Collection 1980 - Yondering Read online

  “Sure,” I said. “Okay.”

  He didn’t come. The wind whined and snarled around the corners of the house, and we heard the tires of a car whine on the wet pavement below. It is a terrible thing to see a man’s belief in himself crumble, for when one loses faith in one’s own illusion, there is nothing left. Even Slim understood that. It was almost daybreak before I fell asleep.

  Several nights drifted by. There was food to get, and the rent was coming due. We were counting each dime, for we had not yet made the six dollars. There was still a gap, a breach in our wall that we might not fill. And outside was the night, the rain, and the cold.

  The Richfield, a Standard tanker, was due in. I had a shipmate aboard her, and when she came up the channel, I was waiting on the dock. They might need an A.B.

  They didn’t.

  It was a couple of hours later when I climbed the hill toward the shack. I didn’t often go that way, but this time it was closer, and I was worried. The night before I’d left the money for the rent in a thick white cup on the cupboard shelf. And right then murder could be done for five bucks. Accidentally I glanced in the window. Then I stopped.

  Old Doc Yak was standing by the cupboard, holding the white cup in his hand. As I watched, he dipped his fingers in and drew out some of our carefully gleaned nickels, dimes, and quarters. Then he stood there letting those shining metal disks trickle through his thick fingers and back into the cup. Then he dipped his fingers again, and I stood there, holding my breath.

  A step or two and I could have stopped him, but I stood there, gripped by his indecision, half guessing what was happening inside him. Here was money. Here, for a little while, was food, a room, a day or two of comfort. I do not think he considered the painstaking effort to acquire those few coins or the silent, bedraggled men who had trooped up the muddy trail to add a dime or fifteen cents to the total of our next month’s rent. What hunger had driven him back, I knew. What helplessness and humiliation waited in the streets below, I also knew.

  Slowly, one by one, the coins dribbled back into the cup, the cup was returned to the shelf, and Old Doc Yak turned and walked from the door. For one moment he paused, his face strangely gray and old, staring out across the bleak, rain-washed roofs toward the gray waters of the channel and Terminal Island just beyond.

  Then he walked away, and I waited until he was out of sight before I went inside, and I, who had seen so much of weariness and defeat, hesitated before I took down the cup. It was all there, and suddenly I was a little sorry that it was.

  Once more I saw him. One dark, misty night I came up from the lumber docks, collar turned up, cap pulled low, picking my way through the shadows and over the railroad ties, stumbling along rails lighted only by the feeble red and green of switch lights. Reaching the street, I scrambled up the low bank and saw him standing in the light of a street lamp.

  He was alone, guarded from friendship as always by his icy impenetrability but somehow strangely pathetic with his sagging shoulders and graying hair. I started to speak, but he turned up his coat collar and walked away down a dark street.

  SURVIVAL

  * * *

  There are many men like Tex Worden, and they can be found doing their share of the hard work of the world wherever they may be. They make excellent soldiers or sailors and have courage of an uncommon quality but do not think of it as such. Not one of them would apply the term hero to himself or think of himself in connection with the term (or anyone else, when it came to that!), but they do the job they are hired to do as best they know how.

  By and large they are very good at what they do, are inclined to be a little impatient with those less capable than themselves, but will take time to instruct anyone who shows an inclination to learn and a readiness to lend a hand. They are never flamboyant, and they do not flock with others of their kind or with anyone else. You would never find one of them making a profession of fighting (except in the services), but if you get into a fight with one, you would have to half kill him to win.

  The events of this story are basically true, and I knew the “Tex Worden” written about here. That was not his name, and the circumstances were a little different. I knew him in Pedro and made a trip to sea in the same forecastle.

  * * *

  TEX WORDEN SHOVED his way through the crowd in the Slave Market and pushed his book under the wicket.

  The clerk looked up, taking in his blistered face and swollen hands. “What’ll you have, buddy? You want to register?”

  “Naw, I’m here to play a piano solo, what d’you think?”

  “Wise guy, eh?”

  Tex’s eyes were cold. “Sure, and what about it?”

  “You guys all get too smart when you get ashore. I’m used to you guys, but one of these days I’m going to come out from behind here and kick hell out of one of you!”

  “Why not now?” Worden said mildly. “You don’t see me out there running down the street, do you? You just come out from behind that counter, and I’ll lay you in the scuppers.”

  At a signal from the man behind the wicket a big man pushed his way through the crowd and tapped Tex Worden on the shoulder. “All right, buddy, take it easy. You take it easy, or you get the boot.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah!”

  Tex grinned insultingly and turned his back, waiting for the return of his book. The clerk opened it grudgingly, then looked up, startled.

  “You were on the Raratonga!”

  “So what?”

  “We heard only one of the crew was saved!”

  “Who the hell do you think I am? Napoleon? And that saved business, that’s the bunk. That’s pure malarkey. I saved myself. Now come on, get that book fixed. I want to get out of here.”

  The plainclothes man was interested. “No kiddin’, are you Tex Worden?”

  “I am.”

  “Hell, man, that must have been some wreck. The papers say that if it wasn’t for you none of them would have gotten back. Dorgan was on that boat, too!”

  “Dorgan?” Tex turned to face him. “You know Dorgan?”

  “Knew him? I should say I did! A tough man, too. One of the toughest.”

  Worden just looked at him. “How tough a man is often depends on where he is and what he’s doing.” He was looking past the plainclothes man, searching for a familiar face. In all this gathering of merchant seamen hunting work, he saw no one.

  Times were hard. There were over seven hundred seamen on the beach, and San Pedro had become a hungry town. Jobs were scarce, and a man had to wait his turn. And he didn’t have eating money. Everything he had had gone down with the Raratonga. He had money coming to him, but how long it would be before he saw any of it was a question.

  Near the door he glimpsed a slight, buck-toothed seaman in a blue pea jacket whose face looked familiar. He edged through the crowd to him. “Hi, Jack, how’s about staking a guy to some chow?”

  “Hey? Don’t I know you? Tex, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. Tex Worden. You were on the West Ivis when I was.”

  “Come on, there’s a greasy spoon right down the street.” When they were outside, he said, “I don’t want to get far from the shipping office. My number’s due to come up soon.”

  “How long’s it been?”

  “Three months. Well, almost that. Times are rough, Tex.” He looked at Worden. “What happened to you?”

  “I was on the Raratonga.”

  The sailor shook his head in awe. “Jee-sus! You were the only one who came back!”

  “Some passengers made it. Not many but some.”

  “How’s it feel to be a hero? And with Hazel Ryan yet. And Price! The actress and the millionaire! You brought them back alive.”

  “Me an’ Frank Buck. If this is how it feels to be a hero, you can have it. I’m broke. There’s a hearing today, and maybe I can hit up the commissioner for a few bucks.”

  The other seaman thrust out a hand. “I’m Conrad, Shorty Conrad. Paid off a sh
ip from the east coast of South America, and I lied to you. It didn’t take me three months because I’ve got a pal back there. I’ll say a word for you, and maybe you can get a quick shipout.”

  They ordered coffee and hamburger steaks. “This is a tough town, man. No way to get out of this dump unless you can take a pierhead jump or get lucky. If you know a ship’s officer who’ll ask for you, you got a better chance.”

  “I don’t know nobody out here. I been shipping off the east coast.”

  A burly Greek came along behind the counter. He stared hard at them. “You boys got money? I hate to ask, but we get stiffed a lot.”

  “I got it.” Shorty showed him a handful of silver dollars. “Anyway, this is Tex Worden. He was on the Raratonga.”

  “You got to be kiddin’.”

  The Greek eyed him with respect. “That where you got blistered?” he motioned toward Worden’s hands. “What happened to them?”

  “Knittin’,” Tex said. “Them needles get awful heavy after a while.”

  He was tired, very, very tired. The reaction was beginning to set in now. He was so tired he felt he’d fall off the stool if he wasn’t careful, and he didn’t even have the price of a bed. If he hit the sack now, he’d probably pass out for a week. His shoulders ached, and his hands were sore. They hurt when he used them, and they hurt just as much when he didn’t.

  “It was a nasty blow, Shorty. You never saw wind like that.”

  “She went down quick, eh? I heard it was like fifteen minutes.”

  “Maybe. It was real quick. Starb’rd half door give way, and the water poured in; then a bulkhead give way, and the rush of water put the fires out. No power, no pumps—it was a madhouse.”

  They were silent, sipping their coffee and eating the greasy steaks. Finally Shorty asked, “How long were you out there?”

  “Fifteen days, just a few miles off the equator. It rained once—just in time.”

  Faces of men he knew drifted by the door. He knew some of them but could not recall their names. They were faces he’d seen from Hong Kong to Hoboken, from Limehouse to Malay Street in Singapore or Grant Road in Bombay, Gomar Street in Suez, or the old American Bar on Lime Street in Liverpool. He’d started life as a cowboy but now he’d been at sea for fifteen years.

  It was a rough crowd out there on Beacon Street, but if he did not know them all, he knew their kind. There were pimps and prostitutes, seamen, fishermen, longshoremen, and bums, but they were all people, and they were all alive, and they were all walking on solid ground.

  There were gobs there from the battle wagons off Long Beach and girls who followed the fleet. There was an occasional drunk looking for a live wire who might spring for another bottle, and he liked it.

  “Maybe I’ll save my money,” he said aloud, “buy myself a chicken ranch. I’d like to own a chicken ranch near Modesto.”

  “Where’s Modesto?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere north of here. I just like the sound of it.”

  Tex Worden looked down at his hands. Under the bandages they were swollen with angry red cracks where the blisters had been and some almost raw flesh that had just begun to heal. In the mirror he saw a face like a horror mask, for tough as his hide was, the sun had baked it to an angry red that he could not touch to shave. He looked frightening and felt worse. If only he could get some sleep!

  He did not want to think of those bitter, brutal days when he rowed the boat, hour after hour, day after day, rowing with a sullen resignation, all sense of time forgotten, even all sense of motion. There had been no wind for days, just a dead calm, the only movement being the ripples in the wake of the lifeboat.

  He got up suddenly. “I almost forgot. I got to stop by the commissioner’s office. They want to ask me some questions. Sort of a preliminary inquiry, I guess.”

  Shorty stole a quick look at him. “Tex—you be careful. Be real careful. These aren’t seamen. They don’t know what it’s like out there. They can’t even imagine.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Be careful, I tell you. I read something about it in the papers. If you ain’t careful they’ll crucify you.”

  * * *

  THERE WERE SEVERAL men in business suits in the office when they entered. They all looked at Tex, but the commissioner was the only one who spoke. “Thank you, son. That was a good job you did out there.”

  “It was my job,” Tex said. “I done what I was paid for.”

  The commissioner dropped into a swivel chair behind his desk. “Now, Worden, I expect you’re tired. We will not keep you any longer than we must, but naturally we must arrive at some conclusions as to what took place out there and what caused the disaster. If there is anything you can tell us, we’d be glad to hear it.”

  Shorty stole a glance at the big man with the red face. A company man, here to protect their interests. He knew the type.

  “There’s not much to tell, sir. I had come off watch about a half hour before it all happened, and when I went below, everything seemed neat and shipshape. When the ship struck, I was sitting on my bunk in the fo’c’s’le taking off my shoes.

  “The jolt threw me off the bench, an’ Stu fell off his bunk on top of me. He jumped up an’ said, ‘What the hell happened?’ and I said I didn’t know, but it felt like we hit something. He said, ‘It’s clear enough outside, and we’re way out to sea. Must be a derelict!’ I was pulling on my shoes, and so was he, an’ we ran up on deck.

  “There was a lot of running around, and we started forward, looking for the mate. Before we’d made no more than a half-dozen steps, the signal came for boat stations, and I went up on the boat deck. Last I saw of Stu he was trying to break open a jammed door, and I could hear people behind it.

  “We must have hit pretty hard because she was starting to settle fast, going down by the head with a heavy list to starb’rd. I was mighty scared because I remembered that starb’rd half door, and—”

  “What about the half door, Worden? What was wrong with it?”

  “Nothing at all, commissioner,” the company man interrupted. “The company inspector—”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Winstead.” The commissioner spoke sharply. “Who is conducting this inquiry?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Proceed with your story, Worden.”

  “The half door was badly sprung, sir. Somebody said the ship had been bumped a while back, and I guess they paid no mind to repairs. Anyway, it wasn’t no bother unless they was loaded too heavy, and—”

  “What do you mean, Worden? Was the ship overloaded?”

  Winstead scowled at Worden, his lips drawing to a thin, angry line.

  “Well, sir, I guess I ain’t got no call to speak, but—”

  “You just tell what happened at the time of the wreck, Worden. That will be sufficient!” Winstead said, interrupting.

  “Mr. Winstead! I will thank you not to interrupt this man’s story again. I am conducting this inquiry, and regardless of the worth of what Worden may have to say, he is the sole remaining member of the crew. As a seafaring man of many years’ experience, he understands ships, and he was there when it happened. I intend to hear all—let me repeat, all—he has to say. We certainly are not going to arrive at any conclusions by concealing anything. If your vessel was in proper condition, you have nothing to worry about, but I must say your attitude gives rise to suspicion.” He paused, glancing up at the reporters who were writing hurriedly. “Now, Worden, if you please. Continue your story.”

  “Well, sir, I was standing by number three hatch waiting for the last loads to swing aboard so’s I could batten down the hatch, an’ I heard Mr. Jorgenson—he was the mate—say to Mr. Winstead here that he didn’t like it at all. He said loading so heavy with that bad door was asking for trouble, and he went on to mention that bad bulkhead amidships.

  “I don’t know much about it, sir, except what he said and the talk in the fo’c’s’le about the bulkhead between hatches three and four. One of the
men who’d been chipping rust down there said you didn’t dare chip very hard or you’d drive your hammer right through, it was that thin. When I was ashore clearing the gangway, I saw she was loaded down below the Plimsoll marks.”

  “Weren’t you worried, Worden? I should think that knowing the conditions you would have been.”

  “No, sir. Generally speaking, men working aboard ship don’t worry too much. I’ve been going to sea quite a while now, and it’s always the other ships that sink, never the one a fellow’s on. At least that’s the way it is until something happens. We don’t think about it much, and if she sinks, then she sinks, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, sir. There was trouble with that half door before we were three days out. Me an’ a couple of others were called to help Chips caulk that half door. You know—it’s a door in the ship’s side through which cargo is loaded. Not all ships have ’em. That door had been rammed some time or another, and it didn’t fit right. In good weather or when she carried a normal load it was all right.

  “But three days out we had a spot of bad weather; some of that cargo shifted a mite, and she began to make water, so we had to recaulk that door.

  “To get back to that night, sir. When I got to my boat station, I saw one of the officers down on the deck with his head all stove in. I don’t know whether he got hit with something or whether it was done by the bunch of passengers who were fighting over the boat. Ever’body was yellin’ an’ clawin’, so I waded in an’ socked a few of them and got them straightened out.

  “I told them they’d damn well better do what they were told because I was the only one who knew how to get that lifeboat into the water. After that they quieted down some. A couple of them ran off aft, hunting another boat, but I got busy with the lifeboat cover.

  “All of a sudden it was still, so quiet it scared you. The wind still blowing and big waves all around but ghostly still. You could hear a body speak just like I’m speakin’ now. It was like everything quieted down to let us die in peace. I could tell by the feel of her that we hadn’t long. She was settlin’ down, and she had an ugly, heavy feel to her.