XX

The interminable days merged for those open boats. Time lapsed into an uneventful fortitude, a thirsty desert, to which apathy could see no end. The sail of each boat was double-reefed and goose-winged, perhaps because Sinclair was afraid of running too far, or because he thought exhaustion would make his men careless. Smoke was sighted, one day. It was a smear which persisted for so long that the castaways thought they could make to windward till they were seen. They never lifted that steamer. And more than once a light had been glimpsed at night, when Collins’ boat was on the back of a high sea.

“Light ahead!”

The men waited hopefully for the next lucky impulse which would lift them to a clear view towards the horizon. Yes.

“There it is. A light!”

But Mr. Collins had sighted it too. “That? That’s a star.”

The men huddled down again without another word.

“Better luck next time,” their officer assured them. “Keep a good lookout. We’re in the way of traffic.”

It was strange. Colet, if he stood, was now easily thrown out of his balance by a movement of the boat. He was a little surprised by that. It was not, of course, that he was weak. He wasn’t weak. He did not care much; that was all. But he ought not to fall over, though that would be the easiest thing to do. No good. Almost sure to knock against somebody. Pull yourself together, old son. Look at young Collins. Fine fellow, Collins; and he’d hardly had a word with him till after the ship went down. Never thought there was much in Collins. But that youngster’s pasture, wherever it was, was the place for mettle. And Wilson, too. The whole lot of them. Not a murmur. There was something damned fine in this ordinary stuff.

If he could only keep seated he could last till domesday. He could steer that boat into the Styx, and save the passage money. Hullo, Charon, now watch a bit of real boat work. Beat that. He was only thirsty. Not hungry. It would be all right if that thick slime could be washed out of the mouth.

“You off biscuits?” asked Collins that morning. “So am I. I can’t make anything of ’em, except to spit dust.”

A few of the men lay as if dead on the bottom boards. If they were trodden on they did not move, and did not speak. You had to look at their faces again to make sure. The unshaven faces of the men were like those of destitute but bearded children. The purser sat considering vacancy, steering the boat. The way she was going, you kept the draught on your left jaw.

“We ought to see something any time,” Collins soliloquised, a little querulously. “No need to worry.”

The purser smiled, with his eye on the quivering luff of the sail. He felt resigned.

“I’m not worrying.” That was the strange thing about it. He imagined his mind had never been clearer. It was like a steady light inside him. Nothing could blow that out. No wind could flicker it. Never knew before he had a mind. Sure of it now. He felt pale and lucid inside, but he did not want to move. He could look on, a sort of lamp, till the last wave of the sea had unrolled. The sea and sky could pass away, if they liked. They were passing away. They had got more distant, and less impressive. They could no longer daunt with their show of grandeur and dominance, and so they were going. Their game was up. But this old boat, she could go on till they had sighted Helicon. They might beat to windward round the Last Hope. Something like seafaring, something like life, when you knew you could hold on till the dark was encircled. Get right round it. One more drink, and he could sit there till the sail was a film, the men were ghosts, and they had the Pleiades close abeam. He gave her a touch, and she nicely missed an ugly one.

“Purser, you might have been doing this all your life,” the officer told him.

Colet reflected. “I think I have,” he said. Quite true; all the life he had had. Collins glanced at him, with a trace of alarm.

“I say, Colet. Don’t you go lightheaded like some of ’em.”

“I’m all right.”

“I wish it would rain.”

“A drop would about save the worst cases. Lycett’s bad.”

“Yes. I can’t do any more, can I?”

“Collins, you’re fine. We’re lucky.”

“I wonder how Sinclair’s bunch is getting on?”

There she was, just on the round of a sea, a tiny model. They sighted her together.

“About the same, of course.”

“Well, we’ll hear when we’re picked up. I say, Colet, it wouldn’t do to give the fellows more water, would it?”

“No. Not the way we’ve reckoned it. Wouldn’t do. We must wait.”

“Yes. Take our chance. Colet⁠ ⁠… talking of drink. Lord. I was going to talk about it, but I won’t.”

“No. Keep off the drink, Collins.”

“I know. My mouth’s coated with gum.”

The quivering of the sail had a strange effect. It was like a ceaseless glittering. It was like sun-points on a milldam on a drowsy summer afternoon, when you could just hear the rumbling of the mill. Colet took his eyes off that hypnotising movement, and glanced to windward. A mass of smooth glass was about to pass under them, and deep in its body he saw a long phantom, a suspended monster, that writhed once, and faded. It had gone under the boat.

The steersman’s eyes went back to the sail. Collins was still talking, but his voice was only like the muttering of the mill. The men were very still. Somebody ought to cover up Lycett’s face. The sun was too bright.

“Wilson,” he said, “cover up Lycett’s face.” But he did not hear his own voice in that silence. It was impossible to break that silence. Wilson did not move. The seaman sat like a statue. He was the Sphinx, his hands on his knees, staring like that.

Nobody moved. Nobody. They couldn’t. They would never move again. They were dead. There was only a deep humming. That was the world. It was droning in space. That was the sound of its sleep. They were floating off. All their weight had gone. Their boat was under them, and so plain you could still see it. There it was, that shadow inside the sea, but it was fading, fading. The old world was sinking under them. That was why they could hear it. It was dwindling and droning away. Wilson was watching the world leave them, and it was all right. You could trust Wilson. They were getting near that star now. Light ahead! The star was coming their way, and it was growing, growing round, like the sun, growing bigger every minute: so bright that it was a white blaze, the white centre of eternity with time streaming from it in spears. That was God. His face was going to show in that white light. They must keep looking.⁠ ⁠…

“Colet!”

“What’s that?”

“Were you asleep?”

“Not me⁠ ⁠… I dunno.”

“The sun’s cruel hot. I wish a squall would come along. Some rain.⁠ ⁠… Those men look pretty sick.”

They sat with their heads close together, their tousled hair grizzled with dry salt. They looked aged, with grey beards. Only the boat retained youth and eagerness. She was as buoyant as ever. They could find nothing more to say. Collins sighed, and stood up. He looked to Sinclair’s charge, a mile away to windward. His eyes circled round, and suddenly his hand gripped hard the steersman’s shoulder.

“Coming up astern! Colet, a ship.”

His voice was raised and confident.

“Sail-ho!”

The dead figures stirred. They came to life. Some of them rose, clutching the gunwale, crouching with a grip on the thwarts, or clasping the mast. They were staring aft.

“All over, boys. Here she comes.”

“It’s a liner, sir,” said Wilson.

“Of course it is. That’s what we want. Share round what’s in the breaker, Wilson. She can’t miss us.”

Sinclair had seen it too. His boat had luffed. Colet did not remember afterwards very much of what followed. Collins took the helm. She was black, the liner, with a long row of round ports, circles of gold. She was enormous, when she stopped. She was bigger than the sea; she blotted it out. Her upper works were white, and she hardly moved, though the waters were dancing beneath her. There was someone shouting from her bridge. Along her rail was a row of still figures, regarding them silently, from a great height. Colet sat in dazed astonishment. Women in white dresses were looking down at them.