第65章 "BOWHEAD" FISHING(3)

Ever since the fracas at the Bonins between Goliath and his watch, the relations between Captain Slocum and the big negro had been very strained.Even before the outbreak, as I have remarked upon one occasion, it was noticeable that little love was lost between them.Why this was so, without anything definite to guide one's reasoning, was difficult to understand, for a better seaman or a smarter whaleman than Mistah Jones did not live--of that every one was quite sure.Still, there was no gainsaying the fact that, churlish and morose as our skipper's normal temper always was, he was never so much so as in his behaviour towards his able fourth mate, who, being a man of fine, sensitive temper, chafed under his unmerited treatment so much as to lose flesh, becoming daily more silent, nervous, and depressed.Still, there had never been an open rupture, nor did it appear as if there would be, so great was the power Captain Slocum possessed over the will of everybody on board.

One night, however, as we were nearing the Kuriles again, on our way south, leaving the Sea of Okhotsk, I was sitting on the fore side of the try-works alone, meditating upon what I would do when once I got clear of this miserable business.Futile and foolish, no doubt, my speculations were, but only in this way could Iforget for a while my surroundings, since the inestimable comfort of reading was denied me.I had been sitting thus absorbed in thought for nearly an hour, when Goliath came and seated himself by my side.We had always been great friends, although, owing to the strict discipline maintained on board, it was not often we got a chance for a "wee bit crack," as the Scotch say.Besides, I was not in his watch, and even now he should rightly have been below.He sat for a minute or two silent; then, as if compelled to speak, he began in low, fierce whispers to tell me of his miserable state of mind.At last, after recapitulating many slights and insults he had received silently from the captain, of which I had previously known nothing, he became strangely calm.

In tones quite unlike his usual voice, he said that he was not an American-born negro, but a pure African, who had been enslaved in his infancy, with his mother, somewhere in the "Hinterland" of Guinea.While still a child, his mother escaped with him into Liberia, a where he had remained till her death, She was, according to him, an Obeah woman of great power, venerated exceedingly by her own people for her prophetic abilities.

Before her death, she had told him that he would die suddenly, violently, in a struggle with a white man in a far-off country, but that the white man would die too by his hand.She had also told him that he would be a great traveller and hunter upon the sea.As he went on, his speech became almost unintelligible, being mingled with fragments of a language I had never heard before; moreover, he spoke as a man who is only half awake.Astrange terror got hold of me, for I began to think he was going mad, and perhaps about to run a-mok, as the Malays do when driven frantic by the infliction of real or fancied wrongs.

But he gradually returned to his old self, to my great relief, and I ventured somewhat timidly to remind him of the esteem in which he was held by all hands; even the skipper, I ventured to say, respected him, although, from some detestable form of ill-humour, he had chosen to be so sneering and insulting towards him.He shook his head sadly, and said, "My dear boy, youse de only man aboard dis ship--wite man, dat is--dat don't hate an'

despise me becawse ob my colour, wich I cain't he'p; an' de God you beliebe in bless you fer dat.As fer me, w'at I done tole you's true,'n befo' bery little w'ile you see it COME true.'Nw'en DAT happens w'at's gwine ter happen, I'se real glad to tink it gwine ter be better fer you--gwine ter be better fer eberybody 'bord de CACH'LOT; but I doan keer nuffin 'bout anybody else.So long." He held out his great black hand, and shook mine heartily, while a big tear rolled down his face and fell on the deck.And with that he left me a prey to a very whirlpool of conflicting thoughts and fears.

The night was a long and weary one--longer and drearier perhaps because of the absence of the darkness, which always made it harder to sleep.An incessant day soon becomes, to those accustomed to the relief of the night, a burden grievous to be borne; and although use can reconcile us to most things, and does make even the persistent light bearable, in times of mental distress or great physical weariness one feels irresistibly moved to cry earnestly, "Come, gentle night."When I came on deck at eight bells, it was a stark calm.The watch, under Mistah Jones' direction, were busy scrubbing decks with the usual thoroughness, while the captain, bare-footed, with trouser-legs and shirt-sleeves rolled up, his hands on his hips and a portentous frown on his brow, was closely looking on.As it was my spell at the crow's-nest, I made at once for the main-rigging, and had got halfway to the top, when some unusual sounds below arrested me.

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But, from my lofty perch, the whole of the ghastly struggle had been visible to the least detail.The two men had struck the water locked in closest embrace, which relaxed not even when far below the surface.When the sea is perfectly smooth, objects are visible from aloft at several feet depth, though apparently diminished in size.The last thing I saw was Captain Slocum's white face, with its starting black eyes looking their last upon the huge, indefinite hull of the ship whose occupants he had ruled so long and rigidly.