i
Bervick sat on a tall stool by the window, his legs braced against the bulkhead. The ship groaned and creaked as she was tossed from wave to hollow to wave again.
Evans stood near the wheelsman. He watched the compass. They were having trouble keeping on course, for with each large wave they were thrown several degrees off.
“Keep her even,” said Evans.
“It’s pretty hard....” A wave crashed over their bow, spray flooded the windows for a moment. They were swung ten degrees to starboard.
“Hard to port,” said Evans, holding tightly onto the railing.
The man whirled the wheel until they were again on course.
“Pretty hard, isn’t it?” Bervick looked over at Evans.
“Not easy. Pitching like hell.”
“Why not get her on electric steering?”
“Might break. Then where’d we be?”
“Right here.”
Evans stood by the compass. He knew they could not afford to be even a few degrees off their course. Ilak was a small island, and if they should miss it.... Evans did not like to think of what might happen then.
He wished the storm would begin soon if it were going to begin at all. Waiting for the big wind was a strain, and there was no sign of the wind yet. Only the sea was becoming larger.
The sky was still dark where the heart of the storm was gathered. Dirty white snow clouds stretched bleakly in the damp almost windless air. The strange green light was starting to fade into the storm and evening darkness. Gray twenty-foot waves rolled smoothly under them, lifting them high and then dropping them down into deep troughs.
Evans noticed the man at the wheel was pale.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You feeling the weather?”
“A little bit. I don’t know why.”
“You been drinking too much of that swill at the Big Harbor.”
“I didn’t have so much.” The man spoke weakly. There were small drops of sweat on his forehead.
“You better get some air,” said Evans. “I’ll take her.”
Quickly the man went to one of the wheelhouse windows, opened it, and leaned out. Evans took the wheel. He could get the feel of the ship when he was steering. He liked to take the wheel. Each time they descended into a trough they would be thrown several degrees off course. He would straighten them out as they reached the next wave-crest, then the same thing would happen again. It was not easy to keep the ship even.
“How’s it feel?” Bervick asked.
“Fine. We’re going to be knocked around a bit before we’re through. May have to lash the wheel in place.”
Spray splattered the windows of the wheelhouse. Salt water streamed down the glass making salt patterns as it went. Evans tried to make out land ahead of them, but the mist was too thick on the water. They were in the open sea now. Somehow Evans felt very alone, as though he were standing by himself in a big empty room. That was a favorite nightmare of his: the empty room. He would often dream that he had walked into this place expecting to find someone, but no one was ever there. Then he would dream that he was falling; after that he would wake up. Once in Anchorage a girl he had spent the night with told him that he had talked in his sleep. He told her his dream; she never dreamed, though, and could not understand.
Evans let his mind drift. Anything to keep from thinking of the coming storm. That was a bad thing about storms: you could not really get ready for one. Once you knew a storm was coming all you could do was wait and deal with it when it came.
He wondered what would be said if he lost the ship. He could hear the Captain at Andrefski saying, “I knew all along that guy Evans would crack up. I told him not to go.” People were all alike that way. Make a mistake, or even have some bad luck and they’ll say that they knew it was going to happen all along. People were all alike, thought Evans gloomily. He felt like a drink. He would not let himself have one, though. He would have to be able to think quickly. His stomach was already fluttering as he waited.
Evans looked over at the man on watch. He was still leaning out the window, his shoulders heaving. At last he turned around. He was pale but seemed relieved. “I guess I’m O.K. now,” he said.
Evans stepped away from the wheel. “You sure you’re not going to get sick again?”
“Yeah, I’m all right.” The man took the wheel. Evans gave him the course. Then Evans walked to the port side where Bervick sat watching the water. He was daydreaming. His eyes were fixed on the sea.
In silence they looked out the windows. Except for an occasional sound of creaking from the bow, there was no sound to be heard in the ship. The wheelhouse was getting too warm, Evans thought. He unbuttoned his shirt. His hands shook a little as he did. This annoyed him.
“Getting warm, Skipper?”
“It’s too hot in here. The Chief’s really got the heat going fine. When we really need it in port he breaks something.”
“Engine rooms are always like that. I’m glad I’m not an engineer.”
The clock struck three bells. Evans looked at his watch. He always did that when the clock struck.
“When do you figure we’ll be off Ilak?” Bervick asked.
“Just about two hours. Just about seven-thirty.”
Bervick scratched his long hair thoughtfully. “I don’t think this thing’s going to blow up for a while.”
“I don’t either. We better just hope that we’re near a good bay when it does. I expect well get the big wind tonight. It’s taking a long time getting here.”
“That’s what I like.” Bervick looked at the black unchanging storm center. “Maybe we’ll miss the whole thing.”
Evans smiled. “No chance, bucko, we’ll get all of it. Right in the teeth, that’s where we’re going to get it.”
“I wish I never left the Merchant Marine.”
“You got a hard life.”
“That’s what I think.”
“Don’t we all.” Evans made his mouth smile again. He tried to be casual.
His ex-wife would get his insurance, he thought suddenly. He remembered that he had not changed it from her name to his family’s. He chuckled to himself. Everyone would be surprised. She would be surprised to get it; his family would be furious for not getting it. His father had four other sons and an unproductive farm. The insurance would be useful to them. He had not seen his family for seven years but sometimes they wrote to him. His mother always wrote. She was an educated woman but his father had never learned to read or write. He never felt there was much advantage in it. Evans thought of his family. His mind raced from person to person. He tried to recall how each of them looked. This was a good game that he often played with himself. It kept his mind off things that were bothering him, off storms, for instance.
Evans thought of his wife. She was a nice girl. If he had met her at any other time than during a war they might have been happy. He did not know her very well, though. He could not decide whether their marriage would have been any good or not. He wondered what she was doing now and where she was. He felt rather sad that he had not had time to know her better. There were others, of course. There was consolation in that.
A wave, larger than the rest, hit violently across their bow. Evans staggered and almost fell. Bervick and his stool were upset and Bervick was thrown heavily on the deck. He stood up swearing.
“How did it feel?” asked Evans.
“Guess.” Bervick limped across the wheelhouse and got the stool again. He placed it in one corner under the railing. He did not sit down again. “Waves getting larger,” he said.
“We haven’t seen nothing,” said Evans. He looked at the compass. “Get on course,” he said sharply. They were a dozen degrees off.
“O.K., O.K.,” the wheelsman was beginning to sound a little desperate. He had not been at sea long.
Evans went back to his corner. He tried to recall what he had been thinking about, but his train of thought had been shattered. Only fragments were left to trouble him.
He looked at the forward deck. It had never looked so clean. The constant spray had made the gray-blue deck glisten. The door to the focs’le opened and a swarthy face appeared. The fat cook looked out at the slippery deck. Carefully the fat cook stepped up on the deck. A small wave hit the bow. He tried to get back in the focs’le but he was too slow. The wave threw him against the railing. Struggling, he was floating aft. Evans could see him, soaking wet, get to his feet at last and disappear in the direction of the galley.
“Some sailor, the cook,” remarked Bervick.
“He’s some cook, too. He can burn water.”
The wheelhouse door opened and Martin joined them. His face showed no particular expression. He seemed to be unaware of the storm. He glanced at the barometer.
“A little lower,” he remarked.
Evans looked at it, too. “Yes, the thing’s fallen some more.” He went to the chart table and recorded the barometer’s reading in the logbook.
“When’s the wind going to start?” Martin asked.
“Can’t tell yet, John,” Bervick said. “Around midnight, that’s my guess.”
“How’re the passengers?” asked Evans.
“They’re pretty bothered. The Chaplain’s sick as a dog.”
“Where’d the Major go when he left here?”
“He went to his cabin. I guess he’s in the sack.”
Evans frowned. “I wanted them to stay in the salon. You should have kept them there. Suppose he comes walking down the deck and a wave knocks him overboard?”
“That’s an act of God,” snapped Martin. For some reason Evans was pleased to have irritated his Mate. “Besides,” Martin added, “he’d already gone when I went below.”
“Well, when you go down again get him back in the salon. What’s Hodges doing?”
“He thinks it’s a game.”
“I’m glad somebody’s having a good time.” Evans leaned against the bulkhead. The ship was not pitching quite so much now. The wind, what there was of it, was probably shifting. He remembered his insurance again. He wished he had taken care of it before they left. “Leave nothing undone and nothing begun,” a Warrant Officer in Anchorage had told him. The words had a nice sound to them. They were also true.
“I’ve never been in a williwaw,” remarked Martin.
Evans glanced at him. He did not like to hear a storm described aloud in advance. Evans had a complicated system of beliefs. If some things were mentioned before they happened they would take place exactly as mentioned. He never said much about bad weather before it broke. He would never have said this was going to be a williwaw. That was predicting, not guessing.
“Weren’t you aboard that time we was off Umnak?” asked Bervick.
Martin shook his head. “I was having some teeth fixed. I missed that show.”
“I guess you did at that. You’ll make up for that now.”
“I suppose I will.”
A thirty-foot wave swept them amidships. The wheelhouse creaked as the salt water cascaded over them. Martin stumbled. The stool rolled across the deck. The man at the wheel lost his grip; the wheel spun around. Evans grabbed it quickly. His right arm felt as if it had been ripped off. With a great deal of trouble he got the ship on course again.
“You hang on this,” he said to the wheelsman. “When you being relieved?”
“In a half-hour.”
“Well, keep holding it tight. We don’t want to wander all over this damned ocean.”
“Pretty good-sized wave,” said Bervick.
“Yeah, and there’re more where that came from.” Evans was breathing hard. The struggle with the wheel had tired him. His arm ached. He flexed it carefully.
“Get your arm?” Bervick was watching him.
“Just about pulled the thing off.” Evans went to the window and leaned on the sill. The wave that had just hit them was a freak one, for the sea was not as high as it had been. The wind definitely seemed to be shifting. The sky was becoming darker. There was snow ahead.
Martin left them, and went below. Absently Evans rubbed his arm; it hurt him. He watched the water and waited for the big wind to come.