ive turmoil were forgotten; the fear and anguish of these dark
moments were never mentioned in the glowing peace of fine days. Yet from
that time our life seemed to start afresh as though we had died and had
been resuscitated. All the first part of the voyage, the Indian Ocean
on the other side of the Cape, all that was lost in a haze, like an
ineradicable suspicion of some previous existence. It had ended--then
there were blank hours: a livid blurr--and again we lived! Singleton was
possessed of sinister truth; Mr. Creighton of a damaged leg; the cook of
fame--and shamefully abused the opportunities of his distinction. Donkin
had an added grievance. He went about repeating with insistence:--"'E
said 'e would brain me--did yer 'ear? They are goin' to murder us now for
the least little thing." We began at last to think it was rather awful.
And we were conceited! We boasted of our pluck, of our capacity for
work, of our energy. We remembered honourable episodes: our devotion,
our indomitable perseverance--and were proud of them as though they had
been the outcome of our unaided impulses. We remembered our danger,
our toil--and conveniently forgot our horrible scare. We decried our
officers--who had done nothing--and listened to the fascinating Donkin.
His care for our rights, his disinterested concern for our dignity, were
not discouraged by the invariable contumely of our words, by the disdain
of our looks. Our contempt for him was unbounded--and we could not but
listen with interest to that consummate artist. He told us we were good
men--a "bloomin' condemned lot of good men." Who thanked us? Who took any
notice of our wrongs? Didn't we lead a "dorg's loife for two poun' ten a
month?" Did we think that miserable pay enough to compensate us for the
risk to our lives and for the loss of our clothes? "We've lost every
rag!" he cried. He made us forget that he, at any rate, had lost nothing
of his own. The younger men listened, thinking--this 'ere Donkin's a
long-headed chap, though no kind of man, anyhow. The Scandinavians were
frightened at his audacities; Wamibo did not understand; and the older
seamen thoughtfully nodded their heads making the thin gold earrings
glitter in the fleshy lobes of hairy ears. Severe, sunburnt faces were
propped meditatively on tattooed forearms. Veined, brown fists held
in their knotted grip the dirty white clay of smouldering pipes. They
listened, impenetrable, broad-backed, with bent shoulder