Part 10

In the city light, in the dusk, Deane’s eyes were wide, as though some new and frightening thought had crossed her mind.

_CHAPTER XIV_

Rio left the bitt on which he had been sitting. He crossed the deck and walked down the ladder as the sea caught the ship and sent her rolling in long swells toward the Gulf Stream. He was going to his bunk when a man with a blue chin and hard, bloodshot eyes got up from the table where he had been drinking beer and went to him.

“Where’s your book?” the man said abruptly, in a high, angry voice.

“That ain’t no way to ask for it,” Rio said slowly.

The sailors’ delegate swore.

“Break out that god-damned union book!”

“You’ll find it under this,” said Rio, rubbing his fist.

“Oh! That’s it!” said the delegate, coming closer, unconscious that his lips were still moving.

“Sure,” continued Rio. “A chink in the Celebes told me wisdom came with lost teeth.”

“Get wise then!” yelled the delegate, and swung hard.

Rio ducked, but the blow caught him across the jaw and a little blood ran down his neck. For an instant, his face was the outlawed Baptist’s.

“Turn in,” he said, almost in a whisper. “The next time you might fall.”

The man swung again and Rio drove a wide fist straight into his face. Blood squirted out all over, covering both men. The delegate fell backwards; his head struck a stanchion. He rocked slowly and fell loosely sideways, his shoulder hitting the deck. Rio stepped over to the table and picked up the empty beer bottle.

“My God!” said one of the men. The rest of the crew turned the delegate’s face over. They couldn’t see the features. They talked among themselves quietly for a moment, then walked menacingly toward Rio. He jumped like a monkey into a corner, with the bottle in his left hand and his right fist cocked. He had pulled off his skivy-shirt and the men looked at his chest. It was brown and curiously bare. There was the mark of a slice bar and a dent across his ribs. They had never seen anything like it. They stopped and seemed to smell the blood. Suddenly they recognized the man—his style of fighting, the way animals do, without thought or compassion. Rio stood there, silent, massive, and the men went back to their bunks.

The able-bodied seamen carried the delegate into the washroom and started working on him. Rio put the bottle back on the table. Then he took his bucket and towel into the washroom. He didn’t look at the huddle in the corner, or at the delegate crying softly on a bench, or hear an occasional curse from one of the sailors. He took his bath and returned to his bunk, turned in and stared at the overhead. He could feel the slow roll and sudden pitch of the ship. He loved it and felt at home again....

There were swift movements in the dark around him. Then the main light in the fo’c’sle came on and it was quiet for a moment. He could hear a man cough.

“Is he?”

Another voice.

“Yeah. He’s dead.”

And still another.

“Let’s tell the mate on watch.”

“And have your gear turned inside out, you fool?” said the first voice.

“You’d look funny in the commissioner’s office, too,” answered the third.

“For God’s sake then, pipe down and let’s drop him to Davy. I can’t stand him in here. We’ll say he got drunk ashore and when he came in he fell on his face. He said his head ached and went on deck. We looked for him an hour.... I go to the second mate. He’ll soon be on watch. I tell him the story. Before he gets aft or calls the Old Man, you have the fo’c’sle cleaned and the beer hid. Stick by the story. That’s all.”

“What about the fellow who done it? He’ll be on watch with the second.”

“That guy ain’t human. He won’t show nothin’. O.K.?”

“O.K.”

Rio heard the noise die down and went to sleep.

* * * * *

Rio felt his arm being shaken. He saw a figure bent over him, wearing oilskins which glistened from a flashlight.

“Seven bells,” said the figure. “Coffee on the boatdeck. Watch it goin’ ’midships. She’s takin’ a few seas.”

Rio dressed silently, pulled on his sea boots and fastened his oilskins and sou’wester. On deck, he looked around the lee corner of the house and waited for a sea to break over. A small one came under the rail and hissed across the deck, winding up with a crash against the hatches. The white water ran into the scuppers. As she started to roll back, Rio ran as fast as he could to a ladder to the boatdeck. Then he went forward to a small house where a light was burning.

In there was a young man pouring coffee. His face was white and anxious. When he saw Rio he said, “They tell me you’re my watch partner.”

Rio smiled and nodded his head. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down to drink it.

The young man spoke again.

“I was told to report for lookout duty on the port side of the bridge. I don’t know where that is.”

“I’ll show you.”

“But what do I do as lookout?”

“Ask the man you relieve,” said Rio. “And don’t be upset if the mate yells a bit. It’s hard for some of ’em to fasten a twelve-inch neck in a seventeen collar. Just lay low unless you see a ship comin’ up. Then tell it to him as best you can and let him swear all he pleases. We better go up now,” he added.

They went out into the wind and up the ladder to the bridge. The quartermaster, seeing Rio, left the wheel.

“One ninety-five,” he said. “One ninety-five,” he called to the third officer in the chartroom. The officer counted out the numbers and the quartermaster left.

The second mate entered the chartroom, relieving the third officer.

Rio saw the ship was on her course and looked out where his watch partner was walking hesitatingly toward the wheelhouse. He waved him back.

Soon, the second mate came in without speaking. He looked at the compass under the binnacle light. Then he stood up and silently regarded Rio, who gave the wheel a spoke or two. The mate became exasperated. He walked up and down, staring out of the glass. Suddenly he came over and looked at the compass again.

“You’re off six degrees. Heading this way, we might make Jamaica.”

“I had a wife there once,” said Rio, his face impassive. “It’s a good island.”

“Wife! You said—‘wife’?”

“Yeah. Up in the hills. She was a good worker, too.”

The mate lit a cigarette. It was twelve-thirty and Rio struck one bell. Attentively, the officer waited for a few minutes.

“Where’s that god-damned lookout?” He fastened his pea-jacket and went out on the bridge. Rio could hear voices through the wind and shrugged his shoulders. After awhile, the second mate came back puffing.

“A fine lot—a fine lot to work with!” he said.

A seaman stepped inside the wheelhouse and addressed the mate.

“There’s a man missin’, sir.”

“A man missing—a man missing? What do you mean? What happened?”

“I dunno. The sailors’ delegate got drunk ashore. He was a little foggy and fell on the deck. He didn’t seem to mind and said he’d take a little air topside. When he didn’t come down we went up and looked around.”

“Mother of Christ!” cried the second mate. “Break out the crew—No!” He recalled the man. “I’ll get the skipper.” He ran out of the wheelhouse, his jacket open.

The man who had reported the accident looked at Rio. Rio’s face was dark and kindly from the glow of the binnacle light.

* * * * *

Several nights later they passed the Gulf Stream and when Rio got up about eleven in the morning he saw the deep-purple waters of the Caribbean Sea. It was getting warmer. He put on clean dungarees and went to the sailors’ mess for a plate of soup. He could tell little from the expression of the men around him, but rather, felt their sullen disapproval and was indifferent to it. He ate his soup, asked for another plateful, ate it and went up to the wheelhouse again. He had been steering for about five minutes with the second mate beside him when the latter went out of the house. Rio could hear him climb the ladder to the flying bridge to check the compass. When he came down, he walked in front of Rio and closed the door on the weather side, although it was hot already. He came back, looked at the compass and smiled a peculiar smile. Suddenly, there was a sharp noise and a saccharine odor and the second mate, still smiling, went out on the lee side of the bridge.

Rio held his nose.

“A virgin,” he said to himself, leaving the wheel and throwing open the door.

The mate returned and brought the door to. A curious expression was on his face; but he still smiled as he left once more for the bridge.

“_That_ fish was picked up in Nagasaki,” said Rio aloud, and opened the door again.

The second mate slammed the door this time, standing by the wheel only a moment before wind cracked at his heels. Rio could see his tiny, blond mustache jump in the sunlight. But this time, Rio did not open the door. He followed the mate and stood beside him.

“For God’s sake! Get back to that wheel, you damned fool!” yelled the officer.

“Not till both doors are open and the weather’s cleared,” said Rio in an even voice. He leaned on the rail, his fine eyes glistening.

The second mate rushed into the house where the wheel had turned until the ship was twenty degrees off her course. Nervously, but with a calculated deliberation, he gave her a few spokes at a time, trying to protect himself from the captain’s eternal damnation. After awhile Rio walked past him, opened the weather door and took over. Neither man spoke until Rio was relieved.

The next day Rio was chipping spots on the deck when he felt a knee against his side. He pulled off his goggles and looked up. It was the second mate. Rio laid down his hammer and said, “I can hear.”

“You can hear—what?”

“I can hear trouble if that’s the way you wake me up again.”

The mate grew excited.

“Listen! What’s the matter with you? Don’t you know discipline?”

Rio got up. He didn’t say anything but his heavy brown face looked down with contempt.

The officer tried to retain his dignity.

“Why did you raise hell in the wheelhouse?” he asked.

Rio continued to look down at him.

“Because I’m a quiet-livin’ man. I’m modest. And I don’t like to be intimate.”

The second mate’s face turned red.

“Show me your union book,” he said briefly.

Rio shook his head.

“That’d be too intimate. You don’t carry your school-ship papers all the time, do you?”

“By God!” shouted the mate. “I’ll have you thrown in the brig. It’s hot in the forepeak.”

Rio grinned, a slow, malicious grin.

“And there’s dark nights and twenty-foot shark in the Gulf of Darien—a hell of a place for a snotty little mate to slip.”

The officer walked away. His eyes seemed red in the sun and he seemed to be thinking.

Rio adjusted his goggles and went to work. He liked to see each rusted, brown flake disappear under the blows of his hammer and uncover the bright blue steel below. Suddenly, once more, he felt a knee against his side. The mate had come back. He ordered Rio to move over to the port side and chip rust near the fishplate. Rio crossed the deck, watching from the corner of his eye the vicious look of the officer who was crawling into No. 2 hatch. Rio grinned again.

“A good place for ’im if a freak wave shifts the cargo,” he thought.

He had worked for an hour when he heard men shouting. The captain came down and ran aft, then back to the fore deck. Seeing Rio at work he hurried to him.

“Have you seen the second mate forward?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. About an hour ago. He told me to chip rust by the fishplate,” answered Rio.

The captain looked puzzled.

“By the _fishplate_? Quick, man!—was that the last you saw him?”

“That’s the last, sir.”

“Put her about!” the captain shouted up at the bridge. “See that a boat’s ready.”

The ship had just swung round when the second mate’s head appeared above the hatch. He blinked in the sunlight. His shirt was torn, his flashlight was crushed and he had a skinned right arm. He limped slowly toward the captain.

“I was just checking the cargo, sir,” he said. He turned angrily toward Rio. “I know that man saw me go down.”

The captain addressed his officer severely.

“Why aren’t you on the bridge, Mr. Birch? Do you check cargo on your own watch?—And with a beam sea like this running?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” answered the mate, looking away.

“Go and clean yourself up, Mr. Birch.” The captain turned to speak to Rio, but the steady blows of the chipping hammer were sounding by the fishplate.

* * * * *

Rio was standing outside the galley on the _Nancy II_ when she steamed along the South American coast into the harbor of Santa de Marina. Once before, when he had entered the bay, it had been night; and there, tucked at the feet of the Andes, the town was obliterated by the proximity of the moon. This time, by day, he knew that nature had sustained a lasting brilliance to endure around the many-colored houses—beyond, the olive shade of mountain; and before, the whitest line of sand between the elbows of the cliff that closed upon a canvas of blue harbor. Lesser energies surrendered in an atmosphere of light that dominated cooler tones.

It was late morning and Rio saw the ancient, Spanish town suspended. Soon it would be siesta time—a quiet drink and heavy sleep while native children watched the ship and languorously ate their fruit. Rio did not know he had the same pure look of indolence. The shore’s breath and the sound of hidden insects were leeward to the ship; but Rio recognized them all. This was a town so close to him with heat and spiced, familiar odors, its bright mantle turned away the thoughts of other things. New York—its equidistant problems that changed with unexpectedness—was left behind, or so he felt; and just before him was a point of tropics with a sweet demand he understood.

As the _Nancy II_ came alongside the banana docks she pulled up aft of another ship of about the same tonnage. The letters on her stern spelled _Swamp Rat_.

Rio ran forward to help with the lines. The gangplank was lowered and he went back to the fo’c’sle to wash up. Later, he saw the first mate, spoke with him and went down the gangplank into the heavy glare of the sun. Longshoremen were already unloading No. 4 hatch and the banana machine was being set up. A large gang of peons waited patiently to go to work. A sad-faced one with a skin of pure black saw Rio looking at them. He smiled suddenly, and from his squatting position jumped six feet in the air, clicking his bare heels together rapidly and coming down on one foot, his ragged trousers flapping. The rest of the peons clapped and laughed, shoving each other. But the black was watching Rio; and when Rio smiled, the black clapped louder than all the rest. Then quickly, as though he had just thought of it, he ran to a stack of freshly-cut bananas of a lizard-green. Seizing a huge bunch from the pile, he tossed it in the air and Rio, moving nearer, could see the hard muscles of the man strain as he caught it in both hands before it hit the ground. Some of the peons were chanting now, and some were slapping the boards of the warehouse with a native rhythm. But the black still watched for Rio’s approval and this time, when Rio clapped, the peon squatted down again, rolling his big eyes and making a clucking sound.

Amused, yet abiding by an adolescent impulse to exhibit, Rio walked to the bunch of bananas which the black had returned to the pile and took firm hold of the large stem with one hand. He threw himself forward, then backward and down, till the tip of the bunch was pointing upward and the stem was braced against his neck. Slowly he came up, the veins pulsing in his forehead and sweat trickling into his eyes. For a second he stood at full height. Then the white heat, the black men and the misty, green bananas began to turn. He staggered; but pulling himself together, lowered the bananas to the pile again. The peons laughed loudly and the big black jumped up and down. Easing closer, he examined Rio’s arm. At last, he called out to the others.

“_Dos músculos en un brazo!_” he shouted triumphantly.

A young oiler from the _Swamp Rat_ nudged Rio.

“What did he say?” he asked.

“He said I have two muscles in one arm.” Rio turned to the black and shook his head. “_Fué un engaño_—it was a trick!”

The peon grinned and his fellow-workers yelled, “_Engaño! Engaño!_—Trick! Trick!”

They were still noisy when Rio started for town. Off the edge of the wharf he heard children laughing happily. He noticed that a group of five was huddled around a bunch of bananas which had fallen from a truck. One of the children, a boy, dressed in a clean cotton shirt and ankle-length trousers, had his back to him and was flicking a little whip at the fruit. As Rio walked that way there was a shrill, warning whistle and the boy with the whip turned as though he had been pinched. When he saw Rio however, he straightened up and for a moment surveyed him carefully. Then he modestly lowered his eyes.

“A penny, sir mate?” begged the child.

Rio stared at the boy and struggled to think clearly. The face was that of Martin—the same chin, the same forehead. He had the same way of standing. Yes, he was a dark replica of Martin, much younger and with a more beautiful face—but still the face of his friend. One thing further startled Rio. On each cheekbone of the child was a clearly defined disk of rouge, the size of a dollar.

Rio felt a little angry and spoke roughly.

“What have you done to earn a penny?” he asked.

The boy seemed quietly mischievous and a flush appeared above the rouge. Rio thought he posed against the sunlight.

“If I trap my enemy, sir tarantula, sir,” he said, “then will I earn a penny?”

The rest of the children laughed.

“How will you catch him?” asked Rio, bending over the bananas for a possible sight of the creature.

The boy cracked his whip and pointed to the edge of the wharf. At his command several children ran and brought back an old piece of tarpaulin. This they held silently over the bananas, making sure that no light could filter in. Then the boy drew a line in the sand and spoke softly in a jargon unfamiliar to Rio. Whereupon with a shout the others threw back the canvas and a large, hairy spider which had crawled out into the darkness was revealed. The boy flicked his little whip—and the tarantula was divided. For a second, the halves quivered. The beauty of the boy’s eyes sharpened and the other children shrieked with glee. When the quivering ceased the lad stooped, and picking up one broken part of the spider, fastened it to the end of his whip. Rio dropped a penny, studying the little fellow, who looked down admiringly at his kill and at the coin.

Rio was suddenly thirsty and headed down a road by the sea for the town. It was a hot patch to cross that day and he stopped often to look at the harbor which somehow gave him the illusion of coolness. Once, as he stood, he noticed the boy with the little whip silently following. Rio put his hands on his hips and waited for him.

The child was excited, but restrained. He had been running and was breathing rapidly. His shirt was open and the damp cotton fabric was plastered to his slender body. Ringlets of dark copper hung to the small beads of perspiration on his forehead or curled away from his brow. His intense brown eyes looked directly at Rio and he stood most straight as though expectant and afraid. Rio was struck by the attitude and by the sudden unnatural impression of maturity. He had never seen a lad so full of fever—and knew this picture was as colorful as any wild and distant fragment of his own. The boy stepped nearer and pointed toward the town.

“May I walk through you, sir mate?” he asked.

Rio nodded his head and when the boy came alongside he dropped his hand on his shoulder. The lad was shaking. Rio took his hand away and the boy quieted. Rio started sweating. This wasn’t sense. He walked on more rapidly, the boy keeping pace with him.

“The Cafe El Americano stays open long, sir mate. Will you not see my sister first? She comes from the sea.” The child took long strides, matching those of Rio. He was nearly breathless. “Always ... out of the sea ... come our sisters and daughters.... Even to your big hefty.”

The sidewalks were narrow and Rio sat down on the curb and rocked and laughed and rocked till the charming old ladies crossed both themselves and the street for the rum this sailor must have taken. In solemn condemnation, they shook their fingers behind black fans with each other—but hastened away where they could laugh delightedly in their loneliness. At last, Rio stood up and wiped his eyes. He gave the boy ten cents in silver, looked at the drying tarantula still fastened to the little whip, and entered the Cafe El Americano. The lad’s face was wistful. He shook the spider violently, flinging up one delicate, brown hand.

Instead of standing at the bar, a group of seamen had grabbed some chairs and were sitting around while the proprietor brought drinks. Rio pulled up a chair and asked for a rum punch. The seamen were from the other ship and he did not know any of them. They were teasing a young sailor who was apparently making his first trip. The boy looked sullen. One good-natured seaman with the face of a German butcher whom the others called “Dutch,” was particularly amused. He turned to Rio, who was near him, and said, “The kid did like all of us, first time out—struck bells for stars, thinkin’ they was ships’ lights. The pay-off came after the mate gave him the devil and told him not to miss a god-damned ship, but to skip the stars; for we met the whole Pacific Fleet doin’ maneuvers, and the kid hit so many bells the Old Man came down and asked where in hell the fire was.”

The sailors roared and Rio smiled; but the harassed young seaman said, “Aw, shut up. God! You’ve told that fifteen times.” His face was as red as the German’s.

Dutch was still laughing.

“Wait till I tell it the thirtieth, lad—wait till I tell it to your mutter.”

“Wait till you tell it to my ‘mutter’!—God!” The kid threw himself at Dutch, both arms flailing. The sailors laughed and scrambled for him, holding him from Dutch who had his head in his lap and was howling louder than ever. Finally the kid was exhausted and the sailors set him up in his chair. Dutch got up, went over to him and gave him a pat on the back.

“I’ll tell you the last one I picked up,” he said. “I was in Iran when I got this yarn out of a peddler who had brought it down from Baghdad. He sold it to me for coffee.”

The kid grinned and the sailors settled down.

“This peddler,” continued Dutch, “said there was a couple up there soon to be married when the Sultan spotted the woman. He takes her into his harem and bein’ a cruel son-of-a-bitch, orders his Chief Barber to castrate the man. Then he plans to bring the poor bastard into the Royal Household as Chief Eunuch so he can watch the guy suffer every time he sees his old girl. The fellow asks one favor—that his father, who is also a barber, be the one to do the trick.

“The Sultan says yes, but that he’ll take a look afterwards to see there’s no funny business. Well, the father’s a sport and gives his son a stroke with his blade ’midships, and fastens him up with a few stitches. The man takes it like a good egg, only he fans himself a bit and takes a bottle of spirits in one swig. He lays around for several days, and finally gets up, a little pale, but whole in body except for his watch pocket. Then he goes to the Palace and the Sultan takes a few sights at the evacuated area and is satisfied.

“Now the Sultan has led a hell of a life, and the girl tips off her sweetheart that in spite of turtle eggs, snake wine, pampas beetles and blended herbs from Crete, the old boy can’t get it up. So the Chief Eunuch tells her he has a little surprise for her; and they go down to the lily pond to observe the constellations. Then he returns to his post and she to her couch to sleep sweetly. A few months later the Sultan gets suspicious.