Notwithstanding the little iron stove, the ink froze on the swing-table in the cabin, and I found it more convenient to go ashore stumbling over the arctic waste-land and shivering in glazed tramcars in order to write my evening letter to my owners in a gorgeous cafe in the centre of the town.It was an immense place, lofty and gilt, upholstered in red plush, full of electric lights and so thoroughly warmed that even the marble tables felt tepid to the touch.The waiter who brought me my cup of coffee bore, by comparison with my utter isolation, the dear aspect of an intimate friend.There, alone in a noisy crowd, I would write slowly a letter addressed to Glasgow, of which the gist would be: There is no cargo, and no prospect of any coming till late spring apparently.And all the time I sat there the necessity of getting back to the ship bore heavily on my already half-congealed spirits - the shivering in glazed tramcars, the stumbling over the snow-sprinkled waste ground, the vision of ships frozen in a row, appearing vaguely like corpses of black vessels in a white world, so silent, so lifeless, so soulless they seemed to be.
With precaution I would go up the side of my own particular corpse, and would feel her as cold as ice itself and as slippery under my feet.My cold berth would swallow up like a chilly burial niche my bodily shivers and my mental excitement.It was a cruel winter.
The very air seemed as hard and trenchant as steel; but it would have taken much more than this to extinguish my sacred fire for the exercise of my craft.No young man of twenty-four appointed chief mate for the first time in his life would have let that Dutch tenacious winter penetrate into his heart.I think that in those days I never forgot the fact of my elevation for five consecutive minutes.I fancy it kept me warm, even in my slumbers, better than the high pile of blankets, which positively crackled with frost as I threw them off in the morning.And I would get up early for no reason whatever except that I was in sole charge.The new captain had not been appointed yet.
Almost each morning a letter from my owners would arrive, directing me to go to the charterers and clamour for the ship's cargo; to threaten them with the heaviest penalties of demurrage; to demand that this assortment of varied merchandise, set fast in a landscape of ice and windmills somewhere up-country, should be put on rail instantly, and fed up to the ship in regular quantities every day.
After drinking some hot coffee, like an Arctic explorer setting off on a sledge journey towards the North Pole, I would go ashore and roll shivering in a tramcar into the very heart of the town, past clean-faced houses, past thousands of brass knockers upon a thousand painted doors glimmering behind rows of trees of the pavement species, leafless, gaunt, seemingly dead for ever.
That part of the expedition was easy enough, though the horses were painfully glistening with icicles, and the aspect of the tram-conductors' faces presented a repulsive blending of crimson and purple.But as to frightening or bullying, or even wheedling some sort of answer out of Mr.Hudig, that was another matter altogether.He was a big, swarthy Netherlander, with black moustaches and a bold glance.He always began by shoving me into a chair before I had time to open my mouth, gave me cordially a large cigar, and in excellent English would start to talk everlastingly about the phenomenal severity of the weather.It was impossible to threaten a man who, though he possessed the language perfectly, seemed incapable of understanding any phrase pronounced in a tone of remonstrance or discontent.As to quarrelling with him, it would have been stupid.The weather was too bitter for that.His office was so warm, his fire so bright, his sides shook so heartily with laughter, that I experienced always a great difficulty in ****** up my mind to reach for my hat.
At last the cargo did come.At first it came dribbling in by rail in trucks, till the thaw set in; and then fast, in a multitude of barges, with a great rush of unbound waters.The gentle master stevedore had his hands very full at last; and the chief mate became worried in his mind as to the proper distribution of the weight of his first cargo in a ship he did not personally know before.
Ships do want humouring.They want humouring in handling; and if you mean to handle them well, they must have been humoured in the distribution of the weight which you ask them to carry through the good and evil fortune of a passage.Your ship is a tender creature, whose idiosyncrasies must be attended to if you mean her to come with credit to herself and you through the rough-and-tumble of her life.
