“The hell with it,” Thomas Hudson said. “All I have to do is hug that next chickenshit little key and keep off the sand-spit that runs north and south of it. Then we’ll case that bigger key with the mangroves and then we’ll try for the old or the new channel.”
“The east wind is blowing all the water out.”
“The hell with the east wind,” Thomas Hudson said. As he said the words, they sounded like a basic and older blasphemy than any that could have to do with the Christian religion. He knew that he was speaking against one of the great friends of all people who go to sea. So since he had made the blasphemy he did not apologize. He repeated it.
“You don’t mean that, Tom,” Antonio said.
“I know it,” Thomas Hudson said. Then he said to himself, making an act of contrition and remembering the verse unexactly, “Blow, blow, thou western wind. That the small rain down may rain. Christ, that my love were in my arms and I in my bed again.” It’s the same goddam wind only with the difference in latitude, he thought. They come from different continents. But they are both loyal and friendly and good. Then he repeated to himself again, Christ, that my love were in my arms and I in my bed again.
The water was so muddy now that there was nothing to steer by except the ranges and the suction the ship made of water from the banks. George was in the bow with the lead and Ara had a long pole. They measured their depths and called back to the bridge.
Thomas Hudson had the feeling that this had happened before in a bad dream. They had run many difficult channels. But this was another thing that had happened sometime in his life. Perhaps it had happened all his life. But now it was happening with such an intensification that he felt both in command and at the same time the prisoner of it.
“Can you make out anything, Gil?” he asked
“Nothing.”
“Do you want Willie up here?”
“No. I see whatever Willie would see.”
“I think he ought to be up anyway.”
“As you wish, Tom.”
Ten minutes later they were aground.
They were aground on a patch of mud and sandy bottom that should have been marked with a stake, and the tide was still falling. The wind was blowing hard and the water was muddy. Ahead was a medium-sized green key that looked set low in the water and there was a scattering of very small keys to the left. To the left and the right there were patches of bare bank that were beginning to show as the water receded. Thomas Hudson watched flocks of shore birds wheeling and settling on the banks to feed.
Antonio had the dinghy over and he and Ara ran out a bow anchor and two light stern anchors.
“Do you think we need another bow anchor?” Thomas Hudson asked Antonio.
“No, Tom. I don’t think so.”
“If the wind rises it can push us against the flood when it comes.”
“I don’t think it will, Tom. But it could.”
“Let’s get a small one out to windward and shift the big one further to leeward. Then we don’t have anything to worry about.”
“All right,” Antonio said. “I’d rather do that than run aground again in a bad place.”
“Yeah,” Thomas Hudson said. “We went into all that before.”
“It’s still the right thing to anchor.”
“I know it. I just asked you to put out another small one and shift the big one.”
“Yes, Tom,” Antonio said.
“Ara likes to lift anchors.”
“Nobody likes to lift anchors.”
“Ara.”
Antonio smiled and said, “Maybe. Anyway I agree with you.”
“We always agree sooner or later.”
“But we mustn’t let it be when it is too late.”
Thomas Hudson watched the maneuver and looked ahead at the green key that was showing dark now at the roots of the mangroves as the tide fell. They could be in the bight on the south side of that key, he thought. This wind is going to blow until two or three o’clock in the morning and they could try to break out and run either of the channels in daylight when the flood starts. Then they could run that big lake of a bay where there is nothing to worry about all night. They have lights and a good channel to get out with at the far end. It all depends on the wind.
Ever since they had grounded he had felt, in a way, reprieved. When they had grounded he had felt the heavy bump of the ship as though he were hit himself. He knew it was not rocky as she hit. He could feel that in his hands and through the soles of his feet. But the grounding had come to him as a personal wound. Then, later, had come the feeling of reprieve that a wound brings. He still had the feeling of the bad dream and that it all had happened before. But it had not happened in this way and now, grounded, he had the temporary reprieve. He knew that it was only a reprieve but he relaxed in it.
Ara came up on the bridge and said, “It’s good holding-ground, Tom. We have them in there good with a trip line to the big one. When we raise the big one we can get out fast. We buoyed both the stern anchors with trip lines.”
“I saw. Thank you.”
“Don’t feel bad, Tom. The sons of bitches may be just behind that other key.”
“I don’t feel bad. I just feel delayed.”