Land Sharks

by S. L. Stoner

  “Hah!” Laidlaw responded. “The police receive their slice of the proverbial pie as kickbacks. Not just them. Many others gobble from that particular trough, if you’ll forgive my clumsy metaphor. First, there are the semi-legitimate boardinghouse masters or ‘crimps,’ as most call them. Their gain is obvious. They tend to use trickery and indebtedness to crew the ships.

  “After that are the building owners. They provide both the lures of entrapment above ground and those underground locations where the land shark crimps imprison shanghaied men before transferring them onto a departing ship. So, that means the North End building owner gets a cut–twice.

  “To my mind, the most disgusting of all are the ‘investors.’ They are the ones who finance the crimps and land sharks, underwrite the buildings and get payoffs in exchange for providing political protection. No matter what happens, they make sure their profit from the shanghaiing business exceeds the interest rate obtainable from a bank or other legitimate investment.”

  As he’d told Franklin, the kidnapping aspect was something Sage knew about. He’d received plenty of warnings about the dangers of drinking with strangers during those months of hard Frisco living. Later on, while snugging close to lumber camp stoves or sitting in North End swill joints, there’d be tales of loggers and others who’d disappeared from the streets. Speculations usually focused on shanghaiing as the culprit. But, investors? Somehow, he’d never considered the economic underpinnings of the trade. “But surely the crimps who shanghai are arrested sometimes? I’ve read about such arrests in the paper,” Sage said, leaning forward.

  Laidlaw’s laugh was a humorless bark. “Yes, they might arrest a crimp or his runner,” he said. “Nothing comes of it. The court either dismisses the charges or reduces them to a finable offense. Think back. You never read about the aftermath of a crimp’s arrest, do you?”

  “Are you saying the judges are in on it, too?”

  “Near as we can learn, all but one of them are beholden to the crimps. You see, on election day, the crimps haul drunks by the wagonload from one polling place to another to cast their votes, over and over. It doesn’t matter that most of them aren’t even American citizens, or that not a one of them is sober. Because of this welcome political ‘support,’ few local politicians challenge the crimps–including those judges who swear upon on a Bible to uphold the law.” Laidlaw sipped from his cup, his face scrunching as if he’d swallowed bitter coffee.

  “What about the captains? Don’t they object? It sounds like the crimps are extorting them.”

  “Some of them do. Most captains hate the crimps as much as I do. That doesn’t mean they can stand up to them. When a crimp is mad at a captain, that captain loses his crew and cannot find replacements.” Laidlaw’s brow tightened and the corners of his mouth sagged slightly. “Then, of course, there are the other captains. Brits among them, I’m ashamed to say, who embrace the situation. They see the shanghaiing game as an opportunity to line their own pockets.”

  Laidlaw fumbled in his waistcoat until he found and extracted a small silver toothpick. He didn’t use it, only turned it end over end as he continued the story. “Under British seafaring law, sailors on British vessels cannot be paid more than a paltry shore leave allowance until they return to British soil. Other nations also generally require sailors to sign round-trip contracts that fully payoff only if they return to their home port.

  “The thought behind the delayed pay off is that if they receive all their wages while they’re in a foreign port, they’ll jump ship and be gone for good. During the gold rush that happened every time a ship docked in San Francisco. Got so you couldn’t find a ship willing to berth there. Abandoned ships crowded the Bay. The rotting hulks of some of them are still there.

  “But like many reasonable ideas, the purpose for withholding pay was quickly corrupted. It now serves the bloody bastards’ self interest. Some captains deliberately exploit the situation by working hand-in-glove with the crimps. They pay the crimps to keep the sailors from returning to their ship. That way, the captain and the owner split those unpaid wages.”

  Sage pondered Laidlaw’s explanation. He’d never taken the time to reason the economics out. Shanghaiing was clearly a commercial venture with a full complement of exploiters, foot soldiers and victims. He asked, “But I thought there was a harbormaster to stop that sort of thing? I also heard that the law limits what captains can legally pay a crimp for a sailor.”

  Laidlaw’s face tightened as he said bitterly, “In a single month, Portland’s harbormaster takes more in bribes than he receives as his annual salary. And yes, the law sets a maximum limit on how much blood money the crimps can charge captains. But that limit is insufficient to render the trade in sailors economically unfeasible. Right now, it’s fifty-five dollars per head in blood money and sixty dollars to pay the crimp for what the sailor supposedly owes for two months of board and lodging. Of course, the crimps lay claim to that sixty-dollar advance even if the sailor has been in port less than a week. That sixty dollars is an advance on the sailor’s wages, by the way. It means he ends up working two months at sea for no wages at all.”

  “Isn’t there a way to stop shanghaiing?” Sage asked, thinking that sailors were treated even worse than timber workers. And at least a logger could walk off the job and out of the woods.

  “Ah, might it be that the practices I relate offend your sensibilities?” Laidlaw asked, his tone again sneering before his face sagged and weariness seemed to wash over him. He looked down and away. With a rueful twist of his lips, his gaze returned to Sage. “I am sorry, my man,” he said, his voice apologetic. “You’ve done nothing to deserve such unwarranted sarcasm. It’s just that I’ve told this story so many times to people like you. Each one expresses outrage but afterward they do absolutely nothing. When I try to again raise the issue with them, they brush me off. It is as though someone warns them to keep out of it ‘or else’.” He huffed an abbreviated chuckle. “Who am I kidding? I know bloody well that someone’s warned them to keep out of it.”

  He straightened in his chair to say with slightly more vigor, “To answer your question, a growing number of us are asking that the state legislature prohibit all trade in sailors. We’ve introduced a bill. The crimps and their powerful friends are fighting that bill tooth and nail. One factor in our favor is that your legislators hail from all over Oregon. Many rural legislators answer to constituents whose sons are in danger of being snatched off Portland’s streets or Astoria’s and all the points in-between. Plus, their farmer constituents complain that crimping raises their costs. That’s because the crimps’ surcharge gets passed on, forcing the farmers’shipping costs up and their profits down. Money again, always the money.”

  Sage swallowed the last of his coffee and looked around for a waiter. “Sounds like you’re making progress, changing people’s minds,” he observed.

  Laidlaw’s smile was crooked. “Excuse my cynicism, but the fact is, the legislators from the interior can afford to be outraged. They don’t receive any of the financial or political benefits of the crimping trade. So, my powers of persuasion deserve little credit. And we have yet to succeed. Thus far, the Portland legislators wield sufficient political power to resist the tide of change, so to speak.”

  The man’s too modest, Sage thought. He suspected Laidlaw was due much of the credit. Franklin seemed to think so anyway. “How’s it looking?” Sage asked. “Will the bill pass?”

  This time Laidlaw’s smile was straightforward, hopeful. “It’s looking more likely. There’s a man whose been rowing out to meet with the ship captains before they cross the Columbia River bar into the ocean. His reports are compelling because they prove how dastardly and widespread the practice is. This new information might make the difference.”

  “Stuart Franklin,” Sage said.

  For the first time, Laidlaw looked taken aback. “Our group does not bandy his name about. It’s dangerous work. How is it that you came to learn of him and his work?�
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  “He told me about it himself. He’s the one who suggested that I talk to you, as a matter of fact.”

  Laidlaw relaxed in his chair. “Well,” he commented, “if Franklin vouches for you, there must be much more to you than I thought. He’s a careful man.”

  “There’s reason to believe they’re on to him,” Sage said. He related his rescue of Franklin without discussing its aftermath at the New Elijah. In the ensuing silence, Sage thought about how the pain had creased Franklin’s face, and about his muscled shoulders and his sun burnt face and asked Laidlaw, “Why’s Franklin willing to do this? To risk his life like this? Was he shanghaied? Or is he one of those practicing Christians you talked about?”

  The British consul shook his head. “Neither one, actually,” he replied. “I take it that he didn’t tell you about his younger brother. Here, maybe you should read this.” Laidlaw pulled two folded sheets of paper from his inside coat pocket and handed them to Sage. “That’s a copy of a letter Franklin’s youngest brother wrote to their grandfather. Franklin gave me permission to pull it out whenever I talk to folks about shanghaiing.”

  Sage carefully unfolded the fragile papers, spread them flat on the table and leaned forward to read the letter’s faded script.

  NINE

  LAIDLAW’S VOICE WAS SUBDUED as he watched Sage smooth the folds from the sheets, “Franklin’s grandfather copied the original letter and forwarded it to me. He hoped that I would encounter or find the boy. The old man is three years dead now.”

  Sage studied the sheets of paper. Cramped script covered all sides from edge to edge. The spidery copperplate handwriting was proof, indeed, that an elderly, failing hand wrote the words. A momentary aching pang transfixed Sage. He sensed the fear, hope and yearning the old man must have felt as he copied his grandson’s words.

  Dearest Grandfather, It will surprise you to hear that I am in destitute circumstances, but if you knew how it came about you would sympathize with me. As you know, I started out from home with a good deal of money, but as I was thoughtless I spent and wasted more than necessary. I found myself in Portland, Oregon, without money or employment. After trying hard to get work and starving five solid days, I chanced to meet a man who said he would give me employment on board a steamboat that ran up and down the Columbia River between Portland and Astoria, at forty dollars per month and board. I thought that was a good chance and took it of course. This man treated me very well and bought me anything I wanted. He paid my board bills and then took me with him to Astoria.

  When we got there, he left me in a boardinghouse until he sent me out on a small boat with a lot of sailors (all drunk). I thought it was heading to the river boat I was going to work on but instead it took us to a ship called the Cody Bell. I was what they call shanghaied. I had not the least idea where we were going but I made up my mind to do the best I could to please the officers. I was seasick but that made no difference with them so I had to work just as hard as though I was well. Then I was thinking of home so that I got homesick. The other sailors, seeing that I was no seaman, got down on me and treated me like a dog. I had to take the fat meat that they left or have none at all. They would make me tobacco their pipes and wash their clothes. I was working day and night, very seldom ever getting three hours sleep in one night. If there was anything to do I had to do it and if I forgot any little thing they would treat me very rough. I resisted their cruelty once and got put in chains all one day and all one night without a thing to eat or drink. When I got out, the hard chaff bread tasted good.

  Worst of all they stole my clothes and divided them amongst themselves and were clothed warm around Cape Horn while I was shivering with cold, wet through in a shift with no dry clothes to change into. The carpenter gave me an old pair of drawers and an old shirt. I looked forward to the time when I should see land again hoping and expecting to get (30) thirty dollars per month but just when we were within one day, the captain said that I was getting nothing and he was selling me to another ship for the money I owed for what he paid the crimp. I am now working from daylight til dark for nothing but three ladles of soup a day on a ship named the Lucifera, a devil ship. I am not telling you lies for all I have said is as true as I live. I don’t think I can last much longer and this ship’s timbers are rotten through.

  How is grandmother? I hope she is well. I send my love to Stuart, and Mary and Laura. I hope to see you soon. We stopped in a port on the South African shore and I am sending this letter care of a sailor from another ship. I hope it reaches you. From your loving grandson,

  Donald B. Franklin

  As Sage read, he found himself picturing Matthew’s innocent face. He could see a young boy like Matthew, totally overwhelmed by his dire circumstances, penning just such a letter. And, Sage realized this was precisely the kind of trouble naive young men, like Kincaid or Matthew, could easily stumble into Sage carefully refolded the worn paper. “What happened to him?” he asked, already sure of Laidlaw’s answer. Stuart Franklin was here in Portland after all.

  “The Lucifera sank to the bottom, off the coast of Argentina, shortly after young Franklin wrote that letter. All hands were lost.”

  “So Stuart Franklin is here to find the man who shanghaied his brother onto that ship?” Sage asked. Franklin’s willingness to repeatedly risk his life in a small rowboat at the Columbia River mouth now made perfect sense.

  “That is what brought him here. The outcome of that particular search is unknown. I am careful not to ask. These days, his mission is to stop shanghaiing. He worries me, though. He is unrelenting in his efforts to expose and stop the shanghai crimps–the land sharks. It leads him into taking too many risks. Like rowing out to the ships. One of these days, a captain is not going to let him leave. He says he’s careful, knows what ships to approach. Still, if the crimps want Franklin stopped badly enough, they will find a captain disposed to take care of him for a price.”

  Sage looked down at the folded letter and said, “Don’t know that I blame Franklin. I’d feel the same in his place. His brother sounded like a nice boy. A bit like Ida’s nephew, Matthew.” Sage handed the letter back to Laidlaw, asking as he did so, “Why aren’t the town merchants yammering for this practice to stop? Doesn’t it drive off their customers? I mean, why visit a city where you might be snatched off the street and shipped out to China?”

  Laidlaw’s bark of bitter laughter turned faces in their direction. The consul didn’t notice. “That just shows how little you understand the world of commerce as it relates to ocean shipping, my friend. If the sailors jump a ship here in port, then that ship is stranded until it obtains a full crew. That hurts the City’s commercial men. They want to receive and ship goods in a timely fashion. More important, a port can get a reputation for allowing desertion to strand ships. If that happens, it becomes a port where the merchants are forced to pay markedly higher shipping costs. That’s what started happening in San Francisco during the gold rush. It remains a problem today because many sailors want to become Americans living on the West Coast.”

  Laidlaw studied him, his fingers idly tugging at an earlobe. Then he straightened and pulled a watch from his vest pocket to check the time. “Tell you what Mr. Adair, if you’ve an hour or so to spare, you can hear for yourself what our esteemed city leaders really think about the reprehensible business of shanghaiing. Come be my guest at the Cabot Club. It’s been some while since I stopped in there to give them a poke.”

  Sage accepted Laidlaw’s offer with alacrity. The two of them exited Mozart’s and strolled toward West Park and Salmon Streets, a location conveniently near Lucinda’s establishment. As they passed the fourteen steps leading upward to her lacquered door, guilt stabbed at him. In the midst of all that had been happening, Sage thought of her only fleetingly. She deserved better treatment. He glanced toward her parlor windows, hoping she wasn’t at the window watching him walk right past. It seemed that a curtain edge twitched. Or, probably, his guilt had him imagining that furtive movement
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  They mounted the three steps and entered deep shade. Considered one of the City’s architectural attractions, the Cabot was a four-story gentlemen’s club constructed of yellow Japanese brick trimmed in white. Its entrance lay behind a broad tiled veranda held up by Ionic columns and enhanced by two large bay windows. Inside was a small reception room, where Sage and Laidlaw relinquished their hats and the consul’s briefcase. Beyond stretched the polished wood floor of the main hall, exposed beams arching overhead and a large open fireplace anchoring the far end of its expanse. Mingled scents of expensive cigars layered the air, while the clack of billiard balls sounded from a room on the right.

  A nattily dressed old man approached and gestured toward a gilt-edged journal that lay open on a small table nearby. “Sir, please also sign your guest in.” Laidlaw nodded and as he signed he told Sage in a low voice, “The old boys are strict about guests in the club. Inviting too many of the wrong kind brings approbation down on your head. And certainly, no women enter, ever. Well, they’ve been allowed twice, once when the club opened in its original location and once when it opened here. That’s it.” He returned the pen to the attendant. “Gerald, be kind enough to bring us brandies in the library.”

  Inside the library, a pristine Wilton carpeted the floor, its thick blue pile contrasting with red drapes swagged to either side of the tall windows. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead. It being summer, a huge flower arrangement of scarlet bee balm spikes screened the opening of the yellow Sienna marble fireplace.