MAJOR Barkison contemplated the sea and was pleased by it. Today the water was smooth and only occasionally disturbed by gusts of wind. The Major stood alone on the forward deck. A few miles to his left was the vanishing entrance to the Big Harbor; before him was the Bering Sea.
Dreamily the Major thought of the sea: of the great masses of moon-guided water, constantly shifting: of sunken ships; of all the centuries that people had gone out on the water, and of all those, like Evans, to whom the sea was a part of living. He enjoyed thinking of these large vague things as the ship moved steadily ahead, causing sharp small waves of its own, waves which shattered themselves into the larger ones.
The water of the Bering Sea was a deep blue-black, thought the Major, and he watched carefully the ship-made waves: black when with the sea mass, then varying shades of clear blue as they swept up into the large waves, exploding at last in sudden whiteness. When he had the time, Major Barkison appreciated beauty. He had three days now in which to be appreciative.
Several sea lions wallowed fearlessly near the ship. Their black coats glistened in the pale morning light. For a moment they dove and splashed near the ship, and then, quickly they went away.
He heard the sound of wings behind him. He turned and saw the Indian cook throwing garbage overboard. The air was filled with sea gulls, fighting for scraps on the water. He watched them as they glided in the air, their wings motionless, their heads rigidly pointed. They seemed reptilian to him. For the first time, noticing their unblinking black beady eyes, he saw the snake in these smooth gray birds. The Major did not like snakes.
Visibility was good. They seemed even closer than two miles to shore. In the distance, toward the end of the island, he could see one of the active volcanoes. At regular intervals a column of smoke and fire came up out of it. The island was a cluster of volcanoes, tall and sharp, their peaks covered with snow. Clouds hung over the peaks and the stone of the mountains was black and gray.
Overhead the sun made an effort to shine through the clouded sky; the sun seldom did, though. This was the place where the bad weather was made, according to the Indians, and the Major agreed. He yawned and was glad that he had not flown. He did not like flying over hidden peaks. He hoped this trip would be uneventful.
Major Barkison had a sure method of foretelling weather, or anything else for that matter. He would, for instance, select a certain patch of sky and then count slowly to three; if, during that time, no sea gull crossed the patch of sky, the thing he wanted would come true. This method could be applied to everything and the Major had great faith in it.
He looked at a section of sky above a distant volcano. Slowly he counted. At the count of two a gull flew across his patch of sky. The Major frowned. He had a way, however, of dealing with this sort of thing. He would use the best two counts out of three. Quickly he counted. No gull appeared. The trip would not be bad. In his mind, though, he wondered if it might not be cheating to take the best two out of three. One had to play fair. Not that he was superstitious, of course.
The Major began to feel the cold of the wind. The cold came gradually. He did not realize it until he found himself shivering. Carefully, holding onto the railing, he walked aft to the galley.
Inside he stood by the range and warmed himself. He shivered as the cold left. Steam came up from his hands.
Hodges and the Chaplain were sitting at the galley table drinking coffee. The Indian cook was arranging some canned rations in a cupboard. Major Barkison took off his parka and sat down at the galley table.
“Pretty cold, isn’t it?” remarked the Chaplain.
“Yes, it is. Very penetrating, this cold. Goes right through to the bone.”
“I suppose so. Actually this isn’t half so cold as Anchorage or Nome. The Chain isn’t much worse than Seattle.”
“I’ll take Seattle,” said Hodges. “Who was it who said this place was the chamber pot of the gods?” The Major laughed.
“I hear,” said the Chaplain, “that you are going to be promoted, Major.”
“How did you hear that?”
The Chaplain giggled. “Through the grapevine. You hear all sorts of things that way, you know.”
Barkison nodded. “It looks like it’ll be coming through any time now.”
“That’ll be nice for you. Your career and all that.”
“Yes, it will be nice.” The Major poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove. Then he sat down again. He poured some canned milk into the coffee.
“They say that the natives think that’s where milk comes from, out of a can,” Hodges remarked.
“You can get to like condensed milk,” said the Major. “1 never used to like it before I came up here.” He stirred his coffee and thought of Fort Lewis where he had been stationed for many years before the war. As he remembered, he missed the trees and green fields the most; large leafy trees and green smooth clover pastures. He wondered how long it would be before he went back.
“Where is your home?” asked the Chaplain, turning to Hodges.
“Virginia, the northern part.”
“Oh, really. That’s quite near to me. You know the monastery of Saint Oliver?” Hodges shook his head. “Well that’s where I was, near Baltimore, you know. When I was a child I used to visit relatives in Pikefield County. You didn’t know anyone in Pikefield, did you?”
“I’m afraid I never did. I was never in the southern part of the state much. I was mostly in Fairfax.”
“Great country,” commented the Major. “I’ve been in many horse shows around there, around Warrenton. Beautiful country, I’ve always liked it.”
“I never knew you rode, sir,” said Hodges.
“Why yes. I was in the cavalry when I first got out of the Point. Changed over later. Cavalry was a little bit too much wear and tear for me. You see,” and he lowered his voice and spoke rather wearily, “you see, I have a heart murmur.”
“Really?” The Chaplain became interested. “Isn’t that odd, but you know I’ve got the same thing. As a matter of fact the doctor up at Anchorage told me I might drop dead at any moment. You can imagine how surprised I was to hear that.”
“I can imagine.” The Major spoke dryly. The Chaplain’s heart did not interest him. He was a little annoyed that the Chaplain should have mentioned it.
“Yes, I might drop dead at any moment.” Chaplain O’Mahoney seemed to enjoy saying those words.
The Major looked out the porthole and watched the gray water shifting under the still sunless sky.
“I like Anchorage,” said the Chaplain absently.
“The best place in Alaska,” agreed Hodges. “You can get real steak there. You got to pay high for it, though.”
“Sure, but they’re a lot more civilized than some places I could mention. It certainly does get cold up there.” The Chaplain shuddered at the thought.
“That’s why war is hell,” said the Major. He wondered how long it would be before his promotion came through. Almost without thinking he used his method. If the Chaplain blinked his eyes within the count of three, he would not get his promotion for at least six months. He looked at the Chaplain’s eyes and he counted to himself. The Chaplain did not blink. Major Barkison felt much better. He would be a Lt. Colonel in less than six months. O’Mahoney was watching him, he noticed.
“Do you feel well, Major?” the Chaplain asked.
“Never better. Why?”
“I thought you looked odd. You were staring so. It must be my imagination.”
“It must be. I was just staring, daydreaming, you know.”
“Yes, I do it often myself. Once I had an unusual revelation that way.”
The Major changed the subject. He spoke to Hodges. “Are you going to stay with the Adjutant General’s department after the war?” Lieutenant Hodges was regular army like the Major.
Hodges shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m going to try to get in Operations.”
“It’s quite interesting, these revelations; I suppose one would call them that....” O’Mahoney began again.
Major Barkison interrupted hurriedly. “I am certain they are.” He turned to the Lieutenant. “Of course, Hodges, the work’s quite different from what you’ve been doing.”
“I know. I think I’d like it though.”
Barkison could see that O’Mahoney was trying to decide whether to tell of his revelation or not. He decided not to. They sat without speaking, and the Major listened to the sounds of the ship. Distant voices from the salon and the wheelhouse and, nearer them, the soft curses of Smitty, the Indian cook, as he prepared lunch. The ship, Barkison noticed, was rocking more than usual. Evans was probably changing course.
The Major excused himself and walked into the almost dark salon and stood by the after door, looking out. In shallow ridges the wake of the ship foamed on the sky-gray water: gray when you looked at its surface but obsidian-dark beneath. A slight wind blew, troubling only the gulls, who floated uneasily on it.
Martin came and stood beside him in the doorway.
“Ah, Mr. Martin. Smooth sailing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, very.”
“I’m certainly glad it is. Certainly glad it’s calm. I had thought we might have rough weather according to the report, but it doesn’t seem so.”
“Might be bad yet, Major. This is pretty unusual. In fact this isn’t at all what we expected.”
“Weather’s incalculable here, I suppose. That’s true of all the Aleutians, I suppose.”
“You’re right there. You can’t tell much till it’s almost too late.”
“What sort of work did you do before you came in the army, if I may ask?”
“I was an actor.”
“Is that so?” At one time the Major had been interested in the theater. He was still fascinated by the business. “Were you in the pictures?”
“No, on the stage. Up around New England.”
“Indeed? This,” the Major pointed at the water, “this seems quite different from that sort of work.”
“In a way I suppose so. That’s what the army does. It’s just one of those things, I guess.”
“Just one of those things,” echoed the Major. He thought of himself on a stage. In his mind he could see himself playing Wellington. The uniforms would be flattering. He would look martial in them. Major Barkison was a romantic, a frustrated romantic perhaps, but still a romantic. Before the war, when the army could wear civilian clothes, Major Barkison had worn very bright ties. “Must be interesting work.”
“Yes, I guess I’ll do it again if I can.”
“You must certainly. One should always do the thing one does best.” The Major spoke with the firmness of the master of the platitude.
“That’s right, sir.”
Major Barkison toyed with the thought of himself as Wellington. The thought was pleasant and he examined it from all angles. He dreamed for several moments.
“I understand,” said Martin at last, “that they are going to rotate to the States all men who’ve been here two years or more.”
“What? Oh, yes, that’s our policy. It’s a little hard to do, naturally. There aren’t many replacements so far. How long have you been here?”
“Fourteen months. I’ve got another ten months to go.”
“I know how you feel. How long has Mr. Evans been here?”
“Over three years, but then he’s practically a native. He lived in Seward. He probably likes Alaska.”
“He must, to stay here that long. For some people, it’s a good place.”
“He used to fish in these waters.”
“Really? He seems to want to go back now. I can’t say I blame him.”
“Neither do I.”
Major Barkison wondered if his own request to join a certain General in another theater would be granted. He hoped it would be. There were times when he felt his whole career was being blocked in this, now inactive, theater of war.
“Arunga’s getting to be quite big, isn’t it, Major?”
“Yes, it’s about the best developed island here. Probably be quite a post-war base. Key to the northern defense.”
“So I hear.”
“Yes, the General was wise to build up Arunga.”
“I hear he’s got a big house there with a grand piano and all that sort of stuff.”
Barkison laughed. “He lives in a shack.”
“I guess somebody just started talking too much once.” Martin looked about him. “I got to go up top now,” he said. “Will you excuse me?”
“Certainly.” Martin left through the galley.
Major Barkison sat down on a bench in the salon. He looked at the books in the rack. Most of them looked dull.
He sat quietly and studied the linoleum of the deck. The cracks in the linoleum formed interesting patterns, rather like lines on a battle map. He wondered just what battle these lines looked the most like. Probably Gettysburg. All maps looked like Gettysburg.
Bored, he examined the books again. One of them caught his eye: a book of short biographies. He picked it up and thumbed through the pages. The last biography was about General Chinese Gordon. Interested, he began to read. In his subconscious Wellington, for the time being, began to fade. A stage appeared in the mind of the Major, and he saw himself, the frustrated romantic, surrounded by Mandarins; dressed as General Gordon, he was receiving a large gold medal for his defeat of the Wangs. Major Barkison could almost hear the offstage cheers of a crowd. He began to frame a speech of thanks in his mind. He could hear his own inner voice speaking brilliantly and at length of attrition. As Chinese Gordon he thought of these things.
At ten o’clock, two hours after they had left the Big Harbor, Evans noticed that the barometer had dropped alarmingly.
He called Bervick over. Together they figured how much the barometer had fallen in the last two hours. Evans was worried; Bervick was not.
“I seen this sort of thing before,” said Bervick. “Sometimes it’s just the chain inside the barometer skipping a little, or maybe it’s just for the time being. I seen this sort of thing before.”
“Sure, so have I.” Evans lowered his voice, he was afraid the man at the wheel might hear them. “I seen it blow all to hell, too, when the barometer dropped like this.” Evans was nervous. He did not like to be nervous or seem nervous at sea, but lately some of the most trivial things upset him. A falling barometer, of course, was not trivial. On the other hand, it was not an unusual thing.
“Well, the weather don’t look bad, Skipper. Take a look.”
They opened one of the windows and looked out. The sky, though fog-ridden and dark, was no more alarming than ever. The sea was not high and the wind was light. The sea gulls were still hovering about the ship.
“I still don’t like this,” murmured Evans. “It’s just the way it was the time the williwaw caught us off Umnak, remember that?”
“Sure, I remember. We been hit before. What you so hot and bothered about? You been sailing these waters a long time. We seen the barometer drop worse than this.” Bervick looked at him curiously.
Evans turned away from the window. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I just got the jumps, I guess. This weather gets under my skin sometimes.”
“I know, it’s no good, this crazy weather.”
Evans took a long shaky breath. “Well, we’re near enough to a lot of inlets if anything blows up.”
“That’s right.”
“Tell the quartermaster to steer a half mile nearer shore.”
“O.K.” Bervick talked to the man at the wheel a moment. Evans looked at the chart of the islands. Bervick joined him and together they studied the chart and an old logbook which had been used on their last trip.
Evans rechecked the courses and the running times around the different capes. The stretches of open sea, while more vulnerable to the big winds, were generally safest. The capes and spits of rock were dangerous. One had to deal with them every fifteen minutes or so.
He checked the bays and inlets that they would pass. He also figured the times they would be abeam these openings. At the first sign of danger he would anchor inside one of these sheltered places. In the open sea they would have to weather any storm that hit them, but there would be no rocks in the open sea and that was a help.
“There’s some good harbors on Kulak,” said Bervick, examining that island on the chart.
“That’s right, we’ll be there early tomorrow morning. We’ll leave this island around four in the afternoon. We’ll coast along by Ilak for around six hours and then we hit open sea.”
“It’s about a hundred miles of open sea; it’ll take us over nine hours. Then we reach Kulak.”
“I’ll feel O.K. there. Weather’s good from there on.”
“Sure the weather’s always good from there on. It’s always wonderful here.” Bervick went back into his cabin. His watch did not begin until four.
Evans put away the charts. Then he stood by the window and watched the sky. Toward the southwest the clouds were dark, but the wind, which was faint, was from almost the opposite direction. The wind could change, though. When it was not strong and direct anything could happen.
Martin came into the wheelhouse. He looked at the barometer and whistled.
Evans was irritated. “Don’t whistle in the wheelhouse. It’s bad luck.”
“You always do.”
“That’s different.”
Martin chuckled, then, “Barometer’s mighty low. How long she been dropping?”
“For almost two hours.” Evans wished his first mate would not talk so loudly in front of the man on watch. “That doesn’t look .. .”
“No, it doesn’t.” Evans interrupted sharply. He looked warningly at the wheelsman. Martin understood. He walked over and stood beside Evans at the window.
“The sky looks all right.”
“Sure. Sure. That’s the way it always is.”
“What’s all the emotion for?”
“None of your damned business. Why don’t you crawl in your sack?”
“I think I will.” Grinning, Martin went into his cabin. Gloomily Evans looked at the sky again. He knew that he must be acting strangely. He had never let them see him nervous before. Weather was beginning to get on his nerves after all his years in these waters.
The wheelhouse was getting a little warm, he noticed. He opened one of the windows and leaned out. The cold damp air was refreshing as it blew in his face.
* * *
At eight bells Smitty announced lunch. Martin took Evans’ place on watch. Bervick and Evans went below to the salon.
The passengers were already seated. Their morale, Evans could see, was quite high. Duval, oil streaks on his face and clothes, looked tired.
“Engines going smooth?” asked Evans sitting down.
“Just like always. Little bit of trouble with a valve on the starboard, but that’s all. The valve isn’t hitting quite right.”
“You got a spare part, haven’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Well, let’s not worry.”
Smitty brought them hash and coffee and crackers. He slammed the dishes down on the table.
“I feel as if I could eat a horse,” said the Chaplain. “You come to the right place,” said Smitty. They laughed at the old joke.
“Any new developments?” asked the Major.
Evans shook his head. “No, nothing new. We’re making about twelve knots an hour. That’s nice time.” He looked at Bervick. “Weather’s fine,” he added.
“Splendid,” said the Major.
“What was that you were reading, Major, when we came in?” asked the Chaplain.
“A piece about General Gordon. A great tragedy, Khartoum, I mean. They were most incompetent. It’s a very good example of politics in the army.”
“Yes, I know what you mean,” said O’Mahoney.
“Are there many seals in these waters?” asked Hodges. Evans nodded. “A good many. If we see any salmon running you’ll see a lot of seals chasing them. Sea lions hang around all the time.”
“I saw some this morning,” commented the Major. “I understand they’re the fastest fish in the water.”
“I believe they are classed as mammals,” corrected the Chaplain, looking at Bervick who nodded.
“That’s right, sir, they are mammals.”
“You heard the Major,” Duval suddenly said. “They are just big fish.”
“A lot you know about fish,” said Bervick coolly.
“I know enough about these things to know a fish when I see one swim in the water.”
“Anybody with any kind of sense knows that sea lions aren’t fish.”
“So you’re calling the Major and me dumb.”
Bervick caught himself. “I’m sorry, Major, I didn’t mean that, sir.”
Major Barkison agreed, a little puzzled. “I’m sure you’re right, Sergeant. I know nothing about these things.” Bervick looked at the Chief triumphantly. He murmured, “That’s like I said: they aren’t fish.”
The Chief was about to reply. Irritated, and a little worried that the Major might get the wrong impression of them, Evans said firmly, “I’ve heard all I want to hear about sea lions.” Duval grumbled something and Bervick looked at his plate. The silence was awkward.
“When,” asked the Chaplain helpfully, “do we get to Arunga?”
“It’s about eight hundred miles. I always figure about seventy hours or more,” Evans answered, glad to change the subject.
Evans thought of the falling barometer and the stormy sky. For some reason, as he thought, the word “avunculus” kept going through his head. He had no idea what it meant but he must have heard or read it somewhere. The desire to say the word was almost overpowering. Softly he muttered to himself, “avunculus.”
“What was that?” asked Bervick who, sitting nearest him, had heard.
“Nothing, I was thinking, that’s all.”
“I thought you said something.”
“What tonnage is this boat?” asked Hodges. “Something over three hundred,” answered Evans. He had forgotten, if he had ever known, the exact tonnage. “That’s pretty big.”
“For a small ship it’s average,” said Evans. In the past he had sailed on all types of ships. He had been an oiler and a deckhand and finally master of a fishing boat outside Seward. Of all the ships he had been on, he liked this one the best. She was easy to handle. He would like to own a ship like this when the war was over. Many changes would have to be made, of course. The ship was so expensive to run that only the government could afford the upkeep. He could think of at least a dozen changes that should be made.
The others discussed the ship, and Duval told them about the engine room. He was proud of his engine room. Evans knew Duval was a fine engineer.
Evans looked at his empty plate and remembered that the hash had been good today. Smitty had put garlic in it and he liked garlic. The others seemed to like the hash, too, and he was glad. He always felt like a host aboard his ship. Ships were his home; this one in particular.
Before the others had finished, Evans motioned to Bervick and they excused themselves.
In the wheelhouse Evans took Martin’s place on watch. There had been no change in the barometer.
“I want you to cut that stuff out,” said Evans abruptly. Bervick, who was playing with the dividers at the chart table, looked surprised. “Cut what out?”
“You know what I mean. All this arguing with the Chief. I don’t like it and you better not let it happen again. You got more sense than to fight with him in front of some rank like the Major.”
Bervick set his jaw. “No fault of mine if he wants to argue all the time. You tell him to keep out of my business and I won’t say nothing.”
“I’ll talk to him, but you better remember too. I can’t take much more of this stuff. You been at each other for months now.”
“He gets in my hair. He gets in my business.”
“For Christ’s sake!” Evans exploded. “Can’t you forget about that bitch? Can’t you figure that there’re a lot more where that one came from? What’s wrong with you anyway?”
Bervick gestured. “I guess I just been up here too long. I guess that’s what’s the matter.”
Evans was tired now. “Sure, that’s it. That’s what’s wrong with all of us. We been to sea too long.” Evans knew as well as Bervick the truth of this. After living too long in close quarters with the same fifteen or twenty men, one began to think and do irrational things. Women were scarce and perhaps it was normal that Bervick should feel so strongly. He watched Bervick as he fiddled with the dividers on the chart. He was a good man to have around. Evans liked his second mate.
“How’s the barometer doing now?” asked Evans. Bervick looked at it, twisting his hair as he did. “About the same. Bit lower, maybe.”
Evans grunted. A mile ahead he could make out a long black spit of rock and stone and reef. As they approached it he changed the course. First five degrees to port, then ten, then they were around the point. The end of the island, some fifteen miles away, came clearly into view. This island was a big one and mountainous. In the clear but indirect light he could see the white peaks that marked the westernmost cape. Because of the size of the volcanic peaks the shore looked closer than it was.
“Sky’s still dark,” said Bervick. Evans noticed his mate’s eyes were the color of the sea water. He had never noticed that before. It was an unusual thing, Evans thought, but having lived so long with Bervick he never really looked at him and probably could not have described him. Evans looked back at the sky.
“Still bad looking. I don’t like it so much. Still we’re keeping pretty close to shore. We can hide fast,”
“Sure would delay us if something did blow up.”
“It always does.”
“You might,” said Evans after a moment, “check the lifeboat equipment.”
Bervick laughed. “We’re being real safe, aren’t we?” Evans was about to say, “Better safe than sorry,” but he decided that it sounded too neat. Instead he said, “You can’t ever tell. They haven’t been checked for a while.”
“O.K., I’ll take a look.” He left through the door that opened onto the upper deck where the two lifeboats and one raft were kept.
Evans watched the dark long point they had just passed slowly fade into a harmless line on the water.
Martin returned from the galley. He glanced at the barometer as he came in. He did not comment on what he saw.
“What’s the course?” he asked.
Evans told him.
“Where did Bervick go? Is he in the sack?”
“He’s out on deck.”
“He and the Chief were really going to town at lunch.”
“Yeah, I don’t like that stuff. I told Bervick to stop it.”
“You better tell the Chief, too; a lot of this mess is his fault. You know the whole story, don’t you?”
“Sure, I know the story. Bervick’s been weeping over it long enough. I’m talking to the Chief, don’t worry.”
A gust of wet wind swept through the wheelhouse as Bervick came back in.
“Cold outside?” asked Evans.
Bervick shook his head. “Not bad. The boats are in good shape. Water’s still fresh in the tanks.”
“Good.”
Bervick walked toward his cabin. “I think I’ll turn in,” he said.
“So will I,” Evans wrote down the course and the time and a description of the weather in the logbook. “Get me up,” he said to Martin, “if you see a ship or something. You got the course straight?”
“I got it.”
Evans went into his cabin. He took the papers off his desk so that they would not fall on the deck if the ship should roll. He looked at himself in the mirror and said quite loudly, “Avunculus.”
Major Barkison found the Chief to be good, if not particularly intelligent, company. In the middle of the afternoon Duval had joined the Major in the salon. They talked of New Orleans.
“I have always felt,” said the Major, recalling in his mind the French Quarter, “that there was no other place like New Orleans. It’s not like New York. It is nothing like Paris.” Major Barkison had never been to Paris but that was not really important.
“It sure is a fine place,” said Duval. “Those women there are something.” He winked largely at the Major who quickly agreed.
Duval continued, “Yes, I think of those women up here all the time; anywhere, in fact, because there’s just nothing like them anywhere.”
“Yes,” said the Major. He changed the subject. “Of course the food is wonderful down there; marvelous shrimp there.”
“So do I like it. You know I used to know a girl down there who was pretty enough to be in the pictures, and she was some lay, too. I was just a young fellow at the time and she was maybe seventeen, eighteen then, and we sure played around together. She was sure some woman. I bet you can’t guess what she’s doing now?”
“No,” said the Major, making a good mental guess. “No, I can’t guess what she’s doing.”
“Well, she’s got a big bar in New York and some girls on the side. I bet she makes more money than all of us put together. I got a picture of her here. I always carry her picture around with me. You can bet my wife don’t like it.” The Chief pulled a worn leather wallet from his pocket. He opened it and showed the Major a picture.
Major Barkison smiled stiffly and looked at the heavy mulatto nude. “Very nice,” he said.
“You bet she is. She’s some woman.” He put away the wallet. “I’d sure like to see her again sometime. She is some woman.”
“She seems to be,” said the Major.
Duval looked into space. A distant expression came over his harsh and angular features. Barkison coughed. “Do you put into the Big Harbor often?” he asked.
Duval nodded, returning slowly to the present. “We stop in there once, twice a week. That’s our regular run. It’s the most civilized place on the Chain.”
“Yes, I know. There seems to be an unusual number of civilians there. What’s their status? I’ve never really looked into the problems of the civilian population up here, that’s another department.”
The Chief scratched himself thoughtfully. “Well, they’re just here. That’s all I know. They work in the stores. Some were pre-war residents. A lot of them are middle-aged women. We aren’t supposed to have nothing to do with them. The army’s real strict.” The Chief laughed. “But there are all kinds of ways to operate. Them girls get pretty rich.”
“I suppose they do. They seemed an awful-looking lot.”
“Most of them are. There’s one that isn’t, though. She’s Norwegian. You know the type, real blonde and clean-looking. She’s real good. We been operating for some time now.”
“Is that so?” The Major wondered how, as an upholder of army regulations, he should take this. He decided he would forget it after a while.
“She’s gotten around a lot, of course. You know the mate. The squarehead, Bervick.”
The Major said he did.
“Well, him and this girl were hitting it off pretty well until I came along. So I give her some money and she’s like all the rest and quits him. He acts like a big fool then. He hasn’t caught on that she’s the kind that’ll carry on with any guy. He’s dumb that way and I got no time for a damn fool.”
“It seems a shame that you two shouldn’t get along better.”
“Oh, it’s not bad. He just shoots off his mouth every now and then a little too much. He’s a little crazy from being up here so long.”
“I can imagine he might be. It’s hard enough on shore with a lot of people. Must be a lot worse on a small ship.”
Duval agreed. “It is,” he said, “but you get used to it. When you get to be our age you don’t give much of a damn about things. You do what you please, isn’t that right, Major?”
Barkison nodded. He was somewhat irritated at being included in the same age group with the Chief. There was almost twenty years’ difference in their ages. Major Barkison tried to look youthful, less like Wellington. He looked too old for thirty-one.
“Well, I think I’ll go below and see if the engines are going to hold together.” Duval gestured cheerily and walked out of the salon, balancing himself, catlike, on the rolling deck.
The Major got to his feet and stretched. He felt lazy and at ease. This was the first real vacation he had had since the war began. It was good not to be writing and reading reports and making inspections.
He had enjoyed his visit to Andrefski Bay, though. The ATS Captain had been a bit hard to take but the officers had been most obliging. He had finally made out a report saying that the port should be closed except for a small housekeeping crew. This report had naturally made him popular with the bored men of Andrefski.
The Major walked about the empty salon, examining the books. They seemed as dull as ever to him. He decided he would finish reading about Gordon. He had read little more than a page when Hodges strolled into the salon and sat down beside him. The Major closed the book.
“A little rougher,” commented Hodges.
“Yes. I suppose they’ve changed course again. Have you been up in the wheelhouse?”
“No, I was down in the focs’le. I was talking with some of the crew.”
“Really?” Major Barkison was not sure if this was such a good thing; as experience, however, it might be rewarding. “What did they have to say?”
“Oh, not so much. They were talking about an Indian who drank some methyl alcohol the other night.”
“Yes, I heard about that.”
“Well, they were just talking. Same thing, or rather something very like it, happened to his brother down in Southeastern Alaska.”
“Is that right?” The Major played with the book on his lap.
“He was working on a wharf on one of those rivers and he fell in. They said he never came up again. There was a lot of thick mud under the water and he just went down in it. People just disappear in it.”
“Is that right?” The Major wondered if he would be sick again. The ship was beginning to roll almost as badly as it had on the trip to the Big Harbor.
“I guess that must be awful,” said Hodges frowning, “to fall in the water like that and go right down. They said there were just a few bubbles and that was all. Must have been an awful sensation, going down, I mean.”
“I can imagine,” said the Major. He remembered the time he had almost drowned in the ocean. His whole life had not passed in review through his head; he remembered that. The only thing he had thought of was getting out of the water. A lifeguard towed him in.
“You know they were telling me,” said Hodges, “that there’s an old Indian belief that if a dying man recognizes you, you will be the next to die.”
“That’s an interesting superstition. Did this fellow, the one who died last night, did he recognize anyone before he died?”
“No, as a matter of fact he was unconscious all the time.”
“Oh.”
Hodges tied one of his shoes thoughtfully. The Major could see he was still thinking of the Indian.
“What else did you hear?” asked the Major. He was always interested to know what the men thought of their officers. Sometimes their judgments were very shrewd. “Not much, they talked a lot about Evans.”
“Do they like him?”
“They wouldn’t really say, of course; probably not, but they think he’s a fine seaman.”
“That’s all that’s really important.”
“That’s what I said. They say he married a girl in Seattle. He’d only known her a week.”
“How long did they live together?”
“Around a month. He was up in Anchorage last month getting a divorce from her.”
“Did she ask for it?”
“I don’t guess they know. I gather he hadn’t heard from her in the last three years.”
“People should be more careful about these things,” said the Major. He, himself, had been when he married the daughter of his commanding officer. She was a fine girl. Unfortunately her father had died soon after they were married. They had been happy, nevertheless.
Hodges got to his feet and said he thought he would go to the wheelhouse. He left. The Major put his book down on the floor. He was sleepy. There was something restful in the rocking motion of the ship. He yawned and stretched out on the bench.
* * *
Major Barkison awoke with a start. The ship was pitching considerably. The salon was in darkness. Outside evening and dark clouds gave a twilight coloring to the sea and sky.
He looked at his watch. It was four-thirty. In the galley he could hear Smitty cursing among the clattering pots and pans. He turned on one of the lights in the salon. The salon looked even more dismal in the pale light.
He picked the book up from the deck and tried to read it, but the motion of the ship was too much for him.
Hodges came into the salon from the after door. His face and clothes were damp from spray; there was salt matted in his hair. His face was flushed.
“I’ve been out on deck, Major,” he said, slamming the door shut. “She’s really getting rough. The Skipper told me I’d better come back inside.”
“Yes, it seems to be getting much rougher.”
“I’ll say.” Hodges took off his wet parka and disappeared into the galley. A few minutes later he was back, his face and hair dry.
“What did Mr. Evans have to say about the weather?”
“I don’t know. He yelled to me out the window, that’s all. I was on the front deck. So I came back in. The waves are really going over the deck.”
“Oh.” The Major was beginning to feel sick.
Chaplain O’Mahoney walked into the salon from the galley.
“Isn’t this rolling dreadful?” he said. The Major noticed that the Chaplain was unusually pale.
“It’s not so nice,” said Major Barkison. O’Mahoney sat down abruptly. He was breathing noisily. “I certainly hope these waves don’t get any larger,” he said. He ran his hand shakily over his forehead.
“It couldn’t be much of a storm,” said the Major. “Mr. Evans would have said something about it earlier. They can tell those things before they happen. There’s a lot of warning.” The Major was uneasy, though. Hodges, he noticed, seemed to enjoy this.
Major Barkison went to one of the portholes and looked out. They were in open sea now. The island was five or six miles behind them. Waves, gray and large, were billowing under the ship. On the distant shore he could see great sheets of white spray as the waves broke on the sharp rocks. A light drizzle misted the air.
Very little wind blew. The sky was dark over the island mountains behind them. No gulls flew overhead. A greenish light colored the air.
“What does it look like to you?” asked Hodges.
“Just bad weather, I guess. Were in the open now, I see.”
“Yes, we left the island a little after four. We’ll be near Ilak around seven tonight.”
“I wonder which is best in a storm: to be near shore or out like this?”
Hodges shrugged, “Hard to tell. I like the idea of being near land. You don’t suppose we’re going to have one of those big storms, do you?”
“Heaven forbid!” said the Chaplain from his seat on the bench.
“Well, if it is one I have every confidence in the Master of the ship,” said Major Barkison, upholding vested authority from force of habit. The idea of a storm did not appeal to him.
“I think we should go see Evans,” said Hodges.
The Major considered a moment. “Might not be a bad idea. We should have some idea of what he plans to do. We might even go back to the Big Harbor.”
Let’s go up, sir.
Hodges and the Major went into the galley. The Chaplain did not care to go. In the galley they found Smitty groaning in a corner. He was very sick.
They went up the companionway to the wheelhouse. Evans, Martin and Bervick were standing together around the chart table. Only Evans noticed them as they entered.
“Bad weather,” Evans announced abruptly. “The wind’s going to blow big soon.”
“What’s going to be done?” asked the Major.
“Wait till we’ve figured this out.” Evans lowered his head over the chart. Together with his mates he talked in a low voice and measured distances.
Major Barkison looked out the windows and found the lurid view of sky and water terrifying. He wished that he had flown. He would have been in Arunga by now.
The Chief came into the wheelhouse. He spoke a moment with Evans who waved him away. Duval came over to the Major. “Bit of a storm,” said Duval.
“Doesn’t look good. You know about these things, does this look particularly bad to you?”
“I don’t know. All storms are different. You don’t know until it’s over just how bad it was. That sky looks awful.”
“Quite dark. This greenish light is new to me.”
They watched the ink-dark center of the storm, spreading behind the white peaks of the island they had recently passed. Evans turned around and spoke to the Chief. “Engines in good shape?”
“That’s right.”
“Could you get up any more speed, say thirteen knots?”
“Not if you want to keep the starboard engine in one piece.”
In a low voice Evans talked with Bervick. He spoke again to the Chief. “Keep going just as you are, then. Keep pretty constant. I’m heading for Ilak. The wind probably won’t be bad until evening.
“If it holds off for a dozen hours or so, or if it isn’t too strong, I’ll take her into Kulak Bay tomorrow morning. We’ll be safe in there.” Evans spoke with authority. The Major could not help but admire his coolness. He seemed to lack all nervousness. The Major was only too conscious of his own nerves.
Hodges was listening, fascinated, his dark eyes bright with excitement. Major Barkison wished he could be as absorbed in events as young Hodges. I have too much imagination, thought the Major sadly. He would have to set an example, though. His rank and training demanded it.
“What would you like us to do, Mr. Evans?” he asked.
“Keep cool. That’s about all. Stay below and stay near the crew. If anything should go wrong, they’ll get you in the lifeboats. The chances of this thing getting that bad are pretty slight, but we have to be ready.”
“I see.”
“Is the Chaplain in the salon?”
“Yes. I think he’s sick. Your cook is, too.”
“I can’t help that. I’d appreciate it, Major, if you and the Lieutenant would go below. The mate who is not on duty here will stay in the salon with you. I’ll have him keep you posted on what’s happening.”
“Right.” Major Barkison was relieved to see Evans had such firm control of the situation. “We’ll go down now,” he said to Evans.
In the salon the Chaplain was waiting for them. “What did they have to say?” he asked.
“Going to blow pretty hard,” the Major answered.
The Chaplain groaned. “I suppose we must bear this,” he said at last in a tired voice. “These things will happen.”
Duval walked in; he looked worried. “I don’t like this so much,” he said.
“It does seem messy,” the Major answered, trying to sound flippant.
“Looks like the start of a williwaw. That’s what I think it looks like. I could be wrong.” Duval was gloomy.
“What,” asked the Chaplain, “is a williwaw?”
“Big northern storm. Kind of hurricane with a lot of snow. Just plain undiluted hell. They come and go real quick, but they do a lot of damage.”
“I hope you’re wrong,” the Major said fervently.
“So do I.” Duval hurried off toward his engine room. Chaplain O’Mahoney sat quietly on the bench. Hodges watched the big waves through the porthole.
Major Barkison said, “I think I’ll go to my cabin. If anybody wants me, tell them I’m there. I’m going to try to sleep a little.” This was bluff and he knew it sounded that way, but somehow he felt better saying it.
He opened the after door and stepped out on the stern. The ship was rocking violently and he had trouble keeping his footing. The wind was damp and cold. He waited for the ship to sink down between two waves, then, quickly, he ran along the deck toward the bow and his cabin.
A wall of gray water sprang up beside him, then in a moment it was gone and the ship was on the crest of a wave. He slipped on the sea-wet deck, but caught himself on the railing. As they sank down again into another sea-valley, he reached the door to his cabin. He went inside and slammed the door shut as spray splashed against it.
He stood for a moment in the wood-and-salt-smelling darkness. Great shudders shook him. Nerves, he thought. He switched on the light.
Water, he noticed, was trickling in through the porthole. He fastened it tight. More water was trickling under the door from the deck. He could do nothing about that.
Major Barkison took off his parka and lay down on his bunk. He was beginning to feel sick to his stomach. He hoped he would not become sick now.
If the ship went up on the crest of a wave within the count of three....
Outside the wind started to blow, very lightly at first.