32
At reveille Burgoyne was gone. The leg iron was sawed through, half of it still locked on the bunk rail. Perna found the hacksaw blade in the blankets.
“He was here when I come off deck sentry watch at four,” Stawski said. “Ellis let him get away.”
Ellis was main deck sentry. They called him in.
“It come on a rain squall about five,” Ellis said. “I went in the galley.”
“That’s when he went.” Farren kicked Burgoyne’s shoes. “He must’ve swum for it.”
Wong brought in the morning coffee. They drank it standing up, uneasily silent, avoiding each other’s eyes. They all knew the Yangtze was a fast, treacherous river.
“Anybody know how good Frenchy could swim?” Farren asked finally. “What do you think, Jake?”
“I think Frenchy tried as hard as he could,” Holman said.
No one wanted to say it. At last Harris said it.
“Breaking arrest on top of all the other charges, he’d land in Forty-eight for sure,” Harris said. “He’s better off if he didn’t make it.”
Forty-eight was the naval prison at Cavite. If a man went in there with a scrap of spirit, the marines would beat it out of him or they would beat him to death.
“You guys stop mooning like a bunch of nutted women!” Harris said brutally. “Frenchy was overdue for it. It was like a mad dog bit him from the first time he ever saw that pig.”
That was Frenchy Burgoyne’s epitaph. The Sand Pebbles sat down to a troubled breakfast.
It was a troubled day. Despite the cold drizzle, a dozen propaganda sampans came out. They knew the San Pablo was wounded in the propaganda war and they were cutting it out for the kill. They sculled round and round the ship shouting slogans like warwhooping Indians circling a wagon train.
Lt. Collins had been up half the night writing a report. He and Bordelles went to the flagship without holding morning quarters. Lynch had to go ashore to close the sale of his teashop.
“Take care of things, Jake,” Lynch said. “I won’t be back until after I see Liuba and Valentine off on the steamer tomorrow.”
The ship’s trouble did not bother Lynch. He was too excited. His Hankow lawyer was moving his office to Shanghai too, and Lynch was going to have someone down there he could trust to draw up papers. Things were working out nicely for Lynch.
Lt. Collins was gone all day. The coolies did no work. The ship was in a kind of shock. Holman could not rest. He paced the floorplates in the engine room. He did not believe that Burgoyne was dead. Sometimes you could glimpse the whole blueprint of a man’s life. There was no luck at all in Frenchy Burgoyne’s blueprint.
Holman’s troubled night thoughts returned to plague him. He absolutely could not share Maily’s belief in God’s curse. But it did really seem as if some hateful god was torturing Frenchy Burgoyne.
In late afternoon the rain turned to a heavy, wet snow. It was too much for the propaganda sampans. They stopped their circling and went home. It was a blessed relief. Bordelles came back and had the word passed that canteen liberty would be resumed. No one must talk to reporters. Holman rated liberty. When he put on his dress blues, he dug back in his locker and found the Belgian revolver he had taken from the gangster in Changsha. He pouched his undershirt inside his drawers to make a nest for it. The thirteen-button flap of his blue trousers held it securely and invisibly in place.
The San Pablo table was all the way aft in the long, smoky room. A big crowd was there that night. Farren and Red Dog sat with Holman. They drank beer glumly and talked about Burgoyne. The other two did not want to believe that Burgoyne was alive.
“He’s alive,” Holman insisted. “He ain’t got that kind of luck.”
Up front some British sailors began singing. The other tables were coming in on the choruses. It was a rollicking song.
I’ll tell you a story of trouble and woe
To make you shake and shiver-r-r,
About a Chinee bumboatman
Who sailed the Yangtze River-r-r.
For he was a heathen of high degree,
As the joss house records show;
His heathen name was Wing Kang Lung,
But sailormen called him Jim Crow.
The chorus crashed out:
Oh muchee come catchee come hai yai-yah!
Chinaman no likee he!
Ai yah!
On the ai yah they all stamped feet and thumped tables. It shook the place. The Sand Pebbles did not join in.
“Know something? We never put the alarm out on Frenchy,” Red Dog said. “I just now thought. Things was too fouled up this morning.”
“That’s right. We never held muster,” Farren said.
It jolted Holman. “You sure, Red Dog?” he asked. “Because I think I know where Frenchy is. If I could sneak him back aboard …”
“He wouldn’t be breaking arrest.” Farren nodded. “If it ain’t down on paper, it never happened.”
They looked at each other. It seemed a cheering upturn in the run of things. But Burgoyne would still be in deep trouble.
“It’s a damned shame!” Red Dog said. “You’d think them newspaper guys would get on that, instead of riding the ship about opium.”
“They might make Comyang cancel the court-martial,” Farren said.
“They can put the fear of Christ into the navy,” Red Dog said. “If I didn’t know that before, I know it now.”
They talked about getting in touch with a newspaperman and getting Burgoyne off the hook altogether. It cheered them. Red Dog began beating his hand in time with the song.
… he swore a tar-ry-ble oath:
If I cannot marry sweet Wang Koo Fong,
I’ll gr-r-rind the gizzards of both!
“Jesus!” Farren pointed up the room. “Look who come in!”
It was the chubby Irish reporter. The men looked at each other in wonder. It was a sign, their nods agreed.
The reporter stamped snow off his feet and brushed it off his tan overcoat, while he looked around. He stopped at a Truxtun table and they pointed aft. He came down the room behind his big Irish grin, directly to the San Pablo table. He held up his hands in mock surrender.
“I promise I won’t ask you boys one word about you-know-what,” he said. “Can I join you on those terms?”
“Sure. Sit down.” Farren kicked out a chair.
The man draped his white scarf on the back of the chair and sat down. He unbuttoned his overcoat and put a full bottle of White Horse on the table.
“It’s whisky weather tonight, fellers,” he said. “I’m Don Fahey. Call me Don. What the hell, I’m South Boston Irish and I belong in this kind of place.”
“Arf! Arf!” Red Dog said. “Scollay Square!”
“Revere Beach! You’re a Mick yerself!”
“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.
Oh muchee come catchee come hai yai-yah! Chinaman no likee he!
“Us kids used to run after Chinks and yell hiya mucka yi yi,” Don said. “We thought it was a terrible Chinese cuss word.”
Ai yah!
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.”<
br />
“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.”
Oh itchy go scratchy go hai yai-yah!
“This story,” Don said. “Is there a man missing from your ship who has not been reported missing?”
Ai yah!
“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.
… give the foe another shot!
For if I cannot marry sweet Wang Koo Fong,
Then Wing Kang Lung shall not!
“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.
Oh muchee come catchee come hai yai-yah! Chinaman no likee he!
“Poyang Road, Johnny.”
“Maskee, Johnny.”
Ai yah!
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.
33
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 an
d 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.”
The Sand Pebbles Page 46