Jade Rooster

by R. L. Crossland

Sabatelli knew the number of years for retirement because that was the point when many naval veterans crossed over into the merchant marine.

  “Thirty years gets you three-quarters pay. Except you asked how long I’d been in Asia, among the people, that is. I’m only starting my second hitch in the Navy,” he said, tapping the single hash mark on his sleeve.

  “So I assume you were out here before you joined the Navy?”

  “Born in Yokohama, grew up mostly here in Japan. Spent my last four years out here in Chosun.”

  “Korea,” Draper clarified.

  “Your parents foreign service?”

  “Lay missionaries, er…sir.”

  There was a harshness to Hobson’s delivery, a certain broadness to his “As” that reminded Sabatelli of a few Downeast merchant skippers he had known. It was difficult to believe the sailor had been raised this side of the dateline.

  “Your parents approve of their son’s service with the Department of War?” Sabatelli said skeptically.

  “They don’t say much of anything anymore. Passed on to their reward.”

  Sabatelli paused, and made a bobbing motion of his hand to dismiss his indelicacy.

  “Well, how well d’you speak the lingo?”

  “Pretty well, sir. Can’t make out many Japanese kanji, like those what you might call pictograms over there…” He said pointing to some signs on the street, “but there are a lot of Japanese who can’t do much better. I can read both their phonetic alphabets though. I can do about the same in Hangugo, Korean, and can read a few hundred hanja—that’s their pictograms—and can read their single phonetic alphabet. There is a whole pile of levels of Japanese; I can understand most o’ them. Not elegant, understand, but I can understand ’em. Can’t begin to speak them all.”

  “Hmmm. Alphabets and pictograms, well, better than I can do.” Sabatelli observed with a sense of resolution. “I picked up a little in Hawaii, but spent most of my time there trying to learn Cantonese. Looking for a posting to Shanghai, but got sent to this backwater instead.”

  Draper, who had seemed nearly asleep, straightened up and looked at Wheelwright. “Not your first choice? Wouldn’t call Yokohama a backwater, no. Wouldn’t very well do that.”

  “You speak from a naval point of view. You know how it is; office politics was my undoing. Shanghai is a plum. Far more trade flows through Shanghai, for that matter more trade flows through Kobe and Osaka. Well, Hobson, we’ll see. Maybe you will be some help. Your namesake has surely been a success.”

  Hobson looked at Lieutenant Commander Wheelwright. “Sir, how long am I ashore for?”

  “Depends on the shipping agent here…until the job’s done. He will cover the cost of your messing and berthing. There’s a written understanding with the Paymaster.”

  Hobson’s eyes took on the gleam of promise.

  “In keeping with that of a day laborer,” Sabatelli interjected, looking at Draper. Sabatelli did not trust Draper, sensing something was amiss. There should be more tension between a ramrod like Wheelwright and a ragbag like Draper. Sabatelli might have been wrapped in self-importance, but he had survived as a shipping agent using a well-developed sense of social dynamics. These men were naval. Why would a member of an organization that’s purpose was to project an image and deter enemies, assume an appearance that was less than impressive, he thought?

  “Not quite, sir. More in keeping with that of a translator, noncommissioned officer, and a skilled labor,” Wheelwright said stiffly and rising. “It’s a new Navy and the times are changing. The Great White Fleet sent that message. I’m surprised a man in your position isn’t aware of that. Roosevelt may be out, but Congress wants its Navy to match our country’s rightful position in the World. This new president, Wilson, will have difficulty slowing that momentum, if that’s his inclination.”

  Sabatelli said no more and Draper and Wheelwright made their departure.

  As they walked away Hobson called out, “Be back in time for the jade rooster, Mr. Wheelwright. Count on it, sir.”

  Wheelwright turned and smiled.

  Sabatelli started again on hearing the words, “rooster.” It was the second time that day. This time “rooster” was linked to “jade” and it disturbed him. He quickly excused himself, broke away from Hobson, crossed the alley, and pursued the officers.

  “Gentlemen…Mr. Wheelwright, a word,” Sabatelli whisked the regular officer to one side. “Dash it, really this is truly vexatious. The loss of this barque has been extremely costly. Lighthouse Insurance may not be able to cover it and survive as an underwriter. We made that clear to the Senator. I was given to understand that I was to be assisted by an officer.”

  Wheelwright made a mollifying gesture. “Petty officer. How many Japanese-speaking American naval officers do you think there are? I think Draper does—probably not as well as Hobson—and that’s about it. And he’s occupied at the Embassy in Tokio. Japan is a rising naval power. Knocked the Russians on their backsides. First time in several centuries an Asian country has ever taken on a European country and won. You may not have noticed, but relations between our countries haven’t been that good since the Western States began legislating against Japanese immigration.”

  “Well this Hobson…is he really up to it?” Sabatelli said struggling to find an opening. “This comes on a string of losses to typhoons, and well, it has the greatest financial significance. We wouldn’t have gone to Senator…”

  At the second mention of “the Senator” Sabatelli noticed Wheelwright and Draper exchange glances and concluded that Congressional intercession had indeed brought results, albeit at a level below his expectations.

  “He will surprise you. He has navigational skills and is one of Pluto’s back-up coxswains for the sailing cutter. His judgments are going to be as reliable as most junior naval officers on seafaring matters.”

  “Not really good enough. No, sir. May I assume Lightship Insurance has been given a low priority?”

  “If you chose to look on it that way.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sabatelli re-crossed the alley and returned to Hobson with a very evident look of exasperation. “Okay, Mr. Hobson, we’ll talk on our way over to the train.”

  “Just plain Hobson, mind. You don’t know much about the Navy, do you sir?”

  “Merchant shipping, yes. The Navy, no. Just bits and pieces that have been useful to know in merchant shipping.”

  “Look, not so sure I enjoy feeling like the last gal picked at the dance, but Uncle Sam thinks I am what you rate right now, an’ I am willing to go along with it.” Hobson had his seabag up on his shoulder and seemed resigned. “Haven’t been ashore much and well I kind of feel a need to use my Japanese and Korean every now and again. A chance to exercise my linguistories.”

  Sabatelli wondered how he would survive on his shipping agent’s salary alone. He saw little future in the Lighthouse Insurance sideline. He could do ship surveys…

  The streets were muddy and coolies with carts were everywhere. Imperial Navy sailors swaggered individually or marched by in groups. Shop girls giggled behind their hands. Women in kimonos of russets, faded reds, and peaches reminded Hobson that fall was approaching and his blues were still on Pluto.

  “So who went and lost something? Something insured and of naval interest.”

  Sabatelli smiled. Hobson was quick enough. “Well, not much naval interest from what I can see. The Royster Line is who has lost something and that something is the barque, Jade Rooster. Jade Rooster is overdue and may be lost. She set out from California for Yokohama, Shanghai, and back. She never showed up in Yokohama. One of her boats was salvaged by a British mailship off Tsushima.”

  “Wrong end of the Japanese Islands, for that series of port visits.”

  “Here’s what they found in the boat. The second mate on the mailship was an amateur photographer. They fou
nd four heads in four bamboo baskets. Here’s a picture of the lifeboat and of each of the heads.”

  Hobson studied the pictures. Four heads, three Caucasian and one Asian. Hard to guess their ages. One was bald; several had mustaches or beards. Their eyes were closed. He wondered if that was the way they were found or the photographer had done that. The baskets were to protect the heads. Was that out of compassion or so they would survive to be identified?

  “Well the heads aren’t on pikes outside the town gate. This is all ‘make see pidgin.’ Do we know who these fellows were? Where are the their chums?”

  What a luxury to be asking others batteries of questions which did not require cut-and-dried answers, Hobson mused. Questions whose answers did not need to start with either “yes,” “no,” or “no, excuse.” Perhaps that wasn’t really accurate. He asked his shipmates on Pluto questions by the score, but the answers had been lighthearted and of no consequence. He had always been able to generate questions. More questions than anyone ever wanted to answer.

  “What’s ‘make see pidgin?’” Sabatelli asked.

  “Pidgin means business. It’s Chinese, I believe. Pidgin English is sufficient English to conduct business. “Make see” in pidgin is putting on a show or demonstration. This is demonstration business; it is a demonstration of something. Sometimes people refer to ‘make see pidgin’ as maintaining “face.”

  “Where are the rest? We don’t know yet. We have a crew list and passenger manifest. The Imperial Japanese Navy says they have picked up the crew of an American sailing ship northeast of Tsushima, adrift in small boats. A torpedo boat destroyer will be bringing them into Yokohama this afternoon. They decided to bring them to Yokohama instead of Sasebo since there was a greater European presence. Also, it will be easier to wash their hands of the crew and the whole situation. It has a bad odor.”

  “Outbound cargo?”

  “Whale products loaded in Hawaii, U. S. manufacturing equipment, and supplies for the Asiatic Fleet.”

  “Whale products? I thought whale oil had gone the way of the stovepipe hat. What did you expect the return cargo might be?”

  “Ceramics from China and silks, jute, and tea, from Yokohama.”

  “Y’know exactly what naval supplies?”

  “The bill of lading says sugar, condensed milk, nutmeg, and alcohol. A few sundries, shoes, shoe polish, brass polish, and chemicals for Navy painters to mix paint”

  “What kind of alcohol?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Seems all they needed were eggs and hot water for a Man-o’-War cocktail,” Hobson chuckled and then flickered the boat photograph. “It’s all worth money to someone. No one deadheads cargo on a Pacific crossing, I suspect. What a waste.”

  “The loss of life?”

  “Well, sure, that’s a waste, too. But more wasteful than that, you can see whoever did it probably weren’t a sailor. See this…”Hobson pointed to the blocks in the bow and stern of the boat. “…They cut a fall. No sailor’s a mind to do that. There would have been two blocks and connecting line at either end of this boat when it was up in the davits—with the line most likely spliced into the becket of one block in each tackle. Someone deliberately cut through each fall. All they needed to lower the boat was to let run the falls. Instead, someone cut them like Alexander the Great and that infernal knot of his.”

  Hobson thought of his missionary father who had taught him about Alexander the Great and a great many things that did not have much use in his present situation. For the life of him, he could not remember the name of that knot and he knew dozens of them. His father had been a well-read, self-educated man. Hobson had several books stuffed in his seabag. Hobson’s fondness for books was considered eccentric, but Asiatic Fleet sailors had a reputation for eccentricity. When Hobson said the tackle, it had sounded more like “take-ul.”

  “Four severed heads, that’s got more theatrics than a medicine show. Two severed tackles, that was out of haste, jus’ gawmed ignorance. A tackle has value, can save a lot of work, and once reeved, is designed to be used over and over again. Depending on the number of folds in a block, one man can lift a ton with block and tackle, no steam needed. Cutting rope needlessly is near sacrilege at sea. Cutting spliced line is eternal damnation. No, whoever did this had little respect for that barque’s thrift and little concern for her future. No seaman did this and another thing…”

  Sabatelli nodded, nothing more.

  “They were at sea when this happened.”

  Sabatelli looked again at the picture. He was becoming irritated with this young crackerjack. He was an experienced shipping agent and knew every part of the business of seafaring. He couldn’t argue, but he had not drawn these conclusions himself. “Now, what makes you say that?”

  “See that rowlock crutch and that single steering oar? There’s no rudder about. Whaleboats like this use a rudder in port and a steering oar and rowlock crutch at sea. She was fitted out to be lowered at sea.”

  “That’s according to naval discipline.”

  “That’s abiding common practice and good seamanship and commonsense. I was a sailor before I ever set foot on a naval ship. One other thing, one of the heads is Asian.”

  “Yes, I noticed that myself.”

  “He’s got a Western haircut and clean shaven and he has gray, nearly white hair.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Don’t know yet. Except for in Japan, one of the privileges of age in most of the Far East is to grow a beard. This fellow seems to have gone totally Western. He may or may not be Japanese.”

  “Hobson, you mentioned a jade rooster, before to Mr. Wheelwright. Do you know this barque?”

  “No, we were talking about a different jade rooster. There are different Navy sports trophies for rowing. Different trophies for different sports, depending on crew size. Gold for the big ships, silver for smaller crews, and then bronze for the smallest. A football for football, crossed broadswords for fencing, a banner for baseball, a model cutter for sailing. Rowing’s always the top team event and it’s always been a rooster Navy-wide. Well, this one’s kind of special and it’s jade. We want it bad aboard Pluto. Colliers are dirty ships and they spread dirt to others. In the Navy cleanliness is set well above godliness. We get a lot of resentment, not much respect. We are, what my dad would have called, ‘a pariah.’”

  “Well, anyway this trophy’s a little different. Asiatic, I guess. Special to Pluto.”

  “Ah yes, a competition. Anything else, my young crackerjack?” Sabatelli concluded, resigned to his bad bargain. Rooster tattoos, rooster trophies, rooster barques…his head was swimming.

  “Well, yes. Why are you and me doin’ this? Sure you have to figure out what to tell the insurance company, but shouldn’t there be some sort of constable or sheriff or policeman or Pinkerton or someone to do this?”

  “Ah, but there isn’t. At least, at this point, there isn’t. It is a United States vessel, but we are beyond the waters of any individual state, so state authorities are unconcerned and there aren’t many federal officials out here who will actively get involved in a criminal investigation. Often the nearest country disposes of those matters related to the incident, whatever they may be. Right now we don’t even know where the barque is or who took her. Someone is going to have to get angry before any country is going to get actively involved here. We need to find something to make someone, or rather some country, angry enough to take an interest. Or we have to find a nice business resolution of some kind.”

  Hobson wondered what he meant by a business resolution.

  “In any event, that’s not what I am interested in. It is my business to salvage as much of the barque and its cargo as I can to defray the cost of the claim that is going to be made by its owners and the owners of its cargo. Of course, for you, it’s different. Your charge is ‘to protect U. S. seaborne commerce fr
om all enemies foreign and domestic.’”

  “Well, your insurance company is taking some strange steps to locate a mess of whale oil, odd hardware, and Navy geedunks.” Hobson smiled and looked thoughtful. “Can’t see for the life of me why the Navy’s even involved in this, but I’ll take on a little shore leave from time to time. I think the cost of messing and berthing for Quartermaster Third Hobson is going to be more than you had thought, but still a bargain.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The unlikely pair continued on to the railway station that was nestled in the midst of a warren of small booths and eateries poised to serve the weary rail traveler. As they waited for the train, a young woman and her maid floated to the platform. She wore a hat like a helmet with a veil, but her face could be seen and it was heavily powdered. Her kimono, obi, and coat were very elaborate and clearly very expensive. She acted as if Hobson and Sabatelli weren’t there.

  “Meiko,” Hobson whispered and maneuvered to stand back to back with her at a reasonable distance. There was no one else at their end of the platform.

  Hobson began talking in Japanese and the woman let out a short yelp. She twirled and looked all around her, but could not seem to tell where the voice was coming from. She chattered with her maid who gestured toward the sailor whose back was to them both. Then the young woman began to talk, turning her back to him, opening her fan and fluttering it rapidly. To Sabatelli, it was like a conversation between ventriloquists. The voices were there, but no one could tell where they were coming from. There was occasional laughter and the words were rapid and intense.

  At no time did they ever face each other.

  Eventually the train came and the woman, her attendant, Sabatelli, and Hobson boarded without acknowledging each other’s existence.

  “What was that all about?” Sabatelli asked as they took a compartment.

  “Mental drill. A drill. ‘A sailor ashore must be in the constant state of vigilance’ is the gist of the Landing Party Manual.”