Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [107]
Two of the working party jumped to the dock, and the third sailor with Horrible and Meatball got one end of the crate tip over the gunwale with much heaving and grunting. The men on the dock seized the crate and pulled; those in the gig pushed from below. The box hardly moved.
“Well, well, what’s taking so long?”
“Sir, she won’t slide,” panted Horrible, his black hair falling over his eyes. “Too heavy.”
“Well, stand up on the gunwale and lift her then. Haven’t you any brains?” The captain looked around and saw Mackenzie standing on the dock with the bowline in his hand, staring vacantly at the struggle. “Well, what are you doing, standing there with your thumb in your bum and your mind in neutral? Bear a hand.”
Mackenzie at once dropped the line and jumped to help the men on the dock. This was a mistake on the part of captain and sailor alike. Mackenzie had been performing the necessary function of holding the gig close to the dock. With the bowline free, the gig fell away, imperceptibly at first and then faster. A crack of open water widened under the crate. “Oh Christ!” gasped Horrible, tottering on the gunwale, his fingers under one edge of the crate. “The bowline! Someone grab the bowline!” Mackenzie let go of the crate and rushed back to the rope. The men on the dock staggered. There was an instant of chaotic yelling, cursing, and crunching, over which rose the soprano scream of Queeg, “Watch out for that goddamn crate!”
Horrible and the crate fell into the water with a tremendous splash, soaking Queeg. Horrible floated, a blob of white on the muddy water. The crate went down like an anvil, with a bubbly groan. There was a moment of gruesome silence. Queeg, dripping, leaned over the edge of the landing and peered down into the brown water. “Kay,” he said. “Get out your grappling irons.”
Half an hour of grappling efforts followed. Queeg smoked up half a pack of cigarettes, taking only a few puffs each time and dashing the cigarettes into the water. Horrible crouched on the dock, his teeth chattering loudly.
“Sir,” said Meatball at last in a weak, small voice.
“Yes?”
“Sir, pardon me, I think she’s sunk in ooze. Even if we find her I don’t think we can bring her up. This line won’t take the strain, and anyway I think the grappling iron would just come splintering out of the wood. Pardon me, sir, but that’s what I think.”
Queeg stared at the water where the crate had vanished. “Kay. I think you’re right, at that. It’s just too goddamn bad.”
The gig was halfway back to the Caine before he spoke again. “Willie, who was in charge of that working party?”
“I-I guess I was, sir.”
“I guess you were, too. Well, then, how do you explain that fiasco?”
“Sir, I beg your pardon, you didn’t tell me to take charge of the unloading-”
“I don’t tell you to wipe your nose, either, Mr. Keith, when it needs it. There are certain things that an officer is assumed to understand for himself.” The captain stared out from under his eyebrows at nothing for several seconds and said, “I don’t appreciate a foul-up by a working party for which you’re responsible, Willie, especially when the foul-up costs me about a hundred and ten dollars.”
“Sir, that crate is in pretty close to shore, after all. I’m sure the harbor police can grapple for it and recover it, if you-”
“Are you out of your mind?” said the captain. “And have them ask me about the contents, hey? Sometimes you’re not so bright, Willie- Damn. Friend of mine up in Oakland would have taken that crate and shipped it back home for me- Well.” After a pause he added, “No, you’d just better think it over, Willie, and-well, just try to see where you bitched, things up, and what you’d better do about it.”
“Do you want me to submit a written report, sir?”
“Just think it over,” said Queeg irritably.
Seventy or eighty people, most of them women, were crowded on Pier