iii
The night was dark. Off the port side Martin could barely make out the coastline of Ilak. Since seven-thirty they had been searching for the place where Evans intended to anchor.
Martin stood close to the window. He could hear waves crashing loudly on the near-by shore. The wind was increasing and the sea was becoming larger. He held tightly to the railing, his stomach fell dizzily as they sank into an unusually deep trough.
Evans had taken the wheel himself and the man on watch stood beside him ready to help in case the wheel should get out of control. Bervick stood by the chart table. From time to time he would call out their position.
The wheelhouse was dark except for dimmed lights in the binnacle and over the chart table. Martin could hear the wind howling around the corners of the wheelhouse. It sounded seventy or eighty miles an hour, and this, according to Evans, was just the start.
Martin made a quick dash for the chart table.
“When’ll we get there?” he asked.
Bervick did not look up. “Ten minutes and we should be abeam.”
“What’s that?” Evans asked, his voice pitched high above the wind.
“We’re getting close, that’s all. That inlet you’re looking for. Two miles away, as I figure.”
“Good.” Evans motioned to the man on watch who quickly took the wheel. Then Evans opened a window on the port side. A tremendous roar of wind and breaking water exploded into the wheelhouse. Spray splattered in Evans’ face as he watched the coastline.
Martin and Bervick went over and stood near him. Less than a mile ahead Martin could see a long spit of high rock pointing out into the sea. “That it?” he asked.
Bervick nodded. “Just around the corner there. Nice deep bay.”
“All right,” said Evans, speaking to the man at the wheel. “Bring her to port, five degrees. Ring Stand By, Mate.”
Martin skidded across the deck. He rang the engine room several times on the telegraph. Then he set the markers on Stand By.
They waited for the Chief to answer. Two minutes passed and then the Chief rang back. He was ready.
“Half Speed Ahead,” said Evans.
Martin set the markers on Half Speed. The ship’s vibration changed. Waves which had once crashed against them now lifted the ship easily onto their crests.
Evans turned to Martin.
“Go below and get some of the crew. Be ready to anchor when I give the word. When we get out of the wind you and your men go out on the forward deck and stand by.”
“Right.” Martin went quickly below. The idea of going out on deck in this weather did not appeal to him. Someone had to do it, though.
He gathered two deckhands in the galley. They cursed loudly but he knew they were glad to be anchoring.
Then, the ship having rounded the point, they went outside on the forward deck. Martin was almost thrown off his feet by a gust of wind. Though somewhat protected by the hills, they were not yet completely out of the storm. The wind was cold and penetrating. It chilled him, even through his heavy parka. Water whipped their faces. The deck was dangerously slick and the ship still pitched badly. On hands and knees, their eyes barely open and smarting from the salt, they wormed their way forward to the bow and the anchor winches.
They reached the bow. Martin got to his feet, holding tightly onto the tarpaulin which covered the winch. The other two did the same. Luckily they knew their job so well that he would not have to make himself heard over the sea-thunder.
The deckhands swiftly slipped the tarpaulin off the winch. Martin stood beside the lever which operated the anchor. The other two stood ready to knock the brakes from the chain.
He watched as the ship skirted the teethlike rocks and headed into a small bay. Dark mountains stood large against the sky. The bay itself was less than a mile wide and perhaps a little more than a mile deep. Mountains rimmed it on three sides.
Abruptly the ship stopped pitching. They were out of the wind at last. Inside this bay there was neither wind nor a large sea.
Evans leaned out of the wheelhouse window and waved.
“Let her go,” said Martin.
There was a loud clanging and then the metallic sound of falling chain as the freed anchor dropped into the water. The ship drifted slowly. Evans had stopped the engines.
Patiently Martin waited for the tug which would tell them the anchor was secured in the sea-floor. The ship glided ahead softly, cutting the small waves as it moved shoreward: a slight jolt and the ship stopped; rocking slightly, she began to circle about.
“Anchor’s holding,” shouted Martin. Evans waved and shut the wheelhouse window. Martin and the deckhands went back to the galley.
Martin stood before the galley range and tried to warm himself. Water had seeped through his shirt to his skin and he was completely wet. He could not remember when he had been so cold. The two men who had been out on deck with him were also shivering.
He slipped off his parka and shirt and then he rubbed himself in front of the stove. His teeth chattered as he began to get warm again.
“Going to be here long, Mate?” asked one of the men.
“We’ll probably leave at dawn. Wind should let up then.”
“Getting better then?”
“Yes,” said Martin, knowing it was not getting better. “Storm should be over by morning.”
“That’s good.” The men talked a while longer. Then they went to the focs’le. In his corner Smitty began to stir. Groaning, he got to his feet and walked over to the range and poured himself some coffee.
“You feel bad?” Martin asked.
“You bet I feel bad.” Smitty walked unsteadily away.
Martin sat down for a moment. He was tired, more tired than usual. Lately it seemed that he was always tired. He wondered if something was wrong with him. Perhaps he should see a doctor and get sent back to the States.
Everything was quiet, he noticed gratefully. It seemed that there had been nothing but noise since they left the Big Harbor that morning.
“Say, Martin.” He turned around and saw Evans standing in the door. “Come on out and help me nest the boom. Somebody didn’t do a very good job when we left.” This remark was meant for him and if he had not been so weary he would have snapped back; the effort, however, was too great.
“Sure, sure,” Martin said.
On the forward deck the wind was direct but not strong. Small waves slapped the sides of the ship. The hills seemed peaceful and only a faraway roar reminded them of the storm.
They stood beside the mast, Evans absently twisting a wet rope. “I’ll go up top,” he said finally. “You let the boom down.” He walked away. A few moments later Evans appeared on top of the wheelhouse.
“Let her down easy,” he shouted.
Martin let the boom descend slowly into place. He had to admire the quickness with which Evans lashed the mast secure.
“O.K.,” said Evans and he disappeared.
Bemused by the quiet, Martin walked back to the stern. He stood a while watching the mountains. He noticed that the side of one sharp peak seemed oddly blurred. It was the snow being ripped off the mountains by the wind. In the daylight it was a wonderful sight.
He walked slowly into the salon. His watch started at midnight. He would sleep on one of the salon benches until then. He was tired.
A few minutes after twelve Martin was awakened by Evans.
“Your watch,” said Evans. “I’m going to get some sleep. If anything looks bad, get me up.”
“Sea still high outside?”
Evans nodded. His eyes looked sunken, Martin noticed, and his lids were red.
“We’ll leave around sunup if we do leave, that right?”
“That’s right,” said Evans. “We’ll leave in the morning.”
They went up to the wheelhouse. Evans went to his cabin. Martin and the men on watch stood silently in the pale light of the wheelhouse. They listened to the sea.
“Think the radio will work, Mate?”
“We can find out.” Martin turned the radio on. A blast of static thundered out at them. “I guess not,” said Martin and he turned it off.
He noticed the barometer was still low. He recorded the time and the barometer reading in the logbook.
“I’m going below for a while,” he said.
Outside on deck there was little wind and the dark night was serene. He glanced at the higher mountains; the wind was still violent, for snow was blurring the peaks. He went toward the bow and down into the focs’le.
It was warm inside the focs’le and the lights were burning brightly. Bunks in two tiers lined the bulkheads. Some of the men were sleeping; others sat on their bunks and talked. In the middle of the deck the ship’s dog was licking a bone.
The men who were awake looked up as Martin came down the ladder.
“How’s it going, Mate?”
“Fine. The bulkheads sweating much?”
“I’ll say they are.” The man who spoke brushed his hand over the wood. “Look,” he said. Beads of water clung to his fingers.
“That’s pretty lousy,” said Martin. “At least it’s not cold in here.”
“Well, if it was we’d all be dead. This is the dampest boat I was ever on.” The others agreed. Martin sat down on an empty bunk and looked around. The focs’le was even sloppier than normal. It was, of course, bad most of the time and nothing could be done about it. Evans had tried to do something with no success. He had only made himself unpopular with the men.
Clothes littered the deck and the bunks were unmade. Old shoes and much-gnawed bones had been hidden in the corners by the dog. Martin could see why Evans hated dogs, especially on ships.
None of these things were important now, though. Nothing, except getting out of the storm, was important.
“I wonder how she’s blowing outside?” remarked a deckhand.
“Ought to be hitting a hundred about now,” answered another. “What do you think, Mate?”
“I hope it’s a hundred. If it is that means the storm’ll be over by morning. They don’t last so long, these storms.”
“That’s what I say.”
The men spoke together in low voices. Martin examined the pin-up pictures that plastered the bulkheads. Whenever he thought of his army career he thought of these pictures first. Somehow they almost never changed no matter where he was. These pictures and the radio, those were the two constant things. Occasionally there was no radio but the pictures were always there: half-dressed girls, in mysteriously lighted bedclothes, promising sex.
He thought of the three years he had spent in the army, and, of those years, only a few things stood out in his memory: certain songs that were popular when he had left for overseas, the waiting in line for almost everything.... The rest of his army career came to him only as a half-feeling of discomfort.
The dog, he noticed, was chewing his shoe. He grabbed the animal by the muzzle and pushed it away.
He got up. “See you,” he remarked at large and he began to climb the ladder that led to the forward deck.
“See you, Mate.”
Major Barkison sat at a table in the salon, a stack of writing paper in front of him.
“Good evening, sir,” said Martin.
“Good evening. Things seem a bit quieter now.”
“Yes, we’ll be able to get some sleep.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I never thought the sea could get so rough.” The Major contemplated the fountain pen in his hand. “I was,” he confided, “quite sick.”
“I’m sorry. You should have let us know, we’ve got some stuff to take care of that.”
“Have you really? I felt so terrible that I couldn’t get out of my bunk. I’ve never seen such jumping around. Does this sort of thing happen often?”
“Not too often, thank God.”
“It was quite enough.” The Major stroked his bald brow. The veins stood out on his hand. Martin hoped the Major had nothing seriously wrong with him. It was one of Martin’s nightmares that someone should have appendicitis or something like that aboard ship when they would be unable to help. Such things had happened before on other ships.
“I’ve been doing a little letter writing,” the Major explained, pointing to the papers. “I can really get caught up on a trip like this.”
“Would you like some coffee, Major?”
“Why yes, very much.”
Martin went into the galley and poured two cups from the pot which always sat, warming, on the stove. He brought the cups back into the salon and set them down on the table.
The Major grunted his thanks. They drank the dark and bitter liquid. Martin warmed his hands on the coffee mug. His hands were cold and stiff from climbing the focs’le ladder without gloves.
“Tell me, Mr Martin,” said the Major finally, “do you feel ... I know it’s a tactless question, in fact an unethical question to ask ... but do you feel that Mr Evans is ... well, quite capable of handling this situation?”
Martin smiled to himself. “Yes, Major. I have a lot of faith in Evans; when it comes to sailoring he’s one of the best seamen up here.”
“I’m very glad to hear you say that. I should never have asked, of course. But the situation being as it is, well, I thought it best to get your opinion.”
“I quite understand.”
“I hope you’ll regard my question as confidential, Mr Martin.”
“I certainly shall.”
“Thank you.” The Major sighed and sketched cartoons of sinking ships on a piece of paper.
“The Chaplain gone to bed?” asked Martin.
“I expect so. I haven’t seen him for several hours.”
“It looks like the old jinx is at work again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, every time we carry a Chaplain we have a bad storm.”
“O’Mahoney must be a potential Bishop if one goes by results,” commented the Major.
Martin laughed. “He’s done pretty well so far.”
The Major played with his pen a moment. “Where,” asked Martin, “do you expect to be stationed after the war, sir?”
“Well, I should like Tacoma, naturally, but I think I’ll be sent to Washington, D.C. A tour of duty there is worth more than a lifetime of field work.”
“I’ve always heard that.”
“It is not,” said the Major wisely, “what you know, it is who you know.”
“You certainly are right.”
“Yes, that’s the way it is.” They pondered this great truth in silence. Martin finally got to his feet.
“I hope you’ll feel better tomorrow, Major. We’ll leave in the morning; it should be calm by then.”
“I hope so, good night.”
“Good night.” Martin walked slowly through the galley. The lights were still on. He snapped them off. Then he walked out on deck.
A pleasant breeze cooled his face. Water lapped quietly against the sides of the ship. The night sky was black. In another forty-eight hours, if all went well, they would be in Arunga.
As he stood there many dramatic speeches came to Martin. Plays he had read or had seen on the stage, came to him. The rolling periods of the Elizabethans flowed through him like water in a rock channel. He always enjoyed these moments when he could think of words and voices speaking words.
He walked about on the deck. He stood by the railing on the port side and breathed the clean air. In these islands there was no odor of earth and vegetation in the wind, only the scent of salt and stone. He raised his head and looked at the mountains. The snow still whirled seaward.