Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [198]
“Sir, are we really okay?”
“Will we have to abandon ship?”
“I was ready to jump on that last roll-”
“Will the ship come through it, Mr. Keith?”
“We’re okay,” shouted Willie. “We’re okay. Don’t lose your heads. You’ll be back chipping paint in a few hours-”
“I’ll chip this rusty old bitch till doomsday if she just rides out this blow,” said a voice, and there was a ripple of small laughs.
“I’m staying up here if I get a court-martial for it-”
“Me, too-”
“Hell, there are forty guys over on the lee of the bridge-”
“Mister Keith”-the gutter twang of Meatball again-“honest, does the old man know what the Christ he’s doing? That’s all we want to know.”
“The old man’s doing great. You bastards shut up and take it easy. Couple of you help me get this door open.”
Wind and spray blasted in through the open crack. Willie pulled himself out and the door clanged. The wind blew him forward into the pilothouse. In the second that elapsed he was drenched as by buckets of water. “Radars are jammed, Steve. Nothing to see until this spray moderates-”
“Very well.”
Despite the whining and crashing of the storm, Willie got the impression of silence in the wheelhouse. Queeg hung to the telegraph as before. Stilwell swayed at the wheel. Urban, wedged between the binnacle and the front window, clutched the quartermaster’s log as though it were a Bible. Usually there were other sailors in the wheelhouse-telephone talkers, signalmen-but they were avoiding it now as though it were the sickroom of a cancer victim. Maryk stood with both hands clamped to the captain’s chair. Willie staggered to the starboard side and glanced out at the wing. A crowd of sailors and officers pressed against the bridgehouse, hanging to each other, their clothes whipping in the wind. Willie saw Keefer, Jorgensen, and nearest him, Harding.
“Willie, are we going to be okay?” Harding said.
The OOD nodded, and fell back into the wheelhouse. He was vexed at not having a flashlight and whistle, like everyone else. “Just my luck to be on watch,” he thought. He did not really believe yet that the ship was going to founder, but he resented being at a disadvantage. His own man-overboard gear was in his desk below. He thought of sending the boatswain’s mate for it; and was ashamed to issue the order.
The Caine yawed shakily back and forth on heading 180 for a couple of minutes. Then suddenly it was flung almost on its beam-ends to port by a swell, a wave and a gust of wind hitting together. Willie reeled, brought up against Stilwell, and grabbed at the wheel spokes.
“Captain,” Maryk said, “I still think we ought to ballast-at least the stern tanks, if we’re going to steam before the wind.”
Willie glanced at Queeg. The captain’s face was screwed up as though he were looking at a bright light. He gave no sign of having heard. “I request permission to ballast stern tanks, sir,” said the exec.
Queeg’s lips moved. “Negative,” he said calmly and faintly.
Stilwell twisted the wheel sharply, pulling the spokes out of Willie’s hands. The OOD grasped an overhead beam.
“Falling off to starboard now. Heading 189-190-191”
Maryk said, “Captain-hard left rudder?”
“Okay,” murmured Queeg.
“Hard left rudder, sir,” said Stilwell. “Heading 200-”
The exec stared at the captain for several seconds while the minesweeper careened heavily to port and began its nauseating sideslipping over the swells, the wind flipping it around now in the other direction. “Captain, we’ll have to use engines again, she’s not answering to the rudder. ... Sir, how about heading up into the wind? She’s going to keep broaching to with this stern wind-”
Queeg pushed the handles of the telegraph. “Fleet course is 180,” he said.
“Sir, we have to maneuver for the safety of the ship-”
“Sunshine knows the weather conditions. We’ve received no orders to maneuver at discretion-” Queeg looked straight ahead, constantly clutching the telegraph amid the gyrations of the wheelhouse.
“Heading