VI

It was about 10:00 p. m. when a boat approached the Felicity and gently bumped against its side. A lone person was rowing it.

“Hey, on the brigantine!” rang out the restrained hallo.

The sailor on watch came to the side. “Whom do you want?” he asked sleepily, peering into the darkness.

“Judging by the voice I’d say it’s you, Reksen. Here’s Bitt-Boy.”

“Bitt-Boy! Is it really… ” The sailor raised his lantern to see into the boat. “What an undreamed of surprise! Have you been in Liss long?”

“We’ll talk later, Reksen. Who’s the captain?”

“You would hardly know him, Bitt-Boy. It’s Exquiros, from Columbia.”

“No, I don’t know him.” While the sailor hastily unwound a ladder, Bitt-Boy stood in the middle of the boat deep in reverie. “So, you’re gadding about with gold?”

The sailor laughed.

“Oh, no – we’re loaded with edibles, our own provisions, and a little incidental freight for the island of Sandy.”

He lowered the ladder.

“But as I understand it… you must have some gold,” muttered Bitt-Boy as he came up onto the deck.

“We decided on something else, pilot.”

“And you’re agreeable?”

“Yes, things will probably be good this way, I think.”

“Excellent. Is the captain sleeping?”

“No.”

“Well, take me to him.”

A light was shining through a chink in the captain’s cabin. Bitt-Boy knocked, opened the door, and strode in rapidly and purposefully.

He was dead drunk and as pale as though he were facing a firing squad, but he had complete control of himself and held himself amazingly steadily.

Esquiros left his chart, walked up to him, and squinted at the stranger. The captain was a middle-aged, tired-looking person, with a slight stoop and a sickly yet open and pleasant face.

“Who are you? What brought you here?” he asked without raising his voice.

“I’m Bitt-Boy, Captain,” began the pilot. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me, I’m here…”

Esquiros interrupted him:

“You? Bitt-Boy, ‘bearer of good fortune’? People turn around at these words. I know all about you. Sit down, my friend, here’s a cigar and a glass of wine; and here’s’ my hand and my gratitude.”

Bitt-Boy sat down, having forgotten for a moment what he wanted to say.

He gradually returned to his senses. He took a swallow, lit up, and gave a forced laugh.

“Where will the Felicity be touching shore?” he asked. “What is its goal in life? Tell me that, Captain.”

Esquiros was not particularly surprised by the direct question. Goals – or more precisely, intentions-like those set by him sometimes induce frankness. However, before beginning to speak the captain walked back and forth in order to concentrate.

“Well, all right… let’s talk,” he began. “The sea sometimes nourishes strange dispositions, my dear pilot. My disposition will, I think, seem strange to you. In the past I experienced misfortunes. They couldn’t break me, but thanks to them new and unfamiliar desires were revealed to me, my outlook was broadened, and the world became nearer and more accessible. It lures me to go visiting. I’m a loner. I’ve done all kinds of maritime work, my dear pilot, and was an honest labourer. The past is well known. Moreover I have, and always had, a great need for movement. Thus I have now conceived my own journey. We will deliver thirty barrels of someone else’s corned beef to Rock Sandy; after that we’ll lovingly and attentively sail around land and sea without any specific plan. To look in on others’ lives, seek important and significant meetings, never hurry, sometimes save a fugitive or take on board those who’ve been shipwrecked; to stop in the flowering gardens of huge rivers, perhaps to put down roots temporarily in a foreign land, letting the anchor become encrusted with salt, and then, getting bored, to tear away once again and set your sails to the wind – that’s quite nice, isn’t it, Bitt-Boy?”

“I’m listening,” said the pilot.

“My crew is completely new. I did not rush in assembling it. After I paid off the old one, I sought out congenial meetings, talked with people, and one by one I collected the men who suited me. A crew of thoughtful people! The privateer is keeping us in Liss. I eluded him the other day, but only because of the port’s proximity. Stay with us, Bitt-Boy, and I’ll give the order to raise anchor at once! You said that you knew Reksen…”

“I know him through the Radius,” Bitt-Boy said with surprise, “but I haven’t yet said so. I… was thinking about it.”

Esquiros did not insist and explained the little disagreement to himself as resulting from his interlocutor’s absentmindedness.

“So you have confidence in Bitt-Boy?”

“Perhaps I was unconsciously expecting you, my friend.”

Silence fell.

“On the way then, Captain!” Bitt-Boy said suddenly in a clear and hearty voice. “Send a boy over to the Arameawith a note for Estamp.”

He got the note ready and gave it to Esquiros.

It said:

“I’m as stupid as the cormorant, my dear Estamp. The ‘circumstance’ has occurred. Farewell to everyone: you, Duke, Renior, and Chinchar. From now on this coast will not see me.”

When he had sent the note, Esquiros shook hands with Bitt-Boy.

“Let’s get under way!” he shouted in a ringing voice, and his presence had already become businesslike and commanding. They went out onto the deck.

In each of their hearts a different wind was blowing and singing: the wind of the grave in Bitt-Boy’s, the wind of movement in Esquiros! The captain whistled to the boatswain. Before ten minutes had passed, the deck was covered with trampling and the silhouettes of shadows cast by the lanterns on the stays. The vessel awoke in the dark and the sails flapped; fewer and fewer stars glittered among the yards; the windlass creaked as it turned in circles, and the anchor hawser, slowly hauling the ship to, freed the anchor from the silt.

Bitt-Boy took the helm and for the last time turned towards where the Queen of Eyelashes had fallen asleep.

The Felicity departed with its lights out. Silence and quiet reigned on the ship. When he had left the port’s rocky entrance, Bitt-Boy turned the helm sharply to the left and steered the vessel that way for about a mile, then he set course directly for the east by making virtually a right-angle turn; next he turned to the right, obeying his instincts. At that point, not seeing the unfriendly vessel nearby, he again headed east.

Then something strange happened: there seemed to be a soundless cry over his shoulder. He glanced back, as did the captain, who was standing near the compass. Behind them a huge blue beam from the coal-black towers of the cruiser fell on the cliffs of Liss.

“You’re looking in the wrong place,” said Bitt-Boy. “Better add some sails, though, Esquiros.”

That and an increase in the wind quickly took the brigantine, which was sailing at a speed of twenty knots, about five miles off. Soon they rounded the cape.

Bitt-Boy handed the helm over to the sailor on watch and went below to the captain. They uncorked a bottle. On deck the sailors, who had also had a drink to their “safe dash”, were now singing unrestrainedly, and the sound carried into the cabin. They were singing the song of “John Dickey”.

 

Don’t growl, sea, or try to make us quail.

Dry land frightened us long before this.

We’ll set sail

Without fail,

To warm climes’ sunny bliss.

 

 

Chorus:

Say, old woman, fill the glasses tall!

Bottoms up it will be with a clink.

Strange John Dickey, feigning not at all,

Drinks for those who themselves don’t drink!

You, dry land, are a vacuous place:

Growing grey… Wounded heart… Forgive!

Such the trace

That you place,

Now-farewell and let live!

 

 

Chorus:

Say, old woman, fill the glasses tall!

Bottoms up it will be with a clink.

Strange John Dickey, feigning not at all,

Drinks for those who themselves don’t drink!

Far off glitters the Southern Cross.

The compass wakes at the first wind squall.

Lord, preserve

Ships from loss,

And have mercy on us all!

 

When the cabin boy, who had gone to Estamp with the note, came in for some reason, Bitt-Boy asked him:

“Did he badger you for a long time, lad?”

“I didn’t say where you were. He stamped his feet and shouted that he’d hang me from the yardarm, and I ran away.”

Esquiros was lively and cheerful.

“Bitt-Boy!” he said. “I thought of how happy you must be if someone else’s luck means nothing at all to you.”

Sometimes a word has a deadly effect. Bitt-Boy slowly turned pale; his face became pathetically distorted. The shadow of an inner convulsion passed over it. He put his glass on the table, rolled his jersey up to his chin, and unbuttoned his shirt.

Esquiros shuddered. An ugly, ulcerous tumour protruded against the white skin.

“Cancer…” he said, sobering.

Bitt-Boy nodded and, turning away, began to put his bandage and clothing in order. His hands shook.

Above they were still singing the same song, but already for the last time. A gust of wind dispersed the words of the last part; all that they could catch below was:

“Far off glitters the Southern Cross…” and, after a vague echo, there came through the door that had been slammed shut from the rolling:

“…have mercy on us all!”

The pilot Bitt-Boy, “bearer of good fortune”, made out these five words better and more clearly than anyone else.

1918