by Jack Kerouac
He strolled aft and gazed up at the bridge: slits in the gray wall peered out from the bridge house, where the captain would direct the voyage to Greenland—that would be where Wesley, as an able bodied seaman, would take his turn at the wheel and compass. God! If Everhart could do that rather than serve hungry A.B.’s and wash their dishes! He would have to begin his duties Monday—the next day—he hoped the work would prove pleasant enough.
“Thinking of Wesley, by the way,” thought Everhart, “where the devil did he wander off to last night? He must be in his focastle or eating in the galley . . .”
Bill went below to the galley. It was crowded with all sorts of people he did not know, seamen eating and chatting noisily. Where was Wesley? Or Nick Meade? Not a familiar face in the lot . . .
Bill went forward down the narrow gangway. He found Nick Meade in the small P.O. mess drinking a cup of coffee with a haggard scowl.
“Meade!” greeted Everhart with relief.
“Yeah,” mumbled Nick, passing this vague remark off as a greeting. He rose and refilled his cup from an aluminum coffee urn.
“How are you feeling?” grinned Bill.
Nick shot him a contemptuous scowl: “Do I look happy?”
“I’m feeling lousy myself . . . God, it’s tough to have a hangover on a hot day like this!” Bill laughed, seating himself beside Nick. “Some night, hey?”
Nick said nothing; he drank his coffee sullenly.
“Did you see Wesley?” pressed Bill nervously.
Nick shook his head.
“I wonder where he is,” worried Bill out loud. “Did you notice him wander off last night?”
Nick shook his head again. He finished his coffee and rose to leave.
“Where are you going now?” asked Bill, embarrassed.
“Bed,” mumbled Nick, and he was gone.
Bill grinned and rose to pour himself some coffee in a clean cup from the rack. Well! He’d better prove himself a complete Communist before he could get a rise out of Mr. Nick Meade . . . he seemed to be quite averse to Mr. Everhart. What in heavens was the matter with the man? On their way back to the ship at dawn, after staying late drinking in Mr. Martin’s room above the tavern, Nick hadn’t said a word. They had passed the wharves, where the flames of a hot, red morning had played upon the masts of fishing smacks and danced in the blue wavelets beneath the barnacled docks, and neither had spoken a word. They had parted at the gangplank, where Bill had managed to bid Nick good morning, but the other had only glided off quickly, half asleep, and quite ill-tempered. Perhaps it was only his characteristic attitude after drinking, and perhaps too it was because he didn’t consider Everhart sufficiently left wing. If that was the fool’s attitude, he could jump in the drink! And yet, perhaps Bill was arriving at nervous conclusions . . .
It had been pleasant enough so far, but now he was beginning to dislike the whole idea. The ship swarmed with strange, unfriendly faces—and no Wesley. Where was he? By George, if Wesley had gone off somewhere, drunk, and wasn’t to return to the ship . . . by George, he would not sail with the Westminster. He would manage to get back to New York somehow and go back to work . . . In heaven’s name, this was folly!
Everhart left his coffee untasted and went forward.
“Where’s Martin’s focastle?” he asked a seaman in the narrow gangway.
“Martin? What is he?” asked the seaman.
“An A.B.”
“A.B.? Their focastle is just forward.”
“Thanks.”
In the focastle, a tall curly haired man, sprawled in his bunk with a cigarette, did not know Wesley.
“When does this ship sail?” asked Bill.
The seaman gave him a queer look: “Not for a few days . . . mebbe Wednesday.”
Everhart thanked him and walked off. He realized he was lonely and lost, like a small child . . .
He went back to his focastle and threw himself on the bunk, tormented with indecision. What manner of man was he? . . . couldn’t he face reality—or was it that, as a professor, he was only capable of discussing it?
Reality . . . a word in books of literary criticism. What was the matter with him!
He awoke—he had slept briefly. No! It was dark outside the porthole, the light was on . . . he had slept hours, many hours. In his stomach he felt a deep emptiness, what ordinarily should have been hunger, but which seemed now nothing more than tension. Yes, and he had dreamed—it seems his father was the captain of the Westminster . Ridiculous! Dreams were so irrational, so gray with a nameless terror . . . and yet, too, so haunting and beautiful. He wished he were home, talking to his father, telling him of the dream.
A heavy wave of loneliness and loss swept through him. What was it? A loss, a deep loss . . . of course, Wesley had not returned to the ship, Wesley was gone, leaving Bill alone in the world he had lead him to. The fool! Didn’t he have feelings, didn’t he realize that . . . well, Everhart, what didn’t he realize?
Bill mumbled: “What a silly child I’m being, no more sense nor strength of purpose than Sonny . . .”
“Are you talkin’ to yourself again?” Eathington was asking, with a note of sarcasm.
Bill jumped down from the bunk, saying firmly: “Yes, I was. It’s a habit of mine.”
“Yeah?” grinned Eathington. “He talks to himself—he’s a madman!” Someone laughed quietly.
Bill turned and saw a newcomer lying in the lower berth beneath Eathington. He was tall and thin, with blond hair.
“Don’t annoy me, Eathington,” Bill snapped testily from the sink.
“Don’t annoy me!” mimicked Eathington with his puckish smile. “See . . . didn’t I tell you he was a professor!”
Bill felt like throwing something at the kid, but at length convinced himself it was all in good fun. The newcomer chuckled nervously . . . he was apparently trying to keep in good graces with both of them. Eathington, Bill mused was the sort who would need an accomplice for his sarcastic nature.
“Has anyone a cigarette?” asked Bill, finding he had none left in his pack.
“Jesus! Bummin’ already!” cried Eathington. “I can see now here I’m gonna move out of this focastle . . .”
The blond youth was rising from his bunk. “Here,” he said in a polite, low voice. “I have some.”
Bill was astounded at the sight of him. The youth was, in truth, a beautiful male . . . his blond hair was matted heavily in golden whorls, his pale brow was broad and deep, his mouth full and crimson, and his eyes, the most arresting part of his appearance, were of a shell-blue, lucid quality—large eyes and long eyelashes—that served to stun the senses of even the least perceptive watcher. He was tall, thin, yet possessed of a full-limbed physique, a broad chest, and square shoulders . . . his thinness was more manifest from the stomach down. Bill found himself staring rather foolishly.
“Have one?” offered the youth, smiling. His teeth were flashing white, a fact Bill had anticipated unconsciously.
“Thanks.”
“My name’s Danny Palmer—what’s yours?”
“Bill Everhart.”
They shook hands warmly. Eathington leaned on his elbow watching them with some stupefaction; obviously, he had cast lots with two professors rather than one; for the present, however, he decided to maintain a watching silence, and thus ascertain whether his convictions should crystallize.
The blond youth sat on one of the stools. He wore blue dungarees and a silk sport shirt; on his wrist he wore a handsome gold watch, and on his left hand an expensive looking ring.
“This is my first trip,” Palmer confessed cheerfully.
“Mine also,” said Bill, grinning. “What sort of job did you get?”
“Scullion.”
“Do you think you’ll like it?”
“Well, I don’t care; for now I’ll be satisfied with anything.”
“Is that a class ring you’re wearing?” inquired Bill.
“Yes—prep school. Andover . . . I was a fresh at
Yale last term.”
“I see; and you’re joining the Merchant Marine for the duration?”
“Yes,” smiled Palmer. “My people don’t like it—would rather have me stay in the College Officers’ reserves—but I prefer it this way. I wouldn’t care to be an officer.”
Bill raised a surprised eyebrow.
“What were you?” inquired Palmer politely.
“I was Columbia myself,” answered Bill, grinning at his own sophomoric remark. “I teach there as well.”
“You do?”
“Yes . . . English and American Lit, in the University.”
“Oh God!” laughed Palmer smoothly. “My worst subject. I hope you won’t ask any questions about Shakespeare!”
They laughed briefly. Eathington had turned over to sleep, obviously convinced of his suspicions.
“Well,” put forth Bill, “I hope we both enjoy the trip, excitement and all . . .”
“I’m sure I will. This is my idea of going to sea. I’ve yachted to Palm Beach with friends and had my own punt in Michigan—I’m from Grosse Pointe—but I’ve never really sailed far out.”
“Neither have I . . . I hope I don’t get too seasick!” laughed Bill.
“Oh, it’s a matter of not thinking about it,” smiled Palmer. “Just make up your mind, I suppose, and you won’t be sick at all.”
“Surely . . . that sounds reasonable.”
“Where are you from?”
“New York,” answered Bill.
“Really? I go there quite often . . . we have a place near Flushing. Strange, isn’t it, we meet here and probably passed one another in New York streets!”
“That’s true,” laughed Bill.
They chatted on easily for awhile until Bill remembered he must see if Wesley had returned.
“Well, I’ve got to go dig up my friend,” laughed Bill. “Are you staying here?”
“Yes, I think I’ll get some sleep,” answered Palmer rising with his friendly, flashing smile. “I had quite a time of it at Harvard Square last night with friends.”
“Harvard, hey?” laughed Bill. “I’ll wager less debauching goes on there than at Columbia . . .”
“I don’t doubt it,” purred Palmer.
“Oh, there’s no doubt about it!” leered Bill. “I’ll see you later, Palmer. I’m glad I met you . . .”
“Same . . . goodnight.”
They shook hands again.
Bill went up to the poop deck grinning to himself. At least, he had one friend to whom he could talk to, a polite, cultured youth fresh from Yale, even though he might prove a fop. He certainly was a handsome boy.
Bill tripped over a form on the deck. It was a seaman who had decided to sleep in the open.
“Sorry,” muttered Bill sheepishly. He was answered with a sleepy protesting groan.
Bill walked forward. Voices from the mess hall below. Bill went down and found groups of seamen conducting numerous dice games; one of these men, with a roll of bills in one hand and dice in the other, sprouted a full beard. Some others were drinking coffee.
Bill strolled into galley, where others stood about chatting, but he could find no familiar faces. From one of the cauldrons came an aroma of rich, meaty stew; Bill peered down into the pot and realized he hadn’t eaten all day. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him, so he chose a clean bowl from the dish rack on the sink and ladled out a brimming portion of beef stew. He gulped it quickly in the mess hall, watching, as he ate, the progress of the dice games. Considerable sums of money were changing hands, but no one seemed to think much of it.
Bill put his empty bowl in the sink and moved on down the galleyway. The big cook, Glory, was coming toward him, smoking his corn cob pipe.
“Hello Glory!” ventured Bill casually.
“Hello there son!” moaned Glory melodiously. “You layin’ down a hipe?”
“Not tonight,” grinned Bill.
Glory’s face broke into a broad, brilliant smile.
“Not tonight he sez!” Glory howled thunderously. “He’s not layin’ down a hipe!” The big cook placed a hand on Bill’s shoulder as he passed.
“No hipe tonight!” Glory was booming as he went off. Bill heard his deep basso chuckle come back to him down the galleyway.
“A remarkable personality,” mumbled Bill with delighted astonishment. “And what a remarkable name—Glory! The glory that is Glory, indeed.”
In the P.O. mess, where he had found Nick Meade earlier in the day, three strangers sat playing a stoical game of poker. None of them had seen Wesley.
“Well, could you tell me where Nick Meade’s focastle is?” pressed Bill.
“Meade?” echoed one of them, raising his eyes from the silent game of cards. “The oiler with the Crown Prince moustache?”
“That’s him,” grinned Bill nervously.
“He has a stateroom on the next deck, number sixteen.” Bill thanked him and left.
He went forward toward Wesley’s focastle; he might have just returned and gone to sleep unnoticed. But no one had seen him. One of the deck hands, a youth who might have been sixteen years old, told Bill he had shipped with Wesley before.
“Don’t mind him,” the boy grinned. “He’s probably out on a long toot . . . he drinks like a tank.”
“I know,” laughed Bill.
“That’s his berth,” added the boy, indicating an empty bunk in the corner. “He’s got a new toothbrush under his pillow. If he doesn’t come back, I take it.”
They laughed together quite cheerfully.
“Well, in that case, I hope he does come back,” Bill said. “He bought that toothbrush just yesterday on Scollay Square.”
“Good!” grinned the boy. “It oughta be a good one.”
Bill ascended to the next deck. It was dark, quiet. From the harbor a barge shrilled a thin blast, shattering the Sunday night stillness with a brief, sharp warning. The sound echoed away. Bill could feel the Westminster’s engines idle way below, a passive heart gathering energy for a long ordeal, thrumming deeply a patient tempo of power, tremendous power in repose.
He found stateroom sixteen by the light of a match and rapped quietly.
“Come on in!” a muffled voice invited.
Nick Meade was stretched in his bunk reading; he was alone in the small stateroom.
“Oh, hello,” he greeted with some surprise.
“Reading?”
“Yes; Emil Ludwig’s Staline . . . in French.”
Bill sat on a folding chair by the sink. It was a neat little room, considerably more homey than the steel-plated fo-castles down below, with soft-mattresses bunks, cabinet mirrors over the sink, and curtains on the blacked-out portholes.
“Pretty nice in here,” said Bill.
Nick had resumed his reading. He nodded.
“You haven’t seen Wesley yet?” Bill asked.
Nick looked up: “No. Don’t know where in hell he is.”
“I hope he didn’t forget all about the Westminster,” grinned Bill.
“Wouldn’t put it past him,” mumbled Nick, going back to his reading.
Bill took a cigarette from the pack on Nick’s bunk and lit up in silence. It was stuffy in the room. He helped himself to a drink of water and sat down again.
“Know when we sail?” asked Bill.
“Few days,” mumbled Nick, still reading.
“Greenland?”
Nick shrugged. Bill rose nervously and fidgeted about the room with his cigarette; then he wheeled and glared angrily at Nick, but the latter calmly went on with his reading. Bill walked out of the stateroom without a word and found himself back on the dark deck. He leaned on the rail and peered down gloomily; the water was slapping gently against the ship’s waterline, an odor of decomposing, mossy timber rising from the darkness.
That blasted fool Meade! . . . And yet, who was the bigger fool of the two? Everhart, of course . . . he should go back in there and give him a piece of his mind. It would create a row, and God knows
rows and arguments were unpleasant enough, but nothing could cure this humiliation but a man-to-man showdown! The fool was being deliberately annoying . . .
Bill, before he could reflect, found himself walking back into Nick’s stateroom.
Nick looked up in bland surprise: “what’d you do, spit over the side?”
Bill found himself trembling neurotically, his knees completely insecure; he flopped back into the chair in silence.
Nick went back to his reading as though nothing was happening, as though Bill’s presence was as casual and informal a fact as the nose on his face. Bill, in the meantime, sat shaking nervously in the chair; he raised a trembling hand to adjust his glasses.
“I met a boy from Yale on board,” he told Nick in desperation.
“Quite a strikingly handsome chap.”
“Is that so?” Nick mumbled.
“Yes.”
There was a deep silence; the engines were pulsing below.
“Look here Meade!” Bill heard himself shouting. Nick looked up with a start, laying down the book.
“What?”
“You’re holding my theories against me . . . I don’t care personally . . . but it makes you look foolish!” Bill stammered.
Nick’s blue eyes widened with stupefied resentment.
“You’re too important a person to act like a child . . .”
“Okay!” interrupted Nick. “I heard you!”
“Well, do you admit it?” Bill cried from his chair. “Do you? If you don’t you’re a Royal fool!”
Nick’s impassive eyes were fixed on Bill’s, frozen to a cold blue.
“Ever since last night, you’ve been playing the angry and noble martyr.” Bill rushed on in a nervous fever, hands trembling violently. “By George, I’ll have you know I’m just as much anti-Fascist as you are, even though I haven’t had the opportunity to shoot any in Spain!”
Nick’s face had flushed, but his eyes retained their fixed frigid intensity, half angry, half fearful . . . indeed, Bill’s quavering voice sounded slightly maniacal.