by James Hanley
Dunford was calling now.
'Mr. Tyrer will take over now, Mr. Deveney. You had better come up.'
Deveney, wondering why, went and spoke to the bosun.
'Very good, sir,' the little man replied, though he did not look Mr. Deveney's way. In any case he was too busy helping Williams and Vesuvius to drag a bundle containing ten bodies from the farthest corner, and he breathed heavily, panting a little, saying his, 'Very good, sir.'
The moment the officer went up the ladder, the bundle, now raised in air, was laid on the floor again. Everybody was talking at once, though in low tones.
'Time for a goddam smoke, I say, Bosun,' Williams said.
And Vesuvius said: 'What a nice job, isn't it? Have you another of them cigars, Bosun?'
The others had already lit cigarettes, so the bosun took out his pipe.
'Can't doddle for long,' he said. 'They expect to hear a splash every few minutes. Mr. Dunford's got a watch, you know.'
'O'Grady and you, Turner, bring that one over there.'
Mr. Tyrer pointed into the darkness. Neither O'Grady nor Turner moved. They were silent, the former fumbling in his vest pocket for a cigarette stump, the other standing, feet well apart, hands on hips, and looking out to sea.
'The goddam stink-house!' O'Grady exclaimed at last. 'Goddam stink-house. Good men once. We all know that. But all the same there's time for a let-off for some men and that time's right now. So all those fellers above can wait for the next bundle as far as I'm concerned. Another hour's solid work here, and no man above cares to come down here and ask us how we're getting on. No, Bosun. No, man.'
'Cheese it, you,' Williams said. 'Bosun, this man, he isn't climatized. Now I am climatized. I seen all this sort of stuff before today. Maybe that captain above calls this a funeral service. But not me, sir. No. We're just doing penance here for some other bastard's mistakes.'
'These stiffs know nothing. Knowing nothing's good, aye, Bosun,' went on O'Grady. 'Yes, sir. Knowing nothing's great. Poor sods. They're no poor sods, believe me. I'd call them lucky. What say, Bos'?'
The bosun said nothing. He walked away from the men, but they took no notice.
A tiredness in them held them back. They weren't interested in anything at the moment but the let-up, the sudden pause in the task.
'Stopped dead twenty minutes now,' Turner said. 'Lovely, isn't it? How'd we know there isn't one of those blasted subs around, or even a nice little mine floating our way?'
'Shut it. Shut it. Before you were crying mutiny about the stink. Now this captain aims at getting rid of it, you're growling 'cos we stopped. Turner, you want jam on it. Remember this is a man's war.'
'A man's bloody war. Why I—'
'That's a bloody 'nough,' cried Mr. Tyrer. 'Now get on with your work.'
'Gosh!' O'Grady said, in a kind of frightened, half-whispering, half-humming voice, 'Gosh! these fellers are going a long way. Aye!'
And with Vesuvius he half dragged, half-carried one of the canvas bundles and laid it down on the hatch-top.
'Ready,' Mr. Tyrer said.
And they slid the bundle down. A splash below and some salt drops coming up to them, striking their faces as they leaned over and looked down into the darkness.
'Coming,' whispered Williams, 'coming, fellers,' and O'Grady and Vesuvius moved out of the way whilst Turner and Williams dragged yet another burden to the hatch-cover.
It was sing-song now to the bosun. 'Ready,' he called, easily, without hurry, cool, almost tranquil. 'Let her go.'
'How many more are there?'
'Don't know.'
This from a voice in the dark and Mr. Tyrer could not recognize it. He was certain he hadn't heard that voice before.
'Then find out quick. Think I'm going to be stuck down in this muck-hole for the rest of my days?'
'Ssh! Ssh! Keep your shirt on there, Bosun. Only seeing good men going home. That's all.'
'How many more are there I ask you, stubborn beggars?'
'You lose your temper, Bosun. That's what you do. Reckon if you don't know something you ought, I'll tell you. This is burial, Savvy?'
'Shut your damned gob. You only got to look at a man in these times and he yells in your face. I know. I seen it before. It's the bloody stink, I tell you. Stink, stink, stink. It drove that feller Marvel off his nut. He used to come down here, I seen him, needn't think I didn't. He came down here three times, he was fair Joey I'd say, though I never copped him at it.'
'Fellers, fellers, think what you're at,' the bosun said.
'Sure. But I never copped this feller at it. But he come down here three times in all and each time he dragged a man up above and threw him overboard. Yes, sir, and nobody knew 'cept him and one named Sloane and he told me. He pinched them ghosts, see. Drove him crazy. I ask you. Crazy. Poor silent sods who never did nobody any harm.'
He did not speak again. Mr. Tyrer went over to him and struck him a blow on the mouth.
'That's for you, you noisy bastard,' he said. 'Ought to be ashamed of yourself, so you ought. You're no man. I mind you were the one started all this chatter about the fat money the first night we sailed. Get on with your work.'
'One hundred and twenty-nine bodies in them bundles,' Williams said.
He stood by Mr. Tyrer. 'What you think, Bosun?'
'I never think anything,' he replied.
' 'N'that's why you're bald, Bosun. D'you suppose the head serang above would object to good men getting a tot of rum each for this work.'
'I should think so. This is the last. Lay it down on that there hatch-cover whilst I peep up there.'
He leaned out of the door. Called through one cupped hand.
'Last lot going now, sir.'
And the final splash came the moment he drew himself in from the bulkhead door.
'Thank God for that,' he said.
'Listen,' Vesuvius said.
All listened. The task was ended. In the engine-room the bell rang.
'We're moving again.'
'Ssh! Shut your bloody mouth, will you?'
'Sir?' Again Mr. Tyrer was leaning out.
From above a voice speaking through a megaphone: 'CLOSE YOUR BULKHEAD DOORS. MAKE SECURE THERE. COME UP QUICKLY.'
'Close those doors, fellers, make fast. Then we go up.'
'Close your doors,' Vesuvius said. 'Make them fast, then go up.'
'Close them,' Williams said, 'close the bloody doors, make fast and then up to hell out of this stinking hold.'
'Yes, sir. Close the blasted doors and let's get out. Into air. God Almighty, I'm being sick, I'm being. . . '
'Steady there, mate. Steady there. You oughta been on a bleeder.'
'Yes, close the bloody doors doors doors, DOORS DOORS DOORS.'
'Gimme the torch, there. Right. Turn about and follow me.'
'All right. Isn't any ghosts here, you bloody mutt. Quiet, quiet. All the thoughts that gave you the jim-jams, they're gone with the khaki below. Don't you worry any more, sailor. Wait'n you see, we'll get through this madman's trip and we'll be in port soon alive and well. Follow me. Sure. Right into Ned Barron's lovely boozer. Man, there's a thought for you. I hold my nose and I follow behind that bald-headed bosun who loves us like a brother.'
'Mind my foot there, you cow. Didn't I say I had a swellin' there?'
'Fellers, less row there. There we go. Into the air. Thank the Lord.'
There was a rush of bodies from the ladder top, and they flung themselves into the alleyway.
'Shi's about. About, mates. Listen her.'
'All for'ard,' Mr. Tyrer said. 'I'm after Walters's fat body about that rum.'
He left them going fo'ard, bodies close together as though all were leaning, the one on the other, as though they were one body.
They saw others moving ahead of them, saw them cross the hatch, go into their own alleyway. They did not speak with these men.
'You get a deal,' Williams said, leaning heavily against Vesuvius, 'you get a deal and damn me it's
a raw one. You get this raw deal, you take it, isn't any use saying nothing about it, see. You just take it. Nothing else to do. You hang on to it, 'cos you can't give a raw deal back to anyone. That's how it is. Take those fellers below. You'd say they'd a raw deal. Well, they took it with them, poor bastards, and no man gives a goddam. In this world, fellers get raw deals and they just got to take them like they was born to it you might say, and others get good deals.'
'I reckon a good deal is allowin' a man to sit on his backside and do nothing,' Turner said.
'That's just what I aim to do,' Vesuvius said. 'Soon's I get into that fo'c'sle I'm going to sit tight on my backside and wait till old Tyrer reports with a drop of rum. 'N just think, tomorrow night we're going to have a bloody concert. Think on it, man.'
They entered the fo'c'sle, separated, sprawled about on forms, lay half in, half out of bunks, legs dangling, arms flung abandonedly above heads and down by sides, and all were saying the same thing, feeling the same thing, hoping the same thing. They waited for the bosun.
'Reckon just six days more and this man's ship is home,' O'Grady said.
'On second thoughts I wouldn't say she was a bad ship,' remarked Williams. He sat at the table biting his nails.
'Man, will you leave your bloody pimples rest,' Turner cried across to Vesuvius, now tenderly feeling his face with finger and thumb.
'Where's the others?' asked Vesuvius.
He looked towards the door.
'Where'd you reckon any man would be at this time of night?' asked Williams. 'Some are mooching about in the 'tween-decks, not minding any stink or ghosts, seeing what they can find maybe. Others are hanging round Walters's room, the fat fox, hoping he'll throw something nice at them. And again others maybe are messing about in the saloon, on the bum I expect, or perhaps trying to get on good terms with them glass-backs. I wish that bosun would hurry up.'
'Somebody coming now,' O'Grady said, and he made for the door.
'Steady! Steady! Now you men, all out here. I got something to say to you.'
There was a general exodus.
'Listen. Get into single file like good lads and follow behind me. We go below and line up outside Walters's storeroom. Each man is going to get a drink. And I've something else to tell you. I just been talking to Mr. Ericson, and he said this concert idea is no fool joke at all, but will take place in the saloon tomorrow night. Only one rule, fellers. You got to have your life-belts with you. Reckon Mr. Walters will be around some time tomorrow looking for talent. Any of you fellers got any talent?'
'Don't get off the point, Bosun,' Vesuvius said. We're all set.'
They got into some kind of order and, Mr. Tyrer leading the way, they marched off noisily towards the alleyway amidships. Everybody was talking at once. Then a laugh came, and the conversations became a wild incoherent babble just as they disappeared under the companion ladder leading to the alleyway. They heard it on the bridge, the look-out man heard it, the soldiers in the saloon heard it. And Mr. Dunford, restless in the starboard wing of the bridge, heard it too. From time to time he had moved from one end of the bridge to the other. Then he would make a sudden dash away, only to return again to where he had just been. He was like a man trying to make an important decision, who on the very crest of it suddenly withdraws, and is unable to make up his mind at all. Like a man burdened with an uncomfortable feeling, seeking foil to it in sheer restlessness. From one corner to the other, to stand a moment or two. To rush amidships and stare over the rail at nothing. To dart to the telegraph and stare at that, to put his mouth to the speaking tube and suddenly withdraw. But the sound of voices in the air arrests him and he stands listening.
He hears the wild babble of conversation as a long line of men come from for'ard, walk slowly under his bridge, hears their laughter. And Dunford had heard it, was hearing it now.
He stood quite still, listening. The foil to his worrying, in sounds of laughter, in speech from many tongues, partly heard, a fugitive word here and there coming up to him from under the ladder. Men talking. Men laughing.
In spite of himself, his responsibilities, the things he had seen, had done, the things yet to be seen and done, in spite of his very conscience, in spite of blackness ahead, and hidden dangers yet, the ramblings of lunatics, the sighs of dispirited men, in spite of all these things, he felt suddenly at ease. Calm, almost happy. He didn't understand why. He wouldn't even question it, somehow it frightened him, but he felt as though all was sanity again, and he knew it had come from those voices and laughter below. And he knew also that out of their noise and laughter calm had come. They had broken with death, with yesterday. They walled him round now, those whose patience and courage were inviolable. He always felt so terribly alone, for this other tormenting self increased his feeling of isolation, and now this simple idea of a concert tomorrow night in the saloon was like a clean white hand reaching out and wiping the smears, the filth from some unlovely face. In the midst of filth, of death, of madness, they were yet immune, as though something, some strength lay at the very pit of their souls, rose up, covered them, held them secure.
If only somebody with a great calmness in him could quietly close down the door against rage. There was the end to the silly game.
Suddenly, to Mr. Deveney's astonishment, Mr. Dunford burst out laughing.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
'LAUGH, you bastard, laugh,' Vesuvius said. He glanced round the crowded saloon. By the Lord Harry, what quick workers these stewards were. Tables and sideboards had vanished. Where, only Mr. Walters and his satellites knew.
'Well, everything is ready now – everything,' thought Vesuvius, 'except the laugh to break the bloody ice.'
He looked at his mate Williams.
'Laugh, you bastard, laugh.' He spoke softly into the other's ear. Vesuvius was smoking a cigar. Where he had got it was a matter of speculation.
'In a minute,' Williams said. 'In a bloody minute. Take your cue when Walters gets up to speak. I've never heard him speak at a concert. It'll be interesting.' He looked at Vesuvius. There he was with his pimply face, cigar in mouth, leaning back upon O'Grady who sat behind him.
'Like the smell?' Vesuvius asked, grinning.
And to the right sat Turner, his face a puzzle.
He was very quiet, his thumbs dug into the arm-holes of his vest. What was the fellow thinking about?
'Listen! Oracle! Is this a concert or a communion service? Say quick, for Christ, I'm an impatient man.' He dug a finger into Turner's ribs. Began to laugh. Remarks floated about in the row where Williams sat. Mr. Tyrer sat behind him.
'A goddam stunt,' said one, and somebody suddenly blew his nose loudly, vigorously.
'Ssh! Think of Walters's kind heart,' said another. He had a knife-slit in his cheek. 'It's just a bloody fool idea to me. That fellow on the bridge has bagfuls of them. Work it out for yourself, anyhow. It won't make me forget the goddam stink aboard the ship and that's just what they're trying to do. See? Take your mind off the whole dirty business. Yes, sir. I know it. Sure!' The man spat.
'Look at those fellers for'ard there. Like a lot of bloody mummies. How the hell do you cheer mummies up, anyhow? Poor sods. Always stuck there!'
'Aw! for Christ's sake. Those fellers are O.K. No more hot stuff for them.'
'They look like a bunch of wops under the gallows. But you ask them how they feel and they'll tell you they're as happy as bloody Larry.'
'When does this concert begin, anyhow?' called the bosun loudly.
He scraped his feet on the canvas sheet that covered the pile carpet.
'Any minute now, Snowball,' a voice answered back.
'Keep cool. Though I reckon it's only a stunt all the same.'
Feet began to move, stamping upon the canvas.
Mr. Hump and Mr. Walters had done their work well. They had cleared all movable objects with the exception of chairs, every one of which was occupied by those members of the crew who were fortunate or unfortunate enough to be off duty at the tim
e. At one end of the saloon were the soldiers, some lying stretched out on their palliasses. The thick pile carpet had been covered over with sheets of canvas begrudgingly loaned by the lamp-trimmer. The air was heavy with smoke, pipes and cigarettes glowed, and Vesuvius's cigar continued to send up spirals of rich blue smoke. Everybody talked. The sea of sound wafted to and fro, even floating down what Mr. Walters was pleased to call the Grand Staircase.
And suddenly he appeared, as though he had been shot into view, resplendent in his go-ashore uniform, a clean linen collar that seemed a little too tight for him making his face red, causing him to tilt back his head every so often as though endeavouring to relax the collar's stranglehold. And he surveyed the scene before him. All looking at him saw how red his face was, how splendid he looked with his best clothes on, but that was all. He might be in a good humour, he might be in a bad one. It was impossible to tell.
Whispering began.
Mr. Walters's eye fell upon this man, now upon that man. He saw lips moving, heard the whispering, but it was just a low murmur, a wave of incoherency to him. Briefly Mr. Walters surveyed with a calm and authoritative air whatever happened to be visible through the now increasing clouds of smoke.
Mr. Hump, his second steward, was standing immediately behind him. He saw nothing but the middle of Mr. Walters's back – the black serge encasing the fat body. Mr. Walters placed his hands on his hips, raised himself on his toes and called out:
'Where are the artists?'
His tone was sharp, authoritative. Perhaps after all Mr. Walters was in a bad humour. Perhaps he thoroughly disapproved of Mr. Dunford's crazy idea. He called again: 'Where are the artists?'
A chorus of voices took up the cry:
'Where are the artists?'
'Where are you bloody artist fellers? Not hiding yourselves, we hope. Come on, beggar it.'
Again Mr. Walters raised himself on his toes, and again surveyed the motley crowd. But one face was just like another face. The buzz of conversation still went on. Were they really ignoring him? He shouted at the top of his voice:
