The story was always the same. Jade Rooster had been afloat when they had last seen her. There had been a gunfight.
This was a new development, no one had mentioned a gunfight. Had that occurred before or after the passengers had been set adrift? After gunfight some were made to sail the barque at gunpoint. They had last seen her in the night; her captive crew had threaded her through a rocky chain of islands. The Jade Rooster sailors were sure the fisherman and pirates had been Korean. There was the prevalence of garlic and fermented cabbage in the food they were given, the characteristic “eh-yo” at the end of sentence after sentence, and they had arrived at Shanghai from the East. One or two who had sailed Asian waters before were sure they had been taken off Mokp’o. No one was sure about the passengers. Some had been put over in boats. Some were held perhaps for ransom. Some, including the captain, had been either shot or executed.
Discussion of the passengers reminded Sabatelli of his initial contact with the surviving passengers. The Kims had disappeared. Sabatelli had lost track of Atticaris. He and Atticaris had tripped the light fantastic with the Sisters Rowbotham, the sinuous strawberry blondes with the continental manners. The man knew how to have a good time, Sabatelli mused with a smile. Edwina Rowbotham was something to remember, British, but really rather worldly in a Gallic way.
Sabatelli had grown to believe Atticaris was a beau, probably a bed-presser who cheated at cards, but who probably pursued none of these vices to ungentlemanly excess. Atticaris had headed on to Hong Kong as far as Sabatelli knew.
A Japanese runner chattering to the Japanese staff bustled into his office with a written notice of an arrival. He came from the mechanical semaphore station, part of a network of mechanical semaphore relays which monitored arrivals.
With the rush of faces and questions, Koizumi came to mind. He too, had left Tokio on some assignment. One of Sabatelli’s commercial contacts had provided him with that information. The contact seemed relieved that Koizumi was gone. Koizumi seemed to know quite a few Westerners in the shipping business. He sensed that Atticaris and Koizumi were men who should be watched yet he could not say just why.
Well, time to get hold of Hobson again. Set him to work on finding Jade Rooster. He spoke the language, actually he spoke the languages. Korea seemed the next stop and that required knowledge of the rulers, Japanese, and the language of the ruled, the Koreans. Well, how was he going to get a hold of that bluejacket? And what was the name of that rumpled, bespeckled naval officer at the Embassy? That young, walking laundry bag of an officer would set the wheels in motion if he knew what was good for him. Yes, start there first.
As Sabatelli began to figure the best way to distribute cargoes to three ships still in demurrage, a pilot came in and roared his displeasure with the captain of a lumbership from Seattle. Tea, jute, silk—he was always juggling, fitting, measuring, loading. It took Sabatelli a half-hour and a fifth of bourbon to mollify the disgrunded pilot.
One thing he had meant to pass on to Hobson. There was no Sato on the barque’s passenger manifest. The nearest unaccounted for name was Moon. Sabatelli doubted it was a Japanese name. In his short time in Yokohama, he had begun to notice that, for the most part, Japanese names had several syllables, while Chinese and Korean names tended to have less.
Too many ships in demurrage, waiting to be loaded, a good sign if he had the time to take the long view. Perhaps Yokohama might catch up to Kobe.
On one very minor item Sabatelli had not been completely forthright with the Navy, but that one very minor item he would keep to himself. The matter was simply none of their business. He doubted if it would amount to much. Piracy had been committed on the high seas, or on some seas somewhere, and if no one else was interested, it was the Navy’s duty to do something about it.
Hobson had the evening watch as they neared Shanghai. After taps he took a round and noticed someone acting peculiarly on the fantail. He picked his way among the dozing sailors and caulking mats. As he approached, he realized it was Jackson doing something physical. As Hobson approached, he realized Jackson was working on his buck dancing and he was using the thump-thump-thump of the propeller to synchronize his movements. He was singing a ragtime melody softly to himself.
Jackson was a marvel. His movements made him appear to slide backward and forward, and then side to side. Sometimes he seemed to waver like beach grass buffeted by a spring tide. Gravity seemed to take a vacation where Jackson was concerned. The black man went an hour and then collapsed in a heap on one of the coalscuttles.
“Skipper lets me do this after taps. Have to work at it. I lose my dancing, I lose my connection, my…” he pointed panting to the life ring on the rail, “ my life buoy.”
“Just shy of excellent at that rigmarole. Lotta work staving around like that, I expect.”
“Have to keep at it. I asked for a big ship—something big and stabl—with a reciprocating steam engine—for a beat. Tonight was a good night. Often the swell makes it impossible.”
He took several deep breaths.
“ I like what I do in the Navy, but the people out here are right. You have to respect the ancestors and save what they pass down. Not all of it, mind, just the good part. Without dancing, don’t know how my family would have survived. Yup, these people out here, they’re no fools. Problem is figuring what’s the good part to save and pass on.”
He wiped his forehead. “But I am in the Navy. Somewhere way back, my African ancestors got into it with another tribe and lost, and were sold off to Arab traders. Then to someone down South. The ancestors weren’t strong enough.”
He took off his shoes, stuffed them with paper, and put them into a bag.
“Don’t want to be on the losing side, especially if the winning side is worth something. My grandfather saw the Confederacy and what some people call the Reconstruction. No, don’t pay to lose. Kind of gives me the right feeling knowing how to use those. The great equalizers, jumbo size.”
He pointed to where the Maxim guns were normally shipped.
“Steel is hard on the knees and ankles. I go lighter when I work out shipboard. Sometimes I wonder if I shoulda asked for a cruiser with their teak decks. ’Course, there’s steel under the teak, so not that much more give. Well, after what I know about Baltimore, I’m glad I got Pluto.”
Hobson returned to the Signal Bridge as Pluto steamed into Shanghai. He tallied sets of vertical red and white light signals that blinked in the collier’s direction. Various combinations of lights composed the new night signaling system and the flagship seemed to be waiting for radioless Pluto’s arrival. Hobson read the lights, deciphered the code, and realized he was the subject of the message. “Qm 3c Hobson report flagship detached duty NE x E.” He was being ordered to Korea.
Code or no code, the Oyster Pirate knew within an hour. “W-w-w-we’re going for liberty in the Bund. Scuttlebutt is you’re headed for the land of Asian hillbillies. Madame Kwan’s, pocket billiards, cold beer, and cross country horseback riding for us in the Middle Kingdom and thatched huts, fleas, oxen, and garlic for you in the Hermit Kingdom. Tell you, we ain’t gonna train very hard, rowing without you.”
“Yeah, well they sing pretty good. I’ll put a team of Koreans against a team of Chinese singing ‘Darlin’ Clementine’ and the Koreans will win every time, words and all.”
The Oyster Pirate sniffed.
Madame Kwan was the proprietress of an anonymous establishment that catered to the bluejacket trade, beer, whiskey, girls, tours, music hall tickets, postcards, and a horse livery. Occasionally a neighboring house wafted the chestnut odor of opium and bad joss over the establishment, but directly upwind was the incense-washed Temple of T’ien-hou, the goddess of heaven and protector of sailors, fishermen, travelers, actors, and prostitutes. There was a pocket billiards table on the ground floor of Madame Kwan’s, an acey-deucey game on the second floor, and she’d even had jury-rigged a h
orseshoe pit on the roof. Her cigarette holder was her trademark and she imported OB Beer from Hong Kong. Dressed in a frogged silk jacket and silk trousers, she greeted every new American sailor with a handshake, a slap on the back, and her business card, “Kwan, Soon Lee, Factotum.” The card had a wire address below and it all repeated in Chinese pictograms on the reverse. Tiger was the only Chinese male allowed as a patron since he was Navy, though no one ever saw him there except for an occasional drink. It was known as an American sailor’s saloon though British, French, and German sailors, in small numbers, could visit if they showed proper deference.
He looked longingly at the harbor lights of the city that was like a boomtown. It was a sailor’s delight, wide open and anything for a price. Once during every Shanghai visit, Jackson organized a bicycle expedition to an old camelback bridge under a willow tree in the interior. Pluto’s crew looked on the bridge as its own. Perhaps a better site for croquet, it was the site of innumerable, never finished football and baseball contests. Once, the Oyster Pirate bought a whole stand of kites, and they had beery kite fights. Sometimes they even invited the officers.
His eyes drifted down and he saw Warrant Officer Crottle scowling in his direction.
Well, Korea could be good liberty, too—for him anyway. It was home. He had loved its rocky mountainous beauty and had longed for an excuse to go back.
Phipps did not allow him to leave without firing a salvo of naval-sounding proverbs. Sailors ought to be on ships. Sailors ought to be on their own ships. Sailors ought to be on their own ships doing naval business. Nothing good ever came of dealing with civilians. All civilians were corrupt, and tried to get the best of sailors. Foreign civilians were the worst of the lot, thieves and honey-fogglers. Nothing good came from having anything to do with civilian ships. Ultimately, nothing good came of sailors being off their own ships and dealing with civilian ships in a foreign country. This was a hoodoo set up. Any right-thinking sailor would plot a reciprocal course, but quick.
Though not entirely in disagreement, Hobson gathered that Phipps was not happy with the prospect of being short one Quartermaster.
Hobson caught a bumboat over to the flagship before breakfast. The Shanghai paymaster was there and gave him his orders and a ticket on a passenger steamer to Chcmulp’o. He was told to keep a journal of any navigational observations that he thought might be useful for Sailing Directions for Korea and identify hazards of any sort to U.S. merchant shipping. He was issued a significant sum in “Mex,” Mexican silver dollars, for expenses.
Riding a civilian steamer to Chemulp’o as a passenger and watching some other poor seaman sweat would be a total pleasure. A politically well-connected landshark, a fellow named Sabatelli from Lighthouse Insurance, would meet him there, he was told. Ah, the galley grapevine, Hobson chuckled. He’d taken liberty in Chemulp’o before several years back, but that was different and politics of the region were changing rapidly. He was just one member of an American crew in a relatively cosmopolitan port and by the time anyone had realized he was the strange American who spoke Korean, they had left. Who knew where he’d be going after Chemulp’o and where his past might meet up with him. It had been six years. They’d put in to Pusan once or twice, but this would be different.
This would be different. In uniform and asking awkward questions in Korean, he’d be watched and he wondered if he could weather the scrutiny. He tucked most of the Mex into his moneybelt, which never left his body. Living out of a hammock and a bucket, a sailor was left with few ways of storing valuables. Of course, sailors with valuables was never a widespread problem.
The Japanese carefully regulated Western entry into Korea. Sabatelli was told to conduct his investigation out of Chemulp’o, the western port not far from Seoul. He would be under the watchful eye of one of the larger Japanese garrisons. Chemulp’o was a poor version of Yokohama. It was sooty and muddy and littered with dunnage. Japanese ships dominated the harbor and were loading an unending cargo of Korean raw materials. Sabatelli noted that the Japanese ships deadheaded, i.e., arrived nearly empty. Non-Japanese foreign ships, carrying cargoes to or from Korea were rare indeed. Korea was now a colony in all but name and she existed to serve Japan. The few other foreign ships were just passing through, looking for shelter or maintenance. Koreans performed any task that looked like physical labor. As a group, they looked ragged and ill fed.
The houses were small and more hut-like. Most of the roofs were thatched and had gourds and vines growing on them. Most had walls and small courtyards. Few women above the station of laborer walked about within the city.
Usually self-important, Sabatelli felt lost. He had found some overseas Chinese to cook and take his laundry. He had found a seaman’s inn with a tiled roof, but he still hadn’t established a rhythm when Hobson arrived. As out of place as he had felt in Japan, here, he was totally out of his element. There were few English speakers and few to cater to Western tastes.
Most of the Koreans wore white and little horsehair tophats. The husky blocklike Korean men carried loads in wooden backpacks and tied their hair up in buns despite a Japanese proscription against traditionally long hair. The few women carried babies like Indian papooses either tied in front or tied on in back. Where it wasn’t muddy, it was dusty and, as in Japan, the primary fertilizer was nightsoil.
They checked in with the Japanese military police who, after a day or two’s official hesitation, gave Sabatelli and Hobson permission to ask questions as long as they shared their results. Hobson and Sabatelli combed the docks for any word of Jade Rooster. There was a reticence on the part of the Korean fisherman, but also, Hobson sensed, true ignorance. Sabatelli led the effort with the merchant fleet, but there was no help there, either. Several Japanese skippers seemed interested and the other foreign skippers, too—their ships might be next. Yet no one could offer a clue.
Hobson and Sabatelli took day trips down the Western coast, but were no more successful than they had been in Chemulp’o.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hobson had learned in his brief years with as ponderous a bureaucracy as the Navy, that there were official sources of information who passed the “Word.” In this case, the official Japanese word was that there was no word about Jade Rooster.
Experience had also taught him that there were unofficial sources of information who circulated “scuttlebutt.” This second category, too, was subdivided into two parts. Scuttlebutt in its unofficial fashion basically flowed from two directions: downcurrent from the authorities, who in this case were the Japanese, or upcurrent from the rank and file, in this case the Koreans.
He had learned that the Word was not always true and scuttlebutt was not always false. Hobson went hunting for scuttlebutt.
He began by visiting the police gym in Chemulp’o to develop a contact or two. He carried a judo gi and asked permission to practice. Several sailors from Pluto had begun to study the sport. It was beginning to gather a following in the U.S. It was said Teddy Roosevelt had studied it. Hobson enjoyed it far more than cutlass drill twice a week with Warrant Officer Crottle. His shipmates regarded cutlass drill as a useless holdover and little more than calisthenics with an old piece of steel. Hobson on the other hand had used judo three times. No, four, he recalled. Three times to break up bar fights, and the final time to drop that gunner’s mate off Baltimore.
Since the 1880s when judo had won a famous competition to determine the primary self-defense discipline of the Tokio police—a story known to every Japanese schoolboy, judo had become a regular part of every police station’s routine. The mats at most stations were open to non-policeman to ensure enough participants for a workout. Though these were military policemen, rather than true policemen, the same tradition held true. Here perhaps was a place to develop unofficial contacts.
From the moment he set foot on the mat he was hazed. Hobson’s time afloat had inured him to that custom, too. The new fellow had to show his
stuff to join the group. Hobson found some very tough opponents among the judoka. Some of the most aggressive were Koreans working for the Japanese. Hobson wore the white belt of a novice judo wrestler. Initially the blackbelts ignored him, but left him with a smattering of uncoordinated office workers and clerks. He did not expect that to last. He would be expected to fight his way up the ladder, with a few initial victories before loss after loss. There was a tension in the air, subtler between the Japanese and Koreans, with a more open disdain for Europeans. These were the guardians of the New Imperial Japan, and the aspiring guardians from a subjugated land. Hobson knew to pace himself for a long evening. Eventually a few of the blackbelts did come over and each with courtly politeness asked if he wished to “play” judo. He found himself being used to sweep the mats. Rarely was he thrown where his feet did not rise to the twelve o’clock position on an imaginary chronometer. He felt like a ragdoll being thrashed about by a series of bulldogs. They seemed to take rather grim enjoyment in the process. No more than a few words were said. They were skilled, compact, and strong with low centers of gravity, a great advantage in judo.
Near the end of the line, a thick-necked fireplug of a blackbelt with a cauliflower ear walked up to him and smiled. “Faites-vous joue de judo?”
Built like a depot stove, Hobson thought as he shook his head. “Yankee.”
“Ah, cowboy. Teddy Roosevelt. Buffalos.”
Hobson wasn’t sure being described as Teddy Roosevelt by a Japanese soldier was a good thing. Roosevelt had negotiated away Japanese conquests in the Russo-Japanese War and won the Nobel Peace Prize…but hardly Japanese admiration. Yet TR was reputed to have studied judo and the Japanese would have liked him on a personal level.
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