"Yes. But I seriously doubt it would be enough to kill the serpents, if you were thinking of lacing some meat with it. I put more faith in that contraption they're working on in the fo'ard machine shop."
"Contraption...?"
"Of course," Hart continued, "now that you've coaled you can take the survivors off the island and sail away. But what if these things run amuck in one of the major shipping lanes? Isn't it your duty to end this now?"
Oates nodded. A gesture of habit, not agreement. They had not brought on board nearly enough coal to reach Hawaii, in spite of the fact that Amos had handily brought the second barge to bay. A detail led by Ensign Garrett had been unable to save the damaged barge. It sank soon after its coal was off‑loaded, leaving only one carrier capable of shipping fuel to the Florida in the amount she needed. If sunk, weeks could be wasted salvaging it‑‑if it could be salvaged at all. Equally disastrous would be the loss of the sea tug. The Iroquois had brought in another shipment using the last barge. This gave the Florida enough to steam a hundred miles and back. No more. Oates dared not risk another load until the transit was secure.
"The ship's carpenters are already working on the floats and masts for us. The tricky part is here. The propelling and steering mechanisms have to operate without interfering with each other. The electrical circuits are aligned with reference to the paddle wheel, which has eight blades. Each blade is fitted with a mercury switch. The shell is turned by a pawl attached to the armature of an electric magnet--"
"I have a question for you gentlemen."
Singleton glanced up, piqued by the captain's tone.
"I see you've chosen two of the Bliss-Leavitts for your experiment. Naturally, since the turbine models have a greater range than the old Whiteheads. At twenty-eight knots the Bliss has a range of thirty-five hundred yards. At thirty-six knots, twelve hundred. Whatever the speed, once you launch them they'll run only a few minutes, once you factor in the added weight."
"Yes?"
"You speak of floats and masts, so obviously you don't intend to fire these from the bow tubes. From what I can see, you're in a quandary. You have to get fairly close before letting them loose, but you can't use the Florida to do it. I won't have any wild maneuvering in these reefs."
"We were thinking of the Iroquois--"
"Out of the question. We've filled only one stokehold. If we lose the tug, we'll be stranded. Which leaves you one option. You'll have to lash the torpedoes to a motor launch and use that as a firing platform. I'm sure we can find volunteers. I know of at least one ensign who will gladly go out. But you understand. If they fire and miss the last one, they're dead men."
"The last one?"
"The mast spotted the remains of one of the creatures on an islet. I don't know what killed it. But that leaves just one. The biggest one. Are either of you going out on the launch?
"As for you..." He turned on the chief machinist. "...anything you do, anything you plan to do, shall be reported to me first."
"Aye aye, sir."
"Don't mistake me for the dead. And when I am dead, wait a good long while to make sure."
1506 Hours
Amos was about to signal for the Iroquois' lines to be cast off when he heard a peculiar sound directly behind him and whirled. It was Ensign Garrett, grinning, the gap in his front teeth forming a ludicrous whistle.
"Pretty funny, eh moke? Bet you got hard as a rock watching this white boy waving the bait. If we didn't need the coal so bad, you'd've left me out there, isn't that right?"
"I don't understand, Mr. Garrett."
"You don't want to play dumb nigger with me, do you? We both know better."
"I hope the ensign forgives me if I state that I take the greatest possible exception to his words."
"See? I knew you weren't a dumb nigger. We've got orders to tie up at Eastern Island until Oates can find a way to sink that critter. We might be together a long time. Fancy that." The whistle pulsed. "Think that skull of yours can stand up to a two‑by‑four, my dark friend?" Garrett could not see himself or he would have been the first to recognize the irony of his words. He was as black as any minstrel, having buried himself in the coal to escape the creature, then taken a hand in loading that same coal onto the cargo nets, then raced across the barge's sooty bottom in an attempt to save it.
A bugle‑blast overhead caught their attention. They poked their heads out of the pilot house so they could hear the yeoman shouting down at them.
"Mr. Garrett! The captain wants you and the colored pilot back on board. He says Mr. Rich is to take command of the Iroquois."
When Garrett had been hauled on board the tug, the stench of fear Amos had expected was absent. Certainly, the ensign had been frightened enough when he was isolated on the barge. But his near demise had not affected him the way his fight with Beck had.
Now the stink rose up like a dead sturgeon on the beach. Something about the order scared the wits out of Garrett. Amos had no idea what it was, but he suddenly knew a great deal more about the ensign who, with friends, had met him by the galley. Garrett was a cold soul. He was afraid of no man and no beast. Death, for him, was a nugatory consideration. No, what terrified Garrett were the small, progressive catastrophes that cumulated in humiliation.
As for himself‑‑Amos could only assume Oates no longer wanted a black man at the helm, even of a tug infested with wood worms. As Methuselah had asseverated in the distant, unviolent past, the whites would not allow them in positions where they might stumble upon glory. Who knew? On the way back to Eastern, the serpent might attack the Iroquois. The marines still on board might slay the creature with their three‑inchers. The newspapers might have to murmur that a Negro was skipper at the time.
They climbed up the judas ladder. The marines on the tug cast off the lines. As the Iroquois pulled away, Amos looked over the calm and empty ocean. Fear gripped him.
They found it, he thought. Somehow, they found it.
1522 Hours
"If they aren't ready before dark, then he'll use them in the dark. The captain was very insistent on that."
Stepping back from one of the torpedoes, Singleton threw Midshipman Beck a look of disbelief and frustration. "So the captain is suddenly interested in our toy?"
"He's afraid that if the serpent attacks the island it might damage the tug."
"Then move it from the island."
"It might be sunk then, sir." Beck could not keep exhaustion from his voice. He'd had only a few hours sleep since being pulled out of the water.
Turning away from the middy, Singleton was chagrined to find a cordon of machinists and engineers around the torpedoes. The Chief had hinted to him earlier that his fussy attention to details was delaying completion of the improvised weapons and the doctor had blithely ignored him. This was the Chief's tactful‑‑if not very subtle‑‑method of getting him out of the way. Hart was up in the wireless room knocking together receivers for the torpedoes. Without his moral support, Singleton saw no option but to retreat gracefully and let the machinists proceed with the task. Sighing, he again turned his attention to Beck. The young man looked haggard, with the underlying tremor of someone surprised to be alive.
"It's Midshipman Beck, isn't it? I overheard some of the men talking when you walked in. You saw the creature underwater, in its natural element."
"All I saw was a big blur, sir."
"The waters around here are exceptionally clear. You must have seen more. Did you notice the shape of its flippers? How did it swim? Did it scull, using its tail as a rudder? Or did it‑‑"
"All I saw‑‑"
"Yes, I'm quite sure you had your hands full just staying alive." Singleton shifted around to avoid looking into the glare of one of the battle lanterns brought in for added light. It was still two hours to sunset, but now less light came through the shop's porthole and the machinists wanted a better look at their mechanisms. Singleton bumped against a lathe. Picking up a fine metal shaving, he worried it nervously b
etween his fingers a few moments‑‑until it pierced his skin. Wincing, he sucked the blood off the cut. "Beck… I know that name. Did you know Midshipman Davis?"
This captured Beck's attention. "I knew him well."
"Then you must be the same Midshipman Beck he talked about on occasion."
"He talked about me? What did he say?"
Singleton gave him a smile that was like a sad admission. "First things first, my lad. If you think back, I'm sure you'll be able to recall details of the serpent. For example, how did it move its long neck underwater?"
Beck could not disguise his anger and just barely managed to bite off words more appropriate to his mood. "It was real big, sir," he clipped, then turned on his heel and walked away.
1530 Hours
"No!" Garrett leaned forward as he anchored his fist in the air. The handful of onlookers thought he was going to attack the captain and positioned themselves to intercede. The first lieutenant raised his eyes from the chart table and looked on coldly from across the length of the wardroom. "Why do you keep torturing me, sir?"
"That's a strong word for doing your duty, Ensign. And the wrong word." Oates took a step and the onlookers were startled by the realization there was an equal chance he would attack Garrett. The captain might be sick and old, but he was big and brawny. If this confrontation degenerated into a brawl, he looked fully capable of landing Garrett on his back. "If you think of doing your duty as torture, perhaps you should never have signed up. It's too late, now, and I'm giving you a direct order. You will take the motor launch out and attempt to torpedo the serpent. I'll let this insubordination pass--as well as formal proceedings against you--if you succeed. You have an opportunity to clear your name, Mr. Garrett. Don't waste it."
Oates was aware this was not a proud moment. He was treating Garrett like a prisoner--which, technically, he still was. But he was also knocking him about like a condemned man, something that was far from settled. To the captain's thinking, only an inconceivable act of courage, such as battling a sea serpent in an open boat, could erase Garrett's transgression in Number One Turret. He was posing the ensign with his equivalent of a medieval trial at arms. It did not matter if a man was a liar or bore false witness. If he was the better swordsman and dispatched his accuser, he was vindicated in the eyes of the Church‑‑if not in the eyes of God. A nasty bit of jurisprudence that had taken Western man centuries to rid himself of. But in the long run, strength and determination were what mattered. Look at Roosevelt in Panama. That was a trick and guns had settled the issue. But the Canal would benefit all men. If international law had to be snubbed to secure its right of way, who was to say it was wrong?
Oates was honest enough with himself to realize his current treatment of Garrett had as much to do with the chief machinist's failure to tell him what was going on in his shop than any offence on the ensign's part. In fact, Garrett had performed heroically while bringing in the coal. But things were getting out of hand. Nature Herself had gotten out of hand. Garrett's trial by fire would be the trial of them all--because if he failed, they might all die.
"You won't be able to do this by yourself. I'm not sending you out alone." He nodded towards the man standing near the wardroom door. "Pretty handy in the cockpit, Mr. Macklin? You did very well with the tug. You brought up that first barge as well as any master mariner… well, almost. I was on the bridge when you went after the second barge. There was quite a bit more maneuvering than necessary, wouldn't you say?"
"I did what I thought best, sir."
"Which included taunting Ensign Garrett by circling around the barge. You risked his life and our cargo with your stupid dallying. I don't care about your reasons. You're not a darky who doesn't know his place. You're a sailor who threatened his ship with his irresponsibility. And Mr. Garrett here will be the first to tell you that's something I never forget and rarely forgive. You will report with Ensign Garrett to Dr. Singleton, who will give you instructions on how to operate the wireless-guided torpedoes the Chief is working on."
"The what, sir?"
"Garrett, you use that tone with me one more time, you'll be shoveling shit for pineapples in the Sandwich Islands the rest of your life. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir," said Garrett more respectfully. From what he'd heard, raw human sewage was used for fertilizer in Hawaii.
Oates dismissed everyone but the first lieutenant. But as they filed out, the captain lifted a hand. "One moment, Seaman Macklin."
Garrett gave the black man a savage smirk as he passed out, then threw a curious glance at the armed marine who remained at Amos' side.
Amos stood silently before the captain's desk. At the chart table the first lieutenant indolently played a compass this way and that over a map, as though his calculations had been made far in advance and he was now toting items far removed. Amos had never had a good look at the Florida's third‑‑now second‑‑in command. He was startled by his resemblance to Ensign Garrett.
Sinking into the dark cushions of his chair, Oates tapped the coal log on his desk, then pushed the journal to the side. A strange feeling came over Amos when the old man raised his eyes. There was a peculiar glint in them. Not of fear--but of death on the hoof.
"Macklin, you of course know that your rating is gone forever."
Well, that at least cleared the air. Amos had not known what to expect. He'd half hoped that Oates would make the same kind of conciliatory offer he'd held out to Garrett: Do well, slay the beast, and the path to Seaman First Class will again be wide open to you. His disappointment was tempered by knowledge. Now he knew where he stood. Now, for better or for worse, he could make definite plans.
"Why? Did Garrett meet you by the galley? Don't look so surprised. It's my job to know what goes on on my ship." He shifted uncomfortably. If that's so, why the hell haven't I found that bastard Gilroy? "Is that why you taunted Garrett like that out on the barge? What I mean is, you had everything a Colored could want, with prospects for more. Once we got back home, you'd've won back your rating. I made that promise to all the stewards on board. I know you were there when I made that speech."
Amos was dumbfounded. Here was a skipper who not only believed it was his duty to know of every little smack of confrontation on his vessel, but who seemed to succeed remarkably at the job. Yet he could not fathom so simple a motive. Did he think blacks weren't human? That they did not contemplate things like justice? Yes, he'd been met by the galley. But there was more, so much more. And Oates was a part of it. Amos felt orphaned. He was no longer at one with the clan of sailors. 'Colors' was no longer a time of day, but the flag of his skin. And so very much more. Amos remained silent before the captain because there was so much to say he could not guess where to begin. And because he knew Oates was about to deliver a mortal command. He was speechless in the face of imminent death.
"But of course, you know the real reason why I'm sending you on this mission?"
For a long moment Amos remained silent. Then his head sank. "I think so, sir."
"Then goddamn you to hell and may God spit on your soul." Oates glared at the marine. "Make sure he gets on that boat. If he tries to get away, shoot him dead."
After they left, the captain pulled out his drawer and stared at a canvas-wrapped package.
The dynamite had fallen out of Macklin's sea chest during the last attack on the Florida.
1600 Hours
Singleton continued to harry the machinists and carpenters after the torpedoes were raised through the forward hatch onto the foredeck. He had a fit when the pontoon frames failed to slide over the sleek metal tubes and only cursed more vociferously when the carpenters cured the problem by simply playing the metal loops until they fit.
"Why didn't you do that in the first place?" he complained as he stumbled over the workers. "You've wasted precious time!"
Everyone was relieved when Hart summoned him away to help make final adjustments to the receivers. Nervous eyes were cast seaward. The remaining serpent
had not been seen since the marines chased it off the island. Where was it lurking?
The first lieutenant emerged and turned an indifferent back on the ocean. He stood over the torpedoes musingly, like a man viewing a pair of corpses.
Hart and Singleton came down from the bridge, arguing.
"Test it how, Doctor? Fire one of them at the atoll? And even if it worked, there'd be no guarantee the second one would. They'll be tested on the firing line. There's no way around it."
Singleton conceded the sense of this, but continued to blubber protestations. The two men set down the wireless gear they carried, Singleton panting heavily as he stood. The air was muggy and still. In order to preserve their precious coal supply, Oates had ordered the slowest speed possible to make way. The unalleviated heat suggested they were barely moving at all. This did not help the technicians as they bent over to attach the electric leads and eight‑sided blades to the Bliss‑Leavitts.
Hart's and Singleton's design called for the most delicate part of the torpedoes to be gutted. These were the diaphragms and springs that operated the steering mechanism and controlled depth. Sweat poured from the machinists as they filled the chambers with the operative bulk of Hart's wireless receivers, then began the arduous chore of attaching it to the steering gear astern of the immersion chamber in each torpedo. Although the depth mechanisms were no longer needed, it was obvious the pontoons that replaced them would reduce their tactical range drastically. Almost as bad was that fact that Singleton was compelled to design an external attachment for the circuit blades, in order to avoid interfering with the central and outer shafts of the twin propellers. This would increase air friction substantially.
"They'll wallow like sick dolphins," the chief machinist complained.
"It's not their looks that matters," Singleton sniffed.
"If you want something streamlined, it does."
They had to be careful not to damage the central chambers--the flasks in which air was pressurized at 2,225 pounds to the square inch. If one of the inner gaskets broke there would be no power for the turbine.
At the Midway Page 52
