They sat down under the tank. It had been painted red, but the paint was blistered and peeling. A little shower came and went suddenly, leaving the skies still gray. David felt very homesick, very lonely, and very tired. He watched a big beetle crawling over the rocks and gravel, headed in one direction in spite of everything. Several times David pushed it back or put obstacles in its way, but it persisted, heading toward the track.
When a train whistled, they hid in the brush until it swept by—a fast passenger, not bothering with wayside water tanks. Los Angeles–bound, it was carrying people who knew where their next meal was coming from and weren’t worried about the police. The train disappeared, and when Davy looked at the track again, the beetle was crushed against the side of the rail.
It was dusk when a freight stopped. They watched from the brush while the train crew moved back and forth, shouting and joking. Then, as the train began moving away, they crawled into an empty and rumbled off into the gathering night.
All over the country men were sitting down to eat. Davy imagined miners coming in from the pit and workers from the mill. They were putting down their black lunch boxes and washing over tin basins while they told their wives the latest yarn. With forks clutched in big, work-hardened hands, they talked of politics, of the price of the gold they broke from the rock but never saw, of the latest joke on the shift boss.
Back in Morningside, hundreds of miles away now, it might not be raining. Girls would be coming out to walk along the streets, arm in arm, talking and laughing or singing popular songs in low, sweet voices. They would drop in at the soda fountain at McKinley’s Drug and talk with Oscar, who jerked sodas. The young fellows would sit around making wisecracks, talking football or the latest dance. Ruth and Grace would show up, and Jimmie, who clerked in the grocery store down the street, would ask Ruth if she’d heard from David. Or maybe they would be talking about him, and wondering about the story of the killing. They would speak of David Jones, and how they might have guessed, how trouble always finds trouble in the end.
David and Tommy traveled only by night. Once, they were questioned by a brakeman, but he didn’t seem to care if they rode his train or not. Another time Tommy had a fight with a drunk who would have been better to have just slept it off. Soon after, a crowd of transients crawled into the car, and there was talk of riding fast trains, of flophouses, and much bragging. Then a short, tough little man spoke…
“What d’ ya think—somebody bumped off the Big Bad Wolfe the other day!”
“Yeah,” another said, “I heard that, too. The Diamond-Back got hell kicked out of him in the same mess. Three hard guys, it was. I heard one guy killed the Wolfe with one blow of his fist.”
“Who’s Wolfe?” Tommy asked, and David swallowed dryly.
“Wolfe?” The speaker stared incredulously. “I t’ought ever’ guy on the road heard of the Wolfe. He was a dick. A railroad bull back East a ways. He killed a flock of ’boes. Just knocked ’em off to be tough. He beat me up once when I was a little nipper, an’ I ain’t never forgot it. Whoever did it should have a medal!”
* * *
—
When they left the train in Los Angeles they ate hotcakes and drank black coffee in a greasy spoon with money they’d begged on the street nearby. David was tired and still hungry. Seeing himself in the glass, he saw that his face was dirty, and his clothes dusty. Tommy grinned at him. “You sure changed some, kid! We better find a spot where we can wash up. What you plan on doin’?”
“I don’t know,” David said slowly. “I’m here, but I don’t know what to do. I want to get a job, but that seems to be hard.”
“You’re damned right it’s hard,” Tommy said. “I got an uncle down in Oceanside. I’ll go down there an’ work with him for a while. I wished he had room for two, but he’s pretty broke most of the time.”
“I always wanted to see the ocean,” David said finally. He couldn’t fight the feeling he had to hide, but he knew he had to find some way to relax and forget.
* * *
—
In the bright morning the highway was a stream of cars flowing both ways, and David headed south toward the port. The air was crisp, and there was a feeling in it of vast spaciousness; it was a sense of the sea, although he did not yet recognize it.
Big trucks rumbled past, then small, sleek cars sliding in and out of traffic, streaming their way down to the port or back toward the hills, an almost musical rhythm in their comings and goings. David did not wait for a ride; he walked on into the bright sunshine, and the salty wind seemed to wash his doubts away. All was behind him now: Morningside, Wolfe, even his friends and the events of the last few days.
A truck ground to a stop beside him. “Hop in, buddy! If yer going down to ’Pedro!”
David got in. The truck driver was a big man in a grease-stained undershirt and overalls. His rugged face was scarred, but his grin was good-natured. “Kind of tough gettin’ a ride, ain’t it?” he asked.
“I haven’t been trying very hard this morning,” Davy said. “I like the sunshine. It feels good after some of the weather I’ve been through.”
“Boy,” the driver chuckled, “you should let the Chamber of Commerce quote you. Ever been here before?”
“Nope. Think I could find a job down there?”
The driver shrugged. “Damned if I know. You planning on going to sea?”
“I don’t know,” David said. “I’ll try anything.”
“I’ll tell you what,” the driver said. “You go down to the Harbor Chandlery on Front Street. Tell the boss you want to see Shannon, Borly Shannon. Tell him Mike sent you.”
THE PRIVATE LOG OF JOHN HARLAN, SECOND MATE
March 23rd: A light sea is running this evening, wind about force two; sighted a Standard tanker as I came off watch. She was homeward-bound. That is always a good feeling. The sea is a dangerous place, and ships like ours more dangerous still. On the tankers carrying high-test gasoline, naphtha, or benzene, they make us wear shoes without iron nails, for fear they might strike sparks. None of us pay much attention to it consciously, but at the back of our minds we are always aware of the risk.
My copy of Standard Seamanship tells me, “The flashpoint of an oil is the temperature at which it gives off an explosive vapor.” The flashpoint of naphtha is only sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit. A dropped hammer might strike a spark that would ignite some fumes, or the spark might come from a bad electrical connection—lots of things. Is it any wonder we become somewhat indifferent to opinion, and live our own lives as we choose? I often think the average person is less understanding than he might be. People are so quickly moved to censure those who do the dangerous work of the world. Miners, lumberjacks, firemen, the police, and lots of others. They risk their lives providing for those who often criticize their ways.
I wonder how many women who wear diamond rings ever thought of how hard it was to get the diamond, the gold or platinum? Often enough, lives are lost in the process. The same is true of all the things that make up our civilization, from sirloin steaks to sponges, orchids, and the fish on a dinner plate.
McGuire claims to, at one time or another, have worked at most of these things, and in conversation with him one does gather a certain disdain of public opinion. He is one of the few, however, who seems given to analysis or to have considered the subject in its social and philosophical implications. An odd chap, McGuire. Full of friendliness and good humor, a fine seaman without taking it too seriously, and reportedly he was once a decent boxer. Yet, for all of that, he is one of the most thoughtful men I have met. One feels that his knowledge of life and of people is far beyond his years. But why should I say that? Age, after all, is only the confirmation of youth. If one is not wise when one is young, age will bring no wisdom. It merely brings a few more years of being a fool. Most of our great men were young men, or were men already great when young. I belie
ve Alexander Hamilton was much the youngest Secretary of the Treasury, yet he is considered the best, and certainly established a financial system for a country scarcely known to the world as a nation.
I watched from the chart room today as Schumann, the old German fellow the men call “Hitler,” shuffled aft to the fireman’s fo’c’stle. Gray, fat, and stooped, he goes about peering almost blindly from behind those curious glasses. I wonder what such a man thinks of. Possibly nothing. Sometimes I wonder if he is not too far in his dotage for such a job, yet O’Brien says he is a good man, a careful man, and O’Brien has few words of praise for anyone.
The old fellow is one of those men you rarely notice on the street, yet I suspect he was once a fine-looking man. His shoulders are broad, and his hands are well shaped. He has probably lived a lifetime of drudgery that is much like not having lived at all. It is a fate that any of us could face, a lifetime of work and little else. He rarely talks, at least where I can see him, and merely moves to and from his work in the stupor of years.
Strange, how life avoids some people and yet goes out of its way to find others. McGuire, who presents his thoughts and philosophies as the mood strikes him, says it is because some people have an “adventure-type mind.” There are those to whom things happen, and McGuire undoubtedly deems himself such a one. The average man travels in the same world in which the adventurer lives; but if he goes to China he carries St. Paul, Waukegan, Macon, or Pawhuska right with him. He lives aboard the boat with those of his own kind; when he goes ashore it is to a hotel where he meets others like himself. He sees the sights, buys a few knickknacks, usually made in England, Germany, Czechoslovakia, or the United States, and then goes home. He is never aware that he has missed an adventure, that aside from the benefits of sea air and the escape from everyday tasks, the experience was wasted on him.
I like the “adventure-type mind” theory. My fault with life is that people too often do the expected thing—it is a boring habit to get into and takes a lot of real joy out of life. Why can’t people be more absurd? I’m afraid the world, including myself, takes life too seriously.
I remember seeing a very pompous gentleman on the street in Frisco. I had the devilish idea of walking up and whispering to him that his shirttail was hanging out behind. To panic him for a ghastly few seconds…but also to bring him a touch of being alive!
Or to buy a rose for some old newslady, or to give five dollars to some hungry man. If you stayed out of the insane asylum it would be little short of a miracle, but you would have brought some excitement into a few lives.
When you see a man like Schumann, or any who seem trapped in a humdrum existence, you wonder how you could get their attention, reach out and wake them up, show them that every day need not be like the last.
FRITZ SCHUMANN
Fireman
When he reached the top of the ladder he stopped for a minute to catch his breath and looked back down on the metallic beauty of the engine room. He could never grow accustomed to these modern ships. Driven by a steam turbine, boilers automatically fired by oil, no coal dust or grease, no soot or grime anywhere, everything clean and shining. And that was especially true in “Speeder” O’Brien’s engine room. O’Brien was only the second assistant, but to everyone aboard, even the chief himself, O’Brien was the spirit incarnate of the ship. Crazy, Fritz reflected, crazy in the head, but he knew machinery and loved to work with it.
Old Fritz plodded out on deck and shuffled slowly aft. Every time he climbed the ladder he remembered he was growing old. He seldom thought of it otherwise, for he lived within his dream. Yet, if he was ever going back it would have to be soon. He stopped now, standing by the starboard rail and staring out over the water, remembering Raiatea. Always, his thoughts turned south toward the shores of Raiatea and Arutua.
Twenty years! It was a long time. His sons would be men now, stalwart men with the blue eyes of their father and the clean brown limbs of their mother. They would have wives and children of their own, they would have forgotten him, or would remember him but vaguely.
“Hey, Hitler!” Shorty said, slapping him on the shoulder as he went by. “How’s tricks?”
“Dun’t call me Hitler!” Schumann turned to stare after Shorty, frowning. Then he smiled under his gray mustache. Ah, well! Boys must have their little joke. Hitler! He snorted and shuffled inside the fo’c’stle and sat down on his bunk. He had been angry when they first called him that, but now he wasn’t bothered. He only imitated anger because he knew that they liked to tease him.
He got up, and taking a large glass, walked into the head, where he drew fresh water. Returning, he watered the flowers in the window box under the port in the for’rd bulkhead. They were geraniums, blooming contentedly miles from land. He studied them carefully, putting his face down near the flowers to see better. Behind the square-cut, steel-rimmed glasses, his old eyes blinked thoughtfully.
Three years he had been on the Lichenfield, before that in the engine room of the Point Lobos, before that another ship. It didn’t matter. He had always had flowers, always geraniums.
He looked up at the sound of footsteps in the passage. Denny McGuire walked in, a small bundle of dirty clothing under his arm.
“How the flowers coming, Pop? I always stop in here to have a look at them. Maybe it’s the poet in me, I don’t know. First time I ever saw a sailor growing flowers on a ship.”
“Vhy not?” Fritz shrugged his heavy shoulders. “They grow anywhere. It is taking only care, no more. Flowers is friendly t’ings, it is nice to haff t’em. I look at t’em unt I t’ink all is not cold machine, but somet’ings is flowers, too!”
“Yeah, but you better not let the O’Brien hear you make a crack like that about his engines. He’d throw a fit.” Denny leaned over to look at the geraniums. “Why only these flowers, Pop? Why don’t you grow something different, something hot and rich like hibiscus? These are like a lot of little old maids.”
“I like t’em. Vun time back in the old country t’ere vass a fraulein has flowers like t’is. Down in the islands, too, I haff t’em. T’ey are memories, each vun. Memories of days I haff lived, unt days vhich are no more. T’ey are nature vhere all is machine. Man, he needs nature nearby always. It vill reassure him.”
“Sometime I’m going to leave the sea and all this talk of booze and women. I’ll chuck the whole works and get me a place on the California coast where I can sit and watch the sea from a distance. Somewhere with mountains close by. There will be lots of flowers, too, and trees. Maybe a few dogs and a couple of riding horses. How’s it sound to you, Pop?”
“Ya, I like t’at. It is the best t’ing for a man. Man vas nefer made for the sea.”
“Going back to Germany, Pop?”
“Nein. It is t’irty year since I haff been t’ere, unt I nefer go back. I t’ink much of Germany. It is my country. I am always a German. But I do not like t’is Hitler. He is no German.
“Vhy, Denny, you are a boy that readts. You should know. T’ere is no race vhat is pure, novhere in the vorld. All is mixed up. T’ese Aryans, t’ey mix many times mit efery kind of peoples. T’ey come from Caucasus, unt around Sout’ Russia, unt about the Danube. T’ey come vest unt mix mit Iberian peoples, unt some mit the Basques. T’ey mix, too, mit peoples of the Ural-Altaic linguistic group.”
“Yeah,” Denny agreed, “but you never learned that in any engine room. Where did you go to school, Pop?”
“I go to Heidelberg, unt t’en to school in England. Vun time I speak good English. Now sometimes is good, sometimes bad. This race buiness, ach! It giffs me trouble mit the insides. No peoples is pure, unt vhere t’ey mix the most, t’ere is great civilizations. Vhat of the United States? Of England? Unt vhere ve get t’ese great civilizations? Borrowed, most of it! Alphabet, numerals, the foundations of chemistry unt medicine, t’ey come from the Arabs, a Semitic people! Sumerians, Babylonians, Egyptians, Ma
yas, Aztecs, Chinese—vas t’ey Nordics? Ach, sure! I loff my fatherland, but such nonsense!”
“You’re well away from it all, Pop. We’ve a good ship here, and the sea is wide and there are many ports. I’ve got to be running along. Be seein’ you!” McGuire clapped the old man on the shoulder and headed off.
Old Fritz sat down on the edge of the bunk and took off his glasses. It was part of his pride that he had worn them, unbroken, for thirty years. Now they were almost a part of him. He rubbed his eyes and relaxed, staring across the fo’c’stle. His work tired him now. In his sea chest, a relic of older years upon the water, he carried an engineer’s ticket. He hadn’t used it in a long time, and probably never would again. He was content with a humble berth and his dreams.
A streak of sunlight fell across the room from the open port, sunlight reflected from the dancing light off the water. As the ship rolled it moved slowly back and forth upon the ceiling, and he watched it, lost in thought.
It had been like that the morning when he had awakened on Arutua with Mahuru in his arms, the first golden light falling across the hard-packed earth floor, and the bright glory of the sea beyond the beach. Lying there he could look across the white sand and hear the roar of the breakers upon the reef. Overhead the trade winds murmured to the palms, and he had felt a vast contentment rise within him.
It was so long ago. He had been thirty-five then, young and strong, with broad shoulders and hair like gold in the sunlight. Already years of fighting and struggle were behind him. Among the most talented students at Heidelberg, and later he had done well in England too. At twenty-two he had won five duels, but then he became entangled in a struggle of local politics, and his life was forever changed when he killed the son of an important official…in a duel of the sort where a wound was usually sufficient to end the confrontation.
No Traveller Returns (Lost Treasures) Page 8