Ultramarine

. . . Had he arrived anywhere, having been blown through this six weeks’ engulfing darkness of interminable ritual spelt out by bells and jobs, a six weeks’ whirlwind of suffering? I am on a ship, I am on a ship, and I am going to Japan, Hilliot repeated over and over again. Why? Perhaps the answers were too copious and melancholy anyway, and even if he had once evolved reasons, probably by now they had long ceased to be true.
Two bells sharply interrupted his thoughts. Five o’clock. He had been knocked off an hour. In another hour they would be alongside. Then he would turn to with the lamptrimmer and the port watch on the poop when the Oedipus Tyrannus would be made fast fore and aft. After that he was free.
Below him on the well deck some able seamen were under the bosun, working at the derricks. He watched them thoughtfully. At Tsjang-Tsjang, he supposed, the same interminable performance would be gone through as before; the usual stream of hawkers would surge on to the ship; the stevedores would clamber up the side from the lighters, or swing in on the derricks; the winchmen would soon be seated on their straw mats, and a shore serang, having been given a cigar by the first mate, would be watching an opportunity to steal his watch—