by James Hanley
CHAPTER TWO
DARKNESS and confusion. The crew were making their way clumsily for'ard. In the darkness, ropes, hatch-coverings, canvas, wedges, the ship's sailing-day paraphernalia, could not be seen. Sailors went to port – the stokehold crowd to starboard. When the first man stepped over the fo'c'sle step he halted suddenly and said to the others: 'Somebody's here already.'
Exclamations. Laughs. They had an idea who that was. Then they filed in. Aye! It was him. Bound to be there first. And all eyes fixed on the occupant of the stool, who, with almost studied indifference, had ignored their entrance. He was busy writing a letter. A pad lay on his knee, a pen in his large hand, ink-bottle standing on the cold bogie. 'Writing to her already,' remarked one from his bunk. There was no reply. General chorus: 'Oh, leave him alone.'
The men began making up their bunks, unpacking their bags – the air was soon thick with tobacco smoke. The deadlights were screwed down over the ports. Only a dull glare came from the unshaded bulb that hung over the somewhat rickety table. A ceaseless hum of conversation, a continuous movement of bodies in the half-darkness. The man near the bogie went on writing, laboriously, in his large child-like hand. He was a short man, broad-shouldered, with powerful arms. There was something beautiful about his hands, large, browned by sun. He had a massive head. His black hair was cut short, almost to the bone. His name was George Higginbottom, and he lived in Rochdale, where he had a wife and one child. The crowd had christened him 'Rochdale,' and the name stuck to him. To see Rochdale at work was not only a revelation, but an education. The poetry, the very core of movement seemed to have stored itself up inside that man's body. One watched his hands when he coiled a heaving-line or even the great tow-rope, and the movements of the muscles of his arms when he was engaged in holystoning the decks. Yet Rochdale himself seemed the least aware of how fascinating his short strong body was. At the moment he was very busy writing to Annie, who kept the little tobacco shop he had started some six years previous, and he was telling her about the ship, and about the mystery of her departure. He told her also that he had been removed from watches – in other words, promoted.
From now on – at least during the life of A.10 – he was to be special look-out man. He wouldn't coil ropes again, or run the stone along her sand-sprinkled decks. In future his place would be high in the air, and he would look down from the serenity and isolation of the nest on the less fortunate mortals below. These were some of the thoughts now passing through Rochdale's mind. Noise, incessant movement, a continuous chatter, occasional swearings and exclamations, but he, Rochdale, was dead to them all. Only once did he look up and then only when the bosun's bronze-like voice called up the dark alleyway, 'The standby boys. No one can turn in yet.' Several voices answered him back. Well, of course not. Watches hadn't been picked yet. Rochdale dipped his pen in the bottle and went on with his letter.
In the top bunk nearest him a long thin man with walrus whiskers, who by reason of the many pimples on his face went by the name of 'Vesuvius', was lying on his stomach, head resting in his hands, and he was watching the man on the stool carry on his laborious work, and it was laborious, a job that the little man hated, and only did as a pure duty. The pimply one's eye saw 'Dear Annie' in large scrawl but he did not read further. That was accidental – he did not read other people's letters. Suddenly Rochdale put down the pen. The task was ended. He carefully blotted the letter, folded and sealed it in an envelope. Then he put away his pad – he slept in the bunk under Vesuvius, and left the fo'c'sle. Immediately he had gone the tongues began to wag. What a letter! And the length of it. No doubt he was feeling a little cocky since his promotion to special look-out man. A voice – 'Rochie's got eyes like a cat. That's why he got the job.'
'All hands out.' The bosun was calling again. Immediately the fo'c'sle emptied itself. Men moved about awkwardly in the dark. The complaint of the darkness, not the natural, but rather the unnatural imposed by Necessity, was general. It seemed then that all kinds of wars were carried on in the darkness. Some of the men sprawled about on the hatch-top. The business of picking the watches began. Mr. Higginbottom, being an entirely independent man and having more to do with the bridge than the P.O.'s room, had sauntered slowly down the well-deck on a sort of tour of inspection. Anyway, he couldn't see much of her from below, so there could be no harm in looking her over. Once she got under way it would be crow's-nest and bunk, bunk and crow's-nest, four on four off – for months – perhaps a year, even the 'duration' as it was called. He had hoped to give up the sea for good – hence the new venture, the paper and tobacco shop in Cherry Tree Road, Rochdale – but something, and someone, said no. So here he was at the age of fifty-one, still doing his 'bounces', as he called it, with the sea. Well, he'd see what was in it. Plenty of bounce, no doubt. He hoped Annie and the kid – Rosie, aged five – would be all right in his absence. Rochdale was thinking this as he leaned over the poop and saw nothing save the dull glitter of black water. He could hear her getting up steam – hear people talking abaft the bridge. Words – meaningless to him – gibberish in fact. 'Ah well. God's good.' He retraced his steps for'ard. The watch-picking was over. When he entered the fo'c'sle a hot conversation was being carried on, the subject of which was the possible destination of the A.10 The loudest voices, and the most emphatic in favour of a course east were those of Vesuvius and a man from Llanelly named Williams. Rochdale sat down and listened. Nobody took any notice of him – they were quite inured to his silences, even his indifference to the fortunes of the ship.
'She's going to Nagasaki for a cargo of dolls eyes,' Vesuvius said.
'D'you remember,' Williams said in a high treble, 'd'you remember the time we all thought we were going to Karachi – that time they made us re-caulk decks in the awful bloody heat – and instead we carried a load of horse-muck and rotten meat to the supplies?' He laughed, showing a mouthful of rotten teeth.
'Ah!' exclaimed a big-boned man from the bunk end. 'You're thinking of the bloody bleeder you were in. This'n is different.'
'If we were only carrying mules from Yonkers again we might get a chance to earn some fat money,' remarked the lamp-trimmer. And at once the conversation changed to fat money.
The door of the chain-locker was open. A continuous whistling sound came up though the hawse-pipe, but not until there was a lull in the conversation did this appear to be heard. But the bosun had heard it. He climbed out of his bunk, where he had been indulging in his pipe, swore under his breath, and, diving out of his room, rushed up the alleyway shouting: 'Close that bloody door, will you? You can hear the bloody thing everywhere.' A strong wind was blowing in across the river. He was angry, being disturbed at his quiet smoke and indeed his hoped-for forty winks. A man banged the door shut. The alleyway was pitch dark. The man saw the bosun rushing towards him.
'You keep that bloody door shut,' the bosun growled, pipe in mouth.
'All right. I never opened it. It's shut now, isn't it?' he growled back.
'What's the row in there, anyhow? They're beginning early aren't they?'
'Wasn't me! Go in and see. Williams and Vesuvius. That's who it is. Arguing about fat money. They seem never to have forgotten that Yonkers trip.'
'Aye! Will you tell them from me that there won't be any more mules? See? 'Cept human ones, and there ain't no fat money in them. Now get for'ard and tell them to pipe down. Can't get a wink of bloody sleep, and never know the minute we'll be called out.'
'When are we leaving?'
'Don't know.'
'Where are we going, Bosun? And what are we carrying? Heard lately?'
'Don't know. All fat's the same, my lad, human or animal.'
The bosun went back to his room. He knew as much as the hands did, and that was nothing. But sailing-day was always trying even to the most quiet-tempered. He banged the door and returned to his bunk. But his peace was ended, for at that moment the whistle blew from the bridge. The tension was over. It seemed something was happening at last. The fo'c
'sle heard it, too, but no comments were made. The story, the uncertainty still held, still fascinated. The conversation never flagged. It became a kind of fantastic cross-word puzzle, this destiny of A.10. Already in imagination she had been around the world three times but this mystery was not ended. But all knew they would carry troops! The question was where? A group of three playing nap at the table suddenly got up as though they had already heard the as yet ghostly footsteps of the bosun coming for'ard now to give them their orders. All was action in a moment. The fo'c'sle door was thrown open and the bosun called out: 'All hands out. Right away my bloody lads.' They clambered out of bunks, pushed back forms – piled on to one another – streamed down the dark alleyway. They were out.
'All right,' the bosun said. 'Watches start now! My watch to flush down. The others can turn in. Them's the orders. Get your gear together.' As one man the watch moved away to get their gear together.
'O'Grady!'
'Yes, Bosun.'
'Go below and tell that engineer to let us have the water. Hurry up.'
In a few minutes all were hard at work. The bosun looked at his men. O'Grady – Connor – Williams – Vesuvius – he didn't know the others yet. They were new hands. He'd know them soon enough.
'Stop that bloody arguing, Williams,' he called out. 'You'd argue the bloody leg off our iron pot.'
'I was only saying—'
'Then don't say it. We all know the bleeders you were on. Rum bloody skipper he must have been allowing his ship to go into port like that. On this ship decks will be flushed every middle watch.' He turned to the diver of the watch. 'Keep your eye on those fellers,' he said. Then he went up to the bridge. He stood outside Mr. Bradshaw's door for a moment. Then he knocked. Bradshaw came out.
'Oh, it's you, Bosun! The men are washing down. You'd better tell them to move. We're under way in half an hour. And Mr. Dunford wants the rubbish cleared from the three decks at four and five. The carpenters have left it all there, damn them. But I suppose they had their orders.'
'Very good, sir. We're not embarking here, then?' He began stroking his grey moustache. Bradshaw looked hard at him.
'No,' he said, somewhat abruptly. 'We're going south.' He turned on his heel and went along the bridge. The bosun could see a tall form leaning over the rail. He thought it must be Mr. Dunford. He always did hang about like that on sailing-day, irritable, impatient, a little worried. Wasn't a bad chap of course, but he, the bosun, had seen better. When he descended the ladder he discovered the whole watch aft. They had flushed her down in quick time. 'Good,' the bosun said. 'Put that gear in the wheel-house there. I don't want my bloody head chewed off by Bradshaw. And the old man's as touchy as a grand dame. All right, lads. Two minutes. Then we go below. Sailors' work is never done. Those damned shore-gangs left all their muck behind for jolly bloody Jack to clean up.'
All went into the wheel-house. The iron door closed. Matches were struck in the darkness. Conversation was carried on in whispers. The bosun puffed away at his pipe.
'Heard anything, Bosun?'
'No! Ask me something else. There are some fine Russian Tarts at Odessa.' He laughed.
Williams was looking out through the port. There was nothing to see, only the darkness banked up outside, the light breeze coming in. He picked his cigarette and stamped the ash out with his foot.
'There's bunks down below, isn't it? Well – hundreds of bunks. Isn't it? We're going to carry troops, a lot of bloody troops. It'll be a jam, too. You can see that at once as soon as you look down those hatches. They'll be packed tight.'
'Impossible to avoid sweating,' O'Grady said.
'Come on! Cut the gab. All hands down number four,' the bosun said.
A silence, then:
'Not shifting black stuff,' Williams said.
There was no reply. They descended the ladders to the cavernous 'tween-decks.
'Put that torch out and light that shaded lamp,' the bosun said.
They moved farther in. Williams and O'Grady began to clean up the rubbish. They piled it into buckets ready to hoist to the deck. Williams talked as he worked. By the dim light they could see the phantom-like movements of the other men.
'D'you reckon those bastards could tell where she is?' said Williams to O'Grady. 'I mean by the difference in the holds? You know the hollowness. Isn't it? You shout now and you'll see the difference! Only wood here and cheap cast iron. Maybe it's rotten tin. I don't know. But suppose she's packed with cargo – not live, mind you – she never did carry cattle – but it is different though. Isn't it?'
'Hey, you there! Come over here and help these men. Both of you. Damn it, you'd talk till you were soft.'
They collected a mountain of rubbish. Two men went up to haul up the buckets.
'I'm sorry for the poor sods, anyhow,' the bosun said. Then he followed the two men up the ladder.
Mr. Dunford rang, and when his tiger came he said: 'Tell Mr. Bradshaw to come here at once.'
He laid a long envelope on the table in front of him.
'Come in.'
Bradshaw entered and shut the door behind him.
'It's as I thought,' said Dunford. 'Where would these silly people be without their conundrums? Everybody to stations. The tugs will be here in twenty minutes. And if it will satisfy your curiosity,' he went on, 'we're embarking fourteen hundred men at Avonmouth.'
'We were wrong, then,' said Mr. Bradshaw.
'Exactly! And they were right. They always are. But all the same, Bradshaw, I wish I were two million miles away.'
'Oh! So that's how it is.'
'That's just how. This is my eighth secret journey and I wonder if it's worth it. When I see this ceaseless flow of men passing along, senseless, it worries me. It's all so senseless. Terrible in fact. Perhaps one shouldn't talk like that. Anyhow, get along.'
'Too temperamental,' Bradshaw thought, but stifled the sudden feeling it awoke in him. After all he had his job to do. And to carry troops seemed just like every other thing. Cargo and dunnage and cattle. He blew for the bosun. Mr. Dunford went out on to the bridge. The second officer had gone aft. The bosun's mate took his men to the poop. The engine-room crowd stood at the ready. The rubbish in the 'tween-decks remained piled in a heap. Everybody knew now. They were going at last. And everybody muttered to himself: 'Thank the Lord for that.'
Only one man remained in the port fo'c'sle. It was Rochdale. He would go up in half an hour. He heard the tugs blow. He put down the newspaper he had been reading and commenced to dress, putting on a strong reefer jacket, a woollen muffler and a leather cap. He sat down, lit a cigarette and waited. He became contemplative, not over the future but about the present. He wondered what Annie would be doing at half-past eight in the morning. He could see Rosie getting ready for school. That was a very orderly world indeed. Different to this one, this bitter world behind steel. Still the war was on, and after all he was getting an extra ten 'bob' a week danger money. He didn't like Williams or Turner. Too garrulous, even callous. O'Grady was quite decent. And it would be interesting seeing how the others turned out. Counter-jumpers, he supposed, got the job to avoid going into the army. Well, they hadn't exactly landed in soft jobs. He did like Williams and Turner better, of course. But they were sailors. The new hands might be anything, convicts, murderers. He got up, thrust his hands in his pockets and began pacing the fo'c'sle.
Mr. Higginbottom told himself that he wasn't a spiteful or even a greedy person, but sometimes when he saw fellows like Williams and Turner making a mint of money out of the troops, and thought of the delicate position of Annie, and the shaky little shop – well, he . . . but no. He'd better not think about that. 'Christ! It's stuffy!' He went out on deck.
She had the tugs. The mooring-ropes were clear of the bitts now, trailing the black water. The windlass rattled, the winch seemed to screech. Voices everywhere, movements, but no light. Complete darkness and the ship grey. A funny business altogether. However, it was a living. No room for deep thinking, less for delic
ate stomachs. A game. A bloody funny game. Played with great seriousness.
Hearing the bell he went round the hatch and began the climb to the nest. A strong wind was blowing still. 'Takes the cobwebs out of your bloody eyes,' he said, and stood for a moment at the cross-trees. Then he spat to the deck, and climbed higher. He climbed over the iron basket, stepped down and immediately made himself comfortable. He leaned his back against the mast and looked ahead. Blackness. And into this blackness, this fathomless void, sank Annie. And Rosie and the tobacco shop followed. They sank, clear of sight and mind. Swallowed up into their own small world. Rochdale adjusted the dodger. Then he gripped the front of the nest, leaned over and looked down. Again blackness. The voices from below came up clear like the sound of a bell. The telegraph rang. The tugs gave a blast. A.10 replied with a burst from her whistle. The ship was moving slowly away from the quay now, the tugs turning her nose towards the open sea. 'Wonderful things, tugs,' Rochdale thought. 'Slick bit of work without a glimmer anywhere!' His job had begun. Below he was one like the others; up here he was different. He was powerful. The power lay behind the eyes. His strong hands and body were useless now. The eyes and the power and intelligence behind them were everything. He, Rochdale, knew what he was expected to do. He would have eyes like an eagle, ears like a fox. All was tension, tension, the whole being tempered to the occasion. He would scan distances, see what others could not see, the eyes would devour the distance, the ears listen for bells, horns, whistles.
