WARRIORS

by Warriors (retail) (epub)

  Just as the flooding current had pulled their gillnet northward, the ebb would push their next set south. The boats floated firm, anchored in the shallows while the water depth continued to lower around them.

  Suddenly from the deep water on the far seaward side of the bar, the Rosvics’ engine rumbled to within shouting distance. On deck, John called over to Buck, “Thought we ought to tell you, since we have this sideband what come with the new boat—picks up news. Southeaster expected. Heavy blow coming. My boy says suit yourself how you handle it. He and Jones ain’t talking. But he thought you guys without radio ought to know.”

  “Thank you,” Buck called back. He had watched the conflict between their sons and, like John, had declared he’d stay out of it. “Those two boys went to war for their country and earned the right to act on their opinions,” he’d said back at the cannery, and John Rosvic had shrugged agreement. “Guess you heard that, boy?” Buck said to Jones, who was heating coffee water under the forepeak canvas.

  “I heard. Wouldn’t put it past him now to fool us away from a place where there’s fish.”

  Buck shouted the weather warning over to Nick. Their message delivered, the Rosvics’ engine boat had roared off toward the more sheltered windward shore opposite theirs. As the ebb increased, the lowering water made a sucking sound across the sand. Their boat grounded and stopped rocking. Gradually the sand itself surfaced around them as the water line receded. Puddles remained. One held a stranded fish. I’ll jump down and get him when the ground drains more, Jones decided. But as he watched, a seagull landed and pecked at the fish’s eyes. Jones found a piece of broken float on deck and he heaved it squarely into the gull’s side. With a screech the bird lifted from the fish—the eye still in its beak, trailing slime—then settled back down to pecking out the other eye.

  “Son of a bitchin’ gull,” Jones muttered. He threw another piece of float straight at the bird’s head. It missed and instead smacked into the creature’s wing with a shattering crack. The fish’s eye still dangled in its beak as the bird started to limp in circles, its wing dragging a line in the sand. Two other gulls swooped down and started pecking at the forgotten bounty. The fish flapped helplessly in its dying throes. The gull with the broken wing moaned, tried to flap away, then trotted instead in helpless, aimless circles.

  “Son of a bitch anyhow!”

  “Stop fooling around! That bird you hit’s a goner now, boy. Check the anchor line we laid out, if you’ve got nothing better to do.”

  One less eye-picking scavenger suits me, Jones concluded. But he had to force himself to look away.

  Buck looked out over the line of corks that marked their net. It was now set on the ebb in the channel just beyond. Some of the floating corks dipped vigorously with newly snagged fish. A few silvery bodies flapped sluggishly in a piece of net beached by the falling tide.

  “There’s fish here.” Buck commented, considering. “Still, we might want to pull her in early and stay loose if a real blow’s coming.”

  Buck repeated the weather warning to Nick, who shouted back: “You kidding? With best ebb haul this week?”

  “Southeaster’s just going to blow us into the channel,” Buck reasoned. “Long as we don’t slip anchor and let it take us onto the opposite shoal by the land there, we’re okay.” A few minutes later, however, he added, “Still, wouldn’t hurt to get out from between these two flats and to open water if we have time. Don’t want to homestead here if we can help it.”

  Jones spat tobacco juice to clear his throat. A sudden gust carried the drops several feet across the water before they dropped. “Your call. But look at that.” A second gust lasted long enough to kick up small whitecaps. Buck studied the sight, then snapped, “We’re hauling now.”

  The net had soaked barely an hour but it was already weighted with fish. The sleek bodies, still twisting with vigorous life, lumped over the roller slowly no matter how hard they were pulled. By now the wind was steady and increasing.

  “Leave it to have a big haul just when the weather comes down,” grunted Buck. “Pull boy. Like you was a marine again!”

  “Don’t waste your breath.” They kept kicking the net forward as they brought it in, but in their haste the web and fish tangled around their hip boots. They had barely started hauling the second shackle when Jones pointed, shouting, “Look there!”

  Whitecaps tumbled toward them over the open water, higher than the sea beneath them.“Water wall! Go!” Buck shouted across the water to Nick. He kicked free of the net underfoot. “Getting out of here, boy. Help me pull anchor.”

  “Half that shackle’s still in water.”

  “Cut it! No, leave her. She’ll help steady us maybe. But keep your knife handy!” They had barely begun pulling in the anchor line when the wind hit with such force that Jones felt the edges of his mouth blow wide. With a thud, their boat’s keel bumped ground as the incoming water swept out beneath them. They faced bared sand again, with the wall of water building their way.

  Buck tossed back the anchor line. “Too late. Quick with me, boy. Second hook.” He was already freeing the spare anchor. He threw it over to place its line at nearly right angles to the first anchor line, while he snapped, “Do as I say. Lay our boom down the center of the boat. Then come help me with the mast.”

  Jones obeyed without question. Buck wrapped his arms around the mast. “Now grab here and help lift it free.” With Jones balancing, they unseated it. “Now pull off rings and sail. Wrap off the sail down there across the boom—watch your legs, that’s it! Now help turn the whole mast across the gunnels. Steady it while I lash down.” In minutes they had secured the twenty-five-foot mast amidships at right angles to the boat so that several feet of it protruded on each side. “Maybe keep us from rolling over,” Buck declared. “Should!”

  Jones centered the boom down the length of the boat. It left them only tight passage on either side. “Now quick,” Buck continued. “Smooth out the sail all along the boom.” Buck fumbled a hammer and nails from the tool kit, wriggled forward over the canvas-covered boom, and nailed one end of the sail to cover the bow as he called back, “Weight the canvas by your feet however you can. Keeps water from our gear under the bow.”

  Jones was already doing this. “Got it!” Their bow, now roughly covered by the sail, faced the wind. The section of net they hadn’t been able to recover continued capturing fish astern. Across the exposed shallows no more than two hundred feet away, Nick Sandstol and his boat puller Luke continued to bring in their net. Their backs were turned to the growing wind and they were oblivious to the water tumbling toward them.

  “Turn around! Look behind you!” Buck shouted. Nick lifted his head up to indicate a brace of fish bunched at the top of their roller. He glanced over his shoulder, cried out, and raced toward his mast. Buck and Jones didn’t have time to watch further. The wall of water glistened under gray sky. It approached like a living creature through a base of froth. Jones braced himself as Buck shouted, “Hang on to something!”

  The water hit. Their bow reared high. The boat shuddered up against its anchor lines, bounced twice against the sand, then steadied, bobbing afloat. The ends of the mast lashed across their rails, plunging first into the water on one side, and then as the boat rolled, deep into the water on the other side, had kept them from capsizing. Jones and Buck staggered but were still standing, clutching tight to anything firm. As the water caught their net astern, it pulled emptied web back off the roller while the attached floats thumped across deck and back into the waves.

  “You okay there, boy?”

  Jones laughed. “Steady! You?”

  “Steady. Anchor’s held. We’ll ride it okay now. First haul back that net. Don’t need to cut it, but it’s no use letting it pull us. Then we’ll step back the mast, make sail, get to deeper water, and ride this out. You might want to start bailing when you get your legs.”

  Jones was the first to look toward the Sandstol boat. At his sharp cry, Buck looked up
too. Nick’s boat had capsized. Its net, outlined by corks, was dragging astern, slowly drifting past them. Nick and Luke clung to the slick bottom, gripping the only handhold in the slot that seated the centerboard.

  “Shove out the mast!” Buck cried. Jones had already grabbed his knife and was slicing the cords that held the mast across their rails. They nearly capsized themselves as they maneuvered the tip of the cumbersome pole out toward Nick’s boat.

  “My fingers!” screamed Luke from the capsized hull.

  “Hold on anyhow, kid!” Nick bellowed back. A streak of blood trickled from the slot where the centerboard ground up and down on their hands. A wave over the hull splashed blood away and another streak started. The mast end came up a dozen feet short. In the upturned boat, Nick flailed one bloody hand to try and reach it while clinging to the slot with his other.

  “My fingers, ohhh!”

  “I tell you—hold on, Luke!” But with a shout, the kid let go. As he slid off the slippery hull, Nick grabbed at his arm. The kid slipped free. His head disappeared first into the water, then his outstretched arms still thrashing for a hold, then his mangled hands. The hull continued its course downstream—pulled by the strength of the current—leaving whirls of empty water where the kid had dropped.

  “He’s gone, Nick,” Buck cried. “Grab hold of the mast!” Nick pushed himself free of the hull. He swam toward their mast end, but his arms were constricted by the oilskins. His first strokes were focused. Then they became disjointed. Buck had by now lashed a line to a buoy. He heaved it in front of Nick. The wind buckled the line and veered the buoy far from target. The current wove Nick away from both handholds. He raised one arm toward them. Then the water sucked him under.

  Jones had peeled off his oilskin coat and was tugging at his boots.

  “No you don’t,” barked Buck. “Current’ll take you too!”

  “I’m strong!” Jones gripped the rail with one boot off, preparing to jump. Buck knocked him back into the boat with such sudden force that Jones splayed flat on his back. Bilge water stung his eyes, but he scrambled up dripping, ready to fight.

  Neither Luke nor Nick had surfaced. The bare hull had moved further over empty water. A streak of red still stained the centerboard, grinding up and down in its slot until a wave washed it clean.

  “It’s done, boy. We couldn’t do more than we did. Wasn’t going to lose you too. Go make us coffee.” Jones had seen enough death to understand. He ducked his head under the dripping canvas sail and groped for the little primus stove. Marines saw everything bad there was to see, he told himself. Marines don’t cry.

  23

  GOOD RYE WHISKEY

  During the following day they worked their nets by rote, speaking only as necessary, treating each other with caution. Buck sought grounds with a fleet of other boats in deeper water. They stayed at the cusp of the group, but still within sight of it.

  No set came close in abundance to the one they had risked by going dry, but they spent more effort fish by fish to grunt each one aboard and stow it. Neither man wanted to be left idle.

  Next evening, safely anchored in more open water than before and with their net laid to soak, Jones watched ripples reflecting the gray sky. Without a word, the old man had already covered himself and hunched under the bow for a few hours’ sleep between sets. The setting sun, as it dipped below clouds at the horizon, penciled a shaft of red light on the water. The night sky closed around them. Boat lights blinked on—the men aboard wouldn’t have a care but for their next haul of fish.

  The old man might have been right to stop him like that. But what if he’d swum it—strong as he was—and saved Nick? Even found the kid and pulled him out alive? They’d all be laughing about it now. Soberly, of course, and tied to the scow with the rescued men under blankets. But then, what if he’d drowned? What of Adele? Jones supposed she’d wail a bit, then marry again. No kids, young widow alone. What difference would it have made after a couple of years? Even to a buddy like Gus? To Dad and his mom, it’d be different, of course. But no different than if he’d been killed with his buddies in the war. They were half-forgotten now too.

  Finally he peeled his hip boots halfway to let air inside and crawled under the bearskin to catch his own forty winks. After the fresh air, the smell was stuffy with traces of wet wool and coffee grounds, but it was warm, comfortable.

  After some time, Jones heard: “You awake, boy?”

  “Awake.”

  “Hope I didn’t hurt anything when I hit you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Always figured your head was too hard for anything to hurt it other than maybe a sledge hammer.”

  Jones’s eyes filled with tears in spite of himself. “Been hit by worse.” There followed a silence long enough that Jones assumed his dad had fallen asleep. But then: “Boy? Everything okay between you and Adele?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” Jones replied automatically. Considered. “Well. Nothing makes that girl happy any more, since you ask. I don’t think even she herself knows why. Since the baby died.”

  “I guess we’ve sensed that. Your mom especially. You know, when you and Adele first married, she was such a bright thing. Always ready for anything. Glad to laugh. When you and me’d be out fishing on our boats, they’d have dinner together. Even meet during Adele’s lunch break at the bank to go shopping. First just for stuff women like to get, then for baby clothes. Then that sweet little Amy when she came.” Silence reigned for a time. Buck’s voice turned husky when he resumed. “You think we didn’t grieve too when Amy left us? Like the sunshine died with her.”

  “Sure changed everything. Adele won’t let it go, either.”

  “Give her time.”

  “Been a year and a half. Ain’t that time enough?”

  “Ever think of having another?”

  “Thought about it. Hasn’t happened yet.” Jones tried to seem gruff, make it sound like he wanted to drop the subject.

  “I hate to say this, but your mom and I’ve talked about it more than once. We think that maybe Ketchikan’s too much of a reminder. That you ought to move.”

  “Leave you folks?”

  “We’re not your duty, boy. Don’t mean we couldn’t visit back and forth—I’m not saying you should move to Japan.”

  “She sometimes talks about packing it down to the States, where her parents are retired. But leave the boats? Not a chance I’d do that.” Jones stopped. “Guess we ought to get some sleep.”

  “Then don’t crowd me out, boy,” Buck said almost merrily. “Stay on your side.”

  “Shove over a little yourself, Dad.”

  Jones and Buck had finished their delivery. Around the scow’s mug-up table, although they now talked easily again between themselves, they remained taciturn when others tried to start conversations. But the scow’s deckhand came down to address Jones. “Swede’s on the radio topside. Asked if you were aboard to talk.” Jones went up in silence.

  In the radio room, Swede’s voice crackled over the airwaves, “Are you and your father okay, I hope, Jones?”

  “Managing.”

  “Then, Jones. I think that my plane has located something off Egegik that has been left by the tide. Near a beach camp. If I stop the plane now by the scow, will you come with me to investigate?” Jones hesitated. He asked Swede to hold a minute and went below to consult his old man. Buck told him he should go. “I’ll tie astern here and wait for you to come back. Won’t mind a sleep. Don’t worry, boy, I won’t go fishing without you.”

  Far down the bay in a marsh near the camp, two bodies had washed ashore at low tide. “Not what you want to see,” warned one of the beach fishermen as he lifted the tarp that someone had used to cover the bloated forms.

  Jones nodded without emotion. No mistaking Nick and Luke, although their cheeks had been chewed out by some sea predator. “At least you got ’em before the fuckin’ gulls pecked their eyes.”

  “Probably because they washed up face down. Ev
erything feeds on something, don’t it?”

  No worse than seeing buddies what have been blown apart, Jones kept telling himself. No worse. He took the canvas to cover their faces himself and nodded affirmation to Swede.

  “I’ll send instructions by radio,” said Swede. “Fly down two employees to wrap the bodies and transport them back to the cannery to be shipped home.”

  “Do it myself. Now.”

  Swede considered. “Okay then, Jones. They’re ours. We’ll do it together.”

  In the week that followed that of the failed strike and the drownings, Gus Rosvic continued to pass Jones Henry by without so much as a word. The Rosvics fished their engine boat somewhere else in the Bay system, and back at the cannery they kept to a quiet group of other would-be strikers in a far corner of the mess hall. A relief. No more goading and grinning. And with it, no hints that an engine boat and the different keel that came with it might have kept a certain boat from capsizing. But now Jones would have welcomed banter—even the kind that drove him nuts with frustration and annoyance—from someone who had shared in war and death. During one meal, Jones watched Swede walk over and speak in a friendly fashion to the failed strikers. Jones himself kept away. Fuck it. Let Gus get over his burn and make the move if he wanted to.

  Jones and his dad didn’t make the return to the bar and channel where they had watched the Sandstol boat and its two men get swept away. “Other water to fish,” muttered Buck, but Jones needed no rationalization. The next Saturday at the cannery mess hall, Gus, at last, walked over from his distant table. “Was them, huh?”

  Jones looked up cautiously. “Yup.”