"All right, kid, over the side. We'll toss you a line."
I wasn't too sure I could be trusted with so important a mission, but I didn't hesitate, not any longer than to ask, "Me—you mean me?"
"Yeah, sure—over you go. We'll toss y'a line from the prow."
So over I went. After all, we did represent the Estados Unidos. We were in a sense sort of ambassadors of good will, and it would never do to show we didn't trust a few hundred citizens of Argentina with knife-edged cargo hooks as big as scythes at our back as we tried frantically to catch the Bos'n's line which he intended to throw at us from the prow—now, could we?
It felt good to step on dry hard earth again, and when I got on the river bank I stamped my feet on the ground a few times after I'd landed. I grinned hopefully around with a grin which plainly said (I hoped): Look, I'm happy. I'm delighted to be here on your fine, solid lump of earth—your Argentine. Look, I come as a friend... But there was no answering grin from that mob. Only the Port Police of Rio Santiago grinned back at me. And I suspect that grin of his was perpetual and perhaps a defense mechanism.
I quickly walked (not ran) along the side of the ship toward the prow and miraculously caught the line the Bos'n threw at me—or rather picked it up out of the dust where it had become entangled with my feet—and I pulled in the hawser attached to it, the noose of which had splashed down into the river, and I tugged it out sopping wet and cold from the dirty water and nervously twisted and bent it on over the niggerhead—and I was up and back on our ship, which guaranteed me the protection of all the resources of the U.S.A., before you could recite the first three chapters of Robinson Crusoe—phew!
After I was established behind the safety and comfort of the rail of the S.S. Hermanita, I looked over the side and saw that other members of our crew were ashore pulling in hawsers too. Big Joe was amongst them. That big Canuck jutted up above those Argentinians like a Gargantua. So did skinny Mush to a lesser degree. I looked closer at the longshoremen who stood so glum and still right in front of me on the banks of the river. Why, they weren't so big. For the most part, they were little men. It was their big shirts, violent mustachios and big hooks that had impressed me. And as I watched I noticed there was a rolypoly man with a watch chain swung across his bulgy, tightly buttoned vest circling among them with a pad and pencil, talking to one, then to another. Evidently, he was a labor boss or contractor.
Then it struck me that these were just a few hundred men hoping that they'd be picked for this job to unload our ship, since our small freighter couldn't employ them all. Why, they were just a bunch of hungry guys, and there were some pale-looking women dressed in shabby, black dresses with black shawls around their shoulders standing among them—hoping with their men, I suppose. They didn't look so tough any more.
As soon as we were tied up, a gangplank was rolled up to the ship's side and we hoisted up its end and lashed it to our afterdeck. The Port Police promptly stationed himself at the foot of the gangplank, and our thirsty crew was kept on the ship (remember, this trip happened during that dark period of our American history for which we should be ashamed of ourselves in our deep, wide, dry throats—the Prohibition Error) and away from that little shack we could see ashore, plainly marked Cerveza Chicago Bar. And I suppose that firm bastion of righteousness, the Port Cop, also kept the hungry bunch of longshoremen from coming on and earning their food any sooner.
That was true, but he had one other purpose. After we'd leaned over the rail for about an hour or so wondering what now—since we weren't called to turn to—a large shiny limousine drove up and swung to a stop alongside our ship. Out stepped a tall, aristocratic-looking, elderly gentleman, dressed elegantly in gray spats, striped trousers, dark jacket and a big black sombrero with a rolling brim. He sported a handsome long white goatee—more the type that real goats wear, not the little trim chin whiskers that the name usually implies—and in one hand he carried a glossy, black walking stick topped with a handsome silver knob. And in the other a fine leather brief case.
Unquestionably, a suave, spirited elder statesman, one high up in the diplomatic corps or something. I'd been told old Captain Brandt had been making this run down to the Argentine for the past thirty years, that he spoke Spanish like a Spik, and was well-liked by all south of Venezuela (don't know what he did there that made that country an exception), but I did not know he rated this. The elegant gentleman with quiet dignity and long steps quickly made his way through the path the longshoremen had automatically made for him to our ship's side.
At the foot of the gangplank the Port Cop greeted him with a broad smile and touched his cap in respectful salute. The gentleman took it in his stride and, without stopping, checked his fine shiny black walking stick and its silver knob with the Port Police. The little man seemed grateful to receive it and his hand was thrust out expectantly. For a moment he looked around with a glowing smile and then, carefully, he rested it on the ground just a little as he posed with his hand on the silver knob. He was happy to be minding it even for a short time, it went so well with his sailor suit. And it was clear this was one of his regular pleasant duties.
Our elegant visitor made the gangplank in one or two graceful leaps, and when we wanted to direct him to the Captain's quarters, with a wave of his long sensitive hand he indicated he knew—he knew—and he was off and up the ladder with the same stately, swinging stride with which he had descended from his shiny chariot.
Captain Brandt was up on the bridge wearing his best blue uniform and his very best beaming smile. He looked down, and even before the gentleman had gained the bridge they greeted each other cordially. The Captain spoke in Spanish. The diplomat returned his greeting in an accented English— "Goo' morning, Capitain Brandt."
A short time after, the Bos'n rounded us up—everybody up on the Captain's deck. The black gang were already climbing up the ladder on their side of the ship. The sun had come out and we lined up single file, all thirty-two members of the crew— deckhands, black gang, and mess—sort of mixed up in this line that began down on the deck below, up the ladder, and snaked around in back of the Captain's cabin to its door.
We stood there quietly. Some of the men had been through whatever was happening up there and they passed down again, squeezing by those of us who stood on the narrow ladder with a subdued polite grunt—that genteel, white-bearded aristocrat up there had already made his influence felt. This, I thought, was the work of a master diplomat, a true gentleman. . . .
"A damn old goat, dat's all he is."
Philip, the Captain's messboy, was grumbling in back of me. I turned so fast it almost knocked me off the ladder.
"Philip, what's the matter? The old guy with the whiskers? What did he do you?"
"No, no, not him," said Philip hastily. "Not him. He's a gentleman—I don't speak of him. I min that goddam ol' pilot, who came aboard last night. He's worse dan goat. He's pig—"
"What's the matter, Philip?" I'd never seen him carry on like that. That boy was always patient and soft-spoken.
Philip, ashy gray in his anger, told me how that old pilot had messed up the Second Mate's cabin, where he'd been bunked during the night—messed it up completely. There was a handsome polished-brass cuspidor in that cabin. The old pirate never even aimed for it, but hit out from every side and splashed overhead and bulkhead with equal disregard. And poor Philip had just now finished cleaning it up.
By this time, the line we were on had advanced until I was just sixth away from the Captain's cabin door and as we stood there, the door swung open and let out three more of the crew. They swaggered off the Captain's deck with embarrassed, self-conscious grins. The Bos'n who was acting as doorman let the three nearest the door into the cabin. I got a flash of what was going on inside. The Captain was seated at his desk and the red-headed Second Mate stood talking to the tall, bearded gentleman.