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Land Sharks

Page 10

by S. L. Stoner


  The commonality between the Cabot Club and North End saloons lay in the density of tobacco smoke and the opportunity for excessive alcohol consumption. There were, however, no rickety chairs, spool top tables, rowdy musicians, or dingy lighting. Instead, the Cabot’s members lounged in deep leather chairs, reading or conversing in quiet tones, their brandy snifters resting on polished tables at their elbows, the bright windows and chandelier light being supplemented by glittering crystal wall sconces.

  Laidlaw headed toward a pair of chairs sitting off to one side though still within voice range of a few groupings of men, many of whom Sage recognized as frequent Mozart’s customers. Gerald appeared with the brandies and the two men sank into the soft padded leather.

  Sage sipped the smooth, sweet fire and spoke softly, so that his voice wouldn’t carry, “If these men support shanghaiing, it’s surprising they permit you in their midst.”

  Laidlaw snorted. “They have no choice in the matter,” he said. “By virtue of my consul position, I’m automatically a member and, more significantly, I am shipping master of all the British ships entering this port. If my fellow Club members desire to sell their products in merry old England, they need make nice to me.” He leaned forward, a mischievous quirk to his lips, and said confidentially, “And I must say, I rather enjoy giving them a poke now and again.”

  By way of demonstrating, Laidlaw raised his voice so that it carried to three men sitting nearby. Sage knew them from their frequent patronage of Mozart’s. “Mr. Knapp, there’s concern that the Birmingham Bell will be stranded in port for lack of men. You have a rather large shipment aboard her, do you not?” Laidlaw asked.

  All three heads swiveled toward Laidlaw. The whippetfaced man Sage knew as Melbourne Knapp, concern tightening his features, quavered, “Not sail, you say? Oh, surely not. She’s supposed to set sail this evening.” Even protected by the sturdy bricks of this exclusive club, Knapp acted like he was scared of his own shadow. Not for the first time, Sage wondered whether Knapp had married into, or inherited, his money. He seemed altogether too timid to have grabbed it on his own in this era of the robber barons. The new century’s ruthless moguls would stampede over Knapp like thirsty cattle sensing water.

  Another one of the three men, his figure as stout as Knapp’s was meager, made a show of guffawing, before saying reassuringly, “Don’t you worry, Melbourne. James is pulling your leg. The crimps won’t miss an opportunity to make money from the Bell’s predicament. She’ll go out as scheduled, mark my words.”

  “You seem remarkably confident about that, Gordon,” Laidlaw’s voice was deceptively mild since Sage observed a slight whitening at the corners of his companion’s tight smile.

  Gordon waved his smoking cigar dismissively, saying, “Yes, well, I’m a businessman who ships goods. And as you well know, not a few of my properties are situated there in the North End. So, I keep myself fairly well apprised as to what is occurring with the oceangoing labor force.”

  Sage was familiar with Gordon’s habit of making confident assertions. When dining at Mozart’s, Gordon proved himself to be the exact opposite of the timid Knapp–loud and boastful with the patrons and bullying to the staff. Today, the man’s bragging revealed something interesting–that he might be one of those Portland businessmen profiting from the crimping trade.

  Laidlaw sent Sage a surreptitious wink. To Gordon, however, he said, “So, you’re betting the crimps will successfully snatch enough innocent men off the street to crew the Bell?” Laidlaw’s voice remained dead calm although his eyes narrowed to mere slits above the rim of his brandy glass.

  “Oh, oh. James is about to mount his soapbox,” said the third man, also a Mozart’s customer, whose name Sage did not recall. “Clear the way and plan to stay.” The chortling his rhyme elicited from the other two, far exceeded its comedic merit.

  Gordon made a show of suppressing his laughter before directing a comment toward Sage. “I say, Adair. Has our Mr. Laidlaw gnawed your ear bloody over his pet interest yet? Revealed our fair city’s shameful reputation for allowing poor innocent men to be shanghaied off its streets?”

  Sage sipped brandy before answering. Better not to tip his hand to these men. “Actually, Mr. Laidlaw was indeed informing me of the practice. I am learning that I am quite ignorant in that regard,” he said, striving for a noncommittal middle ground between the two men. He needed to remain free of suspicion–a disinterested bystander in this dispute. Laidlaw would have to fight this battle unaided. Otherwise, Sage wouldn’t be free to delve more deeply into the crimping business. His top priorities had to be Kincaid and the other missing man, Amacker.

  Gordon nodded. “Well, before he has you weeping into your brandy like some fainthearted miss, let me inform you that most of us Americans don’t agree with James on the issue of crewing deepwater vessels.” The other two nodded when Gordon looked toward them. He continued, “These sailors and lumberjacks blow into town and hang about the streets, disgustingly drunk and accosting decent women. They are their own worst enemies–shiftless, lazy, and weak-willed. Sending them to sea is doing them a favor. At least out on the ocean, they aren’t drinking themselves stupid and offending decent people.” The moral force of Gordon’s statement was blunted by the faint slurring that accompanied his words. The man was already drunk at midday.

  That fact, and the fate of Stuart Franklin’s brother, forced Sage to struggle at keeping his face blank. Laidlaw, however, exercised no such restraint. His sharp retort echoed throughout the room, bringing every other conversation to a standstill, “Surely, Gordon, you cannot be claiming that every shanghaied man falls into that category. Some of them are decent Christian men and others are mere children.”

  “Damn few of them. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be down in that part of town. Besides, it’s a good way for a young man to toughen up. We have far too many these days who don’t know the value of work or a dollar.”

  “When you say, ‘that part of town’, do you mean the part of town where you own a number of the buildings–buildings you rent to the poor and to the crimps at exorbitant prices? Or so they tell me.” Laidlaw’s volume remained raised. Avid faces began staring openly in their direction, not a few of them appearing gleeful at the promise of a tussle in their midst. In that respect, there was little difference between these men and the denizens of the lowliest waterfront saloon.

  Deep red flushed Gordon’s round face and Sage suppressed an urge to chuckle at the sight. “You listen here, Laidlaw. I won’t tolerate your damnable insinuations right here in my own club! If you think . . . ,” He was sputtering, his fleshy lips flicking spittle.

  The third man hastily intervened. “Now, gentlemen,” he said, his voice urgent and low as he pointedly glanced around the room toward eager faces staring intently in their direction, “Let’s keep things civil. This is, after all, a gentlemen’s club.”

  Sage felt the urge to jump in. What was “gentlemanly” about cudgeling, drugging and kidnapping people? Sage clamped his lips tight, swallowing his observations. Don’t show your cards to a potential opponent, he cautioned himself.

  The peacemaker raised his voice to reach the attentive listeners seated around them. “I say, Laidlaw, when are you going to let me beat you at bowling again? Gerald tells me that the lanes downstairs have been sanded and lacquered until they are smooth as a whore’s backside.” Gerald, entering the room with a tray of brandy glasses, halted, his prim mouth agape at hearing the simile being attributed to him. Laughter exploded across the room. There was no telling what triggered the merriment: Gerald’s reaction to the statement being attributed to him, the unlikelihood of such a bawdy phrase ever crossing Gerald’s lips, or the need of those present to release tension.

  Laidlaw’s fingers relaxed around the stem of his brandy glass. Apparently he was ready to back down from an obviously familiar fight. “Kimble, your last win was a lucky fluke. It is the only time you’ll win against me, no matter how smooth Gerald claims the lanes are.”
His humorous response evoked more laughter and the room’s other occupants ceased their scrutiny. The Cabot Club’s subdued ambience was restored.

  Sage and Laidlaw soon finished their brandies and departed. Stepping onto the sidewalk, Laidlaw said, “If there’s still time remaining, I’ll show you how we British sign men onto ships. Britain alone requires them to come to the consul’s office to sign their shipping articles.”

  “What are shipping articles?”

  “Some years back, the United States enacted a law that requires every sailor to signify he is shipping voluntarily. Those papers are called the ‘shipping articles.’ Usually the articles are meaningless. Men make their mark thinking they are signing one thing only to discover that they placed their mark on shipping articles. Some of their marks are forged. We Brits make it a little more difficult. A sailor signing aboard a British ship has to sign the articles in the consular’s office before a consular witness. Unfortunately, there are ways to defeat that safety precaution. Anyway, if you come along to my office, I’ll show you what I’m talking about.”

  Sage agreed, and within minutes, Laidlaw’s shipping office was in sight. The office occupied the entire ground floor of a narrow brick building situated a few blocks west of the river and one block north of Mozart’s. Its one dusty window displayed an arch of large black and gold lettering proclaiming “Laidlaw, Shipping Master” with smaller gold letters underneath stating “British Consular Office.”

  “Ah, good.” Laidlaw’s voice close to Sage’s ear startled him. “It seems that one of the crimp’s victims is inside signing the articles.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “See that scruffy-looking character lurking near the entrance?” Laidlaw nodded toward a man leaning against the wooden post that held up the sidewalk awning. The man’s suit and waistcoat hung loosely on his string-bean frame. His overlong face, with its narrow slash of a mouth, was a pasty contrast to the cords of greasy black hair hanging from beneath the brim of a tattered panama hat.

  “Another one like him will be standing guard at the side door. I know them. They’re runners for one of the boarding house crimps. Their job is to make sure the sailor steps onto the ship. I refuse to allow the crimp’s runners into our office to intimidate men into signing. Out here on the street, though, I cannot control what awaits them if they don’t sign.”

  Laidlaw gave another of his mirthless snorts. “Truth is, my restriction is largely ceremonial. If a sailor refuses to sign, the crimps obtain a warrant against him for theft, and the police hold him until he pays whatever the crimp says the sailor owes. A few days in the City’s dank jail and he’s ready to sign. I try to intercede whenever the sailor’s a British national, but most men end up shipping out whether they want to or not.”

  A man came shuffling out the office door, and within seconds the runner was at his elbow nudging him along, talking in his ear. Sage watched as the two men rounded the corner. What future lay ahead of that sailor-to-be when his ship reached the ocean? Which danger would he find the most threatening? That of man or that of nature? Sage mentally shook himself back to the present but not before sending a heartfelt thought of “Go well and safely” after the departing man.

  Inside, the office consisted of just two rooms. The front and largest room was sparsely furnished with a wooden desk, a swivel chair and a few wooden file cabinets. Except for the break of a single hatch gate, a tall wooden counter stretched across the entire space, creating a customer lobby separated from the desk area. It reminded Sage of the job shark storefronts. Inside this office, however, the atmosphere was clean, calm and genteel, the whole being watched over by a portrait of the bewhiskered King Edward and the ticking of a large, pendulum wall clock.

  A mild-faced clerk stood at the front counter. He was helping an old man whose canvas duffle sat beside his scuffed boots. Without opening his jaws, the old man stuck a pale tongue through the gap in his teeth to wet a pencil before making his mark on a sheet of paper. When he looked up to see Laidlaw, his toothless grin split a bronzed and wrinkled face. “Hey there, Consul Laidlaw. It’s right good to see you before I goes. I landed me a right fine berth on a British ship this time, the Birmingham Bell. They tell me the grub don’t hold too many weevils and that the captain is slow to use the whip. Likes his grog in moderation, too, if you catch my drift. Even better, I’m berthing as an ablebodied seaman so the boarding house crimp, he’ll just be getting my first month’s pay and the blood money, too, of course,” he added. The man’s tone carried no resentment.

  Laidlaw clapped the man on his back. “Mr. Puckett, you’ve a way of landing feet down in this port. Who is the crimp shipping you out this time?”

  “I took your advice, Mr. Laidlaw, and went with ol’ Pratt. He charged me pretty fair for board and vittles and the other amenities. And ole Flappy Lips didn’t cheat my duffle,” the man said, using his foot to nudge a half-full canvas duffle bag near his foot. “So, I won’t be freezing my arse off ‘round the Horn like some do.” After folding his papers away, he snatched the duffle up and with a carefree wave, he departed taking with him Laidlaw’s hearty best wishes.

  “He doesn’t seem a victim,” Sage observed.

  “Some men aren’t victims. Old Puckett is a sailor through and through. It’s the only life he knows or wants. There are men like that. They land in port and spend what little money they’ve got before shipping out again without complaint. As consul and shipping master I’m here to protect those men and try to better their lot. Unfortunately, when the crimps control the show, like they do in this port, even old salts like Puckett undertake grave risk whenever they come ashore. There is always that dark underside to the business.” Laidlaw patted the faded letter in his breast pocket. The gesture set Sage to envisioning a younger version of Stuart Franklin, ocean waves sloshing across his upturned face.

  Reaching the rear office, they settled into comfortable armchairs. Laidlaw leveled an unblinking gaze at Sage. “Now, Mr. Adair,” he said, “suppose you tell me why you are really interested in the crimping business. Don’t think for a minute I swallowed that story about Ida’s nephew. I know your cook has only one nephew here in town–that being the boy, Matthew. And I saw him as I walked to Mozart’s Table. He was happily jumping curbs, trying to break his foolhardy neck on that shiny new bicycle of his.”

  TEN

  SAGE DID NOT TELL LAIDLAW everything. He did reveal that Kincaid was a union organizer, someone Sage was trying to find for a friend. But, he said nothing about Amacker’s similar disappearance. Despite Sage’s vague explanation and a decidedly skeptical glint in Laidlaw’s eyes, the British consul remained willing to help.

  Laidlaw touched a match to the bowl of a well-polished pipe and huffed the tobacco to life before saying, “Ordinarily, I oppose unions. Ruling class prejudice and all that. Lately, I’ve come to be of a mind that we need the help of the Sailor’s Union to bring shanghaiing onto its knees for good. I heard the union’s leader, Andrew Furuseth, speak, and he made excellent points. I found myself agreeing with him on every one.” Furuseth’s speech had evidently worked a revelation of sorts because a certain wonderment tinged the British consul’s words.

  Who knew? Maybe sometime down the road this stuffy Brit might extend his open-mindedness to the plight of those people laboring ashore under equally hellish conditions. Although rare, some notable elites did cross the class barrier and throw their lot in with the common people. Still, Sage only nodded and resisted the urge to confide his own role in the union movement. That might come later. For now, all Laidlaw needed to know was that Sage was performing a favor for a friend. Sage took a chance and told Laidlaw the plan he’d hatched while they were strolling back from the Cabot Club. “I’m going to get a job with the crimps. Working on the inside, maybe I’ll find a lead on the missing organizer.”

  Laidlaw studied him intently for a few moments before saying, “I’m thinking I way underestimated you, Mr. Adair. Such action is fraught with great danger. Som
ehow, though, I suspect my warnings won’t change your mind. So, I’ll give you the best advice I can in the hope you’ll have the good sense to follow it.”

  Sage worked through the supper hour with a preoccupied mind. Rarely did he meet a man like the crusty Laidlaw, someone who inspired the conflicting emotions of irritation and admiration. Complicated fellow. Strong mixture of arrogance and compassion. Oh well, as his mother liked to say, “The day you think you’ve found a perfect man is the day your mirror reflects a fool.” He’d never asked her why she’d come to that conclusion. Though, from the bitterness coating her words, he gathered that it had been a hard learned lesson.

  After musing on the idea for a while, he thought of Fong which, in turn, led to that new worry over his friend’s strange behavior. At this point, Sage purposefully turned off all thoughts except those calculated to coax smiles from Mozart’s customers. Time enough later to mull everything over, he told himself.

  Hosting duties at long last finished, Sage climbed to the third floor to pack for his early morning steamboat trip to Astoria. He might be gone overnight. Fong also needed to make the trip so he could translate for the Chinese fisherman who’d found the body. While folding clothes into a valise Sage realized for the first time, that the changed Fong might not agree with his plans, might not even appear. As if summoned by those thoughts, the Chinese man slipped into the room. He entered so quietly that, if the door hadn’t been in Sage’s peripheral vision, Fong’s entry would have taken Sage by surprise.

  “Mr. Fong?” Sage’s voice sounded tentative to his own ears, as if he were addressing a stranger instead of a friend whose loyalty had been tested and proven many times over.

  “Yes, Mr. Sage, I came to tell you that I will not be at Mozart’s tonight or tomorrow.” Fong’s tone was formal, without its customary teasing warmth.

  A hollow, sinking feeling filled the pit of Sage’s stomach. It seemed that the time for discussion had arrived. No more beating around the bush. Sage closed the valise before saying quietly, “Mr. Fong, I don’t understand. What’s going on that we can’t find you when we need you? Did we offend you in some way?” Sage’s throat felt constricted by the familiar ache of abandonment that had dogged him periodically since childhood.

 

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