Deep River

by Karl Marlantes

  They bolted for the shelters they’d constructed for themselves on the deck, but Ilmari tripped and went down on the deck, hard, stunning himself as a powerful oceangoing sportfishing boat making thirty knots or faster came roaring out of a slough on Puget Island. The boat was throwing up a huge wake and bouncing across the water. Two men were in the large fishing cockpit aiming Thompson machine guns at the barge, each barrel held down by rope attached to a stirrup in turn held down by one foot to control the rise of the barrel. Professionals. Another man, also with a Thompson, was above them on the flying bridge next to the pilot. A fifth man was tied into the spindly lookout station that rose above the flying bridge, so he could get dropping fire that would nullify the protection of the shelters on the deck. All were firing the quick three- and four-shot bursts of pros; the heavy .45-caliber bullets thumped into the deck and wooden sides of the barge, throwing off splinters. Aksel went stumbling around the equipment to get on the attack side. Matti was doing the same. Yrjö was putting carefully aimed shots into the boat, but with the targets moving at that speed and bouncing as it was, he hadn’t hit anyone yet.

  Leaving Yrjö’s side, Kullervo scrambled down to the barge’s deck. He could see the man atop the lookout station slowly moving his Thompson’s bullets in bursts of three back toward where Ilmari was lying. As the bullets stuttered along the deck, Kullervo sprinted before them, and threw himself on Ilmari’s exposed body. The spray of bullets caught up with him. Kullervo’s body jerked with each strike.

  When Aksel reached the starboard side, he opened up with his own Thompson, using the splashes from the bullets to guide the weapon onto the speeding boat, now only ten yards from the barge. Then he saw another man, heretofore unseen, rise above the gunwales. He had several sticks of lighted dynamite held with one hand against his chest. Then one of the shooters in the fishing cockpit went down. It was Yrjö at work. Aksel fired another burst and the boat was abreast of the barge and he dived for cover as the man started hurling the lighted dynamite sticks. If it hadn’t been for the Bachelor Boys’ rifle fire and Aksel’s Thompson putting a wall of lead in front of the barge, the speeding boat would have come right next to it and blown holes all along its side. As it was, the sticks hit the water several feet away. Still, the water served to magnify the punching power of the explosives and the old barge shuddered with each explosion. The boat sped up the river. It had all happened in about thirty seconds.

  Aksel rushed to where Kullervo lay on top of Ilmari. Kullervo was conscious, but unmoving. Ilmari was gently trying to get out from under him, his clothes soaked with Kullervo’s blood. Kullervo had taken three .45-caliber bullets. Aksel had seen it too often not to know what it meant for Kullervo. Even one .45-caliber bullet, hitting with the shock of a bat swung by Babe Ruth, would knock a man down no matter where it hit him. Then the shock wave it generated would shatter arteries. Aksel dropped his Thompson and took Kullervo in his arms. Kullervo smiled. “Had to do it,” he whispered. Then he died.

  Aksel hesitated only a moment. Last words often made no sense. He lay Kullervo back down and shouted, “Let me hear from everyone.”

  Three men shouted their names, then there was silence.

  “Yrjö?” Aksel shouted, coming to his feet to have a look. Yrjö, who’d been in the most exposed position, said calmly, “I’m hit in my right shoulder.”

  Jens scrambled up to him and started to rip his shirt to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. He got a wad of shirt on the wound and calmly called out, “I need coats up here. He’s going into shock.”

  The others took off their coats and threw them up to Jens, who was elevating Yrjö’s legs. This unfortunately, put more pressure on the shoulder wound, making it harder to stop the bleeding.

  Jens calmly called down. “Which is worse, shock or bleeding?”

  Aksel called back. “Bleeding.”

  Jens got coats under and over Yrjö and lowered his feet again. He kept applying direct pressure to the wound.

  The barge was dead in the water, moving with the current very slowly toward Astoria. After about ten minutes, it began to list, and after half an hour, it had sunk noticeably lower into the water. They’d left Puget Island to stern and were drifting up on Tenasillahe Island. Aksel wondered which way the river would take them, around the north side or the south side.

  “How long we got?” Matti asked Aksel.

  “I don’t know how she’s constructed,” Aksel said. “The hull has clearly been stove in. I’d guess another half hour.” He looked at the equipment and said quietly, “Everything we had.”

  The barge turned sideways, still slipping slowly along the shoreline.

  Jens hollered down. “He’s passed out.”

  “Saatana,” Aksel whispered.

  “He’s back,” Jens shouted down. “But his eyes are fluttering.”

  Aksel knew they had to get Yrjö to a doctor. He took one of the Springfields and started smashing at some of wooden crating protecting the equipment. The others immediately recognized he was getting wood together to build a sort of raft to get Yrjö to shore.

  The barge shuddered and sank another several inches. The water was about a foot below the deck.

  “Let’s get him down here,” Aksel said.

  Matti climbed up to help lower him and Heppu and Aksel stood below to receive him.

  The barge was slowly turning. Aksel could see the west end of Puget Island swing by and then the open channel to the north side of Tenasillahe. Yrjö was being lowered and he steadied himself as best he could to help Heppu with him. The south side of Tenasillahe was now in view.

  The men had used their long johns to lash together a makeshift raft, just big enough to float Yrjö. Jens and Matti came down the deck. They were all shivering.

  “Well, sailor?” Matti asked. “Abandon ship?”

  The south channel of Tenasillahe was in the corner of Aksel’s eye. He was about to say yes, but he turned and squinted into the bright gray of the sky. There were dark specks way down the channel. He paused. Then he heard a boat horn. Then he heard a chorus of boat horns.

  “Would you look at that,” Jens said.

  Fishing boats filled the river, coming on fast, white water curving from their bows.

  * * *

  Nick Marincovich, a Croatian who’d installed a V-8 engine that he’d taken from an old Chevrolet Series D, reached the barge first. He immediately threw a line to lash his boat to it for more buoyancy, but Aksel threw it back. Pointing at Yrjö, he shouted, “We need to get this man to a doctor.”

  They got Yrjö aboard and Marincovich headed at full throttle for nearby Westport. Five minutes later, the six-cylinder boats pulled up and started lashing their hulls against the barge. The fishermen chopped holes in the barge’s deck and soon had bucket brigades working to bail water. The boats with four-cylinder engines, many converted from tractors and cars, were continuing to arrive, being lashed to the barge or even to a boat already lashed to the barge.

  There was a quick meeting to decide whether to catch the ebb and move the barge at night, which would be difficult and dangerous, or wait until morning. They chose to catch the ebb. Several boats hooked lines to the barge’s bow and began towing the awkward flotilla of half-swamped barge and lashed boats toward Astoria.

  One by one, the Bachelor Boys knelt down to touch Kullervo’s face or hair and murmur something to him.

  Aino, Alma, and Kyllikki had been standing on the wharf off Sixteenth Street all day. Kyllikki went back to make supper for the children, so they wouldn’t suspect that something was going on. They were suspicious anyway; their mother was unusually quiet.

  As soon as dinner was on the table, Kyllikki said, “I’m going to Aino-täti’s,” and she left.

  It was dark on the wharf. Even when they could see nothing, they didn’t once think of leaving. All three knew they would watch all night—until they knew. Many wives were there with them, talking quietly. All the wives were good at waiting.

  At aro
und eleven Kyllikki cried out. Coming around Tongue Point was a pair of green and red running lights. Then another set, then what looked like a pageant float of green and red running lights, all clustered together.

  Aino put her arm around Kyllikki and Alma did the same on her other side. The three stood, linked, barely breathing, waiting, hope in their hearts.

  Yrjö pulled through. They buried Kullervo on Peaceful Hill.

  Ten days after the fight for the barge, on Saturday, February 14, Valentine’s Day, the first can of Scandinavia’s Best went out. It was prime Chinook, which was all the public cared about. That it was a relabeled can from the hijacking of a cannery truck in November was a closely held secret. It was sold at triple the price the association packers were getting before the strike.

  Even at that price, the co-op was flooded with orders. One buyer paid a sizable sum for a guaranteed supply, giving both the co-op and the buyer leverage against the near monopoly of the packers’ association.

  Union fishermen started showing up at the co-op’s weighing station. They were turned away if they weren’t members. Many grew angry.

  A group of women, wives of union fishermen, came to a co-op meeting and begged the co-op committee to be let in. Alatalo tried to explain the co-op could take no more fish than it could process. Membership was closed. Several of the women started weeping.

  When they left, Aino spoke. “We can’t offer them membership, but we can offer them bread.”

  The women of the co-op pooled resources and baked rieska all night. The next morning, there was a line outside the co-op cannery. Some wives were grateful, some resentful. They all got bread.

  The co-op was the only cannery unaffected by the strike and money rolled in. The co-op committee started discussing adding another canning line.

  Two weeks later, John Reder sent a telegram to Aino asking if he could talk with her in private. Reder took Aino to lunch at the Astoria Hotel, the city’s business and social hub.

  John Reder looked old. The man who had laid railroad tracks, built logging camps the size of small towns, logged giant trees—and who had forced her hand on a strike by threatening her brother’s future—seemed subdued, even tired. It diminished the victory.

  They caught up. John and Margaret had moved to Portland in 1924. John served on several boards of directors and managed his capital and timber holdings. The children were married and barely knew about the early logging days. At one moment during the reminiscing Reder slapped his hand on the table, making the plates and silver jump, and said, “Goddamnit, Aino, I miss logging. Even if it included being plagued by Wobblies like you.” He said it with a smile.

  “You’re not logging anymore. Can we call quits the agreement that Matti stay south of the Columbia?”

  “Quits,” Reder said.

  Aino nodded her thanks.

  Reder slowly lit a cigar. He leaned back and said, “Just to clear the air, I didn’t know anything about the attack on the barge.”

  Aino nodded. “I believe you.”

  They were silent for at least half a minute. Then Reder said, “The association is prepared to pay fifty thousand dollars for your cannery.”

  Aino studied the napkin on her lap, although she knew her answer immediately. “We will be selling Scandinavia’s Best in every grocery store from Vancouver to Los Angeles. Northwest Packers Association brands won’t even be on the shelf. We’re already getting triple what you got before the strike.”

  Reder nodded for her to go on.

  “We are thinking to add another canning line, not just because of the high profits. Many other fishermans are wanting joining. We will take even more of your markets from you.”

  Reder sat back, looking at Aino. It seemed to her that he was trying to suppress a smile.

  “What?” she said. “You think I am talking foolishness?”

  “No, no, Aino,” Reder said. “Quite the opposite. Go on.”

  She checked to make sure he was taking her seriously.

  “Scandinavia’s Best can’t can all the fish in the river. In six months, probably other fishermans will form other co-ops. That is permanent competition to the Packers Association. You don’t want that.”

  Reder chuckled. “No, we don’t.”

  He noticed that his cigar had gone out. He relit it and took a puff, watching the smoke rise above them. “You’ve done your homework, Aino. I didn’t think you’d accept our offer. What will it take to settle things with the union fishermen, so we don’t have more Scandinavia’s Bests and miss the spring Chinook.”

  “Seven cents a pound.”

  “I don’t think we can do that.”

  “The Chinook are just coming now,” Aino said. “Every day, twice as many salmon as the day before. Every day you argue about what you pay the fishermans, millions of cans of salmon swimming upstream, gone. You figure out the arithmetic for lost earnings.”

  On Friday, March 11, the board members of the Northwest Packers Association and the owners of the canneries all along the Columbia met for dinner at the Astoria Country Club. John Reder laid out their options, including the immense loss of revenue if they missed the spring Chinook, and recommended they give seven cents a pound. They would all still make good money. While a majority agreed, those left in the minority were faced with their competitors buying salmon at seven cents and themselves getting no salmon. They quickly joined the majority for a unanimous decision.

  On Monday, March 14, 1932, the canneries begin paying seven cents a pound. The next day was Aino’s forty-fourth birthday.

  29

  Solstice in the summer of 1932 landed on Tuesday, so the Midsummer’s Eve celebration took place on Saturday night, the eighteenth. It was a beautiful day, unusually warm for June in Astoria but not unprecedented and certainly not unwelcome.

  Eleanor, who’d come across the river the day before, had spent Friday night with her friend Jenny. The two of them flitted back and forth between Jenny’s house and Aksel and Aino’s house, trying something, rejecting it, trying something else. Jenny was already fourteen and Eleanor would be fourteen on the twenty-third. They went over to Matti and Kyllikki’s house two times to consult with Pilvi, who was a year ahead of them and, in their opinion, an expert on current fashion. They also wanted to make sure that Aarni saw them. He was a senior and graduating in a week. Surely, he had friends.

  Matti and Kyllikki were getting ready for the dance themselves. They heard Aarni and Pilvi slam the door behind them, as usual, and smiled at each other. Then Kyllikki’s lips began to tremble.

  “What is it?” Matti asked.

  “They’ve grown to be so old, but they’re so young.”

  “What?”

  “Ohh …” Kyllikki moaned, now very close to tears. “I was Aarni’s age when we got married.” She buried her face in his chest and he, surprised by the emotion, could only hold her and pat her on the back. She put her cheek against the wool of his suit jacket. “That’s when I left my mother.”

  “Oh,” Matti said. He pulled her chin up and kissed her. “It worked out, didn’t it?”

  She had to laugh through her tears.

  Ilmari had gone out into the field after sunset. Eleanor had gone to Astoria for the dance at Suomi Hall. He was sure she would stay this time. She’d outgrown not only the local school but also the local boys—and even Ilmahenki. It had put him in a nostalgic mood, a longing for the good things of the past. It was like continually hearing the next to last chord in a familiar hymn, yet never hearing it resolve.

  A full moon was rising in the sun’s afterglow, so only a few stars were visible. Venus, however, shone with the intensity of a lighthouse low on the western horizon, while higher in the west hung brilliant Jupiter and, preceding the moon, low to the southeast, Saturn—brightness ascending in the descending brightness.

  A drowsiness had settled over the valley of Deep River. The salmonberries and thimbleberries pulled their vines to the earth. The air, too, was heavy, but like a comforting quil
t—not at all oppressive, just warm and soft, pressing gently on Ilmari’s body. He heard a slight rustling. A young doe, probably born only the spring before, stepped daintily from the forest into the field. She stood there, her head raised, sampling the air. He chuckled. She had probably come for the vegetable garden. The doe looked directly at Ilmari, making him hold his breath. He felt his heart beat. She looked skyward. One of her ears twitched, as if trembling, but not with fear, with awe. She was looking at the rising moon. Ilmari joined the exquisite creature looking at the beauty—together, the two of them, in a sort of rapture. Then, the doe’s other ear twitched and she bounded into the forest.

  Around ten o’clock, Aksel left the dance for a smoke. He walked around to the north side of the hall and found Arcturus, despite the moonlight, hanging red and warm in the midsummer evening. He looked at the river, planning where he’d go as soon as the tide turned. Aino had become a good crew member, but she was dropping hints that between seasickness, which she occasionally still suffered in rough weather, the fumes in the engine room, her inability to sleep on deck—and an unmentioned, but he knew strong, aversion to hanging her rear end over the side of the boat to take care of her business—she was talking about focusing a little more time on the co-op and him hiring a boat puller.

  He didn’t care what she did, but he knew she had to justify her decision to quit by giving him every sound reason except the real one. Eleanor had told them just before she left for the dance that she had decided to finish high school in Astoria. Aino wanted to make up for lost time.

  He stubbed out his cigarette and clumped back up the stairs, no longer embarrassed by being awkward.

  Aino watched Aksel talking to the band leader while the band was on break. Just after Aksel rejoined her, the leader announced, “We’ve had a request.”

  Aksel held out his hand to Aino and they moved onto the floor together. He invited her into his frame and she accepted. The band began playing “Lördagsvalsen.” Aino knew it was silly to cry, but the tears kept coming as she whirled around the room, dancing, dancing in this precious moment with the man she loved.