by James Hanley
A slight breeze came up, seemed to leap over that wooden rail, fanned Dunford's face. So once again he glanced skywards. He held his head there, eyes glancing from star to star, and again the swift, fugitive-like crossing of torn clouds. He shut his eyes for a moment, then looked their way again, to what seemed an even more impenetrable darkness. Then all seemed still and dead beneath his feet. Nothing stirred. Only the vast expanse of sky seemed to swing violently, in one great sweep, deluging air, the stars to swiften their set courses, a speeding of lights through darkness.
He knew then that tiredness was coming on him again. He walked the bridge again. Bells rang. Seven. He counted them aloud, as though some unconscious instinct in him urged him to break fast with silence, disturb calm, uproot all stillness. Yes, he was feeling tired again. But that would wear off shortly. There would be coffee soon. The hour was burdensome, heavy with responsibility, upthrusting fear, giving restlessness to waiting, waiting for light. Daylight. Then he could be free for a while. The greater burden was far below. There were two men like him, but always one was below, stood in the greater silence below, seeing those who had spilt worth in the wilderness. Suddenly Mr. Pearson came into his head and he smiled. Smiled at the thought of, 'And your strategy, Mr. Dunford, is simply forgetting you've been fooled.' True maybe, but he was no longer alone. The treasure of the others had been ransacked also. He reflected that that strangely silent old man had not packed his things and asked to have the proffered boat lowered for him. No. Mr. Alfred Pearson, simple and ordinary, lost amongst the legions in that plagued and tormented port. No. Never. Dunford could never imagine it. Well, he might now rest in peace in his room, and see only to the coal, and that the hands below still had power, and were armed and ready with a greater power, should the time come.
Now Dunford looked ahead, having heard a noise below him. A man was going up to the nest. Eight bells almost on the point of ringing. They were relieving watches. Ericson would be up soon, and Deveney would, too, though he would remain, whilst the younger man went far below and was lost in those stuffy and darkened holds. Angry voices, loud voices were raised for'ard and Dunford exclaimed, 'Good Lord! That's sudden enough, anyhow.'
Even Mr. Deveney had heard it. The hum of engines did not throw it out. He was disturbed about this and decided he would go for'ard to discover what all the row was about. By the sound of it they were not in any good humour for'ard. He secretly agreed with Pearson. He felt Dunford had drawn back at the wrong moment, and he had been surprised by it. He left his cabin and went down the alleyway. He passed off the bridge, but nobody saw him. Yes. There were some men on the well-deck, but whether the watch on or the watch off he could not tell. It made little difference anyhow, he thought. He had not heard the like since he came aboard. A real row. The men were arguing on the deck there. He stood listening, standing behind a ventilator. He should go up now, but before he did go he must listen to all these confused and babbling voices. Where were the others? Was it just the sailors, and not the black crowd? 'H'm!' he said to himself, 'something for Mr. Dunford to think about, anyhow.' Then he heard Mr. Dunford's voice calling down.
'What is all that commotion for'ard there?'
Mr. Deveney left his hiding-place and went up to the bridge.
'What'd I tell you?' someone was saying. 'What did I tell you, fellers, eh?' 'Sure! He's right. We don't mind working with them in their bloody old war – but by hell, that doesn't say we're going to be made cods of. No, sir!' 'Yes. I agree! I was hoping to see Rag Annie at least! But still we can't growl! It's all in the game. At least we're going to England.'
'Did you hear all the commotion when that boat came down? Aye. They reckon the whole of Alex, docks is full of ships, and every goddam ship is full of men, and they're all held up there, and they're scared to move count of some plague they're frightened about. So we're going home, and a bloody good thing, I reckon. I'll be off this ship before you can say Jack Donoghue, I tell you.'
'It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't keep those goddam stiffs. The smell's enough to make you stand on your bloody head.'
'Aye. But they reckon he got no other orders. What's the use of growling? We all know the ship's got a damn ju-ju on her. But God love me, Charlie, it'd be a bloody sight worse if we was to go in there! They'd fill us up with more troops, for they're determined to carry those bloody old Islands. Christ, I don't care about any stink. Those poor sods wouldn't do anybody any harm. What d'you think, Roche?'
'I don't think anything at all,' the man replied. 'Less you think farther you'll get. I say let the fellers on top do the worrying. We'll be paid off a week from now, and I can get a respectable ship any time. Just think how lucky we are, stink or no stink! I'll bet that skipper knows we want to get out of it.'
'That's right, mate! Every man aboard here will get out of it goddam quick soon's she's tied up at that quay. Their "durations" ain't going to worry this man.'
'See!' said another. 'We're swinging along now. Now I reckon if that lousy steward only chucked a bottle or two into this fo'c'sle, why, it would be a different ship.'
To all this Dunford listened. Then he walked quietly away to the corner of the bridge.
'All right there for'ard. Bosun's watch out! One man to the fo'c'sle, one to the poop. Yes. Coming! Same old thing again. We made a damn circle after all. Oh, boy! . . . We're going home! Ain't that grand? Home sweet bloody home! Right, lads. Get going. No need for me to tell real sailors what they must do first night of homeward-bound voyage. Good! Out with your hoses, lads. Make her look respectable!'
'What d'you think of this fasting business, eh, Bosun? This playing the goddam cod?'
'Ask me nothing! Get to your work!' He left them, went straight to the quartermasters' room, went in, banged the door. He sat down. There were five men in the room. He could hardly see for smoke. He had nothing to say, he sat listening to the two quartermasters arguing. The lamp-trimmer was there. So was his mate.
'I'm not interested in what the engineer said,' one of the quartermasters was saying. 'I'm interested in what these fellers here think about this. We got a right, we never used it yet. We can go to the bridge in a gang, protest to the skipper. They're all right. Miles from the damn hold. I take two hours duty in the wheel-house aft, and I tell you it's disgraceful. I'm sick every watch. Look what you have to pass every time you go to the wheel-house.'
'Have the stewards protested? That's what I should like to know,' the other quartermaster said.
'God love me, Charlie, d'you expect glass-backs to open their gobs? They never do. That's why they work sixteen hours a day. They're scared to beggary about losing their jobs. You see, they aren't exempt men. If they're out of a job twenty-four hours, they rope them into the army. No use talking about them.'
'How about the black crowd? They might kick up a shindy, on account of the chief raising hell on the bridge.'
The lamp-trimmer stood up. 'Och, sure it seems to me we're gang nowhere at all! Half the bloody ship protested, half not. Hang it, mon, sure the tub's under way, now.'
'What do you think, Bosun?' asked the first quartermaster.
Everybody smoked. At last somebody opened the door to let the air in. Ah! That was much better.
'Well?' And everybody looked at the bosun, wondering what he would say.
'I'm with the old man,' the bosun said. 'We should all be with Captain Dunford, if for no other reason than that he can't help his bloody self. All the protesting in the world only means his overriding the orders. He isn't a goddam king. Just like you and me. He's got his job same as us. He's a decent man. I'm sure of that. Christ, in twelve days they've run him half round the globe. Once you get out of sight you don't count twopence with them. I wouldn't be in Mr. Dunford's shoes for a—'
'All right, spouting your sentimental stuff, Bosun. What about those bloody dead? Can't he put them overboard? That's what got everybody against him. This fantastic idea of hanging on to dead men, as though if he keeps them long enough they'll come aliv
e again. At the same time we're alive, we've got noses, and there isn't any part of the ship where you can't go, and say, dead – dead.'
'I know that better than anybody. I take soundings every day,' said the carpenter, as he came through the door. The rods were in his hand. 'How about one of us going to see the black crowd about a protest?'
A painful silence. Then the bosun's mate said, 'Here's how I look at it, chaps, and I don't want you to think I'm silly or bloody sentimental or anything extraordinary. There's a saying about it being grand to be bloody well dead. Well, I say it's bloody great to be alive. And, fellers, when you sit down quiet and think it out sensibly you'll see I'm right. We're lucky. I wouldn't care a rap if this ship stank from here to Kobe. The point is we might have been much worse off. We were last in the line. We took as many wounded as we could and cleared while the going was good, but suppose we'd had to hang on, to stay in that crazy hell of theirs, we might all be stiff 'uns now. That's how to look at it. Suppose we did go into Alex., what'd happen? Well, what would? You'd empty your ship, fumigate it, and then you'd do the same stunt over again. Here we are actually ordered home by some nob or other, bless his bloody heart I say, and we're growlin'! I say don't! We've got enough dead Jonahs without wanting live ones. And when you get home you'll be able to beat it, and look for another ship if you feel like it, though you'll have a job, seein' as all hands are signed up for duration. I say don't growl! It could be a thousand times worse. It's a matter of a week and then we're clear. I never opened my mouth about this till now, and it's damned silly for anybody to say another word. Listen! You can hear that. Course you can. The goddam engines tearing away, we slewed round, we're going home. A wise man keeps his mouth shut! Only the fools keep yapping all the goddam time.'
He got up, pushed his way through the barrier of knees and legs and went to his room. He turned in. He wasn't going to worry his mind for anybody. The men in the quartermasters' rooms heard the violent bang of his door. All looked at each other. There seemed nothing more to be said. The bosun's mate seemed to have settled matters definitely.
'The one thing they can do,' remarked the younger quartermaster, 'is give us more grub. All agreed on that? Perhaps Mr. Walters might be persuaded to be a little generous, what with the men for'ard helping his stewards there first three days.'
'He's got piles of stuff in that storeroom – the lousy cur,' exclaimed the lamp-trimmer. What about tossing for who'll do the coaxing?'
'I'll go and see Walters myself,' the bosun said. 'How's that?' He looked from one to another. Hands clapped. That was a grand idea. A grand idea. 'All right! I'll go right now! If he can even split a bottle between the two fo'c'sles at least it'll keep them from growlin'.' He went out at once to look for the steward. The others dispersed and went about their work.
Mr. Walters was seated at the desk in his room. He heard the knock on the door but did not move. He shouted, 'Who's that? What d'you want?'
'It's me, the bosun. I'd like to have a word with you, Mr. Walters.'
'Well, I'm busy. Come back in half an hour.'
And Mr. Walters went on writing. After a while he stopped and put down the pen, bending over the paper, reading what he had written. As the pen dropped Mr. Hump's monotonous tones ceased also. He had been reading out lists of stores, Mr. Walters checking as he read. 'Um!' he said. 'Um!' Then he sat up. Mr. Hump was looking at him, an enquiring expression upon his face. Perhaps he was waiting for Mr. Walters to say something, something terribly important, something staggering. Mr. Walters spat in the spittoon. He looked straight at the bulkhead. He scratched his chin. The silence following the dropping of the pen seemed to grow tense.
Mr. Hump broke it, saying, 'Is that all, Mr. Walters?' He ran his fingers up and down his leg. He brushed back his thin hair, straightened his black bow, loosened his collar a bit. He looked down at Mr. Walters's spit. The light went out, came on again.
'No!' Mr. Walters announced. 'It isn't all! There's a lot more to do! Piles more! I think we had better go down to the storeroom.'
'But it's gone eight, Mr. Walters, and I've to go to those men,' he said.
Walters yawned. Men! Why, of course! Men, wounded men. 'How many did you say were still lying, Hump? I remember you saying something about poultices. I—' He got up, threw his hands in the air, yawned again.
'Forty-one, Mr. Walters! The others are able to move about now, sir! But it's made it more difficult for the stewards. They wander all over the ship, and at night it's rather a bloody nuisance.'
'But good Lord, man, they're not babies. Why shouldn't they walk round?'
There was something so emphatic in the reply that Mr. Hump said nothing.
'I simply can't be worried by them, Hump! I have my work cut out. As to these daft admirals or generals or whatever the hell they call themselves, I haven't said a word yet. Everybody else has. Mr. Dunford has had enough protests to sink the confounded ship. But I shall say nothing. I should hate to wrong the man. I'll say my say in the proper quarter. Meanwhile, I have my own worries! I'm not cut out for a doctor, or an orderly, or even a probationer, Mr. Hump! I'm getting tired of it, I'm sick of looking at muck, filthy bandages, dirty ugly wounds, and the smells. God! they drive me cracked. I have other work to do! There are men for'ard there who do nothing but wash down the decks, and they've nothing on their minds, who would expect them to have? They've had their whack. All the same I fail to see why one or two of them can't be detached from each watch to come along here and help my men. They are worked to death! Worked to death! If anybody has a right to growl, they have! I've to find somewhere for them to sleep. They can't sleep in that glory hole any longer. Yes, Mr. Hump! There are piles of things to be done. We're going back home, you see. The people who count have something fresh up their sleeve, and so we have to move, Mr. Hump, move! We've got to go right through that storeroom. And for reasons you are well able to understand we must do it between us. I think we had better go now.'
He opened the door and stepped out, followed by Mr. Hump. There in the alleyway, standing like some faithful watch-dog, was the bosun.
'O Lord!' Walters said. 'All right, Mr. Hump, you go ahead. Begin on the victuals, will you?'
'Victuals! Victuals! Now where've I heard that strange word before?' the bosun asked himself and had almost solved the problem when Mr. Walters slapped him on the back and said:
'Well, Bosun! What is it you want?'
The bosun looked up at the fat man. Judging by his attitude, Mr. Walters was in a hurry to be off. Perhaps he had better come straight to the point, but a second look at Mr. Walters's face seemed to advise caution, so he said hesitatingly, 'I was wondering if I could have a talk with you, Mr. Walters, sir. We've been old pals aboard here, sir, for some time, I was just wondering, Mr. Walters—'
Mr. Walters partly closed his eyes, turned his head and looked up the alleyway. He seemed to see something far beyond the alley. 'Hello! Hello!' he said to himself. 'This is suspicious. Yes, this "We've been together a long time, sir," damn suspicious.'
'I can't promise you anything,' he said abruptly, and it came so suddenly that the bosun's heart gave a jump, then sank. 'But damn it all,' he told himself, 'how does he know? I haven't said anything to him yet.'
Mr. Tyrer held himself erect, looked straight at Mr. Walters and began again. 'You see it's this way, Mr. Walters, sir. We're talking for'ard about the way this goddam ship is behaving itself. My men have been doing all sorts of work this trip, and I was wondering, Mr. Walters, sir, in view of the fact that one or two of them have volunteered to help you, you see, sir, we understand exactly how you're fixed what with these wounded men all around, of course I said all along I said, it's disgraceful, and you've your hands full—'
'What the devil are you getting at, Bosun?' said Walters furiously. 'D'you suppose I can stand here all day listening to you talking a lot of nothings? I've got plenty of work to do. Say what you want and be done with it.'
He stood waiting for the answer, impatient, s
uspicious, but Mr. Tyrer's tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth.
'Well, sir, this is how it is: I'm speaking for the men for'ard, of course. Could you give us a bottle of something to split for'ard? That's what I was meaning to explain. Bottle of anything, sir. We don't mind! I think the men deserve it. As a matter of fact I'll pay trade price for a bottle of whisky, Mr. Walters, though I don't want the men to know. They're a decent crowd, sir. I'd like to give them this, and by the way—'
'I see,' Mr. Walters said. 'I see! Come down with me to the stores, Bosun. I'll give you a bottle of whisky and I don't want a penny for it, understand? I'll put it down in the used stock list. How's that?'
'Thank you very much, sir,' said Mr. Tyrer, following the chief steward into the saloon and down the caipeted stairway. 'Thanks very much, sir,' adding to himself: 'Fat swine! It don't cost him a cent to be generous!'
Ten minutes later the smiling bosun was hurrying for'ard with a bottle of whisky hidden under his coat. He put it in his cupboard in his room, locked it, then went out to join his watch. What a surprise for them!
Meanwhile Mr. Walters and Mr. Hump were as busy as ever in the storeroom. 'Another thing I've been worrying about, Mr. Hump, is that damn mail-bag.'
'Why! didn't it go then, sir?' asked Mr. Hump. He was checking victuals.
