At the Midway Page 23

  He was still shaking. My gun.

  "Goddamn it!" he swore, biting his mouth. Maybe... if he moved....

  He retraced his steps, praying the whole time no one could see him. He found the Rexer halfway up the nearest dune. Still shaking, he picked up the gun and turned. He marched stiffly past the compound, cursing all the way back to the relay station. The men at the perimeter gaped at him. Enderfall had told them he'd been killed. Well, count on the Top Cutter. If anyone could return from the dead, he'd be the one.

  "Goddamn it!" He stomped through a group of men without looking at them. "Goddamn it!"

  "Sergeant..." Anthony said in a low voice as he approached. "Are you all right? We could only see the brute's head. It looked as if--"

  "Goddamn it!" Ziolkowski raised his Rexer. "I kept my gun!"

  Impressed, the other marines nodded understandingly.

  Men were sent out to search for those missing and not accounted for. A handful were found scattered in sandy niches, some jabbering like idiots. It took some time to bring them round, but there was one who could not be brought to his senses.

  When they found Hamilton Hart, he was balled up in the sand. Over and over he babbled:

  "Not again! Please God, not again!"

  There were several Chinese stranded on Eastern Island. Watching the giant sea creatures sculling across the lagoon, Lieutenant Anthony postponed any attempt to retrieve them.

  XIV

  May, 1908  37°49'N, 122°28'W

  From a marine's diary:

  Passed in review before California Governor Gillette; 5,000 of us, bluejackets, marines, all ranks; just like in San Diego, I was in the fifth set of fours; all this marching--I've earned my land legs! Supposed to march again in Oakland in a few days; went on a search detail with some SF policemen to find body of Sgt. Briscoe, who jumped overboard as we entered the harbor; we didn't find him, but I saw much interesting shore life; the sergeant has been declared a deserter, but the money says he drowned; his clothes have been sold; we wonder why he jumped; a whole slew of marines beached for bad conduct; I must say we don't make a very good impression on the locals; spent my last liberty in Vallejo and saw several ranches, which made me think of home; was introduced to Miss Linda Grace; she is very beautiful and also very nice; last night I dreamt about Mother standing on the front porch and waving.

  Three hundred yards west of the Commercial Pacific Cable Company office the telegraph cable slipped into the ocean and began its twenty-four hundred mile journey to Hawaii. As he stared out the office window, Captain Oates pondered that distance, as well as the thousand-plus miles beyond it that led to Midway. It would have been madness to send him on to Honolulu with so little preparation. Rear Admirals Thomas and Sperry were ordering the Florida to bypass Hawaii altogether, making a beeline to the atoll.

  "What do we know about Midway?" Thomas hemmed. "Well, let's see."

  The last time Oates had seen him close up, Thomas looked like an overage schoolboy who'd just passed an exam he'd fully expected to fail. As Rear Admiral Evans became increasingly ill, it was Thomas who was assigned to take his place at notable gatherings. And it was making him just as ill. His speech was slurred. His hands shook. Was he still drunk from the bash at the San Francisco Civic Center? Or the rapid‑fire series of fetes royal in Marin County? Perhaps he had not recovered from the cascades of punch served outside the De Young Memorial Museum. And then there were the hundreds of private parties thrown off like sparks from the main events.

  It was probably an accumulation of them all, Oates thought. Which did not change the fact that the semi‑inebriated, semi‑ill, and completely pooped man before him was the new commander of the Fleet.

  Only an hour after speaking with the Florida's skipper, Admiral Evans had roused himself from his wheelchair to deliver a fiery speech in the banquet hall of the Fairmont. The effort cost him dearly. The very next day he was so sick that he hauled down his flag and turned command over to Thomas.

  His replacement was as ready for a world cruise as a rotten tomato was for market. The consensus was that the flag officer standing next to him this moment, Admiral Sperry, would soon take the conn. But like any civilized man, he had to await his turn.

  "Midway...." Thomas had difficulty focusing his thoughts. His eyes, as well. They wandered over the plush Commercial Pacific office and landed in confusion upon Mr. Schwed and Mr. Follet, the company officials who had prompted him to shoot off a wire to Roosevelt.

  "Uh... lots of storms around there, I think. Plenty of wrecks, that much I know. Coral atoll surrounded by a reef." He wiggled his brow at his fellow rear admiral. "Great God, Sperry. We've got the entire Grand Atlantic Fleet at our disposal and I can't think of a single man who's been to Midway."

  "I can tell you this much," said Schwed, nervously unfolding a chart on his deck. "It's at 28.14 north latitude and fourteen minutes off the 180th meridian. The station on Sand Island not only connects us to China. It's a vital link in the Honolulu-Luzon Submarine Cable. I know the insurrection in the Philippines has been quelled. Officially. But it should make us all uneasy, losing contact with our troops there."

  Oates leaned over and glanced at the map. "That's not what I need."

  "I know. I'm afraid our sounding charts for Midway are all at our Honolulu office. The ones we had here were destroyed in the Great Quake."

  Before Oates could comment on this, there was a knock at the door and Lieutenant Grissom entered. The executive officer of the Florida had to look twice at Thomas and Sperry before recognizing them. He twitched uneasily as he stood attention. Things did not bode well when flag officers sneaked around out of uniform.

  "It's done?" Oates asked him.

  "Yes, sir. The Florida's tied up at Long Wharf. I'm afraid we had to use the Red Stacks to tow her. With the better part of the crew on shore, there wasn't enough time--"

  "Bragh!" was the sound Sperry made. He was the son of a New England brass manufacturer and it showed. "This is supposed to be a secret move, Lieutenant!"

  Grissom was nonplussed. He had been concerned about the bill the Red Stack Company would present them, not secrecy. How could one move a battleship across the bay without anyone noticing?

  "Sir...." The exec turned this way and that, not sure who to address. "There were trains waiting for us. They knew we were coming."

  "That would be your food and other supplies," said Sperry. "I have friends with the Commissary who know how to hold their tongues. But you'll have to do the coaling yourself. The Oakland longshoremen won't load coal. Bunch of anarchists who don't like to get their hands dirty, I suppose. Now you see why you have to get your men back quickly as possible. It'll take you most the night."

  "Yes..." said Thomas tentatively. Then, more firmly, "Yes!"

  Addressing Grissom's look of utter perplexity, Oates said, "I'm sure you'll agree no captain can run his ship effectively unless he confides in his exec."

  The rear admirals grunted agreement.

  Taking a slip of paper off Schwed's desk, Oates handed it to Grissom. "Commercial Pacific received this cablegram at Honolulu four hours ago."

  The exec read: "MID UNDR ATAK STOP FIRE IN."

  "Oh my God," Grissom whispered. "The Japs?"

  Oates dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "Probably a fire in the cable house. Catastrophic, perhaps, but... well, look at it. The telegraph operator was obviously so rattled he couldn't spell."

  "Deleting letters is standard practice," said Mr. Schwed. "It's faster. More economical. The operator was in control. The station was put out of commission before he could finish his message."

  "Let's see, now," said Thomas. "At sixteen knots you can make three hundred and eighty-four miles a day. That would put you at Midway when... next Sunday?"

  "We've reassigned colliers from the Samoan expedition to accompany you," Sperry gruffly intruded.

  Thomas nodded grimly. The Pacific Squadron had been dispatched to Samoa in preparation for a possible alliance w
ith the Germans, who controlled the islands. If the presence of the Atlantic Fleet in the Pacific sparked war between the United States and Japan, the Americans would be fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with the Kaiser's men--an acute reminder that a Japanese invasion of Midway was a distinct possibility.

  "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen. My exec and I have much work to do."

  "Get your men back quick as you can!" Sperry reiterated. "But for God's sake don't fly blue peter or your steaming colors. We don't want the whole world to know!"

  "If it's war, how will the world not know?" said Grissom once they were outside.

  Oates let the implied criticism of Sperry pass without comment. Sighing, he took out a telegram. "This came two hours ago."

  The exec unfolded it and read:

  "TO ADMIRAL THOMAS STOP I AGREE WITH YOUR PLAN STOP LOGISTICS WILL NOT ALLOW SENDING ENTIRE FLEET STOP ONE SHIP WILL HAVE TO DO STOP THIS MUST BE KEPT SECRET TO PREVENT MORE RIOTS AGAINST THE JAPANESE ON THE WEST COAST STOP MY WARMEST REGARDS TO THE CAPTAIN OF YOUR CHOICE STOP TR."

  "The president can afford to spell it all out," Grissom said wryly. "So... it was Thomas who picked the Florida?"

  "Or Sperry. And his reason's obvious. Have you seen the newspapers? People are making a joke out of our wood armor. We're an embarrassment." Oates hailed his driver. "Grissom, I'd almost bet my bottom dollar Sperry doesn't think the Japs are out there any more than I do. They didn't concoct the cablegram. Neither one of them would go that far. But by Godfrey, now they have the perfect excuse to shove the Gray Gizzard out of sight."

  "I'm surprised you made it this far, Tom," Frank Timley said, tossing Dr. Singleton's manuscript on the desk. "You certainly make no bones about your opinion of the Fleet. I hear you even speak directly to the officers about...." He tapped the manuscript. "I can see why Oates wants you off the Florida. I would want you off, if I was skipper. Scientific American will never publish this. I'm almost ashamed to send it on to the editors. You see, Tom... we're planning to run a long article refuting Reuterdahl's claims."

  The hard chair Singleton was seated on creaked angrily as he tried to relax. "Henry Reuterdahl joined the Fleet in Virginia as the Navy's official artist for the cruise. He got a first-hand look while painting portraits of the ships. He wrote a critical article and now he's being crucified. But he's right. If we go up against the Japanese, we'll end up with sushi for a navy." He considered this clever and grinned. "Science is supposed to be objective, Frank. Shouldn't both sides of the story be told? If SA is going to publish a refutation of Reuterdahl's charges--why not a confirmation, too? Be a hell of a boost for circulation. Pro, con... yin, yang...."

  The Timley Agency overlooked Mission Street. If one pressed against the window, one could see the U.S. Mint on the next block. More gold was coined there than anywhere else in the world, and very little of it was in Singleton's pocket. He wondered at the odd transformation the precious metal underwent on its southward voyage. In Alaska, it was wild mustang dust that sent men into convulsions of greed and desire. At the assayer's office it was divided and quantified. On guarded revenue cutters the wildness was leashed and guarded. And finally, at the Mint, it was molded and tamed. The inevitable crime that arose around the coinage had a banal formality unlike the cataclysmic outrages of the Yukon, where you fought everything: man, beast, weather, earth. Minted gold pitted men against an abstract economy. When a rash of train robberies broke out in the West, the marines were sent in to guard the shipments. They shot a few bandits, and the robberies stopped. The full weight of the government said: You may not rob gold in great quantity, unless you abide by the rules.

  Singleton thought of himself in terms such as these. He was a wildcatter of the mind. His brain was precious ore, not yet stultified by a mold. He had failed to shape himself after the Navy's pattern. So the Navy had sent in a moral landing party to interdict him at home. A man of thought could not thrive without the money that came from places like the U.S. Mint.

  Timley rose from his chair and paced the floor. "The editors went out on a limb to sponsor you on this expedition."

  "They got their money's worth," said Singleton, waving at his manuscript.

  The literary broker held up both hands, as if trying to express a blank between quotes. "Doctor... the Reuterdahl case has shocked the nation. The uproar is tremendous. It's being viewed as the most treasonous act since Arnold at West Point. Reuterdahl has been subpoenaed by Congress. And you want to throw gas on the fire. No, sir. We'll have to talk about severing your ties with Scientific American."

  This brought Singleton up short. "Fire me? But--"

  "But what? You're a contributing editor. Not a board member. Not an associate editor. And even if it was a real 'job'... anyone can be fired from a job."

  Singleton maneuvered tightly, drawing loud squeaks from the chair. The flask in his pocket ground painfully into his hip. "Now Frank, let's be reasonable."

  "I don't know why we went to the trouble to get you this assignment. Tom, I can smell your breath from here. You never used to drink like this."

  Singleton's first impulse was to inveigh against Timley. It was base, ungentlemanly, to speak of another man's drinking habits, especially to his face. But then the truth pierced his stomach like a cold pick. Over the last few years, he'd leaned more and more on remuneration from his magazine articles, rather than collegiate stipends. Lapping up the prestige of being published in the leading scientific journal of the day, he'd ignored the fact that this was how he was feeding himself. The flask in his pocket called to him urgently.

  "Frank, I rather enjoy composing articles for our little ragsheet," he said with feeble joviality.

  Hands clasped behind his back, Timley stood at the office window and watched a line of guarded bank cars stutter up the street. A deep sigh came from him, like an opinion long since settled upon. "From now on, you can write them for someone else. We've had a request from Admiral Evans himself to have you removed from the Florida."

  "Well, I realize--"

  "Face it. He could have abandoned you in South America."

  "He wouldn't have dared."

  "Why not? He did it to Reuterdahl." Timley eased slowly into his chair like a teacher fearful of sitting on a tack. "No, Tom. This is a parting of ways. We can't risk alienating the Navy, especially since they're funding so much research these days."

  "What about--"

  "You? Well, what about you?" Realizing his hands were resting on the rejected manuscript, Timley lifted them and leaned awkwardly to the side. As if touching the paper might accidentally sanction it. "You brought it on yourself."

  The numbness that had come over Singleton during the last two years was gone in a burst. He was suddenly terrified. What would he do? How would he live? He pushed himself forward to protest. The rim of his metal flask caught the chair arm and fell out of his pocket, clattering on the wood floor. The cap popped off. Amber fluid gurgled out.

  After the first puff, Gilroy had coughed some, and felt the high of hyperventilation. While he was wondering if he'd been bamboozled, the Chinese purveyor of dreams cooked the second pellet. When he turned the pipe towards him and the fireman took another toke, Gilroy became sick as a poisoned crow. It was the beginner's sickness, similar to that of mal de mer. Only after the doctor of hallucinations had administered a third dose did the nausea pass. Then came clarity, the pristine assurances of the ineffable.

  Before being swept into another world, however‑‑a world where the scarab remained prevalent, but gentler‑‑the practical side of his mind took note of something the Chinese man was doing: He was carefully placing the ashes from the bowl into a small container similar to a snuff box. It was only then Gilroy recalled something he'd heard years ago, on the run to Formosa. Chinese who could not afford opium often purchased its ashes from opium dens. Chewing on them could produce a modest kick all its own. Gilroy now knew why the doctor of dreams was saving the smoky residue, and what the well‑heeled Chinaman was selling to the poor
man in the alley.

  When he returned to the Florida two days later‑‑on time, since that was the extent of his leave‑‑he was drained, euphoric, depressed-‑and determined. He would buy as much used opium as he could before the Fleet struck out for Hawaii. He could not imagine sailing around the world without some kind of medical aid. And since the black gangs' lot showed no sign of improving, perhaps he could convert the ashes from the boilers to the ashes of dreams.

  He requested additional leave. There was not much for a stoker or fireman to do on board while in port, so it was granted.

  He found the spot where the liberty party had been accosted by the China doll, and backtracked from there. He kept an eye out for the coolie girl, ready to dodge out of sight if she saw him. He did not fancy her reporting to the tongs that he was searching out one of their dealers. Even ashes might sell dear if they knew how badly he wanted them.

  He was lucky. Chance had crossed their path with the girl's; now chance kept her away. He found the alley where he'd seen the sailor fondling the prostitute. No sign of the well‑heeled ash salesman. It had been Gilroy's hopeful assumption that the corner was a regular spot for him. After lingering over an hour, however, the fireman concluded he was wrong. He was about to attempt worrying the girl out of the nooks and crannies of the Quarter in order to question her, when he spotted the ash salesman scurrying up a side street. He trotted across the pavement and intercepted him.

  He'd already decided the best way to approach the subject was to flash his small roll of greenbacks. The Chinaman barely glanced down before attempting to side‑step him.

  "Hey! I just want to buy some of your ashes. I'll pay, you can see."

  "No ashes, no yuan," the polished coolie tried to wave him off.

  "What's the matter, you don't like white men?" Gilroy pressed, annoyed. "Or is it sailors?"

  "I must go."

  "Go my ass. I've been waiting here all day. And I smell a mouse."