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John Masefield - Dauber
Work rating: Low

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A fear of the disasters storm might bring; 
His rank as painter would be ended then-- 
He would keep watch and watch like other men. 

And go aloft with them to man the yard 
When the great ship was rolling scuppers under, 
Burying her snout all round the compass card, 
While the green water struck at her and stunned her; 
When the lee-rigging slacked, when one long thunder 
Boomed from the black to windward, when the sail 
Booted and spurred the devil in the gale. 

For him to ride on men: that was the time 
The Dauber dreaded; then lest the test would come, 
When seas, half-frozen, slushed the decks with slime, 
And all the air was blind with flying scum; 
When the drenched sails were furled, when the fierce hum 
In weather riggings died into the roar 
Of God`s eternal never tamed by shore. 

Once in the passage he had worked aloft, 
Shifting her suits one summer afternoon, 
In the bright Trade wind, when the wind was soft, 
Shaking the points, making the tackle croon. 
But that was child`s play to the future: soon 
He would be ordered up when sails and spars 
Were flying and going mad among the stars. 

He had been scared that first time, daunted, thrilled, 
Not by the height so much as by the size, 
And then the danger to the man unskilled 
In standing on a rope that runs through eyes. 
"But in a storm," he thought, "the yards will rise 
And roll together down, and snap their gear!" 
The sweat came cold upon his palms for fear. 

Sometimes. in Gloucester he had felt a pang 
Swinging below the house-eaves on a stage. 
But stages carry rails; here he would hang 
Upon a jerking rope in a storm`s rage, 
Ducked that the sheltering oilskin might assuage 
The beating of the storm, clutching the jack, 
Beating the sail, and being beaten back. 

Drenched, frozen, gasping, blinded, beaten dumb, 
High in the night, reeling great blinding arcs 
As the ship rolled, his chappy fingers numb, 
The deck below a narrow blur of marks, 
The sea a welter of whiteness shot with sparks, 
Now snapping up in bursts, now dying away, 
Salting the horizontal snow with spray. 

A hundred and fifty feet above the deck, 
And there, while the ship rolls, boldly to sit 
Upon a foot-rope moving, jerk and check, 
While half a dozen seamen work on it; 
Held by one hand, straining, by strength and wit 
To toss a gasket`s coil around the yard, 
How could he compass that when blowing hard? 

And if he failed in any least degree, 
Or faltered for an instant, or showed slack, 
He might go drown himself within the sea, 
And add a bubble to the clipper`s track. 
He had signed his name, there was no turning back, 
No pardon for default-this must be done. 
One iron rule at sea binds everyone. 

Till now he had been treated with contempt 
As neither man nor thing, a creature borne 
On the ship`s articles, but left exempt 
From all the seamen`s life except their scorn. 
But he would rank as seaman off the Horn, 
Work as a seaman, and be kept or cast 
By standards set for men before the mast. 

Even now they shifted suits of sails; they bent 
The storm-suit ready for the expected time; 
The mighty wester that the Plate had lent 
Had brought them far into the wintry clime. 
At dawn, out of the shadow, there was rime, 
The dim Magellan Clouds were frosty clear, 
The wind had edge, the testing-time was near. 

And then he wondered if the tales were lies 
Told by old hands to terrify the new, 
For, since the ship left England, only twice 
Had there been need to start a sheet or clew, 
Then only royals, for an hour or two, 
And no seas broke aboard, nor was it cold. 
What were these gales of which the stories told? 

The thought went by. He had heard the Bosun tell 
Too often, and too fiercely, not to know 
That being off the Horn in June is Hell: 
Hell of continual toil in ice and snow, 
Frostbitten hell in which the westers blow 
Shrieking for days on end, in which the seas 
Gulf the starved seamen till their marrows freeze. 

Such was the weather he might look to find, 
Such was the work expected: there remained 
Firmly to set his teeth, resolve his mind, 
And be the first, however much it pained, 
And bring his honour round the Horn unstained, 
And win his mates` respect; and thence, untainted, 
Be ranked as man however much he painted. 

He drew deep breath; a gantline swayed aloft 
A lower topsail, hard with rope and leather, 
Such as men`s frozen fingers fight with oft 
Below the Ramirez in Cape Hom weather. 
The arms upon the yard hove all together, 
Lighting the head along; a thought occurred 
Within the painter`s brain like a bright bird: 

That this, and so much like it, of man`s toil, 
Compassed by naked manhood in strange places, 
Was all heroic, but outside the coil 
Within which modem art gleams or grimaces; 
That if he drew that line of sailor`s faces 
Sweating the sail, their passionate play and change, 
It would be new, and wonderful, and strange. 

That that was what his work meant; it would be 
A training in new vision-a revealing 
Of passionate men in battle with the sea, 
High on an unseen stage, shaking and reeling; 
And men through him would understand their feeling, 
Their might, their misery, their tragic power, 
And all by suffering pain a little hour; 

High on the yard with them, feeling their pain, 
Battling with them; and it had not been done. 
He was a door to new worlds in the brain, 
A window opening letting in the sun, 
A voice saying, "Thus is bread fetched and ports won, 
And life lived out at sea where men exist 
Solely by man`s strong brain and sturdy wrist." 

So he decided, as he cleaned his brasses, 
Hearing without, aloft, the curse, the shout 
Where the taut gantline passes and repasses, 
Heaving new topsails to be lighted out. 
It was most proud, however self might doubt, 
To share man`s tragic toll and paint it true. 
He took the offered Fate: this he would do. 

That night the snow fell between six and seven, 
A little feathery fall so light, so dry-- 
An aimless dust out of a confused heaven, 
Upon an air no steadier than a sigh; 
The powder dusted down and wandered by 
So purposeless, so many, and so cold, 
Then died, and the wind ceased and the ship rolled. 

Rolled till she clanged-rolled till the brain was tired, 
Marking the acme of the heaves, the pause 
While the sea-beauty rested and respired, 
Drinking great draughts of roller at her hawse. 
Flutters of snow came aimless upon flaws. 
Lock up your paints," the Mate said, speaking light: 
"This is the Horn; you`ll join my watch to-night!"

VI 
All through the windless night the clipper rolled 
In a great swell with oily gradual heaves 
Which rolled her down until her time-bells tolled, 
Clang, and the weltering water moaned like beeves. 
The thundering rattle of slatting shook the sheaves, 
Startles of water made the swing ports gush, 
The sea was moaning and sighing and saying "Hush!" 

It was all black and starless. Peering down 
Into the water, trying to pierce the gloom, 
One saw a dim, smooth, oily glitter of brown 
Heaving and dying away and leaving room 
For yet another. Like the march of doom 
Came those great powers of marching silences; 
Then foe came down. dead-cold, and hid the seas. 

They set the Dauber to the foghorn. There 
He stood upon the poop, making to sound 
Out of the pump the sailor`s nasal blare, 
Listening lest ice should make the note resound. 
She bayed there like a solitary hound 
Lost in a covert; all the watch she bayed. 
The fog, come closelier down, no answer made. 

Denser it grew, until the ship was lost. 
The elemental hid her; she was merged 
In mufflings of dark death, like a man`s ghost, 
New to the change of death, yet thither urged. 
Then from the hidden waters something surged 
Mournful, despairing, great, greater than speech, 
A noise like one slow wave on a still beach. 

Mournful, and then again mournful, and still 
Out of the night that mighty voice arose; 
The Dauber at his foghorn felt the thrill. 
Who rode that desolate sea? What forms were those? 
Mournful, from things defeated, in the throes 
Of memory of some conquered hunting-ground, 
Out of the night of death arose the sound. 

"Whales!" said the Mate. They stayed there all night long 
Answering the horn. Out of the night they spoke, 
Defeated creatures who had suffered wrong, 
But were still noble underneath the stroke. 
They filled the darkness when the Dauber woke; 
The men came peering to the rail to hear, 
And the sea sighed, and the fog rose up sheer. 

A wall of nothing at the world`s last edge, 
Where no life came except defeated life. 
The Dauber felt shut in within a hedge, 
Behind which form was hidden and thought was rife, 
And that a blinding flash, a thrust, a knife 
Would sweep the hedge away and make all plain, 
Brilliant beyond all words, blinding the brain. 

So the night passed, but then no morning broke 
Only a something showed that night was dead. 
A sea-bird, cackling like a devil, spoke, 
And the fog drew away and hung like lead. 
Like mighty cliffs it shaped, sullen and red; 
Like glowering gods at watch it did appear, 
And sometimes drew away, and then drew near. 

Like islands, and like chasms, and like hell, 
But always mighty and red, gloomy and ruddy, 
Shutting the visible sea in like a well; 
Slow heaving in vast ripples, blank and muddy, 
Where the sun should have risen it streaked bloody. 
The day was stillborn; all the sea-fowl scattering 
Splashed the still water, mewing, hovering, clattering. 

Then Polar snow came down little and light, 
Till all the sky was hidden by the small, 
Most multitudinous drift of dirty white 
Tumbling and wavering down and covering all-- 
Covering the sky, the sea, the clipper tall, 
Furring the ropes with white, casing the mast, 
Coming on no known air, but blowing past. 

And all the air seemed full of gradual moan, 
As though in those cloud-chasms the horns were blowing 
The mort for gods cast out and overthrown, 
Or for the eyeless sun plucked out and going. 
Slow the low gradual moan came in the snowing; 
The Dauber felt the prelude had begun. 
The snowstorm fluttered by; he saw the sun 

Show and pass by, gleam from one towering prison 
Into another, vaster and more grim, 
Which in dull crags of darkness had arisen 
To muffle-to a final door on him. 
The gods upon the dull crags lowered dim, 
The pigeons chattered, quarrelling in the track. 
In the south-west the dimness dulled to black. 

Then came the cry of "Call all hands on deck!`` 
The Dauber knew its meaning; it was come: 
Cape Horn, that tramples beauty into wreck, 
And crumples steel and smites the strong man dumb. 
Down clattered flying kites and staysails: some 
Sang out in quick, high calls: the fair-leads skirled, 
And from the south-west came the end of the world. 

"Caught in her ball-dress," said the Bosun, hauling; 
"Lee-ay, lee-ay!" quick, high, come the men`s call; 
It was all wallop of sails and startled calling. 
"Let fly!" "Let got" "Clew up!" and "Let go All" 
"Now up and make them fast!" "Here, give us a haul" 
"Now up and stow them! Quick! By God ! we`re done!" 
The blackness crunched all memory of the sun. 

"Up!" said the Mate. "Mizen top-gallants. Hurry!`` 
The Dauber ran, the others ran, the sails 
Slatted and shook; out of the black a flurry 
Whirled in fine lines, tattering the edge to trails. 
Painting and art and England were old tales 
old in some other life to that pale man, 
Who struggled with white fear and gulped and ran. 

He struck a ringbolt in his haste and fell-- 
Rose, sick with pain, half-lamed in his left knee; 
He reached the shrouds where clambering men pell-mell 
Hustled each other up and cursed him; he 
Hurried aloft with them: then from the sea 
Came a cold, sudden breath that made the hair 
Stiff on the neck, as though Death whispered there. 

A man below him punched him in the side. 
"Get up, you Dauber, or let me get past." 
He saw the belly of the skysail skied, 
Gulped, and clutched tight, and tried to go more fast, 
Sometimes he missed his ratline and was grassed, 
Scraped his shin raw against the rigid line dine. 
The clamberers reached the futtock-shrouds` incline. 

Cursing they came; one, kicking out behind, 
Kicked Dauber in the mouth, and one below 
Punched at his calves; the futtock-shrouds inclined 
It was a perilous path for one to go. 
"Up, Dauber, up!`` A curse followed a blow. 
He reached the top and gasped, then on, then on. 
And one voice yelled " Let go!" and one " All gone!" 

Fierce clamberers, some in oilskins, some in rags, 
Hustling and hurrying up, up the steep stairs. 
Before the windless sails were blown to flags, 
And whirled like dirty birds athwart great airs, 
Ten men in all, to get this mast of theirs 
Snugged to the gale in time. "Up! Damn you, run!" 
The mizen topmast head was safely won. 

"Lay out!" the Bosun yelled. The Dauber laid 
Out on the yard, gripping the yard and feeling 
Sick at the mighty space of air displayed 
Below his feet, where mewing birds were wheeling. 
A giddy fear was on him; be was reeling. 
He bit his lip half through, clutching the jack. 
A cold sweat glued the shirt upon his back. 

The yard was shaking, for a brace was loose. 
He felt that he would fall; he clutched, he bent, 
Clammy with natural terror to the shoes 
While idiotic promptings came and went. 
Snow fluttered on a wind-flaw and was spent; 
He saw the water darken. Someone yelled, 
"Frap it; don`t stay to fur I! Hold on!" He held. 

Darkness came down-half darkness-in a whirl; 
The sky went out, the waters disappeared. 
He felt a shocking pressure of blowing hurl 
The ship upon her side. The darkness speared 
At her with wind; she staggered, she careered, 
Then down she lay. The Dauber felt her go; 
He saw his yard tilt downwards. Then the snow 

Whirled all about-dense, multitudinous, cold-- 
Mixed with the wind`s one devilish thrust and shriek, 
Which whiffled out men`s tears, deafened, took hold, 
Flattening the flying drift against the cheek. 
The yards buckled and bent, man could not speak. 
The ship lay on her broadside; the wind`s sound 
Had devilish malice at having got her downed 

How long the gale had blown he could not tell, 
Only the world bad changed, his life had died. 
A moment now was everlasting hell. 
Nature an onslaught from the weather side, 
A withering rush of death, a frost that cried, 
Shrieked, till he withered at the heart; a hail 
Plastered his oilskins with an icy mail. 

"Cut!" yelled his mate. He looked-the sail was gone, 
Blown into rags in the first furious squall; 
The tatters drummed the devil`s tattoo. On 
The buckling yard a block thumped like a mall. 
The ship lay--the sea smote her, the wind`s bawl 
Came, "loo, loo, loo!" The devil cried his hounds 
On to the poor spent stag strayed in his bounds. 

"Cut! Ease her!" yelled his mate; the Dauber heard. 
His mate wormed up the tilted yard and slashed, 
A rag of canvas skimmed like a darting bird. 
The snow whirled, the ship bowed to it, the gear lashed, 
The sea-tops were cut off and flung down smashed; 
Tatters of shouts were flung, the rags of yells-- 
And clang, clang, clang, below beat the two bells. 

"O God!" the Dauber moaned. A roaring rang, 
Blasting the royals like a cannonade; 
The backstays parted with a crackling clang, 
The upper spars were snapped like twigs decayed-- 
Snapped at their heels, their jagged splinters splayed, 
Like white and ghastly hairs erect with fear. 
The Mate yelled, "Gone, by God, and pitched them clear !" 

" Up! " yelled the Bosun; " up and clear the wreck! 
"The Dauber followed where he led: below 
He caught one giddy glimpsing of the deck 
Filled with white water, as though heaped with snow. 
He saw the streamers of the rigging blow 
Straight out like pennons from the splintered mast, 
Then, all sense dimmed, all was an icy blast 

Roaring from nether hell and filled with ice, 
Roaring and crashing on the jerking stage, 
An utter bridle given to utter vice, 
Limitless power mad with endless rage 
Withering the soul; a minute seemed an age. 
He clutched and hacked at ropes, at rags of sail. 
Thinking that comfort was a fairy-tale. 

Told long ago-long, long ago---long since 
Heard of in other lives-imagined, dreamed-- 
There where the basest beggar was a prince 
To him in torment where the tempest screamed, 
Comfort and warmth and ease no longer seemed 
Things that a man could know: soul, body, brain, 
Knew nothing but the wind, the cold, the pain. 

"Leave that!" the Bosun shouted; "Crojick save!" 
The splitting crojick, not yet gone to rags, 
Thundered below, beating till something gave, 
Bellying between its buntlines into bags. 
Some birds were blown past, shrieking: dark, like shags, 
Their backs seemed, looking down. "Leu, leu!" they cried. 
The ship lay, the seas thumped her; she had died. 

They reached the crojick yard, which buckled, buckled 
Like a thin whalebone to the topsail`s strain. 
They laid upon the yard and heaved and knuckled, 
Pounding the sail, which jangled and leapt again. 
It was quite hard with ice, its rope like chain, 
Its strength like seven devils; it shook the mast. 
They cursed and toiled and froze: a long time passed. 

Two hours passed, then a dim lightening came. 
Those frozen ones upon the yard could see 
The mainsail and the foresail still the same, 
Still battling with the hands and blowing free, 
Rags tattered where the staysails used to be. 
The lower topsails stood; the ship`s lee deck 
Seethed with four feet of water filled with wreck. 

An hour more went by; the Dauber lost 
All sense of hands and feet, all sense of all 
But of a wind that cut him to the ghost, 
And of a frozen fold he had to haul, 
Of heavens that fell and never ceased to fall, 
And ran in smoky snatches along the sea, 
Leaping from crest to wave-crest, yelling. He 

Lost sense of time; no bells went, but he felt 
Ages go over him. At last, at last 
They frapped the cringled crojick`s icy pelt; 
In frozen bulge and bunt they made it fast. 
Then, scarcely live, they laid in to the mast. 
The Captain`s speaking trumpet gave a blare, 
"Make fast the topsail, Mister, while you`re there.` 

Some seamen cursed, but up they had to go- 
Up to the topsail yard to spend an hour 
Stowing a topsail in a blinding snow, 
Which made the strongest man among them cower. 
More men came up, the fresh hands gave them power, 
They stowed the sail; then with a rattle of chain 
One half the crojick burst its bonds again. 

They stowed the sail, frapping it round with rope, 
Leaving no surface for the wind, no fold, 
Then down the weather shrouds, half dead, they grope; 
That struggle with the sail had made them old. 
hey wondered if the crojick furl would hold. 
"Lucky," said one, "it didn`t spring the spar." 
"Lucky!" the Bosun said, "Lucky! We are!" 

She came within two shakes of turning top 
Or stripping all her shroud-screws, that first quiff. 
"Now fish those wash-deck buckets out of the slop. 
Here`s Dauber says he doesn`t like Cape Stiff. 
This isn`t wind, man, this is only a whiff. 
Hold on, all hands, hold on!" a sea, half seen, 
Paused, mounted, burst, and filled the main-deck green. 

The Dauber felt a mountain of water fall. 
It covered him deep, deep, he felt it fill, 
Over his head, the deck, the fife-rails, all, 
Quieting the ship, she trembled and lay still. 
Then with a rush and shatter and clanging shrill 
Over she went; he saw the water cream 
Over the bitts; he saw the half-deck stream. 

Then in the rush he swirled, over she went; 
Her lee-rail dipped, he Struck, and something gave; 
His legs went through a port as the roll spent; 
She paused, then rolled, and back the water drave. 
He drifted with it as a part of the wave, 
Drowning, half-stunned, exhausted, partly frozen, 
He struck the booby hatchway; then the Bosun 

Leaped, seeing his chance, before the next sea burst, 
And caught him as fie drifted, seized him, held, 
Up-ended him against the bitts, and Cursed. 
"This ain`t the George`s Swimming Baths," lie yelled; 
"Keep on your feet! " Another grey-back felled 
The two together, and the Bose, half-blind, 
Spat: "One`s a joke," lie cursed, "but two`s unkind." 

"Now, damn it, Dauber!" said the Mate. "Look out, 
Or you`ll be over the side!" The water freed; 
Each clanging freeing-port became a spout. 
The men cleared tip the decks as there was need. 
The Dauber`s head was cut, he felt it bleed 
Into his oilskins as he Clutched and coiled. 
Water and sky were devil`s brews which boiled, 

Boiled, shrieked, and glowered-, but the ship was saved. 
Snugged safely down, though fourteen sails were split. 
Out of the dark a fiercer fury raved. 
The grey-backs died and mounted, each crest lit 
With a white toppling gleam that hissed from it 
And slid, or leaped, or ran with whirls of cloud, 
Mad with inhuman life that shrieked aloud. 

The watch was called; Dauber might go below. 
"Splice the main brace! " the Mate called. All laid aft 
To get a gulp of momentary glow 
As some reward for having saved the craft. 
The steward ladled mugs, from which each quaff`d 
Whisky, with water, Sugar, and lime-- juice hot, 
A quarter of a pint each made the tot. 

Beside the lamp-room door the stew stood 
Ladling it out, and each man came in turn, 
Tipped his sou`-wester, drank it, grunted "Good! 
And shambled forward, letting it slowly burn: 
When all were gone the Dauber lagged astern, 
Torn by his frozen body `s lust for heat, 
The liquor`s pleasant smell, so warm so sweet, 

And by a promise long since made at home 
Never to taste strong liquor. Now he knew 
The worth of liquor; now lie wanted some. 
His frozen body urged him to the brew; 
Yet it seemed wrong, an evil thing to do 
To break- that promise. " Dauber," said the Mate, 
"Drink, and turn in, man; why the hell d`ye wait?" 

"Please, sir, I`m temperance." "Temperance are you, hey? 
That`s all the more for me! So you`re for slops? 
I thought you`d had enough slops for to-day. 
Go to your bunk and ease her when she drops. 
And-damme, steward! you brew with too much hops! 
Stir up the sugar, man!-and tell your girl 
How kind the Mate was teaching you to furl." 

Then the Mate drank the remnants, six men`s share 
And ramped into his cabin, where he stripped 
And danced unclad, and was uproarious there. 
In waltzes with the cabin cat he tripped. 
Singing in tenor clear that he was pipped-- 
That "he who strove the tempest to disarm, 
Must never first embrail the lee yard-arm." 

And that his name was Ginger. Dauber crept 
Back to the round-house, gripping by the rail. 
The wind howled by; the passionate water leapt; 
The night was all one roaring with the gale. 
Then at the door he stopped, uttering a wail; 
His hands were perished numb and blue as veins, 
He could not turn the knob for both the Spains. 

A hand came shuffling aft, dodging the seas, 
Singing "her nut-brown hair" between his teeth; 
Taking the ocean`s tumult at his case 
Even when the wash about his thighs did seethe. 
His soul was happy in its happy sheath; 
"What, Dauber, won`t it open? Fingers cold? 
You`ll talk of this time, Dauber, when you`re old." 

He flung the door half open, and a sea 
Washed them both in, over the splashboard, down; 
"You silly, salt miscarriage!" sputtered he. 
"Dauber, pull out the plug before we drown! 
That`s spoiled my laces and my velvet gown. 
Where is the plug?" Groping in pitch dark water, 
He sang between his teeth "The Farmer`s Daughter." 

It was pitch dark within there; at each roll 
The chests slid to the slant; the water rushed, 
Making full many a clanging tin pan bowl 
Into the black below-bunks as it gushed. 
The dog-tired men slept through it; they were hushed. 
The water drained, and then with matches damp 
The man struck heads off till he lit the lamp. 

"Thank you," the Dauber said; the seaman grinned. 
"This is your first foul weather?" "Yes," " I thought 
Up on the yard you hadn`t seen much wind. 
Them`s rotten sea-boots, Dauber, that you brought. 
Now I must cut on deck before I`m caught." 
He went; the lamp-flame smoked; he slammed the door; 
A film of water loitered across the floor. 

The Dauber watched it come and watched it go; 
He had had revelation of the lies 
Cloaking the truth men never choose to know; 
He could bear witness now and cleanse their eyes. 
He had beheld in suffering; he was wise; 
This was the sea, this searcher of the soul-- 
This never-dying shriek fresh from the Pole. 

He shook with cold; his hands could not undo 
His oilskin buttons, so he shook and sat, 
Watching his dirty fingers, dirty blue, 
Hearing without the hammering tackle slat, 
Within, the drops from dripping clothes went pat, 
Running in little patters, gentle, sweet, 
And "Ai, ai!" went the wind, and the seas beat. 

His bunk was sopping wet; he clambered in, 
None of his clothes were dry; his fear recurred. 
Cramps bunched the muscles underneath his skin. 
The great ship rolled until the lamp was blurred. 
He took his Bible and tried to read a word; 
Trembled at going aloft again, and then 
Resolved to fight it out and show it to men. 

Faces recurred, fierce memories of the yard, 
The frozen sail, the savage eyes, the jests, 
The oaths of one great seaman, syphilis-scarred, 
The tug of leeches jammed beneath their chests, 
The buntlines bellying bunts out into breasts. 
The deck so desolate-grey, the sky so wild, 
He fell asleep, and slept like a young child. 

But not for long; the cold awoke him soon, 
The hot-ache and the skin-cracks and the cramp, 
The seas thundering without, the gale`s wild tune, 
The sopping misery of the blankets damp. 
A speaking-trumpet roared; a sea-boot`s stamp 
Clogged at the door. A man entered to shout: 
"All hands on deck! Arouse here! Tumble out!" 

The caller raised the lamp; his oilskins clicked 
As the thin ice upon them cracked and fell. 
"Rouse out!" he said. "This lamp is frozen wick`d. 
Rouse out!" His accent deepened to a yell. 
"We`re among ice; it`s blowing up like hell. 
We`re going to hand both topsails. Time, I guess, 
We`re sheeted up. Rouse out! Don`t stay to dress!" 

"Is it cold on deck?" said Dauber. "Is it cold?" 
"We`re sheeted up, I tell you, inches thick!" 
The fo`c`sle`s like a wedding-cake, I`m told. 
Now tumble out, my sons; on deck here, quick! 
Rouse Out, away, and come and climb the stick. 
I`m going to call the half-deck. Bosun! Hey! 
Both topsails coming in. Heave out! Away!" 

He went; the Dauber tumbled from his bunk, 
Clutching the side. He heard the wind go past, 
Making the great ship wallow as if drunk. 
There was a shocking tumult up the mast. 
"This is the end," he muttered, "come at last! 
I`ve got to go aloft, facing this cold. 
I can`t. I can`t. I`ll never keep my hold. 

"I cannot face the topsail yard again. 
I never guessed what misery it would be." 
The cramps and hot-ache made him sick with pain. 
The ship stopped suddenly from a devilish sea, 
Then, with a triumph of wash, a rush of glee, 
The door burst in, and in the water rolled, 
Filling the lower bunks, black, creaming, cold. 

The lamp sucked out. "Wash!" went the water back, 
Then in again, flooding; the Bosun swore. 
"You useless thing! You Dauber! You lee slack! 
Get out, you heekapoota! Shut the door! 
You coo-ilyaira, what are you waiting for? 
Out of my way, you thing-you useless thing!" 
He slammed the door indignant, clanging the ring. 

And then he lit the lamp, drowned to the waist; 
"Here`s a fine house! Get at the scupper-holes"-- 
He bent against it as the water raced"-- 
And pull them out to leeward when she rolls. 
They say some kinds of landsmen don`t have souls. 
I well believe. A Port Mahon baboon 
Would make more soul than you got with a spoon." 

Down in the icy water Dauber groped 
To find the plug; the racing water sluiced 
Over his head and shoulders as she sloped. 
Without, judged by the sound, all hell was loosed. 
He felt cold Death about him tightly noosed. 
That Death was better than the misery there 
Iced on the quaking foothold high in air. 

And then the thought came: "I`m a failure. 
All My life has been a failure. They were right. 
It will not matter if I go and fall; 
I should be free then from this hell`s delight. 
I`ll never paint. Best let it end to-night. 
I`ll slip over the side. I`ve tried and failed." 
So in the ice-cold in the night he quailed. 

Death would be better, death, than this long hell 
Of mockery and surrender and dismay 
This long defeat of doing nothing well, 
Playing the part too high for him to play. 
"O Death! who hides the sorry thing away, 
Take me; I`ve failed. I cannot play these cards. 
There came a thundering from the topsail yards. 

And then he bit his lips, clenching his mind, 
And staggered out to muster, beating back 
The coward frozen self of him that whined. 
Come what cards might he meant to play the pack. 
"Ai!" screamed the wind; the topsail sheet went clack; 
Ice filled the air with spikes; the grey-backs burst. 
"Here`s Dauber," said the Mate, "on deck the first. 

"Why, holy sailor, Dauber, you`re a man! 
I took you for a soldier. Up now, come!" 
Up on the yards already they began 
That battle with a gale which strikes men dumb. 
The leaping topsail thundered like a drum. 
The frozen snow beat in the face like shots. 
The wind spun whipping wave-crests into clots. 

So up upon the topsail yard again, 
In the great tempest`s fiercest hour, began 
Probation to the Dauber`s soul, of pain 
Which crowds a century`s torment in a span. 
For the next month the ocean taught this man, 
And he, in that month`s torment, while she wested, 
Was never warm nor dry, nor full nor rested 

But still it blew, or, if it lulled, it rose 
Within the hour and blew again; and still 
The water as it burst aboard her froze. 
The wind blew off an ice-field, raw and chill, 
Daunting man`s body, tampering with his will; 
But after thirty days a ghostly sun 
Gave sickly promise that the storms were done.

VII 
A great grey sea was running up the sky, 
Desolate birds flew past; their mewings came 
As that lone water`s spiritual cry, 
Its forlorn voice, its essence, its soul`s name. 
The ship limped in the water as if lame. 
Then in the forenoon watch to a great shout 
More sail was made, the reefs were shaken out. 

A slant came from the south; the singers stood 
Clapped to the halliards, hauling to a tune, 
Old as the sea, a fillip to the blood. 
The upper topsail rose like a balloon. 
"So long, Cape Stiff. In Valparaiso soon," 
Said one to other, as the ship lay over, 
Making her course again-again a rover. 

Slowly the sea went down as the wind fell. 
Clear rang the songs, "Hurrah! Cape Horn is bet!" 
The combless seas were lumping into swell; 
The leaking fo`c`sles were no longer wet. 
More sail was made; the watch on deck was set 
To cleaning up the ruin broken bare 
Below, aloft, about her, everywhere. 

The Dauber, scrubbing out the roundhouse, found 
Old pantiles pulped among the mouldy gear, 
Washed underneath the bunks and long since drowned 
During the agony of the Cape Horn year. 
He sang in scrubbing, for he had done with fear-- 
Fronted the worst and looked it in the face; 
He had got manhood at the testing-place. 

Singing he scrubbed, passing his watch below, 
Making the round-house fair; the Bosun watched, 
Bringing his knitting slowly to the toe. 
Sails stretched a mizen skysail which he patched; 
They thought the Dauber was a bad egg hatched. 
"Daubs," said the Bosun cheerly "can you knit? 
I`ve made a Barney `s bull of this last bit." 

Then, while the Dauber counted, Bosun took 
Some marline from his pocket. "Here," he said, 
"You want to know square sennit? So fash. Look! 
Eight foxes take, and stop the ends with thread. 
I`ve known an engineer would give his head 
To know square sennit." As the Bose began, 
The Dauber felt promoted into man. 

It was his warrant that he had not failed-- 
That the most hard part in his difficult climb 
Had not been past attainment; it was scaled: 
Safe footing showed above the slippery slime. 
He had emerged out of the iron time, 
And knew that he could compass his life`s scheme; 
He had the power sufficient to his dream. 

Then dinner came, and now the sky was blue. 
The ship was standing north, the Horn was rounded; 
She made a thundering as she weltered through. 
The mighty grey-backs glittered as she bounded. 
More sail was piled upon her; she was hounded 
North, while the wind came; like a stag she ran 
Over grey hills and hollows of seas wan. 

She had a white bone in her mouth: she sped; 
Those in the round-house watched her as they ate 
Their meal of pork-fat fried with broken bread. 
"Good old!" they cried. "She`s off; she`s gathering gait !" 
Her track was whitening like a Lammas spate. 
"Good old!" they cried. "Oh, give her cloth ! Hurray! 
For three weeks more to Valparaiso Bay! 

"She smells old Vallipo," the Bosun cried. 
"We`ll be inside the tier in three weeks more, 
Lying at double-moorings where they ride 
Off of the market, half a mile from shore, 
And bumboat pan, my sons, and figs galore, 
And girls in black mantillas fit to make a 
Poor seaman frantic when they dance the cueca." 

Eight bells were made, the watch was changed, and now 
The Mate spoke to the Dauber: "This is better. 
We`ll soon be getting mudhooks over the bow. 
She`ll make her passage still if this`ll let her. 
Oh run, you drogher! Dip your fo`c`sle wetter. 
Well, Dauber, this is better than Cape Horn. 
Them topsails made you wish you`d not been born." 

"Yes, sir," the Dauber said. "Now," said the Mate, 
"We`ve got to smart her up. Them Cape Horn seas 
Have made her paint-work like a rusty grate. 
Oh, didn`t them topsails make your fishhooks freeze? 
A topsail don`t pay heed to `Won`t you, please?` 
Well, you have seen Cape Horn, my son; you`ve learned, 
You`ve dipped your hand and had your fingers burned. 

"And now you`ll stow that folly, trying to paint. 
You`ve had your lesson; you`re a sailor now. 
You come on board a female ripe to faint. 
All sorts of slush you`d learned, the Lord knows how. 
Cape Horn has sent you wisdom over the bow 
If you`ve got sense to take it. You`re a sailor. 
My God! before you were a woman`s tailor. 

"So throw your paints to blazes and have done. 
Words can`t describe the silly things you did 
Sitting before your easel in the sun, 
With all your colours on the paint-box lid. 
I blushed for you . . . and then the daubs you hid. 
My God! you`ll have more sense now, eh? You`ve quit?" 
"No, sir." "You`ve not?" "No, sir." "God give you wit. 

"I thought you`d come to wisdom." Thus they talked, 
While the great clipper took her bit and rushed 
Like a skin-glistening stallion not yet baulked, 
Till fire-bright water at her swing ports gushed; 
Poising and bowing down her fore-foot crushed 
Bubble on glittering bubble; on she went 
The Dauber watched her, wondering what it meant. 

To come, after long months, at rosy dawn, 
Into the placid blue of some great bay. 
Treading the quiet waters like a fawn 
Ere yet the morning haze was blown away. 
A rose-flushed figure putting by the grey, 
And anchoring there before the city smoke 
Rose, or the church-bells rang, or men awoke. 

And then, in the first light, to see grow clear 
That long-expected haven filled with strangers-- 
Alive with men and women; see and hear 
Its clattering market and its money-changers; 
And hear the surf beat, and be free from dangers, 
And watch the crinkled ocean blue with calm 
Drowsing beneath the Trade, beneath the palm. 

Hungry for that he worked; the hour went by, 
And still the wind grew, still the clipper strode, 
And now a darkness hid the western sky, 
And sprays came flicking off at the wind`s goad. 
She stumbled now, feeling her sail a load. 
The Mate gazed hard to windward, eyed his sail, 
And said the Horn was going to flick her tail. 

Boldly he kept it on her till she staggered, 
But still the wind increased; it grew, it grew, 
Darkening the sky, making the water haggard; 
Full of small snow the mighty wester blew. 
More fun for little fish-hooks," sighed the crew. 
They eyed the taut topgallants stiff like steel; 
A second hand was ordered to the wheel. 

The Captain eyed her aft, sucking his lip, 
Feeling the sail too much, but yet refraining 
From putting hobbles on the leaping ship, 
The glad sea-shattering stallion, halter-straining, 
Wing-musical, uproarious, and complaining; 
But, in a gust, he cocked his finger, so: 
"You`d better take them off, before they go." 

All saw. They ran at once without the word 
"Lee-ay! Lee-ay!" Loud rang the clewline cries; 
Sam in his bunk within the half-deck heard, 
Stirred in his sleep, and rubbed his drowsy eyes. 
"There go the lower to`gallants." Against the skies 
Rose the thin bellying strips of leaping sail. 
The Dauber was the first man over the rail. 

Three to a mast they ran; it was a race. 
"God!" said the Mate; "that Dauber, he can go." 
He watched the runners with an upturned face 
Over the futtocks, struggling heel to toe, 
Up to the topmast cross-trees into the blow 
Where the three sails were leaping. "Dauber wins!" 
The yards were reached, and now the race begins. 

Which three will furI their sail first and come down? 
Out to the yard-arm for the leech goes one, 
His halt blown flagwise from a hatless crown, 
His hands at work like fever to be done. 
Out of the gale a fiercer fury spun. 
The three sails leaped together, yanking high, 
Like talons darting up to clutch the sky. 

The Dauber on the fore-topgallant yard 
Out at the weather yard-arm was the first 
To lay his hand upon the buntline-barred 
Topgallant yanking to the wester`s burst; 
He craned to catch the leech-, his comrades cursed; 
One at the buntlines, one with oaths observed, 
"The eye of the outer jib-stay isn`t served." 

"No," said the Dauber. "No," the man replied. 
They heaved, stowing the sail, not looking round, 
Panting, but full of life and eager-eyed; 
The gale roared at them with its iron sound. 
"That`s you," the Dauber said. His gasket wound 
Swift round the yard, binding the sail in bands-, 
There came a gust, the sail leaped from his hands, 

So that he saw it high above him, grey, 
And there his mate was failing; quick he clutched 
An arm in oilskins swiftly snatched away. 
A voice said "Christ!" a quick shape stooped and touched, 
Chain struck his hands, ropes shot, the sky was smutched 
With vast black fires that ran, that fell, that furled, 
And then he saw the mast, the small snow hurled, 

The fore-topgallant yard far, far aloft, 
And blankness settling on him and great pain; 
And snow beneath his fingers wet and soft, 
And topsail sheet-blocks shaking at the chain. 
He knew it was he who had fallen; then his brain 
Swirled in a circle while he watched the sky. 
Infinite multitudes of snow blew by. 

"I thought it was Tom who fell," his brain`s voice said. 
"Down on the bloody deck!" the Captain screamed. 
The multitudinous little snow-flakes sped. 
His pain was real enough, but all else seemed.. 
Si with a bucket ran, the water gleamed 
Tilting upon him; others came, the Mate . . . 
They knelt with eager eyes like things that wait 

For other things to come. He saw them there. 
"It will go on," he murmured, watching Si. 
Colours and sounds seemed mixing in the air, 
The pain was stunning him, and the wind went by. 
"More water," said the Mate. "Here, Bosun, try. 
Ask if he`s got a message. Hell, he`s gone! 
Here, Dauber, paints." He said, "It will go on." 

Not knowing his meaning rightly, but he spoke 
With the intenseness of a fading soul 
Whose share of Nature`s fire turns to smoke, 
Whose hand on Nature`s wheel loses control. 
The eager faces glowered red like coal. 
They glowed, the great storm glowed, the sails, the mast. 
"It will go on," he cried aloud, and passed. 

Those from the yard came down to telll the tale. 
"He almost had me off, said Tom. "He slipped. 
There come one hell of a jump-like from the sail. . . 
He clutched at me and almost had me pipped. 
He caught my `ris`band, but the oilskin ripped. 
It tore clean off. Look here. I was near gone. 
I made a grab to catch him; so did John. 

"I caught his arm. My God! I was near done. 
He almost had me over; it was near. 
He hit the ropes and grabbed at every one." 
"Well," said the Mate, "we cannot leave him here. 
Run, Si, and get the half-deck table clear. 
We`ll lay him there. Catch hold there, you, and you, 
He`s dead, poor son; there`s nothing more to do." 

Night fell, and all night long the Dauber lay 
Covered upon the table; all night long 
The pitiless storm exulted at her prey, 
Huddling the waters with her icy thong. 
But to the covered shape she did no wrong. 
He lay beneath the sailcloth. Bell by bell 
The night wore through; the stars rose, the stars fell. 

Blowing most pitiless cold out of clear sky 
The wind roared all night long; and all night through 
Source
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