Joe caught on that Tiny was waving to him to come somewhere. He followed him into the shadow. Tiny put his mouth against his ear, “There’s bleedin’ tarts ’ere, Yank, come along.” They went up the bow and slid down a rope to the wharf. The rope scorched their hands. Tiny spat into his hands and rubbed them together. Joe did the same. Then they ducked into the warehouse. A rat scuttled past their feet. It was a guano warehouse and stank of fertilizer. Outside a little door in the back it was pitch black, sandy underfoot. A little glow from streetlights hit the upper part of the warehouse. There were women’s voices, a little laugh. Tiny had disappeared. Joe had his hand on a woman’s bare shoulder. “But first you must give me a shilling,” said a sweet cockney West India woman’s voice. His voice had gone hoarse. “Sure, cutie, sure I will.”
When his eyes got used to the dark he could see that they weren’t the only ones. There were giggles, hoarse breathing all round them. From the ship came the intermittent whir of the winches, and a mixedup noise of voices from the women loading bananas.
The woman was asking for money. “Come on now, white boy, do like you say.” Tiny was standing beside him buttoning up his pants. “Be back in a jiff, girls.”
“Sure, we left our jack on board the boat.”
They ran back through the warehouse with the girls after them, up the jacobsladder somebody had let down over the side of the ship and landed on deck out of breath and doubled up with laughing. When they looked over the side the women were running up and down the wharf spitting and cursing at them like wildcats. “Cheeryoh, laydies,” Tiny called down to them, taking off his cap. He grabbed Joe’s arm and pulled him along the deck; they stood round a while near the end of the gangplank. “Say, Tiny, yours was old enough to be your grandmother, damned if she wasn’t,” whispered Joe. “Granny me eye, it was the pretty un I ’ad.” “The hell you say… She musta been sixty.” “Wot a bleedin’ wopper… it was the pretty un I ’ad,” said Tiny, walking off sore.
A moon had come up red from behind the fringed hills. The bananabunches the women were carrying up the gangplank made a twisting green snake under the glare of the working lights. Joe suddenly got to feeling disgusted and sleepy. He went down and washed himself carefully with soap and water before crawling into his bunk. He went to sleep listening to the Scotch and British voices of his shipmates, talking about the tarts out back of the wharfhouse, ’ow many they’d ’ad, ’ow many times, ’ow it stacked up with the Argentyne or Durban or Singapore. The loading kept up all night.
By noon they’d cleared for Liverpool with the Chief stoking her up to make a fast passage and all hands talking about the blighty. They had bananas as much as they could eat that trip; every day the supercargo was bringing up overripe bunches and hanging them in the galley. Everybody was grousing about the ship not being armed, but the Old Man and Mr. McGregor seemed to take on more about the bananas than about the raiders. They were always peeping down under the canvas cover over the hatch that had been rigged with a ventilator on the peak of it, to see if they were ripening too soon. There was a lot of guying about the blahsted banahnas down in the focastle.
After crossing the tropic they ran into a nasty norther that blew four days, after that the weather was dirty right along. Joe didn’t have much to do after his four hours at the wheel; in the focastle they were all grousing about the ship not being fumigated to kill the bugs and the cockroaches and not being armed and not picking up a convoy. Then word got around that there were German submarines cruising off the Lizard and everybody from the Old Man down got short tempered as hell. They all began picking on Joe on account of America’s not being in the war and he used to have long arguments with Tiny and an old fellow from Glasgow they called Haig. Joe said he didn’t see what the hell business the States had in the war and that almost started a fight.
After they picked up the Scilly Island lights, Sparks said they were in touch with a convoy and would have a destroyer all to themselves up through the Irish Sea that wouldn’t leave them until they were safe in the Mersey. The British had won a big battle at Mons. The Old Man served out a tot of rum all round and everybody was in fine shape except Joe who was worried about what’d happen to him getting into England without a passport. He was chilly all the time on account of not having any warm clothes.
That evening a destroyer loomed suddenly out of the foggy twilight, looking tall as a church above the great wave of white water curling from her bows. It gave them a great scare on the bridge because they thought at first it was a Hun. The destroyer broke out the Union Jack and slowed down to the Argyle’s speed, keeping close and abreast of her. The crew piled out on deck and gave the destroyer three cheers. Some of them wanted to sing God Save the King but the officer on the bridge of the destroyer began bawling out the Old Man through a megaphone asking him why in bloody f — g hell he wasn’t steering a zigzag course and if he didn’t jolly well know that it was prohibited making any kind of bloody f — g noise on a merchantship in wartime.
It was eight bells and the watches were changing and Joe and Tiny began to laugh coming along the deck just at the moment when they met Mr. McGregor stalking by purple in the face. He stopped square in front of Joe and asked him what he found so funny? Joe didn’t answer. Mr. McGregor stared at him hard and began saying in his slow mean voice that he was probably not an American at all but a dirty ’un spy, and told him to report on the next shift in the stokehole. Joe said he’d signed on as an A.B. and they didn’t have any right to work him as a stoker. Mr. McGregor said he’d never struck a man yet in thirty years at sea but if he let another word out he’d damn well knock him down. Joe felt burning hot but he stood still with his fists clenched without saying anything. For several seconds Mr. McGregor just stared at him, red as a turkey gobbler. Two of the watch passed along the deck. “Turn this fellow over to the bosun and put him in irons. He may be a spy…. You go along quiet now or it’ll be worse for you.”
Joe spent that night hunched up in a little cubbyhole that smelt of bilge with his feet in irons. The next morning the bosun let him out and told him fairly kindly to go get cookee to give him some porridge but to keep off the deck. He said they were going to turn him over to the aliens control as soon as they docked in Liverpool.
When he crossed the deck to go to the galley, his ankles still stiff from the irons, he noticed that they were already in the Mersey. It was a ruddy sunlit morning. In every direction there were ships at anchor, stumpylooking black sailboats and patrolboats cutting through the palegreen ruffled water. Overhead the great pall of brown smoke was shot here and there with crisp white steam that caught the sun.
The cook gave him some porridge and a mug of bitter barely warm tea. When he came out of the galley they were further up the river, you could see towns on both sides, the sky was entirely overcast with brown smoke and fog. The Argyle was steaming under one bell.