Chapter 2 - Page 2

take charge of the
deck. On the homeward trip, according to an old custom of the sea, the
chief officer takes the first night-watch--from eight till midnight.
So Mr. Baker, after he had heard the last "Yes, sir!" said moodily,
"Relieve the wheel and look-out"; and climbed with heavy feet the
poop ladder to windward. Soon after Mr. Creighton came down, whistling
softly, and went into the cabin. On the doorstep the steward lounged,
in slippers, meditative, and with his shirt-sleeves rolled up to the
armpits.

On the main deck the cook, locking up the galley doors, had an
altercation with young Charley about a pair of socks. He could be heard
saying impressively, in the darkness amidships: "You don't deserve a
kindness. I've been drying them for you, and now you complain about
the holes--and you swear, too! Right in front of me! If I hadn't been a
Christian--which you ain't, you young ruffian--I would give you a clout
on the head.... Go away!" Men in couples or threes stood pensive or
moved silently along the bulwarks in the waist. The first busy day of
a homeward passage was sinking into the dull peace of resumed routine.
Aft, on the high poop, Mr. Baker walked shuffling and grunted to himself
in the pauses of his thoughts. Forward, the look-out man, erect between
the flukes of the two anchors, hummed an endless tune, keeping his eyes
fixed dutifully ahead in a vacant stare. A multitude of stars coming out
into the clear night peopled the emptiness of the sky. They glittered,
as if alive above the sea; they surrounded the running ship on
all sides; more intense than the eyes of a staring crowd, and as
inscrutable as the souls of men.

The passage had begun, and the ship, a fragment detached from the earth,
went on lonely and swift like a small planet. Round her the abysses of
sky and sea met in an unattainable frontier. A great circular solitude
moved with her, ever changing and ever the same, always monotonous and
always imposing. Now and then another wandering white speck, burdened
with life, appeared far off--disappeared; intent on its own destiny.
The sun looked upon her all day, and every morning rose with a burning,
round stare of undying curiosity. She had her own future; she was alive
with the lives of those beings who trod her decks; like that earth which
had given her up to the sea, she had an intolerable load of regrets and
hopes. On her lived timid truth and audacious lies; and, like the earth,
she was unconscious, fair to see--and condemned by men to an ignoble
fate. The august loneliness of her path lent dignity to the sordid
inspiration of her pilgrimage. She drove foaming to the southward, as if
guided by the courage of a high endeavour. The smiling greatness