Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (298 page)

"I
seen
you
talking
to
Mr.
Strenberry,"
the
landlady
said
to
me. "Least,
I
seen
him
talking
to
you.
Got
him
going,
too,
you
did.
He's
a queer
one,
isn't
he?
Didn't
I
tell
you
he
was
a
queer
one?
Telling
you one
of
his
tales,
I'll
be
bound.
Take
no
notice
of
him,
mister.
You can't
believe
a
single
word
he
says.
We
found
that
out
long
since. That's
why
he
doesn't
want
to
talk
to
us
any
more.
He
knows
we've got
a
pinch
of
salt
ready,
Mr.
Strenberry
does."

From
YViddershins,
by Oliver Onions, reprinted by permission
of
Martin Seeker & Warburg and A. P. Watt
& Son.

Pnantas

By OLIVER ONIONS

For,
barring all pother, With this, or the other, Still Britons arc Lords of the
Main.

The Chapter of Admirals

AS
ABEL KEELING LAY ON THE GALLEON
'S
DECK, HELD FROM ROLLING

down
it
only
by
his
own
weight
and
the
sun-blackened
hand
that
lay outstretched
upon
the
planks,
his
gaze
wandered,
but
ever
returned
to the
bell
that
hung,
jammed
with
the
dangerous
heel-over
of
the
vessel,
in
the
small
ornamental
belfry
immediately
abaft
the
mainmast. The
bell
was
of
cast
bronze,
with
half-obliterated
bosses
upon
it
that had
been
the
heads
of
cherubs;
but
wind
and
salt
spray
had
given
it
a thick
incrustation
of
bright,
beautiful,
lichenous
green.
It
was
this colour
that
Abel
Keeling's
eyes
liked.

For
wherever
else
on
the
galleon
his
eyes
rested
they
found
only whiteness—the
whiteness
of
extreme
eld.
There
were
slightly
varying degrees
in
her
whiteness;
here
she
was
of
a
white
that
glistened
like salt-granules,
there
of
a
greyish
chalky
white,
and
again
her
whiteness had
the
yellowish
cast
of
decay;
but
everywhere
it
was
the
mild,
disquieting
whiteness
of
materials
out
of
which
the
life
had
departed. Her
cordage
was
bleached
as
old
straw
is
bleached,
and
half
her
ropes kept
their
shape
little
more
firmly
than
the
ash
of
a
string
keeps
its shape
after
the
fire
has
passed;
her
pallid
timbers
were
white
and clean
as
bones
found
in
sand;
and
even
the
wild
frankincense
with which
(for
lack
of
tar,
at
her
last
touching
of
land)
she
had
been pitched
had
dried
to
a
pale
hard
gum
that
sparkled
like
quartz
in
her open
seams.
The
sun
was
yet
so
pale
a
buckler
of
silver
through
the still
white
mists
that
not
a
cord
or
timber
cast
a
shadow;
and
only Abel
Keeling's
face
and
hands
were
black,
carked
and
cinder-black from
exposure
to
his
pitiless
rays.

The
galleon
was
the
Mary
of
the
Tower,
and
she
had
a
frightful
list to
starboard.
So
canted
was
she
that
her
mainyard
dipped
one
of
its steel
sickles
into
the
glassy
water,
and,
had
her
foremast
remained,
or more
than
the
broken
stump
of
her
bonaventure
mizzen,
she
must have
turned
over
completely.
Many
days
ago
they
had
stripped
the mainyard
of
its
course,
and
had
passed
the
sail
under
the
Mary's
bottom,
in
the
hope
that
it
would
stop
the
leak.
This
it
had
partly
done as
long
as
the
galleon
had
continued
to
guide
one
way;
then,
without coming
about,
she
had
begun
to
glide
the
other,
the
ropes
had
parted, and
she
had
dragged
the
sail
after
her,
leaving
a
broad
tarnish
on
the silver
sea.