Fo'castle Waltz

After I was established behind the safety and comfort of the rail of the S.S. Hermanita, I looked over the side and saw that other members of our crew were ashore pulling in hawsers too. Big Joe was amongst them. That big Canuck jutted up above those Argentinians like a Gargantua. So did skinny Mush to a lesser degree. I looked closer at the longshoremen who stood so glum and still right in front of me on the banks of the river. Why, they weren't so big. For the most part, they were little men. It was their big shirts, violent mustachios and big hooks that had impressed me. And as I watched I noticed there was a rolypoly man with a watch chain swung across his bulgy, tightly buttoned vest circling among them with a pad and pencil, talking to one, then to another. Evidently, he was a labor boss or contractor.

Then it struck me that these were just a few hundred men hoping that they'd be picked for this job to unload our ship, since our small freighter couldn't employ them all. Why, they were just a bunch of hungry guys, and there were some pale-looking women dressed in shabby, black dresses with black shawls around their shoulders standing among them—hoping with their men, I suppose. They didn't look so tough any more.

As soon as we were tied up, a gangplank was rolled up to the ship's side and we hoisted up its end and lashed it to our afterdeck. The Port Police promptly stationed himself at the foot of the gangplank, and our thirsty crew was kept on the ship (remember, this trip happened during that dark period of our American history for which we should be ashamed of ourselves in our deep, wide, dry throats—the Prohibition Error) and away from that little shack we could see ashore, plainly marked Cerveza Chicago Bar. And I suppose that firm bastion of righteousness, the Port Cop, also kept the hungry bunch of longshoremen from coming on and earning their food any sooner.

That was true, but he had one other purpose. After we'd leaned over the rail for about an hour or so wondering what now—since we weren't called to turn to—a large shiny limousine drove up and swung to a stop alongside our ship. Out stepped a tall, aristocratic-looking, elderly gentleman, dressed elegantly in gray spats, striped trousers, dark jacket and a big black sombrero with a rolling brim. He sported a handsome long white goatee—more the type that real goats wear, not the little trim chin whiskers that the name usually implies—and in one hand he carried a glossy, black walking stick topped with a handsome silver knob. And in the other a fine leather brief case.

Unquestionably, a suave, spirited elder statesman, one high up in the diplomatic corps or something. I'd been told old Captain Brandt had been making this run down to the Argentine for the past thirty years, that he spoke Spanish like a Spik, and was well-liked by all south of Venezuela (don't know what he did there that made that country an exception), but I did not know he rated this. The elegant gentleman with quiet dignity and long steps quickly made his way through the path the longshoremen had automatically made for him to our ship's side.

At the foot of the gangplank the Port Cop greeted him with a broad smile and touched his cap in respectful salute. The gentleman took it in his stride and, without stopping, checked his fine shiny black walking stick and its silver knob with the Port Police. The little man seemed grateful to receive it and his hand was thrust out expectantly. For a moment he looked around with a glowing smile and then, carefully, he rested it on the ground just a little as he posed with his hand on the silver knob. He was happy to be minding it even for a short time, it went so well with his sailor suit. And it was clear this was one of his regular pleasant duties.

Our elegant visitor made the gangplank in one or two graceful leaps, and when we wanted to direct him to the Captain's quarters, with a wave of his long sensitive hand he indicated he knew—he knew—and he was off and up the ladder with the same stately, swinging stride with which he had descended from his shiny chariot.

Captain Brandt was up on the bridge wearing his best blue uniform and his very best beaming smile. He looked down, and even before the gentleman had gained the bridge they greeted each other cordially. The Captain spoke in Spanish. The diplomat returned his greeting in an accented English— "Goo' morning, Capitain Brandt."

A short time after, the Bos'n rounded us up—everybody up on the Captain's deck. The black gang were already climbing up the ladder on their side of the ship. The sun had come out and we lined up single file, all thirty-two members of the crew— deckhands, black gang, and mess—sort of mixed up in this line that began down on the deck below, up the ladder, and snaked around in back of the Captain's cabin to its door.