Men of the Deep Waters - William Hope Hodgson (classic books for 11 year olds .txt) 📗

but from right ahead, as though issuing from the mouth of the radiant arch, the long-backed, foamless seas rolled up, black and oily.

Suddenly, amid the silence, there came a low musical note, rising and falling like the moan of a distant �olian harp. The sound appeared to come from the direction of the arch, and the surrounding mist seemed to catch it up and send it sobbing and sobbing in low echoes away into the redness far beyond sight.

“They’m singin’,” cried Zeph. “M’ria wer’ allus tur’ble fond uv singin’. Hark ter–-”

“‘Sh!” interrupted Josh. “Thet’s my b’y!” His shrill old voice had risen almost to a scream.

“It’s wunnerful—wunnerful; just mazin’!” exclaimed Skipper Abe.

Zeph had gone a little forrard of the crowd. He was shading his eyes with his hands, and staring intently, his expression denoting the most intense excitement.

“B’lieve I see ‘er. B’lieve I see ‘er,” he was muttering to himself, over and over again.

Behind him, two of the old men were steadying Nehemiah, who felt, as he put it, “a bit mazy at thar thought o’ seein’ thet gell.”

Away aft, Nuzzie, the “b’y,” was at the wheel. He had heard the moaning; but, being no more than a boy, it must be supposed that he knew nothing of the nearness of the next world, which was so evident to the men, his masters.

A matter of some minutes passed, and Job, who had in mind that farm upon which he had set his heart, ventured to suggest that heaven was less near than his mates supposed; but no one seemed to hear him, and he subsided into silence.

It was the better part of an hour later, and near to midnight, when a murmur among the watchers announced that a fresh matter had come to sight. They were yet a great way off from the arch; but still the thing showed clearly—a prodigious umbel, of a deep, burning red; but the crest of it was black, save for the very apex which shone with an angry red glitter.

‘Thar Throne uv God!” cried out Zeph, in a loud voice, and went down upon his knees. The rest of the old men followed his example, and even old Nehemiah made a great effort to get to that position.

‘Simly we’m a’most ‘n ‘eaven,” he muttered huskily.

Skipper Abe got to his feet, with an abrupt movement. He had never heard of that extraordinary electrical phenomenon, seen once perhaps in a hundred years—the “Fiery Tempest” which precedes certain great Cyclonic Storms; but his experienced eye had suddenly discovered that the red-shining umbel was truly a low, whirling water-hill, reflecting the red light. He had no theoretical knowledge to tell him that the thing was produced by an enormous air-vortice; but he had often seen a waterspout form. Yet, he was still undecided. It was all so beyond him; though, certainly, that monstrous gyrating hill of water, sending out a reflected glitter of burning red, appealed to him as having no place in his ideas of Heaven. And then, even as he hesitated, came the first, wild-beast bellow of the coming Cyclone. As the sound smote upon their ears, the old men looked at one another with bewildered, frightened eyes.

“Reck’n thet’s God speakin’,” whispered Zeph. “Guess we’re on’y mis’rable sinners.”

The next instant, the breath of the Cyclone was in their throats, and the Shamraken, homeward-bounder, passed in through the everlasting portals.

GREY SEAS ARE DREAMING OF MY DEATH

I know grey seas are dreaming of my death,

Out on grey plains where foam is lost in sleep,

Where one damp wind wails on continually,

And no life lives in the forgotten air.

Ayhie! Yoi! but oh! the mood doth change,

The sea doth lift me high on living mountains;

As a mother guards her babe

So the fierce hills round me range,

And a Voice goes on and on in mighty laughter—

The joyous call of Strength which doth enguard me.

Ayhie! Yoi! All the splendour of the sea

Doth guard me from the slaughter.

Oh! Men in weary lands

Lift up your hearts and hands,

And weep ye are not me,

Child of all the sea

Out upon the foam among the fountains

And the glory

And the magic of this water world

Where in childhood I was hurled,

Weep, for I am dying in my glory;

And the foam swings round and sings,

And the great seas chaunt; and the whitened hills are falling;

And I am dying in my glory, dying–-

Dying, dying, dying–-

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This is evidently a reference to something which Mr. Philips has set in an earlier message—one of the three lost messages.—W.H.H.

[2] Captain Bolton makes no mention of the claw, in the covering letter which he has enclosed with the MS.—W. H. H.

[3] I suggest the existence of smaller air vortices within the Cyclone. By air vortices, I mean vorticular air whorls—as it might be the upper portions of uncompleted waterspouts. How else explain the naked mizzen and fore topmasts and t’gallant masts being twisted off (as later appeared to have been the case), and yet the great spread of the lower topsails and the foresail not suffering? I am convinced that the unequal force of the first wind-burst is only thus to be explained.

[4] It occurs to me here, as showing in another way the unusual wind-strength, to mention that, having tried in vain every usual method of keeping the wind from blowing out the binnacle lamps; such as stuffing all the crevices with rags, and making temporary shields for the chimneys, the Skipper had at last resorted to a tiny electric watch light, which he fixed in the binnacle, and which now enabled me to get an odd vague glimpse of the Mate, as he hovered near the compass.

[5] A description absolute and without exaggeration. Who that has ever heard the weird, crisp screaming of the foam, in some momentary lull in a great storm, when a big sea has reared itself within a few fathoms of one, can ever forget it?

[6] The Second Mate, who was holding to the rail across the break of the poop, gave me this information later; he being in a position to see the maindecks at the time.

[7] Possibly, our being pooped at this time, was due chiefly to the fact that our speed through the water had diminished, owing to our having lost more of our spars whilst in the Vortex, and some of the gear still towing. And a Mercy our sides were not stove a thousand times!

[8] Unshaded lights are never allowed about the decks at night, as they are likely to blind the vision of the officer of the watch.—W.H.H.

PRINTED AT THE CHAPEL RIVER PRESS, KINGSTON, SURREY.

[End of Men of the Deep Waters by William Hope Hodgson]