Free Down to a Soundless Sea by Thomas Steinbeck Page A

against the rain and noticed that Captain Leland no longer held his place. Third Officer Ryfkogel was standing the bridge watch instead. His dark, chiseled features were recognizable even in the soft illumination afforded by the binnacle lights. The master’s mate could be seen working the helm with more-than-usual vigor.
    Sometimes the ship would feel as if it were making good way when, in reality, the winds and the tides saw to it that the vessel traveled nowhere at all. If the ship’s engines went soft at a time like this, with a fast incoming tide, the situation would certainly prove catastrophic. It was every coasting captain’s nightmare to run out of power, leeway, and ideas all at the same time.
    Wearying of the deck’s discomfort, Chapel made his way to the galley for a mug of “muscle” and some of cook’s sweet Indian fry bread. Just as Chapel took his first dunk in the thick, sweet coffee, Mr. Gladis came through the companionway, bracing against the rolling and pitching of the ship. Conditions had become noticeably worse in the last few minutes, but the chief engineer took the weather in stride as he grabbed a mug of coffee from the cook’s mate and sat down across from Chapel.
    Mr. Gladis looked introspective and fatigued, but he surfaced from his thoughts with a smile. “Glad I found you, Mr. Lodge. I have a disagreeable request that I would prefer not to make an order, if you get my drift. Poor young Samoza broke some ribs in a fall from the catwalk. I’ve been robbing Peter to pay Paul on the watch list all evening. I need you to double upwith the black gang for half your watch so I can catch up. The bunkers need balancing. We’re eating fifty-five scuttles an hour, but someone has misplaced the bunker charts, and I suspect too much coal has been shunted out of number two, starboard bunker. I’ll send someone to replace you at nine-thirty. Then you’ll have plenty of time to help me replace the grease-dog ring on number three cylinder.”
    Chapel nodded, sipped his coffee, and eyed the galley clock. He had eight minutes to wolf down a meal before immersing himself in a cloud of coal dust. He saw little purpose in discussing the unalterable when it was food he needed to shovel coal. Mr. Gladis didn’t actually wait for a reply; he swallowed his steaming brew at one go and made his way off to other duties.
    With the filth of the coal bunkers in mind, Chapel quickly changed into his bilge slops before reporting to the engine room. The boys on the black gang were pleased to see Chapel and slapped him on the shoulder with many thanks for his gift.
    Chapel knew from firsthand experience that theirs was a type of labor that required both studied endurance and a strong back. The ship’s safety and speed required that a predetermined workload be sustained in a timely fashion twenty-four hours a day, regardless of adverse circumstances or crew shortages.
    Chapel liked the stokers for their sense of cheerful cooperation and gentle humor in the face of hardships no deck officer could ever know. The sturdy Filipinos worked their broad shovels from bunker to coal chute to firebox in a kind of congruous ballet that required meticulous timing and balance. All the while they would chatter away like jungle birds. Whether they spoke Spanish, English, or one of their own dialects, theytrolled out comments on any subject that pleased them at the moment. The theme didn’t matter as long as a cheerful round-robin of clever interjections and humorous commentary was kept buoyant.
    The black gang’s cultural bonds and familial support seemed to produce an anesthetic that subdued the chronic pain and stress their dark and perilous routine engendered. Whatever the root source, their courage and jovial dispositions made dangerous and unpleasant labors bearable, even for Chapel.
    The hardest and most dangerous task allotted the black gang was accomplished deep inside the coal bunkers on either side of the ship. Little or