Down to a Soundless Sea (6 page)

Weasel-eyed Pryot, amused to the point of coarse laughter, informed young Mr. Lodge that the whole affair had been his own idea. Chapel had even insisted on waking the purser to sign ship’s articles at four o’clock in the morning. If there was anybody to blame for his present difficulty, Chapel need only seek out his own wasted reflection in a mirror and rebuke that image instead of his friend.

Pryot swore on his mother’s grave that he had tried to dissuade Lodge from such a rash course, but that Chapel had insisted on having his own way at every turn. What was an honest seaman to do? The ship needed a stoker, and Chapel seemingly leapt at the opportunity. “Case closed, mate, signed and fair. Legal under U.S. Maritime law, by God,” declared Bosun’s Mate Pryot with total conviction.

That was the end of all official discussion on the matter. Chapel soon came to learn that ship’s rules and captain’s prerogatives were holy writ and should be obeyed above the laws of heaven. Villainous conduct of any description, negligence of duty, or disrespect to officers, carried a variety of very unattractive penalties far more severe than one would expect on dry land for similar offenses.

Authority was rigid, work was hard, and the days seemed
never ending. This volatile mix of strange and aggressive elements did not bode favorably for Chapel’s future in the merchant marine. If prior traditions were to be taken as an indication of probabilities, there was every likelihood that Chapel would visit Alaska in chains and presumably remain there under harsh detention for some years to come.

Many strange and wonderful curiosities abound in this world, and the conversion of Chapel Lodge was not the least of these. One might not be able to put a finger upon the direct cause, but the binding effects of responsibility and discipline upon the boy were remarkable given the context of Chapel’s predilections. In fact, Chapel Lodge came to love his life at sea. He soon found he needed and respected this tribe of hard men who patterned and protected his floating world more than he needed life ashore. He slowly discovered pride and purpose in his work because others depended for their lives upon his attention to detail and duty. Being needed and trusted was a novel sensation for young Chapel, and he began to look forward to even the hardest watches to prove himself worthy of that warming confidence.

Chapel began taking a sincere interest in his ship and its workings. Eventually, the stoker’s mate and bunker boss commended Chapel to the chief engineer for his spirited attention to duty, a unique quality in a semishanghaied landsman. That simple commendation pleased Chapel more than a mother’s kiss, and he worked even harder to garner favorable recognition from his mates and officers. By the time he sailed back into San Francisco Bay five months later, he would not have been recognized in form or fashion by his closest friend—if he’d had one to care either way.

By the time Chapel had spent ten months aboard, he had
been rated an able seaman and received appropriate pay and papers, a truly remarkable accomplishment for a green hand. He had worked hard and wholeheartedly set himself to learn to hand, reef, and steer to achieve that rating. But his first love would always be the great engines and boilers that dwelt in the deepest vaults of his ship. Chapel was fascinated by the scale of power they represented, and the thought of being master of those dynamic forces lured him to study everything he could about those powerful machines.

During the next eight years, Chapel Lodge sailed aboard five good ships and experienced several long, hard passages, but his favorite voyages were always merchant cruises along the coast of California. It was wonderful and strange to see one’s homeland from the ocean. The shores defined the edge of everything safe and familiar, yet he never spent any time visiting old haunts. Chapel was more than satisfied with his new home at sea.

He often deliberated upon his life prior to going before the mast as it were, and Chapel had formed the nagging suspicion that perhaps he was just unlucky on land. He’d often heard sailors’ gossip reflecting all manner of fo’c’sle myths and superstitions, but the general thread of most tales held that grievous things happened to seamen who went ashore for any long span of liberty, and Chapel was more than willing to accept that axiom on faith.

It was therefore very disconcerting when Chapel found himself beached in San Pedro. Able Seaman Lodge had lost his berth, his home, and his friends. His ship, the steam schooner
Orion
, required new boilers and shafts and would be out of commission for three months at the very least. The thought of being trapped on shore made Chapel extremely anxious. He
felt sadly out of place without his ship and messmates and strangely at odds without ship’s work to occupy his time. So on his second day ashore Chapel went right out to find a berth on another vessel.

A week went by without success. There were more seamen on the beach than ship’s berths out of San Pedro. Chapel had every reason to worry. Many of the men he met at the hiring halls held greater seniority or more practiced skills than he. It looked as though he would have to go begging for a ship, and even that might take weeks of waiting, maybe months of cheap harbor boardinghouses and idle hours waiting for a shorthanded ship to make port.

Chapel made the rounds of every tavern and saloon frequented by ship’s officers. Perhaps he would run across someone who could help him find a berth before he ran out of money or sanity. Then one day, while making his futile tour of waterfront dives, Chapel spied a leathered face he knew only too well. It was Bosun’s Mate Baily Pryot, and he was deep in conversation with a spotty-faced chandler’s apprentice. When Pryot caught sight of Chapel he waved him over and greeted him with sentiments that would have made it seem that they had parted only the day before, when in fact, it had been years since their last meeting. Pryot slapped Chapel on the back and insisted they share a bottle at Galba’s Cantina just up the road from the harbor.

Chapel cheerfully accepted the invitation. He hadn’t seen a familiar face since he’d been beached, and he longed to pour out his troubles to a comrade of the decks. At first they shared past voyages and ports, but after a couple of glasses of Señora Galba’s homemade rat poison, they moved on to present scuttlebutt and rumor, always the seaman’s favorite discourse and pleasure.
At last Chapel disclosed his sad predicament in terms even Pryot could understand.

“You’ve got to help me, Baily,” Chapel said, “I’m going crazy on the beach. If I don’t find a berth soon, God knows what will happen. Probably just get myself in a heap of trouble again. I’m no damn use on land. It’s just not lucky for me. If I’d known this when I was a kid, I would have jumped aboard the first ship that came within swimming distance. I’ve been up and down these docks for days and can’t find a berth on a garbage scow. You’ve always got your finger in the wind, Baily. Tell me what to do or who to see. I’ll crew a ship to hell if it will get me off the beach and away from San Pedro. What do you say, mate? Can you do anything for me?”

Baily Pryot swallowed hard and pondered his young friend for a few long moments. After thinking it over he shook his head and pursed his lips in the negative. “I’m sorry, son. I can’t think of a thing at the moment. I’m bosun’s mate of Pacific Mail’s
Columbia
, and I know for a fact we’ve got more hands than we need. But she’s a great little ship for a fact. Brand new. Laid down in Pennsylvania according to her commission plaque. She’s fast and sea-kindly, the best of everything and a good feeder. I wish I could get you aboard, old son. You’d like her. And you should see her engine room. Not a fleck of rust; you could eat off the oiler’s deck, she’s so clean. Just to see her makes you want to move right in and set up housekeeping. Captain Barr sees she’s kept as bright as a penny, he’s that proud of her.”

Suddenly realizing that he was almost gloating over his own good fortune when poor Chapel was in chains against a lee shore, Pryot decided to shut up and drink.

There was a long pause in which neither man knew quite
what to say. Then suddenly Pryot brightened, smiled, and slapped the table. “But wait! Damn me for a tinker, I should have thought of this before. I might just have a barque up my sleeve after all. We crossed wakes with the
Los Angeles
coming out of Newport Beach first dogwatch, Monday evening. We make far better time, you see; that’s why we carry the mail,” he said proudly. “Anyway, she should be berthing sometime around midnight, and I know the third officer real well. His name is Roger Ryfkogel—strange duck, but a good officer. He owes me a favor or two from the old days. Now, Captain Leland is the devil’s own taskmaster by reputation, but fair by all accounts. He works as hard as any man on his crew, and they regard him well for it.” The bosun’s mate poured out more wine. “I couldn’t wish you a better berth, come to think of it. Captain Leland won’t abide scrubs or bilge runts, so you’ll always find a pretty decent bunch of hands on his decks. He demands a sharp galley too, since the bridge messes on crew’s rations. You’d take to the
Los Angeles
; she’s a steady ship, like I say, and she pays wages on the spar deck every fourth Sunday like clockwork. That’s better than most tubs you can name.”

Pryot watched as Chapel’s expression turned from one of sad despair to a grin of remarkable proportions. He almost looked boyish in bright expectation. “That’s the ticket, Mr. Pryot, you steadfast old jack staff. What a joy you are to see. Shall I go aboard when she docks, or wait till they set first deck watch?”

“I’d do it first thing. You’re not the only blue devil stuck on the beach, you know. There’d be good hands salivating at the breakwater if word took hold. These be lean times for poor sea beggars like us. Now listen, the
Columbia
leaves on the morning tide, middle watch. If the
Los Angeles
berths before
we sail, I’ll go with you and grease the way. If not, I’ll write you a note for Mr. Ryfkogel with my compliments and brassbound recommendations. He’ll recall that blond music teacher in Oakland I saved him from. That should do the trick. I’d tell you about it, but that wouldn’t be on the square. Ryfkogel is a good egg and a Mason like my old man. Bless his bones.”

Pryot moved to refill Chapel’s glass by way of celebrating a possible solution to his friend’s dilemma, but Chapel put his hand over the glass and smiled. “It wouldn’t go down well to report to the deck with a load hoisted. Why don’t I trade out for the best supper in the house to show my appreciation. I’ll even send the bar boy out for cigars later. What do you say?”

Señora Galba took Chapel’s money and laid on a remarkable variety of food for the price. The two sailors gorged themselves for hours. Every time a plate was cleaned, it was replaced with another until they could take no more. After their dinner, Chapel and Pryot retired to Señora Galba’s little whitewashed veranda overlooking the harbor. From their vantage point on the hill they could see everything that came and went in the maze of docks and piers below. The bar boy brought their cigars and great steaming mugs of coffee laced with sweet, dark rum. The two sailors propped up their feet and enjoyed the shank of the evening in idle gossip and tall tales that passed for fact.

Below in the harbor there was still a great deal of activity. While some ships slept at their moorings, others were alive with bustle and enterprise. Cargo and supplies, mail and passengers came and went under the flickering lights. Their reflection in the water gave the scene a festive air.

It was just about eleven-thirty when Pryot nudged Chapel and pointed with his cigar to the entrance of the harbor. “There she is now. Hard to see, but I know her stacks, lights, and lines. That’s the
Los Angeles
all right. She should be berthed across from the coaling wharf in forty minutes or so—plenty of time to finish here and walk down to the docks. What do you say to another mug of this grand Mexican coffee? I swear this stuff could prop up a corpse for bridge watch.”

Chapel and Pryot were standing by the wharf in time to see the
Los Angeles
secure her warps and spring lines. She dropped her plank, and a disheveled knot of tired passengers disembarked. Chapel followed Pryot up the gangway when all was clear. He told Chapel to keep silent and let him do all the talking. When they boarded, Pryot asked the officer of the deck to direct him to the third officer, Mr. Ryfkogel. He said he was there on ship’s business. The officer told Pryot to wait while a hand was sent to report their presence on board. When he appeared on deck, Mr. Ryfkogel recognized Pryot at once and waved him forward. Pryot told Chapel to stay put and say nothing. Chapel watched expectantly as Ryfkogel led Pryot into the purser’s cabin. He tried to pretend that he wasn’t apprehensive about the interview, but it didn’t work. So as not to fidget he began to pace under the watchful eyes of the deck officer. When Pryot emerged ten minutes later, Chapel was almost biting his thumbs.

The bosun approached with a big grin on his weathered face. “You’re in luck, son, though it goes hard for the poor bastard you’re replacing. The engineer’s mate smashed up both his ankles in an accident. A deck hatch slammed down on his pins before he was clear. Mr. Ryfkogel says that if the chief engineer passes on your ticket, you can sign on with the purser first
thing in the morning. Do you have your ticket on you? Well, never mind; you can wave it at the purser when you report aboard. The chief engineer’s name is Mr. Gladis. You had better go below before he turns in for the night.”

This time it was Pryot’s turn to wait on deck. He passed the while trading lies with a chief petty officer of the Revenue Service, who punctuated his colorless fables by spitting tobacco juice into the bay. Pryot could muster only marginal interest. It was time he should think of rejoining his own ship. He could see her loading coal across the way. When done, she would depart on the morning tide.

Mr. Gladis was a jovial, rubicund officer with a propensity for weaving bad puns into the conversation, but he was a thorough examiner for all that. Chapel could see by the condition of the engine room that Mr. Gladis was a stickler for order and Dutch polish. Chapel waited pensively for the chief engineer to make a decision, but Mr. Gladis seemed in no hurry to make up his mind.