“Then one night I woke up with him pourin’ the last of our water down his damn throat. The Ryan woman, she was tuggin’ at his arm to try to stop him, but hell, it was too late.
“It was her callin’ to me that woke me up, and I went at him. He emptied the cask and threw it over the side. I tried to stop him, and we had it out, right there. He was some bigger than me and strong, but there was no guts to him. I smashed him up some and put him between the oars. I told him to row, that he’d live as long as he rowed. First we had to circle around and pick up the cask.”
“An empty cask?” Winstead asked incredulously. “What in God’s world did you do that for?”
“Mister, it’s only in the movies where some guy on the desert an’ dyin’ of thirst throws away a canteen because it’s empty. Shows how little some of those screenwriters know. Supposin’ he finds water next day? How’s he goin’ to carry it?
“You throw away an empty canteen in the desert an’ you’re commit-tin’ suicide. Same thing out there. We might get a rain squall, and if we did, we’d need something to hold water. So we circled and picked up that cask.”
“And what happened to Dorgan?”
Tex Worden’s face was bleak. “He quit rowin’ twenty-four hours before we got picked up.”
Winstead turned to the commissioner. “Sir, this man has admitted to killing one passenger; perhaps he killed two or three. As to his motives—I think they will appear somewhat different under cross-examination.
“I have evidence as to this man’s character. He is known along the waterfronts as a tough. He frequents houses of ill fame. He gets into drunken brawls. He has been arrested several times for fighting. His statements here today have cast blame upon the company. I intend to produce evidence that this man is not only a scoundrel but an admitted murderer!”
Tex sat up slowly.
“Yes, I’ve been arrested for fighting. Sometimes when I come ashore after a long cruise I have a few too many, and sometimes I fight, but it’s always with my own kind. After a trip on one of those louse-bound scows of yours, a man has to get drunk. But I’m a seaman. I do my job. There’s never a man I’ve worked with will deny that. I’m sorry you weren’t in that boat with us so you could have seen how it was.
“You learn a lot about people in a lifeboat. Me, I never claimed to be any psalm singer. Maybe the way I live isn’t your way, but when the time comes for the men to step out, I’ll be there. I’ll be doin’ my job.
“It’s easy to sit around on your fat behinds and say what you’d have done or what should have been done. You weren’t there.
“Nobody knows what he’d do until he’s in the spot. I was the only guy in that boat knew a tiller from a thwart. It was me bring that boat through or nobody. I’d rather lose two than lose them all. I wasn’t doin’ it because it was swell of me or because they’d call me a hero. I was bringin’ them in because it was my job.
“Handel now. He wasn’t responsible. Somethin’ happened to him that he never expected. He could have lived his life through a nice, respected man, but all of a sudden it isn’t the same anymore. There’s nobody to tell to do something or to even ask. He’s caught in a place he can’t see his way out of. He’d never had just to endure, and there was nothing in him to rise to the surface and make him stand up. It sort of affected his mind.
“Hazel Ryan? She has moxie. When I told her it was her turn to row, she never hesitated, and I had to make her quit. She wasn’t all that strong, but she was game. A boatload like her an’ I could have slept halfway back.
“Dorgan was a bad apple. The whole boat was on edge because of him. He’d been used to authority and was a born bully. He was used to takin’ what he wanted an’ lettin’ others cry about it. I told him what he had to do, and he did it after we had our little set-to.”
“Who did you think you were, Worden? God? With the power of life and death?”
“Listen, mister”—Worden leaned forward—“when I’m the only seaman in the boat, when we have damn’ little water, an’ we’re miles off the steamer lanes, when there’s heat, stillness, thirst, an’ we’re sittin’ in the middle of a livin’ hell, you can just bet I’m Mister God as far as that boat’s concerned.
“The company wasn’t there to help. You weren’t there to help, nor was the commissioner. Sure, the little fat guy prayed, an’ Clarkson prayed. Me, I rowed the boat.”
He lifted his hands, still swollen and terribly lacerated where the blisters had broken to cracks in the raw flesh. “Forty hours,” he said, “there at the end I rowed for forty hours, tryin’ to get back where we might be picked up. We made it.
“We made it,” he repeated, “but there was a lot who didn’t.”
The commissioner rose, and Winstead gathered his papers, his features set and hard. He threw one quick, measuring glance at Worden.
“That will be all, gentlemen,” the commissioner said. “Worden, you will remain in port until this is straightened out. You are still at the same address?”
“Yes, sir. At the Seaman’s Institute.”
Shorty glanced nervously out the window, then at Winstead. Tex turned away from the desk, a tall, loose figure in a suit that no longer fit. Winstead left, saying nothing, but as Worden joined Shorty, the commissioner joined them.
“Worden?”
“Yes, sir?”
“As man to man, and I was once a seaman myself, Mr. Winstead has a lot of influence. He will have the best attorney money can hire, and to a jury off the shore things do not look the same as in a drifting lifeboat.
“The Lichenfield docked a few minutes ago, and she will sail after refueling. I happen to know they want two A.B.s. This is unofficial, of course. The master of the vessel happens to be a friend of mine.”
They shook hands briefly.
There was a faint mist falling when they got outside. Tex turned up his coat collar. Shorty glanced toward Terminal Island. “You got an outfit? Some dungarees an’ stuff?”
“I’d left a sea bag at the Institute.” He touched the blue shirt. “This was in it. I can draw some gear from the slop chest.”
“They got your tail in a crack, Tex. What’s next, the Lichenfield?”
“Well,” he said shortly, “I don’t make my living in no courtroom.”
Show Me the Way to Go Home
It was the night the orchestra played “Show Me the Way to Go Home,” the night the fleet sailed for Panama. The slow drizzle of rain had stopped, and there was nothing but the play of searchlights across the clouds, the mutter of the motors from the shore boats, and the spatter of grease where the man was frying hamburgers on the Fifth Street landing. I was standing there with a couple of Greek fishermen and a taxi driver, watching the gobs say good-bye to their wives and sweethearts.
There was something about the smell of rain, the sailors saying good-bye, and the creak of rigging that sort of got to you. I’d been on the beach for a month then.
A girl came down to the landing and leaned on the rail watching the shore boats. One of the gobs waved at her, and she waved back, but didn’t smile. You could see that they didn’t know each other; it was just one of those things.
She was alone. Every other girl was with somebody, but not her. She was wearing a neat, tailored suit that was a little worn, but she had nice legs and large, expressive eyes. When the last of the shore boats was leaving she was still standing there. Maybe it wasn’t my move, but I was lonely, and when you’re on the beach you don’t meet many girls. So I walked over and leaned on the rail beside her.
“Saying good-bye to your boyfriend?” I asked, though I knew she wasn’t.
“I said good-bye to him a long time ago.”
“He didn’t come back?”
“Do they ever?”
“Sometimes they want to and can’t. Sometimes things don’t break right.”
“I wonder.”
“And sometimes they do come back and things aren’t like they were, and sometimes they don’t come back be
cause they are afraid they won’t be the same, and they don’t want to spoil what they remember.”
“Then why go?”
“Somebody has to. Men have always gone to sea, and girls have waited for them.”
“I’m not waiting for anybody.”
“Sure you are. We all are. From the very beginning we wait for somebody, watch for them long before we know who they are. Sometimes we find the one we wait for, sometimes we don’t. Sometimes the one we wait for comes along and we don’t know it until too late. Sometimes they ask too much and we are afraid to take a chance, and they slip away.”
“I wouldn’t wait for anyone. Especially him. I wouldn’t want him now.”
“Of course not. If you saw him now, you’d wonder why you ever wanted him. You aren’t waiting for him, though—you’re waiting for what he represented. You knew a sailor once. Girls should never know men who have the sea in their blood.”
“They always go away.”
“Sure, and that’s the way it should be. All the sorrow and tragedy in life come from trying to make things last too long.”
“You’re a cynic.”
“All sentimentalists are cynics, and all Americans are sentimentalists. It’s the Stephen Foster influence. Or too many showings of ‘Over the Hill to the Poorhouse’ and ‘East Lynne.’ But I like it that way.”
“Do people really talk like this?”
“Only when they need coffee. Or maybe the first time a girl and a man meet. Or maybe this talk is a result of the saying good-bye influence. It’s the same thing that makes women cry at the weddings of perfect strangers.”
“You’re a funny person.” She turned to look at me.
“I boast of it. But how about that coffee? We shouldn’t stand here much longer. People who lean on railings over water at night are either in love or contemplating suicide.”
We started up the street. This was the sort of thing that made life interesting—meeting people. Especially attractive blondes at midnight.
Over the coffee she looked at me. “A girl who falls in love with a sailor is crazy.”
“Not at all. A sailor always goes away, and then she doesn’t have time to be disillusioned. Years later she can make her husband’s life miserable telling him what a wonderful man so-and-so was. The chances are he was a fourteen-carat sap. Only he left before the new wore off.”
“Is that what you do?”
“Very rarely. I know all the rules for handling women. The trouble is that at the psychological moment I forget to use them. It’s depressing.”
“It’s getting late. I’m going to have to go home.”
“Not alone, I hope.”
She looked at me again, very coolly. “You don’t think I’m the sort of girl you can just pick up, do you?”
“Of course not,” I chuckled. “But I wished on a star out there. You know that old gag.”
She laughed. “I think you’re a fool.”
“That cinches it. Women always fall in love with fools.”
“You think it is so easy to fall in love as that?”
“It must be. Some people fall in love with no visible reason, either material, moral, or maternal. Anyway, why should it be so complicated?”
“Were you ever in love?”
“I think so. I’m not exactly sure. She was a wonderful cook, and if the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, this was a case of love at first bite.”
“Do you ever take anything seriously?”
“I’m taking you seriously. But why not have a little fun with it? There’s only one thing wrong with life: people don’t love enough, they don’t laugh enough—and they are too damned conventional. Even their love affairs are supposed to run true to form. But this is spontaneous. You walk down where the sailors are saying good-bye to their sweethearts because you said good-bye to one once. It has been raining a little, and there is a sort of melancholy tenderness in the air. You are remembering the past, not because of him, because his face and personality have faded, but because of the romance of saying good-bye, the smell of strange odors from foreign ports, the thoughts the ocean always brings to people—romance, color, distance. A sort of vague sadness that is almost a happiness. And then, accompanied by the sound of distant music and the perfume of frying onions, I come into your life!”
She laughed again. “That sounds like a line.”
“It is. Don’t you see? When you went down to the landing tonight you were looking for me. You didn’t know who I was, but you wanted something, someone. Well, here I am. The nice part of it is, I was looking for you.”
“You make it sound very nice.”
“Why not? A man who couldn’t make it sound nice while looking at you would be too dull to live. Now finish your coffee and we’ll go home.”
“Now listen, I…”
“I know. Don’t say it. But I’ll just take you to the door, kiss you very nicely, and close it.”
THERE HAD BEEN another shower, and the streets were damp. A fog was rolling from the ocean, the silent mist creeping in around the corners of the buildings, encircling the ships to the peaks of their masts. It was a lonely, silent world where the streetlights floated in ghostly radiance.
“You were wondering why men went to sea. Can’t you imagine entering a strange, Far Eastern port on such a night as this? The lights of an unknown city—strange odors, mysterious sounds, the accents of a strange tongue? It’s the charm of the strange and the different, of something new. Yet there’s the feeling around you of something very old. Maybe that’s why men go to sea.”
“Maybe it is, but I’d never fall in love with another sailor.”
“I don’t blame you.”
We had reached the door. She put her key in the lock, and we stepped in. It was very late, and very quiet. I took her in my arms, kissed her goodnight, and closed the door.
“I thought you said you were going to say goodnight, and then go?” she protested.
“I said I was going to kiss you good night, and then close the door. I didn’t say on which side of it I’d be.”
“Well…”
The hell of it was my ship was sailing in the morning.
Thicker Than Blood
He had it coming if ever a man did, and I could have killed him then and nobody the wiser. If he had been man enough, we could have gone off on the dock and slugged it out, and everything would have been settled either way the cat jumped. There’s nothing like a sock on the chin to sort of clean things up. It saves hard feelings and time wasted in argument. But Duggs was the chief mate, who wasn’t man enough to whip me and knew it.
Bilge water, they say, is thicker than blood, and once men have been shipmates, no matter how much they hate each other’s guts, they stand together against the world. That’s the way it is supposed to be, but it certainly wasn’t going to be that way with Duggs and me. I decided that in a hurry.
From the hour I shipped on that freighter, Duggs made it tough for me, but it wasn’t only me but the whole crew. You don’t mind so much if a really tough guy makes you like it, but when a two-by-twice scenery bum like Duggs rubs it in to you just because he has the authority, it just naturally hurts.
If we’d gone off on the dock where it was man to man, I’d have lowered the boom on his chin and left him for the gulls to pick over. But we were aboard ship, and if you sock an officer aboard ship, it’s your neck.
Sometimes I think he laid awake nights figuring ways to be nasty, but maybe he didn’t have to go to that much effort. I suspect it just came naturally. He made it rough for all of us but particularly me. Not that I didn’t have my chances to cool him off. I had three of them. The first was at sea, the second in Port Swettenham, and the third—well, you’ll hear about that.
Every dirty job he could find fell to Tony or me, and he could think of more ways to be unpleasant without trying than you could if you worked at it. Unless you have been at sea, you can’t realize how infernally miserable it can become. There are a t
housand little, insignificant things that can be done to make it miserable. Always something, and it doesn’t have to be anything big. Often it is the little things that get under your skin, and the longer it lasts, the worse it gets.
Of course, the food was bad, but that was the steward’s fault. Curry and rice and fried potatoes for three straight weeks. That was bad enough, but Duggs kept finding work for us to do after we were off watch. Emergencies, he called them, and you can’t refuse duty in an emergency. There were men aboard that ship who would have killed Duggs for a Straits dollar. Me, I’m an easygoing guy, but it was getting to me.
One morning at four o’clock I was coming off watch. It was blowing like the bull of Barney, and a heavy sea running. Duggs had just come on watch, and he calls to me to go aft with him and lend a hand. The log line was fouled. Back we went, and the old tub was rolling her scuppers under, with seas breaking over her that left you gasping like a fish out of water, they were that cold.
We reeled in the log line, hand over hand, the wind tearing at our clothes, the deck awash. He did help some, I’ll give him that, but it was me who did the heavy hauling, and it was me who cleared the little propeller on the patent log of seaweed and rope yarns.
Right there was the perfect opportunity. Nobody would have been surprised if we’d both been washed over the side, so it would have been no trick to have dumped him over the rail and washed my hands of him. Duggs had on sea boots and oilskins, and he would have gone down quick.
I finished the job, tearing skin from my hands and getting salt into the raw wounds, the ship plunging like a crazy bronco in a wild and tormented sea. Then, in the moment when I could have got him and got him good, he leaned over and shouted to be heard above the wind, “There! I’m sure glad I managed to get that done!”
And I was so mad I forgot to kill him.
The next time was in Port Swettenham. Duggs knew I had a girl in Singapore, but instead of letting me go ashore, he put me on anchor watch. All night long I stood by the rail or walked the deck, looking at the far-off lights of town and cussing the day I shipped on a barge with a louse-bound, scupper-jumping, bilge-swilling rat for mate. And my girl was ashore expecting me—at least, I hoped she was.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four Page 20