The Improbable Journeys of Billy Battles

Chapter 11-3

Manfred, who had already climbed back into

the carriage, slapped his knee and said, “By god, that is an

excellent idea. You would love Saigon, Katchen. It’s the Paris of

Asia without the horrible winters. I have been there on several

occasions, and my company has a small office there that I want to

expand.”

“Then it’s settled. I will send you my

address as soon as I can.”

Suddenly, Katharina was beaming, and I felt

a sudden surge of optimism now that there was a real likelihood

that Katharina and I would meet again.

“Well, one thing the Germans have that we

Americans don’t is the expression ‘Auf Wiedersehen,’ until we meet

again,” Katharina said, taking my arm in hers. “That is certainly a

lot more optimistic than saying good-bye.”

With that, she put her arms around me and

hugged me. Then she planted a kiss on my cheek.

“Auf Wiedersehen, William,” she said. “And

thank you for all you have done for me these past few weeks. I am

not sure what I would have done without you.”

“I think we helped each other,” I said,

assisting her back into the carriage. “We both seemed to have had

the same problem, and its name was Eichel.”

Moments later as I stood aboard the

Trave watching Manfred’s carriage drive off, I felt an ache

in my chest. As exasperating and as confounding as Katharina

sometimes was, I was going to miss her wit and her charm, not to

mention her beauty.

The Trave was late leaving her berth.

When it finally did pull away, I stood on the stern, watching

Manila Bay recede in the distance. By the time we hit the open sea,

I knew I was no longer aboard the China. The Trave

pitched and rolled even in the calmest of waters. The engine was

loud, and the hull constantly vibrated.

My cabin was maybe half the size of the one

I occupied on the China. There was no wood paneling—just

lots of gray metal walls and a black metal floor. A single small

bed occupied one side of the cabin. There was a metal water basin,

a small metal writing desk, a small round porthole that seemed just

a few feet above the water, and a closet for clothing. First-class

cabins had a private toilet, for which I was grateful.

I was still getting myself situated when

there was a knock on the door. I opened it half expecting to see

Potts standing there. Of course, it wasn’t Potts. It was a small

Frenchman in a merchant seaman’s uniform. He had a round white

face, a thin black mustache, and shiny black hair that was slicked

back on his head like Japanese lacquerware.

He handed me an envelope. “Une invitation

pour Vous, monsieur,” he said, clicking his heels together. Then he

quickly turned and began walking away.

“Merci!” I shouted after him. He turned back

and nodded and then continued on his way, apparently to the

bridge.

I opened the envelope. In it was a small

card and the words: “Le capitaine demande respectueusement que vous

le rejoindre ce soir à 08 heures pour le dîner.”

I knew little or no French, but I assumed it

was a dinner invitation. That seemed to be the way things were done

on ships. First-class passengers were invited to the captain’s

table for dinner. I unpacked my belongings and smoothed out my dark

blue suit as best I could.

Then I took a turn around the ship. Unlike

the China, mingling of classes on the Trave was not

prohibited, and I went wherever I wanted. I was standing near the

bow watching the ship plow through the rough South China Sea when a

small wispy Asian man arrived nearby on the deck and began

performing an exercise routine I had never seen before. He wore

what I was later to learn was a black Áo bà ba (silk pajama-like

pants and shirt with a small red sash around the middle).

His movements were slow and deliberate and

focused… an arm thrust forward and then backward, a leg bent at the

knee and then straightened behind, and then the process repeated

with the other arm and leg. I watched him for several minutes,

trying not to be overly obvious. Finally, after maybe ten minutes,

he stopped, and I returned my gaze to the sea.

“T’ai Chi Ch’uan,” the man said, walking

toward me.

“I’m sorry… what?”

“It is called T’ai Chi Ch’uan,” the man

said, walking up next to me. “It is an ancient Chinese martial art

and a form of exercise that eliminates stress and promotes

serenity. I noticed you observing.”

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

“No, no… Nothing to apologize for. I am Dr.

Châu Công Sơn,” he said, offering his right hand. “Please, call me

Dr. Son. I am returning to my home from the Philippines.”

“Happy to meet you, Dr. Son… I am William

Battles from the United States.”

“Yes, I heard you speaking English earlier…

It is not my best language, I am afraid.”

Dr. Son was, like Dr. Rizal, an

ophthalmologist specializing in diseases of the eye. He had gone to

the Philippines for a six-month-long research program and, in the

process, had met Dr. Rizal. However, ophthalmology apparently

wasn’t their only connection. Both held strong views on the

European nations that had colonized their respective countries.

“What are your thoughts about colonialism,

Mr. Battles?” he asked after we had talked for several minutes.

“It’s not something I would abide if I were

the one being colonized.”

“Yes, I believe the American Revolution

confirms that position.”

A few moments later, we shook hands. Dr. Son

walked off toward amidships and his cabin. I remained on the deck a

while longer then returned to my cabin. I was beginning to see a

pattern in Asia. A few countries that had been colonized by

European powers were starting to rebel, if not overtly, then

covertly. In addition, some men, like Rizal and Son, were not

afraid to make their views known.

Dinner at the captain’s table that evening

was strained, to say the least. The captain, a burly Alsatian named

Emile Fischart, arrived late. Four of us were already seated. In

addition to Dr. Son and me, two other men—a tall Frenchman named

Maurice De Cotte and a French Army major named Charles Friant—sat

opposite us.

It was odd having dinner without Katharina

at the table. I had gotten used to her razor-sharp repartee. By

contrast, a dinner table populated by five men was a dull affair. I

looked around the small austere dining room. There were fifteen

tables and maybe forty people—only five of whom were women—none the

equal of Katharina in appearance or dress.

The conversation never broached the subject

of colonialism, though I could tell Dr. Son wanted to bring it up.

Instead, Captain Fischart asked each of us where we were coming

from and what we planned to do in Saigon.

“I’m afraid the Trave is not in the

same class as the SS China,” Captain Fischart said when I

explained how I had arrived in the Philippines. “But she is a sound

vessel, and she will get us to our destination without

incident.”

As it turned out, the captain’s optimism was

misplaced.

In the middle of the night, not long after I

heard the ship’s bell ring four times, I heard a lot of yelling and

men running up and down the deck. As I climbed from the bed to

investigate, the ship’s deep steam horn sounded repeatedly. Then,

as I pulled on my trousers and stuffed my shirt into them, there

was a loud banging on the metal door of my cabin.

I opened it to find a breathless steward

outside. “Please,” he rasped. “Come to the bridge immediately…

pirates!”

“Pirates?” I replied. Was he joking?

“No, sir, pirates…”

“Just a minute.” I returned to my cabin,

grabbed my Colt, and emptied a half box of cartridges into my pants

pocket. Then I followed the steward to the bridge. There I found

Captain Fischart. He was handing out rifles from the ship’s armory

and assigning crewmembers to positions on the deck. In addition,

there were another fifteen male passengers on the bridge.

I looked out at the ocean, but I couldn’t

see anything—indeed no ships heaving with pirates.

“Where are they?” I asked finally.

“All around us,” Captain Fischart said.

“They are in small boats. They will attempt to board us now that I

have refused to surrender my ship to their leader.”

About a half hour earlier, a small boat had

approached the Trave and yelled for the captain to stop the

engines. The helmsman responded by turning the Trave into

the small boat and almost capsizing it.

Captain Fischert explained that the pirates

were probably Chinese, Malay, or from the Dutch East Indies. They

all knew the routes of ships moving through the South China Sea

between the Philippines and places like French Indochina,

Singapore, and Malaya.

Because many of the target ships were the

newer and faster steamships such as the Trave, the pirates

waited for their prey to come to them. Pirate fleets of fifty or

sixty boats, most of which were sloops, schooners, or smaller

vessels, would pounce, blocking the steamer’s way forward. A few

were outfitted with small steam engines and could match the speed

of the Trave.

“Their tactics are to disable the ship’s

rudder if possible,” Captain Fischert said. “They dive under the

water and jam the rudder with large wooden or metal wedges so that

the ship cannot be steered. Then they use grappling hooks to climb

aboard.”

I wondered aloud what Fischert’s plan was to

keep the pirates at bay.

“I have eight men in position near the

stern, and their job is to fire at any boats that get close to the

ship’s rudder,” he said. “As long as we can steer the vessel, we

may be able to avoid any boarding parties. That is where you

gentlemen come in. I see some of you are armed already, but half of

my crew must continue to operate the ship, so I need your help in

protecting the Trave.”

“What can we do, Captain?” asked Major

Friant.

“I don’t have to tell you what will happen

if these savages gain access to the Trave,” Fischert said.

“They will likely rob and kill everybody and take the women as

slaves or worse. I have had the women escorted by four armed

crewmen to a hold deep inside the Trave. If the pirates do

gain access to the ship, at least they will be safe for a while

until they are found.”

We looked at one another. There was no

question about what we had to do.

“Just tell us where you want us and give us

the proper weapons and ammunition and we will repel these

bastards,” Major Friant said.

“I have twenty Mauser rifles and several

thousand rounds of 7.9-millimeter smokeless cartridges,” Fischer

said. “Have any of you ever used one?”

Major Friant was familiar with the Mauser

and proceeded to show us how to load and fire the rifle. It was a

relatively straightforward bolt-action weapon that held a

five-round clip in a permanent external magazine. In a few minutes,

we were all familiar with the Mauser and were assigned to various

points along the bow and port and starboard sides of the

Trave. Dawn was beginning to break, and with each passing

minute, I could see more and more of the ocean.

I was placed near the bow on the starboard

side. I knelt below the gunwale and pushed my rifle through one of

the narrow foot-long slots that were located about every three

feet. I had a good view of the ocean below and any boat that came

within range. The metal gunwale also provided good cover. I had

four boxes of cartridges, which equaled about two hundred rounds of

ammunition. I also had my Colt.

Major Friant was to my right, and Maurice De

Cotte, one of my dining companions from the night before, was to my

left. I had watched Dr. Son move to a position toward amidships. I

wondered if he had ever fired a weapon. I was still wondering that

when I heard him yell.

“They are coming.” With that, he began

firing. Dr. Son obviously knew how to use a rifle.

I peered through the slot in the gunwale,

and seconds later, I saw at least four small boats moving toward

the bow of the Trave, which was now running at full

speed—perhaps twelve knots. The helmsman was steering the ship in a

tight zigzag course in an effort to take evasive action. The idea,

Captain Fischert had explained, was not only to protect the rudder

but also to create choppiness in the water around the smaller

pirate boats to make them difficult to maneuver.