Down to a Soundless Sea (7 page)

It was half-past midnight when Chapel reappeared on deck. He wore a broad grin. Pryot slapped him on the back, laughed, and led him down the gangway arm in arm. He suggested they find a hot rum to celebrate. Chapel was amenable, so off they went.

As they walked up the dock, Chapel laughed to himself. “You know, Baily, I thought tomorrow would be a special day for me.”

“Why, mate? What’s so special about April nineteenth other than it’s still 1894?”

Chapel looked a little shy about his answer. “It’s my … 
That is … I mean, April nineteenth is … it’s my birthday. I never really celebrated my birthday before, because nothing decent ever happened to me on my birthday. But thanks to you, Baily, I have something to rejoice in. The mug is on me, sir. It’s the least I can do for a man who pulled my keel off the mudflats.”

Chapel was as good as his word. He walked Pryot back to his ship in time for sailing. He stood and waved farewell as the
Columbia
shipped her hawsers and floated free from the pier. Pryot waved back and then went below to his duty station.

Chapel, excited and with little need of sleep, walked back to his shabby boardinghouse to pack his gear and secure his papers. Like most sailors, Chapel had been expected to pay every week in advance for his lodgings, such as they were. He would sail with two days owed to him. He left his landlady a note with a reminder to that effect and his thanks, and said he looked forward to his return. Of course, the last thing he ever wanted to do was to stay in a boardinghouse again, but he thought it politic to leave behind a good impression just in case, God forbid, her services were ever called for again. With his accounts cleared, Chapel threw his worn seabag over his shoulder and made his way back to his new ship, his new home, through dawn’s mist-shrouded glow.

Relieved and happy, he whistled little snatches of songs as he walked along. San Pedro, like most big ports, stayed awake and attended to business at all hours. Ship chandlers, victualers, rope yards, coal merchants, saloons, brothels, and jails all kept the same schedules. Chapel watched as bumboats and hoys plied their way back and forth to the vessels moored in the roadstead.

Chapel reported to the purser of the
Los Angeles
as soon as he came aboard. He showed the officer his seaman’s papers and told him that he had already been approved by the chief engineer the previous evening. The purser disappeared for a moment to confirm Chapel’s statements and then returned with the ship’s register.

Chapel signed the book, was allocated a berth and told to report to Mr. Gladis as soon as possible after stowing his kit. The ship was due for departure as soon as the last of the cargo and passengers came aboard. Chapel would be needed at once.

After securing his gear, Chapel reported to Mr. Gladis and was put to work immediately back-flushing the boiler’s lines. He also helped the stokers rake down the ash boxes and feed the boiler fires. It took only forty-five minutes to bring the steam gauges back to full working pressure and ready for sea. All was in order for departure as soon as the bridge telegraph signaled orders.

Mr. Gladis was an amiable enough officer as long as every detail of an assignment was accomplished to his satisfaction. But one of the stokers warned Chapel that Mr. Gladis could easily turn and rattle if his orders weren’t attended to with instant dispatch. This didn’t particularly disturb Chapel. He was a solid hand and attentive to his duty. No officer had ever found him wanting in diligence, so it was no surprise that Chapel got on well with Mr. Gladis.

He found the spirited chief engineer both gregarious and sharp-tongued in a fashion only the Irish could balance with grace. A good-humored man in the main, Mr. Gladis appeared more than willing to help an earnest seaman master new skills, but only if he thought the pupil worth a tinker’s damn.

The
Los Angeles
was steaming out of harbor by seven-thirty in the morning watch. The bell sounded the beginning of the forenoon at eight while Chapel stood noting down steam pressure, condenser temperature, shaft revolutions, and the like. He wrote down the appropriate numbers in their respective columns on the engine-room log and noted the time of each reading. This was normally done every half hour of the watch. If the ship was maneuvering in contrary seas, restrictive channels, or in an emergency situation where the engine’s speed and direction were of constant importance, then the readings and times would be logged more frequently. The Pacific Steamship Company took pride in demanding detailed logs from her ship’s captains. In turn, Captain Leland demanded the same from his bridge, engineering, and cargo officers.

Mr. Gladis was in the midst of explaining that the condenser-coil temperature gauges were only marginally reliable and that allowances of ten to fifteen degrees would be required on certain occasions when the watch bell rang out. Chapel made no move to leave his station, but continued to listen attentively to Mr. Gladis’ explanations. Chapel had no intention of leaving his post until the chief engineer dismissed him, regardless of the watch bell.

Mr. Gladis well appreciated the reality ‘tween the decks. All seamen, merchant hands especially, were constantly in want of decent rations and sleep. They rarely volunteered to surrender the opportunity to acquire either unless a threatening ship’s emergency called them to their duty. Chapel’s reluctance to leave the engine room without proper dismissal impressed Mr. Gladis, and after he had signed off on the logs, he told Chapel to take the fuel-consumption records to the purser’s cabin. He
was then given leave to stand down for breakfast and some sleep.

In fact, for reasons that eluded him, Chapel didn’t really feel the need for sleep. He had taken no rest the night before while keeping company with Baily Pryot, but the joy of being back at sea in a sound ship lifted his spirits beyond all fatigue.

At the purser’s cabin the steward told Chapel that the officer in question was presently in the company of Captain Leland on the bridge. Chapel made his way to the bridge, where he found the captain, Mr. Ryfkogel, and the purser deep in deliberation on matters of impending foul weather and the viability of their next port of call. Chapel made himself inconspicuous next to the chart table and waited to be recognized. While he listened, Chapel learned many things he had been curious about. He had wanted to ask Mr. Gladis several questions about the voyage, but he knew from experience that most officers didn’t appreciate inquisitive seamen. He had let the matter pass. The destination really mattered very little to Chapel. It was the course that interested him most, and the kinds of seas they would encounter on their way.

The purser informed Captain Leland that the passenger list numbered forty-nine rather than the expected fifty-one. Two passengers had obviously missed the sailing. They were a cheerful bunch, he said. Most were on their way to the glittering Midwinter Fair in San Francisco. The purser noted that several passengers had started celebrating a little early. Mr. Ryfkogel laughed and speculated that they would regret their imprudence if the ship encountered spotty weather.

The purser went on to sum up the cargo manifest and submit the sheets for the captain’s signature. The
Los Angeles
’ cargo at present consisted of fresh butter, dressed veal carcasses,
Swiss cheese, grapefruit, oranges, lemons, pepper, and chrome. The vessel was scheduled to make a routine stop at San Simeon, where eighty tons of wool were to be taken on board, and that would complete her manifest for San Francisco.

Chapel watched quietly as Captain Leland signed the manifest. Mr. Ryfkogel looked over and noticed the young crewman standing quietly and holding the chief engineer’s log, also awaiting the captain’s signature. The third officer waved Chapel over and inspected the appropriate sheets. He then handed the log to the captain, who inspected, signed, and returned the log to Chapel with permission to proceed with his duties.

Chapel restored the volume to its assigned compartment in the engine room and made his way to the crew galley for hot coffee, cook’s two-pound sinkers, and a greasy fried-egg-and-bacon sandwich.

Before bunking down for a brief sleep, Chapel took a turn about the fo’c’sle rail. The ship had quickly cleared the tepid, oily mists of San Pedro, and the morning sun and swift onshore breezes had scoured the sky to a bright lapis blue. All of life’s important keys surfaced in place at that moment. Chapel’s course looked fair and full of modest assurances. A smooth passage north on bright seas was all the medicine he needed to purge memories of his recent, desperate beaching.

At last Chapel went below, found his berth, pulled off his boots, and hoisted himself into his bunk in one flowing movement. His eyes lazily followed the familiar dancing patterns of reflected sea light on the overhead for ten seconds, and then he sounded like a whale into the deepest waters of sleep.

When Chapel reflected upon the subject later, the dream he had must have begun the very moment he fell asleep, and it
didn’t cease in its intensity, detail, or exotic lucidity until he was called for the afternoon watch. Like many people, Chapel had experienced dreams of flight. There hadn’t been many, three or four in a lifetime, but he had cherished every fraction of those dreams and could recall them for comfort at any unhappy moment. He had also experienced several dreams that found him underwater without the necessity of breathing, a slow-motion sensation of gliding through emerald shafts of light piercing deep into the sea. He had enjoyed those dreams and always hoped for further visitations. But this particular dream, though seemingly a combination of both original elements, was, in its expression, totally different.

In his dream Chapel stood near the toe of a freshly built pier. He could even smell the fresh-hewn timbers. The pier showed not the least-soiled hint that ship or gull had ever visited the site. The fresh construction jutted out into an empty and tranquil bay. When he looked over the edge into the depths, Chapel could see all the way to the sandy bottom. The fish winged through the clear waters like darting birds. Then suddenly Chapel felt a broad, irresistible pressure thrusting him forward. He had no course but to allow himself to be propelled off the end of the pier and into the bay. There he bobbed for a few moments like a buoy, never sinking below his waist or touching bottom.

Then the invisible source of pressure reinstated its will and began to drive Chapel forward, at first slowly, then gaining speed. With the lower half of his body submerged and the upper half slicing through the waves, Chapel moved forward through the breakwater out into the wide, green ocean.

He moved effortlessly through rolling swells. One moment he was abreast of the surge and the next, rising so high that
he looked down on the bottlenose dolphins gamboling in the bow wave his body created. But no matter how he strained to see what propelled his motion forward, Chapel’s field of vision was limited to what lay ahead or aside. It might have been the broad head of a sperm whale for all he knew. This was not to say that Chapel didn’t find the whole sensation exhilarating, because he did. In fact, Chapel couldn’t remember having had so much fun in his whole life.

After a short while he totally immersed himself in the exotic sensation. He felt like a winged statue he had once seen in a park, arms swept back, the cresting froth of seafoam dashing against his frame as he cut through the swells.

In this manner Chapel’s dream conducted him through many oceans and alien ports. But in every case, no matter how fascinating or wondrous, Chapel fled from the busy harbors to the safety of the open sea. There he felt kin to important natural forces like tides, currents, and the vast swarms of ocean life dashing all about beneath him. Only when he was free from the bondage of the shore did the flying fish and dolphins delight in his company.

In this guise Chapel sailed on until he became aware that he viewed the world from the perspective of a ship’s figurehead. Indeed, he felt as though he had become a ship himself, and this wonderful realization pleased him immeasurably.

It all made perfect sense in his dream, and Chapel basked in the simple magic of the answer. He saw that some men were born to the plow or the anvil and some to the loom, but it was destiny’s resolve that Chapel Lodge should find his mission as a great ship. Nothing could have been more logical, to Chapel’s way of thinking.

The dream ended abruptly when a sooty Filipino stoker
named Cricket gently shook his arm and indicated a change of watch was at hand.

Chapel pulled on his boots and grabbed a mug of thick coffee from the galley on his way to the engine room. Mr. Page, the second engineering officer, was still on duty awaiting Mr. Gladis to relieve him. Chapel took his counterpart’s place with Mr. Page’s permission and perused the engine-room logs from the last watch.

Seaman Chapel followed his normal routine with best efforts, and certainly no one on his watch would have guessed he was acutely distracted by a dream. Yet he was fearful of letting any detail escape, fearful the dream might disappear, like most important revelations. Rarely shared or heeded, dreams of keen personal consequence live for the life of the dreamer only. Chapel knew instinctively that the key to his nature lay within the folds of this dream, and he believed that every particular had to be memorized before it faded back into the twilight.

Mr. Gladis finally appeared. Cheerful and animated as was his custom, he vocalized in a semishout over the din of the engines. The chief engineer was loudly explaining about having served as second engineer aboard the
Wyanda
. It took a few moments for Chapel to understand that the
Los Angeles
was a decommissioned revenue cutter and that her launching plaque read
Wyanda
. Chapel found it difficult to gather the traces of the chief engineer’s narrative, and though he would have bet good money that this was not to be the last time he would hear this story, Chapel thought it best to pay attention, if only for the sake of his amicable relationship with Mr. Gladis.

Chapel tried his best to follow the point of the story, but
the memories of his dream blossomed again and he lost all track of the rousing tale Mr. Gladis was attempting to spin. Though his work showed little sign of preoccupation, Chapel was nonetheless haunted by the tantalizing recollections of his dream for the rest of the day.