Читать книгу The Sand Pebbles - Richard McKenna - Страница 3

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“Hello, ship,” Jake Holman said under his breath.

The ship was asleep and did not hear him. He lowered his big canvas thirty-year bag to the ground and stood there in the moon shadow of a brick wall and had his long first look at her. She looked stubby and blocky and topheavy down there at the edge of the black, rolling river, and she was all moon-white except for her slender black smokestack that rose very high, high as her two masts. Four guy wires slanted down from the stack like streamers from a maypole. She had a stubby, shielded gun on her open bow and a doubled, man-high hand steering wheel on her open fantail aft, but in between she looked more like a house than a ship. Her square, curtained windows and screened doors opened on a galleried main deck like a long, narrow veranda and on a pipe-railed boat deck under taut white awnings. It was after midnight and they were asleep down there, all but the watch. In a few minutes he’d go aboard and find a bunk and wake up with them in the morning like a strange bird in their nest.

Jake Holman knew he was a strange bird and he was used to going aboard new ships. By the time they realized they were in a struggle Jake Holman would already have made for himself the place he wanted on their ship and they could never dislodge him. Or wish to. It was going to be the same on the U.S.S. San Pablo. He did not know why he was reluctant to go right aboard. This one might be a pretty strange nest, too, he thought.

Since he had gotten his orders a month ago in Manila he had not been able to find anyone who had ever seen the ship or who had even been shipmates with an ex-San Pablo sailor. Nobody knew any more about her than Holman already knew himself, after six years on the China Station, and that was more legend than fact. She was one of the ancient gunboats captured from Spain and sent to form the Yangtze Patrol during the Boxer Rebellion, in the year Jake Holman was born. They were all relics now, in June of 1925, and a flotilla of modern gunboats was building in Shanghai to replace them. The others sometimes appeared in Shanghai, but the San Pablo never came further downriver than Hankow. They said she was least and ugliest of Comyang’s gunboats and he was ashamed to show the flag on the likes of her down around the glitter of Shanghai. She did not even operate on the Yangtze, but on some nameless tributaries from the south, and on a big lake that was said to expand and contract mysteriously and to have mermaids in it. From the legends, the San Pablo spent half her time high and dry on sandbars in the nameless rivers with the crew ashore cultivating gardens and slaughtering their own beef and mining their own coal, while the natives took pot shots at them.

Holman did not believe the legends, but he thought she was still a funny-looking ship. A lighted quarterdeck was inset amidships on the main deck with a short gangplank leading up from the pontoon through a gap in the solid steel bulwark. Two men stood on watch there beside a pulpitlike log desk, one in regulation undress whites and the other in the white shorts and short-sleeved sport shirt that was summer uniform for Yangtze Patrol sailors. At least two more in shorts were patrolling with rifles on the shadowy boat deck. That was a lot of men for the topside watch on a quiet midnight, Holman thought.

He was a sandy-haired, squarely built, powerful man in dress whites and he stood there in the moon shadow thinking and nuzzling his chin with a fat brown envelope. The envelope held his records and pay accounts and it was wound with red tape sealed in four places with blobs of red wax so that Jake Holman could not examine or tamper with the Navy’s little paper image of himself. Paper Jake Holman, he sometimes called it in his thoughts. When he turned Paper Jake in down on that quarterdeck, he would be aboard officially on paper. He would be in the thick of it again.

Well, go on down, he told himself, but he did not go. He sniffed the cool, damp breeze off the river and listened to the lapping, rustling murmur of the moving water and he heard the steady plashing sound of a cooling water overboard discharge. He could not see it along the ship’s steel side. Must be on the port side, he thought. It’s late, he thought, and the first few days are always rough ones. Go aboard, you stupid bastard, and get some sleep. He picked up the thirty-year bag and started down the plank walkway to the flat steel pontoon.

“Here I come, ship,” he said softly.

The man in regulation whites ran out on the pontoon to take Holman’s seabag. He was Chinese. Holman stepped aboard and saluted aft, according to regulation. The man in shorts returned the salute, which was not regulation, because he was an enlisted man in a white hat.

“Reckon you’re Holman,” he said. “Was wondering when you’d get here, all the trouble they’re having downriver.”

The man was tall and skinny and heavily tattooed on arms and legs and he had a drooping brown mustache. He wore a holstered pistol. Holman nodded and handed him the brown envelope. The man glanced at the seals and lifted the hinged top of the log desk, like a gaping mouth, dropped in the envelope and let the top fall with a thud.

“Now you’re a Sand Pebble,” he told Holman. “That’s what we call this ship, the U.S.S. Sand Pebble.” He had a slow, lazy voice. “Welcome aboard. I’m Frenchy Burgoyne, first-class watertender.” He held out his hand.

“Call me Jake.” They shook hands. “How come an engineer on watch up here?” Holman asked. “You standing by for somebody?”

“All hands stand topside watches,” Burgoyne said.

That was the first bad thing, but Holman did not let his face show it. The Chinese was standing beside the seabag.

“Might as well unlock your bag and they’ll stow your locker for you,” Burgoyne said. “Won’t need your navy mattress on here. Your bunk’s already made up with ship’s gear.”

The Chinese, whose name was Fang, went away with the seabag. Burgoyne was copying Holman’s orders into the log book. He held the pencil awkwardly and squinted and wrote from the shoulders down. The quarterdeck was a triangle with the inner point opening into a passageway that led through to the port side. Sounds and smells from a lighted doorway in the passage told Holman it led to the engine room, and machinery sounds came up through the teak planking under his feet. Pumps clanked and groaned down there, and something throbbed lightly and quickly.

“ ’Spect you’re about ready to flake out, ain’t you?” Burgoyne asked. “How’d you get here? How was the trip?”

“Commercial from Shanghai. Steamer named Loong Wo,” Holman said. “I had hell’s own time finding out where you was and getting a taxicab to come all the way down here.”

It was a dockyard about five miles downriver from Hankow.

“We just finished overhaul. Every two years we come here for overhaul,” Burgoyne said.

“Ought to be in good shape down below, then,” Holman said. “How’s the chief engineer?”

“Ain’t got one, less’n you figure it’s Lynch, the chief machinist’s mate. We only got two commissioned officers, skipper and exec.” He smoothed his mustache with a knuckle. “Lynch is all right. Drinks right much, but he’s maskee. Right now he’s all fouled up with a Russky he found in Mumm’s.” Burgoyne chuckled. “No sir, won’t see much of that old boy till we go south again.”

“When’s that?”

“Week or so. We start summer cruising.”

Fang came back and spoke in pidgin to Burgoyne.

“Your gear’s stowed and your bunk’s ready, if you want to turn in now,” Burgoyne told Holman.

“Not right now. That’s service, though. I always heard you guys had it good on the river gunboats.”

“You don’t know the half of it yet. We got them main river boats beat hollow.” Burgoyne stood up straight. He was proud of his ship. “If you ain’t sleepy, we got coffee in the galley. I can have Fang fetch us a cup.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll go down and have a cup in the engine room and shoot the breeze with the watch a minute,” Holman said. “I want to look around, see what I’m getting into.”

“Ain’t no coffee down there. I got the engine room watch.”

Holman looked at him, shocked, and Burgoyne grinned.

“Oh, I got a bilge coolie helper down there handling the routine,” he said. “He’ll call me if something’s wrong. I’ll go down at four o’clock and write up the log.”

Holman thought that was very bad. He did not let his face show what he thought.

“How many black gang on here, all told?”

“Five. Eight, you count Lynch and Waxer and Harris.”

“That all? You can steam with only that many?”

“We got a dozen bilge coolies. They stoke, help out on watch, clean up and all. Hell, we got it good.”

Holman shook his head. Burgoyne took a can of Copenhagen out of the log desk and packed his lower lip. His bulging lip made his gaunt cheeks look even more hollow.

“Who pays the coolies?” Holman asked.

“Welfare fund, what’s in it. Mostly, they squeeze.”

“Do they do repair work?”

“No-count jobs, packing rods and stuff, they do. We supervise ’em on the big jobs.”

“So that’s how-come the black gang has time to stand topside watches?” Holman was trying not to show his dismay. “I don’t know anything about this topside military crap,” he said. “I started forgetting that crap the minute I left boot camp.”

“I never used to favor it my own self, till I come on here,” Burgoyne said. “It’s different on here. The old Sand Pebble’s a home, boy!” He worked his lip and walked to the side and spat. “It sure God beats sweat and dirt and heaving around down on them floor plates!”

“I guess,” Holman said. “I’m going below and look around, anyway.”

Four things were important on a ship: bunk, locker, place at the mess table and the engine room. The engine room was most important, because it was always Jake Holman’s sanctuary from the saluting and standing at attention and saying sir that went with life on the topside. Monkey-on-a-stick life, he called that in his thoughts.

“Go right ahead. Help yourself, boy,” Burgoyne said. He was a bit angry.

Holman stepped through the door onto the gratings and into the smell and noise. All live engine rooms had the same smell of burnt rubber and hot oil and steam and sometimes coffee and a whiff of bilge. This one smelled clean. The engine cylinder block rose waist high above the gratings like a black flatiron twenty feet long. Beyond its tapered nose a door led into the fireroom uptakes, and insulated steam piping came through the white bulkhead like fat white snakes to branch and loop down to the machinery on the lower level. Above the engine a skylight opened to the boat deck and cool air came down. He was already beginning to sweat. A grating walkway with polished steel handrails ran all around the engine and at the forward end ladders on either side led down to the floorplates. Through the gratings he could not see anyone on watch down there, but the lower level was wider and extended further aft than the narrow grating space, and he could not see it all from above.

He went down to the floorplates and walked slowly around the engine room, taking it all in. It was very clean, painted white, bare metal polished and oiled, and the corrugations on the old, old floorplates were worn almost smooth, but the floorplates were clean and shiny and oiled. The pumps, erect like men, and the hot well and feed heater and auxiliary condenser stood along the sides, with a clear space between them and the big central engine, and the skin of the ship behind the pumps was bulged in oddly here and there, like dents in a tin can. The pumps were all old Davidsons and Camerons and Worthingtons. The running ones clanked and ran jerkily. When Holman shook the valve gear on the idle pumps, he found too much play in all the bushings. But the pumps were clean and shined and oiled. He bit his lip and nodded. There was a lot of looksee pidgin in this engine room.

He heard a shovel scrape out in the fireroom. The engine coolie was probably doping off out there, talking to the stroker coolie. Holman frowned.

The light, quick throbbing came from one of a pair of old reciprocating generators aft on the port side, with a small railed-off switchboard behind them. The black brushes sparked smoothly over the clean copper bars of the commutator; both commutators looked as if they had just had a cut taken on them in the dockyard. An eccentric drive for an oil pump jigged and winked on the end of the armature shaft, and above the steam cylinder a belt-driven flyball governor spun like a little man with his hands on his hips. None of the bearings were hot. Holman got a spot of oil on his dress white jumper sleeve, in finding that out.

Damn it, he thought, where’s that watch coolie? He had no faith in Chinamen looking after machinery. And damned little in some Americans, as far as that goes, he thought.

He made another slow circuit of the engine room, looking at the engine this time. It was triple expansion with the familiar double bar link gear, but very old, dating back to the days when they could not make fine steel and cast-iron and made up for it by size. It was a big, heavy engine and it filled the center of the engine room, with the cylinder block rising above the gratings and the crankpits going deep below the floorplates, a three-level engine, but it was probably not very powerful. It was just heavy and old-fashioned and it likely took most of its power just to move itself, Holman thought.

It was massive and it was well and truly made, he saw. The three pairs of cast-iron columns measured about two feet on a side and the great clumsy shaft couplings were six inches thick. The bearing shells were all heavy, smooth brass and he could not span round the connecting rods with both his hands. All the ordered maze of working parts were cleanly oiled and softly shining under the lights, and that was looksee pidgin, which told nothing about how well it would run, but a warm feeling went out from Holman to the engine and his hands lingered on the sculptured metal.

“Hello, engine,” he said softly.

The main condenser was a large white cylinder that lay aft of the engine like the crossbar of a T. The drain well was displaced to port to make room for the shaft to run beneath the condenser and the squat, long thrust bearing rose aft of the condenser. The main circulator and the main air pump snugged into the angles of the T on either side and it made a queer arrangement, but a very neatly balanced one. Forward on the starboard side was the throttle station and a log desk with a metal gauge board up behind it. The clock read two-fifteen. Holman stood for a moment with one hand on the throttle wheel overhead and one on the reversing lever.

“Hey, engine,” he said softly. “Hey, engine!”

He went to the long steel workbench on the starboard side abreast the engine. It had two old vises and at one end a rag barrel and at the other a trash bucket. Up behind it was a tool board with big wrenches on brass clips. The wrenches were scarred and splayed and sprung-jawed and the workbench was marked with a thousand chisel cuts and half-round gasket punch scars, but everything was clean and oiled. Holman sat on the workbench, careless of oil on his dress whites. The spell of the engine was on him.

It was a fine, handsome old engine, much older than Jake Holman himself. He looked at it, massive, dully gleaming brass and steel in columns and rods and links arching above drive rods from twinned eccentrics, great crossheads hung midway, and above them valve spindles and piston rods disappearing into the cylinder block. He knew them all, each part and its place in the whole, and his eye followed the pattern, three times repeated from forward to aft, each one-third of the circle out of phase, and it was all poised and balanced there like three chunks of frozen music. Under his controlling hands, when they steamed, it was going to become living, speaking music. Under his tending hands, with oil can and grease swab. Under his healing hands, with hammer and wrench and scraper.

“Hello, engine. I’m Jake Holman,” he said under his breath.

Jake Holman loved machinery in the way some other men loved God, women and their country. He loved main engines most of all, because they were the deep heart and power center of any ship and all the rest was trimming, much of it useless. He sat and looked at the engine without thinking, until a wild, yelling argument in the fireroom snapped him out of it.

It was the whang, yang, high, wailing screech of angry Chinese. Holman went over to the head of the engine, where two steps led down to the narrow passageway between the boilers, and then stopped. They wouldn’t know him. Burgoyne must hear it up there; he’d come and break it up. The noise got worse and Burgoyne did not come down. The circular sterns of the two boilers stuck through the light bulkhead into the engine room like huge pop eyes, one on either side of the engine. The feed checks and water columns were in the engine room. The glass tube on the steaming boiler was so dirty-brown inside from scale that Holman had to move his finger slantwise behind it to be sure where the water level was. It was all right. The screeching in the fireroom was becoming frantic. Sometimes scale lodged in a valve and the glass showed a false level. You might think you were riding along easy with plenty of water and all the time your crown sheets were melting and when they let go it could blow the ship apart like a busted cigar. You had to blow the glass down every hour and let the column reform, to be sure.

“God damn it!” Holman said.

He opened the blowdown cock. The glass emptied with a roar and steam billowed under the floorplates. One of the ball checks stuck and it kept on blowing, so he closed the cock. A half-naked Chinese came running from the fireroom and Burgoyne clattered down the ladder behind Holman.

“What the Willy Jesus?” Burgoyne said, frowning.

“I blew the glass,” Holman said. “One of your checks leaks.”

“It don’t leak bad. We only blowdown once a watch on this ship,” Burgoyne said. “I blew the glass when I came on watch.”

“I blow ’em once an hour,” Holman said.

“Maskee. You blow ’em every half hour if you want, when you got the watch. Right now I got it.”

He was angry. He had a right to be. You did not interfere with another man’s watch. But if he turned it over to a coolie, and the coolie was not standing it but out fighting ...

“I’m sorry,” Holman said slowly. “I been down here twenty minutes, maybe more, and your coolie ain’t been in the engine room once to check the plant. Hellfire, you must’ve heard ’em fighting out there—”

He broke off at Burgoyne’s sudden grin. The good-humor crinkles at the corners of his eyes replaced the frown between them.

“They ain’t but one coolie down here for both places,” he said. “What you heard was Po-han singing.” He looked at the coolie at Holman’s left. “You sing song, Po-han, he tinkee you, othah man, makee fight fight.” Burgoyne chuckled and milled his fists and grinned at the coolie.

“My no sabby any man stop this side,” the coolie said. He was grinning, but embarrassed.

“The laugh’s on me,” Holman said. “I sure thought two of ’em was about to take the shovels to each other.”

“Po-han’ll sure enough get into the Chinee opera yet,” Burgoyne said. “He’s all the time singing down here by himself.” He looked hard at Holman. “Po-han’s a good man. Anything ain’t right, he’ll find it and tell you. You can trust Po-han.”

“Sure. I feel like a jackass,” Holman said. “I’m sorry I blew that glass, Frenchy.”

“It’s all right, Jake. Well, I better go back up.” Burgoyne started up the ladder. “Ain’t supposed to leave the quarterdeck except for emergencies,” he said from the gratings.

A white hat on a swab handle could stand that quarterdeck watch this time of night, Holman thought. There was no day or night in the engine room. The coolie was standing by and Holman did not know what to say to him or how to treat him. He saw that the water column had reformed in the same place. It had been all right, but now he knew. The way to get killed around machinery was to take things for granted.

“All thing plopah,” the coolie said. “You makee looksee, Mastah. Any side plopah.”

He was grinning and looking Holman right in the eye and Holman had to recognize him. The coolie had short black hair above his head rag and a smooth, squarish face with very Chinese eyes and a strong chin. Except for the eyes and low nose, it was the same-model face as Jake Holman’s, and that added to Holman’s unease. Holman had gray eyes and bushy eyebrows and short, sandy hair.

“My takee looksee, Joe,” he said, to break the encounter.

He walked around the engine, glancing at things, and sat again on the workbench. This business of coolies, he thought. He was used to them hired by the hour to muck out bilges or clean firesides. He knew the gunboats stationed permanently in China kept coolies living aboard to do all the hard and dirty work, bilges, passing coal, garbage detail, that stuff. But coolies tending machinery: he could not see that. He just could not see that, and it was going to make things unexpectedly complicated for Jake Holman aboard the U.S.S. San Pablo.

Through the engine, Holman watched the coolie tending the pumps on the port side. He took up neatly on a blowing gland, then swabbed the rod, then wiped up the spattered grease and water. He took a little make-up feed into the hot well. He moved quickly and surely and he seemed to know what he was doing. He wore old leather steaming shoes and the kind of thin black coolie pants that were tight at the ankle and so loose at the waist that the extra material had to be folded and lapped, and they were held up by a white sash that went around two or three times. The seats always sagged slaunchwise and the sailors laughed and called them “droopy drawers.”

Suddenly, Holman saw the sense of it. Air went through the thin cloth and they did not bind in the crotch or even touch, and the cloth in the sash soaked up the sweat that rolled down. It beat hell out of skintight dungarees and leather belts. But no sailor would ever wear coolie pants. They would rather go on doctoring the spick itch in their crotches and the prickly heat across their hip bones. Besides, coolie pants would be nonregulation.

What about that, Holman thought.

The coolie was adjusting the boiler feed. He was shorter and lighter than Holman but built to the same plan, stocky and well padded with muscles that held their shape like a washboard down his stomach and worked together rounded and smoothly on his arms and across his chest. He did not look like a coolie. Coolies were scrawny and corded, ribs showing, and they had ugly purple calluses the size of cantaloupes on their humped shoulders. Squeeze merchants ashore were fat as Buddha. This coolie was what a Chinaman could look like when he had enough to eat and still had to work.

What the hell, Holman thought. That coolie’s all right. Machinery only cared about what a man knew and what he could do with his hands, whether he was a coolie or an admiral, and that was the secret, very good thing about machinery. The coolie was an engineer; well then, he was not a coolie, he was another engineer like Jake Holman. Po-han turned and caught Holman’s gaze and came over grinning.

“All thing plopah, Mastah?” he asked. He knew it was, and he was proud.

“Ding hao!” Holman made the double thumbs-up sign and grinned back. “You no moh speakee my name Mastah,” he said. “You speakee me Jake ... Holman.” He pronounced it very distinctly.

“Jeh-ki,” Po-han said. “Ho-mang.”

“Jehk.”

“Jehk. Jehk.”

Holman slid off the workbench. There was no more strain in the encounter. “I’m going up and turn in,” he said, dropping the pidgin. “I’m glad to be shipmates with you, Po-han.” He held out his hand.

Po-han was embarrassed, because shaking hands was not old custom in China, but he shook hands. Both men had hard, square hands and a powerful grip.

“Keep her steaming, Po-han,” Holman said, and headed for the ladder. He had seen the engine room and he could go to sleep now.

He did not go right to bed. He needed time to appreciate his new bunk. It was against the port side forward, just aft of the door, and it was half again as wide and much softer than the thin horsehair mattress he was used to. The crew’s compartment was big enough for a hundred bunks, by navy standards, and there were only about twenty in it, as far as he could judge by the dim blue night lights. Holman was used to sleeping on narrow pipe-and-wire shelves stacked four high on either side of pipe stanchions. You were practically in a double bed with the guy across from you. Somebody’s rump sagged in your face and someone else’s feet were next to your pillow. The air was always thick with bad smells and strangled snoring. Bunking like that was supposed to work you out of any private and personal notions you had about yourself. When you learned to like living that way, you were a good bluejacket and Uncle Sam loved you.

He undressed and sat on his bunk. A huge upright locker at either end made a little alcove of it. Above it a fresh breeze off the river fluttered curtains in the two square windows. Curtains! The place smelled airy and clean, of wax and soap and metal polish. Suddenly he stretched out his legs and waved them and raised his arms and waved them and no matter where he stretched and reached, he was still in his own space. It was his body catching up, starting to believe it, taking possession.

He sprawled luxuriously on the edge of sleep, believing and enjoying it. A sailor without his own ship was like a hermit crab without a shell. It was good to have a shell again. This bunk was no better than the one he had had on the commercial steamer up from Shanghai. But a paid-for bunk was like a whore. Your own bunk on your own ship was what a wife was probably like. You could really rest, in your own bunk.

His mind moved to the missionary girl on the commercial steamer. She was new in China, going to her first mission job. She did not know the score and she did not know the rules. That first morning in the lower Yangtze she had even thought he was part of the steamer crew. She had stopped where he was standing by the saloon deck rail.

“Are we really in a river?” she asked him.

“Yeah. It’s a river,” he said.

The starboard shore was a green horizon. The port shore was out of sight across choppy brown water. You couldn’t see it as a river. You could just know it was there.

“It’s so huge,” she said. She was blonde, fresh and clean-looking in a sleeveless brown dress, but not very pretty. “I’ve just come to China,” she said. “There’s so much. So different.” She looked down at the Chinese passengers crowding the main deck and back out across the water. “It’s just so enormous,” she repeated.

“I guess it gets smaller as you go up,” he said. “I guess if you went far enough, you could straddle it and scoop it all up in a bucket.”

That was a secret thought he always had about rivers. He had never told it to anyone before. She thought about it.

“I’m from Minnesota. I’ve seen where the Mississippi starts,” she said. “It just rises up out of the land all around. You couldn’t scoop it up in a bucket.”

They talked for half an hour. She found out he was a navy sailor and a passenger like herself. She did not know it hurt a missionary girl’s reputation to be friendly with a sailor. She told him her brother Charley had been a reserve lieutenant on the Delaware during the war. Holman didn’t tell her he hated battleships and had very little use for lieutenants. Her name was Miss Eckert and she called him Mr. Holman. It was a strange, pleasant little talk.

“I’ve so much to learn,” she said. “It’s so confusing, so far.”

It was indeed. Holman was confused also with the talk he heard at meals in the saloon. Things were set up in China so that sailors were never around nice people, and he had not heard such talk before. The other passengers were three businessmen and two buck missionaries and they wrangled about China. Holman knew his place and kept it and said nothing. Riots were going on in Shanghai because some students had been shot, and a naval landing force was ashore to back up the police. They wrangled about that.

“Chinese think we’re demoralized!” the bulky old Englishman, Mr. Outscout, said. “Think so myself, by George! Gone soft, rotten, since the war!”

He had stiff gray hair that he tossed for emphasis. His main target was the oldest missionary, Miss Eckert’s new boss, a tall, bearded man named Craddock. Craddock would stick out his beard for emphasis. He and Outscout were a good match.

“No, sir!” Craddock said once. “I say you shall not extend your unequal treaties yet further over this unhappy nation!”

“Our unequal treaties! Ours, I say!”

Outscout banged the table. The crystal chandelier tinkled. The businessmen ganged up on Craddock. They asked him if he owned title to his mission lands, what taxes and import duties he paid, how often he interfered in Chinese courts on behalf of converts and how often he had fled to a gunboat.

“Twice, to my shame,” he said, glaring at them. “I will not flee again.”

The saloon was paneled in dark wood and had a brown rug. White-coated Chinese stewards served neatly and silently. There were silver and white linen and wine glasses and they all had very good eating manners. Miss Eckert often asked questions. Both sides were trying to win her over. Her questions helped Holman to understand.

He learned that the missionaries wanted a lot more than just pulling the gunboats out of China. They wanted to turn customs and salt tax and postal system control back to the Chinese. They wanted all the palefaces to be under Chinese law and need Chinese permission to be in the country. It was complicated and it was all mixed up in Holman’s mind with Miss Eckert asking questions.

Sailors did not know about any treaties. They thought navy ships operated in Chinese waters the same way they did on the high seas. The sailors knew the missionaries despised them and wanted to run them out of China. They knew that, all right. But they thought it was only because sailors were so sinful. You would never hear a good word for missionaries from any China sailor. The businessmen said it would be time enough to think about giving China equal treaties when China was able to form a stable and civilized government. It was Craddock’s turn to thump the table.

“Your unequal treaties create a situation that compels their use! You know they are cancerously self-extending!” he said fiercely. “You know, and well you know, that China will remain helpless to put her house in order unless you first put away your enslaving treaties!”

“Our enslaving treaties! You’ll not come that on me, sir!”

Outscout looked ready to reach across and throttle Craddock. Miss Eckert slipped away, looking distressed.

“Your kind came in with the treaties, forcibly as opium!” Outscout said. “Suspend them and we all go! Chaff in a typhoon!” He flailed his arm. “Your kind, too. Chinese hate and despise you, sir! Dare you know that?”

“I dare love them in return!” The beard stuck out like a rammer bow. “I dare trust God rather than guns! Dare you, sir? Dare you?”

“I dare no less than yourself. You know well enough you’re not permitted to renounce your personal treaty rights.” Outscout’s voice turned scornful. “Cheap talk, sir, when you know you’ll not have to make it good.”

Respectable people really had control, Holman thought. Sailors could not get half that angry and nasty with each other without having to stand up and fist it out.

Near Chinkiang the river narrowed and low green hills humped along the south bank. A pagoda stood on a wooded point. The Paul Jones passed them making thirty knots, with signals fluttering, deck guns manned and boats swung out. She hailed, saying there was rioting in Chinkiang. The steamer people made a great fuss slamming and locking the steel gratings that shut the Chinese deck passengers away from topside. All male passengers were called to the pilot house. Holman went. The two missionaries were not there. Outscout seemed to have charge. He was digging in an arms chest.

“Ingram! Where d’ye keep your ammo?” he barked. The captain said someone was bringing it. Outscout thrust a rifle at Holman. “Pop down and do sentry-go on the cabin deck, lad,” he ordered. “Keep the deck passengers in hand.” Holman hefted the empty rifle doubtfully. “Just show yourself through the bars forward and aft,” Outscout said. “The sight of your uniform and rifle is all they’ll want to keep them in order.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Holman said.

The deck passengers did not look at Holman and his uniform and his empty rifle. They crowded the port rail to look at black smoke rising above trees as the steamer rounded the point. Holman felt very foolish. He did not even know how to work his empty British rifle. What am I doing here? he thought. Only three Chinese children stared solemnly up at him through the bars. They knew something was wrong. The littlest one was about to cry. Holman grinned and pointed his finger down at them.

“Bang, bang. You’re dead,” he told them.

They considered that seriously. Then the two older ones smiled. The smallest one laughed and pointed his finger at Holman and said, “Cah cah cah!” Holman felt better about things. He grinned more widely. Then he felt eyes on the back of his neck. Someone behind him was watching. He stiffened and turned, cheeks burning.

It was Miss Eckert. She was smiling, understanding and sharing the little play instead of mocking it. Holman really saw her then, for the first time, and after that he could always really see her. She had a fresh, soft, sweet look to her face, and a curving build. Her straw-colored hair was bobbed and shingled. Her forehead was smooth and wide and her clear blue eyes looked right at everybody. Her rather wide mouth always showed her feelings, drooping in sympathy when someone was hurt. Now she was smiling very tenderly. He tried to smile back at her.

They could not say much. Craddock came and insisted that she take shelter. But for the rest of the trip to Hankow it was different between them. She was more than just a pleasing appearance. She was always real and there. It was clear that Craddock did not like her to be with Holman and also clear that she was ignoring Craddock’s advice. Holman knew Craddock was right, for the long run. He knew it was a good thing that he would never see Miss Eckert again, after they reached Hankow.

Holman began to think Craddock also had the right of it in the running argument at meals. At dinner on the last day he spoke up for the first time, in support of something Craddock said. It was embarrassing. There was a pause. Even Craddock did not look pleased. Then Mr. Johnson, the gaunt American with glasses, said something vague. The talk went on. Johnson began telling Miss Eckert about the gunboats.

“Until we get our new gunboats built, you will have to depend largely on Mr. Outscout’s flag for your protection,” he told Miss Eckert. “American gunboats in Central China now are a painful local joke.”

He talked about the old Spanish relics, how they broke down and lacked power to get up the rapids.

“The most ludicrous one of all is named the San Pablo,” he said. “Mercifully, the admiral keeps it hidden away down in Hunan.”

Miss Eckert knew he was needling Holman. She joined Holman on deck after dinner. It was dark already. They would reach Hankow in a few hours.

“China Light is hidden away down in Hunan, too,” she said. That was the name of her mission, where she was going to teach English. She was trying to make up for what Johnson had said. “It doesn’t matter what the ships are like,” she went on. “They’re all manned by brave American boys. That’s what really counts.”

Somehow it angered Holman more than anything Johnson had said. She was just too dumb about some things.

“China sailors ain’t exactly clean-cut American boys,” he told her. “The clean-cut boys don’t stay in China.”

He tried to explain. Sailors came to China on a thirty-month tour of duty. If they liked it, if they fitted the pattern of things, they could extend and stay on and in time retire and die of old age in China, if they wanted to. If not, they went back to the States. She saw where he was going with it and tried to change the subject. It hurt her to hear him downgrade himself, even in that roundabout way. But he had to do it. For her sake. She had to learn about the pattern of things and how it did a missionary girl no good at all to be associated with a China sailor.

Holman shifted comfortably in his new bunk and sighed. He was almost asleep.

So a few hours ago he had hurried ashore from the commercial steamer with his seabag on his shoulder and without saying any goodbyes. He would never see her again. And if by some wild chance he did, she would have had time to learn the rules. It would be almost the same as not seeing her.