Williwaw

by Gore Vidal

  “What’s the new report on the outside?” Evans asked.

  “According to the man over at Weather and the Navy people, you’ll have a ten-foot sea and a thirty-mile wind in gusts from the southwest. That’s as far as the Big Harbor. From there you’ll have to get another forecast.”

  “Pretty good news. No planes flying yet?”

  “No, no planes. Bad weather beyond the Big Harbor, too.” The Captain reached in the coat of his parka and brought out a brown envelope. “Here’s your clearance. You can take her away now. Don’t spend too much time at Arunga. I don’t go for none of that, you know.”

  Evans smiled, “I know,” he said. “We’ll be back in a week.”

  “Fine. Give my love to the Big Harbor girls.”

  “I sure will.”

  “Good sailing then.” The Captain climbed back on the dock. He stood beside his jeep and waited for them to cast off. Several longshoremen stood by their lines on the dock. The Major and the Chaplain came out to watch and Evans went to the wheelhouse. Martin and Bervick were waiting for him there.

  “Cast the bow and spring lines off first. Well drift out, then let go the stern.” He rang the telegraph to the engine room, setting the markers at Stand By. A minute later the engine room rang back. Rather quick for the Chief, he thought. Martin and Bervick went below. Evans could see them, with two deckhands, moving about on deck.

  He opened one of the wheelhouse windows. “Let her go,” he shouted. Quickly they began to pull in the lines. The bow swung out from the dock.

  “Let the stern go, Bervick,” he shouted again from the window. A second later they were free of the dock. Evans rang both engines Slow Ahead. Cautiously he maneuvered the ship away from the dock. Then he rang Full Ahead. He could feel the engines vibrate as the ship shot ahead. She would do twelve knots easily.

  Martin came up to the wheelhouse. His face was flushed from the wind and cold and his nose was running. He sniffed as he spoke.

  “All squared away. Anything you want done?”

  “Nothing I can think of.” Evans kept his eyes fixed on the nets that guarded the narrow neck of the harbor a mile away. He steered with the small electrical steering gear. He preferred it to the larger wooden wheel which he insisted that his crew use: it was more seaman-like.

  “Guess I’ll go to bed then,” said Martin, and he went into his cabin. His watch did not begin until noon.

  The door opened again and one of the men on Evans’ watch entered. He took the wheel and Evans gave him the course from memory. He knew the courses to the Big Harbor by heart.

  Ahead he could see the entrance to the nets. He rang Slow Speed as they went through them. The Navy detachment on the near-by point always watched the boats as they passed through, making sure that they were at least at half speed.

  Five minutes later they were abeam Andrefski point. The sky was still gray and he could feel the swell of the waves increase beneath them. In a few minutes he would be able to tell how rough the trip would be. He rang Full Speed again.

  Bervick came into the wheelhouse. “How’s it look to you?” he asked.

  “Fair so far,” answered Evans. They both looked through the windows at the waves crashing whitely on the black rocks of the point. A haze hung in the air and the wind was not strong or direct. Then they swung around the point and into the open sea. The ship rocked back and forth as she dipped between the swells.

  “Just about a ten-foot sea,” remarked Bervick.

  Evans nodded. “Looks like the forecast is going to be right. Sea striking on the port bow but it doesn’t seem so bad. In fact it’s pretty good.”

  “It’ll be a good trip.” Bervick went into his cabin. Evans stood by the window and watched the bare sharp mountains of the island move slowly by.

  “Rather rough, isn’t it?”

  Evans looked around and saw the Major standing beside him. The Major was holding onto the wooden railing beneath the window.

  “A little bit. We’ll make good time, though.”

  “That’s important.” The Major looked old this morning, Evans thought. His sallow face showed the signs of heavy drinking. He would probably be sick and say that he had indigestion.

  The Major squinted at the mountains. “How far off shore are we?” he asked.

  “About two miles. That’s our usual running distance.”

  “It looks closer than that.” He contemplated the shifting water and the stone hills and the steel color of the birdless sky. “It looks very close.”

  “It does,” said Evans. The ship was dipping now from sea-valley to sea-mountain with monotonous regularity. Evans was exhilarated by the ship’s motion. He felt at home now. This was where he belonged. He began to whistle.

  The Major laughed. “I thought that was bad luck—for old mariners to whistle in the wheelhouse.”

  Evans smiled. “I’m not superstitious.”

  “Just an old custom, I suppose. Let’s hope there’s nothing to it.”

  “There isn’t.”

  They were approaching another cape and Evans gave the man at the wheel a new course.

  “Have you been in this business long, Mr. Evans?”

  “Been at sea long? Well, most of my life, since I was sixteen.”

  “Really? It must be fascinating.” The Major spoke without conviction.

  “Yes, it’s been a pretty good deal. Sometimes, though, I wish I’d gone to West Point.” On an impulse he added this, knowing that it would interest the older man. It did.

  “Did you have the opportunity?” he asked.

  “In a way. You see the Congressman from our district was a good friend of my uncle who was married to my mother’s sister, and I think he could have swung it. I know I used to think about it, but I went to sea instead.”

  “You made a great mistake,” said the Major sadly, “a very great mistake.” He looked out the window as if to behold the proof of the mistake in the rolling sea. Mechanically he made his profile appear hawk-like and military...like Wellington. Evans smiled to himself. He had seen a little of the regular army people and he thought them all alike. To parade around in uniform and live on an uncomfortable army post, to play poker and gossip; that was all of the world to them, he thought. The life wasn’t bad, of course, but one was not one’s own boss and there was not, naturally, the sea. The life seemed dull to him.

  “I suppose it was a mistake,” said Evans, knowing it was not.

  The Major sighed, “I can’t say that I care very much for the water.” His face was drawn and tired and there were grayish pouches under his eyes.

  “It’s something you have to have in you, I guess. With me it was being a sailor or a farmer. Farming was hard work and so I got to be a sailor.”

  “Sometimes one shouldn’t run away from the hard things,” said Major Barkison tightly. “The easy way is not always the best way,” he added with infinite wisdom.

  “I guess you’re right at that.”

  “Well, I think I shall go downstairs now.” The Major walked unsteadily across the rocking wheelhouse deck. He opened the door and went below.

  “Quite a guy, the Major,” the man at the wheel remarked.

  “Yes, he seems to be O.K. At least he’s not chicken like some of the ones we’ve carried.”

  “No, he seems to be a good guy.”

  Evans looked out the window. The weather was consistent. The wind was blowing around twenty miles an hour. There was a thick snow flurry a few miles ahead. He would go by the clock through the snow.

  The wheelhouse was quiet. From other parts of the ship he could hear voices, and from the galley came the occasional sounds of breaking china.

  The clock struck three bells. Snow began to splatter on the window glass and whiten the decks. He could see only a few yards ahead. The sea had gotten no rougher, though, and the wind was dying down. He looked out into the whiteness and thought of nothing.

  Martin came out of his cabin. “How’s it going?” he asked.

&nbs
p; “Pretty good. Some snow just came up. We’ll be off Point Kada in five minutes.”

  “That’s good time. Want me to take over for a while?”

  Evans was surprised. Martin usually slept until his watch began at noon. It was unusual for him to be helpful. “Sure. Fine. Thanks,” he said, and he went below.

  The cook was swearing at the stove. The pots slid dangerously back and forth over the stove. Evans passed quickly through the galley.

  In the salon the Chaplain and the young Lieutenant sat. There was an open book on the Chaplain’s lap, but he did not seem to have been reading. He appeared ill. Lieutenant Hodges on the other hand was enjoying himself. He was watching the waves hit against the stern.

  The salon was lighted by one electric bulb. Everything looked shapeless in the sickly light: the rack where the tattered library of the ship was kept, the wooden chairs piled on the two tables, the two men sitting in one corner, all this looked gloomy and strange to him. He flipped on another light and the place became cheerful.

  “Quite unpleasant, isn’t this?” Chaplain O’Mahoney remarked. He closed the book on his lap.

  “Beginning to feel it?”

  “Oh my no, certainly not. I’ve been sitting here reading. I feel very well.”

  “Where’s the Major?”

  Lieutenant Hodges answered, “He’s asleep in his stateroom. I think he’s pretty tired after last night.”

  “So I gather. You went home early, didn’t you, Chaplain?”

  “Yes, yes, I had to get my eight hours, you know,” he said lightly. “I had so many things to do before our departure.”

  Evans turned toward the galley. “Hey, Smitty!” he shouted. “When you going to have chow?”

  “In about a hour.”

  “See you then.” Evans nodded to the two men and went back to the wheelhouse. Martin was looking out the window and singing softly to himself. Evans stood beside him. They watched the snow swirling over the water; they watched for signs of change. That’s all this business was, thought Evans. Watching the sea and guessing what it might do next. The mist was thinning, he noticed. He could make out a familiar cape ahead of them. They were on course.

  “How’s your buddy, the Major?” asked Martin.

  “He’s in his sack.”

  “I thought he was up here for a while.”

  “He was.”

  “I guess you’ll make Chief Warrant now.”

  Evans flushed, “That’s your department, polishing the brass.”

  “You do it so much better.” Martin chuckled. Evans bit his lip. He knew that Martin often tried to irritate him and he did not like it when he succeeded. He turned away from him. The man at the wheel had been listening and was grinning.

  Evans looked at the compass without seeing the numbers. “Keep to your course.”

  “But I am on course,” the man said righteously.

  Evans grunted. Martin walked away from the window and back into his cabin. Evans cursed slightly. Then, relieved, he stood, looking out the port window, his arms and legs braced as the ship plunged from wave to wave, slanting the wheelhouse deck.

  At five bells Smitty shouted that chow was ready.

  Evans went into the mates’ cabin. Both were asleep. He shook Bervick, who was in the top bunk.

  “Lunch. You’d better get up.” Bervick groaned and Martin rolled out of the lower bunk.

  “You take over,” Evans said, speaking to Martin. “You can eat when I get back. I’ll take part of your watch for you.” He went below.

  The crew was using the galley table. The officers and passengers used one of the salon tables. The three passengers were walking about aimlessly.

  “All ready for some of our wonderful hash?” Evans spoke the words gaily, but even to his own ears they sounded flat. He did not have Martin’s light touch with words.

  “I feel quite hungry,” said the Major, rubbing his hands together briskly.

  “I seem to have no appetite,” said the Chaplain sadly. They sat down at the table. The Major on Evans’ right, the Chaplain on his left. Hodges sat next to Duval, who had come up from the engine room.

  “Engines running smoothly, Chief?” Evans asked.

  Duval beamed, “They’ve never been better. We’re making good time.”

  “Good.” Evans helped himself to the hash. It looked pale and unnourishing. The Major frowned.

  “This is that new canned ration, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. We have this when we’re traveling. It’s usually too rough to have anything else fixed.”

  “I see.” The Major took some. The Chaplain decided that he was not hungry at all.

  “You had better have some crackers,” Evans remarked. The Chaplain refused with a weary smile.

  There was little conversation. Bervick and the Chief disagreed on the expected time of arrival. For a moment Evans was afraid they would begin an involved argument. Luckily they had enough sense not to. Evans wondered why people could never get along with each other. Of course living in too close quarters for a long time had a lot to do with it. On these boats people saw too much of one another.

  After lunch Evans went back to the wheelhouse. Silently he relieved Martin who went below. There was another snow flurry ahead. It looked as if the rest of the trip would be by the clock. Evans watched the water and waited for the snow to come.

  At noon Martin returned.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  Evans studied the pale snow-blurred coast. “Almost abeam Crown rock. We’ll be in the Big Harbor in about two hours. Don’t get any closer to shore than we are and wake me up when you think you’re near the nets.”

  “O.K.” Martin checked the compass and the logbook and then he stood by the window and looked out. Evans went into his cabin and stretched out on his bunk. The rocking of the boat he found soothing. He slept.

  * * *

  “We’re about two miles from the nets,” said Martin, when Evans came back into the wheelhouse. Outside the snow was thick and they could see nothing but a blinding whiteness. The outline of the shore was gone. Evans checked the time and the chart. He figured that they were less than two miles from the entrance buoy. In another ten minutes they should be able to see the nets. He rang Stand By. Martin went below and Evans waited for a thinning of the snow.

  At last it came. Dimly he could see the great black mass of mountain that marked the entrance to the Big Harbor. He felt much better seeing this. He had never lost a ship in the fog or snow, but he knew that far better sailors than he had gone on the rocks in similar weather.

  He directed the man at the wheel to pull in closer to shore. Just ahead of him, only somewhat hazed by the thinning snow, he could make out a red buoy off his starboard bow. Beyond this buoy were the nets. He rang for Half Speed. On the deck below he could see the Major standing in the wind. The Major thought Evans looked quite nautical, as he gazed sternly into the snow. Spray splashing over the bow sent him quickly to cover.

  At Slow Speed, Evans glided the ship between the nets. For five minutes they vibrated slowly ahead. Then, in the near distance, he suddenly saw the spires of the old Russian church, rising above the native village.

  To the right of the village were the docks. Evans took the wheel himself and the ship moved slowly around the harbors only reef. With a quick spin of the wheel Evans took the ship in closer to shore. The water was deep up to within a few feet of the black abbreviated beach. A hundred yards ahead of them were the docks.

  Two deckhands stood on the bow and attached heaving lines to the bow and spring lines. Martin stood by the anchor winch, his eyes on the dock where they would tie up. No other ships were on the face of this dock. They would have it to themselves.

  Evans stopped both engines. They drifted ahead. The wind was off their port bow, which was good. He pointed the bow toward the center of the dock and then he waited.

  Ten feet from the dock he began to swing the bow away from shore. He swore loudly as the ship turned too slow
ly. He had mistimed the speed. Quickly he gave the off shore engine Slow Astern. The bow pulled out more quickly, while the stern swung in. They hit lightly against the pilings. A man on shore had already taken their spring line. Evans stopped the off shore engine and waited to see if the lines were under control. They were and he rang off the engine room. The landing had been good. His heart was fluttering, he noticed, and the sweat trickled down his left side. These landings were a strain.

  ii

  Martin was in his bunk; handling the lines had tired him. His eyes were shut but he was not asleep. He listened to Bervick moving about the cabin. “Going up town?” he asked.

  “That’s right.” Bervick adjusted his cap.

  “You going to see Olga?”

  “I might. Haven’t had much to do with her lately.”

  “That’s right, you haven’t.”

  Bervick pulled on his parka. Thinking of Olga excited him. He still liked her, and the thought of the Chief with her, bothered him. The Chief would not be with her tonight; for some reason he was sure of that. Tonight was his night.

  “I’ll be seeing you,” he sa>d to Martin, and he went out onto the forward deck.

  The tide was going out and the wheelhouse was now level with the dock. With an effort he pulled himself up to the dock. To his left was the native village and to his right were more docks and warehouses. Men from the various boats walked about on shore, dim figures in the twilight. Pale blue smoke circled up from the galley smokestacks. There was a smell of cooking, of supper, in the cool air. Bervick turned and walked into the village.

  The main street of the settlement curved parallel with the beach for half a mile. Most of the houses were on this street. Bars and restaurants and one theater, all wooden, also lined the street. The buildings had been painted white originally; they were many weathered shades of gray, now. On a small hill, behind two bars and a former brothel, the old Russian Orthodox church rose straightly against the evening. Its two onion-shaped cupolas were painted green; the rest of the church was an almost new white.