Читать книгу The Sand Pebbles - Richard McKenna - Страница 9

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One morning in mid-August a white porpoise crossed their bow. An hour later they got orders from Comyang in Hankow to go at once to Paoshan on the Chien River, where anti-foreign riots were supposed to be in progress. They were already on their way to Paoshan and all it meant was raising speed to the maximum of eight knots, which would get them to Paoshan in late afternoon instead of next day. No one was very excited.

The drill that morning was landing force, and they rolled full packs. Holman was in Bordelles’ section, with Farren as squad leader and Crosley, Shanahan, Ellis and Tullio as squadmates. They fell in on the fantail and it was the same as always, Bordelles inspecting gear and arms and taking a swallow from someone’s canteen to make sure the water was clean and fresh. Then he went to the bridge to report.

“Farren, you figure we really got to go ashore and shoot somebody?” Holman asked. He wanted them to show the same tension that he was feeling.

“Not shoot,” Farren said. “The warlord’ll stop it. Maybe General Pan’s men will have to shoot.”

They all explained to Holman. Warlords sometimes had reasons for not stopping riots, but when they could save face by blaming it on a gunboat, they would usually stop them. They would explain to the people that if they did not more gunboats would come and kill everybody. Just the presence of the San Pablo moored under the wall with its flag and guns would probably calm Paoshan right down, Farren said.

“They’re beating up native Christians and looting ’em,” Crosley said. “Likely Pan wasn’t squeezing enough protection money and he just wanted to put the fear of Christ in ’em, to up the squeeze.”

“Yeah, but what if he won’t stop it? Or can’t?”

“Then we’ll stop it,” Farren said.

“But how do you stop a riot?”

“Walk at ’em with guns,” Crosley said. “If they don’t give ground, fire over their heads. Then they’ll break and run.”

“They’ll be howling in Chinese,” the Red Dog said. “You won’t understand it, Jake, but what they’ll be yelling is: ‘Here comes the great and terrible Red Dog Shanahan! Run for your lives and hide all your virgins!’ ”

“Hide all their samshu,” Ellis said.

“Arf! Arf!”

“No, but God damn it, I mean, what if they shoot back?” Holman persisted. “Come at us?”

Farren shrugged. “We’ll make the best fight we can. We’ll mow the bastards like hay, while we last.”

They all nodded. It made Holman know how deadly seriously they took all the drills that were only an irksome make-believe to him. He still did not believe he was going to shoot anyone, or be shot at. He looked across the rail at the river and the green, swampy delta land from which white birds were flying upward screaming. He did not want to look at their faces. He did not know these shipmates of his.

“Hell, don’t talk like that, Jake,” Tullio said. “They won’t come at us.”

“They’ll run,” Crosley said. “Slopeheads always run.”

“Silence in ranks!” Bordelles had come back to dismiss them. “Chief Franks’ section will go ashore with the captain,” he said. “We’ll stand by in reserve aboard. Leave your packs and your guns on your bunks.”

It was just like any other drill to all of them but Holman.

When Holman took the steaming watch after dinner, Wilsey was making eight-point-two knots and the thump in the L.P. was worse than Holman had ever heard it. The greater power was wiping and pounding the soft metal more rapidly, and the more the clearance increased the worse it pounded, and it was like a snowball rolling downhill. At one o’clock Holman sent for Lynch.

“Chief, we got to stop and take some clearance out of that bearing,” he told Lynch.

“I heard it that bad before.” Lynch was scornful. “We only got about three more hours.”

“She won’t make it.”

“Chien says she will. I already told the skipper she will.”

Lynch went up angry. The knock became worse. It took on a sharp, bone-thudding quality that made the floorplates chatter and the wrenches behind the workbench jump in their hangers. Old Chien hovered near the L.P., watching it narrowly. He was acting worried. So were Po-han and Burgoyne worried, and Holman’s nerves fined to a wire edge. At two o’clock he sent for Lynch again.

“I’m scared, Chief,” he said. “I’m going to cut to half speed.”

“Make your turns.”

“She’s about to carry away, Chief,” Holman said. “She’ll blow a head and scald us. She’ll flail the rod through the bottom and sink the God damned ship!” He reached for the fireroom annunciator. “I’m going to slow down.”

Lynch blocked his hand. “No, you ain’t! Make your turns! By God, that’s a military order!” He was frowning and his lips were pooching in and out. He was angry and afraid too, and he was being stubborn.

“Put that in writing!” They had to shout at each other above the engine racket. “Put that on paper, with your name under it, and I’ll do it,” Holman shouted. Lynch shook his head. “Okay, then, take this throttle!” Holman yelled. “You and Chien can have the watch, you’re so God damned sure about it! Come on, Frenchy!”

He made to leave and Lynch stopped him. “We’ll secure,” he said, and walked around the engine. “Chien! Burn down your fires!” he yelled at the old man. “Pretty soon makee stop.”

Lynch went up and Chien went to the fireroom. Holman began easing in the throttle. Lynch came back down with Lt. Collins, who looked angry and impatient. Chien came back and his coolies laid out wrenches and a sledge. The job would not take very long. Wilsey and Perna and Stawski came down in whites and drifted around. They wanted to make a show of concern and being useful, because the captain was down there.

When the steam was low enough they anchored. It seemed very quiet, with the jarring thud stopped. Holman stayed at the throttle to position the L.P. crank, which would have to be at top center. The control lever worked a small reversing engine that could slide the great, curving, double-bar links back and forth through the main engine and hold them at any point. When they were in mid-position the three slide valves were supposed to be closed and the engine stopped. But the valves leaked and, even with the steam shut off at the throttle, air leaked up the piston rods to create a pressure imbalance with the vacuum in the condenser, and the engine would still run. It would lie quiet until enough air leaked in and then it would suddenly jump, one way or the other. To hold the L.P. on top, Holman had to keep jiggling the lever very slightly across mid-position. The tremor of the control lever was magnified to an oscillation of several inches in the links and the great crank rolled ahead and checked and back and checked and Holman held the engine rocking there, all the trembling tons of it instantly responsive to his hand, and it felt like an extension of his own bone and muscle. He was showing Chien how well he could control the engine. Then they put in the jacking gear, pinning the worm in place engaged with the worm wheel on the shaft, and the engine was in a secure mechanical lock. Holman locked the control in mid-position and went around to watch the job.

The crank was still trying to roll. It was working through the backlash of the jacking gear with sharp clicks each way, but the gear held it. The crank bearing was like a beer barrel split lengthwise and clamped around the crankpin with two big bolts on each side. They would have to back off the nuts enough to drop the bottom half slightly and take out a thin metal shim from each side and reduce clearance, and then slug the nuts up tight once more. It was emergency procedure and the coolies were not used to it. They were all afraid to get down into the crankpit and hold the wrench. Chien shrilled at them and they screamed back.

“Why don’t they begin, Lynch?” Lt. Collins asked. “You told me ten minutes.”

“I’ll get down there and hold the wrench,” Holman said.

“My takee lench! My takee lench!”

Chien did not want to lose face by working, but even more he did not want Jake Holman getting in on any repair job. He took off his black satin jacket, to keep it clean, and his bony old man’s chest was hairless and smooth and showed every rib. He climbed down and held the wrench and the work went fast. The heavy-set coolie named Chiu-pa swung the sledge. When the shims were out he slugged the nuts up full due again and Chien handed out the wrench. Chien was tightening the set screws that locked the nuts when the crank came grinding at him with a high, dry squeal.

Holman flew to the control lever. He heard the one great scream as the crank crushed the old man’s chest and drove his air out, and then he had the crank checked and trembling back on top center. Chien slid down out of sight, to the bottom of the crankpit. They were all running and yelling now. Lt. Collins started into the crankpit and Lynch pulled him back. Wilsey was prying up a floorplate. They were going to go into the bilges and pull Chien out through the manhole in the soleplate and that would twist and wrench hell out of the broken old man.

“Lynch, come here!” Holman yelled. “God damn you, Lynch, come here!”

Lynch came. He was pale and staring. Holman pulled Lynch’s hand to the control lever.

“Hold her on top!” he said, and ran.

Chien was doubled over flat in the crankpit, head between legs. Holman straddled him in the slippery oil and water and reached between his own legs to grasp the skinny arms at the shoulders. He straightened up, lifting Chien carefully, and the crank kept nudging the back of his head with short, dry squeals. Lynch could not hold it as steady as Holman had. Lt. Collins leaned down to take Chien from Holman, and the old man’s face passed an inch away from Holman’s face. The eyes were open and the pupils very large and there was no expression in the eyes. Chien’s mouth was open and bubbly blood came out of it and his chest was all torn and bloody. Jennings was on the floorplates with blankets and a stretcher, and when Holman climbed out of the crankpit they were already carrying Chien up the ladder.

Holman looked at Lt. Collins. Neither spoke. They both had blood on them. Holman knelt and took out the jacking gear. He could see that the shaft had turned inside the worm wheel. He stood up again and he was beginning to shake.

“I guess we can get underway now, sir,” he said.

Lt. Collins seemed to jerk. “Yes. Yes, we can,” he said.

He went up the ladder and Holman went around to the throttle. Lynch’s face was working and he had tears in his eyes. “I wouldn’t trust you to hold it,” he kept saying, half to himself.

“Nobody had time to think,” Holman said. He took the control from Lynch.

“I guess I’ll go stand by the sickbay, see about old Chien,” Lynch said.

He went up. He would stop for a slug of rum first, Holman knew. They were all clearing out, even the coolie work gang. Holman started to open the throttle bypass, to let warming steam into the engine, and found it already open. He knew he had closed it. His arm muscles remembered closing it. But it was open, and that steam might have been just the extra push ... It shook Holman. He didn’t know what to do. Finally he pretended to open it, and he did not think Burgoyne noticed.

They got underway and the L.P. still thumped, but it would take them to Paoshan. Burgoyne had to keep going out to the fireroom to check the stoker coolies, because Chien would not be doing that any more. Po-han did his oiling and tending, but he walked wide as he could of the L.P. crank. Nobody wanted to talk. Once Burgoyne said, “God damn it! You know, just God damn it all to hell! Poor old Chien,” and then he packed his lip nervously with snuff. They worked up to eight knots and moored to the Paoshan pontoon at about five o’clock, and Lt. Collins went ashore with Franks’ landing force section while Pappy Tung was still doubling up lines.

Holman ate a late supper in dungarees and came out on deck. Bordelles told him to bear a hand and shift uniform and fall in with the reserve landing section. Farren and the others were already standing by under arms on the quarterdeck. Lynch was there, with the OOD duty.

“I got to repair the jacking gear and refit a crank bearing,” Holman said.

“The bilge coolies will do that,” Bordelles said.

“I don’t think they can, without Chien,” Holman said. “What do you think, Chief?”

“I don’t know about them other ones, how much they know,” Lynch said. “Maybe Jake better supervise it, Mr. Bordelles.”

“Why can’t you do that?”

“Got the duty.” Lynch slapped his pistol.

“Well ... all right.” Bordelles didn’t like it.

Holman told Po-han to round up four coolies and put them to unbolting the big L.P. cylinder cover and wiping out the crankpit. He and Po-han repaired the jacking gear. The worm wheel fit over a collar on the shaft and it was meant to be locked in place by two square keys. Both keys were gone. One had been gone a long time and paint was so thick over the empty keyway that it was hard to tell it was even there. The other key had worked out with the jarring vibration that day, and nothing but rust had been holding the worm wheel when old Chien had gotten down into the crankpit and trusted his life to it.

That was how it was with machinery, and Holman explained it to Po-han. If you were sloppy and ignorant with machinery, sooner or later it would kill you. It didn’t matter how well you meant or how pure your heart was. But if you knew how and did take care of machinery, you were safer than you were in church. Old Chien was still alive up in the sickbay, holding on like a cat, Jennings said, and they would try to get a missionary doctor for him. But old Chien was through in the San Pablo engine room.

“My sabby, Jehk,” Po-han said solemnly.

Holman found keystock in the rack under the workbench and they cut and fitted two new keys. With a light chisel, Holman upset the collar and gear metal over each end of each key, to hold them in place no matter how much the shaft vibrated. When they had more time, they would put a countersunk machine screw through each key, he told Po-han. Po-han nodded eagerly. He understood the principle.

Holman watched the four coolies work. They were suddenly friendly and anxious to please him, instead of being hostile and suspicious, and he was hoping to make the same kind of contact with them that he had with Po-han. They knew the job. They made up their beam clamps solidly and ran their eyebolts all the way in and they were clever riggers with their slings and chainfalls. They lifted aside the big cylinder cover and hoisted the piston and rod assembly and they walked the two bearing halves out on the floorplates very nicely. Chiu-pa seemed to have charge of them.

The bearing looked terrible. In some places the metal was black with burnt oil and in others it was pounded smooth and silvery. Black and silver needles of wiped metal filled the oil grooves. Holman worked on the bottom half; he could not hold off any longer. He cleaned out the oil grooves with a cape chisel and scraped the carbonized patches until the metal stopped coming off as gray dust and curled away in clean, silvery flakes. His hands enjoyed it and his eyes enjoyed seeing the bruised and dirty metal turn clean and frosty with scraper marks. It was like healing something ulcerated, making it whole and sound again. He began taking spots with the mandrel and scraping for a fit. Chiu-pa was scraping the top half and Holman saw that he was going much faster than Chiu-pa. He stopped to show Po-han how to scrape.

Po-han was awkward. The scraper was a large three-cornered file with four inches of the small end ground smooth and grooved along each flat and the edges stoned sharp and smooth. The right hand had to learn a special rock and draw and the left hand had to learn how to pivot and tilt the edge for depth of cut. Holman could nip off a flake the size of a pinhead or curl off a long, broad shaving, without thinking how he did it, but he broke it down to fundamentals to show Po-han. The idle coolies squatted around grinning and watching and Holman had them all try their hands at it. They laughed and kidded in Chinese at each other’s fumbles. The one called Pai was pretty good with a scraper.

They were all clever to pick up the how of it, but only Po-han could handle the why. They had a hollow steel mandrel the same size as the crankpin and they would coat it all over lightly with Prussian blue and roll it sliding around in a clean bearing half. When they lifted it out, blue would show on the contact points and they would scrape bearing metal off only under the blue highspots. After each scraping and test, the blue spots were bigger and there were more of them. Holman tried to explain about even distribution of load in the bearing so that no one area would have too big a share of the load and squeeze out the oil film and wipe. Po-han had to help the others in Chinese, because their English was not as good as his. Each blue spot was like a coolie who helped to hold the load of full engine power, Holman told them; so the bigger the coolies and the more of them and the better spaced they were, the better they could hold the load. Pai and Dong and Chiu-pa did not get it. They could see the little blue coolies in the top half taking the gravity load of the piston and rod assembly, but they thought the coolies in the bottom half were loafers. They simply did not have the basic idea of energy flow.

Po-han got it. He acted it out, fisting his arms around like a crank and saying, “Pushee pushee! Pullee pullee!” while the others looked at him in wonder.

Yet Chiu-pa could spot and scrape and fit a bearing almost as skillfully as Holman. He did not need to know why he was doing what he did. It was just old custom. The stuff about little blue coolies was no more than a pleasant story to go with a piece of old custom. Well, they were all older men than Po-han, Holman thought. Maybe you had to be young.

It was not old custom with Chiu-pa to round the edges of oil grooves, but when he saw how Holman did it he was willing to do the same. They put the refitted bearing back in place, working very handily, and slugged it up with lead wires squeezed inside to measure the oil clearance. When Holman wanted to take out shims to set the oil clearance at six thousandths, Chiu-pa objected. He was very sure that if it were not set at ten thousandths the bearing would burn out. He did not think of it as a figure or any kind of measurement, but only as matching scratch marks, probably made by old Chien, on the micrometer barrel and spindle. Well, if the engine was out of line, you would want more clearance to allow for that, Holman thought. There was something to be said for old custom, after all. He set it at ten.

When the job was done and all of them had gone up except the watch coolie, it was nearly midnight. Holman felt tired and good. He felt satisfied at finally getting his hands on the machinery, and he was not going to let it go again. He made a pot of coffee and sat on the workbench drinking a cup of it. Wilsey came down in whites to write up the log. He spread out a rag and sat beside Holman on the workbench and had a cup of the coffee. They talked about Chien.

“Them keys gone. Who’d ever’ve thought about that?”

“Everybody, after today,” Holman said.

“Yeah, I guess. But you just never know, do you?”

“You can know if you want to,” Holman said.

They heard noise topside. The landing force was back. Perna and Stawski came down and poured coffee and sat on the workbench. It was the first time they had ever come down off watch to drink engine room coffee. Wilsey told them about the keys.

“It was them keys gone, huh, Jake?” Stawski said. “You sure it was them keys gone done it, huh?” He was eager about it.

“Sure. Hell, yes,” Holman said. “What else?”

“It was them keys, all right,” Stawski said.

“All shows to go you,” Wilsey said.

“We brought a missionary doctor back to look at Chien,” Perna said. “He’s up there now.”

“They was all holed up in their compounds and the doctor didn’t want to come out,” Stawski said. “The skipper really blistered his ass for him, way Bronson tells it.”

“Wish I’d heard it,” Wilsey said. “Prong missionaries.”

“I was just thinking, working on that bearing,” Holman said. “Any of you guys ever figure out just what it is you do, when you fit a bearing?”

“You spot and scrape and take leads,” Wilsey said.

“Yeah, but why? What do you mean by fit?”

“Well, fit. Everybody knows that.” Wilsey waggled his foot out in front of him. “Just fit. Like your foot in a shoe.”

“In a bearing, it means equal distribution of load,” Holman said.

“So what?” Perna said.

They didn’t want to talk about bearings. Perna told about the rioting. The mob was out in the streets, all right, yelling and milling, but the Sand Pebbles had gone right on through to the warlord’s yamen. Lt. Collins had offered very politely to help the warlord stop the rioting and the warlord had declined politely and sent out his soldiers to do it alone. In a few hours they had the streets clear and quiet. The Sand Pebbles had gotten a good chow out of it, but Franks would not let them drink the warlord’s samshu. Afterward, they had checked all the missions. No palefaces had been hurt. Only a few native Christians had been killed.

“One mission, they offered us all a glass of milk,” Stawski said.

“What started them rioting anyway?” Holman asked.

“Some slopeheads claimed they saw a missionary woman boiling babies,” Perna said. “So they all went wild.”

“Them missionaries ought to be more careful who they let see ’em, when they’re boiling babies,” Wilsey said.