Now this was not Roscoe's fault; he could not help it.He had merely gone the way of all the men who learned navigation before him.By an understandable and forgivable confusion of values, plus a loss of orientation, he felt weighted by responsibility, and experienced the possession of power that was like unto that of a god.All his life Roscoe had lived on land, and therefore in sight of land.Being constantly in sight of land, with landmarks to guide him, he had managed, with occasional difficulties, to steer his body around and about the earth.Now he found himself on the sea, wide-stretching, bounded only by the eternal circle of the sky.This circle looked always the same.There were no landmarks.The sun rose to the east and set to the west and the stars wheeled through the night.But who may look at the sun or the stars and say, "My place on the face of the earth at the present moment is four and three-quarter miles to the west of Jones's Cash Store of Smithersville"? or "I know where I am now, for the Little Dipper informs me that Boston is three miles away on the second turning to the right"? And yet that was precisely what Roscoe did.That he was astounded by the achievement, is putting it mildly.He stood in reverential awe of himself; he had performed a miraculous feat.The act of finding himself on the face of the waters became a rite, and he felt himself a superior being to the rest of us who knew not this rite and were dependent on him for being shepherded across the heaving and limitless waste, the briny highroad that connects the continents and whereon there are no mile-stones.So, with the sextant he made obeisance to the sun-god, he consulted ancient tomes and tables of magic characters, muttered prayers in a strange tongue that sounded like INDEXERRORPARALLAXREFRACTION, made cabalistic signs on paper, added and carried one, and then, on a piece of holy script called the Grail--I mean the Chart--he placed his finger on a certain space conspicuous for its blankness and said, "Here we are."When we looked at the blank space and asked, "And where is that?" he answered in the cipher-code of the higher priesthood, "31-15-47north, 133-5-30 west." And we said "Oh," and felt mighty small.
So I aver, it was not Roscoe's fault.He was like unto a god, and he carried us in the hollow of his hand across the blank spaces on the chart.I experienced a great respect for Roscoe; this respect grew so profound that had he commanded, "Kneel down and worship me,"I know that I should have flopped down on the deck and yammered.
But, one day, there came a still small thought to me that said:
"This is not a god; this is Roscoe, a mere man like myself.What he has done, I can do.Who taught him? Himself.Go you and do likewise--be your own teacher." And right there Roscoe crashed, and he was high priest of the Snark no longer.I invaded the sanctuary and demanded the ancient tomes and magic tables, also the prayer-wheel--the sextant, I mean.
And now, in simple language.I shall describe how I taught myself navigation.One whole afternoon I sat in the cockpit, steering with one hand and studying logarithms with the other.Two afternoons, two hours each, I studied the general theory of navigation and the particular process of taking a meridian altitude.Then I took the sextant, worked out the index error, and shot the sun.The figuring from the data of this observation was child's play.In the "Epitome" and the "Nautical Almanac" were scores of cunning tables, all worked out by mathematicians and astronomers.It was like using interest tables and lightning-calculator tables such as you all know.The mystery was mystery no longer.I put my finger on the chart and announced that that was where we were.I was right too, or at least I was as right as Roscoe, who selected a spot a quarter of a mile away from mine.Even he was willing to split the distance with me.I had exploded the mystery, and yet, such was the miracle of it, I was conscious of new power in me, and I felt the thrill and tickle of pride.And when Martin asked me, in the same humble and respectful way I had previously asked Roscoe, as to where we were, it was with exaltation and spiritual chest-throwing that I answered in the cipher-code of the higher priesthood and heard Martin's self-abasing and worshipful "Oh." As for Charmian, I felt that in a new way I had proved my right to her; and I was aware of another feeling, namely, that she was a most fortunate woman to have a man like me.
I couldn't help it.I tell it as a vindication of Roscoe and all the other navigators.The poison of power was working in me.I was not as other men--most other men; I knew what they did not know,--the mystery of the heavens, that pointed out the way across the deep.And the taste of power I had received drove me on.I steered at the wheel long hours with one hand, and studied mystery with the other.By the end of the week, teaching myself, I was able to do divers things.For instance, I shot the North Star, at night, of course; got its altitude, corrected for index error, dip, etc., and found our latitude.And this latitude agreed with the latitude of the previous noon corrected by dead reckoning up to that moment.
Proud? Well, I was even prouder with my next miracle.I was going to turn in at nine o'clock.I worked out the problem, self-instructed, and learned what star of the first magnitude would be passing the meridian around half-past eight.This star proved to be Alpha Crucis.I had never heard of the star before.I looked it up on the star map.It was one of the stars of the Southern Cross.
