Hollow Sea

by James Hanley

  The laughter increased. The duet of a kind went on, laboriously, tenaciously, bravely, Mr. Walters now cooing like a dove, his mouth shaped into a perfect O, whilst Mr. Tyrer, head lowered on his breast and chin well down, indulged in a sort of basso-profundo, a stream of hummings and murmurings and grunts, sweat running down his face, a terrific desire to leap into that gesticulating, tormenting, laughing and jeering crowd, a desire to hurl himself amongst them and shout as only he could shout when driven to it:

  Down below there, you lot of sods. Down into the bloody stink-house with you and check up numbers and names of damn good men. Down below, you bastards.'

  In true oratorio style he raged, he melted and he burned, but Mr. Walters went blithely on, and only for one strange reason, and that bordering on the miraculous, for the fat steward had never in his life sung to anybody, and now realized that his wasn't a bad voice after all. It was in a way a triumph for him, and though his eye from time to time caught sight of another and what seemed more powerful eye, set in a face that made the strangest expressions, he took little notice, and did not realize the meaning of those gestures, those gestures from Mr. O'Grady, who was now feeling sorry he had not volunteered at first. For he was certain he could sing the whole lot of them off the face of the earth, and, confound it, he knew 'Home, Home to the Mountains,' 'or whatever the hell you call it,' and might well have sung the duet with Walters.

  Mr. Tyrer wondered, stared distractedly at the deck-head, lowered his head again, made curious sepulchral sounds, wondered again as to how many more verses there were in 'this confounded bloody jewit,' and wondered in vain for Mr. Walters went on and on as though this song, 'this jewit' was, like Vesuvius's cigar, everlasting.

  Oddly enough a silence had descended upon the assembly, much to the discomfort of Mr. Tyrer, who realized he was caught like a rat in a trap. And with this realization he acted.

  He shut his mouth like a trap, raised his head and stared fiercely before him, leaving Mr. Walters trebling it into stuffy air, leaving him and the 'bloody silly jewit' for better or worse, for good and all as he resolutely stepped forward and jumped down from the platform.

  He even scowled, much to everybody's amusement, as he ploughed his way through arms and legs and bodies and at last reached haven.

  The precious seat from which he had so willingly risen in order to do honour to the occasion, the net result of which could now be seen in everybody's face, measured in their skitting, jeering, laughter, their ferocious grumblings, and tittering at the back and front, even to the end of that saloon, where in order to relieve the monotony of gaiety a soldier had begun to cough, to cough louder and louder, and finally issuing a sort of half smothering, half gobbling sound from his throat.

  Mr. Tyrer no sooner sat down than there were loud cries of, 'Cheese it. For God's sake come off and let somebody else have a chance.'

  'Pull him off. He'll stand there singing half the night.'

  There then began a general chorus. 'Come off it. Come off it.'

  Vesuvius leaped to his feet, rushed to the platform, mounted it, and completely ignoring the presence of the chief steward, took up a dramatic pose and began.

  'Friends, mates, fellow-workers and all the bloody rest of it, I announce the next item which will be a dramatic recitation by myself of "The Devil and Dan McGrew." All objecting raise hands, and when you've done that, sit quiet, 'cos I'm going to do my stuff whatever happens. Mr. Walters.'

  He turned towards the steward, smiling, and cxclaimed, 'And three cheers for Mr. Walters, thanking you, sir, for a most splendid jewit if I may say so. Three cheers for Mr. Walters. Hip-pip—'

  'Hip-pip-hurrah.'

  Mr. Walters stepped down from the platform, and seemed to shoot out of sight below stairs.

  Vesuvius now walked up and down the length of platform, hands in his pockets. He seemed to be taking the measure of his audience. He was so intent on this that he did not notice the door open, though he heard the cry that followed it.

  'Shut that bloody, blasted door. Want us blown to hell or something? What you bin told about them doors, goddam fool?'

  All heads turned as one towards the port doorway.

  A sailor was standing there, looking in on them, seemingly undecided as to whether to come right in and close the door, one hand rattling the brass ring through the knob. He seemed to be looking round for a seat, but nobody made any attempt to offer him one.

  Then he banged the door and made his way into the saloon. Vesuvius saw him too. He knew the fellow. Quiet chap, belonged to the starboard watch. He roared out at him.

  'Hey, you there, hurry up and sit down. Can't you see we're in the middle of a concert?'

  'Middle of the ocean, too, I reckon,' the man replied.

  'Where the hell is Mr. Walters?' the crowd began to cry.

  The new-comer now seemed to be searching for somebody. And at last he found him, and moreover a seat also. The man now leaned over and spoke to his mate. It was Turner.

  'Heard about Marvel?' he said in a thick voice. 'Heard it?'

  'Heard what. Oh shut it. Come on for hell's sake, Vesuvius. When you going to begin? And you, Williams. I thought you two were going to recite.'

  O'Grady stood up, looked round the saloon, cupped his hands, cried out, 'Friends, mates and all the rest of the old stuff, is this concert to go on or not?'

  'Yes. No. Sure. Come on there, you pimply-faced swine. Do your stuff.'

  'I say. You heard about that steward chap?'

  The man began gently poking O'Grady in the back. 'I just heard that—'

  'Aw! Shut it. Can't you see I'm trying to get Williams up on that stage? Hey there, bosun, can't you let him have it in the grand style? You know. Come on now, Williams, you Welsh rabbit, can't you see Vesuvius waiting up there?'

  Vesuvius began clapping his hands for order. 'Order,' he cried. 'ORDER!'

  Mr. Walters's cap could be seen, and then he himself gradually appeared. He had been sitting on the grand stairway thinking of many things, including 'this farcical do,' and he gathered by a glance at his watch that it was nearly over now, thank heavens. And would he ever forget Hump for doing what he did, this very night? No. Never. He would never forget it. He looked up at the sailor on the platform.

  The concert was all to hell. The accordionist had not even had a chance to prove his mettle, nor had the two comedians shown up. But there was the repulsive looking sailor, and he surely was one of the two he had had the rows with about selling those sandwiches to the troops.

  Of course. He'd know that ugly mug anywhere. Yes, and there was his mate, the garrulous, talkative chap with a swear in every breath he took, there he was looking up at his friend on the platform and just grinning at him. At least he could do that one thing perfectly. Grin.

  But where did he, Mr. Walters, come in now? Nowhere at all, it seemed. He was of no account, and yet if he liked to exercise his authority, why, he could empty that whole saloon in a brace of shakes. And why didn't he? Because he was not the sort of man to begrudge them a concert, a bit of a 'do,' after what they had been through. No one should ever say that Mr. Walters put a spoke in the wheel of their enjoyment. He had only put the spoke in the wheel of two men's greed. There they were now, practically running the show. Should he get on to the platform, or should he stay where he was and let them go to it?

  By the time he had made his decision it was too late. Williams had joined his bosom-pal on the platform, a sudden silence came over everybody, all were waiting for them to begin. All except the new-comer at the back who again poked O'Grady in the ribs and repeated in the same awed tone of voice, 'Heard what happened to that steward?'

  O'Grady swung round as though stung. 'Well, what did happen? Say quick, and for God's sake stop poking me in the back will you? What goddam steward are you talking about? What have I got to do with a glass-back, anyhow? Why keep moidering me? Blast it, man, sit quiet and listen to the concert.'

  Vesuvius and Williams had already begun a kind
of duologue, and it was obvious that they had rehearsed it pretty well. For nearly three-quarters of an hour the saloon had surrendered to bedlam. Now all was changed, one could have heard a pin drop. It even made Mr. Walters and the bosun feel ashamed of themselves.

  Mr. Tyrer glared at the two sailors, but showed no signs of interest. Twice he had decided to get up and clear out. He had seen Walters disappear for about five minutes and had no doubt at all that he had gone below for a drink. Then why the devil hadn't he followed in the chief's wake? He would have had a drink too. Still he was a free man, he could clear out now, join the steward on the stairway, ask for a drink. He had done his turn. And then his attention was drawn to O'Grady who had begun shouting in the face of the man behind him.

  'Well, what about it?' he shouted. 'Shut your gob and let people listen.'

  'His name was Marvel, he was a decent chap. Only yesterday I was talking to him about what time we might get the Rock Light. But it's a hell of a way off, isn't it?'

  The man started to laugh.

  'Aw, for Christ's sake,' O'Grady said. 'You've been seeing a bogey-man or something,' and he turned his back deliberately on the other and settled himself down once more.

  He hadn't heard a single word of the duologue, and now here was Mr. Walters again. Blasted nuisance. There he was climbing on to the platform. Vesuvius and Williams roared at each other to everybody's amusement.

  Mr. Walters cried, 'STOP, the accordionist will now give you a few tunes.'

  'Aye, well if you want to know they found him hanging in the glory-hole, see?'

  Will you shut it, goddam you?' O'Grady shouted in the other's face. 'I don't want to hear about anybody hanging hisself. Besides, what a bloody silly thing to do.'

  'Shurrup.'

  'Cut the cackling there, will you? Mr. Walters is trying to say something.'

  'Yes. Throw the swine out, O'Grady. Coming in here and trying to whisper something we can all hear. Chuck him out.'

  'Aye. They found him all right. Walters doesn't know nothing.'

  The speaker received a thump in the back.

  'Will you shut up or d'you want a belt in the jaw?'

  'He says a feller hung hisself,' O'Grady said, half turning to the last speaker.

  'Silly cow.'

  Will you fellers shut talking there? This man's concert can't be heard at all. What the hell is somebody gassing about, anyhow?'

  The man behind O'Grady jumped to his feet, shouted wildly. 'Nothing. Only a chap hung himself.'

  He paused. 'Hope you're satisfied.'

  'Silly beggar.'

  'What for, though?'

  'How do I know?'

  'STOP! STOP!' Mr. Walters was doing his best to keep up the continuity but it seemed of no avail. The new-comer had definitely put a spoke in the wheel. And somehow, though it appeared hazy to Mr. Walters, he thought he had heard somebody talking about a steward who had hung himself, a steward who had hung himself, 'a steward who had hung himself, had hung himself, hung himself, a steward who had,' and the phrase became sing-song in his head, he kept on repeating it, whilst he stood and called for order, called, 'STOP! STOP! QUIET PLEASE! ORDER THERE WILL YOU!' He wanted very much to add, 'You noisy lot of bastards,' but this could not be done. He was entirely at the mercy of these men.

  Well, I'm blowed. Hang me! Oh hell! Look at this.'

  It was Mr. Hump, wearing a top hat. He stood on the top stairway, smiling, hat at an awkward angle on his head. Stood there looking as though he had just woke up after a very bad night, wearing a tail-coat, though beneath it one could discern his dirty white jacket. He took off the top-hat and, bowing low, exclaimed, 'Gentlemen. Gentlemen. I am now going to sing you a bloody song myself.'

  HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! The crowd roared. Men were standing up. Vesuvius and Williams were clapping. Mr. Walters's face turned a deep red, Mr. Tyrer gave a yell. It was too funny, they thought, one and all, seeing Mr. Hump standing there wearing a top-hat. All eyes were fixed on him now. What on earth had happened to the man? Well, one thing seemed certain, Mr. Hump was drunk. And he could have only got drunk in one way, and Mr. Walters saw everything crystal-dear now. Mr. Hump was not only drunk, but staggeringly, hopelessly so, as was evident from the many attempts he now made to step off the top step of the grand stairway. Vesuvius and Williams were forgotten. In fact, the concert was only just beginning.

  Mr. Hump made yet another attempt to propel himself forward, stumbled, went down on one knee, called, 'Gentlemen. I— Gentlemen I—'

  'Oh, hell! Oh holy bloody smoke. This takes the cake.'

  'Well, I'm damned. Good old Hump. Good old bloody Hump. Three cheers for Hump. Yes – No?'

  'Hip-pip—'

  'HIP-PIP-A-BLOODY-RAH. HA! HA! HA! Go it Hump, you old cod, go it man. You're a hero. God bless you, sir, you're marvellous. Hump! Three cheers for Mr. Hump.'

  Mr. Hump stood there, looking from one to another, smiling, spluttered and stammered.

  'I – er – Gentle – Genii – Genilmen I—'

  Then he staggered on, caught hold of the nearest tea-chest and hung on, spluttered again, gave a queer little laugh, and then moved on.

  It was obvious to all that Mr. Hump was intent on giving a turn himself, and he did not lack encouragement. There was clapping and cheers from all sides, even Williams and Vesuvius had decided to step down and go back to their places. To see Hump getting on to that platform was better than all the other turns they had had, and moreover, it was certain that Mr. Hump would be the big hit and the triumph of the evening.

  Even those men sprawled about in every conceivable position at the for'ard end of the saloon were now completely forgotten. They were part of the audience it is true, but they were somehow different. And once or twice a man gave a low moan, but these were drowned by the flow of sound amidships. There was coughing too, but this was not audible enough to make anybody turn a head in their direction.

  Yet Mr. Walters alone of all of them, saw them, and realized that something ought to be done. So he decided to go up for'ard and see how the soldiers were enjoying themselves. He felt like rushing forward and felling Mr. Hump with one blow, but caution held his hand. Did he do that heaven knows what might happen afterwards. And he was not too secure even now. This was the kind of evening and the kind of gathering that might, quixotically enough, turn out to be the worst for him, for there were old scores unpaid, and he, Mr. Walter Walters, realized it.

  Being a sensible man he now stepped down from the platform and began thrusting his way forward, his fat body brooking no obstacle in his endeavour to get for'ard to those men. He felt a little guilty in this matter. After all, he might at least have had two men up that end, to attend to any little things like pans or water, but somehow it seemed to have escaped him. He heard loud laughter all the way for'ard and suddenly he stopped and turned round.

  There was Mr. Hump endeavouring for the third time to climb on to the tea-chest. Twice he had fallen down to the accompaniment of laughter and cheers, and now he was trying again. This was excellent. Real good. Why, even the whole crazy voyage was worth it. And men looked at one another and grinned and smiled, and the agreement was general.

  'It's a pity, a bloody pity I say,' said O'Grady to Williams; 'it's a great pity that the old man hisself isn't down here to see Mr. Hump. I don't think I seen old Dunford laugh since I joined this ship, but he'd laugh if he saw that feller now.'

  'Go it, Hump. Go it, lad. You're doing fine. Mind your backside on the nails there.'

  Again Mr. Hump took a hold and again attempted to get on to the platform with the same results as before. Suddenly Williams got up, dashed across and lifted Mr. Hump bodily to the platform, saying:

  There you bloody well are, sir. Now let's have that funny song.'

  'God bless us and save us,' cried O'Grady, 'I believe the man's going to be sick.'

  'Ha! Hal Ha! And so he bloody well is.'

  Mr. Hump neither heard nor saw. His body was bent almost to a hoop, he seemed to be fo
cusing all attention on his brown boots, and then he was suddenly erect again, though unsteady on his feet, one hand seeming to paw the air, the other holding on his hat as though it were the only real thing he could hang on to with any degree of safety.

  'N – now genil – men. I – I gonna sing. Gonna sing a song. Lil song 'bout corsets. Corsets, Issa funny lil song, I – er – er – ahem! I – oh issa funny lil song. Ma – Magic pair of cor – yes, corsets. Lemme see. I – oh yes. "There was—" '

  He stopped now, forgetting for the moment that he meant to sing and not recite about the magic pair of corsets, and then, blushing, and smiling towards his audience, he began again.

  He began slowly, hesitant, in a low voice; he seemed to have to force the words out one by one. The top-hat remained on his head in spite of the swaying movements he continued to make.

  There – was 'n old lady of Battersea. Yes – thas it, Batter – Batters – I – lemme see. Yes. There was 'n old lady of Battersea. A very old lady and – and – and – fat, y'see. 'N – she put on her corset, a present from Dorset and – lemme see. I – lemme see. Issa—'

  'And went off on the Battersea,' cried a voice from the back.

  'I— There was an old lady of Battersea— I – wait – I oh yes, 'n this old lady from Battersea—'

  The unexpected happened. Mr. Hump collapsed. Lay in a heap on the platform. Williams went out again and picked him up. He held him to an erect position for a moment or two, and then returned to his place.

  'What about a song now, Mr. Hump?'

  'Sure. Give us a song. By hell, you're fine. You're the best of the whole damn lot of them.'

  'Yes. That accordionist put his instrument in his pocket. What say, Mr. Hump? Good old Hump, I never knew you were a comedian. You're wasting your time, man. Wasting your time. Ought to be on the stage.'