by Gore Vidal
The Chief scratched himself thoughtfully. “Well, they’re just here. That’s all I know. They work in the stores. Some were pre-war residents. A lot of them are middle-aged women. We aren’t supposed to have nothing to do with them. The army’s real strict.” The Chief laughed. “But there are all kinds of ways to operate. Them girls get pretty rich.”
“I suppose they do. They seemed an awful-looking lot.”
“Most of them are. There’s one that isn’t, though. She’s Norwegian. You know the type, real blonde and clean-looking. She’s real good. We been operating for some time now.”
“Is that so?” The Major wondered how, as an upholder of army regulations, he should take this. He decided he would forget it after a while.
“She’s gotten around a lot, of course. You know the mate. The squarehead, Bervick.”
The Major said he did.
“Well, him and this girl were hitting it off pretty well until I came along. So I give her some money and she’s like all the rest and quits him. He acts like a big fool then. He hasn’t caught on that she’s the kind that’ll carry on with any guy. He’s dumb that way and I got no time for a damn fool.”
“It seems a shame that you two shouldn’t get along better.”
“Oh, it’s not bad. He just shoots off his mouth every now and then a little too much. He’s a little crazy from being up here so long.”
“I can imagine he might be. It’s hard enough on shore with a lot of people. Must be a lot worse on a small ship.”
Duval agreed. “It is,” he said, “but you get used to it. When you get to be our age you don’t give much of a damn about things. You do what you please, isn’t that right, Major?”
Barkison nodded. He was somewhat irritated at being included in the same age group with the Chief. There was almost twenty years’ difference in their ages. Major Barkison tried to look youthful, less like Wellington. He looked too old for thirty-one.
“Well, I think I’ll go below and see if the engines are going to hold together.” Duval gestured cheerily and walked out of the salon, balancing himself, catlike, on the rolling deck.
The Major got to his feet and stretched. He felt lazy and at ease. This was the first real vacation he had had since the war began. It was good not to be writing and reading reports and making inspections.
He had enjoyed his visit to Andrefski Bay, though. The ATS Captain had been a bit hard to take but the officers had been most obliging. He had finally made out a report saying that the port should be closed except for a small housekeeping crew. This report had naturally made him popular with the bored men of Andrefski.
The Major walked about the empty salon, examining the books. They seemed as dull as ever to him. He decided he would finish reading about Gordon. He had read little more than a page when Hodges strolled into the salon and sat down beside him. The Major closed the book.
“A little rougher,” commented Hodges.
“Yes. I suppose they’ve changed course again. Have you been up in the wheelhouse?”
“No, I was down in the focs’le. I was talking with some of the crew.”
“Really?” Major Barkison was not sure if this was such a good thing; as experience, however, it might be rewarding. “What did they have to say?”
“Oh, not so much. They were talking about an Indian who drank some methyl alcohol the other night.”
“Yes, I heard about that.”
“Well, they were just talking. Same thing, or rather something very like it, happened to his brother down in Southeastern Alaska.”
“Is that right?” The Major played with the book on his lap.
“He was working on a wharf on one of those rivers and he fell in. They said he never came up again. There was a lot of thick mud under the water and he just went down in it. People just disappear in it.”
“Is that right?” The Major wondered if he would be sick again. The ship was beginning to roll almost as badly as it had on the trip to the Big Harbor.
“I guess that must be awful,” said Hodges frowning, “to fall in the water like that and go right down. They said there were just a few bubbles and that was all. Must have been an awful sensation, going down, I mean.”
“I can imagine,” said the Major. He remembered the time he had almost drowned in the ocean. His whole life had not passed in review through his head; he remembered that. The only thing he had thought of was getting out of the water. A lifeguard towed him in.
“You know they were telling me,” said Hodges, “that there’s an old Indian belief that if a dying man recognizes you, you will be the next to die.”
“That’s an interesting superstition. Did this fellow, the one who died last night, did he recognize anyone before he died?”
“No, as a matter of fact he was unconscious all the time.”
“Oh.”
Hodges tied one of his shoes thoughtfully. The Major could see he was still thinking of the Indian.
“What else did you hear?” asked the Major. He was always interested to know what the men thought of their officers. Sometimes their judgments were very shrewd. “Not much, they talked a lot about Evans.”
“Do they like him?”
“They wouldn’t really say, of course; probably not, but they think he’s a fine seaman.”
“That’s all that’s really important.”
“That’s what I said. They say he married a girl in Seattle. He’d only known her a week.”
“How long did they live together?”
“Around a month. He was up in Anchorage last month getting a divorce from her.”
“Did she ask for it?”
“I don’t guess they know. I gather he hadn’t heard from her in the last three years.”
“People should be more careful about these things,” said the Major. He, himself, had been when he married the daughter of his commanding officer. She was a fine girl. Unfortunately her father had died soon after they were married. They had been happy, nevertheless.
Hodges got to his feet and said he thought he would go to the wheelhouse. He left. The Major put his book down on the floor. He was sleepy. There was something restful in the rocking motion of the ship. He yawned and stretched out on the bench.
* * *
Major Barkison awoke with a start. The ship was pitching considerably. The salon was in darkness. Outside evening and dark clouds gave a twilight coloring to the sea and sky.
He looked at his watch. It was four-thirty. In the galley he could hear Smitty cursing among the clattering pots and pans. He turned on one of the lights in the salon. The salon looked even more dismal in the pale light.
He picked the book up from the deck and tried to read it, but the motion of the ship was too much for him.
Hodges came into the salon from the after door. His face and clothes were damp from spray; there was salt matted in his hair. His face was flushed.
“I’ve been out on deck, Major,” he said, slamming the door shut. “She’s really getting rough. The Skipper told me I’d better come back inside.”
“Yes, it seems to be getting much rougher.”
“I’ll say.” Hodges took off his wet parka and disappeared into the galley. A few minutes later he was back, his face and hair dry.
“What did Mr. Evans have to say about the weather?”
“I don’t know. He yelled to me out the window, that’s all. I was on the front deck. So I came back in. The waves are really going over the deck.”
“Oh.” The Major was beginning to feel sick.
Chaplain O’Mahoney walked into the salon from the galley.
“Isn’t this rolling dreadful?” he said. The Major noticed that the Chaplain was unusually pale.
“It’s not so nice,” said Major Barkison. O’Mahoney sat down abruptly. He was breathing noisily. “I certainly hope these waves don’t get any larger,” he said. He ran his hand shakily over his forehead.
“It couldn’t be much of a storm,” said the Major. “Mr. Evans would have said som
ething about it earlier. They can tell those things before they happen. There’s a lot of warning.” The Major was uneasy, though. Hodges, he noticed, seemed to enjoy this.
Major Barkison went to one of the portholes and looked out. They were in open sea now. The island was five or six miles behind them. Waves, gray and large, were billowing under the ship. On the distant shore he could see great sheets of white spray as the waves broke on the sharp rocks. A light drizzle misted the air.
Very little wind blew. The sky was dark over the island mountains behind them. No gulls flew overhead. A greenish light colored the air.
“What does it look like to you?” asked Hodges.
“Just bad weather, I guess. Were in the open now, I see.”
“Yes, we left the island a little after four. We’ll be near Ilak around seven tonight.”
“I wonder which is best in a storm: to be near shore or out like this?”
Hodges shrugged, “Hard to tell. I like the idea of being near land. You don’t suppose we’re going to have one of those big storms, do you?”
“Heaven forbid!” said the Chaplain from his seat on the bench.
“Well, if it is one I have every confidence in the Master of the ship,” said Major Barkison, upholding vested authority from force of habit. The idea of a storm did not appeal to him.
“I think we should go see Evans,” said Hodges.
The Major considered a moment. “Might not be a bad idea. We should have some idea of what he plans to do. We might even go back to the Big Harbor.”
Let’s go up, sir.
Hodges and the Major went into the galley. The Chaplain did not care to go. In the galley they found Smitty groaning in a corner. He was very sick.
They went up the companionway to the wheelhouse. Evans, Martin and Bervick were standing together around the chart table. Only Evans noticed them as they entered.
“Bad weather,” Evans announced abruptly. “The wind’s going to blow big soon.”
“What’s going to be done?” asked the Major.
“Wait till we’ve figured this out.” Evans lowered his head over the chart. Together with his mates he talked in a low voice and measured distances.
Major Barkison looked out the windows and found the lurid view of sky and water terrifying. He wished that he had flown. He would have been in Arunga by now.
The Chief came into the wheelhouse. He spoke a moment with Evans who waved him away. Duval came over to the Major. “Bit of a storm,” said Duval.
“Doesn’t look good. You know about these things, does this look particularly bad to you?”
“I don’t know. All storms are different. You don’t know until it’s over just how bad it was. That sky looks awful.”
“Quite dark. This greenish light is new to me.”
They watched the ink-dark center of the storm, spreading behind the white peaks of the island they had recently passed. Evans turned around and spoke to the Chief. “Engines in good shape?”
“That’s right.”
“Could you get up any more speed, say thirteen knots?”
“Not if you want to keep the starboard engine in one piece.”
In a low voice Evans talked with Bervick. He spoke again to the Chief. “Keep going just as you are, then. Keep pretty constant. I’m heading for Ilak. The wind probably won’t be bad until evening.
“If it holds off for a dozen hours or so, or if it isn’t too strong, I’ll take her into Kulak Bay tomorrow morning. We’ll be safe in there.” Evans spoke with authority. The Major could not help but admire his coolness. He seemed to lack all nervousness. The Major was only too conscious of his own nerves.
Hodges was listening, fascinated, his dark eyes bright with excitement. Major Barkison wished he could be as absorbed in events as young Hodges. I have too much imagination, thought the Major sadly. He would have to set an example, though. His rank and training demanded it.
“What would you like us to do, Mr. Evans?” he asked.
“Keep cool. That’s about all. Stay below and stay near the crew. If anything should go wrong, they’ll get you in the lifeboats. The chances of this thing getting that bad are pretty slight, but we have to be ready.”
“I see.”
“Is the Chaplain in the salon?”
“Yes. I think he’s sick. Your cook is, too.”
“I can’t help that. I’d appreciate it, Major, if you and the Lieutenant would go below. The mate who is not on duty here will stay in the salon with you. I’ll have him keep you posted on what’s happening.”
“Right.” Major Barkison was relieved to see Evans had such firm control of the situation. “We’ll go down now,” he said to Evans.
In the salon the Chaplain was waiting for them. “What did they have to say?” he asked.
“Going to blow pretty hard,” the Major answered.
The Chaplain groaned. “I suppose we must bear this,” he said at last in a tired voice. “These things will happen.”
Duval walked in; he looked worried. “I don’t like this so much,” he said.
“It does seem messy,” the Major answered, trying to sound flippant.
“Looks like the start of a williwaw. That’s what I think it looks like. I could be wrong.” Duval was gloomy.
“What,” asked the Chaplain, “is a williwaw?”
“Big northern storm. Kind of hurricane with a lot of snow. Just plain undiluted hell. They come and go real quick, but they do a lot of damage.”
“I hope you’re wrong,” the Major said fervently.
“So do I.” Duval hurried off toward his engine room. Chaplain O’Mahoney sat quietly on the bench. Hodges watched the big waves through the porthole.
Major Barkison said, “I think I’ll go to my cabin. If anybody wants me, tell them I’m there. I’m going to try to sleep a little.” This was bluff and he knew it sounded that way, but somehow he felt better saying it.
He opened the after door and stepped out on the stern. The ship was rocking violently and he had trouble keeping his footing. The wind was damp and cold. He waited for the ship to sink down between two waves, then, quickly, he ran along the deck toward the bow and his cabin.
A wall of gray water sprang up beside him, then in a moment it was gone and the ship was on the crest of a wave. He slipped on the sea-wet deck, but caught himself on the railing. As they sank down again into another sea-valley, he reached the door to his cabin. He went inside and slammed the door shut as spray splashed against it.
He stood for a moment in the wood-and-salt-smelling darkness. Great shudders shook him. Nerves, he thought. He switched on the light.
Water, he noticed, was trickling in through the porthole. He fastened it tight. More water was trickling under the door from the deck. He could do nothing about that.
Major Barkison took off his parka and lay down on his bunk. He was beginning to feel sick to his stomach. He hoped he would not become sick now.
If the ship went up on the crest of a wave within the count of three....
Outside the wind started to blow, very lightly at first.
Chapter Four
i
BERVICK sat on a tall stool by the window, his legs braced against the bulkhead. The ship groaned and creaked as she was tossed from wave to hollow to wave again.
Evans stood near the wheelsman. He watched the compass. They were having trouble keeping on course, for with each large wave they were thrown several degrees off.
“Keep her even,” said Evans.
“It’s pretty hard....” A wave crashed over their bow, spray flooded the windows for a moment. They were swung ten degrees to starboard.
“Hard to port,” said Evans, holding tightly onto the railing.
The man whirled the wheel until they were again on course.
“Pretty hard, isn’t it?” Bervick looked over at Evans.
“Not easy. Pitching like hell.”
“Why not get her on electric steering?”
“Might br
eak. Then where’d we be?”
“Right here.”
Evans stood by the compass. He knew they could not afford to be even a few degrees off their course. Ilak was a small island, and if they should miss it....Evans did not like to think of what might happen then.
He wished the storm would begin soon if it were going to begin at all. Waiting for the big wind was a strain, and there was no sign of the wind yet. Only the sea was becoming larger.
The sky was still dark where the heart of the storm was gathered. Dirty white snow clouds stretched bleakly in the damp almost windless air. The strange green light was starting to fade into the storm and evening darkness. Gray twenty-foot waves rolled smoothly under them, lifting them high and then dropping them down into deep troughs.
Evans noticed the man at the wheel was pale.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You feeling the weather?”
“A little bit. I don’t know why.”
“You been drinking too much of that swill at the Big Harbor.”
“I didn’t have so much.” The man spoke weakly. There were small drops of sweat on his forehead.
“You better get some air,” said Evans. “I’ll take her.”
Quickly the man went to one of the wheelhouse windows, opened it, and leaned out. Evans took the wheel. He could get the feel of the ship when he was steering. He liked to take the wheel. Each time they descended into a trough they would be thrown several degrees off course. He would straighten them out as they reached the next wave-crest, then the same thing would happen again. It was not easy to keep the ship even.
“How’s it feel?” Bervick asked.
“Fine. We’re going to be knocked around a bit before we’re through. May have to lash the wheel in place.”
Spray splattered the windows of the wheelhouse. Salt water streamed down the glass making salt patterns as it went. Evans tried to make out land ahead of them, but the mist was too thick on the water. They were in the open sea now. Somehow Evans felt very alone, as though he were standing by himself in a big empty room. That was a favorite nightmare of his: the empty room. He would often dream that he had walked into this place expecting to find someone, but no one was ever there. Then he would dream that he was falling; after that he would wake up. Once in Anchorage a girl he had spent the night with told him that he had talked in his sleep. He told her his dream; she never dreamed, though, and could not understand.