Fo'castle Waltz

"We-ll—we've got some tarpaulin stored there. I thought we might use it for a brig."

"We'll need no brig aboard this ship. Mister Mate," snapped the Old Man. "See that the boys bunk in that cabin."

We climbed down—well, that sounded pretty good. A cabin of our own—I could draw, do some painting maybe. Mush wasn't so cheerful.

"Wonder what the gang back aft are gonna say."

They didn't say much. The Bos'n had them spinning the hatch covers down so fast that nobody said anything. We were sailing that evening, and no kidding, Al told us.

In the middle of the afternoon we hoisted anchor and steamed out.

The Bos'n called us together on the afterdeck to set the watch. It was like choosing up sides in a sandlot baseball game and, since when we were kids they never picked me, I wasn't expecting anything now.

We lined up, some smirking self-consciously while the Swede First Mate, the red-headed Second, and the young Third looked us over carefully.

The Swede had first choice. There were only ten men to choose from. The big Russian had maneuvered himself into a soft spot: he'd been appointed ship's carpenter, and on a shaggy, tramp steamer which was 99.5 per cent metal, that was a cushy job—so he was taken care of. After carefully studying the men—he didn't even look at me—the Swede picked a new man whom I'd seen for the first time just before we signed on. A big fellow as big as the Russian and broader in the shoulders —a guy named Joe. He was a handsome hulk with a curious gurgling voice—a nice guy, always grinning. He took a hitch in his belt, rolled out of the line, and with a swagger went down the deck toward the fo'castle.

Then the Swede asked a few abrupt questions from a long slim boy who gave a satisfactory response in a deep, Southern drawl, and the Mate O.K.'d him, too, for his watch. That was Slim, the Georgia Boy, I found out later. He stepped out, his face split in a big, pleasant smile, and with the slightest suggestion of a shuffling dance followed the big fellow down the deck. As I looked after them Al said in a low voice:

"Lucky stiffs—that's an easy watch. Four to eight in the morning, four to eight in the evening. Damn little chippiii' decks for them, damn little Soogie Moogie—"

"What's Soogie Moogie?"

"Shut up. Here comes the Second." And Al straightened up and tried to look good.

The red-headed Second Mate was looking Al up and down as if he were a horse he contemplated buying; then his eye hopped over me. He spoke a word or two to the fat Sailing Man, who growled his reply as if he didn't care if he were picked or not. The Second passed him up and crooked his finger at a cockeyed guy, another newcomer, further down the line. This guy went down the deck looking back over his shoulder with a hilarious black-toothed but silent laugh, and waited for the other man the Second Mate picked for his watch. He was a husky young blond Polack from Baltimore. With a shy, happy smirk he stepped out and strode after Cockeyes. He had a peculiar pigeon-toed walk, as if he gripped the deck with every step and pushed himself forward.

The line was thinned out now, and the young Third Mate seemed a bit embarrassed as he looked us over. The fat Sailing Man spat on the deck, almost hitting the young Mate's shoe. Seems he hadn't much respect for the Third, who I'd been told had just passed his examination; this was his first trip as a Ship's Officer. The Third looked up at the Fat Man from under the brim of his cap and passed him; then he spoke quietly to a stocky, white-haired, pink-eyed old man. He picked him and a pale ripply muscled fellow with a close-cropped platinum bullet-head.

Now, the three watches were set.

The little Bos'n's Mate faced the fat Sailing Man, Al, Mush, and me and said, quietly:

"Well, that's that. You guys are day men. Let's go."

And he led us off through the shelterdeck to tackle some stuff up forward.

"What gives?" I asked Al.

He said, "Hell, this isn't gonna be fun. This is the first ship that I been on that I haven't been put on a watch."

"Well, it looks all right to me."

"What do you mean all right? This little Bos'n will work the ass off you. There won't be any turns at the wheel—no leaning up in the prow and watching the seagulls and porpoises and flying fish. Don't you kid yourself, feller—"

"But what we gonna do?" I asked. "These guys on watch steer the ship, while the others stand look-out up in the front— I mean the prow. The black gang works the engines; the mess feeds us—looks pretty good. What we gonna do—?"

I had a rosy vision of stretching out on the hatch in the hot sun, somewhat in the fashion of those documentary water colors of Winslow Homer's I'd seen around. The hatch was mighty inviting.

Al looked at me blank. "What are we going to do—?"

The Fat Man, who was ambling along in back of us, stumbled on my heels in the dark shelter deck. He growled.

"Pick 'em up—goddam know nothin's—ain't a sailing man among them. I'll be goddamned if I wanna serve on any of their goddam watches!"