Pete returned in the dinghy with the nigger, with his hat on. He was sullen and uncommunicative, but he had stopped saying Jesus Christ. The Captain came out of his hole and looked at him, but said nothing, and with another hand the sacks moved faster, and when the nigger made his second trip out to the vessel, I had Pete for company. He worked well enough, as though his meditation on board after we left had imbued him with the necessity of getting the job done, but he spoke only once. That was when he and I got a little off the track and blundered into the cattle again.
“What the hell’s that?” he said, and I knew there was a gun in his hand.
“Just some wild cattle,” I said.
“Jesus Christ,” Pete said, and then he paraphrased the nigger unawares: “No wonder they’re wild.”
Back and forth we went between the sibilant and ceaseless cavern and the beach, until at last Pete and the Captain and I stood again together on the beach waiting for the dinghy to return. Though I had not seen him moving, Orion was down beyond the high pines and the moon was gone. The dinghy came back and we went on board, and in the dark hold stinking of bilge and of fish and of what other nameless avatars through which the vessel had passed, we hauled and shifted cargo until it was stacked and battened down to the Captain’s notion. He flicked the torch upon his watch.
“Three oclock,” he said, the first word he had spoken since he quit cursing Pete yesterday. “We’ll sleep till sunup.”
Pete and I went forward and lay again on the mattress. I heard Pete go to sleep, but for a long while I was too tired to sleep, although I could hear the nigger snoring in the galley, where he had made his bed after that infatuated conviction of his race that fresh air may be slept in only at the gravest peril. My back and arms and loins ached, and whenever I closed my eyes it seemed immediately that I was struggling through sand that shifted and shifted under me with patient derision, and that I still heard the dark high breath of the sea in the pines.
Out of this sound another sound grew, mounted swiftly, and I raised my head and watched a red navigating light and that pale wing of water that seemed to have a quality of luminousness of its own, stand up and pass and fade, and I thought of Conrad’s centaur, the half man, half tugboat, charging up and down river in the same higheared, myopic haste, purposeful but without destination, oblivious to all save what was immediately in its path, and to that a dire and violent menace. Then it was gone, the sound too died away, and I lay back again while my muscles jerked and twitched to the fading echo of the old striving and the Hush Hush of the sea in my ears.
Once Aboard the Lugger (II)
We were still working on the pump when daylight came. The nigger fetched us coffee, which we drank without stopping. After a while I heard Pete topside. He came and peered down the companion, with his slanted straw hat and his yellow eyes. Pete was Joe’s brother. Joe owned the boat. Then Pete went away. A moment later I could hear his heels thumping against the hull amidships. The exhaust pipe was still hot. It was touchy business, working around it.
All of a sudden I didn’t hear Pete’s heels anymore. At that moment the nigger thrust his head around the galley bulkhead.
“Boat,” he whispered. The Captain and I, stooping, looked at one another, and in that silence we could hear the engine; a real engine, not a kicker like ours. It sounded like an aeroplane at half speed. The Captain whispered:
“What boat?”
“Big half-decker. Cant see but two men in her. Coming up fast.” The nigger went away.
We looked at one another, listening to the boat. It came up fast. Then she shut off, and it seemed to me that I could hear the water under her stem. Then Pete spoke.
“Have we got any what?”
I could hear the voice, but not the words.
Pete spoke again. “Fish-bait? What do I want with fish-bait? This is a private yacht. Gloria Swanson and Tex Rickard are down stairs eating breakfast.”
The engine went on again, then ceased, as if they were jockeying her alongside. The Captain climbed onto the engine and looked through the port.
I could hear the words this time.
“Who’re you? Admiral Dewey?”
A second voice, a flat Alabama voice, said, “Shet up. Keep a-settin where you air, bud,” it said.
The Captain climbed down. He leaned his bearded whisper. “Has that bastard got a gun?”
“Had one last night,” I whispered. The Captain cursed in a whisper. We leaned over the engine.
“Who else you got there?” the Alabama voice said. “Shove her over closer, Ed. I dont aim to git wet no more this mawnin.”
“What do you want to know for?” Pete said.
“You sit still and you’ll see,” the first voice said. It was a high voice, like a choir boy’s. “You’ll see so much you’ll think you’re Houdini,” it said.
“Shet up,” the flat voice said. The nigger thrust his head around the door. He spoke in a still whisper, like the words were shaped in silence, without breath or sound.
“They got us. What I do?”
“Go up where they can see you and get out of the way and stay there,” the Captain whispered. The nigger’s head went away. We could hear his bare feet hissing on the companion. Then the flat voice said, “There’s a nigger” and then it sounded like someone had slammed a door, hard, in an empty house. It was like we could hear the reverberation going among the empty rooms until it ceased. Then we could hear a slow scraping against the deckhouse, and something tumbled slowly down the companion. It went slowly, like it was picking its way between falls. Then I jerked my hand away from the exhaust pipe. I was thinking, I’ll have to find the soda myself, now.
Pete began cursing. His voice sounded like he was balanced on a girder or a beam.
“What the hell did you do that for?” the high voice shrieked.
“Cant stand a damn nigger,” the flat voice said. “Never could. Set still, bud. Shove her over, Ed.” Pete was cursing.
“Well, what did you do it for?” the high voice said. “Who do you think you are, anyway?”
“Shet up, dope. You set still, bud,” the flat voice said. “He’ll be a-guttin you with that pistol.”
“Why cant he move, if he wants?” the high voice said. “Go on, Houdini. Move.”
“Set still, bud,” the flat voice said. “He wont hurt you if you behave yoself. Let him alone now, hophead. Grab a holt, there.”
“Who you calling hophead?” the high voice said.
“All right, all right; I warn’t, then.” Pete was still cursing. He sounded like he was about to cry. I kept thinking about the soda. I was thinking, I’ll ask him. When he comes down, I’ll ask him. “Shet up, bud,” the flat voice said. “That dont sound nice. Hurry up with that-ere rope. We aint got all day.”
“Calling me a hophead,” the high voice said.
“Shet up,” the flat voice said. “You want I taken a wipe at yo haid with this-hyer gun bar’l? Hold her, now.” The hulls jarred, scraped; a wash slapped us. Pete was still cursing. “Aint you ’shamed, cussin like that?” the flat voice said, then all of a sudden Pete’s voice was cut off; his heels banged once against the hull, then something thumped against the deckhouse and we heard feet on the deck.
“Watch yourself,” the Captain whispered. He went to the companion. Across the Sound I could see a low smudge of mainland, then a man was standing against it, with a shotgun.
“Hyer you air,” he said. “Come out.”
“All right,” the Captain said. “Turn that thing away. I aint got a gun.”
“You aint?” the man said. He stood aside. The Captain mounted. His upper body passed from view, his legs still climbing. “That’s too bad,” the man said. He grunted, like a nigger swinging an axe. The Captain lunged forward. His feet slipped off the step and his legs stuck back into the cuddy, still climbing, then they shot forward. Just before his feet disappeared his legs made a little concerted jerk and quit climbing. I found that I was still holding the pump, and
I was thinking that maybe we didn’t have any soda and wondering if you could cook without soda. I could hear them breaking out the forward hatch. The man looked down again.
“Come out,” he said. I started up the steps and stumbled to my knees, the pump clattering on the steps.
“Leave it where it lays,” the man said.
“It’s the pump,” I said.
“Yeuh?” I got up. He had red hair and a long red face. His eyes were china-colored. “Well, I’ll be dawg, ef hyer aint another boy scout. Whut you doin way out hyer?”
“Fixing the pump,” I said. “It got clogged up.”
“I be dawg ef hyer aint a business now, where they got to draft chillen into it. Aint you skeered somebody’ll tell yo maw on you?”
“You want me to come out?” I said.
“You better stay where you air, I reckon. G’awn and fix yo pump, so you kin git home. Wait. Turn yo backside around.” I turned around. “I reckon you aint fool enough to go pullin no gun, noways, air you?”
“No,” I said.
“Go ahead,” he said. I felt for the pump. He squatted in the door, the shotgun across his knees. It was a sawed-off gun, like mail messengers use. I found the pump. “That’s the best way,” he said. “Jest ack sensible. If you haint no gun, all you risks is knockin over the haid.” I fitted the pump on.
“I burned my hand pretty bad a while ago,” I said.
“Yeuh? Put a little sody and butter on it.”
“I cant. You killed the cook.”
“Yeuh? Well, he never had no business out hyer. Place fer a nigger’s behind a plow.” I fitted the pump on. I could hear them in the hold and on the deck forward. The smell of the engine was beginning to make me sweat a little. I could smell where the nigger had slept last night, and another smell, as if they had broken some of the bottles. The man with the high voice was talking forward, then he came through the galley and stuck his head in the cuddy—a wop in a dirty cap and a green silk shirt without a collar. There was a diamond stud in the front of it, and he had an automatic in his hand. He looked at me.
“What about this one?” he said.
“Nothing,” the other said. “Git on back there and git that stuff out.” I fitted the pump.
“Call me a hophead, will you?” the wop said. “Who do you think you are, anyway?”
“Git on back there and git that stuff out,” the other said. I could feel the wop looking at the back of my head.
“What do you think about it?” he said.
“Nothing,” I said. I fitted the pump.
“Did you hyer me?” the man on deck said. “Git on back there and put that gun away.” The wop went away. “I got durn near as much time fer a nigger as I have fer a durn dope,” the man in the door said.
I looked at the pump. “I’ve been trying to put it on upside down,” I said.
“Yeuh?” he said. A voice said something forward and topside. He rose on his haunches and looked across the deckhouse. “Bring him back hyer,” he said. They came along the deck, then I saw Pete’s legs. “Hyer’s yo pardner needin help,” the man with the shotgun said, rising. “Now you git down there and see ef you caint behave.” He shoved Pete down the companion. Pete had lost his hat. His hair was mussed and there was a wild, dazed look on his face. He came down the steps like he was drunk and blundered against the wall and leaned there.
“They put you out?” I said.
He cursed, whimpering. “I never had a chance. I left my gun in my coat, and they jumped me so quick.… I kept telling Joe they were going to take us, some day. I kept telling—” he cursed, like he was fixing to cry. The wop came around the bulkhead, with his pistol.
“You aint done yet, air you?” the man on deck said.
“Calling me a hophead,” the wop said. Then he saw Pete. “Well, well, here’s Houdini. Want some more of it, Houdini?”
“Go to hell,” Pete said, without looking back.
“I told you to put that gun up and stay out of here,” the man on deck said.
“Hell with you,” the wop said. “Who do you think you are, anyway? Want some more of it, Houdini?”
“Are you goin to git outen hyer, or am I comin down there and make you?” the man on deck said.
“Make who?” the wop said. They glared at one another.
“One mo yap outen you,” the man in the door said, “and I’ll tell Cap’m about you killin that nigger. I’ll tell the priest—”
“I didn’t!” the wop shrieked, “I didn’t!” He turned toward me, waving the pistol. “You seen it!”
“We was lookin right at you,” the other said. “We all seen you shoot him. Cant you even remember the folks you kill, you durn dope?”
The wop looked from one to the other of us. Pete was leaning against the wall, his back to the wop. The wop was slobbering a little, his whole face sort of jerking and twitching.
“I didn’t,” he whispered. “I didn’t!” he shrieked, then he began to cry. He babbled something in Italian, tears running down his face. His face was dirty, and the tears looked like snail tracks. He crossed himself.
“ ’Taint no time fer prayin now,” the man in the door said. “You reckon God’ll pay any attention to whut you say? Git on outen hyer, you little sawed-off hophead.”
“Hophead?” the wop shrieked. “Son!”
“Son!” the other said. He laid the gun down and swung his legs into the companion.
“Call me a hophead,” the wop screeched, waving the pistol.
“Drop it!” the other said.
“Call me a hophead,” the wop wailed. Pete was looking at him across his shoulder. The wop jerked the pistol down and Pete ducked his head away and the wop jabbed the pistol at him and shot him in the back of the head. It was a heavy Colt’s and it slammed Pete into the wall. The wall slammed him again, like he’d been hit twice, and as he fell again and banged his head on the engine, the other man jumped over him, onto the wop.
The sound of the explosion kept on, slamming back and forth between the walls. It was like the air was full of it, and every time anybody moved, they jarred some more of it down, and I could smell powder and a faint scorching smell.
“Call me a hophead,” the wop was screeching. The other man caught the pistol and wrenched the butt out of the wop’s hand. His finger was still in the trigger guard and he arched his body to ease it, screeching sure enough, until the other tore the pistol free. Then the tall man held him by the front of his shirt and slapped him, rocking his head from side to side. They sounded like pistol shots. Then a voice topside yelled something and the man dragged the wop to the galley door and flung him through it.
“Now,” he said, “git on up there. Show yo face back hyer one mo time and I’ll tear it off.” He came back to the companion and thrust his head out.
Pete was lying with his face against the engine. I could hear water lapping between the two hulls and I smelled scorching hair again, and I stood there waiting to be sick. The man came back.
“Hit’s that-ere cutter,” he said. He lifted Pete away from the engine. I quit smelling scorched hair. “Better come up outen hyer, bud,” the man said. “Come on.” I followed him up the steps, into the breeze. Where it blew on me I could feel myself sweating. Around the corner of the deckhouse the Captain’s feet stuck, his toes flopped over. But what surprised me was that it was still early in the morning. It seemed like it ought to be noon, at least, but the sun hadn’t yet reached the tops of the pines on the island. About two miles inshore I saw the cutter again, rushing along on her rigid white wings like last night, her pennon stiff as a board, and I watched her pass and thought of Conrad’s centaur, the half man, half tugboat charging back and forth in the same high-eared, myopic solitude.
“Gwine to Gulfpo’t,” the man said. “Dance tonight, I reckon.… Hyer, set down and smoke a cigareet. You’ll feel better.” I sat down against the deckhouse, facing the island and he offered me a cigarette, but I turned my face away. “Them durn wops,” he said.
“You jest set hyer. We’ll be done soon.”
I leaned back and shut my eyes, waiting to get sick. My hand smarted, but not very much. I could hear them working back and forth between the two boats. Someone came into the engine room and went forward again, with a lot of slow, bumping sounds. Then the noise forward ceased. I could hear them in their boat now. Feet came around the deckhouse, but I didn’t look up.
“Well, Houdini,” the wop said, “want any more of it?”
“Git in that boat,” the other man said. “Better git that pump fixed and clear outen hyer,” he said. “So long.”
The hulls jarred, scraped. The big engine started, the propeller swished. But I didn’t look around. I sat against the deckhouse, looking at the ragged pines like illcast bronze against the cobalt sky and the blanched scar of beach and the bright green water.
The sound of the engine came back for a long time. But at last it died completely away. A sea eagle swooped balancing into one of the pines and tilted there, the sun glinting on the slow, preening motions of its wings, and I watched it, waiting to get sick.
The Captain came aft, holding onto the deckhouse. His head was bloody. Someone had doused him with a pail, and the blood had streaked down his face like thin paint. He looked at me for a while.
“Got that pump fixed?”
“I dont know. Yes. I’ve got it fixed.”
He went down the companion, slowly. I could hear him below, then he came back with a shirt in his hand and squatted beside me and tore the shirt down the middle.
“Take a turn with this,” he said. I bound up his head. Then we finished connecting the pump and started the engine and went forward. The hatch was open. It reeked horribly. I didn’t look in. We got the anchor up and the Captain squared her away along the island. The breeze freshened with motion, and I leaned against the deckhouse, letting the breeze blow on me where I was sweating.
“Engineer,” the Captain said. I looked back. “See about them fellers in the hold.”
I went to the hatch, but I didn’t look in. I sat down and swung my legs into the hatch, letting the wind blow on me.
Uncollected Stories of William Faulkner Page 43
