At the Midway (17 page)

Struggling through the bunks in the forecastle, it took him several minutes to find the stove.  He was already feeling faint.  Gagging and coughing, he took a rag off a cot, using it to protect his hand as he took hold of the stove's handle and twisted the door open.

Reaching inside, he gingerly pried several briquettes out of the glowing clump.  The rag smoldered but did not catch fire.  This encouraged him to improvise the rag into a pouch for the coals.

He dashed for the door, only to trip blindly over a sea chest.  "Oh Mother, I'm dying."  But the thought of Chandry delivering a somber, if not sober, funeral oration just before dropping his corpse overboard gave him the dose of hatred he needed.

Struggling to his feet, he bashed this way and that until he found the hatch.  He kicked it open... and found Lead Foot and the boatsteerers getting ready to kick it in from the other side.

There was a brief cheer as he straggled out.

He held up the rag, only to discover the coals had burned through, leaving him with a smoky hank of cloth.

"Fire's up, after all!" Chandry said cheerfully.  "Seal the hatch!"

The crew had clumped up tight for a mutiny.  They would not have let William die.  But the knot of unity unraveled quickly when they saw him alive.  Well done... brave fellow....  But there was a latent anger directed at the boy.  They'd gone so far as to challenge Chandry--made their sympathies apparent and were ready to storm past the captain and the purser to rescue him.  And here he'd come out bright as you please--nearly asphyxiated, to be sure, but a happy hero for all that.

Now they were all in the shit house.

It would have been better had they brought him out gasping, eyes rolling--even better had they carried him out dead.  Then Chandry's wagon would have been fixed for certain.  As it was, they felt nothing thankful for the newest boatsteersman.

X

February, 1908

53°57'S, 71°00'W

From a marine's diary:

Go on liberty in Punta Arenas--no cities further south!  Got back to the Florida in one piece; sometimes the fog lifts and we can see glaciers; warned to be on best behavior, since we'll be visiting the President of Chile at Valpariso--but that won't be for a couple of weeks; temperature has dropped and we've changed to undress blues; Wiley came out of the brig last week but then got sick; he died yesterday of brain fever and we buried him at sea; I miss home.

Had Rear Admiral Evans been in his grave, he would have been turning in it.  As it stood, he was over on the
Connecticut
rolling in his cot, a very sick Fleet Commander.

Captain Oates would have rolled with him, only in mirth rather than misery.  Of all the unkind fates that could have fallen out for the man who had subdued Chile, none could have been worse than this.  At the head of First Division, the Chilean cruiser
Chacabuco
acted as good shepherd as she guided the Atlantic Squadron through Crooked Reach, between Carlos III Island and Playa Parda Harbor.  She looked on with tender, embarrassing concern as they squeezed through the notorious narrows around Santa Magdalena.  She flashed a message of congratulations to the North Americans once they sailed by the black and white barber pole of Dungeness Light, signaling the worst was over.

Not that there had been any 'worst' about it.  The Strait rolled out the red carpet for the grand passage.  The southern tip of South America was the world's most famous graveyard for ships and crews.  Oates had not heard of the weather being this moderate in years.

But if the sea was with them, the rumors were not.  From as near as Brazil and as far away as Canada, messages poured in warning Evans of plots against his fleet.  When a mysterious shipment of phosphorous arrived in Rio, the civilian authorities warned him the Germans were going to use it to blow up his flagship.  This puzzled the rear admiral.  Didn't they know that phosphorus was used to combat cockroaches on large ships?

However, most of the warnings concerned Japan.  One dealt with a suicide flotilla of torpedo boats waiting to ram the battleships as they emerged from the Strait.  Another message alerted them to mines sown in the narrows.

Evans scoffed, yet his lookouts were told to keep a sharp eye out for unusual boats and any knobby trigger mechanisms that might bob above the surface.

Oates watched the blinking
Ardois
lights in the division ahead.  They emitted a constant, automated flash that identified each ship.  To see 'C' blink meant that one was astern of the
Connecticut
, 'M' the
Missouri
, and so on in Morse.  He noted how the arc beams reflected off the towing spars.

"Remember that storm off Cape Henry, Grissom?  Aye, there was a hammer.  That was a classic."

"I remember.  The boots were so gallied they only had to look at a chuck of beans to
-
-
"

"Ah, but the way the ships plowed through the waves....

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but the
Florida
almost floundered.  We lost half our lifeboats, and just about all our ventilator funnels.  To tell the truth, sir, when we reached port, I hoisted a few hookers of beer just at the memory."

"
You
, Grissom?"  Before the teetotaling lieutenant could offer a defense, Oates smiled, "Yes, it was something to behold.  And yet we hear all these tall tales about the Terrible Strait!"

"Still a little bucky for the new boys, sir."

"Hmmpph. They're seasick because they expect to be seasick.  It's in their heads, Grissom.  They've heard too many horror stories."

Before the exec could put in a kind word for the less experienced men, Oates leaped up and pointed.
 
"Grissom!  Who is that bozo?"

For no reason anyone could adequately explain, gunstrikers in the U.S. Navy had been unceremoniously dubbed 'bozos.'  The bozo Oates was pointing at staggered to the rail and heaved over the side.  "Doesn't that man know where the head is?"

"To tell the truth, sir, you may think this is fine weather, but it's rough on the plebes," his Executive Officer said.  "The heads are all backed up.  It's pretty rank down there."

"I don't care.  Spread the word: everyone use the heads, no matter how foul they become.  I don't want to spend any more time in the Observation Ward.  That's where we'll end up again if the flag officers see our men throwing up on our shoe tops."

The 'shoe tops' was that part of the armor belt that showed above the waterline--prominent, because of its red paint.

A spray of water whipped across the glass enclosing the pilothouse.  A light tap, as far as Oates was concerned.  "Not even Force 7, Grissom.  No fight for life, no spindrift, no disasters.  What will the journalists write about, now?"  He watched the bozo vent another great gutful over the side.  "Unless it's
that
."

The mad dash that resulted whenever the 'Lucky Bag' bugle call was sounded was wilder by far than the controlled panic of 'General Quarters.'  While the latter required crewmen to disperse to their assigned stations, the former sent them all racing towards a single location, the common mess.  First come, first seated.  If you were slow in the slightest, there was no room at all.

It was an old Navy custom.  Any personal articles found loose or out of place were scooped up by the boatswain or his mates and given to the Master-at-Arms, who promptly dumped them into the Lucky Bag.  It was no use trying to get the property back.  The former owners would have to wait until the weekly auction, when bidding was open to all.  And woe to the seaman whose favorite ring or only watch cap found its way to the bag.  If anyone had a grudge against him he could nurse it at will, if he had the money.

Such a procedure ensured that few articles were misplaced or out of place.  But with so many men on board and so much time spent hastily preparing for inspections or running to quarters, losses were inevitable.

Three days earlier, Midshipman Beck had been helping to double-lash a whaleboat amidships when his necklace and its tiny rood ornament sneaked out of the neck of his shirt, dangling before his eyes whenever he leaned over.  It threatened to ensnare his hands as he worked the ropes, so he took it off and laid it carefully in a crevice near one of the ventilator funnels.

It was not so much a religious totem as a reminder of home.  His New England grandmother had given it to him two Christmases ago.  She was not Catholic, but a mild Methodist.  To her, the cross was a sign of worship, not denomination.  She thought it might offer spiritual protection to her grandson as he ranged into the world.

When Beck returned to the funnel and found the necklace missing, he felt as if every shelf of his meager store of luck had been stripped bare.  Had it fallen overboard?  Not likely.  It had been too far from the scuppers.  The boatswain denied knowledge of it.  Which meant it had probably been stolen.

Word spread that he proposed a dire fate for the thief if it was not returned to him.  To his thinking, there were only two possible perpetrators.  Both of them had been in the immediate area when the rood disappeared.  Though he could not confront Garrett, Midshipman Davis was another matter.

"You see who took my cross?" Beck had asked Davis in a belligerent tone.

"No.  Get out of my way."

"Do you know who took it?"

"No.  Get out of my way."

"Did
you
take it?"

"No.  Get out of my way.  And go to hell."

Everyone was curious to see if Beck's jewelry would turn up at the auction.  The seamen's mess was packed.  Looking from the back of the room, Midshipman Davis could just see the top of Beck's head in the third row of tables.  A small dais had been laid near the galley.  On it stood the Master-at-Arms.

"Pipe down, gentlemen!  The Lucky Bag auction is now open."

One of the boatswain's mates brought out a duffel bag and laid it on the table in front of the petty officer.

"Our first item..."  He scrunched up his nose and drew out a pair of soiled underdrawers using the tips of his thumb and index finger.  "...was found fo'ard the gundeck.  Now, what am I bid--"

"
No
!" came a unified shout, followed by a flood of laughter--although a few of the men, already weakened by the mild tossing of the
Florida
, succumbed at the sight and dashed for the nearest head.

The petty officer feigned amazement.  "How can you deny such a masterpiece?  There's quite a work of art on the back panel--"

"
No
! 
No
!"

The Master-at-Arms shrugged helplessly and tossed the underwear into a ditty box.

"Next... ah, here's a little gem."

There were perplexed murmurs from the men as he lifted the item for all to see.

"What is it?" someone called out.

"I believe it's a camera lens, left on one of the aft hoods by our esteemed journalist friends and--"

The bidding came fast and furious and ended at $16.50.  Grudging congratulations were offered by the losers to the winner, who would undoubtedly turn around and sell the lens back to the journalist for double the price--or more, there being no camera shop in Punta Arenas.

"Now..." the Master-at-Arms drew out the next item.

"That's mine!" Beck leaped up.

"Belay that, mister!  It's anyone's, now, if they can come up with the right price."

"One dollar!" Beck instantly offered.

"I'm bid one dollar.  One measly simoleon.  Gentlemen, I believe this item is solid gold!"

"Not the chain!" Beck clarified.

"Have a seat, mister.  Now, gentlemen... how can you let an opportunity like this slip you by?  Think of the women and children.  Think of apple pie.  Think of the poor orphans."

"Poor orphans!" some of them hooted.

"
I'm
an orphan," the petty officer told them.  "And I just happen to be poor, too."

No other bids were made, however--until he raised his gavel and cried, "Going once, going twice--"

"Two dollars!"

Half of the men present had anticipated this move from Ensign Garrett.  The other half were not surprised.

"I knew it!" Beck shouted, leaping up again.

"I will ask the midshipman if he is accusing Ensign Garrett of thievery," the Master-at-Arms said gravely.

"Well..." Beck said uneasily.   "...not really."

"It's my understanding your little chain was confiscated properly.  It was loose.  It was unattended.  So enough.  If you don't want to start wearing much heavier chains, I suggest you take your seat and keep it."

"Three dollars!" Beck yelled, sitting down.

"Four...."

"Five!"

"Six...."  Garrett had whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and was assiduously polishing the emblem on his hat, which he had propped on his knee.  He might as well have been counting beans to the bunch, for all his apparent lack of interest.