by Cady, Jack;
"I keep trying to tell you something," Joyce said. "You guys won't listen."
Rodgers whistled a slow march tune, learned, no doubt, at his high school graduation. He fumbled at his shirtfront, a man confusedly caught without a crucifix. Racca moaned, raised his uninjured arm. He pointed forward. His arm trembled, shook, pounded the air. It was galvanic, like Amon's seizure.
Masters looked elfishly at Howard and Wysczknowski. In the red lights his twisted face was leering. He was a man showing off. He was showing what he could do.
"Lamp whipped him for being yellow," Howard said. "He figures Lamp won't do it if he's crazy."
"He's crazy." Wysczknowski sat unmoving, but prepared. "We got enough trouble. Levere has got enough trouble."
Howard, who had not heard about the trapped Brace, listened while Wysczknowski explained.
"Dane is there."
"And Snow. They say we're going to Boston."
Masters leered. He passed a hand in front of Racca's face. He hissed.
"Brace," Racca moaned. Then in clear and somber tones he pontificated. His voice sounded like he was a senator praising soybeans.
"Brace is off the ship," Racca proclaimed. "Brace must stay off the ship."
Masters raised his elfin face into the red light like a satanic worshipper engaged in foul prayer.
"Brace," he hissed. "Jensen."
Racca pointed.
"There they are," said Racca, in the wise and pontifical tones. "Brace and Jensen have returned to the ship. Please do not hurt us, Brace. Please do not hurt us, Jensen."
His pontifical tone faded, he whimpered, choked like a man dying. "Don't touch me—oh there ... there ... there ... they are!"
"There—there—there—they—are!" Masters twirled slowly in the red light, the light chasing after the crevices and lines of Masters's face. He did an eternally slow pirouette. He stopped and faced forward.
"I don't want to go with you," he said. His voice rose in a low shriek. "Leading me, he's leading me, he's come for me ... ." Masters blubbered, wept, recoiled against Racca's bunk. He held to the frame of the bunk. His body was pulled, snatched, pressed backward as if invisible hands were dragging him. His elf face seemed to pull upward into his forehead, the diamond-shaped chin was lost in shadow as he ducked his head. Slobber fell like a sprinkle of blood onto the red, wet deck. Then Masters dived to the deck as if he chased his own blood. He lay flat, and his eyes were wide and unseeing. His slightly bowed arms shook, began to knock toward each other, and he fell forward again and started to writhe and flop as if jolted with electricity. His hands clawed at the deck. Then his body was thrust sharply upward, sideways, flopped back. Masters looked like he was being kicked by invisible feet.
"They've come," moaned Racca.
"Don't—oh—don't—don't—hurt." Masters's body was thrown in the other direction. It was nearly impossible to believe that he was not being kicked.
"Is he puttin' on?"
"I don't know." Howard's voice was awed.
Masters scrabbled about the deck like a crab. Masters vomited bile. Masters's corpselike eyes stared, stared.
Rodgers stood and went to sit in quick companionship beside Joyce. Joyce looked up, jumped, looked forward where the figure of a man slowly rolled out of a bunk. Howard followed Joyce's frightened stare with a frightened stare of his own. He waited for the worst.
The figure was leaned over the bunk, feeling beneath the pad. Hands appeared and the hands were holding a pack of smokes. The figure lit a cigarette, then turned toward the light. Gunner Majors shook himself like a dog shaking down its fur.
"You punks won't let a man sleep," he mourned. "You just keep at it and keep at it. Don't I have enough trouble with wet guns?" He dragged at the cigarette, stepped to the forward bulkhead for a CO2 extinguisher. Masters flopped and slathered and gurgled. He began to make crablike movements toward the ladder. Wysczknowski stood.
Majors flipped the cigarette to the deck, towards Masters's legs.
"We got a fire," Majors said. "You see it there." He spoke in calm tones of disgust. He pointed at the cigarette. Then he stripped the seal of the extinguisher and pulled the pin. He pointed the extinguisher at the deck. Gas exploded with a roar. It boiled, foamed, expanded; even the sea crashing against the hull was cloaked and silenced by the roar. The gas coiled from the deck no more than six feet from Masters's crotch. Frost formed on Masters's boots. Oxygen disappeared. Men put their arms over their faces, sucked hard to breathe.
Majors stopped. He waited for the cold ice mist to dissipate. He viewed his handiwork.
Masters sat up. He held his hands over cold testicles.
"There's just one word for you, Majors," said Masters. "You're a bastard." The elf face was contorted with indignation.
"Bastard," echoed Racca. "Bastard—bastard—bastard—come to save us—"
Majors squeezed the trigger of the fire extinguisher. A burst of gas choked its way toward Masters. Masters flipped over on his face. Then he scrambled to his feet.
"Bastard," Racca moaned. "Oh, save us, bastard, save us."
"Shut up," Masters told Racca. "Before I bust your other arm." He stood beneath the red lights, and, like McClean and Fallon who had stood on the plates, Masters was unmasked. He was only himself, trembling, perhaps doing his best to control compulsions of fear or guilt.
"If I don't get some sleep, I'm gonna die." Majors checked the pressure gauge on the extinguisher, thinking, perhaps, that he would have to alibi to get it recharged.
"Climb into your sack," Majors told Masters, "or do I get the handcuffs?"
"He was acting." Wysczknowski shook his head in pure wonderment. "It was an act."
"We'll know when we get to Boston." Howard turned to Majors. "He really under arrest?"
"I'm master at arms, and I need sleep—so, yeah, he's under arrest." He turned back to Masters. "Get out of that sack for any reason, any, and you get locked in with the hawser."
"You want me to log it?"
"I'll be up there in a minute," Majors said. He turned back to Masters. "If we got us a Jonah, boy, then I know who."
When Howard arrived on the bridge, radioman James leaned against the set like a wisp of paleness and fatigue. His frailty, no matter his protests, would always sooner or later hunt him to ground.
"I'll take it for awhile," said Howard. "I'll call you for important traffic."
"The generator burned on Able," James told him. "That's the only thing we've heard that's new."
"It's history. Lay below."
"I'm okay."
"Nobody said you weren't. Lamp said there was going to be fresh coffee."
"Just the trick. That's just the trick." James read the routine for turning over the watch. He looked out at the flaring lights of Aphrodite.
"If we don't get wind."
"Dane's there."
"Fresh coffee. Just the trick." James disappeared down the ladder like a puff of mist.
Howard checked the radar screen, flicked between ranges, adjusted the set. If a storm was batting around, it was still not on the screen.
The radio blanked as a transmitter opened nearby. The sillysounding voice of a man hollered: "How soon? When? Hurry up. How soon?"
"The guy who owns the boat," said Chappel. "He keeps doing that. Wants to be taken off."
"Remind him of procedure," said Levere. "This time tell him we have the power of arrest."
"I didn't know that, Cap."
"We don't," said Levere. "When we get done with this, you must read up on the law."
The radio blanked, as the transmitter again opened aboard Aphrodite. "Get outta the way," said Glass, "or you get a knuckle sandwich." Glass's voice was tense, either with situation or with the intent to back up a promise. "Cap," said Glass, "we got him loose and he ain't hurt."
Levere sat immobile. Silent and silhouetted like a man finishing a prayer. "Tell Glass to follow procedure," he said. "I want to speak to Aphrodite's master." He slouched in the
captain's chair, and his fatigue, which never showed, now seemed to be pressing him toward the deck. He waited until the radio spoke with the voice of his friend.
"Can you steam, Tom?"
"We can. Slowly."
"I'll leave two men aboard you," said Levere. "Let's head for the barn."
Dane stayed aboard Aphrodite, and Dane kept Brace with him. Aphrodite and Adrian went to Boston, at three knots, where upon arriving, Aphrodite's owner fired Aphrodite's captain and attempted to pick up his master's papers with a charge of incompetency. A carbon of a complaint arrived for Levere. It charged Levere with hazarding life at sea, and it charged Adrian's crew with the theft of a piece of canvas; and, yeoman Howard, with a hard-mouthed determination to track down injustice, discovered that history is rigged so that you can never find out who to kill.
Chapter 20
These are the bars of scollay square, adrift with crud, busted wine bottles, trash, garbage, and huddled lumps of decaying clothing which swaddle passed-out flesh that dries and dies in doorways beneath the benison of those Irish idealists, worn with cocky servitude into creatures of fists: the police.
Streets wind downhill to the moorings where masts cluster like burned forests, and where museum ships bearing proud names and bold history endure fossilized protection; as schoolchildren—and less able tourists—stick chewing gum beneath the rails as they touristly gossip with proprietary smugness of revolutions made by others.
Cutter Able lies burned and scorched in dry dock. Cutter Adrian hangs at the pier, aflash with the quick, hot torches of welders; as workmen rapidly cut, add, patch, and get the thing ready in all respects to return to sea. Cutter Abner, en route to stand by for Able in New Bedford, is apprised that the overdue Seascamp was never lost. A change of plans, unreported, took it to New York where, it is rumored, politely ladled measures of gin and scotch cloud all thought of possible error, even through the longest and darkest hours of night.
"F'I had a deed to all the real estate in this town that I've puked on, I'd be a rich an' happy man."
These bars of Scollay Square. Men take their first drinks and vow to proceed to the yid district where seaman Glass has "connections." The men drink one, drink another against the journey. Through frosted windows they watch dull streets. Yellow stains of nicotine cover the panes to slump with running drops of thaw in spots where hot blasts from chugging ceiling furnaces loosen filth that runs like the yellow track of a portentous, sniffing, leg-raising hound. Women, on their last downhill leg—women born unlucky, or charmed, and certainly born unto ignorance, that one true mark of Cain—the women laugh, go haw-haw; pretend that at some time during their lives they have been happy for longer than fifteen consecutive minutes. Young sailors look at the ham-handed, billy-club-packing bartenders. The sailors rub the lips of beer glasses with the palms of their hands. They pretend to be thinking, as they superstitiously rub beer on the glass in hope of killing germs that pack rare disease.
"Don't get cranked up here," Glass told Brace. "They'll roll you for your socks."
"Why'd we come here, then?"
"It's in every guidebook," Howard told him. "Always visit the Chamber of Commerce first."
"You used to be a funny guy."
"I don't feel funny anymore."
The men drink a third beer, then a fourth, in preparation for the cold trip crosstown.
"I wish I could meet a decent woman."
Howard, who has learned the great secret, and who, after beer, is generous: "Go to a library."
"You yeomen is all alike."
"It's true," said Howard. "Two thirds of all sailors who marry meet their wives in libraries"—a statistical exaggeration by Howard, who, doing correct calculation, would have arrived at only half that figure.
"Makes sense, sorta. Where else can a decent woman be seen talkin' to you?"
The men drink a fifth beer, a sixth.
Brace looked through the windows at the cold streets. He was reluctant to move into that darkness, and the reluctance showed on the once bland face that was now creased here and there with a light wrinkle. He looked around the seamy, grungy, spit-ridden bar. His movements, once quick and inaccurate, were now deliberate. He whirled his flat hat on one finger.
"It's either about something," he said, "or it isn't. I'm going back to the ship."
Howard stood. "I'll come with."
Glass stood. "Me, too. If I did go over that way, I'd probably just run into my folks."
"Because things are changing," said Brace. "Everything is changing."
Some change was abrupt. Racca and Masters left the ship, Racca on a stretcher and Masters escorted by Majors. Three days later, as the first heavy snow swirled between buildings and danced in a northeast declamation along the pier, Racca returned with his arm in a cast. The snow slopped along brick streets where traffic churned dirt, mixing the snow into a cold custard of filth. As the wind increased, and the snow increased, ships along the pier faded. The white bows melted into wind and snow, and the ships became spectral blots of white on white.
Racca smiled, gossiped, grinned. He clowned. He was a juggler of his emotions, a bare adept who managed not to weep. McClean helped pack Racca's gear. Men who did not even like Racca, much, pretended that he would soon return to limited duty, but it was clear that Racca was ashore to stay.
Masters pretended madness, and was believed. The first storm died. The second storm moved in with an immense burden of snow, as if the storm attempted to cloud and hide the shame of the dirty streets. Masters talked and talked and talked; to doctors, and to a legal officer. He accepted a general discharge.
"He got off easy," said Glass. "They could of hung him high."
"This way causes less stink," Howard told him. "Plus, it's cheaper."
"Of course, if he's really crazy ... "
Wysczknowski, dealing a perennial hand of solitaire, shifted uncomfortably. The messdeck, where Brace mopped, was constantly damp with melted snow. The ship was vaguely cold, and frosted breath combined with melted snow to cover bulkheads with a thin glaze of moisture that was not cold enough to freeze, not warm enough to evaporate. "Everybody was crazy," said Wysczknowski. "Masters yellowed out. The crazy part don't matter."
Some of the changes looked good. Fireman Schmidt transferred in from a weather cutter. Schmidt's square kraut head, with its regulation dress blue weather-cutter haircut, bent like a lover in the engine room, and it was clear that Schmidt was going to be okay.
Third engineman Bascomb, with a Georgia accent, transferred in from a buoy snatcher. Bascomb was a lanky, cracker-looking yahoo with a loud mouth who—according to scuttlebutt—got that loud mouth because, where he was raised, it was a far piece between the house and the barn. Men idly worried, watched Bascomb and McClean; were relieved when the two went ashore drinking, to return in a maudlin, foul-mouthed state, because bartenders were prejudiced against southerners.
Other change was subtle, and perhaps it was not change at all. Howard knew that Levere spent too much time in operations. Howard counseled himself with a dozen troubled speculations, chief among them the cold suspicion that either Abner or Adrian would be permanently assigned to New Bedford. Howard kept his silence against the awful day when the news would arrive, but the news did not arrive; and Howard, for two days, was otherwise occupied. When he could finally contrive no good official reason for calling Abner, he dug in his own pockets and looked for a pay phone. He hunched in his peacoat, shivering, frozen because he was ashore in a regulation, dress blues town. He dialed.
"Nobody here is talking," he said to radioman Diamond.
"It happened so fast," Diamond told Howard. "It's snowing hard here."
"We already have it here. Radio says they have it deep up home."
"I know," said Diamond. "I'm the radioman."
Yeoman Wilson, climbing from Abner's small boat to the deck of Able while carrying a medical kit, had grabbed a chain. The chain gave way. Wilson fell backward, struck his head on the gunnel
of the boat, and was dead.
"The hook had rusted," Diamond said. "Somebody tied that thing in place with marlin."
"A bosun's mate, then, or a seaman."
"Try to find out—you can't. Our guys already been that route."
"There's a board of investigation."
"They'll hang the captain," Diamond said, "and probably the chief bosun."
"But who really did it?"
"Try to find out—because no one knows. Maybe not even the guy who did it."
Some change only threatened.
"I want out of this," said Brace. "Where is that guy, Iris?"
Lamp, surrounded by the enormous port of Boston, thus with a surfeit of sinners, stayed aboard. His excellent cooking improved. While the rest of the crew forgot Jensen, and as Racca and Masters vanished more surely than spirits from their places on the messdeck, Lamp attacked the invisible. This time his attack was subtle, in the form of constant small surprises. Men peered suspiciously at silly desserts, at pink cupcakes—at creampuffs—which they licked experimentally, then wolfed. On the cold ship the only warm place was the galley, and steam from Lamp's fires spilled from the galley and clouded the messdeck. Brace mopped, squeegeed, swabbed, could not get rid of water.
"Iris is at the base in South Portland," Howard told Brace. "Waiting for us to get in."
"Quit complaining, sonny," Lamp told Brace. "We got November off. You want to be steaming in that mess out there?"
"Nobody's steaming, anyway."
Which was nearly true. During November, cutter Aaron, of Boston, towed fishing vessel Pearl. Cutter Abner, standby in New Bedford, towed fishing vessel Stella. Two men were reported in the surf at Hampton Beach. Dune pounders searched, recovered no one. As storms swept off the North Atlantic, traffic dropped. Fishermen doubled up their moorings, mended nets.
Brace complained, but his work improved. For the first time, Brace seemed to listen to his own complaint, hear his own voice. The tenor of complaint and voice changed. Brace seemed nearly reasonable; stoic, the victim trapped in a dentist's chair from which, sooner or later, he could step away drilled and patched and forgetful.
"A guy gets tired," he told Howard. "I don't mean the work, I mean the kind of work."
