XXII
June, 1908 29°31'N, 173°10'
From a marine's diary:
Sea serpents!!!!?????
0420 Hours
"For example, there's Star Number 1830 in the Groombridge Catalogue. It moves with an angular velocity of seven seconds per arc annually. A small fact on a big scale. But if you draw the analogy of a boy with his bullroarer, you might see what I'm getting at. The pull of the string is the centrifugal tendency and is equal to the square of the velocity of the bullroarer divided by the length of the string from the hand to the toy. So... let's say the centrifugal tendency is equal to an acceleration of the one-five-billionth part of a mile per second."
"And?"
"And instead of the bullroarer, we use Groombridge 1830. From there, we can calculate the weight of the universe."
"So tell me, how much does it weigh?"
"Unfortunately, we would have to know how far away Groombridge 1830 is. We can see it, all right. But we don't have the distance. Once we do, though...."
Captain Oates found himself smiling. In spite of his pompous armature of facts, Dr. Singleton could sometimes prove a fascinating companion. He was sober now--the last vestige of alcohol blown to stern when he joined Oates on the bridge.
Lieutenant Grissom came out. "Two hours, captain." He gave Singleton a long glance.
"I wanted to see the sunrise, Lieutenant Grissom."
"Which sun?"
"Grissom," said Oates, "how well are you versed in ship silhouettes?"
"I know British colliers have black funnels, sir."
"Come now, Mr. Grissom. Don't let the doctor's presence intimidate you. Concentrate on battleships."
"An Italian Sardegna class battleship has tandem funnels, but they also carry one fo'ard; single mast, with her hull painted black and her superstructure white. Incidentally, the Italia includes sixteen-and-a-quarter-inch guns in her armament, a single one of which... well, the only wops we'll meet out here are the ones we have on board.
"The French used to subscribe to the Jeune Ecole, which was to attack an enemy's commerce rather than his fighting ships. But with the introduction of anti-torpedo nets and rapid-fire guns, they've had to revise their ideas. Doctor, the most dangerous-looking silhouette you'll ever see is French. They now practice what is called 'fierce-face' in the belief that if you can scare someone off without firing a shot, it's as much a victory as a sinking. They have very large funnels and built-up masts to lend the impression of fighting bulk. To compensate for their extreme freeboard, they have an exaggerated 'tumblehome;' that means the upper deck is narrower than the hull at the waterline. Peculiar looking... as though they were floating docks instead of warships.
"A British battleship would show two masts with double yardarms; the Royal Sovereign class carries their funnels in tandem, so if we were abeam it would look like one instead of two. As for the Dreadnought--"
"Oh, I think we can skip that," said Oates irritably.
"Yes, sir. Moving to the Pacific: All Chinese capital ships were built by the Germans and most of those were sunk at the Battle of Lissa in 1896. As you well know, the Japanese also destroyed the Russian fleet eight years later. So I presume our main concern--outside of sea beasts--is the Japanese. Their ships are painted metallic blue-to-gray, with red bands near their funnel tops. The Fugi and her sister ship the Yashima would each show two heads of smoke coming over the horizon. Of course, they would also see the smoke from our funnels. And at Tsushima, the Nips opened up on the Russians at a range of seven thousand yards--nearly twice what anyone else can do."
"Most impressive."
Grinning, Oates said, "Very good. Now, see the men not on watch get as much rest as possible."
"Aye, sir. But it's hard for anyone to sleep."
"Every rumor is like twenty cups of coffee," said the captain in a speculative tone.
A faint glow touched the horizon to starboard.
"We'll have the sun behind us when we come up on Midway," said the doctor.
A good sign. The enemy--in whatever form--would be blinded by the morning light when they steamed in.
0450 Hours
Grissom was right. Most of the men could not sleep. The forecastle was charged with excitement. The form of the adversary mattered little. Whether fish or fleet, it was something unknown. If fish, it would be the adventure of discovery. If fleet... well, death too could be an adventure.
Not only excitement, but pain kept Ensign Garrett awake. He felt even worse than he looked. Lying down was agony, standing was just as bad. He prayed for sleep. But the slightest rocking of his hammock rubbed sore bones against damaged muscles, springing his eyes open as he suppressed a shout of misery. That he should never have fought Midshipman Beck was obvious. Equally obvious was the fact that he could not have backed down without loss of honor. There it was; and here he was. He did not perceive the awe of the men who had witnessed the fight. Only the humiliation, the crushing loss of status. He met men's eyes as he had always met them--only now, he did not see them. In effect, he'd learned to look blindly into the multifarious face of the crew. Before, he'd only been able to do that with women.
It could have been worse.
What a godsend William Pegg had been! His rescue not only diverted everyone's attention from his defeat, but the story he told circulated quickly belowdecks, where belief far outweighed disbelief. Concern of impending battle with Togo's sailors was replaced by quiet awe. The ensign garnered only brief glances as he passed crewmembers in the corridors. The ordinary bluejackets had sea serpents on their minds. A far more imposing prospect than a beat up and bruised commissioned officer.
Problem being, Garrett was infected, too, only his anticipation was heavily dosed with dread. Ever since the night he had stopped the loading of the forward turret, he had been plagued with doubts concerning the powder bags. During maneuvers and gunnery practice at Magdalena Bay a dramatic increase in efficiency and rate of fire had been achieved, although comments were made on the poor quality of the powder bags. But Admiral Evans had succumbed to gout and been sent home. There was positive confusion in command.
Still, it would not do for a ship of the line to blow up while firing salutes in a foreign port. It was rumored the bags would be replaced once they reached San Francisco. If so, the Florida had not remained long enough to benefit.
A chill underlay Garrett's physical pain. What if it was true? What if they were about to confront Togo's proud fleet? If powder came loose in the turret again, would he once again halt the firing? The question had given him silent fits during the fleet exercises in Man-of-War Cove. Every time a charge was brought up, Garrett all but crawled on the deck in search of loose powder grains. On any other part of the ship the gun captain and his men would have smirked. But a silent consensus filled Turret One. No comment would be made where their safety was concerned. To hell with damning the torpedoes. Let Garrett search.
But he no longer cared. If they were sunk in an encounter with the Japanese, all trace of his defeat by Beck, of his shame, would be erased. Besides, he was now too sore to get down on his hands and knees. By obeying orders to the letter, he might succeed in blowing up the Florida before a single salvo was exchanged.
0451 Hours
Midshipman Davis gave up trying to sleep. Men kept moving below his high-slung hammock. His mind reeled with fanciful heroics. He would sink a battleship with a well-aimed shot. Or the Florida would be hit, the men around him would go to pieces, and he would remain at his station and stave off disaster.
But... the hammock squeezed his shoulders. It brought to mind the canvas sack they'd sewn the bluejacket in at Magdalena Bay before submitting him to the sea....
He shot onto the deck. He stowed his hammock in the nettings and went out to the berth deck, where the lower tier six-inch casemates squatted near the water.
Whispers haunted the hatchways and corridors. Marines in their narrow blue caps nervously fingered their brass trumpets. In some respects, they had the most hazardous job on board. In the midst of battle, they would have to dart back and forth behind the steel and wood barriers, delivering messages and tooting commands. And at any time they might be called upon to land on a hostile beach.
Too much to dwell on. For Davis, primary consideration lay with the six-incher in his charge. Sea salt could play havoc with the gun's mechanism. Only with constant cleaning could the efficiency of the piece be maintained. For perhaps the fiftieth time in the last twelve hours, Davis took an oil rag and worked on the exposed gears. As he backed away to admire his handiwork, he bumped into someone standing behind him.
It was Beck.
"Going to rip into them, eh?" Beck said.
Davis was wise enough to say nothing when there was nothing to say.
"I don't think it's ever going to happen... no, course it won't. But you know, old pal... we might take some losses. I might be one of them. So might you. I just thought... well, isn't it obvious what I'm thinking?"
"I was checking the gun," said Davis.
"Hey, what the hell. What I wanted to say is... why don't we kiss and make up?"
"That's a hell of a way to put it."
"Only trying to make it easy. On both of us."
For a long moment Davis stood silent. He could not explain his hesitation. Not at first.
With the gunports closed, only a few dull electric torches shone on the covered gun deck. The bruises on Beck's face could only be surmised, though from what Davis had heard they were far less severe than those he'd inflicted. But that was just it. He was the man who had thrashed Ensign Garrett. Beck was a fellow to admire and to reckon with. It was hard for Davis to swallow his new notoriety. While Davis himself was at the same place he'd started at the day before, the week before, the year before. He was speechless in the face of his own insignificance.
Beck interpreted his silence as something else.
"Maybe you can't see it. I have my hand sticking out here. If it's too dark.... Okay, I won't beg. I guess bastards come out with the season."
He stalked away.
Davis heard voices and nervous laughter above him. No doubt the gunners on the upper deck were also checking their six-inchers. Perhaps, on the eve of battle, some of them had been able to mend broken friendships. But Davis found himself frozen against it. No matter how easy Beck wanted to make it, envy would never make it easy for Davis.
0510 Hours
"We know you're stashin'. They brought you in late, eh, Gilroy? My guess is you brought in a load from Chinee-town. What is it? Opium? Start your own little den? Or was it--no, not heroin. Your arms aren't marked. Own up, or we'll toss you in the furnace, you'll see."
"Don't threaten me," Gilroy hissed. "I'm telling you, it's nothin'. I just been under the weather."
"Oooh-hooo! that's weather in your eyes all right. Two white poppies and an opium typhoon. Come on, Gilroy, we're not asking for the whole kit. Just a fair shake three ways."
Had he been thinking clearly, Gilroy would never have tried such a puerile lie. The two stokers before him had been watching him almost as closely as the Chief. They recognized a path they'd walked down themselves on more than one occasion. Obviously, they wanted to stroll again.
They had no prospects. There was no promotion out of the hellhole. They could, of course, refuse to re-enlist. Jump ship, even, if their lives depended on it. Many sailors abandoned the Navy and few were ever caught. But they had no place to go. Rather than put themselves through the effort of the hard chore of thinking about options, they sought peace. If they became addicts that was all right. It might be considered a sensible occupation compared to what they were doing now.
Gilroy saw his own desperation reflected in their eyes. They were greedy for oblivion. They would do anything to feel nothing. He gauged them warily. If he didn't split his cache with them, there was no doubt they'd drop a few hints to the Chief--after trying to force it out of him in other ways.
"All right. You're right. Meet me in the paint locker amidships, lower deck."
"I don't think so. We're coming with you now."
The stare he gave them was noncommittal, an emotional blank. Finally, he nodded slowly. "All right. Follow me."
They scurried like sick rats down the corridors and hatchways, as though they already had the opium in their pockets. Marines kept a wary eye on them. One had to keep a wary eye on firemen and stokers. One never knew when one of them might succumb to the heat and labor and go berserk. The Leathernecks had a word for it, borrowed from veterans of the Philippines: huramentado. It originally applied to Sulu Moros. In battle one of them would go crazy for blood and attack no matter how bad the odds. But the insanity could also erupt in the middle of a quiet village. A warrior would stroll out from under the ilang-ilang trees, smile at the people in the market, then whip out his Maylasian sword and begin hacking everyone to bits. If there were soldiers in the village--it didn't matter which army--they shot the man down like a mad dog, because that was precisely how they thought of them. Huramentado was a mystery to white man and Asiatic alike. But the mystery was not half as bad as the unpredictability.
Same with the stokers. One knew it was the heat that caused them to go off the deep end, but one could never predict when it would happen. The black gang was aware of how their shipmates viewed them. Every so often, one of them might leap at a bluejacket and yell, "Boo!" just to see them jump. But it was not a joke they played very often. Someone might mistake it for huramentado and club the offender in mid-laugh.
"Here you go."
After glancing up and down the corridor they entered the paint locker. It was really a small paint factory, redolent of blanc fixe, barytes, silica, lithopone, petroleum thinners, China wood oil and soya bean oil. After the magazines, it was the most flammable part of the ship. Every container was tightly sealed, all brushes kept clean. But with the Florida switching to battle gray a good deal of work had been done and the air was rich with fumes. Even so, as Gilroy pulled the gluey pack from its niche near the scuttle vent, the quickened breath of the two men watching told him they were quite willing to light up here.
"I've a pipe."
"Light up now?" one of the other stokers said.
"I do it all the time. The fumes hide the smell."
"You mean--"
"Haven't blown up yet."
"Then you're one lucky bastard. Smells like the inside of a bomb in here. 'Sides, I've… uh… seen this done before. You got to heat up the opium, first."
"Not this. It's a special batch. Just pack the pipe like it was tobacco."
"You're full of shit. I never heard--"
"You'll never get a better chance than now. You realize how hard it is to find a place to smoke this so's no one notices?" Gilroy's lie was bold and dangerous. So far, he had not found a chance to smoke any of his opium. Laudanum pills had been all he could manage.
"It's a wonder you haven't been caught." The second man looked at him closely. "But you've been taking something, there's no denyin'."
"Oh, fucked up royally, no doubt. So here's the dope and here's the pipe. How do you think I got this way?"
"I don't suppose a puff would hurt. Not if you can light it straight, like you say."
"Now you're talking."
The two men watched eagerly as Gilroy opened the pack, then cut off a small chunk with a penknife. He filled the bowl, then handed the pipe to one of them.
"I'll watch the door," Gilroy said, moving away.
"Right. And I'll take that, first."
Gilroy handed the pack over.
One of the stokers lit a match over the bowl while the second leaned forward to puff. A small coil of smoke rose and drifted sluggishly towards the vents. Carefully, the man with the match drew away and blew it out. The opium in the bowl smoldered. They looked at Gilroy inquiringly.
Before they could move, he grabbed a container of paint remover from the shelf and whipped off the cap.
"No!" Gilroy commanded as the man who'd held the match started forward. "Ease off, there. Now, hand me the pack."
"You're full of shit, Gilroy. You don't think--"
Gilroy swung his arm. A stream of highly flammable liquid arced outwards, coming perilously close to the bowl. The man with the pipe could not jerk away for fear the tiniest glowing fragment would ignite the room.
"You motherfucker! Don't--"
Gilroy did it again, this time lacing the pipe-holder's shirt with a long wet streak.
"Give it to him!"
"But--"
"If he does it again we'll all three go!"
The man with the package studied Gilroy briefly. "He's crazy enough," he sighed. Gilroy held the can high, ready to splash everything in sight if either of them made a false move. "Thieves fall out," the package man murmured as he handed the opium over.
"We're not fucking thieves," Gilroy protested. "Just fucking dope fiends." Then he laughed. "Which don't mean jack shit to you, because you're fucking dead."
Swinging his arm wildly, the fluid spiralled out, hitting the man with the pipe in the eyes. Gilroy kicked the second man in the knee as he charged. There was a loud crack. The man fell. He emptied the can, saw the first flash of ignition. Then he was out the door, slamming it hard behind him. For an instant he was afraid he would have to hold it shut as the second man crawled forward and pounded from inside.
"You bastard! You fucking--!"
There was deep rolling whoosh as the fire swept the room, turning the two into living torches. Their screams were cut short.
The explosion bombed Gilroy's ears, blew him back against the corridor wall. He just missed being seared by flames shooting out. He'd not crawled six yards before a sharp burst alla breve startled him to his feet. The marine in the corridor was sounding the call for the fire control parties. He paused, heard the corresponding bugle call forward and knew his message had been received. He turned to Gilroy.
The stoker was gaping at the deck. The package had split open in his fall. A line of opium trailed up the corridor. The portion that had spilled out when he fell was on fire. It was impossible to distinguish its odor in the inferno. Already the smoke and fumes were making the passageway unbearable.
"What the hell is this, grease monkey?" the marine demanded, noting the dark smoldering clumps of opium.
Somehow, the marine was to blame. Gilroy just knew it. In grief and rage, he grabbed the unsuspecting man by the neck and slammed him against the wall. His air choked off, he could not shout for help. He would have been dead the next instant had it not been for all the laudanum Gilroy had ingested the last few weeks. It had sapped the stoker's main strength. His arms quivered like a baby's.
Still, the marine could not push him off. Nearly twenty years as a fireman had made Gilroy's biceps thick as bandirons. He was only freed when another marine came up from behind and low-leveled a punch to Gilroy's kidneys.
"Clear the deck! Clear the deck!"
Sailors leapt out of the way as the fire control parties shot down the bowels of the ship--and Amos Macklin was caught out of place at the worst possible time. In the pocket of his white steward uniform was a flask of gin for Seaman Gilroy.
It was the look the stoker had given him the night before that undid him. Passing in the shadow of the lifeboats--the blackout would not begin until midnight--his eyes had shown with peculiar whiteness. Piercing eyes. Evil.
But most unsettling, eyes without recognition. Gilroy had stared right through him, ghosting past Amos as if he were a wall to be pierced and left behind. His face was as black as the night beyond the arc lamps. Turning, Amos could just make out the form of Dr. Singleton. Gilroy went up to him. They exchanged words, but Amos could not hear them above the racket of the work crews.
The noise, oddly, increased the sense of isolation. Whistling in the dark en masse. The lights carved out a stark cave of loneliness. Come midnight, when the blackout went in force, it would be merely emphasis of their remoteness.
Gilroy was about to do something crazy. Of that Amos was sure.
He'd been relieved when the stoker stopped pestering him for liquor. He assumed it was a brief respite, that Gilroy had picked up a few bottles in San Francisco and would resume his nagging once they were consumed.
The look he gave Amos seemed to confirm just that. He was dry. Time to own up, or Gilroy would report him to Ensign Garrett. The steward would not have given in to what he perceived as an unspoken command. Gilroy looked so gaunt and haunted Amos felt he was only a few steps short of death. If the stoker died, a good chunk of the steward's worries would go with him.
One more pint just might do the job.
He had tried to get some sleep. Like almost everyone else on board he found the prospect of battle on the morrow pounding his temples, makin