The Death Ship (47 page)

“My opinion of the merriments of life is different from what we have right here and now,” Stanislav broke up my reflections.

To this I answered: “I think, Stanislav, to tell you the truth, you are again ungrateful to destiny. How changeable is human life! Just think. Yesterday you were half-owner of one of the finest ships of His Majesty’s merchant marine. You were half-owner of the most elegant store, with caviar, Scotch, and champagne. Now all is gone, and you are fighting with the fish for their eats. What else, what more pleasure do you expect in one lifetime? You cannot have everything. Others have it only in the stories. We have it in reality. Do you want to change places?”

“I don’t know exactly. But I figure I might like to change places and rather read stories than live them. And if you talk any more of that kind and don’t hold on well to the rings and the handles, you won’t even have a chance left to live your stories.”

He was right, Stanislav was. As usually he was. I had nearly been swept off the raft. The breakers were not felt as when we were still on the ship. The breakers now just played with us, taking us high up and then down again fifty feet. Often we were for almost a minute entirely submerged. This helped us not to forget that we were still on high sea and not reading a story in bed.

“We must do something about it,” I suggested. “My arms are paralyzed. You know I got quite a crack on them. I am losing ground. I cannot hold on very much longer.”

“Same with me,” Stanislav said. “We have still rope and cords about us. Let me have yours.”

I got the cord I had tied around my waist while we were still on the ship, and Stanislav helped fasten me to the rings and handles. With my lame arm I could not have done it alone. This done, he tied himself upon the raft with the rope he had brought along.

We were now ready to wait for the next adventure.

After a thousand hours, or so it seemed, morning came and brought with it a calm day. The sea was still high.

“See any land?” Stanislav asked.

“Nothing I would know of. I always knew that I would not have discovered America, not even if I’d been washed against her shores. Well, I don’t see anything. Not even a smoke-line.”

Stanislav suddenly made a jerking gesture: “Man, are we lucky? Fine that you picked up the compass in the old man’s cabin. Now we can sail.”

“Yes, we can sail now,” I said; “at least we can now always make out in which direction lies the coast of Africa and which way America. All we need is sails, masts, a rudder, and the right wind. Little, isn’t it?”

“Sure it is. But I have got the feeling we are going somewhere else. Neither shore.” That’s what Stanislav said.

During the forenoon the sky had cleared. In the afternoon it became cloudy again. Before evening a slight mist began to settle over the sea. With this mist the sea calmed down and became rippled.

The vast distances toward the horizon and the immensity of the sea shrank when the mist closed in on us. The sea became smaller with every minute, until we had the illusion that we were floating on an inland lake. As time went on, even this lake narrowed more and more. Now we felt as if drifting down a river. We had the sensation that we could touch the banks with our hands. The walls of mist seemed only to veil dimly the river-banks.

We became drowsy. I dropped asleep and fell into dreams. When I woke I looked around and said: “Stanislav, man, look, there is the shore. Let’s get off and swim. It’s hardly a hundred yards off. Can’t you see? There, right behind that misty wall. I knew we were close to shore.”

Somehow, both of us hadn’t the will-power to loosen the cords, make off, and swim that stretch to the shore. I simply could not, hard as I tried, get my thoughts clear and reason things out. There was something in my head or about my head that made my brain feel numb. Almost like being drunk. Or it was like I felt when I was bumped on the head by the shanghaiing gang. I wanted to talk to Stanislav. I only wanted to talk nonsense so as to keep awake. But I could not manage it. I saw that Stanislav was drowsy again and was falling asleep. So I could not resist and I also fell asleep.

I woke up when water splashed into my face. Night had come.

The mist was still upon the sea, which had now become glassy. An indication that the mist might turn to thick fog. But the mist was not heavy. It was only upon the water. High above me I could see the stars twinkling. I thought I heard them calling.

Now I could see quite clearly the river-banks on both sides. We were still drifting down the river. It might be the Hudson or the Mississippi. How we had come there I could not figure out. It caused me pain to think. Then the mist banks opened. Great patches of it fluttered. Through these openings I could now see the thousands of twinkling lights of a great port. What a large harbor it was! It had skyscrapers and many other high office-buildings and apartment-houses. I saw the windows illuminated. Behind the windows there were people sitting and moving about. I saw their shadows. They all went about their own affairs, not realizing that here on this big river two sailors were drifting down helpless and out into the open sea.

The skyscrapers and apartment-houses grew higher and still higher. I had to bend my head down against my neck to see the top of the highest buildings. What a huge city this was that we were drifting by! Twinkling lights far, far away, and close at hand also. The skyscrapers went on growing until they reached the very heights of the sky. So now the lights in the windows looked exactly like the stars in the firmament. Right straight above me, and in the zenith of the heavens, the tops of the skyscrapers closed in upon each other, so much so that they were bent, touching each other. I became afraid that these high buildings bent over to such an extent might cave in any minute and bury me under their ruins. I was filled with a joyful hope that it would happen, and that that way I would be relieved from all the pain I felt, and, more than from everything else, from the thirst. I shook off the thought of thirst and of fresh water. But I could not help it. It came again. In my soul I began praying that the skyscrapers might fall down upon me and make an end of the world.

A terrible fright caught me, and like mad I yelled: “There is a huge port. Stanislav, look! Get ready. Must be New York. Stanislav, can’t you see? Wake up! Hell, what are you so slow about?”

Stanislav stirred, woke up, scratched himself, shivered from the cold, shook off his sleepiness, looked around, gazed into the mist, tried to penetrate the veils around us, stared at the river-banks.

He made a gesture as though he had not seen right. He rubbed his eyes over and over again to get the salt out.

Then, having looked around at all sides, he said: “You are dreaming, Pippip. Pull yourself together, old man! That’s no lights of a port. It’s only the stars that you are seeing. There are no river-banks. How could we be on a river? We are still out on the high sea. You can easily tell it by the long waves. We must be off coast no less than thirty miles. Maybe two hundred. Search me. Wonder if this damn night will never end.”

I did not believe him. I could not believe him. I still wanted to get off the raft and swim over to the river-banks. While thinking about how many strokes I might have to make before I would reach the bank I fell asleep again.

Thirst, hunger, and salt in my mouth woke me up.

It was bright daylight.

Stanislav was watching me. His eyes were red as if they were bleeding. The salt water had made my face feel as if covered with an iron crust.

Stanislav was, moving his mouth in a strange way. I thought he was trying to swallow his tongue. His tongue was swollen and seemed not to fit any longer in his mouth. So I thought again that he might try to spit it out and relieve himself from this nuisance.

He looked at me as though scrutinizing my face. Blood seemed to run into his eyes in streams. He flew into a rage and yelled with all the might of his voice: “You dirty liar, you dog! You have always said the fresh water on the
Yorikke
is stinking and pesty. You stinking rat, you funker! Water on the
Yorikke
is the finest water in the world, coming from the cool springs of Nampamptantin of Hamtinoa of the springs of the of the of the springs the springs of the pine forest — of the fresh of the water — of the crystal springs — of wandering in pine forest.”

I did not think that he was talking nonsense. It was all clear to me, like short commands from the bridge. I said: “Right you are, Stanislav, good boy. The water on the
Yorikke
was iced water from the pole, and the coffee was excellent. Have I ever said a word against the coffee on the
Yorikke
? I have not. Never will.”

Stanislav was working again with his tongue. It looked as if he were in need of breath or as though choking to death. He swallowed and made an effort to press his lips together. He closed his eyes and I thought he would fall asleep.

With a jerk he awoke and yelled somewhere into the far distance without giving me a glance: “Twenty to five, Pippip. Get the hell up and out. Bring the breakfast. Sixty six flytee ashes cans with ashes coal fuel boiler cans with ashes to be heaved. Heave up! Throw the lever around. Smash the pipe. Get the breakfast. Potatoes again and stinking. And smoked herring sick. The coffee. Much coffee. Much much more coffee.

 Where is the coffee? Water. Bring the water, cool the glowing cinder. The water. Water. Water.”

“I cannot get up;” I said. “I cannot make it today. I am too tired. I am all in. You have to heave the ashes alone this morn. Where is all the coffee?”

What was that? Now? I heard Stanislav yelling. But I heard him yelling from three miles away. My own voice also was three miles away.

Three furnaces then broke open. Heaps of live coal were falling out. The heat—I could not bear it any more. I rushed up to the air-funnel to turn it round to catch the breeze and blow it down into the fire-hold. Spainy, my fireman, hollered at me: “Pippip, for hell’s sake, shut the furnace doors. The steam is falling. Steam is falling. Falling. Falling. All falling. Breaking. Hop away, Pip, ash-funnel is coming down. Smash your belly. Breaking.”

The steam-pipes burst, and all the steam hissed in the fire-hold, and upon me, boiling me and scalding me. I rushed to the trough in which we kept the water to cool off the cinders. I wanted to drink that muddy water because I was thirsty. Devil, how thirsty I was! But it was all salty and thick. I drank and drank as if I’d never be filled up. The furnaces were still open. I could not shut them. They were too heavy. I had to leave them open. They were high above me, and I saw it was the sun burning down upon me and I was lapping up water from the sea.

I got tired trying to close the furnaces and I fell asleep, dropping into my bunk as if dead. The fireman took up the trough and with a wide swing he threw all the water about the fire-hold. The water drenched me, I awoke, and a wave had come splashing over our raft.

“There is the
Yorikke
! “ Stanislav yelled all of a sudden, pointing in some empty space above the waves. His voice was hundreds of miles away. Or my ears had lost the ability to judge distances. Stanislav began to yell louder. I could see it, that he was yelling as mightily as his voice would allow. Yet I could catch it only as a very thin sound, as far away as heaven. “There, there! There is the death ship. She is standing by. The port. Do you see the Norske ship? There she is. All glory. All in golden sun. She has iced water from the fjords. Can’t you see, can’t you see, Pippip?”

He had partly risen, squatting upon his knees. With both his arms he was pointing into space.

“Where is the
Yorikke
?” I too began now to yell.

“Man, old man, can’t you see her? Are you blind? There she turns about. Now standing by. Please, please, can’t you see her?”

His voice became pitifully pleading.

“Can’t you see, Pippip? The devil, six grate-bars have dropped. Damn the whole shit. Now funking eight. Get me the can with the plum jelly put into the furnace to finish the grate-bars. Where is the coffee? Why didn’t you leave me a drop? That’s no Chinese laundry soap, it’s butter, golden butter, you funking liar. Get me the tea! God damn, where is that coffee again? Eat the whole can of milk in one seat, Pippip. They steal it. All highwaymen. Another shot. Straight, I said; can’t you hear me? Off your skirt, you little hussy, sweety! Get the coffee!”

I, not knowing if I was in my mind or out of it, watched Stanislav. It came to me, thinking what power he had, how he fought before breaking down. He hammered the raft with his fists. He worked his whole body, still bound by the rope. He threw his arms and his upper body into all directions, pointing here and there, yelling at me and asking if I did not see the
Yorikke
, once under full steam, then turning about, then standing by and lowering away anchor.

I became indifferent to everything. It began to hurt me to turn my head to see the port or to watch the maneuvers of the
Yorikke
coming up to reach us.

Stanislav, unceasingly watching something on the sea which he believed real, started hollering again: “Hold her, hold her!

Pippip, we are drifting away. She cannot make it after all. I must now get her. All the bars are out now. Do you see the fireman? My fire’m is in the boiler. Where is the water? I have to hurry now to run along and hop on or she makes off.”

He worked on the rope with which he had fastened himself to the raft. He had lost his ability to loosen knots. He worked at them like a monkey, not knowing any longer how to pull them open. In fact he tightened himself up more while he thought that he was getting out.

“Where is the shovel? Hell, let’s cut the leg for once. Or I am going down. The water is rushing in already.” He went about the rope more hastily, yet with still less skill. Of course, the rope, not very strong from the beginning, rubbed and torn constantly against the iron rings and brass handles and worked at with the hard hands of Stanislav, could not last long. It finally began to break and to loosen. With a last hard jerk Stanislav freed himself of his entanglement.