No Traveller Returns (Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  “Sir,” he began, “I wonder if you’d tell me where I can find Mr. O’Brien? He’s second engineer.”

  Mahoney’s eyes sharpened a little. “O’Brien? What d’ you want with him?” he said. “He’s crazy as a loon.”

  “He is not! He’s my dad!”

  Mahoney almost smiled. He’d been on O’Brien’s watch for three voyages, and the man made every minute a living hell. Nothing was ever clean enough, never good enough, with his crazy eyes and that Frankenstein face.

  “Crazy, boy. A barking lunatic who can barely keep his job.”

  “You’re the one that’s crazy! My dad is a good officer and a good engineer. And he drove the Indianapolis 500 three times! That’s more than you’ll ever do!”

  “Think you’re smart, do you?” Mahoney stood. “Too damn smart.” His hand shot out, and he caught the boy by the shoulder. “You need some of that kicked out of you. All you little punks get too damn wise.” He jerked the kid toward him and, desperately, the boy struck out with one small fist, a fist that smacked hard against Mahoney’s mouth.

  “Why, you dirty little—” Mahoney swung, but the boy stepped back. Mahoney started after him, stopping only when he heard McGuire’s voice calling down the accommodation ladder.

  “Hey! Let him alone!”

  Mahoney turned, his face ugly. “You keep your damn nose out of this, pretty boy!” Mahoney grabbed at Connie, but suddenly a hand caught his shoulder and jerked him around. McGuire’s face was emotionless. Out of the corner of his eye, Mahoney could see that the longshoremen had stopped work and were watching. With a sudden burst of fury, he swung, hard.

  McGuire had gripped his arm, and when Mahoney’s punch started, he merely turned him away, the fist whistling through empty air. One of the longshoremen laughed, and with a mumbled curse, Mahoney jerked free and leaped in punching with both hands.

  Denny stabbed a stiff left to the mouth that stopped the oiler in his tracks, and then crossed a short, snapping right to the chin that made Mahoney’s head bob. Before the oiler could recover his balance, McGuire stabbed three more lefts into his face so fast his fist was only a blur. “Jesus, would you look at that left!” somebody exclaimed.

  Mahoney landed a hard right on McGuire’s shoulder and piled in with a whirl of driving punches. He was a veteran of scores of waterfront brawls, but here his every blow was wasted. Some of them fanned empty air; some of them were carefully muffled and blocked. Then a short, wicked uppercut jerked his head back. A solid left hook jarred his chin, and the dock seemed to fly up and strike him in the back.

  He turned over, and started to get up, a trickle of blood running from his lip, his head buzzing. Suddenly a hand caught his arm and lifted him to his feet. It was McGuire. Mahoney kicked out, striving for Denny’s groin. McGuire turned sideways and the kick missed, and almost at the same instant, a stiff left shot out and split Mahoney’s eye, sending a shower of blood down his face. Moving after him, Denny ripped a series of hard, driving hooks to the head that kept the shorter man backing up. Then another right spilled him on the dock, his face skidding against the hard, slivered boards.

  For an instant, McGuire hesitated, looking down at the fallen man. Then he walked back to the boy, who was staring at him, fascinated. “Who was it you wanted to see, young fellow?”

  “My dad. He’s second engineer on this ship. His name is O’Brien.”

  Denny looked at him quickly. “O’Brien?” He was a little incredulous. “Well, sure thing. We’ll go look him up.”

  They walked toward the gangway. The boy looked up, his eyes wide. “You sure can fight!” he said. “Do you know my dad?”

  “The second? Yeah, sure, I know him.” He stopped as they reached the deck. “Did he expect you?”

  “I thought I’d surprise him. He will never let me come down to the ship, so I thought I’d come and make it a surprise. He tells me all about it—how the engines work, and about all the sailors. Gee, I’ll bet they all like him! He’s swell!”

  “Like him pretty well, do you?”

  “I’ll say! I hope I can be like him when I grow up!”

  Denny hesitated, his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He was thinking of Con O’Brien. Just supposing this kid heard someone say what they really thought of O’Brien. He didn’t even know how the man would react to his bringing the boy down there. Why, nobody had even guessed the fellow was married, let alone had a boy like this one. Denny grinned, remembering the punch the kid had taken at Mahoney. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Connor. After my dad. Ever’body calls me Connie, or else Junior.”

  “I’ll call you Connie—how’s that?” He leaned against the rail. “We better wait. I think your dad is busy right now. I was down below a little while ago, and they were taking a generator apart, and when your dad is busy, he’s really busy.”

  “Do you have many fights?” Connie asked.

  “Me? Yeah, every once in a while. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I look so peaceful.”

  “You sure licked that fellow.”

  “Shucks, Connie,” Denny said, grinning. “It was that right hook of yours did the job! You set him right in my alley! All those guys might be thinking I did it, but it was you!”

  Connie grinned. “Don’t kid me, mister.” He looked up at Denny. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Denny McGuire, first, last, and always. I’ve been called other things, but not to my face.” He turned to Connie, who was sitting on the rail. “Say, what did you hit Mahoney for?”

  “He said my dad was crazy. Then he grabbed me and twisted my shoulder.”

  “He said your dad was crazy? Pay no attention to it—that guy’s way off his course. You’ve got plenty of nerve to hit a man. That guy was supposed to be tough.” He stood up. “Come on, Connie, let’s look around.”

  * * *

  —

  They walked aft, slowly. Denny had taken the youngster from the bow to the stern, explaining all about the ship. Then they started for the engine room. “Now we’ll go see your dad. But don’t be surprised if he acts funny. He doesn’t like to be disturbed. You know, lots of engineers get so wrapped up in their work they don’t like to be bothered by anybody. And don’t tell him about what happened out there. It might just cause more trouble.”

  Con O’Brien looked up as they reached the floor plates. He stopped, dead still, and his face turned white. But Denny walked toward him, and when Connie saw his father, he began to grin. “Hi, Pa! Gee, Mr. McGuire just showed me the whole ship. Everything but the engine room.”

  O’Brien’s face was tense. “How’d you get here, Junior?”

  “I delivered some packages for a man, and he gave me a dollar. So I thought I’d surprise you. Wasn’t that all right?”

  “Oh. Sure. Yes, of course, son.”

  Denny looked across the boy’s head at O’Brien. “Yeah, I met him out on the dock. We’ve become regular pals.” Denny leaned back against the engineer’s desk. “But if it’s okay with you, I’ll wait around and walk him back up to Pacific Avenue.”

  It was twenty minutes before O’Brien came back with the boy. He looked cheerful but exhausted. “I never answered so many que–questions in my life!”

  Denny smiled. “Oh, he had a few for me too!”

  “That’s right, Dad,” the boy said. “He told me what a marlinspike was, an’ a hickory fid, an’ how they steer a ship, an’ about the colored lights.”

  Denny and Connie climbed the ladder together, and it wasn’t until they reached the dock that they stopped. Denny looked at something ahead of them and smiled.

  It was Faustine. She had driven down to the end of the road in a neat gray convertible coupe, and was sitting behind the wheel watching him. She glanced from the boy to Denny and raised one eyebrow. “What’s this? Something you’ve been holding out on me?”
<
br />   Denny grinned. “No, not this one.”

  “I was wondering.” She smiled at Connie. “At least he’s darned good-looking.”

  “Thank the lady, Connie,” Denny said. “She’s quite a judge of attractive males. But,” he added, “before you two pursue your acquaintance any further, I’d better introduce you. This, Miss Carmody, is Connor O’Brien, Esquire, and he is the eldest and only son of our extremely talented second engineer. This is his first visit to our ship, and he has just been seeing the sights with his father, and the amazingly intelligent and attractive Dennis McGuire, also Esquire. He now is being treated to the finest sight of all.” He turned to Connie. “I leave it to you, pal. Isn’t she a sight?”

  “I think she’s beautiful,” Connie said.

  “See?” Denny said. “Already the sea has begun to affect him! Just off the ship, and already he tries to flirt with the ladies!” He shrugged. “Anyway, Connie Esquire, this is Miss Faustine Carmody of Hollywood, and points east. She is one of the most lovely, talented, and stubborn girls in show business.”

  Denny pointed. “Listen, you—walk over to that box and sit down and watch the boats go by. I’ve got to talk with the lady.”

  Once Connie had gone, she looked up and asked, “When do you leave?”

  “Four days.”

  “And when are you coming back?”

  “In about three months, give or take.” McGuire made a point of polishing his fingernails on his shirtfront. “Of course, the captain hasn’t discussed the question with me yet.”

  “Will he?”

  Denny shook his head. “Darling, you’re naïve. The captain of a ship talks to no one but himself and God.”

  “But Denny, why do you go?” she protested. “There is so much for you here!”

  “I often wonder myself,” he said. “I like to drift. The sea, strange ports and places, odd people, narrow winding streets, temples, dancing girls, elephants, camel bells, sampans with eyes, the rose of a sunset breaking through a mist like fire through smoke. Maybe it’s the Irish in me, or maybe the poet. My mother rode a merry-go-round just before I was born—ever since I’ve liked to travel.”

  “You’re teasing me, though I used to think like that, too. But I want you to stay, Denny. I do, really!”

  “It’s tempting.” He shrugged. “But I’m like a shark—if I stop I fear I’ll drown. Also, I’ve got this job, and they are still damn hard to find.”

  “Why, Denny, you were successful in the ring! And you know what Nathan said—you could be in pictures.”

  “Honey, I’m tired of getting hit, and I could never stand all that waiting around and hoping for a job. I like to play pretend as much as the next boy…but this”—he gestured toward the ship—“is real.”

  “I’ve got to go, Denny. I don’t want to, but I told Spence I’d meet him to sign that contract at four.”

  “The contract, isn’t it?” he said. “Two grand a week. It’s a lot of money!”

  “No more than you could have, someday.”

  “Maybe.” He smiled. “Still planning on Friday night?”

  “Of course. The same place?”

  “Sure. Say, before you go, how about giving the kid a lift? He’s got to get back downtown. I’ll trust you with him.”

  “Sure, I’ll take him.”

  “Hey, Connie!” The boy hurried up. “Your girlfriend is driving you home. When you get there you can tell the neighbors you rode with a real flesh-and-blood movie actress, and a good one. Lots of luck, youngster!”

  He stood watching as the car drove away, and then turned to go back to the dock. Mahoney was just coming down the gangway, dressed in his shore-going clothes. Denny grinned wryly at him. “Sorry, friend.”

  Mahoney did not reply. One eye was completely closed, there was a cut under the other, and his lips were puffed and swollen.

  Out on Bay Street, Mahoney stopped to light a cigarette. He put it between his swollen lips. “The son-of-a-bitch,” he said. He snapped the match into the dirt, and walked on.

  Three men were in the shack when he entered. It was no more than 150 feet off the main drag. One turned up a shallow gully, passed a lone tree, and then walked between several tar paper and plywood cabins clinging to the hillside. The three men had finished eating, and there was a bottle among the dirty dishes.

  They looked up when Mahoney walked in. “What the hell?” one of them exclaimed. “What happened t’ you?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Ain’t he the nice one?” the man said. “Can’t a guy ask a question even?”

  “Forget it, Dynamite,” Fitzpatrick said, sitting up and pouring a drink. “Here, Mahoney. Try this.”

  The oiler tossed off the rotgut liquor, and then dropped into a chair.

  “Who was it?” the big man said.

  “McGuire. That Denny McGuire.”

  Dynamite whistled and looked nervously at Fitzpatrick. It was no mystery that the big shipfitter had come out on the bad end of an altercation with McGuire in the Beacon Street Pool Room. Fitz had lost more than one shift at the yards because the beating had left him unable to work.

  “Surprised you’re showin’ your mug around here, Mahoney.” Fitz relaxed back into the chair. “You still owe me money…an’ I know you took down that Dutchman off the Johnson City. I never got my piece o’ that.”

  Mahoney’s little eyes darted back and forth. “Okay, I got some—some of what I owe ya. An’ maybe I heard somethin’ that’ll get you more payback. Payback on that S.O.B. McGuire!”

  “Ought t’ be plenty of chances wi’ you shippin’ out,” Dynamite said. “He could always fall overboard some dark an’ stormy night.”

  “Sure he could, but you’re a fool. That gets us nothin’, nothin’ to put in our wallets!”

  “What’s this?” Fitzpatrick sat forward again.

  Mahoney stood, dug into his pocket, and pulled out a roll of Pete Brouwer’s bills. It was less than half the actual take, but who would ever know? Mahoney poured himself another drink and peeled off a portion of the wad.

  “This guy McGuire,” he said. “He’s done some work in the movies. Some doll come to see him t’day. This afternoon. Dames like that don’t pay no attention to a guy unless he’s got dough. We’re shipping out, and like as not he’ll have all that movie cash on him for one last blowout.”

  “When does he come ashore?” Fritz asked.

  “I heard him say he was meetin’ the doll Friday night.”

  “He’ll catch the PE, huh?”

  “I don’t think so. I think she picks him up.”

  “How about her? She look like money?”

  “She has more than him, I figger. An’ t’ top it off, she’s got a sweet little convertible!”

  McFee rubbed his jaw, and turned to Fitz. “Can we handle a car?”

  Fitzpatrick’s eyes gleamed, but he said nothing.

  McFee grinned, looking from Mahoney to Fitz. “Why not?”

  “Naw, forget it. It’s too hot,” Fitz said.

  “Hell, Fitz…”

  “Shut up, Tom. Forget it, I say!” He got up slowly. “That McGuire is too tough. An’ a dame with money. Think of the police. It ain’t like some waterfront skirt. Forget it.”

  Ten minutes later Mahoney was walking back to Beacon Street. It was all he could do to suppress a grin. Fitzpatrick came off all high and mighty, thinking he was some waterfront crime boss. Well, he wasn’t up to matching wits with Mahoney, not at all.

  He had pointed Fitzpatrick at McGuire like a pistol, and regardless of what he had said to McFee, Fitz had taken the bait…Mahoney knew it because Fitz had let him leave without demanding the rest of the money he owed him.

  THE PRIVATE LOG OF JOHN HARLAN, SECOND MATE

  March 30th: The time is thirty minutes past four o’clock, and it is bu
t a few minutes since I came off watch. The afternoon sun is hot, the air drowsy with springtime at sea. We have no green trees, growing grass, no wildflowers or blossoming fruit trees. Here spring is only in the air and in the hearts of the seamen. It is an intangible something that has descended upon us almost without warning. The men move lazily about the ship, and on the bridge, Borly Shannon, the chief officer, is standing on the starb’rd wing of the bridge, watching them, infected by the same feeling.

  In my cabin the sunlight falls through the ports to trace a narrow path along the deck. As I watch, the light slowly withdraws itself with the roll of the ship to starb’rd, and then returns smoothly as the ship rolls back to port. The movement is very slight, the ship riding easily across warmer and warmer seas. The fan that is hinged to fit into my porthole turns lazily, moving its artificial breeze through my cabin and into the corridor.

  Life at sea is usually monotonous. There are moments of adventure, it is true. There are times during storms when one works rapidly and desperately against the overwhelming power of the sea.

  One night when only an able seaman, I was on the boat deck lashing down a spare ventilator when a towering wall of green water broke over two of us. I succeeded in getting hold of the galley skylight. It was a precarious hold, yet when the ship rose again, I was still there. I climbed to my feet, drenched to the skin, and found the man working with me gone! I started for the bridge to report him over-side, but then saw him coming forward from the poop deck. He had been washed overboard amidships, and back aboard the ship at the stern with inches to spare. He had grabbed onto the rail, then climbed up and come forward. We went back to the boat deck and finished our job. There was nothing to report.