Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [181]
“Delegate someone to assist you, then.”
“Aye aye, sir. I wanted to ask you-do you think we have to pull out that lead ballast in the bilges and look under all the blocks? That’s a terrific job, sir-”
“I don’t care what you do. Leave me alone. I’m sick of the whole stupid business. Nothing gets done on this ship unless I wet-nurse it along. Do it any old way you please. Of course you’ll find nothing, and I don’t give a damn if you don’t. I’m used to the idea that nothing I want done on this ship is ever done adequately, and of course a sloppy search is no search at all, but go ahead, do it your way. Leave me out of it.”
“Sir,” said the exec, baffled, “do you want the search to continue?”
“OF COURSE I want it to continue! Why shouldn’t I?” yelled the captain, rising on one elbow, and glaring at Maryk with red eyes. “I still want this ship searched from stem to stern, every damn inch of it! Now please get out, I have a headache!”
Though Maryk glumly persisted in the search, the crew very quickly sensed that something had changed. The captain’s disappearance and the perfunctory manner of the exec were soon reflected in an increasing slackness of the search party, officers and petty officers alike, and in bolder jokes and effrontery from the sailors. By noon the search had dwindled to a shabby farce, embarrassing for the officers, and amusing to the men. The searchers were merely going through lazy motions, like customs inspectors who had been bribed. At one o’clock Maryk called a halt, accepting tongue-in-cheek reports from all his subordinates that their parts in the search had been carried out. The rain had stopped, and the air was steamy and close. The exec went to the captain’s cabin, and found the shades drawn, and Queeg naked in his bunk, wide awake. “Well, did you find it?” said Queeg.
“No, sir.”
“Exactly as I predicted. Well, at least I gauged the caliber and loyalty of my subordinates correctly.” The captain rolled over, his face to the bulkhead. “Kay. Get these keys out of here and return them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you can pass the word around that if anybody thinks I’m licked they’ve got another think coming. I’ll make my arrest in due time.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The exec ordered some sailors to haul the cartons of keys out on the well deck. He summoned Willie Keith, Voles, and Farrington to redistribute them. The crew jammed the little space between the bridge and the galley deckhouse, laughing, yelling, and wrestling with each other, as the officers began the tedious job of unscrambling thousands of keys, calling off the names on the tags, and passing them out to the owners. A carnival of foolishness broke loose. Prim sailors on the Harte lined the rail, staring in astonishment at the mopping and mowing, and walking on hands, and obscene singing, and wild jigging of the Caine crew. Engstrand brought out his guitar to accompany such ditties as Roll Me Over in the Clover, Hi-ho Gafoozalum, The Bastard King of England, and The Man Who Shagged O’Reilly’s Daughter. Meatball appeared, dressed in nothing but a pair of gigantic pink panties, from the waist of which there protruded a huge black key. The officers were too enmeshed in the tangled masses of keys to interfere with the boiling merriment. All this was taking place within a few feet of the captain’s cabin. The hilarious sounds may have penetrated the dark, hot room; but there was no word of protest from Queeg.
Maryk, meanwhile, had gone below to his room. He took off all his clothes, lit a long cigar, and brought the “medical log” out of his desk safe. Settling himself on his bunk, the folder propped on his knees, he began reading at the first page. The cigar was half smoked when he turned over the last sheet and put the log aside. He smoked away, staring at the green bulkhead, until the butt felt hot to his lips when he drew on it. He crushed it out, and pressed a buzzer beside his bed. Whittaker appeared at the doorway in a moment. “Suh?”
Maryk smiled wryly at the Negro’s scared look. “Relax, Whittaker.