The Open Boat
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The Open Boat
Stephen Crane
A Tale
intended to be after the fact. Being the
experience of four men
from the sunk steamer
I
None of them knew the color of
the sky. Their eyes glanced level, and were
fastened upon the waves that swept toward
them. These waves were of the
hue of slate,
save for the tops, which were of foaming white,
and all of
the men knew the colors of the sea.
The horizon narrowed and widened, and
dipped
and rose, and at all times its edge was jagged
with waves that seemed
thrust up in points
like rocks. Many a man ought to have a bath-tub
larger
than the boat which here rode upon the
sea. These waves were most
wrongfully and
barbarously abrupt and tall, and each froth-top
was a
problem in small-boat navigation.
The cook squatted in the bottom and looked
with both eyes at the six inches
of gunwale
which separated him from the ocean. His sleeves
were rolled
over his fat forearms, and the two
flaps of his unbuttoned vest dangled
as he
bent to bail out the boat. Often he said:
he
remarked it he invariably gazed eastward over the
broken sea.
The oiler, steering with one
of the two oars in the boat, sometimes raised
himself suddenly to keep clear of water that
swirled in over the stern.
It was a thin
little oar and it seemed often ready to snap.
The correspondent, pulling at the other oar,
watched the waves and
wondered why he was
there.
The injured captain, lying in the
bow, was at this time buried in that
profound
dejection and indifference which comes,
temporarily at least,
to even the bravest and
most enduring when, willy nilly, the firm fails,
the army loses, the ship goes down. The mind
of the master of a vessel
is rooted deep in
the timbers of her, though he commanded for a day
or
a decade, and this captain had on him the
stern impression of a scene in
the greys of
dawn of seven turned faces, and later a stump of a
top-mast
with a white ball on it that slashed
to and fro at the waves, went low
and lower,
and down. Thereafter there was something strange
in his voice.
Although steady, it was, deep
with mourning, and of a quality beyond
oration
or tears.
A seat
in this boat was not unlike a seat upon a bucking
broncho, and by
the same token, a broncho is
not much smaller. The craft pranced and reared,
and plunged like an animal. As each wave came,
and she rose for it, she
seemed like a horse
making at a fence outrageously high. The manner of
her scramble over these walls of water is a
mystic thing, and, moreover,
at the top of
them were ordinarily these problems in white
water, the foam
racing down from the summit of
each wave, requiring a new leap, and a leap
from the air. Then, after scornfully bumping a
crest, she would slide,
and race, and splash
down a long incline, and arrive bobbing and
nodding
in front of the next menace.
A singular disadvantage of the sea lies in the
fact that after successfully
surmounting one
wave you discover that there is another behind it
just
as important and just as nervously
anxious to do something effective in
the way
of swamping boats. In a ten-foot dingey one can
get an idea of
the resources of the sea in the
line of waves that is not probable to the
average experience which is never at sea in a
dingey. As each slatey wall
of water
approached, it shut all else from the view of the
men in the boat,
and it was not difficult to
imagine that this particular wave was the final
outburst of the ocean, the last effort of the
grim water. There was a
terrible grace in the
move of the waves, and they came in silence, save
for the snarling of the crests.
In
the wan light, the faces of the men must have been
grey. Their eyes
must have glinted in strange
ways as they gazed steadily astern. Viewed
from a balcony, the whole thing would
doubtless have been weirdly
picturesque. But
the men in the boat had no time to see it, and if
they
had had leisure there were other things
to occupy their minds. The sun
swung steadily
up the sky, and they knew it was broad day because
the color
of the sea changed from slate to
emerald-green, streaked with amber lights,
and
the foam was like tumbling snow. The process of
the breaking day was
unknown to them. They
were aware only of this effect upon the color of
the waves that rolled toward them.
In
disjointed sentences the cook and the
correspondent argued as to the
difference
between a life-saving station and a house of
refuge. The cook
had said: a house of refuge
just north of the Mosquito Inlet Light,
and as
soon as they see us, they'll come off in their
boat and pick us
up.
understand them, they are only
places where clothes and grub are stored
for
the benefit of shipwrecked people. They don't
carry crews.
thinking of as being near Mosquito Inlet
Light. Perhaps it's a life- saving
station.
II
As the
boat bounced from the top of each wave, the wind
tore through the
hair of the hatless men, and
as the craft plopped her stern down again
the
spray splashed past them. The crest of each of
these waves was a hill,
from the top of which
the men surveyed, for a moment, a broad tumultuous
expanse, shining and wind-riven. It was
probably splendid. It was probably
glorious,
this play of the free sea, wild with lights of
emerald and white
and amber.
would we be? Wouldn't have a show.
The busy oiler nodded his assent.
Then the captain, in the bow, chuckled in
a way that expressed humor,
contempt, tragedy,
all in one. you think We've got much of a show
now,
boys?
Whereupon the three were
silent, save for a trifle of hemming and hawing.
To express any particular optimism at this
time they felt to be childish
and stupid, but
they all doubtless possessed this sense of the
situation
in their mind. A young man thinks
doggedly at such times. On the other
hand, the ethics of their condition was
decidedly against any open
suggestion of
hopelessness. So they were silent.
all right.
But there was that in
his tone which made them think, so the oiler
quoth:
The cook was bailing:
Canton flannel gulls flew near and far.
Sometimes they sat down on the
sea, near
patches of brown seaweed that rolled on the waves
with a movement
like carpets on a line in a
gale. The birds sat comfortably in groups,
and
they were envied by some in the dingey, for the
wrath of the sea was
no more to them than it
was to a covey of prairie chickens a thousand
miles
inland. Often they came very close and
stared at the men with black
bead-like eyes.
At these times they were uncanny and sinister in
their
unblinking scrutiny, and the men hooted
angrily at them, telling them to
be gone. One
came, and evidently decided to alight on the top
of the
captain's head. The bird flew parallel
to the boat and did not circle,
but made short
sidelong jumps in the air in chicken- fashion. His
black
eyes were wistfully fixed upon the
captain's head. brute,said the
oiler to the
bird.
cook and the correspondent swore darkly
at the creature. The captain
naturally wished
to knock it away with the end of the heavy
painter; but
he did not dare do it, because
anything resembling an emphatic gesture
would
have capsized this freighted boat, and so with his
open hand, the
captain gently and carefully
waved the gull away. After it had been
discouraged from the pursuit the captain
breathed easier on account of
his hair, and
others breathed easier because the bird struck
their minds
at this time as being somehow
grewsome and ominous.
In the meantime the
oiler and the correspondent rowed And also they
rowed.
They sat together in the same
seat, and each rowed an oar. Then the oiler
took both oars; then the correspondent took
both oars; then the oiler;
then the
correspondent. They rowed and they rowed. The very
ticklish part
of the business was when the
time came for the reclining one in the stern
to take his turn at the oars. By the very last
star of truth, it is easier
to steal eggs from
under a hen than it was to change seats in the
dingey.
First the man in the stern slid his
hand along the thwart and moved with
care, as
if he were of Sevres. Then the man in the rowing
seat slid his
hand along the other thwart. It
was all done with most extraordinary care.
As the two sidled past each other, the
whole party kept watchful eyes on
the coming
wave, and the captain cried:
The brown
mats of seaweed that appeared from time to time
were like islands,
bits of earth. They were
traveling, apparently, neither one way nor the
other. They were, to all intents, stationary.
They informed the men in
the boat that it was
making progress slowly toward the land.
The captain, rearing cautiously in the bow,
after the dingey soared on
a great swell, said
that he had seen the light-house at Mosquito
Inlet.
Presently the cook remarked that he had
seen it. The correspondent was
at the oars
then, and for some reason he too wished to look at
the
lighthouse, but his back was toward the
far shore and the waves were
important, and
for some time he could not seize an opportunity to
turn
his head. But at last there came a wave
more gentle than the others, and
when at the
crest of it he swiftly scoured the western
horizon.
direction.
At the top of another
wave, the correspondent did as he was bid, and
this
time his eyes chanced on a small still
thing on the edge of the swaying
horizon. It
was precisely like the point of a pin. It took an
anxious eye
to find a light house so tiny.
this wind holds and the boat
don't swamp, we can't do much else,said
the
captain.
The little boat, lifted by each
towering sea, and splashed viciously by
the
crests, made progress that in the absence of
seaweed was not apparent
to those in her. She
seemed just a wee thing wallowing, miraculously
top-up,
at the mercy of five oceans.
Occasionally, a great spread of water, like
white flames, swarmed into her.
III
It would be
difficult to describe the subtle brotherhood of
men that was
here established on the seas. No
one said that it was so. No one mentioned
it.
But it dwelt in the boat, and each man felt it
warm him. They were
a captain, an oiler, a
cook, and a correspondent, and they were friends,
friends in a more curiously iron-bound degree
than may be common. The hurt
captain, lying
against the water-jar in the bow, spoke always in
a low
voice and calmly, but he could never
command a more ready and swiftly
obedient crew
than the motley three of the dingey. It was more
than a mere
recognition of what was best for
the common safety. There was surely in
it a
quality that was personal and heartfelt. And after
this devotion to
the commander of the boat
there was this comradeship that the
correspondent, for instance, who had been
taught to be cynical of men,
knew even at the
time was the best experience of his life. But no
one said
that it was so. No one mentioned it.
on the end of an oar and give you two
boys a chance to rest.
and the correspondent
held the mast and spread wide the overcoat. The
oiler
steered, and the little boat made good
way with her new rig. Sometimes
the oiler had
to scull sharply to keep a sea from breaking into
the boat,
but otherwise sailing was a success.
Meanwhile the lighthouse had been growing
slowly larger. It had now almost
assumed
color, and appeared like a little grey shadow on
the sky. The man
at the oars could not be
prevented from turning his head rather often to
try for a glimpse of this little grey shadow.
At last, from the top of each wave the
men in the tossing boat could see
land. Even
as the lighthouse was an upright shadow on the
sky, this land
seemed but a long black shadow
on the sea. It certainly was thinner than
paper.
coasted this shore often in
schooners.
they abandoned that life-saving
station there about a year ago.
The wind slowly died away. The cook and the
correspondent were not now
obliged to slave in
order to hold high the oar. But the waves
continued
their old impetuous swooping at the
dingey, and the little craft, no longer
under
way, struggled woundily over them. The oiler or
the correspondent
took the oars again.
Shipwrecks are _a propos_ of nothing.
If men could only train for them
and have them
occur when the men had reached pink condition,
there would
be less drowning at sea. Of the
four in the dingey none had slept any time
worth mentioning for two days and two nights
previous to embarking in the
dingey, and in
the excitement of clambering about the deck of a
foundering
ship they had also forgotten to eat
heartily.
For these reasons, and for
others, neither the oiler nor the correspondent
was fond of rowing at this time. The
correspondent wondered ingenuously
how in the
name of all that was sane could there be people
who thought
it amusing to row a boat. It was
not an amusement; it was a diabolical
punishment, and even a genius of mental
aberrations could never conclude
that it was
anything but a horror to the muscles and a crime
against the
back. He mentioned to the boat in
general how the amusement of rowing
struck
him, and the weary-faced oiler smiled in full
sympathy. Previously
to the foundering, by the
way, the oiler had worked double-watch in the
engine-room of the ship.
If we
have to run a surf you'll need all your strength,
because we'll sure
have to swim for it. Take
your time.
Slowly the land arose from the
sea. From a black line it became a line
of
black and a line of white, trees and sand.
Finally, the captain said
that he could make
out a house on the shore. the house of refuge,
sure,said the cook. see us before long, and
come out after us.
The distant lighthouse
reared high. to be able to make
us out now, if
he's looking through a glass,
notify the life-
saving people.
of those other boats could
have got ashore to give word of the wreck,
said
the oiler, in a low voice.
us.
Slowly
and beautifully the land loomed out of the sea.
The wind came again.
It had veered from the
north-east to the south-east. Finally, a new sound
struck the ears of the men in the boat. It was
the low thunder of the surf
on the shore.
captain.
Whereupon the
little boat turned her nose once more down the
wind, and
all but the oarsman watched
the shore grow. Under the influence of this
expansion doubt and direful apprehension was
leaving the minds of the men.
The management
of the boat was still most absorbing, but it could
not
prevent a quiet cheerfulness. In an hour,
perhaps, they would be ashore.
Their
backbones had become thoroughly used to balancing
in the boat, and
they now rode this wild colt
of a dingey like circus men. The correspondent
thought that he had been drenched to the skin,
but happening to feel in
the top pocket of his
coat, he found therein eight cigars. Four of them
were soaked with sea-water; four were
perfectly scathless. After a search,
somebody
produced three dry matches, and thereupon the four
waifs rode
impudently in their little boat,
and with an assurance of an impending
rescue
shining in their eyes, puffed at the big cigars
and judged well
and ill of all men. Everybody
took a drink of water.
IV
about your house of refuge.
A broad stretch of lowly coast lay before the
eyes of the men. It was of
dunes topped with
dark vegetation. The roar of the surf was plain,
and
sometimes they could see the white lip of
a wave as it spun up the beach.
A tiny house
was blocked out black upon the sky. Southward, the
slim
lighthouse lifted its little grey length.
Tide, wind, and waves were swinging the
dingey northward.
don't see us,
The
surf's roar was here dulled, but its tone was,
nevertheless,
thunderous and mighty. As the
boat swam over the great rollers, the men
sat
listening to this roar.
It is fair to say
here that there was not a life-saving station
within
twenty miles in either direction, but
the men did not know this fact, and
in
consequence they made dark and opprobrious remarks
concerning the
eyesight of the nation's life-
savers. Four scowling men sat in the dingey
and surpassed records in the invention of
epithets.
The lightheartedness
of a former time had completely faded. To their
sharpened minds it was easy to conjure
pictures of all kinds of
incompetency and
blindness and, indeed, cowardice. There was the
shore
of the populous land, and it was bitter
and bitter to them that from it
came no sign.
said the captain, ultimately, suppose
we'll have to make a try
for ourselves. If we
stay out here too long, we'll none of us have
strength
left to swim after the boat
swamps.
And so the oiler, who was at the
oars, turned the boat straight for the
shore.
There was a sudden tightening of muscle. There was
some thinking.
we don't all get ashore--
said the captain. we don't all get ashore,
I
suppose you fellows know where to send news of my
finish?
They then briefly exchanged some
addresses and admonitions. As for the
reflections of the men, there was a great deal
of rage in them. Perchance
they might be
formulated thus: I am going to be drowned-- if I
am going
to be drowned--if I am going to be
drowned, why, in the name of the seven
mad
gods who rule the sea, was I allowed to come thus
far and contemplate
sand and trees? Was I
brought here merely to have my nose dragged away
as I was about to nibble the sacred cheese of
life? It is preposterous.
If this old ninny-
woman, Fate, cannot do better than this, she
should be
deprived of the management of men's
fortunes. She is an old hen who knows
not her
intention. If she has decided to drown me, why did
she not do it
in the beginning and save me all
this trouble? The whole affair is
absurd....
But no, she cannot mean to drown me. She dare not
drown me.
She cannot drown me. Not after all
this work.
have had an impulse to shake his
fist at the clouds:
now, and then hear what I
call you!
The billows that came at this
time were more formidable. They seemed always
just about to break and roll over the little
boat in a turmoil of foam.
There was a
preparatory and long growl in the speech of them.
No mind unused
to the sea would have concluded
that the dingey could ascend these sheer
heights in time. The shore was still afar. The
oiler was a wily surfman.
too far out to
swim. Shall I take her to sea again, captain?
This oiler, by a series of quick
miracles, and fast and steady oarsmanship,
turned the boat in the middle of the surf and
took her safely to sea again.
There was a considerable silence as the
boat bumped over the furrowed sea
to deeper
water. Then somebody in gloom spoke.
have seen
us from the shore by now.
The gulls went
in slanting flight up the wind toward the grey
desolate
east. A squall, marked by dingy
clouds, and clouds brick-red, like smoke
from
a burning building, appeared from the south-east.
they think we're out
here for sport! Maybe they think we're fishin'.
Maybe they think we're damned fools.
It was a long afternoon. A changed tide tried
to force them southward,
but the wind and wave
said northward. Far ahead, where coast-line, sea,
and sky formed their mighty angle, there were
little dots which seemed
to indicate a city on
the shore.
The captain shook his
head.
And the oiler rowed, and then the
correspondent rowed. Then the oiler rowed.
It
was a weary business. The human back can become
the seat of more aches
and pains than are
registered in books for the composite anatomy of a
regiment. It is a limited area, but it can
become the theatre of
innumerable muscular
conflicts, tangles, wrenches, knots, and other
comforts.
When one
exchanged the rowing-seat for a place in the
bottom of the boat,
he suffered a bodily
depression that caused him to be careless of
everything save an obligation to wiggle one
finger. There was cold sea-
water swashing to
and fro in the boat, and he lay in it. His head,
pillowed
on a thwart, was within an inch of
the swirl of a wave crest, and sometimes
a
particularly obstreperous sea came in-board and
drenched him once more.
But these matters did
not annoy him. It is almost certain that if the
boat
had capsized he would have tumbled
comfortably out upon the ocean as if
he felt
sure that it was a great soft mattress.
now we're all
right! Now we're all right! There'll be a boat out
here
for us in half-an-hour.
The remote beach seemed lower than the sea,
and it required a searching
glance to discern
the little black figure. The captain saw a
floating stick
and they rowed to it. A bath-
towel was by some weird chance in the boat,
and, tying this on the stick, the captain
waved it. The oarsman did not
dare turn his
head, so he was obliged to ask questions.
standing still again. He's looking, I
think.... There he goes again.
Toward the
house.... Now he's stopped again.
at us.
Look!
shore on a wagon.
hotel
omnibuses.
suppose they are doing with
an omnibus? Maybe they are going around
collecting the life-crew, hey?
He's standing on the steps of the omnibus.
There come those other two
fellows. Now
they're all talking together. Look at the fellow
with the
flag. Maybe he ain't waving it.
coat.
head. But would you look
at him swing it.
say, there isn't any
life-saving station there. That's just a winter
resort hotel omnibus that has brought over
some of the boarders to see
us drown.
life-saving station up
there.
He thinks we're fishing. Just
giving us a merry hand. See? Ah, there,
Willie!
suppose he means?
wait, or go north, or go south,
or go to hell--there would be some reason
in
it. But look at him. He just stands there and
keeps his coat revolving
like a wheel. The
ass!
like to see him do that. Why don't he quit it?
It don't
mean anything.
there's a
life-saving station there somewhere.
since he caught sight of us. He's an
idiot. Why aren't they getting men
to bring a
boat out? A fishing boat--one of those big yawls--
could come
out here all right. Why don't he do
something?
have a boat out here
for us in less than no time, now that they've
seen us.
A faint yellow tone came into
the sky over the low land. The shadows on
the
sea slowly deepened. The wind bore coldness with
it, and the men began
to shiver.
night!
seen us now, and it
won't be long before they'll come chasing out
after
us.
The shore grew dusky. The
man waving a coat blended gradually into this
gloom, and it swallowed in the same manner the
omnibus and the group of
people. The spray,
when it dashed uproariously over the side, made
the
voyagers shrink and swear like men who
were being branded.
one, just for
luck.
In the meantime
the oiler rowed, and then the correspondent rowed,
and
then the oiler rowed. Grey-faced and bowed
forward, they mechanically,
turn by turn,
plied the leaden oars. The form of the lighthouse
had
vanished from the southern horizon, but
finally a pale star appeared, just
lifting
from the sea. The streaked saffron in the west
passed before the
all-merging darkness, and
the sea to the east was black. The land had
vanished, and was expressed only by the low
and drear thunder of the surf.
to be
drowned, why, in the name of the seven mad gods
who rule the sea,
was I allowed to come thus
far and contemplate sand and trees? Was I brought
here merely to have my nose dragged away as I
was about to nibble the sacred
cheese of
life?
The patient captain, drooped over
the water-jar, was sometimes obliged
to speak
to the oarsman.
This
was surely a quiet evening. All save the oarsman
lay heavily and
listlessly in the boat's
bottom. As for him, his eyes were just capable
of noting the tall black waves that
swept forward in a most sinister
silence, save
for an occasional subdued growl of a crest.
The cook's head was on a thwart, and he looked
without interest at the
water under his nose.
He was deep in other scenes. Finally he spoke.
V
said the oiler and the
correspondent, agitatedly. talk about
those
things, blast you!
said the cook, was just
thinking about ham sandwiches, and--
A
night on the sea in an open boat is a long night.
As darkness settled
finally, the shine of the
light, lifting from the sea in the south, changed
to full gold. On the northern horizon a new
light appeared, a small bluish
gleam on the
edge of the waters. These two lights were the
furniture of
the world. Otherwise there was
nothing but waves.
Two men huddled in the
stern, and distances were so magnificent in the
dingey that the rower was enabled to keep his
feet partly warmed by
thrusting them under his
companions. Their legs indeed extended far under
the rowing-seat until they touched the feet of
the captain forward.
Sometimes, despite the
efforts of the tired oarsman, a wave came piling
into the boat, an icy wave of the night, and
the chilling water soaked
them anew. They
would twist their bodies for a moment and groan,
and sleep
the dead sleep once more, while the
water in the boat gurgled about them
as the
craft rocked.
The plan of the oiler and
the correspondent was for one to row until he
lost the ability, and then arouse the other
from his sea-water couch in
the bottom of the
boat.
The oiler plied the oars until his
head drooped forward, and the
overpowering
sleep blinded him. And he rowed yet afterward.
Then he
touched a man in the bottom of the
boat, and called his name.
spell me for a
little while?
to a sitting position.
They exchanged places carefully, and the oiler,
cuddling down in the sea-water at the cook's
side, seemed to go to sleep
instantly.
The particular violence of the sea had
ceased. The waves came without
snarling. The
obligation of the man at the oars was to keep the
boat headed
so that the tilt of the rollers
would not capsize her, and to preserve
her
from filling when the crests rushed past. The
black waves were silent
and hard to be seen in
the darkness. Often one was almost upon the boat
before the oarsman was aware.
In a
low voice the correspondent addressed the captain.
He was not sure
that the captain was awake,
although this iron man seemed to be always
awake.
The same steady voice answered
him.
the port bow.
The cook had tied a
life-belt around himself in order to get even the
warmth
which this clumsy cork contrivance
could donate, and he seemed almost
stove-like
when a rower, whose teeth invariably chattered
wildly as soon
as he ceased his labor, dropped
down to sleep.
The correspondent, as he
rowed, looked down at the two men sleeping
under-foot. The cook's arm was around the
oiler's shoulders, and, with
their fragmentary
clothing and haggard faces, they were the babes of
the
sea, a grotesque rendering of the old
babes in the wood.
Later he must have
grown stupid at his work, for suddenly there was a
growling of water, and a crest came with a
roar and a swash into the boat,
and it was a
wonder that it did not set the cook afloat in his
life-belt.
The cook continued to sleep, but
the oiler sat up, blinking his eyes and
shaking with the new cold.
asleep.
Presently it seemed that
even the captain dozed, and the correspondent
thought that he was the one man afloat on all
the oceans. The wind had
a voice as it came
over the waves, and it was sadder than the end.
There was a long, loud swishing astern of
the boat, and a gleaming trail
of
phosphorescence, like blue flame, was furrowed on
the black waters.
It might have been made by a
monstrous knife.
Then there came a
stillness, while the correspondent breathed with
the
open mouth and looked at the sea.
Suddenly there was another swish and
another long flash of bluish light,
and this
time it was alongside the boat, and might almost
have been reached
with an oar. The
correspondent saw an enormous fin speed like a
shadow
through the water, hurling the
crystalline spray and leaving the long
glowing
trail.
The correspondent looked over his
shoulder at the captain. His face was
hidden,
and he seemed to be asleep. He looked at the babes
of the sea.
They certainly were asleep. So,
being bereft of sympathy, he leaned a
little
way to one side and swore softly into the sea.
But the thing did not then leave the
vicinity of the boat. Ahead or astern,
on one
side or the other, at intervals long or short,
fled the long
sparkling streak, and there was
to be heard the whirroo of the dark fin.
The
speed and power of the thing was greatly to be
admired. It cut the
water like a gigantic and
keen projectile.
The presence of this
biding thing did not affect the man with the same
horror that it would if he had been a
picnicker. He simply looked at the
sea dully
and swore in an undertone.
Nevertheless,
it is true that he did not wish to be alone. He
wished one
of his companions to awaken by
chance and keep him company with it. But
the
captain hung motionless over the water-jar, and
the oiler and the cook
in the bottom of the
boat were plunged in slumber.
VI
to be drowned, why, in the name of the
seven mad gods who rule the sea,
was I allowed
to come thus far and contemplate sand and
trees?
During this dismal night, it may be
remarked that a man would conclude
that it was
really the intention of the seven mad gods to
drown him, despite
the abominable injustice of
it. For it was certainly an abominable
injustice to drown a man who had worked so
hard, so hard. The man felt
it would be a
crime most unnatural. Other people had drowned at
sea since
galleys swarmed with painted sails,
but still--
When it occurs to a man that
nature does not regard him as important, and
that she feels she would not maim the universe
by disposing of him, he
at first wishes to
throw bricks at the temple, and he hates deeply
the
fact that there are no brick and no
temples. Any visible expression of
nature
would surely be pelleted with his jeers.
Then, if there be no tangible thing to hoot he
feels, perhaps, the desire
to confront a
personification and indulge in pleas, bowed to one
knee,
and with hands supplicant, saying:
A high cold star on a winter's night is the
word he feels that she says
to him. Thereafter
he knows the pathos of his situation.
The
men in the dingey had not discussed these matters,
but each had, no
doubt, reflected upon them in
silence and according to his mind. There
was
seldom any expression upon their faces save the
general one of complete
weariness. Speech was
devoted to the business of the boat.
To
chime the notes of his emotion, a verse
mysteriously entered the
correspondent's head.
He had even forgotten that he had forgotten this
verse, but it suddenly was in his mind.
There was a lack of woman's nursing, there
was dearth of
woman's tears;
But a comrade
stood beside him, and he took that comrade's hand,
And he said: 'I shall never see my own, my
native land.'
In his childhood, the
correspondent had been made acquainted with the
fact
that a soldier of the Legion lay dying in
Algiers, but he had never regarded
the fact as
important. Myriads of his school-fellows had
informed him of
the soldier's plight, but the
dinning had naturally ended by making him
perfectly indifferent. He had never considered
it his affair that a
soldier of the Legion lay
dying in Algiers, nor had it appeared to him
as a matter for sorrow. It was less to him
than the breaking of a pencil's
point.
Now, however, it quaintly came to him as a
human, living thing. It was
no longer merely a
picture of a few throes in the breast of a poet,
meanwhile drinking tea and warming his feet at
the grate; it was an
actuality--stern,
mournful, and fine.
The correspondent
plainly saw the soldier. He lay on the sand with
his
feet out straight and still. While his
pale left hand was upon his chest
in an
attempt to thwart the going of his life, the blood
came between his
fingers. In the far Algerian
distance, a city of low square forms was set
against a sky that was faint with the last
sunset hues. The correspondent,
plying
the oars and dreaming of the slow and slower
movements of the lips
of the soldier, was
moved by a profound and perfectly impersonal
comprehension. He was sorry for the soldier of
the Legion who lay dying
in Algiers.
The thing which had followed the boat and
waited, had evidently grown bored
at the
delay. There was no longer to be heard the slash
of the cut-water,
and there was no longer the
flame of the long trail. The light in the north
still glimmered, but it was apparently no
nearer to the boat. Sometimes
the boom of the
surf rang in the correspondent's ears, and he
turned the
craft seaward then and rowed
harder. Southward, some one had evidently
built a watch-fire on the beach. It was too
low and too far to be seen,
but it made a
shimmering, roseate reflection upon the bluff back
of it,
and this could be discerned from the
boat. The wind came stronger, and
sometimes a
wave suddenly raged out like a mountain-cat, and
there was
to be seen the sheen and sparkle of
a broken crest.
The captain, in the bow,
moved on his water-jar and sat erect.
long
night,
Later the correspondent spoke into the bottom
of the boat.
There was a slow and gradual
disentanglement. will you
spell me?
As soon as the correspondent touched
the cold comfortable sea-water in
the bottom
of the boat, and had huddled close to the cook's
life-belt he
was deep in sleep, despite the
fact that his teeth played all the popular
airs. This sleep was so good to him that it
was but a moment before he
heard a voice call
his name in a tone that demonstrated the last
stages
of exhaustion.
The
light in the north had mysteriously vanished, but
the correspondent
took his course from
the wide-awake captain.
Later in the
night they took the boat farther out to sea, and
the captain
directed the cook to take one oar
at the stern and keep the boat facing
the
seas. He was to call out if he should hear the
thunder of the surf.
This plan enabled the
oiler and the correspondent to get respite
together.
give those boys a chance to get into
shape again,said the captain.
They curled down
and, after a few preliminary chatterings and
trembles,
slept once more the dead sleep.
Neither knew they had bequeathed to the
cook
the company of another shark, or perhaps the same
shark.
As the boat caroused on the waves,
spray occasionally bumped over the side
and
gave them a fresh soaking, but this had no power
to break their repose.
The ominous slash of
the wind and the water affected them as it would
have
affected mummies.
to sea
correspondent, aroused, heard the crash of the
toppled
crests.
As he was rowing, the
captain gave him some whisky-and-water, and this
steadied the chills out of him.
me even a
photograph of an oar--
At last there was a
short conversation.
VII
When the correspondent again opened his
eyes, the sea and the sky were
each of the
grey hue of the dawning. Later, carmine and gold
was painted
upon the waters. The morning
appeared finally, in its splendor, with a
sky
of pure blue, and the sunlight flamed on the tips
of the waves.
On the distant dunes were
set many little black cottages, and a tall white
windmill reared above them. No man, nor dog,
nor bicycle appeared on the
beach. The
cottages might have formed a deserted village.
The voyagers scanned the shore. A
conference was held in the boat.
said the
captain, no help is coming we might better try a
run through
the surf right away. If we
stay out here much longer we will be too weak
to do anything for ourselves at all.
this
reasoning. The boat was headed for the beach. The
correspondent
wondered if none ever ascended
the tall wind-tower, and if then they never
looked seaward. This tower was a giant,
standing with its back to the
plight of the
ants. It represented in a degree, to the
correspondent, the
serenity of nature amid the
struggles of the individual--nature in the
wind, and nature in the vision of men. She did
not seem cruel to him then,
nor beneficent,
nor treacherous, nor wise. But she was
indifferent, flatly
indifferent. It is,
perhaps, plausible that a man in this situation,
impressed with the unconcern of the universe,
should see the innumerable
flaws of his life,
and have them taste wickedly in his mind and wish
for
another chance. A distinction between
right and wrong seems absurdly clear
to him,
then, in this new ignorance of the grave-edge, and
he understands
that if he were given another
opportunity he would mend his conduct and
his
words, and be better and brighter during an
introduction or at a tea.
do is to
work her in as far as possible, and then when she
swamps, pile
out and scramble for the beach.
Keep cool now, and don't jump until she
swamps
sure.
The oiler took the oars. Over his
shoulders he scanned the surf.
he said, think
I'd better bring her about, and keep her head-on
to the
seas and back her in.
right,
Billie,said the captain. her oiler swung the
boat then and, seated in the stern, the cook
and the correspondent were
obliged to look
over their shoulders to contemplate the lonely and
indifferent shore.
The monstrous in-
shore rollers heaved the boat high until the men
were
again enabled to see the white sheets of
water scudding up the slanted
beach.
could
wrest his attention from the rollers, he turned
his glance toward
the shore, and in the
expression of the eyes during this contemplation
there was a singular quality. The
correspondent, observing the others,
knew that
they were not afraid, but the full meaning of
their glances was
shrouded.
As for
himself, he was too tired to grapple fundamentally
with the fact.
He tried to coerce his mind
into thinking of it, but the mind was dominated
at this time by the muscles, and the muscles
said they did not care. It
merely occurred to
him that if he should drown it would be a shame.
There were no hurried words, no
pallor, no plain agitation. The men simply
looked at the shore.
you jump,
Seaward the crest of a roller suddenly fell
with a thunderous crash, and
the long white
comber came roaring down upon the boat.
eyes from the shore to the comber and
waited. The boat slid up the incline,
leaped
at the furious top, bounced over it, and swung
down the long back
of the wave. Some water had
been shipped and the cook bailed it out.
But the next crest crashed also. The tumbling,
boiling flood of white water
caught the boat
and whirled it almost perpendicular. Water swarmed
in from
all sides. The correspondent had his
hands on the gunwale at this time,
and when
the water entered at that place he swiftly
withdrew his fingers,
as if he objected to
wetting them.
The little boat, drunken
with this weight of water, reeled and snuggled
deeper into the sea.
jump clear of the boat.
The third
wave moved forward, huge, furious, implacable. It
fairly
swallowed the dingey, and almost
simultaneously the men tumbled into the
sea. A
piece of lifebelt had lain in the bottom of the
boat, and as the
correspondent went overboard
he held this to his chest with his left hand.
The January water was icy, and he reflected
immediately that it was colder
than he had
expected to find it on the coast of Florida. This
appeared
to his dazed mind as a fact important
enough to be noted at the time. The
coldness
of the water was sad; it was tragic. This fact was
somehow so
mixed and confused with his opinion
of his own situation that it seemed
almost a
proper reason for tears. The water was cold.
When he came to the surface he was conscious
of little but the noisy water.
Afterward he
saw his companions in the sea. The oiler was ahead
in the
race. He was swimming strongly and
rapidly. Off to the correspondent's
left, the cook's great white and corked
back bulged out of the water, and
in the rear
the captain was hanging with his one good hand to
the keel
of the overturned dingey.
There is a certain immovable quality to a
shore, and the correspondent
wondered at it
amid the confusion of the sea.
It seemed
also very attractive, but the correspondent knew
that it was
a long journey, and he paddled
leisurely. The piece of life-preserver lay
under him, and sometimes he whirled down the
incline of a wave as if he
were on a handsled.
But finally he arrived at a place in the
sea where travel was beset with
difficulty. He
did not pause swimming to inquire what manner of
current
had caught him, but there his progress
ceased. The shore was set before
him like a
bit of scenery on a stage, and he looked at it and
understood
with his eyes each detail of it.
As the cook passed, much farther to the
left, the captain was calling to
him,
oar.
right, cook turned on his back,
and, paddling with an oar,
went ahead as if he
were a canoe.
Presently the boat also
passed to the left of the correspondent with the
captain clinging with one hand to the keel. He
would have appeared like
a man raising himself
to look over a board fence, if it were not for the
extraordinary gymnastics of the boat. The
correspondent marvelled that
the captain could
still hold to it.
They passed on, nearer
to shore--the oiler, the cook, the captain--and
following them went the water-jar, bouncing
gaily over the seas.
The correspondent
remained in the grip of this strange new enemy--a
current. The shore, with its white slope of
sand and its green bluff,
topped with little
silent cottages, was spread like a picture before
him.
It was very near to him then, but he was
impressed as one who in a gallery
looks at a
scene from Brittany or Holland.
He
thought:
Can it be possible?
to be the
final phenomenon of nature.
But
later a wave perhaps whirled him out of this
small, deadly current,
for he found suddenly
that he could again make progress toward the
shore.
Later still, he was aware that the
captain, clinging with one hand to the
keel of
the dingey, had his face turned away from the
shore and toward
him, and was calling his
name.
In his struggle to reach the
captain and the boat, he reflected that when
one gets properly wearied, drowning must
really be a comfortable
arrangement, a
cessation of hostilities accompanied by a large
degree of
relief, and he was glad of it, for
the main thing in his mind for some
months had
been horror of the temporary agony. He did not
wish to be hurt.
Presently he saw a man
running along the shore. He was undressing with
most remarkable speed. Coat, trousers, shirt,
everything flew magically
off him.
let himself down to bottom and
leave the boat. Then the correspondent
performed his one little marvel of the voyage.
A large wave caught him
and flung him with
ease and supreme speed completely over the boat
and
far beyond it. It struck him even then as
an event in gymnastics, and a
true miracle of
the sea. An over-turned boat in the surf is not a
plaything
to a swimming man.
The
correspondent arrived in water that reached only
to his waist, but
his condition did not enable
him to stand for more than a moment. Each
wave
knocked him into a heap, and the under-tow pulled
at him.
Then he saw the man who had been
running and undressing, and undressing
and
running, come bounding into the water. He dragged
ashore the cook,
and then waded towards the
captain, but the captain waved him away, and
sent him to the correspondent. He was naked,
naked as a tree in winter,
but a halo was
about his head, and he shone like a saint. He gave
a strong
pull, and a long drag, and a bully
heave at the correspondent's hand. The
correspondent, schooled in the minor formulae,
said:
But suddenly the man cried: that?He
pointed a swift finger. The
correspondent
said:
In the shallows, face downward, lay
the oiler. His forehead touched sand
that was
periodically, between each wave, clear of the sea.
The correspondent did not know all that
transpired afterward. When he
achieved
safe ground he fell, striking the sand with each
particular part
of his body. It was as if he
had dropped from a roof, but the thud was
grateful to him.
It seems that
instantly the beach was populated with men with
blankets,
clothes, and flasks, and women with
coffeepots and all the remedies sacred
to
their minds. The welcome of the land to the men
from the sea was warm
and generous, but a
still and dripping shape was carried slowly up the
beach, and the land's welcome for it could
only be the different and
sinister hospitality
of the grave.
When it came night, the
white waves paced to and fro in the moonlight,
and the wind brought the sound of the great
sea's voice to the men on shore,
and they felt
that they could then be interpreters.
-THE
END-
http:dOnLine1514
The Open
Boat Introduction
Published in 1897,
Stephen Crane's life in January of that year.
While traveling to Cuba to
work as a newspaper
correspondent during the Cuban insurrection
against
Spain, Crane was stranded at sea for
thirty hours after his ship, the
Commodore
, sank off the coast of Florida.
Crane and three other men were
forced to
navigate their way to shore in a small boat. One
of the men,
an oiler named Billy Higgins,
drowned while trying to swim to shore. Crane
wrote the story
travails of four men
shipwrecked at sea who must make their way to
shore
in a dinghy. Crane's grippingly
realistic depiction of their
life-threatening
ordeal captures the sensations and emotions of
struggle
for survival against the forces of
nature. Because of the work's
philosophical
speculations, it is often classified as a work of
Naturalism,
a literary offshoot of the Realist
movement.
an enduring classic that speaks to
the timeless experience of suffering
a close
call with death.