Outside the glare of the steaming forecastle the serene purity of the night enveloped the seamen with its soothing breath, with its tepid breath flowing under the stars that hung countless above the mastheads in a thin cloud of luminous dust. On the town side the blackness of the water was streaked with trails of light which undulated gently on slight ripples, similar to filaments that float rooted to the shore. Rows of other lights stood away in straight lines as if drawn up on parade between towering buildings; but on the other side of the harbour sombre hills arched high their black spines, on which, here and there, the point of a star resembled a spark fallen from the sky. Far off, Byculla way, the electric lamps at the dock gates shone on the end of lofty standards with a glow blinding and frigid like captive ghosts of some evil moons. Scattered all over the dark polish of the roadstead, the ships at anchor floated in perfect stillness under the feeble gleam of their riding-lights, looming up, opaque and bulky, like strange and monumental structures abandoned by men to an everlasting repose.
Before the cabin door Mr. Baker was mustering the crew.
As they stumbled and lurched along past the mainmast, they could see aft his round, broad face with a white paper before it, and beside his shoulder the sleepy head, with dropped eyelids, of the boy, who held, suspended at the end of his raised arm, the luminous globe of a lamp. Even before the shuffle of naked soles had ceased along the decks, the mate began to call over the names. He called distinctly in a serious tone befitting this roll-call to unquiet loneliness, to inglorious and obscure struggle, or to the more trying endurance of small privations and wearisome duties.
As the chief mate read out a name, one of the men would answer: ‘Yes, sir!’ or ‘Here!’ and, detaching himself from the shadowy mob of heads visible above the blackness of starboard bulwarks, would step barefooted into the circle of light, and in two noiseless strides pass into the shadows on the port side of the quarter-deck. They answered in divers tones: in thick mutters, in clear, ringing voices; and some, as if the whole thing had been an outrage on their feelings, used Page 11an injured intonation: for discipline is not ceremonious in merchant ships, where the sense of hierarchy is weak, and where all feel themselves equal before the unconcerned immensity of the sea and the exacting appeal of the work.
Mr. Baker read on steadily: -- ‘Hanssen -- Campbell -- Smith -- Wamibo. Now, then, Wamibo. Why don't you answer? Always got to call your name twice.’ The Finn emitted at last an uncouth grunt, and, stepping out, passed through the patch of light, weird and gaudy, with the face of a man marching through a dream. The mate went on faster: -- ‘Craik -- Singleton -- Donkin.... O Lord!’he involuntarily ejaculated as the incredibly dilapidated figure appeared in the light. It stopped; it uncovered pale gums and long, upper teeth in a malevolent grin. -- ‘Is there anything wrong with me, Mister Mate?’ it asked, with a flavour of insolence in the forced simplicity of its tone. On both sides of the deck subdued titters were heard. -- ‘That'll do. Go over,’ growled Mr. Baker, fixing the new hand with steady blue eyes. And Donkin vanished suddenly out of the light into the dark group of mustered men, to be slapped on the back and to hear flattering whispers. Round him men muttered to one another: -- ‘He ain't afeard, he'll give sport to 'em, see if he don't....Reg'lar Punch and Judy show.....Did ye see the mate start at him?....Well! Damme, if I ever!....’The last man had gone over, and there was a moment of silence while the mate peered at his list. -- ‘'Sixteen, seventeen,’he muttered. ‘I am one hand short, bosun,’ he said aloud. The big west-countryman at his elbow, swarthy and bearded like a gigantic Spaniard, said in a rumbling bass: -- ‘There's no one left forward, sir. I had a look round. He ain't aboard, but he may turn up before daylight.’ -- ‘Ay. He may or he may not,’commented the mate;‘can't make out that last name. It's all a smudge.....That will do, men. Go below.’The indistinct and motionless group stirred, broke up, began to move forward.
‘Wait!’ cried a deep, ringing voice.
All stood still. Mr. Baker, who had turned away yawning, spun round open-mouthed. At last, furious, he blurted out: -- ‘What's this? Who said "Wait"? What....’But he saw a tall figure standing on the rail. It came down and Page 12pushed through the crowd, marching with a heavy tread towards the light on the quarter-deck. Then again the sonorous voice said with insistence:
-- ‘Wait!’ The lamplight lit up the man's body. He was tall. His head was away up in the shadows of lifeboats that stood on skids above the deck. The whites of his eyes and his teeth gleamed distinctly, but the face was indistinguishable. His hands were big and seemed gloved.
Mr. Baker advanced intrepidly. ‘Who are you?
How dare you... ’ he began.
The boy, amazed like the rest, raised the light to the man's face. It was black. A surprised hum -- a faint hum that sounded like the suppressed mutter of the word ‘Nigger’ -- ran along the deck and escaped out into the night. The nigger seemed not to hear.
He balanced himself where he stood in a swagger that marked time. After a moment he said calmly: -- ‘My name is Wait -- James Wait.’‘Oh!’ said Mr. Baker. Then, after a few seconds of smouldering silence, his temper blazed out. ‘Ah!
