by James Hanley
The first person he bumped into in the alleyway was a quartermaster hurrying aft to take temperatures of air and water. Examine the log.
'What's wrong?' asked Hump.
He began shaking the quartermaster like one possessed. The quartermaster pushed him off.
'Here,' he said, 'what the hell's wrong? Got the bloody rats or something?'
He pushed Mr. Hump headlong towards the bulkhead, went on his way whistling.
Mr. Hump leaned up from the bulkhead. He seemed staggered like one drunk. Had Mr. Walters really gone funny in the head? Or was it just this overwork, this goddam foulness all around, and vomit and blood, dirt and – and oh – hell! he must have gone off his rocker.
Mr. Hump went for'ard. He went no farther than the port alleyway. He stopped dead there. Listened. Shouting, laughing, singing, somebody called out above the din, Well, here's to the skin of your bloody nose, your old aunt – and all the grandmothers with flat feet.' Everybody seemed to be singing.
'Good heavens!' said Hump. 'What does it mean? And five minutes ago I was going through those letters.'
He went up the alleyway. Turned the knob of the fo'c'sle door, looked in. Empty bunks. Nobody slept. Sailors were standing, sitting, sprawling round the table.
'Well, here's three cheers for the best bloody old war I ever was in,' and 'Here's to the skipper, God blast him! I always thought he was sour, stuck up as hell, and hang it, he's just like one of us,' and 'Here's to old Walters!' A good-natured goddam fox. Got a nose that shines like an arc-light. Three cheers for every bloody body aboard this roarin' old tub. A.1. bloody 0 – here's to you.'
Mr. Hump's hand gripped the fo'c'sle door-knob, his eyes looked in upon that, to him, strange, impossible scene, and he could not understand. What did it all mean? Or was it just a dream? Perhaps it was. He had been having curious dreams lately, hanging head downwards over the sea, his thin grey hair trailing water, money showering from his pockets, hands from below the surface reaching up and clutching those falling coins, dead hands. Yes. That had been a real dream, but this, this.
He quietly closed the door. Yet beyond that fo'c'sle, beyond that alleyway all seemed as usual. She was moving fast through the dark waters. All was quiet save for the throb of her engines. Suddenly he bumped into another figure, jumped and shouted, 'Sorry! Didn't see you.'
There was no reply. The ventilator had no voice. He touched it gingerly with his hand. Then went back the way he came. Outside the door he stopped. Bent down and looked through the key-hole. Real fear held him now; he jumped again as a voice split the silence: 'I want to do it! Steward! I want to do it.' That must be one of the wounded in the saloon. 'Steward! Hurry up. I'm near crapping.' Hump hoped the stewards were there, he hoped this very earnestly, as he looked through the keyhole. He could not bear the sound of that voice. Walters was having a time. He began muttering. Hump saw him picking up letters, reading them.
'Oh! Aye! Hello, what's this? "Dear Annie—" Oh, hell, look at this. "I don't know whether I can get your Boston garters where we're going, but I'll try." Oh, Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha Lovely. Have a good try, Higginbottom, old boy. Your missus must have a nice long leg. Oh!' He went on laughing. 'Oh, hell, here's Misery's letter. "At sea, April . . . Dear Polly, Just a line hoping you—' Christ! What a silly bloody name. Polly! Polly – Oily. Oh, damn my bloody soul. I must get ready for this concert. Oh, yes, I must get ready! What's this: "Dear Lizzie, if anything happens I . . . " Ha! Ha! Ha! What a Jonah he is.'
He looked at the childlike signature of the stoker's letters. 'H'm. Black crowd. What silly, fat-headed, ignorant baboons they are.' Then all was quiet. Mr. Walters sat very still, eyes closed, thinking. Mr. Hump went in.
'Are you all right now, Mr. Walters, sir?' he asked. He bent down and began picking up the letters that littered the deck. Mr. Walters watched him.
'Yes. Pick that bloody stuff up and return the letters to their owners, with my compliments and thanks. They mustn't mind the pencil markings.-That's merely an objection to their simple generous natures. But I must get ready for this concert. Oh, yes. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! And he'll have to come. Yes, Mr. Dunford will have to come. I'll see to that, even if the goddam ship has to sail along on her own.'
Mr. Hump still could not understand, yet he so much wanted to say, 'But, Mr. Walters, explain yourself. What does it all mean? This hilarity, this scattering of the crew's letters, after all the trouble I had getting them into some kind of order. Please explain what you mean by concert. You see, I am all confused.' He could find no opening. 'Ah!' he said to himself. 'He's moody, that's what it is, just moody.' But it would be a bloody caution if everybody aboard suddenly started having moods. Things were in a mess, but everybody having moods all at once might be worse than a bad dream. A nightmare, in fact.
'Well, damn it, don't stand there staring at me, Mr. Hump,' Walters roared out. 'Shift all this junk, return it to its owners. Say it was a case of one, two, three, and the post had gone. A concert,' he said. 'Oh, hell. Oh, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!'
Mr. Hump swept letters and envelopes into a heap, crushed them into the diddy-bag, went out, banging the door behind. That bang voiced his anger, his bewilderment. Oh, but he must control himself. He'd like to let himself go. Yes, by the Lord Harry he would! But he wouldn't in any case. He had always been of a quiet disposition, he went about his work with great dignity and tact, he allowed nothing to ruffle the calm surface of his life, but the sudden outburst of his chief steward had upset him. Still, here he was standing in the alleyway holding this diddy-bag.
He could be a fool, he could take the diddy-bag and all its comical, pathetic little messages to wives and lovers and others, chuck it over the side. But he would not do that. He would go into the mess, sort the stuff out, deliver it back to the owners. He swung the bag on his shoulder and went into the mess-room. He sat down and began sorting the mail, putting each letter or scribbled note back into its right envelope. Whilst he sat there performing this simple task it seemed as though he derived something from the act itself, as though he had been touched by simplicity itself. He became quite calm. The lens seemed to adjust itself. As he looked down at the array of correspondence it seemed to vanish and there before him was a map, and the map became a ship. It became A.10. All was calm aboard this ship, order reigned. Below the decks, look-out men ascended and descended. Officers paced the bridge. The dead were quiet, peaceful. The wounded were attended to by stewards. All was order, calm, peace. 'That's it! We're all set. That's it, we're actually going home, home! She's speeding along. That's what made me so excited before. It's the thought of going home at last!'
But this idea of a concert in the saloon, how had that come about? Mr. Hump couldn't even imagine. He had attended ship's concerts many a time, but this was different. Aboard a ship like the A.10. Yes, sir, very different indeed. Maybe Walters knew all about it. But oh, it was too bloody funny for words. Never heard of the like. Who had started the idea. Mr. Dunford? Surely not. Then who? Mr. Hump didn't know.
Had he gone for'ard an hour ago and listened as Mr. Deveney had listened he would have heard all about it.
'I'll be hanged,' he said, then went on quietly sorting the letters for return to their owners.
Ericson had gone on ahead. But in the alleyway aft he had stopped. He would wait for the men. Already he could hear them approaching, their voices were always raised, loud voices, he would know them anywhere. Then he caught sight of Mr. Tyrer.
'All set, Bosun?'
'All O.K., sir,' replied Mr. Tyrer. He turned round.
'Now, you fellers, get below there and get that bulkhead door open abaft C deck,' and in an encouraging, almost sympathetic tone, 'We shan't be down there long, lads. Old man's orders. Maybe he's decided to do something. But I know nothing.'
He walked on to stand talking in whispers to Mr. Ericson. The men passed him, slouching by. 'Dirty job,' he thought. 'A good crowd. Didn't complain much. Run any confounded war with chaps like that.' Then they passed through the door. T
hey descended the ladders noisily, he heard an exclamation, said, 'Pretty tough below, sir. Hope something's going to be done about that state of affairs. My men have been complaining it don't seem right, somehow. Still I suppose—' He stopped dead.
Ericson turned away, saying, 'Right, Bosun. Better get below there.'
'Yes,' Ericson said to himself, 'best get below and stand by.'
Beyond that he knew nothing. That was the funny thing about it, as though it were an order with no real decision behind it. Perhaps Mr. Dunford was at loggerheads with himself. And yet opening those doors could only mean one thing. Yet he had said nothing beyond open them and have the watch stand by.
They passed below. A queer shaft of light, a kind of half light, now filled the 'tween-deck. The bulkhead door was already swung open, and the men were gathered around it now, silhouetted against that shaft of light; the background was the greater darkness, and the sounds of water, then dripping sounds from pipes. The men were conversing one with another, in whispers. Ericson stood looking at them, but the bosun went on and stood amongst them. He too was speaking in whispers, but it was quite unintelligible. Ericson sat down on an empty wooden crate and looked out through the open door. There was nothing to see there, and he liked looking out there. There was something about it that satisfied him, a kind of blankness that suits well a certain blankness of mind. He thought about nothing in particular. His brain seemed shut off from the rest of his body. There was something lulling, something restful about sitting in the dark there, looking towards the group of men, their forms huge in the curious light. Somebody laughed and he stiffened, sat up, and looked behind. He thought that laugh was behind him. The lulling sensation vanished. He was himself again. Now things were clear, clear and plain, things were very near to him. He got up and went over to the men, pulled the bosun's sleeve.
'You'd better go above and tell them we are ready, Bosun.'
'Very good, sir.'
Mr. Tyrer marched off. He himself thought the whole thing strange, sending men down there and now – he looked at his watch. Almost one bell. And as he went away he exclaimed to Mr. Ericson, 'The smell's getting pretty bad, sir. I think somebody ought to make their minds up, one way or the other, before very long. It may get that bad that the men will refuse to go below after this.'
Nor did he wait to hear what Mr. Ericson might reply. He had hardly emerged into the alleyway, than the quartermaster met him and said, 'Orders are to close the bulkhead door and come up. Watch to go for'ard and make ready that dunnage for throwing over.'
'Damn it!' exclaimed the Bosun, 'and who the hell are you? You what? Close the door? Christ, we've only just been sent down to open it. Whose order is this, anyway?'
'Captain Dunford's orders.' The quartermaster was chewing gum.
'Aye. Just so. Only that I'm fixed in a certain position in this ship I'd tell Mr. Dunford what I thought about it. But what the hell. Signed up for duration, almost under the Government you might say, you might as well express your opinions to the devil.' He dashed away and descended the ladder, but only half-way, calling into the cavernous 'tween-deck, 'All hands up there now. Orders is to close that bulkhead door and come up. Mr. Ericson, you've to return to the bridge at once, sir. Mr. Dunford's orders, sir.'
He stood on the step. They were moving back that heavy steel door. Ericson was coming up. He stood aside to let him pass.
What d'you think of this, Bosun?' asked Mr. Ericson.
'H'm!' he laughed. 'Wouldn't care to say, sir.'
Ericson went out of sight.
'Now come on, you fellers. Shake your bloody legs. You don't want to stay down there half the night, do you?'
'Hey, Bosun!'
'Hello! Hello!'
'Come down here a minute.'
'What for? Come on. Up out of that blasted hold. I'm getting tired of some men's orders. I—'
'Yes, you come on down here, Bosun. Have a look here with us. Something funny down here.' A different voice calling up to him now.
Mr. Tyrer felt like swearing loudly; instead, he removed his cap and scratched his head with great vigour.
'I told you fellers to come up. I'm going for'ard. You get that dunnage all set for'ard for slings. Understand what I say?'
'You best come down here, Bosun. Your duty's down here. Vesuvius's got something to say. He won't come up to say it.'
'Shout it up quick, 'cos I'm off. How you fellers can stand it down there I don't know.'
He heard men rushing towards the ladder.
'Blast it,' he shouted, 'what the hell have they discovered now? That man Vesuvius, he's a goddam nuisance.' In a second or two he was standing amongst them. His mood was angry, and he let them know it.
'I can't help that,' Vesuvius said. 'I done a thing here yesterday, and now it looks like somebody been down here since. Somebody messing about. Anyhow, what was in that corner there,' he pointed dramatically with his finger, 'it isn't there now. Somebody been playing at ghosts or something. Best go over there and have a look.' He handed a miniature electric torch to Mr. Tyrer, who switched it on but not until he had got right into the corner.
'My God,' he said, 'this is frightful.'
'Nothing frightful, only somebody playing ghosts I reckon,' Vesuvius said.
'I'm not talking about your ghosts,' the bosun said. 'I'm talking about my nose, hang you.' The light went out again.
Vesuvius went up to him, followed by the other members of the watch. Vesuvius said, 'Here you, Williams, you tell him. He thinks I'm nutty.'
'Yes,' Williams said. 'I was here yesterday. Vesuvius and me we were together, see. We checked up a lot of fellers here. We put five men in there, canvassed up. We were told to do that by Deveney, see. N'somebody's shifted them. They aren't here any more. Tisn't rats, no rats would come in this stinkhouse, Bosun. Something has been happening here. Just thought you ought to know. Dead men's business is nothing to do with us; course we thought you ought to know. That's why he hollered up to you that time. Somebody pinched some dead men.' For the first time Mr. Tyrer laughed.
'Ah!' he said. 'You fellers been stealing whisky from Walters's place. Somebody stealing dead soldiers. I like that, I do. Come along, get up on top there and right for'ard on the job. Some man's time's been getting wasted. Up now, all bloody hands.'
He pushed the nearest man. The watch went to the ladders again. They climbed, came out in air, cool breeze, opened their lungs, breathed hard.
'All right,' the bosun said. 'Don't stand there. Tisn't exercise time.'
The whole watch went for'ard, followed by Mr. Tyrer.
On the bridge Dunford heard them going for'ard. He had said open the bulkhead door on D deck, and they had carried out the order, and suddenly he had said 'Close it,' and they had closed it. They were going for'ard, and he, Dunford, was hearing them go, trying to glimpse their shadows moving up. But he could not make up his mind.
He read 'Half-speed' under his eye. It tormented him. He wished it were full. 'Half-speed' got on his nerves. Slow, slow, crawling through dragging hours. And suddenly he had made his decision. He went over to Deveney and Ericson, who had been talking low for some minutes.
'Mr. Deveney,' he began, and the now first officer turned and looked at Dunford.
'I have decided to bury all those men. Mr. Ericson, have the bosun sent up here at once.'
He went on talking to Deveney then. He could see how relieved he was, and there was a certain measure of satisfaction in that.
'It's the best thing you could do, Mr. Dunford. You see the men for'ard are complaining, apart from the stewards, and their position is much worse, Mr. Dunford. I'm still trying to make sense of the silly order we got.'
'Yes, of course. Now all this happens because somebody makes a mistake, Mr. Deveney. But the person who makes it can't be seen, can't be found. I—' And he stopped suddenly, seeing Mr. Tyrer coming forward on Mr. Ericson's heels.
He drew the bosun into the corner, a hand light on his shoulder.
'B
osun, you'll have to get your men down below as soon as possible, and that is at once. The watch below must get below also. The 'tween-decks must be cleaned out. Open up all the port bulkhead doors and stand by. I shall be down there myself as soon as I can get away.' Mr. Tyrer seemed not to understand for a moment or two continuing to stare at Captain Dunford as though quite unable to comprehend.
'And don't stand there, man,' shouted Dunford angrily.
Mr. Tyrer went away. He reflected that it was the first time he had ever heard Mr. Dunford's voice raised. He was not angry. On the contrary, he felt sorry for that man. He was beginning to understand more now. All upon the bridge heard him bawling up the alleyway.
'All out there! All out! Every man jack of you. Big funeral tonight, shifting all those dead fellers below there. Come on, for Christ's sake, and show a leg.'
Yes, he was a little sorry for that captain, but, damn it all, he was just remembering that he had been out on watch just an hour and nothing done, no decisions made, running here, there and everywhere, beginning things and never ending them. Now he realized that a chap like Rochdale was a very lucky man. All the look-out men were lucky on this man's ship. He stamped his way into the fo'c'sle, leaning heavily on the table, already littered with cups, knives, the remains of a meal, a cap here, a sou'wester there. Men were climbing out of bunks, sleepy-eyed, wondering. The watch who had just gone for'ard were already passing out and into the alleyway.
'Come on, fellers, shift your bloody legs there. You ought to run to a job like that, considering it's the last job you'll ever do in them 'tween-decks. And will I be sorry when it's all over? Let me see, I forgot the number of men we stacked down there, I know it was over a hundred. And Walters and his mate they checked up on them so that's all right. We got them fellers' addresses all right. So Mr. Dunford don't have to do any worrying. Lumme! It was terrible down there. Come on now, shake yourselves and get outside. I might tell you chaps that though the old man is a decent sort and hardly ever raises his voice, he raised it tonight to me, aye, like billyho, but you see he's worried as hell, he is. I don't blame him. Wouldn't have his job for a million. No, sir. Not if you crowned me. A nice mess. First we gets troops aboard and starts off for Jerusalem or Paradise or whatever bloody place you like to call it. And we gets orders to do this and do that, follow here, come there, swing out your boats, crawl like goddamn worms, pile 'em in, yes sir, pile 'em in, all the good lads come to take Paradise for England, and over they go and off go them guns and down go them boats, and fellers flying in the bloody air. Yes, sir, and the deck covered with 'em, blown back to us for luck you might say, and then we gets another order, pick up as many blurry men as you can and beat it. Just 'cos they made a mistake. So we picks them up' – he paused now as the last man stepped out of the fo'c'sle, and keeping in line with him he carried on his running commentary all the way to the well-deck – 'aye, and then we gets told to beggar off with them to anywhere, I suppose, and then we gets near Alex., lovely bloody Alex., and gets more orders. Bloomin' place stinking with pox or something they said, and we dropped anchor, and then we pulled it up again, and we set out for bloody good old England with a pile of stinking dead and them fellers below there. Yes, sir, and the feller on top worried to death what to do. Yes, sir.'
