Martin Chuzzlewit
The man gave a grunt of discontented acquiescence, turned over in his
berth, and drew his blanket over his head.
‘--For,’ said Mr Tapley, pursuing the theme by way of soliloquy in a low
tone of voice; ‘the sea is as nonsensical a thing as any going. It never
knows what to do with itself. It hasn’t got no employment for its
mind, and is always in a state of vacancy. Like them Polar bears in the
wild-beast shows as is constantly a-nodding their heads from side to
side, it never CAN be quiet. Which is entirely owing to its uncommon
stupidity.’
‘Is that you, Mark?’ asked a faint voice from another berth.
‘It’s as much of me as is left, sir, after a fortnight of this work,’
Mr Tapley replied, ‘What with leading the life of a fly, ever since I’ve
been aboard--for I’ve been perpetually holding-on to something or other
in a upside-down position--what with that, sir, and putting a very
little into myself, and taking a good deal out of myself, there an’t too
much of me to swear by. How do you find yourself this morning, sir?’
‘Very miserable,’ said Martin, with a peevish groan. ‘Ugh. This is
wretched, indeed!’
‘Creditable,’ muttered Mark, pressing one hand upon his aching head and
looking round him with a rueful grin. ‘That’s the great comfort. It IS
creditable to keep up one’s spirits here. Virtue’s its own reward. So’s
jollity.’
Mark was so far right that unquestionably any man who retained his
cheerfulness among the steerage accommodations of that noble and
fast-sailing line-of-packet ship, ‘THE SCREW,’ was solely indebted to
his own resources, and shipped his good humour, like his provisions,
without any contribution or assistance from the owners. A dark, low,
stifling cabin, surrounded by berths all filled to overflowing with men,
women, and children, in various stages of sickness and misery, is not
the liveliest place of assembly at any time; but when it is so crowded
(as the steerage cabin of the Screw was, every passage out), that
mattresses and beds are heaped upon the floor, to the extinction of
everything like comfort, cleanliness, and decency, it is liable to
operate not only as a pretty strong banner against amiability of temper,
but as a positive encourager of selfish and rough humours. Mark felt
this, as he sat looking about him; and his spirits rose proportionately.
There were English people, Irish people, Welsh people, and Scotch people
there; all with their little store of coarse food and shabby clothes;
and nearly all with their families of children. There were children of
all ages; from the baby at the breast, to the slattern-girl who was as
much a grown woman as her mother. Every kind of domestic suffering that
is bred in poverty, illness, banishment, sorrow, and long travel in bad
weather, was crammed into the little space; and yet was there infinitely
less of complaint and querulousness, and infinitely more of mutual
assistance and general kindness to be found in that unwholesome ark,
than in many brilliant ballrooms.
Mark looked about him wistfully, and his face brightened as he looked.
Here an old grandmother was crooning over a sick child, and rocking it
to and fro, in arms hardly more wasted than its own young limbs; here a
poor woman with an infant in her lap, mended another little creature’s
clothes, and quieted another who was creeping up about her from their
scanty bed upon the floor. Here were old men awkwardly engaged in little
household offices, wherein they would have been ridiculous but for their
good-will and kind purpose; and here were swarthy fellows--giants in
their way--doing such little acts of tenderness for those about them,
as might have belonged to gentlest-hearted dwarfs. The very idiot in
the corner who sat mowing there, all day, had his faculty of imitation
roused by what he saw about him; and snapped his fingers to amuse a
crying child.
‘Now, then,’ said Mark, nodding to a woman who was dressing her three
children at no great distance from him--and the grin upon his face had
by this time spread from ear to ear--‘Hand over one of them young ‘uns
according to custom.’
‘I wish you’d get breakfast, Mark, instead of worrying with people who
don’t belong to you,’ observed Martin, petulantly.
‘All right,’ said Mark. ‘SHE’ll do that. It’s a fair division of labour,
sir. I wash her boys, and she makes our tea. I never COULD make tea, but
any one can wash a boy.’
The woman, who was delicate and ill, felt and understood his kindness,
as well she might, for she had been covered every night with his
greatcoat, while he had for his own bed the bare boards and a rug. But
Martin, who seldom got up or looked about him, was quite incensed by the
folly of this speech, and expressed his dissatisfaction by an impatient
groan.
‘So it is, certainly,’ said Mark, brushing the child’s hair as coolly as
if he had been born and bred a barber.
‘What are you talking about, now?’ asked Martin.
‘What you said,’ replied Mark; ‘or what you meant, when you gave that
there dismal vent to your feelings. I quite go along with it, sir. It IS
very hard upon her.’
‘What is?’
‘Making the voyage by herself along with these young impediments here,
and going such a way at such a time of the year to join her husband.
If you don’t want to be driven mad with yellow soap in your eye, young
man,’ said Mr Tapley to the second urchin, who was by this time under
his hands at the basin, ‘you’d better shut it.’
‘Where does she join her husband?’ asked Martin, yawning.
‘Why, I’m very much afraid,’ said Mr Tapley, in a low voice, ‘that she
don’t know. I hope she mayn’t miss him. But she sent her last letter by
hand, and it don’t seem to have been very clearly understood between ‘em
without it, and if she don’t see him a-waving his pocket-handkerchief on
the shore, like a pictur out of a song-book, my opinion is, she’ll break
her heart.’
‘Why, how, in Folly’s name, does the woman come to be on board ship on
such a wild-goose venture!’ cried Martin.
Mr Tapley glanced at him for a moment as he lay prostrate in his berth,
and then said, very quietly:
‘Ah! How indeed! I can’t think! He’s been away from her for two year;
she’s been very poor and lonely in her own country; and has always been
a-looking forward to meeting him. It’s very strange she should be here.
Quite amazing! A little mad perhaps! There can’t be no other way of
accounting for it.’
Martin was too far gone in the lassitude of sea-sickness to make any
reply to these words, or even to attend to them as they were spoken. And
the subject of their discourse returning at this crisis with some hot
tea, effectually put a stop to any resumption of the theme by Mr Tapley;
who, when the meal was over and he had adjusted Martin’s bed, went up on
deck to wash the breakfast service, which consisted of two half-pint tin
mugs, and a shaving-pot of the same metal.
It is due to Mark Tapley to state that he suffered at least as much from
sea-sickness as any man, woman, or child, on board; and that he had a
peculiar faculty of knocking himself about on the smallest provocation,
and losing his legs at every lurch of the ship. But resolved, in his
usual phrase, to ‘come out strong’ under disadvantageous circumstances,
he was the life and soul of the steerage, and made no more of stopping
in the middle of a facetious conversation to go away and be excessively
ill by himself, and afterwards come back in the very best and gayest of
tempers to resume it, than if such a course of proceeding had been the
commonest in the world.
It cannot be said that as his illness wore off, his cheerfulness and
good nature increased, because they would hardly admit of augmentation;
but his usefulness among the weaker members of the party was much
enlarged; and at all times and seasons there he was exerting it. If
a gleam of sun shone out of the dark sky, down Mark tumbled into the
cabin, and presently up he came again with a woman in his arms, or
half-a-dozen children, or a man, or a bed, or a saucepan, or a basket,
or something animate or inanimate, that he thought would be the better
for the air. If an hour or two of fine weather in the middle of the day
tempted those who seldom or never came on deck at other times to crawl
into the long-boat, or lie down upon the spare spars, and try to eat,
there, in the centre of the group, was Mr Tapley, handing about salt
beef and biscuit, or dispensing tastes of grog, or cutting up the
children’s provisions with his pocketknife, for their greater ease and
comfort, or reading aloud from a venerable newspaper, or singing some
roaring old song to a select party, or writing the beginnings of letters
to their friends at home for people who couldn’t write, or cracking
jokes with the crew, or nearly getting blown over the side, or emerging,
half-drowned, from a shower of spray, or lending a hand somewhere or
other; but always doing something for the general entertainment. At
night, when the cooking-fire was lighted on the deck, and the driving
sparks that flew among the rigging, and the clouds of sails, seemed to
menace the ship with certain annihilation by fire, in case the elements
of air and water failed to compass her destruction; there, again, was Mr
Tapley, with his coat off and his shirt-sleeves turned up to his elbows,
doing all kinds of culinary offices; compounding the strangest dishes;
recognized by every one as an established authority; and helping all
parties to achieve something which, left to themselves, they never could
have done, and never would have dreamed of. In short, there never was a
more popular character than Mark Tapley became, on board that noble and
fast-sailing line-of-packet ship, the Screw; and he attained at last to
such a pitch of universal admiration, that he began to have grave doubts
within himself whether a man might reasonably claim any credit for being
jolly under such exciting circumstances.
‘If this was going to last,’ said Tapley, ‘there’d be no great
difference as I can perceive, between the Screw and the Dragon. I
never am to get credit, I think. I begin to be afraid that the Fates is
determined to make the world easy to me.’
‘Well, Mark,’ said Martin, near whose berth he had ruminated to this
effect. ‘When will this be over?’
‘Another week, they say, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘will most likely bring
us into port. The ship’s a-going along at present, as sensible as a ship
can, sir; though I don’t mean to say as that’s any very high praise.’
‘I don’t think it is, indeed,’ groaned Martin.
‘You’d feel all the better for it, sir, if you was to turn out,’
observed Mark.
‘And be seen by the ladies and gentlemen on the after-deck,’ returned
Martin, with a scronful emphasis upon the words, ‘mingling with the
beggarly crowd that are stowed away in this vile hole. I should be
greatly the better for that, no doubt.’
‘I’m thankful that I can’t say from my own experience what the feelings
of a gentleman may be,’ said Mark, ‘but I should have thought, sir, as a
gentleman would feel a deal more uncomfortable down here than up in the
fresh air, especially when the ladies and gentlemen in the after-cabin
know just as much about him as he does about them, and are likely to
trouble their heads about him in the same proportion. I should have
thought that, certainly.’
‘I tell you, then,’ rejoined Martin, ‘you would have thought wrong, and
do think wrong.’
‘Very likely, sir,’ said Mark, with imperturbable good temper. ‘I often
do.’
‘As to lying here,’ cried Martin, raising himself on his elbow, and
looking angrily at his follower. ‘Do you suppose it’s a pleasure to lie
here?’
‘All the madhouses in the world,’ said Mr Tapley, ‘couldn’t produce such
a maniac as the man must be who could think that.’
‘Then why are you forever goading and urging me to get up?’ asked