In Hazard by Richard Hughes Page A

going down No. 6. “Come on,” he yelled again: and all three made a dash for the poop. They crowded into the place where the steering-engine is housed.
    It was lucky they did; for immediately the wind again began to blow with its greatest violence, and the open well-deck was impassable.
    It is all very well while obeying orders with your whole strength; but sitting idle is different. Both boys, now they had leisure to notice, grew afraid, and thought the end was coming soon. The cold water in their clothes began slowly to explore their warm skins. No ship could stand it. Both inwardly began to say their prayers—each hoping the other would not guess. “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want,” said Bennett in the recesses of his head: “He shall feed me in green pastures, and lead me forth by the waters of comfort. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the Shadow of Death, I shall fear no evil: Thy rod and Thy staff shall comfort me.” He did not know any more; so he began again, “The Lord is my Shepherd....” It was childhood magic, used to fortify himself against the wild beasts of the dark, if he was sent upstairs alone. He had not used it since then.
    But it was hard to keep his mind always on it now: and in between he would feel an agonising cold griping, in his stomach; a physical pang of regret. What a fool he had been to come to sea, when after all there was so much for him to do, in a long life, on the warm safe shore! All the infinite long years of childhood at last behind him; all to be wasted, no manhood to come after all.
    Phillips, in a curious way, did not mind so much. He said the Lord’s Prayer once, and left it at that. His mind divided into two halves. One half was actually glad. For young Phillips, for the first time, loved a girl with his whole soul; and she over-looked him. If he were drowned at sea, she would be told: his death would sadden her a little, even if his life was indifferent to her. There was no true living for him, he felt, except in her thoughts: then his death alone could secure him life, even life for the few minutes she would give to thinking of him. Like many young lovers, he confused a girl with God: and he could almost imagine her now, watching him, out of the sky; watching him die, and pitying him.
    And yet there was another half of his mind, which was unshakenly confident. It was a part of his mind that did not argue, did not even put things in words; it knew things to be true; but it knew itself also to be under a taboo, that if it spoke those things, they would cease to be true. That part of his mind knew, now, that he was not going to die. It knew he was unique: mankind was divided into him on the one hand, and everyone else on the other. Death was for other people: he would not die, he would not ever die. God had made him different in this point—that he was not mortal, and was meant for a superhuman purpose.
    Yet this confidence, because of the taboo, must never be put into words, even in his own head. He must let that other part of his mind run on, with its pathetic pictures of his tragic end, unchecked—as indeed it continued to do.
    To this extent he was right, that he did not die that afternoon. None of them did. Instead they crouched there, unable to get out, in the faint stink of oil, for over two hours: till half past six.
VI
    When Mr. Buxton and the boys made their dash for number 6 hatch, Mr. Rabb had wisely hung back: because he knew, even if he accompanied them, he would not have been much help, because he was too much afraid.
    Fear often has the effect of making one over-exert oneself. If you are sent up aloft for the first time, and it frightens you, you will find yourself clinging on with every once of strength in your body, enough strength to hold up three men instead of one: this soon tires you, and leaves you no strength whatever to do what you were sent to do. If Mr. Rabb, afraid like that, had joined