“I ain’t a-scared of him,” Slug protested. “But he ain’t done nothin’ to me.”
“Christ!” Mahoney turned away. “I didn’t think you was so dumb! But you wait—you’ll see!”
Slug stared after him, his brow furrowed. Maybe Mahoney was right. When there was a lull in his work and O’Brien was concentrating on adjusting their speed, he walked aft between the boilers and picked up a spanner, hefting it thoughtfully. At one bell he went up to call the watch with the spanner in his pocket. There was no sign of McGuire.
* * *
—
At four o’clock O’Brien came up the ladder and walked to the saloon. He was tired, for it had been a trying shift. Why, he wondered, with all its other modern equipment, didn’t the Lichenfield have an automatic control to keep the propeller from racing when free of the water? In foul weather it was devilishly hard on an engineer to watch the engine revolutions for four hours at a stretch, to feel the movement of the ship and to predict, moments before the bow tipped downward, when to cut back the power. But the coffee was hot and strong, and he rested his elbows on the table and let his body relax. He was sitting like that when John Harlan came down from the bridge.
Harlan glanced at him. “Bad night up there,” he remarked, drawing coffee. “No sign of a change either.”
O’Brien looked up. “Um, yeah. B-Been—busy in the engine room, too. Maintaining the right revolutions, draining the separators, hard on my—the equipment.”
Harlan nodded. “I’d imagine so.” He sat down and sipped his coffee. “Notice anything between Mahoney and Jacobs tonight?”
“No…” O’Brien looked up, his forehead wrinkled. The thought of anything going wrong with the ship aroused him at once. “W-What happened?”
“They had some trouble with Conrad. Slugged him. This may be just the beginning. Worden and McGuire aren’t the type to stand for much. All that’s keeping them in line is Pete. There was some trouble back in ’Pedro.”
“I know. McGuire h-had a fight with Mahoney.”
“Do you know how that trouble started?”
“N-No.” O’Brien looked up, and then away.
After a moment Harlan said, “You’re a good engineer, Con. We’re lucky to have you.”
They shook hands, and then Harlan left. For a long moment Con O’Brien stood silent. Then he ran his fingers gently over the back of his head. It wasn’t bothering him tonight, and the weather was bad, too.
* * *
—
In the shadows outside the fireman’s fo’c’stle, Slug Jacobs hesitated. Then he turned, and staggering with the heavy roll of the ship, he crossed over to the door of the seaman’s fo’c’stle. He stopped beside the door, eyes alert.
Only one dim light was burning. The bench had tipped over and was lying on its side, one end wedged beneath a bunk. The curtains before each bunk swayed gently with the roll of the ship. All was still; there was only the breathing of the sleeping men and the sound of the engine. Slug Jacobs hesitated, hefting the spanner. He licked his lips uneasily, and peered over his shoulder. Then he slipped through the door and carefully moved the length of the fo’c’stle until he was opposite Denny McGuire’s bunk.
Gently, he lifted the curtain. McGuire was lying on his side, his dark hair rumpled against the hard pillow. He was smiling in his sleep.
Slug started to lift the spanner, then shuddered slightly and dropped the curtain. Turning, he was out of the fo’c’stle in three quick strides. When he reached the passage he stopped, his heart pounding. There was something in the silence of that fo’c’stle, something in the faint smile on the sleeping man’s face…
Mahoney was asleep when he entered the fireman’s fo’c’stle. Slug slipped off his shoes, put the spanner under his pillow, and stretched out on his bunk. After a few minutes he too drifted off.
* * *
—
Through the dark of night and the black, oily seas, the ship plowed its way. Great, towering waves crashed over her bows and ran wildly aft. She rolled heavily, and the running lights canted to port, then described a brief arc back to starboard. Water sucked and rushed around the pipes and valves of the main deck. On the bridge, sweating in oilskins and a sou’wester, Borly Shannon cursed the storm. He hunched his big shoulders against the wind, and bowed his face behind the canvas dodger to shield it from the driving spray that struck with the force of hailstones.
Phosphorus glowed in the water, and angry foam crowned the peaks of the seas. Down below, the saloon messman stirred in his sleep, dreaming about returning to his family in Malabang. In the silence of his cabin, Con O’Brien sat at his desk, head resting upon his crossed arms. Slow tears found their way down his scarred cheeks. A door in his heart was slowly opening.
In his bunk of gray pipe, Davy Jones turned restlessly and muttered in his sleep. Back behind him the moon shone gently upon the sleeping village of Morningside, where soon the people would be awake. The farmer that Davy had worked for would be crawling from his bed in the first chill of morning and lighting the airtight heater before going out under a cold, starlit sky to draw water from the well and feed his horses. David Jones stirred restlessly, longing for the life he left, and longing too for the life to which he was going.
Seen from a distance, the ship is a tiny, moving island of darkness starred by lights of green and red, scoring one more triumph of Man in his conquest of nature, Man who bends everything external to his will, but has not yet begun to conquer that which is inside. In the Lichenfield’s tanks lies the curse and the blessing of commerce and death, the sleeping cargo of naphtha that, surrounded by seas both warm and rough, is slowly turning to vapor. Vent lines whisk the gas away, releasing it into the atmosphere far above the decks. One pipe, however, contains a bend, the result of a collision with a dockside crane years ago in Liverpool. As the waves crash and the wind drives rain and spray, this angle slowly fills with water.
The warm seas; the flash point of the Lichenfield’s cargo; the storm transferring its motion to the naphtha in the tanks; evaporation turning liquid to gas—a gas which, with the vent line blocked, blindly gropes for another way out. In greater and greater volume it follows a path through which it has been creeping steadily ever since leaving San Pedro; a few feet of uncaulked rivets.
The storm weakens, the wind abates, and the clouds move on. Slowly in the east, a light grows, shoots a bright crimson arrow into the sky. Her engines muttering with the calm of a task too familiar, the ship moves on into tomorrow.
THE PRIVATE LOG OF JOHN HARLAN, SECOND MATE
March 29th: The storm has passed, and yet it did not leave us unmarked. The No. 4 lifeboat was damaged, the coal-box atop the galley was wrecked, and about half the galley coal washed over into the Pacific, that most peaceful of oceans. More, it was marked by the trouble with Jacobs and Shorty Conrad. Or rather, when Mahoney and Jacobs did the job together. That, I’m afraid, will have more significant repercussions than any damage, for the strain already visible among the crew has been intensified. Right now, all seems calm, but it is only the calm that precedes another sort of storm.
The Old Man knows of it, and says nothing, which probably shows his wisdom. Sailors prefer to settle their own problems, and more often than not, settle them to the satisfaction of everyone concerned. That choice, of how tightly to hold the reins of power, is critical. I am not sure I would make the same decision but every ship and every crew is a different chemical mixture of personalities. I hope that soon I can be master of my own ship, with officers and crew that I can be proud of.
Those old tramp freighters of the Far Eastern waters have always seemed the essence of all that is romantic. Battered and scarred, their hulls marked with red lead, their stacks stained with grease and smoke, they trade in all the lonely, lost ports of those mysterious Pacific islands. They are the swashbuckling roughnecks of the sea, battered, and ugly.
Their engine rooms are a nightmare, their gear worn and old, their crews a hodgepodge of waste material from all the alleys and dives of the Far East, their cargoes a smelly, dirty collection of copra, pearl shell, oil-drilling machinery, rubber, goats, and hajji pilgrims.
I sometimes imagine having Tex Worden for my bo’sun, or if he wished to pass the tests, my chief mate. I’d like to have McGuire too, but I fear no ship could hold him for long, and perhaps no woman. I often wonder what will become of him. He may someday settle down ashore and be a godsend to the reporters during days when news is scarce, for he is the type who will always attract some sort of attention. Far more likely he will keep going to sea or wandering in the far places. Someday his foot will slip, and some barroom tough will slip a knife between his ribs, or through accident or misadventure, he will end his days drowning or dying of thirst on some waterless little island.
There are many ways out for him, but most of them I can picture are a thing of the moment, the nip and tuck, devil take the hindmost sort of adventuring somewhere. But probably I don’t know McGuire better than any of the others, and he may be entirely different. That is the curse and the charm of living, observing this life, searching for the right story. We never know those around us well enough, and may overlook their most interesting aspects.
I’ll admit McGuire fascinates me most of all those aboard. The man is so complex, so utterly different, and his personality is always cropping up in unexpected places, and showing some facet hitherto undreamed and unsuspected. I believe that he is somehow in the center of the situation aft, which is growing more tense as the days go by.
Troubled or not our ship moves on. But, can I say “our” ship? Does the ship belong to us, or we to the ship? One is moved to wonder, for like cogs in a number of wheels, we all serve the ship. We paint it, strip and replace the brick in its fireboxes, we minister to its ills, we guide it safely, and we watch its every symptom with utmost care. It now carries us above some of the deepest water in the world, riding as high over the surface of the planet as any aircraft.
Today, I have been reading Plato’s Timaeus, in which he repeats Solon’s tale of the lost continent of Atlantis. But, despite the fabulous nature of the story, and Plato’s use of it merely to set forth certain ideas of his own, the account of Solon undoubtedly had some background. In so much legend there is certain to be some basis in fact. One account has it that the armies of Atlantis were away on a voyage of conquest when their homeland vanished in a gigantic earthquake and tidal wave. Could it happen again? Might it happen to the Japanese now as they invade China? Japan has volcanoes, and in the not-too-distant past has suffered violent quakes.
But I would not lose the beauty of Japan, for it is certainly one of the most lovely of all countries despite the mistaken psychology that has momentarily distracted the parties in power. Japan came on the historical stage too late. The phase they are trying to live now ended before they began to look beyond their shores. They have absorbed too much of the virus of the Western world and will go down with it.
Worden just came to call me to go on watch. I like the fellow. We talked about Manila, and I told him that unless he had other plans I’d like to keep him with me, and give him a chance to get a ticket. He was willing enough. Then I asked him about Mahoney.
“He’s a bad one,” he said. “So is Jacobs. But Mahoney is the troublemaker, Denny thinks. Jacobs is the strongest man I ever saw. If he gets ahold of McGuire, it’ll be bad.”
“This can’t get out of hand,” I said. “If the officers have to get into it there’ll be hell to pay for everyone.”
“Well, Denny says if Slug does get hold of him he’ll make him wish he hadn’t.” Tex grinned. “He’s got that girl in L.A., but he’s also like you and me. If the Old Man wants to fire him, he might be just as happy to stay in the Far East.”
PATRICK MAHONEY
Oiler
In the short metallic cavern of the shaft alley, he looked like a troll. His massive head, deep-set eyes, and broken nose were accentuated by the dim lights. His thick-muscled shoulders and stubby, powerful arms added to the effect.
He moved quickly, noiseless as the ominous threat of the huge shadows beside and behind him. Once he hesitated, his head held slightly aside, listening. All that could be heard was the churning of the propeller outside and the rumble from the engine room. He cleared his throat, and echoing from the tunnel walls it sounded like a growl. He reached out and took the temperature of the stuffing box; all that kept the sea from filling the engine spaces was a few turns of flax padding. A trickle of seawater running away into the bilge kept it lubricated. Turning, he made his way swiftly out of the shaft alley and closed the tunnel door securely.
In the bright light of the engine room, the shadows receded into the being of the man himself. Mahoney walked up to the starting platform. O’Brien glanced down, his face impassive. Mahoney jerked his head toward the tunnel and spoke over the noise. “She’s all right. I checked her.”
O’Brien nodded, remembering what Harlan had asked him about Mahoney and Jacobs. “Just stand by, then,” he said at last.
Mahoney turned and walked to where Jacobs was braced in the opening to the fire room. He stared at the hulking figure in the doorway. “What’s the matter? You yella?”
Slug looked sullen. “What d’ ya mean?”
“You know damn well what I mean! You had plenty of chance last night. Anything could happen on a night like that. For all they’d have known he’d have fallen off the bridge or been washed over-side.”
Slug was silent, staring down at the floor plates.
“You better. He’ll take you apart, that guy. He’s a bad one. I’m lookin’ out for you—who the hell else is gonna do that.”
Mahoney walked away. Slug was a damn bone-headed fool. He could have fixed it all the night before. No matter how suspicious they got, nothing could be proved. Mahoney had more than one score to settle, but he had to be careful how he did it. He’d get that pretty-boy McGuire. Pete Brouwer too, just for getting on his nerves, just for keeping him in the doghouse worrying about being caught.
Of all the ships in the harbor, how in the world did the Dutchman end up on this one…showing up at the last minute like a bad penny? Luckily, the thick-skulled chump didn’t remember him; he’d been too drunk. The oiler slipped two fingers in his trouser pocket and touched the watch. It was massive, old-fashioned. He had to carry it. Somebody might get into his locker and see it. He should have hocked the damn thing back in ’Pedro.
Pete had mentioned losing the watch several times since he’d been aboard. He’d told both Denny and Tex about being robbed, and described the watch. Shorty, of course, knew it by sight—he and Pete had shipped out together several times. Once, Mahoney had looked up suddenly and caught Pete Brouwer staring at him, brow furrowed. It had frightened him.
The four-to-eight oiler came down the ladder, rubbing his eyes sleepily. Mahoney looked toward Slug, who had turned the fire room over to his relief. Slug looked uneasy. “What’s the matter?” Mahoney said sharply. “What’s eatin’ you?”
“Nothin’.”
“Then what the hell you lookin’ like a sick cow for?”
Slug mumbled something and shifted his big feet. He started toward the ladder, Mahoney following him and speaking in an undertone. “You better get that guy. You better get him. He’ll hurt you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Get close to him. Break him up. Don’t try to slug him. You’re stronger than anybody. Get hold of him an’ it’ll be easy.”
“Uh-huh.”
* * *
—
Alone on the poop deck, Denny McGuire stood by the taffrail watching the wake boil into white froth and vanish into the heaving sea. The days he had lived were like the wake of the ship: They had been here, left their momentary mark, and slipped away. What had been no l
onger was, and whether he was the better or worse for it did not seem to matter.
He was restless this trip. For the first time he was discontented with the journey and found himself wishing the ship were homeward-bound. Was it because of Faustine? What was the uneasiness that was with him so much this voyage? He had made this trip, and with this same cargo, several times before. He prided himself on knowing when to get out, knowing when a situation had gone from something that someday might make a good story to one that might get him killed. He had always been able to feel when to cut his losses and head for the border, and he was having those feelings right now. The difficulty was he didn’t know what his instinct was telling him to avoid: the lovely girl who threatened his freedom, the violence that seemed to be brewing in the fo’c’stle, or the very ship beneath his feet.
Denny McGuire looked around him, at the windblown sea. It didn’t matter what the trouble really was, he thought, because there was nowhere to go.
* * *
—
Down in the fireman’s fo’c’stle, Mahoney sat and lit a cigarette. There had been no sign of McGuire on deck, and he had noticed Tex playing cards in the seaman’s fo’c’stle with several others, including Shorty Conrad. Mahoney placed the butt between his teeth and leaned back against the bulkhead, watching the door. Waiting made him uneasy. He was sure McGuire would not let their beating of Shorty pass unnoticed. Shifting on his seat, he watched the door, his thoughts drifting back to that kid on the dock, and to the fight with McGuire.
Mahoney had been off watch at the time and waiting for Tom McFee, who was bringing him a bottle. The boy had come walking down to the oil dock, his eyes bright and eager, yet he was hesitant, too. The man in the guard shack wasn’t paying attention, and Mahoney watched with interest. Kids were not plentiful around the port, especially not schoolboys with a full-of-themselves attitude such as this one. He watched him walk past the ship until he could see the name on the bow, then he came back to the gangway where Mahoney was sitting.
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