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February, 1908 53°57'S, 71°00'W
From a marine's diary:
Go on liberty in Punta Arenas--no cities further south! Got back to the Florida in one piece; sometimes the fog lifts and we can see glaciers; warned to be on best behavior, since we'll be visiting the President of Chile at Valpariso--but that won't be for a couple of weeks; temperature has dropped and we've changed to undress blues; Wiley came out of the brig last week but then got sick; he died yesterday of brain fever and we buried him at sea; I miss home.
Had Rear Admiral Evans been in his grave, he would have been turning in it. As it stood, he was over on the Connecticut rolling in his cot, a very sick Fleet Commander.
Captain Oates would have rolled with him, only in mirth rather than misery. Of all the unkind fates that could have fallen out for the man who had subdued Chile, none could have been worse than this. At the head of First Division, the Chilean cruiser Chacabuco acted as good shepherd as she guided the Atlantic Squadron through Crooked Reach, between Carlos III Island and Playa Parda Harbor. She looked on with tender, embarrassing concern as they squeezed through the notorious narrows around Santa Magdalena. She flashed a message of congratulations to the North Americans once they sailed by the black and white barber pole of Dungeness Light, signaling the worst was over.
Not that there had been any 'worst' about it. The Strait rolled out the red carpet for the grand passage. The southern tip of South America was the world's most famous graveyard for ships and crews. Oates had not heard of the weather being this moderate in years.
But if the sea was with them, the rumors were not. From as near as Brazil and as far away as Canada, messages poured in warning Evans of plots against his fleet. When a mysterious shipment of phosphorous arrived in Rio, the civilian authorities warned him the Germans were going to use it to blow up his flagship. This puzzled the rear admiral. Didn't they know that phosphorus was used to combat cockroaches on large ships?
However, most of the warnings concerned Japan. One dealt with a suicide flotilla of torpedo boats waiting to ram the battleships as they emerged from the Strait. Another message alerted them to mines sown in the narrows.
Evans scoffed, yet his lookouts were told to keep a sharp eye out for unusual boats and any knobby trigger mechanisms that might bob above the surface.
Oates watched the blinking Ardois lights in the division ahead. They emitted a constant, automated flash that identified each ship. To see 'C' blink meant that one was astern of the Connecticut, 'M' the Missouri, and so on in Morse. He noted how the arc beams reflected off the towing spars.
"Remember that storm off Cape Henry, Grissom? Aye, there was a hammer. That was a classic."
"I remember. The boots were so gallied they only had to look at a chuck of beans to--"
"Ah, but the way the ships plowed through the waves....
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but the Florida almost floundered. We lost half our lifeboats, and just about all our ventilator funnels. To tell the truth, sir, when we reached port, I hoisted a few hookers of beer just at the memory."
"You, Grissom?" Before the teetotaling lieutenant could offer a defense, Oates smiled, "Yes, it was something to behold. And yet we hear all these tall tales about the Terrible Strait!"
"Still a little bucky for the new boys, sir."
"Hmmpph. They're seasick because they expect to be seasick. It's in their heads, Grissom. They've heard too many horror stories."
Before the exec could put in a kind word for the less experienced men, Oates leaped up and pointed. "Grissom! Who is that bozo?"
For no reason anyone could adequately explain, gunstrikers in the U.S. Navy had been unceremoniously dubbed 'bozos.' The bozo Oates was pointing at staggered to the rail and heaved over the side. "Doesn't that man know where the head is?"
"To tell the truth, sir, you may think this is fine weather, but it's rough on the plebes," his Executive Officer said. "The heads are all backed up. It's pretty rank down there."
"I don't care. Spread the word: everyone use the heads, no matter how foul they become. I don't want to spend any more time in the Observation Ward. That's where we'll end up again if the flag officers see our men throwing up on our shoe tops."
The 'shoe tops' was that part of the armor belt that showed above the waterline--prominent, because of its red paint.
A spray of water whipped across the glass enclosing the pilothouse. A light tap, as far as Oates was concerned. "Not even Force 7, Grissom. No fight for life, no spindrift, no disasters. What will the journalists write about, now?" He watched the bozo vent another great gutful over the side. "Unless it's that."
The mad dash that resulted whenever the 'Lucky Bag' bugle call was sounded was wilder by far than the controlled panic of 'General Quarters.' While the latter required crewmen to disperse to their assigned stations, the former sent them all racing towards a single location, the common mess. First come, first seated. If you were slow in the slightest, there was no room at all.
It was an old Navy custom. Any personal articles found loose or out of place were scooped up by the boatswain or his mates and given to the Master-at-Arms, who promptly dumped them into the Lucky Bag. It was no use trying to get the property back. The former owners would have to wait until the weekly auction, when bidding was open to all. And woe to the seaman whose favorite ring or only watch cap found its way to the bag. If anyone had a grudge against him he could nurse it at will, if he had the money.
Such a procedure ensured that few articles were misplaced or out of place. But with so many men on board and so much time spent hastily preparing for inspections or running to quarters, losses were inevitable.
Three days earlier, Midshipman Beck had been helping to double-lash a whaleboat amidships when his necklace and its tiny rood ornament sneaked out of the neck of his shirt, dangling before his eyes whenever he leaned over. It threatened to ensnare his hands as he worked the ropes, so he took it off and laid it carefully in a crevice near one of the ventilator funnels.
It was not so much a religious totem as a reminder of home. His New England grandmother had given it to him two Christmases ago. She was not Catholic, but a mild Methodist. To her, the cross was a sign of worship, not denomination. She thought it might offer spiritual protection to her grandson as he ranged into the world.
When Beck returned to the funnel and found the necklace missing, he felt as if every shelf of his meager store of luck had been stripped bare. Had it fallen overboard? Not likely. It had been too far from the scuppers. The boatswain denied knowledge of it. Which meant it had probably been stolen.
Word spread that he proposed a dire fate for the thief if it was not returned to him. To his thinking, there were only two possible perpetrators. Both of them had been in the immediate area when the rood disappeared. Though he could not confront Garrett, Midshipman Davis was another matter.
"You see who took my cross?" Beck had asked Davis in a belligerent tone.
"No. Get out of my way."
"Do you know who took it?"
"No. Get out of my way."
"Did you take it?"
"No. Get out of my way. And go to hell."
Everyone was curious to see if Beck's jewelry would turn up at the auction. The seamen's mess was packed. Looking from the back of the room, Midshipman Davis could just see the top of Beck's head in the third row of tables. A small dais had been laid near the galley. On it stood the Master-at-Arms.
"Pipe down, gentlemen! The Lucky Bag auction is now open."
One of the boatswain's mates brought out a duffel bag and laid it on the table in front of the petty officer.
"Our first item..." He scrunched up his nose and drew out a pair of soiled underdrawers using the tips of his thumb and index finger. "...was found fo'ard the gundeck. Now, what am I bid--"
"No!" came a unified shout, followed by a flood of laughter--although a few of the men, already weakened by the mild tossing of the Florida, succumbed at the sight and dashed for the nearest head.
The petty officer feigned amazement. "How can you deny such a masterpiece? There's quite a work of art on the back panel--"
"No! No!"
The Master-at-Arms shrugged helplessly and tossed the underwear into a ditty box.
"Next... ah, here's a little gem."
There were perplexed murmurs from the men as he lifted the item for all to see.
"What is it?" someone called out.
"I believe it's a camera lens, left on one of the aft hoods by our esteemed journalist friends and--"
The bidding came fast and furious and ended at $16.50. Grudging congratulations were offered by the losers to the winner, who would undoubtedly turn around and sell the lens back to the journalist for double the price--or more, there being no camera shop in Punta Arenas.
"Now..." the Master-at-Arms drew out the next item.
"That's mine!" Beck leaped up.
"Belay that, mister! It's anyone's, now, if they can come up with the right price."
"One dollar!" Beck instantly offered.
"I'm bid one dollar. One measly simoleon. Gentlemen, I believe this item is solid gold!"
"Not the chain!" Beck clarified.
"Have a seat, mister. Now, gentlemen... how can you let an opportunity like this slip you by? Think of the women and children. Think of apple pie. Think of the poor orphans."
"Poor orphans!" some of them hooted.
"I'm an orphan," the petty officer told them. "And I just happen to be poor, too."
No other bids were made, however--until he raised his gavel and cried, "Going once, going twice--"
"Two dollars!"
Half of the men present had anticipated this move from Ensign Garrett. The other half were not surprised.
"I knew it!" Beck shouted, leaping up again.
"I will ask the midshipman if he is accusing Ensign Garrett of thievery," the Master-at-Arms said gravely.
"Well..." Beck said uneasily. "...not really."
"It's my understanding your little chain was confiscated properly. It was loose. It was unattended. So enough. If you don't want to start wearing much heavier chains, I suggest you take your seat and keep it."
"Three dollars!" Beck yelled, sitting down.
"Four...."
"Five!"
"Six...." Garrett had whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and was assiduously polishing the emblem on his hat, which he had propped on his knee. He might as well have been counting beans to the bunch, for all his apparent lack of interest.
The midshipman was busted. Frantically, Beck scanned the crowd. "Howard! Ahoy, Howard! Can you spare me a few dollars 'til--"
"Here now!" the Master-at-Arms interrupted. "No cadging at the auction!"
"But, sir--"
"Six dollars going once, six dollars going twice…. Sold! For the sum of six dollars, to Ensign Garrett. And may I add, Mr. Garrett, that I am pleased to see you have found religion."
Garrett looked up, startled. "Have I?"
Amos Macklin recognized the profundity in the handclasp of the oceans. The average lubber saw only a universal mass of water, but experienced seamen knew the seas and oceans were not merely convenient labels invented by cartographers. Each body of water had its own set of peculiarities--its conveniences, inconveniences, traps, tricks, sea life and seafarers. The Strait, and Cape Horn to the south, was the ground of contention for two ancient gods. Amos used his favorite ploy--taking out the slop buckets--to get his second look at the passage.
High seas had been prevalent last time. He had been on board a cruiser which was being transferred to the Pacific Squadron. If four wrestlers had stood holding the four sides of a blanket and shaken it violently up and down out of sync, they would have gotten an idea of the configuration of the water during that stormy week.
Amos had been too busy to do much sightseeing. In any event, the clouds had been too low. There was little to see. A race with death, mountainous waves, foggy embankments, and fear--that was the impression the Strait had left on him.
It was a different world now--no worse than the Chesapeake on a blustery day. Amos could clearly see the headlands--tree-covered heights that plunged suddenly at the water's edge, offering no anchorages. There were no spectacular vistas like those offered by the coast of Alaska or Norway's fjords. It was the rich texture of geographical and man-made history that awed him--which made him want to accept its challenge, rather than submit to the empty, profitless desert set out for him.
His back twitched and he leaned forward to ease the pain.
"Hey, Amos!" One of the cooks stuck his head out the galley hatch. "Get a move on! I got more shit piling up in here."
"There's shit piling up everywhere."
"What's that?"
Amos tossed the scraps and went back inside.
"That crazy Gilroy's hearing spook voices again," Stoker Gilroy chuckled to himself when he went topside for air. He crouched and listened to the two men dicker.
"It's pure gold! Cm'on, what do you say, Slayton? You could use the extra protection when you go busting heads in Nicaragua or wherever."
"It's not a St. Christopher's medal, Mr. Garrett," came the skeptical response.
"All right, make it eleven dollars. And keep the chain, ha-ha."
"Well...."
Gilroy moved away from the quarterdeck, bored. They hadn't been spook voices, after all. Just a huckster trying to palm off a trinket to one of the uniformed natives. The fireman leaned against the weather rail, wincing as the golden scarab reflected off the slate sea. A sharp pain darted through his genitals. He wondered if his old problem was flaring up again.
He'd gotten the clap in Massachusetts. Admiral Evans had selected Provincetown for his headquarters several years earlier, when the Fleet held target practice in Cape Cod Bay. Most of the ordinary seamen had taken up temporary quarters in the nearby town of Barnstable--which soon became notorious for its blind tigers. The proprietors of these illegal taverns boasted they sold only labeled whiskey. In fact, it was labeled wood alcohol. Drinking it made sailors not only drunk, but crazy drunk. Adding insult to physical injury, the owners priced their half-pint bottles at five dollars.
Admiral Evans complained about the blind tigers to the local authorities. He also lodged complaints about the prostitutes who operated out of the empty freight cars on the wharf. To no avail. The bar owners made so much money they could easily buy off the police. And the hookers, it seemed, paid off in other ways.
In one of the most ironic turnabouts of Evans' tenure, the citizens of Barnstable protested to him about sailors playing baseball on Sundays. Since that was one of the few days his men were free to relax, Evans told the citizens to take a hike. For which, they brought suit against him and the rest of the United States Navy.
Fine citizens of Barnstable! Gilroy leered at the memory. There they were, fighting to save the sanctity of the Lord's Day--while sailors went blind, and Gilroy got the clap. He didn't even have a good time getting it. The freight car had been too frigid to enjoy much of anything, especially when you were bare-assed. Later that same cold afternoon, Gilroy had gone to the nearest blind tiger and purchased a half-pint. As he sat in a dark corner, intent on staring down the golden scarab, a man in a blue uniform came up to him, rolled up Gilroy's sleeve, and stuck a needle in his arm.
"What's that?" Gilroy had asked.
"Heroin," said the stranger, who then walked away.
Too drunk to care, Gilroy had resumed his futile attempt to stare down his nemesis.
"All right, Slayton, my final offer--nine dollars! Believe me, I won't be making a nickel off it!"
Gilroy watched the ensign chase the marine across the upper gundeck. When they were gone, he whistled a few bars from 'It's a Grand Old Flag'.
Then he returned below.