Fo'castle Waltz

His sacrifice for his old woman went beyond that. He spent very little money ashore, though he'd chuckle with delight when someone offered him a cigarette or a cigar and he smoked them carefully, relishing every puff. He bought a cheap, strong tobacco for his regular fare.

The old fat Sailing Man didn't spend much money on liquor. He nursed one beer all night in the bars, and about women— when the crew had rushed off with a roar that first night in Rio Santiago, he had taken me aside and asked where did I think he could buy a "pertector" in that port—had Perry (who knew the port and palled with me) said there were any drugstores around and what was the Spanish word for it. He'd not like to bring something back to his old woman and make her sick.

A few of the guys who had been cheerful and lively out at sea didn't talk much or mix with the rest of us while the ship was in port. They were morose and just wanted to get out to sea again.

They seemed to lose stature when they were ashore. It seemed to me they were always uncomfortable and sort of self-conscious, and if they ever said anything they seemed to indicate they wanted to ship out again. Scotty to a lesser degree, Birdneck, the big Russian and that Maverick guy (who had toned down considerably) were like that. They waited and we all waited impatiently now for some cargo. When d'hell we gonna ship outta this lousy port?

We pumped Philip to get the dope. Wasn't there any talk up in the officers' mess about shoving off from this goddam steel pier we'd been tied to for almost three weeks? Everybody was sick of that dull coast.

One evening Philip came back aft with a big smile—Captain Brandt had said we'd ship out in just a few days with no cargo. While the rest of us felt pretty good about it. Mush—all of a sudden an expert seaman—jumped on the no-cargo phrase in Philip's report.

"What, no cargo?"

"No cargo."

"Ain't he takin' on any ballast or something—?"

That guy must have read a book.

"I don't know—he didn't say."

"G-a-w-d—no cargo and no ballast. Is the Old Man goin' crazy? An empty ship going up through the South Atlantic in September, in the hurricane season. Hell's bells, that ain't good."

Mush's under lip hung down on his chest. The old pink-eyed guy cheered up that book sailor with "Oh—don't worry so much. We don't hit the hurricane belt for quite a spell—up about Rio. Guess we'll pick up cargo before then, up the coast. They don't sail a ship—even one like this—very far empty. It costs too much."

That consoled Mush, and me too, though I hadn't expressed any qualms concerning Captain Brandt's seamanship. But this guy Mush had a perverse way of getting you to worry with him.

Now that that was settled we yipped it up and decided to have a celebration. I suggested it and I started to collect. I put the pressure on some of the guys who hadn't come through for that fo'castle party up in Rio Santiago—they had some money and I knew it. I didn't collect very much—enough to buy some wine. Philip got us some stuff from the locked icebox late that night.

It wasn't much of a party, and what took the edge off it for me was that guy, my pal Joe.

When I had hit him up he shook his head—all right, so I passed him up. The guy must be broke. I went ashore with Mush and we brought back a dozen bottles of vino. When we returned to the fo'castle we found our pal Joe all washed, shaved, and dressed up for a big night, with striped silk shirt, fancy armbands, et al. He stood there adjusting the knot of his tie in his locker-door mirror, reeking of hair tonic, shaving lotion, talc, and eau de cologne. Mush and I realized this guy wasn't getting dressed up for our sakes. We said as much. He grinned, gave us the wink, and said he was going up to Bahia Blanca. How? He winked again.

Why, it costs one peso fifty to go to the city, three pesos round trip. We could have bought a couple of more bottles for that money...

Our pal Joe had reneged!

T'hell with him. It was his money. He could do whatever he goddam well wanted to do with it, but goddam it, he was a member of the crew, and if he'd been holding out so he could go awenchin' when the rest of the crew couldn't even afford a whole bottle of wine a man— Where was his community spirit—? Why, goddam, he was positively anti-social, a selfish indecent throwback on human society, and he goddam well ought to have his A.B. papers revoked. . . .

Joe said nothing. By that time he was completely dressed. He carefully adjusted his stiff, straw hat with the proper Maurice Chevalier angle, tapped the top of it, gave us another wink, and swung out of the fo'castle door leaving us shouting at the wind.

T'hell with him. So we had the party without him.

25. Brassy, Gassy Officialdom