by Gore Vidal
Luckily, Martin noticed, they were headed at an angle for the shore. They would not hit for a little while. He looked at Evans and saw that he was vomiting. He had never seen Evans sick before.
The wind, howling more loudly than ever, pushed them almost sideways at the island. The ship’s side was held at a forty-five-degree angle. Once again, as Martin watched, Evans tried to get his hands on the wheel.
He got safely across the deck. Distantly, as though he were only an onlooker, Martin watched Evans struggle with the whirling wheel. Then there was a crash that shook the whole ship and Martin lost his grip on the railing.
He felt surprised, and that was all, as he was flung lightly to the other end of the wheelhouse. There was an explosion in his head and the last thing he saw was the dark blue-green of the bulkhead.
* * *
Duval was sitting in the salon. Major Barkison, the Chaplain and Hodges were playing cards. Smitty was clearing away the lunch.
Duval was about to get up and go to his engine room when the whole ship seemed to turn upside down. He was pinned between the bench and the table.
Across the salon he saw the deck of cards scatter into the air. The Major, who had been sitting in a chair, was thrown heavily on the deck.
Hodges had fallen against one of the bulkheads. He was trying to find something to hold on to.
The Chaplain, like Duval, had been pinned between the bench and the table. His eyes were closed and his face very white. His lips were working quickly.
Slowly the ship righted herself. Duval thought of his engine room. He would have to get back to it. He started to move from behind the table but another gust of wind flattened the ship on the water. He relaxed and waited.
He was surprised at the force of the wind. It must be over a hundred ten miles an hour, he thought. He tried to think calmly. They would, of course, ride it out and then anchor somewhere.
Major Barkison staggered to his table and grasped it firmly. In the galley Duval could hear, even over the roar of the wind, the sound of crashing china. He noticed Smitty in the companionway, his feet braced against the bulkhead.
Hodges ran across the deck and sat down on the bench behind the Chaplain’s table. The Chaplain’s eyes were still closed, his face still pale.
The ship creaked and groaned and shuddered as the wind, almost capsizing her, pressed the port side to the sea.
Duval got to his feet. Holding the table tightly, he went toward the companionway. Then, when he was as close as he could get without letting go of the table, he jumped.
For a second he wondered if he had broken anything. He had tripped over Smitty and had fallen on the deck. He flexed his arms and legs. Nothing seemed to be wrong. Smitty, he could hear, was praying loudly.
Carefully the Chief worked his way down the companionway and into the engine room.
Each assistant was holding onto one of the engines. They were frightened. Duval pointed to the engines and raised his eyebrows in question: were they all right? The two men nodded.
He worked his way, without falling, back to his cabin. Everything that could have been broken was broken. Clothes were scattered over the deck. He sat on his bunk.
For the first time he noticed a pain in his knee. He felt the kneecap. Waves of pain shook him. He wondered if it was cracked and if so what he should do.
A sudden lurch of the ship and he forgot about his knee. He went back to the engine room. His assistants were still standing by.
The oiler who had been sick lay quietly on the deck. He had passed out.
Duval stood close to his first assistant. “No ring yet?” he yelled, pointing to the telegraph.
The man shook his head.
“Stop her O.K.?”
The man nodded.
There was a loud crash. Duval looked around and saw water trickling down the companionway. A porthole must have broken in the salon.
The Chief waited for Evans to ring instructions; he wondered if this was to be the way he would die. He had thought about it often, dying up in the islands. Everyone had thought about it. He had never thought, though, that he would come this close. New Orleans was a much better place to die.
The loud ring of the telegraph startled him. He nodded to his assistants. They spun the mechanism which stopped the engines. This done, the real wait began.
“Where we heading?” the man next to him shouted.
Duval thought a moment. He had not noticed and he did not know. He shook his head.
The same question was in each of their minds: were they heading for the island and the rocks? Those sharp tall rocks, much pounded by the sea.
He cursed himself for not having noticed. Just to know where they were going, without being able to do anything about it, was better than knowing nothing.
From above there came a loud splintering and a crash. He wondered what had happened. He wondered if he should go up on deck, but his knee was bothering him. He might not be able to get back.
The Chief held tightly to the engine as the ship rocked in the wind. He and his assistants waited. That was all they could do.
* * *
Bervick had gone into the focs’le to get the fat cook. Smitty had complained that he could not take care of lunch alone with the ship pitching.
Several men were in the focs’le. The fat cook was asleep in his bunk. Bervick shook him. “Come on and get up. You got to help out in the galley.”
The fat cook yawned and swore. Slowly he hoisted himself out of the bunk. Bervick played with the dog.
“Hey, Bervick,” said one of the men, “anything new going on? We’re jumping around quite a bit. I thought the Skipper said there wasn’t going to be no more storm.”
“Looks like he’s wrong. The sea’s a lot bigger.”
“You’re telling me.”
The fat cook was finally ready. They climbed the ladder to the main deck. Bervick looked out the porthole. He could not believe what he saw. A high hill of gray-black water was sweeping down on them.
“Get down,” he shouted to the cook who was below him on the ladder. They were too late. Both were thrown back into the focs’le.
The lights went out and in the darkness there were shouts from the surprised men. Bervick reached into his pocket and lit a match. Mattresses and blankets had been thrown against the port side. The men were clinging to the bunks. The match went out.
Guided by the pale gray light from the porthole above the ladder, Bervick climbed up again and looked out at the deck. The wind had blown the rigging loose from the mast and the ropes twisted in the air; many of them had been blown out to sea.
The ship was pressed close to the sea on the port side. The wheelhouse slapped the water with each new gust of wind. Waves, higher than he had ever seen before, swept over the decks. Water streamed over him from cracks in the deck.
Then Bervick saw that they were being driven toward the shore. The ship was out of control. No one could control her now.
Wind, almost visible in its strength, struck at the ship. One of the booms became loose. Horrified, Bervick watched it swing back and forth.
Quite easily the boom knocked the signal light off the top of the wheelhouse.
For a moment Bervick considered what his chances were of reaching the wheelhouse in this wind. He dismissed the thought.
There was nothing he could do. If they hit the rocks there was little chance of any of them living. A person might last five minutes in the cold water. But the wind and waves would dash one to pieces faster than that.
He wondered what Evans was doing: probably trying to get control of the ship. When the wind was over a hundred miles an hour there was not much anyone could do but wait. That was what Evans would do. Stop the engines and wait.
The wind became more powerful every minute. The big wind was at its height. Great streams of wind-driven water battered the ship.
A large wave hit across their bow. Bervick stumbled and fell off the ladder. He rolled helplessly in the dark. There w
as a sudden snapping sound, louder than the wind. Then there was a crash. Bervick knew what had happened: the mast had been broken off. In the dark focs’le the dog began to whine.
* * *
The mast was gone.
Evans had seen it splinter as the wind-rushed waves went over the ship.
The man on watch crouched near the wheel. He was trying to hold it, to stop it from spinning. Martin lay unconscious on the deck. As the ship rolled, his limp body skidded back and forth.
Only eight minutes had passed since the williwaw struck. To Evans it seemed as if the wind had been shouting in his ears for hours.
His mind was working quickly, though. He tried to figure what would be the best way to go aground if he got control of the ship. The best thing would be to hit at an angle.
He looked at the approaching shore. Ten minutes, perhaps a little longer: that was all the time he had and the wind was not stopping.
On the rocks the giant waves swirled and tumbled. A white mist rose from the shore, a mist of sea spray hiding the mountains behind the rocks. His stomach fluttered when he saw these rocks, black and sharp, formed in a volcanic time.
He wished Bervick was with him. He even wished that Martin was conscious. His mind raced to many things. He thought of a number of things. They came to him in quick succession, without reason.
Evans wondered if the fire was out in the galley range. If the electric generator was still working. What the ship’s dog, whom he hated, was doing. Whether Duval still had his bandage on his finger and if not what the possibilities of blood poisoning were. He wondered what blood poisoning was like. His mother had died in childbirth; he thought of that.
The deckhand caught at the wheel and held it a moment. Then he had to let go. They could not even lash it secure. The ropes would break.
But the fact that the deckhand had managed to stop the wheel, even for a moment, gave Evans some hope.
Outside the sea was mountainous. Gray waves pushing steeply skyward, made valleys so deep that he could not see sky through the windows.
Evans hopped across the deck and grabbed the wheel. With all his strength he struggled to hold it still. The deckhand helped him hold the wheel. With both of them straining they managed to control the ship.
Ahead of them the shore of Kulak came closer. A long reef of rock curved out into the sea. Inside this curve the sea was quieter. They were running toward the end of the reef. They would strike it on their port bow.
Evans decided quickly to get inside the reef. It was the only thing to do.
“Hard to port,” yelled Evans. The man helped push the wheel inch by inch to the left. Evans slipped but did not fall as a wave struck them. The deck was wet from the water which streamed in under the bulkheads.
Bits of rigging from the now vanished booms clattered on the wheelhouse windows. Luckily the windows had not been broken.
A gust of wind threw the ship into a wave. Both Evans and the deckhand were torn loose from the wheel.
Evans was thrown into the chart table. He gasped. He could not breathe for several moments.
When he had got his breath back, Evans went to the window. Controlling the wheel was out of the question now. But they were inside the reef and that was good.
Evans held tightly to the railing. He watched the shore as they approached it.
Two tall rocks seemed to rush at him. Evans ducked quickly below the windows. They crashed into the rocks.
The noise was the worst thing. Breaking glass, as several windows broke. The almost human groan of the ship as the hull scraped on the rocks. The wind whistling into the wheelhouse and the thundering of water on the shore.
And then there was comparative quiet.
The wind still whistled and the sea was loud but the ship had stopped all motion.
Evans walked across the angled deck, and he was surprised at what he saw. The ship had been wedged between two rocks on the reef. The starboard side was somewhat lower than the port. The sea was deflected by one of the rocks and waves no longer rolled over the deck.
Martin, pale, his nose bleeding, walked unsteadily over to where Evans stood.
“We hit,” he said.
“We hit,” said Evans.
“How long I been out?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“Wait till the storm stops.”
Evans looked about him. The ship was securely wedged between the rocks. There did not seem to be much chance of being shaken loose. Evans shivered. He realized that he was very cold and that the wind was blowing through the two broken starboard windows.
He went into his cabin and put on his parka. His cabin, he noticed, was a tangled heap of clothes and papers and furniture.
He went back into the wheelhouse. “You stay here,” he said to the deckhand. “Don’t do anything. I’ll be below for a while.”
The galley was much the way he had expected it to be. Broken dishes on the deck and food and ashes littering the table and benches. Smitty sat silently amid the wreckage. He did not speak as Evans passed him.
The salon was in better shape: there had been fewer movable articles here. Still, chairs were scattered around in unlikely places and books were heaped on the deck.
Major Barkison sat limply on one of the benches. There were blue bruises on his face. He was flexing his hand carefully as though it hurt him.
Chaplain O’Mahoney sat very stiffly behind the table. His dark hair was in his eyes and sweat trickled down his face. He managed to smile as Evans entered.
Hodges, looking no worse for the storm, was peering out one of the portholes.
“Everyone all right?” Evans asked.
“I believe so,” said the Chaplain. “We three aren’t very damaged.”
“Is it going to sink?” asked the Major, looking up.
“This ship? No, we’re not going to sink. Not today anyway.”
“What happened?” asked Hodges. “What did we hit?”
“Were stuck between two rocks inside a reef. We’ve been lucky.”
“When are you going to get us out of here?” The Major was frightened. They were all frightened but the Major showed it more than the others.
“Just as soon as the wind lets up.”
“Is that long?” asked Hodges.
“I don’t know. There’s a first aid kit in the galley locker.” Evans went down the companionway and into the engine room.
Everything looked normal here. The two assistant engineers were checking their numerous gauges and the Chief was oiling a piece of machinery.
“What the hell did you hit?” asked the Chief. He did not seem bothered by what had happened and this annoyed Evans.
“We hit a rock, that’s what we hit. How are the engines?”
“I think they’re all right. The propellers aren’t touching bottom and you can thank God that they aren’t.”
“Will she be able to go astern?”
“I don’t see why not. Is that what we’re going to do?”
“Yes.”
“When do you want to push off?”
“When the wind stops.”
“We’ll have it ready.”
Evans met Bervick in the salon. Bervick was wet from his dash across the open deck.
“What’s the focs’le doing?” asked Evans. “Leaking?”
“No, we was lucky. We’re hung up just under the bow. We’ve lost our guardrail and that’s about all.”
“Good.” Evans looked through the after door. The sea crashed all around them, the white sea spray formed a cloud about them.
“Should be over soon,” remarked Bervick. “I think it’ll be over soon.”
“Yes, it should be over,” said Evans and he turned and walked back toward the wheelhouse.
iii
Bervick walked on the forward deck.
Since sundown the wind had almost died away. Water rippled about them and the ship creaked as she moved back and forth b
etween the two rocks.
There was only a sharp stump where the mast had been. A few bits of rigging were scattered on the deck; for the most part the deck was clean of all debris.
One of the ventilators was gone and someone had covered up the hole where it had been with a piece of canvas. The other ventilator was slightly bent; otherwise, it was in good shape.
To his left rose the mountains of Kulak. They were like all the other mountains in the islands. The closer one was to them the more impressive they were.
He walked to the railing and leaned over and touched the hard wet rock that shielded them from the last gusts of the wind.
Martin came slowly toward him. He walked unsurely. The knocking he had taken had weakened him.
“Here we are,” he said.
Bervick nodded. “We got real messed up. It’s the dry-dock for us if we get back.”
“Hope we’re sent to Seward. I like Seward.”
“Nice town for Alaska. Maybe we’ll get sent down to Seattle.”
“My luck’s not that good.” Martin leaned over the railing and ran his hand over the shattered guardrail. “You think we’ll get off these rocks all right?”
“I think so. Maybe we knocked a hole in the bottom. If that happened we got no chance.”
“Maybe we didn’t get a hole.”
“That’s the right idea.”
They walked on the deck, looking for damage.
The cover to the anchor winch had blown away; the winch itself was not damaged.
“Let’s go up top,” said Martin. “Evans wants us to check the lifeboats.”
The top of the wheelhouse was much battered. One of the two lifeboats was splintered and useless. Martin laughed.
“Those things aren’t any use anyway, not up here they aren’t.
“Sometimes you can get away.”
“In a lifeboat like that?”
“Sure, it’s been done.”
“I wouldn’t like to do that.”
“Neither would I,” Bervick tested the broken hull of the lifeboat with his hand. The wood creaked under the pressure.
“Let’s go below,” said Martin. “That’s no good any more.”
“I guess you’re right.”
