of them arrived on the foredeck their hopes sank again. A single glance showed the impossibility of lifting it without steam on the winches. They stood round it and deliberated in silence, tying on life-belts which they had picked up on the bridge-deck. The Polynesian gave another lunge, and they climbed on the raft and held tight.

The Polynesian was in her death-throes. She had been cut through below the bridge, and the water was filling the cross-bunker and pressing the air in Number 2 hold up against the hatches. While they sat there waiting, the tarpaulins on the hatch ballooned up and burst like a gunshot, releasing the air improvised within. She plunged again, and the sea poured over her bulwarks and cascaded around them. The raft slid forward against a winch, skinning the Second’s leg against a wheelguard. They held on.

Now, it is perfectly simple in theory to sit on a raft and allow a ship to sink under you. The ship sinks, and the raft, retaining its buoyancy, floats. Quite simple, in theory. In practice, however, many factors tend to vitiate thesimplicity of it. Indeed, it becomes so difficult that only by the mercy of God could anybody attempt it and survive. The foredeck of the Polynesian was like the foredeck of most ships, cluttered up with hatch-combings, winches, ventilator-cowls, steampipes, masts, derricks, bollards, snatch-blocks, dead-eyes, ladders, and wire-rope drums. Look forward from the promenade next time you make a trip, and conceive it. As the Polynesian subsided, she wallowed. Her centre of gravity was changing every second, and the raft, with its three serious passengers, was charging to and fro as if it were alive and trying to escape. It carried away a ventilator, and then, for one horrible instant, was caught in the standing rigging and canted over. A rush to starboard released it, and the next moment it was free. Only the windlass on the forecastlehead was now above water forward.

They saw nothing more of her. Not that she vanished all at once, but the sucking whirlpools in which the raft was turning over and reeling back on them kept them fully occupied. And when at last they had coughed up the seawater and wiped their eyes and looked at each other as they floated in the gentle swell of a smiling summer sea, she was gone. Only one thing destroyed their peace and stood up before them like a spectre: she was lying at the bottom, with her telegraph atStand by. The deathless sporting spirit of the race was expressed in these words: ‘You know, if it hadn’t been forthat, it was a joke, man!’

The moon rides high over Pelusium as we go back to the ship. Tommy and I will keep the morning watch together for once and talk over old times. Tomorrow I shall go through the hot white dust of the Rue el Nil and be paid off in the consul’s office for my two years’ labor. There is a mail-boat next week, and perhaps I shall board her, passenger-fashion, and go across the blue Mediterranean,through sunny France, across the English Channel, where the Polynesian stands by forever, up through Sussex orchards and over Surrey downs. And perhaps, as I idle away the autumn in the dim beauty of the Essex fenland, and as we drive in the pony-cart through the lanes, we shall stop and the children will say, ‘If you stand up, you can see the sea.’

Perhaps. Who knows?

ATLANTIC READINGS

Teachers everywhere are cordially welcoming our series ofAtlantic Readings; for material not otherwise available is here published for classroom use in convenient and inexpensive form. In most cases the selections reprinted have been suggested by teachers in schools and colleges where a need for a particular essay or story has been urgently felt. Supplied for one institution, the reprint has created an immediate market elsewhere.

The Atlantic Monthly Press most warmly invites conference and correspondence that will suggest additions to this growing list. It is of course apparent from the titles below that the material is chosen only in part from the files of theAtlantic Monthly.

The titles already published follow:—

1. THE LIEBy Mary Antin2. RUGGS—R.O.T.C.By William Addleman Ganoe3. JUNGLE NIGHTBy William Beebe4. AN ENGLISHWOMAN’S MESSAGEBy Mrs. A. Burnett-Smith5. A FATHER TO HIS FRESHMAN SONA FATHER TO HIS GRADUATE GIRLBy Edward Sanford Martin6. A PORT SAID MISCELLANYBy William McFee7. EDUCATION:The Mastery of the Arts of LifeBy Arthur E. Morgan8. INTENSIVE LIVINGBy Cornelia A. P. Comer9. THE PRELIMINARIESBy Cornelia A. P. Comer10. THE MORAL EQUIVALENT OF WARBy William James11. THE STUDY OF POETRYBy Matthew Arnold12. BOOKSBy Arthur C. Benson13. ON COMPOSITIONBy Lafcadio Hearn14. THE BASIC PROBLEM OF DEMOCRACYBy Walter Lippmann15. THE PILGRIMS OF PLYMOUTHBy Henry Cabot Lodge

1. THE LIEBy Mary Antin

1. THE LIE

By Mary Antin

2. RUGGS—R.O.T.C.By William Addleman Ganoe

2. RUGGS—R.O.T.C.

By William Addleman Ganoe

3. JUNGLE NIGHTBy William Beebe

3. JUNGLE NIGHT

By William Beebe

4. AN ENGLISHWOMAN’S MESSAGEBy Mrs. A. Burnett-Smith

4. AN ENGLISHWOMAN’S MESSAGE

By Mrs. A. Burnett-Smith

5. A FATHER TO HIS FRESHMAN SONA FATHER TO HIS GRADUATE GIRLBy Edward Sanford Martin

5. A FATHER TO HIS FRESHMAN SON

A FATHER TO HIS GRADUATE GIRL

By Edward Sanford Martin

6. A PORT SAID MISCELLANYBy William McFee

6. A PORT SAID MISCELLANY

By William McFee

7. EDUCATION:The Mastery of the Arts of LifeBy Arthur E. Morgan

7. EDUCATION:The Mastery of the Arts of Life

By Arthur E. Morgan

8. INTENSIVE LIVINGBy Cornelia A. P. Comer

8. INTENSIVE LIVING

By Cornelia A. P. Comer

9. THE PRELIMINARIESBy Cornelia A. P. Comer

9. THE PRELIMINARIES

By Cornelia A. P. Comer

10. THE MORAL EQUIVALENT OF WARBy William James

10. THE MORAL EQUIVALENT OF WAR

By William James

11. THE STUDY OF POETRYBy Matthew Arnold

11. THE STUDY OF POETRY

By Matthew Arnold

12. BOOKSBy Arthur C. Benson

12. BOOKS

By Arthur C. Benson

13. ON COMPOSITIONBy Lafcadio Hearn

13. ON COMPOSITION

By Lafcadio Hearn

14. THE BASIC PROBLEM OF DEMOCRACYBy Walter Lippmann

14. THE BASIC PROBLEM OF DEMOCRACY

By Walter Lippmann

15. THE PILGRIMS OF PLYMOUTHBy Henry Cabot Lodge

15. THE PILGRIMS OF PLYMOUTH

By Henry Cabot Lodge

Other titles to followList Price, 15 cents eachExcept Number 15, 25¢THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS,Inc.8 ARLINGTON STREET, BOSTON (17)

Other titles to follow

List Price, 15 cents each

Except Number 15, 25¢

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS,Inc.

8 ARLINGTON STREET, BOSTON (17)

ATLANTIC TEXTSTEXTBOOKS IN LIBRARY FORM

ATLANTIC TEXTS

TEXTBOOKS IN LIBRARY FORM

ATLANTIC CLASSICS,First Series$1.50ATLANTIC CLASSICS,Second Series1.50Both volumes collected and edited byEllery Sedgwick,Editor of theAtlantic Monthly.For the class in American literature.ESSAYS AND ESSAY-WRITING 1.25Collected and edited byWilliam M. Tanner, Universityof Texas.For literature and composition classes.ATLANTIC NARRATIVES.First Series1.25For college use in classes studying the short story.ATLANTIC NARRATIVES.Second Series1.25For secondary schools.Both volumes collected and edited byCharles SwainThomas, Editorial department of the Atlantic MonthlyPress, and Lecturer in Harvard University.ATLANTIC PROSE AND POETRY 1.00Collected and edited byCharles Swain ThomasandHarry G. Paulof the University of Illinois.A literary reader for upper grammar grades and juniorhigh schools.THE PROFESSION OF JOURNALISM 1.25Collected and edited byWillard G. Bleyer, University ofWisconsin.For college use.THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY AND ITS MAKERS 1.00ByM. A. DeWolfe Howe, Editorial department of theAtlantic Monthly Press.Biographical and literary matter for the English class.WRITING THROUGH READING .90ByRobert M. Gay, Simmons College.A short course in English Composition for colleges andnormal schools.THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS: The Principle and the Practice 2.50Edited byStephen P. Duggan, College of the City ofNew York.A basic text on international relations.THE LIGHT: An Educational Pageant .65ByCatherine T. Bryce, Yale University.Especially suitable for public presentation at Teachers’Conventions.PATRONS OF DEMOCRACY .80ByDallas Lore Sharp, Boston University.For classes interested in discussing democracy in our publicschools.AMERICANS BY ADOPTION 1.50ByJoseph Husband.For Americanisation courses.THE VOICE OF SCIENCE IN NINETEENTH-CENTURY LITERATURECollected and edited byRobert E. Rogersand byH. G. Pearson, Massachusetts Institute of Technology.An anthology of nineteenth-century prose and poetry. 2.00

ATLANTIC CLASSICS,First Series$1.50

ATLANTIC CLASSICS,Second Series1.50

Both volumes collected and edited byEllery Sedgwick,

Editor of theAtlantic Monthly.

For the class in American literature.

ESSAYS AND ESSAY-WRITING 1.25

Collected and edited byWilliam M. Tanner, University

of Texas.

For literature and composition classes.

ATLANTIC NARRATIVES.First Series1.25

For college use in classes studying the short story.

ATLANTIC NARRATIVES.Second Series1.25

For secondary schools.

Both volumes collected and edited byCharles Swain

Thomas, Editorial department of the Atlantic Monthly

Press, and Lecturer in Harvard University.

ATLANTIC PROSE AND POETRY 1.00

Collected and edited byCharles Swain Thomasand

Harry G. Paulof the University of Illinois.

A literary reader for upper grammar grades and junior

high schools.

THE PROFESSION OF JOURNALISM 1.25

Collected and edited byWillard G. Bleyer, University of

Wisconsin.

For college use.

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY AND ITS MAKERS 1.00

ByM. A. DeWolfe Howe, Editorial department of the

Atlantic Monthly Press.

Biographical and literary matter for the English class.

WRITING THROUGH READING .90

ByRobert M. Gay, Simmons College.

A short course in English Composition for colleges and

normal schools.

THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS: The Principle and the Practice 2.50

Edited byStephen P. Duggan, College of the City of

New York.

A basic text on international relations.

THE LIGHT: An Educational Pageant .65

ByCatherine T. Bryce, Yale University.

Especially suitable for public presentation at Teachers’

Conventions.

PATRONS OF DEMOCRACY .80

ByDallas Lore Sharp, Boston University.

For classes interested in discussing democracy in our public

schools.

AMERICANS BY ADOPTION 1.50

ByJoseph Husband.

For Americanisation courses.

THE VOICE OF SCIENCE IN NINETEENTH-CENTURY LITERATURE

Collected and edited byRobert E. Rogersand by

H. G. Pearson, Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

An anthology of nineteenth-century prose and poetry. 2.00

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS,Inc.8 ARLINGTON STREET, BOSTON (17)

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS,Inc.

8 ARLINGTON STREET, BOSTON (17)

Transcriber’s Notes:Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.Typographical errors were silently corrected.Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant form was found in this book.

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