Youth, a Narrative eBook

Joseph M. Carey
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 50 pages of information about Youth, a Narrative.

Youth, a Narrative eBook

Joseph M. Carey
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 50 pages of information about Youth, a Narrative.

“There was a voice hailing the ship from somewhere—­in the air, in the sky—­I couldn’t tell.  Presently I saw the captain—­and he was mad.  He asked me eagerly, ‘Where’s the cabin-table?’ and to hear such a question was a frightful shock.  I had just been blown up, you understand, and vibrated with that experience,—­I wasn’t quite sure whether I was alive.  Mahon began to stamp with both feet and yelled at him, ’Good God! don’t you see the deck’s blown out of her?’ I found my voice, and stammered out as if conscious of some gross neglect of duty, ’I don’t know where the cabin-table is.’  It was like an absurd dream.

“Do you know what he wanted next?  Well, he wanted to trim the yards.  Very placidly, and as if lost in thought, he insisted on having the foreyard squared.  ‘I don’t know if there’s anybody alive,’ said Mahon, almost tearfully.  ‘Surely,’ he said gently, ’there will be enough left to square the foreyard.’

“The old chap, it seems, was in his own berth, winding up the chronometers, when the shock sent him spinning.  Immediately it occurred to him—­as he said afterwards—­that the ship had struck something, and he ran out into the cabin.  There, he saw, the cabin-table had vanished somewhere.  The deck being blown up, it had fallen down into the lazarette of course.  Where we had our breakfast that morning he saw only a great hole in the floor.  This appeared to him so awfully mysterious, and impressed him so immensely, that what he saw and heard after he got on deck were mere trifles in comparison.  And, mark, he noticed directly the wheel deserted and his barque off her course—­and his only thought was to get that miserable, stripped, undecked, smouldering shell of a ship back again with her head pointing at her port of destination.  Bankok!  That’s what he was after.  I tell you this quiet, bowed, bandy-legged, almost deformed little man was immense in the singleness of his idea and in his placid ignorance of our agitation.  He motioned us forward with a commanding gesture, and went to take the wheel himself.

“Yes; that was the first thing we did—­trim the yards of that wreck!  No one was killed, or even disabled, but everyone was more or less hurt.  You should have seen them!  Some were in rags, with black faces, like coal-heavers, like sweeps, and had bullet heads that seemed closely cropped, but were in fact singed to the skin.  Others, of the watch below, awakened by being shot out from their collapsing bunks, shivered incessantly, and kept on groaning even as we went about our work.  But they all worked.  That crew of Liverpool hard cases had in them the right stuff.  It’s my experience they always have.  It is the sea that gives it—­the vastness, the loneliness surrounding their dark stolid souls.  Ah!  Well! we stumbled, we crept, we fell, we barked our shins on the wreckage, we hauled.  The masts stood, but we did not know how much they might be charred down below.  It was nearly calm, but a long swell ran from the west and made her roll.  They might go at any moment.  We looked at them with apprehension.  One could not foresee which way they would fall.

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Youth, a Narrative from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.