War of the Eagles (9 page)

“This is where you're going to earn your pay,” Smitty announced. “Follow me.”

We walked up the steep gangplank from the pier onto the ship. I looked up and down the length of the ship.

There were no signs of life. It was completely deserted.

“The hard part is always finding somebody still aboard who can tell me what to pick up. As soon as one of these scows get into port, it's like rats deserting a sinking ship. The crew scurries off as quick as can be, anxious to see how fast they can spend their money.”

“Somebody must be left.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Sometimes I've had to just sit tight and wait.”

We walked along the length of the vessel, moving towards the bridge.

“Heeelllooo!” Smitty yelled. “Heeelllooo!”

Up ahead a hatch popped open and a little man, old and hunched over, came out.

“Hi ya, fellas. What can I do fer ya?” he asked.

Smitty pulled the orders back out of his shirt pocket and handed them to the man. He unfolded them and stared for a long time like he was trying to memorize what was written there.

“So, you two fellas want supplies, is that right? Is that what you want?”

“Well, I want to meet a good woman and the kid here would probably settle for a new baseball mitt, but I think we better take the supplies,” Smitty responded.

“What?” the old man asked in confusion.

“Just joking. We want our supplies. It's all written down on the requisitions.”

“Requisitions?” the old man asked.

“Yes, you know, the papers,” Smitty replied. “Those things you're holding in your hand.” Smitty pointed to the orders the old man clutched.

He looked down and the expression on his face indicated he was surprised to see them there, and was unsure where they came from.

“Is there anybody else on board to help load the truck?” Smitty asked.

“Just me. I'm the captain, cook, crew and cabin boy when we hit port.”

“That's what I figured.” Smitty turned to me. “Well, Jed, according to our orders we don't have to unload the supplies. The ship's crew has to bring everything dock side. We have a choice. We can wait for somebody else to get back, we can load it ourselves, or we can make old gramps here move as much as he can before he keels over with a heart attack.”

I looked at the old guy. I didn't think he could lift his own feet high enough to climb up a set of stairs. “Let's get lifting.”

“Okay, gramps, can you show me and the kid where the supplies are?”

“Sure, sure, just follow me.” He turned and went back through the hatch where he had originally emerged. “Try and keep up with me, okay,” he chuckled.

I'd never been below deck on a ship as large as this. It was dim and I almost bumped my head as we passed through the first doorway. I figured the old fella had a real advantage being hunched up the way he was if all the doorways were as low as that one. We trailed after him as he went down a set of narrow metal stairs, and then along a thin walkway between wooden lockers. He stopped when he came to locker number seven.

“This is it,” he said, opening the door.

I peered inside, and even in the dim light, was amazed. Boxes were piled right up to the ceiling. A quiet swear word escaped my lips.

“Let's have none of that, Jed. I'm in charge of both the driving and the swearing. You'll have to get a few years older before you can do any of either,” Smitty scolded.

Over the next three hours we moved supplies. The old guy had offered to help. He stayed in the back of the truck, and as we heaved up the boxes he arranged them. I was surprised to see how easily he muscled them into position. It was obvious he'd been doing this for years. Smitty and I exchanged glances.

“He's doing a good job.”

“Yeah,” Smitty said quietly, “probably working on in–stincts alone. It's like the way a chicken will run around for half a minute after you cut its head off. This guy has probably been doing this so long he'll be able to run the ship for two months after he croaks.”

“Even longer than that,” the old man said. He turned to face us. “Lots of things don't work as well as they used to, but the ears are still fine.”

Smitty looked embarrassed. “I'm sorry,” he stam–mered. “I didn't mean anything bad.”

“That's okay, young fella. You's right anyway. After doing this for fifty-five years, they're going have to nail the coffin lid shut to keep me from doing my job.”

Smitty hauled himself up into the back of the truck. “Either way, I was wrong.” Smitty reached out his hand. “I'm John Smith — Smitty — and this young fella is Jed Blackburn.”

I reached up and shook his hand.

“Pleased to meet you fellas. I'm Frank Bartlett. Folks just call me Bart.”

“Well, Bart, we appreciate your help, and thank you for being willing to tolerate a fool and his young assist–ant.”“No problem. Tell me, kid, what kind of Indian are you? What's your tribe?”

My eyes opened wide with shock. “I'm Tsimshian.

Part of me … I'm half Tsimshian.”

“How'd you know that, Bart?” Smitty asked. “He looks kind of Italiano to me.”

“I wasn't going on looks. Going on the way he acts.

Kid acts like he's native.”

“Just how does a native act?” Smitty asked.

I was even more curious than him to hear the an–swer.“Well, for one thing, he doesn't give an old man a hard time,” Bart chuckled and Smitty looked embarrassed all over again. “Natives treat their old people good. But more than that, it was the way he looks at things, watches, listens. He stays still. Just look at him.”

I had this strange desire to look at myself.

“Most whites I ever met think that silent is stupid and words, any words, is smart. Indians know better. Most of ‘em only talk when they have something to say.”

Smitty nodded in silent agreement.

“I always remember something my old man told me. He's been dead for forty years now, but I can remem–ber his words. He said, ‘Frankie,' he always called me Frankie, so he says ‘Frankie, sometimes people think you may be dumb when you don't answer ‘em, but it's when you open your mouth that they can know for sure if you really is or not.'” Bart started chuckling. “I figured it was always better to keep ‘em guessing.”

“Well, Bart, or should I say, Frankie, only a fool would think you were dumb,” Smitty said. He smiled and put a hand on Bart's back. “But we better stop gabbing and get on lifting.”

It was almost 11:30 when the last box found its way into the truck. It was later than I'd thought it was going to be. I knew my mom would be worried. We shook hands with Bart and climbed aboard the truck. Smitty jockeyed it back and forth to turn it around on the narrow pier.

“I wonder how fast a truck like this would sink?”

Smitty asked innocently as the very back overhang of the vehicle was above the water.

“Let's not find out.”

“Sure thing.” With one more twist of the giant steering wheel, he finally aimed the truck in the right direction.

As the truck pulled up to the guard house the guard stood directly in our path, signaling us to stop. He rounded over to the driver's side and climbed up on the step. “I was asked to give you an order. You have one more pick-up before you head back to the base.”

“Pick-up? Where?”

“The courthouse.”

“Courthouse?”

“Yep. They're using it for a temporary holding area. I heard it's been a busy night in Rupert. Big brawl smashed its way clear out the front window of the Royal Hotel.”

“So, what do they want with us?” Smitty questioned.

“Nobody told me. Just told me to tell you where to report,” the guard replied.

“Thanks,” Smitty grunted.

Pulling out of the port, we moved along a side street parallel to the main drag. All the houses were quiet, the lights out, no sign that anyone was awake. Smitty turned and we crossed over Third Avenue. Glancing out the window and down the street, I could see it was in sharp contrast to the surrounding streets. There were cars on the move, lights in all the windows, men — and some women — strolling along the sidewalks and overflow–ing onto the edges of the road. Honking horns, loud conversation and even louder laughter filtering through the window and over the noise of our engine. Smitty brought the truck to a halt in the driveway in front of the courthouse. I grabbed the door handle, preparing to get out.

“No way, Jed, you stay here.”

“Why?”

“Somebody has to guard the supplies.”

“Guard boxes of canned food? Nobody's going to steal this load of crap!”

“Hey! Watch your mouth. Now just do what you're told. I thought Tsimshian were supposed to listen to their elders,” Smitty chided.

“You're hardly my elder.”

“Regardless. Stay put.” He slammed the door shut behind him, and went into the small side door at the base of the courthouse steps.

From where I sat high up in the cab, I had a good view of everything. There were a few other vehicles in the driveway, two RCMP patrol cars and four military jeeps, one of which belonged to the American army. There were three American soldiers sitting on the steps of the court. Off on the grass there was a cluster of men. They were sailors in the merchant marine. I wondered if a couple of them were from the ship we'd just unloaded.

Smitty re-emerged. He held the door open and Ry–lance appeared. He was missing his MP's helmet and even in the dim light I could tell one of his eyes was swollen shut. Following behind him were men from our camp. They walked with their eyes on the ground. A couple had ripped or muddied uniforms. One was limping badly and leaning on his buddy. At the end of the line were two RCMP officers holding their night–sticks in front of them. The line slowed down and one of the Mounties poked the last man in the back with his stick. He didn't even turn around to protest.

With the last person out, Smitty let go of the door and ran to the front of the line. “Jed, help me get the tail down.”

I jumped down from the truck and joined him at the back. Together we untied the canopy and lowered the tailgate.

“All right, everybody get in,” Rylance yelled. It sounded much more like a pleading request than an order. Wordlessly they started to climb into the back, taking up positions against the boxes of canned goods. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol. Some of the men looked like they'd been dragged behind a horse. Blood stained some of their white dress shirts. The last man, of the fourteen I counted, climbed aboard.

“Seal ‘em up,” Rylance said.

We raised the heavy metal tailgate and it squealed in loud protest. The canopy was pulled into place and the ropes tied down to the back hooks.

“Okay, guys,” Rylance said to the RCMPs. “I'll have the major call your commander and they can figure out together what to do with this lot.”

One of the police officers turned to Smitty. “Make sure you hit every bump between here and the camp. Maybe you can knock a little sense into them.”

Smitty nodded in agreement and we climbed into the cab of the truck. I sat in the middle and Rylance sat by the window.

“I'm going to drive like I was carrying newborn ba–bies,” Smitty responded.

“Why?” asked Rylance. “The way these guys acted tonight they deserve what they get.”

“I'm not thinking about them, I'm thinking about me. As it is, the back of the truck will smell bad, but if I'm not careful the whole thing will be floating in vomit. Do you know how hard it is to get rid of that smell?”

“I can imagine,” Rylance chuckled, “but I wouldn't worry about it. There's going to be lots of guys to scrub trucks. These men will be on punishment duty right through this war and into the next one.”

“What happened?”

“It all started small. A couple of our guys and a cou–ple of natives. It got out of hand quick. By the time it was over, there must have been over two hundred guys fighting. Locals, Indians, merchant marine, US sailors, some American soldiers, our guys. Everybody fighting everybody. The RCMP and us MPs were waist-deep in it, but we couldn't get it to stop.”