Fo'castle Waltz

"I dunno. I've sailed on ships three times as big as this. And in a; real bit of weather dey get shoved around like the little ones. Remember that big liner, d'Urania? She split up like a cracker. We saw her pieces afloat in the Caribbean. . . ."

The fo'castle was silent. Then the old guy went on.

"I tell ya, if you ever get caught in one of those winds—and the ship begins to go—get out your razor," and he silently sliced his hand across his skinny old throat. "Cause if you ain't sucked down—and you get away in a boat—likely as not some goddam wave will up and break your neck."

The fat man stuck his tousled head out of his bunk.

"Yeah, an' if it weren't for the old woman, I wouldn't sign on this damn stinkin' oil burner. These goddam ol' oil burners are always awash with sea-lawyers and bilge soup."

I heard his bunk creak as he settled back. Clouds of choking smoke from his pipe rose on either side of me. Then he ducked his head out again.

"Say, anybody seen the Old Man yet?"

I was going to mix in and say I had, but I remembered Al's warning.

"The old buzzard's a Newfoundland bluenose. Yuh, I seen his papers framed up in d'wheelhouse, and he's an old sailing ship man, same as myself. I tell yer, feller,"—he poked his pipe stem toward the Phi Beta Kappa's brother—"a sailing man with that experience can take—"

We never heard the end of that. A row had started out on deck, and the fancy sailor came crashing into the fo'castle pursued by a regiment of Filipinos gone savagely native.

The sailor threw himself into a corner of the fo'castle, cradled his big arms over his head. They punched and smacked at him as best they could—there were too many of them swinging at once for anyone to get in a solid blow. The sailor made no effort to stand up and fight, though it seemed to me from the build of him he could have taken the whole mess of little brown men; he crouched with his arms shielding his head and whimpered:

"Look, Flip—you got me wrong—I'm not d'guy—I ain't never been on that ship. . . ."

From the Filipinos' high-pitched yapping I could hear the repetitious "teef, teef" of our own messboy, who was dancing about ineffectively on the outskirts of the squirming turmoil.

"Lemme up, Flip—jeez, Flip—lemme up—lemme get my papers—I'll show ya—I ain't ever shipped on her—lemme get to my locker."

The Filipinos were really letting him have it now. They'd gotten down to a system of flailing at his shoulders and head with the rhythm of sledges driving a spike. Blood began to show on his cheek.

And what were we white folk doing while these little brown men were beating the life out of a member of our own race?

I looked around the fo'castle, and they were all doing just what I was doing—lying in their bunks, flicking their cigarettes over the swirling mass of bodies on the deck; a calm respectful audience to a bit of mayhem.

One of the Filipinos, who looked like a bantamweight pug, perhaps because he was getting a little tired, started screaming at the others something that made them all slow down. Our own messman, finding a bit of room, dashed in and got in a few licks while the others were talking things over.

Then the pug threw his arms around our messman, shouting:

"All right, stop—dat's all—get d'paypa—let him up. Where's locka? Get d'paypa."

The sailor got up, still cradling his head and crouched over, and moved sideward toward the lockers near the fo'castle door, with the Filipinos close at his heels. He began to fumble in his pockets, presumably searching for his key, and suddenly he broke and ran through the fo'castle door and down the deck with a long line of the bloodthirsty little brownies streaming after him. He cleared the clutter of debris strewn along that deck like a frenzied deer.

We all tumbled out of our bunks and were out on deck sooner than I can tell it.

The lone electric light slung on the aftermast gave an eerie yellow glow to the strange manhunt. We could see the flash of the sailor's white undershirt after he'd got beyond the circle of the light.

"Christ, he's making for the ladder."

We all looked over the side and watched him slide down that long ladder, with the Filipinos almost stepping on his head. When he got to the dock, it looked as if he were trying to make for the protection of the darkened streets beyond the waterfront, but his pursuers were too close, and he turned and ran along the next pier to the ship docked alongside us—the one he'd said he had worked that had fed him lousy. We'd seen him move fast on our ship, but nothing compared to this.

Our Chief Engineer—the only officer aboard, a big soft man with a tremendous sagging stomach—had joined us. He lifted his big belly and rested it on the rail, and then blew clouds of smoke from the cigar he held clenched in his teeth. He blared, "What the hell's going on?"

One Filipino hadn't joined the chase. It was the Captain's messboy. "Dat's a crook—he steal gold watch from Filipino boy on dat ship, den he come aboard here."