No grease was needed yet, and both of them knew it. No seas had been shipped and the dockyard grease was still thick. But the man did the job without comment; then took down the equipment, rehoused it, and stood and looked at him, pigtail flapping in the wind. ‘Any more?’ he said.
The bosun’s big hands itched at the Korean’s mulish stare.
‘Not now. When we get into some weather will be time. You can get below now.’
The man turned and went without a word, and the bosun’s hands itched again. With surly crewmen he was used to ruling with his fists. Break them quickly: it was always best and saved time in the end. With this one he knew the time would have to come soon.
Porter, returning to the fore ends, knew it too. He saw the other men watching him from their card game.
‘Bosun been riding you?’
‘Tried to get me greasing a derrick.’
‘Why, the bastard — they don’t need greasing yet.’
‘I know. Just got me at it.’
‘Watch yourself with bosun. Show him respect. That’s all he wants.’
‘Sure.’ He turned back into his bunk. There were no problems with the crew. He had soon established a reputation as a moody fellow, best left alone. Because of the two other Koreans aboard he had also established a prepared speech impediment. And because of his size nobody had mocked him for it. But his accent had passed with the Koreans anyway, and he was on reasonable terms with them all. He had dropped in bits of his background; had shown his photos, had looked at theirs. No; no problems with the crew.
But the bosun was something else.
The man didn’t like him. Obeying orders wouldn’t help. He would pile on the orders, give him every lousy job on the ship, until resentment showed, some spark of rebellion. Then bosun would use his fists, beat him into submission. And get him greasing the derrick. He remembered what Ichiko had told him about the derrick. Greasing the derrick was the most dangerous job. The bar-brake was hard to handle, couldn’t be left for a second; and on icy decks, the operator slithering, it could slip — with the grease man in among the cogs. Someone else would have to grease, some more experienced hand. He wouldn’t. So bosun’s first job would be to make him. Well, it had to be faced sooner or later, and sooner was better than later.
He turned over and drifted off to sleep. The dumb insolence had been designed to bring it sooner. Soon enough now the ice would come.
Two days later, five hundred miles north, the ice came.
Despite her economical rate, the ship had now chugged almost three thousand miles from warm Nagasaki into the approaching Arctic winter. From the Bering Strait, still some days off, a howling blast of wind and sleet had them pitching in heavy seas. Since early in the forenoon the hands had been securing the cargo. First down in the holds; then on deck, sliding about as they checked the container locks and cables.
They were warming themselves over mugs of coffee when the bulky figure peered down the companion way.
‘Sung! Matsuda! On top now. Smartly.’
The two men bundled up again and went on top. The bosun was waiting for them, hanging on by the gangway. ‘Derricks icing — get your gear. And start with number three. You’ll need harness, she’s pitching.’ He was already clutching a safety harness himself, and moved away at once.
Cursing, Matsuda led the way to the lockers. ‘The bastard derricks can be steamed off! Who needs them now?’ He had fallen foul of the bosun the day before. He was a little wizened fellow with a wall eye. Right away Sung knew he was not having him on brake. They got the gear and the harnesses and staggered slowly through the uproar of wind to the bosun. He had secured himself to a bollard amidships; number three derrick was close by.
‘Okay, hook up!’ The bosun had to shout above the wind. ‘Matsuda, you’re on brake!’
‘Bosun,’ Sung said. ‘I haven’t greased in these conditions.’
‘Good. Now you can learn.’
‘I’ll be better on brake. I’m stronger than Matsuda.’
‘Ah, strong man! No — you grease, strong man.’
Sung shook his head.
‘It’s an order,’ the bosun told him cheerfully.
Sung leaned over. ‘Fuck the order!’ he said into the bosun’s ear. ‘And fuck you.’
The bosun looked pleasurably at him, and then around, scenting the freezing wind. The lights were on in the wheelhouse and the wipers were going there. Behind the wipers he could see the mate looking down, and beyond him the dim shape of the wheelman.
‘Matsuda, go below for a while, I’ll call you,’ the bosun said, and began unhooking himself. ‘Step aft, Sung.’
Sung stepped aft, his heart beginning to thump. Aft, behind the wheelhouse, was where scores were settled, and he prepared himself to move fast. But they were still below the wheelhouse, and he was unprepared, as his head was jerked sharply back. The bosun had come swiftly on him, yanking his pigtail with one hand and smashing the other into his face. He went over backwards, his feet sliding, but was not allowed to hit deck. His pigtail was still held, and his face still being smashed, two, three, four times. Then, still shocked, his feet still scrabbling the icy deck, he was being swung round and dragged by the pigtail farther aft, before the bosun let go and fell on him.
The bull of a man landed with his knees, knocking the breath out of Sung’s body, the attack so sudden and so ferocious he was utterly stunned. He was still stunned as the bosun began pounding his head on the deck. His only thought was to get out from under, but with the bosun leaning his full weight forward he couldn’t move his body. He brought his hands up and went for the man’s eyes to get him to lean back, but the bosun evaded them easily and butted him for good measure. He felt the sharp crack in his nose, and knew his face was already running with blood, and through the shocked pain felt sudden raging anger as the bosun hawked and spat in his face. He had not been angry before. The fight had been coming, and he knew and accepted it. But now he was angry.
He clutched at the butting head as it came down again, and hugged it fiercely, using every atom of strength to draw it closer and closer until the bosun, straining, twisted his head to try and release it, and brought an ear within range, and Sung sank his teeth in it. He hung on tight and savaged the ear, shaking it from side to side, and heard the bosun swear; the man leaned sideways to ease the ear, and with the weight shifting on him, Sung came out from under.
He slithered fast on the icy deck and was on his knees, in a position now to go on top. But that was not his idea. The man had caught him — okay, he had relied on a sudden attack, and on his weight and toughness. What he had to learn was that with all his weight, with all his toughness, on level terms, or any other terms, he could never win. Never! That he was simply entitling himself to a hard time, and that this time would come to him not by any fluke or momentary disadvantage, but always, every time, whenever he chose to have it.
He had to explain this to the bosun, but his head felt scalped from the dragging and was splitting from the battering, so he thought he had better disable the man first. He let him stumble to his feet and begin his rush, and even backed and got his hands up to defend himself and swung one back to strike, and when the bosun swung himself, he nimbly sidestepped and used his greater agility to kick the bosun in the crotch. He kicked him as hard as he could, and when the man grunted and held himself, he chopped him in the neck and kicked his feet away, sending him crashing to the deck again. Then he jumped on him with both boots. Then he knelt beside the bosun.
‘Bosun,’ he said humbly. ‘Leave me alone. I’m a hard man. I fought many fights, very dirty, and I always win. Pick on me, and I’ll cripple you for life. You’ll never work again — I swear it. And I don’t want that. I’ve got my own problems. They say I’m maybe crazy. Okay, I’ve done crazy things and I’ve done time, it’s there in my papers. But it’s only when people pick on me. I can’t take that, bosun. You understand me?’