The Project Gutenberg eBook ofDauber: A PoemThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Dauber: A PoemAuthor: John MasefieldRelease date: February 20, 2018 [eBook #56607]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAUBER: A POEM ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Dauber: A PoemAuthor: John MasefieldRelease date: February 20, 2018 [eBook #56607]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: Dauber: A Poem
Author: John Masefield
Author: John Masefield
Release date: February 20, 2018 [eBook #56607]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAUBER: A POEM ***
A POEM
BY
JOHN MASEFIELD
AUTHOR OF"THE EVERLASTING MERCY," ETC.
LONDONWILLIAM HEINEMANN
Copyright, 1913New Impressions, 1913 and 1914
TOMY WIFE
NOTE.—I thank the editor and proprietors of theEnglish Reviewfor permitting me to reprint this poem, which first appeared in their issue for October, 1912.
The persons and events described in this poem are entirely imaginary, and no reference is made or intended to any living person.
Four bells were struck, the watch was called on deck,All work aboard was over for the hour,And some men sang and others played at check,Or mended clothes or watched the sunset glower.The bursting west was like an opening flower,And one man watched it till the light was dim,But no one went across to talk to him.
He was the painter in that swift ship's crew—Lampman and painter—tall, a slight-built man,Young for his years, and not yet twenty-two;Sickly, and not yet brown with the sea's tan.Bullied and damned at since the voyage began,"Being neither man nor seaman by his tally,"He bunked with the idlers just abaft the galley.
His work began at five; he worked all day,Keeping no watch and having all night in.His work was what the mate might care to say;He mixed red lead in many a bouilli tin;His dungarees were smeared with paraffin."Go drown himself" his round-house mates advised him,And all hands called him "Dauber" and despised him.
Si, the apprentice, stood beside the spar,Stripped to the waist, a basin at his side,Slushing his hands to get away the tar,And then he washed himself and rinsed and dried;Towelling his face, hair-towzelled, eager-eyed,He crossed the spar to Dauber, and there stoodWatching the gold of heaven turn to blood.
They stood there by the rail while the swift shipTore on out of the tropics, straining her sheets,Whitening her trackway to a milky strip,Dim with green bubbles and twisted water-meets,Her clacking tackle tugged at pins and cleats,Her great sails bellied stiff, her great masts leaned:They watched how the seas struck and burst and greened.
Si talked with Dauber, standing by the side."Why did you come to sea, painter?" he said."I want to be a painter," he replied,"And know the sea and ships from A to Z,And paint great ships at sea before I'm dead;Ships under skysails running down the Trade—Ships and the sea; there's nothing finer made.
"But there's so much to learn, with sails and ropes,And how the sails look, full or being furled,And how the lights change in the troughs and slopes,And the sea's colours up and down the world,And how a storm looks when the sprays are hurledHigh as the yard (they say) I want to see;There's none ashore can teach such things to me.
"And then the men and rigging, and the wayShips move, running or beating, and the poiseAt the roll's end, the checking in the sway—I want to paint them perfect, short of the noise;And then the life, the half-decks full of boys,The fo'c'sles with the men there, dripping wet.I know the subjects that I want to get.
"It's not been done, the sea, not yet been done,From the inside, by one who really knows;I'd give up all if I could be the one,But art comes dear the way the money goes.So I have come to sea, and I supposeThree years will teach me all I want to learnAnd make enough to keep me till I earn."
Even as he spoke his busy pencil moved,Drawing the leap of water off the sideWhere the great clipper trampled iron-hooved,Making the blue hills of the sea divide,Shearing a glittering scatter in her stride,And leaping on full tilt with all sails drawing,Proud as a war-horse, snuffing battle, pawing.
"I cannot get it yet—not yet," he said;"That leap and light, and sudden change to green,And all the glittering from the sunset's red,And the milky colours where the bursts have been,And then the clipper striding like a queenOver it all, all beauty to the crown.I see it all, I cannot put it down.
"It's hard not to be able. There, look there!I cannot get the movement nor the light;Sometimes it almost makes a man despairTo try and try and never get it right.Oh, if I could—oh, if I only might,I wouldn't mind what hells I'd have to pass,Not if the whole world called me fool and ass."
Down sank the crimson sun into the sea,The wind cut chill at once, the west grew dun."Out sidelights!" called the mate. "Hi, where is he?"The Boatswain called, "Out sidelights, damn you! Run!""He's always late or lazing," murmured one—"The Dauber, with his sketching." Soon the tintsOf red and green passed on dark water-glints.
Darker it grew, still darker, and the starsBurned golden, and the fiery fishes came.The wire-note loudened from the straining spars;The sheet-blocks clacked together always the same;The rushing fishes streaked the seas with flame,Racing the one speed noble as their own:What unknown joy was in those fish unknown!
Just by the round-house door, as it grew dark,The Boatswain caught the Dauber with, "Now, you;Till now I've spared you, damn you! now you hark:I've just had hell for what you didn't do;I'll have you broke and sent among the crewIf you get me more trouble by a particle.Don't you forget, you daubing, useless article!
"You thing, you twice-laid thing from Port Mahon!"Then came the Cook's "Is that the Dauber there?Why don't you leave them stinking paints alone?They stink the house out, poisoning all the air.Just take them out." "Where to?" "I don't care where.I won't have stinking paint here." From their plates:"That's right; wet paint breeds fever," growled his mates.
He took his still wet drawings from the berthAnd climbed the ladder to the deck-house top;Beneath, the noisy half-deck rung with mirth,For two ship's boys were putting on the strop:One, clambering up to let the skylight drop,Saw him bend down beneath a boat and layHis drawings there, till all were hid away,
And stand there silent, leaning on the boat,Watching the constellations rise and burn,Until the beauty took him by the throat,So stately is their glittering overturn;Armies of marching eyes, armies that yearnWith banners rising and falling, and passing byOver the empty silence of the sky.
The Dauber sighed there looking at the sails,Wind-steadied arches leaning on the night,The high trucks traced on heaven and left no trails;The moonlight made the topsails almost white,The passing sidelight seemed to drip green light.And on the clipper rushed with fire-bright bows;He sighed, "I'll never do 't," and left the house.
"Now," said the reefer, "up! Come, Sam; come, Si,Dauber's been hiding something." Up they slid,Treading on naked tiptoe stealthilyTo grope for treasure at the long-boat skid."Drawings!" said Sam. "Is this what Dauber hid?Lord! I expected pudding, not this rot.Still, come, we'll have some fun with what we've got."
They smeared the paint with turpentine untilThey could remove with mess-clouts every traceOf quick perception caught by patient skill,And lines that had brought blood into his face.They wiped the pigments off, and did erase,With knives, all sticking clots. When they had done,Under the boat they laid them every one.
All he had drawn since first he came to sea,His six weeks' leisure's fruits, they laid them there.They chuckled then to think how mad he'd beFinding his paintings vanished into air.Eight bells were struck, and feet from everywhereWent shuffling aft to muster in the dark;The mate's pipe glowed above, a dim red spark.
Names in the darkness passed and voices cried;The red spark glowed and died, the faces seemedAs things remembered when a brain has died,To all but high intenseness deeply dreamed.Like hissing spears the fishes' fire streamed,And on the clipper rushed with tossing mast,A bath of flame broke round her as she passed.
The watch was set, the night came, and the menHid from the moon in shadowed nooks to sleep,Bunched like the dead; still, like the dead, as whenPlague in a city leaves none even to weep.The ship's track brightened to a mile-broad sweep;The mate there felt her pulse, and eyed the spars:South-west by south she staggered under the stars.
Down in his bunk the Dauber lay awakeThinking of his unfitness for the sea.Each failure, each derision, each mistake,There in the life not made for such as he;A morning grim with trouble sure to be,A noon of pain from failure, and a nightBitter with men's contemning and despite.
This in the first beginning, the green leaf,Still in the Trades before bad weather fell;What harvest would he reap of hate and griefWhen the loud Horn made every life a hell?When the sick ship lay over, clanging her bell,And no time came for painting or for drawing,But all hands fought, and icy death came clawing?
Hell, he expected,—hell. His eyes grew blind;The snoring from his messmates droned and snuffled,And then a gush of pity calmed his mind.The cruel torment of his thought was muffled,Without, on deck, an old, old seaman shuffled,Humming his song, and through the open doorA moonbeam moved and thrust along the floor.
The green bunk curtains moved, the brass rings clicked,The Cook cursed in his sleep, turning and turning,The moonbeam's moving finger touched and picked,And all the stars in all the sky were burning."This is the art I've come for, and am learning,The sea and ships and men and travelling things.It is most proud, whatever pain it brings."
He leaned upon his arm and watched the lightSliding and fading to the steady roll;This he would some day paint, the ship at night,And sleeping seamen tired to the soul;The space below the bunks as black as coal,Gleams upon chests, upon the unlit lamp,The ranging door-hook, and the locker clamp.
This he would paint, and that, and all these scenes,And proud ships carrying on, and men their minds,And blues of rollers toppling into greens,And shattering into white that bursts and blinds,And scattering ships running erect like hinds,And men in oilskins beating down a sailHigh on the yellow yard, in snow, in hail,
With faces ducked down from the slanting driveOf half-thawed hail mixed with half-frozen spray,The roaring canvas, like a thing alive,Shaking the mast, knocking their hands awayThe foot-ropes jerking to the tug and sway,The savage eyes salt-reddened at the rims,And icicles on the south-wester brims.
And sunnier scenes would grow under his brush.The tropic dawn with all things dropping dew,The darkness and the wonder and the hush,The insensate grey before the marvel grew;Then the veil lifted from the trembling blue,The walls of sky burst in, the flower, the rose,All the expanse of heaven a mind that glows.
He turned out of his bunk; the Cook still tossed,One of the other two spoke in his sleep,A cockroach scuttled where the moonbeam crossed;Outside there was the ship, the night, the deep."It is worth while," the youth said; "I will keepTo my resolve, I'll learn to paint all this.My Lord, my God, how beautiful it is!"
Outside was the ship's rush to the wind's hurry,A resonant wire-hum from every rope,The broadening bow-wash in a fiery flurry,The leaning masts in their majestic slope,And all things strange with moonlight: filled with hopeBy all that beauty going as man bade,He turned and slept in peace. Eight bells were made.
Next day was Sunday, his free painting day,While the fine weather held, from eight till eight.He rose when called at five, and did arrayThe round-house gear, and set the kit-bags straightThen kneeling down, like housemaid at a grate,He scrubbed the deck with sand until his kneesWere blue with dye from his wet dungarees.
Soon all was clean, his Sunday tasks were done;His day was clear for painting as he chose.The wetted decks were drying in the sun,The men coiled up, or swabbed, or sought repose.The drifts of silver arrows fell and roseAs flying fish took wing; the breakfast passed,Wasting good time, but he was free at last.
Free for two hours and more to tingle deep,Catching a likeness in a line or tint,The canvas running up in a proud sweep,Wind-wrinkled at the clews, and white like lint,The glittering of the blue waves into glint;Free to attempt it all, the proud ship's pawings,The sea, the sky—he went to fetch his drawings.
Up to the deck-house top he quickly climbed,He stooped to find them underneath the boat.He found them all obliterated, slimed,Blotted, erased, gone from him line and note.They were all spoiled: a lump came in his throat,Being vain of his attempts, and tender skinned—Beneath the skylight watching reefers grinned.
He clambered down, holding the ruined things."Bosun," he called, "look here, did you do these:Wipe off my paints and cut them into strings,And smear them till you can't tell chalk from cheese?Don't stare, but did you do it? Answer, please."The Bosun turned: "I'll give you a thick ear!Do it? I didn't. Get to hell from here!
"I touch your stinking daubs? The Dauber's daft."A crowd was gathering now to hear the fun;The reefers tumbled out, the men laid aft,The Cook blinked, cleaning a mess-kid in the sun."What's up with Dauber now?" said everyone."Someone has spoiled my drawings—look at this!""Well, that's a dirty trick, by God, it is!"
"It is," said Sam, "a low-down dirty trick,To spoil a fellow's work in such a way.And if you catch him, Dauber, punch him sick,For he deserves it, be he who he may."A seaman shook his old head wise and grey."It seems to me," he said, "who ain't no judge,Them drawings look much better now they're smudge."
"Where were they, Dauber? On the deck-house? Where?""Under the long-boat, in a secret place.""The blackguard must have seen you put them there.He is a swine! I tell him to his face:I didn't think we'd anyone so base.""Nor I," said Dauber. "There was six weeks' timeJust wasted in these drawings: it's a crime!"
"Well, don't you say we did it," growled his mates"And as for crime, be damned! the things were smears—Best overboard, like you, with shot for weights;Thank God they're gone, and now go shake your ears."The Dauber listened, very near to tears."Dauber, if I were you," said Sam again,"I'd aft, and see the Captain and complain."
A sigh came from the assembled seamen there.Would he be such a fool for their delightAs go to tell the Captain? Would he dare?And would the thunder roar, the lightning smite?There was the Captain come to take a sight,Handling his sextant by the chart-house aft.The Dauber turned, the seamen thought him daft.
The Captain took his sights—a mate belowNoted the times; they shouted to each other,The Captain quick with "Stop," the answer slow,Repeating slowly one height then another.The swooping clipper stumbled through the smother,The ladder brasses in the sunlight burned,The Dauber waited till the Captain turned.
There stood the Dauber, humbled to the bone,Waiting to speak. The Captain let him wait,Glanced at the course, and called in even tone,"What is the man there wanting, Mr. Mate?"The logship clattered on the grating straight,The reel rolled to the scuppers with a clatter,The Mate came grim: "Well, Dauber, what's the matter?"
"Please, sir, they spoiled my drawings." "Who did?" "They.""Who's they?" "I don't quite know, sir.""Don't quite know, sir.""Then why are you aft to talk about it, hey?Whom d'you complain of?" "No one." "No one?" "No, sir.""Well, then, go forward till you've found them. Go, sir.If you complain of someone, then I'll see.Now get to hell! and don't come bothering me."
"But, sir, they washed them off, and some they cut.Look here, sir, how they spoiled them." "Never mind.Go shove your head inside the scuttle butt,And that will make you cooler. You will findNothing like water when you're mad and blind.Where were the drawings? in your chest, or where?""Under the long-boat, sir; I put them there."
"Under the long-boat, hey? Now mind your tip.I'll have the skids kept clear with nothing round them;The long-boat ain't a store in this here ship.Lucky for you it wasn't I who found them.If I had seen them, Dauber, I'd have drowned them.Now you be warned by this. I tell you plain—Don't stow your brass-rags under boats again.
"Go forward to your berth." The Dauber turned.The listeners down below them winked and smiled,Knowing how red the Dauber's temples burned,Having lost the case about his only child.His work was done to nothing and defiled,And there was no redress: the Captain's voiceSpoke, and called "Painter," making him rejoice.
The Captain and the Mate conversed together."Drawings, you tell me, Mister?" "Yes, sir; viewsWiped off with turps, I gather that's his blether.He says they're things he can't afford to lose.He's Dick, who came to sea in dancing shoes,And found the dance a bear dance. They were hiddenUnder the long-boat's chocks, which I've forbidden."
"Wiped off with turps?" The Captain sucked his lip"Who did it, Mister?" "Reefers, I suppose;Them devils do the most pranks in a ship;The round-house might have done it, Cook or Bose.""I can't take notice of it till he knows.How does he do his work?" "Well, no offence;He tries; he does his best. He's got no sense."
"Painter," the Captain called; the Dauber came."What's all this talk of drawings? What's the matter?""They spoiled my drawings, sir." "Well, who's to blame?The long-boat's there for no one to get at her;You broke the rules, and if you choose to scatterGear up and down where it's no right to be,And suffer as result, don't come to me.
"Your place is in the round-house, and your gearBelongs where you belong. Who spoiled your things?Find out who spoiled your things and fetch him here.""But, sir, they cut the canvas into strings.""I want no argument nor questionings.Go back where you belong and say no more,And please remember that you're not on shore."
The Dauber touched his brow and slunk away—They eyed his going with a bitter eye."Dauber," said Sam, "what did the Captain say?"The Dauber drooped his head without reply."Go forward, Dauber, and enjoy your cry."The Mate limped to the rail; like little feetOver his head the drumming reef-points beat.
The Dauber reached the berth and entered in.Much mockery followed after as he went,And each face seemed to greet him with the grinOf hounds hot following on a creature spent."Aren't you a fool?" each mocking visage meant."Who did it, Dauber? What did Captain say?It is a crime, and there'll be hell to pay."
He bowed his head, the house was full of smoke;The Sails was pointing shackles on his chest."Lord, Dauber, be a man and take a joke"—He puffed his pipe—"and let the matter rest.Spit brown, my son, and get a hairy breast;Get shoulders on you at the crojick braces,And let this painting business go to blazes.
"What good can painting do to anyone?I don't say never do it; far from that—No harm in sometimes painting just for fun.Keep it for fun, and stick to what you're at.Your job's to fill your bones up and get fat;Rib up like Barney's bull, and thick your neck.Throw paints to hell, boy; you belong on deck."
"That's right," said Chips; "it's downright good advice.Painting's no good; what good can painting doUp on a lower topsail stiff with ice,With all your little fish-hooks frozen blue?Painting won't help you at the weather clew,Nor pass your gaskets for you, nor make sail.Painting's a balmy job not worth a nail."
The Dauber did not answer; time was passing.He pulled his easel out, his paints, his stool.The wind was dropping, and the sea was glassing—New realms of beauty waited for his rule;The draught out of the crojick kept him cool.He sat to paint, alone and melancholy,"No turning fools," the Chips said, "from their folly."
He dipped his brush and tried to fix a line,And then came peace, and gentle beauty came,Turning his spirit's water into wine,Lightening his darkness with a touch of flame:O, joy of trying for beauty, ever the same,You never fail, your comforts never end;O, balm of this world's way; O, perfect friend!
They lost the Trades soon after; then came calm,Light little gusts and rain, which soon increasedTo glorious northers shouting out a psalmAt seeing the bright blue water silver fleeced;Hornwards she rushed, trampling the seas to yeast.There fell a rain-squall in a blind day's endWhen, for an hour the Dauber found a friend.
Out of the rain the voices called and passed,The staysails flogged, the tackle yanked and shookInside the harness-room a lantern castLight and wild shadows as it ranged its hook.The watch on deck was gathered in the nook,They had taken shelter in that secret place,Wild light gave wild emotions to each face.
One beat the beef-cask, and the others sangA song that had brought anchors out of seasIn ports where bells of Christians never rang,Nor any sea mark blazed among the trees.By forlorn swamps, in ice, by windy keys,That song had sounded; now it shook the airFrom these eight wanderers brought together there
Under the poop-break, sheltering from the rain,The Dauber sketched some likeness of the room,A note to be a prompting to his brain,A spark to make old memory reillume."Dauber," said someone near him in the gloom,"How goes it, Dauber?" It was reefer Si."There's not much use in trying to keep dry."
They sat upon the sail-room doorway coaming,The lad held forth like youth, the Dauber listenedTo how the boy had had a taste for roaming,And what the sea is said to be and isn't.Where the dim lamplight fell the wet deck glistened,Si said the Horn was still some weeks away,"But tell me, Dauber, where d'you hail from? Eh?"
The rain blew past and let the stars appear;The seas grew larger as the moonlight grewFor half an hour the ring of heaven was clear,Dusty with moonlight, grey rather than blue;In that great moon the showing stars were few.The sleepy time-boy's feet passed overhead."I come from out past Gloucester," Dauber said;
"Not far from Pauntley, if you know those parts;The place is Spital Farm, near Silver Hill,Above a trap-hatch where a mill-stream starts.We had the mill once, but we've stopped the mill,My dad and sister keep the farm on still.We're only tenants, but we've rented there,Father and son, for over eighty year.
"Father has worked the farm since grandfer went;It means the world to him; I can't think whyThey bleed him to the last half-crown for rent,And this and that have almost milked him dry.The land's all starved; if he'd put money by,And corn was up, and rent was down two-thirds...But then they aren't, so what's the use of words.
"Yet still he couldn't bear to see it passTo strangers, or to think a time would comeWhen other men than us would mow the grass,And other names than ours have the home.Some sorrows come from evil thought, but someComes when two men are near, and both are blindTo what is generous in the other's mind.
"I was the only boy, and father thoughtI'd farm the Spital after he was dead,And many a time he took me out and taughtAbout manures and seed-corn white and red,And soils and hops, but I'd an empty head;Harvest or seed, I would not do a turn—I loathed the farm, I didn't want to learn.
"He did not mind at first, he thought it youthFeeling the collar, and that I should change.Then time gave him some inklings of the truth,And that I loathed the farm, and wished to range.Truth to a man of fifty's always strange;It was most strange and terrible to himThat I, his heir, should be the devil's limb.
"Yet still he hoped the Lord might change my mind.I'd see him bridle in his wrath and hate,And almost break my heart he was so kind,Biting his lips sore with resolve to wait.And then I'd try awhile; but it was Fate:I didn't want to learn; the farm to meWas mire and hopeless work and misery.
"Though there were things I loved about it, too—The beasts, the apple-trees, and going haying.And then I tried; but no, it wouldn't do,The farm was prison, and my thoughts were straying.And there'd come father, with his grey head, praying,'O, my dear son, don't let the Spital pass;It's my old home, boy, where your grandfer was.
"'And now you won't learn farming; you don't care.The old home's nought to you. I've tried to teach you;I've begged Almighty God, boy, all I dare,To use His hand if word of mine won't reach you.Boy, for your granfer's sake I do beseech you,Don't let the Spital pass to strangers. SquireHas said he'd give it you if we require.
"Your mother used to walk here, boy, with meIt was her favourite walk down to the mill;And there we'd talk how little death would be,Knowing our work was going on here still.You've got the brains, you only want the will—Don't disappoint your mother and your father.I'll give you time to travel, if you'd rather.'
"But, no, I'd wander up the brooks to read.Then sister Jane would start with nagging tongue,Saying my sin made father's heart to bleed,And how she feared she'd live to see me hung.And then she'd read me bits from Dr. Young.And when we three would sit to supper, JaneWould fillip dad till dad began again.
"'I've been here all my life, boy. I was bornUp in the room above—looks on the mead.I never thought you'd cockle my clean corn,And leave the old home to a stranger's seed.Father and I have made here 'thout a weed:We've give our lives to make that. Eighty years.And now I go down to the grave in tears.'
"And then I'd get ashamed and take off coat,And work maybe a week, ploughing and sowingAnd then I'd creep away and sail my boat,Or watch the water when the mill was going.That's my delight—to be near water flowing,Dabbling or sailing boats or jumping stanks,Or finding moorhens' nests along the banks.
"And one day father found a ship I'd built;He took the cart-whip to me over that,And I, half mad with pain, and sick with guilt,Went up and hid in what we called the flat,A dusty hole given over to the cat.She kittened there; the kittens had worn pathsAmong the cobwebs, dust, and broken laths.
"And putting down my hand between the beamsI felt a leathery thing, and pulled it clear:A book with white cocoons stuck in the seams,Where spiders had had nests for many a year.It was my mother's sketch-book; hid, I fear,Lest dad should ever see it. Mother's lifeWas not her own while she was father's wife.
"There were her drawings, dated, pencilled faint.March was the last one, eighteen eighty-three,Unfinished that, for tears had smeared the paint.The rest was landscape, not yet brought to be.That was a holy afternoon to me;That book a sacred book; the flat a placeWhere I could meet my mother face to face.
"She had found peace of spirit, mother had,Drawing the landscape from the attic there—Heart-broken, often, after rows with dad,Hid like a wild thing in a secret lair.That rotting sketch-book showed me how and whereI, too, could get away; and then I knewThat drawing was the work I longed to do.
"Drawing became my life. I drew, I toiled,And every penny I could get I spentOn paints and artist's matters, which I spoiledUp in the attic to my heart's content,Till one day father asked me what I meant;The time had come, he said, to make an end.Now it must finish: what did I intend?
"Either I took to farming, like his son,In which case he would teach me, early and late(Provided that my daubing mood was done),Or I must go: it must be settled straight.If I refused to farm, there was the gate.I was to choose, his patience was all gone,The present state of things could not go on.
"Sister was there; she eyed me while he spoke.The kitchen clock ran down and struck the hour,And something told me father's heart was broke,For all he stood so set and looked so sour.Jane took a duster, and began to scourA pewter on the dresser; she was crying.I stood stock still a long time, not replying.
"Dad waited, then he snorted and turned round.'Well, think of it,' he said. He left the room,His boots went clop along the stony groundOut to the orchard and the apple-bloom.A cloud came past the sun and made a gloom;I swallowed with dry lips, then sister turned.She was dead white but for her eyes that burned.
"'You're breaking father's heart, Joe," she began;'It's not as if——' she checked, in too much pain.'O, Joe, don't help to kill so fine a man;You're giving him our mother over again.It's wearing him to death, Joe, heart and brain;You know what store he sets on leaving thisTo (it's too cruel) to a son of his.
"'Yet you go painting all the day. O, Joe,Couldn't you make an effort? Can't you seeWhat folly it is of yours? It's not as thoughYou are a genius, or could ever be.O, Joe, for father's sake, if not for me,Give up this craze for painting, and be wiseAnd work with father, where your duty lies.'
"'It goes too deep,' I said; 'I loathe the farm;I couldn't help, even if I'd the mind.Even if I helped, I'd only do him harm;Father would see it, if he were not blind.I was not built to farm, as he would find.O, Jane, it's bitter hard to stand aloneAnd spoil my father's life or spoil my own.'
"'Spoil both,' she said, 'the way you're shaping now.You're only a boy not knowing your own good.Where will you go, suppose you leave here? HowDo you propose to earn your daily food?Draw? Daub the pavements? There's a feckless broodGoes to the devil daily, Joe, in citiesOnly from thinking how divine their wit is.
"'Clouds are they, without water, carried away.And you'll be one of them, the way you're going,Daubing at silly pictures all the day,And praised by silly fools who're always blowing.And you choose this when you might go a-sowing,Casting the good corn into chosen mouldThat shall in time bring forth a hundredfold.'
"So we went on, but in the end it ended.I felt I'd done a murder; I felt sick.There's much in human minds cannot be mended,And that, not I, played dad a cruel trick.There was one mercy: that it ended quick.I went to join my mother's brother: heLived down the Severn. He was kind to me.
"And there I learned house-painting for a living.I'd have been happy there, but that I knewI'd sinned before my father past forgiving,And that they sat at home, that silent two,Wearing the fire out and the evening through,Silent, defeated, broken, in despair,My plate unset, my name gone, and my chair.
"I saw all that; and sister Jane came white—White as a ghost, with fiery, weeping eyes.I saw her all day long and half the night,Bitter as gall, and passionate and wise.'Joe, you have killed your father: there he lies.You have done your work—you with our mother's ways.'She said it plain, and then her eyes would blaze.
"And then one day I had a job to doDown below bridge, by where the docks begin,And there I saw a clipper towing through,Up from the sea that morning, entering in.Raked to the nines she was, lofty and thin,Her ensign ruffling red, her bunts in pile,Beauty and strength together, wonder, style.
"She docked close to the gates, and there she layOver the water from me, well in sight;And as I worked I watched her all the day,Finding her beauty ever fresh delight.Her house-flag was bright green with strips of white;High in the sunny air it rose to shakeAbove the skysail poles most splendid rake."
"And when I felt unhappy I would lookOver the river at her, and her pride.So calm, so quiet, came as a rebukeTo half the passionate pathways which I tried;And though the autumn ran its term and died,And winter fell and cold December came.She was still splendid there, and still the same.
"Then on a day she sailed; but when she wentMy mind was clear on what I had to try:To see the sea and ships, and what they meant,That was the thing I longed to do; so IDrew and worked hard, and studied and put by,And thought of nothing else but that one end,But let all else go hang—love, money, friend.
"And now I've shipped as Dauber I've begun.It was hard work to find a dauber's berth;I hadn't any friends to find me one,Only my skill, for what it may be worth;But I'm at sea now, going about the earth,And when the ship's paid off, when we return,I'll join some Paris studio and learn."
He stopped, the air came moist, Si did not speak;The Dauber turned his eyes to where he sat,Pressing the sail-room hinges with his cheek,His face half covered with a drooping hat.Huge dewdrops from the stay-sails dropped and spat.Si did not stir, the Dauber touched his sleeve;A little birdlike noise came from a sheave.
Si was asleep, sleeping a calm deep sleep,Still as a warden of the Egyptian deadIn some old haunted temple buried deepUnder the desert sand, sterile and red.The Dauber shook his arm; Si jumped and said,"Good yarn, I swear! I say, you have a brain—Was that eight bells that went?" He slept again.
Then waking up, "I've had a nap," he cried."Was that one bell? What, Dauber, you still here?""Si there?" the Mate's voice called. "Sir," he replied.The order made the lad's thick vision clear;A something in the Mate's voice made him fear."Si," said the Mate, "I hear you've made a friend—Dauber, in short. That friendship's got to end.
"You're a young gentleman. Your place aboardIs with the gentlemen abaft the mast.You're learning to command; you can't affordTo yarn with any man. But there ... it's past.You've done it once; let this time be the last.The Dauber's place is forward. Do it again,I'll put you bunking forward with the men.
"Dismiss." Si went, but Sam, beside the Mate,Timekeeper there, walked with him to the railAnd whispered him the menace of "You wait"—Words which have turned full many a reefer pale.The watch was changed; the watch on deck trimmed sail.Sam, going below, called all the reefers down,Sat in his bunk and eyed them with a frown.
"Si here," he said, "has soiled the half-deck's nameTalking to Dauber—Dauber, the ship's clout.A reefer takes the Dauber for a flame,The half-deck take the round-house walking out.He's soiled the half-deck's honour; now, no doubt,The Bosun and his mates will come here sneaking,Asking for smokes, or blocking gangways speaking.
"I'm not a vain man, given to blow or boast;I'm not a proud man, but I truly feelThat while I've bossed this mess and ruled this roastI've kept this hooker's half-deck damned genteel.Si must ask pardon, or be made to squeal.Down on your knees, dog; them we love we chasten.Jao, pasea, my son—in English, Hasten."
Si begged for pardon, meekly kneeling downBefore the reefer's mess assembled grim.The lamp above them smoked the glass all brown;Beyond the door the dripping sails were dim.The Dauber passed the door; none spoke to him.He sought his berth and slept, or, waking, heardRain on the deck-house—rain, no other word.
Out of the air a time of quiet came,Calm fell upon the heaven like a drowth;The brass sky watched the brassy water flame.Drowsed as a snail the clipper loitered southSlowly, with no white bone across her mouth;No rushing glory, like a queen made bold,The Dauber strove to draw her as she rolled.
There the four leaning spires of canvas rose,Royals and skysails lifting, gently lifting,White like the brightness that a great fish blowsWhen billows are at peace and ships are drifting;With mighty jerks that set the shadows shifting,The courses tugged their tethers: a blue hazeDrifted like ghosts of flocks come down to graze.
There the great skyline made her perfect round,Notched now and then by the sea's deeper blue;A smoke-smutch marked a steamer homeward bound,The haze wrought all things to intenser hue.In tingling impotence the Dauber drewAs all men draw, keen to the shaken soulTo give a hint that might suggest the whole.
A naked seaman washing a red shirtSat at a tub whistling between his teeth;Complaining blocks quavered like something hurt.A sailor cut an old boot for a sheath,The ship bowed to her shadow-ship beneath,And little slaps of spray came at the rollOn to the deck-planks from the scupper-hole.
He watched it, painting patiently, as paintsWith eyes that pierce behind the blue sky's veil,The Benedictine in a Book of SaintsWatching the passing of the Holy Grail;The green dish dripping blood, the trump, the hail,The spears that pass, the memory and the passion,The beauty moving under this world's fashion.
But as he painted, slowly, man by man,The seamen gathered near; the Bosun stoodBehind him, jeering; then the Sails beganSniggering with comment that it was not good.Chips flicked his sketch with little scraps of wood,Saying, "That hit the top-knot," every time.Cook mocked, "My lovely drawings; it's a crime."
Slowly the men came nearer, till a crowdStood at his elbow, muttering as he drew;The Bosun, turning to them, spoke aloud,"This is the ship that never got there. YouLook at her here, what Dauber's trying to do.Look at her! lummy, like a Christmas-tree.That thing's a ship; he calls this painting. See?"
Seeing the crowd, the Mate came forward; then"Sir," said the Bosun, "come and see the sight!Here's Dauber makes a circus for the men.He calls this thing a ship—this hell's delight!""Man," said the Mate, "you'll never get her rightDaubing like that. Look here!" He took a brush."Now, Dauber, watch; I'll put you to the blush.
"Look here. Look there. Now watch this ship of mine."He drew her swiftly from a memory stored."God, sir," the Bosun said, "you do her fine!""Ay," said the Mate, "I do so, by the Lord!I'll paint a ship with any man aboard."They hung about his sketch like beasts at bait."There now, I taught him painting," said the Mate.
When he had gone, the gathered men dispersed;Yet two or three still lingered to disputeWhat errors made the Dauber's work the worst.They probed his want of knowledge to the root."Bei Gott!" they swore, "der Dauber cannot do 't;He haf no knolich how to put der pense.Der Mate's is goot. Der Dauber haf no sense."
"You hear?" the Bosun cried, "you cannot do it!""A gospel truth," the Cook said, "true as hell!And wisdom, Dauber, if you only knew it;A five year boy would do a ship as well.""If that's the kind of thing you hope to sell,God help you," echoed Chips. "I tell you true,The job's beyond you, Dauber; drop it, do.
"Drop it, in God's name drop it, and have done!You see you cannot do it. Here's the MatePaints you to frazzles before everyone;Paints you a dandy clipper while you wait.While you, Lord love us, daub. I tell you straight,We've had enough of daubing; drop it; quit.You cannot paint, so make an end of it."
"That's sense," said all; "you cannot, why pretend?"The Dauber rose and put his easel by."You've said enough," he said, "now let it end.Who cares how bad my painting may be? IMean to go on, and, if I fail, to try.However much I miss of my intent,If I have done my best I'll be content.
"You cannot understand that. Let it be.You cannot understand, nor know, nor share.This is a matter touching only me;My sketch may be a daub, for aught I care.You may be right. But even if you were,Your mocking should not stop this work of mine;Rot though it be, its prompting is divine.
"You cannot understand that—you, and you,And you, you Bosun. You can stand and jeer,That is the task your spirit fits you to,That you can understand and hold most dear.Grin, then, like collars, ear to donkey ear,But let me daub. Try, you, to understandWhich task will bear the light best on God's hand."
The wester came as steady as the Trades;Brightly it blew, and still the ship did shoulderThe brilliance of the water's white cockadesInto the milky green of smoky smoulder.The sky grew bluer and the air grew colder.Southward she thundered while the westers held,Proud, with taut bridles, pawing, but compelled.
And still the Dauber strove, though all men mocked,To draw the splendour of the passing thing,And deep inside his heart a something locked.Long pricking in him, now began to sting—A fear of the disasters storm might bring;His rank as painter would be ended then—He would keep watch and watch like other men.
And go aloft with them to man the yardWhen the great ship was rolling scuppers under,Burying her snout all round the compass card,While the green water struck at her and stunned her;When the lee-rigging slacked, when one long thunderBoomed from the black to windward, when the sailBooted and spurred the devil in the gale
For him to ride on men: that was the timeThe Dauber dreaded; then the test would come,When seas, half-frozen, slushed the decks with slime,And all the air was blind with flying scum;When the drenched sails were furled, when the fierce humIn weather riggings died into the roarOf God's eternal never tamed by shore.
Once in the passage he had worked aloft,Shifting her suits one summer afternoon,In the bright Trade wind, when the wind was soft,Shaking the points, making the tackle croon.But that was child's play to the future: soonHe would be ordered up when sails and sparsWere flying and going mad among the stars.
He had been scared that first time, daunted, thrilled,Not by the height so much as by the size,And then the danger to the man unskilledIn standing on a rope that runs through eyes."But in a storm," he thought, "the yards will riseAnd roll together down, and snap their gear!"The sweat came cold upon his palms for fear.
Sometimes in Gloucester he had felt a pangSwinging below the house-eaves on a stage.But stages carry rails; here he would hangUpon a jerking rope in a storm's rage,Ducked that the sheltering oilskin might assuageThe beating of the storm, clutching the jack,Beating the sail, and being beaten back.
Drenched, frozen, gasping, blinded, beaten dumb,High in the night, reeling great blinding arcsAs the ship rolled, his chappy fingers numb,The deck below a narrow blur of marks,The sea a welter of whiteness shot with sparks,Now snapping up in bursts, now dying away,Salting the horizontal snow with spray.
A hundred and fifty feet above the deck,And there, while the ship rolls, boldly to sitUpon a foot-rope moving, jerk and check,While half a dozen seamen work on it;Held by one hand, straining, by strength and witTo toss a gasket's coil around the yard.How could he compass that when blowing hard?
And if he failed in any least degree,Or faltered for an instant, or showed slack,He might go drown himself within the sea,And add a bubble to the clipper's track.He had signed his name, there was no turning back,No pardon for default—this must be done.One iron rule at sea binds everyone.
Till now he had been treated with contemptAs neither man nor thing, a creature borneOn the ship's articles, but left exemptFrom all the seamen's life except their scorn.But he would rank as seaman off the Horn,Work as a seaman, and be kept or castBy standards set for men before the mast.
Even now they shifted suits of sails; they bentThe storm-suit ready for the expected time;The mighty wester that the Plate had lentHad brought them far into the wintry clime.At dawn, out of the shadow, there was rime,The dim Magellan Clouds were frosty clear,The wind had edge, the testing-time was near.
And then he wondered if the tales were liesTold by old hands to terrify the new,For, since the ship left England, only twiceHad there been need to start a sheet or clew,Then only royals, for an hour or two,And no seas broke aboard, nor was it cold.What were these gales of which the stories told?
The thought went by. He had heard the Bosun tellToo often, and too fiercely, not to knowThat being off the Horn in June is hell:Hell of continual toil in ice and snow,Frostbitten hell in which the westers blowShrieking for days on end, in which the seasGulf the starved seamen till their marrows freeze.
Such was the weather he might look to find,Such was the work expected: there remainedFirmly to set his teeth, resolve his mind,And be the first, however much it pained,And bring his honour round the Horn unstained,And win his mates' respect; and thence, untainted,Be ranked as man however much he painted.
He drew deep breath; a gantline swayed aloftA lower topsail, hard with rope and leather,Such as men's frozen fingers fight with oftBelow the Ramirez in Cape Horn weather.The arms upon the yard hove all together,Lighting the head along; a thought occurredWithin the painter's brain like a bright bird:
That this, and so much like it, of man's toil,Compassed by naked manhood in strange places,Was all heroic, but outside the coilWithin which modern art gleams or grimaces;That if he drew that line of sailors' facesSweating the sail, their passionate play and change,It would be new, and wonderful, and strange.
That that was what his work meant; it would beA training in new vision—a revealingOf passionate men in battle with the sea,High on an unseen stage, shaking and reeling;And men through him would understand their feeling,Their might, their misery, their tragic power,And all by suffering pain a little hour;
High on the yard with them, feeling their pain,Battling with them; and it had not been done.He was a door to new worlds in the brain,A window opening letting in the sun,A voice saying, "Thus is bread fetched and ports won,And life lived out at sea where men existSolely by man's strong brain and sturdy wrist."
So he decided, as he cleaned his brasses,Hearing without, aloft, the curse, the shoutWhere the taut gantline passes and repasses,Heaving new topsails to be lighted out.It was most proud, however self might doubt,To share man's tragic toil and paint it true.He took the offered Fate: this he would do.
That night the snow fell between six and seven,A little feathery fall so light, so dry—An aimless dust out of a confused heaven,Upon an air no steadier than a sigh;The powder dusted down and wandered bySo purposeless, so many, and so cold,Then died, and the wind ceased and the ship rolled.
Rolled till she clanged—rolled till the brain was tired,Marking the acme of the heaves, the pauseWhile the sea-beauty rested and respired,Drinking great draughts of roller at her hawse.Flutters of snow came aimless upon flaws."Lock up your paints," the Mate said, speaking light:"This is the Horn; you'll join my watch to-night!"
All through the windless night the clipper rolledIn a great swell with oily gradual heavesWhich rolled her down until her time-bells tolled,Clang, and the weltering water moaned like beeves.The thundering rattle of slatting shook the sheaves,Startles of water made the swing ports gush,The sea was moaning and sighing and saying "Hush!"
It was all black and starless. Peering downInto the water, trying to pierce the gloom,One saw a dim, smooth, oily glitter of brownHeaving and dying away and leaving roomFor yet another. Like the march of doomCame those great powers of marching silences;Then fog came down, dead-cold, and hid the seas.
They set the Dauber to the foghorn. ThereHe stood upon the poop, making to soundOut of the pump the sailors' nasal blare,Listening lest ice should make the note resound.She bayed there like a solitary houndLost in a covert; all the watch she bayed.The fog, come closelier down, no answer made.
Denser it grew, until the ship was lost.The elemental hid her; she was mergedIn mufflings of dark death, like a man's ghost,New to the change of death, yet thither urged.Then from the hidden waters something surged—Mournful, despairing, great, greater than speech,A noise like one slow wave on a still beach.
Mournful, and then again mournful, and stillOut of the night that mighty voice arose;The Dauber at his foghorn felt the thrill.Who rode that desolate sea? What forms were those?Mournful, from things defeated, in the throesOf memory of some conquered hunting-ground,Out of the night of death arose the sound.
"Whales!" said the mate. They stayed there all night longAnswering the horn. Out of the night they spoke,Defeated creatures who had suffered wrong,But were still noble underneath the stroke.They filled the darkness when the Dauber woke;The men came peering to the rail to hear,And the sea sighed, and the fog rose up sheer.
A wall of nothing at the world's last edge,Where no life came except defeated life.The Dauber felt shut in within a hedge,Behind which form was hidden and thought was rife,And that a blinding flash, a thrust, a knifeWould sweep the hedge away and make all plain,Brilliant beyond all words, blinding the brain.
So the night past, but then no morning broke—Only a something showed that night was dead.A sea-bird, cackling like a devil, spoke,And the fog drew away and hung like lead.Like mighty cliffs it shaped, sullen and red;Like glowering gods at watch it did appear,And sometimes drew away, and then drew near.
Like islands, and like chasms, and like hell,But always mighty and red, gloomy and ruddy,Shutting the visible sea in like a well;Slow heaving in vast ripples, blank and muddy,Where the sun should have risen it streaked bloody.The day was still-born; all the sea-fowl scatteringSplashed the still water, mewing, hovering, clattering.
Then Polar snow came down little and light,Till all the sky was hidden by the small,Most multitudinous drift of dirty whiteTumbling and wavering down and covering all—Covering the sky, the sea, the clipper tall,Furring the ropes with white, casing the mast,Coming on no known air, but blowing past.
And all the air seemed full of gradual moan,As though in those cloud-chasms the horns were blowingThe mort for gods cast out and overthrown,Or for the eyeless sun plucked out and going.Slow the low gradual moan came in the snowing;The Dauber felt the prelude had begun.The snowstorm fluttered by; he saw the sun
Show and pass by, gleam from one towering prisonInto another, vaster and more grim,Which in dull crags of darkness had arisenTo muffle-to a final door on him.The gods upon the dull crags lowered dim,The pigeons chattered, quarrelling in the track.In the south-west the dimness dulled to black.
Then came the cry of "Call all hands on deck!"The Dauber knew its meaning; it was come:Cape Horn, that tramples beauty into wreck,And crumples steel and smites the strong man dumb.Down clattered flying kites and staysails: someSang out in quick, high calls; the fairleads skirled,And from the south-west came the end of the world.
"Caught in her ball-dress," said the Bosun, hauling;"Lee-ay, lee-ay!" quick, high, came the men's call;It was all wallop of sails and startled calling."Let fly!" "Let go!" "Clew up!" and "Let go all!""Now up and make them fast!" "Here, give us a haul!""Now up and stow them! Quick! By God! we're done!"The blackness crunched all memory of the sun.
"Up!" said the Mate. "Mizen topgallants. Hurry!"The Dauber ran, the others ran, the sailsSlatted and shook; out of the black a flurryWhirled in fine lines, tattering the edge to trails.Painting and art and England were old talesTold in some other life to that pale man,Who struggled with white fear and gulped and ran.
He struck a ringbolt in his haste and fell—Rose, sick with pain, half-lamed in his left knee;He reached the shrouds where clambering men pell-mellHustled each other up and cursed him; heHurried aloft with them: then from the seaCame a cold, sudden breath that made the hairStiff on the neck, as though Death whispered there.
A man below him punched him in the side."Get up, you Dauber, or let me get past."He saw the belly of the skysail skied,Gulped, and clutched tight, and tried to go more fast.Sometimes he missed his ratline and was grassed,Scraped his shin raw against the rigid line.The clamberers reached the futtock-shrouds' incline.
Cursing they came; one, kicking out behind,Kicked Dauber in the mouth, and one belowPunched at his calves; the futtock-shrouds inclined,It was a perilous path for one to go."Up, Dauber, up!" A curse followed a blow.He reached the top and gasped, then on, then on.And one voice yelled "Let go!" and one "All gone!"
Fierce clamberers, some in oilskins, some in rags,Hustling and hurrying up, up the steep stairs.Before the windless sails were blown to flags,And whirled like dirty birds athwart great airs,Ten men in all, to get this mast of theirsSnugged to the gale in time. "Up! Damn you, run!"The mizen topmast head was safely won.
"Lay out!" the Bosun yelled. The Dauber laidOut on the yard, gripping the yard, and feelingSick at the mighty space of air displayedBelow his feet, where mewing birds were wheeling.A giddy fear was on him; he was reeling.He bit his lip half through, clutching the jack.A cold sweat glued the shirt upon his back.
The yard was shaking, for a brace was loose.He felt that he would fall; he clutched, he bent,Clammy with natural terror to the shoesWhile idiotic promptings came and went.Snow fluttered on a wind-flaw and was spent;He saw the water darken. Someone yelled,"Frap it; don't stay to furl! Hold on!" He held.
Darkness came down—half darkness—in a whirl;The sky went out, the waters disappeared.He felt a shocking pressure of blowing hurlThe ship upon her side. The darkness spearedAt her with wind; she staggered, she careered.Then down she lay. The Dauber felt her go;He saw his yard tilt downwards. Then the snow
Whirled all about—dense, multitudinous, cold—Mixed with the wind's one devilish thrust and shriek,Which whiffled out men's tears, deafened, took hold,Flattening the flying drift against the cheek.The yards buckled and bent, man could not speak.The ship lay on her broadside; the wind's soundHad devilish malice at having got her downed.
*****
How long the gale had blown he could not tell,Only the world had changed, his life had died.A moment now was everlasting hell.Nature an onslaught from the weather side,A withering rush of death, a frost that cried,Shrieked, till he withered at the heart; a hailPlastered his oilskins with an icy mail.
"Cut!" yelled his mate. He looked—the sail was gone,Blown into rags in the first furious squall;The tatters drummed the devil's tattoo. OnThe buckling yard a block thumped like a mall.The ship lay—the sea smote her, the wind's bawlCame, "loo, loo, loo!" The devil cried his houndsOn to the poor spent stag strayed in his bounds.
"Cut! Ease her!" yelled his mate; the Dauber heard.His mate wormed up the tilted yard and slashed,A rag of canvas skimmed like a darting bird.The snow whirled, the ship bowed to it, the gear lashed,The sea-tops were cut off and flung down smashed;Tatters of shouts were flung, the rags of yells—And clang, clang, clang, below beat the two bells.
"O God!" the Dauber moaned. A roaring rang,Blasting the royals like a cannonade;The backstays parted with a cracking clang,The upper spars were snapped like twigs decayed—Snapped at their heels, their jagged splinters splayed,Like white and ghastly hair erect with fear.The Mate yelled, "Gone, by God, and pitched them clear!"
"Up!" yelled the bosun; "up and clear the wreck!"The Dauber followed where he led: belowHe caught one giddy glimpsing of the deckFilled with white water, as though heaped with snow.He saw the streamers of the rigging blowStraight out like pennons from the splintered mast,Then, all sense dimmed, all was an icy blast
Roaring from nether hell and filled with ice,Roaring and crashing on the jerking stage,An utter bridle given to utter vice,Limitless power mad with endless rageWithering the soul; a minute seemed an age.He clutched and hacked at ropes, at rags of sail,Thinking that comfort was a fairy-tale
Told long ago—long, long ago—long sinceHeard of in other lives—imagined, dreamed—There where the basest beggar was a princeTo him in torment where the tempest screamed,Comfort and warmth and ease no longer seemedThings that a man could know: soul, body, brain,Knew nothing but the wind, the cold, the pain.
"Leave that!" the Bosun shouted; "Crojick save!"The splitting crojick, not yet gone to rags,Thundered below, beating till something gave.Bellying between its buntlines into bags.Some birds were blown past, shrieking: dark, like shags,Their backs seemed, looking down. "Leu, leu!" they cried.The ship lay, the seas thumped her; she had died.
They reached the crojick yard, which buckled, buckledLike a thin whalebone to the topsail's strain.They laid upon the yard and heaved and knuckled,Pounding the sail, which jangled and leapt again.It was quite hard with ice, its rope like chain,Its strength like seven devils; it shook the mast.They cursed and toiled and froze: a long time passed
Two hours passed, then a dim lightening came.Those frozen ones upon the yard could seeThe mainsail and the foresail still the same,Still battling with the hands and blowing free,Rags tattered where the staysails used to be.The lower topsails stood; the ship's lee deckSeethed with four feet of water filled with wreck.
An hour more went by; the Dauber lostAll sense of hands and feet, all sense of allBut of a wind that cut him to the ghost,And of a frozen fold he had to haul,Of heavens that fell and never ceased to fall.And ran in smoky snatches along the sea,Leaping from crest to wave-crest, yelling. He
Lost sense of time; no bells went, but he feltAges go over him. At last, at lastThey frapped the cringled crojick's icy pelt;In frozen bulge and bunt they made it fast.Then, scarcely live, they laid in to the mast.The Captain's speaking-trumpet gave a blare,"Make fast the topsail, Mister, while you're there."
Some seamen cursed, but up they had to go—Up to the topsail yard to spend an hourStowing a topsail in a blinding snow,Which made the strongest man among them cower.More men came up, the fresh hands gave them power,They stowed the sail; then with a rattle of chainOne half the crojick burst its bonds again.
*****
They stowed the sail, frapping it round with rope,Leaving no surface for the wind, no fold,Then down the weather-shrouds, half dead, they grope;That struggle with the sail had made them old.They wondered if the crojick furl would hold."Lucky," said one, "it didn't spring the spar.""Lucky," the Bosun said, "lucky! We are!
She came within two shakes of turning topOr stripping all her shroud-screws, that first quiff.Now fish those wash-deck buckets out of the slop.Here's Dauber says he doesn't like Cape Stiff.This isn't wind, man, this is only a whiff.Hold on, all hands, hold on!" a sea, half seen,Paused, mounted, burst, and filled the main-deck green.