The Sand Pebbles (20 page)

Now he sat, a slight, dark man in crisp whites, waiting to see Lynch and Holman in his day cabin. It was a small room on the starboard side of the boat deck, with inner doors leading to his bedroom and to the bridge. A red Peking rug covered the deck and his small rolltop desk stood neatly in one corner. He sat facing the door across the round, green-baize-covered table on which the clean cups and saucers sat waiting too. In
San Pablo
, coffee with the captain was a rare and calculatedly ritual occasion.

Lynch came in first, snatching his hat off his balding head. Holman followed. He wore clean dungarees, a breach of ritual. At Lt. Collins’ invitation both men sat down, holding their hats in their laps. Lt. Collins studied Holman as Yen-ta came in and poured the coffee and went out again, leaving the silver pot in the center of the table. Holman had the sullen air very strongly. It was a felt thing, because the man’s square face was impassive, as always. Lt. Collins tried to put both men at ease with a few remarks about the accident. They were an unofficial board of inquiry into the cause, he told them.

“What do you think, Chief?”

“Well, sir, it was them keys jarred out.”

“Why did they jar out?”

Lynch shrugged. “The vibration, sir.”

“And why the vibration?”

“From the bearing knock. Chien was going to refit it that night, if we could’ve got into port on it.” Lynch glanced at Holman.

Always at some point you had to stop asking why, Lt. Collins thought, or you would go all the way back to creation. But a man had died, and some account had to be taken of it.

“It is normal for an engine with the links in neutral to turn with that much power?” he asked Lynch.

Lynch began explaining about the vacuum in the condenser and air leaks up the rods. The links were never exactly in neutral, he said, because you had to run the link blocks in or out to balance the engine, and there was no truly neutral position. Lynch warmed up, and something of the practical man’s irritating condescension was coming into his manner. Lt. Collins could not follow the words clearly. He was trying to remember his classwork on marine engines. There was something called a Zeuner diagram in which valve action was translated into neat arcs and angles on a sheet of paper. But a sheet of paper could not kill a man. Lynch talked on. Holman was studying the golden eagle and anchor crest on his coffee cup, apparently not listening.

“It was just an act of God, Captain,” Lynch finished huskily, at last. He was pleased with himself and he made free to pour himself another cup of coffee.

“I can’t report this officially, because Chien had no official existence aboard,” Lt. Collins said. “But I don’t want anything like it to happen again. If any personal responsibility can be fixed, I would like to know about it unofficially.”

Lynch pouted. Lt. Collins looked at Holman.

“Do you call it an act of God, Holman?”

Holman started. “I don’t think God’s got much to do with machinery,” he said, sitting upright. “Men are responsible for machinery, and you can always find out who.”

“All right, whom do you say?”

“Whoever should’ve took that knock out of the L.P. when it first started,” Holman said slowly. “And if he couldn’t, he should’ve worried about vibration and inspected things regular and pinned whatever might come loose. That man was Chien. He killed himself.”

“He worked under supervision.”

“Not really. We got too many military duties. We can’t spend enough time below.” The man’s sullen aura spread across the table, but his face did not change. “We lose face if we go bilge crawling and
get dirty. We’re supposed to stand back cool and clean and military and supervise for a few minutes every day. It won’t work, sir! You have to get right close up and mix yourself with machinery, if you want to know about it and control it.”

“Well!”

Lt. Collins drummed his fingertips on the green baize. The man’s whole manner was a sneer at military duty. But not his words. It was probably unconscious. And it was undeniably convenient to blame Chien’s death upon Chien himself, error and correction in the one event. He decided to change the subject.

“I’ve invited Shing to call on me,” he said. “We will discuss a replacement for Chien. Have you any recommendations, Lynch?”

“Pai, maybe,” Lynch said. “Or old Ping-wen, the boilermaker. They’re both old timers. I’d settle for either one, sir.”

“Can I say something?” Holman asked. Lt. Collins nodded. “Most of the work is cleaning work. I never saw a cleaner plant,” Holman said. “But most of the pumps just barely run, and you know about the main engine. Other accidents could easily happen. I’d like to have the new coolie boss run just a cleaning gang and set up another special little gang for nothing but machinery repair.”

“Good idea,” Lynch said,

“There’s one coolie named Po-han. He’s different from the rest.” Holman spoke rapidly, as if he feared being cut off. “The other ones learn kind of monkey-see monkey-do, and whatever they know, they know like that, like old Chien. But Po-han sees steam pushing pistons and metal pushing metal and water lifting valves and springs closing them and all like that, the whole plant all of a piece and working together … it’s a kind of picture … and a feeling….” He had outraced his words.

“I know what you mean,” Lt. Collins said.

“I mean, that kind of guy, he can learn new things by himself, figure out troubles, look ahead, not like old Chien—”

“Chien was a good old man, Jake. Don’t blacken his name,” Lynch broke in, frowning. “This coolie of yours, he’s too new aboard to take charge of a repair gang. If that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I been training him on steaming watches and he already knows a lot, sir.” Holman’s manner was becoming animated. “I’d like to take personal charge of the repair gang for a while, to train Po-han, train ’em all. I was hoping I might get excused from drills and topside watches for a while, sir, to do that.” His eyes pleaded.

Lt. Collins shook his head. “No one may be excused from his military duties, Holman.”

He would have to reassess Holman’s effect on the ship, he thought. There was the coffee mess he had started in the engine room, to split the black gang off from the unitary crew. Was that conscious? How much of his motivation in this repair gang scheme was conscious? Yet it was a plausible scheme, and the only doubtful element was Holman himself. The sullen aura was surrounding the man again, like a cloak.

“Yes, sir. I’d like to try anyway, sir, what time I can find, do the best I can, anyway,” he said, his face expressionless once more.

Make me feel guilty, will you? Lt. Collins thought. I neither like nor trust you, Holman. I’m afraid of what you might do to
San Pablo
. He stood up, to signal an end of talking. Holman and Lynch jumped to their feet.

“I’ll talk to Shing about it,” Lt. Collins said.

Outside by the tall stack, Holman asked Lynch, “Chief, why’s he got to ask Shing about a repair gang? Don’t he run this damn ship?”

“Well, old Lop Eye sort of runs the coolies,” Lynch said. He was looking up at the bund. “Here they come to get Chien’s ghost,” he said.

A dozen of them in loose gray or yellow robes came down to the pontoon, surrounding a red sedan chair. Lop Eye Shing came out to meet them with deep bows. They had beads around their necks and some wore skull caps and some had bare, shaven heads with scars on them. The holiest one of all, in the sedan chair, wore a kind of peaked cap, and his skin was like yellow-waxy paper plastered tightly over his face bones. Lop Eye Shing bowed very low to him.

Holman joined the other Sand Pebbles on the main deck, to watch them come aboard. The old holy man was named Wing and he starved
himself every other month, Clip Clip told them solemnly. The old man walked feebly. Two younger ones helped him up to the quarterdeck and down into the engine room. Two more came behind carrying a bronze urn with carvings on it. The others had gongs and drums. It was a wholly Chinese affair. They were alone in the engine room for nearly an hour, gonging and clanging and singing and popping firecrackers, and a strong blue haze of burning joss sticks came up. The Sand Pebbles were impressed. They knew something pretty big and mysterious was going on down there. When the party left the ship, some of the Sand Pebbles thought they had Chien’s ghost in the bronze urn. Oh Joy said no, the urn was only to burn joss sticks. A Chinese ghost was not something you could put in a box, he said. What they had done was to break the ghost up into little pieces that the wind would blow away.

Holman and the other engineers went below. The engine room smelled strongly and strangely of incense and powdersmoke. Bits of red paper from the firecrackers flecked the oily machine parts. The coolies were back on the job and Ping-wen seemed to be in charge. He was a thin old man, much like Chien, but with a sly, merry look. Wilsey kept turning and looking around and working his arms and shoulders as if he were trying the fit of a coat.

“You know, it feels like nothing ever happened down here,” he said. “It feels just like it used to. It feels all right again.”

“It sure enough does,” Burgoyne agreed.

Holman could feel it too. There was something to that joss pidgin, he thought. He did not see Po-han, and wondered where he was. “I’ll make us a pot of coffee, to celebrate,” he said.

Yen-ta opened the door for Lop Eye Shing. Lt. Collins stood to greet him, with repeated slight bows, and offered him a covered bowl of tea with both hands. Shing propped his stick against his gray gown and took the bowl in both hands. He had to support both his left hand and the bowl with his good right hand. Very carefully, he pivoted to set the bowl on the table and, at Lt. Collins’ repeated invitations, seated himself.

They talked about each other’s health and the weather. Shing seemed at ease, but Lt. Collins was not. It was something like conferring with a warlord, but there were no treaties and body of diplomatic correspondence in the background to structure the situation. Shing had no legal existence in
San Pablo
. Yet when Lt. Collins worked out something new with him they were, in a sense, writing unwritten laws. It was not comfortable.

Neither man touched his tea. Lt. Collins could not read Shing’s feelings. The sagging left side of Shing’s bold face gave him a leering, sardonic look that seemed to belie his words and smuggle sinister import into the blandest phrase. In due time they got around to Chien. There was no precedent for handling a coolie death. Lt. Collins was afraid that Shing was going to demand an indemnity, which could not legally be paid. He explained very carefully about Chien.

“It was Chien’s own fault, you see, because he did not inspect those keys,” he finished.

Shing nodded, leering amiably. “Chien, Ho-mang make fight,” he said. “Ho-mang kill Chien.
Mei yuh fah tzu.”
It was a verbal shrug.

“What do you mean, Holman killed Chien?”

With some difficulty, Shing made it clear that it was a spiritual fight. The engine had intervened to decide it in favor of Holman. All the Chinese were taking the engine’s judgment as final, Shing indicated. The Chinese mind, Lt. Collins thought. Who will ever civilize them? But he felt relieved.

“Any man say Ho-mang belong teach-man,” Shing went on. “He have got plenty face. Oh, just now, too much face! Any Chinese man say fight-man
bu hao
, teach-man moh bettah.”

Lt. Collins frowned. Chinese values, he thought. It was hard to think of Holman as a teacher, that sullen, indrawn man. But it was a title of respect in China and the way was open to suggest Holman’s idea of a separate repair gang. Shing did not accept the idea readily. He did not want the coolie Po-han to be boss of it. Lt. Collins tried to explain what was special about Po-han, and it seemed to be the very reason Shing was opposed. Finally he gave in, but very delicately
he demanded a balancing concession in Lt. Collins’ sphere of authority. He wanted a promise that Holman would be transferred before Lt. Collins himself was relieved of command.

Lt. Collins thought about that. Would he lose face, set a dangerous precedent, if he agreed? He wanted to agree. Did Shing, too, sense an undefined menace in the man Holman? He asked Shing for reasons. Shing was evasive.

“I think bye-m-bye
Sampabble
moh bettah, suppose Ho-mang go Shanghai moh fah,” was all that he would say.

“All right,” Lt. Collins said at last.

Shing smiled, as well as he could. His sardonic, permanent half wink seemed to make them fellow conspirators. Lt. Collins resisted an urge to squirm. The tea was still untouched. Shing, as guest, had the initiative. Lt. Collins looked pointedly at the tea bowls. Shing took up his bowl in both hands and drank, and the visit was formally ended.

When he had bowed Shing out, Lt. Collins found that he was sweating. “Phew!” he said, shaking his head, and went into his bathroom to wash his face and hands. When he came out, he called Yen-ta.

“Tell Holman to come up here,” he ordered, in a voice firm and sure again.

Holman, still in dungarees, sat woodenly in the same place, across the green-topped table. There was no coffee. Lt. Collins told him it was all set for Po-han to head a special repair gang. Holman’s face did not change.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” he said. “That’s good.”

“I’m going to relieve you of topside watches for the time being, until you can get the gang organized and trained.”

The face became alive and friendly. “Yes, sir! I’ll work with ’em, to fix everything that’s wrong now. Then they can keep it up to snuff by themselves.” He actually grinned.

“That pleases you?” Lt. Collins smiled. “Is it getting to the machinery, or getting away from military duties?”

“Well, sir … both, I guess.” Holman’s voice was guarded. “I
wouldn’t mind the military duties so much, if I knew everything was all right down below.”

“But you still wouldn’t like them?”

“Well, they still wouldn’t come quite natural, I guess. But I’d carry ’em out, good as anybody, sir. If I knew things was okay below.”

“I want to make us both clear on your attitude to military duty, Holman,” Lt. Collins said. “I want to go back to something you said this morning, about the Chinese learning machinery monkey-see monkey-do. How do you know you haven’t learned military life that way? How do you know military life is not all of a piece, all connected sense, if you could only understand it?”