“I hope you’ll regard my question as confidential, Mr Martin.”
“I certainly shall.”
“Thank you.” The Major sighed and sketched cartoons of sinking ships on
a piece of paper.
“The Chaplain gone to bed?” asked Martin.
“I expect so. I haven’t seen him for several hours.”
“It looks like the old jinx is at work again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, every time we carry a Chaplain we have a bad storm.”
“O’Mahoney must be a potential Bishop if one goes by results,”
commented the Major.
Martin laughed. “He’s done pretty well so far.”
The Major played with his pen a moment. “Where,” asked Martin, “do you
expect to be stationed after the war, sir?”
“Well, I should like Tacoma, naturally, but I think I’ll be sent to
Washington, D.C. A tour of duty there is worth more than a lifetime of
field work.”
“I’ve always heard that.”
“It is not,” said the Major wisely, “what you know, it is who you know.”
“You certainly are right.”
“Yes, that’s the way it is.” They pondered this great truth in silence.
Martin finally got to his feet.
“I hope you’ll feel better tomorrow, Major. We’ll leave in the morning;
it should be calm by then.”
“I hope so, good night.”
“Good night.” Martin walked slowly through the galley. The lights were
still on. He snapped them off. Then he walked out on deck.
A pleasant breeze cooled his face. Water lapped quietly against the
sides of the ship. The night sky was black. In another forty-eight
hours, if all went well, they would be in Arunga.
As he stood there many dramatic speeches came to Martin. Plays he had
read or had seen on the stage, came to him. The rolling periods of the
Elizabethans flowed through him like water in a rock channel. He always
enjoyed these moments when he could think of words and voices speaking
words.
He walked about on the deck. He stood by the railing on the port side
and breathed the clean air. In these islands there was no odor of earth
and vegetation in the wind, only the scent of salt and stone. He raised
his head and looked at the mountains. The snow still whirled seaward.
_Chapter Five_
i
Morning.
Evans walked into the wheelhouse. He had slept unusually well. As a
rule he stayed awake during bad weather, but this time he had really
slept and he was glad that he had.
Bervick, whose watch it was, stood looking at the barometer.
“What do you think, Skipper?”
Evans looked at the barometer: still low, there had been almost no
change overnight.
“I think there must be something wrong with the thing. You seen them
act up before, haven’t you?”
Bervick agreed. “They can be wrong. It looks fine outside.” Evans
went over to the window. There was little light in the sky, but the
pre-sunrise stillness was good. Even in the mountains there was no wind.
“What do you think, Skipper?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. I don’t know.” Evans felt
suddenly inadequate. He wished that he did not have to make this
decision. He wondered for a moment what would happen if he got into
his bunk and refused to get out. When he was very young he had often
had a feeling like that: to lie down somewhere and not move and let
unpleasant things take care of themselves.
“I suppose,” he said finally, “seeing as how the wind has died down, I
suppose we should take a chance.”
“We’ll make a dash for Kulak if anything goes wrong.”
Evans went to the chart table. Mentally he computed distances and
positions. “We’ll take a chance,” he repeated. “Get Martin up.”
Bervick went into his cabin; he came out, a moment later, with Martin.
“Bervick,” said Evans, “you take some men out on deck and get ready to
weigh anchor. Martin, you go on down and see how the passengers are
doing. Talk to the Chief and tell him we’re leaving right away. We want
to get to Arunga tomorrow night.”
Martin and Bervick left together. Evans looked at the compass; he
looked at the barometer, and then he looked at the chart. He walked out
on deck and watched morning move slowly into the east. The day looked
peaceful; there was no way, though, to tell what might happen. There
never was any way to tell.
He watched Bervick and several deckhands as they walked on the forward
deck, testing the winches, preparing to weigh anchor. Evans went to the
telegraph and rang the engine room. He set the markers on Stand By.
Almost immediately the Chief rang back.
Evans took a deep breath. Then he opened the window and yelled, “Pull
her up!”
Bervick pushed a lever. There was much clanging and rattling. The
anchor chain came up easily. Evans let the ship drift slowly with the
tide. At last, satisfied that the anchor was free, he gave the engine
room Slow Speed Astern.
The ship, vibrating strongly, drew away from shore. Evans twirled the
electrical steering gear hard to starboard and headed the ship for the
opening and the sea beyond.
At Slow Speed Ahead they moved through the channel, neatly cutting the
still water. The uneven rocks of the point moved by them. A raven, the
first he had seen since they left Andrefski, flew warily among the
rocks. A damp breeze came to him through the window. Snow clouds hung
over the mountains.
Bervick came back. “All squared away. We left the tarpaulin off. Just
in case we might need the anchor again.”
“Good.” Evans motioned to the man on watch who had been standing by the
door. “You take over.”
Evans examined the blue-green paint of the wheelhouse. It was too dark.
He had thought so when they first used it, but this dark color was the
only paint he could get. A lighter color would have been much better.
He would have everything repainted when they got back to Andrefski.
Without warning the ship was lifted several feet in the air by a long
wave. They were out of the inlet. The rocks of the point receded in the
distance.
“Bring her to port,” commanded Evans. The bow swung parallel to shore.
They were headed west again.
“So far so good,” said Bervick.
Evans agreed. There was quietness in the morning. There would be snow
flurries but the big wind seemed to have gone. Evans was glad. He began
to whistle.
Bervick looked at him. “We’re not in the clear yet,” he said.
Evans laughed, “I guess you’re right. I just feel good. I wish I knew
what was the matter with that damned barometer, though.”
“Maybe that little chain’s stuck, like I said.”
“Might be.”
Martin joined them. “The passengers look fine today,” he said.
“The Chief say everything’s working in his department?”
“That’s what he said. Smitty’s got breakfast ready. They’re eating now.”
Evans remembered that he had had nothing to eat for almost a day. “I
think I’ll go below,” he said.
“O.K., Skipper.” Bervick went over to the chart table and Martin went
into his cabin.
The galley, Evans saw, was much more cheerful today. Smitty had cleaned
the deck and straightened the unbroken china. Several deckhands sat at
the galley table talking loudly. You could tell, thought Evans, how
long a man had been up here by the way he talked. The longer a man was
in the islands the longer his stories were. Talking was the only thing
to do when there was no liquor.
The passengers were eating heartily.
“Good morning,” said Evans, entering the salon.
“Good morning,” said the Chaplain, giving the phrase its full meaning.
“There is practically no rocking,” he observed happily.
“This may be a quiet trip yet,” said Evans. He sat down and Smitty
brought him breakfast. The Major was in a good mood. He was not even
pale today, Evans noticed.
“I hear we may be in Arunga tomorrow night,” said the Major.
“That’s what we hope,” said Evans. Breakfast tasted better than it ever
had before.
“I shall really be glad when this trip is over,” said the Chaplain.
“Not of course that I haven’t every confidence.... But, you know, I
just wasn’t designed for ocean-going. You don’t think it will rock
much, do you?”
Evans shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Duval and his assistants arrived and sat down at their end of the table.
“Didn’t blow up after all, did it, Skipper?” said Duval.
“We’re not there yet,” Evans could not resist saying this. Duval liked
to be positive. Especially about things which were none of his business.
“Well, it looks to me like clear sailing.” Duval spoke flatly. He
stirred his coffee.
“How fast are we going?” asked Hodges suddenly.
“Nine, maybe ten knots,” Evans answered.
“Nearer twelve, I’d say,” commented the Chief.
“Engineers are all the same,” said Evans. The Chief said nothing.
“You people should be going home shortly,” Major Barkison announced.
Evans looked up and the others were interested, too.
“Yes,” the Major continued, “were going to close down Andrefski, as
you’ve probably gathered. That’s why I was out there. When it closes
down those of you who are due for rotation will probably get it. We
don’t need any more sailors here.”
“That’s good news,” said Evans thoughtfully. The Chief and his
assistants questioned the Major further and Evans thought of Seattle.
He would get married again. That would be the first thing he would do.
After that he would get a second mate’s berth on some liner. He would
come back to these islands again. Someday, perhaps, he might get a
fishing boat and live in Seward. There were many things that he would
do.
“If you’ll excuse me,” said the Major, rising, “I think I’ll write some
more letters.” The other passengers also left the table.
“Martin tells me,” said Duval, “that the barometer’s still low. What do
you think’s wrong?”
Evans shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see what happens.”
“We were going to do that anyway,” said the Chief sourly and he left
the table, his assistants close behind.
Evans wondered why he had so much trouble getting along with his crews.
When he had been a second mate on a cargo ship he had had no trouble,
in fact he had even been popular. Somehow things just didn’t work as
easily aboard this ship. He wondered if he might not be too much of a
perfectionist. People didn’t like to live with that sort of thing. He
spun his coffee mug between his hands. Finally he stood up. “Smitty,”
he said loudly. “You can clear the table now.”
Bervick had the case off the barometer, when Evans returned to the
wheelhouse. Bervick and Martin were examining the mechanism.
“Find anything wrong?” asked Evans.
Bervick shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with it. The thing’s in
good order.” Evans frowned. He did not like to think of what would
happen if this reading were correct. He went to the chart table.
They would be off Kulak around one o’clock in the afternoon. Between
his present position and Kulak there was open sea and no protection. He
felt suddenly sick. Without a word to the others he walked out on deck.
The air was cool and moist. There was no wind and no sign of wind. Dark
clouds hung motionless in the air. He felt the vastness of this sea and
the loneliness of one small boat on the dividing line between gray sky
and gray water. They were quite alone out here and he was the only one
who realized it. This was very sad, and feeling sad and lonely he went
back into the wheelhouse.
Martin and Bervick had gone below, he was told by the man at the wheel.
Evans stood by the window on the port side and watched Ilak disappear.
Snow, coming from the west, he noticed, was bringing wind with it. He
closed the windows.
Martin returned silently. He looked at the snow clouds. “We won’t be
able to see so well,” he said.
Evans nodded. “We got the times figured out pretty well. I don’t like
coming so near to Kulak, sailing blind.”
They waited then for the snow to start.
At a few minutes to nine whiteness flooded them. Snow splattered softly
on the window glass. Luckily there was enough wind to keep it from
collecting on the windows. Below them Evans could see the deck being
covered with snow. The sea had increased in size but was not yet large.
Bervick joined them.
“Just a little snow,” said Evans.
“That’s the way a lot of them start.”
“A lot of what?”
“Williwaws.”
“Sometimes, maybe.” Evans thought of the low barometer.
“Remember that one off Umnak?” asked Bervick.
“Sure, I remember it.”
“That one started this way.”
“Not with snow. It started with a little wind.”
“A little wind like this and a lot of snow. You remember the snow,
don’t you?”
“Yes, I guess I forgot about it. That was a year ago.”
“That was a lousy thing.”
“We got out of it fine.” Evans’ hands were cold and his stomach kept
being flooded with something.
“Sure, we got out of it. Our luck should hold.” Bervick sounded
cheerful.
“It had better,” said Evans and he blew on his hands to warm them.
ii
“Not much change,” said Martin. Evans had been in the engine room with
Duval since lunch. It was two o’clock now and snow still swept over the
water.
Evans looked gloomily at the whiteness. Martin watched him closely to
see what his reactions were. Evans only frowned.
To the south the snow flurries were thinning a little and they could
see the dark outline of Kulak. They had been abeam the island for over
an hour.
“Kulak,” remarked Evans.
“We’ve been in sight of it since one.”
“A lot of good harbors there,” said Evans.
“Thinking of anchoring, maybe?”
“I’m always thinking of anchoring.” Evans walked over to the compass
and watched it.
Martin yawned. The monotony of waiting was beginning to get on his
nerves.
Evans walked slowly about the wheelhouse. “That wind’s a lot stronger
outside,” he said suddenly.
Martin was surprised. “I don’t think so. I think you’re wrong.”
“Don’t tell me I’m wrong,” Evans flared. Martin said nothing; he
had seen Evans upset before. Sometimes he acted oddly. “Weather’s
changing,” said Evans more quietly. “I can feel it. Look,” he pointed
to the island, “the snow’s thinning. That means the wind’s picked up.
Besides, feel the sea.”
Martin noticed for the first time that the ship was tossing much more
than it had an hour before. He had been daydreaming and had not noticed
the gradual change.
Evans opened one of the windows and the familiar roar of wind and water
filled the wheelhouse. Snowflakes flew in and melted quickly, leaving
wet marks on the deck.
The snow flurries were disappearing and every moment the shores of the
island became clearer. The sea was large though not yet dangerous.
“I don’t like it,” said Evans.
“Barometer’s still low,” said Martin helpfully.
“I know. Did we nest that boom, the one on the port side?”
“We did it last night, remember?”
“That’s right. The hatches are pretty well battened down....” Evans’
voice trailed into silence.
A wave crashed over the bow and the whole ship shook. Martin slipped
on the linoleum-covered deck; he caught himself before he fell. Evans
was holding onto the wheel and did not lose his balance. The man at the
wheel swung them back on course.
Through the open window blasts of wind whistled into the wheelhouse.
Martin slammed the window shut. It was almost quiet with the window
shut.
“You didn’t want that open, did you?”
“No. Go write up our position and the barometer reading in the logbook.”
Martin obeyed. When he had finished he stood by the telegraph.
“What do you think’s happening?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t got any idea. Where’s Bervick?”
“I think he went to the focs’le to get one of the men.”
Evans swore loudly. “Why did you let him go up there? He should have
stayed here. Why didn’t he have sense to stay here?”
“What’s the matter with you?” Martin was irritated. “What’s so bad
about his going there? It’s none of my business.”
“How,” said Evans tightly, “do you think he’s going to get back if the
wind gets any worse? He’s going to be stuck there and no damned use at
all.”
“That certainly’s too bad,” snarled Martin. “You want me to send out a
carrier pigeon?”
Evans started to say something. He thought better of it, though. He
walked across the slanting deck without speaking.
Martin, still angry, looked at the sea. He was surprised to see that
the snow had almost stopped, and that black clouds hung in the sky and
a strong wind was lashing the waves.
He turned around to speak to Evans and at that moment the williwaw hit
the ship.
Martin was thrown across the wheelhouse. There was a thundering in his
ears. He managed to grasp the railing and, desperately, he clung to it.
The wheelhouse hit the water with a creaking smack. For a minute the
deck of the wheelhouse was at a right angle with the water. Then,
slowly, the ship righted herself.
Evans, he saw, lay flat on the steep deck. The man who had been at
the wheel was huddled near the companionway. The wheel was spinning
aimlessly.
The ship shuddered as tremendous waves lifted her high in the air.
Martin, confused and helpless, shut his eyes and wished that the huge
sound of the wind would go away.
When he opened his eyes again he saw Evans crawling on hands and knees
across the deck. Martin watched him move closer and closer to the
wheel. A sudden lunge of the ship and Evans was thrown against it.
Quickly he caught the wheel. Martin watched as Evans fought grimly to
keep on course.
Through the windows, Martin could see what was happening. They were
being driven toward the island. Evans was trying to hold them on any
course away from shore.
Another jolt; a mountain of water swept over the wheelhouse. Evans was
thrown against the bulkhead on the port side. Water streamed into the
wheelhouse from new-made cracks.
Again the ship righted herself and again Evans started his slow crawl
over the deck, only now the deck was slick with water. As the ship
reached the crest of a wave Evans got to his feet and made a dash
for the wheel. But this time he was flung against the door of the
companionway. The man who had been at the wheel lay beside him.
Evans shouted something to Martin. The noise was too much and his
voice did not carry. Evans gestured furiously with his hands. Martin
understood him finally. Evans wanted the engines stopped.
Martin ran to the telegraph and, before a new wave hit them, he rang
the engine room. Even in that moment he wondered what good it would do.
He got back to his railing.
Luckily, Martin noticed, they were headed at an angle for the shore.
They would not hit for a little while. He looked at Evans and saw that
he was vomiting. He had never seen Evans sick before.
The wind, howling more loudly than ever, pushed them almost sideways at
the island. The ship’s side was held at a forty-five-degree angle. Once
again, as Martin watched, Evans tried to get his hands on the wheel.
He got safely across the deck. Distantly, as though he were only an
onlooker, Martin watched Evans struggle with the whirling wheel. Then
there was a crash that shook the whole ship and Martin lost his grip on
the railing.
He felt surprised, and that was all, as he was flung lightly to the
other end of the wheelhouse. There was an explosion in his head and the
last thing he saw was the dark blue-green of the bulkhead.
* * * * *
Duval was sitting in the salon. Major Barkison, the Chaplain and Hodges
were playing cards. Smitty was clearing away the lunch.
Duval was about to get up and go to his engine room when the whole ship
seemed to turn upside down. He was pinned between the bench and the
table.
Across the salon he saw the deck of cards scatter into the air. The
Major, who had been sitting in a chair, was thrown heavily on the deck.
Hodges had fallen against one of the bulkheads. He was trying to find
something to hold onto.
The Chaplain, like Duval, had been pinned between the bench and the
table. His eyes were closed and his face very white. His lips were
working quickly.
Slowly the ship righted herself. Duval thought of his engine room. He
would have to get back to it. He started to move from behind the table
but another gust of wind flattened the ship on the water. He relaxed
and waited.
He was surprised at the force of the wind. It must be over a hundred
ten miles an hour, he thought. He tried to think calmly. They would, of
course, ride it out and then anchor somewhere.
Major Barkison staggered to his table and grasped it firmly. In the
galley Duval could hear, even over the roar of the wind, the sound of
crashing china. He noticed Smitty in the companionway, his feet braced
against the bulkhead.
Hodges ran across the deck and sat down on the bench behind the
Chaplain’s table. The Chaplain’s eyes were still closed, his face still
pale.
The ship creaked and groaned and shuddered as the wind, almost
capsizing her, pressed the port side to the sea.
Duval got to his feet. Holding the table tightly, he went toward the
companionway. Then, when he was as close as he could get without
letting go of the table, he jumped.
For a second he wondered if he had broken anything. He had tripped over
Smitty and had fallen on the deck. He flexed his arms and legs. Nothing
seemed to be wrong. Smitty, he could hear, was praying loudly.
Carefully the Chief worked his way down the companionway and into the
engine room.
Each assistant was holding onto one of the engines. They were
frightened. Duval pointed to the engines and raised his eyebrows in
question: were they all right? The two men nodded.
He worked his way, without falling, back to his cabin. Everything that
could have been broken was broken. Clothes were scattered over the
deck. He sat on his bunk.
For the first time he noticed a pain in his knee. He felt the kneecap.
Waves of pain shook him. He wondered if it was cracked and if so what
he should do.
A sudden lurch of the ship and he forgot about his knee. He went back
to the engine room. His assistants were still standing by.
The oiler who had been sick lay quietly on the deck. He had passed out.
Duval stood close to his first assistant. “No ring yet?” he yelled,
pointing to the telegraph.
The man shook his head.
“Stop her O.K.?”
The man nodded.
There was a loud crash. Duval looked around and saw water trickling
down the companionway. A porthole must have broken in the salon.
The Chief waited for Evans to ring instructions; he wondered if this
was to be the way he would die. He had thought about it often, dying up
in the islands. Everyone had thought about it. He had never thought,
though, that he would come this close. New Orleans was a much better
place to die.
The loud ring of the telegraph startled him. He nodded to his
assistants. They spun the mechanism which stopped the engines. This
done, the real wait began.
“Where we heading?” the man next to him shouted.
Duval thought a moment. He had not noticed and he did not know. He
shook his head.
The same question was in each of their minds: were they heading for the
island and the rocks? Those sharp tall rocks, much pounded by the sea.
He cursed himself for not having noticed. Just to know where they were
going, without being able to do anything about it, was better than
knowing nothing.
From above there came a loud splintering and a crash. He wondered what
had happened. He wondered if he should go up on deck, but his knee was
bothering him. He might not be able to get back.
The Chief held tightly to the engine as the ship rocked in the wind. He
and his assistants waited. That was all they could do.
* * * * *
Bervick had gone into the focs’le to get the fat cook.
Smitty had complained that he could not take care of lunch alone with
the ship pitching.
Several men were in the focs’le. The fat cook was asleep in his bunk.
Bervick shook him. “Come on and get up. You got to help out in the
galley.”
The fat cook yawned and swore. Slowly he hoisted himself out of the
bunk. Bervick played with the dog.
“Hey, Bervick,” said one of the men, “anything new going on? We’re
jumping around quite a bit. I thought the Skipper said there wasn’t
going to be no more storm.”
“Looks like he’s wrong. The sea’s a lot bigger.”
“You’re telling me.”
The fat cook was finally ready. They climbed the ladder to the main
deck. Bervick looked out the porthole. He could not believe what he
saw. A high hill of gray-black water was sweeping down on them.
“Get down,” he shouted to the cook who was below him on the ladder.
They were too late. Both were thrown back into the focs’le.
The lights went out and in the darkness there were shouts from the
surprised men. Bervick reached into his pocket and lit a match.
Mattresses and blankets had been thrown against the port side. The men
were clinging to the bunks. The match went out.
Guided by the pale gray light from the porthole above the ladder,
Bervick climbed up again and looked out at the deck. The wind had
blown the rigging loose from the mast and the ropes twisted in the air;
many of them had been blown out to sea.