At the Midway

by J. Clayton Rogers

  San Francisco had good millionaires and bad millionaires. The agreed rule of thumb was that the good millionaires were always out of power and the bad millionaires were always in. This held true even after good millionaires won an election.

  For Captain Oates' money, the bad millionaires weren't such a bad lot. There was no social snobbery on display that evening, at least. Although the lobbies of the Fairmont blazed with unimaginable wealth, the rich received the sailors of the Fleet and their fellow grafters with equal gusto. Nor had fame made any of them shy. The recent spate of magazine articles exposing the corruption of His Lord Mayor E.E. Schmitz had not prevented him from joining the party. There he was now in the main lobby, puffing on his famous bassoon.

  And the women? Sort of elegant and refined, sort of strange and lovely, and most of them sort of willing to listen to an old geezer fart away about the only things he knew about: oceans and ships.

  The administration might be rotten to the core, but it certainly knew how to throw a bash.

  The skipper of the Florida had lost count of all the fetes and balls he'd attended between Virginia and California. Since social drinking was de rigueur during this world cruise (among the officers, at least), Oates had also lost track of all the potted plants he had watered with gin while his hosts' backs were turned. Not that he was adverse to a good belt now and then, but he'd seen too many captains carted back on board their ships after dark, dead drunk.

  This was a treat, though. For one thing, everybody spoke English. Well, almost everyone. Behind the tray that appeared in front of him was an Oriental face. Sighing, Oates chose a glass.

  The woman holding his arm gave it a firm squeeze. Looking down into her lovely azure eyes, Oates wondered what exactly was on the young lady's mind. Have to watch out for the innocent-looking ones, he cautioned himself. They're the worst of a tricky lot--and I should know. But as the woman beamed her admiration, the captain felt his old bones shake with her flattery.

  "What's that?"

  "You said you were going to tell me how you searched for Atlantis."

  "Oh... yes. It was a long time ago, you know."

  "But I find it fascinating!"

  Oates felt a stirring in his loins. Good Lord! When was the last time that had happened?

  "I was with the Gettysburg. The Secretary had sent us to gather data for Sailing Directions for the Mediterranean. We were to test the new Thompson sounding machine. At the last moment, President Grant added the Atlantis mission."

  "President Grant?" the young lady said, a bit stunned. The true dimension of his age had finally struck home.

  "We had Plato for our guide. The pertinent quote goes something like: 'Beyond the Strait where you place the Pillars of Hercules there was an island larger than Asia and Libya combined. In one fatal day and night there came earthquakes and inundations which engulfed its mighty people.' Not much to go on, I'll admit. Still, after we left Horta in the Azores, we started to take radial soundings one hundred and thirty miles off the Iberian Peninsula."

  "And did you find Atlantis?"

  "Hard to say. We dredged up rounded pebbles. Only weather and surf could account for that kind of wear. We were fairly certain that at one time they had been near the--"

  "Halloa, Oates!"

  Oates was appalled when Greenlief Merriman of the Missouri staggered up to them. "What kind of galley yarns you feeding this lovely creature?"

  Laughing, he slapped Oates on the back. Since Oates was in the process of lifting a cigarette to his lips, a face-full of sparks was the result. Merriman was one of the reasons Oates moderated his drinking. There had been a scandal in Rio when the captain of the Missouri failed to control his drunken sailors. Rumor said it was because Merriman had been drunk himself.

  "Galley yarns?" the woman inquired.

  "Scuttlebutt," said Merriman, wiping the liquor perspiration from his brow. "Rumors... falsehoods... lies...."

  "I was just telling Miss Foglesong here about my cruise on the Gettysburg."

  "The Gettysburg? Just how old are you, Oates?"

  "I think you need some air, Captain. Let me get someone to assist you." Oates signaled to a pair of midshipmen standing against the far wall. They were so busy ignoring each other that they failed to see him.

  "Are those 'middies'?" Miss Foglesong asked.

  "Yes, but don't ever call them that to their face."

  "Don't bother about me," said Merriman. "Next time the Fleet stands out, I won't be with it. Evans fired me."

  "Fired you?"

  "That's how the Assistant Secretary put it. 'Fired.' Like I was a plant foreman."

  "If that's so, why are you still in uniform?"

  "Oh...." Merriman turned awkwardly to survey the crowd. There were innumerable notaries, dignitaries, politicians in the social stew. The crystal chandeliers seemed to rain diamonds upon them. Little knots of people formed, broke apart, and reformed further down, like eddies in a channel. Most of the attention fell on the rear admirals in attendance, the guests of honor. Their peaked hats sailed over the assembly like fairweather brigantines in a storm. Near them were their captains, less resplendent, yet impressive enough with their tasseled swords and scabbards. If there was a touch of pirate about them, that was only appropriate in this lair of robber barons. A few privileged junior officers slipped through the assemblage, looking a little plain in their liberty blues.

  "I guess I just wanted to see a bit more salad before heading back east," Merriman said dolefully. He again turned to Oates. "It's that Rio thing, you know. It could have been any of us. Sailors will splice the mainbrace. That riot in the barrio--it was the dagoes that started it."

  "Perhaps, but your own beach patrol got drunk and joined them. It doesn't matter now. You don't belong here, Mr. Merriman. Damn it, man, how can you be so stupid? If the Mayor had known about you when you came in, he'd have deep-sixed you at the door. And how would that have looked?"

  "You're high and mighty all of a sudden, Oates. Why don't you take up permanent residence in the Observation Ward? You've spent enough time there."

  Angrily, Oates again gestured to the two midshipmen. One of them was looking towards the front of the room, while the other concentrated on the back. Since Oates was in the center, they failed to spot his signal. At least he was able to avoid further broadsides with the ex-captain. Merriman slipped away without another word.

  "Miss Foglesong, I must apologize. That man--"

  "Please, Captain. I thought you handled that awfully well." Her hands moved further up his arm. A wondrous thrill shot through him. Who would have guessed the human armpit was so... sensual?

  Sailor's luck!

  There was a commotion near the main entrance. Rear Admiral Evans had arrived.

  He was not the same man who had shaken hands with President Roosevelt in Hampton Roads. He was rolled into the room in a wheelchair. Rheumatic gout had finally got the better of him. He'd already absented himself from the Fleet once for medical reasons after their departure from Mexico.

  For awhile it seemed things would break his way. With minor exceptions, the cruise around South America had been a rousing diplomatic and technical success. Casualties had been limited to a mere two hundred or so, with only eight fatalities. Out of a combined fleet strength of fourteen thousand men, that in itself was an extraordinary achievement. Of course, insanity among the black gangs had reached epidemic proportions. Yellow fever and diphtheria had broken out on the Nebraska, forcing the ship into quarantine. But occurrences such as these were to be expected on so long a voyage.

  Yet the wear of the journey was nothing next to the attrition of roasts and toasts. Port of Spain, Rio de Janeiro, Buenos Aires, Valparaiso, Callao. For every city there were a hundred parties, for every party two hundred toasts, and for every toast a plentitude of sailors who woke up not knowing where they were. Elderly officers dropped like beribboned flies, since they were bound by diplomacy to do most of the bibulating.

  On May 6, a flotill
a of rakishly-stacked destroyers joined the Grand Atlantic Fleet off the Farallones. As they passed Mile Rock Lighthouse, its foghorn wailing deeply in welcome and warning, torpedo boats swarmed up in greeting. As they sailed through Golden Gate, the eight cruisers of the Pacific Squadron emerged from Raccoon Straits. By the time they made their turn between San Francisco and Oakland, forty-three warships were gathered, the Connecticut leading the lot. Sheets of humanity covered the hills overlooking the bay. On Goat Island, it seemed one need only shove hard to send thousands tumbling into the water. In Golden State Park and on Telegraph Hill people wept and cheered. Ladyfingers popped and tin cans erupted. The gun salutes of the battleships were met by roars from the citizenry.

  Evans was able to witness all the fuss only because he'd spent a month recuperating on land before rejoining the Fleet off California. But it was general knowledge amongst the upper echelon that his sabbatical had been inadequate. The only cure for Evans was retirement.

  Oates waited for the initial wave of admirers to abate, then turned to Miss Foglesong. "I have to speak with the rear admiral for a few minutes."

  The young lady's eyes widened with renewed admiration.

  "You'll wait for me here, won't you? I shouldn't be long."

  "Of course I'll wait, you silly dear."

  "Is that a promise? If you want, I can meet you on the portico."

  "Shall I sign a pledge?"

  It had been years since Oates had sauntered. Even at Thursday's parade, amidst fifteen thousand sailors, marines and soldiers, he had loped along like an overburdened drafthorse. He sauntered now, though, across the wide, gleaming parquetry floor, until he stood proudly at attention before Evans.

  "Ah... Oates...."

  "I received your message, sir."

  "Good." Evans ordered the Negro seaman at the helm of his wheelchair to back him against the wall, then dismissed him. He spoke so that only Oates could hear him.

  "Have your men learned to clear the deck during firing practice yet?"

  Oates blushed. The admiral was referring to an incident in Magdalena Bay--Man of War Cove, the home of the Pacific Firing Range. The Mexicans did not exactly appreciate having a United States naval base on their soil, especially one that specialized in tossing high explosives this way and that over the peninsula, but there wasn't a whole lot they could do about it.

  The Florida had been in squadron formation, coming up on their target station, when a crewman spotted a tompion loose on the foredeck and ran out to retrieve it. The firing sequence had already started, so he lay down instead, thinking he would be safe. When the twelve-inchers went off, the concussion snapped his neck, killing him instantly.

  "An unfortunate accident," Oates said, thinking those were probably the lamest words he'd ever spoken in his life.

  Evans gave him a long look, then nodded. "Very well. I have some good news for you. About this Singleton fellow you have on board. Unpatriotic to the core, wouldn't you say?"

  "He hasn't had much good to say about the Fleet."

  "I'm having him off. I've already spoken with his publishers. We've had too many of these reporters stepping on our toes. Doesn't do anyone any good and it's damn un-American. We got that damn Reuterdahl out of the Fleet--and about time, too. Did you know Congress is going to investigate him?" Evans paused gloomily. Yes, Congress was going after the muckraker's hide. But Reuterdahl was now demanding that certain letters--composed by none other than Rear Admiral Evans himself--be introduced in his defense. In those letters the admiral lambasted his own battleships, pointing out every major flaw in their design.

  "Has Singleton been told yet, sir?" Oates asked, breaking into his funk. "I saw him around here about an hour ago and he seemed chipper enough."

  "I don't know. If not, he'll find out soon." Evans caught Oates' expression and grinned. "I knew that would please you."

  "I'm not dismayed."

  "There are a lot of... well, retirements coming up. Lot of promotions, too. Someone with your experience and skill could certainly look forward to a star. But let's face it, Oates. The Florida's spent too much damn time in the Observation Ward. Wouldn't look good to penalize you, then promote you. I'll tell you this, though. Keep your ship out of the Ward for the rest of the cruise and you might be looking at a whole new career as a flag officer."

  A new career? Oates had a brief vision of himself grabbing Evans by the throat and shouting, "I'm seventy years old, you dumb Chile bastard!" It must have shown in his expression, because the rear admiral's mood improved considerably.

  Well-wishers had begun to press towards the commander and the two men's brief privacy was over. Oates was dismissed.

  He scanned the ballroom for Miss Foglesong. In vain. She had vanished like the wisp that she was. The music in Oates' loins squeaked to a halt.

  Sailor's luck.

  The night was turning as foul as a night could get.

  The two midshipmen were still at the far wall, still determinedly staring in opposite directions. Oates stormed up to them. "Midshipman Beck, isn't it?"

  Startled by the ferocity of the question, Beck could only sputter something that sounded like, "Sir!"

  "And you are Midshipman...."

  Given a fraction of a second's warning, Davis was able to answer clearly. "Midshipman Davis, sir!"

  "Come with me."

  Beck and Davis followed him into a small, dark garden.

  "You two on the outs?" the captain said, whirling on them.

  "Sir?"

  "Don't lark with me. I've seen the two of you trading snubs back on board. And now you're doing it here! When the boatswain pipes and we bend cables, you're going to leave that kind of crap behind. And by God, I don't want it on board, either!"

  "Sir, I--"

  "Did I ask for excuses? I don't care why the pair of you want to bash heads. It ends here. Take off your gloves and shake hands. Now!"

  Jumping to obey, the young men whipped off their white dress gloves and nudged palms.

  "What was that? Two snails passing? I said shake!" He darted forward, grabbed them by the wrists, and jammed their hands together. "I will have amity on my ship! I will have amity on my ship!"

  The midshipmen were barely able to contain their yelps of pain as Oates twisted their hands in his coffee-grinder.

  "Come on!" Oates continued to growl. "I will have amity on my ship. All-fired middies... shake!"

  They tried to get their fingers to mesh, but every time they came close Oates ground them in another direction. Finally, they managed to clasp.

  "There," said Oates, holding them like newlyweds before letting go. "I will have amity on my ship, goddammit! And amity among my crew! Don't ever forget that!"

  He pounded back indoors. Beck and Davis, struggling to pull their gloves over their contorted fingers, followed quietly.

  Stoker Gilroy did not waste time inventing the lowest sort of amusement for himself in San Francisco. The sailors frequently came across Chinamen toting thirty-by-thirty inch trays on their heads. Complete, hot meals which were raced from restaurant to residence by stalwart deliverers. It had become quite the fashion on Nob Hill to give the cook the night off and order dinner by phone. And it became quite a trick with Gilroy to trip them up as they went.

  "Let it go, mate," said another fireman after he'd sent his fifth Chinese flying, and his fifth Cantonese dinner into the gutter.

  "What's the deal?" Gilroy protested innocently. "They're just Chinks. Hell, they give medals for killing Chinks in these parts."

  "That's Japs that they're killing. And the vittles belong to the hobnobs on the hill. You make 'em go hungry for an hour, they're like to see you clapped in irons."

  "A field of pansies. I'm cruising with pansies." But Gilroy left off without taunting the Oriental as severely as he had his other victims. Not much sport in it, anyway. The Chinese accepted their losses quietly, without fuss or tears. The tripped man picked himself off the pavement, picked the meal out of the gutter, wrapped it in a b
undle, and returned the way he'd come.

  "See? That's his supper, now. I'm helping to feed the poor, saints be praised! Ready to be canonized when you are, Pope."

  With jocular bemusement the party from the black gang fell in behind him as he strutted down Kearny Street in his flared pants and pancake hat. Little did he know that he was treading stones named after the most virulent anti‑Chinese demagogue of the last quarter century, but he would have appreciated the fact.

  They turned north, into Chinatown.

  The Chinese Quarter had been completely destroyed during the great quake and fire two years earlier. As the city was rebuilt, the city fathers made plans to move the thirty thousand Chinese further out, away from the business districts. But quick as you could say, "Ah Sin," the Chinese reclaimed their old haunts. And haunting it was. They had recaptured much of Old Cathay in their architecture. And if their new buildings weren't quite as ornate as before, they were certainly more resistant to fire.

  As darkness descended, the Quarter seemed increasingly like a mystical Mongol kingdom to the Florida seamen. Balconies were painted all‑different colors. Filigree canopies hung over the windows, cocked enticingly. Golden yellow Imperial flags were displayed in front of some of the narrow houses. And everywhere, in gold, black and crimson, were placards and signs which to Occidentals were nothing more than a series of ink pad splotches.

  "Wonder what it all says," one of the black gangers commented.

  "Want me to translate?"

  "Gilroy, you can't even read English."

  "Sure. I can . English... Spanish... Yiddish... Celtish... Chine‑ish‑‑I can read them all."

  "All right, what's that one say?"

  Leaning closer to the sign, Gilroy perused it a long moment, then in a stilted voice recited: "White pogue sailor like lichee nut up his ass."