Vince Hancock
Tuesday, December 24, 2024
Monday, September 16, 2024
Drowned Argosies
Adapted from the short story by Jay Wilmer Benjamin
(Note: Argosies ["AR-guh-seas"] are fleets of merchant ships.)
They were sailors. He knew that. But what a strange crew! There were ship cooks with their rough hands. There were also old sailors who were barefoot. Some were famous for sailing the long route from China to England in only two months!
And there were engineers like Charles, who knew the great ships, inside and out. These sailors were trying to talk to him--but Charles shook his head.
"Dead men can't talk!" he said to himself.
"You think we're dead, don't you?" said the sailor. "Well, we're not! The only time a sailor really dies is when they bury him in the ground. But the sea! We live forever in the sea. There's men here who served in every kind of vessel, from small boats to the great ships of the oceans!"
"Who are you?" asked Charles.
"Me? Well, have you ever heard of the Ranger? Her captain was Paul Jones. A good captain, he was, and not too hard on his men.
"Paul Jones? He's been dead for nearly two hundred years!"
"Not quite so many," said the old sailor, and laughed.
"Ugh!" thought Charles, "I must be going mad."
"On the other hand,” said the sailor, “here's old Peter.” He waved a hand toward a short, hairy man. "He sailed with Quintus Maximus when the Romans banished Carthage from the Mediterranean."
"What? That man served under Quintus Maximus? But that was nineteen hundred years ago!"
"Oh, I'd say more like two thousand years ago, but what's time, after all? What's time?"
That was just too much for Charles to hear. I must really be crazy, he thought to himself. He leaned his head against the side of the boat and began to cry, in long sobs. The sailor reached over, and Charles shivered at the touch of his hand. It was icy cold, despite the sun sending its red-hot rays to beat on Charles’s back.
"I felt that way when they left me on the sea to drift, too. You know, I was the man they lost from the Ranger. But here's Henry Hudson. Do you want to talk to him about drifting?”
Charles thought back to his history lessons, years earlier. In 1611, Henry Hudson’s crew got tired of all the exploring, all the cold, and all the ice. They banished him to a little boat and left him alone on the open sea.
"No,” Charles decided. He did not want to think about drifting anymore.
A voice broke in, a deep voice vibrant with sympathy.
"Poor youngster! They all feel that way just before they sign on. Myself, I felt it too."
"Who are you?" Charles asked, frantically hoping it wasn't who he thought it was.
"Hendrik Hudson–once, captain of the Half-Moon. As a lad, I signed on to sail under Admiral Beresford. These days, I command the Saturnia. Do you want to sign on with me?"
"What do you mean?"
"Young fool! Do you not know that we, who sailed the seven seas, still sail beneath her? Look!"-and he pointed a thick fat finger at the green waves.
Charles turned back to Captain Hudson.
"But I know nothing about sailing-ships, Captain. I'm an engineer."
"So?” Hendrik Hudson turned to the old sailor. “Hey, Nat. Does Captain Lucks need an engineer?"
"That depends. I hear he needs someone with the right expertise, with the extra first class certificate."
"Call him up, will you?"
Charles watched as the old sailor, Nat, took out a bosun's whistle and blew an odd, high-pitched call.
The sea bubbled, and up came a man dressed just like every captain of the sea. He had four gold stripes on his uniform. The stripes looked just as bright as when Captain Lucks was still alive, and commanded the Titania.
"Hello. What is the matter?" he boomed.
Charles heard the way Captain Lucks talked. There was a slight hiss to the S's, as though the captain had false teeth.
Nat looked a little shy about talking to the great Captain Lucks. Captain Lucks seemed very stern and not fond of chit-chat.
"This man, Captain," said Nat, "wants to sign on with you."
“Hmm. What skills does he have?"
“Engineering, sir,” said Charles. “Extra first class, sir." Now he was convinced that all this was more than just a dream, that it was indeed actually life.
Dimly on the horizon, a faint smudge of smoke rose into the sky. A long, lean coast-guard ship cut through the water like a knife. They were searching for survivors of the Volcania. That was the ship that Charles was on. An officer looked at the lonely sea.
"Goodness!" he thought. "How terrible to be left adrift here!”
Then he saw a tiny white spot, far away. It was Charles’ boat. He called for help with a sharp voice.
"Turn 90 degrees west! Call the captain. I see a boat!"
"Aye, aye, sir!"
The wheel spun. A messenger raced to get the captain. The captain went to the bridge and called down below. "Engine room," he said, "can you make this old ship go any faster?"
The ship's engines thrust the mighty ship forward and black smoke poured out of the smokestacks.
Soon, the ship floated next to Charles’ lifeboat. A crew of young sailors lifted Charles. They saw him looking at someone and trying to salute him, but the young sailors didn't see anyone else there.
Charles mumbled like he was asleep. "I'll be honored to join your crew, sir," he said.
The young sailors had seen men adrift before. They knew what the sea and sun can do. So they looked at him with kindness and helped him aboard the coast guard ship.
As the young sailors carried him, Charles said strange things about drowned ships and old sailors.
Charles gazed around, frantically. He seemed to be trying to understand where he was. "Is this my new room aboard, Captain?" he asked, weakly.
"Take it easy, son, you'll be fine, now," advised a grizzled sailor.
Charles looked at the sailor, but he was confused. Suddenly Charles fell back, half-asleep, and began to babble.
The sailor looked at Charles and felt sorry for him. Then he bent forward, listening to all the crazy words. His eyes widened. Who? What?
“My word!" he said, in amazement,"how in the world did this guy know Captain Lucks–and how did know he had false teeth?”
Original story, Drowned Argosies
(pub. July 1934, in “Weird Tales” magazine)
Illustrations from around the web
Tuesday, July 19, 2022
Mind Your Own Yard
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| Artwork excerpted from K. C. Green |
1this country might have been a pion eer land. once. and it still is. check out the falling gun/shells on our blk/tomorrows 3You would not know that the souls of old Texans are in jeopardy in a way not common to other men, my singular friend. You would not know of the long plains night where they carry on and arrange their genetic duels with men of other states-- 5What's going on here? Can no one help them? Must everyone witness their downfall? This reduces us all. Someone must show up at once to save them, to take everything off their hands right now, every trace of this life before this humiliation goes on any longer. Someone must do something. I reach for my wallet and that is how I understand it: 6we lay waste our powers;-- Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hears away, a sordid boon! 9Quite unexpectedly as Vasserot The armless ambidextrian was lighting A match between his great and second toe And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb - Quite unexpectedly the top blew off: 12And protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the mass hardens 13I have split the earth and the hard coal and rocks and the solid bed of the sea And went down to reconnoitre there a long time, And bring back a report 15A man has to begin over and over – to try to think and feel only in a very limited field, the house on the street, the man at the corner drug store. 17You can know all about what Henry James really meant, or the art of the fugue, but if you are not at home in the world under your feet and before your eyes, you are actually uncivilized. 19There is a kind of love called maintenance, Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it; Which checks the insurance, and doesn't forget The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs; 21what matters is that you graft the right slip onto the right tree (selah) if the executioners then knock on the door they come too late a few ice-ages pass and the youngsters will then savor your delicious apricots 23Mind your own yard. | 4No water in the water fountain No phone in the phone booth […] He gave me a dollar A blood-soaked dollar I cannot get the spot out but It's okay it still works in the store 7A collection of loud tales Concentrating eternal stupidities, That in remote ages lived unhaltered, Roaming through a fenceless world. 8[Aldous] Huxley grasped, as Orwell did not, that it is not necessary to conceal anything from a public insensible to contradiction and narcoticized by technological diversions. 10creating a sequencing of information so random, so disparate in scale and value, as to be incoherent, even psychotic. 11I am not interested in preventing Asia from being Asia and the governments of Russia and Asia will rise and fall but Asia and Russia will not fall the government of America also will fall but how can America fall I doubt if anyone will ever fall anymore except governments fortunately all the governments will fall the only ones which won't fall are the good ones and the good ones don't yet exist But they have to begin existing they exist in my poems 14Dictated a long time ago, but its time has still Not arrived, telling of danger, and the mostly limited Steps that can be taken against danger Now and in the future, in cool yards, In quiet small houses in the country, Our country, in fenced areas, in cool shady streets. 16ἔπειτα γονέας εἰ εὖ ποιεῖ, καὶ τὰ τέλη εἰ τελεῖ, καὶ τὰς στρατείας εἰ ἐστράτευται. (Whether he treats his parents well, and whether he paid the taxes he owes, and whether he served his military service.) 18a car had passed over the clay just where the ant came out busily with its pine needle now […] Time after time it slid back down with its tottering load and worked its way up again 20it's you, Potentilla Anserina, an old acquaintance from Tartumaa and Vorumaa farmyards we can never forget as we cannot also forget gooseshit I so often stepped in and that stuck between my toes 22My young son asks me: Must I learn history? What is the use, I feel like saying. Learn to stick Your head in the earth, and maybe you'll still survive. Yes, learn mathematics, I tell him! Learn your French, learn your history! |
Sources:
1. “Right on: white america,” Sonia Sanchez (PDF download)
2. Tombstone marker for Washakie, Chief of the Eastern Shonone, Ft. Washakie Cemetery, Wind River Indian Reservation, Wyoming. Front, left side, right side, back
3. “Gunslinger, Book 1,” Edward Dorn (PDF download)
4. “Water Fountain,” Tune-Yards
5. “Distress Sale,” Raymond Carver
6. “The World is Too Much With Us,” William Wordsworth
7. "War is Kind," XII 'A Newspaper is a Collection of Half-Injustices,' Stephen Crane
8. Amusing Ourselves to Death, Neil Postman, p. 111, 1985
9. “The End of the World,” Archibald MacLeish
11. "Death to Van Gogh's Ear!" Allen Ginsberg
12. "Shine, Perishing Republic," Robinson Jeffers
13. “I am the Poet,” Walt Whitman
14. "The One Thing That Can Save America," John Ashbery
15. Sherwood Anderson, from a letter (to Roger Sergel, 1939), per Raymond Carver
16. Question set 55.3, Constitution of Athenians, per Josh Nudell, “Bring Back Dokimasia”
17. Kenneth Rexroth, His Corner of the World, NYT Book Review, October 27, 1957
20. “My Wife and Children,” Jaan Kaplinski (trans. with Sam Hamilland Riina Tamm)
21. “Cultivate Your Garden,” Hans Magnus Enzensberger (trans. Edouard Roditi)
22. “My Young Son Asks Me,” Bertolt Brecht
23. "Literature of California" lecture, Jack Hicks, Emeritus Professor of English, UC Davis, circa 2000













