He wondered if she did play poker and smoke cigars and vowed to find out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Like most port cities in Asia, sleep was for the lazy or the dead. The Oyster Pirate knew the pawnshop would be open. Lou, Limehouse Lou, did some of his best business between supper and midnight. By rights, the Oyster Pirate should not have needed a loan. His earnings from the cutter race exceeded several months’ pay. Even beyond that, his savings and what he made playing ace-deucey it was still not enough. He was shipping a crate full of fans, paper parasols, carved and inlaid chests, daggers, and Chinese porcelain back to his cousin in San Francisco for his shop. Chinese notions. He needed just a bit more money to cover the cost of shipping. So in the end he decided to hock his sewing machine. The scuttlebutt was Pluto would not head back to the Philippines before the next payday, so he felt reasonably safe.
“No, naw really worth much, lad. I can only give you 20% of that piece’s value.”
“Oh, w-w-who do you think you’re t-t-t-talking to? That’s a Singer and it’s first rate. Touched up some of the best tailor-mades in the fleet with that sewing machine. And I’m coming back for it.”
Limehouse Lou was a portly British expatriate, with a worn out look, who never smiled.
“Right you are, my fine matelot, you’ll be back for it. Like the sailor who left that ukulele, and the one who left me wit’ that Brownie camera. And the bloke what left that railroad pocket watch. And I’m in line to be a Lord o’ Admiralty ’cuz my cousin’s political.”
The other two sailors with the Oyster Pirate looked bored, but said nothing because the Oyster Pirate had said he’d stand them beers and a meat pie once their escort service was over. Some sailors were riding the civilian steamboats up the Yangtze as escorts. This was easier. One eyed the railroad pocket watch with interest.
The Oyster Pirate and Limehouse Lou engaged in a verbal tug of war for another ten minutes until they were both a bit red in the face and it was clear that they had the elements of a deal.
The Oyster Pirate went to where the crate was stored to make the last payment on the crate and its contents. Four coolie stevedores manhandled the crate on trucks to the cargo net on the dock. Then, the bills of lading and money were exchanged. The Oyster Pirate did not pay for insurance since, to him, it seemed to defy Providence. If Providence wanted the sea to swallow up you or your ship and your cargo, so be it. To attempt to profit through disaster was to spit in the eye of Providence. That Flying Dutchman fellow had tried something like that. Well disaster…that was the way it was. Insurance seemed a slightly illegal way of avoiding destiny and defying the judgment of Providence.
Once the crate was aboard the ’Frisco-bound freighter, the Oyster Pirate felt a great weight lift from his shoulders and he jumped and yelled out several times. His escort gave him a sidelong look, but they were patient.
As they strutted along the dock the Oyster Pirate looked out beyond the string of tied-up boats. He thought more about insurance and wondered if it could ever be morally justifiable.
A half dozen brawny men came up the alley from the opposite direction. The Oyster Pirate tensed, but then realized that he’d paid out almost all of his money already and they would not get much from him. The men walked down the cobblestones right by him and his escort. These men were carrying seabags. They were talking, and to the Oyster Pirate they looked and sounded like sailors. Not merchant sailors, at least not men who had always been merchant sailors. These were warship sailors and had been so recently. They wore no uniforms, but he was a sailor and he could tell. Naval sailors were used to working in divisions, in larger groups, and as a consequence they could move about comfortably in groups of a half dozen or a dozen and be casual about it. These men moved at a fast pace. Merchant crews were smaller and merchant seamen chummed around and traveled ashore in only twos or threes.
Then he saw him, the man in the straw boater. The man from Manila. He was wearing a sealskin coat this time over a real fancy set of black togs with a white shirt with jeweled studs. He was with a Chinese bullethead in some type of army uniform. Hobson had chased him once and Pluto had intercepted a shipment of guns. The Oyster Pirate could see where a benefit might come from this.
The group of sailors in civilian clothes and the man in the straw boater met and then they walked up an alley in the opposite direction, paralleling the water. The Oyster Pirate wanted to follow them, but his escort was now impatient for its fee. He jingled some Mex into their hands—which they happily accepted—and then they parted ways; they for Madame Kwan’s and the Oyster Pirate for parts unknown. He was not going to rely on any hayseed from the Governor’s office to help him now. As he followed them he realized that this was China and not the Philippines. The gunrunner or filibusterer or whatever he was, was beyond U.S. jurisdiction.
He took a couple deep breaths, realized that he had done what he’d set out to do that night, that he had no money left, and that following the man seemed like something he ought to do. He had nothing better to do.
A half-mile up river they stopped at an isolated pier and a rundown godown. As he followed them, he realized that as a group they comprised an unusually large number for random circumstance, and wondered what the common denominator was. They stacked their dunnage and began to haul cargo or equipment out of the godown. In the distant shadows, he thought he detected another group of men also pulling gear out of the godown.
The Oyster Pirate saw the glint of brass on some long cylindrical items. Crew-served guns. Then he saw the helmet. The classic three-ported helmet. They were sailors and they were of above average size. Deep-sea divers. Divers wore 200 pounds of gear, helmet, breastplate, lead belt, and lead shoes. You did not have to be any particular size—there were small divers—but it helped to be sturdily built. These men were ruggedly constructed. This was some sort of salvage operation.
The largest bit of equipment they hauled aboard was an odd contraption, thought the Oyster Pirate.
It resembled a coffee grinder.
Tiger Cheng waited for the Oyster Pirate at Madam Kwan’s. The Oyster Pirate did not know it. Cheng had finished other business and thought he’d wait for his friend. When the escort came in without him, Cabin Cook Second Class and Cutter Coxswain Cheng, on impulse, went looking for his stroke oarsman.
Taking up the directions from the escort sailors, he wended his way up the docks toward the river.
The Oyster Pirate watched the men load the yacht and settle in. He became bored and decided to examine the godown. He began his approach when he felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned with a start to see Tiger.
“This is not a good place, what are you doing?”
A whispered exchange followed. The godown was dark and some distance from the pier and the yacht lay nesded in an impossible maze of alleys and ramshackle walls.
Tiger thought he heard voices.
“Not good, let’s get out of here.”
They turned to backtrack when five Chinese men with lathi, bamboo staves, loomed out of the darkness.
“Hey, you sailorboys”!” came the cry and the lathi began to swirl even as the words came out. Tiger and the Oyster made sweeping motions with their arms to brush away the lathi and they began to run.
They did a hundred yards before one of their assailants tripped the Oyster Pirate with his lathi. He stumbled and they began to swing down at him like lumberjacks sectioning up a log. Tiger doubled back and waded into the swinging lathi. He kicked one of the five hard in the groin, disarmed him, struck another in the head with his captured lathi and it suddenly became quiet. The Oyster Pirate groaned and struggled to his feet.
One of lathi men sneered, “You go away from this place. No women, no liquor here. You come back we…” He drew his hand across his throat. “Go away, you savvy?”
Tiger and the Oyster Pirate limped away watchfully and sidelong.
The f
lag lieutenant left the Shanghai Carleton after the Senator’s daughter, at the end of the midwatch, and headed back to the Admiral’s barge. He was somewhat embarrassed to note a spring in his step so late in the evening or rather so early in the morning.
In the corner of his eye, he caught two uniformed sailors staggering toward the fleet landing. Staggering sailors were nothing out of the ordinary in the Shanghai, but the flag lieutenant was feeling friendly and decided to walk with them at a discreet distance. He hoped they were “happy” drunks and not “mean” drunks. He noticed two shore patrolmen in the shadows sharing a smoke and took comfort in their watchful dereliction.
As he approached, he realized they were not staggering, as drunks should stagger, not staggering with a fluid looping sort of movement. This was staggering that involved effort for every movement.
“Shore patrol, shore patrol, here.” He yelled with sudden realization. “Help! Bear a hand.”
Tiger and the Oyster Pirate collapsed as the flag lieutenant and the shore patrol came running.
“Here, take them to the Carleton. There’ll be a doctor there.” The flag lieutenant was angry.
The doorman at the Shanghai Carleton was a huge Sikh. Common sailors were not allowed within the hotel under normal circumstances, but the doorman did not hold the position he did, because he could not distinguish normal circumstances from abnormal circumstances. The fire in the flag lieutenant’s eye was enough to tell him to keep clear, and to keep quiet.
A doctor was summoned and the shore patrol stripped off Tiger and the Oyster Pirate’s jumpers. They had lost their flat hats and several buttons had disappeared from their peacoats. The faces of both sailors were blotched the color of eggplant.
The Oyster Pirate flapped his arm to show his lone tattoo and to build up momentum to speak. “Every sailor should get stenciled,” he said through a mouth full of blood. “Seems those Shanghai goons were trying to go us one up, and emboss us.”
The bluish tattoo was swollen and hard to distinguish among the welts.
“Last time I’m a-going to a Shanghai harvest time threshing bee.”
The flag lieutenant went to the Admiral with the story an hour later and in two hours the Shanghai Municipal Police raided the godown. There, they found a warehouse full of ownerless munitions. A group of surly Chinese watched them, but quietly kept their distance.
An aggressive young policeman named Fairbairn, who was gaining a reputation for skill in close-quarters situations, led the Shanghai policemen. They searched the area thoroughly.
“That group over there is associated in some way with an upcountry warlord, “ said Fairbairn.
The yacht, however, was gone.
The flag lieutenant laid out the story on flagship. The Admiral grumbled because he wanted to focus on China. His Chief Staff Officer shifted in his chair uncomfortably experiencing digestive problems again.
“You say the girl says Atticaris is headed to Korea. Is there any reason for him to tell her anything? Can we trust her?” The Admiral asked.
The question was rhetorical and the flag lieutenant’s habit of discretion inclined him to keep quiet.
“We know he’s just left a warehouse full of munitions with a half dozen hooligans. We know he’s been doing business in the Philippines,” the flag lieutenant explained.
“Korea isn’t my lookout, the Philippines is.”
“But we just sent a tired old tug to Korea,” the flag lieutenant interposed.
“Not officially.”
“Get the skipper from Baltimore over here.”
“Orders?” The Chief Staff Officer responded.
“Orders to take up station off Mindanao. And better send that sorry collier with them, they’re going to be there for a while,” the Admiral grumbled.
Had the Admiral been more attentive, he would have seen the faintest shaking of the flag lieutenant’s head.
And so it came to pass that the Oyster Pirate in doing his duty caused the collier, Pluto, to sortie prematurely.
He was never to see his sewing machine again.
Two men turned the wheels on the air pump in a bobbing manner that reminded observers of workmen pumping railroad handcars. Another man, the quartermaster Hobson, tended the airhose, lifeline, and communications line. Gunnarson glowered at Hobson through his faceplate. Hobson reminded himself to never give Gunnarson an opportunity to even the score. He could expect no mercy and he should not expect a frontal attack.
Gunnarson was rightly incensed. He was the only diver. This was wreck diving and wreck diving required two divers down minimum, in addition to a standby diver and they did not have one of those either. One diver was used on the bottom to penetrate the hull and the other to handle the airhose, lifeline, and communications line, and keep them clear. And extricate the first diver if he got stuck. Diving was like walking around with a barrel over your head. It was awkward and wrecks were tangles of diver-snaggers. If your airhose snagged or tore, you drowned. If you jammed in a tight spot, you died there. If your suit ripped or your belt ripped off…The possibilities for a watery grave were infinite, and in this project, he was alone. One suit, one diver. A normal dive team required two tenders, not one, and was usually comprised of six trained men. Crottle would have none of it. They had been given a job and nothing was harder than being a member of the black gang, so this was gravy.
Gunnarson in his diving dress, laden with heavy weighted shoes, a massive breast plate with 15 bolts, an extremely heavy helmet with three-porthole like openings threaded into a massive breast plate, lead weights around his waist, climbed awkwardly down the ladder and then slid down one of several descending lines to Jade Rooster as if he were made of lead himself. Underneath he wore two or three pair of wool long underwear and wool socks. He took extreme care not to rip his puffed-up, canvas-coated rubber suit.
Gunnarson started with a survey of the barque.
“On the bottom to the surface, the barque hums like she’s still alive. It’s the current, I figure. Still some bouyancy in the ol’ wreck,” he grumbled into the telephone.
He crawled around everything dragging his airhose and the lamp with him.
“On the bottom to the surface, I positively hate going it horizontal in this damn suit. The water trickles in.”
The cargo had shifted and it had been packed tight. His great fear was getting his helmet wedged into a tight spot. He had no good words about the hold. The cargo for the most part was coopered in barrels. That made it a little easier. It was unlikely, but not impossible that the weapons were in the barrels. He found some ammunition crates which they brought up. There were crates marked “naval stores.” He broke them up and concluded they were indeed naval stores.
The underwater voice on the telephone became agitated when Gunnarson found a crate of dynamite. “Bottom to surface, hell, I’ve been ramming around with this pry bar breaking up crates. If I’d hit this one just right I’d be Gunnarson, gunner’s mate on the heavenly Ark.” He did not bring up the dynamite. There was a strong possibility the dynamite was no longer stable, so he dragged the dynamite crates away from the wreck and buried them in the mud in deeper water.
They found the pumps, compressors, and tanks that comprised the compressed-air paraphernalia required to operate the gun. By themselves, they hardly constituted contraband, but they were heavily greased and placed in oiled bags in classic smuggler style. Nearby, Gunnarson found two crates, one of sewing machines and the other of typewriters. Neither crate showed any sign of waterproofing. Then they found several wheels. Unlike their naval versions, the Army pneumatic gun and Gatlings were designed to be wheeled around on limbers or carriages.
Over the telephone, Gunnarson and Crottle eventually concluded the weapons were not in the holds, but somewhere else and well concealed. Hobson had heard no rumors of anyone ashore using a Gatling gun or a pneumatic dynamite gun. This had
to mean the New Hwarang had not been able to find the guns either.
About halfway through the first day, the telephone broke down. No one could tell if it was the batteries or the line or the mechanism itself. Saltwater and electricity were always at war, like coal cinders and the decks. Communications would have to return to the ancient practice of signaling via tugs on the lifeline and communications line. Unfortunately, since this was a hull penetration, the lifeline and communications line worked around corners and over obstructions. Clean tugs on the line were only a hope.
Underwater, the visibility was minimal, only a few feet at best, and the daylight hours were short. If the lantern shorted out, salvage would be impossible.
The telephone came alive again. “Bottom to surface, I’ve worked aft and I think I’m in the officers’ or passengers’ quarters now.”
Gunnarson went through the staterooms squatting to keep the top of his helmet clear. He kicked off both doors. The proportions of the last two staterooms seemed inconsistent with the others and he began opening drawers and doors. Eventually he found what he was looking for beneath the berths. The cabinet doors above did not open and as he worked at them he realized they were nailed shut. Behind the cabinet doors he found several tin crates in both Atticaris’ and Hoyt’s staterooms. Gunnarson had heard about the ordnance crates on the prau in the Philippines. These tin crates had been boarded into the stateroom like cabinetry. An elaborate bit of work, Atticaris must have had Captain Brewer’s full cooperation. Gunnarson manhandled up a single tin crate to the deck. Then he had the tug lower a chain from the small crane.
On the deck of the tug the tin crate revealed a Gatling gun. The gun was immersed in oil like a tinned sardine.
Crottle had Gunnarson stop work and the crew slowly pulled him to the surface. Crottle had Gunnarson clean the gun up, and mount it, which he did after some grousing. Gunnarson had suggested Hobson ready the weapons, but Crottle pronounced that gunner’s mates attended to ordnance as long as he Crottle was in charge.
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