Chapter Five
Morning.
Evans walked into the wheelhouse. He had slept unusually well. As a rule he stayed awake during bad weather, but this time he had really slept and he was glad that he had.
Bervick, whose watch it was, stood looking at the barometer.
“What do you think, Skipper?”
Evans looked at the barometer: still low, there had been almost no change overnight.
“I think there must be something wrong with the thing. You seen them act up before, haven’t you?”
Bervick agreed. “They can be wrong. It looks fine outside.” Evans went over to the window. There was little light in the sky, but the pre-sunrise stillness was good. Even in the mountains there was no wind.
“What do you think, Skipper?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. I don’t know.” Evans felt suddenly inadequate. He wished that he did not have to make this decision. He wondered for a moment what would happen if he got into his bunk and refused to get out. When he was very young he had oftenhad a feeling like that: to lie down somewhere and not move and let unpleasant things take care of themselves.
“I suppose,” he said finally, “seeing as how the wind has died down, I suppose we should take a chance.”
“We’ll make a dash for Kulak if anything goes wrong.”
Evans went to the chart table. Mentally he computed distances and positions. “We’ll take a chance,” he repeated. “Get Martin up.”
Bervick went into his cabin; he came out, a moment later, with Martin.
“Bervick,” said Evans, “you take some men out on deck and get ready to weigh anchor. Martin, you go on down and see how the passengers are doing. Talk to the Chief and tell him we’re leaving right away. We want to get to Arunga tomorrow night.”
Martin and Bervick left together. Evans looked at the compass; he looked at the barometer, and then he looked at the chart. He walked out on deck and watched morning move slowly into the east. The day looked peaceful; there was no way, though, to tell what might happen. There never was any way to tell.
He watched Bervick and several deckhands as they walked on the forward deck, testing the winches, preparing to weigh anchor. Evans went to the telegraph and rang the engine room. He set the markers on Stand By. Almost immediately the Chief rang back.
Evans took a deep breath. Then he opened the window and yelled, “Pull her up!”
Bervick pushed a lever. There was much clanging and rattling. The anchor chain came up easily. Evans let the ship drift slowly with the tide. At last, satisfied that theanchor was free, he gave the engine room Slow Speed Astern.
The ship, vibrating strongly, drew away from shore. Evans twirled the electrical steering gear hard to starboard and headed the ship for the opening and the sea beyond.
At Slow Speed Ahead they moved through the channel, neatly cutting the still water. The uneven rocks of the point moved by them. A raven, the first he had seen since they left Andrefski, flew warily among the rocks. A damp breeze came to him through the window. Snow clouds hung over the mountains.
Bervick came back. “All squared away. We left the tarpaulin off. Just in case we might need the anchor again.”
“Good.” Evans motioned to the man on watch who had been standing by the door. “You take over.”
Evans examined the blue-green paint of the wheelhouse. It was too dark. He had thought so when they first used it, but this dark color was the only paint he could get. A lighter color would have been much better. He would have everything repainted when they got back to Andrefski.
Without warning the ship was lifted several feet in the air by a long wave. They were out of the inlet. The rocks of the point receded in the distance.
“Bring her to port,” commanded Evans. The bow swung parallel to shore. They were headed west again.
“So far so good,” said Bervick.
Evans agreed. There was quietness in the morning. There would be snow flurries but the big wind seemed to have gone. Evans was glad. He began to whistle.
Bervick looked at him. “We’re not in the clear yet,” he said.
Evans laughed, “I guess you’re right. I just feel good. I wish I knew what was the matter with that damned barometer, though.”
“Maybe that little chain’s stuck, like I said.”
“Might be.”
Martin joined them. “The passengers look fine today,” he said.
“The Chief say everything’s working in his department?”
“That’s what he said. Smitty’s got breakfast ready. They’re eating now.”
Evans remembered that he had had nothing to eat for almost a day. “I think I’ll go below,” he said.
“O.K., Skipper.” Bervick went over to the chart table and Martin went into his cabin.
The galley, Evans saw, was much more cheerful today. Smitty had cleaned the deck and straightened the unbroken china. Several deckhands sat at the galley table talking loudly. You could tell, thought Evans, how long a man had been up here by the way he talked. The longer a man was in the islands the longer his stories were. Talking was the only thing to do when there was no liquor.
The passengers were eating heartily.
“Good morning,” said Evans, entering the salon.
“Good morning,” said the Chaplain, giving the phrase its full meaning. “There is practically no rocking,” he observed happily.
“This may be a quiet trip yet,” said Evans. He sat down and Smitty brought him breakfast. The Major was in a good mood. He was not even pale today, Evans noticed.
“I hear we may be in Arunga tomorrow night,” said the Major.
“That’s what we hope,” said Evans. Breakfast tasted better than it ever had before.
“I shall really be glad when this trip is over,” said the Chaplain. “Not of course that I haven’t every confidence.... But, you know, I just wasn’t designed for ocean-going. You don’t think it will rock much, do you?”
Evans shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Duval and his assistants arrived and sat down at their end of the table.
“Didn’t blow up after all, did it, Skipper?” said Duval.
“We’re not there yet,” Evans could not resist saying this. Duval liked to be positive. Especially about things which were none of his business.
“Well, it looks to me like clear sailing.” Duval spoke flatly. He stirred his coffee.
“How fast are we going?” asked Hodges suddenly.
“Nine, maybe ten knots,” Evans answered.
“Nearer twelve, I’d say,” commented the Chief.
“Engineers are all the same,” said Evans. The Chief said nothing.
“You people should be going home shortly,” Major Barkison announced. Evans looked up and the others were interested, too.
“Yes,” the Major continued, “were going to close down Andrefski, as you’ve probably gathered. That’s why I was out there. When it closes down those of you who are due for rotation will probably get it. We don’t need any more sailors here.”
“That’s good news,” said Evans thoughtfully. The Chiefand his assistants questioned the Major further and Evans thought of Seattle. He would get married again. That would be the first thing he would do. After that he would get a second mate’s berth on some liner. He would come back to these islands again. Someday, perhaps, he might get a fishing boat and live in Seward. There were many things that he would do.
“If you’ll excuse me,” said the Major, rising, “I think I’ll write some more letters.” The other passengers also left the table.
“Martin tells me,” said Duval, “that the barometer’s still low. What do you think’s wrong?”
Evans shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see what happens.”
“We were going to do that anyway,” said the Chief sourly and he left the table, his assistants close behind.
Evans wondered why he had so much trouble getting along with his crews. When he had been a second mate on a cargo ship he had had no trouble, in fact he had even been popular. Somehow things just didn’t work as easily aboard this ship. He wondered if he might not be too much of a perfectionist. People didn’t like to live with that sort of thing. He spun his coffee mug between his hands. Finally he stood up. “Smitty,” he said loudly. “You can clear the table now.”
Bervick had the case off the barometer, when Evans returned to the wheelhouse. Bervick and Martin were examining the mechanism.
“Find anything wrong?” asked Evans.
Bervick shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with it. The thing’s in good order.” Evans frowned. He did notlike to think of what would happen if this reading were correct. He went to the chart table.
They would be off Kulak around one o’clock in the afternoon. Between his present position and Kulak there was open sea and no protection. He felt suddenly sick. Without a word to the others he walked out on deck.
The air was cool and moist. There was no wind and no sign of wind. Dark clouds hung motionless in the air. He felt the vastness of this sea and the loneliness of one small boat on the dividing line between gray sky and gray water. They were quite alone out here and he was the only one who realized it. This was very sad, and feeling sad and lonely he went back into the wheelhouse.
Martin and Bervick had gone below, he was told by the man at the wheel.
Evans stood by the window on the port side and watched Ilak disappear. Snow, coming from the west, he noticed, was bringing wind with it. He closed the windows.
Martin returned silently. He looked at the snow clouds. “We won’t be able to see so well,” he said.
Evans nodded. “We got the times figured out pretty well. I don’t like coming so near to Kulak, sailing blind.”
They waited then for the snow to start.
At a few minutes to nine whiteness flooded them. Snow splattered softly on the window glass. Luckily there was enough wind to keep it from collecting on the windows. Below them Evans could see the deck being covered with snow. The sea had increased in size but was not yet large.
Bervick joined them.
“Just a little snow,” said Evans.
“That’s the way a lot of them start.”
“A lot of what?”
“Williwaws.”
“Sometimes, maybe.” Evans thought of the low barometer.
“Remember that one off Umnak?” asked Bervick.
“Sure, I remember it.”
“That one started this way.”
“Not with snow. It started with a little wind.”
“A little wind like this and a lot of snow. You remember the snow, don’t you?”
“Yes, I guess I forgot about it. That was a year ago.”
“That was a lousy thing.”
“We got out of it fine.” Evans’ hands were cold and his stomach kept being flooded with something.
“Sure, we got out of it. Our luck should hold.” Bervick sounded cheerful.
“It had better,” said Evans and he blew on his hands to warm them.
“Not much change,” said Martin. Evans had been in the engine room with Duval since lunch. It was two o’clock now and snow still swept over the water.
Evans looked gloomily at the whiteness. Martin watched him closely to see what his reactions were. Evans only frowned.
To the south the snow flurries were thinning a little and they could see the dark outline of Kulak. They had been abeam the island for over an hour.
“Kulak,” remarked Evans.
“We’ve been in sight of it since one.”
“A lot of good harbors there,” said Evans.
“Thinking of anchoring, maybe?”
“I’m always thinking of anchoring.” Evans walked over to the compass and watched it.
Martin yawned. The monotony of waiting was beginning to get on his nerves.
Evans walked slowly about the wheelhouse. “That wind’s a lot stronger outside,” he said suddenly.
Martin was surprised. “I don’t think so. I think you’re wrong.”
“Don’t tell me I’m wrong,” Evans flared. Martin said nothing; he had seen Evans upset before. Sometimes he acted oddly. “Weather’s changing,” said Evans more quietly. “I can feel it. Look,” he pointed to the island, “the snow’s thinning. That means the wind’s picked up. Besides, feel the sea.”
Martin noticed for the first time that the ship was tossing much more than it had an hour before. He had been daydreaming and had not noticed the gradual change.
Evans opened one of the windows and the familiar roar of wind and water filled the wheelhouse. Snowflakes flew in and melted quickly, leaving wet marks on the deck.
The snow flurries were disappearing and every moment the shores of the island became clearer. The sea was large though not yet dangerous.
“I don’t like it,” said Evans.
“Barometer’s still low,” said Martin helpfully.
“I know. Did we nest that boom, the one on the port side?”
“We did it last night, remember?”
“That’s right. The hatches are pretty well battened down....” Evans’ voice trailed into silence.
A wave crashed over the bow and the whole ship shook. Martin slipped on the linoleum-covered deck; he caught himself before he fell. Evans was holding onto the wheel and did not lose his balance. The man at the wheel swung them back on course.
Through the open window blasts of wind whistled into the wheelhouse. Martin slammed the window shut. It was almost quiet with the window shut.
“You didn’t want that open, did you?”
“No. Go write up our position and the barometer reading in the logbook.”
Martin obeyed. When he had finished he stood by the telegraph.
“What do you think’s happening?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t got any idea. Where’s Bervick?”
“I think he went to the focs’le to get one of the men.”
Evans swore loudly. “Why did you let him go up there? He should have stayed here. Why didn’t he have sense to stay here?”
“What’s the matter with you?” Martin was irritated. “What’s so bad about his going there? It’s none of my business.”
“How,” said Evans tightly, “do you think he’s going to get back if the wind gets any worse? He’s going to be stuck there and no damned use at all.”
“That certainly’s too bad,” snarled Martin. “You want me to send out a carrier pigeon?”
Evans started to say something. He thought better ofit, though. He walked across the slanting deck without speaking.
Martin, still angry, looked at the sea. He was surprised to see that the snow had almost stopped, and that black clouds hung in the sky and a strong wind was lashing the waves.
He turned around to speak to Evans and at that moment the williwaw hit the ship.
Martin was thrown across the wheelhouse. There was a thundering in his ears. He managed to grasp the railing and, desperately, he clung to it.
The wheelhouse hit the water with a creaking smack. For a minute the deck of the wheelhouse was at a right angle with the water. Then, slowly, the ship righted herself.
Evans, he saw, lay flat on the steep deck. The man who had been at the wheel was huddled near the companionway. The wheel was spinning aimlessly.
The ship shuddered as tremendous waves lifted her high in the air. Martin, confused and helpless, shut his eyes and wished that the huge sound of the wind would go away.
When he opened his eyes again he saw Evans crawling on hands and knees across the deck. Martin watched him move closer and closer to the wheel. A sudden lunge of the ship and Evans was thrown against it. Quickly he caught the wheel. Martin watched as Evans fought grimly to keep on course.
Through the windows, Martin could see what was happening. They were being driven toward the island. Evans was trying to hold them on any course away from shore.
Another jolt; a mountain of water swept over the wheelhouse. Evans was thrown against the bulkhead on the port side. Water streamed into the wheelhouse from new-made cracks.
Again the ship righted herself and again Evans started his slow crawl over the deck, only now the deck was slick with water. As the ship reached the crest of a wave Evans got to his feet and made a dash for the wheel. But this time he was flung against the door of the companionway. The man who had been at the wheel lay beside him.
Evans shouted something to Martin. The noise was too much and his voice did not carry. Evans gestured furiously with his hands. Martin understood him finally. Evans wanted the engines stopped.
Martin ran to the telegraph and, before a new wave hit them, he rang the engine room. Even in that moment he wondered what good it would do. He got back to his railing.
Luckily, Martin noticed, they were headed at an angle for the shore. They would not hit for a little while. He looked at Evans and saw that he was vomiting. He had never seen Evans sick before.
The wind, howling more loudly than ever, pushed them almost sideways at the island. The ship’s side was held at a forty-five-degree angle. Once again, as Martin watched, Evans tried to get his hands on the wheel.
He got safely across the deck. Distantly, as though he were only an onlooker, Martin watched Evans struggle with the whirling wheel. Then there was a crash that shook the whole ship and Martin lost his grip on the railing.
He felt surprised, and that was all, as he was flung lightly to the other end of the wheelhouse. There was an explosion in his head and the last thing he saw was the dark blue-green of the bulkhead.
Duval was sitting in the salon. Major Barkison, the Chaplain and Hodges were playing cards. Smitty was clearing away the lunch.
Duval was about to get up and go to his engine room when the whole ship seemed to turn upside down. He was pinned between the bench and the table.
Across the salon he saw the deck of cards scatter into the air. The Major, who had been sitting in a chair, was thrown heavily on the deck.
Hodges had fallen against one of the bulkheads. He was trying to find something to hold onto.
The Chaplain, like Duval, had been pinned between the bench and the table. His eyes were closed and his face very white. His lips were working quickly.
Slowly the ship righted herself. Duval thought of his engine room. He would have to get back to it. He started to move from behind the table but another gust of wind flattened the ship on the water. He relaxed and waited.
He was surprised at the force of the wind. It must be over a hundred ten miles an hour, he thought. He tried to think calmly. They would, of course, ride it out and then anchor somewhere.
Major Barkison staggered to his table and grasped it firmly. In the galley Duval could hear, even over the roarof the wind, the sound of crashing china. He noticed Smitty in the companionway, his feet braced against the bulkhead.
Hodges ran across the deck and sat down on the bench behind the Chaplain’s table. The Chaplain’s eyes were still closed, his face still pale.
The ship creaked and groaned and shuddered as the wind, almost capsizing her, pressed the port side to the sea.
Duval got to his feet. Holding the table tightly, he went toward the companionway. Then, when he was as close as he could get without letting go of the table, he jumped.
For a second he wondered if he had broken anything. He had tripped over Smitty and had fallen on the deck. He flexed his arms and legs. Nothing seemed to be wrong. Smitty, he could hear, was praying loudly.
Carefully the Chief worked his way down the companionway and into the engine room.
Each assistant was holding onto one of the engines. They were frightened. Duval pointed to the engines and raised his eyebrows in question: were they all right? The two men nodded.
He worked his way, without falling, back to his cabin. Everything that could have been broken was broken. Clothes were scattered over the deck. He sat on his bunk.
For the first time he noticed a pain in his knee. He felt the kneecap. Waves of pain shook him. He wondered if it was cracked and if so what he should do.
A sudden lurch of the ship and he forgot about his knee. He went back to the engine room. His assistants were still standing by.
The oiler who had been sick lay quietly on the deck. He had passed out.
Duval stood close to his first assistant. “No ring yet?” he yelled, pointing to the telegraph.
The man shook his head.
“Stop her O.K.?”
The man nodded.
There was a loud crash. Duval looked around and saw water trickling down the companionway. A porthole must have broken in the salon.
The Chief waited for Evans to ring instructions; he wondered if this was to be the way he would die. He had thought about it often, dying up in the islands. Everyone had thought about it. He had never thought, though, that he would come this close. New Orleans was a much better place to die.
The loud ring of the telegraph startled him. He nodded to his assistants. They spun the mechanism which stopped the engines. This done, the real wait began.
“Where we heading?” the man next to him shouted.
Duval thought a moment. He had not noticed and he did not know. He shook his head.
The same question was in each of their minds: were they heading for the island and the rocks? Those sharp tall rocks, much pounded by the sea.
He cursed himself for not having noticed. Just to know where they were going, without being able to do anything about it, was better than knowing nothing.
From above there came a loud splintering and a crash. He wondered what had happened. He wondered if he should go up on deck, but his knee was bothering him. He might not be able to get back.
The Chief held tightly to the engine as the ship rocked in the wind. He and his assistants waited. That was all they could do.
Bervick had gone into the focs’le to get the fat cook.
Smitty had complained that he could not take care of lunch alone with the ship pitching.
Several men were in the focs’le. The fat cook was asleep in his bunk. Bervick shook him. “Come on and get up. You got to help out in the galley.”
The fat cook yawned and swore. Slowly he hoisted himself out of the bunk. Bervick played with the dog.
“Hey, Bervick,” said one of the men, “anything new going on? We’re jumping around quite a bit. I thought the Skipper said there wasn’t going to be no more storm.”
“Looks like he’s wrong. The sea’s a lot bigger.”
“You’re telling me.”
The fat cook was finally ready. They climbed the ladder to the main deck. Bervick looked out the porthole. He could not believe what he saw. A high hill of gray-black water was sweeping down on them.
“Get down,” he shouted to the cook who was below him on the ladder. They were too late. Both were thrown back into the focs’le.
The lights went out and in the darkness there were shouts from the surprised men. Bervick reached into his pocket and lit a match. Mattresses and blankets had been thrown against the port side. The men were clinging to the bunks. The match went out.
Guided by the pale gray light from the porthole above the ladder, Bervick climbed up again and looked out atthe deck. The wind had blown the rigging loose from the mast and the ropes twisted in the air; many of them had been blown out to sea.
The ship was pressed close to the sea on the port side. The wheelhouse slapped the water with each new gust of wind. Waves, higher than he had ever seen before, swept over the decks. Water streamed over him from cracks in the deck.
Then Bervick saw that they were being driven toward the shore. The ship was out of control. No one could control her now.
Wind, almost visible in its strength, struck at the ship. One of the booms became loose. Horrified, Bervick watched it swing back and forth.
Quite easily the boom knocked the signal light off the top of the wheelhouse.
For a moment Bervick considered what his chances were of reaching the wheelhouse in this wind. He dismissed the thought.
There was nothing he could do. If they hit the rocks there was little chance of any of them living. A person might last five minutes in the cold water. But the wind and waves would dash one to pieces faster than that.
He wondered what Evans was doing: probably trying to get control of the ship. When the wind was over a hundred miles an hour there was not much anyone could do but wait. That was what Evans would do. Stop the engines and wait.
The wind became more powerful every minute. The big wind was at its height. Great streams of wind-driven water battered the ship.
A large wave hit across their bow. Bervick stumbled and fell off the ladder. He rolled helplessly in the dark. There was a sudden snapping sound, louder than the wind. Then there was a crash. Bervick knew what had happened: the mast had been broken off. In the dark focs’le the dog began to whine.
The mast was gone.
Evans had seen it splinter as the wind-rushed waves went over the ship.
The man on watch crouched near the wheel. He was trying to hold it, to stop it from spinning. Martin lay unconscious on the deck. As the ship rolled, his limp body skidded back and forth.
Only eight minutes had passed since the williwaw struck. To Evans it seemed as if the wind had been shouting in his ears for hours.
His mind was working quickly, though. He tried to figure what would be the best way to go aground if he got control of the ship. The best thing would be to hit at an angle.
He looked at the approaching shore. Ten minutes, perhaps a little longer: that was all the time he had and the wind was not stopping.
On the rocks the giant waves swirled and tumbled. A white mist rose from the shore, a mist of sea spray hiding the mountains behind the rocks. His stomach fluttered when he saw these rocks, black and sharp, formed in a volcanic time.
He wished Bervick was with him. He even wished that Martin was conscious. His mind raced to many things. He thought of a number of things. They came to him in quick succession, without reason.
Evans wondered if the fire was out in the galley range. If the electric generator was still working. What the ship’s dog, whom he hated, was doing. Whether Duval still had his bandage on his finger and if not what the possibilities of blood poisoning were. He wondered what blood poisoning was like. His mother had died in childbirth; he thought of that.
The deckhand caught at the wheel and held it a moment. Then he had to let go. They could not even lash it secure. The ropes would break.
But the fact that the deckhand had managed to stop the wheel, even for a moment, gave Evans some hope.
Outside the sea was mountainous. Gray waves pushing steeply skyward, made valleys so deep that he could not see sky through the windows.
Evans hopped across the deck and grabbed the wheel. With all his strength he struggled to hold it still. The deckhand helped him hold the wheel. With both of them straining they managed to control the ship.
Ahead of them the shore of Kulak came closer. A long reef of rock curved out into the sea. Inside this curve the sea was quieter. They were running toward the end of the reef. They would strike it on their port bow.
Evans decided quickly to get inside the reef. It was the only thing to do.
“Hard to port,” yelled Evans. The man helped push the wheel inch by inch to the left. Evans slipped but did notfall as a wave struck them. The deck was wet from the water which streamed in under the bulkheads.
Bits of rigging from the now vanished booms clattered on the wheelhouse windows. Luckily the windows had not been broken.
A gust of wind threw the ship into a wave. Both Evans and the deckhand were torn loose from the wheel.
Evans was thrown into the chart table. He gasped. He could not breathe for several moments.
When he had got his breath back, Evans went to the window. Controlling the wheel was out of the question now. But they were inside the reef and that was good.
Evans held tightly to the railing. He watched the shore as they approached it.
Two tall rocks seemed to rush at him. Evans ducked quickly below the windows. They crashed into the rocks.
The noise was the worst thing. Breaking glass, as several windows broke. The almost human groan of the ship as the hull scraped on the rocks. The wind whistling into the wheelhouse and the thundering of water on the shore.
And then there was comparative quiet.
The wind still whistled and the sea was loud but the ship had stopped all motion.
Evans walked across the angled deck, and he was surprised at what he saw. The ship had been wedged between two rocks on the reef. The starboard side was somewhat lower than the port. The sea was deflected by one of the rocks and waves no longer rolled over the deck.
Martin, pale, his nose bleeding, walked unsteadily over to where Evans stood.
“We hit,” he said.
“We hit,” said Evans.
“How long I been out?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“Wait till the storm stops.”
Evans looked about him. The ship was securely wedged between the rocks. There did not seem to be much chance of being shaken loose. Evans shivered. He realized that he was very cold and that the wind was blowing through the two broken starboard windows.
He went into his cabin and put on his parka. His cabin, he noticed, was a tangled heap of clothes and papers and furniture.
He went back into the wheelhouse. “You stay here,” he said to the deckhand. “Don’t do anything. I’ll be below for a while.”
The galley was much the way he had expected it to be. Broken dishes on the deck and food and ashes littering the table and benches. Smitty sat silently amid the wreckage. He did not speak as Evans passed him.
The salon was in better shape: there had been fewer movable articles here. Still, chairs were scattered around in unlikely places and books were heaped on the deck.
Major Barkison sat limply on one of the benches. There were blue bruises on his face. He was flexing his hand carefully as though it hurt him.
Chaplain O’Mahoney sat very stiffly behind the table. His dark hair was in his eyes and sweat trickled down his face. He managed to smile as Evans entered.
Hodges, looking no worse for the storm, was peering out one of the portholes.
“Everyone all right?” Evans asked.
“I believe so,” said the Chaplain. “We three aren’t very damaged.”
“Is it going to sink?” asked the Major, looking up.
“This ship? No, we’re not going to sink. Not today anyway.”
“What happened?” asked Hodges. “What did we hit?”
“We’re stuck between two rocks inside a reef. We’ve been lucky.”
“When are you going to get us out of here?” The Major was frightened. They were all frightened but the Major showed it more than the others.
“Just as soon as the wind lets up.”
“Is that long?” asked Hodges.
“I don’t know. There’s a first aid kit in the galley locker.” Evans went down the companionway and into the engine room.
Everything looked normal here. The two assistant engineers were checking their numerous gauges and the Chief was oiling a piece of machinery.
“What the hell did you hit?” asked the Chief. He did not seem bothered by what had happened and this annoyed Evans.
“We hit a rock, that’s what we hit. How are the engines?”
“I think they’re all right. The propellers aren’t touching bottom and you can thank God that they aren’t.”
“Will she be able to go astern?”
“I don’t see why not. Is that what were going to do?”
“Yes.”
“When do you want to push off?”
“When the wind stops.”
“We’ll have it ready.”
Evans met Bervick in the salon. Bervick was wet from his dash across the open deck.
“What’s the focs’le doing?” asked Evans. “Leaking?”
“No, we was lucky. We’re hung up just under the bow. We’ve lost our guardrail and that’s about all.”
“Good.” Evans looked through the after door. The sea crashed all around them, the white sea spray formed a cloud about them.
“Should be over soon,” remarked Bervick. “I think it’ll be over soon.”
“Yes, it should be over,” said Evans and he turned and walked back toward the wheelhouse.
Bervick walked on the forward deck.
Since sundown the wind had almost died away. Water rippled about them and the ship creaked as she moved back and forth between the two rocks.
There was only a sharp stump where the mast had been. A few bits of rigging were scattered on the deck; for the most part the deck was clean of all debris.
One of the ventilators was gone and someone had covered up the hole where it had been with a piece of canvas. The other ventilator was slightly bent; otherwise, it was in good shape.
To his left rose the mountains of Kulak. They were like all the other mountains in the islands. The closer one was to them the more impressive they were.
He walked to the railing and leaned over and touched the hard wet rock that shielded them from the last gusts of the wind.
Martin came slowly toward him. He walked unsurely. The knocking he had taken had weakened him.
“Here we are,” he said.
Bervick nodded. “We got real messed up. It’s the drydock for us if we get back.”
“Hope we’re sent to Seward. I like Seward.”
“Nice town for Alaska. Maybe we’ll get sent down to Seattle.”
“My luck’s not that good.” Martin leaned over the railing and ran his hand over the shattered guardrail. “You think we’ll get off these rocks all right?”
“I think so. Maybe we knocked a hole in the bottom. If that happened we got no chance.”
“Maybe we didn’t get a hole.”
“That’s the right idea.”
They walked on the deck, looking for damage.
The cover to the anchor winch had blown away; the winch itself was not damaged.
“Let’s go up top,” said Martin. “Evans wants us to check the lifeboats.”
The top of the wheelhouse was much battered. One of the two lifeboats was splintered and useless. Martin laughed.
“Those things aren’t any use anyway, not up here they aren’t.”
“Sometimes you can get away.”
“In a lifeboat like that?”
“Sure, it’s been done.”
“I wouldn’t like to do that.”
“Neither would I,” Bervick tested the broken hull of the lifeboat with his hand. The wood creaked under the pressure.
“Let’s go below,” said Martin. “That’s no good any more.”
“I guess you’re right.”
They crossed the bridge and went into the wheelhouse. Evans was at the chart table. “What did you find?” he asked.
“One lifeboat knocked up and one ventilator on the forward deck gone,” said Bervick.
“I saw the ventilator go,” said Evans. “You say the lifeboat’s out of commission?”
“That’s right.”
“Shipyard for us,” said Evans and that was all. He turned back to his charts. Evans put on an act sometimes, thought Bervick.
“We’re going below, Skipper,” said Bervick and he and Martin left the wheelhouse.
Duval was in the salon. His coveralls were smeared with grease and he looked gaunt. He was sitting at the table, alone.
“When’re we leaving this place?” he asked.
“Pretty soon,” answered Bervick. “How’re your engines?”
“I guess they’ll be all right. You’ll find out soon enough.”
Bervick looked at the Chief’s grease-stained coveralls. “You have some trouble?”
“One of the pumps stopped working. I think we got it fixed. The boys are testing it now.”
“You look beat,” commented Martin.
“You would be too. How did Evans manage to get us on the rocks, I wonder?”
“He didn’t,” said Bervick. “Just fool’s luck that we got out of this thing this well.”
“You mean so far,” said the Chief sourly.
Bervick looked at him with dislike. Usually when they were working together there was no enmity but now, even on the rocks, he could not keep from disliking Duval.
“What’s happened to the passengers?” asked Martin.
“Damned if I know. They’ve probably gone out on deck or hit their sacks. That Major certainly got excited.”
“They all seemed excited,” remarked Bervick.
“I suppose you weren’t.” The Chief stood up and sighed deeply. “I think I’ll talk to Evans and see what’s going to happen.” He had started to leave when Evans came into the salon.
“When we going?” asked the Chief.
“Right away. Say, Martin, you take some men and go on deck and stand by while we go astern.”
Martin left the salon. “Are you going to be able to handle the engines all right?” asked Evans, turning to the Chief.
“I think so. What’re you going to do, go half speed astern?”
“Full speed, I think. Depends how tight we are. Come on, Bervick.”
Someone had tacked pieces of canvas over the broken windows in the wheelhouse. “Handle the telegraph for me,” said Evans.
“O.K.” Bervick looked out the window and saw Martin with several deckhands. They were standing on the bow,waiting. Lieutenant Hodges was also on the forward deck.
Evans maneuvered the wheel for several moments. “Ring Stand By,” he said at last. Bervick set the markers on Stand By. The Chief rang back quickly.
“Slow Astern,” said Evans.
Bervick rang the engine room again. The regular throbbing of the engines began. The ship creaked and shifted slightly.
“Half Speed Astern,” said Evans, his hands clutching the wheel tightly.
Bervick rang for Half Speed. The ship trembled. There was a ripping sound as they began to move from between the rocks. “There goes the guardrail,” said Bervick.
“Full Speed Astern,” said Evans.
Bervick set the markers on Full Speed. “Here we go,” he said.
The ship, with much groaning as pieces of wood were torn from the bow, moved away from the rocks.
Evans swung the wheel hard to port. There was a suspended instant and then the bow splashed off the rocks. The ship rolled uncertainly for a moment. Then they were free.
“Cut the engines,” said Evans.
The ship drifted away from shore.
“So far so good,” said Evans. “Give her Slow Ahead.” As the ship moved ahead Evans swung the bow out to sea.
“Now we can wait,” he said.
“For the leaks to start?”
“For the leaks.”
“Maybe I ought to go see the Chief, see how the pumps are working,” suggested Bervick.
“Sure, go below.”
The engine room was hot. Fumes from the engines made the air almost unbreathable. Duval was watching the gauges. His assistants stood beside the engines.
“Evans wants to know if the pumps are working.”
“Tell him I think so. Got good pressure.”
“I guess the engines weren’t bothered at all.”
“You can be glad of that.”
Bervick went up to the salon. Martin was looking out the porthole at the island shore.
“We made it,” said Bervick.
“Yes, we got off the rocks. I was afraid for a while we weren’t going to be able to. We were really jammed in there. Took the whole guardrail off.”
“Did you look in the focs’le to see if there were any leaks?”
“No. You think we should?”
“Yes. You take the focs’le and I’ll go down in the hold.”
On deck the wind was brisk but not strong. The air was clearer but the sky was still overcast. With night coming the weather might yet be good.
Bervick slipped the covering off one end of the hatch. Carefully he went down the narrow ladder. The hold was dark and damp and smelled of salt and wood. When he got to the bottom he turned on a light.
There were several crates of machinery on the deck of the hold. They had not been given much cargo to carry on this trip. Pieces of tarpaulin and lengths of line were strewn over the deck. Ammunition for the ship’s gun rolled about the hold. They had dismantled most of theirgun and had stored the pieces. No one ever saw the Japanese in these waters.
Bervick examined the damp bulkheads carefully. They seemed to be sound. He walked over the deck and could not find any sign of a leak.
He turned off the light and climbed out of the hold. Martin was standing by the railing.
“Find anything?” Bervick asked.
Martin shook his head. “Everything fine. You find anything?”
“No.” They went aft to the salon. Martin went above to tell Evans about their inspection.
Major Barkison was in the salon when Bervick entered. He was nervous; his fingers played constantly with his belt buckle.
“Do you think it’s over for good?” he asked.
“I expect so. The heart of the storm’s gone by us.”
“I hope so. That was really dreadful, the rocks and all that wind. Does this happen often?”
“Occasionally it happens.”
“It was awful. We’ll get back all right now, though. Won’t we?”
“I hope so. Evans is good, he knows his business. I wouldn’t be too worried.”
“No, I suppose it’s all over.” The Major shuddered. “That wind, I’ve never seen anything like it. It was terrible, all that wind.” The Major sat down heavily.
Evans came into the salon. He seemed cheerful. He was smiling.
“Martin tells me there aren’t any leaks.”
Bervick nodded, “That’s right.”
“We’ll get there then. I’m hungry. Is Smitty around?”
“I think he’s below. I’ll get him.”
“Fine.”
“I gather,” said the Major slowly, “that the storm is over.”
“Well, it looks like it. Never can tell, of course. We may have some more but the worst is over.”
Major Barkison was relieved. “You know,” he said, “I must admire the way you’ve handled this. I’m going to recommend you for a citation.”
Evans laughed, “Send me back to the States, that’s what I want.”
“I’m serious,” said the Major. “You’ve done a remarkable job and we are all, naturally, most grateful.”
There was an embarrassed silence. Bervick looked at Evans and saw that Evans was at a loss to say anything. Evans did not know how to say the right things.
“I’ll get Smitty up,” said Bervick.
“Fine,” said Evans. “Go get him up. I’m hungry.”
Bervick found Smitty in his bunk. “Come on and get up,” he said. “We want some chow.”
Smitty swore loudly, “I seen everything now,” he said and he got out of his bunk.
Bervick went back to the salon.