Klee Wyck - Emily Carr [34]
Solitary, uncounted hours in one of those hideous square-snouted pits of fish smell! Already I could feel the cold brutes slithering around me for aeons and aeons of time before the tow ropes went taut, and we set out for the cannery. There, men with spiked poles would swarm into the scow, hook each fish under the gills. The creatures would hurtle through the air like silver streaks, landing into the cannery chutes with slithery thumps, and pass on to the ripping knives.… The Captain’s voice roused me from loathsome thoughts.
“Here we are!”
He looked at me—scratched his head—frowned. “We’re here,” he repeated, “and now what the dickens—? There is a small cabin on the house scow—that’s the one anchored here permanently—but the two men who live on it will have been completely out these many hours. Doubt if sirens, blows, nor nothin’ could rouse ’em. Well, see what I can do.…”
He disappeared as the engine bell rang. The Indian girl, without good-bye, went to join her uncle.
Captain returned jubilant.
“There is a Jap fish boat tied to the scows. Her Captain will go below with his men and let you have his berth till four a.m.; you’ll have to clear out then—that’s lookin’ far into the future tho’. Come on.”
I followed his bobbing lantern along a succession of narrow planks mounted on trestles, giddy, vague as walking a tight rope across night. We passed three cavernous squares of black. Fish smell darted at us from their depths. When the planks ended the Captain said, “Jump!” I obeyed wildly, landing on a floored pit filled with the most terrifying growls.
“Snores,” said the Captain. “… House scow.”
We tumbled over strange objects, the door knob of the cabin looked like a pupil-less eye as the lantern light caught its dead stare.
We scrambled up the far side of the scow pit and so on to the Jap boat; three steps higher and we were in the wheel house. There was a short narrow bench behind the wheel—this was to be my bed. On it was my roll of damp blankets, my sketch sack, and Ginger Pop’s box with a mad-for-joy Ginger inside it, who transformed me immediately back from a bale of goods to his own special divinity.
The new day beat itself into my consciousness under the knuckles of the Japanese captain. I thanked my host for the uncomfortable night which, but for his kindness, would have been far worse, and biddably leapt from the boat to the scow. It seemed that now I had no more voice in the disposal of my own person than a salmon. I was goods— I made no arrangements, possessed neither ticket, pass, nor postage stamp—a pick-up that somebody asked someone else to dump somewhere.
At the sound of my landing in the scow bottom, the door of the cabin opened, and yellow lamplight trickled over a miscellany of objects on the deck. Two men peered from the doorway; someone had warned them I was coming. Their beds were made, the cabin was tidied, and there were hot biscuits and coffee on the table.
“Good morning, I am afraid I am a nuisance.… I’m sorry.”
“Not at all, not at all, quite a—quite er—” he gave up before he came to what I was and said, “Breakfast’s ready … crockery scant … but plenty grub, plenty grub; … cute nipper,” pointing to Ginger Pop. “Name?”
“Ginger Pop.”
“Ha! Ha!” He had a big round laugh. “Some name, some pup, eh?”
The little room was of rough lumber. It contained two of each bare necessity—crockery, chairs, beds, two men, a stove, a table.
“Us’ll have first go,” said the wider, the more conversational of the two. He waved me into one of the chairs and took the other.
“This here,” thumbing back at the dour man by the stove, “is Jones; he’s cook, I’m Smith.”
I told them who I was but they already knew all about us. News travels quickly over the sea top. Once submerged and it is locked in secrecy. The hot food tasted splendid. At last we yielded the crockery to Jones.
“Now,” said Smith, “you’ve et well; how’d you like a sleep?”
“I should like to sleep very much indeed,” I replied, and without more ado, hat, gum boots and all, climbed up on to Smith’s bed. Ginger Pop threw himself across my chest