away.
"Sailor."
"Captain?"
"I was going to transfer you after that display with the paint. Chief Dane insisted it would be a mistake."
Brace stood, unable to absorb a further jolt of information.
"I am now willing to admit that Chief Dane is probably correct. Dismissed." As Brace left, Levere turned to Snow. "Set your gang to work on the shoring, then come to my cabin."
"I am physically not a large man," Snow said instead. "Now that I am once provoked, I am sure that the crew has no further questions."
"In that case, go about your duties." Levere shook his head, mused as if dreaming. "I thought it was the Irish who were supposed to be lucky."
Abner 's yeoman Wilson was impressed when Howard told the story. "Where did Levere find that one?"
"A small fishing village. A place called Liverpool."
"Get off my back. I can read a chart."
"He got busted up and concussed on a Limey can doing escort during the war. It scrambled his brains. They dropped him off here and he liked the place."
"Look for the woman," yeoman Wilson advised.
"I always do," Howard said. "World without end."
The gray chill was momentarily held in check because of the incident between Snow and Brace. For a while men gossiped, laughed, formed estimates of Snow that they could live with, while thinking little that was new about Brace. Cutter Abner struggled. By the time Abner had Clara in tow, returning to the disabled Ezekiel , the story turned from the main street of the crew's attention to a back alleyway of disregard. It was a small memory, to be fished from a man's ditty bag of tales at some future time, on some future messdeck, where youth might need advice.
As the tale moved into shadows, and Abner 's problems increased, so also increased a cold sense of unease, punctuated by bursts of exasperation because Abner was forced to go it alone.
"That could be us out there," Glass complained .
"The sea got up," yeoman Wilson told Howard. "It was seven hours to Clara and twenty coming back. The jury rig on their steering broke twice."
"We didn't hear you send for a long time."
"Those fishing skippers had this crazy idea."
Clara , outbound, was fully iced.
"They tried to transfer ice," Wilson said. "Our cap went along with it for awhile, but the sea kept working."
In a gray dawn, cutter Abner steamed slowly through mist, keeping visual and radar check on its three charges. Clara and Ezekiel wallowed together, fending off, their crews a bucket brigade passing ice above a gray, cold sea. The hard-pitching, smaller Hester C. was streamed to a sea anchor two miles distant.
"And that's when the guy on Joan of Arc got hit?"
"Who does the first aid on your ship?"
"Me."
"Me, too," Wilson said. "Me and our cook. We'd ought to have a corpsman."
On Joan of Arc , a rusting cable had snapped, tearing away most of a man's face.
"We steamed at them flank," Wilson said, "and they were making knots toward us. It only took a couple hours. Couldn't get a seaplane."
"I've seen them put down on open ocean."
"Not that open ocean."
"He was one of those hysterical Spanish guys, and he moaned all the time," Wilson continued in the clear tones of misery. "He moaned for five days straight an' all you could do was clean him up. Sulfa and bandages and soup and keep his breathing clear, and a little morph. Bone stickin' out of his face."
Abner , receiving the injured fisherman, wheeled back and returned rapidly to its three radar targets.
"I was still holding that guy's hand," Wilson said, "so I didn't see what happened. Our radioman, Diamond, told me."
Through the mist, Hester C . was a pitching, black and gray dot on a gray sea. As Abner closed, Diamond picked up the 7 x 50s to check the lobsterman's trim. He gasped, put down the binoculars and picked up the 20-power telescope. The figure of a man was bending over the well of dead lobsters.
"I wish it swamped," yeoman Wilson said. "That guy fixed his old lady good. Nobody will ever buy that thing."
"Nobody was
"Sailor."
"Captain?"
"I was going to transfer you after that display with the paint. Chief Dane insisted it would be a mistake."
Brace stood, unable to absorb a further jolt of information.
"I am now willing to admit that Chief Dane is probably correct. Dismissed." As Brace left, Levere turned to Snow. "Set your gang to work on the shoring, then come to my cabin."
"I am physically not a large man," Snow said instead. "Now that I am once provoked, I am sure that the crew has no further questions."
"In that case, go about your duties." Levere shook his head, mused as if dreaming. "I thought it was the Irish who were supposed to be lucky."
Abner 's yeoman Wilson was impressed when Howard told the story. "Where did Levere find that one?"
"A small fishing village. A place called Liverpool."
"Get off my back. I can read a chart."
"He got busted up and concussed on a Limey can doing escort during the war. It scrambled his brains. They dropped him off here and he liked the place."
"Look for the woman," yeoman Wilson advised.
"I always do," Howard said. "World without end."
The gray chill was momentarily held in check because of the incident between Snow and Brace. For a while men gossiped, laughed, formed estimates of Snow that they could live with, while thinking little that was new about Brace. Cutter Abner struggled. By the time Abner had Clara in tow, returning to the disabled Ezekiel , the story turned from the main street of the crew's attention to a back alleyway of disregard. It was a small memory, to be fished from a man's ditty bag of tales at some future time, on some future messdeck, where youth might need advice.
As the tale moved into shadows, and Abner 's problems increased, so also increased a cold sense of unease, punctuated by bursts of exasperation because Abner was forced to go it alone.
"That could be us out there," Glass complained .
"The sea got up," yeoman Wilson told Howard. "It was seven hours to Clara and twenty coming back. The jury rig on their steering broke twice."
"We didn't hear you send for a long time."
"Those fishing skippers had this crazy idea."
Clara , outbound, was fully iced.
"They tried to transfer ice," Wilson said. "Our cap went along with it for awhile, but the sea kept working."
In a gray dawn, cutter Abner steamed slowly through mist, keeping visual and radar check on its three charges. Clara and Ezekiel wallowed together, fending off, their crews a bucket brigade passing ice above a gray, cold sea. The hard-pitching, smaller Hester C. was streamed to a sea anchor two miles distant.
"And that's when the guy on Joan of Arc got hit?"
"Who does the first aid on your ship?"
"Me."
"Me, too," Wilson said. "Me and our cook. We'd ought to have a corpsman."
On Joan of Arc , a rusting cable had snapped, tearing away most of a man's face.
"We steamed at them flank," Wilson said, "and they were making knots toward us. It only took a couple hours. Couldn't get a seaplane."
"I've seen them put down on open ocean."
"Not that open ocean."
"He was one of those hysterical Spanish guys, and he moaned all the time," Wilson continued in the clear tones of misery. "He moaned for five days straight an' all you could do was clean him up. Sulfa and bandages and soup and keep his breathing clear, and a little morph. Bone stickin' out of his face."
Abner , receiving the injured fisherman, wheeled back and returned rapidly to its three radar targets.
"I was still holding that guy's hand," Wilson said, "so I didn't see what happened. Our radioman, Diamond, told me."
Through the mist, Hester C . was a pitching, black and gray dot on a gray sea. As Abner closed, Diamond picked up the 7 x 50s to check the lobsterman's trim. He gasped, put down the binoculars and picked up the 20-power telescope. The figure of a man was bending over the well of dead lobsters.
"I wish it swamped," yeoman Wilson said. "That guy fixed his old lady good. Nobody will ever buy that thing."
"Nobody was
Similar Books
