The Sand Pebbles (57 page)

“You got it figured wrong, Frenchy.”

“I hell got it wrong! They’re poisoning China!” Burgoyne relaxed his manner. “Chinamen ain’t the way they are now by nature, Jake,” he said plaintively. “You purely know they ain’t.”

“They’re turning into a nation,” Holman said. “They can’t stand to have foreign gunboats in their rivers and people like us ashore in uniform, without their permission.”

“But we’re
Americans,”
Burgoyne protested. “They know we don’t want their territory. We’re just protecting our own people.”

Holman felt hopeless again. He changed the subject.

“That smells good, Maily.”

“Don’t you dare look!”

“I can’t help smelling. It smells good.”

When Maily served the food, it was rice and fried peppers and pork in the gingery sauce that Mei-yu had taught her to make. It was very good and it brought back old times. Both men praised her and she smiled and cried. They had only the chair and chest to sit on, so Maily ate standing, bowl and chopsticks in hand, like a Chinese woman. She brought them acrid Chinese wine, heated. The hot food and wine made the room steamy warm and good-smelling.

“You got the best cook in China, Frenchy, and the prettiest one,”
Holman said. “You better be good to her. You better not turn your back.”

Burgoyne pulled Maily against him and she smiled down. “Anybody gets this gal, it’ll be over my dead body,” he said fondly.

It was one of their old jokes from Changsha. They drank hot wine and talked about Changsha and it brought those old days back for them very powerfully.

Leaving, Holman turned in the hall, to face them both in the doorway. He put one hand on each of their shoulders and pressed them together.

“I had a good time,” he said. “It was just good, being here with you.”

“Thank you for coming, Jake,” Maily said. “Goodnight. God bless you.”

He left them smiling.

In the street, he did not smile. It was dark. The drizzle had started again. He turned up his peacoat collar. A gust of unconsenting rage at his helplessness shook him almost physically.

He walked along. Two uniformed pickets walked at him. He gave way. Half a block further along he gave way for three others, and they shifted too. They were trying to force him into a filthy puddle. It was too much. It triggered him. He turned and shouldered between them and swept both arms out powerfully.

They tumbled and splashed. A shout went up. It was the thin, screechy Chinese mob shout. Holman’s hair bristled. He faced around.

A line of men had formed across the street. Almost like magic, the street seemed solid with angry, yelling faces. Windows opened. Heads peered down, between potted plants on window balconies.

The line moved slowly toward him. He gave ground backward, fists ready at hip level. You could always face down a Chinese mob, they said. It was the power of the eye. You had to face them down. The danger lay in running. That was what they said. Holman whirled and ran.

Stones overtook him and thudded on his back. The screech raced
by him like fire in treetops. The street ahead filled with men. Holman burst through them, elbowing, shouldering, fists lashing out for his life. Far ahead he saw the brighter lights of Taiping Road and the White Ensign flying above the guard post.

Chest aching, feet pounding, he ran for it. Whistles shrilled ahead. British sailors deployed from the guard post with bright bayonets. Holman threw up his hands and ran through them into the sanctuary of the light.

The broad, kindly British faces looked at him curiously. “Bless me, a Yank!” the pink-cheeked young sub-lieutenant said. Holman was panting too hard to speak. He heard the mob screech subside. The young officer told his men to stand easy. He led Holman into the matshed. Some Hankow Volunteers were there, in khaki and steel helmets.

“I must hold you until the American patrol stops by,” the officer told Holman. “You’re lucky to be alive, you know.”

“Yes, sir. I know,” Holman panted.

He was trembling and sweating heavily. He fumbled open his peacoat, to cool off. Now I’ll get a court-martial, he was thinking. Well, it was better for your own side to catch you. Yes, much better. A Volunteer officer walked over.

“This is a friend of mine,” he told the British officer. “I’ll escort him to patrol headquarters.”

It was Graham. His pleasant, homely face looked strange under the round British helmet.

“I shall have to report this,” the young officer said doubtfully. “I shall want name and ship and—”

“Joseph Doakes, U.S.S.
Truxtun,”
Graham said easily. “Tell you the rest when I come back, Robert. I’ll be responsible.” He took Holman’s arm. “Come on, Joe,” he said.

Holman walked out with him, still panting. It was all very fast and smooth. He began to catch his breath. They turned into Poyang Road.

“Lucky I was on duty,” Graham said. “It’s my last spell of duty, too.”

“Lucky for me, all right.” Holman had a sour, copperish taste in his mouth. “You sure done that smooth,” he said admiringly.

“Things can always be arranged. I owed you a favor,” Graham said. “Glad I had a chance to return it. I’m leaving with the convoy Friday.”

They walked along. Street lights gleamed on wet pavement. No one was on the street.

“I’m curious,” Graham said. “You could get killed over in the native city. What were you doing there?”

“I’ll tell you. Because I want to ask you a really big favor.”

He began telling about Maily and Burgoyne. Graham halted.

“Native women are not wives,” he said. “I’ll bet she’s the same woman Bill Collins spoke to me about.”

“I expect so. Could you possibly take her, sir?”

“Look, Jake. Come in here out of the rain.”

Graham moved into a shadowy doorway. Holman refused a cigarette. Graham lit his own. His face looked sad and thoughtful in the match flare.

“China is a big country, but the American community in China is a lot like a small town. We all know each other,” he said. “You can’t get away from it, this is a case of a sailor shacked up with a native woman. And nobody can keep secrets in China. My wife’s maid is a perfect devil to bring her servants’ gossip.”

“Why a secret? What’s
wrong
with taking her?”

“It’s … well … we live under American law here in China. Not that I think the U.S. Marshal could or would enforce the Mann Act on me. But we have the sentiment of it.” He pulled deeply on his cigarette. The glow showed his long, honest face twisted with sadness. “I have business enemies. My wife has social enemies,” he said. “They’d make a big thing out of Ed Graham bringing a cabaret girl down to Shanghai.”

Holman shivered. He buttoned his peacoat.

“People always believe the lies,” Graham said. “They want to believe any lie that hurts someone they envy.”

“I guess that’s how it is.”

“Why doesn’t your friend just let her go?” Graham’s voice was sad but kindly. “It’s that kind of a time in the world. In China, anyway. And she
is
Chinese.”

“He won’t let her go,” Holman said. He could not get angry at Graham. “All right, she’s Chinese. Does that mean she ain’t got any insides, she’s made of paper or something?”

“It shouldn’t make any difference, should it? But in our world I’m afraid it does,” Graham said. “What I meant, though, was—
mei yuh fah tzu
. The Chinese are fatalists. No matter what, they can bow their heads and go on living.”

“Well, thanks for helping me, anyway.”

“It wasn’t anything. I’m sorry about the other.”

“Mei yuh fah tzu,”
Holman said. “Goodnight, Mr. Graham.”

Burgoyne was not aboard at reveille. If he came back now, in broad daylight, it would be hard for the officers and chiefs not to see him. If he was not aboard for quarters, it would have to go down on paper.

“I knew it! I knew it!” Farren tugged at his beard. “I logged him in last night.”

“We all done it. We’re all in the same boat,” Perna said.

During breakfast a boat from the flagship delivered Burgoyne under guard to the
San Pablo
. The Sand Pebbles flocked out. Burgoyne stood there quietly while Restorff, who had the watch, logged him in as a prisoner-at-large. He had a purple swelling on the side of his head and blood on his ear.

“What happened, Frenchy?” Wilsey asked him.

“Patrol caught me,” Burgoyne said. “I didn’t tell them bastards in Flag nothing. You guys ain’t in trouble.”

He had an animal glare in his mild brown eyes. He turned, with slashing motions, and pushed through them to the engine room hatch.

“Leave him alone, you guys,” Holman told the others.

He followed Burgoyne down into the engine room. Burgoyne stood
leaning with his hands on the workbench, head bowed. Holman stood quietly behind him.

“Want to talk about it, Frenchy?”

“All I’d tell ’em in Flag was that I got drunk in the Limey canteen and went over to a whorehouse I knew about in the native city,” Burgoyne said. “Tell ’em that topside. Tell ’em they ain’t none of ’em in trouble account of me.”

“I’ll tell ’em.”

“Reason they caught me.” Burgoyne coughed suddenly, deep in his chest. “The block committee threw us out last night. We sat in that alley back of the place all night, wrapped in our
pukow
. I didn’t sleep … guess I was dopey. Anyway …”

“Jesus, Frenchy!”

“I run eight blocks, Jake,” Burgoyne said in a stronger voice. “They kept shooting at me but they couldn’t hit me. Only in the ear.” He touched his ear. “Then I run smack into a second patrol and they clubbed me down with rifle butts. I didn’t give up easy.”

“Where’s Maily now?”

“Settin’ in that alley, with her gear.”

“You better get in dry clothes, Frenchy. Eat something.”

“After while,” Burgoyne said. “Jake, I didn’t give up easy.” He shuddered all over and coughed again. “I’ll just set here a spell, first,” he said. He sat down on the workbench. “Just leave me be, Jake. I got to think what to do.”

After quarters Lt. Collins was called to the flagship. It was about either Burgoyne or Pappy Tung, the crew surmised. They hoped the ship was not in trouble, but they were glad to see the long agony over for Frenchy Burgoyne. They thought his sixteen-year clear record would save him from naval prison.

Mei yuh fah tzu
, Holman kept thinking.

A large wupan with two stumpy masts tried to come alongside. Uniformed students and civilian Chinese filled it. Franks drove it back with the fire hose.

“We wish to speak with your captain,” a student in the bow hailed.

Three coolies sculled it with a big, rope-anchored
yuloh
. A redheaded woman in the bow was making notes on a pad. She was either a missionary or a Bolshevik.

“Red hair. She’s one of them Reds, all right,” Bronson said.

“Hey, watch that stuff!” Red Dog said.

The student hailed again. Bordelles came to the bridge wing.

“Tung Chi-fu has confessed that you have opium aboard,” the student shouted through cupped hands. “We ask that you surrender it to be destroyed.”

“Below, there!” Bordelles shouted. “Hit ’em with that hose!”

The water arched out again, but it would not reach. The Sand Pebbles argued angrily. Someone said they must have tortured poor old Pappy Tung. Someone else recognized Pappy Tung standing in the waist of the wupan. Ping-wen was there too.

“We know exactly where it is aboard,” the student shouted. “We ask that you submit to a joint inspection.”

“This is a United States ship of war and you can go to hell!”

Bordelles rang it out like bells. The student shrugged.

“We came prepared for that,” he shouted.

The people in the wupan stretched a sign between the stumpy masts. In big red letters on white, it read:
POISONERS OF CHINA! GIVE UP CONTRABAND
! The wupan began a slow circling of the
San Pablo
, just out of firehose range.

It was a damp, gray day. Clouds hung heavy and low. The Sand Pebbles were disturbed at the enormity of the lie. The ship coolies gathered in a knot on the fantail, jabbering excitedly.

“Why the hell they picking on us?” Duckbutt Randall kept asking.

“San Pablo …
boarding!” Farren shouted.

Lt. Collins fairly leaped aboard. “Send all the chiefs to my cabin, on the double!” he snapped at Farren. “Tell them side arms!” He ran on up the ladder.

The search party went pistoled and grim-faced aft and down to the Chinese quarters. More coolies popped up on deck. In about ten
minutes the search party came up. Each man carried three or four wicker-cased packages the size of bowling balls. Lynch caught Holman’s eye in the crowd.

“Get below, Jake!” he ordered. “Clear out the coolies!”

The only coolie was the man on watch. Holman sent him up. Lt. Collins and the others brought their packages into the fireroom. Only the center furnace of the port boiler was burning. Holman swung open the fire door and they all pitched their packages in on the bed of coals.

“Leave the door open,” Lt. Collins said. “I want to see it burn.”

His voice was sharp, his lips white. The wicker casings caught fire. The stuff melted and fried out, spreading and bubbling, almost smothering the fire. The furnace became blue-smoky. The open fire door spoiled the draft. Holman mentioned it to Lynch.

“Slice it!” Lynch said.

Holman worked the long slice bar up through the grates. Coals and clinkers showered down. Pink flames broke through the frothy, smoking surface. They were all stooped looking into the furnace, their faces red and sweating. Bronson came down and shook Franks’ arm.

“Chief! The smoke’s spreading right above the water!” he said. “They can smell it from here to Shanghai, for God’s sake!”

They could smell it in the fireroom, too. Everybody in China knew that heavy, oily, sweetish smell.

“Lynch! Mask it, somehow!” Lt. Collins snapped.

“Rubber, Jake!” Lynch yelled. “Oil and rags!”

Holman ran for the roll of sheet rubber they used in making gaskets. Lynch threw in armloads of oily rags. Then he coaled the fire heavily, slammed the fire door, and gave it maximum draft.