Authors: J. Clayton Rogers
Not many enjoyed the duty. But there were exceptions.
It was during their stopover at Santa Barbara that Ensign Garrett realized he'd reached his limit for parties and entertainment. Attending the Dance of the Flowers at the Plaza Del Mar, he'd watched dancers dressed as narcissus, white lilies, daffodils, tulips, California poppies, and God knew how many more ludicrous floral arrangements hop and dance for a thousand sailors and politicos. Certainly, the female dancers had shapely legs--when you could see them through their costumes. But at the announcement of each number, the ensign found himself increasingly overcome by despair and boredom.
Other men already had their itineraries for San Francisco. The historically-minded could visit Mission Dolores; the litterateur could view the Robert Louis Stevenson commemorative statue; the artistically-minded could admire the famous statue of Saul; astronomy could be had at the Lick Observatory; and Mt. Tamalpais stood ready to be scaled by the athletic. The YMCA Naval Clubhouse offered the usual spectrum of sober pastimes, while the Naval Pavilion set up extra cots for the men who chose the less sober ones.
Having no desire to surfeit himself further on local amenities, Garrett approached the Master-at-Arms and volunteered his services.
"It'll be a lark," he said.
Snorting, the Master-at-Arms handed him a brassard, then said, "You're officially a part of the Beach Patrol. Now let me tell you why it
won't
be a lark."
Garrett was appalled by his next words. Everyone had read the reports of the typhus epidemic that had broken out in San Francisco after the fire. It had been brought under control for the most part--but something else had reared its brutish head.
"That's right, ensign. Plague."
"You mean... like the Black Death?"
"You got it."
So much for his fantasies of taking on drunks, and perhaps cracking a few heads in the line of duty.
"I want you to go to Fillmore Street to meet with Dr. Blue."
"Dr. Blue?"
"Really quite an honor for you. Rupert Blue is the foremost expert on plagues in the country. President Roosevelt sent him out here when the Board of Health wired for assistance."
Garrett was so honored that he was tempted to rip off the brassard on the spot. For which the Master
-
at
-
Arms would have had him up before the Mast in two shakes, the last thing the ensign needed. He was trying to keep a low profile around Captain Oates, who gave him an evil, jaundiced eye whenever they passed each other. So Garrett saluted the Master
-
at
-
Arms and headed out for Fillmore Street.
An hour later he found himself in front of a long gray warehouse. Hundreds of rats were piled out front, some dead, others only wounded or dazed. The piles squirmed.
Men in low hats walked up with more, cheerfully swaying their inverted bouquets. Noting Garrett's expression, one of them swung his half dozen in the ensign's face.
"Oh, no-no-no!" said Garrett.
The man they were paying court to stood at a side door, handing out sums of money for each rat added to the heap.
"Ah, brought us some brown rats, did we Tom?
Mus
rattus
, not very common these days. But there's one of our fine, fat friends in the middle:
Mus
Norwegicus
. Those gray Norway rats are conquering our quiet little Indians, I'm afraid." He paid off the rat catcher, who strolled happily down Fillmore counting his bills.
"Dr. Blue...?"
Dr. Rupert Blue tipped his hat. "You must be Garrett. Your boss telephoned to say he was sending you up here. I guess he wanted you to see what you're all up against. Scout out the enemy, so to speak."
"That was the Master-at-Arms."
The doctor nodded at the pile. "I suppose you already knew about the yellow fever epidemic that hit San Francisco after the earthquake and fire. But the city fathers have managed to keep this quiet. Up to now at least."
"What? Rats?"
"Plague."
The Black Death, after all.
"If you'll step inside with me, I can show you--"
"Well actually, sir, if you can just show me your map. The Master-at-Arms said there were some districts off limits."
"Nonsense!" Blue held up his hands. "Medical science has come far, Seaman Garrett. You must come in and see. Except for the regulars, we don't get very many visitors."
Workers emerged from the warehouse and began picking rats out of the piles. Following them in, Blue and Garrett passed large vats of bichloride of mercury, used to finish off the rats not already dead.
"I try to get the catchers to bring them in alive. If they're killed beforehand and the body grows cold, the fleas abandon ship. Best to dispose of rats and parasites all one go."
The stench was unspeakable. Dr. Blue inhaled and exhaled as though bracing himself in clean mountain air.
"Damn fleas are what you have to control," Blue went on. "They get the disease off the rats, then bite humans--boom! Bubonic plague. Sand fleas, rat fleas, mouse fleas, dog fleas, even Indian plague fleas--all of them found on our crew. The rats, I mean. The prime culprit is
ceratophyllus
fasciatus
, found on the Norway rats. Sixty-nine percent of the ones we've counted have been of that variety."
"You count
fleas
?"
Garrett was just able to stomach the impromptu tour--until Blue took him into the annex. Six men stood over a long table wielding sharp surgical instruments. Several were whistling to the accompanying clink of a white porcelain dish that was being passed around.
"This is our 'Ratatorium,'" Blue announced proudly. "Once the rats are tagged, they're brought here so they can be skinned, preparatory to microscopic examination for infection. Each one of my boys can clean five hundred specimens a day."
There was a dull splash as one of the workers scooped out a rat's entrails with his bare hand and tossed the bluish mess into the dish.
"Oh!"
"I knew you'd be interested, Seaman Garrett. It's too bad President Roosevelt can't see this. He's the one who sent me out here, you know."
"Oh!"
The men at the table glanced up at him.
"Is there something wrong?" Dr. Blue inquired.
"The men. From the Beach Patrol."
"Did you want to bring them in here, too?"
"No! I'm supposed to meet them."
"If it's urgent--"
"Yes!"
Dr. Blue took him into his office and showed him a map of the city. "By no means let any of your men enter the Lobos District. That was the site of one of the larger refugee camps after the fire and some of the worst outbreaks. If any sailor wanders in, do not let him back on board his ship. I have the backing of your fleet commander on this. If someone carried infected fleas onto a battleship, every man on her might be dead in two weeks."
"Understood."
"We're still finding infection on Telegraph Hill. And in the Mission District south of Market Street. Any of your men go in those areas, you'll have to scrub them brighter than a beet. And their clothes will have to be burned. And... my advice is to keep everyone out of those areas, also."
Garrett and his men were posted along Market Street. They patrolled the blocks between Stewart and Fremont. Any bluejackets they encountered coming down from the north were turned back. If they protested, Garrett would stand aside.
"Go ahead, it's not my future."
Invariably, he was darted with a suspicious glance. "What do you mean by that?"
"Just means the clap is the least of your worries, if you keep going."
"Bullshit."
"Fine, fine. But when you strip in the shower and your mates start laughing at your blue balls--"
"
What
?"
"Didn't you know? That's one of the effects of the plague. You know... swelling of the tongue, blindness, blue balls.... What I was saying was, when your mates start laughing at your pecker shriveling up like a bean--"
"
What
?"
"Didn't you know? That's another effect. The plague's tough on peckers. Makes it hard to...." At this point Garrett would stick his tongue in his cheek and waggle his billy club up and down. "And it's twice as hard to get it up once you're dead," he would add.
In fearful silence, the protesters would turn back. Garrett's act was so good his own squad was half convinced. News of the 'blue balls' spread like wildfire. By evening of their second day in port, it was the rare bluejacket who even approached Market Street, let alone try to cross it.
This left Garrett's men with little to do. When a policeman encountered the squad on his beat and informed them of the trouble some sailors were stirring in the Blue Periwinkle, one block up Front Street, Garrett saw the perfect salve for boredom.
The bluejackets in the bar were into their third stanza of an off-color chorus when the Beach Patrol arrived. All of the songsters were off the
Florida
.
"Mr. Garrett!" they called, then fell silent when they saw his brassard.
"Mr. Garrett's not one of us tonight," one of them murmured.
"Who says that? I'm always at one with the lads."
"If that's true, Mr. Garrett, come and tell us if you think this beer's been watered."
Garrett had heard of watered Scotch, but never diluted beer. His face showed genuine shock. He turned to the proprietor, a beefy man with both arms braced on the counter. "Now, sir, you would never allow such a thing in your establishment, would you?"
"He would!" the bluejackets shouted in unison.
The owner slammed the countertop. "I call the police and what do I get? More blue devils."
"
Sir
...." Garrett placed his hand over his wounded heart. The sailors, seeing things going their way, began to titter.
"Lies!" the owner yelled.
"He's calling us liars, Mr. Garrett!"
Garrett cautioned them to sit back down. His small squad was outnumbered four to one, but every man jack of them was a bruiser specially chosen for this job. As they moved into position between the bar and tables, the bluejackets were given full opportunity to appraise the strength of the Beach Patrol. Chair legs squeaked sulkily on the floor as they reseated themselves.
"Watered beer..." Garrett mused out loud. "I think that's the most monstrous thing I ever did hear of."
"Not nearly as true as this," said the owner, indicating a broken wall mirror behind the bar.
A sad inward moan.
"You say these men here are responsible?"
"They threw a stein at it!"
"Mmm-hmmm...." Garrett turned to the bluejackets. "That a fact?"
"I meant it for his head!" one of the seated men boasted.
There they were: accusation and confession. Civilian malfeasance was one thing, but wanton destruction of private property by a serviceman was another kettle of fish.
"Boys..." Garrett sighed.
Seeing things go against them, the boys fell silent.
"But first things first," the ensign said brightly. "Bartender! Set out seven mugs of what they were having. The Beach Patrol will see how fit your brew is for human consumption."
The men of the squad grinned as they bellied-up to the bar. Garrett downed his drink slowly, with many judicious nods and shakes of his head. The room was as quiet as last year's storms. Touching his chin in indecision, Garrett finally said: "Can't tell. Need another round."
The men of the Beach Patrol gravely nodded agreement.
"You'll be paying for this, right?" the proprietor groused.
"Just fill us up! And be quick about it!"
The seated bluejackets grinned. This was the Garrett they knew.
"Down the hatch!"
Upon finishing his second drink, Garrett allowed himself a dramatic pause. He spent a long time looking at his cracked reflection in the mirror. Then he slapped the counter and declared, "Say, that was a damn fine drink. Finest beer I've had since Portsmouth."
"But Mr. Garrett--"
"Sir," he said, turning to the proprietor, "I'd like to know your brand. When I get back home, I want a keg shipped east. And thanks for the drinks, lads!" He went over to the astonished bluejackets. "What's he charging you here? A dollar a drink? Yes, that's steep. But what's a dollar a drink to men of the world?" He leaned closer for words the owner could not overhear. "You dumb bozos, the beer is
green
. Now pass the hat around for the drinks and the mirror. We'll be just up the street all night, so we'll hear if you don't pony up."
Outside, the ensign patted the warm green beer in his belly and belched.