Authors: J. Clayton Rogers
"I think that steward, Macklin, should go with the landing party. It was remarkable, the way that serpent turned its nose up at him. And maybe we could send some of the other Coloreds. They're available."
Oates nodded. "Sounds reasonable." He was silent a long moment, then said, "At Trafalgar, one of the things that hampered the Spanish most was their religion. Being good Catholics, they wouldn't toss their dead overboard, but let them pile up. Imagine it, all those corpses rotting on the deck until they could be taken home for a proper burial."
"We've got our own piled up, sir."
"For a good reason. These are shallow waters. Anyone sailing by could look down and see them wash up on shore if we sent them at sea here, and I don't fancy that. We'll have burial details take them to the island when this blows over. But for myself… I want something different. See, Nelson's sailors were Protestant. When their men died, they were chucked overboard without a second thought. They had clear decks to fight from, while the Spanish were tripping over their dead. Grissom, I'm not Catholic. Not much of anything, truth be known. But I can't but help believe having a dead captain on board would handicap the operation of my ship. Besides, I don't want my men… well, staring at me. You understand? If I die, over the side." He fell silent for a long moment.
Grissom swallowed hard. He could not think of anything to say.
Looking up from his reverie, Oates said, "About those colored boys… if they kick up a fuss, drop it. We'll ask for volunteers from the rest of the crew. This is an historic event. We don't want a footnote that we treated them like slaves."
"Very well, sir."
"But Garrett goes. No backing off on that. Picture it, Grissom. I almost made him Officer of the Deck, once. Someone like that, running my ship…."
"Sad, about Davis."
"What? Oh, yes. Poor lad. This is a deadly business." He paused a moment, then added, "Grissom, I am not a Catholic. Keep that in mind."
"Aye, sir."
1940 Hours
Throughout the ship a new, awful odor arose from the galleys. William Pegg's recipe for duff sauce had been circulated to all the cooks and was now being replicated by the gallon. Over the protestations of the ship's surgeon, William was taken to every messdeck to check the potency of each batch, like some judge in a smelly food contest. More than one cook's assistant grew nauseous stirring the brew and had to be relieved. When it became general knowledge that members of the landing party would be coated in the stuff, the prospect of volunteering was made unappetizing as well as terrifying.
So little time. The stokeholds were empty, leaving a half day's supply of coal in the bunkers. Power would be needed for the auxiliaries, especially the searchlights. The landing force would have to leave that evening if they were to start coaling next morning.
Anchors were dropped bow and stern a half mile from the southern entrance to the lagoon. All the motor launches were still on the island. The second wave would be rowing in. Night had fallen by the time the davits were swung out and the whaleboats lowered from the second level. Rifles were stowed under the thwarts for easy access. Colt machine guns were set up in the bow and stern of each boat.
Without a fair trial
? was Garrett's first thought when Grissom told him of Oates' decision. He saw the proposed second wave as suicidal, duff sauce or no. You could eat anything if you were hungry enough, no matter how bad it smelled. Garrett assumed the serpents were no different from the other beasts, so far as that went.
His ribs seemed to shift like parched earth. He'd felt the same while watching the preliminary bout the day he fought Beck. Cast adrift from iron security, at risk from the very unpredictability of a direct flesh
-
against
-
flesh confrontation. It was utterly different from the dangerous
-
yet
-
mathematical, step
-
by
-
step certainty of the twelve
-
inch turret. The process of loading, priming, aiming and firing made violence comprehensible. In an open boat, in the dark, no such order existed. Death in primal form, waiting.
Yet he hid his fear. Grissom eyed him closely, then nodded and left.
The forward gun crew edged around the turret. They'd overheard the exec, and looked on Garrett like someone already dead. They were stripped to their shorts, finally free of their explosive cosmetic. The ensign had hosed them down as they emerged. The pressurized water stung, but their relief had been inexpressible.
Afterwards, Garrett had entered the chamber and closed off all vents that might allow the powder
-
mud to leak down to the magazine and handling rooms. It took him the better part of an hour to hose the turret out. The young loader who'd been so certain he would die--and take the ship with him in the process --looked on with tears in his eyes. Midshipman Beck patted him on the shoulder, then stepped away. He had to choke back a sob himself as he watched the dirty water flow out the lower side vents down to the scuppers.
When Garrett emerged with the hose and shot him a grin, Beck could not help returning it. He sensed that somehow, they were now even.
"It isn't right," he murmured to Garrett as Grissom walked away after delivering Oates' edict.
"Someone has to go," Garrett stoically commented. "From the look of it, that lagoon's no deeper than ten feet. We have a draught of twenty-four feet
-
-
more, with all the party favors on board. That leaves…." Garrett made a rowing motion with his arms, then shook his head. "Aw, damn. Aw, damn...."
1945 Hours
The stewards were assembled in the Colored mess when Lieutenant Grissom asked for volunteers. He understood the silence that greeted his request, and thought he knew a good way to crack it.
"Now, all you boys were upset when you lost your ratings. I understand and sympathize. If I were you, though, I'd see this as a golden opportunity. I can't guarantee anything. You know that. But by Godfrey, I can see promotions
-
-
Seaman First Class
-
-
for anyone signing up. Now…." He leaned forward on one of the gleaming mess tables. "You can rest assured every searchlight and every gun will be trained on you. Guarding your flank, I mean. And we know the marines have at least one of their three
-
inchers operating on the island." He paused, flipped his hand in the air. "For all we know, the serpents are all dead, or chased off. No one's seen hide nor hair of them since early afternoon, when the marines plugged one of them. A big slick of blood was spotted near the reef
-
-
you've all heard about it. Stretches half a league to the south. They could all be on the bottom right this moment. Oversized fishbait."
Fishbait.
That's what they want us for
, thought Amos. He twisted where he sat, as if offering a profile would make him less visible. Grissom had looked directly at him when entering the mess. There was a sinister cast to his eyes and Amos had glanced away, wary of any wordless message the exec might try to convey.
"One of your own has already signed up with the party. Mr. Macklin…."
Amos started to jump to his feet in violent protest. But Grissom caught his eye and the wordless message got through: Cooperate.
Or else.
The punishments a white officer could bring down on the head of a black steward were nearly unlimited in scope and severity. For all his doubts, Amos possessed fierce ambitions. This was living hell. Grissom had it in his power to make it permanent. So Amos eased back.
And nodded.
"That true, Amos?" one of the other stewards asked incredulously. "You goin' out there?"
He nodded again, looking grimly over the man's head. He was ashamed to meet the black faces of his peers. He did not feel courageous, but like the worst type of abject coward. He was compromising his soul.
"You're a credit to your race, Mr. Macklin."
Amos had no intention of responding. He gripped the edge of the bench to anchor his wrath. And at that instant his fingers came upon something that felt like sludge.
As a group, sailors in the United States Navy were fanatically clean. Visitors to the cruisers and battleships of the Fleet were invariably amazed that, amidst all the soot and coal dust and oxidized metal, the seamen could remain so impeccable, their blues and whites so marvelously spotless. When Amos was splashed with duff sauce he'd been almost frantic to clean himself and his uniform. Promptly after his meeting on the bridge he had showered, hastily dunked his whites in a bucket of seawater, and donned his steward jacket and trousers.
Chewing gum! That was what his hand had come upon. If the first lieutenant discovered it during one of his inspections, it would mean extra duty for every colored man on board. The idea that one of them had been so stupid as to clump it below the bench blew away his inhibitions. He rose. He did not face Grissom, but the other stewards.
"What do you say, boys?" His back to the exec, his voice lowered, he added, "Let's show them."
They immediately understood. Rather than cower, as was expected, they would rejoice in the danger, and show…
them
.
Every black man on the
Florida
who was not on duty was in that room. Mess attendants--first, second and third Class. Warrant officers' stewards and warrant officers' cooks. Steerage stewards and steerage cooks. Wardroom stewards and wardroom cooks. Cabin stewards and cabin cooks. The commandant's steward. The commandant's cook.
It was a roster that staggered under its own monotony. They did not serve the Navy. They served the Navy's belly.
More than half of them stood that instant, giving a rousing shout.
They would go.
Amos was stunned. He had not meant to play into Grissom's hands like this. His call had been one of sarcasm, not patriotism. He wanted to shout them down as fools and dupes. But he had been the dupe. A golden opportunity, Grissom had said.
Well, maybe he was right.
He turned and stood at attention. Black man and white man exchanged amazed glances as they listened to the rousing cheer set up by the cooks and messmen. But Amos managed the better face and announced, "Here we are, sir!"
2000 Hours
"Dangerous?" said Singleton. "Not in the least. We're speaking of reptiles, Captain. Cold
-
blooded. They don't move around at night."
Grissom waited for Oates to respond. When no answer was forthcoming, he said, "Sir, more than anyone, I hope our preparations are unnecessary. But we have to take them. The whaleboats are going to be loaded with a three
-
pounder for the island and have machine guns mounted bow and stern. They'll have barely enough room to pull at the oars. Besides…. Doctor, forgive me, but why do you want to go? What do you expect to be able to do?"
"Your ship surgeon has his hands full here. He's supplied me with medical equipment."
"There'll be two medical assistants with the party."
"I've had some medical experience, as you've seen."
"With traumatic wounds? Again, forgive me, but you may see young men dying. That doesn't seem to be something you can handle."
Oates watched the two men argue. He was intrigued by Dr. Singleton's persistence. There was no doubt as to his sincerity. He'd even gone so far as to remove his offensive straw hat as he made his entreaty.
His heart fluttered perilously. He felt pressure in his throat and swallowed hard. If only he could live. Return home. Read articles about himself in
McCall's
, the
Review of Reviews
, even the
Scientific American
. Written by Singleton himself, no doubt, and not very flattering to the man who'd imprisoned him. And Oates would laugh over every line of it, if he could only live to read it.
He thought of the day off the Virginia Capes
-
-
over half a year ago
-
-
when the wind took Singleton's straw hat and Davis was compelled to chase it down. Since that day, when not involved in drills or other duties, Davis had been by the doctor's side. Whenever he saw him in Singleton's presence the boy looked as if he had a sour pickle stuck in his mouth. Obviously, however, the doctor had developed an affection for the middy. Perhaps this was his way of posthumously making up for the difficult times he'd given him. An opportunity that should not be denied any man.
"Make room for him on one of the boats, Lieutenant," he ordered.
2016 Hours
In spite of the battering the starboard side had taken, the larboard whaleboat had survived unscathed. The davits had been secured below for battle stations, but the deck plates were so badly buckled there was no place to set them up. A system of ropes and pulleys was jerry
-
rigged and the boat was worked across to the quarter deck, where it could be lowered into the water. The stench of charred flesh assaulted the men of the work detail, turning the hard labor into a gut
-
wrenching nightmare. Once the boat was down and outfitted, they rushed belowdecks to shower the stink of death off their skins.