Authors: J. Clayton Rogers
Before being swept into another world, however
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a world where the scarab remained prevalent, but gentler
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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
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heeled Chinaman was selling to the poor man in the alley.
When he returned to the
Florida
two days later
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on time, since that was the extent of his leave
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he was drained, euphoric, depressed-
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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
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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
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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."
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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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at
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Arms had made it clear he was to avoid head
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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
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"
"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.
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 frantically 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
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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.