Nothing but the smash of the drunken
skipper's ship on the rocks, the splintering of her rotten
timbers, the tearing of her rusty plates, the drowning of the
crew like rats in a trap.
ELLIE. Moral: don't take rum.
CAPTAIN SHOTOVER [vehemently]. That is a lie, child. Let a man
drink ten barrels of rum a day, he is not a drunken skipper until
he is a drifting skipper. Whilst he can lay his course and stand
on his bridge and steer it, he is no drunkard. It is the man who
lies drinking in his bunk and trusts to Providence that I call
the drunken skipper, though he drank nothing but the waters of
the River Jordan.
ELLIE. Splendid! And you haven't had a drop for an hour. You see
you don't need it: your own spirit is not dead.
CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Echoes: nothing but echoes. The last shot was
fired years ago.
HECTOR. And this ship that we are all in? This soul's prison we
call England?
CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The captain is in his bunk, drinking bottled
ditch-water; and the crew is gambling in the forecastle. She will
strike and sink and split. Do you think the laws of God will be
suspended in favor of England because you were born in it?
HECTOR. Well, I don't mean to be drowned like a rat in a trap. I
still have the will to live. What am I to do?
CAPTAIN SHOTOVER.
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