The Sea is My Brother (18 page)

Wesley helped Joe to his feet: “All right, Joe?”

Joe stared blankly at Wesley, swaying slightly.

“I'm all cut up,” he moaned.

“You shouldn't have been so right foolish!” said Wesley.

“I know, I know,” groaned Joe. “I'm all cut up . . . I don't feel natural . . . somethins' gonna happen . . .”

“Will you shut up!” shouted Haines. Curley was sitting up blinking; he smiled at all of them and started to sing “Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie”—but he was sober enough. They dragged Joe and Curley above and let them breathe in the cold dawn fog.

“Let's get to work,” said Haines impatiently.

Joe staggered but caught himself in time.

“What a hell of a way to start the day,” muttered Charley, the ordinary seaman. “Drunken bastarts . . .”

“All right, forget it!” snapped Haines.

The bosun was calling them aft. A gray dawn was fanning out across the sky.

“I'm sorry Joe,” mumbled Curley. Joe said nothing. The
Westminster
's stack was pouring out great clouds of black smoke as they reached aft, where the first mate, the bosun, and a Maritime deck cadet were waiting.

Down on the dock, longshoremen were unwinding the
Westminster
's hawsers . . .

When Everhart woke up, he heard the booming blast of the
Westminster
's stack. He jumped down from his bunk and stood in front of the open porthole—the wall of the dock shed was slipping by. Bill put his head out and gazed forward: the ship was backing out slowly from the slip,
leaving a sluggish wake of whirlpools. Longshoremen and guards stood on the receding dock platform, watching, their work done.

Once more the
Westminster
roared her blast of departure, a long, shattering, deep peal that echoed and reechoed in the morning quiet over the wharf-roofs, railroad yards, and buildings all along the waterfront.

Bill washed hastily and ran above. He felt great piston charges rumble along the deck, heard the giant churning of the propeller. As he gazed aloft at the
Westminster
's stack, she thundered for the third time—“Vooooom!”—and lapsed into quiet as the sound soared out over Boston's rooftops.

In the middle of the harbor, she stopped; then the propeller chugged again, the winch-engine rumbled below as the rudder was set, and the
Westminster
slowly and ponderously pointed her bow around to face the Atlantic. The winch screeched deeply once more—and they moved slowly, smoothly toward the mine net at the mouth of the harbor, the propeller chugging up a steady Gargantuan rhythm.

Bill hastened up to the bow and peered down at the prow, its sharp, steep point dividing the harbor water with the ease of power. The
Westminster
slipped on, faster and faster. Seaweed wriggled past lazily.

Bill squinted toward the sea. Far out, he saw, in the gray mist, a low, rangy shape . . . the destroyer, of course! They were on their way! And what a fool he would have been to miss this . . . !

They were nearing the mine net swiftly; and [an] opening had been made for them. As the
Westminster
slipped through, the sailors on the mine boats waved casually. Bill could not take his eyes off the floating mines, huge black, spiked globes strung from beach to beach along a line of unbelievably destructive doom . . .

The two lighthouses glided by with dignity, the last outposts of society. Bill stared aft at Boston's receding skyline, a sleepy Boston unaware of the great adventure being undertaken, a Boston spurting occasional clouds of industrial smoke, the gray buildings dour-faced in the July dawn.

Bill returned his eyes seaward. Far off, where the horizon, mist, and bilious green sea merged, Bill saw dark vestiges of night fading to a pale gray.

Directly forward, the destroyer steamed swiftly through the calm waters; already, it seemed to Bill, the destroyer was on watch, her guns flaring to all directions. Bill turned and glanced up at the forward gun turrets: two soldiers with earphones stood by the guns, eyes out along the horizon.

It was done! He could never go back now . . . Let come what may, they were prepared, and so was he . . .

“I'm never too drunk to do my work!” someone was yelling on the bow. Bill turned and saw Wesley, with two other deckhands, rolling up cables on the deck.

“You're damned right, man,” Wesley said.

“I'll git drunk. I'll start fights, I'll do anything!” Curley cried in Wesley's face. “But I'll do my work. Am I right?”

“Shut up, will you?” Haines muttered.

“Well, am I right?” demanded Curley.

“Shore!” assured Wesley.

They went on rolling the cables in silence. When they were finished, Wesley lit up cigarette and gazed out over the waters.

“Morning Wes,” greeted Bill.

Wesley turned and waved his hand solemnly.

“How do you like it?” he asked.

Bill leaned on the deck rail and squinted down at the water: “Exciting . . . this is my first time at sea, and I must say it gives me a queer feeling.”

Wesley offered him a cigarette.

It was getting warmer; the mist had lifted, and now the long swells glistened luminously in the bright white light. Bill could feel the bow rise and fall in smooth, swishing strokes as the
Westminster
moved on.

“How is it,” grinned Bill, “on the bow when the sea is rough?”

Wesley tossed his head with a smile: “You gotta hang on to something or you'll take a ride on the deck.”

“Do you ever get seasick?” asked Bill.

“Shore . . . we all do one time or another,” answered Wesley. “Even the skipper sometimes.”

“Hey Martin!” cried Haines. “We gotta go below.”

Wesley threw away his cigarette and shuffled off to his work. He wore the same moccasins he had when Bill met him in New York, plus a pair of paint smeared dungarees and a white shirt. Bill watched him go below with Haines and Curley; he was rubbing Curley's head playfully while Curley took up a new song with dramatic gestures.

“Seven years,” howled Curley, “with the wrong woman . . . is a mighty long time . . .” then they disappeared down the hatchway.

Bill smiled to himself; he was glad to see Wesley happy again—that note from his wife the day before had obviously troubled him, for he hadn't come to mess all day. Wesley seemed at home and content now they were sailing, as though leaving port meant the cessation of all his worries, and heading out to sea a new era of peace and amenity. What a simple solution! Would to God Everhart
could find freedom in so simple a process as that, could be relieved of vexation by so graceful an expedient, could draw comfort and love from the sea the way Wesley seemed to do.

Bill went aft and below to his work. When the table was set, Joe the A.B. shuffled in gloomily. His face was all bruised.

“What happened to you?” grinned Bill.

Joe looked up in angry silence and shot an irritated glance at the other. Bill placed a plate in his hand.

“What's for eats?” growled Joe.

“Oatmeal . . .” began Bill.

“Oatmeal!” spat Joe. “I can see where this is gonna be a lousy run, crummy food, no-good crew . . .”

“Coffee with it?” leered Bill.

“What the hell do you think?” cursed Joe. “Don't be so Goddamned foolish.”

“How am I to know . . .”

“Shut up and get it,” interrupted Joe.

Bill glared and flushed.

“Who you lookin' at?” purred Joe, rising.

“You don't have to . . .”

“Lissen Shorty,” cried Joe in Bill's face. “Keep shut if you don't want to get hurt, understand?”

“You're a test case!” mumbled Bill.

Joe pushed Bill with the flat of his hand. Bill stared fearfully at the other, paralyzed in his steps; he almost dropped the plate.

“Don't drop the plates,” Joe now grinned. “You'll have to pay for them yourself. C'mon, c'mon, don't stand there like a dope, Short Man, get me my breakfast.”

Bill walked to the galley in a stupor. While the cook was filling Joe's plate, he decided to stand for his rights, and if it meant a row, then row it was! Bill walked quickly back to his mess, rousing his senses for the inevitable . . . but when he returned, a heated argument was in progress among the deckhands. Curley, Haines, Charley and Wesley were seated at the table.

“I'm sorry!” Curley was shouting, “but for krissakes don't keep bringin' it up. I ain't responsible for what I do when I'm drunk . . .”

“That's all right,” Joe whined, “but you still cut me up bad, you and your Goddamned booze . . .”

“Why don't you forget it!” Haines groaned restlessly. “It's all over now, so forget it . . .”

“Peace! Peace!” Charley cried. “Haines is right . . . so from now on, shut up about it.”

Joe waved his hand viciously at all of them.

Bill dropped the breakfast plate before him. So, it was Curley's work . . . good boy!

Joe looked up: “Look, Shorty, don't drop my plate like that again . . .”

Haines rose to his feet: “There he goes again. I'm getting the hell out of here!”

“Wait!” commanded Wesley.

Bill stood glaring down at Joe. When Joe began to rise to his feet, Wesley placed a hand on his shoulder and sat him down.

“Take your hands off me, Martin!” warned Joe, his eyes fixed askance on Wesley's hand.

Wesley sat down on the bench beside him and smiled.

“All right, Joe, I will. Now I want to tell you . . .”

“I don't wanta hear it!” snarled Joe. “If you don't like my company, get the hell out.”

“Sure,” minced Haines savagely, “I'm divin' over the side and swimmin' back to port.”

“Look, man,” began Wesley, “that's just the point . . . we're out at sea and that's that. We're not on the beach no more—there, we can fight, booze, nowhere all we want. But when we're sailin' . . .”

“I said I didn't want to hear it!” cried Joe.

“You're gonna!” snapped Haines. “Go ahead Martin . . .”

Wesley's face hardened: “When we're sailin', man, there's no more o' that beach stuff. We have to live
together, and if we all pitch in together, it's right fine. But if one guy bulls it all up, then it's no shuck-all of a trip . . . all fouled up.”

“Get off my ear,” mumbled Joe morosely.

“I will when you get it! You smarten up and do your share and we'll all be happy . . .” Wesley began hotly.

“Who ain't doin' his share!” retorted Joe.

“Your share of cooperation,” put in Haines.

“Yeah,” said Wesley, “that's it . . . your share of cooperation . . . do that and we'll all be grateful.”

Joe banged his fork: “Suppose I don't . . .”

Wesley rubbed his black hair impatiently.

“Didn't Curley cut me up? What'd I do?” Joe cried.

“You started it!” hissed Haines.

Joe was silent.

“Will you do that, man?” asked Wesley seriously.

Joe looked around with an expression of awe, gesturing toward Wesley: “Ain't he the one, though!”

“That's not the point,” broke in Haines. “He's talkin' for all of us. We want a good trip and we don't want a jeep like you queering it all up.”

Joe resumed his eating quietly.

“Guys like you go over the side, if they get crabby enough,” added Haines calmly.

“No room for me here,” groaned Joe.

“Shore is,” said Wesley. “Just stop gettin' wise with everybody . . . get the sliver out of your pants.”

Joe shook his head with slow resentment.

“That's all there is to it,” said Haines. “We all pull together, see?”

“Sure, sure,” snarled Joe.

“Let's shake and forget it,” put forth Curley. Joe let him shake his hand without looking up.

“Bunch o' crabs,” he muttered at length.

“We ain't crabs,” objected Wesley. “You're the crab in this outfit. Now for krissakes cut it out an' act right with us all. We're at sea, man, remember that.” Haines nodded his head in assent.

“How 'bout some grub!” cried Charley. Bill had been standing watching this tribunal of the sea in action with some wonderment; now he woke from his reverie with a grin and picked up his plates.

The seamen called their orders and tried to laugh it off, but Joe presently finished his breakfast and stalked out without a word. When he had gone, there was a strained silence.

“He'll pull out of it,” said Wesley.

“He'd better,” warned Haines. “He's got to learn sometime . . . he's at sea.”

 

That first day out, the
Westminster
sailed on hundred miles offshore and then turned north in the wake of the convoying destroyer. It was a warm, windless day at sea, with a smoothly swelling sheen of ocean.

When Bill finished his work after supper, he went aft to his focastle and lay down for a smoke. Above him, in an overhead rack, he detected a piece of canvas. Bill pulled at it and withdrew a gas mask; he sat up and peered into the rack; there was a lifebelt there also, with a small red light attached.

“Keep them handy,” counseled Eathington from his bunk. “I keep mine at the foot of my bunk. You got a knife?”

“No.”

“Get one; you might need a knife in case you ever need to do some fast and fancy cuttin'.”

Bill leaned back and drew from his cigarette.