The Sea is My Brother (17 page)

“Indeed . . . Reed was a great idealist, surely,” Bill added, not wishing to seem unappreciative and dull. “I've always been inspired by his life, . . . He was truly a tragic figure and a great one at that. He gave up all his wealth for the cause. God! I wish I had as much conviction!”

“It's not hard to give up wealth,” assured Danny. “It's harder to live for the movement and die in defeat, as he did.”

“Agreed.”

“Defeat,” added Danny, “in the eyes of the world; but to Russia, and to all the comrades, it was no defeat . . . it was a supreme triumph!”

“I believe you're right—and I think it was, as you say, a supreme triumph in the estimation of Reed himself,” supplied Bill.

Danny smiled enthusiastically: “Yes! You're right . . . tell me, are you a communist too?”

Bill grinned with some sarcasm.

“Well,” he said, “I don't belong to the party.”

“I meant . . . well, are you a communist in principle?” Danny pressed.

“I don't call myself a communist—I've never had occasion to, except when I was seventeen,” admitted Bill. “But if you're asking me whether or not I lean to the left, my answer is yes—naturally. I'm not blind.”

“Fine!” cried Danny. “Shake my hand, comrade!”

They laughed and shook hands, although Bill felt a great deal confused by it all. He had never been called “Comrade” before.

“We're probably the only ones on board,” raced on Danny. “We must stick together.”

“Oh yes.”

“I suppose all the others either have no ideals or they're all reactionaries!” added Danny.

“Especially,” leered Bill, “that oiler, Nick Meade. He hated Russia . . .”

“He did? Probably just a materialist.”

“Yes . . . as a matter of fact, he's an iconoclastic neo-Machiavellian materialist,” cooed Bill.

Danny glanced askance: “Am I supposed to know what that means?” Bill flushed.

“Of course not, I was only kidding Palmer. Tell you what, go down and find him in the engine room. He's really a communist.”

“No!”

“Yes, he is,” said Bill seriously. “He'll be glad to meet you . . . I'm certain of that.”

“Engine room? Meade? Good, I'll go right down now,” smiled Danny. “That makes three of us. God, am I relieved . . . I was hoping I'd find a few comrades, but I didn't bank much on it!”

Bill could say nothing.

“See you later, Everhart,” called Danny, moving off. “Or is it comrade?” he added, laughing.

“By all means,” assured Bill as cheerfully as he could. The youth was gone.

Bill flung his cigarette through the porthole.

“Comrade!” he spat. “What a priceless fool he turned out to be!” Bill flopped over viciously in his bunk and stared at the steel bulkhead. “Is the world full of fools? Can't anyone have sense just for a change?”

He glared fiercely at the bulkhead.

“I'm getting off this ship today, by George, before I go mad.” He buried his face in the pillow and seethed with discontent; beneath, he began to feel a thin stream of
remorse, like some cool agent attempting to allay the fire of his anger. He turned spasmodically to his other side; the coolness spread. He signed impatiently.

“Of course! I've been a fool again . . . Young Palmer was sincere and I wasn't . . . he's got ideals even though he makes a fool of himself by them. I should be ashamed of myself for being the sardonic skeptic—when the devil will I shed me of that Dedalusian ash-plant. It gets one nowhere, by George! I was only being a Nick Meade when I fooled with Palmer's naiveté and sincerity. The kid means well . . .

“A lesson in intolerance from Meade, that's all it was. If he's an orthodox Marxist, damn it, I go him one worse—an orthodox Everhartist. If they're not like Everhart, why, they're fools! Pure fools! And Everhart is the constant in an equation of fools . . . and I thought last night I was being sensible when I let Nick have it—what a joke! I'm just as bigoted as he is.”

Bill threw the pillow aside and sat up.

“I'll make it up with Palmer . . . he didn't notice my sarcasm, so the burden of reproach is mine and mine alone. By my soul! . . . a man can't go through life sneering at his fellowmen—where will it get us!—we've all got to learn to respect and love one another, and if we're not capable of that, then, by George, the word has to be
tolerance! Tolerance! If people like Nick don't tolerate me, then I'll tolerate them.”

Bill leaped down to the deck and looked out the porthole.

“Otherwise,” he mused gloomily, “nothing will ever change, not really . . . and change we must.”

A seagull, perched on the edge of the dock platform, burrowed an exasperated beak in its feathers. Just beyond Bill could see the stern of the destroyer in the bay.

He nodded his head: “A hell of a time for tolerance! Or is it . . . a hell of a war for tolerance? They'll have to put it down in black and white before I believe it . . .”

Bill pulled his head in and poured himself a cup of water. He glanced at his packed suitcase.

“I should stick this out . . . just for principles. Theories and principles come to life only by application . . . theoretically, I'm opposed to Fascism, so I must fight it—Nick is on board, he's not turning tail. What would he think if I skipped off?” Bill grinned and opened his suitcase.

“All right, Mr. Meade, this laugh is on you.”

He unpacked and lay down for a nap. Once more, as he dozed off, he began to feel jaunty.

“Do you know Martin?” a voice was asking him.

Bill woke up quickly.

“What time is it?” he asked. “I slept . . .”

“Almost noon,” answered the seaman. “Look, a blond kid tells me you know a guy by the name of Martin.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Wesley Martin?”

“Yes.”

The seaman handed Bill a note: “I don't know where to find him . . . will you give him this note?”

Bill scanned the outer folds of the note, where a hand had scribbled: “For Wesley Martin, A.B. seaman.”

“A babe at the gate told me to give it to him,” said the seaman. “I'd like to give it to her myself . . . she was some potato.”

“A girl?”

“Yeah—at the gate. Give it to Martin; I'll see ya!” The seaman was leaving.

“I don't know where he is!” cried Bill.

“Well I don't neither—see ya later.” The seaman strolled off down the alleyway.

Bill sat on a stool and tapped the letter speculatively; there was no harm in reading it, Wesley would never get it anyway. He opened and read:

“Wife!” cried Bill aloud. “I thought he had left her . . .” He re-read the note with a frown.

The steward was coming down the alleyway. Bill looked up.

“Set your dinner plates,” said the Steward. “It's almost twelve.”

“Right!” snapped Bill, rising. “I was sleeping.”

He followed the steward back to the galley and picked up his plates, cups, saucers, and silverware. On the way to his deck crew mess he passed Danny Palmer, who stood peeling potatoes with Eathington and another scullion.

“Did you meet Meade?” shouted Bill over the noise of the noontime galley.

Danny smiled broadly and nodded with enthusiasm, adding to that a significant wink of the eye. Bill grinned. He carried the dishes to his little mess, where he complimented himself for having signed up on a job where he could work alone and in quiet. The galley was a always a clattering confusion; in his own mess, he could set his table in peace and take the seamen's orders calmly and carry them out with a minimum of dignity. Surely . . .

“Hey there, man, don't split a gut!”

Bill swerved around and almost dropped the catsup. It was Wesley. And Wesley was gone as quickly as he had come. Bill hurdled a bench with a cry of surprise.

At the door, he called: “Hey Wes, come here!”

Wesley turned and shuffled back down the alleyway, smoking a cigarette: “I got to get back to work . . .” he began.

“This is a note for you,” said Bill. “Where the devil have you been?”

Wesley flicked a corner of his mouth and took the note.

“I been in the can,” he explained. “I raised hell an' got pulled in.”

“Who bailed you out?” urged Bill.

Wesley was reading the note. When he'd finished reading it, he slipped it into his dungaree pockets and gazed at Bill with dark, stony eyes.

“Who bailed you out?” repeated Bill.

“Friend o' mine.”

They stood watching each other in silence. Wesley stared at Bill intensely, as though he were about to speak but he said nothing.

Bill grinned and motioned toward his mess: “Service with a smile in here—ask the others.”

Wesley nodded slowly. Then he placed a thin hand on Bill's shoulder.

“We sail in the morning, man,” he said quickly, and went off down the alleyway without another word. Bill watched him disappear and then returned to his icebox. He could think of nothing to mumble to himself.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Bosun was in at the crack of dawn to wake up the deckhands, but Curley was wide awake—he was still drinking from his bottle—and although he had sang all night up there in his top berth, none of the others had paid any attention to him. Now, while they were rousing themselves, Curley wanted know if anyone wanted a drink.

“Sober up, Curley, or the mate'll log you two, three days pay,” Joe was saying as he pulled on his shoes.

“Lissen to me, guys,” cried Curley, sitting up in his bunk and flourishing the bottle, “I'm never too drunk to do my work . . .”

Wesley inspected his teeth in the cracked mirror.

“You want a shot at this bottle, Martin?” cried Curley.

Joe scoffed: “You're all's too drunk to do anythin'.”

Curley jumped down from his bunk with a curse, staggered over against a chair, and fell flat on the deck.

Wesley was right at his side: “Get up, Curley: I'll take a nip out of your bottle if you cut the bull.”

“Cut the bull? I'll murder that Goddamned Joe for makin' that crack,” howled Curley, pushing Wesley aside and trying to regain his feet.

Joe laughed and went to the sink.

Wesley pulled Curley to his feet and pushed him back to his own bunk. Curley swung his fist at Wesley but the latter blocked the punch with his forearm; then he threw Curley back on the bunk and pinned him down.

“Sober up, man,” he said. “We got work to do; we're sailin' . . . I'll get you a wet towel.”

“Get him another bottle!” suggested Haines from his bunk.

“I'll kill you, Joe!” shouted Curley, struggling in Wesley's grip. “Lemme go, Martin!”

“I thought you could hold your liquor better'n that, Curley,” said Wesley, shaking his head. “An old cowpuncher like you. I'll bet you're too drunk to do your work . . .”

Curley pointed his finger in Wesley's face: “Lissen Martin, down in Texas a man's never to drunk to do his work. You lemme go—I got work to do.”

Wesley let Curley up, but retained his hold on his arm.

Haines was peering out the porthole: “Christ! It's still dark out.” The others were getting up.

Joe turned from the sink and drew on his shirt.

“Curley's been drunk for ten days,” he announced. “Wait till the mate sees him up there; he won't be able to lift a rope or . . .”

“Shut up!” snapped Wesley. Curley was struggling to get at Joe, but Wesley had him pinned against the bulkhead.

“I'll kill you Joe! I'll split your lousy puss!” Curley screamed. “Lemme go, Martin, I'll kill him . . .”

“Who you tellin' to shut up, Martin?” demanded Joe quietly, advancing toward them.

“You,” said Wesley, struggling with Curley. “This kid's drunk—we gotta fix 'em up.”

“What the hell do I care about him?” purred Joe. “And who are you telling to shut up.”

Wesley stared at Joe blankly.

“Huh?” pressed Joe menacingly.

Wesley flicked a smile and let go of Curley. In an instant, Curley was on Joe, slashing at him blindingly as Joe staggered back over a chair. Then they were on the deck, with Curley on top dealing out punch after punch into Joe's upturned face. The deck hands howled as they
jumped out of bed to break it up. Wesley helped himself to a drink from Curley's bottle as the fists beat a brutal, bone-on-bone drumming on Joe's face. They tore Curley away, raging like a mad dog, and pinned him down in a bunk; Joe sat up and groaned pitifully, like a child in pain. He was bleeding at the mouth.

Wesley went to the sink and brought back a wet towel for Joe's face. Joe spat out a tooth as Wesley applied a towel carefully.

“Sober up that Curley,” he told the others. “We'll all get hell now . . . sober up that crazy cowpuncher . . .”

Haines ran to the door and looked down the alleyway. “Bosun's not around . . . Christ! Hurry up before the mate comes below . . . throw water on him.”

“Nice way to start a trip!” moaned Joe from the deck. “All cut up to hell. I know this ain't gonna be no trip. We're all goin' down.”

“Ah shut up,” scolded Haines. “You're punchy now.”

Someone threw a glass of water on Curley's face and slapped him rapidly: “Sober up, Tex! We got to go to work . . .”