The Sea is My Brother (14 page)

“Please, Wes, let's go away from here,” Edna cried, her voice breaking in a voluptuous sob.

“Can't!” he repeated.

“Oh you're too drunk to know what you're doing,” wailed Edna. “Please, please come away . . .”

All along the street, windows were open and people were jeering down at them. When the police car rounded the corner, a man called: “Jail the bums!” and all his neighbors took up the cry as the car pulled up below.

CHAPTER SIX

When Everhart awoke the next day, the first thing he was conscious of was a weird song being chanted from somewhere above. Then he opened his eyes and saw the white steel plates. Of course! . . . The
S.S. Westminster
: he had signed on a ship. But what of the song?

Everhart vaulted down from the bunk, clad simply in his shorts, and poked his head out of the porthole. It was a hot, hazy day, the sun bearing down in shimmering rays on the mellifluous waters of a steaming harbor.

Bill peered up but could see nothing save the sweeping bulge of the ship's hull and the underside of a lifeboat. The strange singer was still chanting, perhaps from the next deck, chanting, it seemed to Bill, a song of the Far East—yet definitely not Chinese.

Bill pulled his head in and groaned: he had a big head from drinking too much and arguing too much with
Meade the night before. He turned to Eathington, who lay reading the Sunday funnies in his bunk.

“Haven't you a hangover from last night?” asked Bill with a trace of hopeful anticipation.

“Nah.”

“Who the hell is singing upstairs? It makes my flesh creep . . .”

“Up above,” corrected Eathington.

“Well who is it?”

Eathington folded his paper back: “The third cook.”

“Tell me, haven't you a headache? You were with us last night!” persisted Bill.

“Nah.”

“Who is the third cook? Is he Korean? Burmese?”

“He's a Moro,” corrected Eathington. “When he gets mad he throws knives. A Moro tribesman.”

“Throws knives? I don't believe it!”

“Just wait,” observed the young seaman. “He's a Moro from the Philippines. They go around with knives between their teeth.” And with this, he went back to his Sunday comics.

Bill dressed leisurely. He went back to the porthole and watched the seagulls swoop above the wharves. The water beneath the dock piles lapped quietly against the cool, mossy timbers. From somewhere in the ship, deep in its
vaulted structure, he heard the muffled idling boom of a great engine.

He went down the cool gangway, acrid with the smell of fresh paint, and climbed up to the poop deck. Several seamen were calmly reading the Sunday papers in the shade. The deck was littered with newspapers, great coiled cables of hemp, pillows, abandoned folding chairs, cans of paint, and two or three empty liquor bottles. He knew none of the seamen.

He walked forward along the deck, marveling at the sweep of its superstructure curving toward the bow in a massive coordination of timber. At the bow, he peered down the side at the oily waters far below. Directly beneath him hung a gigantic anchor, drawn to the side of the ship by a super chain leading through an opening in the port bow. The seamen, thought Bill with a smile, were prone to call this huge mass of steel “The hook.”

He strolled aft and gazed up at the bridge: slits in the gray wall peered out from the bridge house, where the captain would direct the voyage to Greenland—that would be where Wesley, as an able bodied seaman, would take his turn at the wheel and compass. God! If Everhart could do that rather than serve hungry A.B.'s and wash their dishes! He would have to begin his duties Monday—the next day—he hoped the work would prove pleasant enough.

“Thinking of Wesley, by the way,” thought Everhart, “where the devil did he wander off to last night? He must be in his focastle or eating in the galley . . .”

Bill went below to the galley. It was crowded with all sorts of people he did not know, seamen eating and chatting noisily. Where was Wesley? Or Nick Meade? Not a familiar face in the lot . . .

Bill went forward down the narrow gangway. He found Nick Meade in the small P.O. mess drinking a cup of coffee with a haggard scowl.

“Meade!” greeted Everhart with relief.

“Yeah,” mumbled Nick, passing this vague remark off as a greeting. He rose and refilled his cup from an aluminum coffee urn.

“How are you feeling?” grinned Bill.

Nick shot him a contemptuous scowl: “Do I look happy?”

“I'm feeling lousy myself . . . God, it's tough to have a hangover on a hot day like this!” Bill laughed, seating himself beside Nick. “Some night, hey?”

Nick said nothing; he drank his coffee sullenly.

“Did you see Wesley?” pressed Bill nervously.

Nick shook his head.

“I wonder where he is,” worried Bill out loud. “Did you notice him wander off last night?”

Nick shook his head again. He finished his coffee and rose to leave.

“Where are you going now?” asked Bill, embarrassed.

“Bed,” mumbled Nick, and he was gone.

Bill grinned and rose to pour himself some coffee in a clean cup from the rack. Well! He'd better prove himself a complete Communist before he could get a rise out of Mr. Nick Meade . . . he seemed to be quite averse to Mr. Everhart. What in heavens was the matter with the man? On their way back to the ship at dawn, after staying late drinking in Mr. Martin's room above the tavern, Nick hadn't said a word. They had passed the wharves, where the flames of a hot, red morning had played upon the masts of fishing smacks and danced in the blue wavelets beneath the barnacled docks, and neither had spoken a word. They had parted at the gangplank, where Bill had managed to bid Nick good morning, but the other had only glided off quickly, half asleep, and quite ill-tempered. Perhaps it was only his characteristic attitude after drinking, and perhaps too it was because he didn't consider Everhart sufficiently left wing. If that was the fool's attitude, he could jump in the drink! And yet, perhaps Bill was arriving at nervous conclusions . . .

It had been pleasant enough so far, but now he was beginning to dislike the whole idea. The ship swarmed with
strange, unfriendly faces—and no Wesley. Where was he? By George, if Wesley had gone off somewhere, drunk, and wasn't to return to the ship . . . by George, he would not sail with the
Westminster
. He would manage to get back to New York somehow and go back to work . . . In heaven's name, this was folly!

Everhart left his coffee untasted and went forward.

“Where's Martin's focastle?” he asked a seaman in the narrow gangway.

“Martin? What is he?” asked the seaman.

“An A.B.”

“A.B.? Their focastle is just forward.”

“Thanks.”

In the focastle, a tall curly haired man, sprawled in his bunk with a cigarette, did not know Wesley.

“When does this ship sail?” asked Bill.

The seaman gave him a queer look: “Not for a few days . . . mebbe Wednesday.”

Everhart thanked him and walked off. He realized he was lonely and lost, like a small child . . .

He went back to his focastle and threw himself on the bunk, tormented with indecision. What manner of man was he? . . . couldn't he face reality—or was it that, as a professor, he was only capable of discussing it?

Reality . . . a word in books of literary criticism. What was the matter with him!

He awoke—he had slept briefly. No! It was dark outside the porthole, the light was on . . . he had slept hours, many hours. In his stomach he felt a deep emptiness, what ordinarily should have been hunger, but which seemed now nothing more than tension. Yes, and he had dreamed—it seems his father was the captain of the
Westminster
. Ridiculous! Dreams were so irrational, so gray with a nameless terror . . . and yet, too, so haunting and beautiful. He wished he were home, talking to his father, telling him of the dream.

A heavy wave of loneliness and loss swept through him. What was it? A loss, a deep loss . . . of course, Wesley had not returned to the ship, Wesley was gone, leaving Bill alone in the world he had lead him to. The fool! Didn't he have feelings, didn't he realize that . . . well, Everhart, what didn't he realize?

Bill mumbled: “What a silly child I'm being, no more sense nor strength of purpose than Sonny . . .”

“Are you talkin' to yourself again?” Eathington was asking, with a note of sarcasm.

Bill jumped down from the bunk, saying firmly: “Yes, I was. It's a habit of mine.”

“Yeah?” grinned Eathington. “He talks to himself—he's a madman!” Someone laughed quietly.

Bill turned and saw a newcomer lying in the lower berth beneath Eathington. He was tall and thin, with blond hair.

“Don't annoy me, Eathington,” Bill snapped testily from the sink.

“Don't annoy me!” mimicked Eathington with his puckish smile. “See . . . didn't I tell you he was a professor!”

Bill felt like throwing something at the kid, but at length convinced himself it was all in good fun. The newcomer chuckled nervously . . . he was apparently trying to keep in good graces with both of them. Eathington, Bill mused was the sort who would need an accomplice for his sarcastic nature.

“Has anyone a cigarette?” asked Bill, finding he had none left in his pack.

“Jesus! Bummin' already!” cried Eathington. “I can see now here I'm gonna move out of this focastle . . .”

The blond youth was rising from his bunk. “Here,” he said in a polite, low voice. “I have some.”

Bill was astounded at the sight of him. The youth was, in truth, a beautiful male . . . his blond hair was matted heavily in golden whorls, his pale brow was broad and deep, his mouth full and crimson, and his eyes, the most
arresting part of his appearance, were of a shell-blue, lucid quality—large eyes and long eyelashes—that served to stun the senses of even the least perceptive watcher. He was tall, thin, yet possessed of a full-limbed physique, a broad chest, and square shoulders . . . his thinness was more manifest from the stomach down. Bill found himself staring rather foolishly.

“Have one?” offered the youth, smiling. His teeth were flashing white, a fact Bill had anticipated unconsciously.

“Thanks.”

“My name's Danny Palmer—what's yours?”

“Bill Everhart.”

They shook hands warmly. Eathington leaned on his elbow watching them with some stupefaction; obviously, he had cast lots with two professors rather than one; for the present, however, he decided to maintain a watching silence, and thus ascertain whether his convictions should crystallize.

The blond youth sat on one of the stools. He wore blue dungarees and a silk sport shirt; on his wrist he wore a handsome gold watch, and on his left hand an expensive looking ring.

“This is my first trip,” Palmer confessed cheerfully.

“Mine also,” said Bill, grinning. “What sort of job did you get?”

“Scullion.”

“Do you think you'll like it?”

“Well, I don't care; for now I'll be satisfied with anything.”

“Is that a class ring you're wearing?” inquired Bill.

“Yes—prep school. Andover . . . I was a fresh at Yale last term.”

“I see; and you're joining the Merchant Marine for the duration?”

“Yes,” smiled Palmer. “My people don't like it—would rather have me stay in the College Officers' reserves—but I prefer it this way. I wouldn't care to be an officer.”

Bill raised a surprised eyebrow.

“What were you?” inquired Palmer politely.

“I was Columbia myself,” answered Bill, grinning at his own sophomoric remark. “I teach there as well.”

“You do?”

“Yes . . . English and American Lit, in the University.”

“Oh God!” laughed Palmer smoothly. “My worst subject. I hope you won't ask any questions about Shakespeare!”

They laughed briefly. Eathington had turned over to sleep, obviously convinced of his suspicions.

“Well,” put forth Bill, “I hope we both enjoy the trip, excitement and all . . .”

“I'm sure I will. This is my idea of going to sea. I've yachted to Palm Beach with friends and had my own punt in Michigan—I'm from Grosse Pointe—but I've never really sailed far out.”

“Neither have I . . . I hope I don't get too seasick!” laughed Bill.

“Oh, it's a matter of not thinking about it,” smiled Palmer. “Just make up your mind, I suppose, and you won't be sick at all.”

“Surely . . . that sounds reasonable.”

“Where are you from?”

“New York,” answered Bill.

“Really? I go there quite often . . . we have a place near Flushing. Strange, isn't it, we meet here and probably passed one another in New York streets!”

“That's true,” laughed Bill.

They chatted on easily for awhile until Bill remembered he must see if Wesley had returned.

“Well, I've got to go dig up my friend,” laughed Bill. “Are you staying here?”

“Yes, I think I'll get some sleep,” answered Palmer rising with his friendly, flashing smile. “I had quite a time of it at Harvard Square last night with friends.”

“Harvard, hey?” laughed Bill. “I'll wager less debauching goes on there than at Columbia . . .”

“I don't doubt it,” purred Palmer.

“Oh, there's no doubt about it!” leered Bill. “I'll see you later, Palmer. I'm glad I met you . . .”