XVI
May, 1908 37°50'N, 126°06'W
From the Deck Log of the USS Florida:
Summary court awarded 12 marines 2 month's restriction for returning 2 hours late from liberty in SF and being drunk, disobedient, disrespectful and obscene; Mast awarded 3 marines 10 hours extra duty for leaving their posts; Mast gave Ship's cook 1/c 2 weeks restriction for drunkenness; 3/c Machinist Blovonske given a meritorious Mast; while in SF 12 enlisted men assigned by Naval Militia of the State of New York as replacements arrived by rail and were graded Seamen, Ordinary Seamen and Landsmen; sited strange sail to the north; Captain commented it reminded him of the unknown ship the Fleet encountered in the Caribbean (that mystery was never solved); stowaway discovered on board.
The engine churned the superheated air with hundreds of gleaming insect legs. Rods, pistons, beating frantically, going nowhere. Gleaming like teeth in the midst of a bloody meal. Self-consumption. Always the engineers were squirting lubrication on the intimate parts, priestly unguents for the anointed and the dying. At one point, during the wild turn around the Horn, oil had run short. The engineers substituted olive oil. The smell had been memorable.
Feed valves hissed in back-handed approbation as he passed through to the boiler room. Down here, men were able to convert fire and metal into 16,500 horsepower. One had only to feed the golden scarab to produce one of the mightiest powers on earth.
This was not a metaphor for Fireman Gilroy. He'd invested too much attention on the mechanics, spent too many years feeding the beast, first on a Spanish tramp steamer, then for Cunnard, then for the American Navy. In all fleets, on all ships, the beast was the same.
He'd recognized the golden scarab and its molten legs long before his first puff of opium; long before the night that mysterious sailor pumped gold liquid into his arm. The drugs merely threw off a disguise Gilroy had seen through years ago, when someone who claimed to be his father cut the throat of the woman who claimed to be his mother. Why had that been? Gilroy had often retraced the moments before the murder. The man who said he was his father had just brought home three herring from a market on Lewis Street. The fish were wrapped in a Yiddish newspaper. Nothing out of the ordinary about that. Manhattan's Lower East Side was a conglomerate of Old World Jews, as well as Galacians, Hungarians, Russians and Rumanians. The English language was as rare as a cool breeze between East Houston and Division. In fact, when some of those new characters called social workers showed up, the universal cry from the denizens of the tenements was: Luft, qibt mir luft. No one could breathe, it seemed. Gilroy could not imagine the meaning of fresh air.
But he knew he would have herring that evening, and his mouth watered as he watched the woman who said she was his mother unwrap the package.
"Well look at this, now," she said in her sad voice when she glanced at one of the articles on the wrapping. She swept away loose scales. "It's Mrs. Gould, now. She's gone and killed herself."
The man grunted. "Another yid, that's all."
"Go on, now. How can you say such a thing? You'll be knowin' her from the tobacco shop on Canal. Poor old Abe must be heartsick, and me not knowin' the funeral."
"How do you know all this?" the man who said he was Gilroy's father asked.
"I told you. It's right here in the paper."
"That's a yid paper. Don't say you can read it."
"Oh, some bits of it. What's the bother? Look: 'Genumen di gez.' The poor dear killed herself with gas. Even the boy can read it. Here...." She drew Gilroy's head over the fishy paper. "Don't tell me you can't read that."
"Genumen di gez," Gilroy read obediently.
"Now even you know you can't step out the door without hearin' it. So what's the harm if we read it, too?" With that, she took a knife and prepared to behead one of the fish.
"Yes, what's the harm." And then the man who said he was his father smiled at the woman he called 'wife', took the knife gently from her hand, then quick as a trolley spark whipped it across her throat. Gilroy remembered blood pouring down upon the herring.
He wondered: Was that really Gilroy who screamed and ran? Yes, of that he was fairly certain. He was a quick little runner, the boy called Gilroy. He'd almost made it to Hester Street before the man caught up with him. Somewhere, he'd dropped the knife, or else Gilroy would have died right there, in front of the Yiddish Rialto. But fists were something the man who called himself 'father' always had with him. The boy's arm was yanked from its socket as he was whirled around. He saw the great fist come, but could not duck. The air rose with shouts in a half dozen languages just before the sky separated into two distinct entities.
And in the crack was the golden scarab.
They took him to the Beth Israel Hospital near Rutgers Square. Then someone said something and he was carted down to the East River and put aboard the Camp Huddleston Hospital Ship School, moored across from Corlears Hook Park. The medical students said something to a man who called himself a doctor, and the doctor said something to a man who called himself a policeman.
Gilroy never found out what happened to the man who called himself his father.
All he new was that a new force had entered his life.
The golden scarab set in the evening, but quickly sprang back up with the gaslights. The only time it really bothered Gilroy was when it reached out with one of its molten pincers and snipped at a spot deep in his head. Still, one had to make a living no matter what bizarre creatures cropped up in the world.
It was a short hop from the hospital training ship to the piers. Gilroy walked down one gangplank and up another--a deckhand at eleven years of age. His occasional howls of pain startled the rest of the crew, so he was sent to work below, out of earshot, in the deafening cacophony of the engine room. A few years as a grease monkey, on one ship or another. Then as a coal passer or stoker, on one ship or another. He found his happiest home on the Spanish tramp steamer, with an entire crew as demented as he was. But while off the coast of Africa, someone decided it would be amusing to open the sea cocks, and the ship went down in clear weather. After being rescued, Gilroy was able to find passage to England. It was there that he got a job on the Cunnard Line.
In 1905, recruiters from the United States Navy began hanging around the piers where passenger liners were tied up. The Navy was having awful luck with stokers and coal passers. A bad lot, for the most part. Shoddy in appearance and manners, wasteful with coal, and at turning trials they refused to make the all-out gut effort modern battleships needed to reach flank speed. It was decided a better breed of fireman could be had on the luxury liners, where speed was at a premium. So in a bit of authorized piracy, proven firemen were bribed away from their old jobs and into the service.
Gilroy among them.
Of course, the scarab came along for the ride.
No great legerdemain had been needed to squirrel the opium past the boatswain. Neither Garrett nor the Master-at-Arms bothered to search him. To them, it was enough to get his sad body back onto the Florida. His main concern was the first lieutenant. Third in command after Oates and Grissom, it was his job to keep the ship clean--no small feat on a coal-burning vessel. He was the one who ran a white glove through the galley in search of renegade grease. The officer who measured the regulation three inches between the ends of a seaman's clothes bundle and the stop that knotted it together. If anyone stumbled across Gilroy's cache, it would be him. Gilroy could not risk hiding the pellets near his berth. Nor did he want to hide them all in one place, since his entire supply could be wiped out in one swoop. So he broke up his stock. He taped one small bundle behind the flush mechanism in the engineers' head, one in a deep recess in the paint locker, and the third behind some paneling in one of the night messes.
His 'opium den' was in the firemen's shower baths. These were located immediately above the boiler rooms. The rich combination of human and soap smells, as well as the hot steam from the long line of showers, would serve to hide the drug's fruity smell. Slipping in alone, Gilroy would sit in the head next to the steam-heated drying racks where the firemen hung their clothes. If someone pounded on the stall door, he could slip his pipe through the gap in the side and hide it in the valve niche behind the rack. As of yet, he had not devised a way to heat and liquefy the pellets before putting them in the bowl. He'd been limited to swallowing the pellets raw. The sensation was more powerful than that caused by laudanum, but it did not go directly to the source of his craving.
Even so, it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide the effect the drug was having on him. The members of the black gang had been working shorter shifts since the fleet's departure from the Virginia Capes. While this gave them respites from the hellish temperatures, watch-and-watch increased the number of shifts. The constant shuffling soon began to tell on the opium eater. The opiate induced a lassitude nearly impossible to overcome, especially when combined with the extreme heat. Worse than that, instead of being able to lay back and inspect the visions in his mind, he had to confront a reality that was already severely warped.
And there was bitterness. Something he had in common with everyone who labored below the waterline. The black gang had anticipated several weeks of rest and entertainment in San Francisco. It had been promised to them. It was a promise too easily abrogated. Word had filtered down that there was trouble at some isolated Pacific outpost. But if it was serious, more than one ship would have been dispatched.
The stokers and coal passers saw it every bit as clearly as Captain Oates himself. This was punishment for spending so much time in the Observation Ward. Clear and simple. Morale plummeted. They could barely bring themselves to lift an empty shovel or scuttle, let alone fill one.
Gilroy could hardly bear to look into the fires, anymore. All manner of creatures were giving birth and dying in the huge Babcock and Wilcox boilers. They possessed nasty glowing tongues. They hooted at him as he approached with a heavy coal shovel, and abraded him rudely as he stepped back. When his shift was over, only one thing could provide him with relief.
The drug not only robbed him of appetite--it stole his sleep, too. That surprised him. He thought opiates were supposed to escort one sweetly to a soft dreamland. Yet he found himself spending hour after hour staring at the jackstays that held up his hammock. When the Master-at-Arms or engineers' mates came to rouse the tired firemen, they would find Gilroy up and about, his hammock already stowed in the nettings.
They complimented him on his alertness.
The fire lived. Gilroy fed it, so he should know. God was called Babcock and Wilcox. Gilroy grimaced as he contrived a census. There were thirty-two boilers on the Florida. Did that mean there were thirty-two gods? Or was it only one God, manifested thirty-two times? To complicate the matter, there were two furnaces for every boiler. Sixty-four golden scarabs? Or did one Being have sixty-four golden, bloody hearts? Damn! No wonder ministers were so confused. Try and figure it out! One thing was certain though: Chunks of coal screamed as they were sacrificed.
"If God is this horrible, we have to murder Him."
Gilroy's words were not heard over the din.
Opium was not the only illicit thing that had been smuggled on board.
Well, not exactly smuggled. The officer of the deck had nodded amiably as Singleton waltzed on board. He had not known that the doctor was persona non grata.
It was an indication of the haste with which the Florida had left the West Coast that Dr. Singleton's cabin had not been re-assigned. His charts, experimental devices, and books remained untouched by porters. As far as he could ascertain, no one knew he was there. But after one day's fasting, he realized that would not last long.
Stowaway with the Great White Fleet.
An intriguing title for an article, no doubt. Would anyone publish it? The editors of the scientific journals would turn up their dry noses in horror. But there were plenty of magazines for the general public, and they paid quite well. It was possible he could come out of this with some of that newly minted gold in his pocket. Besides, he'd reached a point where the only thing left was to try.
One thing he felt confident of. Captain Oates could not toss him off the Florida now they were a hundred nautical miles from land. It would be difficult steeling himself against the scorn that would be heaped on him--but at least he did not have to concern himself with drowning.
One of the luxuries of residing as an honored guest of the Fleet was having hot running water in one's cabin. Singleton might no longer be honored, but he still had the water. After trimming his beard to the jawline, he washed himself off with a wet cloth and dressed. Oates must be sitting cozy, thinking he had rid himself of the doctor. My, how his eyes would pop!
Planting his straw hat on his head, he downed a jigger of I. W. Harper Rye, took up his gold-knobbed cane, and stepped into the corridor.
A swagger. That's what he needed. Holding the cane loosely, he climbed the stairs and swaggered across the deck. He soon abandoned his eccentric walk, however. He couldn't tell if the sailors were staring at him because they had not expected to see him again--or laughing at him because of his funny walk. He was famished. Mess had been sounded by the marine buglers, but he was at odds trying to decide where to eat. He briefly considered walking boldly into Oates' wardroom--no sense delaying the inevitable. But the captain's mess was separate--sometimes a guard was posted outside it. Otherwise, Singleton could eat whenever he wanted to. And his primary concern was food--now.
The inevitable would have to wait.
Midshipman Davis never regretted an empty seat as much as he did now. He did not see the doctor until Singleton lowered himself next to him in the junior officers' mess. He very nearly gagged on his beans. He'd been told the doctor would not return. In fact, the ensign who'd informed him of this--not Garrett, thank God--had known of the midshipman's travails with Singleton and had gone out of his way to reassure the younger man.
"You can breathe free, now. The old coot's gone."
Well, not hardly.
"Bless my soul, if it isn't Mr. Davis! Never expected to see me again, eh?"
"No, sir."
The midshipman's stunned expression told Singleton what he needed to know: Word had spread... he had been banished from the Florida. In confirmation of this two marines came up behind him.
"Beggin' your pardon, doctor. Captain Oates requests your presence in his wardroom."
"Does he, now? And he sent the marines to fetch me? That doesn't quite jibe with naval courtesy, does it?"
"Captain Oates--"
"Yes-yes-yes. Is it all right if I eat my supper, first?"
"The captain said immediately, doctor."
"And if I refuse?"
"I'll have to insist."
Davis heaved a sigh as wide as the galley as the doctor was escorted away. So, Singleton's presence was unauthorized--or else the exec or an ensign would have been sent to get him, not the marines. Perhaps there was some justice in the world, after all.
A black hand appeared in front of him as one of the stewards retrieved Dr. Singleton's untouched plate. Glancing up, Davis found himself exchanging glances with Amos Macklin.
He had found it difficult facing Macklin ever since the day Singleton compelled the black man to sit in his 'truth' chair. Considering that humiliation, and the beating he'd taken, the midshipman was surprised he had not jumped ship in San Francisco. Why had he come back? Amos would be risking a more severe beating if he was caught taking French leave. But the odds would be with him. The Navy had the highest desertion rate of all the armed services. There wasn't enough manpower to track them all down.
But here he stood, for whatever reason. And his loyalty to the Fleet (if that's what it was) was paying dividends already. Seeing the doctor being taken away under guard must be giving him the laugh of his life. Hidden, of course. It wouldn't be prudent for a black man to laugh at a white. Not in front of hundreds of other whites.
Davis, too, thought it best to suppress his mirth--until he glanced up at his peers and saw them looking in his direction. He could not resist returning their grins. He envisioned Oates slinging Singleton into the brig, and his beans glowed like gold in his stomach.
The doctor's confidence waned as he was escorted through wardroom country, an area abaft the after twelve-inch barbette, where the chaplain, commissioned officers and captain maintained their quarters. When one of the marines knocked on the captain's paneled door, Singleton felt as if someone had rapped his heart with bare knuckles.
"Come."
Captain Oates was eating a gray, pasty gruel. It absorbed all his attention, leaving none for Singleton, who remained standing between the two marines. For the entire day previous, Singleton had remained hidden in his cabin; due to the haste with which they had departed San Francisco, it had not been reassigned. The oozing substance in the captain's bowl looked utterly revolting, a reminder of how stingy a captain's mess could be while at sea. They did, after all, have to pay for their own meals. But this carried economy too far. He wondered if Oates was eating this stuff on purpose, to tease the doctor. As though to say: "See? This is what I have to eat. Not very appetizing, is it? But you'd go at it like the finest New York tenderloin right now, wouldn't you?"
The loud clack of typing in the next room put an edge on his unspoken sarcasm.
His stomach growled volubly. Oates paused. With unprecedented delicacy, he dabbed his lips with a broad white napkin, then nodded. The steward took the bowl away.
"Is this what they call 'coming before the mast?'" Singleton said with forced jocularity. Oates ignored him, looked at one of the marines.
"Is Lieutenant Grissom on his way?"
"He was getting the day's coal diary, sir. He should be topside in a moment."
"Mmmm.... Well, I--Yeoman! Belay that typing!" Oates tapped his fingers on the edge of the table a few times, then pushed out his chair. Walking to the paneled wall, he turned a judgmental eye on a painting of the Florida.
Good Lord, Singleton thought, it's an oil by Reuterdahl!
The exec entered the wardroom. Returning his salute, Oates reseated himself. "Mr. Grissom... as you may have heard, we have an unauthorized passenger aboard the Florida."
"A stowaway, Captain?" The exec gestured dramatically.
"Dr. Singleton will be confined to quarters for the duration of the voyage, however long it might take. I want a guard posted at his door every watch. His meals will be taken in his cabin. When he has to answer the call of nature, he will be accompanied to the head."
"Captain--"
"Did someone speak?" Oates turned his back on Singleton and left the wardroom.
Not exactly unexpected, Singleton thought as he was taken away. After all, Oates could have thrown him in the brig.
"What's for supper?" he asked the exec.
"The galley's closed. You'll have to wait until tomorrow."
"Is it alive?"
"If you call it living. That's a sun fish. Saw one dragged up in the Bahia Escocesa once. They stuck it with knives, shot it, cut off chunks--stank to high heaven--and the thing acted like nothing was happening. Damn fish didn't have more brains than a sponge, but it weighed a full ton. Wasn't 'til they cut out its heart we knew it was dead. They're alive, but it takes a day to tell."
A group of men had gathered next to the starboard lifeboats to observe the odd creature. At first they'd thought the huge fish was something that had fallen off a ship or something that had drifted out from land. Nothing alive, certainly.
A shiver ran through the less experienced bluejackets as the fish passed to stern. If any animal was hypnotized by God, here it was. It stared up at the sky without end. Its other eye, turned down, stared at depths without end.
"If family resemblances mean anything, I'd say it looks a bit like your mother, eh Mr. Beck?"
"Sir?" said Beck.
There was a threatening rise in his tone that caused everyone within hearing to glance at the midshipman.
"Mr. Garrett...."
"Aw...." Garrett turned away from the ocean and its peculiar occupant. His comment had been off the cuff. One of those insults he was forever handing out to the lower ranks with no thought to consequences. One look at Beck told him this time was to be different. The middy was going to do something rash. Worse, Garrett was touched by embarrassment. He knew he could be an ass. His dim popularity on the Florida was mingled with a potent bad taste. No one liked him to the same degree that some of them loathed him.
"Mr. Garrett, I'll thank you to take back that remark."
"And what remark was that?"
"The one about my mother."
Garrett tried to dismiss this with a flip of his hand, as if to say he'd not been paying attention to what he was saying--it was already forgotten.
There was a palpable, contrary energy in the air. The shout of the ocean thrust apart by the Florida's<