Jade Rooster

by R. L. Crossland

  Cheng had been born on a junk and had sculled sampans until he’d found his rice bowl on Pluto. He understood wind and current.

  At stroke was a native of Sausalito known as the “Oyster Pirate.” He had the most rowing experience, most of it gained dredging by moonlight in other people’s oyster beds. As a child, he had even seen the great Canadian oarsman, Ned Hanlon. The Oyster Pirate avoided all non-technical accountability and positions of responsibility. Things performed in a predictable manner; people did not. He could be highly competitive, but only if he could sense fear among the competitors that was strong and palpable. Only fear could shake his lanky, laconic body into action. His most memorable physical attributes were his pronounced Adam’s apple and gunboat-size feet.

  The Oyster Pirate was an oiler and one of the black gang. He had bought a sewing machine somewhere and made money on the side sewing “tailor-mades.” The concept of sport was alien to the Oyster Pirate’s view of the world. There were angles and there was financial gain. A sewing machine gathered small amounts of money and useful scuttlebutt. No one did things just to do them, not in the Oyster Pirate’s world.

  His hands would gesture with the grace of an orator and his mouth would open several times before the words ever came out. It was as if he had to pump up steam before he could generate sound. “W-w-we’ve got to rig stretchers and sew leather seats on our pants.”

  “Leat’er? What we need leat’er for? You some kind of busted ludder…rudder slipknot sailor?” Cheng screamed.

  “We can grease the leather and slide back and forth on the seats. That w-w-way, braced to the stretchers, we get more use out of our legs.”

  The Ensign casting one last glance as he returned to the bridge, looked doubtful. “I’m gonna have to check the Luce rules. I’ve heard it’s naval constructor boat standards and no adaptive work.”

  Cheng looked enthusiastic. He lived by the power of force of will.

  They rowed from Pluto to a buoy off the point and back four times. Cheng was screaming most of the time. “Don’t dig in. Keep top edge of the blade close to surface.”

  Cheng was not going to approach anything that wasn’t cutthroat serious.

  He was, after all, the captain’s cook though the title “logistical factotum” would have been appropriate.

  The oar tips flickered like synchronized silver blades giving the appearance that the boat’s progress was more glide than effort. “L-l-like a big ol’ water spider stretchin’ her legs!” the Oyster Pirate blurted, perking up. It was a good start.

  “Well, not long and we’ll be scuddrifting, just scuddrifting along those waves.” One of the old salts invented words, or invented new meanings for words. Hobson admired that. He believed this strange form of deckplate erudition showed imagination and that imagination was one of the keys to true leadership. “Look, if were gonna do this, we got to do it first rate. We have to build on a routine and we gotta stick by it. Tiger we gotta eat more eggs and beef and milk.”

  Tiger looked thoughtful. The officers were going to eat a bit leaner for the next few months, but he could work it so they’d never know it.

  “No cow milk, maybe goat milk.”

  Their hands were raw and they were stiff from the new pattern and rhythm of exertion.

  Manila’s principal shopping district, the Calle de Escolta at the north end of the Bridge of Spain, was a good place to start liberty. Manila smelled of mildew, barbecued meat and opportunity. Tiger, the Oyster Pirate, Hobson, and several others from the cutter’s racing crew enjoyed extra liberty as an incentive. The three had separated from the rest of the crew, when Hobson caught a glimpse of a hat out of the corner of his eye as they passed the opera house. It was a hard straw boater, a straw boater with a distinctive blue and white band, and a lanyard. The straw boater could be seen in the back panel opening of a maze of hackneys. Hobson excused himself and began to follow the straw boater as a heavily laden Carabao drawn cart blocked his view. Further frustrating him, the Oyster Pirate and Tiger, sensing his excitement, would not let him break free.

  “I think that’s a fellow I talked to once, turns out he’s some sort of filibusterer or ordnance honey-fuggler, a gent named Atticaris, and the ONI fellows—the intelligence fellows—are interested in him. He’s involved in some form of treacheration. Three white suits and he’ll spot us as easily as white sails against a wooded headland.

  “We figure out where he’s staying, and even better what he’s up to, and they’ll be somethin’ in it for us or maybe Pluto.”

  The Oyster Pirate began to wave his hands to speak, but Tiger interrupted. “Many uniforms around, U.S. Navy, and Royal Navy, Kreigsmarine and Japanese. Many uniforms.”

  The Chinaman was keen for the chase. Tiger was keen for everything, Hobson was not surprised.

  Hobson shook his head. “See if you can scrape up the ONI representative. Start at the Governor’s office.”

  The Oyster Pirate, who appeared eager to follow, was not enthusiastic about squandering liberty time on anyone official, but Tiger managed to drag him off stammering. Tiger knew that a lone Chinaman, even one in naval uniform, had a Chinaman’s chance of getting help at the Governor’s office.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hobson wended his way through the street stands and the alleyways trying to keep up with the hackney. It stopped and its passengers descended. Atticaris was not alone. He was talking to another shorter man with a deep tan. The man was a little over five feet tall, carried his arms away from him like a stevedore, and wore a battered bowler. They went to a shop and Atticaris picked up a package. Hobson made note of the sign, “Stewart’s Fabric and Dry Goods.” They changed course several times. The shorter man walked with a singularly upright posture and occasionally looked over his shoulder. Atticaris and the shorter, more powerfully built man walked a distance and stared into a shop window.

  Suddenly they doubled back and came directly at Hobson.

  “White suit stands out in a shop window’s reflection. Well, my fine young crackerjack, you are a ways from Japan.”

  “Well, join the Navy, see the world. Pluto’s in at Sangley Point, y’know. Simply enjoying the sights courtesy of the U. S. taxpayer.”

  This seemed to tickle the man in the bowler who broke out in a grin. He had a first-rate handlebar moustache which accented a very badly broken nose. Hobson sensed that luxuriant handlebar was a point of pride. One hand was constantly stroking it. The nose had to have been broken repeatedly, to be that flat. Hobson’s gaze ran down to his hands. They were broad, the knuckles enlarged. A bantamweight…smoker fighter or bareknuckle boxer.

  “Let me buy you a drink. I wore a white suit once. Atlantic Fleet, not out here among the tigers, dragons, and bamboo breezes.”

  The man in the bowler took Hobson by the upperarm firmly. He guided Hobson and Atticaris through several alleys. They ducked into a barbecue parlor with beaded curtains and a dirt floor. Hobson thought he saw a rat scurry under a table. The man in the bowler hat seemed to know the place and said something to the proprietor in a language that was not English.

  “You’re a talented fellow, Hobson. Navy man, navigational skills, weapons training, and language ability.” Atticaris said with interest. “It seems I might have a project or two you could help me with.

  “You know that white suit will use you up. It used up my father and it would have used me up, if I’d let it.”

  Atticaris’ look mixed charm and intensity. And confidence, he was ever so confident.

  “A lot of talk about honor and status. Yes, status. Most people don’t want to have anything to do with the Navy, officer or enlisted. Won’t even let you in their houses. You know that.”

  “Were you an officer?” Buy time and play to his ego. Hobson studied Atticaris’ face. Clean shaven, so soft and smooth, not a wrinkle and somehow vaguely top heavy. Atticaris was always smiling. Life came easy to Attic
aris, he had everything under control, and he rated only the best. The best came easy.

  The Filipino owner opened two warm beers. As the man with the bowler reached for his beer, a tattoo of an eagle, globe and anchor showed under his cuff. That helped Hobson place him, an ex-service expatriate—Philippine service probably with Waller at Samar.

  “Of course, commissioned just before the old man began playing the market. He told me not to do it. It’s a burnout profession. Lots of obligations and standards, but no payoff. I’m a businessman and figure out how to get that tired professional knowledge to pay, something my father never learned how to do. Farragut took all the credit and left my father with nothing. That book never made him much, he died bankrupt. I’m never going to die bankrupt.”

  “You don’t talk like an officer, they’re always talking about duty and honor and obligation…and how it’s a…” Hobson began.

  “It’s nonsense.” He dismissed the thought with his hand.

  “…a vocation.”

  An unidentifiable meat came on skewers.

  “You know they talk about that in churches sometimes, about vocations…” Hobson began again.

  “Yes, that should be the only place, in churches. Somewhere that’s got a firm grasp on total unreality”

  Hobson studied the dragons on his cuffs. “Well, my parents were in the church go-to-meeting business. Vocation, it means a calling, I think. Something more than a paycheck. Something special about whatever it is you’re called to. People look on vocations as a destiny. People who think about vocations, they feel they are going to be needed for some great purpose, someday.”

  “Great purpose? No one believes that.”

  “I think maybe my skipper thinks like that. Maybe some other officers. It’s not just officers get to thinking like that.”

  Atticaris eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe in that hokum. There’s no lofty purpose in plotting lines on charts and passing coal.”

  “Don’t rightly know what I think most of the time. Of course, on occasion, my leading petty officer tells me what I should think, and if he doesn’t about half of the crew and all the officers do. The benefits of disciplination.”

  “So how about being a business man out here in the Pacific with me. Make more money than all the men who swing a hammock aboard Pluto make in a year. You can buy a collier and have change left over and mix a few diamonds in with the lumps of coal.”

  Hobson rubbed his chin noncommittally and began to search for his pipe.

  “People around you, off Korea, haven’t had much chance to spend their money lately.”

  Atticaris stiffened and looked at his pocket watch. The man in the bowler gave Hobson a wry look of indifference. Atticaris rose to leave and the man with the bowler followed his lead. “Sailors are fools. Always have been, always will be. You’ll die drunk in the shadow of a piling with a hooker going through your wallet.”

  The man with the bowler grinned, “Yup, sailors is fools.” He chuckled as if it was an old joke.

  “Well, sir, can’t say I agree with your opinion, but thanks for the beer and monkey meat. Take an even strain.”

  Hobson, Tiger, the Oyster Pirate, and a very bored clerk from the Governor’s office searched the area later, but Atticaris was gone. They found his hotel and learned he had checked out.

  “Fl-fl-flew the coup.” The Oyster Pirate observed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Shady sonuvabitch, cutting into my liberty time. Low life. Some fellows are always playing angles, gotta watch ’em. Gotta watch ’em real close.”

  The Oyster Pirate looked particularly thoughtful and sincere as if he had revealed a great truth. “Did he say he was an officer?”

  “Yeah, well, can’t watch ’im. That’s problem. Big darn problem.”

  Hobson went back to Stewart’s Fabric and Dry Goods and learned that Atticaris had placed special orders for goods that were delivered to the dry goods store. Atticaris had essentially paid them for use as a mailing address. The staff was all Filipino; no one named Stewart had been associated with the shop for years. Several crates had arrived, but no member of the staff knew what was in them more than the fact that one package was ripped and had contained what looked like woolen long underwear. One damaged crate’s contents had resembled an overgrown coffee grinder.

  The Governor’s office clerk rolled his eyes, convinced pranksters had dragged him off on a fool’s errand. “Not much call for wool long underwear in the Philippines. You sure this is the fellow running guns to the Moros? Anyone who can sell long underwear in the Philippines has a promising future in retailing.”

  PART II

  Coaling Ship

  Coal! Coal! There is no escape from it; the choking dust lies everywhere, there is no getting away from from the thunderous rattle of the cobs as they pour into the yawning holds, nor relief from the labour of warping ship back and forward to suit the trimming of the cargo. Coal! Coal! —David William Bone

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Navy Department had grown fitfully during die last two decades, but now gloried in an all-out renaissance. Though its ships-of-the-line were all United States made, graced by the technology of America’s burgeoning economy, the same could not be said of many of its auxiliary vessels. Pluto was a Spanish merchantman that had been converted to provide coal to the fleet. She was part of the spoils of the Spanish-American War. For the past few weeks, she had prowled the Philippine Islands, America’s possession, and it was rumored she’d be headed for Shanghai shortly. As part of the Naval Auxiliary Service under the Bureau of Navigation, some colliers had a merchant seaman component to their crew, but not Pluto. She was all Navy and an experiment in efficiency.

  Every morning the department heads reported to the bridge for 0800 reports. Since the bridge was Hobson’s normal station, he often had the treat of observing senior management in action and picking up valuable scuttlebutt.

  Hobson paid only passing attention to most of those present, but he watched four of them keenly. They were the skipper, Mr. Wheelwright; Quartermaster First Class Phipps, Hobson’s supervisor; Yeoman First Class Jackson, the black petty officer who handled correspondence record keeping and administration; and finally there was the Prince of Darkness. The Prince of Darkness was a massive, battered, Warrant Officer from somewhere in the Ozarks. It was rumored that Warrant Officer Crottle—for that was his real name—had killed a man in his adolescence and had been “encouraged” to enlist. It was also believed he’d killed a Navy chief at Cavite when he himself had been a chief. There had been an investigation, but nothing had come of it. Everyone seemed to accept that he had, and that the chief at Cavite had had it coming to him. Hobson had come to Pluto after the event and no one seemed interested in talking about it. Hobson had been warned, however, that Warrant Officer Crottle was not a man to be crossed, and to give him a wide berth. As a warrant, Mr. Crottle experienced a limbo-like social status; no longer enlisted, yet not quite a commissioned officer.

  Crottle always appeared on the bridge in soot-covered denim coveralls. Phipps assigned a striker to walk discreetly behind Crottle and clean up after him when he appeared on the bridge. Crottle did not seem to notice. He never smiled and on the rare occasions that he talked about anything except the responsibilities of the Black Gang, his comments were pure vinegar.

  Though Crottle’s social status might have been ambiguous, his place in the naval pantheon could not have been clearer. Black Gangs inhabit a special kind of naval Hell. In the tropics, the temperatures below normally exceeded 100 degrees Fahrenheit and members of the Gang had to stoke the fires which kept steam up in the boilers. It was hot, strenuous, noisy, dirty work. In battle, the stokers and rest of the Black Gang were locked below. There was no alternative; movement and maneuver were the keys to survival in an engagement at sea. The Black Gang’s duty station was in the hot, sooty bowels of the ship…and that status could drive men mad. On
liberty the wildest, meanest, most dangerous section of the crew was the members of the Black Gang. Crottle was King of the Black Gang.

  The skipper and the three department heads exercised four distinct styles of leadership and each was successful. Mr. Wheelwright was a gentleman. He was known to be thoughtful, intelligent, and fair, but he was not anyone’s friend, he was everyone’s boss. The smart money said he would not be on an auxiliary long. It was said he came from an Eastern family with money, but if he did, he did not make an issue of it.

  Yeoman First Class Jackson was likeable. Everyone liked him. His eyes lit up when anyone entered his workspace and he had this laugh. He seemed to seek even’ crew member out and he tried to joke with each one. People did things for him, just because they liked him. He had a smile that made you think of a piano keyboard. He was a good musician, better than most of the members of the marine band at Cavite. And he could dance…not ballroom dancing, the other kind.

  Quartermaster First Class Phipps was the oldest, older than Mr. Crottle. He’d been everywhere and done everything twice. He knew more about navigation than Columbus and all the officers combined, and one or two of them had degrees in pretty fancy scientific areas of engineering. Wizened, gray, and heavily tattooed, he had a naval homily—always slightly negative in tone—for every occasion. He’d been a petty officer in what he called “the Cubic Wars,” the series of affairs including the Spanish-American War involving Cuba, before coming to the Asiatic Fleet.

  Crottle led by intimidation. He looked right through you and the corners of his mouth were permanently curled downward. It seemed like a good idea to do what he told you. He’d used his fists coming up, and still used them to make a point. He had never fought in a Navy smoker, but there was frequent speculation on his ability to take the fleet title. Now that he was a warrant, it could only be speculation. To whip him, the speculation ran further; you’d have to kill him.