[In the following essay, Autrey contends that the death of Billie in “The Open Boat” demonstrates the futility of man's struggle for independence and freedom.]

Although presented as an anticlimax and beautifully understated, the death of the oiler holds the key to Stephen Crane's study of mankind in “The Open Boat.” As the most significant single occurrence in a work composed primarily of inner action, Billie's drowning gives meaning to the final periodic comment:

When it came night, the white waves paced to and fro in the moonlight, and the wind brought the sound of the great sea's voice to the men on shore, and they felt that they could then be interpreters.¹

His death offers the final lesson for these “interpreters.” Paradoxically incorporating the pathos of the human situation as well as the nobility of the individual effort, this lesson teaches the futility of life itself. Similar to the four men desperately seeking the shore which represents much that they repudiate, the lines of intellectual inquiry gravitate to the pronouncement on the frustrating alternatives of either struggle without meaning or knowledge without action.

In the study, Crane presents a microcosm of society and of the life-journey of man. The occupants of the dinghy, who remain unidentified by either origin or destination, represent a cross section of society, and their respective positions are clearly demonstrated through their actions, comments, and musings. Their journey in the open boat is the basic life-movement or life-struggle; Crane draws this parallel by noting that “A singular disadvantage of the sea lies in the fact that after successfully surmounting one wave you discover that there is another behind it just as important and just as nervously anxious to do something effective in the way of swamping boats” (p. 69). This struggle may represent the movement of man toward religion or belief, as symbolized by the church on shore; or toward society, as symbolized by the very occupants of the boat; or toward one of various objectives of life. In any circumstance, it is a desperate search for meaning, hope, and destiny with direction and control minimal, if not nonexistent. Inherent in the total microcosm is the mystery of life itself, expressed in Crane's conclusion that “The manner of her [the boat's] scramble over these walls of water is a mystic thing” (p. 69).

Populating this world at sea are the captain, the correspondent, the cook, and the oiler. From the outset, the captain is symbolic of the loss of control on both a personal and public level and is incapable of providing more than perfunctory leadership:

The injured captain, lying in the bow, was at this time buried in that profound dejection and indifference which comes, temporarily at least, to even the bravest and most enduring when, willy nilly, the firm fails, the army loses, the ship goes down.

(p. 68)

It would seem that the captain has already “seen the elephant” and, as a result, represents experience and sad acceptance. Because he is experienced, he knows the compromises needed to live, as well as the whims of fate for which man must allow.

However, it is not from the captain's viewpoint that the story is told, but basically from the correspondent's. He is the first to develop the “interpretive” power; or, at least, he is the first to evidence such. It is he who, long before the boat is swamped and the final lesson is taught amid the swirls of the unconscious in the savage surf, becomes knowledgeable of man's plight. As a person and as an embodiment of universal sympathy, the correspondent comes to feel sorrow for the dying Legionaire in Algiers.

In contrast to both the captain and the correspondent, as well as the nondescript cook, the oiler is given a proper name, Billie, and is seen as an individual committing independent actions. As a result, he differs from his comrades at sea in various ways. For example, he is more realistic and less concerned with “appearances”; therefore, he shuns much of the pretense, false hope, and rationalization of the others. He is also endowed with greater personal strength than they and should probably be seen as an outstanding specimen of physical man. In accord with his personal strength, he contributes more to the journey than do the others—at the oars and also at “watch.” Not only does he supply the momentum, but he provides direction and control; when the boat is under sail by use of the overcoat, it is the oiler who steers, an assignment which is definitely in keeping with his character and destiny. It is also Billie who rows the final distance into the teeth of the paradoxically savage but indifferent surf, into the incessant rollers. At this time, his individuality is most clearly accentuated, his great physical strength is displayed, and his rebellion is greatest. He knows no subjection of self. In further contrast to the others, the oiler is a naturally good, industrious, and cooperative man, but these qualities seem to be of little consequence as he must eventually be made aware of his true position in relationship to the “controlling force” or fate.

Through the use of this microcosm and its four inhabitants, Crane explores the general state of both man's ignorance and his knowledge. The opening sentence in the tale recognized the former: “None of them knew the color of the sky.” As a counterpart, the third sentence of the opening paragraph defines the limits of man's knowledge: “… all of the men knew the colors of the sea.” As the narrative concludes, the sky, the sea, and the land fuse under the darkness of night, and the wind carries the “great sea's voice” to the rescued men on shore, transforming them into interpreters. The final state is the result of the literal and symbolic journey that dominates the narrative.

The movement made by the four surviving crew members on the open sea is presented as tragic, pathetic, and even humorous. All elements are symbolized by the tableau of the cigar-smoking men:

… the four waifs rode impudently in their little boat, and with an assurance of an impending rescue shining in their eyes, puffed at the big cigars and judged well and ill of all men. Everybody took a drink of water.

(p. 75)

The last act, the drinking, is a sign of supreme impudence as well as courage. It indicates how easily man can convince himself of his importance and how very little basis one's confidence needs, even under the most trying circumstances. Equally effective, the cigar is a fine symbol of the earthly side of man and its many contrivances for pleasure or satisfaction. However, the men seem to have forgotten, for the moment, that they must eventually pay a demanding tribute to the “roller of big cigars.”

Implicit in the story is the belief that man cannot hope to win a struggle with nature; instead, he must be willing to accept whatever is offered. He must submit to the “grim water,” the “snarling of the crests,” and the “terrible grace.” He must succumb to the various elements of nature and the passive presence of the “old ninny-woman, Fate.” To use one of Crane's analogies, man must become like the gulls that form a natural part of the scene, appearing as “gruesome and ominous” as the sea itself.

Because man unconsciously realizes the futility of his struggle, his resistance to fate is never more than a puny or half-hearted effort. This is effectively demonstrated by the correspondent's simple rebellious act: “… he leaned a little way to one side and swore softly into the sea.” When he qualifies as an interpreter, man is able to comprehend his true position in the universe. The effect which this self-knowledge has upon the individual is directly stated by Crane:

When it occurs to a man that nature does not regard him as important, and that she feels she would not maim the universe by disposing of him, he at first wishes to throw bricks at the temple, and he hates deeply the fact that there are no bricks and no temples. Any visible expression of nature would surely be pelleted with his jeers.

Then, if there be no tangible thing to hoot he feels, perhaps, the desire to confront a personification and indulge in pleas, bowed to one knee, and with hands supplicant, saying, “Yes, but I love myself.”

A high cold star on a winter's night is the word he feels that she says to him. Thereafter he knows the pathos of his situation.

(pp. 84-85)

Knowing his situation does not necessitate that man outwardly surrender to it. Even the potential interpreters do not let their mounting apprehensions show in their actions, thoughts, and countenances because, now that life is seen as the journey of the open boat, the same dictum applies as before—“the ethics of their condition was decidedly against any open suggestion of hopelessness.”

Until the concluding sequence of events, the four men refuse (with the possible exception of the correspondent) to hear the final word, the message out of the sea—“Submit.” They feel they still have control over their own destinies and that a final struggle may yet prove worthwhile. This optimism, derived from the pride and ignorance of man, is evidenced by the captain when he explains, “Well, … if no help is coming, we might better try a run through the surf right away. If we stay out here much longer we will be too weak to do anything for ourselves at all” (p. 88). At this point, the oiler is not a solitary figure striking out against the elements and against fate; instead, he is at one with his society in its effort. Awaiting all of them, however, is the knowledge that the world laboratory is but the chimerical toy given to man in order that he may while away his time in meaningless activity and thought. The last lesson must be learned; they must recognize the necessity to submit.

The futility of struggle is succinctly summed up in the crew's final effort to reach shore. Their true position is established by the strikingly simple and painfully clear symbol of the water jar: “They passed on, nearer to shore—the oiler, the cook, the captain—and following them went the water-jar, bouncing gayly over the seas” (p. 90). This inanimate object proceeds as well as do the men who are thrashing about in the water. All are flotsam, but man alone is cursed with the intelligence that paradoxically prevents true knowledge and understanding of his position.

When this final struggle for survival begins, a meaningful distinction is soon drawn between the oiler and his three comrades. All but Billie seek out and accept available assistance. They recognize the fact that man has but the strength to tease him into self-destructive action and, therefore, they place themselves at the mercy of fate. As they had earlier scanned the shoreline for possible help (from religion as represented by the church and from fellowman as associated with the rescue station), they now humble themselves to accept any assistance—they submit and thereby pay silent homage to an unknown and indifferent force. The captain remains with the boat: “… in the rear the captain was hanging with his one good hand to the keel of the overturned dingey” (p. 90). The cook makes use of the same life-belt that he had tied around himself earlier in a futile effort to provide warmth as he slept in the bottom of the boat. Now, “the cook's great white and corked back bulged out of the water” (p. 90). Later, upon instructions from his captain (it is ironic that, in the face of superior commanding forces, the captain still tries to direct his men), the cook gets further assistance: “The cook turned on his back, and, paddling with an oar, went ahead as if he were a canoe” (p. 90). Sharing the life-belt with the cook is the correspondent: “A piece of life-belt had lain in the bottom of the boat, and as the correspondent went overboard he held this to his chest with his left hand” (p. 89). He does not fight the sea but, instead, “the correspondent knew that it was a long journey, and he paddled leisurely. The piece of life-preserver lay under him” (p. 90). He is finally saved by a “true miracle of the sea”—an act over which he has no control and one which is not initiated by him. “A large wave caught him and flung him with ease and supreme speed completely over the boat and far beyond it” (p. 91). Shortly thereafter, the correspondent receives assistance from the naked rescuer. All three—the cook, the captain, and the correspondent—accept help; and, especially if life is the end desired, they are right in accepting this proffered assistance.

In contrast to the others, Billie fights against the unseen forces, the fates, and does not seek, request, or accept assistance in the struggle. As a result, a different fate awaits the oiler:

The welcome of the land to the men from the sea was warm and generous, but a still and dripping shape was carried slowly up the beach, and the land's welcome for it could only be the different and sinister hospitality of the grave.

(p. 92)

Chance or fate, factors beyond man's control, offers help to the crew, and the other three humble themselves in the face of a greater force (one may call it an “old ninny-woman” or whatever he likes) and are saved. Billie does not, and dies.

To heighten the lesson involved, the oiler is permitted to move ahead in the early stages of the fight for survival: “The oiler was ahead in the race. He was swimming strongly and rapidly” (p. 90). However, it is soon reported that “In the shallows, face downward, lay the oiler. His forehead touched sand that was periodically, between each wave, clear of the sea” (p. 92). At this point, he is closer to the safety of the shore than any of the others, and no assistance has been sought or gained. But he lies in the clutches of the fickle “old ninny-woman,” and in a gruesome jest she opens and closes her hand with the alternating water and sand surrounding the oiler. He belongs to neither the elemental world of the sea from which he has just emerged nor the rational, structured world of the shore. He has spent his energies, he has made a noble fight of it, he has exercised self-reliance, he has fully utilized the particular powers with which he is endowed. He is dead.

Consciously or unconsciously, probably the latter, Billie chose to test the system, to commit a personal, self-motivated act. As a result, he got the ultimate punishment or ultimate reward (depending on the freedom sought). Billie was unwittingly testing not only himself, but man's power and destiny, and the limitation of choice was obvious—death or pawnship. Billie alone was exercising freedom of choice and action, and only he ended up lying face down.

The oiler's action could be seen as revealing a weakness of man that is often disguised as a strength. In conjunction with this interpretation, Billie would represent the highly individualistic man, the man of strength and independence who thereby proves weak and a failure. He fails to realize man's position as a pawn in the hands of a controlling force. This lone casualty of the open boat might be viewed as a nonrepentant Samson; he does not prostrate himself but, instead, strikes out as an individual, a puny man versus the might of the unknown force. The fact that this controlling force is not viewed as a highly moralistic or religious one does not enter into the inherent lesson which man learns.

Surviving the experience and returning to society, the three remaining crewmen are now “interpreters,” but little satisfaction can be realized from the knowledge gained as it reveals the futility of independent action by man. In contrast, the oiler is not permitted the recognition and reversal (the latter revealing itself in the form of resignation as opposed to struggle) that the other three attain, but only he reaches the “comfortable arrangement, a cessation of hostilities accompanied by a large degree of relief …” (p. 91). Although the correspondent can intellectualize upon this sensation, he cannot emotionally accept it; however, this cynical man is aware that he has known “the best experience of his life” (p. 73) in the open boat and that he has observed the restrictions imposed on man's nature, thoughts, and general life-experience. Also in contrast with the oiler, the captain arrives at a state of resignation long before the actual abandoning of the dinghy. He expresses this in his reluctant comment, “I suppose we'll have to make a try for ourselves” (p. 76), and in his comment on the handling of the notification of his death. Now that the captain has “interpretive” powers, the irony of his situation is only increased as he has even greater knowledge of man's situation, but is still totally lacking in the ability to commit a worthwhile action based on this knowledge.

The interpreters have gone through a questioning period and even a rebellious one (both moods well illustrated by the famous statements on the “seven mad gods” and “this old ninny-woman, Fate”); but, at the end, they realize that all struggles, mental and spiritual, as well as physical, are futile. At the end, they are no more to contemplate ham sandwiches and kinds of pie, as did the cook on board the dinghy. They realize that man is not meant to nibble the sacred cheese of life; instead, life is to be either a frustrating experience, a groping, a search—or the resignation of those having reached a state of knowledge.

Although “The Open Boat” obviously concludes on a highly philosophic note, it is certainly a negative one—at best, it can only be seen as an affirmation of a negation. The ability to “interpret” is hardly significant if it reveals but the pawn-like existence of man. To have knowledge and yet to realize that this knowledge dooms man to a life of futility and inaction, to a passive existence, is the ultimate in frustration and the greatest of ironies. Not only has the action of Crane's story negated the idea of the power to act and the concept of the “whole man” who can be the meaningfully productive man, but it does so despite permitting an experience which brings about a state of understanding. A modified Cassandra's curse is upon man—nothing of value can be derived from his knowledge.

The story negates the concept of a benevolent, justice-conscious, or even a retributive supreme power. Man is emphatically denied the choice of the puppeteer or the chessplayer into whose insensitive hand he falls. Attempts at action lead to inaction—death; but here there is a basis for hope, as death is seen as a state of freedom. Billie achieves this ultimate state—freedom from this earth.

In contrast to the oiler, the interpreters have come to a state of earthly knowledge, but the lesson that has been brutally taught to them is certainly not a new one. And it is still highly debatable as to the good derived from knowledge that can lead to absolutely no action. Man does come to know his true state of existence, his position in relation to other elements; and, if knowledge is unequivocally a “good,” then some optimism can be gleaned from the experience. However, it is questionable whether this realization, and the experience from which it is derived, permits life to be conceived as a worthwhile, meaningful process. The author himself is undecided as to the preferred state. He seems to favor the state of knowledge even with its curse of inaction and resignation, yet he definitely finds a degree of nobility, if not a slight hope, in the constant and courageous battle of man as he blindly opposes the forces which appear to be directing his actions and determining his course but are actually totally indifferent to him.

Summarily, four men of highly variant powers, of intellect and physical strength, are spilled into an angry sea—immersed in nature—and constitute a “test case.” Both the rational powers and the physical strength of man become insignificant, and both are abandoned, as the symbolic boat is abandoned, before the desired place and the necessary state of mind are reached. Only one member does not resign himself to man's fate, and he, relying on his particular source of strength, his physical prowess, serves as the example needed to complete the lesson. His act and fate give concrete form to the abstract lesson taught by “the great sea's voice” (p. 92). However, the final word need not have been “Death,” but, harking back to the translations of previous listeners, it need only have been “Submit.”

Notes

1. The University of Virginia Edition of the Works of Stephen Crane, V (Charlottesville: The University Press of Virginia, 1970), 92. All quotations are from this edition.