At the Midway Read online

  They were passing one of Chinatown's innumerable, shadowed alleys. Gilroy pressed his shoulder against the smaller man and made a quick, herding loop that swung the ash salesman off course. Once away from the main traffic, Gilroy grabbed him by the scruff and pulled him further out of sight of passersby. One had to show proper caution. The salesman was unquestionably a member of one of the tongs and had deadly friends. Whites were not murdered in Chinatown--but occasionally they disappeared.

  "You speakie English, so you know I not crimp." Gilroy pinned him against a building with one powerful arm.

  "I no have," the ash salesman hissed.

  Briefly, the seaman wondered if he had the wrong man. Damn Chinks all looked alike. He was on the verge of giving up, when he suddenly felt the man shift under him. The quick movement to his belt could only mean one thing.

  Gilroy brought his free hand up and caught the man on the side of the head with his fist. The ash salesman gasped. Gilroy let him drop. When the man went into convulsions, the stoker knew what was happening and dragged him even deeper into the shadows. By the time he stood back up, the spasms had ceased.

  "Dumb shit," Gilroy murmured as he leaned over and uncovered the knife. "That would've looked right pretty under my ribs."

  Quickly, he searched the body. The pouch was tucked under the man's blouse. Gilroy unfastened it, then got the hell out. Doing his desperate best not to run, he walked fast up the street, working up a sweat by the time he'd reached the outskirts of Chinatown. He slipped into a bar. The proprietor looked up and sneered at him. He'd seen too many bluejackets of late.

  "Beer," said Gilroy.

  "One dollar," said the owner, making no move towards the tap.

  "A simoleon!" Gilroy balked.

  "See that mirror there? Some of your friends did that, and I haven't seen one cent in damages. So up front, blue‑boy, or not at all."

  "You're worse than the Chinks," the stoker complained, but paid. He needed to sit and think, and a beer would help mightily. Taking his stein in hand, he found a corner table and sat, sipping nervously.

  Forty‑five minutes later he concluded he had not been followed. Removing the silk pouch, he glanced warily at the handful of patrons in the bar, then poked his finger through the drawstring and slowly pulled it open. No wonder the poor bastard fought with his life, Gilroy thought. There were no ashes in the small sack. Instead, he discovered the genuine articles. About thirty tiny opium pellets, plus a hard six‑ounce chunk that could be severed and cooked in small pieces for smoking. There was even a small stem and bowl inside which could be snapped together in half a second.

  Gilroy's moan of excitement was cut short by the thought that every tong in the city would be after his hide. Could they identify him? Probably. The China doll coolie girl would cull him from memory and point out his interest in the ash salesman. She'd probably get a royal walloping when the elders found out what she'd told him. They would quickly instigate a search for the crazy‑eyed sailor.

  He briefly gave consideration to finding the girl and snuffing her small life. But that would have involved returning to Chinatown, a prospect he did not relish‑‑and which would have probably been suicidal, anyway. Still, it would take them some time to put a full search in motion. They might not have even found the body yet. It was well‑hidden behind some garbage pails. And once they did, and the search was begun, they were faced with the prospect of keeping the entire length of the Embarcadero under observation if they wanted to intercept him before he could reach his ship. No, odds were he'd gotten off clean. He decided to celebrate with another expensive beer.

  It was green.

  But what the hell.

  He was still in the Blue Periwinkle three hours later when Garrett led a party through glass doors.

  "You again!" the proprietor exclaimed. "I've got some words for you!"

  "Later, old man. We're looking for‑‑ Ah! There's one of ours."

  He pointed at Gilroy. One of the men wearing brassards came up behind the fireman and clamped a hand on his shoulder. It didn't stay there long. Gilroy, who had seemed to be asleep, came up swinging. There was shouting. Next thing, Garrett's man was pushing off the floor, looking to fight.

  "Avast there!" Garrett ordered when he saw the stunned expression on Gilroy's face. "You just snapped the man out of the best dream he ever had." He thrust a nickel into Gilroy's palm. "Take the Fremont & Bryant trolley back through South Park. You understand? Get off on Bryant and run down to Pier 34. Got that?"

  "Pier 34," Gilroy answered breathlessly. "Yes, sir."

  "There's a cutter waiting to take you across to Oakland."

  "Me?"

  "And any other lollygags I catch. We're shipping out."

  "Tonight?"

  "Don't linger by the docks. There's plague down there that'll turn your balls blue and... aw, forget it. Still got the nickel? Then go!"

  The ensign could not have guessed how wondrous this all was to the fireman. His escape from the tongs was now assured. And the nickel! He grinned as he picked up his cap. Heaven must be at flood tide, and the largess was dropping right down into his hands.

  Garrett was preoccupied with other things. This was as close to his element as he would probably ever get in this man's Navy. It had all the trappings of an old English press gang. The only reason he had not allowed his man to whale into Gilroy was the shortage of time. The Master‑at‑Arms had made it clear he was to avoid head‑knocking if at all possible. The men of the Florida were to be extricated from the city in a trice. The ensign was even given a bag of change for trolley fare to facilitate matters. Oates must have a fire up his burner to be in this much of a hurry.

  "Son of a bitch," the man Gilroy had knocked down said, rubbing his jaw. "I'dve liked to‑‑"

  "Maybe you'll get lucky in here," Garrett interrupted him as they approached another bar.

  The prospect of bashing heads lifted their spirits. The Beach Patrol crashed into the next tavern with a vengeance.

  At dawn next morning, as they sailed past Potato Patch and Seal Rock, the clustered seals barked an ironic farewell to the Florida and the colliers trailing her. As the ship stopped to let off the bar pilot, men gathered at the rail to listen and wonder. They were exhausted, yet wakeful.

  All through the night they had labored. The coaling had been complicated by booms and gaffs swinging overhead and the mechanical braying of donkey engines as other supplies continued to be loaded. Men arrived piecemeal. Those who were landed on the far side of the mole had to dodge the constant shuttle of train engines and boxcars. More than one seaman stumbled on the dark tracks and came up gashed and bruised.

  A charter arrived with men bearing Haas ice cream sodas for the crew. This drew bitter laughter. Oates was offering meager consolation.

  And even less information. What the hell was going on?

  As the sun began pecking though distant clouds, the men watched the pilot's dinghy bob across Duxbury Reef, their moans of dismay all but audible. The Point Reyes light offered solace... but only to those who were arriving.

  "Steer Sou' by Sou'west," said Oates before retiring below to his cabin. Admiral Sperry had told him to show a false course when departing.

  Just in case Jap spies were watching.

  XV

  May, 1908  28°20'N, 177°22'W

  Day & Night

  Each day, the monsters returned. Sometimes they came as a god-like triumvirate, a sky-high wall of steel-like flesh. Sometimes they bounded up on shore alone, inquisitively, and sometimes they arrived in playful pairs. The marines had no idea where or when they would appear. There was no pattern.

  The ocean had become a grisly jack-in-the-box, with three Jacks, huge and deadly. For the most part, their attention remained centered on the donkeys. But during the second morning of the siege, a Japanese dared the lagoon. There was something on Eastern Island he felt he had to retrieve, but he never told anyone what it was or why it was worth risking his life. Paddling frantica
lly in a rowboat, he made it halfway across before the water turned dark. The creature barely showed its head as it took both man and boat into its jaws. To the men watching from shore, it was a simple event. Like a pebble dropped in a pond. Splinters of wood followed the dark underwater shadow out of the lagoon.

  "He have a name?" someone had asked.

  Lieutenant Anthony was in a deadly quandary. He shared the opinion of his day that the Chinese were an inferior breed. On a par with the Japanese, only the Japs had a respectable navy. There were three Chinese left on Midway, now that Bonehead was gone. They were a lowly, withdrawn group of men. Bonehead had been merely the lowest of the low.

  Though bullets had no effect on the beasts, Anthony's concern for the unarmed Chinese was not mitigated. What rice‑eating warlord would believe a story about sea monsters? Orientals were being murdered by the general public in California every week. Why not by the U.S. Marines on Midway? Yet while the Californians might not experience remorse for their actions, the lieutenant felt a twinge for his fellow marines posted on gunboats and in consulates on the China Station. The bellicose generalissimos would use any excuse to rebel against the domineering Westerners.

  Who would believe the monster story? Goblins, ghosts, witches on broomsticks. Angels on pinheads and rickety fairies. All out of vogue, all long shelved. And none more hoary than the venerable sea serpents. Anthony could hardly believe it himself. It seemed the only way to maintain credibility was to pray the monsters stuck around until a ship could come along and verify the marines' story.

  What to do about the three men stranded on Eastern? He was almost embarrassed to broach the subject to his men. They had probably already written them off. Three less Chinks in the world. So what? There were plenty more where they came from. As usual, Anthony bit his lip, argued with himself, and did nothing. For a while, at least.

  They were all nearly shattered by fear. But Hamilton Hart was reduced to mindlessness, at least during the first night and day. Slowly, details of what had happened in Alaska came out.

  "You were in the Army?" Sergeant Ziolkowski said with vague distaste.

  "My command... my entire command...."

  Eighteen men slaughtered in the blink of an eye by the same creatures now besieging Midway.

  "How do you know they're the same?" Lieutenant Anthony demanded.

  "How many of them do you think there could be?"

  "Oh... I see what you mean."

  "They followed me. I was the only one left and they followed me."

  Anthony first suspected the civilian was irretrievably unhinged. Fortunately, common reason brought him back.

  "If they were after you, they wouldn't spend all day chasing donkeys. It's just simple bad luck."

  "Hardly simple."

  The donkeys had been their salvation. But at the current rate, the meat on the hoof would soon be gone.

  1200 Hours

  "This doesn't bother me. I come from a long line of dead men."

  "Beg your pardon, Top, but that's pure horseshit."

  "We'll soon have help," Ziolkowski responded. "Midway's what its name says, the link between the East and the West. With the cable out of commission, they'll send a ship in no time."

  "A cable ship," Lieber said sourly. Such a vessel would take months to reach them. Commercial Pacific would attach a grapple to the southeast end of the cable and follow it out from Honolulu in an attempt to find the assumed break. They would think a whale had become ensnared while pursuing squid, severing the line. It had happened before.

  "So what's your bellyache?" the sergeant growled. "You saying we can't stand up to a few overgrown fish for a couple of months?"

  It was precisely the wrong thing to say. He knew it. Unfortunately, there was nothing else to say.

  "If you don't let me buck up your spirits, I won't waste my breath," Ziolkowski growled. "Enderfall! Stop wavin' that gun. Won't help none if you shoot yourself in the foot. Not here."

  "Top, where the hell did those things come from?"

  "How the hell should I know? Where did you come from?"

  It was noon. With the exception of the unimpressed birds, the island was quiet. The lieutenant and sergeant were faced with a tough tactical problem. Nine hours earlier, one of the creatures had come within thirty yards of the compound before it was spotted. It had been dark, the moon blanketed by clouds. The creature's dark skin had blended perfectly with the night.

  They'd thought the shaking of the ground would warn them of any approach. Now it seemed the creatures could move silently as snakes, when they wanted to. The only thing that saved Anthony's bivouac was the sudden appearance of three donkeys running towards the beach. The creature had immediately taken out after them.

  They needed some kind of warning system. Lone men would have to sit out on the beach on dark nights....

  And do what? Fire off a warning shot? What better way to cut their own throats? Firing a gun would draw the creatures' attention and reach the same result: more dead marines. They could dig small versions of the large bunker Anthony was having built at the compound. From them, a lookout could stick out his gun and fire a warning shot. But would the beast catch the flash, as well as the sound, and attack the sentry? And Ziolkowski was familiar enough with night‑fighting to know how jumbled sounds could become in the dark, even on an island as featureless as Midway. A lookout might have to squeeze off two or three rounds before they knew where the shots came from.

  Sighing, Ziolkowski looked out at the ocean, thinking this was a damned typical spot for a marine to die. He'd give a finger or toe in exchange for a cool Philippine mango right this moment. Fine, ripe and golden. But this thought attached itself to a grim memory.

  Fort Vickars. He was standing aloof from a group of cavalrymen inside the gate. A guard up on the wall did a double‑take when he spotted a Moro warrior strolling into the quadrangle. He was a huge, strapping black man, with a kriss‑‑a Malaysian sword‑‑in his right hand. The cavalrymen took note of him and pulled their carbines out their saddle holsters. The Moro ignored their shouted warnings. They opened fire.

  The Moro was hit in the chest‑‑and broke into a trot. The Moro was hit in the chin‑‑he raised his weapon. He was hit in one lung‑‑and proceeded to chop up five soldiers. It was only after the guard up on the wall put a bullet through the base of his skull that he went down.

  He was taken to a marine guard‑house. Ziolkowski spoke with him three weeks later. The Moro was up and about. A blue spot under his eye marked the exit wound of the bullet that had hit him in the back of the head. The scars on his chest and chin were healing nicely. There were photographers all around him. They were amazed he was alive, and wanted proof for the folks back home.

  But it left Ziolkowski with a sickness of heart. In the States, there was a great deal of talk about racial superiority. Of the 'white man's burden,' and the need to put the world straight. But if any of those pasty‑faced theoreticians had seen what happened at Fort Vickar, they'd have pissed in their little shoes. Every marine had a Moro story. They were an awesome breed. Courageous, possessing magnificent physiques‑‑and frightening as hell. It started Ziolkowski to thinking just exactly what was meant by 'superior.' His conclusion was simple and obvious: weaponry. That was why he had wheeled and dealed so hard for the Rexer. Why he doted on it like a daughter. If he ever came up against the Moros again, he'd have enough firepower to mow them into hayricks.

  But even a Moro would have wet himself on seeing the demons from the sea. Just about every man on Midway already had. And about all that could be said for the Rexer was that it made a fine lot of noise.

  He reported back to Anthony at the compound.

  "We post look‑outs at night, we might as well dig their graves now."

  "Then we'll just have to concentrate on the bunker."

  Using timber and masonry from the shattered barracks and warehouse, the lieutenant put his men to work building a stout bunker in the basement of the main compou
nd house. This had a small cellar with a concrete floor. Because Midway's water table was so close to the surface, this was the only place reasonably waterproof. It was an arduous task, fighting back the sharp coral sand and shoring up the damaged walls. But no one thought twice about the work. Obviously, the only way to survive would be to get underground as quickly as possible. The hammering and their strained breathing sounded flat and hopeless in the dead air.

  There was a supply of canvas in the warehouse, laid in for the handful of ships that passed their way. Most steamships still carried sails in case their engines failed. While coaling at Midway, they often had damaged sheets replaced or repaired. The canvas was now cut and sewn into sandbags. The marines and Japanese fisherman piled the bags along the rim of the bunker, with gun slits every few yards. If the monsters came their way, the marines would open up on them--for commentary, if not effect.

  Stripped to the waist, Lieutenant Anthony worked alongside the others. It was a time for minimal rank and maximum effort. All the honest digging and lifting told on his slack muscles. The muggy heat made him feel as though he was wearing a wool shirt. Only by removing his mind from the present could he keep going.

  Midway. What had he done to deserve it? It seemed the last pleasant memory to his name was the blustery day they had walked‑‑he and his sister‑‑into the hills above their grandfather's clapboard house in Lynchburg. He was ten, she twelve, and they had gathered chestnuts for an evening roast. Returning to the house with two heavy bags, they spread the nuts on the live red coals their father had prepared in the back yard. Anthony's stomach had grumbled, but the wait was more than made up for by the toasty odor. The chill wind swept down, and more than once their father had to chase down a spark and stamp it out. Then their mother had come out with an old pail and they had set the nuts inside to cool. After that came the roasted meat, bedtime, and dreams of more.

  Anthony prayed that on the day he died, he would get the chance to remember that evening one last time.