CHAPTER XXVII
Martin and Rio walked along the waterfront in silence. All activity seemed suspended. It was a lonely and a menacing panorama to both men who realized that the very heart of the city had been pierced. Imported goods and products for exportation were lying quiet, slowing up the commerce of the world. Union longshoremen and truckmen had walked out with the striking seamen; and the desperate efforts of independent groups could not compensate for the loss of regimentated teamwork and good fellowship, so vital. Policemen patrolled each pier to prevent acts of violence between organized and unorganized Labor. Between the entrances, the scattered trucks rolled about like confused ants.
“Damn the governors!” said Rio, thrusting out his jaw.
“Who?”
“Who?” repeated Rio, in exasperation. “Capital, you bastard! Capital!You’veeaten their sour pudding and slept on their lousy blankets!—and you askme‘who’! It’s Capital that smashes Labor!”
“Money and work,” said Martin serenely. “Money and work.”
Rio turned on him nervously.
“Cut out that speakin’ in tongues, or whatever the hell it is, Martin. I’ve heard you damn the Companies from Shanghai to Port Said. Anyway, what about the printin’ plant?”
“It’s closed. The boys walked out. That’s all.”
“Why?”
“The same reason they’re walking out everywhere—for better hours, better conditions.”
“When do they open?”
“I don’t know. There’ll be arbitration, of course. Most of the men though, have put away enough chips to ride it. I haven’t.”
“Well,” said Rio, “what are you goin’ to do?”
“I don’t know that either. I have enough left to run me for a few weeks. Then if things haven’t opened I’ll have to ship out.”
“And leave Deane with Roberts around? You told me not to mention her, but I guess it’s O.K. now.”
“Deane will be all right,” Martin nodded. “Roberts had a stroke. He can’t move.”
“Roberts? A stroke?” Rio looked pleased, and there was a definite satisfaction in his voice as he continued. “Maybe that’s why my idea didn’t work. I went to his place that night, and the next. The second time he was home, but there was lights....” Rio shook his headwisely. “And I work in the dark,” he added, looking at Martin. “But about the plant—can’t you get another job ashore?”
“I doubt it. I don’t know another trade.”
“Then what the hell good did college do you?”
“College? That’s another one I can’t answer,” said Martin. “I was too young. The world turned backwards. I hated my young, fresh hair and the child in my face. I needed the forest and the open sea—an insane wind that held my breath. I hated pedantry, and the inquisitive eyes of girls.”
“What else?” asked Rio.
“It’s too old to hurt now,” answered Martin.
“Go on,” said Rio.
“It wasn’t much. It taught me to drink incredibly bad gin—corrosive enough that it’s a wonder I have any guts left. Why go on?”
“I know,” said Rio. “You had it your way, and I had it mine. But it was all the same.... I had the wind you longed for, and it put scissors in my throat! Let’s forget it. Look!” He pointed to a wharf near them. One group of men walking along it held signs in the air. Another, grimly silent, stood by the entrance to the warehouse pier, watching those who came out and those who entered. “We’ll forget our trouble inthatscramble, Martin! It looks like our boys have tied up a ship.”
“Let’s see. That’s Pier V7. What ship’s that?”
“TheLeana. She makes Pedro, and Puget Sound, I think.”
One of the men who were carrying signs stopped when he saw them.
“Howdy, Rio.”
“Hello, Brick. What’s the jibe?”
“They paid us off an’ are tryin’ to ship a fink crew,” answered the man, hitching the sign a little higher. “We dumped the mattresses over the side last night comin’ in. The bedbugs had made ’em Snug Harbor. I slept on the hatch off the coast of Mexico. And God!—what roaches!”
“Hmm,” said Rio, and he and Martin walked on.
They had started uptown when a man came out of the warehouse. One of the union men who was watching the doorway ran after him and knocked off his cap with the flat of his hand. The other tried to fight back but was smothered with punches before a policeman broke it up.
“Like old times,” said Martin.
“Yeah. Let’s go up to the Hall,” suggested Rio.
They reached South Ferry, walked to Pearl Street and went up the stairs into an old building. The room was crowded with seamen. Some of them, in chairs tilted against the wall, were sitting quietly or exchanging stories. Others were playing cards. The air was full of tobacco smoke, stale and close. Rio and Martin wentto the desk. A jumpy-eyed man behind it knew them and nodded. Martin took out his book. His dues were paid to the following month, but he laid down eight more dollars.
The nervous fellow looked at him, then took the book and examined it carefully.
“I see you ain’t got in no picket duty since you left the west coast,” he said.
“No.”
“We could use a man on the line to-night.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Put me down, too,” said Rio. “I need a good sleep.”
“Yeah!” snapped the agent. “This ain’t Frisco, nor Portland, where they bat their scabby brains out. Here, the Company takes these fink bastards from the ship by car and leaves ’em in town. The boys make a few clap joints, meet the transportation and are brought back to the ship.” The agent licked his lips, showing perfect teeth, shining and yellow. “It’s silk—till they sail under.” He bit a fingernail and turned to another man.
Rio was growling when he and Martin left the Hall.
“God damn the finks,” he said.
“That’s right,” agreed Martin. “They struck me midships once. They nearly sank me.”
“You know,” said Rio, angrily, “I like you. But for Christ’s sake, don’t give me your end of the sea! You’re about as salty as lard.”
Martin smiled.
“Yes, they nearly sank me,” he repeated. “The ship was listing fourteen degrees when the bos’n ran into the fo’c’sle in his dirty underwear. He danced the ise-odori with a bottle of Saki under one arm and an ordinary seaman under the other, on a deck that would have frozen grandmother’s mittens. Now Rio, do you figure yourself a deep water sailor? Because you’ve pulled in the log on a cold night and lashed barrels to a hatch with your butt to the wind—are you sure of the ocean?... Have you ever curled a sea egg around your elbow?—kissed a barracuda over black water?—raced a shark in a harbor full of battle-wagons dumping garbage, with your own boat forty feet away against the wind? Have you winked at a sea spider and made him shuffle backwards till his legs ruffled slow sand in your face?”
“Well,” said Rio, laughing, “I told you once you were the ‘part of.’”
They were back at Pier V7. Other men were concentrating from the Hall to relieve the day pickets.
“They brought in two cars full,” said a tall fellow who had been heading the day men. He turned to Rio. “You take care of the night gang. We’ll bring down coffee. The Company is usin’ black sedans—some of the blinds was down when they pulled in. A couple of cops is standin’ by the gate so you can’t do much there. But if you divide your gang and send half of ’em up the alley a ways, you can get a sign. Hop on the runnin’ board, an’ you know what to do. Another thing. All thedeck officers walked out when we was paid off except the third mate. That’s one Company man I’d like to see you get. The finks may not get no leave to-night, but theLeanadon’t sail for four days. If we keep a good lookout, maybe we can get a couple of the bastards. That’s all, except don’t do no drinkin’.”
“What’s that on your breath?” asked someone. “Orange juice?”
“I can hold it,” said the tall fellow.
The pickets laughed and the day men left. The night gang joined around Rio.
“I’ll take a few of you up there.” Rio pointed to a pile of dunnage. “The rest of you watch the gate. If a Company car comes, give me a light three times and get out. We’ll take care of the rest of it. Don’t talk to the cops unless they talk to you first. Keep your distance from the gate. Have you got a torch you can signal me with, Billy?”
“No, I ain’t.”
“I got mine here,” said one of the men, pulling out a flashlight.
“Give it to Billy,” said Rio. “He’s worked with me before. Remember, Billy—burn it at me three times.”
“O.K.”
It was almost dark and Rio selected his men, including Martin. They walked up the street to an old pile of lumber by a dark pier.
“Get this, boys—no knives. A club’s best, but not apiece of pipe. Work on ’em hard, but don’t kill ’em. You, Eddy—and you, Martin—an’ me’ll hop the runnin’ board. Smash the glass an’ bring her to the side. We got to work fast before brass-buttons shows up.”
“What if they’re Company officials?” asked Martin.
“Theywon’t be here,” said Rio, amused. “But if they are, give ’em two, instead of one.”
“What’s the matter with ye, sonny?” asked a dwarf-like man with immense shoulders. “Is yer belly soft?” He glared at Martin.
“We’ll find out soon, my muscle-bound patriot,” said Martin walking toward him swiftly.
Several seamen jumped between them.
“I’ll hear one more crack from either of you, an’ I’ll bat your thick skulls together,” said Rio quietly. “Our union is split already. We got work to do, an’ you start a parade. You ain’t fit to work.”
“I’ll work,” said Martin.
“Me, too,” said the heavy seaman.
“Shake hands,” said an older man with grizzled hair and an intense, strained face.
“It was my fault,” said Martin.
“Naw, it was mine,” objected the squat fellow sheepishly as they shook hands.
“You don’t need to kiss,” said Rio sharply. Then he held up his hand. “Get this straight,” he continued. “It ain’t no joke we’re playin’. Maybe this’ll help.” He took a bottle from his pocket and passed it around, each mantaking a shot of the liquor. Rio finished it and tossed the bottle under the dunnage. “It’s about time for the rats to come out if they’re goin’ ashore,” he went on. “Keep an eye to the pier.” He turned suddenly to one of the younger seamen. “You ain’t got no club.”
“My brother was killed in Detroit that way, Rio. Lemme use my fists.”
Rio turned his face aside for a moment. When he looked at the boy again it was like metal.
“Get yourself a club, buddy.”
Hesitatingly, the seaman took up a knotty piece of wood. He held it in his hands one way and then another, his face white.
One of the men came up to Rio and took him to one side. He said something in a low voice and Rio nodded. The man returned his nod and left hurriedly.
“This is the time, dear Mother—” hummed a seaman.
“Shut up,” said his partner.
They waited silently, watching the pier for any light. Suddenly, a man came upon them, startling them as he shuffled in and laid down a large package.
“Here it is, Rio.” The man was panting. “It’s me—Al.”
“Beer!” The men exulted quietly, peering through the early darkness.
Al now took a short automatic from his pocket and handed it to Rio.
“Drink up,” Rio said to the men.
Each man took a bottle and waited in turn for the opener except one seaman who, impatient, knocked off the cap of his bottle against a block of wood.
“Take the rest down to the men at the pier,” said Rio to Al, who shambled away noiselessly.
Someone struck a match. In the flare Rio saw Martin regarding him steadily. He grinned. It was a painful, smashing look and he didn’t take his eyes away. The match flickered out and Martin came up to him slowly.
“Watch for the lights, Eddy,” cautioned Rio, as he and Martin walked a few yards away from the lowered sounds of the men.
“So you believe, Martin, that I’d pull this?” Rio twisted the automatic in his hand. “Al got this for me. He’d eat out of my hand. Never mind why. This—belongs to Roberts. It was used one night. I got it for you.”
“You told the story?” asked Martin.
“I told no story. Al’s a thief. He does what I say, but his heart is finer than yours.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Martin, feeling the gun and Rio’s hands in the dark. Breaking it under Rio’s wrist, he suddenly threw back his arm and spun the automatic into the river.... Vaguely he heard Rio say there were lights....
Martin looked toward the pier and saw the headlights of an automobile coming upon them. The car was gaining speed as it passed the pile of lumber. Martin, faster than the others, leaped for the running board and swunghimself against the windshield glass, holding to the door-handle. His head was turned just enough to see Eddy jump behind him. Eddy missed the board. His body spun vertically against the rear fender and crashed on the pavement. Behind him, Rio was running frantically. Martin smashed his hand through the side window, feeling slivers of glass against his arm. He caught the driver by the throat and, through the sound of the motor, could hear the dark gurgle under his fingers. There was swearing and shoving inside, but Martin hurt too much to care. He pushed steadily against the lower part of the wheel until the machine swerved and tilted toward the river. It came around in a wide arc, breaking heavily on the shoulder of the pier. Then Martin heard Rio’s voice and knew that he, himself, was falling. He turned so that the back of his head would not strike the paving, and felt the rush of hot blood as his nose and mouth hit first. Instead of putting him out, it cleared his brain. He lay quietly, watching Rio swing his fist and then his club. Abstractly, he watched the other men in the crew go into action against the finks. He didn’t care....
The gorilla-like sailor with whom he had quarreled, held a bottle as though it were a club. He was snarling as he pulled a man from the car.
“So itisye, ye finkified mate! I been lookin for ye!” Martin heard him say. “I been lookin’ for ye, an’ yer damned long finger ye’ve pointed at me like a dog! God!—I’ll git that finger now!” he added hoarsely, bringingthe bottle down on the fender of the car until it was split across. Savagely he threw the mate on the ground, held him by the collar and stepped on his wrist. Then, separating the man’s forefinger from the rest of his hand, he brought down the split edge of the bottle sharply above the middle knuckle.
“Wife—Wife!” cried the mate softly.
The seaman picked up the severed finger, shook it in the man’s face and flung it on the ground beside him.
“Splice it, Jack! Splice it!” He was cursing the fallen man brokenly. Martin looked away....
Then he saw the boy whose brother had been killed in Detroit. “Automobiles,” thought Martin. The boy had no club and was on his back, fighting desperately with a large man from the car. Martin crawled to his knees, not feeling his injured arm or his split chin. He stood waveringly for a moment and got to them just as the man’s broad hand was spearing the boy’s face. Martin knew that he was falling again, not fighting, as he reached them; but he dug his teeth into a fleshy neck and held on as though he were killing a snake, while the body beneath him thrashed and cried. A hard hand pulled him off. Rio was standing above him.
“It’s over, Martin. We got a car.... Come, men!”
Martin spat out blood and climbed into the automobile along with the others.