The Caine Mutiny (46 page)

“Farrington,” Willie called, crossing the well deck, “you come along with me. You’ll assist me.”

“Aye aye, sir,” the ensign said, and fell into step behind Willie. Walking down the port passageway, the lieutenant observed over his shoulder, “This strikes you as queer business, no doubt.”

“Well, Mr. Keith, I was feeling outside of things, and pretty useless. I’m glad of a chance to help.”

Willie couldn’t see his face, but the tone of sober deference was unmistakable. It was the tone in which Willie had addressed Lieutenant Maryk and Lieutenant Gorton fifteen months ago, when they had seemed to him infinitely senior, battle-wise men of the sea. For an instant he was flattered; and he reflected that the
Caine
itself was perhaps so bewildering and odd to Farrington that the search scarcely surprised him, after all. It was becoming hard for Willie to picture the effect of the
Caine
on newcomers, and to reconstruct the emotions of fresh ensigns.

They emerged from the passageway into another crowd of wet, sullen sailors, drifting here and there in the rain. Willie herded the men into places of shelter, and organized an alphabetical sequence for the stripping. The men came in pairs into the shower room to take off their clothes. Farrington went to work systematically and unsmilingly, helping Willie rummage through the dank garments. Willie had the grateful feeling that another officer had at last come aboard the
Caine
.

One of the first men to be stripped was Meatball. Naked, hairy, and squat, he stood grinning, while Willie felt through the dungarees and in the shoes, wrinkling his nose at the powerful animal smell. He handed them back hastily. “Okay, Meatball, get dressed.”

“Why, Mr. Keith,” said the coxswain innocently, “ain’t you gonna look up my behind?”

The note was good-humored, and Willie swiftly decided not to take offense. “No, thanks. I don’t want any medals for extraordinary heroism.”

“Old man is really Asiatic, sir, ain’t he?” said Meatball, stepping into his trousers.

“Never mind about the captain,” said Willie sharply. “Keep a respectful tongue in your head.”

“Christ, sir, I’m only sayin’ what Mr. Keefer said to a whole bunch of us-”

“I’m not interested. No wise talk about the captain to me, understand?”

“Aye aye, sir,” whined the coxswain, looking so abashed that Willie instantly felt guilty and apologetic. The process of stripping the sailors rasped his nerves; it seemed to him an almost German rape of their personal rights; and the fact that they were submitting so tamely was an indication of the way the Queeg regime had weakened the crew’s spirit. Their only remonstrance was obscene and impudent joking. It gave Willie a twinge to see how easily the coxswain was cowed out of even that small comfort.

The head of Queeg poked around the doorway into the shower room. “Well, well, well. Everything getting under way nicely?”

“Yes, sir,” said Willie.

“Fine, fine. Put Farrington to work, hey? Fine, fine.” The head grinned, and nodded, and disappeared.

“Who’s got a cigarette?” said Willie, a little shakily.

“Right here, sir.” Meatball extended a pack, and swiftly struck a match, shielding it with a cupped fat palm. He said genially, as Willie puffed, “Gives a guy the heebie-jeebies, don’t it, sir?”

Captain Queeg walked forward with rapid steps, ignoring the malevolent looks of the sailors clustered in doorways and under tarpaulins. Raindrops bounced from his yellow poncho. He encountered Maryk climbing out of the narrow hatchway of the forward engine room. “Well, well, Steve. How’s it going down there?”

“Okay, sir.” The exec was flushed and sweating. “Just started, of course-it’ll take about four hours-but they’re really going at it-”

“Fine, fine. Budge is a man you can rely on. Yes, sir. Fact, Steve, I think all our chiefs and first-class are doing themselves proud, and the officers, too, for that matter. Why, even Keith-”

“Pardon me, sir.” The yeoman, Jellybelly, was at the captain’s elbow. He saluted, panting, with a glance at Maryk.

“Yes, Porteous?”

“You-wanted a report, sir, from me. I’ve got it for you-”

“Oh, yes, yes. Excuse me, Steve. Keep an eye on things. Keep ’em moving. Come along, Porteous.”

Queeg closed his cabin door and said, “Well?”

“Sir, you meant that about yeoman’s school in, Frisco?” Jellybelly’s look was cunning and timorous.

“Of course I did, Porteous, I don’t kid about such things. If you have any information which can be proved-”

“It was the mess boys, sir,” whispered the fat yeoman.

“Oh, hell, it was not. Damn it, why do you waste my time-”

“Sir, Chief Bellison saw them. It was around one o’clock that night. He was coming back from breaking up a crap game in the forward crew’s compartment. He passed the pantry. He told a couple of chiefs, and-”

“Are you trying to tell me that my chief master-at-arms would see pilfering, and not make an arrest, and not even report to me?” Queeg pulled steel balls out of his pocket and began to roll them. The happy look was fading from his face, the sick wrinkles reappearing.

“Well, sir, he didn’t think nothing of it, see, because the mess boys, well, they’re always chowing up on wardroom leftovers, it ain’t nothing new. And then when this big fuss was kicked up, he felt sorry for them, he thought they’d all pull BCD’s, so he kept quiet. But it’s all over the ship, sir, this morning-you can prove it easy-”

Queeg dropped into his swivel chair, and looked around dully at the myriad keys stacked on the deck. His mouth hung slightly open; his lower lip was pulled in. “Porteous, this conversation of ours is to remain confidential.”

The yeoman, his face twisted in a rueful leer, said, “It certainly will, sir, I hope.”

“Type out your application for that school, with an approving endorsement, and I’ll sign it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That’s all, Porteous.”

After a half hour, Maryk began to wonder what had become of the captain. The plan called for Queeg to supervise topside and forward while the exec concentrated on the labyrinthine engineering spaces, but the busy, smiling figure of the commanding officer had vanished from the search scene. Maryk went to Queeg’s cabin and knocked. “
Come
in,” called a harsh voice. The captain was lying on his bunk in his underwear, staring at the ceiling, rolling balls in both hands. “What is it, Mr. Maryk?”

“Pardon me, sir-I thought you were supervising topside-”

“I have a headache. You take over.”

The exec said uncertainly, after a pause, “Aye aye, sir. I don’t know if I can give the thorough coverage you want-”

“Delegate someone to assist you, then.”

“Aye aye, sir. I wanted to ask you-do you think we have to pull out that lead ballast in the bilges and look under all the blocks? That’s a terrific job, sir-”

“I don’t care what you do. Leave me alone. I’m sick of the whole stupid business. Nothing gets done on this ship unless I wet-nurse it along. Do it any old way you please. Of course you’ll find nothing, and I don’t give a damn if you don’t. I’m used to the idea that nothing I want done on this ship is ever done adequately, and of course a sloppy search is no search at all, but go ahead, do it your way. Leave me out of it.”

“Sir,” said the exec, baffled, “do you want the search to continue?”

“OF COURSE I want it to continue! Why shouldn’t I?” yelled the captain, rising on one elbow, and glaring at Maryk with red eyes. “I still want this ship searched from stem to stern, every damn inch of it! Now please get out, I have a headache!”

Though Maryk glumly persisted in the search, the crew very quickly sensed that something had changed. The captain’s disappearance and the perfunctory manner of the exec were soon reflected in an increasing slackness of the search party, officers and petty officers alike, and in bolder jokes and effrontery from the sailors. By noon the search had dwindled to a shabby farce, embarrassing for the officers, and amusing to the men. The searchers were merely going through lazy motions, like customs inspectors who had been bribed. At one o’clock Maryk called a halt, accepting tongue-in-cheek reports from all his subordinates that their parts in the search had been carried out. The rain had stopped, and the air was steamy and close. The exec went to the captain’s cabin, and found the shades drawn, and Queeg naked in his bunk, wide awake. “Well, did you find it?” said Queeg.

“No, sir.”

“Exactly as I predicted. Well, at least I gauged the caliber and loyalty of my subordinates correctly.” The captain rolled over, his face to the bulkhead. “Kay. Get these keys out of here and return them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you can pass the word around that if anybody thinks I’m licked they’ve got another think coming. I’ll make my arrest in due time.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The exec ordered some sailors to haul the cartons of keys out on the well deck. He summoned Willie Keith, Voles, and Farrington to redistribute them. The crew jammed the little space between the bridge and the galley deckhouse, laughing, yelling, and wrestling with each other, as the officers began the tedious job of unscrambling thousands of keys, calling off the names on the tags, and passing them out to the owners. A carnival of foolishness broke loose. Prim sailors on the
Harte
lined the rail, staring in astonishment at the mopping and mowing, and walking on hands, and obscene singing, and wild jigging of the
Caine
crew. Engstrand brought out his guitar to accompany such ditties as
Roll Me Over in the Clover, Hi-ho Gafoozalum, The Bastard King of England
, and
The Man Who Shagged O’Reilly’s Daughter
. Meatball appeared, dressed in nothing but a pair of gigantic pink panties, from the waist of which there protruded a huge black key. The officers were too enmeshed in the tangled masses of keys to interfere with the boiling merriment. All this was taking place within a few feet of the captain’s cabin. The hilarious sounds may have penetrated the dark, hot room; but there was no word of protest from Queeg.

Maryk, meanwhile, had gone below to his room. He took off all his clothes, lit a long cigar, and brought the “medical log” out of his desk safe. Settling himself on his bunk, the folder propped on his knees, he began reading at the first page. The cigar was half smoked when he turned over the last sheet and put the log aside. He smoked away, staring at the green bulkhead, until the butt felt hot to his lips when he drew on it. He crushed it out, and pressed a buzzer beside his bed. Whittaker appeared at the doorway in a moment. “Suh?”

Maryk smiled wryly at the Negro’s scared look. “Relax, Whittaker. I just want you to hunt up Mr. Keefer and ask him to come to my room if he’s free.”

“Yes,
suh
.” Whittaker grinned and ran off.

“Close the door, Tom,” said Maryk when the novelist arrived. “Not the curtain. The door.”

“Aye aye, Steve.” Keefer slid the squeaking metal door shut.

“Okay. Now, I’ve got something for you to read.” Maryk handed over the folder. “Get comfortable, it’s pretty long.”

Keefer sat in the chair. He glanced quizzically at the exec when he saw the first paragraphs. He read a couple of pages. “Jesus, even
I’d
forgotten some of this,” he murmured.

“Don’t say anything till you’ve finished-”

“So this is the mysterious novel you’ve been writing all these months, hey, Steve?”

“You’re the novelist, not me. Go ahead and read it.”

The gunnery officer read through the entire log. Maryk sat on his bunk, slowly rubbing his naked chest with his palms, watching the other’s face. “Well, what do you think?” he said when Keefer put the folder down on the desk.

“You’ve got him cold; Steve.”

“You think so?”

“I congratulate you. It’s a clinical picture of a paranoiac, a full case history, not a doubt in the world of it. You’ve
got
him, Steve. It’s an amazing job you’ve done-”

“Okay, Tom.” Maryk swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, and leaned forward. “I’m ready to go up to Com Fifth Fleet here on the beach and turn in the skipper, under Article 184. Will you come with me?”

Keefer drummed his fingers on the desk. He pulled a cigarette out of a pack in his breast pocket. “Sure you want me along?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Tom, I told you why long ago when we were alongside the
Pluto
. You’re the one who knows psychiatry. If I start talking about it I’ll make a goddamn idiot of myself and flub the whole thing-”

“You don’t have to talk. Your log does all the talking.”

“I’m going to be walking in on admirals, and they’ll be calling in doctors, and I just can’t present the thing myself. Anyway, I’m no writer. You think the log is enough. A hell of a lot is in the way a thing is written up, for an outsider. You
know
all these things happened, but when someone reads about them cold-I’ve got to have you along, Tom.”