John Passos - 1919

In Bordeaux the first port official that came on board tried to kiss Cap’n Perry on both cheeks. President Wilson had just declared war on Germany. All over the town nothing was too good for Les Americains. Evenings when they were off Joe and Glen Hardwick cruised around together. The Bordeaux girls were damn pretty. They met up with a couple one afternoon in the public garden that weren’t hookers at all. They were nicely dressed and looked like they came of good families, what the hell it was wartime. At first Joe thought he ought to lay off that stuff now that he was married, but hell, hadn’t Del held out on him. What did she think he was, a plaster saint? They ended by going to a little hotel the girls knew and eating supper and drinking a beaucoup wine and champagne and having a big party. Joe had never had such a good time with a girl in his life. His girl’s name was Marceline and when they woke up in the morning the help at the hotel brought them in coffee and rolls and they ate breakfast, both of ’em sitting up in bed and Joe’s French began to pick up and he learned how to say C’est la guerre and On les aura and Je m’en fiche and Marceline said she’d always be his sweetie when he was in Bordeaux and called him petit lapin.

They only stayed in Bordeaux the four days it took ’em to wait their turn to go up to the dock and unload, but they drank wine and cognac all the time and the food was swell and nobody could do enough for them on account of America having come into the war and it was a great old four days.

On the trip home the Higginbotham sprung leaks so bad the old man stopped worrying about submarines altogether. It was nip and tuck if they’d make Halifax. The ship was light and rolled like a log so that even with fiddles on they couldn’t keep dishes on the messtable. One dirty night of driving fog somewhere south of Cape Race, Joe with his chin in his peajacket was taking a turn on the deck amidship when he was suddenly thrown flat. They never knew what hit ’em, a mine or a torpedo. It was only that the boats were in darn good order and the sea was smooth that they got off at all. As it was the four boats got separated. The Higginbotham faded into the fog and they never saw her sink, though the last they could make out her maindeck was awash.

They were cold and wet. In Joe’s boat nobody said much. The men at the oars had to work hard to keep her bow into the little chop that came up. Each sea a little bigger than the others drenched them with spray. They had on wool sweaters and lifepreservers but the cold seeped through. At last the fog greyed a little and it was day. Joe’s boat and the captain’s boat managed to keep together until late that afternoon they were picked up by a big fishing schooner, a banker bound for Boston.

When they were picked up old Cap’n Perry was in a bad way. The master of the fishing schooner did everything he could for him, but he was unconscious when they reached Boston four days later and died on the way to the hospital. The doctors said it was pneumonia.

Next morning Joe and the mate went to the office of the agent of Perkins and Ellerman, the owners, to see about getting themselves and the crew paid off. There was some kind of damn monkeydoodle business about the vessel’s having changed owners in midAtlantic, a man named Rosenberg had bought her on a speculation and now he couldn’t be found and the Chase National Bank was claiming ownership and the underwriters were raising cain. The agent said he was sure they’d be paid all right, because Rosenberg had posted bond, but it would be some time. “And what the hell do they expect us to do all that time, eat grass?” The clerk said he was sorry but they’d have to take it up direct with Mr. Rosenberg.

Joe and the first mate stood side by side on the curb outside the office and cursed for a while, then the mate went over to South Boston to break the news to the chief who lived there.

It was a warm June afternoon. Joe started to go around the shipping offices to see what he could do in the way of a berth. He got tired of that and went and sat on a bench on the Common, staring at the sparrows and the gobs loafing around and the shop girls coming home from work, their little heels clattering on the asphalt paths.

Joe hung around Boston broke for a couple of weeks. The Salvation Army took care of the survivors, serving ’em beans and watery soup and a lot of hymns off key that didn’t appeal to Joe the way he felt just then. He was crazy to get enough jack to go to Norfolk and see Del. He wrote her every day but the letters he got back to General Delivery seemed kinder cool. She was worried about the rent and wanted some spring clothes and was afraid they wouldn’t like it at the office if they found out about her being married.

Joe sat on the benches on the Common and roamed around among the flowerbeds in the Public Garden, and called regularly at the agent’s office to ask about a berth, but finally he got sick of hanging around and went down and signed on as quartermaster, on a United Fruit boat, the Callao. He thought it ud be a short run and by the time he got back in a couple of weeks he’d be able to get his money.

On the home trip they had to wait several days anchored outside in the roads at Roseau in Dominica, for the limes they were going to load to be crated. Everybody was sore at the port authorities, a lot of damn British niggers, on account of the quarantine and the limes not being ready and how slow the lighters were coming off from the shore. The last night in port Joe and Larry, one of the other quartermasters, got kidding some young coons in a bumboat that had been selling fruit and liquor to the crew under the stern; first thing they knew they’d offered ’em a dollar each to take ’em ashore and land ’em down the beach so’s the officers wouldn’t see them. The town smelt of niggers. There were no lights in the streets. A little coalblack youngster ran up and asked did they want some mountain chicken. “I guess that means wild women, sure,” said Joe. “All bets are off tonight.” The little dinge took ’em into a bar kept by a stout mulatto woman and said something to her in the island lingo they couldn’t understand, and she said they’d have to wait a few minutes and they sat down and had a couple of drinks of corn and oil. “I guess she must be the madam,” said Larry. “If they ain’t pretty good lookers they can go to hell for all I care. I’m not much on the dark meat.” From out back came a sound of sizzling and a smell of something frying. “Dod gast it, I could eat something,” said Joe. “Say, boy, tell her we want something to eat.” “By and by you eat mountain chicken.” “What the hell?” They finished their drinks just as the woman came back with a big platter of something fried up. “What’s that?” asked Joe. “That’s mountain chicken, mister; that’s how we call froglegs down here but they ain’t like the frogs you all has in the states. I been in the states and I know. We wouldn’t eat them here. These here is clean frogs just like chicken. You’ll find it real good if you eat it.” They roared. “Jesus, the drinks are on us,” said Larry, wiping the tears out of his eyes.

Then they thought they’d go pick up some girls. They saw a couple leaving the house where the music was and followed ’em down the dark street. They started to talk to ’em and the girls showed their teeth and wriggled in their clothes and giggled. But three or four nigger men came up sore as hell and began talking in the local lingo. “Jez, Larry, we’d better watch our step,” said Joe through his teeth. “These bozos got razors.” They were in the middle of a yelling bunch of big black men when they heard an American voice behind them, “Don’t say another word, boys, I’ll handle this.” A small man in khaki riding breeches and a panama hat was pushing his way through the crowd talking in the island lingo all the time. He was a little man with a gray triangular face tufted with a goatee. “My name’s Henderson, DeBuque Henderson of Bridgeport, Connecticut.” He shook hands with both of them.