by James Hanley
'Where are the artists?'
All heads were turned.
Somebody was trying to push his way through a row of knees, outstretched legs.
'Strike me bloody pink! Here's one! Betcher he's been asleep. Hurray! Hur-bloody-ray!'
Everybody joined in the cheering.
In the midst of this cheering Mr. Walters felt a finger poking him in the middle of the back. He swung round, glaring at Mr. Hump.
'What is it, Hump?' he growled under his breath. 'Can't you see I'm busy?'
But Mr. Hump seemed not to have heard. The din in the saloon was becoming quite deafening. Cries assailed him: 'What about our bloody concert, eh? Where are you bloody artists, anyhow! Come on there! Shake your bloody legs, you fellers.'
Mr. Walters suddenly shouted at the top of his voice, 'What the hell d'you want poking me for?'
He thrust his face into Hump's.
'Goddam it, can't you see I'm busy? And I'm going to be busy from now on.'
He turned his back upon Mr. Hump, again shouted 'Artists forward. Please, PLEASE. This way.'
'Mr. Walter, sir!'
Mr. Hump's finger began work again. Walters felt as if he had been stabbed. He turned round, glared at his second steward, snarled, 'Damn it, man, what d'you think I am, jabbing your bloody finger into my back – a sirloin or something?'
Men were laughing now.
Perhaps this was the first act of the concert. A dialogue between Mr. Walters and Mr. Hump. Somebody clapped. Mr. Hump was silent.
Suddenly he stepped up to Mr. Walters's level and said: 'Everything's O.K. and set for this concert, Mr. Walters, sir. I've done my job. Let them sing their insides out if they like. I'm not struck about sitting here listening to it, anyhow. I want to go below.'
He shuffled his feet, looked dully at his chief.
'But I depend on you,' said Walters.
He spoke in almost a whisper. From the audience it looked as though Mr. Walters and Mr. Hump were kissing each other.
'I depend on you, Hump. You can't go below. You can't do it, man. Why we might as well call the whole bloody thing a joke, and tell the men to clear out of it. Now. It wasn't my idea. I never agreed to it. It was Dunford. Goddam fool!'
'No it wasn't. It was the men for'ard. The silly bastards,' replied Mr. Hump tartly.
'When does this bloody concert commence, anyhow?'
This bronze-like voice seemed to pierce through the waves of titters and laughter to drown Mr. Walters's pleadings.
'Listen to me, Mr. Hump. Don't be such a fool. There's nothing extraordinary about men getting up a concert. Live and let live. And apart from anything else?'
'I want to go below,' Hump said. 'I don't want to see their goddam concert. I'm nearly falling asleep – in fact I can't get to sleep lately. I'm always waked up to attend to someone or other.'
He kept running his fingers up and down his coat.
Walters smiled for the first time.
'But it's all in the day's work, Mr. Hump. All in the day's work. Don't be silly. I don't want to act as M.C. any more than you want to help me out in the matter. But I can't refuse. Look here! It'll all be over in an hour. An hour. What's an hour? Nothing. Then you can go and sleep your head off. You seem to forget your position at times, Mr. Hump. After all you are under me. And I would remind you that—'
Mr. Hump's pale face appeared to grow paler still.
'I told you, Mr. Walters, that I didn't want to attend the damn thing. I'm not in the humour for bloody concerts. I'm dead beat. Besides, I'm in my own time. Surely I can do what I like with it. I helped as much as I could – I—'
'Concert! Concert! What about it? Come on, for Christ Almighty's sake.'
Well, Hump, can you hear them? There'll be a riot very soon. I'm not in the humour either, but I have to swallow that. Just listen to the row.'
'I don't begrudge them having a sing-song,' went on Hump. 'It would be a poor swine who would, anyhow. But—'
'Hey! Hey! Mr. Walters! When are you starting up, or are you simply kidding?'
The noise became deafening. The port door opened.
A man came in, scowling.
'Shut that bloody door, you damn fool. You were told which way to come.'
'There you are!' exclaimed Walters. 'Even before we start there's trouble. Go to that bloody door and lock it. I definitely gave instructions that those doors were to be locked. I said everybody must come by way of the hatch.'
What about it! What about it! Have you had one too many already?'
'Silence there!' roared Walters.
He was raging now.
'Silence! Silence! The concert will commence at any minute. Keep quiet, men. Don't be impatient.'
The only reply to this was a loud chorus of guffaws.
'Some of the men wouldn't come that way, Mr. Walters, 'count of the—'
'That's got nothing to do with me, Hump. I tell you now, go to the devil.'
Ignoring Hump Mr. Walters turned round to face the impatient gathering.
'Will the artists for this concert please come forward and follow me down the ladder?'
He clapped his hands. 'Now boys. Quick. Artists forward please.'
Mr. Hump had long since vanished.
'Hurray! Three cheers for the M.C. The concert's actually going to begin. Jesus! I got a scare at first, I thought the crazy beggar was waiting for the stiffs to come out of the hold. What a bloody hope.'
A man was struggling forward, leaving in his wake a backwash of remarks, grunts and curses as he trod first on one toe, then on another.
'Mind where you're going, duck-foot, even though you can play the bloody accordion.'
The sailor swung this by one handle. It looked dangerous.
Even Mr. Tyrer drew his head clear, having no wish to receive a blow on the head from the bass end of the instrument.
'Quiet! Quiet, boys,' Walters was shouting through his cupped hands.
'Hell! How affectionate he's getting, isn't he, with his "quiet boys." Bloody fox. I wouldn't trust him with a mug.'
The accordionist had reached the top of the stairway.
Mr. Walters said: 'Just step down the ladder a moment, sailor,' then he looked at the audience again.
'Come along,' he said, 'or we'll never get started. There are four more artists to come yet. Do get a move on.'
But nobody moved.
The accordionist looked up at Walters and said, 'They're down here, Mr. Walters. The other fellers. The song and dance, the elocutionist and the dancer. They look to me as though they were pretty tight already. I'm not greedy, but I didn't know they were down there all the time. Filling up on good stuff.'
The accordionist looked sad, flopped down into a sitting position. 'Christ!' he said.
Mr. Walters bent down, saying, 'All right, sailor. You go down that ladder. I'll call you later.'
The sailor went below and joined the other artists.
The din in the saloon was now so great that even that ceaseless monotonous drone of engines was drowned out. A chorus of voices immediately opened up. Mr. Walters dived down the ladder out of sight. Like Mr. Hump he was entirely disinterested, but the devil of it was, yes, the devil of it was he had to go through with it. No, he couldn't go sick, not even feign madness.
The voices swelled out.
'There was a man named Walters. There is a man named Walters. Where is this man named Walters? He's in his bloody prime. Oh, Mr. bloody Walters. We—'
They went on singing, stamping feet.
They were convinced now that the whole thing was a hoax. Being so, it seemed but just that all should eye the innocent Mr. Tyrer, the only one in authority who represented the for'ard deck. It seemed but natural that they should begin to chivvy him, but Mr. Tyrer took no notice.
True, he had managed to get a bottle out of that damned Jew of a steward, but he wasn't responsible for the breakdown in the arrangements.
'Well, s'help my . . . If somebody don't get out on that deck blo
ody quick, I'll get up myself and give you a song and dance.'
'Hurray! Three cheers for Lynch! Three cheers for the pox professor!' everybody cried.
But here was Mr. Walters at last. Behind him the sailor and fireman who were to do the duologue. The two men stood in front of Walters, grinning at the crowd.
Somebody shouted: 'What about a good story and get some dirt into it. We don't want your bloody old duologues.'
Mr. Walters stood motionless. But his aplomb was breaking up, his desire to serve was slowly giving way to a desire to spit, to shout, damn them all right and left. To rush out of the saloon and let them, as Hump had said, 'Sing their bloody insides out.'
He looked very grave. His mouth moved but no words came. The two artists went on grinning, And the audience looked on, wondering, yet returning the grin. Perhaps this was after all a part of the performance.
A voice from the back cried: 'Say, Mr. Walters! Would you mind being so kind as to give each of those men a tap on the head and ask them to begin? But don't hit too hard or the sawdust will come out.'
The whole saloon laughed. But this was short-lived.
What in Christ's name were they standing there for? Doing nothing. Absolutely nothing.
But Mr. Walters's iron reserve had not deserted him. The crowd had now been waiting twenty minutes. And all this time Vesuvius and Williams had beeen watching Walters, whilst Mr. Tyrer watched Vesuvius's cigar get shorter and shorter. Mr. Walters remained quite cool. He was merely waiting for the din to die down. At last one could hear a pin drop. And at last he spoke.
'Now! Mr. Kerns and Mr. Burke are going to sing you a song. We haven't a piano but we hope that everybody will join in the chorus.'
Having made this announcement Mr. Walters placed a hand on each man's shoulder and pushed them forward nearer to the raised platform that had been made out of half a dozen tea-chests. When the men bowed their acknowledgment of the cheers and clapping, Mr. Walters thought it diplomatic to retire once more down the ladder.
'Beggar it,' he said.
He looked at the accordionist, at the dancer, and at the comedian, a fireman who had blackened his face like a nigger and sat on the bottom step of the ladder.
'Well!' he exclaimed, 'this is a mess up and no mistake! I suppose you fellers first thought of this crazy idea, and just because an idea – one does get them sometimes – just because you took it into your head, I've got to beggar about, and—'
'Aw! Can it!' said the man with the black face. 'You're on Easy Street and you don't know it. I should be in my bloody bunk. But instead I just made myself look a proper mug and came up here to amuse the fellers. No one would begrudge that, surely? The trip hasn't exactly been a cakewalk, has it? And I got to go below soon's I done my turn.'
The accordionist picked up his instrument, struck a chord on it.
'Mr. Walters is O.K. by me,' he said, 'and he is by you. But I reckon he's got a lot to do, and I reckon a steward may be tired too. Besides, we get a tot of rum for this, don't we, Mr. Walters?' he concluded laughing.
'Just listen to those fellers up there. "Sweet Adeline." I think it's the only goddam song they know. Oh hell!'
He jumped to his feet, slapped everybody on the back. 'Let's all be friends. Let's give the fellers a bloody fine show. It'll make this goddam trip move faster anyhow.' Then he sat down again and began fiddling with his instrument.
Mr. Walters sat isolated. The others too were silent.
From above came the sound of cheering.
The sound of this cheering floated up to the bridge. It was black dark. A.10 moved easily through the calm waters. Mr. Deveney moved about bat-like upon the bridge. Dunford was already below.
He was seated in his room. The cabin door was wide open. The sounds floated in. But he seemed quite unconscious of them. He sat so still, and looked so much at ease that but for the fact that his eyes were open and staring down at the red carpet, one might have assumed he was fast asleep. Here too, the drone of the engines could be heard. Six bells rang out, not so clearly now it seemed, as though the wave of sound ebbing and flowing through the saloon had robbed it of its significance. Six bells. The look-out would change now.
A pinhead of light shone in Mr. Dunford's face. This came from a small torch he held in his hand. Suddenly he switched this out. The heavy curtain across the door only seemed to increase the darkness. Then he got up and closed the door.
Outside the blackness covered everything, only the big derricks like long ghostly fingers seemed to pierce through this pall of darkness. For'ard and seen clearly against the skyline a figure. A figure just emerged from the crow's nest.
The figure was Rochdale. It was with a rather jerky tread that the relieved man made his descent down the rigging. Perhaps he felt the cold, the sudden physical movement after standing in that nest for so long. Perhaps that cheering had affected him, or the unusual darkness hinted at even darker things ahead.
Well, that hour had certainly seemed the longest he had ever spent aloft. Strange things had happened to him up there. Strange feelings had stirred in him, feelings the meaning of which he could not comprehend. He had never experienced that before. It wasn't that, as was usual with him, he had been thinking of wife and child at home, they hadn't even crossed his mind. No! He couldn't fathom the reason for the curious feelings that had held on to him during the past hour. There was in that jerky tread upon the rigging a kind of urgency, as though the isolation had for once been too much for him, and now he was free of it. It was still up there, but covering another, yes, and below there was the cheering, the singing. Did it seem so strange then? No! But at least forty more feet down and he would reach the deck. Feel it strong, secure beneath his feet. Already he was reaching out for that something which was light, was warmth, human warmth and contact.
Rochdale could not get down that ladder quickly enough. It was as though one single hour had changed him. Stripped him, newly clothed him. And when his feet did touch the deck, it was to find that a figure was standing there. Perhaps this person had been waiting for him. It was the peggy.
'I say, well, beggar me!' exclaimed Rochdale. 'What the devil are you doing out here this time of night? You ought to be in bed, Mr. Peggy.'
The boy looked at Rochdale. He saw his face set against the banked up darkness.
'I wanted to go to this concert,' said the peggy. 'But it's too late now. When I did get out of the fo'c'sle and went along I couldn't get in.'
'Well, I call that lousy. Simply lousy. But why worry, laddie? We'll be home soon. Is this your first trip?' asked Rochdale as he began unwinding the scarf from his neck. 'I—' He patted the lad on the back. 'Let's go for'ard.'
Man and boy went towards the fo'c'sle. Rochdale thought, 'Well, hang it. There's a kid for you! Here we are packed full of dirt, all kinds of it, and wounded men, and the world's all right amidships, judging by the row, and just about here,' he swung his hand round, 'just around here there are mines, there are submarines, aye, and there are hungry bloody catfish! And all this kid is worried about is a bloody song and dance.'
His hand rested on the boy's shoulder all the way to the fo'c'sle.
'Like some coffee?' Rochdale asked, as he took off reefer and cap.
'I'm going to make some right now. You can come with me if you like. But when you've had your coffee d'you know what you're going to do?' He began to laugh. 'You're going to turn into that bunk of yours. Get me, laddie? Bunko for you. Why ifs gone eleven, and you have to be up at five prompt. Now come on,' he said, as he picked up a tin cup and put sugar into it. 'There'll be enough for both in this full-up.'
They went into the galley. The fo'c'sle contained five sleeping men. The remainder were at the concert, or out on watch. The peggy sat down on the white seat in the galley and watched the look-out make coffee.
'Are we really going home?' he asked, as he watched Rochdale make coffee.
'Yes,' replied Rochdale, 'We're really going home. And we're going home laddie, for the simp
le reason that it's very necessary we should go. Right away. Everybody says that, 'cos if we don't we'll be forgotten altogether – be lost entirely. Then we would be in a bloody mess.'
'But why should we be forgotten?' The boy looked sharply at the look-out as he turned round cup in hand and began to stir his coffee with a wooden meat skewer.
'Little boy, you shouldn't ask questions. But now when I look at you I really discover that you're not a little boy at all. You're a little man. So you want me to tell you. All right. Did your mother ever tell you fairy tales?'
The peggy laughed. He made no reply but went on swinging his legs.
'Anyhow,' went on Rochdale, 'this isn't the time for fairy tales. Come along, boy, up you get from that bloody seat. To see you swinging your legs about there so care-free, sets me thinkin' as there's nowt wrong about anything. Tell me how much did you make last trip?'
He put a hand on the boy's shoulder, adding, 'Of course, not counting the two bob I gave you at the pay-off.'
The boy got up. 'I'm going to turn in now,' he said.
'That's better. Come along. Hanging round the decks at this time of night.'
Rochdale made as though to leave the galley, but the boy said, 'Hey! What about your coffee, Mr. Rochdale.'
The man laughed. Of course. The bloody coffee. Fancy his forgetting it. 'I must be dreaming,' he said. He took the coffee from the range and sat down again. He said nothing now, just sipped at the coffee, all the while watching the boy. He liked watching him, he hadn't taken much notice of him before, but here, sitting on the bench alone, he could look at him and think, 'How different he is.'
He had passed in and out of the fo'c'sle the whole trip yet he had hardly noticed him. Perhaps in the fo'c'sle with all those men his personality was dissolved. Here in the galley he was different. All himself. He was young, he was fresh, yes and what was more the look on his face seemed to say, 'The ship's all right for me.'
Aye. The world was all right for him. Rochdale handed him the cup.
'Take a drink,' he said. 'Make you sleep like a top. You're a nice lad,' he continued, 'and your mother must be proud of you. You're a real little man.'
Suddenly he stopped. That was quite enough. Too much praise and the kid would have his head turned right round.
