Hobson thought it all fairly obvious, but then he had come face to face with all the participants.
“The pneumatic dynamite gun and the Gatling guns could be sold double, once to the Koreans and once to the Filipino rebels, because Atticaris would never have to deliver to the Koreans. Any deals with the Koreans weren’t worth beans. When the Koreans met Jade Rooster, he had Hoyt act in his stead as he always did, just like he had that handlebar mustached ex-marine, O’Hare, in Mindanao. Hoyt was going to rob Koreans, get rid of their bodies and sell the Gatling guns and pneumatic dynamite gun and whatever else they had bought a second time to the Moros. Captain Brewer would back him up. Later, maybe they’d come back peddling to the Koreans. Start the gunrunning all over again.”
Hobson turned the subject to the New Hwarang. He told of his conversations with the drover, Eun, and Kim.
“The problem was the New Hwarang did not know about Atticaris and it seemed Hoyt was in charge of the peddling. Brewer and Hoyt led the bullyboys and their apparent leadership cost them their heads. Sato’s double-dealing cost him his.
“The whole consarned design, I guess, went wrong sudden like and the Koreans got the drop on Brewer and the part of his crew working with the gunrunners. The first Mr. Kim who sailed aboard Jade Rooster was not the same Mr. Kim who boarded the boat that night. The first Mr. Kim was a big kahuna from the New Hwarang’s Hawaii organization. His second ‘Mr. Kim’ was on the lam from a Japanese jail. The New Hwarang were smuggling the second Kim out of the country. One was already on the way in; he was swapped for one who was on the way out of the country. The insurrectionist leaders knew about the barque and the gunrunning so they piggybacked the swap on the gun exchange. The Hwarang flimflam swap fouled the Atticaris flimflam robbery. The Kims had figured out that Sato was a spy sent into Cholla province by the Kempeitai to smoke out troublemakers. Atticaris was working the other end with the Kempeitai, too, getting head money for most of the same people that he had sold guns to. Head money, funny.”
They could hear other people moving about the building. The room was getting stuffy. Hobson noticed that the oak-trimmed transom was closed.
“The heads were just ‘make-see pidgin’ to the Kempeitai mirroring an equally grisly message the Kempeitai was sending to them. They thought they’d killed the heart of the treachery, the headmen.”
“Mr. Smith” smiled at Hobson’s unconscious second play on words.
Draper nodded. “So where do you think the ordnance is now and do you think it will ever get into the hands of the Moros?”
Hobson tapped his pipe against his brogan. “Sir, you said we are the ‘hypothetical enemy.’ Maybe we ought to climb this rope ladder one more rung. We’ve taken to thinking Atticaris’ only profit in this was a double sale and head money. What’f the Japanese are paying him to run guns to the Moros to start America down the road of the death by a thousand cuts? Those guns could be just another thorn in our side and another way to divert our attention. Money paid to support the Army in the Philippines, money to the Marines in the Philippines—there’s only so much money for things—is money that’s not going to support a stronger fleet.
“I don’t think the New Hwarang have the guns. They may be there, but they couldn’t find them in the short time before they had to shift the ballast and scuttle the barque. If they’d found the guns they would have just set the barque adrift. As for Atticaris’ plans, well, remember the dry goods store in Manila? Remember we learned Atticaris had purchased some long handle woolies and a giant coffee grinder?
“Ever see a Morse hand-operated air pump for hardhat divers?”
Draper wore a naval uniform, but his duties did not involve him in the more mundane naval matters.
Draper looked puzzled, “No.”
“They have one at Cavite. It looks like a giant coffee grinder. Atticaris is going to attempt to salvage that ordnance. I think Korea is a touch hot for sales right now. He’ll sell them to the Moros just as he’d planned. Cocksure as Billy-be-damned, figure for all we know, he’s sold that ordnance maybe five times over.”
Hobson put out his pipe.
“Sir, I guess that’s about it for me.”
Draper smiled. “Not quite. You will get new orders at Shanghai. You’ll be heading back to Korea. I figure you have ten days there, no more.”
Hobson did some mental arithmetic and released a sigh of resignation. “Well, sir, that’ll give me just enough time to settle some accounts with respect to my own jade rooster.”
“What are we going to tell Mr. Sabatelli?” Hobson asked.
Draper seemed uninterested.
“I will think of something.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
At quarters, three nights before the race, Lieutenant Commander Wheelwright assembled the crew on the fantail under a large canvas awning.
“Our cutter crew has got a race the day after tomorrow with Baltimore. Baltimore says we don’t have ‘the warrior spirit.’” The look on his face made clear the magnitude of this insult.
There were yells and catcalls. Baltimore’s failings were described in detail. The cruiser was a symbol, both hated and admired. The crew’s blood was up and no one was safe. Certain cutter oarsmen heard their character flaws made public…at length.
Wheelwright paused patiently, and then raised his hand. “Now up my way the best oarsmen eat oysters. I believe the great Ned Hanlon and that Australian, Trickett, ate oysters.”
He spoke of professional oarsmen. Rowing was the first international professional sport.
Pluto’s crew wondered where this was going. Naval messes did not serve oysters in the Asiatic Fleet. Even “the Quality,” with their white ties and boiled shirts and shorthaired girlfriends in the rarefied confines of the Carleton in Shanghai, rarely enjoyed oysters.
A storekeeper rolled out a handtruck with a case of tins. One of the crew reached for a tin. A petty officer read the label aloud, “Oysters, tinned bluepoint oysters.”
In the front rank, the cutter’s crew puffed up to full height. They were practicing twice a day now and slept fitfully, first the blankets on, then the blankets off. Their metabolisms were surging, racing up and down like the turns of a ship’s screw in high seas. Every muscular cord in their necks was clearly defined. Now, they were going on the diet regimen of champions and they had become a caste unto themselves. Their captain had such faith in them that he had spent a fortune getting them oysters from stateside. Everyone knew that was what the professionals ate. The skipper had said so.
The two ships were moored in parallel and the fleet spectators were gathering. Hobson had returned to Shanghai from Korea and his visit with Draper in Japan. The quartermaster could not find Tiger or the Oyster Pirate.
There was an offshore breeze. Shanghai did not have a dominant scent, it was too big to have a single characteristic scent, Hobson thought. Of course, there was the smell of incense. Everywhere there were people there was the smell of burning incense and in Shanghai there were people everywhere. Shanghai was one of the most populous cities in the world. Incense did not count, somehow; it was too conscious an effort.
Lieutenant Commander Wheelwright had come up with canned oysters and guaranteed they were the secret to success on the East Coast where all great oarsmen came from, except that fellow from Canada and that other fellow from Australia.
The race was a test of rowing ability and seamanship. That was how the Admiral described it. The course was four miles long; it had a down current leg and an up current leg. The race was starting at three hours after high tide. The current would combine the river current with the maximum flow of an ebbing tide.
Baltimore had her cutter in the water in no time. Hobson could not find Tiger or the Oyster Pirate. Lieutenant Commander Wheelwright looked impatient, so Hobson had the remainder of the crew lower the cutter.
Tiger and the Oyster Pirate came whi
stling down the manropes. Hobson couldn’t put his finger on it but they looked…wet.
There was too much going on. So Hobson let it slide, but in the back of his mind it bothered him.
Despite the cold, Pluto’s cutter crew was wearing shorts fashioned from dungaree trousers and long underwear shirts with the sleeves shortened. The Oyster Pirate had pulled out his sewing machine and appliqued the name Pluto on the back of each shirt. Baltimore’s cutter crew wore the same skullcaps, fancy blue striped shirts, and knit shorts that the oarsmen in the newspaper etchings wore.
There was a warm up period. The Oyster Pirate still seemed reluctant to function as stroke, but Hobson knew he was the one for the job. Tiger seemed out of breath for once, but slowly came up to form.
The Admiral reiterated his “rowing and seamanship” speech as the flag lieutenant supervised the laying of course buoys. Tendrils of steam accompanied his words. He was tall, dignified, lean, and every inch an admiral. China’s future was swirling like a kaleidoscope and he enjoyed this diversion. Keeping an eye on the Great Powers and the warlords was an exhausting pursuit.
Hobson could see Gunnarson ready at his oar with several other oarsmen of equal bulk in Baltimore’s cutter. Each boat had to round the yellow buoy to port and the finish line would be an imaginary line between the jackstaffs of Baltimore and Pluto. The flag lieutenant would sight the line and declare the winner. There would be absolutely no contact between the boats or the race would be re-run. The Oyster Pirate groaned and his hands began flapping dramatically, “Th-th-that means in an out-and-back race, don’t win by too much or the losing cutter will try to ram the leading returning cutter. Just cross over, sheer off a few oars, and take its chances at a second race.”
Perhaps anticipating this, the Admiral added through his speaking trumpet, “Any crew deliberately making contact with the other crew will automatically be declared the loser.”
The Oyster Pirate hummed with approval, “Just goes to show, ossifers, the ones that rate flags, ain’t totally adrift in their cranial faculties.”
Hobson noticed that for once he spoke without a stoppage.
“She handles funny today,” Tiger said absent-mindedly. Hobson, not wanting any feeling that this was a hoodoo boat to set them off on a bad foot, quickly interjected, “Shanghai currents, it doesn’t mean nothin’.”
Tiger thought for a moment, and seemed satisfied.
An ancient swivel gun with a blank charge unearthed from some deep recess in Baltimore’s magazine started the race. The swivel gun’s charge predated smokeless powder. It went off and the boats seemed to hesitate, then burst out of the rolling cloud of smoke like barshot. Baltimore’s cutter surged ahead and positioned itself in a line with the shortest course to the yellow buoy. They had power, exceptional power.
Hobson noticed Baltimore’s coxswain had a tendency to fishtail, which was inefficient, but this failing also presented problems for any overtaking boat.
They started with short strokes and as they gained momentum, lengthened their strokes. Soon both boats were skimming along like multi-winged, low-flying birds. Chins in, backs straight, feet braced against the stretchers, and the power came from their backs rather than their arms.
“O-o-oysters”!” The Oyster Pirate yelled with each stroke and the crew smiled with clinched teeth.
“Oysters!” They chimed in.
“Minstrels! Sleeves”!” Someone from Baltimore had raised the cry and Hobson wondered if it was Gunnarson. Steam cascaded from their mouths with each stroke. It may have inspired Baltimore’s oarsmen to greater efforts; cruiser sailors could not go down to grimy coalpassers.
It incensed Pluto’s crew who started chanting, “Oysters”!” with the full venom of a battle cry.
Halfway to the yellow buoy, Pluto’s cutter was nearly even with Baltimore’s. Pass on the inside or on the outside?
“Pass-pass-pass on the outside,” yelled the Oyster Pirate. It seemed to make sense, so Hobson nodded to Tiger as coxswain.
The crews began to exchange raw language and Hobson realized that his crew had better wind, better endurance. Pluto’s insults came faster.
A junk came out of nowhere and began to lumber across the course.
Hobson gauged the junk’s progress. “She’s broadside to the current, she probably won’t get in our way.”
Tiger said nothing.
Hobson thought a minute. Why was the junk there at all? “Cox, we can win this. It’s gonna be heavy weather, but we can win this. If that junk belongs to someone you know, like Madame Kwan, have her heave to or turn down current a midge.”
Tiger gave Hobson a look of supreme innocence that was a dead give away.
Tiger began yelling in Cantonese and the junk suddenly turned shoreward.
The cursing from Baltimore’s crew grew more sporadic.
As they approached the yellow buoy. Tiger yelled, “Can’t round close. Too little room, we hit, we have a do over.”
Baltimore’s, cutter had the inside position, but Pluto’s cutter had half a boat length.
The turn had a whiplash feel to it. They were suddenly rowing not with the current, but against it.
No one talked now. It was simply wheeze, pull, and sweat, wheeze, pull, and sweat. Both crews were soaked with perspiration, red-faced, and miserable. Their lungs ached. Wheeze, pull, and sweat.
“No rudder, no rudder.” Tiger’s cry was at the very top of his register. He held the rudder up in his hands. The rudder was there, what was he talking about? It would work if he reshipped it. It was intact, but with hand motions he indicated the gudgeon that secured the rudder to the keel was no longer there. The cutter turned broadside to the course and nearly struck Baltimore’s cutter.
“We’re taking water.” The oarsman all the way aft on the port side was looking down between his legs.
“Emergency steering gear. Cox, use the extra oar.”
There were two extra oars. An oar could be used as a rudder. A knife appeared from nowhere and a length of painter was cut to jury-rig a rowlock. Ancient ships had once used oars to steer before rudders had been invented, before Noah had sewn on his crow.
“The hull’s parted, back by the gudgeon.”
Hobson knew they were going to lose. “Nothing we can do, just keep rowing, y’r able, y’r Oysters. They’ve got nothin’.”
“Oysters! You go fast. You go faster.” Tiger had now shipped the oar in place of the useless rudder and struggled to put the cutter back on course. The portside was stronger and he wrestled to keep the cutter headed toward the finish line as they sloughed back and forth. So now they had assumed the name and battle cry of “oysters,” a creature that went nowhere and was a bottomfeeder.
Surprisingly Baltimore’s cutter had come even with Pluto’s cutter, but could not seem to pass. They were yelling a good deal about minstrels and coalpassers, but were looking spent and gasping to get the words out. They knew that they still had the advantage of raw power and began to dig more deeply with their oars.
The two cutters swerved toward each other. “Trail oars,” echoed from both excited coxswains. Trailing oars narrowed each boat’s spread or coverage and lessened the possibility of contact and a repeat race. The two cutters slowly drew apart.
Their oars resumed their hypnotic wing-like sweeps.
Pluto’s cutter began to gain again. Three quarters of the way back it had regained its half a boat lead on Baltimore’s cutter.
“Hey-hey-hey rumdum, bully beef, man-o’-war sailor-men, whoo-hoo fatboys,” the Oyster Pirate jeered. It was a weak jibe, and his arms were occupied so it had come without the usual preliminary semaphore of hand gestures. Nothing really, but the timing was right and Baltimore’s cutter caught a crab. Two men were knocked off their thwarts. They unraveled like an old watch-sweater.
Pluto’s cutter crabbed sideways between the two anchored
ships with a full one-length advantage and everyone with wet ankles.
It was a raucous scene on Pluto. The cutter’s crewmembers started throwing each other over the side. Tiger and the Oyster Pirate were among the first. The entire ship’s crew got into the act and everyone above decks was fair game. Non-swimmers went rushing for the sanctuary of sickbay. The two ships were only a couple dozen yards apart and Baltimore’s cutter crew were yelling accusations among themselves, while the balance of their ship’s crew was registering disapproval. The two ships were as close to utter chaos as naval sensibilities in the Asiatic Fleet would permit.
The Admiral seemed pleased, but discreetly retired to a stateroom on Baltimore. Lieutenant Commander Wheelwright allowed his executive officer to toss him off the bridge wing after prudently handing his hat to a steward.
The boatswain’s mates lowered the Jacob’s ladder to retrieve Pluto’s new crop of pilot fish in dungaree shorts and appliqued shirts.
Hobson watched Tiger and the Oyster Pirate swim around to the other side of Pluto and thought nothing of it. Several crewmembers dressed as characters from Neptune’s Court had seized a firehose and were using it to repel boarders, namely the men who had been tossed overboard. The occasion was festive and the costumes had been resurrected from the Crossing the Line ceremony.
As he climbed the Jacob’s ladder through the firehose stream and climbed onto the deck, he noticed one of the boatswain’s mates hoisting a peculiar dark gray canvas bucket on deck. Its handle had a swivel shackle on it and above the swivel shackle was a “C” clamp with an augur-like screw. He noticed a very large grommet had been sewn in the bottom of the canvas. Behind him, there was increased pressure for him to scale the ladder. The water was extremely cold and someone had spotted several drowned rats in their Shanghai open-air natatorium.
Jade Rooster Page 17
