Chapter IV: Part 4

Duval chuckled. He was not frightened by bad weather. He had seen so many storms and he did have confidence in Evans. Duval was not worried.

The men talked of the Big Harbor and of all the things they had done.

“Say, Chief,” said one, “did you see Olga?”

“Sure I saw her. I always see her. Anybody with money can see her.”

The man laughed. “I guess Bervick isn’t feeling so good today.”

“He takes life too seriously,” said the Chief and that was all he would say.

Hodges came into the galley from the salon.

“What’ve you been up to, Lieutenant?” asked Duval, genially.

“I’ve been wandering around the boat. I’ve never seen waves as big as they are outside. They must be over fifty feet.”

“Not quite that big but they will be pretty soon.” Duval closed his eyes for a moment. He had found that closing his eyes for a moment or so was very restful. It soothed him to do this. He was not at all worried, of course.

The light from the electric bulb overhead shone on his eyelids, and he could see nothing but red with his eyes shut, a warm clear red. He thought of the colorful bayou land of Louisiana. Usually he did not care where he was, but he did like color and there was no color in the Aleutians, only light and shadow on rock and water. The Chief opened his eyes.

Hodges was biting his thumbnail. The Chief watched him. He wondered what he might have done if he had been as well educated as Hodges. Probably the same things. Life was about the same for all people; only the details varied.

“I hear they expect the big wind around midnight,” said Hodges.

“That’s what Evans says. He don’t know, though. He guesses just like the rest of us do. We guess, we all guess and most of the time we’re wrong.” The Chief enjoyed discrediting Evans occasionally.

“Well, it should be some sight. I’m glad I’ll be able to see it.” One of the deckhands laughed.

“You won’t like it so much,” said Duval. “Even though these blows up here aren’t nothing compared to what we used to have in the Gulf.” The crew laughed. Anything that could keep their minds away from the coming storm was good.

“What’s happened to the Chaplain?” asked Duval.

“He’s in the salon. I expect he’s feeling bad. He doesn’t take to this sea business at all.”

“I suppose I’d better go see how he is.” Carefully Duval got to his feet and walked across the deck. He slipped once and swore to himself as he did. His balance wasn’t as steady as it had once been.

Chaplain O’Mahoney was sitting at the galley table, his jaw set and his face white. He was playing solitaire. He looked up as they came in and he managed to smile.

“I suppose it will be worse,” he said.

Duval nodded.

“That’s what I expected.”

“This’ll really be something to tell our grandchildren,” said Hodges cheerfully. The Chaplain laughed.

“Something to tell _your_ grandchildren,” he said.

“If you ever live to have any,” remarked Duval.

They sat together around the table, each thinking of the storm. Duval watched the Chaplain’s hands. They were white and plump and helpless. The Chaplain, Duval thought, could not have fixed a valve or even changed a sparkplug in a car. Of course the Chaplain knew many things. He could speak Latin, and Duval was impressed by Latin and the Church rituals. O’Mahoney’s soft hands could give blessings and that was an important thing. Perhaps it made no difference that his hands were not practical.

“Are you Catholic?” asked O’Mahoney, turning to Hodges.

The Lieutenant shook his head. “No, we’re Episcopal down home.”

“Indeed? I have known some very fine Episcopal ministers, very fine ones.”

“We’ve got a lot of them down home, ministers I mean.”

“I should suppose so. I knew some before I went into the monastery.”

“What’s a monastery like, sir?”

“Just like anything like that would be. Just the way you’d expect it to be. Perhaps a little like the army.”

“It must be queer, being so out of things.”

“One’s not so far out of the world. There is certainly nothing harder than living in close quarters with a group of people.”

“I thought it was supposed to be a kind of escape.”

“Certainly not. We have more time to think about the world. Of course, we do own nothing, and that makes life much simpler. Most people spend all their lives thinking of possessions.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Hodges. Duval did not listen as they talked. Instead he walked restlessly about the salon.

Through the after door he watched the white wake foaming. The wind appeared confused: blowing from first one direction and then shifting to another. There was snow in the clouds overhead.

The ship was tossed about like a stick in a river current. But somehow they managed to keep on course. The Chief tried not to think of this. He thought instead of a gauge on the starboard engine, but even that was too close to the storm. He turned and went back to the Chaplain and Hodges. Religious talk was soothing if nothing else.

He asked O’Mahoney about his monastery. O’Mahoney was happy to talk of it.

“A very simple place. There’s really not much to tell. We all have our different jobs.”

“What sort of work did you do?” asked Hodges.

“Well, I was in charge of the novices. Those are the beginners, the apprentices.”

“Sounds like a First Sergeant’s job,” said Hodges.

“Very much the same. I wish,” said the Chaplain wistfully, “that I was back in Maryland now.”

“So do I,” agreed Duval. “In New Orleans, I mean. I’m tired of this place.”

“We all are, but here we are. You have a wife, I suppose, in New Orleans?”

“Yes, I got a wife and two kids. We lost a new one two years ago. I guess she was too old to be having kids.”

“Such a pity, your child dying.”

“One of those things, they happen all the time. I saw the kid only once so it wasn’t so bad.”

The Chief sat down beside the Chaplain. Duval reached in his pocket and took out a knife. Carefully he whittled his fingernails. He concentrated on what he was doing. He would think of nothing else for a while.

Suddenly the ship lurched and Duval was thrown off the bench. His knife clattered on the deck.

He got to his feet quickly. The Chaplain was holding onto the bench with both hands, his face very white. Hodges was braced against a table. Duval looked down at his hand, conscious of a sharp pain: he had cut one of his fingers and it was bleeding. He waved his hand in the air to cool away the pain. Bright red blood in a thin stream trickled down his hand. The waving did not help. He stuck his finger in his mouth.

“You’d better get a bandage on that,” said O’Mahoney helpfully.

“Yes,” agreed Hodges. “That’s dangerous, cutting yourself.”

“I know, I’ll fix it. You people better hang around here until Evans decides what to do. You might get the Major up.” Holding his finger in the air, Duval went quickly down the companionway and into his engine room.

His two assistants were sitting beside the engines. They wore dirty dungarees and thin shirts; it was hot in the engine room. One of the oilers crouched in a corner. He had come aboard only the week before. Fumes from the oil, as well as the motion of the ship, had made him sick.

The two assistants, however, had been in this engine room in all sorts of weather for several years. They sat now under the bright electric lights and read much-handled magazines about Hollywood.

The Chief went aft to his stateroom in the stern. Carefully he wrapped a piece of gauze about his finger and then he tied the ends of the gauze into a neat bow. When he had finished he sat down on his bunk. He had always hated the sight of blood. He closed his eyes and took a deep and shaky breath. His heart was pounding furiously.

The first assistant came into the cabin.

“What’s the matter, Chief?”

“Not a thing.” Duval sat up straight and opened his eyes. “Cut my finger, that’s all. How’s that starboard engine sounding?”

“She sounds O.K., she’s going to be O.K.” The man leaned against the bulkhead. He was stout and red-headed and a good mechanic. He came from Seattle.

“Say, what’s this I hear that there’s going to be a big wind soon? Is that right?”

“I expect so. Evans don’t seem so bothered but the barometer’s gone down low. Going to have a williwaw.”

“It must be blowing hard outside. We been feeling it rock pretty bad but that’s not new on this run. Maybe I ought to go up and take a look.” The assistants seldom left the engine room. Several times they had gone through bad storms and had not known it until later. Even violent pitching and tossing did not alarm them.

“The wind ain’t too bad yet. Blowing maybe sixty, maybe more. It’s not coming from anywhere certain yet. The sea’s big, though.”

“Think we’ll anchor somewhere?”

“I don’t know. That guy Evans never tells us anything and I’m sure not going to ask him anything. Yes, I guess we’ll anchor in Ilak.”

“Well, it won’t be the first time we had to anchor in like that.”

“No, it won’t be the first time.”

Duval fingered the blue and white bedspread his wife had made for him and, fingering it, he thought of Olga. He hoped they would spend more time in the Big Harbor on the trip back.

“What did you do last night?” he asked.

His first assistant shrugged. “I didn’t do so much. Got tight, that’s all.”

“Too bad. Did you see that squarehead Bervick last night?”

“I saw him for a little while. He was in the Anchorage Inn. He was with old Angela. She’s sure a fat woman.”

Duval chuckled. “Serves him right. He was trying to sew up Olga. He wasn’t so smart about it. She’d come running if he didn’t keep bothering her about the others she sees. After all she’s got to make some money, like everybody else.”

“I heard that one before.” His assistant laughed. “She’s a fair looking girl, Olga is.”

“She certainly is.” Duval looked at his finger. He examined the bandage closely to see if the blood was seeping through. He was relieved to see it was not. “Let’s take a look around,” he said.

“O.K., Chief.”

They went back to the engine room. The other assistant was reading his magazine. He sat, teetering his chair with each lunge of the ship. Duval walked between the engines, checking the gauges and listening for trouble. Everything appeared in order. He switched on the hold pumps. When they were in a big sea the hold leaked badly; there was a leak somewhere but no one had ever found it.

Duval was pleased. If anything should happen to the ship now it would be Evans’ fault. The Chief did not like to take the blame for anything and in that he was quite normal.

He glanced at the oiler in the corner. For a moment he wondered if he should get him some ammonia or something because he looked so ill. He decided not to; when you were seasick you liked to be alone.

“Everything looks fine,” he said to his assistants. Then he went aft again to his stateroom, carefully examining his bandage for signs of fresh blood.

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.

_Chapter Five_

i

Morning.

Evans walked into the wheelhouse. He had slept unusually well. As a rule he stayed awake during bad weather, but this time he had really slept and he was glad that he had.

Bervick, whose watch it was, stood looking at the barometer.

“What do you think, Skipper?”

Evans looked at the barometer: still low, there had been almost no change overnight.

“I think there must be something wrong with the thing. You seen them act up before, haven’t you?”

Bervick agreed. “They can be wrong. It looks fine outside.” Evans went over to the window. There was little light in the sky, but the pre-sunrise stillness was good. Even in the mountains there was no wind.

“What do you think, Skipper?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. I don’t know.” Evans felt suddenly inadequate. He wished that he did not have to make this decision. He wondered for a moment what would happen if he got into his bunk and refused to get out. When he was very young he had often had a feeling like that: to lie down somewhere and not move and let unpleasant things take care of themselves.

“I suppose,” he said finally, “seeing as how the wind has died down, I suppose we should take a chance.”

“We’ll make a dash for Kulak if anything goes wrong.”

Evans went to the chart table. Mentally he computed distances and positions. “We’ll take a chance,” he repeated. “Get Martin up.”

Bervick went into his cabin; he came out, a moment later, with Martin.

“Bervick,” said Evans, “you take some men out on deck and get ready to weigh anchor. Martin, you go on down and see how the passengers are doing. Talk to the Chief and tell him we’re leaving right away. We want to get to Arunga tomorrow night.”

Martin and Bervick left together. Evans looked at the compass; he looked at the barometer, and then he looked at the chart. He walked out on deck and watched morning move slowly into the east. The day looked peaceful; there was no way, though, to tell what might happen. There never was any way to tell.

He watched Bervick and several deckhands as they walked on the forward deck, testing the winches, preparing to weigh anchor. Evans went to the telegraph and rang the engine room. He set the markers on Stand By. Almost immediately the Chief rang back.

Evans took a deep breath. Then he opened the window and yelled, “Pull her up!”

Bervick pushed a lever. There was much clanging and rattling. The anchor chain came up easily. Evans let the ship drift slowly with the tide. At last, satisfied that the anchor was free, he gave the engine room Slow Speed Astern.

The ship, vibrating strongly, drew away from shore. Evans twirled the electrical steering gear hard to starboard and headed the ship for the opening and the sea beyond.

At Slow Speed Ahead they moved through the channel, neatly cutting the still water. The uneven rocks of the point moved by them. A raven, the first he had seen since they left Andrefski, flew warily among the rocks. A damp breeze came to him through the window. Snow clouds hung over the mountains.

Bervick came back. “All squared away. We left the tarpaulin off. Just in case we might need the anchor again.”

“Good.” Evans motioned to the man on watch who had been standing by the door. “You take over.”

Evans examined the blue-green paint of the wheelhouse. It was too dark. He had thought so when they first used it, but this dark color was the only paint he could get. A lighter color would have been much better. He would have everything repainted when they got back to Andrefski.

Without warning the ship was lifted several feet in the air by a long wave. They were out of the inlet. The rocks of the point receded in the distance.

“Bring her to port,” commanded Evans. The bow swung parallel to shore. They were headed west again.

“So far so good,” said Bervick.

Evans agreed. There was quietness in the morning. There would be snow flurries but the big wind seemed to have gone. Evans was glad. He began to whistle.

Bervick looked at him. “We’re not in the clear yet,” he said.

Evans laughed, “I guess you’re right. I just feel good. I wish I knew what was the matter with that damned barometer, though.”

“Maybe that little chain’s stuck, like I said.”

“Might be.”

Martin joined them. “The passengers look fine today,” he said.

“The Chief say everything’s working in his department?”

“That’s what he said. Smitty’s got breakfast ready. They’re eating now.”

Evans remembered that he had had nothing to eat for almost a day. “I think I’ll go below,” he said.

“O.K., Skipper.” Bervick went over to the chart table and Martin went into his cabin.

The galley, Evans saw, was much more cheerful today. Smitty had cleaned the deck and straightened the unbroken china. Several deckhands sat at the galley table talking loudly. You could tell, thought Evans, how long a man had been up here by the way he talked. The longer a man was in the islands the longer his stories were. Talking was the only thing to do when there was no liquor.

The passengers were eating heartily.

“Good morning,” said Evans, entering the salon.

“Good morning,” said the Chaplain, giving the phrase its full meaning. “There is practically no rocking,” he observed happily.

“This may be a quiet trip yet,” said Evans. He sat down and Smitty brought him breakfast. The Major was in a good mood. He was not even pale today, Evans noticed.

“I hear we may be in Arunga tomorrow night,” said the Major.

“That’s what we hope,” said Evans. Breakfast tasted better than it ever had before.

“I shall really be glad when this trip is over,” said the Chaplain. “Not of course that I haven’t every confidence.... But, you know, I just wasn’t designed for ocean-going. You don’t think it will rock much, do you?”

Evans shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Duval and his assistants arrived and sat down at their end of the table.

“Didn’t blow up after all, did it, Skipper?” said Duval.

“We’re not there yet,” Evans could not resist saying this. Duval liked to be positive. Especially about things which were none of his business.

“Well, it looks to me like clear sailing.” Duval spoke flatly. He stirred his coffee.

“How fast are we going?” asked Hodges suddenly.

“Nine, maybe ten knots,” Evans answered.

“Nearer twelve, I’d say,” commented the Chief.

“Engineers are all the same,” said Evans. The Chief said nothing.

“You people should be going home shortly,” Major Barkison announced. Evans looked up and the others were interested, too.

“Yes,” the Major continued, “were going to close down Andrefski, as you’ve probably gathered. That’s why I was out there. When it closes down those of you who are due for rotation will probably get it. We don’t need any more sailors here.”

“That’s good news,” said Evans thoughtfully. The Chief and his assistants questioned the Major further and Evans thought of Seattle. He would get married again. That would be the first thing he would do. After that he would get a second mate’s berth on some liner. He would come back to these islands again. Someday, perhaps, he might get a fishing boat and live in Seward. There were many things that he would do.

“If you’ll excuse me,” said the Major, rising, “I think I’ll write some more letters.” The other passengers also left the table.

“Martin tells me,” said Duval, “that the barometer’s still low. What do you think’s wrong?”

Evans shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see what happens.”

“We were going to do that anyway,” said the Chief sourly and he left the table, his assistants close behind.

Evans wondered why he had so much trouble getting along with his crews. When he had been a second mate on a cargo ship he had had no trouble, in fact he had even been popular. Somehow things just didn’t work as easily aboard this ship. He wondered if he might not be too much of a perfectionist. People didn’t like to live with that sort of thing. He spun his coffee mug between his hands. Finally he stood up. “Smitty,” he said loudly. “You can clear the table now.”

Bervick had the case off the barometer, when Evans returned to the wheelhouse. Bervick and Martin were examining the mechanism.

“Find anything wrong?” asked Evans.

Bervick shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with it. The thing’s in good order.” Evans frowned. He did not like to think of what would happen if this reading were correct. He went to the chart table.

They would be off Kulak around one o’clock in the afternoon. Between his present position and Kulak there was open sea and no protection. He felt suddenly sick. Without a word to the others he walked out on deck.

The air was cool and moist. There was no wind and no sign of wind. Dark clouds hung motionless in the air. He felt the vastness of this sea and the loneliness of one small boat on the dividing line between gray sky and gray water. They were quite alone out here and he was the only one who realized it. This was very sad, and feeling sad and lonely he went back into the wheelhouse.

Martin and Bervick had gone below, he was told by the man at the wheel.

Evans stood by the window on the port side and watched Ilak disappear. Snow, coming from the west, he noticed, was bringing wind with it. He closed the windows.

Martin returned silently. He looked at the snow clouds. “We won’t be able to see so well,” he said.

Evans nodded. “We got the times figured out pretty well. I don’t like coming so near to Kulak, sailing blind.”

They waited then for the snow to start.

At a few minutes to nine whiteness flooded them. Snow splattered softly on the window glass. Luckily there was enough wind to keep it from collecting on the windows. Below them Evans could see the deck being covered with snow. The sea had increased in size but was not yet large.

Bervick joined them.

“Just a little snow,” said Evans.

“That’s the way a lot of them start.”

“A lot of what?”

“Williwaws.”

“Sometimes, maybe.” Evans thought of the low barometer.

“Remember that one off Umnak?” asked Bervick.

“Sure, I remember it.”

“That one started this way.”

“Not with snow. It started with a little wind.”

“A little wind like this and a lot of snow. You remember the snow, don’t you?”

“Yes, I guess I forgot about it. That was a year ago.”

“That was a lousy thing.”

“We got out of it fine.” Evans’ hands were cold and his stomach kept being flooded with something.

“Sure, we got out of it. Our luck should hold.” Bervick sounded cheerful.

“It had better,” said Evans and he blew on his hands to warm them.

ii

“Not much change,” said Martin. Evans had been in the engine room with Duval since lunch. It was two o’clock now and snow still swept over the water.

Evans looked gloomily at the whiteness. Martin watched him closely to see what his reactions were. Evans only frowned.

To the south the snow flurries were thinning a little and they could see the dark outline of Kulak. They had been abeam the island for over an hour.

“Kulak,” remarked Evans.

“We’ve been in sight of it since one.”

“A lot of good harbors there,” said Evans.

“Thinking of anchoring, maybe?”

“I’m always thinking of anchoring.” Evans walked over to the compass and watched it.

Martin yawned. The monotony of waiting was beginning to get on his nerves.

Evans walked slowly about the wheelhouse. “That wind’s a lot stronger outside,” he said suddenly.

Martin was surprised. “I don’t think so. I think you’re wrong.”

“Don’t tell me I’m wrong,” Evans flared. Martin said nothing; he had seen Evans upset before. Sometimes he acted oddly. “Weather’s changing,” said Evans more quietly. “I can feel it. Look,” he pointed to the island, “the snow’s thinning. That means the wind’s picked up. Besides, feel the sea.”

Martin noticed for the first time that the ship was tossing much more than it had an hour before. He had been daydreaming and had not noticed the gradual change.

Evans opened one of the windows and the familiar roar of wind and water filled the wheelhouse. Snowflakes flew in and melted quickly, leaving wet marks on the deck.

The snow flurries were disappearing and every moment the shores of the island became clearer. The sea was large though not yet dangerous.

“I don’t like it,” said Evans.

“Barometer’s still low,” said Martin helpfully.

“I know. Did we nest that boom, the one on the port side?”

“We did it last night, remember?”

“That’s right. The hatches are pretty well battened down....” Evans’ voice trailed into silence.

A wave crashed over the bow and the whole ship shook. Martin slipped on the linoleum-covered deck; he caught himself before he fell. Evans was holding onto the wheel and did not lose his balance. The man at the wheel swung them back on course.

Through the open window blasts of wind whistled into the wheelhouse. Martin slammed the window shut. It was almost quiet with the window shut.

“You didn’t want that open, did you?”

“No. Go write up our position and the barometer reading in the logbook.”

Martin obeyed. When he had finished he stood by the telegraph.

“What do you think’s happening?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t got any idea. Where’s Bervick?”

“I think he went to the focs’le to get one of the men.”

Evans swore loudly. “Why did you let him go up there? He should have stayed here. Why didn’t he have sense to stay here?”

“What’s the matter with you?” Martin was irritated. “What’s so bad about his going there? It’s none of my business.”

“How,” said Evans tightly, “do you think he’s going to get back if the wind gets any worse? He’s going to be stuck there and no damned use at all.”

“That certainly’s too bad,” snarled Martin. “You want me to send out a carrier pigeon?”

Evans started to say something. He thought better of it, though. He walked across the slanting deck without speaking.

Martin, still angry, looked at the sea. He was surprised to see that the snow had almost stopped, and that black clouds hung in the sky and a strong wind was lashing the waves.

He turned around to speak to Evans and at that moment the williwaw hit the ship.

Martin was thrown across the wheelhouse. There was a thundering in his ears. He managed to grasp the railing and, desperately, he clung to it.

The wheelhouse hit the water with a creaking smack. For a minute the deck of the wheelhouse was at a right angle with the water. Then, slowly, the ship righted herself.

Evans, he saw, lay flat on the steep deck. The man who had been at the wheel was huddled near the companionway. The wheel was spinning aimlessly.

The ship shuddered as tremendous waves lifted her high in the air. Martin, confused and helpless, shut his eyes and wished that the huge sound of the wind would go away.

When he opened his eyes again he saw Evans crawling on hands and knees across the deck. Martin watched him move closer and closer to the wheel. A sudden lunge of the ship and Evans was thrown against it. Quickly he caught the wheel. Martin watched as Evans fought grimly to keep on course.

Through the windows, Martin could see what was happening. They were being driven toward the island. Evans was trying to hold them on any course away from shore.

Another jolt; a mountain of water swept over the wheelhouse. Evans was thrown against the bulkhead on the port side. Water streamed into the wheelhouse from new-made cracks.

Again the ship righted herself and again Evans started his slow crawl over the deck, only now the deck was slick with water. As the ship reached the crest of a wave Evans got to his feet and made a dash for the wheel. But this time he was flung against the door of the companionway. The man who had been at the wheel lay beside him.

Evans shouted something to Martin. The noise was too much and his voice did not carry. Evans gestured furiously with his hands. Martin understood him finally. Evans wanted the engines stopped.

Martin ran to the telegraph and, before a new wave hit them, he rang the engine room. Even in that moment he wondered what good it would do. He got back to his railing.

Luckily, Martin noticed, they were headed at an angle for the shore. They would not hit for a little while. He looked at Evans and saw that he was vomiting. He had never seen Evans sick before.

The wind, howling more loudly than ever, pushed them almost sideways at the island. The ship’s side was held at a forty-five-degree angle. Once again, as Martin watched, Evans tried to get his hands on the wheel.

He got safely across the deck. Distantly, as though he were only an onlooker, Martin watched Evans struggle with the whirling wheel. Then there was a crash that shook the whole ship and Martin lost his grip on the railing.

He felt surprised, and that was all, as he was flung lightly to the other end of the wheelhouse. There was an explosion in his head and the last thing he saw was the dark blue-green of the bulkhead.

* * * * *

Duval was sitting in the salon. Major Barkison, the Chaplain and Hodges were playing cards. Smitty was clearing away the lunch.

Duval was about to get up and go to his engine room when the whole ship seemed to turn upside down. He was pinned between the bench and the table.

Across the salon he saw the deck of cards scatter into the air. The Major, who had been sitting in a chair, was thrown heavily on the deck.

Hodges had fallen against one of the bulkheads. He was trying to find something to hold onto.

The Chaplain, like Duval, had been pinned between the bench and the table. His eyes were closed and his face very white. His lips were working quickly.

Slowly the ship righted herself. Duval thought of his engine room. He would have to get back to it. He started to move from behind the table but another gust of wind flattened the ship on the water. He relaxed and waited.

He was surprised at the force of the wind. It must be over a hundred ten miles an hour, he thought. He tried to think calmly. They would, of course, ride it out and then anchor somewhere.

Major Barkison staggered to his table and grasped it firmly. In the galley Duval could hear, even over the roar of the wind, the sound of crashing china. He noticed Smitty in the companionway, his feet braced against the bulkhead.

Hodges ran across the deck and sat down on the bench behind the Chaplain’s table. The Chaplain’s eyes were still closed, his face still pale.

The ship creaked and groaned and shuddered as the wind, almost capsizing her, pressed the port side to the sea.

Duval got to his feet. Holding the table tightly, he went toward the companionway. Then, when he was as close as he could get without letting go of the table, he jumped.

For a second he wondered if he had broken anything. He had tripped over Smitty and had fallen on the deck. He flexed his arms and legs. Nothing seemed to be wrong. Smitty, he could hear, was praying loudly.

Carefully the Chief worked his way down the companionway and into the engine room.

Each assistant was holding onto one of the engines. They were frightened. Duval pointed to the engines and raised his eyebrows in question: were they all right? The two men nodded.

He worked his way, without falling, back to his cabin. Everything that could have been broken was broken. Clothes were scattered over the deck. He sat on his bunk.

For the first time he noticed a pain in his knee. He felt the kneecap. Waves of pain shook him. He wondered if it was cracked and if so what he should do.

A sudden lurch of the ship and he forgot about his knee. He went back to the engine room. His assistants were still standing by.

The oiler who had been sick lay quietly on the deck. He had passed out.

Duval stood close to his first assistant. “No ring yet?” he yelled, pointing to the telegraph.

The man shook his head.

“Stop her O.K.?”

The man nodded.

There was a loud crash. Duval looked around and saw water trickling down the companionway. A porthole must have broken in the salon.

The Chief waited for Evans to ring instructions; he wondered if this was to be the way he would die. He had thought about it often, dying up in the islands. Everyone had thought about it. He had never thought, though, that he would come this close. New Orleans was a much better place to die.

The loud ring of the telegraph startled him. He nodded to his assistants. They spun the mechanism which stopped the engines. This done, the real wait began.

“Where we heading?” the man next to him shouted.

Duval thought a moment. He had not noticed and he did not know. He shook his head.

The same question was in each of their minds: were they heading for the island and the rocks? Those sharp tall rocks, much pounded by the sea.

He cursed himself for not having noticed. Just to know where they were going, without being able to do anything about it, was better than knowing nothing.

From above there came a loud splintering and a crash. He wondered what had happened. He wondered if he should go up on deck, but his knee was bothering him. He might not be able to get back.

The Chief held tightly to the engine as the ship rocked in the wind. He and his assistants waited. That was all they could do.

* * * * *

Bervick had gone into the focs’le to get the fat cook.

Smitty had complained that he could not take care of lunch alone with the ship pitching.

Several men were in the focs’le. The fat cook was asleep in his bunk. Bervick shook him. “Come on and get up. You got to help out in the galley.”

The fat cook yawned and swore. Slowly he hoisted himself out of the bunk. Bervick played with the dog.

“Hey, Bervick,” said one of the men, “anything new going on? We’re jumping around quite a bit. I thought the Skipper said there wasn’t going to be no more storm.”

“Looks like he’s wrong. The sea’s a lot bigger.”

“You’re telling me.”

The fat cook was finally ready. They climbed the ladder to the main deck. Bervick looked out the porthole. He could not believe what he saw. A high hill of gray-black water was sweeping down on them.

“Get down,” he shouted to the cook who was below him on the ladder. They were too late. Both were thrown back into the focs’le.

The lights went out and in the darkness there were shouts from the surprised men. Bervick reached into his pocket and lit a match. Mattresses and blankets had been thrown against the port side. The men were clinging to the bunks. The match went out.

Guided by the pale gray light from the porthole above the ladder, Bervick climbed up again and looked out at the deck. The wind had blown the rigging loose from the mast and the ropes twisted in the air; many of them had been blown out to sea.

The ship was pressed close to the sea on the port side. The wheelhouse slapped the water with each new gust of wind. Waves, higher than he had ever seen before, swept over the decks. Water streamed over him from cracks in the deck.

Then Bervick saw that they were being driven toward the shore. The ship was out of control. No one could control her now.

Wind, almost visible in its strength, struck at the ship. One of the booms became loose. Horrified, Bervick watched it swing back and forth.

Quite easily the boom knocked the signal light off the top of the wheelhouse.

For a moment Bervick considered what his chances were of reaching the wheelhouse in this wind. He dismissed the thought.

There was nothing he could do. If they hit the rocks there was little chance of any of them living. A person might last five minutes in the cold water. But the wind and waves would dash one to pieces faster than that.

He wondered what Evans was doing: probably trying to get control of the ship. When the wind was over a hundred miles an hour there was not much anyone could do but wait. That was what Evans would do. Stop the engines and wait.

The wind became more powerful every minute. The big wind was at its height. Great streams of wind-driven water battered the ship.