by Ian Hay
CHAPTER V
THE JOY OF BATTLE
Hughie stepped out of the ferry-boat on to the towpath, which wascrowded with young men hastening to the places where the boats weremoored and young women who would have been much better employed on theopposite bank.
The punctilious Hughie was looking about for a friendly hedge or otherprotection behind which he might decorously slip off the white flanneltrousers which during the afternoon had been veiling the extreme brevityof his rowing-shorts, when he was tapped on the shoulder. He turned andfound himself faced by a stout clean-shaven man, with eyes that twinkledcheerfully behind round spectacles. He looked like what he was, acountry parson of the best type, burly, humorous, and shrewd, withunmistakable traces of the schoolmaster about him.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, with a rather old-fashioned bow, "butare you Mr. Marrable?"
Hughie admitted the fact.
"Well, I just want to say that I hope you are going Head to-night. Youare to row stroke yourself, I hear."
"Yes."
"Quite right, quite right! It's a desperate thing to change your crewabout between races, but it's our only chance. You could never havecaught them with the man you had last night. He's plucky, but he can'tpick a crew up and take them with him. Have you been out in the neworder?"
"Yes. We had a short spin a couple of hours ago."
"Satisfactory?"
"Yes, very fair."
"That's excellent. Now we shall see a race!"
The speaker turned and walked beside Hughie in the direction of theRailway Bridge. Hughie wondered who he could be.
"I suppose you are an old member of the College, sir," he said.
"Yes. Haven't been able to come up for fifteen years, though."
"In the crew, perhaps?" continued Hughie, observing his companion'smighty chest--it had slipped down a little in fifteen years--andshoulders.
"Yes,"--rather diffidently.
"I thought so. About what year?"
The stranger told him.
Hughie grew interested.
"You must have been in D'Arcy's crew," he said,--"the great D'Arcy. Myfather knew him well. _Were_ you?"
"Er--yes."
"My word!" Hughie's eyes blazed at the mention of the name, which,uttered anywhere along the waterside between Putney Bridge and Henley,still rouses young oarsmen to respectful dreams of distant emulation andmiddle-aged coaches to floods of unreliable reminiscence. "He must havebeen a wonder in his time. Did you know him well? What sort of chap washe?"
"Well--you see--I _am_ D'Arcy," replied the stranger apologetically.
After that he gave Hughie advice about the coming race.
"I have watched the All Saints crew for three nights now," he said."They are a fine lot, and beautifully together; but it is my opinionthat they can't last."
"They're a bit too sure of themselves," said Hughie. "Too many Blues inthe boat."
"How many?"
"Four. Seven, Six, Five, and Bow."
"Good! They are probably labouring under the delusion that a boat withfour Blues in it is four times as good as a boat with one Blue in it.Consequently they haven't trained very hard, especially those two fatmen in the middle of the boat. What about their Stroke?"
"Pretty enough, but a rotter when it comes to the pinch."
"Good again! Well, these fellows have not once been extended during theraces, for you gave them no sort of a run last night. You went to bitsat the start and never quite recovered. However, that will give AllSaints some false confidence, which is just what we want. Now what doyou propose to do to-night? Jump on to their tails at the start?"
"No good," said Hughie. "They are too old birds for that game. Besides,my crew want very carefully working up to a fast stroke. I can't trustSix at anything above thirty-four. He'll go on rowing that all day; butif I quicken up to thirty-six or seven he gets flustered, and fortysends him clean off his nut after about a minute. No, we must just wearthem down."
"Quite right," said D'Arcy. "If you are within a length at the RailwayBridge you ought just to do it."
"The difficulty is," said Hughie ruefully, "that the crew are only goodfor about one spurt. It's a good spurt, I must say, but if it fails weare done. They can never slow down to a steady stroke again--especiallySix. So it simply has to be made at the right moment. The difficulty isto know when."
"Have you got a reliable cox?"
"First-class."
"Can't he tell you?"
"Too much row going on," said Hughie. "The whole College will be on thetowpath to-night."
The Reverend Montague D'Arcy plunged his hand into the tail-pocket ofhis clerical frock-coat, and produced therefrom a large-pattern servicerevolver.
"Look here," he said. "You would be able to hear this lethal weapon onthe Day of Judgment itself. Will you consent to take your time from me?"
"Rather! Thank you, sir." There was no doubting the sincerity ofHughie's gratitude.
"Well," continued the clergyman briskly, "I shall wait by the RailwayBridge, on the Barnwell side, away from the towpath. If you have madeyour bump before that you won't want me. Well and good. But I don'tthink you _will_ have made it, and I don't advise you to try. For thefirst half of the course those All Saints men will match you stroke forstroke, and if you hustle your heavy man at Six he will probably losehis head. As you pass under the Railway Bridge quicken slightly--notmore than two strokes a minute, though. I have six shots in thisrevolver. When you hear two of them, that will mean that you are gettingwithin jumping distance and must be ready for the spurt. When you hearthe remaining four in quick succession you must simply swing out and putthe very last ounce of your blood and bones and bodies and souls intoit. And if you catch 'em," concluded the reverend gentleman, "by gad!I'll dance the Cachuca on the bank!"
By this time they had reached the spot where theirracing-shell--sixty-two feet of flimsy cedar wood--was lying waiting forthem. The rest of the crew, already assembled, were standing about inthe attitudes of profound dejection or forced hilarity which appear tobe the only alternatives of deportment open to men who are sufferingfrom what is expressively termed "the needle." Some were whistling,others were yawning, and all were wondering why on earth men took uprowing as a pastime.
Hughie gathered his Argonauts into a knot, and at his request theReverend Montague D'Arcy outlined to them the plan of campaign. Then thecrew embarked, and the stout clergyman assisted the grizzled Collegeboatman--the only person present whose nerves appeared unaffected by theprevailing tension--to push their craft clear of the bank, and set themgoing on a half-minute dash as a preliminary to their long paddle downthe course to the starting point of the race.
In accordance with a picturesque but peculiar custom they wore in theirstraw hats bunches of marigolds and corn-flowers--the Collegecolours--as an intimation that they had achieved bumps during thepreceding nights; and so bedecked they paddled majestically down theLong Reach, feeling extremely valorous and looking slightly ridiculous,to challenge a comparison (in which they were hopelessly outclassed fromthe start) with the headgear of the assembled fair in Ditton Paddock.
The method of sending off a bumping race is the refinement of cruelty.
As each boat reaches its starting-post the crews disembark and standdismally about, listening to the last exhortations of coaches ornervously eyeing the crew behind them. Presently an objectionably loudpiece of artillery, situated half-way down the long line of boats, goesoff with a roar. This is called "first gun," and means chiefly thatthere will be another in three minutes. The crew mournfully denudethemselves of a few more articles of their already scanty wardrobe,which they pile upon the shoulders of the perspiring menial whose dutyit is to convey the same to the finishing-post, and crawl one by oneinto their places in the boat. Finally, the coxswain coils himself intohis seat and takes both rudder-lines in his left hand, leaving the rightfree to grasp the end of the boat's last link with _terra
firma_, herstarting-chain. Then the second gun goes, and the crew shudder and knowthat in sixty seconds precisely they must start.
The ritual observed during the final minute is complicated in theextreme, and varies directly with the nervous system of the coach, whodances upon the bank with a stop-watch in his hand, to time theministrations of the College boatman, who stands by with a longboat-hook ready to prod the vessel into midstream.
"Fifteen seconds gone," says the coach. "Push her out, Ben."
Ben complies, with a maddening but wise deliberation. If the boat ispushed out too promptly the starting-chain will grow taut and tug thestern of the boat inwards towards the bank, just when her nose should bepointing straight upstream. But this elementary truth does not occur tothe frenzied octette in the boat. The gun will go, and bow-side willfind their oar-blades still resting on the towpath. They _know_ it.
"Thirty seconds gone," says the coach. "Paddle on gently, Bow and Two."
His object is to get the full advantage of the length of the chain, butBow and Two know better. They are convinced that he merely desires thatthey shall be caught at a disadvantage when the gun fires. However, theypaddle on as requested, with a palsied stealthiness that suggestsmusical chairs.
"Fifteen seconds left," says the coach. "Are you straight, Cox? Ten moresec--"
Ah! As usual the chain has drawn tight, and the stern of the boat isbeing dragged inwards again.
"Paddle on, Two!" yells the coxswain.
Two gives a couple of frenzied digs; the Dervish with the watch,accompanied by a ragged and inaccurate chorus all down the bank, chants"Five, four, three, two--"; there is a terrific roar from the gun; thecoxswain drops the chain; the boatman slips the point of his boat-hook(which, between ourselves, has been doing the lion's share in keepingthe ship's head straight) from Five's rigger; and they are off.
The Benedictine crew got under way very unostentatiously. Their coachwas actually rowing in the All Saints boat,--and it would be difficultto select a more glowing testimonial to the sterling sportsmanship ofEnglish rowing,--so the starting operations were wisely left to theCollege boatman, who had performed the office for something like half acentury. The flight of time was recorded by Hughie himself, from thewatch which hung on his stretcher beside his right foot. The experiencedMr. Dishart-Watson kept those too-often fatally intimate acquaintances,the rudder-lines and starting-chain, tactfully apart, and the St.Benedict's boat got off the mark with a start that brought her within alength of All Saints during the first half-minute.
After that their opponents drew away. As D'Arcy had said, they were aseasoned crew, and nothing short of sheer superiority would wear themdown. The two boats swung round Grassy Corner and entered the PloughReach about their distance apart. All Saints were rowing the fasterstroke.
Hughie, who was keeping to a steady thirty-two, felt with satisfactionthat the men behind him were well together. Number Seven, small butplucky, was setting bow-side a beautiful example in steady swing andsmart finish. Six--Mr. Puffin--was rowing a great blade. To look at himnow, you would ask why he had not been included in the University Crew.If you saw him trying to row forty to the minute, you would marvel thathe should be included in any crew at all.
Five was not looking happy. He was lying back too far and tugging at thefinish. To him the boat seemed heavier than usual, for he was justbeginning to realise the difference between seconding the efforts ofHughie Marrable and those of Mr. Duncombe. Still, he was plugginggamely. Four, a painstaking person, was encouraging himself in a fashionentirely his own. After every stroke, as he sat up and swung forward, hegasped out some little _sotto voce_ remark to himself, such as, "Oh,well _rowed_, Four!--Stick to it, Four!--Use your _legs_, oldman!--That's better!--That's a _beauty_!--Oh, well _rowed_, Four!" Andso on. Where he got the necessary breath for these exercises nobodyknew; but some folk possess these little peculiarities, and row none theworse for them. Bow was another instance. He was a chirpy but eccentricindividual, and used to sing to himself some little ditty of themoment--or possibly a hymn--all through a race, beginning with the firststroke and ending exactly, if possible, with the last. He had beenknown, when stroking a boat, to quicken up to a perfectly incrediblerate simply because he feared that the song would end before hecompleted the course, a contingency which he regarded as unlucky in theextreme. On the other hand, he would become quite depressed if he had tostop in the middle of a verse, and he was quite capable of rowing_rallentando_ if he desired to synchronise his two conclusions.
But few people have the time or inclination for these diversions whileoscillating upon a sixteen-inch slide, and the rest of the crew wereswinging at and plugging in grim silence.
The two boats swept into the roaring medley of Ditton Corner. Theyflashed past the row of piles and tethered punts amid a hurricane ofshouts and waving handkerchiefs. Hughie, wrongfully exercising hisprivilege as Stroke, allowed his eyes to slide to the right for amoment. He had a fleeting glimpse of the crimson and excited countenanceof Miss Gaymer, as some man held her aloft in the crowd. Then the boatgave a slight lurch, and Joey was swallowed up again. Hughie feltguiltily responsible for the lurch, and recalling his gaze into theproper channel--straight over the coxswain's right shoulder--swung outagain long and steadily.
"Are we straight yet?" he gasped to Dishy.
"Yes--just."
"Tell 'em to reach out a bit."
Mr. Watson complied, in tones that rose high above the tumult on thebank and penetrated even into the harmonious soul of Bow, who wasgrappling with a difficult cadenza at the moment.
"Six good ones!" said Hughie, next time his face swung up towards thecoxswain's.
"Now, you men, six good ones!" echoed Dishy. "_One! Two!_ Five, you'relate! _Three! Four! Five!_ Bow, get hold of it! _Six!_ Oh, well rowed!"
There was a delighted roar from the bank. The Benedictine crew weretogether again after the unsteadiness round Ditton.
"How far?" signalled Hughie's lips.
"Length--and--a--half," replied Cox. "Less," he added, peering ahead.
They were half-way up the Long Reach now. In another minute or two theywould be at the Railway Bridge, beyond which hard-pressed boats arepopularly supposed to be safe.
"Tell 'em--going--quicken," gurgled Hughie, "if can."
Cox nodded, rather doubtfully, and Hughie ground his teeth. If only thisaccursed noise on the bank would cease, even for five seconds, Dishywould get a chance to make the crew hear. As it was, the ever-increasingcrowd, rolling up fresh adherents like a snowball, made that feat almostan impossibility.
But the coxswain was a man of experience and resource. Just as the boatpassed under the Railway Bridge itself there was a momentary silence,for the crew were shut off from their supporters by some interveningbalks of timber. Dishy seized the opportunity.
"Be ready to quicken," he yelled. "Now! Oh, well done!"
The crew had heard him, and what was more, they had obeyed him. Strokein the All Saints boat suddenly realised that the oncoming foe hadquickened to thirty-five or six, and that the interval between the twoboats had shrunk to something under a length. He spurted in his turn,and his men spurted with him, but their length of stroke grewproportionately shorter, and the pace of the boat did not increase. St.Benedict's were holding their advantage.
"Half a length," said Dishy, in response to an agonised interrogationfrom Hughie's right eyebrow.
Suddenly above the tumult there rang out two reverberatingrevolver-shots. A stout clergyman, whooping like a Choctaw, was tearingalong the right bank of the river, which was practically clear ofspectators, with his weapon smoking in his hand. Dishy's voice rose to ascream.
"Look out--be ready! _Only_ six feet!"
And now the musical gentleman who was rowing bow felt the boat liftunsteadily under him. A wave rolled across the canvas decking behindhim, and he felt a splash of water on his back.
"Washing us off!" was his comment. "Glory, glory! Another verse'll doit. Now then, all together,--
"_What though the spicy breezes Blow soft, o'er Ceylon's--_"
Bang! bang! bang! bang!
The great service revolver rang out. The nose of the Benedictine boat,half submerged in a boiling flood, suddenly sprang to within three feetof the All Saints rudder.
"_Now_, you men!" Mr. Dishart-Watson's wizened and saturnine countenanceshrank suddenly and alarmingly to a mere rim surrounding his mouth."Just _ten_ more! _One--two--_"
Like St. Francis of Assisi, "Of all his body he made a tongue." Hecounted the strokes in tones that overtopped all the roars ofencouragement and apprehension arising from the now hopelessly mixed-upmob of Benedictine and All Saints men that raged alongside. HughieMarrable quickened and quickened, and his crew responded sturdily.Faster and faster grew the stroke, and more and more pertinaciously didthe nose of the Benedictine boat plough its way through the turbid wavesemitted by the twitching rudder in front. Never had they travelled likethis. Six was rowing like a man possessed. Four had ceased to encouragehimself, and was plugging automatically with his chest open and his eyesshut. Bow may or may not have been singing: he was certainly rowing.There was a world of rolling and splashing, for the All Saints coxswainwas manipulating his rudder very skilfully, and ever and again theaggressive nose of the Benedictine boat was sent staggering back by arolling buffeting wave. But there was no stopping the Benedictines.
Suddenly Dishy gave vent to a final cataclysmic bellow.
"You're overlapping!"
They were almost at Charon's Grind. The coxswain's lank body stiffenedin its little seat, and Hughie saw him lean hard over and haul on to theright-hand rudder-line.
"Last three strokes! Now, you devils! _Plug! plug!pl_--Aa--a--ee--ooh--ee--easy all! Oh, well rowed, well rowed, wellrowed!"
There was a lurch and a bump.
"Done it!--'_Bows down to wood and stone_,'" gasped Bow.
The eight men let go their oars and tumbled forward on to theirstretchers, and listened, with their heads and hearts bursting, to thedin that raged on the bank.
It was a fine confused moment.
In the boat itself Cox was vainly endeavouring to shake hands withStroke, who lay doubled up over his oar, with his head right down on thebottom of the boat, oblivious to everything save the blessed fact thathe need not row any more. Consciousness that he had taken his crew tothe Head of the River was yet to come. At the other end Bow, with hishead clasped between his knees, was croaking half-hysterically tohimself, "Two bars too soon, Hughie! Oh, my aunt, we've gone Head! Twobars too soon!"
On the towpath every one was shouting and shaking hands withindiscriminate _bonhomie_,--this was one of those occasions upon whicheven the ranks of Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer,--and everybody,with one exception, seemed to be ringing a bell or blowing a trumpet.The exception was supplied by a trio of young gentlemen, two of whomheld an enormous Chinese gong suspended between them, while a thirdsmote the same unceasingly with a mallet, and cried aloud the name ofMarrable. It must be recorded here, to his honour, that the smiter boreupon his forehead an enormous and highly coloured bruise, suggestive ofsudden contact with, say, a bedroom-door.
On the opposite bank of the river, a stout, middle-aged, and apparentlydemented Clerk in Holy Orders was dancing the Cachuca.
BOOK TWO
_FORTITER IN RE_
