by Gore Vidal
“I’ve always heard that.”
“It is not,” said the Major wisely, “what you know, it is who you know.”
“You certainly are right.”
“Yes, that’s the way it is.” They pondered this great truth in silence. Martin finally got to his feet.
“I hope you’ll feel better tomorrow, Major. We’ll leave in the morning; it should be calm by then.”
“I hope so, good night.”
“Good night.” Martin walked slowly through the galley. The lights were still on. He snapped them off. Then he walked out on deck.
A pleasant breeze cooled his face. Water lapped quietly against the sides of the ship. The night sky was black. In another forty-eight hours, if all went well, they would be in Arunga.
As he stood there many dramatic speeches came to Martin. Plays he had read or had seen on the stage, came to him. The rolling periods of the Elizabethans flowed through him like water in a rock channel. He always enjoyed these moments when he could think of words and voices speaking words.
He walked about on the deck. He stood by the railing on the port side and breathed the clean air. In these islands there was no odor of earth and vegetation in the wind, only the scent of salt and stone. He raised his head and looked at the mountains. The snow still whirled seaward.
Chapter Five
i
MORNING.
Evans walked into the wheelhouse. He had slept unusually well. As a rule he stayed awake during bad weather, but this time he had really slept and he was glad that he had.
Bervick, whose watch it was, stood looking at the barometer.
“What do you think, Skipper?”
Evans looked at the barometer: still low, there had been almost no change overnight.
“I think there must be something wrong with the thing. You seen them act up before, haven’t you?”
Bervick agreed. “They can be wrong. It looks fine outside.” Evans went over to the window. There was little light in the sky, but the pre-sunrise stillness was good. Even in the mountains there was no wind.
“What do you think, Skipper?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. I don’t know.” Evans felt suddenly inadequate. He wished that he did not have to make this decision. He wondered for a moment what would happen if he got into his bunk and refused to get out. When he was very young he had often had a feeling like that: to lie down somewhere and not move and let unpleasant things take care of themselves.
“I suppose,” he said finally, “seeing as how the wind has died down, I suppose we should take a chance.”
“We’ll make a dash for Kulak if anything goes wrong.” Evans went to the chart table. Mentally he computed distances and positions. “We’ll take a chance,” he repeated. “Get Martin up.”
Bervick went into his cabin; he came out, a moment later, with Martin.
“Bervick,” said Evans, “you take some men out on deck and get ready to weigh anchor. Martin, you go on down and see how the passengers are doing. Talk to the Chief and tell him we’re leaving right away. We want to get to Arunga tomorrow night.”
Martin and Bervick left together. Evans looked at the compass; he looked at the barometer, and then he looked at the chart. He walked out on deck and watched morning move slowly into the east. The day looked peaceful; there was no way, though, to tell what might happen. There never was any way to tell.
He watched Bervick and several deckhands as they walked on the forward deck, testing the winches, preparing to weigh anchor. Evans went to the telegraph and rang the engine room. He set the markers on Stand By. Almost immediately the Chief rang back.
Evans took a deep breath. Then he opened the window and yelled, “Pull her up!”
Bervick pushed a lever. There was much clanging and rattling. The anchor chain came up easily. Evans let the ship drift slowly with the tide. At last, satisfied that the anchor was free, he gave the engine room Slow Speed Astern.
The ship, vibrating strongly, drew away from shore. Evans twirled the electrical steering gear hard to starboard and headed the ship for the opening and the sea beyond.
At Slow Speed Ahead they moved through the channel, neatly cutting the still water. The uneven rocks of the point moved by them. A raven, the first he had seen since they left Andrefski, flew warily among the rocks. A damp breeze came to him through the window. Snow clouds hung over the mountains.
Bervick came back. “All squared away. We left the tarpaulin off. Just in case we might need the anchor again.”
“Good.” Evans motioned to the man on watch who had been standing by the door. “You take over.”
Evans examined the blue-green paint of the wheelhouse. It was too dark. He had thought so when they first used it, but this dark color was the only paint he could get. A lighter color would have been much better. He would have everything repainted when they got back to Andrefski.
Without warning the ship was lifted several feet in the air by a long wave. They were out of the inlet. The rocks of the point receded in the distance.
“Bring her to port,” commanded Evans. The bow swung parallel to shore. They were headed west again.
“So far so good,” said Bervick.
Evans agreed. There was quietness in the morning. There would be snow flurries but the big wind seemed to have gone. Evans was glad. He began to whistle.
Bervick looked at him. “We’re not in the clear yet,” he said.
Evans laughed, “I guess you’re right. I just feel good. I wish I knew what was the matter with that damned barometer, though.”
“Maybe that little chain’s stuck, like I said.”
“Might be.”
Martin joined them. “The passengers look fine today,” he said.
“The Chief say everything’s working in his department?”
“That’s what he said. Smitty’s got breakfast ready. They’re eating now.”
Evans remembered that he had had nothing to eat for almost a day. “I think I’ll go below,” he said.
“O.K., Skipper.” Bervick went over to the chart table and Martin went into his cabin.
The galley, Evans saw, was much more cheerful today. Smitty had cleaned the deck and straightened the unbroken china. Several deckhands sat at the galley table talking loudly. You could tell, thought Evans, how long a man had been up here by the way he talked. The longer a man was in the islands the longer his stories were. Talking was the only thing to do when there was no liquor.
The passengers were eating heartily.
“Good morning,” said Evans, entering the salon.
“Good morning,” said the Chaplain, giving the phrase its full meaning. “There is practically no rocking,” he observed happily.
“This may be a quiet trip yet,” said Evans. He sat down and Smitty brought him breakfast. The Major was in a good mood. He was not even pale today, Evans noticed.
“I hear we may be in Arunga tomorrow night,” said the Major.
“That’s what we hope,” said Evans. Breakfast tasted better than it ever had before.
“I shall really be glad when this trip is over,” said the Chaplain. “Not of course that I haven’t every confidence....But, you know, I just wasn’t designed for ocean-going. You don’t think it will rock much, do you?”
Evans shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Duval and his assistants arrived and sat down at their end of the table.
“Didn’t blow up after all, did it, Skipper?” said Duval.
“We’re not there yet,” Evans could not resist saying this. Duval liked to be positive. Especially about things which were none of his business.
“Well, it looks to me like clear sailing.” Duval spoke flatly. He stirred his coffee.
“How fast are we going?” asked Hodges suddenly.
“Nine, maybe ten knots,” Evans answered.
“Nearer twelve, I’d say,” commented the Chief.
“Engineers are all the same,” said Evans.
The Chief said nothing.
“You people should be going home shortly,” Major Barkison announced. Evans looked up and the others were interested, too.
“Yes,” the Major continued, “we’re going to close down Andrefski, as you’ve probably gathered. That’s why I was out there. When it closes down those of you who are due for rotation will probably get it. We don’t need any more sailors here.”
“That’s good news,” said Evans thoughtfully. The Chief and his assistants questioned the Major further and Evans thought of Seattle. He would get married again. That would be the first thing he would do. After that he would get a second mate’s berth on some liner. He would come back to these islands again. Someday, perhaps, he might get a fishing boat and live in Seward. There were many things that he would do.
“If you’ll excuse me,” said the Major, rising, “I think I’ll write some more letters.” The other passengers also left the table.
“Martin tells me,” said Duval, “that the barometer’s still low. What do you think’s wrong?”
Evans shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see what happens.”
“We were going to do that anyway,” said the Chief sourly and he left the table, his assistants close behind.
Evans wondered why he had so much trouble getting along with his crews. When he had been a second mate on a cargo ship he had had no trouble, in fact he had even been popular. Somehow things just didn’t work as easily aboard this ship. He wondered if he might not be too much of a perfectionist. People didn’t like to live with that sort of thing. He spun his coffee mug between his hands. Finally he stood up. “Smitty,” he said loudly. “You can clear the table now.”
Bervick had the case off the barometer, when Evans returned to the wheelhouse. Bervick and Martin were examining the mechanism.
“Find anything wrong?” asked Evans.
Bervick shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with it. The thing’s in good order.” Evans frowned. He did not like to think of what would happen if this reading were correct. He went to the chart table.
They would be off Kulak around one o’clock in the afternoon. Between his present position and Kulak there was open sea and no protection. He felt suddenly sick. Without a word to the others he walked out on deck.
The air was cool and moist. There was no wind and no sign of wind. Dark clouds hung motionless in the air. He felt the vastness of this sea and the loneliness of one small boat on the dividing line between gray sky and gray water. They were quite alone out here and he was the only one who realized it. This was very sad, and feeling sad and lonely he went back into the wheelhouse.
Martin and Bervick had gone below, he was told by the man at the wheel.
Evans stood by the window on the port side and watched Ilak disappear. Snow, coming from the west, he noticed, was bringing wind with it. He closed the windows.
Martin returned silently. He looked at the snow clouds. “We won’t be able to see so well,” he said.
Evans nodded. “We got the times figured out pretty well. I don’t like coming so near to Kulak, sailing blind.”
They waited then for the snow to start.
At a few minutes to nine whiteness flooded them. Snow splattered softly on the window glass. Luckily there was enough wind to keep it from collecting on the windows. Below them Evans could see the deck being covered with snow. The sea had increased in size but was not yet large.
Bervick joined them.
“Just a little snow,” said Evans.
“That’s the way a lot of them start.”
“A lot of what?”
“Williwaws.”
“Sometimes, maybe.” Evans thought of the low barometer.
“Remember that one off Umnak?” asked Bervick.
“Sure, I remember it.”
“That one started this way.”
“Not with snow. It started with a little wind.”
“A little wind like this and a lot of snow. You remember the snow, don’t you?”
“Yes, I guess I forgot about it. That was a year ago.”
“That was a lousy thing.”
“We got out of it fine.” Evans’ hands were cold and his stomach kept being flooded with something.
“Sure, we got out of it. Our luck should hold.” Bervick sounded cheerful.
“It had better,” said Evans and he blew on his hands to warm them.
ii
“Not much change,” said Martin. Evans had been in the engine room with Duval since lunch. It was two o’clock now and snow still swept over the water.
Evans looked gloomily at the whiteness. Martin watched him closely to see what his reactions were. Evans only frowned.
To the south the snow flurries were thinning a little and they could see the dark outline of Kulak. They had been abeam the island for over an hour.
“Kulak,” remarked Evans.
“We’ve been in sight of it since one.”
“A lot of good harbors there,” said Evans.
“Thinking of anchoring, maybe?”
“I’m always thinking of anchoring.” Evans walked over to the compass and watched it.
Martin yawned. The monotony of waiting was beginning to get on his nerves.
Evans walked slowly about the wheelhouse. “That wind’s a lot stronger outside,” he said suddenly.
Martin was surprised. “I don’t think so. I think you’re wrong.”
“Don’t tell me I’m wrong,” Evans flared. Martin said nothing; he had seen Evans upset before. Sometimes he acted oddly. “Weather’s changing,” said Evans more quietly. “I can feel it. Look,” he pointed to the island, “the snow’s thinning. That means the wind’s picked up. Besides, feel the sea.”
Martin noticed for the first time that the ship was tossing much more than it had an hour before. He had been daydreaming and had not noticed the gradual change.
Evans opened one of the windows and the familiar roar of wind and water filled the wheelhouse. Snowflakes flew in and melted quickly, leaving wet marks on the deck.
The snow flurries were disappearing and every moment the shores of the island became clearer. The sea was large though not yet dangerous.
“I don’t like it,” said Evans.
“Barometer’s still low,” said Martin helpfully.
“I know. Did we nest that boom, the one on the port side?”
“We did it last night, remember?”
“That’s right. The hatches are pretty well battened down....” Evans’ voice trailed into silence.
A wave crashed over the bow and the whole ship shook. Martin slipped on the linoleum-covered deck; he caught himself before he fell. Evans was holding onto the wheel and did not lose his balance. The man at the wheel swung them back on course.
Through the open window blasts of wind whistled into the wheelhouse. Martin slammed the window shut. It was almost quiet with the window shut.
“You didn’t want that open, did you?”
“No. Go write up our position and the barometer reading in the logbook.”
Martin obeyed. When he had finished he stood by the telegraph.
“What do you think’s happening?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t got any idea. Where’s Bervick?”
“I think he went to the focs’le to get one of the men.” Evans swore loudly. “Why did you let him go up there? He should have stayed here. Why didn’t he have sense to stay here?”
“What’s the matter with you?” Martin was irritated. “What’s so bad about his going there? It’s none of my business.”
“How,” said Evans tightly, “do you think he’s going to get back if the wind gets any worse? He’s going to be stuck there and no damned use at all.”
“That certainly’s too bad,” snarled Martin. “You want me to send out a carrier pigeon?”
Evans started to say something. He thought better of it, though. He walked across the slanting deck without speaking.
Ma
rtin, still angry, looked at the sea. He was surprised to see that the snow had almost stopped, and that black clouds hung in the sky and a strong wind was lashing the waves.
He turned around to speak to Evans and at that moment the williwaw hit the ship.
Martin was thrown across the wheelhouse. There was a thundering in his ears. He managed to grasp the railing and, desperately, he clung to it.
The wheelhouse hit the water with a creaking smack. For a minute the deck of the wheelhouse was at a right angle with the water. Then, slowly, the ship righted herself.
Evans, he saw, lay flat on the steep deck. The man who had been at the wheel was huddled near the companionway. The wheel was spinning aimlessly.
The ship shuddered as tremendous waves lifted her high in the air. Martin, confused and helpless, shut his eyes and wished that the huge sound of the wind would go away.
When he opened his eyes again he saw Evans crawling on hands and knees across the deck. Martin watched him move closer and closer to the wheel. A sudden lunge of the ship and Evans was thrown against it. Quickly he caught the wheel. Martin watched as Evans fought grimly to keep on course.
Through the windows, Martin could see what was happening. They were being driven toward the island. Evans was trying to hold them on any course away from shore.
Another jolt; a mountain of water swept over the wheel-house. Evans was thrown against the bulkhead on the port side. Water streamed into the wheelhouse from new-made cracks.
Again the ship righted herself and again Evans started his slow crawl over the deck, only now the deck was slick with water. As the ship reached the crest of a wave Evans got to his feet and made a dash for the wheel. But this time he was flung against the door of the companionway. The man who had been at the wheel lay beside him.
Evans shouted something to Martin. The noise was too much and his voice did not carry. Evans gestured furiously with his hands. Martin understood him finally. Evans wanted the engines stopped.
Martin ran to the telegraph and, before a new wave hit them, he rang the engine room. Even in that moment he wondered what good it would do. He got back to his railing.