by James Hanley
'Ah! That you, Ericson?' he called out.
'Yes, sir.'
'Good! I advise you to be extra vigilant. Good morning.' He then left the bridge. The saloon was deserted. The officers had retired to their various rooms. He heard somebody whistling, the sound drew nearer. Then Walters passed him, a bundle of papers in his arms.
'Morning, sir,' he said.
Mr. Dunford looked at the man. A door banged to. Walters was gone. He sat down on the settee, allowing his eyes to wander slowly round the saloon. Though tired he knew he would not sleep. For five full minutes he sat there, looking at nothing in particular, thinking nothing, as though his body were drugged. He heard voices, many different sounds. Then he jumped to his feet. Of course. He had meant to go and see Deveney. He hurried back to the bridge and went straight to the man's room. The third was lying on the settee, covered with his great-coat. He was smoking.
'How are you feeling, Deveney?' asked Mr. Dunford.
He had knocked, then pushed open the door. Now he closed it quietly and sat down. He liked this quiet, inoffensive man. Deveney smiled.
'It's the first time for five years,' Deveney said. 'Funny how it came on like that. All of a sudden. I'll be all right to-morrow.' He flung the cigarette into the ash-tray. Mr. Dunford watched it burning, the spiral of blue smoke climbing heavily in the air.
'Well, we're clear at last,' Dunford said. 'With fifteen hundred men, too. To-morrow I shall make a thorough inspection. This ship, these men, I hardly know which is unlucky, the men or the ship. The people ashore never ask questions. That's the difficulty. If only they asked questions. Things would be much different, less difficult. But no. One just agrees with them.'
Deveney sat up. 'No orders yet, Mr. Dunford?' he asked. He drew the great-coat about his legs.
'Nothing. Their silence is generally significant, too.'
The man on the settee laughed.
'I had some experience before,' he said.
'Of course. Of course. Why did you decide to go into the service?'
'You mean why did I decide to leave it?' replied Deveney. 'Only that I got sick of it.'
'You've been east before then?'
'Twice only. All my time was spent up north,' Deveney said.
There was a loud rapping at the door.
'A message, sir. A message, sir.' Mr. Dunford jumped up just as the door opened. 'Oh!' he exclaimed excitedly, and rushed from the room. Mr. Deveney waved his arms.
'The door. The door.'
'Yes, sir,' the quartermaster said, and pulled the door to.
Mr. Dunford was reading the message in his room. A voice was whispering in his ear. 'You were wrong all the time. You were wrong all the time. She's going to O.' He sat down at the table and spread out his chart. His finger followed a blue line until it alighted on O. 'O,' he said, and smiled. So they were going to O. That meant without escort. He was glad. He hated being chaperoned. Too much interference. Too much red tape. 'To O,' he kept saying under his breath. 'To O. Fifteen hundred men to O.' He undressed and climbed into bed. His thoughts took flight, passing beyond the ship, beyond the wide waste of waters. They alighted at O. Darkness. More tenders. Rafts. Muffled oars. A swift and silent movement of many bodies, a deluge of movement, the smell of sweat, volcanic noises in the distance, gun-flashes. The smell of blood, the urgency, the ceaseless passage of men from ship to raft. Shouts, screams, the sharp ring of steel against steel, the air seething with sound, the monotonous drone of a voice saying, 'Quiet. Careful.' Curses, threats, laughter. More men, wild aimless movements, flashes of white in the darkness, the very air breathing an urgency, a desperateness, the mass of life caught up and convulsed, the continuous climbing, periodic splashes, then moans, the conglomeration of smells, of sweat, of urination, of putrefaction. Then darkness and silence. Daylight. A paradisal moment of sun. Then darkness again. Low thunderous sounds. Sleep. Confusion. A series of furtive movements. That was at O. He thought of that. He thought of the impotent rage that had seized mere flesh and blood. He thought of wounds, spiritual wounds, of the futility, of the circle that ringed them. All that he remembered at O. It was as though with the switching off of the light he had opened the door to the past. He lay in the darkness, one hand holding the pipe in his mouth, the other resting on his breast. He fell asleep with the throb of her engines in his ears.
On the deck soldiers were scattered about in groups, sitting, standing, sprawling, and still they climbed up the ladders. The decks were filling. For'ard men were sitting in groups on the hatch, talking, indifferent to the life beyond the well-deck. On the saloon-deck officers had gathered and were talking. Below men were still dressing, washing, tidying bunks, the air rank with a sort of stale smell, of food festered in the night by many breaths, the smell of leather, new varnish and paint. The canvas ventilators hung limp. The decks were not yet dry. Aft there stood outside the galley a huge tank, from which a continuous cloud of steam rose into the air, carrying with it the unmistakable odour of strong tea. The scuppers cleared an hour ago were now full again, tins, cigarette ends, pieces of belting, discarded food of rebellious stomachs. Men leaned on the rails, looking seawards, others walked up and down. And still more appeared. The air was filled with the bass and treble of men's voices. A continuous hum. Sailors and firemen came out and passed along to their work, with unseeing eyes, indifferent to these crowds. The bosun, smoking his clay pipe, leaned against the bulkhead outside his room. There was something lazy about his attitude, he had just finished his breakfast. Mr. Tyret's bald head sported itself in a unique way, surrounded as it was by a forest of hair of many colours. Heads of black hair, grey, brown, red. The long brushes stood upended in the scuppers, still dripping water. The hoses lay coiled, looking like so many fat and contented snakes. The sea was choppy now. Men were continuously picking up their belongings and going over to the lee side of the ship. All space was ransacked, it seemed there could be no more room. But men continued to appear. The officers were now promenading round the saloon-deck. Below them men could not move. When A.10 blew her whistle a sea of faces turned towards the bridge. Mr. Ericson saw them, a sort of confused and shapeless mass, a blue of white against khaki. The second officer wasn't thinking about anything in particular. He was still caught up in this bewilderment. It was the first time he had ever been aboard a ship like A.10. Now he stared straight at the sea of faces. It brought to his mind his adventure in the 'tween-decks. He had been glad to come up into the fresh air again. Gradually parts emerged from the whole. The mass seemed to be disintegrating. Now he picked out a face, studied the expression upon it, and shifted his gaze to another one. He noticed that quite a number were mere youths. There were old men, too. No doubt veterans. Then the individual faces sank again, becoming part of the white mass, as though they could not exist cut away from the whole, as though it were continually threatening their separate existences, their individualities. Such were Ericson's thoughts as he looked at the crowds below. After a while they turned their backs on him, broke up, groups scattered here and there. Eight bells rang out from the bridge. When Mr. Ericson went down to the mess-room for lunch he remarked to Bradshaw upon the large number of youngsters amongst the troops. Bradshaw wasn't in any way interested. Later Mr. Ericson fell into conversation with one of the officers.
'What a lot of youngsters there are,' he said.
The officer smiled. He was a young man about Ericson's age.
'Young but sound.'
He did not forget the remark. He imagined the officer had been feeling proud. Mr. Dunford advised him to steer clear of the officers. He said he thought the officer had momentarily forgotten himself. Probably he was thinking of prime beef. Mr. Ericson writhed under such callousness.
'You don't want to take too much notice of what Mr. Dunford says,' advised Bradshaw.
The two officers were sitting in the mess-room. They were waiting for Mr. Walters's tit-bit. This consisted of fresh rock-cakes and cream.
'Where can he have got the cre
am from?' asked Ericson.
What a question to ask, thought Bradshaw.
'Heaven knows. Mr. Walters is in many ways an amazing man. I suppose it's just one of his miracles. I once had a rabbit-pie from Walters, which I thoroughly enjoyed, but there was no rabbit in it.'
They fell to when the tit-bit came to the table.
'Deveney's in bad luck,' Ericson remarked suddenly.
Bradshaw looked up. 'Yes,' he said. 'But it's nothing much. You'll see worse things than malarial seizures before you've finished.'
They finished their meal and lighted cigarettes. Then they went outside, standing by one of the boats. From where they stood they had a clear view of the stern-decks. Ericson flung his cigarette away.
'What's your opinion about it?' he asked Bradshaw.
'My opinion? Well, I think we'll go full-speed ahead, allowing for accidents, of course, or a sudden change of order, which wouldn't be unusual. Full-speed to that gory spot called O.' He smiled. 'But you know where I mean, don't you?'
Ericson nodded his head.
'We'll discharge these soldiers, then clear out. Anchor in some damned stinking hole and wait for more orders.'
'Mr. Dunford thinks it both unwise and unsound.'
'Mr. Dunford,' replied Bradshaw. 'Mr. Dunford thinks everybody's crazy. That's what he thinks. Sometimes I have a mind to agree with him. But I'm not going to go into that now. I'm turning in. So-long.'
He walked away, leaving the younger officer still staring at the crowd of soldiers lining the stern-rail. After a while Ericson, too, retired to his room. Five minutes later he was on the bridge again. He looked at his watch. Two more hours. When the quartermaster came along he handed him a book saying:
'That's for Mr. Dunford.'
'Very good, sir.'
The mist was fast gathering. Already her fo'c'sle-head was hidden from view. Looking to his left the second could see this rolling cloud. Automatically his hand went to the fog-clock set in the bulkhead below him. At a quarter to two he set it in motion and blew for the quartermaster on duty. When the man appeared he said:
'Stand by that clock.' Then he added, 'Blow.' The mist was fast covering the ship.
CHAPTER FOUR
ROCHDALE, who liked occasionally to be addressed by his proper name of Higginbottom, stepped out of the fo'c'sle and walked leisurely down the alleyway with the air of a man who hasn't a care in the world. Confusion had given way to order. The excitement was over. Order reigned everywhere. So it seemed to Mr. Higginbottom, as he emerged from the alleyway and looked out over the ship. She was moving pretty fast, he thought. Soldiers were everywhere. The well-deck, the flush-deck, saloon-deck, the poop, the fo'c'sle-head, the boat-deck. One sea of khaki. A forest of faces, which at a quick glance were but one face. An innocent face. An earnest one. Higginbottom sat down on the hatch-top and took out his pipe. He filled it with hard stuff and struck a match. He thought the watchers had it pretty enough. Nothing to watch – down – watch – down – watch after watch. Changing the ventilators round – shipping and unshipping awnings. And, of course, dumping rubbish. There seemed to be plenty of that. They would have hot weather soon. There would be plenty of sweating, he thought. Raised voices could be heard coming from the fo'c'sle, but nothing, not even a cannon, could drown out this orgy of sound, the continuous murmur that rose from her crowded decks. It was like a continuous succession of wants. Laughter and curses, titters. Exclamations, questions, answers, all mingled, became one – one voice just as that forest of faces was one face. And on that face was written purpose. They were going somewhere. That was certain. Where, exactly, Rochdale didn't know, nor did he care. His job was to stand in the nest and with his eyes measure distances. Now he was off duty. His purpose was to sit quietly on the hatch-top, and think of Annie and Rosie. Annie and Rosie were the orbits of Mr. Higginbottom's world. He puffed away at his pipe and then deliberately turned his head and looked out on the waters. It was difficult to find a place where one could sit and feel absolutely alone, absolutely with oneself. The fo'c'sle was impossible. Arguments – arguments. And to walk the deck was impossible. In the nest he couldn't think of them. Here he could. At least they'd left the alleyway and well-deck to the crew. This was really the first time Mr. Higginbottom had had the chance of what he called a breather. Anybody who glanced at him now and seeing the broad smile he wore would have assumed that he was making jokes with himself, or that he had reached the crest of some delightful reflection. But the smile passed and Rochdale got up from the hatch. He stood hands in pockets, looking up at the bridge, and saw what seemed to be a motionless figure standing in the middle of it. Perhaps the person was looking down at him now. Rochdale gave a little laugh, wondering what he looked like from that height. Then he heard a step behind him and a voice saying:
'Hello, Rochy, watching that eye up there?'
He turned round. It was the sailor, Vesuvius.
'Yes,' replied Rochdale. 'I was trying to get the colour of it.'
'Come and sit down. I want to talk to you, Rochdale.'
The two men sat down on the hatch. Vesuvius took a half sweat-rag from his pocket and wiped his face. To look at the man's face, with its large pimples, was like looking at the blisters on a burnt cake, though, unlike a cake, Vesuvius's face was reddish-purple. He was always dabbing at these pimples. It seemed that they only sweated.
'Well,' said Rochdale, 'what are you going to tell us now. A miracle?'
'We're going to Oran,' said Vesuvius. He spat on the deck.
'Oran? What for? But I heard—'
'Fact. Oran, first call. No reason why we shouldn't call there, is there? Probably coaling. D'you know it's about the best coaling-station in the Mediterranean?'
'But is that all? Christ! I thought you were going to tell me that Mr. Dunford had had a child or something.'
'No,' Vesuvius whispered in Rochdale's ear. 'No. But that fellow Walters will soon. D'you know that Williams has got hold of a uniform and aims to go down the hold to-night with his Crown and Anchor? And what's more, O'Grady and him are going to start selling scoff to the boys. That's what I wanted to tell you, Rocky, my bloody lad. Why shouldn't we be in on this? In fact, why shouldn't the whole bloody lot of us start selling scoff? They're hungry enough, God knows. And they've got the money. What damned use will money be to them fellers, say in a week? Sweating in a bloody desert. Getting their arses fanned by the Turks?'
In the excitement of this short narrative one of the pimples on the man's face burst and he jabbed the sweat-rag to his face.
'Can't you ever get rid of these bloody things, Vesuvius?' asked Rochdale.
'Get rid of them? What for? No! That's a little legacy from France. I was a mug. Still I'm hanged if I want to get rid of them now. In fact, Rochdale, I like my bloody pimples.' He suddenly coughed. Rochdale stroked his chin, looked terribly serious and said:
'I'm having beggar-all to do with this scoff business. That's that.'
'You bloody saint,' said Vesuvius, registering his disgust. 'God damn my soul, everybody's in on it. After all, it's only a few bob.'
'We're not billionaires. The troops don't get half enough to eat. And I tell you they have the money. Why shouldn't they fill their bellies now?'
'I said I'd have nothing to do with it. Besides, I consider it's just lousy. Those stewards are minting a pile out of it. There's two or three I know already who've chucked the sea. Retired – one's got a bloody pub. And to make it out of these poor sods. No, sir.'
'You won't, then,' said Vesuvius. 'I can't press you. But think about it. Blast my bloody soul, isn't everybody on the make? Everybody. Why should you be an exception? Who the hell are you anyhow?'
'A man I hope,' replied Higginbottom. 'That's all. I'm not in on it. You'll be able to have my share as well, Vesuvius. But don't get excited about it. Your face would be a bloody mess if all those pimples burst at the same time. It's a dirty, lousy, bloody game.'
He got up and walked away, leaving Vesuvius sitting
in the hatch. Vesuvius immediately rose and went after him. 'Look here,' he said. 'It beats me really, you and your bloody conscience. Everybody else is in on this game. Are you better than any of us? Or what? Strike me bloody pink.'
'Oh! Go to hell,' said Rochdale angrily, and went back into the fo'c'sle. Vesuvius's friends, he had no doubt at all they were cronies, were sitting together, and they were engaged in an earnest conversation. Rochdale looked at them saying 'Fairy-tale time?' and then went across to his bunk and taking up his diddy-bag turned out its contents on the bed. Williams, Turner and O'Grady went on talking. 'It's that old sod Walters,' said Williams. 'He wants all the bloody fat for himself. That's how it is.'
'Is it?' roared the bosun from the fo'c'sle doorway. 'Seems you fellers haven't been to kip since wash-down. Where's your Peggy?'
'Gone for the grub, I suppose,' Turner said. Turner was a married man with a large family. He had a face like a seal, and it was almost hairless. Friends taunted him about his woman's skin. The bosun leaned against the door. 'Listen, soon as eight bells goes I want you fellers – the whole bloody gang aft. Right aft. Understand. I'll be there. There's a hell of a mess there I believe.'
'Not gun practice by the way?' asked Turner.
The bosun did not answer. He looked farther off the fo'c'sle to where Rochdale was sitting, apparently inspecting the contents of his diddy-bag. 'And what are you doing, Higginbottom?'
'Me! Making ready my bloody trousseau. What d'you think?'
'You'll have to keep those damned eyes of yours well skimmed, Higginbottom my lad, judging from the reports I've had from Mr. Mate.'
'Aye!' This from Williams. 'Oh, aye; well you can keep his reports to yourself, Bosun. Trying to put the wind up us?'
