Fo'castle Waltz

I lay a long time in my bunk thinking over this first night aboard the S.S. Hermanita: the talk of shipwreck . . . the hunt for the crook—that Chef looked pretty mean with that cleaver in his hand; I'll bet he resented that final crack the Engineer had made. That was no way to develop harmony among mankind, equality of the races and all that. What if the Chef had a vengeful nature? The thought of amorous worms in the lumpy porridge didn't bother me so much as the question whether fine ground glass in oatmeal is as easily perceptible. At least you can see the worms.

4. Rots!

EVERYONE SIPPED HIS COFFEE GINGERLY NEXT MORNING, our messboy lifted his eyebrows quizzically as he gathered the plates of lumpy oatmeal most of us had sidestepped, and his eyes brightened as he thought of a joke.

"Wotsa matta—sea slick?"

And he went off to the galley cackling quietly over the joke he'd made.

The events of the night before hadn't scared the fat Sailing Man. With his face screwed up as if he were thinking deeply and working hard at it, he gobbled, gulped, and crammed down all the food set in front of him and everything else within reach of either arm.

We went back to work, and for the next few days it was a monotonous repetition of all the work we'd already done. Some new men had joined the crew—more of the same type we already had. Then after a few days the work developed another pattern.

Al told me he'd heard the Mate and Engineer talking: that afternoon we were going to Bayonne and start loading.

"And damn glad of it," he said. "I'm getting sick of working alongside these old stumble-bums."

"You're gonna work a lot longer with this bunch," it seemed to me.

"With this bunch? Naw. This gang of dock rats, they won't ship out. They just do port work when they're hungry and to get a couple of bucks to buy the smoke, that raw alcohol they swill. They couldn't take a ship down to Coney Island and nobody'd sign them. You'll be seeing the sailors that'll sign on after we're all loaded and ready to ship out. They never do port work—especially in the home port. It's slobs like these and like you and me that do it, but the sailors sign on. They know how to take a ship where it's going."

Late that afternoon the East River was let into our drydock. A tug pulled us out in the stream and sent us on our way. At about sunset we tied up alongside a big warehouse in Bayonne.

I say we set sail and we tied up. Not that I made any contribution—seems I never caught a line thrown at me, never knew what to do with it if anyone handed it to me, and in general was a useless lump of cargo—to the disgust of the howling Swede Mate and most of the crew. But I was willing.

The big Russian came along the deck, loaded down with large circular sheets of galvanized iron.

"Come on, kid, give a hand."

I jumped, delighted that I'd been picked to help with this special job, whatever it was, and I chased after him quick.

"What you got there?" I asked.

"R-r-ot gu-ard."

"Huh?"

"Yah, r-rot gu-ard. They keep rot off ship."

I couldn't figure out how these huge circular sheets of metal could possibly save the ship from decay or rot, so I shut up. It might be just another seamen's superstition—like not shipping women aboard whalers or something.

The big Russian tied them on like collars around the big hawsers that held our ship to the niggerheads on the pier. When he had tied the last of these (my help consisted of reaching him pieces of rope yarn as he leaned over the rail and tied them in place), he straightened up and surveyed his handicraft with a grin.

"Now watch dock rot drop off. All dock rot—them, too," and he nodded his head toward the frowzy bunch of old port workers.

"R-rot" had been his Russianized version of "rat," and he was as sure as Al had been that the old dock rats would quit the ship before we sailed.

We worked late that night. The Phi Beta Kappa's brother and the Fat Man protested under their breath with every step they took.

"Wait'll the Union hears about this. . . . What d'hell they think we are—slaves or sometin'?"

"We put in our eight-hour day. . . ."

"What if the longshoremen starts a half-hour later tomorrow . . . ?"

They grumbled, but they worked, and we all turned in without any talk.

As we slowly pulled on our clothes the next morning, a little man wearing a ship's officer's cap appeared at the fo'castle door and in a thin high-pitched voice said:

"All right, men, turn to—come on, turn to."

Then he wheeled and walked out on deck as if he expected us to follow him like a herd of sheep after a Judas goat.

We sat there looking after him—some of us with our pants half up, others staring through the necks of the grimy shirts they were pulling on over their sleep-numbed heads.

The Fat Man bellowed; he was hurt and indignant.

"What d'hell is dis? We ain't had no br'kfust yet."

The little man in the cap turned and piped, "All right, get it—and then come back aft."

"Who's the little guy?" I asked Al as we climbed up to the messdeck.