Hobson quickly turned to the Bridge. Crottle was staring at the canvas bucket, too, with an incredulous look.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Hobson shivered uncontrollably and staggered to the boat falls. Lieutenant Commander Wheelwright, now in a dry uniform, inspected the bottom of the cutter with Hobson. Warrant Officer Crottle approached with genuine interest.
Wheelwright began thinking aloud. “Looks like someone drilled a hole horizontally through the keel. Why do that in the first place? Then later when the whole strip ripped away, the gudgeon went with it.”
Crottle looked at it. “What if someone tied on a bucket as a sea anchor using the hole?”
A sea anchor was a drogue used by ships to keep them heading into the wind. A large one could bring a moving boat to a near standstill. A small one? A small one would exert drag. Sea anchors were sewn out of canvas. Most shipboard buckets were sewn out of canvas and nearly the same shape.
“Wouldn’t exert too much drag down current, but up current it ripped the last foot of our keel clean off. Whoever did it, overdid it.” Hobson speculated. He could not be upset, they’d won.
“Hey, Boats, where’s that bucket I just saw come aboard?” Crottle stood right in front of the boatswain’s mate whom Hobson hadn’t noticed before.
The boatswain’s mate looked sheepish and dragged the soggy mess out from under behind a coalscuttle. The boatswain’s mate had recognized skullduggery immediately and had not wanted it attributed to any of his messmates.
“Why’s it gray? Is that mildew? Look’s like someone sewed a hole in the bottom, Boats,” Crottle was asking, but seemed to know the answers already. Buckets were sewn from sail canvas and were normally off-white in color.
“Don’t know, sir. Tiger and the Oyster Pirate just asked me to hoist it up.”
Crottle gave a knowing smile. “I’d say, so it couldn’t be seen in Shanghai harbor soup.”
“Betting against their own crew?”
Hobson knew he had to step in. “No, couldn’t be.” Hobson remembered the look on Tiger’s face when he held the rudder up. The Oyster Pirate wouldn’t have risked the anger of his crew. He knew there had been heavy betting by the crew.
Hobson thought of Baltimore’s crew sweating the upcurrent leg. “No they did unto others as they ended up having done unto themselves.”
Hobson was surprised to hear himself sounding Biblical. It reminded him of his father.
“There were two drogues in the race. Each was secured by one ship’s crew to the other’s cutter. Ours worked, the one using a “C” clamp, and it disappeared after the race. Theirs required drilling a hole right through the keel and tore off our rudder mounting, then ceased to have any effect at all.”
Crottle remained silent for a while and then laughed. Hobson had never seen him laugh. It was a heavy unpleasant, rumbling laugh.
“What we got here is drogue rogues.”
“It was to be a test of rowing, and seamanship. Well, the best right sleeve seamanship prevailed,” Wheelwright said enigmatically and turned to head up to the bridge.
“Oysters in the mess again for anyone who wants them.” He called back over his shoulder.
Wheelwright sent Mr. Crottle and Cabin Cook Second Class Cheng over to the Admiral aboard Baltimore in their dress blues. Every member of the crew inspected them and picked imaginary lint off their uniforms. The launch crew shifted into dress blues of their own volition and had to fight off volunteers to take their places as boat crew. Each was required to down an oyster before they could descend the ladder. Crottle carried a half-filled coal scuttle in his left hand. The launch crew discharged their duties like powerful steam-driven machines of nautical perfection. Each took the measure of every’ man on Baltimore’s rail.
As Cheng and Crottle crossed the quarterdeck, Baltimore’s officer of the deck eyed the coal scuttle suspiciously.
Some of Pluto’s crew questioned the captain’s choice of emissaries to Baltimore. Why only a Chinaman and a hard case? Why not the whole cutter crew and the captain?
Crottle returned with the coal scuttle and waved it as he climbed so the crew of Baltimore could take one last look. The corners of his mouth were slightly upturned and Hobson wondered if he was smiling.
The trophy was jammed into the coal of the coal scuttle like a bottle of champagne into an ice bucket.
“Is that true about oysters being what the professional oarsman thrive on?” the executive officer asked Lieutenant Commander Wheelwright.
“Could be. I don’t really know, but there were some for sale on the pier and I thought it might give them an edge. Never ate an oyster in my life. I’m from Vermont. Darned expensive cuisine around here.”
“Might have helped,” Wheelright added. “Anyway, what we ate wasn’t so important, just so long as Baltimore’s skipper eating crow.”
Pluto’s executive officer had, more than once during the cruise, observed that Wheelwright’s shirt advertisement etching good looks and Sunday school demeanor could be deceiving.
PART III
The Sailor Considered
Every man thinks meanly of himself for not having been a soldier or not having been to sea …
They are happy as brutes happy with a piece of fresh meat, with the grossest sensuality. But, Sir, the profession of soldiers and sailors has the dignity of danger. Mankind reverence those who have got over fear …
—Dr. Samuel Johnson
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Navy—and the Asiatic Fleet for that matter—have their ways, tried, true, and tested by time. Instructions and notices determined how things must be achieved and heaven help the junior officer who did not heed their cautionary advice. The instructions were often thorough, frequently voluminous, sometimes comprehensible, and always in writing. These instructions were at their best addressing problems that had been addressed before. Unfortunately, recovering ordnance in someone else’s oyster bed had not been addressed before in the Realm of the Golden Dragon.
In the navy or military, generalists handle matters that are out of the ordinary. That is the derivation of the title general officer or general. A general officer addresses problems of general concern to his organization. The naval equivalent of a general is an admiral. In fact, admirals were once called generals-at-sea.
The Admiral was wary of operational requests from a Naval Militia lieutenant junior grade from the Office of Naval Intelligence, which was under the Bureau of Navigation the repository of “all things irregular.” He was not sure how this undertaking could help him; he could guess how it might hurt him. This was the selective salvage of an American merchant ship in what were now Japanese waters and involved instruments of war.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Draper pointed out that the Japanese had already given permission for Lighthouse Insurance and one Petty Officer Hobson to search for Jade Rooster off the coast of Korea and that search had not been completed.
The plan entailed a tired old British steam tug with fore and aft sails, which had been given a hurried white paint job, that had been paid for out of a fleet account titled “bronze fittings.” It had a small crane capable of lifting a few hundred pounds. It now had a diving manual, an air pump, navy diving dress, a diving ladder, a diving lamp, and a diving telephone among its gear.
Its boiler was old and patched. It would not be capable of any forced draft cruising, but it could get by as a diving platform. The new diving manual implied that just about anything afloat with moderate freeboard would support diving operations and the tug did fall into the category of “anything afloat.”
What the tug did not have was a crew or a diving team.
The Admiral fingered another piece of jade artwork he had purchased for his wife. He was concerned by China’s instability. He worried about the ships he had far up the Yangtze. “Hobson goes for sure. I’m not sure I want a commission
ed officer aboard. That has the odor of official action.”
“Of course, you’ll need a diver, some sort of officer, maybe a warrant, good with machinery. Diving, is that more like shipfitting or more like engine mechanics? Does it center on questions of plumbing, or matters dealing with gases under pressure? I’ll get the flag lieutenant to trace out someone suitable. Not diplomatic types, if this turns into an incident, let’s make it look like a total mistake. Small crew, the smaller the better. Pull them from the two ships that showed such “good warrior spirit,” what were their names? Baltimore and that godforsaken collier…oh, yes…Pluto. The one that pulls tricks. This should be right up their alley.”
Crottle ran the tug by the book. With just a seven-man crew he ran inspections and followed ship’s routine right down to cutlass drills. Twice a day they ran out small arms.
The diver was a gunner’s mate; divers were largely gunner’s mates. Then there were two coalpassers from Pluto, two deck seaman, and a cook from Baltimore, and of course, a quartermaster named Hobson to handle the navigation. There should have been a tender and a diving officer for the diver, but the Admiral had scratched that. There should have been two or three divers, but the Admiral had scratched that, too. Sailors could learn. Some sailors could and would learn fast.
“Time is of the essence,” were the Admiral’s final words to the flag lieutenant on the matter.
In the second dogwatch, the flag lieutenant and the Oyster Pirate proceeded down opposite ladders on very different ships. In keeping with tradition, the flag lieutenant proceeded down the officers’ ladder on the starboard side of palatial Pittsburgh and the Oyster Pirate struggled down the crew’s ladder on the port side of utilitarian Pluto.
The flag lieutenant was alone. He was making an appearance at a reception at the Shanghai Carleton on the Admiral’s behalf, one of many functions the Admiral was invited to but could not attend. The Oyster Pirate had two shipmates with him because he was carrying a sewing machine and it was never a good idea to walk a tough waterfront alone with your hands full. A sailor alone with his hands full was an easy mark. Shanghai’s waterfront was as tough as any in the world.
The Admiral’s barge was a steam launch and the liberty launch for Pluto was, too. The sun was down, but Shanghai was a bustling city and the coxswains had little difficulty coming into their landings as long as they did not look directly into the lights.
The flag lieutenant in his boat cloak, a cape-like affair, made for the Shanghai Carleton and the Oyster Pirate and his comrades in their peacoats made for Limehouse Lou’s Pawnshop.
The flag lieutenant hailed a hackney cab and waved away the ginricksha coolies. He was never sure why, but he did not think big Americans should be seen being pulled around by the smaller, leaner Asians. Somehow it did not look right, it did not look democratic somehow.
The Oyster Pirate and his comrades waved off the ginricksha coolies, too and resorted to shank’s mare. The Oyster Pirate was on a tight budget.
The flag lieutenant was well received at the Carleton. He was well known there and popular. There were statesmen from several countries present and an equal number of military attaches. After the Chinese guests, the largest number of guests was British, followed by French, Portuguese, Japanese, and German. The British were old hands at this colonial routine and seemed most comfortable. The Americans, Japanese, and Germans seemed less at home with their Chinese presence.
The receiving line was standard, and the flag lieutenant, whose duties included receiving high-ranking guests, remembered most of their names and titles and foibles. It was his job to do so. He danced several dances with the wives of the more notable dignities, because they enjoyed it, because he was a good dancer, and because he believed it to be part of his job. He had been selected for the job because he was perceived as an up-and-coming naval officer, spoke several languages, came from a socially pre-eminent Eastern family, and danced well. He made apologies for the Admiral and pressed the attack at being polite, charming, and sociable.
Two hours into the reception he believed he had satisfied his professional responsibilities and decided to attend to his own personal interests. He had spotted a shapely brunette who could have been a Gibson girl model, standing with a much older man. The older man seemed consumed in a conversation with several other men of equal age and he was not paying much attention to her. He caught her eye and glided in to make the rescue.
“More carats per acre here than any three farms in Pennsylvania.”
Her eyebrows lifted. Was there a look there of jaded experience in one so young?
“Could say the same about manure and corn as well,” she deadpanned.
“From here, or passing through?”
“Passing through, but you could get me a punch and convince me to stay longer.”
He introduced himself and retrieved the punch. The punch at the Carleton was notorious, alleged to have provided the impetus for more than one indiscretion. Though many of the men wore white tie, some were wearing the new tuxedos.
“You’re not the Senator’s daughter?”
“Yup, that’s me. The wayward, headstrong one. I suppose you’ve heard that I play poker and smoke cigars. And get back at all hours.”
The flag lieutenant had been doing the social circuit for some time now. With the benefit of Shanghai training he hardly batted an eye.
“Fast motorcars and fast boats and slow horses are your byword.”
“Ah, my reputation precedes me. I like to watch the people, don’t you?”
The flag lieutenant said he did, too. It was, however, one of the underscored rules of his post that he never commented in public on anything or anyone he observed.
“See the Limey over there? The Coldstream Guard light colonel with the handkerchief in his sleeve? He’s been in a duel, an actual duel. Illegal as all hell, but the other man’s dead. They had to hustle him out of Paris.”
A German naval officer knocked over a table with Chinese porcelain.
This one’s someone to watch, thought the flag lieutenant, she has an appetite for strong language and strong liquor. Tough, world weary, or simply too adventurous for a lady? The flag lieutenant rubbed his finger absent-mindedly on his wrist for he too had a handkerchief up his sleeve.
“The Frenchman over there has something to do with a revival of those Greek games, what do you call them?”
She flickered a bejeweled hand that could feed all Shantung Province for three rotations of the watch. The rings and bracelets were worn over the gloves.
“The Olympics?”
“Yes, do you know if they make all the athletes run around naked like they did in ancient Greece. I’d be interested in knowing.”
The flag lieutenant wondered if she was putting him on. What other strong appetites did she have?
“See that man behind you, the leonine man that holds himself so very stiff and upright. He’s got a reserved table at Delmonico’s just like Gould or Fiske or Morgan…”
“New York or San Francisco? How can you be sure?”
“…Don’t really know. Anyway, that’s Atticaris, the filibusterer.”
“Really? A filibusterer, are you sure?” The flag lieutenant turned very slowly.
He was a tall man with his mass concentrated in his head, neck, and shoulders. Atticaris gave the woman a wave.
“Well, maybe not a filibusterer, but he’s involved in something on the shadowy edge. He took me to the Turf Club the other day. My travelling companion, Mrs. Halloran, doesn’t care much for him, but I think he’s very interesting. I am not sure whether he’s more interested in me or my father.”
The flag lieutenant appraised her diamond necklace. “A man about town, or a man of the world? Not sure you can be both.”
“Oh, he travels that’s for sure. Hawaii, Philippines, Japan, Chinese interior, Korea…”
“Well
, occasional trips might not qualify…”
“Oh no, he travels to all of those places quite regularly. Why he’s headed to Korea the day after tomorrow or something like that.”
“Well, bully for him. I’ve been there once or twice. Sort of sad and poor since the Japanese took over.” The flag lieutenant tapped a pillar with his fingertips.
She made a half whirl that lifted the bottom of her skirt to reveal expensive high-button shoes. “From what I can tell, the Japanese are tough on everyone. The Chinese sure don’t like them much. My daddy says we’ll have to watch them or they’ll take California away from us.”
The flag lieutenant watched Atticaris in a mirror. Atticaris was wearing a tuxedo. Near him on his left, also in a tuxedo, was a man in an auburn beard who looked acutely uncomfortable. On Atticaris’ right was a severe-looking Chinese military officer. The flag lieutenant could not identify the uniform or insignia. A warlord from the interior.
“How’s this Atticaris-man-of-the-world getting around on his globetrotting jaunts?”
“Well he talks about going to Korea frequently and there are several men going with him. Big, loud, rough men. How’s he get there? He doesn’t tell me. Probably in something more stylish than one of those smudgy steel boats of yours with all those flags and hustle and bustle and those steel pipes sticking out of them.”
“Steel pipes?”
“That’s what they look like to me. Oh, guns or rifles or whatever you Naval people call them.”
“Guns, miss, rifled guns. Rifled 14-inch guns.”
She seemed impatient and the flag lieutenant decided he had done his duty. Now he would look out for personal interests. One hand for the ship and one hand for yourself
“Where’s Mrs. Halloran tonight?”
“Sick, the poor dear.” The brunette said looking upward out of the corners of her eyes.
He escorted her to the dance floor with a good idea how the evening would turn out. The flag lieutenant was a very good dancer. The Admiral kept a room in the Carleton, which as flag lieutenant, he knew the Admiral had no intention of using.
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