Mr. Wesley turned away. His face had scarcely changed, yet he was angry. Angry with McGuire for being such a colossal ass as to believe a girl like Faustine Carmody could possibly take him seriously, and angry with himself for even trying to talk to him. It wasn’t fitting that a common seaman should know such people. He remembered how Daisy had eagerly pointed Faustine Carmody out, and how she had exclaimed over the good looks of the vaguely familiar young man with her.
Sometimes he found himself wishing Daisy were a little different. She showed too much interest in performers and people of that type. Given all the stories it seemed that very little could be said for their morals.
Well, as far as Daisy went, after they were married all that would change. Still, it pleased him to think that she enjoyed going to the Bowl. There was something eminently respectable about musical affairs, and Daisy took such an interest in everything cultural. He remembered that on the night he attended the concert he had seen Roger Grosset come in with his daughter. Grosset was the son of the founder, and a vice president, of the company that owned the Lichenfield. He would have to mention that concert if he ever met Mr. Grosset. Carefully, Mr. George Wesley had retained the program and had studied the names of the compositions.
Standing by the rail, Mr. Wesley let his thoughts drift back to his last days with Daisy. When he returned, they would be married. He had, with her assistance, managed to save five thousand dollars. It was a nice sum.
Stanley, the Negro who was the officers’ messman, dumped a bucket of trash into the sea, standing for a moment to watch the gulls circle lower. Sometimes they would pick a piece of bread out of the air before it even touched the water. Now they dropped to the sea and began fighting over bits of food. Mr. Wesley watched them for a minute, and then turned back to his cabin.
Daisy’s picture was on the wall, screwed into place to keep it from falling with the roll of the ship. She was a slender blond girl, her eyes wide and very blue. Not everybody could marry a girl as lovely as that. Or as thrifty. Not the type to be always wanting something, not the type to nag a husband.
Mr. Wesley smiled. Well, he wasn’t a type to be nagged. Fortunately, it wouldn’t be something to worry about. When this trip was over, they would marry, and then he’d find a place near Los Angeles and buy a home. Something small and neat that a man could own until he was big enough to have more.
It comforted him to think of having a home, of owning property. Property gave a man background, gave him something that divided him from the average seagoing man. It made him a man of responsibility, of worth. Mr. Wesley walked over and sat down on the settee. Carefully he took a book from under his pillow, glancing at the title, The Psychology of Success. He turned the pages to a marked place and began to read. The problem of the sticking pulley on number three lifeboat had been forgotten.
Outside, against the hull, the little waves ran swiftly aft with a sound like someone chuckling softly.
THE PRIVATE LOG OF JOHN HARLAN, SECOND MATE
March 27th: Up at ten this morning, after six hours of quiet sleep. I rarely sleep more than five or six hours, but find that sufficient. Having the twelve-to-four watch as I have for so long, I find it best to turn in immediately when I reach my cabin. I awaken automatically at ten A.M., take a stroll about deck in the fresh air, read a bit, have my lunch, and am ready to go on watch again at noon. When I come off in the afternoon at four o’clock, my time is my own until midnight. It is not a bad day, and one very pleasing to me. I especially enjoy the night hours on watch, for at night, alone, one comes very close to himself. To live intelligently, to have a clear mind, one must be often by themselves.
The person who is uncomfortable when alone, and who must always be with others to find happiness or pleasure, is one who seeks in others what he lacks in himself. I like company, the company of intelligent, interested people, but in my profession one is much more solitary, or thrown among men who all too often have only their work in common. Among the officers on this ship we have two extreme types. Borly Shannon is a man always alive, a man with many facets and all of them interesting. He has a rich, salty humor, an interest in the world around him, and a fascination with solving problems in a practical, no-nonsense manner.
On the other hand, we have Wesley. A stiff, unimaginative sort, very self-righteous and secure behind an unshakably high opinion of himself. I think McGuire expressed him well: “Wesley? He is a man without humor, and there’s nothing worse!”
Constantly, I am disturbed by the desire to write their stories. It would be something very fine and very interesting to capture these lives, to be able to know all that has happened, what has made them who they are. But I truly wonder if I could do it, though now, it seems, I will have the time, providing I can find a job with a new ship. The main challenge will be to find the right story to tell. It must be one that contains romance and wonder and yet retains that thread of realism that will ground it to the world around us.
A simple description of these men’s lives would no doubt be little more than a directory to the bars and brothels of a hundred ports. The salacious stories, few of which would make it past the editor’s pen, would be those of the drinking, brawling, cursing, working, and wenching of a seaman’s life. At best all of it would be mingled with lusty good humor, the tang of salt air, and more than a little rough wit and wisdom. The sins of seamen, if they actually be sins, are more often than not red-blooded and earthy (and often exaggerated) and less often the private, and degenerate, sins of the overcivilized.
People with the reforming complex wouldn’t like it, but to me it seems that those who are offended by the profane or obscene in literature are usually that way because of their own overconcentration on such things. I know that many times I have read books containing remarks not overly nice, and barely noticed them, or had them make much of an impression, until they were called to my attention by someone who was complaining of them and thus giving them value.
I somehow think an archetypical seaman might be Sam Harrell. He is a witty, droll, lecherous rascal. A man of some forty-two years with a son of twenty-one. Everyone seems to like him, for like my favorite risqué stories, Harrell has humor enough to disinfect him. Shakespeare would have enjoyed Harrell, for if anything could describe Harrell it would be to call him a lean Falstaff. He’s an average-looking man with a pleasant manner, and appears at least ten years younger than his true age.
Worden was talking about Manila the other day, and about shipping out of Singapore and Batavia. It started me thinking. I have thought so little about myself of late, so little about my own plans. When I was home it was all for the kids, and trying to avoid any word of disagreement with Helen. Fortunately, I’d managed to save a little. I gave the place to Helen, and most of the money. I left a little money for Steve and Betty and made out my insurance for them. But living with Tom they will have no need of money, for he has more than I could ever have hoped for.
But through it all, I thought nothing of my own plans. Only that when I reached Manila I was going ashore. I will have a couple hundred dollars and must be careful of that until I can find a ship. Fortunately, I have my master’s ticket, and there may be some rusty little inter-island steamer I can command. If not, I might find something in sail. It will seem strange to be adrift again. It has been so long since I was free.
Perhaps it is that feeling of impending change that makes me restless, the knowledge that my former life is a closed book, and that I am beginning anew. What will happen? Sometimes I am moved to wonder at the enormous calm with which we make plans. After all, “A man’s Heart devises his way: but the Lord directs his steps.”
SAM HARRELL
Oiler
Sam Harrell walked out on deck and stood in the warm sun rubbing his ear with a Turkish towel. He was naked to the waist, and his worn dungarees were greasy. He stopped rubbing and stared at the grime on the towel, then looked over at Denny, who wa
s leaning casually against the rail. “You damned flying fish sailor! You ought to ship on the black gang once just to find out what work really is! You guys on deck just play around with a paintbrush half the time, or look for lights that aren’t there.”
Denny grinned. “Nuts! It’s all of you on the black gang that are screwy. It must be the heat.”
Tex joined them. “It ain’t the heat. A guy’s just got to be crazy before he’ll ship below. Take O’Brien, for instance.”
“You take him,” Harrell said, leaning back against the deckhouse. “The third is so damned scared O’Brien will find something wrong that he works my tail off. You’d think O’Brien was chief engineer.”
“Be glad you aren’t on his watch,” McGuire said. “At that, it’s a wonder he isn’t goofier still, working with Jacobs and Mahoney.”
“You and Mahoney had a run-in, didn’t you?” Sam asked.
“First day back,” Tex offered. “Mahoney got tough, an’ McGuire let him have it. He beat me to it by about ten seconds.”
“Can he fight?”
“In a way,” McGuire said. “Dirty stuff, in close. But I know a couple of things myself.”
“I’ve known him a long time,” Tex said. “He used to live down in Happy Valley, that shantytown back of Beacon Street in ’Pedro. He’d hole up for the winter with Russian Fred, the McFee brothers, an’ a guy they called Pork Chops, all of them stew bums or worse. The guy who had the shack—squatted there or maybe he owned it, I don’t know—is an old shipfitter named Fitzpatrick. If they’re a gang of tinhorns, then he’s the boss.”
“Yeah,” Denny agreed. “They’d look for a live wire who’d come ashore, anyone with dough. They’d take him around to some bar, get him half-swacked, and roll him for what he had. Some of them ship out occasionally, like Mahoney. Fitz, he just works over at the yards, if he’s sober. He and I had a go-around too.”
“What did young Wesley have on his mind?” Sam asked. “I didn’t think he ever talked to anybody but himself and God.”
“Him? Oh, he saw me at some shindig over in Hollywood with the girlfriend. He thinks seamen should stay along the waterfront, I guess.”
“ ‘The girlfriend.’ You should see this dame! Red-gold hair, the prettiest gal I ever saw!” Tex said. “He comes breezin’ into that hearing in the commissioner’s office with her an’ Hazel Ryan!”
“How’d you rate, pal?” Sam demanded. “Who was she?”
“Faustine Carmody. Works in pictures. I’ve known her a couple of years. I met her in New York. Then we ran into each other in Hollywood when they hired me out of the Main Street Gym to double for some guy in a fight picture.”
“You been in the movies? What the hell you want to go to sea for?”
Denny shrugged. “Being in a movie or two isn’t being under contract. You can surely starve waiting for that ship to come in.”
“Mahoney’s got it in for the Dutchman, too,” Tex interrupted. “You know what that’s all about?”
“Nope,” Denny said. “But Pete better watch his step. That mick will shove him over the side some dark night.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, “or Pete’ll knock all his hinges loose!”
“Well, Mahoney’s spoiling for trouble,” Tex agreed. “So’s Jacobs. You better keep your eyes open, McGuire. They both might jump you.”
Denny turned and rested his elbow on the rail. The muscles on his shoulders were thick, and his body tapered sharply to a narrow waist and slim hips. He shrugged. “Let ’em come. Slug Jacobs has a streak as wide as his back. As for Mahoney? Well, he’s tried it before.”
“This is my last trip on this wagon,” Sam said suddenly. “No more tanker runs for me.”
“Scared?”
“No, but I’m not too damned comfortable! Every time a guy wants a smoke he has to go in the fo’c’stle. You forget and strike a match and the next thing you know somebody hands you a harp.”
“Not you, Sam. It’ll be a shovel.”
“Maybe. Maybe I belong in the black gang anyway.”
Tex Worden thoughtfully bit off a chew and slipped the plug back in his breast pocket. “You guys can have mine, too. I’m jumping ship in Manila.”
“The hell you are!” Denny turned to face him. “What’s the idea?”
“You ought to know. Want to go back there an’ have that Winstead character hang a murder rap on me? I wouldn’t have the chance of a snowball in hell.”
“You’d have one good witness. Hazel Ryan should carry some weight. She’s pretty enough to handle any jury. She’d make a monkey out of Price.”
“Maybe,” Tex spat. “But I don’t want to trust my life to it. I did my job like I saw it. They ain’t going to make me the goat. To the devil with them.”
“I wouldn’t go back either,” Sam said. “They’ve got the money. What chance would a workin’ stiff have in any case?”
“I’d hate to see you go, Tex. You’ve been a good watch mate. As far as that goes, this has been a decent ship. I like the crew, too.” McGuire turned to look forward.
“How about Jacobs and Mahoney?”
“Sure. What the hell? They don’t know any better. There’s always a couple of screwy ones aboard.”
“A couple? What about O’Brien? And old man Schumann?”
“What’s wrong with them, after all? Schumann raises geraniums. If that’s screwy, we could stand a few more. O’Brien is a little off his course, but we’re all nuts about something, right?”
“Well,” Harrell said, “I don’t like it. It’s a good boat. She’s easy to work, light down below, no heavy lifting, an’ damned near new. But I don’t like it. She gives me the willies. O’Brien walks around looking like Dracula. Schumann talks to himself, Mahoney sits and stares at Pete like he could kill him…an’ that Jacobs is just a big mean ape. I don’t like it.”
“It’s the naphtha,” Tex said. “For a couple of trips you don’t mind it. Then you get uneasy. You get to watching hose connections. Ever’ time you strike a match or hear a noise you hold your breath. I been on a couple of tankers carrying benzene an’ high-test. Guys get screwy after a while. It gets on their nerves an’ they get ugly, or strange.”
“Yeah, I was wiper on a benzene tanker once,” Sam said, “an’ I had a buddy was on the Pinthis when she was rammed by the Fairfax.”
“What happened?”
“The Fairfax cut her half in two, an’ the gas that had spilled into the ocean from the busted tanks caught fire. It was hell. Both ships wrapped in flames from stem to stern. You could hear the screams miles away, those guys ran around on deck flaming like torches. Some of them jumped over into the sea, but it was all afire, too!”
“I’ll take mine straight,” Tex said. “None of these extra fixin’s for me when I kick off.”
“I wonder if what they say about a drowning man is true,” Denny said thoughtfully. “That he remembers all his life as he’s sinking?”
“If it is,” Sam griped, “you’re gonna remember that pie you gypped me out of with those phony dice of yours!”
“Why, Mr. Harrell!” Denny exclaimed in mock astonishment. “How could you suggest such a thing! Those dice are as straight as any I ever used!”
“I’d bet on that!” Sam agreed heartily. He got up. “You guys can stay here, I’m going below an’ catch some shut-eye!”
* * *
—
It was hours later when he awakened. The sun had gone down but it was not yet dark. In the half-light of his bunk Sam watched the shadows change, resting before the call came to go on watch. He could tell by the movement of the ship that the sea was working up again, for the roll was longer and deeper.
Sam turned his head to look out the port. The sea was a deep green, shading into black with falling night. It looked sullen, angry. It would be rough tonight. The clouds wer
e low, and the waves were beginning to crown themselves with white. He turned his eyes from the sea, and shifted uneasily, trying to get comfortable in the humid air. Strange, what McGuire was saying. What if all of a man’s life did drift past his drowning eyes? There would be so much to remember, so many things that happened, and so many things that should have happened. Suddenly, Sam Harrell felt very old.
Forty-two. It wasn’t old as ages go these days. But it was very old for him. So much had happened, and yet so little. So many years, so many ports, so many people. At forty-two most men were well along on a career. In a bank, or a business, or shipping as an engineer or mate. And at forty-two he was lying here in a bunk of steel gray pipe, just where he had been twenty years ago.
Twenty years. Twenty years gone—where? How different it had all seemed in the beginning! Back there before the war when he was in his late teens, just warming up to life and ready to dive into the fight. When he married, everything seemed bright and wonderful. There had been Mary, his home, and the baby. Then the war.
The war. Who would have guessed it would make so much difference? It had all been exciting to read about, thrilling to add up victories when one didn’t think about the death, the stench of fallen men, the wounds. Then the draft got him, the flu took his daughter, his wife died in childbirth, and the war ended. He returned home to find a son he had never seen, the wife and child he had known gone. His job was gone, too, and he had no idea where to turn.
He shipped out the first time on a freighter bound for England. He’d hated it; he’d been seasick for days, and Liverpool was just like France, all gray skies and gray stone and black river water. Coming back, there had been the fall.
It was the day before they made the coast. He’d been clinging to the outside of the bridge wing laying on a coat of white paint, loosely secured by leaning back against a length of rope. A gust of wind had caught him unawares, his feet slipped and he had crashed, first into the freshly painted steel and then off the rickety staging to the deck twenty feet below.
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