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 o
ne, 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.
“We get lifeboat drills from tomorrow on,” continued Eathington, “and fire drills sometime this week. You know your boat and fire stations?” he added accusingly.
“No,” admitted Bill. Eathington scoffed.
“They’re up on a notice in the alleyway!” he sneered.
Bill went out and glanced at the notice; he found his name in a group assigned to lifeboat number six and fire station number three. Well, if it came to a torpedoing, there would be little time for reference to the notice, so he might just as well remember his lifeboat number.
Bill blanked his cigarette and mounted the hatchways; when he pushed it open he found himself on a moonlit deck. Black-out hatches would help very little tonight, he reflected—the destroyer could be seen in the moonlight ahead as clearly as in the daytime. Yet, it was dark enough to conceal a periscope, by George!
Someone nearby echoed his thoughts: “Look at that moon! Clear as day.” Two seamen were leaning on the poop deck rail.
“They can see us, all right,” laughed Bill.
The seaman grinned: “An’ we can hear them!”
“Yeah,” snarled the other seaman, “That’s unless they cut their engine and just wait for us.”
“They do that,” admitted the other seaman. “No submarine detector can spot that.”
“The moon,” mused Bill. “Lovers want it but we certainly don’t.”
“That’s a mouthful,” said one of the seamen.
They were silent as Bill gazed at the wake of the ship—a ghostly gray road back to home, unwinding endlessly and lengthening with every turn of the propeller. He shivered despite himself.
“Well,” said the seaman, “let ’em come.”
Bill strolled forward. The air was cool and clean, charged with the briny thrill of the waters. The Westminster’s funnel, rocking gently in silhouette against the moon, discharged clouds of blue smoke and darkened the stars. Bill gazed longingly at The Big Dipper and remembered how he had studied this body of stars on quiet nights along Riverside Drive . . . they were far from New York now . . . and going farther.
He went below to Wesley’s focastle. Curley held his guitar and strummed meditatively from his top berth while the others lounged and listened. Joe was at the mirror inspecting his bruises.
Curley began to sing in a nasal, cowboy voice.
“Martin here?” asked Bill.
Charley rose from his bunk and yawned: “He’s standin’ bow watch . . . I’m relievin’ him in two minutes.”
Charley picked up his jacket and strolled out. On the bow, Wesley stood with legs apart gazing out, his hands sunken in a peacoat, face turned up to the stars.
“Take over, Charley,” he said. “Hello there man.”
“Hello Wes,” said Bill. “How about the game of whist with Nick?” Wesley took off his peacoat.
“Right.”
They sauntered from the bow, where Charley took up his station with a noisy yawn and a loud, sleepy groan.
“Haines is at the wheel,” said Wesley motioning toward the bridge house above.
“How’s bow watch?” asked Bill, remember how lonely Wesley had looked standing at the head of the ship in the face of the night waters, an erect, brooding figure.
Wesley said nothing; he shrugged.
“Lonely standing there watching the water for two hours, isn’t it?” pressed Bill.
“Love it,” said Wesley firmly.
When they opened Nick’s door, his light went out.
“Hurry the hell in!” cried Nick. “Don’t stand there picking your nose in the dark.”
When Bill closed the door after them, the stateroom was flooded with light. Nick and Danny Palmer were seated at a small card table.
“Ah!” cried Palmer. “Now we have a foursome.”
Wesley threw his peacoat on the bed and lit up a cigarette, while Bill drew a chair to the table.
“What is it?” asked Nick, fondling his moustache.
“Suits me.”
“Me too.”
“Your watch finished?” Nick addressed Wesley.
“Yeah.”
“How is it out?”
“Moon bright as hell.”
“Bad night, hey?” smiled Palmer.
“Could be worse,” grunted Wesley, pulling up a chair. “These ain’t hot waters like the Gulf or off Newfie and Greenland.”
Nick dealt the cards blandly.
“When’s your engine room watch?” asked Bill.
“Midnight,” said Nick. “We can play lots of games till then,” he added mincingly. Palmer laughed.
They scanned their hands silently. Bill glanced at Wesley and wondered how he could watch the sea for hours and then coolly take part in a game of cards. Wasn’t it a dark, tremendous thing out there on the bow? Wesley looked up at Bill. They stared at each other in silence . . . and in that brief glance from Wesley’s dark eyes, Bill knew the man was reading his thoughts and answering them—yes, he loved and watched the sea; yes the sea was dark and tremendous; yes Wesley knew it and yes, Bill understood. They looked down.
“Pass,” mumbled Danny, arching his blond brows.
“Check,” said Wesley.
Nick rolled his tongue around his palate.
“Three,” he said at length.
Bill waved his hand toward Nick. Nick grinned: “Are you giving me the palm?”
“Surely, the world is yours, Lenin,” said Bill.
Danny laughed smoothly.
“How true,” he purred.
“Diamonds is, trumps is,” mumbled Nick.
They began to play in silence.
“I’m movi
ng in with Nick,” Danny presently announced. “Don’t you think it’s much nicer up here than down in that smelly focastle?”
“Surely,” said Bill.
“Don’t let him kid you,” raced Nick. “Damn his excuses. He really wants to be near me.”
Palmer laughed and blushed. Nick pinched his cheek: “Isn’t he beautiful?”
Wesley smiled faintly while Bill adjusted his glasses with some embarrassment.
Nick resumed his play with a blank expression.
“No, but I really like it up here much better,” Danny struggled. “It’s much more pleasant.” Wesley stared curiously at him.
Nick slapped an ace down with a smack. Smoke curled from Wesley’s nose as he pondered his next move. The room was plunged into darkness as the door opened; they heard the waves outside swish and slap against the side of the moving ship.
“Don’t stand there scratching your head!” howled Nick. “Close and come in.” The door closed and the room was lighted again. It was one of the gun crew.
“Hello, Roberts,” greeted Nick. “Sit ye down.”
“I didn’t know you ran a gambling hall,” laughed the young soldier.
“Just whist.”
The soldier perched himself up on Nick’s bunk and watched the progress of the game. After a few minutes, Wesley rose.
“Get in the game, soldier,” he said. “I’m pullin’ out.”
“You should,” mumbled Nick.
Wesley ruffled Nick’s hair. Bill put his own cards down: “Where you going Wes?”
“Stick around,” cried Nick. “We need your foursome.”
“I’m goin’ down for a cup of coffee,” said Wesley. He picked up his peacoat and went to the door.
“Hurry up!” said Nick. “I want to be in the dark with Danny.” Danny laughed suavely.
Wesley waved his hand at Nick and opened the door; for a moment his thin frame stood silhouetted in the moonlit door: “Okay Nick?” he asked.
“Don’t close it yet!” howled Nick.
When Wesley had left, they laughed and began a new game.
At ten o’clock, Bill left the game and made his way down to the galley. The mess hall was crowded with seamen playing dice and drinking coffee. Bill had a cup for himself; then he went back to the moon washed deck and watched the big yellow moon sink toward the horizon. He felt a wave of peace come over him . . . his first day at sea had proved as uneventful as it was casual. Was this the life Wesley had espoused? . . . this round of work, feeding, ease, and sleep, this mellow drama of simplicity? Perhaps it was the sort of thing Everhart had always needed. What he would do now is go to sleep, wake up, work, eat, hang around, talk, watch the sea, and then go back to sleep.