was the first real vacation he had had since the war began. It was good
not to be writing and reading reports and making inspections.
He had enjoyed his visit to Andrefski Bay, though. The ATS Captain had
been a bit hard to take but the officers had been most obliging. He
had finally made out a report saying that the port should be closed
except for a small housekeeping crew. This report had naturally made
him popular with the bored men of Andrefski.
The Major walked about the empty salon, examining the books. They
seemed as dull as ever to him. He decided he would finish reading about
Gordon. He had read little more than a page when Hodges strolled into
the salon and sat down beside him. The Major closed the book.
“A little rougher,” commented Hodges.
“Yes. I suppose they’ve changed course again. Have you been up in the
wheelhouse?”
“No, I was down in the focs’le. I was talking with some of the crew.”
“Really?” Major Barkison was not sure if this was such a good thing; as
experience, however, it might be rewarding. “What did they have to say?”
“Oh, not so much. They were talking about an Indian who drank some
methyl alcohol the other night.”
“Yes, I heard about that.”
“Well, they were just talking. Same thing, or rather something very
like it, happened to his brother down in Southeastern Alaska.”
“Is that right?” The Major played with the book on his lap.
“He was working on a wharf on one of those rivers and he fell in. They
said he never came up again. There was a lot of thick mud under the
water and he just went down in it. People just disappear in it.”
“Is that right?” The Major wondered if he would be sick again. The ship
was beginning to roll almost as badly as it had on the trip to the Big
Harbor.
“I guess that must be awful,” said Hodges frowning, “to fall in the
water like that and go right down. They said there were just a few
bubbles and that was all. Must have been an awful sensation, going
down, I mean.”
“I can imagine,” said the Major. He remembered the time he had almost
drowned in the ocean. His whole life had not passed in review through
his head; he remembered that. The only thing he had thought of was
getting out of the water. A lifeguard towed him in.
“You know they were telling me,” said Hodges, “that there’s an old
Indian belief that if a dying man recognizes you, you will be the next
to die.”
“That’s an interesting superstition. Did this fellow, the one who died
last night, did he recognize anyone before he died?”
“No, as a matter of fact he was unconscious all the time.”
“Oh.”
Hodges tied one of his shoes thoughtfully. The Major could see he was
still thinking of the Indian.
“What else did you hear?” asked the Major. He was always interested to
know what the men thought of their officers. Sometimes their judgments
were very shrewd.
“Not much, they talked a lot about Evans.”
“Do they like him?”
“They wouldn’t really say, of course; probably not, but they think he’s
a fine seaman.”
“That’s all that’s really important.”
“That’s what I said. They say he married a girl in Seattle. He’d only
known her a week.”
“How long did they live together?”
“Around a month. He was up in Anchorage last month getting a divorce
from her.”
“Did she ask for it?”
“I don’t guess they know. I gather he hadn’t heard from her in the last
three years.”
“People should be more careful about these things,” said the Major.
He, himself, had been when he married the daughter of his commanding
officer. She was a fine girl. Unfortunately her father had died soon
after they were married. They had been happy, nevertheless.
Hodges got to his feet and said he thought he would go to the
wheelhouse. He left. The Major put his book down on the floor. He was
sleepy. There was something restful in the rocking motion of the ship.
He yawned and stretched out on the bench.
* * * * *
Major Barkison awoke with a start. The ship was pitching considerably.
The salon was in darkness. Outside evening and dark clouds gave a
twilight coloring to the sea and sky.
He looked at his watch. It was four-thirty. In the galley he could hear
Smitty cursing among the clattering pots and pans. He turned on one of
the lights in the salon. The salon looked even more dismal in the pale
light.
He picked the book up from the deck and tried to read it, but the
motion of the ship was too much for him.
Hodges came into the salon from the after door. His face and clothes
were damp from spray; there was salt matted in his hair. His face was
flushed.
“I’ve been out on deck, Major,” he said, slamming the door shut.
“She’s really getting rough. The Skipper told me I’d better come back
inside.”
“Yes, it seems to be getting much rougher.”
“I’ll say.” Hodges took off his wet parka and disappeared into the
galley. A few minutes later he was back, his face and hair dry.
“What did Mr Evans have to say about the weather?”
“I don’t know. He yelled to me out the window, that’s all. I was on
the front deck. So I came back in. The waves are really going over the
deck.”
“Oh.” The Major was beginning to feel sick.
Chaplain O’Mahoney walked into the salon from the galley.
“Isn’t this rolling dreadful?” he said. The Major noticed that the
Chaplain was unusually pale.
“It’s not so nice,” said Major Barkison. O’Mahoney sat down abruptly.
He was breathing noisily. “I certainly hope these waves don’t get any
larger,” he said. He ran his hand shakily over his forehead.
“It couldn’t be much of a storm,” said the Major. “Mr Evans would have
said something about it earlier. They can tell those things before
they happen. There’s a lot of warning.” The Major was uneasy, though.
Hodges, he noticed, seemed to enjoy this.
Major Barkison went to one of the portholes and looked out. They were
in open sea now. The island was five or six miles behind them. Waves,
gray and large, were billowing under the ship. On the distant shore he
could see great sheets of white spray as the waves broke on the sharp
rocks. A light drizzle misted the air.
Very little wind blew. The sky was dark over the island mountains
behind them. No gulls flew overhead. A greenish light colored the air.
“What does it look like to you?” asked Hodges.
“Just bad weather, I guess. We’re in the open now, I see.”
“Yes, we left the island a little after four. We’ll be near Ilak around
seven tonight.”
“I wonder which is best in a storm: to be near shore or out like this?”
Hodges shrugged, “Hard to tell. I like the idea of being near land. You
don’t suppose we’re going to have one of those big storms, do you?”
“Heaven forbid!” said the Chaplain from his seat on the bench.
“Well, if it is one I have every confidence in the Master of the ship,”
said Major Barkison, upholding vested authority from force of habit.
The idea of a storm did not appeal to him.
“I think we should go see Evans,” said Hodges.
The Major considered a moment. “Might not be a bad idea. We should have
some idea of what he plans to do. We might even go back to the Big
Harbor.”
“Let’s go up, sir.”
Hodges and the Major went into the galley. The Chaplain did not care to
go. In the galley they found Smitty groaning in a corner. He was very
sick.
They went up the companionway to the wheelhouse. Evans, Martin and
Bervick were standing together around the chart table. Only Evans
noticed them as they entered.
“Bad weather,” Evans announced abruptly. “The wind’s going to blow big
soon.”
“What’s going to be done?” asked the Major.
“Wait till we’ve figured this out.” Evans lowered his head over the
chart. Together with his mates he talked in a low voice and measured
distances.
Major Barkison looked out the windows and found the lurid view of sky
and water terrifying. He wished that he had flown. He would have been
in Arunga by now.
The Chief came into the wheelhouse. He spoke a moment with Evans who
waved him away. Duval came over to the Major. “Bit of a storm,” said
Duval.
“Doesn’t look good. You know about these things, does this look
particularly bad to you?”
“I don’t know. All storms are different. You don’t know until it’s over
just how bad it was. That sky looks awful.”
“Quite dark. This greenish light is new to me.”
They watched the ink-dark center of the storm, spreading behind the
white peaks of the island they had recently passed. Evans turned around
and spoke to the Chief. “Engines in good shape?”
“That’s right.”
“Could you get up any more speed, say thirteen knots?”
“Not if you want to keep the starboard engine in one piece.”
In a low voice Evans talked with Bervick. He spoke again to the Chief.
“Keep going just as you are, then. Keep pretty constant. I’m heading
for Ilak. The wind probably won’t be bad until evening.
“If it holds off for a dozen hours or so, or if it isn’t too strong,
I’ll take her into Kulak Bay tomorrow morning. We’ll be safe in there.”
Evans spoke with authority. The Major could not help but admire his
coolness. He seemed to lack all nervousness. The Major was only too
conscious of his own nerves.
Hodges was listening, fascinated, his dark eyes bright with excitement.
Major Barkison wished he could be as absorbed in events as young
Hodges. I have too much imagination, thought the Major sadly. He would
have to set an example, though. His rank and training demanded it.
“What would you like us to do, Mr Evans?” he asked.
“Keep cool. That’s about all. Stay below and stay near the crew. If
anything should go wrong, they’ll get you in the lifeboats. The chances
of this thing getting that bad are pretty slight, but we have to be
ready.”
“I see.”
“Is the Chaplain in the salon?”
“Yes. I think he’s sick. Your cook is, too.”
“I can’t help that. I’d appreciate it, Major, if you and the Lieutenant
would go below. The mate who is not on duty here will stay in the salon
with you. I’ll have him keep you posted on what’s happening.”
“Right.” Major Barkison was relieved to see Evans had such firm control
of the situation. “We’ll go down now,” he said to Evans.
In the salon the Chaplain was waiting for them. “What did they have to
say?” he asked.
“Going to blow pretty hard,” the Major answered.
The Chaplain groaned. “I suppose we must bear this,” he said at last in
a tired voice. “These things will happen.”
Duval walked in; he looked worried. “I don’t like this so much,” he
said.
“It does seem messy,” the Major answered, trying to sound flippant.
“Looks like the start of a williwaw. That’s what I think it looks like.
I could be wrong.” Duval was gloomy.
“What,” asked the Chaplain, “is a williwaw?”
“Big northern storm. Kind of hurricane with a lot of snow. Just plain
undiluted hell. They come and go real quick, but they do a lot of
damage.”
“I hope you’re wrong,” the Major said fervently.
“So do I.” Duval hurried off toward his engine room. Chaplain O’Mahoney
sat quietly on the bench. Hodges watched the big waves through the
porthole.
Major Barkison said, “I think I’ll go to my cabin. If anybody wants
me, tell them I’m there. I’m going to try to sleep a little.” This
was bluff and he knew it sounded that way, but somehow he felt better
saying it.
He opened the after door and stepped out on the stern. The ship was
rocking violently and he had trouble keeping his footing. The wind was
damp and cold. He waited for the ship to sink down between two waves,
then, quickly, he ran along the deck toward the bow and his cabin.
A wall of gray water sprang up beside him, then in a moment it was gone
and the ship was on the crest of a wave. He slipped on the sea-wet
deck, but caught himself on the railing. As they sank down again into
another sea-valley, he reached the door to his cabin. He went inside
and slammed the door shut as spray splashed against it.
He stood for a moment in the wood-and-salt-smelling darkness. Great
shudders shook him. Nerves, he thought. He switched on the light.
Water, he noticed, was trickling in through the porthole. He fastened
it tight. More water was trickling under the door from the deck. He
could do nothing about that.
Major Barkison took off his parka and lay down on his bunk. He was
beginning to feel sick to his stomach. He hoped he would not become
sick now.
If the ship went up on the crest of a wave within the count of three....
Outside the wind started to blow, very lightly at first.
_Chapter Four_
i
Bervick sat on a tall stool by the window, his legs braced against the
bulkhead. The ship groaned and creaked as she was tossed from wave to
hollow to wave again.
Evans stood near the wheelsman. He watched the compass. They were
having trouble keeping on course, for with each large wave they were
thrown several degrees off.
“Keep her even,” said Evans.
“It’s pretty hard....” A wave crashed over their bow, spray flooded the
windows for a moment. They were swung ten degrees to starboard.
“Hard to port,” said Evans, holding tightly onto the railing.
The man whirled the wheel until they were again on course.
“Pretty hard, isn’t it?” Bervick looked over at Evans.
“Not easy. Pitching like hell.”
“Why not get her on electric steering?”
“Might break. Then where’d we be?”
“Right here.”
Evans stood by the compass. He knew they could not afford to be even
a few degrees off their course. Ilak was a small island, and if they
should miss it.... Evans did not like to think of what might happen
then.
He wished the storm would begin soon if it were going to begin at all.
Waiting for the big wind was a strain, and there was no sign of the
wind yet. Only the sea was becoming larger.
The sky was still dark where the heart of the storm was gathered. Dirty
white snow clouds stretched bleakly in the damp almost windless air.
The strange green light was starting to fade into the storm and evening
darkness. Gray twenty-foot waves rolled smoothly under them, lifting
them high and then dropping them down into deep troughs.
Evans noticed the man at the wheel was pale.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You feeling the weather?”
“A little bit. I don’t know why.”
“You been drinking too much of that swill at the Big Harbor.”
“I didn’t have so much.” The man spoke weakly. There were small drops
of sweat on his forehead.
“You better get some air,” said Evans. “I’ll take her.”
Quickly the man went to one of the wheelhouse windows, opened it,
and leaned out. Evans took the wheel. He could get the feel of the
ship when he was steering. He liked to take the wheel. Each time
they descended into a trough they would be thrown several degrees
off course. He would straighten them out as they reached the next
wave-crest, then the same thing would happen again. It was not easy to
keep the ship even.
“How’s it feel?” Bervick asked.
“Fine. We’re going to be knocked around a bit before we’re through. May
have to lash the wheel in place.”
Spray splattered the windows of the wheelhouse. Salt water streamed
down the glass making salt patterns as it went. Evans tried to make out
land ahead of them, but the mist was too thick on the water. They were
in the open sea now. Somehow Evans felt very alone, as though he were
standing by himself in a big empty room. That was a favorite nightmare
of his: the empty room. He would often dream that he had walked into
this place expecting to find someone, but no one was ever there. Then
he would dream that he was falling; after that he would wake up. Once
in Anchorage a girl he had spent the night with told him that he had
talked in his sleep. He told her his dream; she never dreamed, though,
and could not understand.
Evans let his mind drift. Anything to keep from thinking of the coming
storm. That was a bad thing about storms: you could not really get
ready for one. Once you knew a storm was coming all you could do was
wait and deal with it when it came.
He wondered what would be said if he lost the ship. He could hear the
Captain at Andrefski saying, “I knew all along that guy Evans would
crack up. I told him not to go.” People were all alike that way. Make
a mistake, or even have some bad luck and they’ll say that they knew
it was going to happen all along. People were all alike, thought Evans
gloomily. He felt like a drink. He would not let himself have one,
though. He would have to be able to think quickly. His stomach was
already fluttering as he waited.
Evans looked over at the man on watch. He was still leaning out the
window, his shoulders heaving. At last he turned around. He was pale
but seemed relieved. “I guess I’m O.K. now,” he said.
Evans stepped away from the wheel. “You sure you’re not going to get
sick again?”
“Yeah, I’m all right.” The man took the wheel. Evans gave him the
course. Then Evans walked to the port side where Bervick sat watching
the water. He was daydreaming. His eyes were fixed on the sea.
In silence they looked out the windows. Except for an occasional sound
of creaking from the bow, there was no sound to be heard in the ship.
The wheelhouse was getting too warm, Evans thought. He unbuttoned his
shirt. His hands shook a little as he did. This annoyed him.
“Getting warm, Skipper?”
“It’s too hot in here. The Chief’s really got the heat going fine. When
we really need it in port he breaks something.”
“Engine rooms are always like that. I’m glad I’m not an engineer.”
The clock struck three bells. Evans looked at his watch. He always did
that when the clock struck.
“When do you figure we’ll be off Ilak?” Bervick asked.
“Just about two hours. Just about seven-thirty.”
Bervick scratched his long hair thoughtfully. “I don’t think this
thing’s going to blow up for a while.”
“I don’t either. We better just hope that we’re near a good bay when it
does. I expect well get the big wind tonight. It’s taking a long time
getting here.”
“That’s what I like.” Bervick looked at the black unchanging storm
center. “Maybe we’ll miss the whole thing.”
Evans smiled. “No chance, bucko, we’ll get all of it. Right in the
teeth, that’s where we’re going to get it.”
“I wish I never left the Merchant Marine.”
“You got a hard life.”
“That’s what I think.”
“Don’t we all.” Evans made his mouth smile again. He tried to be casual.
His ex-wife would get his insurance, he thought suddenly. He remembered
that he had not changed it from her name to his family’s. He chuckled
to himself. Everyone would be surprised. She would be surprised to get
it; his family would be furious for not getting it. His father had four
other sons and an unproductive farm. The insurance would be useful to
them. He had not seen his family for seven years but sometimes they
wrote to him. His mother always wrote. She was an educated woman but
his father had never learned to read or write. He never felt there was
much advantage in it. Evans thought of his family. His mind raced from
person to person. He tried to recall how each of them looked. This was
a good game that he often played with himself. It kept his mind off
things that were bothering him, off storms, for instance.
Evans thought of his wife. She was a nice girl. If he had met her at
any other time than during a war they might have been happy. He did not
know her very well, though. He could not decide whether their marriage
would have been any good or not. He wondered what she was doing now and
where she was. He felt rather sad that he had not had time to know her
better. There were others, of course. There was consolation in that.
A wave, larger than the rest, hit violently across their bow. Evans
staggered and almost fell. Bervick and his stool were upset and Bervick
was thrown heavily on the deck. He stood up swearing.
“How did it feel?” asked Evans.
“Guess.” Bervick limped across the wheelhouse and got the stool again.
He placed it in one corner under the railing. He did not sit down
again. “Waves getting larger,” he said.
“We haven’t seen nothing,” said Evans. He looked at the compass. “Get
on course,” he said sharply. They were a dozen degrees off.
“O.K., O.K.,” the wheelsman was beginning to sound a little desperate.
He had not been at sea long.
Evans went back to his corner. He tried to recall what he had been
thinking about, but his train of thought had been shattered. Only
fragments were left to trouble him.
He looked at the forward deck. It had never looked so clean. The
constant spray had made the gray-blue deck glisten. The door to the
focs’le opened and a swarthy face appeared. The fat cook looked out at
the slippery deck. Carefully the fat cook stepped up on the deck. A
small wave hit the bow. He tried to get back in the focs’le but he was
too slow. The wave threw him against the railing. Struggling, he was
floating aft. Evans could see him, soaking wet, get to his feet at last
and disappear in the direction of the galley.
“Some sailor, the cook,” remarked Bervick.
“He’s some cook, too. He can burn water.”
The wheelhouse door opened and Martin joined them. His face showed no
particular expression. He seemed to be unaware of the storm. He glanced
at the barometer.
“A little lower,” he remarked.
Evans looked at it, too. “Yes, the thing’s fallen some more.” He went
to the chart table and recorded the barometer’s reading in the logbook.
“When’s the wind going to start?” Martin asked.
“Can’t tell yet, John,” Bervick said. “Around midnight, that’s my
guess.”
“How’re the passengers?” asked Evans.
“They’re pretty bothered. The Chaplain’s sick as a dog.”
“Where’d the Major go when he left here?”
“He went to his cabin. I guess he’s in the sack.”
Evans frowned. “I wanted them to stay in the salon. You should have
kept them there. Suppose he comes walking down the deck and a wave
knocks him overboard?”
“That’s an act of God,” snapped Martin. For some reason Evans was
pleased to have irritated his Mate. “Besides,” Martin added, “he’d
already gone when I went below.”
“Well, when you go down again get him back in the salon. What’s Hodges
doing?”
“He thinks it’s a game.”
“I’m glad somebody’s having a good time.” Evans leaned against the
bulkhead. The ship was not pitching quite so much now. The wind, what
there was of it, was probably shifting. He remembered his insurance
again. He wished he had taken care of it before they left. “Leave
nothing undone and nothing begun,” a Warrant Officer in Anchorage had
told him. The words had a nice sound to them. They were also true.
“I’ve never been in a williwaw,” remarked Martin.
Evans glanced at him. He did not like to hear a storm described aloud
in advance. Evans had a complicated system of beliefs. If some things
were mentioned before they happened they would take place exactly
as mentioned. He never said much about bad weather before it broke.
He would never have said this was going to be a williwaw. That was
predicting, not guessing.
“Weren’t you aboard that time we was off Umnak?” asked Bervick.
Martin shook his head. “I was having some teeth fixed. I missed that
show.”
“I guess you did at that. You’ll make up for that now.”
“I suppose I will.”
A thirty-foot wave swept them amidships. The wheelhouse creaked as the
salt water cascaded over them. Martin stumbled. The stool rolled across
the deck. The man at the wheel lost his grip; the wheel spun around.
Evans grabbed it quickly. His right arm felt as if it had been ripped
off. With a great deal of trouble he got the ship on course again.
“You hang on this,” he said to the wheelsman. “When you being relieved?”
“In a half-hour.”
“Well, keep holding it tight. We don’t want to wander all over this
damned ocean.”
“Pretty good-sized wave,” said Bervick.
“Yeah, and there’re more where that came from.” Evans was breathing
hard. The struggle with the wheel had tired him. His arm ached. He
flexed it carefully.
“Get your arm?” Bervick was watching him.
“Just about pulled the thing off.” Evans went to the window and leaned
on the sill. The wave that had just hit them was a freak one, for the
sea was not as high as it had been. The wind definitely seemed to be
shifting. The sky was becoming darker. There was snow ahead.
Martin left them, and went below. Absently Evans rubbed his arm; it
hurt him. He watched the water and waited for the big wind to come.
ii
Duval walked into the galley. He was hungry and, bad weather or not, he
did not like to miss too many meals.
Several members of the crew were playing cards at the galley table.
They were taking the storm casually. They pretended not to be
interested in what was happening outside.
The ship rocked violently. Heavy coffee mugs slid back and forth on the
galley table. Smitty sat in a corner of the galley, his chin on his
knees. From time to time he would groan. The fat cook, in salt-soaked
clothes, opened cans.
Duval took a can of hash out of the locker. The ship rolled suddenly,
slanting the deck. He stumbled across the galley and sat down on the
bench with the others.