Fog

 This story was read by John Drainie in his CBC radio program, “John Drainie tells a Story.” 

Fog. Nothing but grey-green, blinding fog, creeping through the

hatches, snaking down the passageways and blanketing our ancient, rusty ship from bow to stern. It covered us, insulated us and

left us motionless, transfixed as it were in space, scarcely able

to see the deck, much less the water beneath us, though we could

hear it languidly lapping the hull, as if it too, had lost its way

in that infernal fog. Somewhere to the west of us was the Nova

Scotia coast, and somewhere to the north, Cape Breton Island, which

we had touched a week before, but in the fog, they might as well

have been on the other side of the world. We were alone, isolated

in this grey, fluffy monstrous mist, with only a compass to guide us. The cook ticked off 

days on his calendar in the galley and worried about his

diminishing stores. September the fourth, 1932.

   The Great Depression was in full cry, and we were a motley crew

of survivors, brought together by one common bond: we could find

work nowhere else. The cook was a Scotsman from Glasgow via

Halifax, and his native parsimony governed the size of our

rations more and more as the days dragged on. There was a medical

student from Alberta, interrupted in his studies, a couple of Cape

Bretoners, big, solid men, slow of speech, three hands from Quebec, and

a large black who sat in the bow and hummed melancholy tunes to

himself.  The captain, named

McAskill, was a little man with a great mustache, and the mate was

Simeon McPherson, with enormous arms covered with tattoos. A brutal

man he looked, but he was almost gentle, and sometimes I would see

him breathing hard and clutching his chest, his face contorted.

  "What's the matter?" I asked him once.

  "It's all right, thank you just the same," he replied, and he

straightened his back and walked away.

  I mentioned this to Jack, our medical student, and he was knowledgeable as usual.

  "I wouldn't be surprised if it was his heart," he said wisely."Angina, I think."

  "If you know what's wrong with him, " I said, "why don't you tell

him?"

  "I did, once."

  "What did he say?"

  "Nothing. He gave me a dirty look as if I was some sort of wise

guy and set me off to swab the deck. So I keep my mouth shut."

  But it was the fog that ruled our lives. We cursed the rusty old

tub that held us prisoner, cursed the cargo of pulpwood that we carried,

cursed the meals that were getting leaner and leaner, but most of

all, we cursed the fog.  Joe, the black man, hummed his doleful melodies in

the bow. One of the French hands named Pierre Deschambault had an

abscessed tooth and crept about looking almost as grey as the mist

itself. The cook ticked off the days on his calendar. September the

fifth, 1932.

  That was the day it happened first, though we didn't realize the 

danger at the time. I was sitting near the stern and Jack was close by, but

we weren't talking to each other. The fog separated us. We stared

into it blindly, and as we stared, we heard a grunt, a muffled cry and a splash.

  We were all sightless in the mist, but somehow, from all

parts of the ship, the crew gathered at the spot where the sound

was heard. Someone was saying - not shouting - "Man overboard!", as

if the mist that surrounded us had muffled his voice. We got a boat

lowered and fished about in the fog until we found something. It

was the black man from Halifax. We got the poor fellow back on deck

and tried artificial respiration, but it was no use. He was gone.

  "We bury him at sea, I guess," said someone. The captain cleared

his throat, uncomfortably. Reading the death service was not a

prospect that made him happy. Reading anything was a chore.

  "There's a nasty welt on his head, sir," said the first mate. And

there was; a cut ran down his scalp, over his face and down his

neck. "Now how the hell would he get that?"

  "It would be an easy thing to get when he fell," said the

captain, but there was a trace of doubt in his voice.

  "It's an ugly business," said the mate, shaking his head, his

great arms folded over his chest.

  The captain cleared his throat again as if he had made up his

mind. "There's no use making a mystery out of it," he said,

briskly. "In this fog, it's easy enough to fall and get hurt. Poor devil. We'll

do right by him."

  So we buried him in the fog - pushed him into it, and heard his

body splash into the water below. And then we returned to waiting;

sitting and waiting for the infernal fog to lift. September the

sixth, 1932.

  The next day, it happened again. I heard only a splash. The fog

enclosed us. You could barely see beyond the tip of your nose, and the boat could find no body, but one of the Quebeckers was missing.

Somehow it was all the more terrible because we couldn't find him. He must

have drowned without a trace. Which was odd, for he could swim. I

was sure of that. Why was there no cry, no alarm?

  The captain cleared his throat and turned back to his cabin

without a word.

  "It's an ugly business," said the mate.

  "What's he mean by that?" asked Jack, beside me. Is that all he

can say?"

  "It's just all ugly, I guess. The mist. These deaths." I could

not see the mate's face, but the foreboding was unmistakable. I

thought I knew why. We have a madman on board.

  We crept away, and the fog came down between us again. Each of us was an isolated island. But now there was suspicion too. Just the

beginning of suspicion. The blinding fog conducted it, like an

electric current. Jack sought me out first.

   "There you are," he said. "Keep your voice low. There's no

telling who could hear us."

   "O.K.," said I.

   "There's a killer on this tub."

   "How can you be sure?"

   "How?" His voice rose, and then he regained control and hushed

again. "I don't. But all of us suspected this afternoon. This damned fog has driven one of us mad. The mate knows. He's just not saying anything."

   He's badly frightened, I thought. He's frightened for himself;

so he can't be the killer. 

   "I could believe this old tub was haunted, you know," he went

on. "We're all of us thrill of fear.

   "God only knows. Could be Deschambault. His abscessed tooth is

driving him crazy. This damn " He laid his hand on my arm as if he were

looking for a solid human being he could touch. "All I can say is,

don't go walking alone on deck in this fog. There's no telling what

could happen."

   We sat together and talked for a long time, he of Edmonton and

his abandoned career, and I of Fredericton, which was a little

place back then with elm-lined streets. And the fog. September the

seventh, 1932.

   We half expected it to happen again, and it did. There was a

gurgle, a splash, and the crew materialized magically by the rail.

We let down the boat and poked around in the fog, and at last we

found a body. It was Pierre Deschambault. Poor Pierre. His

abscessed tooth would pain him no more.

   He was dead, and there was a deep gash on his head. The fog

veiled our faces, and it was just as well. We looked at the captain

and the captain cleared his throat.

   "This is bad business," said the mate. He was breathing

heavily.

   "There's more here than just an accident," said the captain,

with unexpected resolution, "and we all know that three men would

not take their own lives like this." There was a growl of assent

from the crew. "Now, if any of you know more about these, uh,

happenings, let him speak up."

   We were silent as a tomb. The pitch of the captain's voice

went higher.

   "Now if this happens again, there'll be no sidestepping the

truth and there'll be no getting away with it. If any of you know

anything, let him speak out."

   We all remained quiet. No one replied. The mate stood with his

great arms folded on his breast; the two Cape Bretoners looked at

their shoes. Farther out in the fog, I could feel rather than see,

the rest of the crew. I think the captain would have preferred to

believe the murders were done by a ghost instead of one of his men.

Jack stood beside me, breathing a little unevenly.

   If this happens again, the captain said. It was what we all

feared. We were afraid to be alone, and yet afraid to stay with our

neighbours.

   "Just think," said Jack, who was still at my side, "it could

be you."

   "That's not funny," I growled.

   He laughed shrilly, and I struck him sharply between the

shoulder-blades.

   "Get hold of yourself," I commanded. "You sound hysterical."

   "No, no," he replied breathlessly. "I've got to trust someone,

and it might as well be you. If you're the killer, that's my tough

luck. But I can't suspect everybody. It goes against the grain."

   "Thanks," I said, with a wry smile, but I felt a little  

relieved. What could we do? Pray for Sherlock Holmes?

   The long day faded; night fell, and the next day dawned. The

cook ticked it off and calculated that the supplies could last

only two more days. We were half-starved as it was, and the fog

still blanketed us. September the ninth, 1932.

   We waited for it to happen again, frightened, avoiding the

deck as much as we could, and it came, but not as we expected.

There was a cry and the sound of a scuffle. We rushed on deck. I

seized a boat hook. It was the best weapon I could find. I thought

we might find two men locked in mortal combat.

   But the fight was over. The mate lay on the deck, breathing

heavily, and the thews of his neck stood out in agony. Over him,

clutching his arm, stood one of the Cape Bretoners.

   "I heard a noise behind me," he said, "and I swung round.

There was the mate, with the look of the devil on him and that ugly

iron in his hand. I ducked in time, but he got those arms of his

around me, and nearly squeezed the life out of me. Then, all of a

sudden, his arms go weak and I knocked him over like a kitten." He

had never talked so long before at one stretch, and he was quite

out of breath.

   "It's his heart," said Jack.

   The captain swelled out his chest, and looked sternly down at

the mate.

   "Is this so? Are you responsible for the murder of these three

other men?"

   The mate was breathing more evenly now, but he was still. His

eyes moved restlessly from face to face, but they betrayed nothing.

   "Madness, madness," said the captain. "Take him below. Like as

not, we'll bring his corpse to justice."

   "Look!"

   It does not matter who said it. Like a great plague departing

from the earth, the fog was beginning to lift. Up and up; the

grey-green malignant fog which had blinded and cursed us and

half-starved us for two weeks was beginning to leave. As if it were

a new world we saw the sea again and the waves, and away in the

distance, the dim outline of land. Jack embraced me, and we started

to blubber like children.

   The captain cleared his throat.

   "Away to your places, lads," he said, almost genially. "We'll

make for Halifax now."

   But we hardly heard him, for it was as if we had glimpsed a

new life.