China Clipper

China Clipper

by

Bill Russell

Published by

CLASS ACT BOOKS

121 Berry Hill Lane

Port Townsend, Washington 98368

www.classactbooks.com

Copyright  2013 by Bill Russell

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-938703-14-0

Credits

Cover Artist: Blaise Kilgallen

Editor: Sherry Derr-Wille

Copy Editor: Anita York

Printed in the United States of America

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

To my lovely and loving wife, Norelle

Prologue

San Francisco Bay

On a late November day in 1935, a pair of officers stood on the bridge of an old freighter, moored in the shadow of the partially complete Oakland Bay Bridge. They were intent on the activities out in the bay. A sea-plane, looking like some giant silver bug, was wallowing in the light chop, her four propellers flashing in the hazy afternoon sun, and a cloud of mist marking her movements.

That thing better do somethin’ soon or I’m goin’ back into my cabin. It’s colder than a well digger’s arse out here.

The other kept his binoculars to his eyes and said out of the corner of his mouth, If you had a tot of rum down there I might join you.

I wish I did. Let me see the glasses.

The shore was crowded with spectators. All were craning their necks to see the start of the first scheduled flight across the Pacific by the Pan American Airways’ fabulous new China Clipper. To the naked eye, the plane was little more than a speck in the middle of the bay. Those lucky enough to have binoculars saw her turn north-west, hesitate, and then start her take-off run, throwing up a fountain of spray while she gathered speed. She lifted higher in the water and skipped over the waves, struggling to enter her true element, the limitless sky.

There she goes!

The faint roar of her four engines, like a swarm of angry hornets, reached the crowd just as her keel lifted free of the surface and she began her climb to the heavens.

What the… the first sailor gasped and grabbed the glasses from his companion.

What’s the matter?

She’s gonna crash into the bridge. Look, she’s headed right for it!

Gawd, was the only thing the man at his elbow managed to utter.

Wait a minute… Damn, she just flew under it.

Were they supposed to do that?

I don’t know. Maybe it was a publicity stunt.

Well, if it is, it’s a doozy.

The plane emerged from behind the towers and the partial road bed, and began a long lazy turn to the west while it rose higher and higher into the sky.

The two men, along with thousands of people turned out for the occasion, watched while the majestic craft roared overhead toward the unfinished Golden Gate Bridge and the vast Pacific Ocean beyond.

When it had passed over and the thunder of her engines died away, one sailor asked the other, How long ’til they make Honolulu?

I read they’ll be there tomorrow.

Tomorrow? That fast?

She flies over a hundred and fifty miles an hour, according to the papers, and it’s only goin’ to take her about eighteen hours.

Lordy, an’ it takes this ol’ tub better ’n two weeks.

We’re a bit slower, said his companion, with a rueful grin.

And then they’re going on to Manila? How long is that going to take ’em?

About five days, the other man said, his eyes never leaving the graceful airplane while she soared westward, gaining altitude and beginning another lazy turn to the southwest. They’ll be hopping islands on the way.

That’d be somethin’, to make that trip.

You got a spare nine-hundred dollars?

Gawd, is that what it’s gonna cost?

Yeah, and that’s just one way. Only rich people’ll be goin’ on that thing, said the first sailor, his eyes just able to pick out the tiny speck winging westward into the late day sun.

Chapter 1

Samantha

Ever since the death of her mother during the 1919 influenza epidemic that swept the country, Samantha Rockford experienced very little in the way of parental love. Her father buried himself in business matters as a compensation for the loss of his wife. Rarely did his schedule leave time to show the child much in the way of affection. Her upbringing was left mostly to governesses and tutors. The only person to show Samantha any genuine love and guidance was Clara Jenkins, the cook whom Samantha adored.

Clara came to work for the Rockfords in 1927, when Samantha was ten. She and Samantha became fast friends in no time. The young girl began hanging around the kitchen where the two chatted and laughed, at times, well past quitting time. Clara never seemed to mind missing her bus, there would always be another.

One morning, in 1929, while Samantha stood munching a sweet roll, Clara pulled a pot from the oven. Stand back, dearie, this is hot. She set it on top of the stove, wiped her hands on her apron and said, Now, all we have to do is make the dumplings and we’ll have a meal that will put some flesh on that scarecrow frame of yours. She chuckled and reached for the mixing bowl.

Samantha pulled a stool up to the island opposite Clara and perched on her boney knees with her elbows on the counter, watching.

I’ll thank you to push me that flour canister, said Clara in her musical Irish brogue.

Samantha pushed the can toward her and said, At first I thought you talked funny but now I just love to listen to you. Is that the way they talk in Ireland?

That’s Erin, dearie, which is the proper name for Ireland. Yes, that’s the way they talk and grand soundin’ it is to these ears. Now, as soon as I get these dumplings on, you better go clean up. Your father will be home from the Marshalls’ wedding reception any time now.

There was a moment of silence. Samantha shifted and perched on the stool with legs crossed like a Hindu fakir, cocked her head and asked, How come people get married?

Lordy, child, you do ask the questions. She set down her towel, crossed her arms and put her finger to the side of her chin. I guess the simple answer is so they can have babies. They also do it because they fall in love with each other and want to spend their lives together. That’s the way God made it.

How come you were never married, Clara?

Clara picked up a dish rag and looked at her in surprise, then smiled and said, I was.

Really? Samantha sat up.

Really. Clara looked up at the ceiling as if composing her thoughts, then said, I didn’t always look like this. Actually, I was a wee slip of a girl like you when I was your age. My mother used to say, ‘Clara, a skinny woman doesn’t fetch much of a price at the market of love’.

Samantha giggled. And did you fatten up? she asked.

You bet I did, dearie and that’s how I got my hooks into Jack.

Was he your husband?

Yep, for twenty-years. Her eyes became a little misty and she set the dish rag down. As fine a man as ever walked this earth, God rest his soul.

What happened to him? asked Samantha, watching the drama play out on the woman’s face.

He died twelve years ago on Christmas. Clara crossed herself and kissed her thumb nail.

The two were silent for a time and Samantha asked, How did he die? The question sounded crass and she knew it but she was curious. Was it because of the flu, like my mother?

If Clara was offended by the questions she didn’t show it. No, dearie, he had a flat tire and was fixing it beside the road when another car came too close and hit him. Our car was full of presents for me and the kids… Clara didn’t say anything for a while and Samantha knew she was lost in memories. Not wanting to intrude, she watched the sadness and pain ebb and flow on Clara’s face. After a moment, Clara seemed to come up from wherever it was her memory had taken her and smiled. That was a long time ago and no sense dredging up bad memories. Will you hand me that spatula, dearie?

Where are your children?

Clara brightened. Kathleen married a grand fellow and moved to Boston and Jack Junior is living in Erin with his wife. I get letters from them both and I have three lovely grandchildren. One in Boston and two of them in Erin. I’m hoping to save enough so I can travel and see them someday.

Samantha wrinkled her brow and cocked her head before asking, How did you know Jack was the right one for you?

Clara looked at the girl, her face serious, and said, You just know. It’s a feeling you get that you don’t want to spend the rest of your life with anyone else. He’s your dream, your ambition and all that’s important is that you make a home for him and allow him into your heart. She looked off for a second and said, There is no other feeling like it in the world, I’ll wager.

Samantha reached over and pinched a little piece of the dough from the bowl. Clara slapped at her hand but it was a friendly slap and missed by a mile. You stop that, I’m not going to have enough as it is. She grinned, You’re worse than havin’ a monkey around.

~ * ~

Samantha reveled in her friendship with the cook and couldn’t understand why her father seemed to be against treating the household staff like family. They were the only family she knew and Clara was the closest thing to a mother she had. Her father even lectured her on the subject a few weeks before. He had walked into the kitchen to find Clara and Samantha in hysterics over some private joke.

Now, speaking to her in the library with the door closed, he said, Samantha, you are spending too much time in the kitchen with Clara. I wonder if it’s a healthy thing. He gave his daughter a stern look and went on, She is, after all, only the cook and someday you will be the mistress of the house. What are you, twelve now?

Yes, sir.

Then you’re old enough to understand. Too much familiarity can cause problems for you. They are servants, not our family.

But, Daddy, Clara’s my best friend. We have fun together.

Nonetheless, you must remember your position. It is a difficult task to direct the activities of others when you’re too friendly. People tend to take advantage of you.

Even though Samantha hung her head, nodded and murmured, Yes, sir, she knew she had to continue the friendship. She would just have to be more careful and not get caught. It was the only time she could remember defying her father.

~ * ~

Over the years Clara talked with Samantha as if she were her daughter. She brought her little gifts, cooked special treats and listened to the girl when she was blue, laughed when she was happy and best of all, she seemed to enjoy having Samantha about.

Throughout this time, she also tried to help Samantha with her studies but with only a sixth grade education herself, soon the assignments were beyond her abilities. However, it was she who explained the mysteries of puberty to Samantha and it was she who Samantha ran to when she awoke one morning in 1930 to find blood on her sheets. The frightened girl was sure she was dying.

So you started your cycle, have you? Clara said, with a chuckle when Samantha burst into the kitchen in a panic and confided in her. Convinced something was terribly wrong because she was having such pains in her stomach, she asked. Should I go to the doctor?

Not unless you want to. What you’re having is going to happen to you every month for a long time. Its nature’s way of getting you ready to have a family. Here, have some toast. Yesterday, I made your favorite, fresh boysenberry jam. I’ll get you a glass of milk.

Samantha sat munching in deep thought for a moment and then asked, What about my sheets? Are they going to have to change them every day?

No, dearie. I’ll order you some napkins and a belt from the pharmacy, and show you how to use them. Now, hand me that butter, will you, I’ve got to test this jam myself. I might have put too many worry berries in it, she said with a twinkling sideward glance.

Two weeks later, Samantha came running into the kitchen with a tiny bird cupped in her hands. Her face was contorted in anxiety and her cheeks covered in tears. Clara…Clara, look, she cried, holding out the animal out. It must have fallen out of the nest. Can we take care of it?

Clara looked the bird over and then said, "Here, let me get some rags to keep him warm.

Can we feed him? Is he going to be all right? Samantha begged, dancing up and down.

I don’t know, said Clara, a concerned look on her face.

Oh, please, please, let’s try to save him.

We can try. Chances are we won’t be able to. He really needs his mother but she probably won’t take him back after we’ve handled him. I’ve heard that’s the case. Go tell the gardener you want worms.

In her room Samantha and Clara built a tiny rag nest in a dresser drawer and placed the bird in it. Try as she might, Samantha couldn’t get it to eat. The fragile creature lingered for two days under her constant vigil and care. On the third morning, however, when Samantha arose and looked in the nest her tiny patient was dead. Samantha ran bawling into the kitchen with the little body clutched to her chest.

That afternoon, in a solemn ceremony attended by Clara and the gardener, Samantha buried the bird under a tree in the back yard next to the tennis courts, the grave marked only by pebbles and a stick cross.

Do you think he’ll go to heaven?

I’m certain. He was too young to have any sins to repent. Clara said, her arm around Samantha’s shoulders.

Samantha had not counted on the guard dogs when she buried the bird. There were two German Shepherds let loose at night to protect the property. Samantha awoke the next morning to find they had dug up the grave and there was no sign of the bird. She was devastated and threw herself into Clara’s arms, weeping pitifully.

There, there, don’t blame yourself, child. God probably wanted him in heaven. That’s why he took him. Cheer up. You tried to make a difference in a creature’s life and it didn’t work. You can’t blame yourself. Dry your eyes now and I’ll fix your favorite breakfast, French toast. That should make you feel better.

The episode left Samantha stunned and in a blue mood for days. She confessed in her diary: I wanted desperately to help that little bird, to make a difference, but God wouldn’t let me. All I wanted was a pet to love.

For some mysterious reason, never explained by her father, she was not allowed to have a pet. He told her the rationale was they could not always take a pet with them on their travels and it would be unfair to the animal. Even tears would not persuade him and in the end she had no choice but to accept the decision, although the explanation made no sense to her. Another entry in her diary said: Wait until I’m grown, I’m going to have a pet…I’m going to have a puppy, all my own.

~ * ~

By her seventeenth birthday in 1934, Samantha had grown into a stunning young woman. It was an amazing transformation from the awkward little girl who hung around the kitchen with Clara.

Rust-red hair, at one time unruly and nondescript, was now arranged in shimmering orderly waves that fell to her shoulders. Her face, untouched by the ravages of adolescence, was marred only by a sprinkling of freckles across the nose. Large, cobalt blue eyes, set wide on either side of a cherub-like nose, glowed warm and friendly. Gangly arms and legs had given way to smooth curves, packaged in a five foot seven inch frame. By any standard, Samantha Rockford had become a looker.

Although the daughter and heir to a very wealthy man, she displayed none of the arrogance such a background might foster. Instead, she went about life’s business with humility and compassion.

Her public actions were beginning to be scrutinized and dissected by a hungry press. Now, it seemed, every time the seventeen-year-old socialite turned around, her face was plastered in the newspapers with some ridiculous headline:

DATELINE, NEW YORK…

Heiress Samantha Rockford, pictured with father touring the Guggenheim museum, has recently been seen in the company of David Scott, of the famous Wall Street banking family.

Could there be a merger in the offing?

When she saw the article, she was flabbergasted. David Scott was just fourteen and she didn’t even like him, let alone entertain any thoughts of marrying the boy. Because their two fathers were friends who played an occasional game of golf, she had to be nice to David, a minor detail the reporter was not interested in.

Another newspaper obtained a grainy photo of her smiling while being helped onto a horse in Central Park. The caption read: Samantha Rockford caught in flirtatious encounter with stable boy.

The stories were ridiculous and silly but she came to understand the public clamored for any diversion from the economic woes brought on by the depression, woes that seemed remote to her in her insulated world. The thrill of being the center of attention waned months before when she realized it wasn’t she, but her family’s fortune, that interested the readers.

~ * ~

In the summer of 1935, six months before the maiden flight of the China Clipper, Samantha and her father attended a weekend party at the Van Houghtons’ estate in Carmel, California. On a Saturday morning, when they arrived, a dashing Latin stranger was already there. Tall, with finely chiseled features, dark eyes and black wavy hair, his manner was smooth and polished.

Connie Van Houghton, their hostess, greeted them when the butler answered the door. Talbot, Samantha, how lovely to see you again. She turned to the man at her elbow and said, I’d like you to meet Mr. Montenegro from Argentina.

I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Montenegro. Talbot stuck out his hand, although a slight frown flashed across his face.

Please, it would give me pleasure if you’d call me Ricardo. He stood erect and clicked his heels.

Alright, Ricardo, if you will call me Talbot. May I present my daughter, Samantha? Samantha also offered her hand but was surprised when instead of shaking it, Ricardo bent and kissed it, never taking his eyes from hers. She experienced a strange thrill in the pit of her stomach.

You are a fortunate man to have such a beautiful daughter, the Latin purred. Talbot cast a quick glance at their hostess, whose smile seemed pasted on her face, then gave a slight nod of acknowledgement.

Th-thank you, Samantha managed to stammer.

Curious about the sensations the stranger seemed to evoke, Samantha studied Ricardo out of the corner of her eye. Although she was immensely curious about sex and the yearnings seeming to well up from time to time she was still very much in the dark.

She‘d heard girls in the few schools she had attended and maids, when they thought no little girls were around, talking and giggling about their adventures. However, they never seemed too explicit and Samantha often wondered if they exaggerated their experience. Love was still a vast mystery to her. She had yearnings of course, but they were vague shadowy desires without form or substance, floating in the wings of her mind.

Now, shall we go meet the others? Connie Van Houghton steered Talbot toward a large sitting room where the sound of voices and laughter escaped the glass paneled doors. Ricardo took Samantha’s arm, all very gentlemanly and gallant. His touch