Voyage to Somewhere (18 page)

“Which one is the monkey?” Wortly asked brightly, and was hushed by Boats. The monkey looked up at the men and blinked its eyes. Suddenly it bobbed its head and sneezed.

“How much?” asked Flags. “How much for the monkey?”

“Twenty pesos,” said the man in the dugout canoe. “He bery good monkey.”

Guns sternly replied, “He's a sick monkey. He just sneezed.”

As though to oblige, the monkey bobbed its head and again gave a tiny sneeze.

“Look,” the men all said, “he's sneezing.”

“Him all right,” the Filipino said. “Me sneeze too. Me not sick,” and so saying the little man gave a tremendous sneeze which evidently was more real than he had intended it to be, for he followed it with two more.

“Ten pesos!” said Guns. “Ten pesos for the monkey!” Turning to me, he said, “Would it be all right, Captain? Would it be all right to have a monkey aboard?”

I thought. Looking down at the eager faces of the men, I found it hard to refuse. Actually regulations were against having pets of any kind aboard ship. Guns saw that I was about to refuse.

“I'll watch out for him, sir,” he said. “I'll make sure he isn't any trouble.”

“All right, Guns,” I said finally. “We can try it for a while. If the monkey causes trouble we can get rid of it.”

The Filipino had been taking all this conversation in with interest.

“Twenty pesos!” he cried with renewed vigor.

“No,” Guns replied. “Only ten pesos. No more!”

“Three cartons of cigarettes!” the Filipino countered. As our men bought cigarettes for fifty cents a carton, the apparent reduction in price was somewhat surprising.

“All right,” said Guns. “Three cartons of cigarettes.”

The whole crew made up the price of the monkey. The three cartons of cigarettes were lowered in a bucket to the Filipino, who took them out and replaced them with the monkey. Carefully the men drew up the bucket. The monkey peered over the side with his quick blinking little bright eyes and gripped the edge like a child riding a roller coaster.

“Easy now, Guns!” the men said. “Easy now! Don't hurt him!”

The bucket came over the rail and Guns took the monkey out. Upon closer inspection the monkey was a pitiful spectacle; his thin fur was matted over his bony little body, and his eyes were watering. As Guns held him the monkey reached up and gripped the point of Guns' thick black beard. The men roared with laughter. Guns cradled the monkey in his arm, and looking at his bearded figure holding the shivering monkey in the rain, I was reminded of a grotesque, miserable, and somehow perverted madonna and child.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

W
HEN THE
New Year came we were still lying at anchor waiting to unload. The year 1945 looked very bleak to us then; we expected nothing good of it. No one even conjectured about how long the war would last. It was a sour subject.

“Well, here's another year,” White said. “I wonder where we'll be next year?”

“Right here waiting to unload these God damn chocolate bars, probably,” Flags answered.

A few days after New Year's Day I went in to inquire once more when we could unload. I was told that it would be quite a while yet, for a new convoy of foodstuffs and ammunition had just come in and was waiting to be unloaded. Resignedly I turned and walked from the port director's to the personnel officer's office. For some time I had been asking the personnel officer for a seaman to replace Wrigly. When I came into the personnel office, I was greeted with smiles.

“We've got a man for you,” the personnel officer said, “a new draft just came in. Your man has already got his orders and will be out to the ship sometime today.”

Thanking the personnel officer, I returned to the ship and told the chief boatswain's mate and Boats that a new man was coming aboard. They had been shorthanded ever since Wrigly had left, and they were most pleased. While on the bridge I was talking to them about it, a boat came alongside and the coxswain yelled, “Is this the SV-126?”

“Yes,” replied Flags. “Can't you read it on the bow?”

The coxswain did not answer. Turning, he helped a thin little Negro throw a seabag on our decks. Then the Negro climbed up the Jacob's ladder and stood by his seabag looking up toward the bridge. Flags went down to him, and the Negro handed him his orders.

“Livingston,” I heard the Negro say. “Frank Livingston, seaman first class.”

On the bridge Boats turned to me. “My God,” he said, “a nigger seaman!”

“Take it easy, Boats,” I replied. “You better not start off by calling him a nigger.”

“I don't know,” Boats replied. “The boys ain't going to like having him up there in the forecastle with them. It's pretty close quarters up there.”

“He's just as likely to be all right as a white seaman,” I said to Boats. “Start out by treating him as well as possible. Don't let the men pick on him, and don't call his ‘nigger.'”

“Yes, sir,” replied Boats dispiritedly, and I saw that he was worried. I walked aft, but something of Boats' worried air infected me. I knocked at Mr. Rudd's stateroom. He was lying on his bunk reading.

“We've got a Negro seaman,” I said. “How do you think it will work out?”

“Badly,” replied Mr. Rudd.

“What?” I asked.

“You asked how I thought it would turn out and I said badly,” answered Mr. Rudd.

I sat down on the chair before Mr. Rudd's desk. “
Why
should it work out badly,” I demanded.

“A small ship is no place for a Negro,” Mr. Rudd explained. “The damn fools ought to leave them ashore or put them on the big ships.”

I stood up. “Why, Mr. Rudd,” I said, “you're the last person on earth I'd expect to see so prejudiced. Don't you know scientists have found that Negroes are just as capable as white men? It's ridiculous to say they shouldn't be put on small ships.”

Mr. Rudd smiled at me. “Don't spout any of your damn platitudes at me,” he replied. “I wasn't talking about whether or not Negroes are as capable as white men. I merely said I didn't think we ought to have one on here.”

“Why?” I asked, exasperated. Privately I made up my mind that I would do anything to make the Negro a success aboard our ship.

Mr. Rudd glanced at me. “I know what you're thinking,” he said, “but it's not right to put just one Negro on a ship. They ought to put more than one aboard, or none at all. How would you like to be the only white man on a ship full of Negroes?”

“I don't know, but I think you've been reading too many books about the Negro problem,” I replied, “and if I have anything to say about it there won't be any damn Negro problem aboard here. Anyone who gives him a bad time I'll court-martial. If he starts any trouble I'll court-martial him!”

“That's fine,” said Mr. Rudd. “By the grace of court-martial we'll live happily ever after!”

There was a heavy silence during which Mr. Rudd lit a cigar. “What's this Negro's name?” he asked suddenly.

“Livingston,” I answered. “Frank Livingston, seaman first class.”

“What's he look like?” asked Mr. Rudd.

“Small,” I replied, “and thin. Doesn't talk with much of a Negro accent. Probably comes from the North. That's all I know about him.”

“Well,” said Mr. Rudd, “maybe we've both been talking rot. It all depends on what kind of a guy this fellow Livingston is. Just remember that he's a man who'll find it twice as hard to get along on here as anyone else would. I'll be interested to see if he can do it.”

“Interested hell,” I replied. “We've got to fix it so he can do it. Do you think I ought to get the crew together and tell them we'll stand no foolishness about this business? And I could get Livingston off and tell him that there'll be no prejudice aboard here, so he'll know he's starting off right.”

“Leave them alone, and quit playing God,” said Mr. Rudd.

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Just what I say,” replied Mr. Rudd. “If you talk to them all about it you'll rob the situation of what little naturalness it already has. Leave the men alone and see what happens. Let Livingston handle the situation himself.”

“All right,” I said wearily.

“And furthermore,” continued Mr. Rudd, “you've been captain of this ship long enough to know your place. There's an old saying that the two most useless men aboard ship are the skipper and the engineering officer. We're the only two on here who don't do any work. Quit trying to run things. Sit back and see what happens.”

“A hell of a skipper I'd be then,” I said.

“Skipper hell,” replied Mr. Rudd, “you're just an illusion. You can't change anything. All you can do is watch the others do their work. That's all any God damn commanding officer does, and you know it.”

“Go to hell,” I said, and walked out. As I shut the door I heard Mr. Rudd chuckling behind me. “Go to hell,” I said again, more to myself than to him, and walked forward to the forecastle. There I found Boats showing Livingston Wrigly's old bunk, which was directly beneath the quartermaster's and above that of Guns. They were talking, and they paused when I came in.

“Hello, Livingston,” I said. “I'm your commanding officer. Glad to have you aboard.”

Livingston turned, and for a moment regarded me intently. “Yes, sir,” he said, and turned again to making up his bunk. I watched him a moment, then went back to the ward-room and picked up a book. Mr. Crane came in with the watch and quarter bill and I watched him while he entered Livingston's name in the place of Wrigly's. He worked painstakingly, intent only on having the letters as neat as possible. When he was through he held up the finished paper.

“Well,” he said, “we've got a full complement again. It looks good to have a name on it that doesn't begin with W.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

J
ANUARY
18 was Mr. Crane's birthday. The cook prepared a huge birthday cake, and we planned to surprise Mr. Crane with it that night. There were no candles, but in their place Mr. Warren contrived some little torches of twisted paper. A consultation of Mr. Crane's record showed that he was thirty years old, a fact which surprised me, for he looked much younger. As the afternoon wore on I began to wonder about the success of the projected surprise at dinner, for Mr. Crane appeared moody and depressed. The day was a particularly hot one. When we filed into the wardroom for dinner our shirts stuck to our bodies.

“What a hell of a rule,” Mr. Crane said. “Why do we have to wear shirts when we eat?”

I made no reply, and he sat down grumbling. Mr. Rudd sat at one end of the table, Mr. Warren sat across from Mr. Crane. The birthday cake had been Mr. Warren's idea and he had the pleased expression of one who is about to be thanked. Our main course was chicken. It had been shifted too often from one cold storage plant to another, and it exuded a faint but unpleasant odor. Mr. Rudd sniffed it cautiously and pushed his plate away.

“Chicken!” said Mr. Crane. “Why the hell did you let them push that off on you, Warren? The damn thing is left over from the last war!”

We ate our dehydrated potatoes and we sipped coffee in silence. The cook came in and cleared the plates away. There was a long wait. Finally the cook reappeared with the flaming birthday cake. Mr. Crane looked at it with genuine astonishment in his eyes. The cook set the cake down in front of him. The paper torches burned too well, and the wardroom became clouded with smoke.

“Blow them out!” said Mr. Warren. “Make a wish and blow them out!”

Mr. Crane puffed mightly, but the paper burned brightly and his breath just fanned the flames. Mr. Rudd quickly wet his napkin in a glass of water and spread it over the cake. When he lifted the napkin the charred paper had been pressed into the frosting, and the cake did not present a very pleasing aspect. We all sat back disconsolately.

“Never mind,” said Mr. Crane. “I want to thank you. I never expected …”

“Oh, hell, let's eat the damn thing,” Mr. Rudd finished for him. “Here, take a knife and scrape off the frosting.”

Mr. Crane did as Mr. Rudd suggested. Soon the cake lay before us, ruined in looks, but edible. We each took a piece, but the day was too hot for cake. It was dry in our mouths. Mr. Crane finished his piece heroically, and put down his fork.

“Thirty years old,” he said suddenly. “How old are you, Mr. Rudd?”

“Twenty-two,” said Mr. Rudd primly. “I'm just a boy.”

“I mean it,” said Mr. Crane. “I want to talk to somebody older than I am. How old are you? Forty or forty-five?”

“Twenty-two,” Mr. Rudd repeated serenely. “I've been twenty-two for years.”

“Well, I'm thirty,” Mr. Crane replied seriously. “I'm thirty and I'm no farther ahead than when I was twenty-two. When I was twenty-two I had just graduated from college. I thought that by the time I was thirty I'd have a wife and kids and be making ten thousand a year. Well, I've got the wife and a kid all right, but it doesn't look like I'll ever make more than twenty-five hundred a year.”

“What business were you in, Mr. Crane?” I asked.

“A broker,” he said. “That is, I wanted to be a broker, but I was really just an office boy. When I go back that's what I'll be again.”

“Why so pessimistic?” Mr. Warren asked. “After all, you'll be a returning hero. Maybe they'll give you the office.”

“Yeah,” replied Mr. Crane. “Maybe they will. The trouble is that I'm just the wrong age to get caught in a war. The guys younger than I can start at the beginning when they go home, and the guys older have already carved out a place to go back to. I'm caught in the middle.”

“How about me?” Mr. Rudd interpolated. “A poor lad of twenty-two, but old for my age?”