Yet the foregoing is all in after wisdom spoken.It was no part of the knowledge of the lad,fourteen years old,who sat in the Idler's cabin between the harpooner and the sailor,the air rich in his nostrils with the musty smell of men's sea-gear,roaring in chorus:"Yankee ship come down de ribber--pull,my bully boys,pull!"We grew maudlin,and all talked and shouted at once.I had a splendid constitution,a stomach that would digest scrap-iron,and I was still running my marathon in full vigour when Scotty began to fail and fade.His talk grew incoherent.He groped for words and could not find them,while the ones he found his lips were unable to form.His poisoned consciousness was leaving him.The brightness went out of his eyes,and he looked as stupid as were his efforts to talk.His face and body sagged as his consciousness sagged.(A man cannot sit upright save by an act of will.)Scotty's reeling brain could not control his muscles.All his correlations were breaking down.He strove to take another drink,and feebly dropped the tumbler on the floor.Then,to my amazement,weeping bitterly,he rolled into a bunk on his back and immediately snored off to sleep.
The harpooner and I drank on,grinning in a superior way to each other over Scotty's plight.The last flask was opened,and we drank it between us,to the accompaniment of Scotty's stertorous breathing.Then the harpooner faded away into his bunk,and I was left alone,unthrown,on the field of battle.
I was very proud,and John Barleycorn was proud with me.I could carry my drink.I was a man.I had drunk two men,drink for drink,into unconsciousness.And I was still on my two feet,upright,****** my way on deck to get air into my scorching lungs.
It was in this bout on the Idler that I discovered what a good stomach and a strong head I had for drink--a bit of knowledge that was to be a source of pride in succeeding years,and that ultimately I was to come to consider a great affliction.The fortunate man is the one who cannot take more than a couple of drinks without becoming intoxicated.The unfortunate wight is the one who can take many glasses without betraying a sign,who must take numerous glasses in order to get the "kick."The sun was setting when I came on the Idler's deck.There were plenty of bunks below.I did not need to go home.But I wanted to demonstrate to myself how much I was a man.There lay my skiff astern.The last of a strong ebb was running out in channel in the teeth of an ocean breeze of forty miles an hour.I could see the stiff whitecaps,and the suck and run of the current was plainly visible in the face and trough of each one.
I set sail,cast off,took my place at the tiller,the sheet in my hand,and headed across channel.The skiff heeled over and plunged into it madly.The spray began to fly.I was at the pinnacle of exaltation.I sang "Blow the Man Down"as I sailed.
I was no boy of fourteen,living the mediocre ways of the sleepy town called Oakland.I was a man,a god,and the very elements rendered me allegiance as I bitted them to my will.
The tide was out.A full hundred yards of soft mud intervened between the boat-wharf and the water.I pulled up my centreboard,ran full tilt into the mud,took in sail,and,standing in the stern,as I had often done at low tide,I began to shove the skiff with an oar.It was then that my correlations began to break down.I lost my balance and pitched head-foremost into the ooze.
Then,and for the first time,as I floundered to my feet covered with slime,the blood running down my arms from a scrape against a barnacled stake,I knew that I was drunk.But what of it?Across the channel two strong sailormen lay unconscious in their bunks where I had drunk them.I WAS a man.I was still on my legs,if they were knee-deep in mud.I disdained to get back into the skiff.I waded through the mud,shoving the skiff before me and yammering the chant of my manhood to the world.
I paid for it.I was sick for a couple of days,meanly sick,and my arms were painfully poisoned from the barnacle scratches.For a week I could not use them,and it was a torture to put on and take off my clothes.
I swore,"Never again!"The game wasn't worth it.The price was too stiff.I had no moral qualms.My revulsion was purely physical.No exalted moments were worth such hours of misery and wretchedness.When I got back to my skiff,I shunned the Idler.
I would cross the opposite side of the channel to go around her.
Scotty had disappeared.The harpooner was still about,but him Iavoided.Once,when he landed on the boat-wharf,I hid in a shed so as to escape seeing him.I was afraid he would propose some more drinking,maybe have a flask full of whisky in his pocket.
And yet--and here enters the necromancy of John Barleycorn--that afternoon's drunk on the Idler had been a purple passage flung into the monotony of my days.It was memorable.My mind dwelt on it continually.I went over the details,over and over again.
Among other things,I had got into the cogs and springs of men's actions.I had seen Scotty weep about his own worthlessness and the sad case of his Edinburgh mother who was a lady.The harpooner had told me terribly wonderful things of himself.I had caught a myriad enticing and inflammatory hints of a world beyond my world,and for which I was certainly as fitted as the two lads who had drunk with me.I had got behind men's souls.I had got behind my own soul and found unguessed potencies and greatnesses.
Yes,that day stood out above all my other days.To this day it so stands out.The memory of it is branded in my brain.But the price exacted was too high.I refused to play and pay,and returned to my cannon-balls and taffy-slabs.The point is that all the chemistry of my healthy,normal body drove me away from alcohol.The stuff didn't agree with me.It was abominable.
But,despite this,circumstance was to continue to drive me toward John Barleycorn,to drive me again and again,until,after long years,the time should come when I would look up John Barleycorn in every haunt of men--look him up and hail him gladly as benefactor and friend.And detest and hate him all the time.
Yes,he is a strange friend,John Barleycorn.
