Chapter Twenty-Two: The Pilgrimage of Peace

On the third night, Captain Theophilus Trotter, Mack McQuary, Doctor Turner, and First Mate Alistair Baxter once again sat at the captain's table. Turner had just returned from the captain's privy and was still fumbling with his britches buttons. "Well? Is it storytime?" he asked.

Mack tossed a rolled cigarette to him. "Don't say I never gave you nothing." Turner tipped the globe up, lit the cigarette, and sat down.

"Obliged."

Mack began rolling another cigarette as the Captain scratched a match and lit his pipe. The flame on the match dipped down, and the tobacco crackled softly. Then the Captain leaned forward to light Mack's cigarette. The three men settled back in their chairs and smoked with half-closed eyes while Baxter drank and slipped into his usual morosity. The lantern glowed and vibrated above them, a quivering light in the haze. Finally, Trotter said, "Well, Baxter. It's your turn."

So the First Mate said, "My story is as true as that pipe you're smoking, Captain. It happened when I was a lad, and the year was 1860. Maine's my home state and about as far away from Dixie as a Yankee can get, but every man's mouth was full of war. I wasn't but fifteen, but I could see the writing on the wall, and not being in a fighting frame of mind, I shipped out on a three-master called the Pax. Most of my duties were washing and tossing out the slops and asking the men—all the passengers were men—if they needed anything. These duties gave me a chance to talk with some of 'em, and by and large, they were nice fellas. They said 'please' and 'thank you' and didn't make me feel like a menial.

"After a week or so, however, I noticed they were odd. Back in Boston, a Quaker minister name of Minister Elliot had a vision of what he called the 'peaceable kingdom,' and he took it on himself to invite a whole gaggle of religious types on what he called a 'pilgrimage of peace.' His idea was to take 'em all to Jerusalem and from there to Mecca and on to Kasi and so on around the whole world. Their aim was to pray for love and the brotherhood of man as they went. Reverend Elliot said that if they joined together as a 'Holy Alliance,' God couldn't ignore such a 'bounty of honest prayer'—those were his words—and God would bestow peace on every country, race, and tribe. You never saw such a jumble of robes and turbans and cassocks and shawls. It was like Mardi Gras but not as colorful."

Mack said, "I was in the Mardi Gras parade before we set off. They made me the King of the Carnival."

Baxter ignored Mack. "Well, those men may have been holy, but that didn't keep them from eating. Even though the crew was working, and the holy men weren't doing anything but praying and reading, they put the crew to shame every time the dinner bell rang. Every morning after a big breakfast, they'd gather on the deck in full costume, and Elliot would make 'em shake hands and bow to one another and even hug. Then he'd say a few words, and they'd all commence praying out loud in their native tongues, and whether they sounded like the Tower of Babble or Pentecost Sunday, I couldn't say, not being a religious or educated man myself. But those fellers were set on getting the attention of the Almighty.

"It was on the morning of the third day, and we were in the belly of the Atlantic when a squall blew up the likes I've never seen before. A cloud appeared in the west about the size of a man's hand and black as a chunk of charcoal. Closer and closer that black hand of judgment drew closer bringing more clouds with it, and the wind began howling like hell had busted wide open to let out the devils, and the clouds covered the whole sky; waves crashed over the deck and pitched the ship up and down like an empty barrel. Those holy men were trying to keep their footing and wondering if this was the end, when Elliot started hollering into the wind, 'Pray for calm! Pray for the storm to pass! Jesus prayed such a prayer on the Sea of Galilee, and the Father heard his prayer! Pray likewise to your God!' Of course, the holy men did as they were bidden because there's nothing like a storm at sea to bring out a man's piety. They beseeched the Universal Power for deliverance and raised their hands and pounded their chests, and some of them even unbound the turbans from their heads, so their hair whipped about in the wind. But that storm didn't give an inch. It was like those black clouds just sat right on top of us with thunder and lightning and barrels of rain. And still those men prayed and wailed and beat their chests.

"All day that storm raged and blew, and to this day, I don't know how we managed to stay afloat. Sometime around the second dog watch, the holy men gave up and crawled down the hatch into the berth. The ship was pitching so wild, they were tumbling about like mice in a box, but I guess they climbed in their hammocks and waited for the worst. What else could any of us do? That night was as black as the inside of a cave, and still the storm blew, and we didn't know if we'd see daylight ever again. Finally, the morning watch came, and the winds eased up, and by the time dawn came, the sea was as serene as a sleeping baby. The waves were rolling no higher than a seal's back, and the ocean stretched out peaceful and blue from one horizon to the other.

"Out came the holy men, looking green and haggard in the morning light, but they gathered on the deck to give thanks. Problem is, their gratitude didn't last very long. One rabbi gets up and says, 'G-d be praised for our salvation,' and a reverend calls out, 'Christ be praised,' then a turbaned fella hollers, 'No, to Shiva be the glory!' and still another yells, 'No, it was Allah who saved us.' That got the rest of the holy men all worked up, and pretty soon they were arguing over which deity saved the ship: Buddha or Jehovah or Ahura Mazda or Mahavira and a bunch of other gods you never heard of before. Then one of the holy men grabbed an oar from the dinghy and round-housed another holy man. He yelled, 'You infidel! It was my god who saved us, not yours!' Pretty soon there were turbans and shawls and beads flying around and falling in heaps on the deck. Elliot was running around yelling, 'Peace! Be still,' 'Peace, be still!' but it didn't do any good. In less than an hour, half of those holy men were unconscious, and two of them were dead, and the rest of them looked pretty beat up. Elliot went to the captain of the ship and said, 'To hell with it. Take me home.' And that was the end of the Pilgrimage of Peace. We threw the dead men overboard and tended to the others as best we could and sailed back to Boston harbor. It wasn't six months later when war broke out in South Carolina, and the United States cracked apart like an egg. Lucky for me, I was at sea again and rounding the Cape of Good Hope."

Captain Trotter laughed and said, "Thus ended the good intentions of the holy men, eh?"

Baxter said, "Yessir. That's why good intentions pave the way to hell."