Tleman. Your Place Aboard Is With The Gentlemen Abaft The Mast. You're Learning To Command; You Can't Afford To Yam 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 Rail And 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-Decks' Name Talking 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 Feel That While I've Bossed This Mess And Ruled This Roast I'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 Down Before 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, Heard Rain On The Deck-House-Rain, No Other Word. Iv Out Of The Air A Time Of Quiet Came, Calm Fell Upon The Heaven Like A Drouth; The Brass Sky Watched The Brassy Water Flame. Drowsed As A Snail The Clipper Loitered South Slowly, 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 Blows When Billows Are At Peace And Ships Are Drifting; With Mighty Jerks That Set The Shadows Shifting, The Courses Tugged Their Tethers: A Blue Haze Drifted 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 Drew As All Men Draw Keen To The Shaken Soul To Give A Hint That Might Suggest The Whole. A Naked Seaman Washing A Red Shirt Sat 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 Splash Of Spray Came At The Roll On To The Deck-Planks From The Scupper-Hole. He Watched It, Painting Patiently, As Paints, With Eyes That Pierce Behind The Blue Sky'S Veil, The Benedictine In A Book Of Saints Watching 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 Stood Behind Him, Jeering; Then The Sails Began Sniggering 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 Crowd Stood At His Elbow, Muttering As He Drew; The Bosun, Turning To Them, Spoke Aloud, "This Is The Ship That Never Got There. You Look 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 Right Daubing 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 Dispute What Errors Made The Dauber'S Work The Worst. They Probed His Want Of Knowledge To The Root. " Bei Gott I " 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 Mate Paints 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? I Mean 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 Understand Which Task Will Bear The Light Best On God'S Hand." V The Wester Came As Steady As The Trades; Brightly It Blew, And Still The Ship Did Shoulder The Brilliance Of The Water'S White Cockades Into 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 Yard When 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 Thunder Boomed From The Black To Windward, When The Sail Booted And Spurred The Devil In The Gale. For Him To Ride On Men: That Was The Time The Dauber Dreaded; Then Lest 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 Hum In Weather Riggings Died Into The Roar Of 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: Soon He Would Be Ordered Up When Sails And Spars Were 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 Unskilled In Standing On A Rope That Runs Through Eyes. "But In A Storm," He Thought, "The Yards Will Rise And Roll Together Down, And Snap Their Gear!" The Sweat Came Cold Upon His Palms For Fear. Sometimes. In Gloucester He Had Felt A Pang Swinging Below The House-Eaves On A Stage. But Stages Carry Rails; Here He Would Hang Upon A Jerking Rope In A Storm'S Rage, Ducked That The Sheltering Oilskin Might Assuage The 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 Arcs As 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 Sit Upon A Foot-Rope Moving, Jerk And Check, While Half A Dozen Seamen Work On It; Held By One Hand, Straining, By Strength And Wit To 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 Contempt As Neither Man Nor Thing, A Creature Borne On The Ship'S Articles, But Left Exempt From 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 Cast By Standards Set For Men Before The Mast. Even Now They Shifted Suits Of Sails; They Bent The Storm-Suit Ready For The Expected Time; The Mighty Wester That The Plate Had Lent Had 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 Lies Told By Old Hands To Terrify The New, For, Since The Ship Left England, Only Twice Had 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 Tell Too Often, And Too Fiercely, Not To Know That Being Off The Horn In June Is Hell: Hell Of Continual Toil In Ice And Snow, Frostbitten Hell In Which The Westers Blow Shrieking For Days On End, In Which The Seas Gulf The Starved Seamen Till Their Marrows Freeze. Such Was The Weather He Might Look To Find, Such Was The Work Expected: There Remained Firmly 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 Aloft A Lower Topsail, Hard With Rope And Leather, Such As Men'S Frozen Fingers Fight With Oft Below The Ramirez In Cape Hom Weather. The Arms Upon The Yard Hove All Together, Lighting The Head Along; A Thought Occurred Within 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 Coil Within Which Modem Art Gleams Or Grimaces; That If He Drew That Line Of Sailor'S Faces Sweating The Sail, Their Passionate Play And Change, It Would Be New, And Wonderful, And Strange. That That Was What His Work Meant; It Would Be A Training In New Vision-A Revealing Of 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 Exist Solely By Man'S Strong Brain And Sturdy Wrist." So He Decided, As He Cleaned His Brasses, Hearing Without, Aloft, The Curse, The Shout Where 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 Toll 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 By So 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 Pause While 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!" Vi All Through The Windless Night The Clipper Rolled In A Great Swell With Oily Gradual Heaves Which 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 Down Into The Water, Trying To Pierce The Gloom, One Saw A Dim, Smooth, Oily Glitter Of Brown Heaving And Dying Away And Leaving Room For Yet Another. Like The March Of Doom Came Those Great Powers Of Marching Silences; Then Foe Came Down. Dead-Cold, And Hid The Seas. They Set The Dauber To The Foghorn. There He Stood Upon The Poop, Making To Sound Out Of The Pump The Sailor'S Nasal Blare, Listening Lest Ice Should Make The Note Resound. She Bayed There Like A Solitary Hound Lost 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 Merged In 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 Still Out 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 Throes Of Memory Of Some Conquered Hunting-Ground, Out Of The Night Of Death Arose The Sound. "Whales!" Said The Mate. They Stayed There All Night Long Answering 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 Knife Would Sweep The Hedge Away And Make All Plain, Brilliant Beyond All Words, Blinding The Brain. So The Night Passed, 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 Stillborn; All The Sea-Fowl Scattering Splashed 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 White Tumbling 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 Blowing The 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 Prison Into Another, Vaster And More Grim, Which In Dull Crags Of Darkness Had Arisen To 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: Some Sang Out In Quick, High Calls: The Fair-Leads 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, Come The Men'S Call; It Was All Wallop Of Sails And Startled Calling. "Let Fly!" "Let Got" "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 Top-Gallants. Hurry!'' The Dauber Ran, The Others Ran, The Sails Slatted And Shook; Out Of The Black A Flurry Whirled In Fine Lines, Tattering The Edge To Trails. Painting And Art And England Were Old Tales Old 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-Mell Hustled Each Other Up And Cursed Him; He Hurried Aloft With Them: Then From The Sea Came A Cold, Sudden Breath That Made The Hair Stiff 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 Dine. The Clamberers Reached The Futtock-Shrouds' Incline. Cursing They Came; One, Kicking Out Behind, Kicked Dauber In The Mouth, And One Below Punched 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 Theirs Snugged To The Gale In Time. "Up! Damn You, Run!" The Mizen Topmast Head Was Safely Won. "Lay Out!" The Bosun Yelled. The Dauber Laid Out On The Yard, Gripping The Yard And Feeling Sick At The Mighty Space Of Air Displayed Below His Feet, Where Mewing Birds Were Wheeling. A Giddy Fear Was On Him; Be 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 Shoes While 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 Fur I! 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 Hurl The Ship Upon Her Side. The Darkness Speared At 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 Sound Had Devilish Malice At Having Got Her Downed How Long The Gale Had Blown He Could Not Tell, Only The World Bad 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 Hail Plastered 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. On The Buckling Yard A Block Thumped Like A Mall. The Ship Lay,The Sea Smote Her, The Wind'S Bawl Came, "Loo, Loo, Loo!" The Devil Cried His Hounds On 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 Crackling Clang, The Upper Spars Were Snapped Like Twigs Decayed, Snapped At Their Heels, Their Jagged Splinters Splayed, Like White And Ghastly Hairs 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: Below He Caught One Giddy Glimpsing Of The Deck Filled With White Water, As Though Heaped With Snow. He Saw The Streamers Of The Rigging Blow Straight 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 Rage Withering 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 Since Heard Of In Other Lives-Imagined, Dreamed, There Where The Basest Beggar Was A Prince To Him In Torment Where The Tempest Screamed, Comfort And Warmth And Ease No Longer Seemed Things 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, Buckled Like 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 See The 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 Deck Seethed With Four Feet Of Water Filled With Wreck. An Hour More Went By; The Dauber Lost All Sense Of Hands And Feet, All Sense Of All But 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 Felt Ages Go Over Him. At Last, At Last They 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 Hour Stowing 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 Chain One 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. Hey 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 Top Or 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. The Dauber Felt A Mountain Of Water Fall. It Covered Him Deep, Deep, He Felt It Fill, Over His Head, The Deck, The Fife-Rails, All, Quieting The Ship, She Trembled And Lay Still. Then With A Rush And Shatter And Clanging Shrill Over She Went; He Saw The Water Cream Over The Bitts; He Saw The Half-Deck Stream. Then In The Rush He Swirled, Over She Went; Her Lee-Rail Dipped, He Struck, And Something Gave; His Legs Went Through A Port As The Roll Spent; She Paused, Then Rolled, And Back The Water Drave. He Drifted With It As A Part Of The Wave, Drowning, Half-Stunned, Exhausted, Partly Frozen, He Struck The Booby Hatchway; Then The Bosun Leaped, Seeing His Chance, Before The Next Sea Burst, And Caught Him As Fie Drifted, Seized Him, Held, Up-Ended Him Against The Bitts, And Cursed. "This Ain'T The George'S Swimming Baths," Lie Yelled; "Keep On Your Feet! " Another Grey-Back Felled The Two Together, And The Bose, Half-Blind, Spat: "One'S A Joke," Lie Cursed, "But Two'S Unkind." "Now, Damn It, Dauber!" Said The Mate. "Look Out, Or You'll Be Over The Side!" The Water Freed; Each Clanging Freeing-Port Became A Spout. The Men Cleared Tip The Decks As There Was Need. The Dauber'S Head Was Cut, He Felt It Bleed Into His Oilskins As He Clutched And Coiled. Water And Sky Were Devil'S Brews Which Boiled, Boiled, Shrieked, And Glowered-, But The Ship Was Saved. Snugged Safely Down, Though Fourteen Sails Were Split. Out Of The Dark A Fiercer Fury Raved. The Grey-Backs Died And Mounted, Each Crest Lit With A White Toppling Gleam That Hissed From It And Slid, Or Leaped, Or Ran With Whirls Of Cloud, Mad With Inhuman Life That Shrieked Aloud. The Watch Was Called; Dauber Might Go Below. "Splice The Main Brace! " The Mate Called. All Laid Aft To Get A Gulp Of Momentary Glow As Some Reward For Having Saved The Craft. The Steward Ladled Mugs, From Which Each Quaff'D Whisky, With Water, Sugar, And Lime, Juice Hot, A Quarter Of A Pint Each Made The Tot. Beside The Lamp-Room Door The Stew Stood Ladling It Out, And Each Man Came In Turn, Tipped His Sou'-Wester, Drank It, Grunted "Good! And Shambled Forward, Letting It Slowly Burn: When All Were Gone The Dauber Lagged Astern, Torn By His Frozen Body 'S Lust For Heat, The Liquor'S Pleasant Smell, So Warm So Sweet, And By A Promise Long Since Made At Home Never To Taste Strong Liquor. Now He Knew The Worth Of Liquor; Now Lie Wanted Some. His Frozen Body Urged Him To The Brew; Yet It Seemed Wrong, An Evil Thing To Do To Break- That Promise. " Dauber," Said The Mate, "Drink, And Turn In, Man; Why The Hell D'Ye Wait?" "Please, Sir, I'm Temperance." "Temperance Are You, Hey? That's All The More For Me! So You're For Slops? I Thought You'D Had Enough Slops For To-Day. Go To Your Bunk And Ease Her When She Drops. And-Damme, Steward! You Brew With Too Much Hops! Stir Up The Sugar, Man!-And Tell Your Girl How Kind The Mate Was Teaching You To Furl." Then The Mate Drank The Remnants, Six Men'S Share And Ramped Into His Cabin, Where He Stripped And Danced Unclad, And Was Uproarious There. In Waltzes With The Cabin Cat He Tripped. Singing In Tenor Clear That He Was Pipped, That "He Who Strove The Tempest To Disarm, Must Never First Embrail The Lee Yard-Arm." And That His Name Was Ginger. Dauber Crept Back To The Round-House, Gripping By The Rail. The Wind Howled By; The Passionate Water Leapt; The Night Was All One Roaring With The Gale. Then At The Door He Stopped, Uttering A Wail; His Hands Were Perished Numb And Blue As Veins, He Could Not Turn The Knob For Both The Spains. A Hand Came Shuffling Aft, Dodging The Seas, Singing "Her Nut-Brown Hair" Between His Teeth; Taking The Ocean'S Tumult At His Case Even When The Wash About His Thighs Did Seethe. His Soul Was Happy In Its Happy Sheath; "What, Dauber, Won'T It Open? Fingers Cold? You'll Talk Of This Time, Dauber, When You're Old." He Flung The Door Half Open, And A Sea Washed Them Both In, Over The Splashboard, Down; "You Silly, Salt Miscarriage!" Sputtered He. "Dauber, Pull Out The Plug Before We Drown! That's Spoiled My Laces And My Velvet Gown. Where Is The Plug?" Groping In Pitch Dark Water, He Sang Between His Teeth "The Farmer'S Daughter." It Was Pitch Dark Within There; At Each Roll The Chests Slid To The Slant; The Water Rushed, Making Full Many A Clanging Tin Pan Bowl Into The Black Below-Bunks As It Gushed. The Dog-Tired Men Slept Through It; They Were Hushed. The Water Drained, And Then With Matches Damp The Man Struck Heads Off Till He Lit The Lamp. "Thank You," The Dauber Said; The Seaman Grinned. "This Is Your First Foul Weather?" "Yes," " I Thought Up On The Yard You Hadn'T Seen Much Wind. Them'S Rotten Sea-Boots, Dauber, That You Brought. Now I Must Cut On Deck Before I'm Caught." He Went; The Lamp-Flame Smoked; He Slammed The Door; A Film Of Water Loitered Across The Floor. The Dauber Watched It Come And Watched It Go; He Had Had Revelation Of The Lies Cloaking The Truth Men Never Choose To Know; He Could Bear Witness Now And Cleanse Their Eyes. He Had Beheld In Suffering; He Was Wise; This Was The Sea, This Searcher Of The Soul, This Never-Dying Shriek Fresh From The Pole. He Shook With Cold; His Hands Could Not Undo His Oilskin Buttons, So He Shook And Sat, Watching His Dirty Fingers, Dirty Blue, Hearing Without The Hammering Tackle Slat, Within, The Drops From Dripping Clothes Went Pat, Running In Little Patters, Gentle, Sweet, And "Ai, Ai!" Went The Wind, And The Seas Beat. His Bunk Was Sopping Wet; He Clambered In, None Of His Clothes Wer