under the still sunless sky.
“I like Anchorage,” said the Chaplain absently.
“The best place in Alaska,” agreed Hodges. “You can get real steak
there. You got to pay high for it, though.”
“Sure, but they’re a lot more civilized than some places I could
mention. It certainly does get cold up there.” The Chaplain shuddered
at the thought.
“That’s why war is hell,” said the Major. He wondered how long it would
be before his promotion came through. Almost without thinking he used
his method. If the Chaplain blinked his eyes within the count of three,
he would not get his promotion for at least six months. He looked at
the Chaplain’s eyes and he counted to himself. The Chaplain did not
blink. Major Barkison felt much better. He would be a Lt Colonel in
less than six months. O’Mahoney was watching him, he noticed.
“Do you feel well, Major?” the Chaplain asked.
“Never better. Why?”
“I thought you looked odd. You were staring so. It must be my
imagination.”
“It must be. I was just staring, daydreaming, you know.”
“Yes, I do it often myself. Once I had an unusual revelation that way.”
The Major changed the subject. He spoke to Hodges. “Are you going to
stay with the Adjutant General’s department after the war?” Lieutenant
Hodges was regular army like the Major.
Hodges shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m going to try to get in
Operations.”
“It’s quite interesting, these revelations; I suppose one would call
them that....” O’Mahoney began again.
Major Barkison interrupted hurriedly. “I am certain they are.” He
turned to the Lieutenant. “Of course, Hodges, the work’s quite
different from what you’ve been doing.”
“I know. I think I’d like it though.”
Barkison could see that O’Mahoney was trying to decide whether to tell
of his revelation or not. He decided not to. They sat without speaking,
and the Major listened to the sounds of the ship. Distant voices
from the salon and the wheelhouse and, nearer them, the soft curses
of Smitty, the Indian cook, as he prepared lunch. The ship, Barkison
noticed, was rocking more than usual. Evans was probably changing
course.
The Major excused himself and walked into the almost dark salon and
stood by the after door, looking out. In shallow ridges the wake of the
ship foamed on the sky-gray water: gray when you looked at its surface
but obsidian-dark beneath. A slight wind blew, troubling only the
gulls, who floated uneasily on it.
Martin came and stood beside him in the doorway.
“Ah, Mr Martin. Smooth sailing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, very.”
“I’m certainly glad it is. Certainly glad it’s calm. I had thought we
might have rough weather according to the report, but it doesn’t seem
so.”
“Might be bad yet, Major. This is pretty unusual. In fact this isn’t at
all what we expected.”
“Weather’s incalculable here, I suppose. That’s true of all the
Aleutians, I suppose.”
“You’re right there. You can’t tell much till it’s almost too late.”
“What sort of work did you do before you came in the army, if I may
ask?”
“I was an actor.”
“Is that so?” At one time the Major had been interested in the theater.
He was still fascinated by the business. “Were you in the pictures?”
“No, on the stage. Up around New England.”
“Indeed? This,” the Major pointed at the water, “this seems quite
different from that sort of work.”
“In a way I suppose so. That’s what the army does. It’s just one of
those things, I guess.”
“Just one of those things,” echoed the Major. He thought of himself
on a stage. In his mind he could see himself playing Wellington. The
uniforms would be flattering. He would look martial in them. Major
Barkison was a romantic, a frustrated romantic perhaps, but still a
romantic. Before the war, when the army could wear civilian clothes,
Major Barkison had worn very bright ties. “Must be interesting work.”
“Yes, I guess I’ll do it again if I can.”
“You must certainly. One should always do the thing one does best.” The
Major spoke with the firmness of the master of the platitude.
“That’s right, sir.”
Major Barkison toyed with the thought of himself as Wellington. The
thought was pleasant and he examined it from all angles. He dreamed for
several moments.
“I understand,” said Martin at last, “that they are going to rotate to
the States all men who’ve been here two years or more.”
“What? Oh, yes, that’s our policy. It’s a little hard to do, naturally.
There aren’t many replacements so far. How long have you been here?”
“Fourteen months. I’ve got another ten months to go.”
“I know how you feel. How long has Mr Evans been here?”
“Over three years, but then he’s practically a native. He lived in
Seward. He probably likes Alaska.”
“He must, to stay here that long. For some people, it’s a good place.”
“He used to fish in these waters.”
“Really? He seems to want to go back now. I can’t say I blame him.”
“Neither do I.”
Major Barkison wondered if his own request to join a certain General
in another theater would be granted. He hoped it would be. There were
times when he felt his whole career was being blocked in this, now
inactive, theater of war.
“Arunga’s getting to be quite big, isn’t it, Major?”
“Yes, it’s about the best developed island here. Probably be quite a
post-war base. Key to the northern defense.”
“So I hear.”
“Yes, the General was wise to build up Arunga.”
“I hear he’s got a big house there with a grand piano and all that sort
of stuff.”
Barkison laughed. “He lives in a shack.”
“I guess somebody just started talking too much once.” Martin looked
about him. “I got to go up top now,” he said. “Will you excuse me?”
“Certainly.” Martin left through the galley.
Major Barkison sat down on a bench in the salon. He looked at the books
in the rack. Most of them looked dull.
He sat quietly and studied the linoleum of the deck. The cracks in the
linoleum formed interesting patterns, rather like lines on a battle
map. He wondered just what battle these lines looked the most like.
Probably Gettysburg. All maps looked like Gettysburg.
Bored, he examined the books again. One of them caught his eye: a book
of short biographies. He picked it up and thumbed through the pages.
The last biography was about General Chinese Gordon. Interested, he
began to read. In his subconscious Wellington, for the time being,
began to fade. A stage appeared in the mind of the Major, and he saw
himself, the frustrated romantic, surrounded by Mandarins; dressed as
General Gordon, he was receiving a large gold medal for his defeat of
the Wangs. Major Barkison could almost hear the offstage cheers of a
crowd. He began to frame a speech of thanks in his mind. He could hear
his own inner voice speaking brilliantly and at length of attrition. As
Chinese Gordon he thought of these things.
ii
At ten o’clock, two hours after they had left the Big Harbor, Evans
noticed that the barometer had dropped alarmingly.
He called Bervick over. Together they figured how much the barometer
had fallen in the last two hours. Evans was worried; Bervick was not.
“I seen this sort of thing before,” said Bervick. “Sometimes it’s just
the chain inside the barometer skipping a little, or maybe it’s just
for the time being. I seen this sort of thing before.”
“Sure, so have I.” Evans lowered his voice, he was afraid the man at
the wheel might hear them. “I seen it blow all to hell, too, when the
barometer dropped like this.” Evans was nervous. He did not like to be
nervous or seem nervous at sea, but lately some of the most trivial
things upset him. A falling barometer, of course, was not trivial. On
the other hand, it was not an unusual thing.
“Well, the weather don’t look bad, Skipper. Take a look.”
They opened one of the windows and looked out. The sky, though
fog-ridden and dark, was no more alarming than ever. The sea was not
high and the wind was light. The sea gulls were still hovering about
the ship.
“I still don’t like this,” murmured Evans. “It’s just the way it was
the time the williwaw caught us off Umnak, remember that?”
“Sure, I remember. We been hit before. What you so hot and bothered
about? You been sailing these waters a long time. We seen the barometer
drop worse than this.” Bervick looked at him curiously.
Evans turned away from the window. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I
just got the jumps, I guess. This weather gets under my skin sometimes.”
“I know, it’s no good, this crazy weather.”
Evans took a long shaky breath. “Well, we’re near enough to a lot of
inlets if anything blows up.”
“That’s right.”
“Tell the quartermaster to steer a half mile nearer shore.”
“O.K.” Bervick talked to the man at the wheel a moment. Evans looked at
the chart of the islands. Bervick joined him and together they studied
the chart and an old logbook which had been used on their last trip.
Evans rechecked the courses and the running times around the different
capes. The stretches of open sea, while more vulnerable to the big
winds, were generally safest. The capes and spits of rock were
dangerous. One had to deal with them every fifteen minutes or so.
He checked the bays and inlets that they would pass. He also figured
the times they would be abeam these openings. At the first sign of
danger he would anchor inside one of these sheltered places. In the
open sea they would have to weather any storm that hit them, but there
would be no rocks in the open sea and that was a help.
“There’s some good harbors on Kulak,” said Bervick, examining that
island on the chart.
“That’s right, we’ll be there early tomorrow morning. We’ll leave this
island around four in the afternoon. We’ll coast along by Ilak for
around six hours and then we hit open sea.”
“It’s about a hundred miles of open sea; it’ll take us over nine hours.
Then we reach Kulak.”
“I’ll feel O.K. there. Weather’s good from there on.”
“Sure the weather’s always good from there on. It’s always wonderful
here.” Bervick went back into his cabin. His watch did not begin until
four.
Evans put away the charts. Then he stood by the window and watched the
sky. Toward the southwest the clouds were dark, but the wind, which was
faint, was from almost the opposite direction. The wind could change,
though. When it was not strong and direct anything could happen.
Martin came into the wheelhouse. He looked at the barometer and
whistled.
Evans was irritated. “Don’t whistle in the wheelhouse. It’s bad luck.”
“You always do.”
“That’s different.”
Martin chuckled, then, “Barometer’s mighty low. How long she been
dropping?”
“For almost two hours.” Evans wished his first mate would not talk so
loudly in front of the man on watch.
“That doesn’t look....”
“No, it doesn’t.” Evans interrupted sharply. He looked warningly at
the wheelsman. Martin understood. He walked over and stood beside Evans
at the window.
“The sky looks all right.”
“Sure. Sure. That’s the way it always is.”
“What’s all the emotion for?”
“None of your damned business. Why don’t you crawl in your sack?”
“I think I will.” Grinning, Martin went into his cabin.
Gloomily Evans looked at the sky again. He knew that he must be acting
strangely. He had never let them see him nervous before. Weather was
beginning to get on his nerves after all his years in these waters.
The wheelhouse was getting a little warm, he noticed. He opened one of
the windows and leaned out. The cold damp air was refreshing as it blew
in his face.
* * * * *
At eight bells Smitty announced lunch. Martin took Evans’ place on
watch. Bervick and Evans went below to the salon.
The passengers were already seated. Their morale, Evans could see, was
quite high. Duval, oil streaks on his face and clothes, looked tired.
“Engines going smooth?” asked Evans sitting down.
“Just like always. Little bit of trouble with a valve on the starboard,
but that’s all. The valve isn’t hitting quite right.”
“You got a spare part, haven’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Well, let’s not worry.”
Smitty brought them hash and coffee and crackers. He slammed the dishes
down on the table.
“I feel as if I could eat a horse,” said the Chaplain.
“You come to the right place,” said Smitty. They laughed at the old
joke.
“Any new developments?” asked the Major.
Evans shook his head. “No, nothing new. We’re making about twelve knots
an hour. That’s nice time.” He looked at Bervick. “Weather’s fine,” he
added.
“Splendid,” said the Major.
“What was that you were reading, Major, when we came in?” asked the
Chaplain.
“A piece about General Gordon. A great tragedy, Khartoum, I mean. They
were most incompetent. It’s a very good example of politics in the
army.”
“Yes, I know what you mean,” said O’Mahoney.
“Are there many seals in these waters?” asked Hodges.
Evans nodded. “A good many. If we see any salmon running you’ll see a
lot of seals chasing them. Sea lions hang around all the time.”
“I saw some this morning,” commented the Major. “I understand they’re
the fastest fish in the water.”
“I believe they are classed as mammals,” corrected the Chaplain,
looking at Bervick who nodded.
“That’s right, sir, they are mammals.”
“You heard the Major,” Duval suddenly said. “They are just big fish.”
“A lot you know about fish,” said Bervick coolly.
“I know enough about these things to know a fish when I see one swim in
the water.”
“Anybody with any kind of sense knows that sea lions aren’t fish.”
“So you’re calling the Major and me dumb.”
Bervick caught himself. “I’m sorry, Major, I didn’t mean that, sir.”
Major Barkison agreed, a little puzzled. “I’m sure you’re right,
Sergeant. I know nothing about these things.”
Bervick looked at the Chief triumphantly. He murmured, “That’s like I
said: they aren’t fish.”
The Chief was about to reply. Irritated, and a little worried that the
Major might get the wrong impression of them, Evans said firmly, “I’ve
heard all I want to hear about sea lions.” Duval grumbled something and
Bervick looked at his plate. The silence was awkward.
“When,” asked the Chaplain helpfully, “do we get to Arunga?”
“It’s about eight hundred miles. I always figure about seventy hours or
more,” Evans answered, glad to change the subject.
Evans thought of the falling barometer and the stormy sky. For some
reason, as he thought, the word “avunculus” kept going through his
head. He had no idea what it meant but he must have heard or read it
somewhere. The desire to say the word was almost overpowering. Softly
he muttered to himself, “avunculus.”
“What was that?” asked Bervick who, sitting nearest him, had heard.
“Nothing, I was thinking, that’s all.”
“I thought you said something.”
“What tonnage is this boat?” asked Hodges.
“Something over three hundred,” answered Evans. He had forgotten, if he
had ever known, the exact tonnage.
“That’s pretty big.”
“For a small ship it’s average,” said Evans. In the past he had sailed
on all types of ships. He had been an oiler and a deckhand and finally
master of a fishing boat outside Seward. Of all the ships he had been
on, he liked this one the best. She was easy to handle. He would like
to own a ship like this when the war was over. Many changes would have
to be made, of course. The ship was so expensive to run that only the
government could afford the upkeep. He could think of at least a dozen
changes that should be made.
The others discussed the ship, and Duval told them about the engine
room. He was proud of his engine room. Evans knew Duval was a fine
engineer.
Evans looked at his empty plate and remembered that the hash had been
good today. Smitty had put garlic in it and he liked garlic. The others
seemed to like the hash, too, and he was glad. He always felt like a
host aboard his ship. Ships were his home; this one in particular.
Before the others had finished, Evans motioned to Bervick and they
excused themselves.
In the wheelhouse Evans took Martin’s place on watch. There had been no
change in the barometer.
“I want you to cut that stuff out,” said Evans abruptly.
Bervick, who was playing with the dividers at the chart table, looked
surprised. “Cut what out?”
“You know what I mean. All this arguing with the Chief. I don’t like
it and you better not let it happen again. You got more sense than to
fight with him in front of some rank like the Major.”
Bervick set his jaw. “No fault of mine if he wants to argue all the
time. You tell him to keep out of my business and I won’t say nothing.”
“I’ll talk to him, but you better remember too. I can’t take much more
of this stuff. You been at each other for months now.”
“He gets in my hair. He gets in my business.”
“For Christ’s sake!” Evans exploded. “Can’t you forget about that
bitch? Can’t you figure that there’re a lot more where that one came
from? What’s wrong with you anyway?”
Bervick gestured. “I guess I just been up here too long. I guess that’s
what’s the matter.”
Evans was tired now. “Sure, that’s it. That’s what’s wrong with all of
us. We been to sea too long.” Evans knew as well as Bervick the truth
of this. After living too long in close quarters with the same fifteen
or twenty men, one began to think and do irrational things. Women were
scarce and perhaps it was normal that Bervick should feel so strongly.
He watched Bervick as he fiddled with the dividers on the chart. He was
a good man to have around. Evans liked his second mate.
“How’s the barometer doing now?” asked Evans.
Bervick looked at it, twisting his hair as he did. “About the same. Bit
lower, maybe.”
Evans grunted. A mile ahead he could make out a long black spit of rock
and stone and reef. As they approached it he changed the course. First
five degrees to port, then ten, then they were around the point. The
end of the island, some fifteen miles away, came clearly into view.
This island was a big one and mountainous. In the clear but indirect
light he could see the white peaks that marked the westernmost cape.
Because of the size of the volcanic peaks the shore looked closer than
it was.
“Sky’s still dark,” said Bervick. Evans noticed his mate’s eyes were
the color of the sea water. He had never noticed that before. It was an
unusual thing, Evans thought, but having lived so long with Bervick he
never really looked at him and probably could not have described him.
Evans looked back at the sky.
“Still bad looking. I don’t like it so much. Still we’re keeping pretty
close to shore. We can hide fast.”
“Sure would delay us if something did blow up.”
“It always does.”
“You might,” said Evans after a moment, “check the lifeboat equipment.”
Bervick laughed. “We’re being real safe, aren’t we?”
Evans was about to say, “Better safe than sorry,” but he decided that
it sounded too neat. Instead he said, “You can’t ever tell. They
haven’t been checked for a while.”
“O.K., I’ll take a look.” He left through the door that opened onto the
upper deck where the two lifeboats and one raft were kept.
Evans watched the dark long point they had just passed slowly fade into
a harmless line on the water.
Martin returned from the galley. He glanced at the barometer as he came
in. He did not comment on what he saw.
“What’s the course?” he asked.
Evans told him.
“Where did Bervick go? Is he in the sack?”
“He’s out on deck.”
“He and the Chief were really going to town at lunch.”
“Yeah, I don’t like that stuff. I told Bervick to stop it.”
“You better tell the Chief, too; a lot of this mess is his fault. You
know the whole story, don’t you?”
“Sure, I know the story. Bervick’s been weeping over it long enough.
I’m talking to the Chief, don’t worry.”
A gust of wet wind swept through the wheelhouse as Bervick came back in.
“Cold outside?” asked Evans.
Bervick shook his head. “Not bad. The boats are in good shape. Water’s
still fresh in the tanks.”
“Good.”
Bervick walked toward his cabin. “I think I’ll turn in,” he said.
“So will I,” Evans wrote down the course and the time and a description
of the weather in the logbook. “Get me up,” he said to Martin, “if you
see a ship or something. You got the course straight?”
“I got it.”
Evans went into his cabin. He took the papers off his desk so that
they would not fall on the deck if the ship should roll. He looked at
himself in the mirror and said quite loudly, “Avunculus.”
iii
Major Barkison found the Chief to be good, if not particularly
intelligent, company. In the middle of the afternoon Duval had joined
the Major in the salon. They talked of New Orleans.
“I have always felt,” said the Major, recalling in his mind the French
Quarter, “that there was no other place like New Orleans. It’s not
like New York. It is nothing like Paris.” Major Barkison had never been
to Paris but that was not really important.
“It sure is a fine place,” said Duval. “Those women there are
something.” He winked largely at the Major who quickly agreed.
Duval continued, “Yes, I think of those women up here all the time;
anywhere, in fact, because there’s just nothing like them anywhere.”
“Yes,” said the Major. He changed the subject. “Of course the food is
wonderful down there; marvellous shrimp there.”
“So do I like it. You know I used to know a girl down there who was
pretty enough to be in the pictures, and she was some lay, too. I was
just a young fellow at the time and she was maybe seventeen, eighteen
then, and we sure played around together. She was sure some woman. I
bet you can’t guess what she’s doing now?”
“No,” said the Major, making a good mental guess. “No, I can’t guess
what she’s doing.”
“Well, she’s got a big bar in New York and some girls on the side. I
bet she makes more money than all of us put together. I got a picture
of her here. I always carry her picture around with me. You can bet my
wife don’t like it.” The Chief pulled a worn leather wallet from his
pocket. He opened it and showed the Major a picture.
Major Barkison smiled stiffly and looked at the heavy mulatto nude.
“Very nice,” he said.
“You bet she is. She’s some woman.” He put away the wallet. “I’d sure
like to see her again sometime. She is some woman.”
“She seems to be,” said the Major.
Duval looked into space. A distant expression came over his harsh and
angular features. Barkison coughed. “Do you put into the Big Harbor
often?” he asked.
Duval nodded, returning slowly to the present. “We stop in there once,
twice a week. That’s our regular run. It’s the most civilized place on
the Chain.”
“Yes, I know. There seems to be an unusual number of civilians there.
What’s their status? I’ve never really looked into the problems of the
civilian population up here, that’s another department.”
The Chief scratched himself thoughtfully. “Well, they’re just here.
That’s all I know. They work in the stores. Some were pre-war
residents. A lot of them are middle-aged women. We aren’t supposed
to have nothing to do with them. The army’s real strict.” The Chief
laughed. “But there are all kinds of ways to operate. Them girls get
pretty rich.”
“I suppose they do. They seemed an awful-looking lot.”
“Most of them are. There’s one that isn’t, though. She’s Norwegian. You
know the type, real blonde and clean-looking. She’s real good. We been
operating for some time now.”
“Is that so?” The Major wondered how, as an upholder of army
regulations, he should take this. He decided he would forget it after a
while.
“She’s gotten around a lot, of course. You know the mate. The
squarehead, Bervick.”
The Major said he did.
“Well, him and this girl were hitting it off pretty well until I came
along. So I give her some money and she’s like all the rest and quits
him. He acts like a big fool then. He hasn’t caught on that she’s the
kind that’ll carry on with any guy. He’s dumb that way and I got no
time for a damn fool.”
“It seems a shame that you two shouldn’t get along better.”
“Oh, it’s not bad. He just shoots off his mouth every now and then a
little too much. He’s a little crazy from being up here so long.”
“I can imagine he might be. It’s hard enough on shore with a lot of
people. Must be a lot worse on a small ship.”
Duval agreed. “It is,” he said, “but you get used to it. When you get
to be our age you don’t give much of a damn about things. You do what
you please, isn’t that right, Major?”
Barkison nodded. He was somewhat irritated at being included in
the same age group with the Chief. There was almost twenty years’
difference in their ages. Major Barkison tried to look youthful, less
like Wellington. He looked too old for thirty-one.
“Well, I think I’ll go below and see if the engines are going to
hold together.” Duval gestured cheerily and walked out of the salon,
balancing himself, catlike, on the rolling deck.