His large hand reached out, grabbing the young man by the back of the collar, jerking him, twisting cruelly, swinging him about, almost throwing him through the door into the small corridor, dragging him down it. There was the sharp sound of a door being closed, the click of a latch sliding in place. The remaining three members of the band kept up their rhythms, their quick hands drumming the wrapped batons automatically, going from one song to the next with no spoken communication, no hesitation to determine who took the melody and who the two levels of harmony. Nor did any face turn from its assigned duty of watching the stairway and passageways; each man kept his eyes where they belonged, their faces immobile, intent, graven, all the light laughter and the mincing clowning of the upper deck put aside as one would shed a garment inappropriate for the occasion, replacing it with the proper one.
To nervous men the wait might have seemed to consume hours; these men were not nervous. To these men it seemed exactly what it was — three minutes plus a few seconds — time for two songs, well rehearsed, and a portion of a third; the time calculated. There was the sound of the latch again, the sound of a door opening and closing, and their big leader was back. A glance about satisfied him that all was well; he picked up his drum, slung it about his neck, retrieved his mallets from the small of his back. He tapped the top of the drum experimentally a few seconds, locating the place in the song the others were playing, thrummed the proper sections of the drum-top quietly at first, and then joined in fully, turning toward the steps.
“Entertainment all finished, chaps,” he said soberly. “Let’s go.”
One of the others inadvertently glanced in the direction of the purser’s stateroom and office. No muscle moved in the big man’s face for a moment; his very solemnity seemed to express his reprimand for this rare breech in discipline. Then suddenly he grinned widely, as if the success of the venture allowed for a slight relaxation.
“No worry, chaps. We climb no scaffolds to hang for nobody. Do we? We don’t, my word! He’ll live to gamble again, no fear — stud poker, draw poker. Take a while is all, I’m afraid. Take a while for his friends to get used to his face, too. Pity. Good-looking chap. Or was...” His grin widened. “Good bone structure, but bad skin. Tore like my poor da’s pants...”
They formed up again, almost as if in drill, going up the carpeted steps to be joined by the one stationed there, moving no faster, no slower, smiles re-forming on their faces, stiff at first but slowly thawing to reality, eyes beginning to roll again, feet beginning to shuffle to this side and that as they moved from step to step, rhythm keeping time for them, with them, a part of them and the drums, the throbbing music echoing up and down the steep stairwell. The door to the promenade deck was swung open and held by the muscular buttocks of the leader, while the others stepped across the high sill, grinning foolishly, childishly. The music never broke beat for a second. The heavy door, released, swung shut behind them, sucked into place obediently by an air cylinder. The four did their shuffling dance to the ship’s ladder, mallets flashing. The young officer was still at his station, still accompanied by the Scottish engineer, whose teeth were still locked on the black cigar. The deck officer smiled at the four in his most friendly fashion and summoned his very best English.
“We heard of you all the way. You sounded most excellent, I do say. Did you have a good night? In tops, that is?”
“Tips,” said the Scottish engineer.
“Tips, then.” The deck officer shrugged off the unneeded correction.
“Not bad, mon. I mean, sir. Not bad at all, considering the few people aboard.” One black hand continued to beat out music, selecting the dented sections of the drum-top unerringly, while the other hand slapped against a pants pocket. There was the jingle of coins. “Could have been worse, mon. Sir. It usually is; then it’s disaster.”
“Yes.” The deck officer tried to look as if he understood.
“Want to thank you, sir.”
This was clear. The young officer smiled. “Don’t thank me. Your thank you should be owed to Scotty, here.”
“Then I thank him.”
The music stopped as suddenly as it had begun, although there hadn’t appeared to be a signal of any sort. The silence still seemed to carry the faint echo of the pulsing music on the night breeze. There was a hail; the men on the freighter across the roadstead were calling, but their words were lost in the distance and the wind, which was beginning to pick up. Their arms substituted, waving, indicating their desire for the band to visit them next.
“Business is good tonight, eh?” said the engineer.
“Never better, mon.”
A flash of white teeth from each and the four started down the shaky ladder, one hand of each sliding down the rope railing, the other hand pressed against the surface of the ship’s plates, damp with the mist beginning to rise from the warm water. Their drums hung limp, as if exhausted by the pounding they had taken. The first man down leaped into the boat, unslung his drum, and dragged at the rope, pulling the rowboat closer to the bobbing platform for his companions. One by one they stepped down, taking off their instruments, placing them carefully in the bottom of the boat. The second and third to enter sat down side by side at the oars and unshipped them, waiting. The large man who was their leader stepped in last, gave a reverse tug to the rope holding them to the stanchion and stood in the prow, balancing himself easily in the heaving boat as the knot ran free. A. wave of his large hand in the general direction of the upper deck of the Porto Allegre and, their small boat rising and falling on the choppy waves, the four had disappeared into the dark night.
“Well, you were right, my friend,” the deck officer conceded generously, reverting to Portuguese, partially because he was far more fluent in it, but also to a large extent because he didn’t want to concede too much to the Scottish engineer. Engineers were basically people who, if you gave them an inch, usually ended up wanting a yard. “No harm at all.” He frowned in recollection. “Odd, though, how only the large preto spoke. The others didn’t say a word.”
“Eh?” said the engineer.
The deck officer took pity on him and gave him of his fluent English.
“I said, all went good, don’t you know? But how strange that only the big one talked. What?”
“Maybe they’re mutes,” the engineer suggested dryly, and added, “the world would be a better bloody place if more people followed their example.”
“Yes,” said the deck officer, who hadn’t understood enough to comment more intelligently. He frowned and went back to Portuguese. “I wonder why we don’t have steel bands in Rio? They’d be great for a Carnival band.” He stared across the span of water separating them from the rusty freighter. “And there’s another funny thing. They’re not going over to that ship that was calling them. I thought they were.”
This was sufficiently understood.
“They’d be bloody fools if they did,” said the Scottish engineer philosophically, speaking around the stub of his black cigar. “They made a day’s pay on board — let them enjoy it. When they need more they can always play again.” He thought a moment. “It’s what everyone’d do if they only had the brains.”