Fo'castle Waltz

He carefully fingered the keyboard, tried a few stops and doodads on the other side, then unlatched a couple of silver hooks that held the thing together. Finally, having thrust his big foot forward, given one tap, nodded his head, and unfolded the big bellows, big organ sounds with just a sprinkle of squeaks filled the poopdeck.

The pleats of the bellows were a fine salmon pink, and, watching big Chips and his beautiful accordion for the moment, I hadn't been listening.

He seemed to play competently, and after a while there was a pattern to the music. The guys began to nod their heads at each other—a couple of old fellows from the black gang thought they recognized the tune. But they didn't; nobody did except Chips. It was one of those long continuous marches written for the accordion—one of those things that always seem about to end, and as you get ready to applaud, it starts all over again with very little variation from the motif that proceeded.

Chips played it well. If he stumbled he looked down on his keyboard and stopped, corrected the placing of his fingers, and started that bit of stuff again. Then when it got going right, he'd look up again, head erect, eyes straight ahead above the folding and unfolding of the handsome pink bellows, and roll right along, just tapping his big foot now and again. I figured that's when he turned a sheet of music in his memory.

It was a long piece, and when it was done everybody approved and told Chips he was great. But he said nothing—just silently pokes a stop here and there and fingered his keyboard.

"Say, that was swell, Chips, what was it?"

"March."

"Ain't that great. Boy, this is gonna be some trip," enthused Mush, "music an' . . ."

"Hey," one of the old black gang called out, "kin ya play Rosy O'Grady?

"Naw."

Joe and Slim, the Georgia Boy, had come off watch. They, too, were delighted with Chip's big accordion.

"Man, look at that," said Slim. "Kin he play it?"

"Sure he kin play. Go on. Chips, play some more."

Chips adjusted his fingers, tapped his foot, head up, eyes front, and played it again—again the same march, with the same stumbles. And we all were as enthusiastic. Joe laughed and tried a few hula steps, the Georgia Boy swung into a couple of his lazy shuffles, and that reminded Scotty—who'd been sitting on his heels in front of Chips—that he, too, had talent. He jumped up and whirled into a fling. None of them kept it up very long—their dancing didn't go with that music. Soon they all sat down. This time it seemed the march was longer. I think Chips threw in a few extra choruses, but there was no way of telling.

He finished and carefully hooked his beautiful accordion together, unstrapped it from his shoulders, wrapped it up in the green flannel, packed it into the big leather case, and stood up. It was getting dark and maybe he didn't want to get it damp. As he started down for the fo'castle, case in hand, I asked him, "Chips, where'd you learn to play?"

He said, "I take lesson."

I don't know if that was singular or plural, but that's the only piece I ever heard him play on his four-hundred-dollar accordion all the way down to the Argentine and all the way back.

8. Portraits on the Hatch

FROM THE DAY BIG JOE CAME ABOARD THAT SHIP, he and I got along pretty good. I'm not sure about the big heel's intentions at the beginning, because he told me a number of weeks after we'd been hanging out together:

"Ya know wan I come aboard and I see you leetle fat guy give a big hallo—I sez to m'self, dere's nice punk."

"Why, you big Canuck, what d'hell d'you mean calling me a punk?"

"I'm not callin'. All ship she got punks, so I tought you're punk. Dat's all. Don' be mad."

Now there's not much sense in attempting to write Joe's dialect, and I ought to quit trying. He was a phenomenal guy. According to his story, he was born of a French Tahitian mother and his father was a Yorkshireman, the Captain of a four-masted schooner that sailed into Papeete, Tahiti, one day. He settled there, married Joe's mother, raised a family, and plied the trade around the Marquesas Islands.

The language Joe spoke was not English. He twisted its meaning and pronunciation to suit himself. Perry the Portuguese was quite a linguist— he spoke English with little accent, later led us around the Argentine with his fluent Spanish, and I've heard him ripple away in French at a couple of girls from Marseilles down in Bahia Blanca. Perry said the big fellow spoke French as he did English. And the Captain's messboy Philip, who was a bright boy, too, said he couldn't speak the Island language any better.

Joe did some drawing, very naive stuff. When he found out I drew, too, he hung around. He was a good guy to be with. He sang well, danced, and told the most fantastic stories I ever heard. They mightn't seem so good as I write them, but I haven't the advantage of Joe's gurgling voice nor his amazing and curious phraseology.