the grinding of the screw.
it is proverbial that incidents in themselves trivial frequently form the hinges on which great events turn. when edgar berrington went to london he learned that the owners of the fine ocean-steamer the warrior wished him to become their chief engineer for that voyage, the previous chief having been suddenly taken ill and obliged to leave them. although flattered by the proposal, and the terms in which it was made, edgar declined it, for, having acquired all the knowledge he desired about marine engines during the voyage out and home, he did not wish to waste more time at sea. the owner, however, being aware of his worth, was not to be put off with a first refusal. he took edgar into his private room and reasoned with him.
“come now, mr berrington, consider my proposal again. you’ll go, won’t you?”
“impossible,” replied edgar. “you are very kind, and i assure you that i fully appreciate your offer, but—”
he was interrupted by a clerk who entered at the moment and spoke a few words in an under tone to the owner.
“excuse me one minute, mr berrington,” said the latter, rising quickly. “i shall return immediately. there is a newspaper, to look—no—where is it? ah! no matter: here is a list of the passengers going out to china in the warrior. it may amuse you. perhaps you may find a friend amongst them.”
left alone, edgar ran his eye carelessly over the names—thinking the while of the disagreeables of another long sea-voyage, and strengthening his resolves not to be tempted to go.
now, the careless glance at this passenger-list was the apparently trifling incident on which hinged the whole of our hero’s future career; his careless glance became suddenly fixed and attentive; his eyebrows lifted to their utmost elevation and his face flushed crimson, for there he beheld the names of charles hazlit, esquire, and his daughter, miss aileen hazlit.
just at that moment the owner of the warrior returned. this owner was an intelligent, shrewd man—quick to observe. he noted the flush on edgar’s countenance, and edgar immediately blew his nose with violence to account for the flush.
“well now, mr berrington, what say you?” he resumed.
poor edgar knew not what to say. a reply had to be given at once. he had no time to think. aileen going to china! an offer of a situation in the same vessel!
“well, sir,” said our hero, with sudden decision, “i will go.”
of course the owner expressed himself well pleased, and then there followed a deal of nautico-scientific talk, after which edgar ventured to say—
“i observe the name of mr charles hazlit on your list. he is an acquaintance of mine. do you happen to know what takes him so far from home?”
“can’t say exactly,” replied the other. “i think some one told me his affairs in china require looking after, and his daughter’s health necessitates a long sea-voyage.”
“health!” exclaimed edgar, striving to look and speak in a comparatively indifferent manner. “she was quite well when i saw her last.”
“very likely,” said the owner, with a smile, “but it does not take long to make a young lady ill—especially when her heart is touched. some sort of rumour floats in my mind to the effect that miss hazlit is going out to china to be married, or requires to go out because she doesn’t want to be married—i forget which. but it comes pretty much to the same thing in the end!”
“hah!” said edgar shortly.
if he had said “oh!” in tones of agony, it would have been more truly expressive of his feelings.
the moment he got out of the office and felt the cool air of the street he repented of his decision and pronounced himself to be a consummate donkey!
“there,” thought he, “i’ve made a fool of myself. i’ve engaged for a long voyage in a capacity which precludes the possibility of my associating with the passengers, for not only must nearly all my waking hours be spent down beside the engine, but when i come up to cool myself i must perforce do so in dirty costume, with oily hands and face, quite in an unfit state to be seen by aileen, and without the slightest right to take any notice of her. oh! donkey—goose that you are, eddy! but you’ve done it now, and can’t undo it, therefore you must go through with it.”
thinking of himself in this lowly strain he went home to the solitude of his lodging, sat down before his tea-table, thrust both hands into his pockets, and, in a by no means unhappy frame of mind, brooded over his trials and sorrows.
let us change the scene now. we are out upon the sea—in a floating palace. and oh how that palace rushes onward, ever onward, without rest, without check, night and day, cleaving its way irresistibly through the mighty deep. mighty! ah! how mighty no one on board can tell so well as that thin, gentle, evidently dying youth who leans over the stern watching the screws and the “wake” that seems to rush behind, marking off, as it were mile by mile, the vast and ever-increasing space—never to be re-traversed he knows full well—that separates him from home and all that is dear to him on earth.
the palace is made of iron—hard, unyielding, unbeautiful, uncompromising iron,—but her cushions are soft, her gilding is gorgeous, her fittings are elegant, her food is sumptuous, her society—at least much of it—is refined. of course representatives of the unrefined are also there—in the after-cabin too—just as there are specimens of the refined in the fore-cabin. but, taking them all in all, they are a remarkably harmonious band, the inhabitants of this iron palace, from the captain to the cabin-boy inclusive. the latter is a sprightly imp; the former is—to use the expression of one of the unrefined—“a brick.” he is not tall—few sea-captains seem to be so—but he is very broad, and manly, and as strong as an elephant. he is a pattern captain. gallant to the lady passengers, chatty with the gentlemen, polite to the unrefined, sedately grave among the officers and crew, and jocular to the children; in short, he is all things to all men—and much of the harmony on board is due to his unconscious influence. he has a handsome face, glittering black eyes, an aquiline nose that commands respect, and a black beard and moustache that covered a firm mouth and chin.
grinding is one of the prominent ideas that are suggested on board the iron palace. there are many other ideas, no doubt. among seventy or eighty educated and intelligent human beings of both sexes and all ages it could not be otherwise. we allude, however, to the boat—not to the passengers. the screw grinds and the engine grinds incessantly. when one thinks of a thing, or things, going round and round, or up and down, regularly, uninterruptedly, vigorously, doggedly, obstinately, hour after hour, one is impressed, to say the least; and when one thinks of the said thing, or things, going on thus, night and day without rest, one is solemnised; but when one meditates on these motions being continued for many weeks together, one has a tendency to feel mentally overwhelmed.
the great crank that grinds the screw, and is itself ground by the piston—not to mention the cylinder and boiler—works in a dark place deep down in the engine-room, like a giant hand constantly engaged on deeds of violence and evil.
here edgar berrington, clothed in white canvas and oil, finds genial companionship. he dotes on the great crank. it is a sympathetic thing. it represents his feelings wonderfully. returning from the deck after inhaling a little fresh air, he leans against the iron bulkhead in these clanking depths and gazes gloomily and for prolonged periods at the crank while it grinds with a sort of vicious energy that seems in strange harmony with his soul. sometimes he grinds his teeth as a sort of obbligato accompaniment—especially if he has while on deck, during a wistful gaze at the distant perspective of the aft-regions, beheld, (or fancied he has beheld) a familiar and adored form.
at first the passengers were sick—very sick, most of them—insomuch that there were some who would gladly, if possible, have surrendered their lives with their dinners; but by degrees they began to improve, and to regard meals with anticipation instead of loathing. when the sunny and calm latitudes near the line were reached, every one grew well and hearty, and at last there was not a sad soul on board except the poor sick lad who studied the screw and measured the ever-increasing distance from home. one of the first evidences of the return of health was the sound of song. when the nights were clear and calm, and naught was audible save the grinding of the screw, the passengers crystallised naturally into groups in the same way that ice-particles arrange themselves in sympathetic stars; and from several such constellations the music of the spheres was naturally evolved.
one of these crystals was formed, usually in a tent on deck, by the attractive influence of smoke. it was consequently not a bright crystal, and included particles both refined and otherwise. its music was gruff for the most part, sometimes growly. there was another crystal which varied its position occasionally—according to the position of the moon, for it was a crystal formed of romantic elements. one of its parts was a scottish maiden whose voice was melodious, flexible, and very sweet. her face and spirit had been made to match. she had many admirers, and a bosom-friend of kindly heart and aspect, with wealth of golden hair, in some respects like herself.
our heroine aileen, being passionately fond of music, and herself a sweet singer, attached herself to this crystal, and became as it were another bosom-friend.
two bearded men were also much given to seek attachment to this crystal. they also seemed knit to each other in bosom-friendship—if we may venture to use such a term with reference to bearded men. one was amateurly musical, the other powerfully sympathetic. a pastor, of unusually stalwart proportions, with a gentle pretty wife and lovable family, also had a decided leaning to this crystal.
one evening the group, finding its favourite part of the deck occupied, was driven to a position near the tent of the smoky crystal, and, sitting down not far from the engineer’s quarters, began to indulge in song. grave and gay alternated. duets followed; trios ensued, and miscellaneous new forms of harmony sometimes intervened.
“do sing a solo, miss hazlit,” said the scottish maiden. “i like your voice so much, and want to hear it alone. will you sing?”
aileen had an obliging spirit. she at once began, in a low contralto voice, “i cannot sing the old songs.”
sometimes in private life one hears a voice so sweet, so thrilling, with a “something” so powerful in it, that one feels, amid other sensations of pleasure, great satisfaction to think that none of the public singers in the world could “bat that” if they were to try their best, and that few of them could equal it!
such a voice was that of our heroine. it drew towards her the soul, body, and spirit of the music-lovers who listened. of course we do not deny that there were some who could not be drawn thus. there were a few, among the smoky crystals, for whom a draw of the pipe or a mildly drawn pot of bitter beer had greater charms than sweet sounds, however melting. with the exceptions of these, nearly all who chanced to be within hearing drew near to the musical group, and listened while that most, beautiful of songs was being warbled in tones not loud but inexpressibly pathetic.
among the listeners was our friend edgar berrington. seated, as usual, in front of the great crank, with bare muscular arms folded on his broad chest and a dark frown on his forehead, he riveted his eyes on the crank as if it were the author of all his anxieties. suddenly the terminating lines, “i cannot sing the old songs, they are too dear to me,” rising above the din of machinery, floated gently down through iron lattice-work, beams, rods, cranks, and bars, and smote upon his ear.
like a galvanised man he sprang on his legs and stood erect. then, if we may say so, like a human rocket, he shot upwards and stood on the margin of the crowd. being head and shoulders over most of them he observed a clear space beside the singer. the night was dark, features could not be discerned, even forms were not easily recognisable. he glided into the open space, and silently but promptly sat down on the deck beside aileen. his elbow even touched one of the folds of her garment. he went straight into paradise and remained there!
as for aileen, if she observed the action at all, she probably set it down to the enthusiasm of a more than usually musical member of the ship’s crew.
while she was still dwelling on the last note, a grinding sound was heard and a slight tremor felt that not only stopped the song abruptly but checked the applause that was ready to burst from every lip and hand. edgar vanished from the spot where he sat quite as quickly as he had appeared, and in a moment was at his station. the captain’s voice was heard on the bridge. the signal was given to stop the engines—to back them—to stop again. eager inquiries followed—“what’s that? did you feel it? hear it? could it be a rock? impossible, surely?” no one could answer with knowledge or authority, save those who were too busy to be spoken to. accustomed as they all were for many weeks past to the ceaseless motion of the engines, the sudden stoppage had a strange and solemnising effect on most of the passengers. presently the order was given to steam ahead, and once more they breathed more freely on hearing again the familiar grinding of the screw.
to the anxious inquiries afterwards made of him, the captain only smiled and said he could not tell what it was—perhaps it might have been a piece of wreck. “but it did not feel like that, captain,” objected one of the passengers, who, having frequently been to sea before, was regarded as being semi-nautical; “it was too like a touch on something solid. you’ve heard, i suppose, of coral reefs growing in places where none are marked on our charts?”
“i have,” answered the captain drily.
“might it not be something of the kind?”
“it might,” replied the captain.
“we are not far from the coast of china, are we?” asked the semi-nautical passenger.
“not very far.”
seeing that the captain was not disposed to be communicative, the semi-nautical passenger retired to persecute and terrify some of the ladies with his surmises. meanwhile the well was sounded and a slight increase of water ascertained, but nothing worth speaking of, and the pumps were set to work.
the anxiety of the passengers was soon allayed, everything going on as smoothly as before. the evening merged into night. the moon rose slowly and spread a path of rippling silver from the ship to the horizon. the various groups began to un-crystallise. sleepy ones went below and melted away somehow. sleepless ones went to their great panacea, smoke. lights were put out everywhere save where the duties of the ship required them to burn continually. at last the latest of the sleepless turned in, and none were wakeful through the iron palace except the poor youth who mentally measured the distance from home, and the officers and men on duty. among the latter was edgar berrington, who, standing at his accustomed post down in his own iron depths, pondered the events of the evening while he watched the motions of the great crank and listened to the grinding of the screw.
