“Just a little blow, that’s all. You’ve never seen nothing till you’ve
seen a tropical hurricane. This stuff up here is nothing like that.
This is a breeze.”
“Sure, we heard that one before, Chief.”
“That’s the truth.” The Chief put food into his mouth. He had not
realized how hungry he was. The fat cook poured him coffee.
The men talked about the Big Harbor and other things. They did not
speak of the storm which was beginning. They spoke of the Indian who
had died at the Big Harbor. Everyone told the story differently and
Duval was bored to hear the story again. He had never liked Aleuts
anyway. He looked at Smitty in the corner.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.
“This water.” Smitty cursed for several moments. “This the last trip I
ever make. I seen everything now. I’m getting off this boat, I’m going
back fast. We ain’t never getting out of this.” His dirt-colored hands
gestured limply. The others laughed.
“Take it easy, Smitty,” said the Chief. “You going to live forever.”
Smitty said nothing.
Duval chuckled. He was not frightened by bad weather. He had seen so
many storms and he did have confidence in Evans. Duval was not worried.
The men talked of the Big Harbor and of all the things they had done.
“Say, Chief,” said one, “did you see Olga?”
“Sure I saw her. I always see her. Anybody with money can see her.”
The man laughed. “I guess Bervick isn’t feeling so good today.”
“He takes life too seriously,” said the Chief and that was all he would
say.
Hodges came into the galley from the salon.
“What’ve you been up to, Lieutenant?” asked Duval, genially.
“I’ve been wandering around the boat. I’ve never seen waves as big as
they are outside. They must be over fifty feet.”
“Not quite that big but they will be pretty soon.” Duval closed his
eyes for a moment. He had found that closing his eyes for a moment
or so was very restful. It soothed him to do this. He was not at all
worried, of course.
The light from the electric bulb overhead shone on his eyelids, and
he could see nothing but red with his eyes shut, a warm clear red. He
thought of the colorful bayou land of Louisiana. Usually he did not
care where he was, but he did like color and there was no color in the
Aleutians, only light and shadow on rock and water. The Chief opened
his eyes.
Hodges was biting his thumbnail. The Chief watched him. He wondered
what he might have done if he had been as well educated as Hodges.
Probably the same things. Life was about the same for all people; only
the details varied.
“I hear they expect the big wind around midnight,” said Hodges.
“That’s what Evans says. He don’t know, though. He guesses just like
the rest of us do. We guess, we all guess and most of the time we’re
wrong.” The Chief enjoyed discrediting Evans occasionally.
“Well, it should be some sight. I’m glad I’ll be able to see it.” One
of the deckhands laughed.
“You won’t like it so much,” said Duval. “Even though these blows up
here aren’t nothing compared to what we used to have in the Gulf.” The
crew laughed. Anything that could keep their minds away from the coming
storm was good.
“What’s happened to the Chaplain?” asked Duval.
“He’s in the salon. I expect he’s feeling bad. He doesn’t take to this
sea business at all.”
“I suppose I’d better go see how he is.” Carefully Duval got to his
feet and walked across the deck. He slipped once and swore to himself
as he did. His balance wasn’t as steady as it had once been.
Chaplain O’Mahoney was sitting at the galley table, his jaw set and his
face white. He was playing solitaire. He looked up as they came in and
he managed to smile.
“I suppose it will be worse,” he said.
Duval nodded.
“That’s what I expected.”
“This’ll really be something to tell our grandchildren,” said Hodges
cheerfully. The Chaplain laughed.
“Something to tell _your_ grandchildren,” he said.
“If you ever live to have any,” remarked Duval.
They sat together around the table, each thinking of the storm. Duval
watched the Chaplain’s hands. They were white and plump and helpless.
The Chaplain, Duval thought, could not have fixed a valve or even
changed a sparkplug in a car. Of course the Chaplain knew many things.
He could speak Latin, and Duval was impressed by Latin and the Church
rituals. O’Mahoney’s soft hands could give blessings and that was an
important thing. Perhaps it made no difference that his hands were not
practical.
“Are you Catholic?” asked O’Mahoney, turning to Hodges.
The Lieutenant shook his head. “No, we’re Episcopal down home.”
“Indeed? I have known some very fine Episcopal ministers, very fine
ones.”
“We’ve got a lot of them down home, ministers I mean.”
“I should suppose so. I knew some before I went into the monastery.”
“What’s a monastery like, sir?”
“Just like anything like that would be. Just the way you’d expect it to
be. Perhaps a little like the army.”
“It must be queer, being so out of things.”
“One’s not so far out of the world. There is certainly nothing harder
than living in close quarters with a group of people.”
“I thought it was supposed to be a kind of escape.”
“Certainly not. We have more time to think about the world. Of course,
we do own nothing, and that makes life much simpler. Most people spend
all their lives thinking of possessions.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Hodges. Duval did not listen as they
talked. Instead he walked restlessly about the salon.
Through the after door he watched the white wake foaming. The wind
appeared confused: blowing from first one direction and then shifting
to another. There was snow in the clouds overhead.
The ship was tossed about like a stick in a river current. But somehow
they managed to keep on course. The Chief tried not to think of this.
He thought instead of a gauge on the starboard engine, but even that
was too close to the storm. He turned and went back to the Chaplain and
Hodges. Religious talk was soothing if nothing else.
He asked O’Mahoney about his monastery. O’Mahoney was happy to talk of
it.
“A very simple place. There’s really not much to tell. We all have our
different jobs.”
“What sort of work did you do?” asked Hodges.
“Well, I was in charge of the novices. Those are the beginners, the
apprentices.”
“Sounds like a First Sergeant’s job,” said Hodges.
“Very much the same. I wish,” said the Chaplain wistfully, “that I was
back in Maryland now.”
“So do I,” agreed Duval. “In New Orleans, I mean. I’m tired of this
place.”
“We all are, but here we are. You have a wife, I suppose, in New
Orleans?”
“Yes, I got a wife and two kids. We lost a new one two years ago. I
guess she was too old to be having kids.”
“Such a pity, your child dying.”
“One of those things, they happen all the time. I saw the kid only once
so it wasn’t so bad.”
The Chief sat down beside the Chaplain. Duval reached in his pocket
and took out a knife. Carefully he whittled his fingernails. He
concentrated on what he was doing. He would think of nothing else for a
while.
Suddenly the ship lurched and Duval was thrown off the bench. His knife
clattered on the deck.
He got to his feet quickly. The Chaplain was holding onto the bench
with both hands, his face very white. Hodges was braced against a
table. Duval looked down at his hand, conscious of a sharp pain: he
had cut one of his fingers and it was bleeding. He waved his hand
in the air to cool away the pain. Bright red blood in a thin stream
trickled down his hand. The waving did not help. He stuck his finger in
his mouth.
“You’d better get a bandage on that,” said O’Mahoney helpfully.
“Yes,” agreed Hodges. “That’s dangerous, cutting yourself.”
“I know, I’ll fix it. You people better hang around here until Evans
decides what to do. You might get the Major up.” Holding his finger in
the air, Duval went quickly down the companionway and into his engine
room.
His two assistants were sitting beside the engines. They wore dirty
dungarees and thin shirts; it was hot in the engine room. One of the
oilers crouched in a corner. He had come aboard only the week before.
Fumes from the oil, as well as the motion of the ship, had made him
sick.
The two assistants, however, had been in this engine room in all sorts
of weather for several years. They sat now under the bright electric
lights and read much-handled magazines about Hollywood.
The Chief went aft to his stateroom in the stern. Carefully he wrapped
a piece of gauze about his finger and then he tied the ends of the
gauze into a neat bow. When he had finished he sat down on his bunk. He
had always hated the sight of blood. He closed his eyes and took a deep
and shaky breath. His heart was pounding furiously.
The first assistant came into the cabin.
“What’s the matter, Chief?”
“Not a thing.” Duval sat up straight and opened his eyes. “Cut my
finger, that’s all. How’s that starboard engine sounding?”
“She sounds O.K., she’s going to be O.K.” The man leaned against the
bulkhead. He was stout and red-headed and a good mechanic. He came from
Seattle.
“Say, what’s this I hear that there’s going to be a big wind soon? Is
that right?”
“I expect so. Evans don’t seem so bothered but the barometer’s gone
down low. Going to have a williwaw.”
“It must be blowing hard outside. We been feeling it rock pretty bad
but that’s not new on this run. Maybe I ought to go up and take a
look.” The assistants seldom left the engine room. Several times they
had gone through bad storms and had not known it until later. Even
violent pitching and tossing did not alarm them.
“The wind ain’t too bad yet. Blowing maybe sixty, maybe more. It’s not
coming from anywhere certain yet. The sea’s big, though.”
“Think we’ll anchor somewhere?”
“I don’t know. That guy Evans never tells us anything and I’m sure not
going to ask him anything. Yes, I guess we’ll anchor in Ilak.”
“Well, it won’t be the first time we had to anchor in like that.”
“No, it won’t be the first time.”
Duval fingered the blue and white bedspread his wife had made for him
and, fingering it, he thought of Olga. He hoped they would spend more
time in the Big Harbor on the trip back.
“What did you do last night?” he asked.
His first assistant shrugged. “I didn’t do so much. Got tight, that’s
all.”
“Too bad. Did you see that squarehead Bervick last night?”
“I saw him for a little while. He was in the Anchorage Inn. He was with
old Angela. She’s sure a fat woman.”
Duval chuckled. “Serves him right. He was trying to sew up Olga.
He wasn’t so smart about it. She’d come running if he didn’t keep
bothering her about the others she sees. After all she’s got to make
some money, like everybody else.”
“I heard that one before.” His assistant laughed. “She’s a fair looking
girl, Olga is.”
“She certainly is.” Duval looked at his finger. He examined the bandage
closely to see if the blood was seeping through. He was relieved to see
it was not. “Let’s take a look around,” he said.
“O.K., Chief.”
They went back to the engine room. The other assistant was reading his
magazine. He sat, teetering his chair with each lunge of the ship.
Duval walked between the engines, checking the gauges and listening for
trouble. Everything appeared in order. He switched on the hold pumps.
When they were in a big sea the hold leaked badly; there was a leak
somewhere but no one had ever found it.
Duval was pleased. If anything should happen to the ship now it would
be Evans’ fault. The Chief did not like to take the blame for anything
and in that he was quite normal.
He glanced at the oiler in the corner. For a moment he wondered if he
should get him some ammonia or something because he looked so ill. He
decided not to; when you were seasick you liked to be alone.
“Everything looks fine,” he said to his assistants. Then he went aft
again to his stateroom, carefully examining his bandage for signs of
fresh blood.
iii
The night was dark. Off the port side Martin could barely make out the
coastline of Ilak. Since seven-thirty they had been searching for the
place where Evans intended to anchor.
Martin stood close to the window. He could hear waves crashing loudly
on the near-by shore. The wind was increasing and the sea was becoming
larger. He held tightly to the railing, his stomach fell dizzily as
they sank into an unusually deep trough.
Evans had taken the wheel himself and the man on watch stood beside
him ready to help in case the wheel should get out of control. Bervick
stood by the chart table. From time to time he would call out their
position.
The wheelhouse was dark except for dimmed lights in the binnacle and
over the chart table. Martin could hear the wind howling around the
corners of the wheelhouse. It sounded seventy or eighty miles an hour,
and this, according to Evans, was just the start.
Martin made a quick dash for the chart table.
“When’ll we get there?” he asked.
Bervick did not look up. “Ten minutes and we should be abeam.”
“What’s that?” Evans asked, his voice pitched high above the wind.
“We’re getting close, that’s all. That inlet you’re looking for. Two
miles away, as I figure.”
“Good.” Evans motioned to the man on watch who quickly took the wheel.
Then Evans opened a window on the port side. A tremendous roar of wind
and breaking water exploded into the wheelhouse. Spray splattered in
Evans’ face as he watched the coastline.
Martin and Bervick went over and stood near him. Less than a mile ahead
Martin could see a long spit of high rock pointing out into the sea.
“That it?” he asked.
Bervick nodded. “Just around the corner there. Nice deep bay.”
“All right,” said Evans, speaking to the man at the wheel. “Bring her
to port, five degrees. Ring Stand By, Mate.”
Martin skidded across the deck. He rang the engine room several times
on the telegraph. Then he set the markers on Stand By.
They waited for the Chief to answer. Two minutes passed and then the
Chief rang back. He was ready.
“Half Speed Ahead,” said Evans.
Martin set the markers on Half Speed. The ship’s vibration changed.
Waves which had once crashed against them now lifted the ship easily
onto their crests.
Evans turned to Martin.
“Go below and get some of the crew. Be ready to anchor when I give
the word. When we get out of the wind you and your men go out on the
forward deck and stand by.”
“Right.” Martin went quickly below. The idea of going out on deck in
this weather did not appeal to him. Someone had to do it, though.
He gathered two deckhands in the galley. They cursed loudly but he knew
they were glad to be anchoring.
Then, the ship having rounded the point, they went outside on the
forward deck. Martin was almost thrown off his feet by a gust of wind.
Though somewhat protected by the hills, they were not yet completely
out of the storm. The wind was cold and penetrating. It chilled him,
even through his heavy parka. Water whipped their faces. The deck was
dangerously slick and the ship still pitched badly. On hands and knees,
their eyes barely open and smarting from the salt, they wormed their
way forward to the bow and the anchor winches.
They reached the bow. Martin got to his feet, holding tightly onto the
tarpaulin which covered the winch. The other two did the same. Luckily
they knew their job so well that he would not have to make himself
heard over the sea-thunder.
The deckhands swiftly slipped the tarpaulin off the winch. Martin stood
beside the lever which operated the anchor. The other two stood ready
to knock the brakes from the chain.
He watched as the ship skirted the teethlike rocks and headed into a
small bay. Dark mountains stood large against the sky. The bay itself
was less than a mile wide and perhaps a little more than a mile deep.
Mountains rimmed it on three sides.
Abruptly the ship stopped pitching. They were out of the wind at last.
Inside this bay there was neither wind nor a large sea.
Evans leaned out of the wheelhouse window and waved.
“Let her go,” said Martin.
There was a loud clanging and then the metallic sound of falling chain
as the freed anchor dropped into the water. The ship drifted slowly.
Evans had stopped the engines.
Patiently Martin waited for the tug which would tell them the anchor
was secured in the sea-floor. The ship glided ahead softly, cutting the
small waves as it moved shoreward: a slight jolt and the ship stopped;
rocking slightly, she began to circle about.
“Anchor’s holding,” shouted Martin. Evans waved and shut the wheelhouse
window. Martin and the deckhands went back to the galley.
Martin stood before the galley range and tried to warm himself. Water
had seeped through his shirt to his skin and he was completely wet. He
could not remember when he had been so cold. The two men who had been
out on deck with him were also shivering.
He slipped off his parka and shirt and then he rubbed himself in front
of the stove. His teeth chattered as he began to get warm again.
“Going to be here long, Mate?” asked one of the men.
“We’ll probably leave at dawn. Wind should let up then.”
“Getting better then?”
“Yes,” said Martin, knowing it was not getting better. “Storm should be
over by morning.”
“That’s good.” The men talked a while longer. Then they went to the
focs’le. In his corner Smitty began to stir. Groaning, he got to his
feet and walked over to the range and poured himself some coffee.
“You feel bad?” Martin asked.
“You bet I feel bad.” Smitty walked unsteadily away.
Martin sat down for a moment. He was tired, more tired than usual.
Lately it seemed that he was always tired. He wondered if something was
wrong with him. Perhaps he should see a doctor and get sent back to the
States.
Everything was quiet, he noticed gratefully. It seemed that there had
been nothing but noise since they left the Big Harbor that morning.
“Say, Martin.” He turned around and saw Evans standing in the door.
“Come on out and help me nest the boom. Somebody didn’t do a very good
job when we left.” This remark was meant for him and if he had not been
so weary he would have snapped back; the effort, however, was too great.
“Sure, sure,” Martin said.
On the forward deck the wind was direct but not strong. Small waves
slapped the sides of the ship. The hills seemed peaceful and only a
faraway roar reminded them of the storm.
They stood beside the mast, Evans absently twisting a wet rope. “I’ll
go up top,” he said finally. “You let the boom down.” He walked away. A
few moments later Evans appeared on top of the wheelhouse.
“Let her down easy,” he shouted.
Martin let the boom descend slowly into place. He had to admire the
quickness with which Evans lashed the mast secure.
“O.K.,” said Evans and he disappeared.
Bemused by the quiet, Martin walked back to the stern. He stood a while
watching the mountains. He noticed that the side of one sharp peak
seemed oddly blurred. It was the snow being ripped off the mountains by
the wind. In the daylight it was a wonderful sight.
He walked slowly into the salon. His watch started at midnight. He
would sleep on one of the salon benches until then. He was tired.
* * * * *
A few minutes after twelve Martin was awakened by Evans.
“Your watch,” said Evans. “I’m going to get some sleep. If anything
looks bad, get me up.”
“Sea still high outside?”
Evans nodded. His eyes looked sunken, Martin noticed, and his lids were
red.
“We’ll leave around sunup if we do leave, that right?”
“That’s right,” said Evans. “We’ll leave in the morning.”
They went up to the wheelhouse. Evans went to his cabin. Martin and the
men on watch stood silently in the pale light of the wheelhouse. They
listened to the sea.
“Think the radio will work, Mate?”
“We can find out.” Martin turned the radio on. A blast of static
thundered out at them. “I guess not,” said Martin and he turned it off.
He noticed the barometer was still low. He recorded the time and the
barometer reading in the logbook.
“I’m going below for a while,” he said.
Outside on deck there was little wind and the dark night was serene.
He glanced at the higher mountains; the wind was still violent, for
snow was blurring the peaks. He went toward the bow and down into the
focs’le.
It was warm inside the focs’le and the lights were burning brightly.
Bunks in two tiers lined the bulkheads. Some of the men were sleeping;
others sat on their bunks and talked. In the middle of the deck the
ship’s dog was licking a bone.
The men who were awake looked up as Martin came down the ladder.
“How’s it going, Mate?”
“Fine. The bulkheads sweating much?”
“I’ll say they are.” The man who spoke brushed his hand over the wood.
“Look,” he said. Beads of water clung to his fingers.
“That’s pretty lousy,” said Martin. “At least it’s not cold in here.”
“Well, if it was we’d all be dead. This is the dampest boat I was
ever on.” The others agreed. Martin sat down on an empty bunk and
looked around. The focs’le was even sloppier than normal. It was, of
course, bad most of the time and nothing could be done about it. Evans
had tried to do something with no success. He had only made himself
unpopular with the men.
Clothes littered the deck and the bunks were unmade. Old shoes and
much-gnawed bones had been hidden in the corners by the dog. Martin
could see why Evans hated dogs, especially on ships.
None of these things were important now, though. Nothing, except
getting out of the storm, was important.
“I wonder how she’s blowing outside?” remarked a deckhand.
“Ought to be hitting a hundred about now,” answered another. “What do
you think, Mate?”
“I hope it’s a hundred. If it is that means the storm’ll be over by
morning. They don’t last so long, these storms.”
“That’s what I say.”
The men spoke together in low voices. Martin examined the pin-up
pictures that plastered the bulkheads. Whenever he thought of his army
career he thought of these pictures first. Somehow they almost never
changed no matter where he was. These pictures and the radio, those
were the two constant things. Occasionally there was no radio but the
pictures were always there: half-dressed girls, in mysteriously lighted
bedclothes, promising sex.
He thought of the three years he had spent in the army, and, of those
years, only a few things stood out in his memory: certain songs that
were popular when he had left for overseas, the waiting in line for
almost everything.... The rest of his army career came to him only as a
half-feeling of discomfort.
The dog, he noticed, was chewing his shoe. He grabbed the animal by the
muzzle and pushed it away.
He got up. “See you,” he remarked at large and he began to climb the
ladder that led to the forward deck.
“See you, Mate.”
Major Barkison sat at a table in the salon, a stack of writing paper in
front of him.
“Good evening, sir,” said Martin.
“Good evening. Things seem a bit quieter now.”
“Yes, we’ll be able to get some sleep.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I never thought the sea could get so rough.”
The Major contemplated the fountain pen in his hand. “I was,” he
confided, “quite sick.”
“I’m sorry. You should have let us know, we’ve got some stuff to take
care of that.”
“Have you really? I felt so terrible that I couldn’t get out of my
bunk. I’ve never seen such jumping around. Does this sort of thing
happen often?”
“Not too often, thank God.”
“It was quite enough.” The Major stroked his bald brow. The veins stood
out on his hand. Martin hoped the Major had nothing seriously wrong
with him. It was one of Martin’s nightmares that someone should have
appendicitis or something like that aboard ship when they would be
unable to help. Such things had happened before on other ships.
“I’ve been doing a little letter writing,” the Major explained,
pointing to the papers. “I can really get caught up on a trip like
this.”
“Would you like some coffee, Major?”
“Why yes, very much.”
Martin went into the galley and poured two cups from the pot which
always sat, warming, on the stove. He brought the cups back into the
salon and set them down on the table.
The Major grunted his thanks. They drank the dark and bitter liquid.
Martin warmed his hands on the coffee mug. His hands were cold and
stiff from climbing the focs’le ladder without gloves.
“Tell me, Mr Martin,” said the Major finally, “do you feel ... I know
it’s a tactless question, in fact an unethical question to ask ... but
do you feel that Mr Evans is ... well, quite capable of handling this
situation?”
Martin smiled to himself. “Yes, Major. I have a lot of faith in Evans;
when it comes to sailoring he’s one of the best seamen up here.”
“I’m very glad to hear you say that. I should never have asked, of
course. But the situation being as it is, well, I thought it best to
get your opinion.”