The Nigger of the Narcissus

The distinct and motionless group stirred, broke up, began to move forward.

“Wait!” cried a deep, ringing voice.

All stood still. Mr. Baker, who had turned away yawning, spun round open-mouthed. At last, furious, he blurted out:⁠—“What’s this? Who said ‘Wait’? What.⁠ ⁠…”

But he saw a tall figure standing on the rail. It came down and pushed through the crowd, marching with a heavy tread towards the light on the quarterdeck. Then again the sonorous voice said with insistence:⁠—“Wait!” The lamplight lit up the man’s body. He was tall. His head was away up in the shadows of lifeboats that stood on skids above the deck. The whites of his eyes and his teeth gleamed distinctly, but the face was indistinguishable. His hands were big and seemed gloved.

Mr. Baker advanced intrepidly. “Who are you? How dare you⁠ ⁠…” he began.

The boy, amazed like the rest, raised the light to the man’s face. It was black. A surprised hum⁠—a faint hum that sounded like the suppressed mutter of the word “Nigger”⁠—ran along the deck and escaped out into the night. The nigger seemed not to hear. He balanced himself where he stood in a swagger that marked time. After a moment he said calmly:⁠—“My name is Wait⁠—James Wait.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Baker. Then, after a few seconds of smouldering silence, his temper blazed out. “Ah! Your name is Wait. What of that? What do you want? What do you mean, coming shouting here?”

It began a week after leaving Bombay and came on us stealthily like any other great misfortune. Everyone had remarked that Jimmy from the first was very slack at his work; but we thought it simply the outcome of his philosophy of life. Donkin said:⁠—“You put no more weight on a rope than a bloody sparrer.” He disdained him. Belfast, ready for a fight, exclaimed provokingly:⁠—“You don’t kill yourself, old man!”⁠—“Would you?” he retorted with extreme, scorn⁠—and Belfast retired. One morning, as we were washing decks, Mr. Baker called to him:⁠—“Bring your broom over here, Wait.” He strolled languidly.

“Move yourself! Ough!” grunted Mr. Baker; “what’s the matter with your hind legs?” He stopped dead short. He gazed slowly with eyes that bulged out with an expression audacious and sad.⁠—“It isn’t my legs,” he said, “it’s my lungs.” Everybody listened.⁠—“What’s⁠ ⁠… Ough!⁠ ⁠… What’s wrong with them?” inquired Mr. Baker. All the watch stood around on the wet deck, grinning, and with brooms or buckets in their hands. He said mournfully:⁠—“Going⁠—or gone. Can’t you see I’m a dying man? I know it!” Mr. Baker was disgusted.⁠—“Then why the devil did you ship aboard here?”⁠—“I must live till I die⁠—mustn’t I?” he replied. The grins became audible.⁠—“Go off my deck⁠—get out of my sight,” said Mr. Baker. He was nonplussed. It was a unique experience. James Wait, obedient, dropped his broom, and walked slowly forward. A burst of laughter followed him. It was too funny. All hands laughed.⁠ ⁠… They laughed!⁠ ⁠… Alas!

They were startled.

A big, foaming sea came out of the mist; it made for the ship, roaring wildly, and in its rush it looked as mischievous and discomposing as a madman with an axe. One or two, shouting, scrambled up the rigging; most, with a convulsive catch of the breath, held on where they stood. Singleton dug his knees under the wheel-box, and carefully eased the helm to the headlong pitch of the ship, but without taking his eyes off the coming wave. It towered close-to and high, like a wall of green glass topped with snow. The ship rose to it as though she had soared on wings, and for a moment rested poised upon the foaming crest as if she had been a great seabird. Before we could draw breath a heavy gust struck her, another roller took her unfairly under the weather bow, she gave a toppling lurch, and filled her decks. Captain Allistoun leaped up, and fell; Archie rolled over him, screaming:⁠—“She will rise!”

In the blue mist spreading from twisted threads that stood upright in the bowls of pipes, the forecastle appeared as vast as a hall. Between the beams a heavy cloud stagnated; and the lamps surrounded by halos burned each at the core of a purple glow in two lifeless flames without rays. Wreaths drifted in denser wisps. Men sprawled about on the deck, sat in negligent poses, or, bending a knee, drooped with one shoulder against a bulkhead. Lips moved, eyes flashed, waving arms made sudden eddies in the smoke. The murmur of voices seemed to pile itself higher and higher as if unable to run out quick enough through the narrow doors. The watch below in their shirts, and striding on long white legs, resembled raving somnambulists; while now and then one of the watch on deck would rush in, looking strangely overdressed, listen a moment, fling a rapid sentence into the noise and run out again; but a few remained near the door, fascinated, and with one ear turned to the deck. “Stick together, boys,” roared Davis. Belfast tried to make himself heard. Knowles grinned in a slow, dazed way. A short fellow with a thick clipped beard kept on yelling periodically:⁠—“Who’s afeard? Who’s afeard?” Another one jumped up, excited, with blazing eyes, sent out a string of unattached curses and sat down quietly. Two men discussed familiarly, striking one another’s breast in turn, to clinch arguments. Three others, with their heads in a bunch, spoke all together with a confidential air, and at the top of their voices.