by Gore Vidal
The two assistants, however, had been in this engine room in all sorts of weather for several years. They sat now under the bright electric lights and read much-handled magazines about Hollywood.
The Chief went aft to his stateroom in the stern. Carefully he wrapped a piece of gauze about his finger and then he tied the ends of the gauze into a neat bow. When he had finished he sat down on his bunk. He had always hated the sight of blood. He closed his eyes and took a deep and shaky breath. His heart was pounding furiously.
The first assistant came into the cabin.
“What’s the matter, Chief?”
“Not a thing.” Duval sat up straight and opened his eyes. “Cut my finger, that’s all. How’s that starboard engine sounding?”
“She sounds O.K., she’s going to be O.K.” The man leaned against the bulkhead. He was stout and red-headed and a good mechanic. He came from Seattle.
“Say, what’s this I hear that there’s going to be a big wind soon? Is that right?”
“I expect so. Evans don’t seem so bothered but the barometer’s gone down low. Going to have a williwaw.”
“It must be blowing hard outside. We been feeling it rock pretty bad but that’s not new on this run. Maybe I ought to go up and take a look.” The assistants seldom left the engine room. Several times they had gone through bad storms and had not known it until later. Even violent pitching and tossing did not alarm them.
“The wind ain’t too bad yet. Blowing maybe sixty, maybe more. It’s not coming from anywhere certain yet. The sea’s big, though.”
“Think we’ll anchor somewhere?”
“I don’t know. That guy Evans never tells us anything and I’m sure not going to ask him anything. Yes, I guess we’ll anchor in Ilak.”
“Well, it won’t be the first time we had to anchor in like that.”
“No, it won’t be the first time.”
Duval fingered the blue and white bedspread his wife had made for him and, fingering it, he thought of Olga. He hoped they would spend more time in the Big Harbor on the trip back.
“What did you do last night?” he asked.
His first assistant shrugged. “I didn’t do so much. Got tight, that’s all.”
“Too bad. Did you see that squarehead Bervick last night?”
“I saw him for a little while. He was in the Anchorage Inn. He was with old Angela. She’s sure a fat woman.”
Duval chuckled. “Serves him right. He was trying to sew up Olga. He wasn’t so smart about it. She’d come running if he didn’t keep bothering her about the others she sees. After all she’s got to make some money, like everybody else.”
“I heard that one before.” His assistant laughed. “She’s a fair looking girl, Olga is.”
“She certainly is.” Duval looked at his finger. He examined the bandage closely to see if the blood was seeping through. He was relieved to see it was not. “Let’s take a look around,” he said.
“O.K., Chief.”
They went back to the engine room. The other assistant was reading his magazine. He sat, teetering his chair with each lunge of the ship. Duval walked between the engines, checking the gauges and listening for trouble. Everything appeared in order. He switched on the hold pumps. When they were in a big sea the hold leaked badly; there was a leak somewhere but no one had ever found it.
Duval was pleased. If anything should happen to the ship now it would be Evans’ fault. The Chief did not like to take the blame for anything and in that he was quite normal.
He glanced at the oiler in the corner. For a moment he wondered if he should get him some ammonia or something because he looked so ill. He decided not to; when you were seasick you liked to be alone.
“Everything looks fine,” he said to his assistants. Then he went aft again to his stateroom, carefully examining his bandage for signs of fresh blood.
iii
The night was dark. Off the port side Martin could barely make out the coastline of Ilak. Since seven-thirty they had been searching for the place where Evans intended to anchor.
Martin stood close to the window. He could hear waves crashing loudly on the near-by shore. The wind was increasing and the sea was becoming larger. He held tightly to the railing, his stomach fell dizzily as they sank into an unusually deep trough.
Evans had taken the wheel himself and the man on watch stood beside him ready to help in case the wheel should get out of control. Bervick stood by the chart table. From time to time he would call out their position.
The wheelhouse was dark except for dimmed lights in the binnacle and over the chart table. Martin could hear the wind howling around the corners of the wheelhouse. It sounded seventy or eighty miles an hour, and this, according to Evans, was just the start.
Martin made a quick dash for the chart table.
“When’ll we get there?” he asked.
Bervick did not look up. “Ten minutes and we should be abeam.”
“What’s that?” Evans asked, his voice pitched high above the wind.
“We’re getting close, that’s all. That inlet you’re looking for. Two miles away, as I figure.”
“Good.” Evans motioned to the man on watch who quickly took the wheel. Then Evans opened a window on the port side. A tremendous roar of wind and breaking water exploded into the wheelhouse. Spray splattered in Evans’ face as he watched the coastline.
Martin and Bervick went over and stood near him. Less than a mile ahead Martin could see a long spit of high rock pointing out into the sea. “That it?” he asked.
Bervick nodded. “Just around the corner there. Nice deep bay.”
“All right,” said Evans, speaking to the man at the wheel. “Bring her to port, five degrees. Ring Stand By, Mate.”
Martin skidded across the deck. He rang the engine room several times on the telegraph. Then he set the markers on Stand By.
They waited for the Chief to answer. Two minutes passed and then the Chief rang back. He was ready.
“Half Speed Ahead,” said Evans.
Martin set the markers on Half Speed. The ship’s vibration changed. Waves which had once crashed against them now lifted the ship easily onto their crests.
Evans turned to Martin.
“Go below and get some of the crew. Be ready to anchor when I give the word. When we get out of the wind you and your men go out on the forward deck and stand by.”
“Right.” Martin went quickly below. The idea of going out on deck in this weather did not appeal to him. Someone had to do it, though.
He gathered two deckhands in the galley. They cursed loudly but he knew they were glad to be anchoring.
Then, the ship having rounded the point, they went outside on the forward deck. Martin was almost thrown off his feet by a gust of wind. Though somewhat protected by the hills, they were not yet completely out of the storm. The wind was cold and penetrating. It chilled him, even through his heavy parka. Water whipped their faces. The deck was dangerously slick and the ship still pitched badly. On hands and knees, their eyes barely open and smarting from the salt, they wormed their way forward to the bow and the anchor winches.
They reached the bow. Martin got to his feet, holding tightly onto the tarpaulin which covered the winch. The other two did the same. Luckily they knew their job so well that he would not have to make himself heard over the sea-thunder.
The deckhands swiftly slipped the tarpaulin off the winch. Martin stood beside the lever which operated the anchor. The other two stood ready to knock the brakes from the chain.
He watched as the ship skirted the teethlike rocks and headed into a small bay. Dark mountains stood large against the sky. The bay itself was less than a mile wide and perhaps a little more than a mile deep. Mountains rimmed it on three sides.
Abruptly the ship stopped pitching. They were out of the wind at last. Inside this bay there was neither wind nor a large sea.
Evans leaned out of the wheelhouse window and waved.
“Let her go,” sa
id Martin.
There was a loud clanging and then the metallic sound of falling chain as the freed anchor dropped into the water. The ship drifted slowly. Evans had stopped the engines.
Patiently Martin waited for the tug which would tell them the anchor was secured in the sea-floor. The ship glided ahead softly, cutting the small waves as it moved shoreward: a slight jolt and the ship stopped; rocking slightly, she began to circle about.
“Anchors holding,” shouted Martin. Evans waved and shut the wheelhouse window. Martin and the deckhands went back to the galley.
Martin stood before the galley range and tried to warm himself. Water had seeped through his shirt to his skin and he was completely wet. He could not remember when he had been so cold. The two men who had been out on deck with him were also shivering.
He slipped off his parka and shirt and then he rubbed himself in front of the stove. His teeth chattered as he began to get warm again.
“Going to be here long, Mate?” asked one of the men.
“We’ll probably leave at dawn. Wind should let up then.”
“Getting better then?”
“Yes,” said Martin, knowing it was not getting better. “Storm should be over by morning.”
“That’s good.” The men talked a while longer. Then they went to the focs’le. In his corner Smitty began to stir. Groaning, he got to his feet and walked over to the range and poured himself some coffee.
“You feel bad?” Martin asked.
“You bet I feel bad.” Smitty walked unsteadily away.
Martin sat down for a moment. He was tired, more tired than usual. Lately it seemed that he was always tired. He wondered if something was wrong with him. Perhaps he should see a doctor and get sent back to the States.
Everything was quiet, he noticed gratefully. It seemed that there had been nothing but noise since they left the Big Harbor that morning.
“Say, Martin.” He turned around and saw Evans standing in the door. “Come on out and help me nest the boom. Somebody didn’t do a very good job when we left.” This remark was meant for him and if he had not been so weary he would have snapped back; the effort, however, was too great.
“Sure, sure,” Martin said.
On the forward deck the wind was direct but not strong. Small waves slapped the sides of the ship. The hills seemed peaceful and only a faraway roar reminded them of the storm.
They stood beside the mast, Evans absently twisting a wet rope. “I’ll go up top,” he said finally. “You let the boom down.” He walked away. A few moments later Evans appeared on top of the wheelhouse.
“Let her down easy,” he shouted.
Martin let the boom descend slowly into place. He had to admire the quickness with which Evans lashed the mast secure.
“O.K.,” said Evans and he disappeared.
Bemused by the quiet, Martin walked back to the stern. He stood a while watching the mountains. He noticed that the side of one sharp peak seemed oddly blurred. It was the snow being ripped off the mountains by the wind. In the daylight it was a wonderful sight.
He walked slowly into the salon. His watch started at midnight. He would sleep on one of the salon benches until then. He was tired.
* * *
A few minutes after twelve Martin was awakened by Evans.
“Your watch,” said Evans. “I’m going to get some sleep. If anything looks bad, get me up.”
“Sea still high outside?”
Evans nodded. His eyes looked sunken, Martin noticed, and his lids were red.
“We’ll leave around sunup if we do leave, that right?”
“That’s right,” said Evans. “We’ll leave in the morning.” They went up to the wheelhouse. Evans went to his cabin. Martin and the men on watch stood silently in the pale light of the wheelhouse. They listened to the sea. “Think the radio will work, Mate?”
“We can find out.” Martin turned the radio on. A blast of static thundered out at them. “I guess not,” said Martin and he turned it off.
He noticed the barometer was still low. He recorded the time and the barometer reading in the logbook.
“I’m going below for a while,” he said.
Outside on deck there was little wind and the dark night was serene. He glanced at the higher mountains; the wind was still violent, for snow was blurring the peaks. He went toward the bow and down into the focs’le.
It was warm inside the focs’le and the lights were burning brightly. Bunks in two tiers lined the bulkheads. Some of the men were sleeping; others sat on their bunks and talked. In the middle of the deck the ship’s dog was licking a bone.
The men who were awake looked up as Martin came down the ladder.
“How’s it going, Mate?”
“Fine. The bulkheads sweating much?”
“I’ll say they are.” The man who spoke brushed his hand over the wood. “Look,” he said. Beads of water clung to his fingers.
“That’s pretty lousy,” said Martin. “At least it’s not cold in here.”
“Well, if it was we’d all be dead. This is the dampest boat I was ever on.” The others agreed. Martin sat down on an empty bunk and looked around. The focs’le was even sloppier than normal. It was, of course, bad most of the time and nothing could be done about it. Evans had tried to do something with no success. He had only made himself unpopular with the men.
Clothes littered the deck and the bunks were unmade. Old shoes and much-gnawed bones had been hidden in the corners by the dog. Martin could see why Evans hated dogs, especially on ships.
None of these things were important now, though. Nothing, except getting out of the storm, was important.
“I wonder how she’s blowing outside?” remarked a deckhand.
“Ought to be hitting a hundred about now,” answered another. “What do you think, Mate?”
“I hope it’s a hundred. If it is that means the storm’ll be over by morning. They don’t last so long, these storms.”
“That’s what I say.”
The men spoke together in low voices. Martin examined the pin-up pictures that plastered the bulkheads. Whenever he thought of his army career he thought of these pictures first. Somehow they almost never changed no matter where he was. These pictures and the radio, those were the two constant things. Occasionally there was no radio but the pictures were always there: half-dressed girls, in mysteriously lighted bedclothes, promising sex.
He thought of the three years he had spent in the army, and, of those years, only a few things stood out in his memory: certain songs that were popular when he had left for overseas, the waiting in line for almost everything....The rest of his army career came to him only as a half-feeling of discomfort.
The dog, he noticed, was chewing his shoe. He grabbed the animal by the muzzle and pushed it away.
He got up. “See you,” he remarked at large and he began to climb the ladder that led to the forward deck.
“See you, Mate.”
Major Barkison sat at a table in the salon, a stack of writing paper in front of him.
“Good evening, sir,” said Martin.
“Good evening. Things seem a bit quieter now.”
“Yes, we’ll be able to get some sleep.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I never thought the sea could get so rough.” The Major contemplated the fountain pen in his hand. “I was,” he confided, “quite sick.”
“I’m sorry. You should have let us know, we’ve got some stuff to take care of that.”
“Have you really? I felt so terrible that I couldn’t get out of my bunk. I’ve never seen such jumping around. Does this sort of thing happen often?”
“Not too often, thank God.”
“It was quite enough.” The Major stroked his bald brow. The veins stood out on his hand. Martin hoped the Major had nothing seriously wrong with him. It was one of Martin’s nightmares that someone should have appendicitis or something like that aboard ship when they would be unable to help. Such things had happened
before on other ships.
“I’ve been doing a little letter writing,” the Major explained, pointing to the papers. “I can really get caught up on a trip like this.”
“Would you like some coffee, Major?”
“Why yes, very much.”
Martin went into the galley and poured two cups from the pot which always sat, warming, on the stove. He brought the cups back into the salon and set them down on the table.
The Major grunted his thanks. They drank the dark and bitter liquid. Martin warmed his hands on the coffee mug. His hands were cold and stiff from climbing the focs’le ladder without gloves.
“Tell me, Mr. Martin,” said the Major finally, “do you feel...I know it’s a tactless question, in fact an unethical question to ask...but do you feel that Mr. Evans is...well, quite capable of handling this situation?”
Martin smiled to himself. “Yes, Major. I have a lot of faith in Evans; when it comes to sailoring he’s one of the best seamen up here.”
“I’m very glad to hear you say that. I should never have asked, of course. But the situation being as it is, well, I thought it best to get your opinion.”
“I quite understand.”
“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.”
