by Bartimeus
*VII.*
*THE SHIP-VISITORS.*
"There's the boat!" exclaimed the younger girl excitedly. Her sisternodded with dancing eyes, and half turned to squeeze her mother's arm.Half a mile away a picket-boat detached itself from one of the anchoredbattleships and came speeding across the harbour. Breathless, theywatched it approach, saw bow and stern-sheet men stoop for theirboat-hooks, heard the warning clang of the engine-room bell, and thenext moment the Midshipman in charge swung her deftly alongside thelanding-stage with a smother of foam under the stern. A figure inuniform frock-coat jumped out.
"Hullo, mother! Sorry I'm late: have you been waiting long? ... Mindthe step!"
The descent into a picket-boat's stern-sheets, especially if you areencumbered by a skirt, is no easy matter. Perhaps the Midshipman of theboat realised it too, for he abandoned the wheel and assisted in theembarkation with the ready hand and averted eye that told of no smallexperience in such matters.
Then they heard a clear-cut order, the bell rang again, and the returnjourney commenced; but they did not hear the hoarse whisper conveyeddown the voice-pipe to the Leading Stoker to "Whack her up!" And sothey failed to realise that they were throbbing through the water at aspeed which, though causing the Midshipmen of passing boats to gnashtheir teeth with envy, was exceedingly bad for the engines and whollyillegal. But then one does not bring a messmate's sisters off to theship every day of the week.
Presently the bell rang again, and a grey steel wall, dotted withscuttles and surmounted by a rail, towered above them. The boat stoppedpalpitating beside a snowy ladder that reached to the water's edge. Theoccupant of the stockhold threw up the hatch of his miniature Infernoand thrust a perspiring head into view; but it is to be feared that noone noticed him, though he had contributed in no small degree to thepassengers' entertainment. The Mother looked at the mahogany-railedladder and sighed thankfully. "I always thought you climbed up byrope-ladders, dear," she whispered.
The ascent accomplished, followed introductions to smiling and somewhatbashful youths, who relieved the visitors of parasols and handbags, andled the way to a deck below, where racks of rifles were ranged alongwhite-enamelled bulkheads, and a Marine sentry clicked to attention asthey passed. Down a narrow passage, lit by electric lights, past acage-like kitchen and rows of black-topped chests, and, as the guidepaused before a curtained door, a glimpse forward of crowded mess-decks.Then, a little bewildered, they found themselves in a narrow apartment,lit by four brass-bound scuttles. A long table ran the length of theroom, with tea things laid at one end; overhead were racks of golf-clubsand hockey-sticks, cricket-bats and racquets. A row of dirks hung abovethe tiled stove, and a baize-covered notice-board, letter-racks, and amiscellaneous collection of pictures adorned the rivet-studded walls. Asomewhat battered piano, topped by a dejected palm, occupied one end ofthe Mess, and beneath the sideboard a strip of baize made an ineffectualattempt to cover the end of a beer barrel.
"This," said the host, with a tinge of pride in his voice, "is theGunroom--where we live," he added.
"It's very nice," murmured the visitors.
"It's not a bad one, as Gunrooms go," admitted another of the escort.He did not add that under his personal supervision a harassed throng ofjunior Midshipmen had pent a lurid half-hour "squaring off" before theirarrival.
After tea came a tour of the ship, and to those who inspect one for thefirst time the interior of a man-of-war is not without interest. Theyemerged from a hatchway on to the Quarter-deck, beneath the wickedmuzzles of the after 12-inch guns: they crossed the immaculate plankingand looked down to the level waters of the harbour, thirty feet below.They admired the neatly-coiled boat's falls, the trim and slightlyself-conscious figure of the Officer of the Watch, and as they turned tomount the ladder that led over the turret a Signalman came on to theQuarter-deck, raising his hand to the salute as he passed through thescreen-door.
"Who did that sailor salute?" inquired the Mother.
"Oh," replied her escort vaguely, "only salutin' the Quarter-deck. Weall do, you know." So much for his summary of a custom that hassurvived from days when a crucifix overshadowing the poop required thedoffing of a sailor's cap.
Then they were taken forward, past the orderly confusion of the "booms,"to a round pill-box, described as the Conning Tower. with twelve-inchwalls of Krupp steel, and introduced to an assortment of levers andvoice-pipes, mysterious dials, and a brass-studded steering-wheel. Thenup a ladder to the signal-bridge, where barefooted men, with skinstanned brick-red and telescopes under their arms, swung ceaselessly toand fro. They examined the flag-lockers--each flag rolled neatly in abundle and stowed in a docketed compartment--the black-and-whitesemaphores, and the key of the mast-head flashing lamp that at nightwinked messages across five miles of darkness.
From then onwards that afternoon became a series of blurred impressionof things mysterious and delightfully bewildering. They carried awaywith them memories of the swarming forecastle and batteries, where theysaw the sailor-man enjoying his leisure in his own peculiar fashion. Ofthe six-inch breech-block that opened with a clang to show the spiralgrooved bore--rifled to prevent the projectile from turningsomersaults.... The younger girl wiped a foot of wet paint off thecoaming of a hatch and said sweetly it didn't matter in the least. Theyinvaded the sanctity of the wireless room, with its crackling spark andnetwork of wires, and listened, all uncomprehending, to the pettyofficer in charge, as, delighted with a lay audience, he plunged into awhirl of technical explanations. And, lastly, the Mother was handed thereceivers, and heard a faint intermittent buzzing that was a shipcalling querulously three hundred miles away.
After that they descended to electric-lit depths, and were invited intocabins; they visited the "Slop-room" (impossible name), where theyfingered serge and duck with feminine appreciation. They saw thenettings where the hammocks were stowed, and the overhead slingingspace--eighteen inches to a man! And so back to the upper deck, to findthe picket-boat again at the bottom of the ladder.
* * * * *
"Hasn't it been lovely!" gasped the elder girl, as they walked back totheir hotel.
"Scrumptious!" assented her sister. "And _did_ you notice the boy whosteered the boat that brought us back?--he had a face like a cherublooked at through a magnifying-glass!"
Meanwhile, he of the magnified cherubic countenance was rattling dicewith a friend preparatory to indulging in a well-earned glass ofMarsala. Outside the gunroom pantry the grimy gentleman whose sphere ofduty lay in the picket-boat's stockhold sought recognition of hisservices in an upturned quart jug.
Which is also illegal, and contrary to the King's Regulations andAdmiralty Instructions.
