Matsuda burst out from behind a building and gestured emphatically for Hobson and Sabatelli to follow. Hobson watched the Viking whose attention was on a treeline that bordered a rice paddy at a distance. Hobson caught the brief glimmering reflection of steel.
In that moment, Hobson was forced to reverse his assessment of the Viking. The edge of the missionary’s coat fluttered for just a moment and he thought he saw the scroll-like curve of a derringer fastened to one of the blond man’s gallowses. The Viking had removed his hat to be more identifiable at a distance.
“Name’s Iversen and yours?”
“Hobson.”
“The Hobson…of the Navy. Cuba Hobson?”
“No, that’s another fellow.”
“Headed to Seoul or Pyongyang?” The blond missionary’s tone grew in intensity.
“Chemulp’o.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there. There’s…”
Sabatelli and Hobson were led around a corner and Iversen was gone. If Hobson had a clear sense of the significance of that glint of steel in the tree line that the platoon of Japanese soldiers and smattering of military police were not going to live out the day. The missionary, drunk as he might be, was where he was for a purpose. The missionary was pursuing a very Old Testament course of action. There were insurrectionists in the tree lines and behind the dikes in the rice paddy.
Matsuda was preoccupied with getting Sabatelli and Hobson out of the area. Matsuda heard an exchange of shots, fanned Hobson and Sabatelli forward, and assumed—perhaps erroneously—that everything was under control.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
On another mountain several prisoners were shackled with their wrists bound behind them to waist-high posts. There were twice as many this time and again sacks had been placed over their heads. Several slumped over in pain hoping for death. Others had only been rounded up in the villages that night.
Koizumi took his uniform blouse off and drew his sword from his scabbard. His kendo was rusty and he knew it. Stationed in this godforsaken land among little more than savages there was little opportunity to refine his skills. He made a few practice swings.
“Mansei!” cried a woman who had been tortured terribly, but held up well. He cut the cry off abruptly.
In the shadows just beyond the circle of lantern light, Atticaris checked his list. All the victims he had recommended were there. He had run a taut division when he had been in the Navy. No Irish pennants—improperly secured or stowed loose ends—tolerated. Irish pennants were untidy, unseamanlike. This exercise was like pruning; the organism had to be cut back periodically to bear the best fruit. He could draw a good deal of money out of all this, if he cultivated it properly. Encouraging the insurrectionists to buy guns and then selling the insurrectionists to the Kcmpeitai, would not last forever, he sighed. But if carefully manipulated his project, it would produce several lucrative harvests.
He knew filibusterers who had assembled armed adventurers and marched through countries like conquistadors. Most died poor, and poorly, with a bullet for their efforts. No, money had to be earned progressively. The single big score was the dream of wastrels. Money had to be harvested over and over again. The greedy seeking a single prize never prospered.
Koizumi had welcomed Atticaris’ idea for the executions. He had practiced kendo for years, but could never really know how it felt to separate a man from his life with a thin sliver of steel.
“Mansei!”
He took the cries as challenges and responded resolutely.
“Mansei!”
He particularly liked it when two challenged at once and he was forced to cover ground quickly before either could take a breath to repeat the cry. The Koreans did not know that he had turned it into a sort of game. They knew they were being executed and this gesture of defiance came instinctively.
“Mansei,” the chant was getting weaker as one by one the voices were stopped.
“Man…”
The last voice was that of a schoolmarm from a village on the coast, an attractive young woman named Eun.
Matsuda placed the heads on the posts that guarded the approaches to their respective villages.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hobson wanted to tell Sabatelli that he had discovered Jade Rooster, but something told him to hold off. There was too much Hobson did not know, and too much he did not understand. Sabatelli’s interest seemed far too persistent for just one fairly insignificant vessel lost at sea with a nondescript cargo list. Whatever Atticaris had been smuggling, if Sabatelli knew what it was, he was not to be trusted. And if it was a routine voyage why was he so zealous?
Hobson would tell him later, after he talked with Mr. Draper.
They brought the cutter back to Chemulp’o and paid off the crew. The weekly steamboat from Chemulp’o back to Kobe and Yokohama was several days off.
A typhoon kept him indoors for several days. The winds tore at the roof of his inn and the rain dripped into his room through several parts of the ceiling. Then the weather cleared and he decided to take the sampan out to Wolmido, a small island in the harbor. He fought the incredible currents, beached until he could catch his breath, and then headed back.
The sun had just set when he returned to the dock. Several small sampans followed him in. There were more silhouettes around than usual, but Hobson was not surprised. The typhoon had driven everyone indoors and now it seemed normal for the inhabitants of the harbor to surge forth with a collective sigh of survival.
The dock was a narrow one and Hobson noticed two large men talking and positioned in a manner that blocked his way up the ramp. He looked behind him. Two husky fisherman had just landed and were walking shoulder to shoulder directly toward him. He could see the steam from their breaths and he looked into their eyes, but there was no eye contact. They looked right through him as if he was not there.
Serving with the fleet was an education in waterfront survival and all Hobson’s senses were alert.
To a ship approaching land, that zone that included the water’s edge, the rocks and shoals, offered the greatest dangers. The farther a ship went out to sea, the safer it was. That zone which divided land from water was a source of constant danger for ships. The same applied to a ship’s crew on the waterfront—with its human rocks and shoals—it was the most dangerous area for sailors. The farther inland a sailor ashore went, the safer he was. The waterfront, approached from either land or sea, was fraught with peril.
In the last few decades, there had been riots in South American countries where American sailors on liberty had been set upon and killed by mobs. The fleet had been dispatched and war only narrowly averted. Sailors were easily identified foreigners and were too frequently the targets of criminal or political intrigue. On a larger scale, USS Maine had been sunk not that far from the pier. On a smaller scale, a significant portion of the sailors listed as deserters were disappearances, victims of foul play.
Some sailors carried brass knuckles, blackjacks, or socks filled with sand in the pockets of their peacoats. A stack of coins rolled in the back of a neckerchief was an old standby in the summer. Waterfront treachery was one reason boxing champs were popular on liberty. Gunnarson might occasionally come back to the launch alone, but, Hobson guessed, he never went on liberty alone.
Hobson did not like the feel of this and turned and walked toward the fishermen. They accelerated toward him. Without a word, he grabbed one and threw him headlong into a boat. The other, he took over his shoulder with a judo throw. The two by the ramp had turned and were not talking anymore, they were moving in his direction. One dove at him and he sidestepped. The other tried to tag him with some sort of threshing tool. He grabbed the wrist, extended the arm, and snapped it with an armbar.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the form of a Japanese military policeman floating face down just beyond a fishing boat. It was drifting with the tide.
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Four additional fishermen had landed on the far end of the dock. The dock was long and narrow and icy. The attacks could only take place from two directions and only by a few at a time. Hobson reminded himself that, above all, he had to stay on his feet. Once down, he was through.
He overheard them saying “yusool.” It was the word for an early Korean form of judo. They had identified their quarry’s tactics and were making adjustments.
This time they rushed him from both sides. None of the men was taller than he was, but they were strong and heavily built. One pinned Hobson’s hands against his sides. Another, using a Ssirum—Korean folk wrestling—hip technique lifted both Hobson’s feet of the dock. Another placed a thick canvas bag over his head blinding him. Suddenly he found himself inverted and head down in a basket of sea urchins. Urchin spines laced his shoulders, neck and back, but the bag protected his eyes. The pain was excruciating. Then they carried him stomach down holding him like a battering ram.
The men talked among themselves in Korean. There had to be a dozen of them. The fact that they spoke Korean was no help to Hobson. They could be Kempeitai Koreans or New Hwarang Koreans or any of a dozen other factions that any unhappy, unsettled situation generated. The men were moving very rapidly and changing direction constantly, jostling him ungently. They were not pleased with Hobson whom they spoke of as the “nuisance meegook,” the nuisance American. Two punches to the kidneys, punctuated with the word “yusool,” emphasized that all physical skills had their limitations.
He was drawn from the basket and set on the floor, but not gently. Hands began to pull the sea urchins spines from his neck. Wherever he was, it was unheated and he began to shiver. He had not worn much, expecting his rowing to keep him warm. Occasionally, a point of light glimmered through the sack.
A voice spoke in cultured Korean. Japanese and Korean had different social levels of speech. A farmer and an emperor used completely different forms of speech and employed different degrees of politeness. The relative social standing of the addressee determined the manner of speech and address, not the absolute social class of the speaker. A yangban, an aristocrat, Hobson judged.
The floor sounded wet and gritty and Hobson could smell fish.
“The sea urchins were not our idea, they were an improvised solution. Such is guerrilla warfare”
Guerrilla warfare. He had heard the term, but it was not a common one.
The hands were gentle and scented. Women, two women, perhaps.
“You know that you are watched, watched constantly, Mr. Hobson.” Another voice, this time speaking English with a Midwestern accent, Iverson.
“Just Hobson, thanks. I know who you are.”
“Doesn’t matter, young man, I am on my way out of here, exiting unceremoniously with too many other western missionaries.”
“How did it turn out, that set-to with the Japanese military police and the conscripts? Settle their hash?” Hobson was whistling in the dark.
“Not all knowledge is beneficial. Better you did not know. The sons of Nippon have murdered too many of my flock. I am not comfortable with inciting retribution, it is not my vocation, but there comes a point.”
Some of the sea urchin spines were coming out, some were breaking off. He was going to be a sight in the morning.
The yangban spoke in English. “Well, Hobson, it is good there was a scuffle. The Japanese would not approve of your getting friendly with us…insurrectionists. Now Hobson, you work for your country’s government. I think you are more important than you appreciate.”
Hobson resisted the urge to guffaw. The yangban’s English had a Hawaiian shortness to its delivery.
“Only so much as I have to.”
“Your country signed a treaty in 1882 with Korea to protect it from aggressors.”
Hobson did not know if that was true, and kept quiet.
“The Japanese are grinding us under their heels. We are their very first colony and they plan to do it right. Shortly we will be another Japan, new language, new names and total serfs, “ the yangban said. “America is just standing by.”
He paused. “I am Kim.”
He said, “I am Kim” as if it should have some significance to Hobson. He used the forms in Korean that indicated he was the Kim.
Hobson talked through the canvas bag. “Kim? There are thousands of Kims, more Kims than Carter’s got pills, more than all the Smiths and Joneses in America combined. What’s that suppose t’mean?”
“You spoke to my wife in Chinatown, in Yokohama…and to another Korean man.”
“Yes, Mr. Kim.”
“No, not Mr. Kim, just another man, a man who had recently escaped from a Japanese jail and who had been smuggled out of the country. I swapped places with him on Jade Rooster. I came in from Hawaii where we are training more New Hwarang. I needed to be smuggled in and he needed to be smuggled out. Our group was the group buying products from Mr. Hoyt. Shortly after our boats came to Jade Rooster we made the switch.
The scented hands were rubbing the sea urchin punctures with a liquid that stung and smelled like urine.
“Hoyt was selling you guns?”
There was a long pause.
Iverson spoke with discomfort, “And if he was?”
“Well, for one, it wasn’t Hoyt that was selling. It was a fellow higher up named Atticaris. Atticaris is the prime bad egg. Chock full of filibustardy.”
There was silence.
“Little matter, I think. We knew then, and know better now, that we were dealing with the devil. We had little choice. We have little choice.”
“Well, it is a big matter because Atticaris distances himself from the peddling. I think he adds to his take by betraying his buyers in small installments. You’re not his only customer.”
Another long pause, there was a whispered consultation. “Betrayals in installments?”
“Probably does double duty. It fixes to keep the business from being traced back to him, and it keeps you insurrectionists sprightly developin’ new leaders who in turn find new sources of greenbacks or Mex. New greenbacks or Mex mean continued purchases.”
Kim laughed dryly. “Ah, yes, Hobson, Hobson of the Navy.”
He seemed to enjoy that manner of address. Perhaps it made him feel as if he was talking to someone who mattered, not Hobson the Quartermaster Third Class.
“Hoyt, and this Atticaris were very practical.” Very business like. Our purchases will soon come to a close in any event, I think unless we get help from the outside. Rebellions need money. No one supplies guns for free. Where are we to get the money? We raised money to buy certain weapons from Hoyt and he nearly tricked us out of our money.
“Our people are taxed to excess by the Japanese and must only sell to the Japanese at prices they dictate. A rebel government can impose taxes too, but our people can’t pay them. We can rob the Japanese from time to time to raise money—the Oriental Investment Company is bleeding the currency and valuable metals out of Korea—but Japan’s new colony is very heavily garrisoned and not adverse to taking reprisals against anyone or any village that might support us. We mount a raid and they conscript a nearby village for forced railroad labor in retaliation. Lately, it has been more theatrical. Prisoners have been taken, some beheaded and their heads placed where they can achieve the most dramatic effect. Many, too many, of our people are fleeing to Manchuria. I fear that they will get little rest there. I think Manchuria will be next.
“We missed our chance. We could have allied quickly with the West like Japan and Siam and survived. Unfortunately we have always had to watch China, Japan and Russia. We threw our lot in with China to play off the others and now China is a sick and ineffectual empire. Japan has brushed China aside effortlessly in the past, and it recently sank the Russian Fleet. No country in Asia can stand against it.
“We need guns, we need money. American
s have both and I know from my time in Hawaii that Americans do not trust the Japanese. Tell your officers we need help. Tell your leaders they must abide by the treaty. Not you personally, but surely every Navy has an intelligence service.”
Hobson did not respond. International demands voiced through a third class petty officer, had about a snowball’s chance in hell. Surely they knew that, but he realized they were desperate and any possibility was worth pursuing. He thought of explaining where he stood in the naval pecking order and mentally fished for the Korean word for pawn. He exhaled audibly.
“You have a yarn to share ’bout Jade Rooster?” Hobson felt could only begin to understand all this if he could understand the portion he had come to resolve.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“There was to be a swap in addition to the purchase of arms. Captain Brewer did not know about the swap, nor did his second mate. Hoyt, or as you say, Atticaris, had built up our trust. A pattern developed of small sales for U.S. greenbacks or Mexican silver. Not arm’s length after a while, we’d show up and buy things as if we were going to the store.”
Mexican silver dollars were the universal currency of the Far East.
“This was a bigger sale than usual and we knew the shipment would be on Jade Rooster. I booked passage on Jude Rooster with my wife. I needed to get in unnoticed and there was a teacher who was too active, too well known, and too wanted by the Kempeitai to be allowed to stay in Korea.
“While the weapons were changing hands, we would swap places. The crew had little to do with us and wouldn’t notice any difference between two Koreans of roughly the same size. For the most part they would watch the woman. It seems strange to know this, but I took comfort in knowing they would watch my wife.”
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