Men of the Deep Waters by William Hope Hodgson (notion reading list .TXT) 📕

Men of the Deep Waters, by William Hope Hodgson

A Project Gutenberg Canada Ebook

This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few

restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make

a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different

display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of

the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please

check

gutenberg.ca/links/licence.html before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under

copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your

country’s copyright laws. If the book is under copyright

in your country, do not download or redistribute this file.

Title: Men of the Deep Waters

Author: Hodgson, William Hope (1877-1918)

Date of first publication: 1914

Edition used as base for this ebook:

London: Holden & Hardingham, 1921

Date first posted: 21 September 2009

Date last updated: 21 September 2009

Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #389

This ebook was produced by: David T. Jones

& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

This file was produced from images generously made available

by The Internet Archive/American Libraries

MEN OF THE DEEP WATERS

“DEEP WATERS OF MYSTERIOUS SEAS, AND THE GREAT DEEP OF LIFE”

BY WILLIAM HOPE HODGSON

Author of

“The Boats of the ‘Glen Carrig,’” “The House on the

Borderland,” “The Night Land,” “Carnacki, the Ghost Finder,”

“The Ghost Pirates,” “The Luck of the Strong,”

etc., etc.

LONDON: HOLDEN & HARDINGHAM, LTD.

COPYRIGHTED 1906, 1907, 1907, 1907, 1908, 1910, 1911,

1912, 1912, 1913, 1913, By WILLIAM HOPE HODGSON

In the United States of America

Copyrighted in Great Britain

All rights reserved

First Published 1914

Cheap Edition 1921

TO JACK (C.L.O.E.B.) My Chum of Many Years

PREFACE ON THE BRIDGE

THE SEA HORSES

THE DERELICT

MY HOUSE SHALL BE CALLED THE HOUSE OF PRAYER

FROM THE TIDELESS SEA

THE CAPTAIN OF THE ONION BOAT

THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT

THROUGH THE VORTEX OF A CYCLONE

THE MYSTERY OF THE DERELICT

THE SHAMRAKEN HOMEWARD-BOUNDER

GREY SEAS ARE DREAMING OF MY DEATH

PREFACE

Directly afterwards, a shrill, yelling noise seemed to fill the whole sky with a deafening, piercing sound. I glanced hastily over the port quarter. In that direction the whole surface of the ocean seemed to be torn up into the air in monstrous clouds of spray. The yelling sound passed into a vast scream, and the next instant the cyclone was upon us.

“Through the Vortex of a Cyclone,” page 197.

For Wa-ha! I am hale,

And when I make sail

My thundering bulk roars over the tides,

Roars over the tides,

And everything hides,

Save the Albicore-fool! a-splitting his sides—

A fish kangaroo a-jumping the tides.

For he’s naught but a fish and a half,

Wa! Ha!

A haddock far less than a young bull calf!

With me Wa! Ha! Ha!

He has far too much side

For a bit of a haddock a-jump in the tide!

Yea, I am the Great Bull Whale!

I have shattered the moon when asleep

On the face of the deep, by a stroke of my sweep

I have shattered its features pale.

Like the voice of a wandering gale

Is the smite of my sounding tail,

For Wa-ha! I am hale,

And when I make sail

My thundering bulk roars over the tide,

Roars over the tide,

And scatters it wide,

And laughs at the moon afloat on its side—

‘Tis naught but a star that hath died!

For ‘tis naught but a star that hath died,

Wa! Ha!

A matter of cinders afloat in the Wide!

With me Wa! Ha! Ha!

It has far too much side

For a bit of a cinder afloat in the tide!

ON THE BRIDGE (_The 8 to 12 watch, and ice was in sight at nightfall_) IN MEMORY OF APRIL 14, 1912.

LAT. 41 deg. 16 min. N.

LONG. 50 deg. 14 min. W.

Two-bells has just gone. It is nine o’clock. You walk to wind’ard and sniff anxiously. Yes, there it is, unmistakably, the never-to-be-forgotten smell of ice … a smell as indescribable as it is unmistakable.

You stare, fiercely anxious (almost incredibly anxious), to wind’ard, and sniff again and again. And you never cease to peer, until the very eye-balls ache, and you curse almost insanely because some door has been opened and lets out a shaft of futile and dangerous light across the gloom, through which the great ship is striding across the miles.

For the least show of light about the deck, “blinds” the officer of the watch temporarily, and makes the darkness of the night a double curtain of gloom, threatening hatefully. You curse, and ‘phone angrily for a steward to go along and have the door shut or the window covered, as the case may be; then once again to the dreadful strain of watching.

Just try to take it all in. You are, perhaps, only a young man of twenty-six or twenty-eight, and you are in sole charge of that great bulk of life and wealth, thundering on across the miles. One hour of your watch has gone, and there are three to come, and already you are feeling the strain. And reason enough, too; for though the bridge-telegraph pointer stands at Half-Speed, you know perfectly well that the engine-room has its private orders, and speed is not cut down at all.

And all around, to wind’ard and to loo’ard, you can see the gloom pierced dimly in this place and that, everlastingly, by the bursts of phosphorescence from breaking sea-crests. Thousands and tens of thousands of times you see this … ahead, and upon either beam. And you sniff, and try to distinguish between the coldness of the half-gale and the peculiar and what I might term the “personal,” brutal, ugly Chill-of-Death that comes stealing down to you through the night, as you pass some ice-hill in the darkness.

And then, those countless bursts of dull phosphorescence, that break out eternally from the chaos of the unseen waters about you, become suddenly things of threatening, that frighten you; for any one of them may mean broken water about the unseen shore of some hidden island of ice in the night … some half-submerged, inert Insensate Monster-of-Ice, lurking under the wash of the seas, trying to steal unperceived athwart your hawse.

You raise your hand instinctively in the darkness, and the cry “Hard a Starboard!” literally trembles on your lips; and then you are saved from making an over-anxious spectacle of yourself; for you see now that the particular burst of phosphorescence that had seemed so pregnant of Ice, is nothing more than any one of the ten thousand other bursts of sea-light, that come and go among the great moundings of the sea-foam in the surrounding night.

And yet there is that infernal ice-smell again, and the chill that I have called the Chill-of-Death, is stealing in again upon you from some unknown quarter of the night. You send word forrard to the look-outs, and to the man in the “nest,” and redouble your own care of the thousand humans who sleep so trustfully in their bunks beneath your feet … trusting you—a young man—with their lives … with everything. They, and the great ship that strides so splendid and blind through the Night and the Dangers of the Night, are all, as it were, in the hollow of your hand … a moment of inattention, and a thousand deaths upon the head of your father’s son! Do you wonder that you watch, with your very heart seeming dry with anxiety, on such a night as this!

Four bells! Five bells! Six bells! And now there is only an hour to go; yet, already, you have nearly given the signal three times to the Quartermaster to “port” or “starboard,” as the case may be; but each time the conjured terror of the night, the dree, suggestive foam-lights, the infernal ice-smell, and the Chill-of-Death have proved to be no true Prophets of Disaster in your track.

Seven bells! My God! Even as the sweet silver sounds wander fore and aft into the night, and are engulfed by the gale, you see something close upon the starboard bow…. A boil of phosphorescent lights, over some lowlying, sea-buried thing in the darkness. Your night-glasses are glaring at it; and then, even before the various look-outs can make their reports, you KNOW. “My God!” your spirit is crying inside of you. “My God!” But your human voice is roaring words that hold life and death for a thousand sleeping souls:—“Hard a Starboard!” “Hard a Starboard!” The man in the Wheel-house leaps at your cry … at the fierce intensity of it; and then, with a momentary loss of nerve, whirls the wheel the wrong way. You make one jump, and are into the Wheel-house. The glass is tinkling all about you, and you do not know in that instant that you are carrying the frame of the shattered Wheel-house door upon your shoulders. Your fist takes the frightened helmsman under the jaw, and your free hand grips the spokes, and dashes the wheel round toward you, the engine roaring, away in its appointed place. Your junior has already flown to his post at the telegraph, and the engine-room is answering the order you have flung at him as you leapt for the Wheel-house. But You … why, you are staring, half-mad, through the night, watching the monster bows swing to port, against the mighty background of the night… . The seconds are the beats of eternity, in that brief, tremendous time…. And then, aloud to the wind and the night, you mutter, “Thank God!” For she has swung clear. And below you the thousand sleepers sleep on.

A fresh Quartermaster has “come aft” (to use the old term) to relieve the other, and you stagger out of the Wheel-house, becoming conscious of the inconvenience of the broken woodwork around you. Someone, several people, are assisting you to divest yourself of the framework of the door; and your junior has a queer little air of respect for you, that, somehow, the darkness is not capable of hiding.

You go back to your post then; but perhaps you feel a little sick, despite a certain happy elation that stimulates you.

Eight bells! And your brother officer comes up to relieve you. The usual formula is gone through, and you go down the bridge steps, to the thousand sleeping ones.

Next day a thousand passengers play their games and read their books, and talk their talks and make their usual sweepstakes, and never even notice that one of the officers is a little weary-looking.

The carpenter has replaced the door; and a certain Quartermaster will stand no more at the wheel. For the rest, all goes on as usual, and no one ever knows… . I mean no one outside of official circles, unless an odd rumour leaks out through the stewards.

And a certain man has no deaths to the name of his father’s son.

And the thousand never know. Think of it, you people who go down to the sea in floating palaces of steel and electric light. And let your benedictions fall silently upon the quiet, grave, neatly-uniformed man in blue upon the bridge. You have trusted him unthinkingly with your lives; and not once in ten thousand times has he ever failed you. Do you understand