Читать книгу The High Barbaree - James Norman Hall - Страница 4

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They had no illusions about the gravity of their situation, but they were young, full of life, and, on the evening of the fourth day, still hopeful. The sun was near to setting and the light breeze died away until only the faintest cat’s-paws blurred the reflections of a few scattered clouds that seemed as motionless as the derelict plane. Presently Mauriac said: “You can’t see it, Alec, but there’s a kind of aureole around your head—an angelic golden light. Nearest thing I’ve ever seen to a halo.”

Brooke smiled.

“Already? I don’t see any around yours.”

“That’s where a towhead scores. You don’t know how other-worldly you look with that corona.”

“What were you thinking about just now?”

“I was going to tell you. I was thinking of the jam we’re in; and then, all of a sudden, the lines of a song I heard over the radio popped into my head.”

“What song is that?”

“An old-timer, I guess. It sounds like one:—

The Cat came back;

He couldn’t stay no longer

So the Cat came back

The very next day ...

Pretty, don’t you think? And comforting to men in our fix.”

Brooke clasped his hands around his knees.

“I know that song,” he said. “It is an old-timer; I’ve heard my dad sing it. It’s a Capital-C Cat with wings, with an old spitting tom painted on the hull. But not this one. She’ll never come back anywhere again.”

“One of ours will. I don’t know about ‘the very next day.’ ”

“That means tomorrow. Gene, we’ll make that our Vesper hymn. Let’s have it again. Come on, now; wring it out, this time.”

The Cat came back;

He couldn’t stay no longer

So the Cat came back

The very next day.

Yes, the Cat came back;

He couldn’t stay no longer

But the Cat came back

’Cause he wouldn’t stay away.

“I’ll bet that’s never been sung with more enthusiasm,” Mauriac said. “You put a lot of conviction into it, Alec.”

“Brother, I’ve got conviction. That was one of our outfit, certainly, that we caught a glimpse of.”

“Sure it was. They won’t give up after one search on a cloudy day. But there’s an awful lot of sea to cover.”

“Gene ...”

“Yes?”

“What did you say our position was, yesterday, at noon?”

“One hundred and sixty-one degrees, twenty-nine minutes east; forty-six minutes north.”

Brooke was silent for some time; then he remarked: “That’s curious! More than curious!”

“What’s curious about it?”

“Ever hear of Turnbull’s Island?”

“Never.”

“It’s not a hundred miles west of where we are now, and in the same latitude.”

Mauriac smiled.

“Dream on! You’re telling this to your navigator? You don’t really believe there is such an island?”

“I’ve believed in Turnbull’s Island ever since I was ten years old.”

“You’re crazy, Alec! It’s not on the charts, and I’ve got the best Uncle Sam provides.”

“I’ve heard you admit that they’re none too accurate for this region. Furthermore, the Hydrographic Office hasn’t checked on every square mile of the Pacific.”

“It doesn’t have to. Was this what’s-its-name island supposed to be high or low?”

“High. A thousand feet high.”

“Not a hope, Alec. Not a hope. Do you suppose any island, high or low, would have a chance to remain undiscovered?”

“Why not, in this part of the Pacific? It was a mighty lonely region up to the outbreak of the war.... Got a copy of Yardley’s Pacific Directory?”

“Never heard of it.”

“I suppose it’s out of print in these days. There’s an account of Turnbull’s Island in Yardley; at least there was, in an edition I saw years ago.”

“Remember what it said about the place?”

“I read it so often when I was a kid that I believe I can still quote it, almost word for word.”

“Okay. Let’s have it.”

“I got interested in the island back in those days. That’s why I remember Yardley’s account of it so well. This is what he says:—

This island was first reported to the U. S. Hydrographic Office in 1842, by Captain Ezra Turnbull of the whaling barque Gay Head. Two of his boats were fast to whales when the clouds broke to the west and he sighted land at a distance of about four leagues. He estimated its height at a thousand feet, and described a sheer cliff on the eastern side, between two sharp volcanic pinnacles. Night was falling and he was unable to stand in closer because of his boats which were far from the ship. The island was again reported in 1857 by a Captain Eastman of New Bedford. He claimed to have caught a glimpse of it far to windward, in the position given by Turnbull. No further report of it has ever been received. In the opinion of the Editor, the existence of Turnbull’s Island is doubtful indeed.”

“That goes for me, too,” Mauriac remarked. “If there were such an island, the fact would have been known long since ... definitely proven.”

“Not necessarily. Think of the size of the Pacific.”

“In the old days. Not now. Even if there were such an island the Nips would have it, way up here.”

“Yes, I suppose they would. Well ...”

Chin in hands, their elbows resting on their knees, bare feet braced on the gently sloping wing, the two men fell silent, as though suddenly awed by the immensity of the solitude which enclosed them. They stared to the west, still glorious with the fading splendor of the afterglow.

“I’m going down for a cigarette,” Mauriac remarked. “Want one?”

“Better go butts on yours, hadn’t we?”

“Just as you say.”

The Catalina rocked gently as Mauriac climbed down from the wing. Ripples moved out from the hull as though they were visible waves of the small distinct noises made by the navigator as he proceeded aft to the tail compartment beyond bulkhead seven. Brooke could follow his progress until he reappeared, the lone cigarette behind his ear.

“That’s an odd notion of yours, stowing the cigarettes all the way back in the tail,” Mauriac said. “What’s the idea?”

“We’ve only got the one carton.”

“Not a bad idea at that. They’ll last longer, certainly, if we have to go all the way aft for them, one at a time.”

“In the old days of sail they had a system like that when a ship was short of water. They kept a musket barrel in the main-top. When a man wanted a drink he had to climb-up there for the musket barrel, come down with it to the scuttlebutt outside the galley, suck up his drink, and carry the gun barrel to the main-top again. A seaman wouldn’t take the trouble unless he was really thirsty.... Everything okay below?”

Mauriac nodded, soberly.

“I wish we could live on the wing,” he said. “I hate going down. They’re still there, in a way ... all three.”

“I know. I feel the same.”

“It’s the loneliness, and the emptiness; their being there and not being there.”

Mauriac lighted the cigarette, and after two or three inhales passed it to his companion. They smoked in silence, passing the cigarette back and forth until there was little left but the coal. Brooke tossed the butt into the sea.

“Gene, let’s have it out now ... what do you say?”

“About ourselves?”

Brooke nodded.

“Our chances are ... well, what do you think?”

“One in twenty, perhaps.”

“That’s about where I’d put them. This is the fourth day.”

“We can hope, at least, for another three. After that ...”

“They’ll keep on searching as long as they think there’s a ghost of a chance.”

“Sure they will,” Mauriac replied. “Now we can forget it, for tonight, at least. Alec, we’ve been together through a lot of hell, haven’t we?”

“You said it. We’re going through this, too, and come out on the other side.”

“The other side of what?”

“I’ll tell you that when we get there.”

They had no further speech for some time. Mauriac let his glance travel over the wrecked plane, its outlines becoming indistinct in the twilight.

“How well she rides,” he said. “You know, there’s something safe about a Cat, no matter how rugged things get.”

“She’s a good old crate.”

Mauriac smiled.

“It’s just as well we’re out here by ourselves. We can praise the old girl as she deserves, with no dissenting voices.”

“Don’t say ‘the old girl.’ This is a Tomcat.”

“High Barbaree ... is that masculine? Pretty fanciful name for a PBY, if you ask me.”

“No more so than a lot of other names.”

“But what does it mean? I don’t see why you’ve always kept so quiet about it.”

“I haven’t meant to,” Brooke replied.

“But you’ve never explained it, have you? All you’ve said is that the name took your fancy a long time ago.”

“So it did. It’s a dream name, if you want to know.”

“A dream name?”

“Yes. I got it out of a dream ... that is, partly. Do you really want the story of it?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“I’d have to go back to when I was a kid to give you the picture. Tell you the story of my life.”

“Well, that’s jake with me. It looks as though there’d be time enough. Remember the night at Port Moresby when I told you my sad story? You were damned polite, Alec.”

“Polite, hell. I was interested.”

“All right. Now it’s my turn to be interested. We’ve got the night before us. Shoot!”

Brooke was silent for a moment or two. Then he said: “There’s something uncanny about this. I mean, about our being in this particular part of the Pacific, somewhere near Turnbull’s Island. ... Gene, Turnbull’s Island is the High Barbaree. At least it’s my High Barbaree.”

Mauriac peered at his companion through the gathering gloom.

“You haven’t had a touch of the sun, I hope?”

“No fear!”

“Then what in hell are you talking about?”

“Give me time to explain, will you? I said there was something funny about this. You’ll soon see the connection.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ve told you that I come from Iowa. You know what people say about us Iowans: that we’re always ‘from’ our home state. We’re no more ‘from’ than the people of any other state. We like to move around, of course. We’re great travelers, but we always have round-trip tickets. I’ve got one in my pocket now. I’m going to use it, too ... maybe.”

“That’s talking, Alec! You and me both. Mine reads: ‘Good until used to any destination in Napa County, California.’ ”

“We’ll travel that far together when we get leave,” Brooke said. “Farther, if I can persuade you to come to Westview. It’s the prettiest little town; got ’em all beat, in my opinion—east or west. My part of Iowa began to be settled in the forties of the last century; we’ll be having our centenary in 1949. I’ve got to be back for that.”

“I thought all forty-niners were Californians.”

“That’s what all you Native Sons think. Ours were: going-to-be Californians. But when they saw Iowa they forgot about the gold rush. They found a better kind of gold right there than you pan out of gravel beds. So they stayed. And the descendants of those pioneers are still living in Westview.

“A generation after the town was founded the people began building their homes. Their real homes, I mean, where their grandchildren and great-grandchildren were to be born and live after them: substantial, roomy, comfortable homes made to last. Architects of these days can’t see them, but they belong to the country; they’re as native to it as the trees that shade the lawns around them.

“The town hasn’t changed much since the early days, and the people living there are the descendants of the old-timers. Maybe Westview was lucky in having the kind of people it did; those who founded it, settled there and stayed there. They were men and women of good blood and education, some from New England, some from upper New York State, some from Virginia and Pennsylvania. They were individuals, every one, and they loved the land. It needed only a generation to make Iowans of them. They were hard workers—they had to be in those early days—but it wasn’t long until they could take things easier and get some real pleasure out of life.

“The name, Westview, doesn’t really fit; there is no wide view from the town itself. It was sited, originally, three miles to the west, where there is a superb view. The first log cabins were built there, but when the railroad came it was decided to move down beside it. For all that, Westview has always seemed to me exactly right for the name. Ever since I was old enough to see I’ve looked to those hills where the old town stood. To me, the song ‘Over the Hills and Far Away’ has always meant those particular hills; and ‘far away’ has meant west, as though there could be no end to ‘far’ in that direction.

“Our house is on a broad street shaded by elms planted sixty years ago. It isn’t much to look at; the homes of country-town doctors rarely are, but I wouldn’t trade it for any of the others. It had been my Grandfather Brooke’s home, and when it was built, his office was built into it. That shabby old room with its rows of bottles and its smell of drugs has always been a romantic place to me. Dad followed my grandfather in his profession and I would have, too, except for the war. Country-town doctoring seems to be in the blood of the Brookes.

“From the time I was six I used to ride with my father on his calls around that part of the country. He had an old Ford that everyone in the county knew. He also kept a surrey, if you know what that is: a two-seater carriage. It was built by the long-since-defunct Spaulding Wagon & Carriage factory, of Grinnell, Iowa. That was my dad’s real love. Often, when he had a country call to make, if there was no hurry, he would hitch Toby to the surrey and take me with him.

“There was one road that led due south out of the town. It had never been paved, and is no wider now than it was in the old days. The strip of ground on either side is still a part of the old prairie, with wild roses and geraniums, goldenrod and black-eyed Susans growing there according to the time of year. This was my father’s favorite road, and I came to love it as much as he did. A mile beyond the town it turns west and mounts the long slope leading to the hills I’ve spoken of, and by the time you’ve reached the top it is a westward-leading road with a view across miles of country. You’ll have to imagine what you can see from there. I couldn’t begin to tell you of the beauty of the landscape, particularly on a still midsummer afternoon, with nothing to break the silence, perhaps, but the call of a peewee coming from far away. I’ve always associated that view with the faint lonely call, ‘Pee-wee ... Pee-wee,’ as though it were the very voice of silence and midsummer peace.

“I’ll not take you any farther along that road. You’ll see why I’ve brought it in. But there’s something else I want to speak of in this connection. It concerns my mother and her piano.

“She was twenty years younger than my father, but they were a happily mated pair. She rarely called him by his first name, John. It was usually ‘Doctor’ and somehow that was just right, the way my mother said it. You seemed to feel in it the gap in years that separated without dividing them.

“They were both music lovers. My father played the flute and had been a member of the Westview orchestra as long as I could remember. Mother was really good on the piano, though she rarely played except at home. I remember how I used to stand beside her as she played my father’s favorite songs, or accompanied him as he played the flute. He had old-fashioned tastes in music. So did Mother. Maybe that’s why my own tastes run somewhat in the same direction: into the past.

“I must have been six or seven when I first heard Mother play Paderewski’s Minuet in G, and I seemed to know immediately what it meant to me. All kinds of things have associations for kids at that impressionable age, music in particular, and the Minuet in G was my perfect description of that westward-stretching country beyond the hills. It was the country itself as I saw and felt it, as I took it in through the pores of my skin. I’ve heard the Minuet played hundreds of times since those days, but I never get tired of it. It always brings back the old deeply loved country beyond the hills, but idealized, more beautiful than any earthly landscape could be. I can’t tell you the kind of emotion it gives me. It is not communicable. It seems to come from the realm of pure spirit, as music itself does.

“It wasn’t long until I’d learned to finger the first two bars of the Minuet. I didn’t try to go any farther; all the rest followed; I could hear it in the imagination. The note ‘G,’ by itself, came to have a special significance; not the G of the upper register, but the one just below the middle octave. I would strike it and put my ear against the piano to listen to the sound dying away; and I would imagine it as traveling, first, south along the road I’ve spoken of, then west, over the hills, and on and on until it was lost to me, but I knew that it was still traveling westward through country more beautiful than any I’d seen or could imagine.

“Mother noticed this pastime of mine. I don’t remember how it came about. I suppose she questioned me, and I explained about that particular note and where it seemed to go. She was very quick in understanding the workings of a kid’s mind. I felt that the Minuet-in-G country was as real to her as it was to me. She told my father about it, and we came to speak of that south-and-westward-leading road as ‘The G-Note Road.’ But the name was never mentioned in any other company. It became a kind of secret code word for us alone.

“A little girl was connected with it, too, but she didn’t know it until some years later. Her name is Nancy Fraser. Nancy came into the picture at an early age; in fact, I don’t remember a time when she wasn’t there, during those early years. Her parents lived only a little way down the street from us, in a handsome old brick house that seemed a palace to me. The Frasers were cattle feeders and breeders and owned a large stock farm four miles east of the town. I remember how Nancy’s father, with his foreman, used to drive two or three hundred head of cattle through the town to the stock pens by the railway yards, with Nancy, almost a baby, riding in the saddle in front of her father.

“Her parents and mine were the best of friends. Mr. Fraser and Dad were great rivals at chess, and they were both interested in Iowa history. They knew the names of all the founders of Westview and where they came from, and were real authorities on all questions connected with the settlement of our part of the state.

“And now, Gene, I’ll do some skipping and tell you about my mother’s only brother, Thaddeus Vail. It was from my Uncle Thad that I first heard of the High Barbaree.”