Part 22

Less than an hour later he was inspecting a light-draught steamer called the _Whang Ho_ owned by the China Navigation Company. She was old, sadly in need of repairs, and about as sea-worthy for rough weather as a packing-box. But O’Shea felt confident that she could be nursed along to serve his purpose, and the larger, better vessels available for charter at short notice were not so handy for exploring muddy rivers and strange corners. Having put to sea at one time and another in craft which were held together only by their paint, Captain O’Shea asked no more of the _Whang Ho_ than that her engines should turn over. He dared not examine the machinery too closely lest he might lose confidence in his steamer, but the owners’ agent assured him that she was fit for service and he took his word for it.

“Start her fires going at once,” said O’Shea, “and if enough pressure shows on the gauges to turn her wheel as she lies at her moorings, I will sign the charter-party and insurance papers and slap down the two thousand dollars for a month’s use of the venerable relic.”

“That is fair enough,” replied the agent. “And it is as good as done. You can go ahead with getting your supplies, Captain O’Shea. I take it that you want to do a bit of exploration work for one of the American syndicates? We have done quite a lot of business with your people and their concessions.”

“It may be something like that,” briefly returned O’Shea. “And now will you be kind enough to tell me where to order a hundred and fifty tons of steam coal to be put in the bunkers this very day?”

“Our company will be pleased to let you have it, and I can guarantee prompt delivery from lighters alongside the steamer. Or I presume that Jordan, Margetson will do the same for you.”

“I think I will not deal with Jordan, Margetson,” and O’Shea’s voice was smooth and pleasant. “The comprador is a very able young man.”

“Charley Tong Sin? Well, rather. A smart chap, that.”

“Yes, very. I wish I could keep my razor as sharp.”

Captain O’Shea next visited a ship-chandler’s and submitted his list of stores, making it a condition of payment that the stuff should be in the steamer before sunset. The elderly German who served him had the tact and discretion bred of long experience with the seafarers of the unexpected Orient. It was his business to sell them whatever they might want, to take his profit and ask no questions. Yes, he could find thirty service rifles and revolvers, also cutlasses of the best steel. They were of patterns discarded by a certain European government, but excellent weapons. He would be glad to sell the captain one, five, or ten thousand of them. The captain was not a man to wag a foolish tongue; one could see it at a glance.

“You and I might do business some day,” quoth O’Shea, “but I am too busy to start a revolution at present.”

He sent a note to Paddy Blake asking him to find a dozen Chinese firemen and sailors and a river pilot, and to muster them ready for signing articles in the afternoon. He believed the old Irishman to be a ripened scoundrel at his own trade, but suspected him of no complicity in the manœuvres of Charley Tong Sin. The comprador had merely used Paddy Blake as a means of making the acquaintance of Captain O’Shea.

Five minutes after noon the shipmaster (he had taken a decided dislike to riding in ’rickshaws) trudged into the headquarters building of Inspector Burke.

“I have a choice collection for you to look over,” said the latter. “They are waiting in another room, and I should call them a worried lot. I sent my men out to pick them up, do you see, and they have not been told the reason why.”

“I cannot afford to be particular, Inspector Burke. Let me at them and I will see whether I am safer ashore among the Chinese or at sea with your exhibit of beach-combers.”

“Oh, they are not as bad as that,” the inspector assured him. “I should scarcely call them desperate characters. However, while I wish you the best of luck, old chap, I shall shed never a tear if you lose your shipmates somewhere beyond Shanghai. Let us call them soldiers of misfortune, if you like.”

He led the way into the large drill-room, where a score or more of men stood in uneasy attitudes and appeared not at all comfortable in this environment. O’Shea let his glance rove in swift, appraising scrutiny and smiled to himself as he recognized one familiar type after another. He had recruited such men as these for unostentatious ventures in the waters of the Spanish Main. Here was the red-faced, burly shipmaster ready with a glib speech and fluent curses to explain how he happened to be without his papers; the shambling ne’er-do-well with the slack mouth and the weak chin who had fled from a scrape at home to lose himself in foreign ports; the tanned adventurer, brave and resourceful, who was fit for nothing else than the life of a rover; the battered old seaman, worn out by the hardships of the forecastle, who had been cast adrift from the hospital; the cashiered army officer with the hall-mark of his caste blurred but still visible; the sharp-featured young man with the furtive eye who lived by his wits and found it very hard living indeed; the bleary tropical tramp who would sell his soul for a drink of brandy.

These and the rest of them were seedy in various ways. They conveyed a sense of failure, of having lost their grip. Their clothes did not signify this so much as what life had written in their faces. Several, in fact, were dressed in clean white duck and linen. They were fighting hard to preserve the guise of self-respect. And yet every man of them had marched to police headquarters at a word from Inspector Burke with the sick fear in his heart that his past had overtaken him, or that he was to be deported for the good of the community, or that he was to be locked up as a vagrant.

Inspector Burke felt pity for them. It was heartless to keep the poor devils in this painful suspense. With a curt nod he addressed them in a group, for they had unwittingly drifted together as if finding some small comfort in solidarity.

“This is not police business,” said he. “I sent for you to oblige my friend Captain O’Shea. He will explain what he wants, and I advise you to play square with him and I’m quite sure he will make it worth while.”

At this the company brightened and looked immensely relieved. The hang-dog manner fled. Shoulders were braced, heads held erect. They were like different men. O’Shea had a less pessimistic opinion of them. He had already concluded to show no finicky taste by picking and choosing. He would take them in a lump, good, bad, and indifferent. Those who were really competent would soon disclose it on shipboard and they could help him hammer the others into shape.

“My speech to you will be short and sweet,” said he. “I need men for a voyage coastwise and me steamer will be ready to sail to-night. You will live well and I expect ye to obey orders. ’Tis not sailors’ work or I should not take on your kind. The fewer questions ye ask the more popular ye will be with me. The pay will be at the rate of five dollars a day gold, but I will give no advances. I want ye to come aboard sober. If you handle yourselves like men I will pay ye a bonus at the end of the voyage. Those that want to go will give me their names.”

Not a man hung back or asked a question. They whispered softly among themselves, as if afraid to make a slip that might break the spell. Captain O’Shea had one thing more to say and they listened with the most devout attention.

“I took note of the small Hotel London down by the water-side. ’Tis a clean, decent place and I have had a word with the landlord. I will give every man me card. If you show it to him he will be pleased to entertain ye at dinner at once, and he will hand ye out cigars and three drinks apiece, no more. And I will meet you there for supper at six o’clock to-night.”

“Excellent strategy,” murmured Inspector Burke.

“By the way,” cried O’Shea to his pleased followers, “I overlooked something. I need a chief engineer. Can any one of you qualify?”

It appeared that none of them was sufficiently acquainted with the internal works of a steamer to pass as an expert, although a young man of a very Cockney accent thought he might do as an assistant.

Inspector Burke made haste to remark:

“I say, let me give you the very man for the job. Kittridge is his name. It’s rather awkward, for he is in clink at present, the British jail. But his time expires to-morrow--he was given thirty days--and I dare say the magistrate will be willing to sign release papers if I explain the situation.”

“I am not asking me men for references,” observed O’Shea, “but, as a matter of mild curiosity, what did ye put this Kittridge away for?”

“He tried to whip my entire Sikh police force, and he made a jolly good beginning. Then his ship sailed away and left him in quod. He was engineer in a Cardiff tramp. A very good man, I understand.”

“He sounds like it. His references are most satisfactory, especially what he did to your turbanned cops,” O’Shea cordially affirmed. “Send this Kittridge to the Hotel London, if ye please, and give him this card of mine, and tell him to wait for me there.”

Through the afternoon Captain Michael O’Shea, now master of the aged river steamer _Whang Ho_, was the busiest and most energetic of men. A hundred and one things presented themselves as necessary to be done. When at length he hurried into the Hotel London shortly before the supper-hour his men were waiting, hopeful, expectant, cheerful, smoking his cigars and with the three drinks apiece tucked under their belts. Among them was a lanky, solemn person with a pair of gray side-whiskers and a leathery complexion crisscrossed by a net-work of fine wrinkles. His whole appearance was eminently decorous and respectable and he seemed to have strayed into the wrong company. It was not far-fetched to conjecture that he might be a missionary from some station in the Chinese hinterland who had kindly concerned himself with the souls of this congregation of black sheep.

Captain O’Shea bowed to him with a puzzled, respectful air, at which the pious stranger remarked:

“Inspector Burke told me to report here and be damn quick about it. I am Kittridge, and I hear you are wanting an engineer.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Kittridge. I came near mistakin’ you for a sky-pilot. And so your favorite pastime is beating up Sikh policemen! I have a job for ye at double the wages you got in your tramp steamer, whatever they were. Are you willing?”

“I would sign on with the devil himself to get clear of this blankety-blank pig-hole of a blistering Shanghai,” promptly exclaimed Mr. Kittridge. “Where’s your ship? Shall I go aboard at once?”

“Please take a look at the engine-room and report to me here. She is the _Whang Ho_, tied up at the China Navigation Company’s wharf. Don’t be too critical, but if there’s work that is absolutely necessary I will send ye machinists to work all night.”

“I know the condemned little hooker by sight,” bitterly quoth Mr. Kittridge with a tug at his starboard whisker. “Very well, sir. I will take a squint at her and make out my list of engine-room stores. Can you get them to-night?”

“The ship-chandler is waiting to hear from me, and I have sent word to the machine-shop,” briefly answered O’Shea.

Paddy Blake had very promptly raked up the required number of Chinese hands and was ready to deliver them on board whenever required. To the Hotel London he came, towing by the arm a most extraordinarily bent and shrivelled anatomy with a wisp of a white queue, whom he turned over to Captain O’Shea with the explanation:

“Here is a river and coastwise pilot for ye that is as wise as Confucius. And by the same token, I have no doubt that he was once pilot aboard the junk of that grand old philosopher himself. Or maybe he was shipmates with Noah.”

The ancient mariner croaked a phrase or two in a grating, rusty voice, and O’Shea dubiously observed:

“If he talks no English at all how will I tell him where I want to go?”

“I have sent ye a Chinese bos’n that can sling th’ pidgin,” said Paddy Blake. “Dearly would I love to know where ye are bound and what bobbery ye are up to, Captain Mike O’Shea, but a man in my business has learned to ask no more silly questions than he can help.”

“Keep that magnum on ice till I come back to Shanghai and I will spin ye the yarn in the little back room of yours, Paddy.”

“May ye come back right side up,” warmly exclaimed the old man. “By th’ look of the friends ye have mustered to go wid you, I wud say that ye are bound out on what th’ Shanghai diplomats call a policy of binivolint assimilation.”

The report of the aggrieved Mr. Kittridge was to the effect that while the engines of the _Whang Ho_ would probably take her to sea without breaking down, a night’s work on the condenser, not to mention a leaky cylinder, would considerably improve her health. Captain O’Shea told him to drive ahead with these repairs; nor was the delay worth fretting about. Things had gone amazingly well thus far and the _Whang Ho_ would be ready to sail in the morning. He had no desire to spend another night ashore, and he would take his company on board at once, assign them to quarters, and make a tentative organization for sea duty.

The _Whang Ho_ had been fitted for passenger service on the Yang-tse, and there were state-rooms on the upper deck to hold twice the number of O’Shea’s recruits. In the Chinese draft sent aboard by Paddy Blake were a cook and a steward trained to their business, and they put things to rights in their quiet, deft way. The mood of Captain O’Shea became normally cheerful and confident. He had a deck under his feet, his word was law, and it was good to hear the lap of salt water and the swirl of the tide against a vessel’s side.

He was awake and about until midnight. The work in the engine-room was progressing rapidly under the vehement direction of Mr. Kittridge. Feeling the need of sleep, for the preceding night had been a broken one, Captain O’Shea set a watch in charge of the burly shipmaster of his company whom he appointed first mate and went to his bunk in the cabin just abaft the wheel-house. At three o’clock Mr. Kittridge, very hot and grimy, rapped on the door and gruffly announced that the machinists had gone ashore and he proposed to turn in and sleep until sailing-time.

At six o’clock Captain O’Shea went on deck in his pajamas to order the steward to fetch him a cup of coffee. He saw no reason why the steamer should not get under way at once. The Chinese steward came not at his call and he betook himself to the galley. A fire was burning in the range, rice and potatoes were cooking in the pots, bacon sliced on the table ready for frying, but there was no cook. O’Shea looked puzzled and started for the forecastle. On the way he met his first mate whose demeanor was distressed and excited.

“I was about to call you, sir,” he exclaimed, his red face working with emotion. “You will think I’ve made a hash of my first night on duty, but this insane business happened like a shot out of a gun, sir. Not ten minutes ago the Chinamen, every last one of ’em, came boiling on deck and went over the side to the wharf like so many rats. And they never did stop running. They were scared; it was a panic; but they didn’t stop to jabber. They just flew, and most of ’em left their dunnage behind.”

“The divil you say,” muttered O’Shea, and he rubbed his head in slightly bewildered fashion. “That must have been just before I stepped on deck, Mr. Parkinson. And ye have no idea at all what it was about?”

“Not the slightest, sir. I hope you don’t blame me. I’d have sailed into the thick of them with my fists, but it was like chasing so many greased pigs. They vanished before you could more than wink.”

“What about the fires?” snapped the captain. “Have you been below?”

“Yes, sir. The first thing I did was to find Mr. Kittridge. He is in the engine-room, and he told me to send down half a dozen of our white men to keep up steam.”

“Good enough! Now sing out for a volunteer cook, and I will investigate this comical performance. Did anybody get aboard to talk to these Chinamen?”

“Not a soul, sir. I’m sure of it. I had a reliable man at the gangway, and another on the wharf.”

“I believe you. While I look around a bit, get the ship ready to go to sea, Mr. Parkinson. ’Tis not in me mind to be hung up in port very long.”

A sailing junk was attempting to reach with the morning breeze across the wide stretch of river. Hauling close to the wharf at which the _Whang Ho_ was moored, the junk attempted to come about, but missed stays in lubberly fashion and hung in the wind as she slowly drifted past the steamer’s stern. The Chinese who clung to the long tiller, and the others who stood upon the poop or hauled on the cordage, were gazing with signs of excitement at the _Whang Ho_. Several of them gesticulated, and their fingers were aimed at the rounded, overhanging stern of Captain O’Shea’s vessel. He caught sight of those antics and walked aft.

There was no good reason why the crew of the passing junk should make such a fuss over this commonplace river steamer. Their singular interest in her might be worth trying to fathom. Without delaying to seek the gangway, he threw his leg around a tautened hawser and slid down to the wharf. Running out to the end of it, he commanded a clear view of the stern of the _Whang Ho_. Upon the white woodwork, just above the counter, was painted in broad strokes of bright vermilion the sprawling Chinese character which had been gashed in the back of the sailor named Jim Eldridge.

Captain O’Shea hastily returned on board and climbed over the after rail, belaying a loose end of heaving-line and resting his foot in the loop so that he was able to let himself down until he could touch the uppermost smear of vermilion paint. It rubbed off on his hand, fresh and wet, and must have been applied during the night. His Chinese crew had discovered it there. Perhaps some one had sung out the information from a passing junk or sampan. At any rate, this was what had made them quit the steamer. A charge of dynamite could have made their exodus no more expeditious. The word had flown from mouth to mouth, and they fled from the ship as from the plague. Even the incredibly aged pilot had hobbled away with the rest of them, fear restoring an agility long since departed.

“The hoodoo again!” reflectively exclaimed O’Shea. “I thought I had got clear of it. ’Tis not so much to frighten me this time as to delay the voyage. Somebody is anxious to send word up the coast ahead of me to let some one else know I am coming. That is a guess, and ’tis as good as the next one.”

He would find Paddy Blake at once and discuss the matter with him. Perhaps he could ship another crew and leave port before the news had time to spread among the Chinese seafarers. Telling Mr. Parkinson to see to it that the vermilion paint was instantly removed, he set out on foot along the water-front. At this early hour, there was no stir of business among the foreign shipping-houses. Passing a substantial brick building, Captain O’Shea’s eye was held for an instant by the brass sign on one of the doors, “Jordan, Margetson & Co.” He happened to be thinking quite assiduously just then of the courteous comprador, Charley Tong Sin. He halted and stared hard at the door in front of him which was ajar.

It was too early for any of the clerks to be about. With an impulse which had no definite purpose behind it, Captain O’Shea pushed open the door and quietly stepped into the hallway and thence into the main office with its row of desks. The room was empty, and he moved in the direction of the smaller, detached offices in the rear, still treading softly. Yes, the shrewd and zealous comprador, so faithful to his employers’ interests, was already at work. When the visitor caught sight of him he was bending over a table littered with papers, intent on arranging and filing them. Possibly his ears were as quick as his wits and he had heard Captain O’Shea before seeing him. Unruffled and smiling, with an air of delighted surprise, the comprador exclaimed, advancing with hand outstretched:

“How glad I am to see you again! The top of the morning! Were you looking to find me? Ah, I am the early bird, you bet.”

“I expected to sail by now, but there has been a bit of trouble with me native crew,” replied the shipmaster, wary as a hawk. “I saw your place was open and I dropped in on the chance of bidding ye farewell. You mentioned the other night that you sometimes came down early.”

“That is the deuce of my business, Captain,” easily returned Charley Tong Sin. “Trouble with your crew? Can I help you? Do you need men? I am sorry you didn’t come to me in the first place.”

“I wish I had. ’Twas old Paddy Blake I first turned to as one Irishman to another. And maybe I was wrong in not asking your advice about the steamer.”

If this were a fencing-match, then O’Shea had scored the first point. His bold, ingenuous features expressed not the slightest change of emotion, but in an instant he had discovered that which clinched and drove home his suspicions of Charley Tong Sin. The comprador put a fresh cigarette to his lips and held a lighted match between his fingers, unaware that the flare conveyed a fleeting translucence. Underneath the beautifully polished nails of his thumb and forefinger there showed a line of vermilion which the most careful scrubbing had failed to eradicate. It was the color of the paint which had been smeared on the stern of the _Whang Ho_ in the form of a sprawling Chinese character.

The luck of Captain Michael O’Shea so ordered it that he should observe this phenomenon before the flare of the match died out. Thereupon he lied swiftly and plausibly, the purpose hot in his heart to find a pretext that should coax the comprador to accompany him on board the _Whang Ho_. To a sympathetic query Captain O’Shea smoothly made answer:

“I am the kind of a man that will own up to his own mistakes. I thought I could go it alone when I ought to have been glad and thankful for the help of a man like yourself. Between us, I am not anxious to go to sea in this old tub that I have chartered from the China Navigation Company. And now that I am delayed for lack of a crew, maybe you can show me a way to slip out of the bargain. My chief engineer finds the vessel is not at all what she was represented to be. I took her subject to certain conditions and she cannot make good.”

“I told you you would be stung in Shanghai without me,” laughed Charley Tong Sin in the greatest good-humor. “Better chuck up the _Whang Ho_ and let me find you a steamer.”

“That I will do, and gladly,” affirmed O’Shea. “Have ye time to step aboard with me now and I will show you how I have been buncoed. Then ye can advise me how to break the charter. I have a good case.”

“Of course I will,” cried the comprador. “Pooh, we will bluff the China Navigation Company out of its boots. I will make them look like thirty cents.”

“You are the smartest comprador between Tientsin and Singapore, according to Paddy Blake, and I have no doubt of it,” sweetly murmured Captain O’Shea.

“That’s what everybody says,” affably rejoined Charley Tong Sin as they walked into the street. “What is the trouble with your crew?”

“You can search me. I cannot find out for the life of me. They up and jumped ship without warning.”

“I will get more men for you. Leave it to me. You have come to the right place this time, Captain O’Shea.”