sinister and heavily guarded secrets he had lacked the courage to confront were about to be unfolded.
His thoughts returned to the passenger. William Mueller, William Miller, Bill Miller, Jones, John Doe, anyone and no one. A fugitive seeking sanctuary? An emissary on a mission? Yet expectation, whether of good or of bad, he reflected, was far better than the prospect of nothing. It meant change which offered escape from boredom and the ever encroaching desert of ennui.
2
The trip from San Francisco to Astoria took two weeks counting the calls the
Caspar
made at Fort Bragg and Noyo along the Mendocino Coast and at Eureka, Port Orford, Coos Bay and Astoria farther north. For forty-five years the Captain had been making that same run with little to break the monotony except the usual bad weather off Cape Mendocino, which of late made the old wood hull creak and groan and show her years. The routine sameness of sea and sky, of loading and discharging, of bills of lading, of endless loads of redwood and fir swinging up from the docks, the cry of gulls mingling with the hiss and rumble of steam winches together and unvaried, like a single experience, the Captain sometimes reflected, had certainly made his life seem shorter.
Yet his way of life, isolated as it was, had had certain advantages. It had given him time and the peace of mind to read, which was one of his greatest pleasures; also to write in his journal, which he usually did late each night in the privacy of his cabinâhence his nickname, Midnight. He had always considered himself a reasonably happy man, satisfied with his chosen work, productive in that he had served in the development of the coastal lumber industry, and creative in that his journal, much of which had been published in various shipping magazines, was a vivid and running account of nearly a half century of West Coast trading.
But the Captainâs capacity for keeping himself constantly busy was by no means innate. He had acquired itthrough years of strict mental discipline and for the specific purpose of protecting him from certain irrational fears that had troubled his youth, fears that if left unchecked would, he had reason to believe, have expanded into self-destructive phobias. Fortunately, his efforts had been doubly rewarding. He had found immense satisfaction in the acquisition of vast stores of knowledge and, as far as he could tell, his fears had been laid to rest, if not expunged entirely.
Yet lately, and despite his characteristic optimism, he had found himself reflecting on the immense passage of time consumed in those years of service. He could recall with amazement and a certain dismay that he had first shipped out, on that very same vessel, in 1890, in another era really, when passengers, of which there were many then, drove down to the dock in carriages, the women in bustles, the children with ribboned hats and high-buttoned shoes. Men sported gold-headed canes and well-trimmed beards. But he knew very well that retrospection, especially the kind that eulogized the unrecoverable past, could become a dangerous habit at his age. Happily, however, he was not inclined to morose reflection and could dispel the touches of loneliness those memories evoked by the simple process of directing his attention to any one of the numerous activities in which he had always managed to occupy himself. Now the prospect of a passenger, even one of dubious intentions, began to arouse in him a feeling of quiet excitement. He glanced at the dock. Except for the gulls shifting restlessly in the wind, there was no movement anywhere.
He opened his book and turned to
Notes From the Underground
where he had underscored a number of passages for further consideration. With the recently washed-downdecks drying in uneven patches around him, he confronted certain thoughts of the author with ideas of his own, subjecting both to a kind of lazy analysis in the enervating heat of the noon sun.
Though the Captain
His thoughts returned to the passenger. William Mueller, William Miller, Bill Miller, Jones, John Doe, anyone and no one. A fugitive seeking sanctuary? An emissary on a mission? Yet expectation, whether of good or of bad, he reflected, was far better than the prospect of nothing. It meant change which offered escape from boredom and the ever encroaching desert of ennui.
2
The trip from San Francisco to Astoria took two weeks counting the calls the
Caspar
made at Fort Bragg and Noyo along the Mendocino Coast and at Eureka, Port Orford, Coos Bay and Astoria farther north. For forty-five years the Captain had been making that same run with little to break the monotony except the usual bad weather off Cape Mendocino, which of late made the old wood hull creak and groan and show her years. The routine sameness of sea and sky, of loading and discharging, of bills of lading, of endless loads of redwood and fir swinging up from the docks, the cry of gulls mingling with the hiss and rumble of steam winches together and unvaried, like a single experience, the Captain sometimes reflected, had certainly made his life seem shorter.
Yet his way of life, isolated as it was, had had certain advantages. It had given him time and the peace of mind to read, which was one of his greatest pleasures; also to write in his journal, which he usually did late each night in the privacy of his cabinâhence his nickname, Midnight. He had always considered himself a reasonably happy man, satisfied with his chosen work, productive in that he had served in the development of the coastal lumber industry, and creative in that his journal, much of which had been published in various shipping magazines, was a vivid and running account of nearly a half century of West Coast trading.
But the Captainâs capacity for keeping himself constantly busy was by no means innate. He had acquired itthrough years of strict mental discipline and for the specific purpose of protecting him from certain irrational fears that had troubled his youth, fears that if left unchecked would, he had reason to believe, have expanded into self-destructive phobias. Fortunately, his efforts had been doubly rewarding. He had found immense satisfaction in the acquisition of vast stores of knowledge and, as far as he could tell, his fears had been laid to rest, if not expunged entirely.
Yet lately, and despite his characteristic optimism, he had found himself reflecting on the immense passage of time consumed in those years of service. He could recall with amazement and a certain dismay that he had first shipped out, on that very same vessel, in 1890, in another era really, when passengers, of which there were many then, drove down to the dock in carriages, the women in bustles, the children with ribboned hats and high-buttoned shoes. Men sported gold-headed canes and well-trimmed beards. But he knew very well that retrospection, especially the kind that eulogized the unrecoverable past, could become a dangerous habit at his age. Happily, however, he was not inclined to morose reflection and could dispel the touches of loneliness those memories evoked by the simple process of directing his attention to any one of the numerous activities in which he had always managed to occupy himself. Now the prospect of a passenger, even one of dubious intentions, began to arouse in him a feeling of quiet excitement. He glanced at the dock. Except for the gulls shifting restlessly in the wind, there was no movement anywhere.
He opened his book and turned to
Notes From the Underground
where he had underscored a number of passages for further consideration. With the recently washed-downdecks drying in uneven patches around him, he confronted certain thoughts of the author with ideas of his own, subjecting both to a kind of lazy analysis in the enervating heat of the noon sun.
Though the Captain
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