The Sand Pebbles

by Richard McKenna

  “Oh, Christ! Wouldn’t you know it?” Franks said.

  They would not return the fire. Instead, the San Pablo and Woodcock would get underway. The Woodcock would go through to Hankow. The San Pablo, if she could get across the shoal stretch, would go on down to the lake. There she would anchor out of gun range and wait for the Duarte to come out.

  Lt. Collins did not comment. “Preparations for getting underway,” he told Bordelles, without opening his teeth.

  Bordelles called the engine room on the voice tube and was lucky enough to get Krebs. Krebs said they could have steam up on one boiler in about an hour. One boiler would be enough, going with the current. All they would need would be steerage way.

  “Oh hell. Come on back to the quarters,” Franks said.

  They went back there. It was very uncomfortable being near Lt. Collins. They sat without talking. Once in a while a glancing bullet would screech off metal.

  “Oink!” someone cried once on the main deck, when that happened.

  They all took it up in unison, crying it each time a bullet hit the ship. Aw-ee-ee-eenk! Franks shook his head and grinned wearily.

  “I know how they feel, Becky,” he said. “Here we are getting shot at, and all we can do is run again. I do know how they feel.”

  Welbeck stood and looked out the window. “Hey!” he said. “Here comes the Woodcock!”

  “That’s fast!” Franks said admiringly.

  They all stood up to watch. As she neared the San Pablo, all the rifle fire shifted to the Woodcock and the rate picked up. She came along bravely, low and white and trim in the water, with a bone in her teeth, and bullets were splashing white water all around her. Half a dozen British sailors in neat white uniforms came out and manned the rail, on the side exposed to fire.

  “They’re going to make us passing honors! Under fire, by God!” Franks said. “That’s the Limey way, ain’t it, Becky? By God, I love them people!”

  “All hands! Man the rail!” Bordelles shouted from the bridge.

  Franks ran out and repeated it. Holman and Welbeck joined him at the boat deck rail. A whistle shrilled as the Woodcock started coming abreast and they all saluted.

  On the main deck, the Sand Pebbles did not salute. They thumbed noses and ears and oinked, in a dozen cracked and shrieking voices. Pale as paper, Lt. Collins ran aft and down to the quarterdeck, Bordelles following.

  “Come on!”

  Franks ran, drawing his pistol. They all stopped at the head of the ladder. Lt. Collins stood at the foot of it.

  “Hand salute, you mangy sons of bitches!” he screamed at the men on the quarterdeck. “Hand salute, God damn your souls!”

  They gave him a volley of oinks from bearded faces. Harris pushed his bristly gray face almost into Lt. Collins’ face.

  “Oink you, Collins, you little fart!” he screamed.

  Holman saw the square white shoulders wilt. The stern of the Woodcock, with its gallant White Ensign, was sliding past. The public shame was already history.

  Lt. Collins turned and came up the ladder. He did not seem to see the men clustered there. They drew aside. He went into his cabin and closed the door.

  Holman went back and sat in the CPO quarters. Somehow, Franks and Farren got the anchor up. Somehow, they and Bordelles got the San Pablo underway. Somehow, they worked the ship across the shoal stretch and as far down the reach as they could get while daylight lasted. They anchored in the last bit of twilight.

  Holman came out on deck. The night was cool and quiet and peaceful. Changsha was out of sight. It was green countryside all around. No lights showed, except a few glimmers from farm huts. Frogs croaked along the bank and fish jumped out in the river. Holman looked at the sky. The stars were just coming out clearly.

  Franks came aft and Holman followed him inside. Franks collapsed in a chair. He looked exhausted.

  “I don’t know. I guess we’re out of the woods,” he said. “Bronson just come up and told Bordelles he was sorry. He said he was speaking for all hands. Now that we’re on the way at last, they want to do all they can to get the ship to Shanghai.” He flexed his arms and sighed deeply. “Bronson said they won’t make any more trouble about you.”

  “How’s the skipper taking it?”

  “We don’t know. He’s locked in and he won’t answer when Bordelles talks through the door.” Franks shook his head wearily. “Bordelles says we’ll break the door down in the morning, if he won’t answer then. But I’m scared we’ll hear a pistol shot in that cabin before morning comes.”

  43

  For hours he had been sitting motionless at his table, hands flat on the green baize. Between his hands lay a flat black pistol and a pair of Chinese baby shoes with crude U.S. flags embroidered on their toes. He stared at them.

  There was a clean, simple animal level where you knew things without thinking and looking. Children and dogs lived there truly. Once you left it, you could never return. On that level the crew knew Holman to be a Jonah.

  The gearwheel had destroyed San Pablo. Doubt had breached the walls and he had held an inner citadel and now that was fallen. Just so the missionaries spread doubt in China and America. Their clamor for meekness could sicken the spirit beyond recovery. Well, the missionaries were wallowing in blood for that, now. They would recant. They would clamor for blood in return. America would not sicken. The world was not ended because San Pablo was destroyed.

  He put his right hand on the pistol. It was flat and hard and cold. He thought of a snake’s head.

  There were people to grieve: his parents, a few others. But he had put them all away when he swore his oath. His oath forsworn now, faith betrayed, honor lost and everything in ruins. Lt. William Collins was now going to live in naval archives as captain of the first U.S. Navy ship ever to mutiny. You did not die just because your heart ceased pumping.

  But something would stop hurting. He picked up the pistol. He fondled and hefted it. It was clean and heavy and sure of itself and it loved its purpose. His hand was warming it.

  You did not die all at once. The residual life in San Pablo would crawl back to Hankow, to Shanghai, to Manila, like floating cancer cells to taint the Fleet. Command responsibility ended with death only when death came naturally in bed or gloriously in battle.

  He put the pistol down. His eyes rested on the baby shoes.

  Gloriously in battle, he thought.

  The way out came to him. The bits crowded pell-mell into his mind. They fitted themselves together in successive illuminations.

  Waldhorn was still in Duarte, so San Pablo could not use her radio. That left his command power unhampered from above. Nelson’s blind eye, he thought. He would go to China Light and take out those missionaries. In the aftermath of Nanking, they would be frantic for rescue.

  He would tell only the trusted men. He would turn San Pablo west in the lake. If the men renewed their mutiny, he would put them down in blood. Bronson! Harris! He would bunker with wood at Ta An. Intelligence reports said the Chien River was boomed with junks linked with bamboo cable and defended by militia. He would break that boom. He would take a party on to China Light. He would make a last, savage thrust deep into China, dropping his dead as he went, and San Pablo would die clean.

  His heart fired up. He examined the plan critically for flaws and found it perfect. If America was at war with the gearwheel, as was almost certain now, it would be all right. If the wild rumors were true, and the gearwheel was going to bow to the treaties, then they would have no grounds to complain about San Pablo lawfully putting down pirates in defense of American lives. There had been other U.S. Navy mutinies which had not gone down on paper. Pittsburgh in Brazil, he thought. It was not history, unless it went down on paper. What went down on paper for the end of San Pablo was going to be pretty glorious after all.

  He put the baby shoes away. He holstered his pistol. He stood up, cold and hard and sure again, and it was just four o’clock. He went to call Bordelles.

  They wer
e a grim, tense group in the cabin, just before dawn. They understood the plan. They knew they might very likely all die. Holman knew it would be an hour or so yet before that part really soaked into him.

  “They might not make trouble,” Bordelles said. “I gathered from Bronson they’re shocked and ashamed for what they did.”

  “That’s true. But they think they’re going to Shanghai,” Farren said.

  Holman had not thought the missionaries were in danger at China Light. By their own act they were not treaty people any more. They were like the Germans in Changsha.

  “Do we know for sure the missionaries are in danger?” he asked.

  “Of course, after Nanking!” Lt. Collins snapped.

  “Old Craddock is a prisoner at China Light, under a death sentence from a Bolshevik court,” Bordelles told Holman. “It’s the same kind of propaganda stunt they wanted to work with you and Knox in Changsha.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Holman said.

  When there were no more questions, Lt. Collins dismissed them. His manner was cold and hard as iron. They went out quietly, into the faint, new daylight.

  Lt. Collins, Bordelles and Franks wore pistols. The other men on the bridge were Bronson, Restorff, Crosley and Haythorn. Restorff and Bronson had shaved and Bronson had put on whites. Ellis and Vincent called up soundings from the bow. Franks listened and scanned the water and gave orders to Haythorn, at the helm. Bronson took bearings. They were all being quick and handy. The ship throbbed smoothly with engine power and made its moving pattern in the water. The men made their own familiar pattern of speech and motion about the bridge.

  They did not know that death was all about them in the warm sunshine. The ship would turn west in a few more minutes. Lt. Collins kept his eye on Bronson.

  Bronson was being very dutiful and military. He kept reporting bearings and other small matters to Bordelles and Franks in the most proper form. They responded with grunts. They would not give Bronson the assurance he sought.

  Restorff, with Crosley’s help, was cleaning a machine gun. His blunt face, intent on the work, had been nicked here and there by a dull razor. He cleaned and oiled the machine-gun parts with his familiar, loving care. That was Restorff’s way of asking forgiveness.

  But there could be no forgiving. Franks caught Lt. Collins’ eye and raised an eyebrow. Bordelles stepped back to the port wing, hand on holster. Franks spoke to Haythorn, who spun the helm. San Pablo turned. The sun wheeled around aft and left the bridge in shadow.

  “Steady as you go,” Franks told Haythorn.

  Bronson realized it first. His eyes widened, but he did not change his behavior. Then Haythorn began fidgeting and finally he called Crosley. Crosley tried to pull Bronson aside and whisper. Bronson would not be whispered to.

  “God damn it, then I’ll ask ’em!” Crosley said. He turned to Franks. “Where the hell you think you’re taking this ship?” he demanded.

  “I’ll tell you, Crosley.”

  In cold, clipped words Lt. Collins told them. Crosley’s whiskered face expressed incredulous dismay. He had been in a fight and his bruised upper lip made him look even more froggish than usual. He was an ugly little man.

  “We will probably have to board and take one of the junks with pistol and cutlass,” Lt. Collins said. “We may have to make an assault at China Light.”

  Crosley’s eyes bulged. His mouth worked without sound, like a frog gulping flies. He muttered something about Shanghai. Then he found his voice.

  “Christ sake, we’ll all get kilt!” he screamed in outrage.

  Restorff chuckled. “It can’t only happen to you once, Crosley,” he said. “After that, you’re immune.”

  It was just the right response. The mixed feelings on Haythorn’s face gave way to a contemptuous smile at Crosley. Bronson, his fat face white and determined, stepped forward.

  “Captain, sir, if there’s a boarding party, I want to volunteer for it,” he said shakily.

  “Granted,” Lt. Collins said coldly.

  Crosley whirled and ran out of the bridge. Bordelles followed him. Haythorn adjusted the helm.

  “Steady as she goes, Chief,” he said cheerfully.

  The engine room was full of smooth, powerful motion and the good smell of steam, hot oil and packing. Oil made a dull sheen on the rusted engine parts, moving augustly now, light and shadow playing through them. From the fireroom came the ring and scrape of shovels. The main plant was alive again.

  Holman stood at the throttle. Welbeck lounged against the log desk. Farren was up on the gratings. They all wore pistols. Welbeck’s coming down was the signal that the turn west was soon to be made. Harris came from the shaft alley and went into the fireroom. He gave them through the engine a sardonic glance in passing.

  Holman did not expect trouble. Everything he knew was against it, but he was feeling happier than he had in many days. He could not believe that he or anyone was going to be killed. When they got to Paoshan they would find out that there was not any trouble because the missionaries were not treaty people any more. The Bolsheviks had control at Changsha, and even they did not bother the Germans. The boy Cho-jen was running China Light, and Shirley had said that he was definitely not a Bolshevik.

  He whistled under his breath. He was happy because the engine room was alive again. And because the ship was going to Paoshan. He might, just possibly, be able to stay at China Light after all. His dream was alive again, too.

  The steering engine above the gratings aft began a sustained rattling. Holman felt the ship heel slightly. They were making the turn. Welbeck unsnapped his holster flap and moved up beside Holman.

  Nothing happened for quite a while. Then Crosley clattered across the gratings and down the ladder and into the fireroom. He flashed a snarling glance at the throttle station. Bordelles was right behind him. Holman and Welbeck followed Bordelles into the fireroom. Bordelles stopped, still in the passageway between the boilers, and they looked over his shoulders.

  “Down shovels! Down shovels, I tell you!” Crosley was shouting. “They’re doublecrossing us, guys! They’re trying to get us all killed!”

  The men stood listening, shirtless and sweating, between coal and ash heaps: Krebs, Perna, Wilsey, Stawski and Harris. Crosley waved his arms and shouted. Harris turned to Bordelles.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked harshly.

  Bordelles told him, in flat, hard words. Harris’ eyes stayed rocksteady and his manner did not give an inch. He was thinking about it. Slowly, his sharkish grin began to split his whiskers.

  “We’re gonna fight? For certain sure?”

  “For certain sure.”

  “You heard him!” Crosley yelled. “Down shovels, guys!”

  Stawski flung his shovel clattering. “Mine’s down!” he said. Sullenly, Perna and Wilsey laid down their shovels. Krebs held his. He looked very undecided.

  “Ski, pick up your shovel,” Harris said.

  “Oink you!” Stawski said. “Aw-ee-ee-eenk!”

  With his flat nose and his little blue eyes, he looked like a pig. Perna and Wilsey and Crosley took up the oinking. They were trying to carry the ship away again. Harris picked up a slice bar, holding it in the middle. All his stringy muscles stood out. Without warning, he speared one end of it into Stawski’s stomach. The big fireman sat down on the ash heap, gasping.

  “Shovels!” Harris told Perna and Wilsey, showing all his teeth.

  They stopped oinking and picked up their shovels.

  “Krebs, give Crosley your shovel,” Harris ordered. “Since he’s being so kind as to come down here and want to help us.”

  Crosley opened his mouth, but it was Stawski who screamed. He jumped howling to his feet, dancing and slapping his buttocks. A live ember bedded in the ash heap had burned through to him. They all began laughing. Even Crosley laughed.

  That was how the big Sand Pebble mutiny was ending, Holman thought. With Stawski rubbing his blistered behind and looking around for sympathy wi
th a face like a bearded baby about to cry, while they all laughed at him. They had not known it themselves, but they had been smokestacking all the time.

  44

  That year spring came early to China Light. Flowers tinted the far slopes of the mountain and the dark, moist smell of turned earth blew off the fields. The farmers expected a fair and fruitful summer. Within the walls trees leafed out, early flowers colored beds and borders and the climbing roses around the small cemetery were forming a host of buds.

  Since Mrs. Craddock’s death, Mr. Craddock had not liked to stay indoors. They had placed a bench for him against the whitewashed outer wall of his house, beside Ting’s caldron, and he would sit there on sunny days. He had turned wholly gray during the winter and the old, dark fire was burned out in him. The serenity that replaced it was curiously Chinese, Shirley thought. He would sit there in his dark Chinese gown and skull cap and make small, pleasant talk with old Ting and the people who came to buy hot water. He knew the domestic affairs of all the China Light households and he had become something like a beloved old grandfather whom they all had in common.

  Shirley sat there with him one sunny day late in March, talking idly with several of the Chinese people, when Gillespie came up and broke in. He spoke English rather than Chinese. That, and his troubled manner, seemed abruptly to draw a separating line.

  “We’d best go inside,” he said. “There’s something we must talk about, at once.”

  They sat in the small parlor and it seemed damp and chill and dark. Gillespie read the news from the flimsy news sheet he said Cho-jen had just brought from Paoshan. The Kuomintang had taken Nanking and British and American warships had shelled the city. Forty thousand were claimed killed. He looked up at their shocked exclamations.

  “Cho-jen is certain that’s the wildest kind of exaggeration,” he assured them.

  The rest of the sheet was a violent exhortation to stand to arms and prepare to resist treaty power aggression. The Nanking shelling was taken to be the first step toward open intervention on behalf of the northern warlords.