Ow.
Should pale death with treble dread
make the ocean caves our bed,
God who hear'st the surges roll,
deign to save our suppliant soul.
To four weeks!
No, sir. Thank you.
It's bad luck to leave a toast unfinished, lad.
Oh, meanin'... Meanin' no disrespect.
Man what don't drink, best have his reasons.
Uh... Ain't it...
I... I understood it's against regulations, sir.
Did you?
I did, sir. From, uh... From them's manual.
Didn't picture you a readin' man.
Well, I ain't trying for trouble.
Then you'll do as I say.
That's in yer book too.
To four weeks.
Aye. Aye. The cistern needs a-lookin' to.
One of yer duties, lad.
Or didn't y'read yerself about it?
You'll clean the brass and the clockwork,
and you'll tidy up the quarters after.
And there's well more to be mended outside.
D'y'hear me, lad?
Yes, sir.
Aye, sir!
Aye, sir.
When the fog clears,
you'll work through the dog watch.
Doggin' it? I was 'specting I'd git up to see the lantern.
I tend the light.
Well, the rules is alternatin' shifts.
It's the mid watch that's to dread, lad.
My watch, night to morning.
Some new junior man I'm fixed with.
See to yer duties. The light is mine.
Son of a bitch!
To ye, me beauty.
Shingles.
Tend to 'em after the cistern.
And the lamp, she needs oil.
Aye, sir.
Go!
Move it.
You don't go in there!
- Oil, sir. - Tired? Use this next time.
Save you a helluva lot of trouble.
Catch yer breath, lad.
I said, catch yer breath, lad.
Then bring that drum
back down the ladderwell where y'found it.
'Less ye're fixin' to burn the whole light down.
Then see to the rest of yer duties.
Ye're behindhand already.
- Aye, sir. - Ye're too slow. You a dullard?
No, sir.
Fooled me.
Should pale death with treble dread
make the ocean caves our bed,
God who hear'st the surges roll,
deign to save the suppliant soul.
Still tastes o'the head?
Ah, find some chirk in ye, lad.
Now is the time for gab and chatter.
Y'best be enjoying it.
Come a fortnight and the brace of us'll be wantin'
to be ever silent as the tomb.
I ain't much for talkin'.
Reckon ye're the first?
No, sir. I don't.
Y'ain't.
The Chicopee, a fine-un she were.
Clean-built and trig-lookin'!
None more fleet in '64 than she.
We were on the breaks...
A mutiny, it were...
And why, ask ye? Why?
What's the terrible part of a sailor's life, ask ye, lad?
'Tis when the work stops when ye're twixt wind and water.
Doldrums. Doldrums.
Eviler than the Devil.
Boredom makes men to villains,
and the water goes quick, lad, vanished.
The only med'cine is drink.
Keeps them sailors happy, keeps 'em agreeable,
keeps 'em calm, keeps 'em...
Stupid.
Curse me if there ain't an old tar spirit
somewheres in ye, lad.
Out with it, lad.
Uh...
What, uh... What made your last keeper leave?
Him? Me second?
Mmm-hmm.
Died.
Went mad, he did.
Ravin' about sirens, merfolk, bad omens and the like.
In the end,
weren't no more sense left in him than an hen's tooth.
He believed that there was some enchantment in the light.
He notioned that St. Elmo
had cast his very fire into it.
Salvation, said he.
Tall tales.
I seen ye sparrin' with a gull.
Best leave 'em be.
Bad luck to kill a sea bird.
More tall tales.
Bad luck to kill a sea bird!
Pay me no mind, lad.
None.
Fix us up some coffee.
Long night ahead.
Drop o'coffee will do us good.
You've been neglecting yer duties, lad!
Don't deny it!
What do you call that?
- Sir? - What?
I... I mopped and swept twice over, sir.
Ye lyin' dog.
- I swept 'em. - 'Tis begrimed and bedabbled.
Unwiped, unwashed, and distained.
You git some kinda peart outta molestin' me?
Come now?
I already said...
How dare ye contradict me, y'dog.
Now look here,
I ain't never intended to be no housewife
nor slave in takin' this job.
It ain't right!
These lodgings is more ramshackle
than any shanty boy's camp I ever seen.
The Queen of England's own fancy housekeeper
couldn't even done no better than what I done,
'cause I tell you, I scrubbed
this here place twice over, sir...
And I say y'did nothin' o'the sort.
And I say, y'swab it again,
and y'swab it proper-like this time,
and you'll be swabbin' it 10 times more after that.
And if I tells ye to pull up and apart
every floorboard and clapboard of this here house
and scour 'em down with yer bare,
bleedin' knuckles, you'll do it!
And if I tells ye to yank out every single nail
from every moulderin' nail-hole
and suck off every spec of rust
till all them nails sparkle like a sperm whale's pecker,
and then carpenter the whole light station
back together from scrap,
and then do it all over again, you'll do it!
And by God and by Golly,
you'll do it smilin', lad, 'cause you'll like it.
You'll like it 'cause I says you will!
Contradict me again, and I'll dock yer wages.
D'ye hear me, lad?
Aye, sir.
Ah.
Swab, dog.
Swab!
Keep 'em steady, lad.
Aye, sir.
Whitewash must be even, lad.
Bright! Shinin'!
Like a silver whorehouse token.
Give them sailors a proper daymark.
They're not going to see it in a goddamn storm!
Keep your temper now, lad.
'Tis fine work.
And ye're makin' high marks in me logbook.
Them's gospel!
I'll drop y'down a few feet.
Easy!
Never been in better hands.
Easy!
Quit yer flailing, lad.
- I ain't! - Y'are!
- Keep still! - I am!
Git! Git! Git! Git!
Thank ye, lad.
Winslow.
Ephraim Winslow.
These last two weeks, I'd...
I'd like it if you'd call me by my name.
Listen to ye,
giving orders, lad.
- Winslow. - All right, all right.
Suits me just as fine, Ephraim Winslow.
So, what brung such a one as ye to this damned rock?
Such as what?
Pretty as a picture.
Only joshing, lad, only josh...
- Winslow. - Winslow.
What brung ye...
to this rock, Ephraim Winslow?
What were yer work afore?
- Timber. - Timber?
Big timber. Up north. Canada ways.
- Hudson Bay outfit? - The same.
True what they say?
"Forest as far as the eye can see"?
Yessir. Spruce, tamarack, white pine.
"Bush," them folk up there call it.
Had enough of trees, that it, then?
Yes, sir.
Can't say I blame ye.
I hearn tell about that life.
Hard goin'.
Workin' one man harder than two hosses, they say.
No thankee.
The sea, she's the only situation wantin' fer me.
Miss it?
Ain't nothing what can touch it.
But I can't...
be draggin' me old stump about.
Nay. Not worth the trouble...
Now I'm a wickie and a wickie I is.
And I'm damn-well wedded to this here light,
and she's been a finer, truer, quieter wife
than any alive-blooded woman.
Y'ever married?
Thirteen Christmases at sea...
Little 'uns at home.
She never forgave it.
'Tis fer the better.
Since we're getting too friendly, Ephraim Winslow,
tell me, what's a timber man want with being a wickie?
Not enough quiet for ye up north?
Sawdust itching yer nethers?
Foreman found ye too high-tempered
for carrying an axe?
Like you said, I just had enough of trees, I guess.
Since I left Dad,
I done every kind of work that can pay a man.
Some I ain't near proud of.
- Drifter, eh? - No, just...
Can't find a post I can take a real shine to,
so I keep movin' along.
And I ain't the kind to look back
- at what's behind him, see. - On the run?
Now look here,
ain't nothin' wrong with a man startin' fresh, startin' new,
just lookin' to earn a living...
No...
Just like any man,
just wanna settle down quiet-like with some earnings.
I read someplace that
a man could earn 630...
I read $1,000 a year
if he tends a light far off shore.
The further away, the more he earns.
I read that, and hell, I says, work.
Save my earnings.
Sometime soon I'll raise my own roof,
somewheres up country,
with no one to tell me "what for".
And that's all.
Same old, borin' story, eh?
Well, you asked.
Say, why is it bad luck to kill a gull?
In 'em's the souls of sailors what met their maker.
You a prayin' man, Winslow?
Not as often as I might.
But I'm God-fearin', if that's what you're askin'.
Shit.
Wind's changed.
- Oh. Good riddance. - Oh, don't be so darn foolish.
It's the calm afore the storm, Winslow.
She were a gentle westerly wind ye're cursin'.
Only feels roughly
'cause you don't know nothin' about nothin',
and there ain't no trees on this here rock
like your Hudson Bay bush.
Nor'Easterly wind'll come soon
ablowin' like Gabriel's horn.
Best board up them signal house winders.
Aye, sir.
'Twill keep steady afore the tender
comes in the morn, I 'spect...
but there's dirty weather knockin' about.
Somethin' stirring in ye?
Ye're gettin' off this rock tomorry. Winslow.
Don't start grudgen me now.
No, sir.
Keeping secrets, are ye?
I could just use a hand with them boards, is all.
Pull, Winslow!
Look at 'em!
Better than fin fishin'!
Ain't no crime to take a snort now.
A clear night. And our last afore relief.
I ain't never know'd an inspector
what wouldn't turn a blind eye.
And I won't take no for an answer.
Should pale death and treble dread...
Ah, hell! To... To relief!
And how!
Oh!
and a pretty lass, she were,
takin' off her bonnet,
but as I says, I'd broke me leg,
and banged myself all up.
It was to a nuns' hospital...
All of them nuns were Catholics, I tell ye.
But I never went to Salem since
without hoping that I should see her,
for beddin' down wer'nt the same since.
You feel shame when you lie with a woman?
I ain't 'shamed of nothing!
Well, I'll say it...
I might even miss ye, Ephraim Winslow.
Ye're fastly a true blue wickie
in the making, you is.
Thought one night you was bound to
split me skull in twain,
but ye're a good-un.
Why, you'll be workin' the lamp in no time.
Why haven't I?
What?
The light.
I'm the keeper of this station, lad.
Some other station, y'can tend the light.
The manual says...
My log is the only book on this rock...
I'm the keeper of the light, lad,
I never let no man touch her...
Don't concern yerself with the beacon, lad!
Mine!
Have it your way.
Say, I never...
I don't... I don't know your name.
Wake.
Your Christian name.
Thomas.
- Thomas? - Aye, Thomas Wake.
Call me Tom.
Well...
To my friend Tom.
And to gittin' off this goddamned rock!
What'r y'splittin' yer lungs fer?
You smell o' shit.
Best swab this mess afore the tender comes.
Do as ye're told, lad! The quarters are dire.
Aye... Aye, sir.
Aye.
They didn't come.
The damp's got to the provisions!
What?
The damp's got to the provisions!
The damp's got to the foodstuffs.
The salt cod is out.
- Out? - Blasted.
Gone to rot.
- Praised be. - Will you hear me now?
- Hear what? - That we best be rationing.
- Rationing? - You insubordinate again?
It's only been one day.
Devil's tail.
Look, maybe the tender did come.
We just missed her, is all.
I can take the dory out.
Weeks, Winslow. Weeks.
What?
What do you mean, what?
- Weeks? - Weeks. Aye, weeks.
We slept in. Dead drunk.
It's been weeks ago since we missed her, Winslow.
And I've been askin' ye to ration fer weeks now, too,
but you've kept barking at me like a mad dog
sayin' you can "take the dory out."
- Now, look here. - Oh, no.
Don't be losing yer head now.
- This ain't funny. - No, it ain't.
And I ain't want to be stranded here
with some damn lunatic.
Stranded?
That's what I said.
Why, I thought... I thought you said relief was coming.
If we can wait out the storm.
The tender is coming!
In '75,
Ol' Striker were marooned here for seven long months, he was.
The storm died on the mainland,
but here, the waters were too rageful
neither to launch nor land.
You're just tryin' to scare me.
Look at ye. Pretendin'.
But ye well know yer lot.
Dig!
Dig, says I!
Dig!
There she lies.
Rations.
The worst of us couldn't fend 'gainst the ship rats
what gnawed on the soles of our feet.
Their legs withered and turned gangree'nous,
every shade of the peacock's tail.
Their gums grew swollen,
the color of bone, then to rot.
Tarry blood oozed,
teeth droppin' to the deck with none to hold on to.
"Land ho!" hears I,
but only grass on that island.
So we et upon the grass.
'And 'twas that scurvy
what left me locked ever since.
I thought you said you'd broke it.
Aye?
Your leg.
Catholic nuns and such like.
You must've misheard.
- I told that dumb bastard... - Yep.
Them eaves be gonners.
"Give me your cant hook," I says to him.
But... Foreman Winslow,
that goddamned Canady bastard...
- Winslow? - ... always callin' me a dog.
A filthy dog.
- I'll show you who's a dog. - Winslow.
- What about... - Who, Winslow?
The eaves be fallin'...
- He's always raggin' on me... - Ragging?
Like you.
Damn fool nonsense.
That's the trouble with ye, Winslow.
Trouble with you is eatin' grass without no teeth.
Come now?
Your sea matey's teeth had falled out.
What are ye gettin' at, Winslow?
Well, it just seems powerful hard
to eat grass with no teeth.
'Cause goats and sheeps and cows...
Well, now, they all got teeth, don't they?
Y'know how y'eat grass without yer teeth?
Oblige me.
Ye rip it out and ye swallow it.
You rip it out and you swallow it.
- Ye rip it out... - I don't know 'bout that.
Y'don't?
I don't.
What?
- What? - What?
What?
- That's what I mean! - What?
- That's the trouble with you. - That's the trouble with ye!
- With you! - With ye!
No!
I want a steak!
I want a goddamned steak!
I...
If I had a steak... Oh, boy!
A... A rare, a bloody steak.
If I... If I had a steak,
I would fuck it.
You don't like me cookin'?
Ugh, don't be such an old bitch!
You're drunk!
Ye don't know what ye're talkin'...
How could I possibly like
the horse shit you fix us for supper?
Ye're drunk, or ye wouldn't be saying that!
Them tin kitchen shanty cooks
gave us fried donuts three times a day
and country ham bigger than your fist...
Ye're drunk! Ye're drunk! Ye're drunk!
- I'm drunk? - You heard me!
- You've been drunk since... - Damn ye!
Drunk since I first laid eyes on you.
Ye're fond of me lobster, ain't ye?
You're drunker than a Virginy fence.
I seen it. Ye're fond of me lobster.
Say it.
Say it!
I don't have to say nothin'.
Damn ye!
Let Neptune strike ye dead, Winslow!
Hark!
Hark, Triton, Hark!
Bellow, bid our father, the sea king,
rise from the depths, full foul in his fury,
black waves teeming with salt-foam,
to smother this young mouth with pungent slime,
to choke ye, engorging yer organs
till ye turn blue and bloated
with bilge and brine and can scream no more.
Only when he, crowned in cockle shells
with slithering tentacled tail and steaming beard,
take up his fell, be-finned arm,
his coral-tined trident screeches
banshee-like in the tempest
and plunges right through yer gullet,
bursting ye,
a bulging bladder no more,
but a blasted bloody film now,
a nothing for the Harpies and the souls of dead sailors
to peck and claw and feed upon,
only to be lapped up and swallowed
by the infinite waters
of the dread emperor himself,
forgotten to any man,
to any time,
forgotten to any God or devil, forgotten even to the sea,
for any stuff or part of Winslow,
even any scantling of your soul,
is Winslow no more,
but is now itself the sea.
All right. Have it your way.
I like your cooking.
Bitch.
Queer way to wear yer shoes.
Just didn't wanna wake you, is all.
It's a long night.
And such.
Hmm. The sun is over the yardarm.
Best find me some winks
afore the day draws farther on.
Get back to yer duties
or I'll give you a real keelhauling.
You ain't even human no more.
Workin' apart from folks so long.
You're only tolerable when you're drunk.
Get to work, says I!
To work!
Dance!
Dance, Winslow! Dance!
Aye.
Get off me! Get off me!
- Thomas. - Aye.
- It's Thomas. - Aye.
No, I... I'm Thomas.
I'm Thomas. You're Ephraim.
I lied.
Well, I'll be scuppered.
I'm Thomas. Tommy.
Tommy? Tommy Winslow.
No. Tom Howard.
What's Winslow?
- It's nothing. - Nothing?
Can I trust you?
Don't be spilling any of yer beans to me.
I ain't interested.
No. It wasn't that way, is all...
I see what you're fixin' to do.
Git me all liquored up...
Ye're guilty conscience is ever as tiresome-borin'
as any a guilty conscience.
Worse. Worse.
It was... It was a drive, see...
It was... It was a log drive, and he's raggin' on me.
No... I see what you're doing.
Nothing.
Look, Tom...
Don't be working to twist words out of my head.
I ain't.
Um, I can't... I can't do it.
Shut up yer own rag box.
I trust... I trust... I trust you.
No.
I... I trust you, Tom.
You trust me?
No, I don't trust you at all.
And I had 'im handy and helpless.
Alone.
Too far downstream.
And I... I wanted to do 'im in.
I admit I did.
Seein' the back of his head.
One swipe of the cant hook'd be all.
Uh... It was...
I... I didn't...
I didn't... I did not.
The day was long as hell on that drive.
I was lead-tired. I admit it.
But I saw him slippin', not me.
We saw the jam comin'.
I stood and he slipped.
He shouted up. And I... I just stood there.
"Tom, you dog!"
I just stood there, is all. Just...
Just stood and watched 'im git swallowed by them logs.
And all I could think when he was done was,
"I... I could use me a smoke."
That's it.
So, I packed up his kit and fixins,
as if they was my own and...
Ephraim Winslow, well, now, he got a spiffy clean slate.
And Thomas Howard,
well, he don't.
No prospects.
How else am I gonna find respectable work?
Tom!
Why'd y'spill yer beans, Tommy?
Why'd y'spill yer beans?
Don't leave me!
You crazy son-of-a-bitch!
You smashed up the life boat!
Ye're abandoning yer post!
What're you gonna do?
Send for the lighthouse establishment?
Certain, says I!
I'll report ye, I'll bring the inspector up...
I'll report you! I know what you done!
Who's reportin' who? Ephraim Winslow?
Or Thomas Howard?
I know what you done.
You killed your second.
Your one-eyed junior man.
I found him.
In the lobster pot.
Said he went mad?
You made him mad with that charm!
That scrimshaw trinket.
But I broke it, see.
See?
Now I'm free.
I'm free from your designs!
And I got it all figured out,
'cept what's the secret mischief your keepin'...
Up there!
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Tommy.
Last night you made a confession
'twould make a saint swear.
I don't have nothin' to confess,
but you, spillin' yer beans,
look what it's done to ye.
It's made ye mad!
And I knew ye was mad
when y'smashed up that life boat just now,
a-chasing me with an axe, tryin' to kill Ol' Tom.
Don't ye trust me, Tommy?
Better hand me the dinner knife ye pocketed.
Y'aint safe with it.
That's a good lad.
Them's government property.
Deducted from yer pay.
Look at yer shiverin'.
Ye're so mad, y'know not up from down.
How long have we been on this rock?
Five weeks?
Two days?
Where are we?
Help me to recollect, who are you again, Tommy?
I'm probably a figment of your imagination.
This rock is a figment of yer imagination, too.
Ye're probably wand'rin' through a grove of tag alders,
up north in Canady,
like a frostbitten maniac talkin' to yerself,
knee-deep in snow.
I could use me a smoke.
We're outta drink.
Ooh!
Monkey pump!
This place is a sty.
Mornin' to you too.
I wish I could go for a walk.
Be my guest.
You'll get drowned.
Fiery pit!
Ain't there no justice left in this world?
Thankee.
What's wrong with yer hand?
The other one.
Ye hear o' tetanus?
- Tet-a-nus? - Yeah.
It started as a sliver of a cut, is all...
I said I heard of it.
from the forestaysail when we shoved off...
- Don't you ever shut up? - ... but come a fortnight,
- the bosun was a-shakin'. - Stop.
His jaw locked tighter than an anchor...
Shut your gum, goddamn it! I can't hear no more!
What were it ye accused me of?
Y'already told me y'had me figgerd.
I'm tired of your damned-fool yarns
and your Cap'n Ahab horseshit.
You sound like a goddamned parody.
Givin' and nagging orders like a spinster schoolmarm,
and all the while turning this station
- to the Devil's own rum hole. - Ye're makin' a fool of yerself.
Well, it's all horseshit,
your leg, and your sea life,
all of it!
And if I hear one more word of horseshit
coming out of your foul, rotten tooth,
- smelly old mouth... - Ye...
Shut up your gum, goddamn it!
I ain't finished yet!
You think you're so goddamned high and mighty
just 'cause you're a goddamned lighthouse keeper?
Well, you ain't a captain of no ship and you never was!
You ain't no general, you ain't no copper,
you ain't the president, and you ain't my father!
And I'm sick of you actin' like you is!
I'm sick of your laughing, your snoring,
and your goddamned farts.
Your goddamned...
Goddamn your farts!
You smell like piss,
you smell like jism,
like rotten dick, like curdled foreskin,
like hot onions fucked a farmyard shit-house.
And I'm sick of your smell. I'm sick of it!
I'm sick of it, you goddamned drunk.
You goddamned, no-account, son-of-a-bitch-bastard liar!
That's what you are!
You're a goddamned, drunken, horse-shitting,
short, shit liar.
A liar!
Ye have a way with words, Tommy.
Damn you!
Ye're relieved of yer duties.
No need to tell me, old timer.
"Assistant slept late."
"Work below standard."
"Attitude hostile."
"Assistant missing."
"Given to habitual self-abuse in the supply shed."
"Drunk on duty!"
"Assault!"
"Theft!"
"Recommend severance without pay."
Severance without pay?
You trying to ruin me?
I'm a hard worker.
I am. I work as hard as any man.
- Ye lie, Thomas. - Stop it!
Ye lie to yerself, but y'ain't have the sauce to see it.
Please...
Just let me into the light, old man.
I've learned so much from you.
Just let me show you. Another chance.
Forgive and forget, I says.
Just let me into that lantern, is all.
Don't make me beg...
Or I'll beg.
I'll beg if that's what you want. I'll beg.
Please!
Please! Please! Please!
Stand down.
You selfish bastard!
Keepin' it all to yourself.
You left your old lady,
your children, for what? For what?
Look at ye, handsome lad, with eyes bright as a lady.
Come to this rock playin' the tough.
Ye make me laugh with yer false grum.
Ye pretended to some mystery in yer quietudes,
but there ain't no mystery.
Ye're an open book.
A picture, says I.
A painted actress screaming in the footlights,
a bitch what wants to be coveted
for nothin' but being born,
cryin' bout the silver spoon what should've been yers.
Now look at ye cryin'.
Boo! Boo!
What you gonna do?
Will ye kill me?
Will ye?
Will y'kill me like y'done that gull?
- I didn't... - Liar!
Y'murdering dog!
Twas ye what changed the wind on us.
Twas ye what damned us, dog. Twas ye!
Will y'do what y'wish y'done to Ol' Winslow?
Will ye best me then? For Winslow were right!
Thomas, ye're a dog!
A filthy dog! A dog!
Ye're killing me!
Bark.
Bark, boy.
Bark, laddy.
Bark.
Woof.
Ain't ye never been to sea before?
Bark, I says. Bark!
Ruff! Ruff! Ruff!
Bark, laddy!
Ruff! Ruff! Ruff!
- Now, there's a good boy. - Ruff!
There's a good dog.
Ruff! Ruff! Ruff!
Ruff!
Now roll over.
Come on.
Git!
Get up here.
Good boy. Good boy.
Now you git in there, where you belong.
You do as I say, dog.
There's my good lad.
Ye wish to see what's in the lantern?
So did me last assistant.
Shut up, old dog!
Polish your brasswork.
O what Protean forms swim up from men's minds,
and melt in hot Promethean plunder,
scorching eyes,
with divine shames and horror...
And casting them down to Davy Jones.
The others, still blind,
yet in it see
all the divine graces
and to Fiddler's Green sent,
where no man is suffered to want or toil,
but is...
Ancient...
Mutable and unchanging
as the she who girdles 'round the globe.
Them's truth.
You'll be punished.
The light belongs to me!
Should pale death with treble dread
make the ocean caves our bed,
God who hear'st the surges roll,
deign to save the suppliant soul.