winking wid stars. Or the full of the moon maybe. Then you'd see
her driving through the gray night, her sails stretching aloft all
silver and white, not a sound on the deck, the lot of us dreaming
dreams, till you'd believe'twas no real ship at all you was on but
a ghost ship like the Flying Dutchman they say does be roaming the
seas forevermore widout touching a port. And there was the days,
too. A warm sun on the clean decks. Sun warming the blood of you,
and wind over the miles of shiny green ocean like strong drink to
your lungs. Work--aye, hard work--but who'd mind that at all?
Sure, you worked under the sky and 'twas work wid skill and daring
to it. And wid the day done, in the dog watch, smoking me pipe at
ease, the lookout would be raising land maybe, and we'd see the
mountains of South Americy wid the red fire of the setting sun
painting their white tops and the clouds floating by them! [His
tone of exaltation ceases. He goes on mournfully.] Yerra, what's
the use of talking? 'Tis a dead man's whisper. [To Yank
resentfully.] 'Twas them days men belonged to ships, not now.
'Twas them days a ship was part of the sea, and a man was part of
a ship, and the sea joined all together and made it one.
[Scornfully.] Is it one wid this you'd be, Yank--black smoke from
the funnels smudging the sea, smudging the decks--the bloody
engines pounding and throbbing and shaking--wid divil a sight of
sun or a breath of clean air--choking our lungs wid coal dust--
breaking our backs and hearts in the hell of the stokehole--
feeding the bloody furnace--feeding our lives along wid the coal,
I'm thinking--caged in by steel from a sight of the sky like
bloody apes in the Zoo! [With a harsh laugh.] Ho-ho, divil mend
you! Is it to belong to that you're wishing? Is it a flesh and
blood wheel of the engines you'd be?