by Don Berry
We had put up enough frames under Sam's guidance that we were pretty confident we could do it alone. I myself felt a certain desire to try out my wings. There was a kind of sneaky satisfaction in going ahead on our own, as I suppose a baby must feel when he takes this first step without the supporting pressure of his mother's hand.
We got Number Twenty up in pretty good shape, though it seemed to take an enormous amount of time; much more than when Sam was there. I don't know why, really; there were as many men working. But we checked and re-checked everything like maniacs. We had already had to remount two frames that didn't satisfy Sam, and he had checked them himself. None of us wanted to risk an imprecision that would bring down his wrath and make us do it all over again.
So I doubt that any frame in the history of shipbuilding has been horned and turned as carefully as our Number Twenty. It made us all very cheerful to see her standing there, even though it was already afternoon when we finished. This one we had done by ourselves. There wasn't so damned much to framing after all; you just had to work careful, work like a shipwright.
"All right," Vaughn said. "Now we're sailin'!"
"Hooraw boys," Thomas said. "Let's get Twenty-one going now."
Vaughn and I were doing the horning together, checking each other so there couldn't be any mistake.
While we waited for Twenty-one we contemplated the beauty of the Ship. Our frames ran six to eight inches in thickness and were around ten inches apart. The effect was that the hull looked almost solid if you squinted your eyes and allowed a little in your mind for the air spaces. We could see her as she would be when the planking was on, a full and graceful whole.
"By god," I said, "for a pack o' farmers we're a pretty damn good bunch of shipwrights."
"I don't believe I ever saw a hull go up any faster,"
Vaughn said contentedly. "And there's been days we haven't worked, neither."
"Yeah, but those days still count," I said.
"No, they don't count. You figure by the number of clays actual work."
"That don't tell you nothin', Vaughn. You got to figure all the time it takes from beginning to end."
"Just the workin' days," Vaughn said definitely.
"That don't make sense. S'pose you work two days and get up three frames. Then you take a year off, then you put up another frame. You only worked three days, right?"
Vaughn frowned. "Yeah, but—"
"But it's took you better'n a year to get up four frames, that's the way you got to figure."
"A year to get up four frames! Hell, we can do that in a few days!"
"Vaughn, god damn you, you ain't listening. That's what the whole trouble with you is, you never damn listen."
"I'm listening, I'm listening. You said a year to put up four frames. Now isn't that just exactly what you said?"
"Yes, but—oh, never mind. Sometimes you're worse'n Thomas, you're so damn butt-head and you never listen?
Vaughn shrugged.
"Anyway," I said. "You never saw a ship built in your life before. How do you know whether this is goin' up fast or not? Maybe some guys get the framing done in a week, for all you know."
"First it takes you a year to get up four frames, and now you get the whole thing done in a week. Listen, Ben, there's something wrong with your mind. You got a mind like a grasshopper."
"You said that before."
"Then why don't you do something about it?"
"Hell, I can't do anything about my mind, you idiot. Anyway, just because you say it don't make it true. And anyway—"
"Hey, you guys!"
We looked around and there stood Twenty-one ready to go, with Thomas and two others holding it and looking impatiently at us.
"You come to work or not'?" Thomas demanded bitterly. "What the hell you talkin' about, anyway?"
"Talkin' about Ben's mind," Vaughn said.
"There ain't all that much to it," Thomas said. "How can you—"
"Listen Thomas, you funny bastard—" I started.
But he had just caught on that he had said something funny and went into hysterics.
"Hel1, he said, gasping for breath, "I mean, a subject like that, you ought to be able to Enish up right quick."
"All right, all right. Come on, we got a ship to build or not.
So Vaughn and I horned it in while Thomas chuckled obscurely at his own wit.
"All right, all right. Come on, we got a ship to build," In conscious imitation of Little Sam's high voice. The frame was blocked into position and Thomas began to bore for the driftbolts in the floor futtock.
"You know," Vaughn said, "Sam tells me they got a regular Wood Borers' Association in the shipyards back East. Them guys don't do nothin' but bore."
"I ain't surprised," I said. "When we get down to the deadwoods and got to have three foot of dead straight bore she's going to take 'a little doin'. It's a regular trade, know how to do that just right."
"Main thing, you can't force your anger," Vaughn confided, as though he'd founded the Wood Borers Association.
The driftbolt was, naturally, the wrong one. A driftbolt has to be two and a half times the length of the pieces it joins. That's the rule, and this was too short by a couple of inches. Finally Thomas scrabbled around and hollered at the blacksmith shop loud enough that the right bolt appeared by magic and we tied down Twenty-one.
"There she is,'boys," Vaughn said majestically. "All right, let's have Twenty-two up here."
"Oh, no," I said, unable to believe my eyes.
"What do you mean, oh, no?" Vaughn said irritably.
"You can see it for your own self, can't you? Come on, boys, let's—"
"God, Vaughn, look!"
He looked, but she was square and trued with the keel.
"What's the matter with you, Ben? You got a mind like a—"
"It's backwards. We put her in backwards?
"—grasshopper. Oh sweet Jesus, we did." He walked over to the frame like a sleepwalker and put his hand on it tentatively, as a man would touch a hot stove.
"The bevel's facin' the wrong way."
We were well back from the midships timber and the frame bevel was quite pronounced. But instead of slanting back toward the stem it slanted forward toward the bow.
"How. could we miss it?" Vaughn kept saying, "how could we miss it?"
"You was so damn busy talkin' about Ben's so-called mind,"`Thomas said.
"You was there all the time, too, Thomas," I told him."
"It ain't my job to place her," Thomas said. . ."I hold and I drill, that's what I do. You guys're the experts about bevels and like that. To hear you talk, anyway."
"All right," Vaughn said dispiritedly. "Let's not argue, let's just take her down and start again. How could we . . ."
So we took her down and then there wasn't enough time to remount her that day because we ran out of light. It gave us a start because it was such a stupid thing to do, such a terrible stupid thing. We were less confident of our solitary ability when we finally got her back in the next morning.
"Listen, one thing we got to agree on," Vaughn said the first thing, before we'd even started work.
"Let's agree to put 'em in frontwards," I said. "That'll solve a whole lot of our problems right there."
"No, listen," Vaughn said intently. He'd obviously given this a lot of thought during the night. "Nobody says anything about this to Sam, all right? Nobody says one word, we fix it and that's all there is to it and Sam don't have to know. All right?"
He didn't have any trouble getting unanimous agreement, and Twenty-one went back in right and we were all relieved when it was done.
"All right, bring up Twenty-two," Vaughn said. "We had a bad start, boys, but that's a good sign. Today we'll really roll, and surprise Sam when he gets back."
"Wait a minute, Vaughn," I said. "Come here a minute." I was studying the model of the Ship, checking position and shape of the next frame.
"What's the trouble?" Vaughn said apprehensively.
"None yet. But look here. We're on Twenty-two, right?"
"Right."
"Well, Twenty-two ain't a vertical frame. Count 'em your own self."
He counted the frames in the model. And I was right. The last frames both fore and aft are not vertical with the keel, but incline forward or back. Twenty-two was the first of the inclined frames aft, and it had to slant back toward the sternpost, just a little. After Twenty-two each frame slanted a bit more until the very last, the fashion timber, had to be canted so it just came to the end of the main transom.
"Wel1, that just means we're really movin'," Vaughn muttered. "All right, boys," he addressed the crew.
"We've finished up the squares and we're going to start on the cant-timbers now."
"Yeah, but how?" I said.
"There must be another angle board to true the cant-timbers," Vaughn said hopefully.
"Sure. But where?"
Vaughn poked around in the piles of scrap lumber and found half a dozen triangular shapes, any of which might or might not have served to indicate an angle for one of the cant-timbers. He suspiciously examined each one, turning it over and over in his hands. Then he dropped
them all disconsolately in a pile.
"Listen, did he say anything about having the angle boards for the cant-timbers made?"
Nobody remembered if he had or not. Every day we were so busy with the day's work there was no chance to think about what came next, what would be required for it, and whether or not it was prepared. When the time came everything was ready, always. When a new gauge or angle was necessary, Sam had it. He took care of things like that:
"It's in Sam's head," Thomas said morosely. "Like ever' other goddam thing about this ship."
And he was right, of course. Without Little Sam we had accomplished only one day's work, and done that wrong. The second day we couldn't even start, couldn't even pick up a tool. In spite of the model, in spite of the frames, in spite of the work, there was no such thing as the Ship. She existed—really existed—only in Sam's head. The rest of it was merely a hint, a handy reminder of the dream.
"Well—I guess we may as well face it," Vaughn said.
"Without Sam we don't amount to a whole hell of a lot."
"That's about it."
"What the hell's he doin' Outside, anyway`?" somebody asked irritably. "He belongs here with the Ship."
"Well," Vaughn said with finality, "there's nothing for it. We'll quit for the day and maybe he'll be back tomorrow. He can't stay away from her very long."
In fact it seemed totally bewildering that he should be gone, and silly to boot. There was nothing to do Outside that could interest a man; the Ship was here. But gone he was, and we dragged off home though it wasn't even eight o'clock in the morning yet. A whole damn day stretched endlessly ahead of us. I didn't know what to do. It had been so long since I'd had to decide what to do with my time I'd forgotten how to do it. You got up and you went to work and that was all there was to it. Having to make a decision about spending my energy seemed a completely new experience to me.
What I finally did was, I sat on my doorstep in the morning and I took a nap in the afternoon by the Ship, and cursed the emptiness of such an absurd and useless day and hoped Sam would get back soon.
2
I had lazed around so much during the day that I was exhausted by nightfall, and went to bed just after dark. I slept so thunderous heavy all night I could hardly wake up when Indian Jim came around in the early light, pushing and hauling at my shoulder.
"What—what's it?" I said, sitting up and untangling my blanket. My eyes felt puffy and heavy from all the unaccustomed sleep. I glanced up at the silhouette of the frames against the lightening sky and marveled all over again at home.
Jim tugged at my shoulder. "You come, you come quick."
"All right, all right, don't push at me so." I hauled on my pants clumsily and reached for my boots. I have a trouble, which is that when I first wake I am a little bit simple. I liked to spend those first drifty moments looking at the Ship, and Jim's insistence was annoying. It finally occurred to me to ask why I had to come. As usual I had been doing as I was told, on the assumption that anyone who could talk was in a better position than I to know what I should do.
"Bad. Very bad. Hiyu cultus."
"Yeah, but what?"
"Tenas Sam is come back. With all the Boston soldiers. They say they going to kill us all."
I knew then it was just a realistic dream, and it relieved me. There was no possible way for the white soldiers to be here, there'd never even been one in the Bay. They had their hands full with the settlers who didn't get along with their Indians.
Still—the chill of the dawn was so distinct it worried me a little. "How many Boston soldiers are there?" I asked Jim.
"Many, many. Two thousand."
It was reasonable enough, for a dream, but Indian Jim might simply have picked the number at random; Indians do not have a very precise idea of such things.
"I get Vaughn and the others," Jim said. "You go on. You not let them kill everybody, all right?"
Jim took off fast for Vaughn's place and I continued down the beach toward the village. After a minute or two I began to run, and by the time I first caught sight of the blue militia caps I was completely awake. Awake and sick with dread.
There were not two thousand, but there were enough. Perhaps twenty, perhaps a few more, I didn't stop to count. And they weren't exactly Boston soldiers. It was the Yam Hill crowd, wearing blue military caps. They were spread negligently in a semicircle around the lodges, rifles on full cock and pointed square at the doors. There was one man in full military uniform and I ran for him. He was talking to another huge bear of fellow whose back was turned to me.
As I ran up, panting, the huge man swung around sharply and lifted his gun. It was Wallace, big dirty beard and all. He relaxed when he saw it was just me and said to the military, "Well, lootenant, here's the Judge right now, just in time for the hollering."
The military stuck out his hand and said deferentially, "Lieutenant Anderson, Judge. Hope you haven't had too hard a time."
"I'm no judge," I said. "Listen, my god, what are you doing here?"
"Say, boy," Wallace said, shoving his big black beard at me. "You never come back with them papers. I was worried s0methin' happen to you."
"Lieutenant, what in god's name are you doing? You'll get us killed?
"Now, Judge, don't worry about a thing," the lieutenant said, very sympathetic. "I know you've been going through hell here, but the situation's in control now. Don't you worry about a thing."
"Hell, no," Wallace said. "We'll take care of ever'thing. Listen guy, I was real worried you'd busted a leg or somethin'." He exploded into his great guttural laughter and the lieutenant looked at him curiously.
"Yeah, you were so worried you hung Estacuga," I said.
"Well, hell. When you didn't come back and didn't come back, we figured as how you was lost or somethin'."
"You took him half an hour after I left."
"`Was that it?" Wallace said with ponderous surprise.
"Don't exactly remember me. Never did have too good sense o' time, you know." He bellowed again. "Listen lootenant, you're going t' love the judge, here, he's a real comical guy."
"Judge," the lieutenant said, "you really should have sent word sooner."
"Word? Word? What are you talking about?"
"You know Oregon's a full-fledged Territory now. The day's past when you have to defend yourself against these red savages all alone. That's what the Army's for. You can call on the government now."
"We never defended ourselves in our lives—"
"I imagine not," the lieutenant said sympathetically.
"Isolated as you are here—it must have been hell, Judge. Believe me, I know these beasts. You should have tried to get word out to us. When we heard the Killamooks had gone on the warpath and were massacreing your people down here, why naturally we cam
e right away. We'll take care of everything? He put his hand on my shoulder. "That's what the Army's for, ]udge, you know that's why you pay taxes and all."
"Warpath? What are you talking about, warpath? And you call this rag-tag bunch of ruffians an Army?"
"Don't worry, Judge, it's all official. These boys are militia. They ain't regular Army but they'll fight and die for this Territory with all their hearts."
I stared at him. I couldn't believe my ears. Here he stood on his own two feet in the middle of Oregon, talking about Indians on the warpath and lighting and dying and probably Old Glory and liberty next.
"Lieutenant, how long you been in this country?"
"Fifteen months," he said proudly. "Got nine to go."
Fifteen months and he still thought he was living in the middle of a newspaper thriller. Or something. I didn't know what kind of world he was living in, but I knew it wasn't the same as mine. Warpath. . .
"Look, Lieutenant, I can't explain everything—listen, we're building a ship here, we can't have any trouble. We just can't!"
"Hell, boy," Wallace said. "That's what us volunteers is here for. In case there should maybe any trouble come up.
"What the hell are you here for? Just tell me, please tel1me."
"Why, we figure to finish up this here little job that we started with Mister Siwash up to home," Wallace said.
"Listen lootenant, you see what I mean he's a real comical guy, the judge? I mean, I think he's got a little bit hysterical from all the fear or somethin'."
"We're here to protect you settlers from the savages," the Lieutenant said. "And to discipline them. You know, so they won't massacre you any more," he added by way of explanation.
"Protect us from what? We don't need protecting, we do fine. Get out of here, you're going to get us all killed!"
"Like I was sayin' to the lootenant I b'lieve you're a little bit hysterical or somethin', Judge. If you guys is in such a deadally danger to get killed, why you need pertectin'. Now ain't that right?"
"Now, ]udge, d0n't worry about a thing. We'll make an example of this man, and you can go ahead and build your boat in peace."
"What man?" I shouted. "That's what I'm asking, what man?"
