Franks passed the word. Holman decided to go back there and hear it. The men did not form ranks. They stood in a mob and Lt. Collins stood on the grating and talked to them. He was clean and crisp in whites. His thin face was joyful with excitement.
“I can’t promise you men it’s really Plan Red yet,” he said. “That has to come from Washington. But I can tell you our marines are going ashore at last in Shanghai. Our three extra cruisers are starting a speed run out from Pearl. It looks like a fight, men!”
He was trying to lift them with his voice and manner. They shuffled their feet and Holman could feel them wanting to respond. Lt. Collins told them what he knew about Nanking.
The U.S. destroyers Noa and Preston and the British cruiser Emerald had done the shelling. Noa had the honor of firing the first shot. The U.S. consul and the naval landing force and a few civilian refugees were safely out of the city. They had swarmed down over the city wall. Both the British and Japanese consuls were thought killed. Most of the Americans still in the city were missionaries. The Japanese warships at Nanking could not get permission to shoot, but the Japanese sailors had massed on deck and cheered the British and Americans. Lt. Collins’ voice crackled as he told them about it.
“Now for what it means to us in San Pablo,” he said.
The few local civilians were sheltering in the large gunboats. The ships would not start anything in Changsha. The plan was to wait quietly until there was water enough for the large gunboats. They would go out as a flotilla with the first few feet of the flood, day or night. The most they had to fear from the local militia was small-arms fire. If the worker-peasants wanted to start something, the gunboats would oblige them. They would wreck the city.
“In a few minutes I will call all hands to battle stations,” Lt. Collins said. “Let’s show them over on the bund that San Pablo is ready as ever!”
He smashed fist in palm and smiled a fierce, urging confidence at them. Holman felt the thrill run through their sluggishness. Lt. Collins went forward, followed by Bordelles and Welbeck. Franks stopped to squeeze Holman’s arm and draw him aside.
“We’re gonna fight ’em, Jake!” he whispered, grinning. “You’re off the hook, boy! Now it won’t matter if you really did kill a dozen of the slopeheaded bastards!”
A few minutes later Franks was calling all hands to battle stations, with the old, familiar power in his voice. No feet pounded. They shuffled. In the engine room Holman was alone at the throttle. The others went with Harris out to the fireroom. The drill was secured after half an hour, because the men had not had supper yet.
Holman did not eat supper. He used the time to take a shower with the scrap of salt-water soap he had left, while they were eating. He wanted to avoid them. But when he went back to his locker, Bronson, Harris and Restorff confronted him.
“We want to talk to you, Holman,” Bronson said.
They were the leaders of the three gangs the crew had split into. The men at the mess tables were all listening.
“What do you want?” Holman asked Bronson.
“We want you to volunteer to go ashore and stand trial for what you did,” Bronson said. “So the ship can get out past Chenglin.”
“No,” Holman said. “Why should I?”
Bronson had not shaved his fat cheeks for several days, but Holman could see the white dimples form at his mouth corners.
“It’s only fair. You got us into this jam and only you can get us out,” Bronson said. “You been our Jonah from the day you come aboard. Now’s the time you can make up for it.”
He was trying to hold his temper. He was trying to be dignified and important. There had always been something very paperish about Bronson.
“I never liked you, Bronson, and I don’t now,” Holman said evenly. “I don’t want to get you out of a jam.” Since they were all listening, he decided to be reasonable. “The skipper wouldn’t let me,” he said. “He already told me I’m a symbol of the United States in this business.”
“Well, you could offer to go,” Bronson said. “Or you could just go.”
Harris and Restorff nodded. Harris was not talking, because they hoped to persuade him, Holman thought. He had far more respect for Harris than for Bronson, if they only knew it.
“No smoke, sailors,” he said. “I won’t go.”
“Now listen, Jake—” Restorff began. Perna broke in. “Why the hell won’t you go, Ho-mang?” he shouted. He jumped up, shaking his fist. “It ain’t fair, we all got to get killed, because you felt sorry for a pig!”
The word ignited them. A pig! A damned pig! they all said. They were all getting to their feet at the mess tables. A pig, for the love cf bleeding Jesus! We got to die for a pig! Harris pushed Bronson aside and thrust his face at Holman.
Oink! he said, grimacing horribly.
Oink! they all took it up.
It became one of those things that swept them away. They could not stop. They began drawing it out. Aw-ee-ee-eenk! they were screaming at Holman. Their whiskered lips skinned back to show their teeth. Their noses wrinkled and the cords in their scaly necks stood out. Aw-ee-ee-eenk!
Holman stood there a moment loathing them. He wished he could tell them he had more respect for that black pig than for the whole damned lot of them. But they were making too much noise and he knew they would not stop it until he went away. He went out and around and into the storeroom. He wedged the door and lay down weary and disgusted on his bedding. A few minutes later they stopped the racket.
Some while later he heard footsteps and low voices outside. He sat up in the darkness and found the steel crowbar he kept handy. He heard the hasp clank on the outer side, and the click of a padlock. They were only locking him in. He thought about it a while and then shrugged. He lay down again and went to sleep.
It was not Bordelles’ knock on his door, so Lt. Collins did not answer it. There were several of them out there. They knocked again and Bordelles heard it and came around through the bridge.
“What do you men want?” he asked sharply. “Come into the bridge!”
Lt. Collins could still hear them, through his door to the bridge. They had a written petition they wanted to present to him. Bordelles read it and told them they could not.
“I can keep this off the record, if you men will drop it right now,” he told them. “If you gave this to the captain, it would be open mutiny.”
Bordelles did not address the men by name, but Lt. Collins recognized Branson’s prim, stuffy voice and the scrannel growl of Harris. From their talk he learned that they wanted Holman turned over to the worker-peasants to purchase the ship a safe passage to Hankow.
“He’s been our Jonah all along. This ship will never be right till we get rid of him,” Bronson said persuasively. “Ain’t it better for him to go than for all of us to die, him included?”
“Absolutely no!” Bordelles said angrily.
A sick feeling smote Lt. Collins. The long-delayed call to arms, now that it had come, had not fired up their hearts as he had expected. They were more demoralized than he had been willing to believe possible.
“It wouldn’t have to be official,” Bronson went smoothly on. “You could send him ashore with a letter to somewhere and tip off the worker-peasants to grab him. We wouldn’t have to find out he was gone, officially, until after we sailed.”
“In my personal opinion, Bronson, you are a scurvy son of a bitch,” Bordelles said, with quiet, cold fury.
“I am only speaking for the crew. We are willing to do anything to get the ship to Shanghai. We’ll fight to get the ship through. But we won’t fight to save Holman. Nobody wants to die to save Holman.”
“If necessary, you will die to save the honor of the United States!” Bordelles said. “Even if I have to kill you myself.”
Good man, Lt. Collins thought. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. He wondered if Bordelles had chosen to talk to them in the bridge so that he would hear it, unofficially.
“If Holman was
dead, that would fix it up,” Harris said. “We can just deep-six the bastard, if you make us do that.”
“Murder, do you mean?”
“It ain’t murder when everybody does it,” Harris said. “But what we got in mind is just throw him over the side and make him swim ashore. If you force us to it.”
Harris’ harsh, ugly voice seemed to take it from the sphere of discussion into that of action. Bordelles’ manner changed. He tried, to no avail, to convince the men that there were no guns at Chenglin. Finally he promised to present their petition to the captain himself, unofficially. He promised them a decision on it in the morning, if they would promise to do nothing until then. Harris did not want to promise but Bronson and someone else, probably Restorff, agreed.
“Fair enough, Mr. Bordelles. We’ll wait till morning,” Bronson said.
Shortly after, Bordelles knocked and Lt. Collins told him to come in. Bordelles came in without speaking and handed him a paper. Lt. Collins glanced at it long enough to see that it was a round robin, the names signed like the spokes in a wheel. Then he crumpled it into the ashtray in front of him and lit a match to it. He did not ask Bordelles to sit down.
“When the shooting actually starts they will rally to their duty, Mr. Bordelles, depend on it,” he said. “They have just been disappointed and frustrated too many times and they are not able to believe that we are free to fight, at last.”
Bordelles did not answer. They were both watching the paper burn. Lt. Collins poked at it with a pencil, to spread the flame.
“You had best move Holman to the CPO quarters,” he said, eyes on the flame. “Give him a pistol to defend himself.”
“Yes, sir. And in the morning—”
“I am not ready to discuss that now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bordelles went out quietly. Lt. Collins was too heartsick with what he had just heard to talk to anyone. He could hardly believe it. He would not believe it. They were like sick men, raving in delirium. But when San Pablo came under attack and he called them to their guns to defend her, that would save them. Only that could save them, now.
The paper was a shell of black ash with glowing red spots. He broke up the shape of it with his pencil, stirring and mixing. Soon they would fight, he thought. Then all that went before could be forgotten.
Holman heard them at the door. He stood up, fully awake and fully dressed, and grasped his crowbar. He moved softly to the door and unwedged it and stood there waiting. He heard them sawing the brass shackle of the padlock. When the door opened, they were Franks and Bordelles.
“Come with us, Jake,” Franks whispered.
They both had drawn pistols. He followed them topside. No one was on deck. Bordelles went forward. In the CPO quarters, by the dim night light, Holman saw Welbeck stretched out in a bunk, fully dressed and wearing a pistol. Franks took a holster, belt and pistol from the arms locker and laid them on the table.
“Put ’em on, Jake,” he said.
Holman hefted his crowbar. “I could do more damage with this.”
“Put on the gun.”
While Holman buckled on the pistol, Franks told him about the crew’s plan to give him to the worker-peasants.
“The skipper don’t know about it officially, but it’s mutiny just the same,” Franks said. “I’m worried about the skipper. I wonder if he ain’t worked himself around to where what he don’t know officially ain’t true at all.”
“You mean he’s crazy?”
“Well … you can’t say that about a skipper. But the crew’s crazy. We’ll be lucky to get out of this now without some of us killing each other.”
Franks was a very worried man. He told Holman that Farren was still loyal, but he wanted to go on lying low on the main deck. Holman was to stay strictly inside the CPO quarters and not let any of the crew come inside.
“Shoot, if you have to. It’s them or you now,” Franks said.
Franks went forward to confer with Bordelles. Holman stretched out on Lynch’s bunk and dozed without sleeping. At daylight, the world through the windows did not look any different. Breakfast was cold rice and corned beef and weak coffee.
Welbeck brought Lynch in from the pilot’s room for breakfast. Lynch wore a dirty white shirt and his face was white and flabby and whiskered. He was harmless, Welbeck had said, but he thought nobody had names any more. He did not recognize anybody. He could eat and look after himself well enough.
“We got to shoot every third one,” he kept saying, between bites.
“Come on, Lynch-boy, let’s go home,” Welbeck said, when breakfast was over.
“The first one we got to shoot is Holman,” Lynch said.
Welbeck led Lynch out. Holman scraped the dishes.
“At least I can messcook,” he told Franks.
“Stay inside. Keep that pistol on you,” Franks said. “I’m going to catch me some shuteye.”
He lay down. He looked worn and tired. He had been up all night. Holman was careful not to make any noise.
Lt. Collins’ breakfast was a mound of rice, with two anchovies nested in it, and a silver pot of coffee. He poured a second cup of coffee and studied the sheaf of despatches and press reports the Duarte had sent over.
They were very encouraging. Shanghai expected another Boxer massacre. They were putting into each news broadcast the prearranged code message directing all treaty people to flee to the coast for their lives: William is sick … William is sick…. He smiled wryly at their choice of code word.
More warships had reached Nanking. The treaty people were still trapped in the city. The Kuomintang general had been given until midafternoon to bring them all out safely. If he did not, the allied flotilla would shell the city to rubble. The die would be cast before the day ended. Almost certainly it would turn up war.
He was thinking about calling the crew aft and telling them the news when Bordelles knocked sharply and spoke through the door.
“Trouble, sir. Better come on deck.”
He went into the bridge. A wupan flying the gearwheel flag was nearing the ship. Armed militiamen crowded its waist.
“Repel boarders,” he told Bordelles.
The men went sluggishly again to their stations. Bronson and Crosley, beside Lt. Collins in the bridge wing, took the canvas housings off their machine guns with insolent slowness. Their faces were sullen and they would not look at him. The wupan stopped and lay to, well clear of the ship. The spokesman was shouting something about the just and equal law of nations. He demanded Holman.
“By the just law of nations, you people are pirates!” Lt. Collins made his voice loud and clear. “I’ll not parley with you!”
“We will! Come and get him!” someone yelled on the main deck. “Ho-mang, come down!” someone else yelled.
“Silence on the main deck!” Lt. Collins shouted. “Mr. Bordelles, silence those men!” He saw Bordelles running for the quarterdeck ladder. “In the wupan! Shove off or I’ll fire into you!” Lt. Collins shouted.
Ho-mang, come down, the main deck chanted. They were making it another of their mass shouting fits. A wild and fearful anger filled Lt. Collins. He had to stop them.
“Bronson! Fire a burst into the water!” Bronson seemed not to hear. “Bronson, God damn you, fire a burst!” Lt. Collins roared at him.
“Gun’s jammed, sir.”
Bronson clacked the pan, pretending to clear a jam. Bordelles was guarding the quarterdeck ladder with a drawn pistol. Ho-mang, come down! they were roaring all along the main deck. He had to stop it.
“Crosley! Fire a burst!”
“It’s jammed, sir.”
“GIVE ME THAT GUN!”
Lt. Collins shouldered Bronson aside and took the gun. The mount was set too high for him. The gun bore right on the wupan. For a wild, angry moment he thought: Command decision. Fire into them. Start it now and get it over. But instead he stood on tiptoes and fired a burst into the water near the wupan.
That was all it took. Very quick
ly, the wupan got out of there. The shouting stopped on the main deck. Bordelles came to the bridge, pale and angry, still holding his pistol.
“Secure from repel boarders, Mr. Bordelles,” Lt. Collins said.
He went back to his cabin. He did not want them to see him trembling. He was afraid that if he stayed on the bridge he might kill Bronson himself.
Holman was taking it as it came, without thinking about it. It was a fine, clear day. The people were thinning out on the bund. By dinnertime Changsha was quieter than he had ever seen it. After dinner it became so quiet that it was ominous. The bund was deserted. All the thronging sampans had gone away. Junks were standing downriver without any of the usual noise and fuss. Franks did not like it.
“I better get some sleep while I can,” he said. “I’ll die if I don’t get some sleep.”
Ten minutes later the shots started. It was rifle fire from the top of the city wall. They were shooting just at the San Pablo and the Woodcock. It was only one or two shots a minute. Cursing and rubbing his eyes, Franks came out to call the Sand Pebbles to their battle stations.
They would not man their battle stations. They were all down on the starboard side of the main deck, sheltered from the fire, and they would not leave. Franks stood at the head of the ladder and cursed them on the quarterdeck. They cursed him back. Lt. Collins called from the bridge wing.
“Franks! Belay general quarters! Come here!”
Franks, Holman, Welbeck and Bordelles gathered in the bridge. Lt. Collins looked very grim. He said they would have to get permission from the Duarte before they could return the fire. When they had it, they would open fire with the bridge machine guns, and then they would call the crew to battle stations.
“Once San Pablo is in battle, they will be themselves again,” he said.
No one dared argue with him. Franks and Bordelles had to do the signaling. All the gunboats were exchanging signals. The Japanese did not want to fight because they were not being fired upon. Lt. Collins paced the bridge feverishly. Holman and Welbeck went into the chart room, to keep out of his way. Finally the Duarte and Woodcock agreed on a plan. The Duarte signaled it to the San Pablo.
The Sand Pebbles Page 56