The Sand Pebbles (59 page)

“Red Dog Bite-’em-on-the-ass Shanahan, at your service!”

Red Dog introduced Holman and Farren. They poured the whisky into their beer glasses and chased it with beer direct from the bottles. Don had a smooth, infectious charm that made him seem almost at once like an old shipmate. They had to shout at each other above the singing. They all beat time to it.

“Us kids used to run after Chinks and yell
hiya mucka yi yi,”
Don said. “We thought it was a terrible Chinese cuss word.”

They all hit the table. Don poured more whisky.

“I have a lead on a human interest story from your ship,” Don said.

“What’s human interest?” Holman asked.

“Makes people feel good, makes ’em laugh or cry,” Don said. “Man bites dog, that’s news. Boy loses dog, that’s human interest. You see?”

“We ain’t supposed to talk,” Farren said. “I guess that depends on what about, though.”

“How many people would read a story you wrote?” Holman asked.

“A story all the papers would run … millions of people.”

“Must make you draw a lot of water,” Red Dog said.

“Oh, I eat tea with the very best people.” Don grinned and pantomimed it with his little finger out. “I get in to see the consuls and admirals and bishops. But what the hell, they’re officers of church and state and they don’t dare to be human. My readers want human interest.”

“This story,” Don said. “Is there a man missing from your ship who has not been reported missing?”

“Is
there!” Farren shouted. “We
want
to talk about that! Don, how in hell did you ever find out about it?”

Don enjoyed their wondering admiration. “I have a nose for news, Boats,” he said. “That’s what brought me all this way up the line from South Boston.” He broke out a notebook and a gold pencil. “When I know the whole story I can ask the right questions and pry an official story out of the admiral,” he said. “I won’t mention you boys. We always protect our sources. Point of honor.”

“Jake, you better tell it,” Farren said.

As soon as he began the story, Holman knew something was wrong. The gold pencil stopped scratching. Don’s face changed. He held up his hand.

“That’s not the story I have the lead on,” he said.

“It’s a story, ain’t it?” Farren said.

“Not one I can use. I know you boys want to help out a buddy and I wish I could give you a hand,” Don said seriously. “But here’s how it is. My papers just wouldn’t run a sob story about a sailor and a native woman.”

It jarred them down hard.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Holman asked.

“They have to sell papers to stay in business,” Don said. “Everybody knows our gallant boys in blue go to bed with native women—what the hell, I have myself, and maybe I will tonight—but the kind hearts and gentle people don’t like to be reminded of it in print.”

“Prong the kind hearts and gentle people!” Red Dog said.

“They pay the taxes and they run the world,” Don said. “Them’s the facts of life, fellers.”

It broke the happy mood. Don poured more whisky. They drank in glum silence.

“Well, Don, chances are a hundred to one that Frenchy’s drowned, anyway,” Farren said. “We just got to talking and hoping and then you come in and—oh hell!” He took a big gulp of whisky.

In a few minutes Farren and Red Dog had Burgoyne safely dead again and out of his misery. They wanted to believe it.

“I got my lead from a young Britisher at a cocktail party,” Don said. “He thought our navy was sitting on the story to keep down war fever, you know, keep cool with Coolidge, that stuff.”

It turned out the story he wanted was about Po-han. He was disappointed to learn that it was a coolie and not a sailor, but he said it would still make a story. Holman pushed back his chair.

“Jake! Now Jake!” Farren said.

“I’m only going to the head,” Holman told him.

The Sikh watchman did not recognize Holman. “Gel, Johnny?” he asked, flashing white teeth through his beard. The kitchen help had a jury-rig whorehouse going back among the bales.

“Poyang Road, Johnny.” Holman gave him a dollar.

“Snow ver-ree cold, Johnny. Gel warm.” The Sikh made the girl sign with his thumb and fingers.

“Poyang Road, Johnny.”

“Maskee, Johnny.”

The whole place shook.

Snow fell, muffling, concealing. The air was clean and cold and wet and very silent. In six paces his feet were soaked with slush. He moved in a ghostly bubble of snowlight between buildings half visible. He met no one.

It was the same in the native city. The snow rounded and softened outlines. It masked the filth and stink of narrow, empty streets. He transferred his pistol to his peacoat pocket.

Weak snowlight made the alley a ghostly cave. Long lumps lay around, snow-covered. Maily and Burgoyne were in the far corner, under their
pukow
. One of Burgoyne’s bare feet was sticking out. Holman could just see the shape of the tattooed pig on the foot.
Burgoyne had a rooster tattooed on his other foot. That pig and rooster combination was supposed to be a charm to keep a man from drowning.

Holman knelt. The ankle was stone cold. He shook it gently.

“Frenchy,” he whispered.

Burgoyne did not awaken. Holman shook him sharply.

“Frenchy!”

“Frenchy is dead.” Maily’s voice was muffled under the
pukow
. “Go away, please, Jake,” she said. “I don’t want to have to see you or talk to you.”

Then Holman’s fingers knew the waxen feel of death and he lifted his hand. He stood up and breathed in once, very deeply. He let the breath out, slowly and silently. He turned and walked out of the alley, with a dumb, bursting hatred of God inside his heart. In the street the snow was a soft white curtain endlessly falling.

Lt. Collins’ head ached. He looked at the pages before him and the type blurred. He had been up all night writing and revising his statement. Welbeck had spent all night typing and retyping it. It still would not do. He slapped his hand on the paper.

There was just not any good way to set down cleanly on paper the command responsibility for coolies. Officially they were not aboard, except for casual labor. Now the gearwheel was trying to make
San Pablo
into a world scandal. Admirals would read this statement. President Coolidge himself might even read it.

He went out on the boat deck. The cold morning air cleared his head. Several propaganda sampans were already circling the ship. Snow lay whitely on the hills behind Wuchang. On
San Pablo
it was slush grimy with soot and coal dust. He saw Franks and called to him.

“Chief, get this ship cleaned up!” he said angrily.

“Yes, sir!” Franks said. “The coolies been Bolshevik, since Pappy Tung got took. I’ll kick ’em into line, sir.”

“Persuade them. Don’t mistreat them.”

He went back and rang for more coffee. He could still see Franks’
baffled stare. He went over his statement again, weighing phrases. None of them were right. Some while later Crosley knocked on his door to deliver a signal from the flagship. Lt. Collins felt his face clear as he read it.

“Ask Mr. Bordelles to come in here,” he told Crosley.

They had made up their minds in Flag.
San Pablo
would drop out of sight and mind. The wounded tiger seeking its lair. It satisfied a very deep instinct. Bordelles came in, looking apprehensive.

“Make all preparations for getting underway,” Lt. Collins said, almost cheerfully. “We will sail for Changsha as soon as steam is raised.” Bordelles’ face showed his pleasure. “We have a relief for Burgoyne ordered from
Truxtun,”
Lt. Collins said. “Signal them to expedite the transfer.”

Bordelles went out with a swing to his shoulders.

Holman did not tell anyone about Burgoyne. It was easier to let them think he drowned. They had forgotten Burgoyne, anyway. The ship was turning frantic.

Duckbutt Randall was making the rounds of the other warships to requisition spuds and onions. Welbeck was ashore buying all the stores he could find and sending them off to the ship. On the fantail Franks and Farren wrangled furiously with the deck coolies about cleaning up the ship. At least fifteen propaganda sampans were circling the ship. The Chinese in them waved placards and whooped like a Pawnee war party. The crew roared curses back at them and began throwing coal and potatoes.

Lynch was still ashore, seeing his wife and cousin off to Shanghai. It took Holman an hour just to round up the bilge coolies. Then they claimed that only Ping-wen knew how to lay a fire and light off a furnace. Even Chiu-pa kept his face blank and his eyes secretive. Holman went up to the compartment. It was messy with unmade bunks and strewn clothing. Perna and Stawski were waiting for shaves.

“Perna, you’re senior water monkey, now that Frenchy’s gone,” Holman said. He told Perna about the coolies. “You lay the fires
and light off for ’em,” he said. “Then they’ll have to take over. They can’t claim they don’t know how to stoke.”

“Well, Jesus Christ. I’m waiting on a shave.”

“Better light fires first. The skipper wants steam.”

“Don’t you snipes do any of their work for ’em!” Bronson warned, from the barber chair. “Don’t you cut Farren’s throat up on deck!”

Clip Clip went on shaving Bronson, ignoring the argument.

“I’ll just tell ’em what to do.” Perna rose. “Come help me, Ski.”

“I’ll kick their slopeheaded asses!” Stawski said.

Holman went out with them. Lynch was just coming aboard. He had Lemon carrying boxes for him, up to the CPO quarters.

“Saw Becky ashore. He give me the word, and I stocked up,” Lynch said, winking at Holman. “You got fires lit yet?”

“Perna just went down there.”

Holman told Lynch about the coolies. Lynch was not worried.

“We get ’em back to Changsha, they’ll toe the line,” he said.

Clip Clip was just finishing Holman’s shave when the loud voices started on deck. Holman went out. Lynch, with a pistol belted on, was talking to Stawski and Perna. The beefy fireman was knuckling at a small cut above his eye. His face looked outraged.

“He come at me with a slice bar, I tell you!” Stawski said.

Bordelles came from aft. He looked harried.

“Sweet Christ, what is it now, Lynch?” he asked.

“Coolie squabble. I can handle it, Mr. Bordelles,” Lynch said. “I’ll take personal charge and get steam raised.” He turned to Perna. “I bet you ain’t even slacked stack guys,” he said.

“I told you, we ain’t even got fires lit!” Perna said.

“Stawski, get up there and slack them guys,” Lynch said. “Come with me, Perna.”

“I ain’t going back down there without a gun!”

“I got the gun.” Lynch slapped his pistol. “Come on, I said!”

Holman stayed topside. It would be several hours before it was time to warm up the engine. He heard shouting and clanging from
below. The hydrokineter on the cold boiler began rumbling very loudly. Lynch was going to force steam.

Holman loitered along the main deck. Farren and Haythorn had at last gotten some of the deck coolies working. They had to stand right over them. Beside the galley Ellis and Vincent were throwing potatoes at the circling sampans. Duckbutt Randall was trying to stop them.

“Spuds cost money!” he objected. “Throw coal.”

“Coal costs money,” Holman said. “Thumb your noses. That’s free.”

“Throw bullets!” Ellis snorted. “Shoot the sons of bitches!”

Lynch came on deck, sweating and cheerful. “All fires lit and drawing good,” he told Holman. “Them coolies will stay squared away, now. How about we go have some coffee?”

“Let’s go,” Holman said.

In the CPO quarters they drank coffee aromatic with brandy. Lynch was happy about going to Changsha. It was taking the ship off a very bad spot. Things would be all right again, in Changsha.

“I got my business here cleared up just in time,” Lynch said.

Renewed shouting started outside. Lynch and Holman carried their coffee cups out to the rail to see what it was. Water was arching and splashing and the same wupan of two days before was trying to come alongside again. Haythorn was keeping it off with the wash-deck hose. A student spokesman was shouting in Chinese. Lop Eye Shing, evil-faced as ever, stood beside the student, balanced on his cane.

“The Boatmen’s Union has declared a strike on your ship!” the student called in English. “We demand that you permit us to take off the citizens of the Republic of China whom you are holding against their will!”

Coolies ran and jabbered along the main deck of the
San Pablo
.

“Keep your distance, you Bolshevik sons of bitches!” Bordelles yelled from the bow. “Stop making those threats! We will protect our men!”

A potato hit Lop Eye Shing in the face. He staggered and blinked. Franks came running up to the boat deck.

“Keep your men below! Don’t let ’em hear those threats!” he told Lynch. “They’re trying to steal our coolies!”

“Guard the hatch, Jake!” Lynch said.

Holman ran down. He stopped Chiu-pa and the coolies at the hatch. They went back below without argument. Lynch joined Holman. He had his pistol belted on again. The
San Pablo
was buzzing like a chopped-open beehive. Men were yelling and running in all directions. Farren and Haythorn were chasing the deck coolies to their quarters. Bronson hustled Big Chew and Jack Dusty aft. Big Chew had on his apron and he was waving a ladle angrily.

“Are your men all safe, Lynch?”

It was Bordelles. Lynch said the men were safe. Holman saw Chiu-pa streak aft along the port side, followed by the other bilge coolies.