The British freighter Narcissus sits in Bombay harbor on a hot, sticky tropical night in the 1890’s. Already loaded, it is to sail the next morning on its homeward voyage. The last crew member to come aboard is a huge black man, James Wait. Wait has a severe cough and asks his shipmates to help him in stowing his gear. A little later, the men are in their bunks, and the only sound is snoring, interrupted at times by Wait’s fits of coughing.

At daylight, the Narcissus sails. That evening, as the sailors gather in little groups about the deck, the laughter and yarn spinning ceases at the sound of a weak rattle in Wait’s bunk. It ends with a moan. Wait climbs up on deck, looks about, and makes the men miserable by berating them for making so much noise that he, a dying man, could have no rest. It seems, after a few days, that Wait looks upon his approaching death as a friend. He parades his trouble to everyone, railing bitterly at the salt meat, biscuits, and tea at mealtime.

All the men in the forecastle are touched by the dying man and his fits of coughing. There is nothing that they would not do for him, even stealing pie for him from the officers’ mess. Even Donkin, a Cockney who thought that no one was ever right but him, catered to Wait. Wait did no work after they were a week at sea. The first mate finally orders him below to his bunk, and the captain upholds the mate’s order. Each morning, the men carry Wait up on deck. Finally, he is put in one of the deckhouse berths. He never lets anyone doubt that his death is imminent. He fascinates the officers and taints the lives of the superstitious sailors, even those who grumble that his illness is a fraud.

As the Narcissus approaches the Cape of Good Hope, heavier sails are set, the hatches are checked, and everything loose on deck is securely lashed in place in preparation for the winds that are sure to come. On the thirty-second day out of Bombay, the ship begins to put its nose into the heavy waves, instead of riding over. Gear blows loose, and the men are tossed about the deck. At sunset, all sails are shortened in preparation for a terrific gale. That entire night, nothing seems left in the universe except darkness and the fury of the storm. In the gray morning, half the crew goes below to rest. The remainder of them and the officers of the ship stay on deck. Suddenly, a great wall of water looms out of the mist. The ship rises with it, as a gust of wind lays the vessel on its side. The watch below decks rushes out of the forecastle and crawls aft on hands and knees to join their comrades already on deck. The ship lays on its side for hours, while the men huddle against the various projections on the deck to which they had lashed themselves. At last, someone asks about Wait. Another man shouts that he was trapped in the deckhouse, now half under water, and had drowned, because the heavy wave had jammed the door.

With five volunteers, the boatswain inches forward along the deck to see if Wait might still be alive. Once above the side of the deckhouse, they let go and slide down to it as the backwash of the heavy seas foams around them. They crawl into the carpenter’s shop next to the deckhouse cabin. One of the sailors drums on the bulkhead with a piece of iron. When he stops, they hear someone banging on the opposite side. Wait is still alive. He screams for help. Someone on deck finds a crowbar and passes it below. The men in the tiny carpenter’s shop batter at the planks until there is a hole in the bulkhead. Wait’s head appears in the hole and interrupts the work. Finally, on threat of being brained with the crowbar, he gets out of the way. In another minute or two, the men make a hole large enough to pull him out. With great difficulty, they carry him aft and lash him tight. When he recovers his breath and begins to lose his fear, he berates his rescuers for not being more prompt. The men both hate and pity him.

The day passes into night. The ship still is afloat but with half its deck under water. An icy wind from the Antarctic begins to numb the men who had lain in the open for twenty-four hours without food. At dawn, the captain prepares to bring some order to the ship, for the wind is subsiding. Slowly, the ship begins to turn and gather way, with the decks still half under. At every lurch, the crew expects the ship to slide out from under them and sink to the bottom of the sea; but when the wind is directly aft, the ship rises and is no longer at the mercy of wind and pounding seas.

The sailors are put to work, tired though they are, to make sail, to pump out the bilges, and to make the vessel shipshape once again. Down below, they find the forecastle a ruin. Most of their gear had floated away.

A fair wind pushes the ship northward up the Atlantic under a blue sky and a dancing sea. Wait is again established in the deckhouse. Once more, the doubt that he is really dying pervades the ship, although no one dares say so. The captain interviews him to be sure. The crew is in an ugly mood. The captain is certain the man is dying and refuses to let him go back to work; the crew, however, is convinced that Wait is well enough to share in their labors, and they threaten mutiny. Sure that Wait would die, the captain wants to let him die in peace. He persuades the men that Wait is dying, and their mutterings end.

As the ship sails northward, Wait seems to fade. His cheeks fall in, and his skull loses its flesh; his appearance hypnotizes the crew. Once again pitying him in his dying, they humor his whims. He is always in their talk and their thoughts. The ship seems too small to everyone; they cannot escape death.

As the ship approaches the Flores islands, Wait seems better. The older sailors, however, shake their heads; it is common superstition that dying men on shipboard wait until they are in sight of land to breathe their last. Wait dies as the Flores islands come over the horizon, and he is buried at sea. As the board on which his body lay is lifted to let the corpse slide into the sea, something catches. The men lifting the board hold their breath. Everyone seems in a trance until the corpse slides slowly downward and then plunges over the rail. The ship suddenly seems lighter, as though relieved of the burden of Death itself.