Hollow Sea

by James Hanley

  'Shurr up. Let the man get on with his turn. Hey there, bosun, at the back. What you think of Mr. Hump?'

  'Oh, he's fine. Fine. Come now, Mr. Hump. What about "Let me like a soldier fall," eh? I hear you got a good tenor voice and the song'd suit you proper.'

  'Hip-hip—'

  'Hurrah! Go to it, man. Let me like a bloody soldier fall. Fine. Fine.'

  Mr. Hump listened, he grinned, he trembled, he swayed this way and that, the deck-head seemed to be dancing towards him now, and funny men with dunces' caps on were coming forward too. Mr. Hump began clapping his hands.

  'All quiet now, mates. He's going to begin.'

  'Aye. It was about nine-thirty. I reckon. Chap named Sloane found him.'

  'Christ! Who told you?'

  'Shurr up there, will you, you noisy lot of bastards. Come on, Hump.'

  'Hanged all right.'

  'Will you shut it or d'you want to be flung out on your neck?'

  'Ssh! Ssh! Can't you see him taking a breath?'

  'Hanged in the glory-hole. Chap name of Marvel.'

  'Damn you.'

  O'Grady swung round and shot out his fist. 'Damn you.'

  'Quiet there. Quiet there. Noisy lot of swine you are.'

  'All right. Shut your mouth yourself. I'm only trying to get fellers quiet meself. What the hell.'

  'Cheese it, will you? '

  'Order there, you men. Like a bunch of children,' cried Walters.

  'You're not in on this concert, Mr. Walters. You go and sing "Victuals Victuals" in your storeroom. What opera is that from, Mr. Walters?'

  'Ssh! For Christ's sake. Listen.'

  Mr. Hump opened his mouth and the first word of 'Let me like a soldier' made its way out. And he got no farther.

  It wasn't that Mr. Hump had forgotten the words this time, the words were there all right, on the tip of his tongue in fact, but somehow or other nothing would now make them come out. Beyond the word 'Let' he could not go.

  He looked so funny now that no man in that saloon could keep his feet any longer, nor keep his control. Everybody was standing, all seemed to be making their way to the platform, to the discomfort of those in front; indeed half a dozen men had now jumped on the platform and were standing in a ring round the second steward.

  The rickety platform creaked ominously, but they took no notice of that.

  The six men, who included Vesuvius, O'Grady and Turner, now joined hands so that Mr. Hump was completely encircled by them.

  They began to sing. They sang the bosun's favourite song, and, hearing it, Mr. Walters thought, 'Thank God! It does seem as if it's coming to an end at last,' for his long experience of ships' concerts told him that 'Sweet Adeline' was invariably the closing number of the show.

  He looked at his second steward and anybody could see at once how deeply Mr. Walters was disgusted. And he stood there as though in a sort of trance whilst the six men now began dancing round his second-in-command. That was bad enough, he was thinking, but when somebody grabbed him round the fat waist and hugged him, and spoke into his ear, 'My dear, a waltz. Yes. A nice little waltz, Mr. Walters,' he could scarcely believe that anybody in that assembly wasn't mad. Protests seemed useless. He was pulled and dragged and pushed, the two bodies milling in amongst the crowd and the men on the platform singing 'Sweet Adeline' at the top of their voices.

  'Everybody happy. Everybody cheer! Three cheers for this old rip of a ship, and three cheers for Mr. Walters and Mr. Hump. Nicest gentlemen in the world. Three cheers for the nice tots of rum to come. And—'

  'My dear,' said the man dragging Mr. Walters round the saloon, 'you dance divinely.'

  And then everybody had taken a partner and, dancing up and down, round and round to the cheers and singing of the assembly on the platform, were oblivious of the fact that the door had opened, that Sloane the steward was standing there, white-faced, shaking.

  'Shut that goddam door. Don't you know enough about danger zones, keeping it open like that? Shut it this instant, you bloody fool.'

  'Come and have a dance you bloody mutt you. Come on. Come on.'

  But Sloane stood, just staring. He had closed the door now. He stood watching Mr. Walters being swung round and round, watched six big men with joined hands dancing round Mr. Hump, and he wondered if every man in that saloon wasn't either dead drunk or else stark staring mad.

  He was trying to get to Mr. Walters. O'Grady was dancing with Turner now, and they came down from the tea-chests and went crowding into the others.

  'Found hanged about half-past nine. Aye. Outside his bunk.'

  'What time is it?'

  'Christmas, you ass. Christmas time.'

  'Marvel, oh aye. I knew that chap. He owed me a couple of bob.'

  'Hanged.'

  'Let's all go down the Strand. Let's all go down the Strand.'

  'About nine.'

  'Shut that door.'

  'Bloody ass doing a thing like that.'

  'Hanged.'

  'Roll his clothes up.'

  'Beggar, isn't it? Poor sod. Got fed up, maybe.'

  'Now, Mr. Walters, let's have a bloody good old polka. And what the hell, let the subs come and the mines glide and the aeryplanes fly and the guns toot toot and all the rest of it. A nice polka, Mr. Walters, sir.'

  'Move him aft, I reckon.'

  'Over and the shouting done.'

  'Shut the door.'

  'Half-past nine.'

  'Shut the door.'

  'Sloane cut him down.'

  'Hip-hip—'

  'Hurrah! Well, by the lord Harry, this has been a real good concert. Three cheers for Mr. Walter Walters, kindest-hearted man in all the wide bloody world.'

  'Hip-pip—'

  'He looked hellish. I won't forget it.'

  'Mr. Walters, sir.'

  'Can't you see Mr. Walters is busy doing the polka-polka stuff? Ha! Ha! Ha!'

  'Ssh! Ssh!'

  'Shush my backside. On with the game. On with the bloody dance.'

  'Hanged by his braces.'

  'About half-past nine.'

  The door was open.'

  'Dance. Dance. And shut that goddam door. Want us all blown to bloody smithereens? Cheer boys, cheer. That's what the sods said at the last landing. Cheer boys, cheer.'

  'Money for bloody dirt, mates.'

  'They took him aft.'

  'The door was open.'

  'Roll his clothes up.'

  'Marvel his name was.'

  'Decent feller too.'

  'Damn fool.'

  'Over and there you are. One push friends. Only one push.'

  'Now fellers all together, three cheers for every son of a gun and then with all your bloody hearts, "Sweet Adeline." '

  So the improvised concert came to a close. Men were now descending the ladders, everybody talked, one or two still hummed 'Sweet Adeline.' Mr. Walters stood at the stairtop watching them go. Hump had been carried below to his bunk, having finally collapsed at Vesuvius's feet.

  'What a concert,' thought Walters. 'What a concert. What a sight for sore eyes. Phew!'

  He put a handkerchief to his forehead and wiped it. The accordionist was standing behind him, only waiting to be taken down for that tot of rum, the tot of rum he had not really earned. He had been the one failure of the evening, and he still wondered why scores of men should sing and yet leave him standing in the cold and that accordion hanging round his neck. But there it was, and it couldn't be helped. But he would see that he got the same as anybody else, and he was determined to stand right alongside the chief steward. Soon the saloon would be empty. Mr. Walters was telling himself that he must have Crilly, and Devine, Sloane and Marvel up here as soon as possible to clean the mess. And what a mess! Why hadn't he thought about those spittoons? A fatal mistake, indeed. Well, it would have to be cleaned up right away. That was that. And when the last man was down the ladder, Mr. Walters turned and touched the accordionist on the arm, saying, 'Go below now and wait for me by the storeroom.'

  'Y
es, Mr. Walters. Yes, sir.'

  He went on talking to the sailor, but that gentleman was halfway down the stairway, his instrument swinging in his hand.

  Alone at last, Mr. Walters stood in the middle of the saloon and surveyed the scene. He looked at the soldiers in the corner and called out: 'Enjoy it?'

  'Yes, yes. Lovely. Lovely. Oh aye. Yes—' .

  How queer they talked, especially that chap with the bandages over his mouth.

  Ah! The bloody evening was over, or was it night? And by heavens it would be the last, the very last for him. Again Crilly and Devine, Marvel and Sloane came into his mind. On duty or off. Tired or fresh. In good or bad mood. Sick or well. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered much in this rip of a boat. Simply nothing. He thought he had better go now, get those stewards on the go as early as possible. And that was now. Yes NOW. Then he would go to his room. Lord! His room. And Hump's room. Yes, that devil Hump's room too. Shut the door. Lock it. Bury his head in the blankets. His room. And Hump's room. Yes, that devil Hump's room. Sleep. Sleep till world's end and the cock-eyed people running it smashed up with it. He looked towards that helpless, pathetic group again. Just children. Grown up children. Children left out in the dark, and like children, wondering why maybe.

  'Well, good night boys. Stewards'll fix you up O.K.'

  Then he was gone. Down the ladder at a run, a sharp turn left, another little run. Was somebody chasing him? No. It was all right. Just feeling glad the 'bloody how'd yer do' was over.

  'And here's the room,' he was saying, 'the cosy room.' 'Yes, here's your cosy room,' his fat body seemed to be saying too.

  He slammed the door.

  'Hump!' he called. 'Hump! Get up.'

  Mr. Hump, however, was deado.

  'Sleeping his damned brains away. What he has left anyhow, thought Mr. Walters. 'The damned, damned, damned—' well, he wouldn't forget Hump for a long, long time. Never, in fact. Nor the way he had been made a fool of to-night.

  He pressed a bell-button in the bulkhead.

  He waited ten seconds, counting ten. He rang again.

  Crilly arrived. He too looked washed out.

  'Get Sloane, Marvel, yourself, Devine. Clean that saloon up ship-shape.'

  'Marvel was found hanged, sir, 'bout an hour ago. I—'

  'Marvel, found hanged? Oh aye, yes-im-um-ah-yes-yes-yes. Must be drunk. Get to hell then will you and clean that saloon.'

  'Sloane has just turned in, sir. He's been on duty since—'

  'Hurry up,' Walters said. Then savagely, 'Are you deaf? Fire away. Get the bloody saloon ship-shape. Right now. Understand that?'

  Mr. Walters began taking off his coat. 'Fire away! Aye. Fire away!'

  'But, sir—'

  'And for every damn torment I get through all the silly swines running this confounded war, I'll take it back out of you, you miserable half-starved looking bastard. Goddam! You simply can't,' Mr. Walters's voice had reached soprano altitude now, 'you can't help being nasty, can you, Hump?' he said, laughed, put his hand on Mr. Hump's chest.

  The door banged and the steward had gone.

  Mr. Walters took Mr. Hump's nose between a fat finger and thumb and squeezed it.

  'Here, lazy-bones. I squeezed hard but no brains dribbled through. They've been slept away, anyhow. Good bloody night.'

  He climbed into his bunk without bothering to undress, switched out the light, said under his breath, 'Thank heavens.'

  Then, with the blankets tucked snugly round him, 'Go! Go ahead, engines. Get this creepy, crawly, crazy stinker along. Oh, boy! What a bloody war. Won't a pub be grand after this lot? Oh, boy!'

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE steward could see Mr. Dunford for the door was partly open. He was seated at his desk, pen in hand. He was turning over the pages of a book, then slowly turning them back again as though he were searching for some particular entry there. The steward hesitated. Then he went up and knocked on the door.

  'Lunch is ready, sir. Mr. Deveney said you would be joining him, sir.'

  'Oh, yes! Right. Thank you. Coming directly. Um – ah!—'

  The steward said 'Yes, sir,' then walked away. He could see Mr. Ericson talking to the quartermaster. He had no eyes for the sun, clear sky, choppy water. He turned the corner.

  Mr. Dunford turned another page, then bent over it, reading what he had written there. 'View F White chalk cliffs in line with G Light. 250° leads N. of L. Bank.'

  'Correct. Of course. North of L. Bank.'

  He sat back in his chair now. A breeze came through the open port. A.10 was full-speed now. Speeding towards home, another land and another time. In four days, five at the most, he was saying to himself as now he turned back two pages and began reading again. He suddenly began to laugh. He read with his head close to the book, the hand holding the pen raised in air, as though he were on the stroke of making a fresh entry there.

  'At Lat. 40° 25' 4" N. Long. . . . 26° 4' 7" E.'

  He covered his eyes with his fingers, their tips pressing upon the eyeballs.

  White chalk cliffs in line with that light. Yes. He remembered that very well.

  The white chalk cliffs were high, leaned backward, fell away from the senseless sea. Upthrust like fingers, long skeleton fingers, spearing sun and sky. The senseless sea mirrored it. White. Chalk, 2570 leading N. of L. bank. He began reading aloud now. 'The wheel pins. Will still spin there.'

  He repeated this aloud as he read further. He laid down the pen, placed his hands on his knees, leaning forward over the table. The sun shone through the partly open door, the light falling across his black serge coat.

  'View GD in line with C Lat. 220° leads N.W. of Z. At Lat. 40° 25' 8" N. Long.

  'All bearings are true.

  'Shoals.

  'Soundings in fathoms. Reduce Long. 11°'

  He read rapidly now, though now and again an entry baffled him, a hurried scrawl, unable to understand his own writings. Suddenly he called out angrily. 'All right. I said all right. Go away, man. Don't come bothering me.'

  The steward swore under his breath, and returned to the mess to see to Mr. Deveney.

  'At Lat. 40° 25' 4" N. Long. 26° 4' 7" E.'

  Mr. Dunford got up, glanced through the open port-hole, then suddenly sat down again. Confound the fellow, anyhow. Butting in just at this particular hour. 'Let me see. There are some entries I must expand.'

  There came another knock upon the door, but this time Mr. Dunford was given no chance to make remonstrance. The voice outside droned:

  'Wanted outside, sir. Mr. Ericson, sir.'

  'Blast!' exclaimed Dunford. He picked up his hat and went out on to the bridge. He could see Mr. Ericson in the starboard wing, holding a pair of glasses to his eyes.

  'I heard the bell,' he said to Ericson, joining him with glasses hastily picked up from the shelf under the rail. Yes. He had heard the bell. He seemed quite indifferent to the fact that Mr. Ericson's face carried a very worried look.

  'It's almost abeam. A queer looking affair, Mr. Ericson. How long have you had your eye cocked on her?'

  'I thought she was a full-rigged ship at first,' replied Ericson. 'Now I see it's a very small fishing-boat. She's a Greek.'

  'Yes. That's it. Odd-looking, just the same, for a fisherman.'

  'Well, I've seen queerer looking craft than her in my time,' said Mr. Dunford, laughing, as he put back the glasses on the shelf. 'If we were directly following the trade route we might expect to see much queerer things than that, Mr. Ericson, and we should have lots more to worry about.'

  Half turning he espied the tiger just coming out of the mess. He put up his hand. He just couldn't stand hearing about that steward again. He went up to the quartermaster standing by.

  'Tell the bosun to post two more men on the fo'c'sle head.' Then he went off to the mess to join Mr. Deveney. This would be the first time he had eaten with Mr. Deveney since sailing, in fact the very first time he had eaten in the mess at all, always having his meals brought to him by
the tiger. He hummed to himself as he went along.

  This trip, this adventure, bit of business, crusade, call it what you like, well it was only a matter of four days, five at the most. No matter. The back of the thing had been broken, anyhow. And they might hope to drop anchor in the river, anyway. No such luck as sailing right into a berth and tying up there. Ships like A.10 were different. One dealt entirely in potentialities. No, A.10 wasn't that kind of ship. There were too many exciting possibilities. 'Chance had lost a little of its magic now,' he thought as he stepped into the corridor leading to the mess-room.

  A dirty, futile game. Well, four days, five days. 'A little margin still left for Chance,' he said to himself. Yes. That's where he came in. But the others, well, they stepped out. They were free men. At least they called themselves free, and would no doubt hardly wait for those ropes to go over the bitts, before they would be rushing down the gangway. 'I don't think I shall see the same faces next trip.'

  Then he was in the mess, placing his hat on the sideboard, saying, 'Hello, Deveney,' to the gentleman very busy with his soup, and there was a rather strong smell of beef about, and Mr. Dunford didn't quite like it. A little rank somehow. He sat down opposite the now first officer.

  Mr. Deveney was on the point of saying something, but the steward was already at Mr. Dunford's elbow, reciting almost poetically, 'Pea soup, sir. Roast beef and cabbage and potatoes, sago pudding, cheese, some bottled Guinness, sir.'

  'Bring me some soup,' Mr. Dunford said.

  'You were going to say something, Mr. Deveney,' he said, looking across at the officer.

  'Yes.' He began to laugh. 'It was only about the concert last night, sir.' He went on laughing, whilst he watched the steward place a bowl of soup in front of Mr. Dunford. The steward retired, stood by the sideboard, caught Dunford's glance, went quietly out.

  'Oh that,' Dunford said. 'I heard about it too from Mr. Ericson. It was quite a success. It broke the tension, it relieved everybody. That was good.'

  'May I say, sir, that I believe you did the wise thing in burying those men. I thought that perhaps you might—'

  'Well?' Dunford seemed almost churlish. 'Well?'

  Deveney gave a sickly smile and said, 'Oh, nothing, sir. Nothing.'