Voyage to Somewhere Read Online Free PDF Page A

and knocked at the door of Mr. Warren’s stateroom. I found him seated at his desk writing a letter. Tacked to the bulkhead above his desk was an enlarged photograph of a very beautiful girl of about eighteen. The shape of the girl’s face, with high cheekbones and large, intense-looking eyes, made the picture arresting, and I found difficulty in keeping my eyes away from it; my glance kept straying toward the photograph. Mr. Warren bade me sit down on his bunk, and paused in his writing.
    â€œIt’s kind of a tough way to spend the last night,” I said.
    â€œYes, sir, it is.”
    â€œWhen you censor the mail in the morning I think it’ll be all right to let the men say that they won’t be able to write for quite a while.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    I caught myself glancing at the photograph again and looked away. I wondered what it was about it that made it so different from the usual pictures of pretty girls. I decided it was because the girl in the picture looked as though she were just about to say something. Mr. Warren saw me looking at the photograph.
    â€œThat’s Rachel. She’s my wife,” he said.
    â€œShe’s very lovely.”
    There was a moment’s pause and then Mr. Warren started talking very fast.
    â€œShe’s in a hotel uptown,” he said. “We’ve just been married a week. I guess she’ll be surprised when I don’t come tonight, but I told her it might happen any time. She won’t worry, I don’t think. She’s pretty independent.”
    â€œShe won’t worry,” I said.
    I glanced at his desk and saw that the letter he was writing was already many pages long. It struck me that I knew by heart every word that he had written.
    â€œWell,” I said, “she’ll probably get your letter tomorrow afternoon.”
    â€œYes,” he said, “that’s what I figure.”
    I got up and went out. As I walked back to the wardroom I could hear his pen resume its scratching.
    I sat in the wardroom and tried to read. Somewhere up in the city a siren threaded its way through the distant streets. A fire, I thought, or maybe an ambulance. Somebody ashore had his problems too.
    It was nine o’ clock. The men were still shuffling in to the mailbox. On an impulse I got up and walked forward to the forecastle. When I opened the heavy iron door the quiet babble of voices stopped. The forecastle was a large compartment that followed the shape of the bow. Along both sides were triple tiers of bunks. In the dim light I could see the half-naked bodies of the men in their bunks. Most of them were propped up on one elbow writing on tablets. In the middle of the forecastle squatting on deck were four seamen, and it had been these whom I had heard murmuring. One of them had a cheap map of the Pacific unfolded. It looked like a Standard Oil road map, and the seaman who had been holding it, a dark-haired boy of about twenty, still had his finger pointing somewhere in the middle of it. All the seamen, those on the deck and those in their bunks, were looking at me.
    â€œI just thought I’d look in,” I said. “How’s it going?”
    There was a rustle of movement, and I heard a sort of anonymous, “Very well, sir. Everything’s fine, sir.”
    I stood there uncertainly. My eyes became used to the dim light and penetrated the dark corners of the compartment. Over every bunk some kind of photograph had been pasted up. There were snapshots and enlargements, and a few pictures of movie stars. The forecastle had lost its bare newness.
    â€œIn the morning, sir …”
    A mild little voice came from a far corner. I looked and saw a very slight seaman with a shock of straw-colored hair. “He looks like someone,” I thought, and in a flash it came to me that the face looked like some juvenile actor I had seen.
    â€œIn the morning, sir, would it be all right if we sent