Burning Bright by John Steinbeck

Author:John Steinbeck [Steinbeck, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780141922980
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2010-01-17T22:00:00+00:00

Act Three, Scene I

The Sea

The tiny cabin of the little freighter was old and comfortable and well used. On one side stood a little mess table with a retaining ridge; good swivel chairs were bolted to the floor, and water bottles and glasses were placed in racks on a small sideboard. The walls were paneled in dark wood well oiled and rubbed for many years, and the brass brightwork shone. Against one wall, under hanging sea coats, was a broad chest upholstered as a bench. Two deep leather chairs stood in front of a small coal grate in a tile mantel, and on the mantel itself there was a model of a schooner complete and beautiful in its detail; beside it was a small artificial Christmas tree decorated with tinsel and silver and red glass balls. On the little hearth was a small rack of fire tools—a short heavy poker, a shovel, and tongs. On the wall under the portholes hung the trophies of many voyages to many places, assegai and knobkerries from Africa, war clubs and shark-toothed spears from the Polynesian south, daggers and stilettos, a witch mask or two, and a shrunken head, black and baleful, hanging by its hair.

The door stood open to the rail of the flying bridge and beyond—the night city of docks and behind them tall lighted buildings, and neon signs glowing in the sky. A second closed door led to the sleeping cabins. A small coal fire glowed in the iron grate.

From outside came the sounds of the harbor, toot of tugs and mutter of engines, and steam hiss and rumble of deck winches and creak of lines in running gear. Behind the harbor sounds the city talked with streetcars and truck engines, with auto horns and juke-box music.

Mr. Victor in a blue mate’s uniform and cap came into the cabin. He looked around nervously, then went to the little grate and stirred the coals, rattled the poker on the iron. A tug whistled a passing signal in the stream. And in the city a fire siren whined up the scale and down again. Mr. Victor stood looking at the little Christmas tree on the mantel. From the other side of the closed door Mordeen’s voice came, muffled, calling, “Joe Saul!” Mr. Victor’s head swung around. “Joe Saul!” the voice called with a note of alarm in it.

Mr. Victor went to the door and opened it. “He’s not here,” he said. “Come out, I want to talk to you.” He went back to the grate and rubbed his hands close to the coals, and he said again toward the open door, “Come here, Mordeen. I want to talk to you.”

In a moment she stood in the doorway, her hair disheveled, from the pillow and her eyes wild and uncertain with sleep. She said, “I had a dream.” And then as her mind came out of sleep, “Where did Joe Saul go?”

“He went ashore,” said Mr. Victor. “He told me to stand by in case you needed anything.

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