J. E. MacDonnell - 025
Page 7
Even then, through the anger in his brain, Gellatly was not aware of the big man's identity. He knew his name, as Floss knew his, but he had no knowledge of his appearance. Floss's indirect reference to himself served to seal Gellatly's ignorance.
He felt the gunner's mate's warning touch on his arm, and he heard the sneering voice, this time directed in a hoarse confidential tone to Beryl:
"So your boy-friend's a fighter, gorgeous? That means he's in trainin'. And that means he can't do no good for you ternight. Now me, I never felt better in me... "
He was leaning over Beryl, his eyes feasting, his ugly face close to her hand. The smack of her hand was as sharp as a pistol shot in the waiting room. Floss straightened abruptly and stepped back a pace, so that he was in position and in readiness to face Gellatly's swift leap from his chair.
Gellatly's mind was filled with a hot rage, but he still had sense enough to judge what he was doing. And in the brief second of his judgment he guessed that whatever happened between petty-officer and rating in this filthy dive no mention of it would get back to higher authority. Rightly or wrongly, that was all the reassurance he needed. His left fist jabbed out towards the leering face.
He was actually a good boxer. But a raging brain does not make for split-second timing and judgment of a punch. Floss, on the other hand, had known what he was going to say, guessed what the reaction would be. So that with little effort he knocked Gellatly's fist aside and struck with his own huge hand.
Floss was not defending his title now. His intention was to hurt, and maim. He succeeded. His bunched knuckles took Gellatly squarely on the mouth, and the force of the blow hurled him backwards.
The men at the table directly behind them had quietly eased aside. The chairs were empty. Gellatly had knocked one of them over in his precipate rise. Now as he twisted and fell under the force of the blow he crashed down on to the side of that overturned chair. He was a heavyweight, and the chair was solid. He did not hear the rib crack, but he felt the pain, a sharp, searing jolt of reaction beneath his heart.
He lay there a moment, dazed with the force of the punch and the pain in his side. The sneering voice dropped into his ears:
"Come on, fighter boy! Or are you gonna lie there and let your floosie fight for yer?"
Gellatly pushed himself up. He turned about and stepped towards Floss. His eyes were squinted in pain and his left elbow was hugged in against his side. Floss flicked his eyes down to that elbow; it was held in an unnaturally protective stance. And Floss knew.
Gellatly came for him and Floss ducked the southpaw right lead and feinted with his left at Gellatly's face. The protective elbow lifted clear and Floss drove his right fist with all the strength of his shoulders in against the broken rib.
Landis the surgeon diagnosed later that the sharp-pointed bone was lucky not to have punctured the lung. As it was the effect of that cruel smash was definite enough. The abrupt violence of the pain jolted Gellatly's brain over the edge of consciousness. He reeled sideways into the table and then crumpled slowly to the floor.
"Now, gorgeous," Floss grinned, and laid his paw on her bare shoulder. And a splintering crack brought his eyes up swiftly.
The gunner's mate was a slight man, but in his rise to gunnery eminence he had been trained in a tough school. And what he held now in his hand negatived the slightness of his physical stature. He came warily round the table, his eyes savage, the neck of the bottle gripped in his hand and its jagged broken glass aimed at Floss's throat.
It was not the first time Floss had seen a broken bottle held like that His interest was in the face of the man holding the frightful weapon. And he knew in one glance that the gunner's mate would use it, and that he knew how to use it.
Floss put his hand out in a placatory gesture. The gunner's mate jabbed, and only the boxer's quickness jerked his head back in time to escape vicious laceration.
"Now look here..." be snarled, a safe distance between them. "Beat it!" said the gunner's mate in a hard, quiet voice. The tone told Floss all be wanted to know.
He backed away further, men pressing behind him towards the door.
"What's up with yer?" Floss snarled, but the confident belligerence had gone from his voice-he knew he could take the smaller man, just as he knew that one jab from those razored edges could mark him for life. "I knocked him down in fair..."
"Beat it!" The voice was still quiet, but it held a whiplash of savage intention.
Floss laughed, and his eyes never left that advancing hand.
"Ah, let's get outa here," he said to his cronies. "The joint stinks. An' I never liked left-overs anyway."
He swung and strode from the room. The gunner's mate waited a few seconds, then he threw the bottle on the floor and walked quickly back to his friend.
"That's about it, sir," Landis said. "One rib broken, severe bruising of the area. I'd say the injuries could be caused by a heavy fall. But the laceration round the mouth is too localised."
"You mean a punch? A bare fist?"
"Yes, sir. If his head had hit the same object as his ribs, then nose, and probably eyes, would have been injured."
"He can stay on board?"
"Oh, yes. He's healthy enough, and the rib will set all right in the sickbay. But he's out of the tournament, of course."
"Of course. All right, Doc. Thank you."
Landis picked up his cap and left the cabin. Bentley turned to Randall. His face was grim.
"What do you know about it?"
"Nothing," the first-lieutenant answered at once. His fingers rubbed at his chin, a worried movement. "That's what I can't understand about it. Normally-as you know-I'm put in the picture pretty quickly when anything like this happens. But the petty-officers' mess have clammed up tight."
Bentley nodded. He lit a cigarette and let the picture shroud itself in a breath of slowly-exhaled smoke. Then he tapped the ash off in the tray, slow deliberate knocks of his forefinger.
"Obviously Gellatly got into a fight ashore," he started. "He could be reluctant to talk because he feels he's let the ship down as regards the tournament."
"That's how I see it," Randall nodded. "I've spoken to him, of course. All he'll say is that he broke his rib on a chair. But the getting into a fight part-no, not Gellatly. He's not the type. Too steady, too much at stake. Maybe some bloke shoved him, accidentally. Then over the chair."
"He got into a fight," Bentley repeated, his voice flat. "You heard Landis. We'll start from there. Gellatly can look after himself. There are quite a number of tough fellows in this Fleet, but few good boxers. Gellatly's one of them. He's taken a beating. And obviously a quick, effective one. Therefore his opponent must be a pretty smart boy."
"I think you're assuming a hell of a lot," Randall protested. "And you're completely ignoring Gellatly's character."
"He was with a girl," Bentley said evenly, "and a girl in a dive ashore in a place like this could lead to all sorts of character changes."
Randall stubbed his cigarette out.
"All right, then. Let's say you're right. But we can't do anything about it. No charges have been laid from shore, Gellatly says he fell over a chair. As far as I see it, that's it."
Bentley did not answer. Randall took up his cap. "It's bad luck about the tournament. Our gorilla friend will remain unchallenged." Still Bentley was silent. Randall said: "If that's all, I want to check the port cable-holder."
"That's all, Bob," Bentley said.
After he had left the cabin Bentley sat in his chair for several minutes. His face was thoughtful, and he was thinking of what he had said regarding the skill of the man who had taken Gellatly. He knew he had not convinced Randall, but then the big lieutenant was not a boxer. Bentley leaned forward to tap the ash from his cigarette. Suddenly he crushed it out, and pushed himself up and walked to the door.
"Yes, sir?" the messenger asked.
"Chief bosun's mate, please," Bentley ordered, and walked slowly back to his chair.
"You know, don't you?"
"Well..." said Hooky. He turned his cap in his band.
"Sit down. Have a cigarette."
"Thank you, sir."
The huge man's right "hand" was gleaming in the morning sunlight shafting in through the scuttles. Bentley lit his cigarette.
"Hooky," Bentley said quietly, and the chief bosun's mate knew it was going to be "old ships," unofficial, a man-to-man calling on old friendship and loyalty-what he had dreaded.
"Yes, sir."
"Gellatly."
"Er... yes, sir."
Bentley waited, smoking quietly. Hooky drew on his cigarette. He blew the smoke out almost fiercely.
"I don't want to, sir. You know that."
"I know that."
Hooky looked up into the lean brown face watching him. It had been a long time, he remembered, almost against his will. Way back to a sub-lieutenant's ring; then lieutenant, and then three destroyers with this officer, the last two in command. A long time, a long and close and perfectly understood friendship. Bentley now wore three full rings, and he was in the captain's cabin of a modern Fleet destroyer; yet Hooky felt, at this moment, as close to him as ever he'd been.
"All right," he said, and neither man noticed the omission of the title. "But I've got to ask for this-it stays in the cabin."
"You knew it would."
"I didn't know that at all!"
"As bad as that?"
"Couldn't be much worse. Gellatly took on an able-seaman. Fifty witnesses."
Bentley nodded.
"Floss," he said.
Hooky's head jerked up.
"How the hell... ?"
"Never mind how. You can forget the witnesses. Nobody's talked. I would have heard by now-so would Gellatly... ! Right. Let's have it."
Hooky drew two puffs on his cigarette. His oaken face was pinched in thought. But not of what he had to say-he was wondering how in hell this captainly recluse had stumbled on a name which only half a dozen senior ratings in the ship knew.
"Gellatly went off with the gunner's mate," he started; "I got most of it from him. They was in this dive with the two nurses and the big bloke comes in..."
Bentley listened without interruption. In the whole recital his expression changed twice. The first time was when Hooky told of the vicious blow to Gellatly's broken ribs. He shifted in his chair, and the creaking of the springs brought Hooky's eyes round to look at him. He saw a face ominous and hard, the mouth a thin tight line.
"Floss deliberately punched at the ribs?"
"That's it," Hooky nodded, his own face bitter, "The gunner's mate reckons the mongrel must've known because Gellatly had his arm held low down, tryin' to protect `em."
"Go on," Bentley said, very quietly.
Hooky continued the story, and as he listened Bentley could easily reconstruct the crowded and smoky scene in his mental vision. Then Hooky mentioned the breaking of the bottle, and the little man's driving of the fighter through the door. Bentley leaned forward, his hands clasped across his stomach and his eyes glinting.
"He took a broken bottle to him? Nice work." His voice was almost soft, with a steely silkiness which belonged wholly to the fighter, not the commanding-officer. "The gunner's mate might run to ten stone. Floss could have feinted and grabbed that hand. Yet he backed off?"
"Clear outside. Takin' his crawlin' oppos with him."
"Floss," Bentley said distinctly, "is a dingo."
"That's what the gunner's mate said. Somethin' about his voice, be said. He knew he had him licked with that bottle. Not that I blame him, mind you. A bottle's bloody nasty, and the gunner's mate's no slouch when it comes to roughin' it."
"Nevertheless..." the captain murmured, and leaned back in his chair. Hooky saw that the fingers of his hands were extended into a steeple, and that they were tapping together. "All right, Hooky," Bentley finished crisply, "that will do. Thanks for your help."
Hooky stood up. This captain could be the most dismissive man he knew, when he wanted to be.
"Ah... she'll be right, won't it, sir?"
"Don't worry. This was quite unofficial. I imagine Gellatly's paying for his indiscretion in tackling a junior rating. He must be stewing down there."
"He's stewin' all right, sir-with pain!"
"I haven't forgotten it," Bentley said. He nodded. "All right, Buffer."
Hooky, now returned to his official position, walked out of the cabin and shut the door.
Bentley waited a few minutes, but it was not indecision or thought this time. When he judged Hooky was clear, he rang a buzzer. The messenger poked his head in.
"Get the motorboat alongside," the captain ordered. "Tell the first-lieutenant I am going aboard the flagship."
"Aye, aye, sir."
"He's really very busy," the flag-lieutenant told Bentley, and moved his carefully-groomed head in a negative, suggestive gesture.
"I appreciate that," the Australian nodded. "But I think he will see me. It's quite important And personal," he added.
The last word decided the flag-lieutenant. His duty was to keep as much of Fleet business as possible clear of the admiral's busy attention; but a destroyer captain's personal business, when it involved Authority as high as this, must be serious.
"Very well," he said, in what sounded like a resigned sigh." "Please wait here."
When he came out of the big cabin the flag-lieutenant's face was more respectful than when he entered it When he had heard the name of his caller the admiral had consented at once to see him.
"You may go in, sir. But please be as brief as possible."
His cap tucked in the correct position under his left arm, Bentley stepped through the doorway and stood to attention before Sir Sidney Granville. The genial face and the piercing eyes looked up at him.
"I understand this is personal, Bentley?"
"Yes, sir. Mainly personal."
"Sit down. Now-I'm afraid I haven't as much time as I'd like to give to your problem."
"I understand, sir. I'll be brief."
"Well, then?"
"It concerns the boxing tournament."
The face was still cherubic, but the eyes had narrowed. Bentley went on hastily:
"The tournament-and me, sir. I wish to fight your man Floss."
The admiral's ejaculation was old-fashioned, and emphatic;
"Damme! You certainly come to the point in a hurry!" He leaned his elbows on the table. "Am I to understand that you, at commanding-officer, wish to enter a boxing-ring against an able-seaman?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why?" Coming from that chubby face the word was like a whip-crack.
Bentley breathed in.
"My man, Gellatly, had an accident ashore last night-it seems he fell on to a chair and broke a rib."
"I see. But why your... unusual interest?"
Bentley had no intention of lying, but he could see no point in revealing the whole truth, the real reason why he wanted to face Able-Seaman Floss.
"All my Service career I have been an advocate of physical fitness, sir. I was pleased when one of my men entered the tournament. I have in fact been sparring with him. I appreciate the unusualness of a captain fighting a seaman, but I also think the advantages will outweigh the disadvantages-if there are any."
"And the advantages?"
"There will be a heavyweight fight, sir-the most interesting in any tournament. Interest in physical fitness should be enlarged. And..."
"Yes?" Granville prompted him.
The admiral was watching his visitor shrewdly, but that visitor owned to a sizable slice of shrewdness himself; he knew he had Granville's interest If he had not, by now he would be walking up the ladder to the quarterdeck.
"As I see it, sir, a tournament in a base like this is concerned mainly with creating a recreational Interest for the men."
"
That is so."
"Then, sir, surely a match between commanding-officer and seaman will heighten that interest? They'll pack in-if only to see the officer get what's coming to him,"
He smiled, but it was difficult to tell from the admiral's natural cast of countenance if he were returning the sentiment.
"That's what worries me, Bentley. Perhaps the officer will get... belted."
"Perhaps, sir. On the other hand, I might take your man. I see it this way. The match will tend to prove the democratic processes of the Service; and, if I win, or even put up a good showing, It won't hurt the officer branch."