by Gore Vidal
“So I hear.”
“Yes, the General was wise to build up Arunga.”
“I hear he’s got a big house there with a grand piano and all that sort of stuff.”
Barkison laughed. “He lives in a shack.”
“I guess somebody just started talking too much once.” Martin looked about him. “I got to go up top now,” he said. “Will you excuse me?”
“Certainly.” Martin left through the galley.
Major Barkison sat down on a bench in the salon. He looked at the books in the rack. Most of them looked dull.
He sat quietly and studied the linoleum of the deck. The cracks in the linoleum formed interesting patterns, rather like lines on a battle map. He wondered just what battle these lines looked the most like. Probably Gettysburg. All maps looked like Gettysburg.
Bored, he examined the books again. One of them caught his eye: a book of short biographies. He picked it up and thumbed through the pages. The last biography was about General Chinese Gordon. Interested, he began to read. In his subconscious Wellington, for the time being, began to fade. A stage appeared in the mind of the Major, and he saw himself, the frustrated romantic, surrounded by Mandarins; dressed as General Gordon, he was receiving a large gold medal for his defeat of the Wangs. Major Barkison could almost hear the offstage cheers of a crowd. He began to frame a speech of thanks in his mind. He could hear his own inner voice speaking brilliantly and at length of attrition. As Chinese Gordon he thought of these things.
ii
At ten o’clock, two hours after they had left the Big Harbor, Evans noticed that the barometer had dropped alarmingly.
He called Bervick over. Together they figured how much the barometer had fallen in the last two hours. Evans was worried; Bervick was not.
“I seen this sort of thing before,” said Bervick. “Sometimes it’s just the chain inside the barometer skipping a little, or maybe it’s just for the time being. I seen this sort of thing before.”
“Sure, so have I.” Evans lowered his voice, he was afraid the man at the wheel might hear them. “I seen it blow all to hell, too, when the barometer dropped like this.” Evans was nervous. He did not like to be nervous or seem nervous at sea, but lately some of the most trivial things upset him. A falling barometer, of course, was not trivial. On the other hand, it was not an unusual thing.
“Well, the weather don’t look bad, Skipper. Take a look.”
They opened one of the windows and looked out. The sky, though fog-ridden and dark, was no more alarming than ever. The sea was not high and the wind was light. The sea gulls were still hovering about the ship.
“I still don’t like this,” murmured Evans. “It’s just the way it was the time the williwaw caught us off Umnak, remember that?”
“Sure, I remember. We been hit before. What you so hot and bothered about? You been sailing these waters a long time. We seen the barometer drop worse than this.” Bervick looked at him curiously.
Evans turned away from the window. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I just got the jumps, I guess. This weather gets under my skin sometimes.”
“I know, it’s no good, this crazy weather.”
Evans took a long shaky breath. “Well, we’re near enough to a lot of inlets if anything blows up.”
“That’s right.”
“Tell the quartermaster to steer a half mile nearer shore.”
“O.K.” Bervick talked to the man at the wheel a moment. Evans looked at the chart of the islands. Bervick joined him and together they studied the chart and an old logbook which had been used on their last trip.
Evans rechecked the courses and the running times around the different capes. The stretches of open sea, while more vulnerable to the big winds, were generally safest. The capes and spits of rock were dangerous. One had to deal with them every fifteen minutes or so.
He checked the bays and inlets that they would pass. He also figured the times they would be abeam these openings. At the first sign of danger he would anchor inside one of these sheltered places. In the open sea they would have to weather any storm that hit them, but there would be no rocks in the open sea and that was a help.
“There’s some good harbors on Kulak,” said Bervick, examining that island on the chart.
“That’s right, we’ll be there early tomorrow morning. We’ll leave this island around four in the afternoon. We’ll coast along by Ilak for around six hours and then we hit open sea.”
“It’s about a hundred miles of open sea; it’ll take us over nine hours. Then we reach Kulak.”
“I’ll feel O.K. there. Weather’s good from there on.”
“Sure the weather’s always good from there on. It’s always wonderful here.” Bervick went back into his cabin. His watch did not begin until four.
Evans put away the charts. Then he stood by the window and watched the sky. Toward the southwest the clouds were dark, but the wind, which was faint, was from almost the opposite direction. The wind could change, though. When it was not strong and direct anything could happen.
Martin came into the wheelhouse. He looked at the barometer and whistled.
Evans was irritated. “Don’t whistle in the wheelhouse. It’s bad luck.”
“You always do.”
“That’s different.”
Martin chuckled, then, “Barometer’s mighty low. How long she been dropping?”
“For almost two hours.” Evans wished his first mate would not talk so loudly in front of the man on watch. “That doesn’t look .. .”
“No, it doesn’t.” Evans interrupted sharply. He looked warningly at the wheelsman. Martin understood. He walked over and stood beside Evans at the window.
“The sky looks all right.”
“Sure. Sure. That’s the way it always is.”
“What’s all the emotion for?”
“None of your damned business. Why don’t you crawl in your sack?”
“I think I will.” Grinning, Martin went into his cabin. Gloomily Evans looked at the sky again. He knew that he must be acting strangely. He had never let them see him nervous before. Weather was beginning to get on his nerves after all his years in these waters.
The wheelhouse was getting a little warm, he noticed. He opened one of the windows and leaned out. The cold damp air was refreshing as it blew in his face.
* * *
At eight bells Smitty announced lunch. Martin took Evans’ place on watch. Bervick and Evans went below to the salon.
The passengers were already seated. Their morale, Evans could see, was quite high. Duval, oil streaks on his face and clothes, looked tired.
“Engines going smooth?” asked Evans sitting down.
“Just like always. Little bit of trouble with a valve on the starboard, but that’s all. The valve isn’t hitting quite right.”
“You got a spare part, haven’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Well, let’s not worry.”
Smitty brought them hash and coffee and crackers. He slammed the dishes down on the table.
“I feel as if I could eat a horse,” said the Chaplain. “You come to the right place,” said Smitty. They laughed at the old joke.
“Any new developments?” asked the Major.
Evans shook his head. “No, nothing new. We’re making about twelve knots an hour. That’s nice time.” He looked at Bervick. “Weather’s fine,” he added.
“Splendid,” said the Major.
“What was that you were reading, Major, when we came in?” asked the Chaplain.
“A piece about General Gordon. A great tragedy, Khartoum, I mean. They were most incompetent. It’s a very good example of politics in the army.”
“Yes, I know what you mean,” said O’Mahoney.
“Are there many seals in these waters?” asked Hodges. Evans nodded. “A good many. If we see any salmon running you’ll see a lot of seals chasing them. Sea lions hang around all the time.”
“I saw some this morn
ing,” commented the Major. “I understand they’re the fastest fish in the water.”
“I believe they are classed as mammals,” corrected the Chaplain, looking at Bervick who nodded.
“That’s right, sir, they are mammals.”
“You heard the Major,” Duval suddenly said. “They are just big fish.”
“A lot you know about fish,” said Bervick coolly.
“I know enough about these things to know a fish when I see one swim in the water.”
“Anybody with any kind of sense knows that sea lions aren’t fish.”
“So you’re calling the Major and me dumb.”
Bervick caught himself. “I’m sorry, Major, I didn’t mean that, sir.”
Major Barkison agreed, a little puzzled. “I’m sure you’re right, Sergeant. I know nothing about these things.” Bervick looked at the Chief triumphantly. He murmured, “That’s like I said: they aren’t fish.”
The Chief was about to reply. Irritated, and a little worried that the Major might get the wrong impression of them, Evans said firmly, “I’ve heard all I want to hear about sea lions.” Duval grumbled something and Bervick looked at his plate. The silence was awkward.
“When,” asked the Chaplain helpfully, “do we get to Arunga?”
“It’s about eight hundred miles. I always figure about seventy hours or more,” Evans answered, glad to change the subject.
Evans thought of the falling barometer and the stormy sky. For some reason, as he thought, the word “avunculus” kept going through his head. He had no idea what it meant but he must have heard or read it somewhere. The desire to say the word was almost overpowering. Softly he muttered to himself, “avunculus.”
“What was that?” asked Bervick who, sitting nearest him, had heard.
“Nothing, I was thinking, that’s all.”
“I thought you said something.”
“What tonnage is this boat?” asked Hodges. “Something over three hundred,” answered Evans. He had forgotten, if he had ever known, the exact tonnage. “That’s pretty big.”
“For a small ship it’s average,” said Evans. In the past he had sailed on all types of ships. He had been an oiler and a deckhand and finally master of a fishing boat outside Seward. Of all the ships he had been on, he liked this one the best. She was easy to handle. He would like to own a ship like this when the war was over. Many changes would have to be made, of course. The ship was so expensive to run that only the government could afford the upkeep. He could think of at least a dozen changes that should be made.
The others discussed the ship, and Duval told them about the engine room. He was proud of his engine room. Evans knew Duval was a fine engineer.
Evans looked at his empty plate and remembered that the hash had been good today. Smitty had put garlic in it and he liked garlic. The others seemed to like the hash, too, and he was glad. He always felt like a host aboard his ship. Ships were his home; this one in particular.
Before the others had finished, Evans motioned to Bervick and they excused themselves.
In the wheelhouse Evans took Martin’s place on watch. There had been no change in the barometer.
“I want you to cut that stuff out,” said Evans abruptly. Bervick, who was playing with the dividers at the chart table, looked surprised. “Cut what out?”
“You know what I mean. All this arguing with the Chief. I don’t like it and you better not let it happen again. You got more sense than to fight with him in front of some rank like the Major.”
Bervick set his jaw. “No fault of mine if he wants to argue all the time. You tell him to keep out of my business and I won’t say nothing.”
“I’ll talk to him, but you better remember too. I can’t take much more of this stuff. You been at each other for months now.”
“He gets in my hair. He gets in my business.”
“For Christ’s sake!” Evans exploded. “Can’t you forget about that bitch? Can’t you figure that there’re a lot more where that one came from? What’s wrong with you anyway?”
Bervick gestured. “I guess I just been up here too long. I guess that’s what’s the matter.”
Evans was tired now. “Sure, that’s it. That’s what’s wrong with all of us. We been to sea too long.” Evans knew as well as Bervick the truth of this. After living too long in close quarters with the same fifteen or twenty men, one began to think and do irrational things. Women were scarce and perhaps it was normal that Bervick should feel so strongly. He watched Bervick as he fiddled with the dividers on the chart. He was a good man to have around. Evans liked his second mate.
“How’s the barometer doing now?” asked Evans. Bervick looked at it, twisting his hair as he did. “About the same. Bit lower, maybe.”
Evans grunted. A mile ahead he could make out a long black spit of rock and stone and reef. As they approached it he changed the course. First five degrees to port, then ten, then they were around the point. The end of the island, some fifteen miles away, came clearly into view. This island was a big one and mountainous. In the clear but indirect light he could see the white peaks that marked the westernmost cape. Because of the size of the volcanic peaks the shore looked closer than it was.
“Sky’s still dark,” said Bervick. Evans noticed his mate’s eyes were the color of the sea water. He had never noticed that before. It was an unusual thing, Evans thought, but having lived so long with Bervick he never really looked at him and probably could not have described him. Evans looked back at the sky.
“Still bad looking. I don’t like it so much. Still we’re keeping pretty close to shore. We can hide fast,”
“Sure would delay us if something did blow up.”
“It always does.”
“You might,” said Evans after a moment, “check the lifeboat equipment.”
Bervick laughed. “We’re being real safe, aren’t we?” Evans was about to say, “Better safe than sorry,” but he decided that it sounded too neat. Instead he said, “You can’t ever tell. They haven’t been checked for a while.”
“O.K., I’ll take a look.” He left through the door that opened onto the upper deck where the two lifeboats and one raft were kept.
Evans watched the dark long point they had just passed slowly fade into a harmless line on the water.
Martin returned from the galley. He glanced at the barometer as he came in. He did not comment on what he saw.
“What’s the course?” he asked.
Evans told him.
“Where did Bervick go? Is he in the sack?”
“He’s out on deck.”
“He and the Chief were really going to town at lunch.”
“Yeah, I don’t like that stuff. I told Bervick to stop it.”
“You better tell the Chief, too; a lot of this mess is his fault. You know the whole story, don’t you?”
“Sure, I know the story. Bervick’s been weeping over it long enough. I’m talking to the Chief, don’t worry.”
A gust of wet wind swept through the wheelhouse as Bervick came back in.
“Cold outside?” asked Evans.
Bervick shook his head. “Not bad. The boats are in good shape. Water’s still fresh in the tanks.”
“Good.”
Bervick walked toward his cabin. “I think I’ll turn in,” he said.
“So will I,” Evans wrote down the course and the time and a description of the weather in the logbook. “Get me up,” he said to Martin, “if you see a ship or something. You got the course straight?”
“I got it.”
Evans went into his cabin. He took the papers off his desk so that they would not fall on the deck if the ship should roll. He looked at himself in the mirror and said quite loudly, “Avunculus.”
iii
Major Barkison found the Chief to be good, if not particularly intelligent, company. In the middle of the afternoon Duval had joined the Major in the salon. They talked of New Orleans.
“I have always felt,” said the
Major, recalling in his mind the French Quarter, “that there was no other place like New Orleans. It’s not like New York. It is nothing like Paris.” Major Barkison had never been to Paris but that was not really important.
“It sure is a fine place,” said Duval. “Those women there are something.” He winked largely at the Major who quickly agreed.
Duval continued, “Yes, I think of those women up here all the time; anywhere, in fact, because there’s just nothing like them anywhere.”
“Yes,” said the Major. He changed the subject. “Of course the food is wonderful down there; marvelous shrimp there.”
“So do I like it. You know I used to know a girl down there who was pretty enough to be in the pictures, and she was some lay, too. I was just a young fellow at the time and she was maybe seventeen, eighteen then, and we sure played around together. She was sure some woman. I bet you can’t guess what she’s doing now?”
“No,” said the Major, making a good mental guess. “No, I can’t guess what she’s doing.”
“Well, she’s got a big bar in New York and some girls on the side. I bet she makes more money than all of us put together. I got a picture of her here. I always carry her picture around with me. You can bet my wife don’t like it.” The Chief pulled a worn leather wallet from his pocket. He opened it and showed the Major a picture.
Major Barkison smiled stiffly and looked at the heavy mulatto nude. “Very nice,” he said.
“You bet she is. She’s some woman.” He put away the wallet. “I’d sure like to see her again sometime. She is some woman.”
“She seems to be,” said the Major.
Duval looked into space. A distant expression came over his harsh and angular features. Barkison coughed. “Do you put into the Big Harbor often?” he asked.
Duval nodded, returning slowly to the present. “We stop in there once, twice a week. That’s our regular run. It’s the most civilized place on the Chain.”
“Yes, I know. There seems to be an unusual number of civilians there. What’s their status? I’ve never really looked into the problems of the civilian population up here, that’s another department.”