Fo'castle Waltz

He looked lost. "No—well—he tells me you refuse to clean bilges."

"Yes, sir. You see I—we've been down in the bilges for the past three weeks. I ruined all the work shoes I have on the bones and stuff. Then this morning, I had to wear my good ones. Well—I told the Mate—"

Captain Brandt lifted a heavy hand from where it rested on the chart table and waved it slowly, shutting me off.

"Boy, did you or didn't you tell the Mate you wouldn't turn to?"

"Well—yes. You see—the thing is—"

"H-m-m—if you don't go to work when the Mate orders you to, it's mutiny—"

"Look, Captain Brandt, all I'm trying to say, I told the Mate it's unfair with the A.B.'s getting the wages they do and us only getting what we do, and them and their hip boots—I mean since I broke up all my shoes in the bilges—and the Mates, the A.B.'s. I mean—well, I suggested I believe it's no more than right—since they got hip boots—that if they worked the bilges too, I thought—"

Captain Brandt heard me out. His head lifted and bent back on his stringy neck, looking very much the alert, world-weary old turtle. I got my argument straightened out—I wasn't mad any more and it sounded hollow to me. He just closed his eyes, shook his head, and again said:

"H-m-m, if you don't go to work when the Mate orders you— it's mutiny."

I had talked my head off. I'd shot my bolt. Nuts! And he still "mutineed" me. That boiled me up again.

"All right—then let it be Mutiny!"

Those two out in the wheelhouse must have heard me.

The Captain appeared to take it calmly. His eyebrows lifted just a little and for the first time during our interview he had a little trouble with his upper plate; his jaw must have dropped a fraction, but it's hard to tell with those wattled jowls running in to a loose-skinned neck.

"H-m-m—well—that puts another light on the matter. H-m-m—it's mutiny. Well—I guess we'll have to find the irons—"

And he slowly rose from his chair and fumbled in all his pockets till he found some keys up in his vest; then he shuffled over and fitted one of them into the lowest drawer of a desk in the corner. With a grunt he bent over and peered into it.

"H-m-m—yep—guess these'll do."

He reached in and lifted out a large pair of rusty shackles. They were the rustiest, crummiest pieces of metal up on that bright-polished bridge. Holding them with both hands he shuffled back to me. There was a little difficulty getting the crusted locks to unlatch, but they finally creaked open. They couldn't have been used much and they needed oil.

"Well now, let's see—"

He held them spread open toward me. I put my wrists into them and he bent the hinged curves back in their locks—a little puff of dust spouted from each of them. They dangled loose on my wrist. My hands are small and in those days I was always ashamed of them; they were smaller than the hands of the girls I played patty-cake with. I always maneuvered to avoid any hand-holding sessions at the movies or concerts—I got a better grip... Up there in the chartroom was the first time (the only time) I was happy to have delicate, damn near effeminate hands.

As Captain Brandt sucked his teeth and looked on, I brought my fingers together, bent my wrists, and gently let those corroded bracelets fall off on to his clean, chartroom table. They landed with a little clunk and sent flecks of rust over his white papers.

The Captain blinked, looked at the shackles, then turned his expressionless eyes on me. He straightened out and sucked his teeth again.

"H-m-m—well—looks as if we'll have to find another pair." He shuffled back to the desk that held his torture equipment. There he found another pair, smaller ones, and we went through the same process. I could have, by bringing my thumbs down into the palms of my hands, dropped that pair too, but I didn't think he had any more. For his sake, as well as for my own, I kept my fingers spread to keep them on. So—I was put in irons!

The Captain opened the door for me and we went out into the wheelhouse. The Second Mate (it was his watch) had come in off the open bridge. I heard him mutter to Perry: "Hey, you—keep your eye on the course." Captain Brandt motioned to the Swede Mate. "H-m-m now—let's take him forward to the brig—" Without another word we climbed down from the bridge and made for the prow, they on either side of me. There was a narrow, crooked-shaped compartment, the chain locker, that Joe had once told me, as we hosed down and stowed the anchor chains, was used as a brig on most ships. It was stuck in the prow—very dark and damp; there was one porthole set high in it. As we silently walked forward in the bright sun, I hoped that wasn't Captain Brandt's idea of a brig. That would be unpleasant. None of the crew was working on the forward deck and I was happy Perry had been up in the wheelhouse to report the incident fairly in the fo'castle.