Shanghaied, a short story

I figured I would post this here as some might find it enjoyable to read . This is the first half, I'm still work on the rest. (A word of note, this is a work of historical fiction, and thus reflects attitudes and terms familiar to the characters of the period, thus I beg you not to take offense to the use of the term "chinaman", in its historical context.) Anyway, please read and enjoy.

Bill walked down the wood-plank sidewalk that despite being raised by several feet above the street was still slicked by mud. To his right the open doorways of dingy shops and bars looked like the entrances to subterranean caves. This whole neighborhood was a dive, a seedy district of rundown establishments that catered to the vices of men. Bill had walked through dozens of such places, all across the country, and he could recognize one instantly. He had heard there were jobs out west, places where people didn’t ask questions and a man could work by the sweat of his brow for an honest wage. So he had come to Portland, riding the rails, hitching rides with farmers, and most usually walking. It was a vagrant’s life, and Bill certainly looked the part. He was a tall man, an inch over six feet, with a naturally muscular build and broad shoulders. Living a life of want for the past year had thinned him some, and his dirty flannel shirt and short suede jacket hung more loosely on his frame than they should. His sandy, dark rooted hair and short thick brown beard were dirty and greased. Despite his ragged, tramp-like appearance, the astute observe gazing into his deeply green eyes would detect a watchful alertness that belied a certain intelligence. There was something distant and foreboding there, a characteristic that suggested aloofness. And for all that there was a human warmth too, one that was perhaps all too often suppressed but existing nonetheless. The few that had known him well recognized this guarded wariness, and the contradictory kindness and affection that shone through from time to time. It was as if he was burdened with some load that groaned inside him and demanded seclusion from his peers.

Bill rattled the change in the side pocket of his threadbare dungarees, feeling the pathetically small collection of coins clank together through his fingers. The corner of the street appeared ahead, home to a shabby cattycorner drinking den. Its once gaudy sign, the red painted lettering now faded and peeling, proclaimed it to be the “The Chinese Palace Tavern and Coaching House”. Bill snorted as he read the sign. The ‘palace’ was a wood framed two story structure with a ramshackle appearance. Its clapboard siding was warped and weather beaten, with fading paint matching that of the sign. The only hint of opulence was a now tarnished false gilt bronze emblem set into the establishment’s double doors. Bill squinted at it, and saw that it was some sort of serpent, a take on an oriental dragon perhaps? He was about to pass the sorry business when a sign in one of the dirty windows caught his eye. Handwritten in unintentionally slanting letters, it announced penny whiskey shots. Grinning at his good fortune, Bill opened the door and entered.
-:-
Silas Abramovitch leaned back on the unsteady stool, resting his back against the corner of the Chinese Palace’s drinking room opposite the entrance. His face bore the expression of stupefied serenity that only a man deep in his cups could wear. At the cheap table before him, a disappointingly empty bottle of scotch rested next to a half dozen similarly empty bottles of beer. Presently he was trying to decide whether his last silver quarter would buy him a room upstairs for the night or enough liquor to end up passed out in a back alley. Both were extremely tempting options. Just as he was about to shout at the serving girl for another bottle, the blackened interior of the den was momentarily flooded with painfully bright light.
-:-

Bill walked through the doorway of the Chinese Palace, squinting in the near total blackness of the building’s interior. The window he had seen from the outside belonged to an adjoining room, separated from this one by a door behind the bar. The only illumination came from a few Chinese lanterns and open candles. The bar was a blackened shape that ran along the wall to his left, with an open lane in the center of the room that lead to a barely visible staircase at the back of the building. To his right were a half dozen or so shabby looking tables and stools. The only person he saw was a man seated at the very back corner, presumably a man, he conceited, for the only detail Bill could see was his outline. Bill walked steadily up to the bar, sitting down uneasily on a tall rickety stool, one of several that ran the length of it. Behind the bar was a long cracked mirror that took up much of the back wall, punctuated only by the aforementioned door. He saw very little in its polished surface other than shadows and the reflection of the lanterns, which cast a dim, eerie glow. “This place is too strange“, he thought. “Portland’s a big town, by western standards, and this place has the cheapest drink specials I’ve seen, so where are the people?” He was about to get up and walk out when a hand grabbed his shoulder from behind. Bill let out a startled shout and pivoted around on the stool, jumping to his feet, fists raised to defend himself. A slight man in rough work clothes shrugged back at Bill’s reaction with his arms up and palms out to show he meant no threat. Bill sighed and lowered his fists.
“Sorry pal, didn’t realize you’d be so jumpy”, the little man said, his voice tinged with an accent that Bill couldn’t quite place.
Bill smiled awkwardly, confident that the stranger couldn’t see him blush in the darkness. “I’m sorry myself, ah, I came in for a drink but, ah, this place is a little to-”, he trailed off, embarrassed and angry at himself for his reaction.
“ Frightening?”, the stranger added helpfully, with a guttural pronunciation that sounded a little like a German accent to Bills’ ears. His smile was very disarming and Bill couldn’t help but grin back.
“ I don’t know if I would say that, just, ah, strange. Do you come here often?” Changing the subject might help the situation, he thought. The little man’ eyes glimmered like black pools in the lantern light and his grin increased in mirth at Bills question. The man chuckled slightly, and then cut off promptly, as if he were usually to proper to laugh at a stranger but couldn’t help himself in his drunken state, Bill thought.
“No no, of course not. I would have to be mishugunah to come to a dump like this very often. But as they say, beggars cant be choosers, and so here I am…” His voice trailed off as he shrugged emphatically. His voice had a singsong quality to it that Bill found pleasing, if unusual. He wasn’t sure what mishinaga, or whatever the man had said was, but it didn’t sound good.
“Well, I cant say as I blame you mister-”
“Abromovitch, call me Abe.”

“I’m Bill“, he said, taking the other man’s hand in a quick shake, “Well, right mister, ah, Abe. I cant blame you, because the place doesn’t do much for me either, tell the truth. But I have a parched throat, and the whiskey’s cheap-” Bill abruptly cut off as the door behind the bar opened and then slammed shut. A huge, hulking man strode in with purpose, carrying a tray of candles. Seeing the men at the bar, he gestured for them to be seated. The warm glow of the candle’s bathed the man‘s face-Bill assumed he was the barkeep-in soft light. He was a Chinaman Bill realized, albeit the biggest one he had ever seen. He matched him in height, and the Chinaman was a good deal broader, fat but with a lot of muscle too. He was dressed in a button up tan shirt and a black silken vest, with a round pillbox shaped hat holding back his hair. He smiled at the men, but his eyes reminded Bill of those belonging to a cat- as it sized up a bird or a field mouse.
“Hello gentlemen, hello“, he purred in flawless English, “What may I serve you? Beer perhaps, or maybe some Whiskey?” Bill turned to look at Abe, who was no longer grinning, apparently as unnerved at this newcomer as he was. They spoke in unison, “Whiskey.”

“Ah excellent, excellent my dear gentleman, a fine decision” the barkeep’s voice was the epitome of courtesy as he set the tray down and reached behind him for a bottle. Bill saw Abe dig into his pocket but raised his hand preemptively ‘Drinks on me Abe.” The little man nodded his thanks, a look of spreading concern on his face. Bill put on his best Cheshire grin, trying to dispel the growing uneasiness in the pit of his own stomach. So what if the Chinaman was strange, most Chinamen are, he thought, and if this one wants to give away his rotgut for almost nothing, good on him.

The barkeep produced two glasses and set them down on the table next to the whiskey, matching Bill’s false grin with gusto. He continued to stand and smile like an idiot as Abe did the honors of pouring the first round, his hands steady despite his apparent drunkenness. Tom raised his glass with dramatic flair, “Cheers” Abe leveled his own drink and clanked it against Bill’s. Bill pressed the glass to his lips and kicked the shot back quickly, feeling the fiery warmth of the liquor as it ran down his throat and into his belly.
“Aha, that’s not bad at all, much better than the kerosene they were serving me earlier” Abe said, punctuating his comment with a stifled belch. Bill frowned, the whiskey had tasted sweet on his lips. It was fine sipping whiskey, not the rotgut he expected for a red cent a shot.
Mindful of the Chinaman who still loomed over the bar like a mountain, Bill turned and whispered sidelong at Abe, “Humph Abe, was this the fella who served you earlier?”

“Oh, no, young serving girl, Chinese too, nothing extraordinary about her, why?”, Abe said as reached again for the whiskey bottle. It was then that Bill felt it, the old feeling of longing, like a hunger pang but much deeper, stronger, persistent. A physical need, but not one men were ever born to desire. His vision was fogging, at the corners, he hadn’t noticed it before but sure enough there it was. He fought for lucidity as his mind tried to pull him down the rabbit hole. Swirling colors, bright mirror like flashes transposing themselves over his vision and conscious thought. He could still focus, his senses remained functional, but they were distant, as if he were watching himself from a faraway room across a long cavern of blackness. No!, he could fight it, was fighting it, and he was succeeding. He had felt this way before, when the pain was too great and the dosages too small, consciousness would win out. He wanted it to win out. He staggered back from the bar knocking over his stool. The Chinaman was laughing at him, a deep malevolent roar that made his skin tingle with dread. He grabbed Abe’s arm but the man was already too far gone, slipping fast into deep unconsciousness. He sprung back with surprising agility, reaching into his jacket for the blade he carried there. A frown spread over the barkeep’s face as candle light danced in reflection on Bill’s knife- he had ceased laughing.
“Ah, you know Opium” the Chinaman spoke distastefully, obviously disappointed at Bill’s resistance to the drug.

“Ah yes, I know Opium, you ghoul”, Bill’s face twisted in rage as he glanced at Abe, who had slumped lifelessly to the floor. His mind was racing, fighting the drug that coursed through his blood. Can’t think about what this bastard had in store for us yet, got to get Abe out with me. ‘You follow me you’ll be a dead Chinaman” he said as he stooped to pick up Abe, blessing the man for being so light. With Abe balanced over one shoulder like a sack of limp beans, Bill turned towards the entrance of the Chinese Palace and freedom. He kept his eyes on the barkeep as he did so, holding the knife out menacingly in his right hand. And then pain, scalding pain at the back of the head, and Bill’s world became black.
-:-

A tropical breeze stirred the languorously humid air, teasing the men who suffered in the sweltering Cuban heat. The men had stripped off their blue flannel shirts, a futile gesture, for this did little more than expose them to the ravenous insects that swarmed in clouds. Bill sat hunched with his back against the earthen wall of the 6 foot deep trench that the Cubano guerrilleros had dug the night before. Sweat ran in rivulets down his face and neck, soaking into the band of his slouch hat and undershirt. His stomach ached with an intensity brought on by disease. All of the men were sick, some with fever, others with cramps, the worst with what the doctors called malaria but everyone else termed yellow fever. Bill was lucky, he could still hold down fluids, if not solid food, and could walk without much trouble. A quarter of C company of the 1st Illinois infantry were on sick call back in camp, while the rest remained on this Godforsaken hill above the town of Santiago, presently under siege by the United States Army.

Bill raised the brim of his hat to look at the boy-no, he must think of him now as a man- to his right. The man had a cherubic featured baby face that made him look even younger than his 18 years. He was built smaller than Bill, with narrower shoulders and chest, and a few inches short of his own 6’ 1”, but possessed the same sandy colored hair and green eyes. His face belied a sense of inquisitive intelligence, and a genuine good hearted-nature that made him appear even more boyish, some might say naive. Bill looked upon his younger brother Tom with a guardian’s affection. He was proud of his kid brother, for the toughness and resilience he had shown in the past weeks and months. The two men had joined the state militia more as a social exercise than anything else. It was a way to escape the tedium of the family farmstead for a few weeks every year, and both men enjoyed the drill with arms and the bond of friendship they had formed with the other men of the county guard unit. Bill, now twenty-two and a corporal, had joined the militia at eighteen. Tom, always one to idolize his brother, had followed suit six months ago, and then the war with Spain broke out. It had all seemed so exciting then, a patriotic fervor that gripped the county and indeed the whole state and the nation. Men clamored to join up, and Tom, how proud he had been! Already in uniform, his basic training completed, and senior to men who could be his father. There had been a great Picnic before the local men had set out for the camp at Springfield, an afternoon of food, drink, and games in the town square of Waggoner. The tearful embraces of mothers, sisters, and sweethearts, sobered by the solemn handshakes of the older men, some who had ‘seen the elephant’ in the War Between the States. The training they received at the fairgrounds in Springfield only served to heighten the excitement of it all. Bayonet drill, target practice, marching, marching, marching, what a sport for grown men to play at! They had loaded on trains packed beyond capacity headed south, to Georgia, where they received a foretaste of hell. It had been dreadfully hot in Georgia that June, almost as bad as Cuba, the camp packed with thousands of unwashed bodies, and disease had spread. Thanking God, the regiment had moved out, packed into ships in Florida and sent across the brilliant blue sea to kill Spaniards and win everlasting glory.

Tom didn’t look very glorious this afternoon Bill thought, a flicker of concern flashing across his face. His usually ruddy cheeks looked pale and hollowed out. His eyes bore a weariness no amount of mere physical labor could produce. But he still smiled when Bill looked down at him, his brilliant white teeth glinting in the tropical sun. Out of his three brothers and two sisters, Tom was clearly the most intelligent, the one most gifted with potential. Bill reckoned himself to be decently educated; he had spent several winters between planting and harvesting attending the local elementary schoolhouse and could read a newspaper, write a letter and figure a farm ledger. Tom however was smart. Every penny he earned went towards books. He had piles of Jules Vern, Mark Twain, Stevenson, Dickens, Dumas, biographies of great men from Caesar to Lincoln. He had even graduated from the high school in Waggoner, the only one in his family to ever do so. Bill had little more ambition than to be a successful farmer, like his father and grandfather before him, but he wanted more for Tom. He had felt anxiety at the thought of his little brother going off to war, especially when he thought of his parents. Everyone depended on him to get Tom back safely. Now he felt more at ease. Sure the war was still on, but the Spanish had been beaten bloody and pushed back into Santiago, their principal stronghold. The Cuban people swarmed in the countryside, making sure there wasn’t another safe place for a Spaniard anywhere else on the island. The weather and the flu were annoying, but most men were only sick, not dying. Weren’t they?
-:-

Night had fallen, but the temperature hadn’t. The stifling air reverberated with the sounds of buzzing mosquitoes and the exotic calls of tropical birds and other jungle animals Bill didn’t recognize. Off to the west, a line of thunderheads rose on the horizon, still over the ocean but moving closer to shore. Heat lightning flashed and danced in the sky, providing brief flickers of illumination. Captain Goldsby had placed Bill on first watch, along with Tom, who looked a little less pale than he had earlier, his grin still very visible in the moonless light.
‘You better close your mouth brother, before the Spaniards use your teeth as a light house beacon to our position.”, Bill whispered.
“Well Bill lets hope that they do, so we can see some action before this war ends and we have to go home to the farm. What would we tell our sweethearts then?”, Tom said, only half jokingly.
‘You can tell them you came back whole and in one piece. Besides, we’ve been engaged in close combat with Juan the mosquito for the past month and a half.”
On cue, Tom slapped his neck with exaggerated force. They both chuckled softly.
‘Quiet on duty” a voice rasped from behind them. Startled ,both men looked back at Goldsby, who was still making his rounds.
‘Yes sir“, Bill replied, his face straight and serious. Captain Goldsby was a short man of about 40, balding but with long sideburns, who ran a mercantile store back in Farmersville in civilian life. He had known both the boys all of their lives; his wife was close friends with their mother. As he passed, Tom went back to grinning.
‘No more of- something made a Thwack! sound in the dirt of the parapet a few feet to their front. This was followed by a half dozen more thwacks and something that made a whining buzz as it went past Bill’s ear.
“Get down!” Tom yelled, realizing they were under rifle fire a fraction of a second before Bill. He grabbed Bill’s shoulder in an effort to force him down, but Bill didn’t require much encouragement. Both men ducked under the earthen parapet as rifle shots rang out in the darkness.
‘Alarm!” they both screamed, as Captain Goldsby came running from the other end of the trench, stopping only to kick men still sleeping in balls on the floor. Revolver drawn, he pushed Tom from the firing step and carefully lifted his head above the parapet’s edge. A few seconds later a rifle shot thwacked into the dirt far too close, and he jerked himself back down.
‘They’re in the tall grass down the slope, maybe two hundred or two hundred- fifty yards, a raiding party I think. Less than company strength certainly. Sergeant Harris!” Goldsby, now ignoring the other two men, called for the company first Sergeant. Men ran to and fro in confusion, some attempting to mount the firing step, others freezing in panicked indecision.
‘Company, to arms!, keep your intervals! Get to your assigned positions!” boomed the unmistakable voice of Sergeant John Harris as he lumbered down the trench line, sometimes stopping to push a man onto the firing step or move them to where he thought best. He was a man of large build, about the height and weight of Bill, with a droopy blond moustache tinged with grey hair and the coldest blue eyes anyone in the company had ever seen. Somewhere in his early fifties, he was an old horse soldier, a cavalryman who had retired after 25 years of service out west and returned to his home state of Illinois. His voice carried the authority that now made the company spring into deadly action.

“Corporal, mount the firing step, earn your pay!” he said presently; jarring Bill out of his shocked paralysis. With some chagrin he realized Tom was already there, looking down the sights of his Springfield trap-door rifle. Bill scrambled up, exchanging a moment’s glance with Tom, whose face was filled with boyish enthusiasm. He was living his dream of adventure, his book fed imaginations come to life. Bill grinned in spite of the danger. Down below the parapet, the hill gently rolled to the valley floor and the city of Santiago, obscured in darkness thanks to military blackout. Extending from halfway down the hill to the outskirts of Santiago were fields of tall grasses, some as high as a man’s chest. In there were the Spaniards, a raiding part, Goldsby had said. Bill imagined them crawling through the grass, infiltrating the American line’s like a deadly snake. The line of storms has drawn closer to shore, and the frequent flashes of lightning killed his night vision. Men all along the trench line opened up with their rifles, the black powder quickly enshrouding them in thickly impenetrable clouds of smoke. Bill could see nothing of the enemy except the occasional twinkle of a muzzle flash in the high grass, yet he brought his rifle up anyway and fired. Soon he couldn’t see ten feet in front of him, but it was what he heard that chilled his blood despite the hot tropical air. An undulating roar, a cacophony of men’s voices, shouting a battle cry.
‘My God!, Are they Charging?” Someone to his left called out. Tom exchanged a look of pensive worry with Bill. Bill felt his stomach turn over in dread, his sweaty palms clenched tightly around his rifle.
“Company! Fix bayonets!” this was Goldsby, walking above the rear wall of the trench, his back ramrod straight, sword out and revolver cocked in his left hand. Sergeant Harris was at his side, a Winchester shotgun in his burly hands.
‘Does the man think he’s Chamberlin?” Tom whispered under his breath as they almost unconsciously pulled their bayonets from their frogs and attached them with smart precision to their rifle sockets- the product of hours of drill. Bill grunted incomprehensibly. Who the hell was Chamberlin?, he thought, but he wasn’t about to ask Tom, not when the Spanish were coming.
The battle cry was growing to a terrifying intensity, drowning out nature’s thunderous roar. Rain began to fall, in heavy sheets, clearing away the gun smoke almost instantly. The Spanish were strung out along the hill side below them in small fire teams, there were hundreds, Bill estimated something like 300 men, all moving up toward the trench line.

“Independent Fire! Fire- Captain Goldsby’s words were drowned out as the men of Company C opened fired near simultaneously. Bill watched as a few-but not many- of the Spaniards staggered and dropped. The rest came on with cold blooded intensity, shouting their battle cries. Muzzle flashes still winked in the tall grasses. Those men must be diversionary skirmishers, to provide harassment and covering fire. He thought. The line of Spaniards were now just fifty yards away, Bill could see their bayonets glint whenever lightning flashed, their light grey uniforms stood out against the black landscape and sky behind them. Bill placed the sights of his rifle on a man with a drawn sword, breathed in , held it, breathed out and squeezed the trigger. The stock of the Springfield bucked into his shoulder. The cloud of black powder and muzzle flash of the rifle temporarily blinded him as he dug into his pouch for another round. He loaded the weapon awkwardly, cursing his shaking fingers as he shoved the cartridge into the trap door of the breach. He brought the weapon back up to his shoulder and realized it was too late. A man in striped grey fatigues, that struck Bill in that moment as looking absurdly like pajamas, bounded over the parapet, a bayonet rifle in his hands.
“SANTIAGO! The man screamed, and stabbed down at him with ferocious intensity. The man missed, and his forward momentum sent him crashing into Bill. Both men tumbled hard off the firing step and back against the wall of the trench. Bill could feel the hot breath of the Spaniard, could see the fanatical glint in his black eyes as he grappled for balance. The side of the Man’s face suddenly erupted in a fountain of blood and glistening bone, his body jerking back, and Bill threw the much smaller man’s body off of him. Sergeant Harris stood above him, the smoking barrel of his Winchester shotgun now pointed forward at the onrushing Spaniards. Bill nodded his thanks, but the Sergeant was already firing again. His ears ringing from gunfire, Bill scrambled up and looked for his rifle. The pouring rain and frequent lightning dazzled his eyes as he picked up his rifle, slicked with blood from the dead Spaniard. He saw Tom, up on the parapet, firing out into the stormy darkness. His face bore a manic intensity that was eerily identical to that of the now deceased Spaniard. Bill climbed back up and onto the firing step. The Spaniards had crashed against the palisade but had been unable to break through and now, caught in the open with their resolve flagging, they were being cut down by relentless fire in the open ground. To his right Bill could hear the steady Pop Pop Popping of the Company’s lone Gattling gun, sending out a deadly arc of scything fire. In that moment, Bill felt the warrior’s joy of victory, and looking into the eyes of his brother, he could see Tom felt it too. They had survived their first action, had stood their ground like men, and had triumphed.

That instant was the last happy moment Bill remembered feeling. They never heard the gurgling boom above the rise and fall of the thunder; the storm was too intense. The subsequent crash was the loudest noise Bill had ever felt, it sounded as if the whole earth was ripping apart in a thunderous roar. He was rising up, up, up and then, nothing.

Great writing rocketjager! Did you want any sort of critique on this or just posting it to share?

Whatever the case, you're very good at using the language. It flows nicely, with interesting situations, and nice clear action descriptions. Keep it going.

It is taking me longer than expected to complete this, so I'll just post what ive gotten finished so far. Thanks for the comments by the way Tamur they were appreciated. Here goes :
Bill opened his eyes and saw the white canvas of a tent roof billowing gently above him like the sail of a ship on a calm sea. It was an extraordinarily peaceful image, and his mind seemed to focus on it for a long time, minutes, perhaps hours, he could not tell. He seemed to drift disconnectedly, as if he himself were floating on a great tropical sea, but gradually his senses began to restore themselves. The first thing he detected was a stench, like rancid meat left in the summer sun. Who left that pork out to go to waste?, he wondered, surely ma wont be happy about that. He was about to ask just who was responsible but found his voice was a mere hoarse cracking whisper. His throat felt as if it were packed with dry dirt. His eyes darted from left to right as he gained increasing lucidity, but he could see nothing save the windblown canvas. Finally, after great effort of will, he was able to turn his whole head to the right. A bundled form lay on a wood frame cot, an army cot. That’s right, he remembered, I’m a soldier. The form on the cot was in the shape of a man, but it had a sheet pulled over it, even the lump that designated its head. Suddenly, his mind snapped to full alertness, memories flooding back through the groggy haze. The sound, the roar, it must have been an artillery shell, a mortar, something like that. A jolt of horror shot down his spine. Was he still whole, had he been horribly wounded? In Panic he tried to sit up, but the effort was fruitless, he was far too weak. He could see, and smell, and yes, he heard flies buzzing, and what sounded like moaning, so he could hear. He was able to jiggle his fingers and toes; he must still have all of his limbs. Using all of his powers on concentration, he could detect a dull aching pain that ran down his left hip to his knee. A leg wound then, but not bad enough for an amputation, he thought, thank God!. A flesh wound, an honorable ticket home, everyone would be proud of him! But who would watch after T- horror ran fresh chills down his body. Tom, Where was Tom? He’d been standing right next to- the realization struck Bill like a mallet in the stomach. Hysteria and adrenaline possessed Bill with a near inhuman strength. He hoisted himself off his own cot, screaming in his cracked voice, madly crying out in panic, shouting incomprehensible things.
“Orderly!”, someone shouted to the his left, not that Bill noticed, he was still crying at the top of his lungs. A man in a sweat and blood stained shirt ran into the tent, a syringe of some white liquid in his hand. Bill, weakened from his wound and his present hysteria, collapsed onto the cot as the orderly shoved him down. The man held Bill easily, speaking soothingly as he plunged the syringe into Bill’s arm.
‘Tom!” Bill cried out as the fog rolled in over the sea of his consciousness, “Tom!” He fell into the abyss.
-:-
“Tom!” Bill screamed, over and over. He was surrounded by an inky black curtain of darkness, and opened his eyes. A face appeared over him, the dark eyes filled with compassion, the jaw and mouth set with concern. Abromovitch was shaking him gently, Tom realized, waking him. Abe continued to look at him, not saying a word, waiting patiently for Bill to awaken. After a long pause, Bill spoke.
“My brother,” he said by way of explanation, letting the air fill with silence for several moments before continuing laconically, “he died.” Abe nodded solemnly, still not speaking. Bill’s eyes darted around as his consciousness increased. He lay on the ground, his shoulders and head propped against a wall of wooden boards. The air smelled thickly of moisture laden earth and organic decay that reminded Bill of a root cellar. They were in some sort of underground room, a basement under the Chinese Palace perhaps? A weak flow of soft yellow light infiltrated from underneath the door, providing the only illumination. The floor was of dirt, as were three of the room‘s walls. A cross work of wooden beams and load bearing supports held them and the ceiling in place. The door itself was of stout redwood, without a handle on this side.
Bill’s mind flashed back to the barkeep upstairs and his face flushed anew with anger. The back of his head ached dully, he could feel a solid swollen lump under his fingers. When the opium wore off completely, he was willing to bet it would feel a lot worse. His eyes flashed back to Abe, now sitting back, weariness spreading over his face. He was older than Bill had first thought, an unnatural cheerfulness brought on by drink had masked his face in a falsely youthful glow. A balding man with a sallow complexion and sunken cheekbones, perhaps fifty, although he might have been a good deal younger. Bill had seen the premature world weariness that now spread across the older man’s face; he saw it whenever he caught his own reflection.
“My family‘, Abe began suddenly, stirring Bill from his contemplation, “also died.” Bill opened his mouth to speak but closed it just as fast. He squirmed uncomfortably. He never spoke of Tom to anyone, ever. He couldn’t, not even to his family. He realized it as soon as he stepped off the ferry in Jacksonville, Florida; he could never tell them, could never go home. He had no home, as far as he was concerned. He should have died with Tom back on that hillside above Santiago. Bill had spent his accumulated pay the next three days in Florida at every bar and opium din he could find, trying to drown the pain, to kill the horrible secret. He lived the life of a coward, a worthless no account drifter. Now this little man whom Bill had known for just a few minutes was going to share his pain? Bill would be damned if he would share his with this man, as anger rose in him at Abe’s presumptiveness. But the smaller man had such a look of earnestness on his face that Bill stayed his own words, transfixed by Abe passion as he continued.
“ My family died, was murdered, burned alive in the Pogrom, in Poland.”, Abe’s accent suddenly grew thicker as his speech became enflamed with emotion. Bill’s mind flashed back to an old Newspaper headline Massacre in the Kingdom of the Tsars!, it had screamed from the front page. The papers always went for sensational headlines like that, but who knew if they were true or not. Apparently, this one had been very real for Abe.
“I was away on business, in another town from ours. It was the Sabbath, so I was walking back home. It was only a few kilometers between the two towns, on a pleasant day. The walk through the countryside was very…enjoyable. As I grew near, I could see the smoke…, he sighed, paused, and Bill wasn’t sure if he would continue. “Had I been home, I would have burned too, the whole apartment building caught fire in the riot, and the people!, it was a festival for them, a street carnival. I couldn’t live in such a country anymore.”
Bill nodded, a deep understanding flowing through his soul. The pain still burned, strong as ever, but he had to speak, had to tell this man who had lost everything as he had. He spoke then, spoke of his kid brother, his intelligence his potential, his pointless death and Bill’s powerlessness to do anything about it. His words came in a torrent, and Abe listened quietly, nodding occasionally but never interrupting. When Bill had finished he felt exhausted and despite their present circumstances, more at peace than anytime in the last ten years. After an endless stretching pause, Bill spoke.
“Any ideas where we are Abe?”
“We’re in the tunnels underneath the city, the underground below the level of the new street. The tunnels are the worst part of the city, a living sewer inhabited by the worst human garbage. You haven’t been in Portland very long eh?”
Bill shook his head. “Just long enough to be told ‘thanks anyways’ by every logging operation around here. I was gonna head up north to Seattle, look for work up there, but…” he trailed off.
‘Look, Bill, these people are the worst scum. I’ve heard the stories but I never truly believed them until now.”
Bill looked at Abe in bemusement. “What are you talking about Abe? What people? What stories? None of this makes any sense to me at all.” A Twinge of pain at the base of his skull made Bill grimace.
“The people who drugged us, they aren’t just thieves, or pimps, or opium merchants, they’re slavers.”
Bill frowned, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Slavers?”
“Yes, Portland is one of the busiest ports on the coast. Ships from all over the world put in here, and most of their crews are less than happy about their service. It’s a business, providing strong, able men to ships’ captains, and they don’t much care if the men are willing or not.”
Bill nodded slowly, letting Abe’s words sink in. Anger stewed in him, rising to a slow boil that flushed his cheeks. Here in America, in 1910, man was selling his fellow man into slavery. Bill had spent the last decade running. He had run from his family, from his responsibilities, from his own fears. He would run no more.
Wordlessly Bill rose to his feet, assessing their situation. Out of stupidity or most likely arrogant overconfidence, the chinaman had deigned to tie or restrain them in any way, trusting in the heavy door. Judging by the shoddy construction of the room, Bill was willing to bet that while the door’s planks were sturdy enough, its hinges and lock were not. Stepping back to the outer wall, he stared at the door with grim determination. Abe looked ready to ask a question, but silenced himself instead. With a shout, Bill sprung forward, throwing his bulk ahead with all his might. The sole of his boot struck the door at waist height with a resolute crash, underlined by the brittle snap of the cheap brass lock on the other side. The door flung open with tremendous force, sending a man who had been standing on the other side crashing headfirst into the opposite wall. Bill heard the sickening crunch of broken bone as the man‘s head and neck, a sentry apparently, impacted the surface. Bill stepped into the hallway, Abe following in startled silence, and stooped over the body. A young man, perhaps 20, Chinese and short of build and slight of stature. Bill scooped up the short double barreled shotgun the man had been holding, breaking it open to check that it was loaded. They were standing in a narrow, winding passageway of earth and timber, lit only by the occasional whale oil lantern. Bill noticed no one in sight as his eyes darted quickly from left to right. He turned to look at Abe.
“Alright, were getting out of here, stick close and watch our backs.” Abe had taken a knee to search the flowing garments of the dead sentry, and produced a small pocket revolver and some extra shotgun shells, which he handed to Bill. Abe handled the revolver with practiced skill, and Bill nodded in approval as they began their journey through the darkened catacomb.
They proceeded at a steady stride, with Abe stepping quickly to match Bill’s long legged bounds. The tunnel system was massive, with numerous branches, forks, twists and turns. It was impossible for Bill to know what direction they were heading in, or even if they had doubled back accidentally. Occasionally they passed a door, but these were entrances only to small darkened supply rooms, nearly identical to their former cell.
Bill heard voices up ahead, and held his arm back to halt Abe. Shotgun leveled at the waist, Bill slinked forward, quiet as a cat, moving as silently as he had when hunting deer in the Illinois woods. Up ahead, their long shadows cast by the light of a distant lamp, three men stood in a small knot discussing something. They spoke in rapid fire Chinese, gesticulating with hands and arms. All of them were armed, two with pistols, another with a wickedly curved sword at his hip. Bill straightened himself up, cocking both hammers of the shotgun as he strode confidently towards the men. They saw him coming, their hands clumsily reaching for their holstered weapons. One of the men yelled and vaulted forward, hands outstretched, reaching for the barrel of the shotgun in desperation. Bill pulled the trigger. His view was instantly obscured by billowing gun smoke and bright yellow flame. The deafening roar of the weapon’s report filled his ears with a numb ringing. The bodies of the three men lay in ruined bloody piles on the tunnel’s floors as Bill unceremoniously stepped over them, loading the shotgun as he walked.
The three had been standing in front of a door, which Bill kicked open as Abe covered him with the revolver. Several screams rang out in the nearly pitch black well of the room’s interior, feminine screams. Abe pulled the nearby lantern from it niche and shown it through the doorway, filling the room with pale yellow light. A Half dozen frightened young women, some of them no more than girls, Bill thought, sat on the floor of the cell. Four of them were obviously oriental, but two were white. They were all babbling frantically, but Bill could detect no English and just shrugged helplessly. Abe’s facing lit up in delight as he began to speak in a guttural language that once again sounded like German to Bills’ ears. One of the girls was speaking rapidly, her words a singular torrent, and Abe was answering back almost as fast. Bill stepped back into the hallway, shotgun at the ready, as Abe and the girl traded back and forth. “She Jewish, her parents died in a cholera outbreak three years ago. She says- Abe stopped to listen- they’re dance hall girls, I think she means prostitutes, they keep them down here during the day.” Abe relayed all of this to Bill. Until now, Bill had been able to channel his anger into a cold, calculated detachment; but now he seethed with rage. He thought of his two little sisters at home, and how these girls had been robbed of their innocence, cheated of a happy life by the same men who would see him sold into slavery.
“Saddle up Abe, were taking these girls with us. Sure as hell cant leave them here to these- he stopped. There was no word derogatory enough in the English language to describe their present enemy. He let it hang there instead. Bill continued down the hall as Abe shepherded the girls in front of him, the young Jewish girl now morosely quiet. The tunnel widened up ahead, there were more lanterns, and more importantly, Bill could hear voices, a lot of voices. A familiar whining noise buzzed past Bill’s left ear in the same instant that the gunshot roared through the confined space. “Get Down!” he yelled, throwing himself flat as the crackle of gunfire resounded. Abe grabbed the nearest of the two girls, pulling them down with him. The rest followed suit, screaming as they did so. Bill had the shotgun braced against the ground, pointed towards the shooters. Four or Five men had taken cover in doorways up the tunnel, firing blindly at the group of escapees. Bill blasted the nearest doorway and was rewarded with a scream. Only one shell left.
“Abe, throw me the revolver!” Bill caught the weapon in mid air, and then slid the shotgun back to Abe. Bullets smacked into the walls and floor, throwing up dust. Gun smoke billowed down the hallway in a thick cloud. Bill sprinted forward into the cover of the acrid fog, shooting into the doorways at pointblank range. An invisible wall struck Bill in the neck, sending him sprawling, winded. The chinaman who had clotheslined him stepped from the doorway with the raised butt of a shotgun, poised to crush Bill’s skull. Bill rolled away desperately, still puffing hard, as the butt stock of the shotgun slammed into the dirt. The revolver was empty, and he had lost it in the fall anyway. The man was already winging the shotgun around, ready to do him in the traditional way. This is so not good, Bill thought, as he scrambled to his feet. Rebounding off the wall, Bill launched himself with all his might into the much smaller man. The barrel of the shotgun went vertical as Bill’s bulk slammed into the chinaman, the shock of the impact causing him to jerk the trigger reflexively. The load of buckshot went off right next to Bill’s ear deafening him completely and causing him to shout in startled surprise. It didn’t matter anyway; the small man would’nt getting up anytime soon, not judging by the sound his back had made against the ground