touch us. Nobody can touch us now. Ah—hear dat?”
He pointed far out to port. The night was very still, with hardly a sound but the continual seethe of millions of bursting bubbles slithering past the ship’s side. But far out in the fog was an insistent splashing—that heavy smacking splash that every seaman knows.
“Porpoise,” I said.
The skipper tugged at my elbow and led me through the wheelhouse to the other wing. “Listen.”
There it was again, on the starboard side. “Must be quite a few of ’em,” I said laconically, a little annoyed that he should change the subject that way.
“Dere is plenty, but dey are not porpoises.”
“Blackfish?”
“Dey is not fish, too. Dey is somet’ing y’u have seen in books. Dey is vimmin with tails on.”
“
What?”
“O.K., I vas kidding. Call me ven y’u are relieved.”
In the green glow from the starboard running light I saw him hand me a piercing gaze; then he shambled back to the chart room. A little bit short of breath, I went into the wheelhouse and lit a cigarette.
The cuspidor rang out, and I waited for Johnny to speak.
“The skipper ain’t nuts,” he said casually.
“Somebody is,” I returned. “You heard him, then.”
“Listen—if the skipper told me the devil himself was firing on the twelve to four, then the devil it would be.” Johnny was fiercely loyal under that armor of easy talk. “I’ve heard them ‘porpoises’ of yours for three days now. Porpoises don’t follow a ship two hundred yards off. They’ll jump the bow wave fer a few minutes an’ then high-tail, or they’ll cross yer bow an’ play away. These is different. I’ve gone five degrees off to port an’ then to starboard to see if I could draw ’em. Nope; they keep their distance.” Johnny curled some shag under his lip.
“Aw, that’s … that’s screwy, Johnny.”
He shrugged. “You’ve shipped with the Old Man before. He sees more than most of us.” And that’s all he’d say.
It was about two days later that we began to load. Yeah, that’swhat I said. We didn’t dock, and we didn’t discharge our farm machinery. We took on—whatever it was our cargo turned out to be. It was on the four to eight in the evening when the white fog was just getting muddy in the dusk. I was dead asleep when the ship sat down on her tail, stuck her bow up and heeled over. The engines stopped, and I got up from the corner of my room where the impact had flung me.
She lay still on her side, and hell was breaking loose. Toole had apparently fallen up against the fire-alarm button, and the lookout forward was panicky and ringing a swing symphony on the bell. A broken steam line was roaring bloody murder, and so was the second mate. The whistle, at least, was quiet—it had fallen with a crash from the “Pat Finnegan” pipe.
I leaned against the wall and crouched into a pair of pants and staggered out on deck. I couldn’t see a blasted thing. If the fog had been thick before, it was twenty times as thick now.
Someone ran into me, and we both went skittering into the scuppers. It was the mate on his way down to the captain’s room. Why the Old Man wasn’t on the bridge, I couldn’t savvy, unless it had to do with that peculiar attitude of resignation about his imagined loss of command.
“What the hell?” I wanted to know.
Toole said: “Who is that—third mate? Oh. I don’t know. We’ve hit something. We’re right up on top of it. Ain’t rocks; didn’t hear any plates go. Isn’t sand; no sand bank this size could stay this far from land.”
“Where’s the skipper?”
“In his room, far as I know. C’mon, let’s roll him out.”
We groped our way to the alleyway door and into the midship house. Light was streaming from the skipper’s room, and as we approached the door we heard the rare, drawn-out chuckle. I’ll never forget the shock of seeing this best of captains, a man who had never dented a bilge plate in his life, sprawled back in
He pointed far out to port. The night was very still, with hardly a sound but the continual seethe of millions of bursting bubbles slithering past the ship’s side. But far out in the fog was an insistent splashing—that heavy smacking splash that every seaman knows.
“Porpoise,” I said.
The skipper tugged at my elbow and led me through the wheelhouse to the other wing. “Listen.”
There it was again, on the starboard side. “Must be quite a few of ’em,” I said laconically, a little annoyed that he should change the subject that way.
“Dere is plenty, but dey are not porpoises.”
“Blackfish?”
“Dey is not fish, too. Dey is somet’ing y’u have seen in books. Dey is vimmin with tails on.”
“
What?”
“O.K., I vas kidding. Call me ven y’u are relieved.”
In the green glow from the starboard running light I saw him hand me a piercing gaze; then he shambled back to the chart room. A little bit short of breath, I went into the wheelhouse and lit a cigarette.
The cuspidor rang out, and I waited for Johnny to speak.
“The skipper ain’t nuts,” he said casually.
“Somebody is,” I returned. “You heard him, then.”
“Listen—if the skipper told me the devil himself was firing on the twelve to four, then the devil it would be.” Johnny was fiercely loyal under that armor of easy talk. “I’ve heard them ‘porpoises’ of yours for three days now. Porpoises don’t follow a ship two hundred yards off. They’ll jump the bow wave fer a few minutes an’ then high-tail, or they’ll cross yer bow an’ play away. These is different. I’ve gone five degrees off to port an’ then to starboard to see if I could draw ’em. Nope; they keep their distance.” Johnny curled some shag under his lip.
“Aw, that’s … that’s screwy, Johnny.”
He shrugged. “You’ve shipped with the Old Man before. He sees more than most of us.” And that’s all he’d say.
It was about two days later that we began to load. Yeah, that’swhat I said. We didn’t dock, and we didn’t discharge our farm machinery. We took on—whatever it was our cargo turned out to be. It was on the four to eight in the evening when the white fog was just getting muddy in the dusk. I was dead asleep when the ship sat down on her tail, stuck her bow up and heeled over. The engines stopped, and I got up from the corner of my room where the impact had flung me.
She lay still on her side, and hell was breaking loose. Toole had apparently fallen up against the fire-alarm button, and the lookout forward was panicky and ringing a swing symphony on the bell. A broken steam line was roaring bloody murder, and so was the second mate. The whistle, at least, was quiet—it had fallen with a crash from the “Pat Finnegan” pipe.
I leaned against the wall and crouched into a pair of pants and staggered out on deck. I couldn’t see a blasted thing. If the fog had been thick before, it was twenty times as thick now.
Someone ran into me, and we both went skittering into the scuppers. It was the mate on his way down to the captain’s room. Why the Old Man wasn’t on the bridge, I couldn’t savvy, unless it had to do with that peculiar attitude of resignation about his imagined loss of command.
“What the hell?” I wanted to know.
Toole said: “Who is that—third mate? Oh. I don’t know. We’ve hit something. We’re right up on top of it. Ain’t rocks; didn’t hear any plates go. Isn’t sand; no sand bank this size could stay this far from land.”
“Where’s the skipper?”
“In his room, far as I know. C’mon, let’s roll him out.”
We groped our way to the alleyway door and into the midship house. Light was streaming from the skipper’s room, and as we approached the door we heard the rare, drawn-out chuckle. I’ll never forget the shock of seeing this best of captains, a man who had never dented a bilge plate in his life, sprawled back in
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