Shooting For Justice

by G. Wayne Tilman

  “I must admit, I find all of this fascinating,” Pope said.

  The coal shuttle was moved away from the ship. Pope could feel the engine build steam power. Finally, the order to cast off lines came.

  The captain sounded the whistle one blast and Pope felt the four-thousand-ton vessel begin to back away from the berth.

  The starboard propeller was reversed, and the port propeller simultaneously moved. The result, one pulling and one pushing, caused the big vessel to spin almost in its own length.

  The captain straightened her out, and she began to idle out of the Navy Yard at slightly above clutch speed. They maintained the speed of a brisk walk out of the Anacostia River into the Potomac and headed south.

  South of Alexandria, Foster pointed Washington’s Mount Vernon out to Pope. As the Potomac widened, they sped up to about seven knots.

  The ship entered the Chesapeake Bay for several hours. At Cape Charles, they entered the Atlantic Ocean and turned north.

  The captain set a course ranging five to twenty miles off the coastline as he made his way past the oceanside of the Eastern Shore.

  Foster looked at his watch and said, “We should return to our rooms and prepare for four bells. They will signify our dinner seating as officers at six o’clock. Duty officers and one third of the crew will eat at the next two half hour increments. I will put on a dressier uniform. You will be perfectly fine in your business suit,” Foster said.

  “I take it from what you said we will reach the Brooklyn Navy Yard around noon tomorrow?” Pope asked and got an affirmative response.

  Dinner was as good as virtually any restaurant Pope had eaten in outside of the Bohemian Club in San Francisco and the Cheyenne Club on his last case in Wyoming.

  The officers adjourned to a small lounge and had cigars and either brandy, wine, or whiskey. Pope followed Foster back to their rooms through a maze of passageways with doors which could be readily sealed like vaults and several ladder wells.

  “I hope the damned thing doesn’t run into anything. I would never find my way back to the deck in time to jump overboard,” he noted to Foster, who thought the remark to be hilarious. Pope, to the contrary, was dead serious.

  Pope was lucky with the seas being calm and slept well. Foster tapped on his door and said, “Breakfast in about thirty minutes.” Pope met him in the passageway twenty minutes later and they headed to the mess for breakfast.

  They had skirted Long Island and idled up the East River to the Navy Yard on Wallabout Bay and docked by one o’clock.

  Pope and Foster thanked the captain and headed for the office of the commander who headed the facility.

  Commander Daniel McKellar welcomed them at the dock, and they took a brief tour of the yard before going to the mess hall for lunch. He reserved a small dining room, and they held their meeting in it.

  “Dan, John Pope and I are here to assess the impact on the Navy of switching over from wooden to steel hulled vessels. If you would, tell us how marine surveyors, specialty craftsmen like carpenters, suppliers of wood and steel will be affected. And we cannot leave out the unions. What are they saying?”

  “Would it be more complete for you gentlemen if I give you an overview, then provide a list of contacts among the unions and company owners who supply our naval yards?” McKellar asked.

  “It would be very helpful,” Pope said.

  “Let’s get the ones not affected out of the way first, though I will list them on the sheet in a separate column.

  “Any company or union involved in steam fitting, engine design and gear, such as gearboxes, shafts, and propellers should not be adversely affected. They should remain the same regardless of hull material.

  “Wood producers, carpenters, wood-related unions would be negatively affected. Quite frankly, it would cost them millions and they would go out of business, unless the majority of their contracts are for commercial vessels. They must realize, as goes the Navy in hull materials, so goes the fishing, transport and passenger industry. However, there are several firms which work on contract to the naval yards exclusively. Those will either have to switch over to steel or become insolvent.”

  “Please asterisk those companies,” Foster said.

  “I will. The most popular wood for sailing ships is live oak. The primary source is live oak preserves owned by the government on the north coast of the Gulf of Mexico. They are primarily in the Florida panhandle and Mississippi,” McKellar added.

  “How are they impacted if they are owned by the government?” Pope asked.

  “They are impacted because the trees are grown, managed, cut down, and properly boarded and prepared for use by contract firms. Those firms will be badly hit by the switchover. Several of them also own the transportation companies which move the prepared boards from the deep South to naval yards such as this one.

  “The delivery fees are a large part of their income. It is about twelve hundred fifty miles, for example, from the Biloxi preserve to here by land. It’s much farther, around the horn of Florida at Key West, by sea. The Navy has set a miles per pound standard, and it’s enormously high for a big enough load to build a two hundred seventy-five- or three-hundred-foot ship.”

  “What shipyards can you give us information about?” Pope asked.

  “The ones you want. As of now, it appears this yard, East Boston, and Philadelphia will be the initial builders of the new steel hull Naval vessels. Perhaps more will follow suit later. I daresay it will be at least five years or so before others are engaged. The funding is not there for it so far.”

  “How long will it take you to compose this?” Foster asked.

  “Until at least tomorrow.”

  “Pope, here is what I propose. You put up in the bachelor officer’s quarters, or BOQ, here for several days. I will telegraph back to the admiral who runs naval operations and have him prepare a letter of introduction for you to carry to each listed entity. I have to get back by train later today, so you are on your own. Sans a senior naval officer’s uniform, you will need some sort of introduction,” Foster said.

  “Do you think a telegram from the admiral would suffice?” Pope asked.

  “No, I do not. Dan, would you prepare a letter for Pope for the ones in Philadelphia and non-Navy contacts here in New York. They will keep him busy until the letter arrives. Then, he can go to Boston, other builders and unions and to the Gulf Coast regarding lumber and transportation.”

  “I will. Pope, drop by later this afternoon. Ensign Murray?” McKellar called to a young officer outside the door.

  “Would you escort Mr. Pope over to the BOQ and get him checked in for an indefinite number of days? On the way, secure transport for Captain Foster to the train station.”

  “Aye-aye, Commander McKellar. Will do.”

  They shook with the officer and left with the young junior officer.

  “Gentlemen, I will secure a room for Mr. Pope and then pick you up at the entrance to the yard,” the ensign said.

  The two men walked to the entrance as the ensign left them.

  “Captain Foster, thanks for your help. And, for the ride on the ship. It was a once in a lifetime thrill for me,” Pope said.

  “I wanted to hitch a ride on it myself. It will already be steaming up the coast. Rumor has it hanging a starboard turn and going to Greenland, then to Europe for a while.”

  “I am not sure I would like to take a long ocean voyage in a steel ship, most of which is well beneath the surface of the ocean,” Pope said.

  Foster looked around to see whether anyone was within hearing and mouthed, “Nor would I!”

  A naval passenger wagon pulled up in ten minutes with the ensign driving. It was not unlike a buckboard pulled up. Foster and Pope shook, and the wagon left.

  Pope walked over to the BOQ and checked in.

  He walked over to the manager’s office after giving McKellar sufficient time to prepare his list. Foster waved him in and had him sit for a few minutes until he completed it. He
looked at his list closely, then pushed several sheets across to Pope.

  “What do you go by, Provost?” McKellar asked.

  “Either John or just Pope.”

  “I’m Dan, John. No need for a lot of formality inside. Outside, protocol is the Navy’s middle name.”

  Pope grinned at him.

  “Seems to be in Washington, too. Few uniforms, but everybody is concerned by the next man’s title and how much power it suggests. Pretty silly to watch. I can understand it from a discipline standpoint in the Army or Navy, though.”

  “Yes. Me, too. You get used to it when you are in uniform. Which I will probably wear until they put me in a box, nail it shut and fire a few rifles up in the air.”

  “Probably not a bad life. Especially if you don’t care about the rose covered cottage for the long term. Just one big, organized adventure.”

  “True, John. Sometimes you get an assignment which is or gets boring, but even then, you can transfer before too many years pass.”

  “I have prepared a letter of introduction for you for the local and Philadelphia yards. You will be on your own for Philadelphia and for the live oak preserves in the South.”

  Following dinner, Pope went to his room and prepared a working list of questions he wanted to ask. The ones for contractors included: “How are you impacted? What will it cost you? Can you make a turnaround and switch to steel hulls? Cost? Retraining time? Cost to retrain. What do your employees or members think? What are you hearing?”

  Pope was not seeking the answers to these questions. He was seeking how the questions were answered. Did the questions engender anger? How were the responses couched? In business logic or threats?

  In Brooklyn and Philadelphia, he got angry answers from companies who supplied wood shipbuilders and their unions. Most others saw the steel hull handwriting on the wall and were adjusting to change over. The cost to manage the change in their marketplace was simply a cost of business most said. They would build as much of it as possible into the lucrative government contracts. The unions would attempt to cover the cost of retraining into contract negotiations with the builders. Nobody seemed to be taking on the Navy.

  He made reservations on a train to Atlanta and onward to live oak preserves in Florida and Mississippi.

  Pope planned a one-day break in the trip to report to Lincoln and see Sarah.

  “So, nobody so far seems to be horribly mad at the Navy, or the congress, or the president?” Lincoln asked at the end of Pope’s update.

  “They are irritated to have to change. I think resistance to change is a human frailty. But I have not seen the type of anger leading an assassination or a coup.”

  “This is comforting, John. Keep nibbling away at this thing. Eventually, there will be nobody left but the threat.”

  “Occam’s Razor, sir. Shave away the possible and you will be left with the answer.”

  “Hmm. Thought I heard such logic somewhere. Perhaps in law school.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” Pope said. “I will let you know which way the wind blows down South in the live oaks.”

  Pope went home and surprised Sarah. They adjourned to the parlor and he brought her up to date and told her he was on the way to Florida and Mississippi, if not more Gulf states.

  “I wish I could go. I’m starting to get cabin fever. There’s not much more research I can do at the Congressional Library.”

  “Why don’t you go then? We certainly can afford your train fare and meals. It will be a break for you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am, honey. You just cannot actively be a detective. It’s out of the character we are playing. But you can be the loving wife. Very loving would be nice,” he said.

  “I am beginning to see why you want me to go…”

  “Truly, I have missed my partner on the trail. Tell May and pack a few things. Including your armaments.”

  “Shotgun, too?” she asked. “It will fit in my valise. I checked.”

  “Then by all means, bring it along. You never know when a nice load of double-aught will soothe a savage beast,” Pope said.

  She sought May and requested a train picnic to carry for the trip down. Pope had never seen the valise she was packing. It was longer and less deep and wide than most. He was pretty sure his partner had her sawed-off shotgun in mind when she selected it. The perfect wife for him, he thought.

  They headed south through Richmond and on to Atlanta, and then to Jacksonville where they changed for a westbound train for the Florida panhandle. They got off the train in Pensacola and checked into a hotel.

  Pope got a horse from the livery nearest the hotel and rode to a live oak preserve. He presented the letter from the admiral who was in charge of naval operations.

  His reception was cool at first, then heated as the civilian manager cursed the Congress and the Navy. He sounded like the man Pope had arrested at the President’s House, ranting about “ruining jobs for hardworking Americans”. The difference in his rants was the substitution of changing from wooden to steel hulls instead of immigration.

  “Where is the company located which hires the men who tend the live oak trees, cut them, mill them, deliver them to port and load them?” Pope asked.

  “ACME Marine Lumber is in Biloxi. At least until they go out of business.”

  Pope bit his tongue and let the man continue.

  He asked about shipbuilding unions in Pensacola. He was told there were no shipbuilding unions in Florida. He suspected the same for Mississippi.

  At the end of the harangue, he thanked the man and left. Pope wished he could have decked the man for subjecting him to his temper tantrum but knew it would not have accomplished anything. Except, perhaps, satisfaction.

  He went back to the hotel. Sarah left a note saying she was out walking around town. Since the town was not large, he went out looking for her. He was successful.

  “There’s a seagoing port here. Or rather a Gulf-going,” she told him. “Do you think it would be worthwhile to go over to the port area and listen for a while?” she asked.

  “I should start keeping a change of work clothes for a disguise with me,” Pope admitted.

  “Find another second-hand store. Nobody there is going to speak with a man in a navy-blue suit,” she said.

  “Good thought. I will do some shopping and come back to change. See you soon.”

  Pope found a second-hand store. It had a rack of clothes and boots and he found some which would work. They had been nicely washed, something he could remedy quickly.

  He bought an outfit and went back to the hotel and changed. As before, without a covering coat or pockets, he could not take a gun. He used the same solution. His Bowie in a boot and the sheath bound to his calf.

  He worried a bit about lack of stubble but had no remedy. As before, he slipped out the back of the hotel and began the walk to the port area. Arriving by horseback or a hansom cab would be out of character.

  Pope walked around the port and watched. He found a saloon. Dive would have been a more appropriate description.

  It was fairly full. Seamen and dockworkers drinking lunch and complaining.

  Pope sidled up to the bar and ordered a draft. It was weak and tepid.

  After a few minutes, the man next to him asked if he was new to town.

  “Yeah. A fella in Mississippi told me there were jobs here. Lying bastard!”

  “What do you do?” Pope had to think fast. As a gunfighter, he worked diligently to protect his hands. They were a giveaway he was not a laborer.

  “I string wire. Sometimes, I do some varnishing. I got a problem with my hands. Born with it. No real strength to do a man’s work.”

  His neighbor seemed to buy the lie.

  “Yeah. Not much here. With the Navy Live Oak Preserve near, we used to ship out a lot of lumber to the Navy Yards. With them doing away with wood hulls, it’s already died out. Won’t come back until some of them steel ships break in half or sink. Men’s gonna die with
the stupid idea. Mark my words. Everybody here thinks it!”

  “Is there anything can be done about it?” Pope asked.

  “Shoot them fellas in Washington who came up with this silliness.”

  “Shooting them would work, I guess. But which ones would you shoot? There’s a lot of them up there,” Pope said, hoping to keep the man talking.

  “Me, I’d start with the president, then the secretary of the Navy and whatever odd admiral walked past my gun.”

  “Think you or anybody will actually do it?”

  “Nope. It would be like suicide. Them guys got guards who are shooters for a living. They’d take me out in a second. A job is worth complaining about, but not worth dying for. They’s other jobs out there. The port will figure out something other to ship. Life goes on.”

  “I guess,” Pope began, “but they sure are messing things up for us who work on ships, building ships, loading ships and more,” he said.

  “Always government against the little man,” the man said.

  Pope did not really have a retort, so said nothing. The man quaffed his beer and walked off a bit unsteadily.

  If he is a good indicator, it does not sound like the entry level men will be anything other than cannon fodder in somebody bigger’s plan, Pope thought.

  Pope hit five more bars and one café during the afternoon. He picked up the same sentiments and the same lack of probability of action on the part of marine industry workers.

  He was interested in what tomorrow would bring in Biloxi. He would get a slightly different perspective talking with the owners of a marine lumber servicing company. Pope still could not see any tie-in with Scarsdale, New York however. Everything seemed to him to come back to New York. And New York brought him back to thinking about Conkling.

  He returned to the hotel and cleaned up.

  He picked up a horse and rode to the live oak reservation at Gulf Breeze. The manager hired by the Navy to run it hoped to be able to buy it because of the Navy’s decision to cease making wooden hulls.

  “There’s lots of commercial hulls which will always be wood. I have people trying to buy from me all the time, but I can only sell to the Navy. I make a salary from the Navy. If I owned it, I’d make a lot more,” the manager said.