"Robertson, Morgan - Futility" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robertson Morgan)

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Chapter Two

E

IGHT tugs dragged the great mass to midstream and pointed her nose down the river; then the pilot on the bridge spoke a word or two; the first officer blew
a short blast on the whistle and turned a lever; the tugs gathered in their lines and drew off; down in the bowels of the ship three small engines were
started, opening the throttles of three large ones; three propellers began to revolve; and the mammoth, with a vibratory tremble running through her great
frame, moved slowly to sea.

East of Sandy Hook the pilot was dropped and the real voyage begun. Fifty feet below her deck, in an inferno of noise, and heat, and light, and shadow,
coal-passers wheeled the picked fuel from the bunkers to the fire-hold, where half-naked stokers, with faces like those of tortured fiends, tossed it into
the eighty white-hot mouths of the furnaces. In the engine-room, oilers passed to and fro, in and out of the plunging, twisting, glistening steel, with
oil-cans and waste, overseen by the watchful staff on duty, who listened with strained bearing for a false note in the confused jumble of sound --- a clicking
of steel out of tune, which would indicate a loosened key or nut. On deck, sailors set the triangular sails on the two masts, to add their propulsion to
the momentum of the record-breaker, and the passengers dispersed themselves as suited their several tastes. Some were seated in steamer cbairs, well wrapped
--- for, though it was April, the salt air was chilly --- some paced the deck, acquiring their sea legs; others listened to the orchestra in the music-room,
or read or wrote in the library, and a few took to their berths --- seasick from the slight heave of the ship on the ground-swell.

The decks were cleared, watches set at noon, and then began the never-ending cleaning-up at which steamship sailors put in so much of their time. Headed
by a six-foot boatswain, a gang came aft on the starboard side, with, paint-buckets and brushes, and distributed themselves along the rail.

"Davits an' stanchions, men --- never mind the rail," said the boatswain. " Ladies, better move your chairs back a little. Rowland, climb down out
o' that --- you'll be overboard. Take a ventilator --- no, you'll spill paint --- put your bucket away an' get some sandpaper from the yeoman. Work inboard
till you get it out o' you."

The sailor addressed --- a slight-built man of about thirty, black-bearded and bronzed to the semblance of healthy vigor, but watery-eyed and unsteady
of movement --- came down from the rail and shambled forward with his bucket. As he reached the group of ladies to whom the boatswain had spoken, his gaze
rested on one --- a sunny-haired young woman with the blue of the sea in her eyes --- who had arisen at his approach. He started, turned aside as if to
avoid her, and raising his hand in an embarrassed half-salute, passed on. Out of the boatswain's sight he leaned against the deck-house and panted, while
he held his hand to his breast.

"What is it?" he muttered, wearily; "whisky nerves, or the dying flutter of a starved love. Five years, now --- and a look from her eyes can stop the
blood in my veins --- can bring back all the heart-hunger and helplessness, that leads a man to insanity --- or this." He looked at his trembling hand,
all scarred and tar-stained, passed on forward, and returned with the sandpaper.