Then if things haven’t opened I’ll have to ship out.”
“And leave Deane with Roberts around? You told me not to mention her, but
I guess it’s O.K. now.”
“Deane will be all right,” Martin nodded. “Roberts had a stroke. He can’t
move.”
“Roberts? A stroke?” Rio looked pleased, and there was a definite
satisfaction in his voice as he continued. “Maybe that’s why my idea
didn’t work. I went to his place that night, and the next. The second
time he was home, but there was lights....” Rio shook his head wisely.
“And I work in the dark,” he added, looking at Martin. “But about the
plant—can’t you get another job ashore?”
“I doubt it. I don’t know another trade.”
“Then what the hell good did college do you?”
“College? That’s another one I can’t answer,” said Martin. “I was too
young. The world turned backwards. I hated my young, fresh hair and the
child in my face. I needed the forest and the open sea—an insane wind
that held my breath. I hated pedantry, and the inquisitive eyes of girls.”
“What else?” asked Rio.
“It’s too old to hurt now,” answered Martin.
“Go on,” said Rio.
“It wasn’t much. It taught me to drink incredibly bad gin—corrosive
enough that it’s a wonder I have any guts left. Why go on?”
“I know,” said Rio. “You had it your way, and I had it mine. But it was
all the same.... I had the wind you longed for, and it put scissors in
my throat! Let’s forget it. Look!” He pointed to a wharf near them. One
group of men walking along it held signs in the air. Another, grimly
silent, stood by the entrance to the warehouse pier, watching those who
came out and those who entered. “We’ll forget our trouble in _that_
scramble, Martin! It looks like our boys have tied up a ship.”
“Let’s see. That’s Pier V7. What ship’s that?”
“The _Leana_. She makes Pedro, and Puget Sound, I think.”
One of the men who were carrying signs stopped when he saw them.
“Howdy, Rio.”
“Hello, Brick. What’s the jibe?”
“They paid us off an’ are tryin’ to ship a fink crew,” answered the man,
hitching the sign a little higher. “We dumped the mattresses over the
side last night comin’ in. The bedbugs had made ’em Snug Harbor. I slept
on the hatch off the coast of Mexico. And God!—what roaches!”
“Hmm,” said Rio, and he and Martin walked on.
They had started uptown when a man came out of the warehouse. One of the
union men who was watching the doorway ran after him and knocked off his
cap with the flat of his hand. The other tried to fight back but was
smothered with punches before a policeman broke it up.
“Like old times,” said Martin.
“Yeah. Let’s go up to the Hall,” suggested Rio.
They reached South Ferry, walked to Pearl Street and went up the stairs
into an old building. The room was crowded with seamen. Some of them,
in chairs tilted against the wall, were sitting quietly or exchanging
stories. Others were playing cards. The air was full of tobacco smoke,
stale and close. Rio and Martin went to the desk. A jumpy-eyed man
behind it knew them and nodded. Martin took out his book. His dues were
paid to the following month, but he laid down eight more dollars.
The nervous fellow looked at him, then took the book and examined it
carefully.
“I see you ain’t got in no picket duty since you left the west coast,” he
said.
“No.”
“We could use a man on the line to-night.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Put me down, too,” said Rio. “I need a good sleep.”
“Yeah!” snapped the agent. “This ain’t Frisco, nor Portland, where they
bat their scabby brains out. Here, the Company takes these fink bastards
from the ship by car and leaves ’em in town. The boys make a few clap
joints, meet the transportation and are brought back to the ship.” The
agent licked his lips, showing perfect teeth, shining and yellow. “It’s
silk—till they sail under.” He bit a fingernail and turned to another man.
Rio was growling when he and Martin left the Hall.
“God damn the finks,” he said.
“That’s right,” agreed Martin. “They struck me midships once. They nearly
sank me.”
“You know,” said Rio, angrily, “I like you. But for Christ’s sake, don’t
give me your end of the sea! You’re about as salty as lard.”
Martin smiled.
“Yes, they nearly sank me,” he repeated. “The ship was listing fourteen
degrees when the bos’n ran into the fo’c’sle in his dirty underwear. He
danced the ise-odori with a bottle of Saki under one arm and an ordinary
seaman under the other, on a deck that would have frozen grandmother’s
mittens. Now Rio, do you figure yourself a deep water sailor? Because
you’ve pulled in the log on a cold night and lashed barrels to a hatch
with your butt to the wind—are you sure of the ocean?... Have you ever
curled a sea egg around your elbow?—kissed a barracuda over black
water?—raced a shark in a harbor full of battle-wagons dumping garbage,
with your own boat forty feet away against the wind? Have you winked at a
sea spider and made him shuffle backwards till his legs ruffled slow sand
in your face?”
“Well,” said Rio, laughing, “I told you once you were the ‘part of.’”
They were back at Pier V7. Other men were concentrating from the Hall to
relieve the day pickets.
“They brought in two cars full,” said a tall fellow who had been heading
the day men. He turned to Rio. “You take care of the night gang. We’ll
bring down coffee. The Company is usin’ black sedans—some of the blinds
was down when they pulled in. A couple of cops is standin’ by the gate
so you can’t do much there. But if you divide your gang and send half of
’em up the alley a ways, you can get a sign. Hop on the runnin’ board,
an’ you know what to do. Another thing. All the deck officers walked out
when we was paid off except the third mate. That’s one Company man I’d
like to see you get. The finks may not get no leave to-night, but the
_Leana_ don’t sail for four days. If we keep a good lookout, maybe we can
get a couple of the bastards. That’s all, except don’t do no drinkin’.”
“What’s that on your breath?” asked someone. “Orange juice?”
“I can hold it,” said the tall fellow.
The pickets laughed and the day men left. The night gang joined around
Rio.
“I’ll take a few of you up there.” Rio pointed to a pile of dunnage. “The
rest of you watch the gate. If a Company car comes, give me a light three
times and get out. We’ll take care of the rest of it. Don’t talk to the
cops unless they talk to you first. Keep your distance from the gate.
Have you got a torch you can signal me with, Billy?”
“No, I ain’t.”
“I got mine here,” said one of the men, pulling out a flashlight.
“Give it to Billy,” said Rio. “He’s worked with me before. Remember,
Billy—burn it at me three times.”
“O.K.”
It was almost dark and Rio selected his men, including Martin. They
walked up the street to an old pile of lumber by a dark pier.
“Get this, boys—no knives. A club’s best, but not a piece of pipe. Work
on ’em hard, but don’t kill ’em. You, Eddy—and you, Martin—an’ me’ll hop
the runnin’ board. Smash the glass an’ bring her to the side. We got to
work fast before brass-buttons shows up.”
“What if they’re Company officials?” asked Martin.
“_They_ won’t be here,” said Rio, amused. “But if they are, give ’em two,
instead of one.”
“What’s the matter with ye, sonny?” asked a dwarf-like man with immense
shoulders. “Is yer belly soft?” He glared at Martin.
“We’ll find out soon, my muscle-bound patriot,” said Martin walking
toward him swiftly.
Several seamen jumped between them.
“I’ll hear one more crack from either of you, an’ I’ll bat your thick
skulls together,” said Rio quietly. “Our union is split already. We got
work to do, an’ you start a parade. You ain’t fit to work.”
“I’ll work,” said Martin.
“Me, too,” said the heavy seaman.
“Shake hands,” said an older man with grizzled hair and an intense,
strained face.
“It was my fault,” said Martin.
“Naw, it was mine,” objected the squat fellow sheepishly as they shook
hands.
“You don’t need to kiss,” said Rio sharply. Then he held up his hand.
“Get this straight,” he continued. “It ain’t no joke we’re playin’. Maybe
this’ll help.” He took a bottle from his pocket and passed it around,
each man taking a shot of the liquor. Rio finished it and tossed the
bottle under the dunnage. “It’s about time for the rats to come out if
they’re goin’ ashore,” he went on. “Keep an eye to the pier.” He turned
suddenly to one of the younger seamen. “You ain’t got no club.”
“My brother was killed in Detroit that way, Rio. Lemme use my fists.”
Rio turned his face aside for a moment. When he looked at the boy again
it was like metal.
“Get yourself a club, buddy.”
Hesitatingly, the seaman took up a knotty piece of wood. He held it in
his hands one way and then another, his face white.
One of the men came up to Rio and took him to one side. He said something
in a low voice and Rio nodded. The man returned his nod and left
hurriedly.
“_This is the time, dear Mother_—” hummed a seaman.
“Shut up,” said his partner.
They waited silently, watching the pier for any light. Suddenly, a man
came upon them, startling them as he shuffled in and laid down a large
package.
“Here it is, Rio.” The man was panting. “It’s me—Al.”
“Beer!” The men exulted quietly, peering through the early darkness.
Al now took a short automatic from his pocket and handed it to Rio.
“Drink up,” Rio said to the men.
Each man took a bottle and waited in turn for the opener except one
seaman who, impatient, knocked off the cap of his bottle against a block
of wood.
“Take the rest down to the men at the pier,” said Rio to Al, who shambled
away noiselessly.
Someone struck a match. In the flare Rio saw Martin regarding him
steadily. He grinned. It was a painful, smashing look and he didn’t take
his eyes away. The match flickered out and Martin came up to him slowly.
“Watch for the lights, Eddy,” cautioned Rio, as he and Martin walked a
few yards away from the lowered sounds of the men.
“So you believe, Martin, that I’d pull this?” Rio twisted the automatic
in his hand. “Al got this for me. He’d eat out of my hand. Never mind
why. This—belongs to Roberts. It was used one night. I got it for you.”
“You told the story?” asked Martin.
“I told no story. Al’s a thief. He does what I say, but his heart is
finer than yours.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Martin, feeling the gun and Rio’s hands in the
dark. Breaking it under Rio’s wrist, he suddenly threw back his arm and
spun the automatic into the river.... Vaguely he heard Rio say there were
lights....
Martin looked toward the pier and saw the headlights of an automobile
coming upon them. The car was gaining speed as it passed the pile of
lumber. Martin, faster than the others, leaped for the running board and
swung himself against the windshield glass, holding to the door-handle.
His head was turned just enough to see Eddy jump behind him. Eddy missed
the board. His body spun vertically against the rear fender and crashed
on the pavement. Behind him, Rio was running frantically. Martin smashed
his hand through the side window, feeling slivers of glass against his
arm. He caught the driver by the throat and, through the sound of the
motor, could hear the dark gurgle under his fingers. There was swearing
and shoving inside, but Martin hurt too much to care. He pushed steadily
against the lower part of the wheel until the machine swerved and tilted
toward the river. It came around in a wide arc, breaking heavily on the
shoulder of the pier. Then Martin heard Rio’s voice and knew that he,
himself, was falling. He turned so that the back of his head would not
strike the paving, and felt the rush of hot blood as his nose and mouth
hit first. Instead of putting him out, it cleared his brain. He lay
quietly, watching Rio swing his fist and then his club. Abstractly, he
watched the other men in the crew go into action against the finks. He
didn’t care....
The gorilla-like sailor with whom he had quarreled, held a bottle as
though it were a club. He was snarling as he pulled a man from the car.
“So it _is_ ye, ye finkified mate! I been lookin for ye!” Martin heard
him say. “I been lookin’ for ye, an’ yer damned long finger ye’ve pointed
at me like a dog! God!—I’ll git that finger now!” he added hoarsely,
bringing the bottle down on the fender of the car until it was split
across. Savagely he threw the mate on the ground, held him by the collar
and stepped on his wrist. Then, separating the man’s forefinger from the
rest of his hand, he brought down the split edge of the bottle sharply
above the middle knuckle.
“Wife—Wife!” cried the mate softly.
The seaman picked up the severed finger, shook it in the man’s face and
flung it on the ground beside him.
“Splice it, Jack! Splice it!” He was cursing the fallen man brokenly.
Martin looked away....
Then he saw the boy whose brother had been killed in Detroit.
“Automobiles,” thought Martin. The boy had no club and was on his back,
fighting desperately with a large man from the car. Martin crawled to his
knees, not feeling his injured arm or his split chin. He stood waveringly
for a moment and got to them just as the man’s broad hand was spearing
the boy’s face. Martin knew that he was falling again, not fighting, as
he reached them; but he dug his teeth into a fleshy neck and held on as
though he were killing a snake, while the body beneath him thrashed and
cried. A hard hand pulled him off. Rio was standing above him.
“It’s over, Martin. We got a car.... Come, men!”
Martin spat out blood and climbed into the automobile along with the
others.
_CHAPTER XXVIII_
Martin went slowly to Roberts’ apartment house, his head lowered. His
right arm was in a sling, the lower part of his mouth was bruised and
split. His nose was swollen. He went up in the elevator to Roberts’ rooms
and rang once. A doctor came out into the hall. For a moment the two men
regarded each other speculatively. Martin saw the blue, introspective
eyes, the strong turn of the chin and the gray hairline, receding deeply
at the temples. The physician saw a young man with a broken, illusive
face.
“I’m Martin Devaud, Doctor. I’m Roberts’ friend. I heard he asked for me.”
“I can see you, Martin,” said the physician kindly, “for I’m Roberts’
friend, too.”
Martin rubbed his cut arm and turned his eyes away.
“You can see? How far?”
The physician shook his head, but did not answer.
“This stroke,” Martin continued. “Is it serious? Is there any time to
help?”
All this while, the doctor had been watching him, noticing his bruised
face and strained expression, his bandaged arm.
“You seem to have been in something of a mix-up, yourself,” the physician
smiled faintly. Then, of a sudden, his face became divisible with the
old, tired pains and the new, sharp ones as balance. “Do you know
Roberts’ condition?” he asked seriously.
“No,” said Martin. “Roberts and I quarreled, and I haven’t seen him
lately.” He ran his hand over his tender chin.
The doctor looked off down the hall, and in his eyes there was now
restraint born of his intimacy with pain.
“He mentions your name continually, Martin,” observed the physician. “The
thought of you seems to make him desperate in the moments of lucidity
which unfortunately attend his madness. And from the strange way he talks
at times, one might think you had had a part in the cause of this grave
illness. But such is not the case. His illness took root years ago.”
One word cried out to Martin.
“‘Madness’?—you say?”
“Yes,” said the physician. “It’s like the putrefaction of albumen. Almost
like the expansion of gasses within a closed chamber. This disintegration
must go on. It’s what we have here.”
Martin felt himself turning sick.
“‘Putrefaction’? Doctor?”
“Yes. Putrefaction of the cerebral mass, that most delicate and most
amazing structure—a powerful gift to man.” The doctor was grave.
“What can I do?” asked Martin, horrified.
In answer, the physician shook his head and Martin knew that all was
futile.
“May I see him?”
Again the doctor regarded Martin thoughtfully. It was as though he
wondered whether this man’s agitated mind could view the spectacle which
was soon to be presented. And Martin, waiting quietly, understood and
respected this professional skepticism. At last, the physician spoke.
“Before you go in, Martin, remember that you are looking at the
demanding, expansive form of paresis. Be careful!”
As Martin entered the bedroom he saw a disorientated face—a deflective
rapport of Roberts with his environment—a clouding of consciousness. And
as he went closer he knew that Roberts had no comprehension of detail
or of situation. Martin felt completely helpless. It seemed to him that
the translucent, attenuated skeleton of the adviser had wrapped its arms
around him, instead of the disease. The sick man’s lips, dry and split,
opened and closed in an effort to speak. The guttural tones reached
Martin’s ears as though from a great distance—the words moving gently,
like a broad leaf without wind.
“Martin! Martin!” Roberts’ expression became clear and defined. The
immobile muscles of his face relaxed. “Martin!” he repeated. “Are you
there?”
In the room was a terrible pressure.
Again he called—“Martin! Martin! Are you there?”
“Yes, Roberts, I’m here.”
The pitiful, decayed mask upon the pillow broke like a free tide. It
spilled in diluted, semi-conscious tears against the linen. Roberts tried
to shake the covers; but his hands stood out perpendicularly from the
sides of his waist. They remained there, insensitive, incoherent, until
Martin took them gently and laid them on the sheet.
Again, momentary consciousness lighted Roberts’ face. Its brightness and
shrewd study shocked Martin more than any act of tension could have done.
“Do you want a confession, dear boy?” called out the sick man. “Do you
want my signature?... Ha, ha!—Ho, ho!—Hee, hee, hee!...” The ghastly
cry reflected from the ceiling. It wasn’t laughter, or hysteria. It was
a lachrymose and untidily folded cry of remorse, torn from the swiftly
hollowing brain cell.
With his left hand Martin raised his own wounded arm to his forehead.
When at last he brought it down, the gauze was wet. In the interim,
bright eyes shone through the window. They were mirthful, smoldering and
amused—the cancerous eyes of birds. Infuriated, Martin crossed the room
and pulled down the blinds. When he turned in the direction of the bed
once more, Roberts’ luminous eyes were parallel with his hand which was
now hanging over the edge of the covers. The constriction of the pupils
was so intense—so minute that the eyes seemed blind. But the expression
was one of gravest interest.
“Come, Martin! Come, Infidelity! You’re my only one. If I don’t look
grotesque enough for a death scene, give me a nightcap. One with white
flaps over the ears and a blue peak—laugh for me, Martin!”
“For God’s sake, Roberts—not now. I’m dying with you.”
There was a sprawling, unintelligible sound from the adviser’s lips, and
then silence. Martin waited, amazed at the clarity of Roberts’ words,
amazed at this strange and powerful mind, still formidable. Again the
adviser looked at him.
“Die?” he asked peevishly. Then more firmly, “No you won’t, darling.
Unhappy men don’t die.... Could you give me your strong, brown arm
without shuddering? It would mean a great deal to me.... I can see your
strong, brown arm where there’s heat and dark, flashing clouds. It’s
peeling a tangerine—cutting a fruit for lips as soft as the flesh in my
spine—oh, wicked!... A dark girl’s belly—the cup for your mouth. Oh,
God, Martin! Your mouth—the stomach—the stench of normalcy. Before that
happens, give me your arm—your clean, brown arm....”
Martin went swiftly to the bed, his eyes flickering as he sank to his
knees. With his good left arm, and hiding the one stripped with bandages,
he lifted the skull-like head until it was level with his own, which had
begun to throb and ache.
“Here is my arm, Roberts. It is your protection and your faith,” he said.
Vapidly Roberts smiled at him.
“My faith—my own true faith.... No one believed, but I knew that you were
mine!... Not even Deane believed.”
“Not even Deane,” repeated Martin, his wounded arm shaking against the
silken counterpane.
Roberts’ eyes were becoming glazed.
“They’d all feel cheap, if they could see us now. Your arms around a
corpse—a corpse that strikes to prove itself!” His thin hand pushed
against Martin’s broken nose, falling again and again on Martin’s face
which failed to recognize the pain. “You love me, though I’m defeated, my
dear boy.” He raised his hand once more, but this time it dropped limply
to the coverlet. Again the torn brain lost all contact, and he wandered,
hesitantly.
“I come before the leisured policies of man. I have these tears,
these positive notes of cruelty. Do you want to know?... Smash the
hidden casket of Carol, and you’ll find the first. He fed himself
with the intolerable dreams of your isolated sanctuary. He cried out
of lips as stale as mine. Our Grail was the same, each futile in its
own pride. Carol, the bucket. Filled with the residue of my hatred.
Murder?—Death?—That’s nothing.... I went to him on a night gray as your
eyes. He desired you. His flesh, quite frantically, cried out. Could I
stand _that_? Could I stand the corned stupidity of his mind after _you_,
most beautiful?... I went to him. Deadly and most honestly I threw the
passionate, leaden stone into the vacuum of his heart.” Roberts spoke
without lips—the ventriloquy of his despair so hurtful and adolescent, so
pitifully gay.
“There is a tear for Rio. I’ve seen him follow you with his eyes—that
rollicking, healthy sailor! That bold adventurer with the Mongoloid eyes.
His bravado is covered with a native strength to hide his shame.” Roberts
chuckled hoarsely. “My sinful innocent—never to have seen the colored
lechery behind his muscles!... Rio—epitome of flesh—carnality in Mother
Goose’s shoes—a bundle of white snow—quite terrified.... I’ve seen his
bleak face, whipped by wind and wave, and so have you. But it takes death
to bring me the knowledge of his simple, frightened passion. Oh!—he will
never fail you, although he doesn’t know why.... Enough of him—enough of
his cautious, boastful gallantry which makes one sick when one is well,
and makes one laugh when one is sick.” Again the adviser hesitated.
Slowly and painfully he turned that he might look at Martin.
“The next tear is for Deane—the one you think you own. You don’t possess
her. You hold an empty vase—the artificial movements, smiles and anguish
of the woman—all of them as brazen as I, when I first met you. I thought
you were the spindle, I the thread. I thought that you were life—an
intoxicating bubble in a heavily filled glass. Deeply and amusedly I
drank, too late to feel the poison.”
“I’ve saved a tear for Drew. He thought that he was strong enough to
escape. But it isn’t ‘escape’ to avoid the thing one loves the most. And
so, _I_ know I had the strength _not_ to escape—and I am happier than
he....
“The last tear is in a vial that I give you. A tear to use when abstract
sorrow’s not enough—a potion you may pour on blistered flesh to lift the
crust of tender skin that each swift-moving piston and fast-spinning
wheel of man can drive and curve before your fond excitement.
“On myself, you didn’t use a tear. Your hands and mind tore my integument
until the bone shows. Watch this!” Roberts, weakened, but fierce, reached
for Martin’s hair. There was a brief silence as Martin, his head bowed
over the bed, felt the momentary spasm of twisted fingers on his scalp.
He did not speak or lift his eyes. As in a dream, he felt the fingers
that had clutched his hair so frightfully, become more feeble. There
was a gentle, automatic patting against his forehead and he heard deep,
horrible sobs....
Roberts put his hands across his eyes.