Free Down to a Soundless Sea by Thomas Steinbeck

with the reverence usually afforded a two-dollar, thigh-rolled, Havana cigar. The old man thanked the young sailor, but the sound of the steam derricks and the shouting of orders drowned him out. Chapel didn’t notice. His eyes were for the ship alone. The cargo holds inhaled wool bales by the ton without pause. Captain Lelandstill maintained the bridge, but supervised the loading through his cargo and deck officers.
    Noticing the young sailor’s preoccupation, the old man repeated himself. “Thanks. Don’t mind if I do on a day such as this. Peppermint’s good for just about anything, they say.”
    The old seaman sucked on the stick for a moment and then looked Chapel up and down as though appraising a split mast. “You a stoker, mate? It’s a stoker that’s got a real tooth for peppermint. It’s the air down in the belly of the beast, you understand. The stink and heat be more than any but the condemned should have to bear.”
    The old man pulled the candy from his mouth and admired the spiral design at arm’s length. “I was captain of the foretop years past. Still miss the sweet air high in the trees. A body could almost see all the way to Java on a sharp day. That’s what we used to tell the new fish when they balked at the climb. Nowadays most swabs would rather cut their own throats than work the yards. Don’t blame ’em much, come to judge. Lost my leg up in the trees. Still dream about it sometimes. Got to be born crazy to do stuff like that. You crazy, mate? Hope so. Crazy is the only way to live, and it’s the only sensible way to die.”
    Mr. Gladis was on deck talking to Mr. Ryfkogel when Chapel came back aboard. The chief engineer noted that his mate sported the look of a poor, lost hound newly found by the pack. Chapel almost shivered like a puppy with the joy of being safe aboard and among friends again.
    He handed Mr. Gladis the full beer bucket, shag tobacco, and medicine and, as an afterthought, pulled the bags ofpeppermint and licorice from his coat pockets and handed them over too.
    Mr. Gladis smelled the bags and grinned. “The black gang will love you like a brother for this, Mr. Lodge. They’ve a real appetite for this stuff down there. I hope you’re not bucking for my rating, Mister Lodge. I’ve got four daughters to feed, and if I didn’t go to sea, I not only couldn’t feed the little cows, but I’d never get the head to myself again.” This observation seemed to amuse and divert both officers long enough to allow Chapel to retreat to the galley without giving offense.
    After a greasy meal of biscuits, ham, and gravy, Chapel retreated to his bunk to sleep before taking the second dogwatch with Mr. Page. Chapel closed his eyes with the sincere hope that some part of his previous dream would return to delight his slumber. Though the images eluded him, Chapel did have one glimpse of the familiar, but it wasn’t one he particularly relished.
    He dreamed he rested gently at anchor in a broad bay surrounded by dusky mountains. Then, without the usual telltale indications to mark such events, the weather changed abruptly for the worse. With wind and waves operating in direct opposition, he began to swing and pitch erratically on his taut anchor chains, his bow angrily tossing up and down like a stallion’s head resisting the halter rope.
    Chapel awoke in some confusion. He knew where he was, but the residual sensation of the chopping seas, deep swells, and coarse winds remained with him. He could feel the adverse struggle of elements even as he lay awake in his bunk. Then it struck him like a mallet that this was no clinging dream, but the real sea conditions as they stood at present.
    Chapel quickly pulled on his seaboots, grabbed his oilskin,and made for the spar deck, but this told him little of value other than the weather had turned dirty with an onshore gale in the wings. It was far too dark to see anything but the familiar glow from the ship’s lights. Chapel squinted