Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (305 page)

sang
Bligh,
rapt.
.
.
.

But
as
a
dreamer,
even
in
his
dreams,
will
scratch
upon
the
wall
by his
couch
some
key
or
word
to
put
him
in
mind
of
his
vision
on
the morrow
when
it
has
left
him,
so
Abel
Keeling
found
himself
seeking some
sign
to
be
a
proof
to
those
to
whom
no
vision
is
vouchsafed. Even
Bligh
sought
that—could
not
be
silent
in
his
bliss,
but
lay
on the
deck
there,
uttering
great
passionate
Amens
and
praising
his Maker,
as
he
said,
upon
an
harp
and
an
instrument
of
ten
strings.
So with
Abel
Keeling.
It
would
be
the
Amen
of
his
life
to
have
praised God,
not
upon
a
harp,
but
upon
a
ship
that
should
carry
her
own power,
that
should
store
wind
or
its
equivalent
as
she
stored
her
victuals,
that
should
be
something
wrested
from
the
chaos
of
uninven-tion
and
ordered
and
disciplined
and
subordinated
to
Abel
Keeling's will.
.
.
.
And
there
she
was,
that
ship-shaped
thing
of
spirit-grey, with
the
four
pipes
that
resembled
a
phantom
organ
now
broadside and
of
equal
length.
And
the
ghost-crew
of
that
ship
were
speaking again.
.
.
.

The
interrupted
silver
chain
by
the
quarter-deck
balustrade
had
now become
continuous,
and
the
balusters
made
a
herring-bone
over
their own
motionless
reflections.
The
spilt
water
from
the
pipkin
had
dried, and
the
pipkin
was
not
to
be
seen.
Abel
Keeling
stood
beside
the mast,
erect
as
God
made
man
to
go.
With
his
leathery
hand
he
smote upon
the
bell.
He
waited
for
the
space
of
a
minute,
and
then
cried:

"Ahoy!
.
.
.
Ship
ahoy!
.
.
.
What
ship's
that?"

3

We
are
not
conscious
in
a
dream
that
we
are
playing
a
game
the beginning
and
end
of
which
are
in
ourselves.
In
this
dream
of
Abel Keeling's
a
voice
replied:

"Hallo,
it's
found
its
tongue.
.
.
.
Ahoy
there.'
What
are
you?"

Loudly
and
in
a
clear
voice
Abel
Keeling
called:
"Are
you
a
ship?"

With
a
nervous
giggle
the
answer
came:

"We
are
a
ship,
aren't
we,
Ward?
I
hardly
feel
sure.
.
.
.
Yes,
of course,
we're
a
ship.
No question
about
us.
The
question
is
what
the dickens
you
are."

Not
all
the
words
these
voices
used
were
intelligible
to
Abel

Keeling,
and
he
knew
not
what
it
was
in
the
tone
of
these
last
words that
reminded
him
of
the
honour
due
to
the
Mary
of
the
Tower. Blister-white
and
at
the
end
of
her
life
as
she
was,
Abel
Keeling was
still
jealous
of
her
dignity;
the
voice
had
a
youngish
ring;
and it
was
not
fitting
that
young
chins
should
be
wagged
about
his galleon.
He
spoke
curtly.