Fo'castle Waltz

We got the whole story later that night, but right now the sailor was almost up the long ladder of the other ship with the gang after him stringing along below. Just as he made the last few feet of the ladder, the Mate aboard that ship, who had quietly watched the progress of the chase, put his leg over the top rung of the ladder, and as the sailor reached his foot, the Mate kicked at his face.

"Get off this ship, ya bastard. You don't belong on here."

By now the Filipinos had reached their quarry and were clawing at him. His shirt had been ripped from his back and they were tearing at his dungarees.

"Jesus, lemme come on, Mate. They'll kill me. . . ."

The Mate calmly sat there, kicking at him as he repeated, "Get down, ya bastard. Get off this ship. You don't belong here."

Our engineer, who had been growling and puffing up a cloud of cigar smoke, let out a blast.

"Let him on—ya goddam sonovabitch. You ain't no white man.

The Mate kicked away.

"He can't come on this ship. He's your man. Come and get him."

I could well imagine old One Ton, our Chief Engineer, climbing up that ladder through that tangle of wiry little Filipinos to rescue the sailor—he never would have made it, even if he had only his own big sagging gut to carry. It would have bounced him off the hull before he climbed ten feet.

Somehow the Mate relented, and it looked as if some armistice were being arranged on the ladder. The Mate swung out and down, climbing over the sailor, and preceded him down the ladder, acting as a buffer between him and the bloodthirsty Filipinos. They all disappeared into the darkness of the street at the end of the docks and before they returned to our ship the Captain's messboy told us the rest of the story.

This sailor had worked aboard that ship before he joined us. About three o'clock that morning the Filipino boy aboard that ship had been awakened. An arm had reached across him as he lay in his bunk and grabbed the gold watch he had hung there. He had tumbled out and chased the thief along the deck but the thief had got to the ladder before he could be stopped. The boy couldn't chase after him—he was dressed only in his underdrawers. He got one glimpse of the thief's face as he disappeared down the ladder. It was our fancy sailor.

At breakfast, the sailor hadn't shown up. The Mate, when the boy questioned him, said the sailor had asked for his money, collected his duffle, and quit the ship. The boy had recognized him from a distance this noon in the group along our ship's rail. After his supper dishes were washed up, he had come over and told our mess crew.

Philip, the Captain's messboy, said, "The boy says you got teef aboard dis ship. I says who. He says, come on I'll pick him out."

Then they had made the tour of the poopdeck, and the thief had been marked. Later they had caught him as he had been quietly slipping over the side.

About the time Philip had filled in the details of the story, the bloody face of the fancy sailor came up over the rail and, after him, a puffing bluecoat, then the line of Filipinos. The cop led him back to the fo'castle. When he unlocked his locker, the contents were emptied out on the hatch under the light. Pawing around his papers, the cop picked out a pawnticket for a gold watch with that day's date on it. Then he looked over his other stuff and held up a brown suit of clothes. "This yours?" he asked.

The sailor mumbled through his bruised mouth. "Yeah."

The cop held the pants of the brown suit to the sailor's waist. The legs hung straight down and then fell in a neat ripple of folds on the deck. It was evident the suit belonged to someone about a foot taller than this stocky crook. The big Russian thrust himself forward. "Hey, goddam, dat suits are mine."

"All right, you'll get 'em back," said the cop. "Come on, you, pick up that stuff and take it down to the station."

They trooped off with the Filipino boy going along to make a complaint.

We lit up some fresh cigarettes.

"Christ, can you beat that?" came from the Phi Beta Kappa's brother. "A fancy movin'-pi'ture sailor!"

For a moment there was silence, and then as Flip began to tell the story all over again we heard a roar from the Chief Engineer.

We gathered around him and the Chef (also a Filipino), who was wearing a stained white apron with an immense meat cleaver clutched in his fist, and protesting the cleaver meant absolutely nothing. He'd been working in his galley (at ten o'clock at night?) and he'd heard the commotion on the deck. He hadn't grabbed it to join the chase.

The Engineer snorted something, blew a blast of cigar smoke, and turned and waddled back to his cabin. "Goddam savages. They ain't white men."

We all went back to the fo'castle.