Hollow Sea

by James Hanley

  'Our position is no different,' said Mr. Dunford. 'If one harbour is closed to us there is no reason for not supposing another harbour might not be closed likewise.'

  'Surely, Mr. Dunford. You're not suggesting that the men we have below now might—'

  And again Mr. Dunford interrupted by saying, 'This ship cannot put into any harbour without a clean bill of health. That is nothing new, Mr. Deveney. I once commanded a ship in which almost the same set of circumstances arose, and what happened in that case? I'll tell you. It sounds unbelievable, nevertheless it's true. We sailed from port to port, almost begging entrance, but each place we went to turned us away on the grounds that we would imperil the health of the port. What d'you suppose is going to happen in this case? D'you imagine that A.10 will simply pick up a pilot and be gracefully berthed in an English port? Mr. Deveney, I anticipate a deal of trouble with the authorities at home. Why? Because the authorities at home exist to override the orders of the authorities out here. I mean – well, you know right well what I mean. All I am concerned about is that we are being used as the pendulum to swing between the two of them. The port authorities will want this report and that report, the authorities who have ordered us to proceed home will by this time have forgotten all about us. Forgetting is becoming a virtue now. On top of that there are reports to the medical authorities, the military authorities, the naval authorities, and every Tom, Dick and Harry who likes to come down and worry our souls out of us. It is one thing, Mr. Deveney, to carry out over a thousand men, and to throw two hundred into the sea, to return with the remnants of a draft, and in the state they're in. But understand this. We are – I should say, this ship stands for – but one thing. Tonnage. Tonnage is everything. What you've done, and what you thought, what happened and what didn't happen, does not count. Under orders to proceed to port of registration, we do so, hoping for the best, the best of a bad bargain. That some of those soldiers below will still be alive to land. That every man for'ard is able to pack his bag and go home. That every officer is satisfied that what we were ordered to do we did. That's all. I could have told you how events would work out the first day we sailed. I could tell you now what will happen on our next trip. Still, we won't pursue the matter. Yes. I too heard all about that concert, Mr. Deveney. And now I've many other things to think about. Many other things.'

  He pushed away the soup plate, and when the steward came said, 'Some bread and cheese. Have we anything decent in the way of water?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  The steward went to the sideboard and brought a yellowish looking water-bottle, poured out a glassful and then retired gracefully to the sideboard again. Mr. Dunford looked at the water, in the glass, then pushed it away saying, 'It looks like oil, steward. I'll have some Guinness.'

  'I keep thinking of young Bradshaw,' Deveney began, but here Mr. Dunford interrupted quickly saying, 'Then don't Mr. Deveney.'

  The two men were silent now, Mr. Deveney doing his best with a piece of meat that looked like the sole of somebody's boot, whilst Mr. Dunford ran his finger round the top of the glass of stout. He seemed irritable, certainly far from comfortable. He had eaten scarcely anything, and even wondered now why he had bothered to come in at all. But in spite of this he sat on, watching Mr. Deveney eat, saying not a word, for the simple reason that he couldn't think of a single thing to say, not if his whole life depended on it. He hated himself for striking up this attitude, and yet there was something worrying, something gnawing away at one all the time, and he really wanted to get back to his cabin and shut himself up. It was the responsibility, it was yesterday, that mass burial, it was today, those pitiful men below. It was those men for'ard and those aft. Those mines floating about and the periscope scratching water surfaces. It was that order and this order, that resolve and this resolve. That starting point and the secrecy. That senseless sea, the cliffs, and Bradshaw blown high in the air, Dr. Donaldson dragged under by a raft. That concert and raised voices and ribald laughter, that steward Marvel and men dragged from the hold and flung over the rail by a madman. It was all this, waiting. Waiting and wondering. It was being a hell of a fellow and it was being sick – sick. It was listening and trying not to feel, feeling and shutting the eyes. It was thinking of purposes propelling one forward and laughing about it all. It was hoping and moving murderously slow through water. It was thinking whilst alone, and even sitting at table in the mess and looking at a glass of stout. All these things, circling about, spreading out, closing in.

  Mr. Deveney had finished his lunch, and was now lighting his pipe. Having the measure of Mr. Dunford he knew the exact moment when he would get up, go to his room, and become lost in his own little world, hoping for the best like the rest of them. But suddenly Dunford was leaning forward over the table, looking closely at him, and saying, 'It is dreadful about that young steward, Deveney.'

  'Terrible, sir,' replied Mr. Deveney, and then stopped.

  He was wise, at least he hoped he was. Should he change the subject, should he get up and excuse himself? Or should he sit and just listen to what Mr. Dunford had to say? He imagined that Mr. Dunford had chosen this particular moment to get something off his chest. He would wait. He went on puffing away at his pipe, whilst he played with his bread-crumbs on the plate in front of him. He pushed them this way and that, pressed them under the palm of his hand, and wondered what Dunford would now say.

  But – and now he was surprised – Mr. Dunford got up, saying, 'Well, I've work to do,' and walked out without another word. Mr. Deveney went on smoking just as though he had eaten alone, had never seen Captain Dunford in his life, had in fact even enjoyed his dinner. The steward was standing behind him, fidgety, waiting. So Mr. Deveney got up. Yes. Even stewards wanted something to eat, sometimes. He went out of the mess.

  Mr. Dunford had gone straight back to his cabin, taken his seat before the book. He had quite forgotten Mr. Deveney, the little talk they had had, he was wholly absorbed in his present task, and besides there were many entries still to be made. The curious thing was that as soon as he began to read his mind wandered off, floating away on the waves of past experience. And then something he was on the point of writing in was completely forgotten.

  'Reduce Long. n. C. in Long. 28° 59' 4" E. Lat. C.H. L. 40° 2' 35" N. I must look up that entry for the 4th,' he thought, and began turning back the pages again.

  'O. Lat. 40° 13' 9" N. Long. 26° 31' 3" E. Approx.'

  'Yes. Trees in line with K.226 leads N.W. of O.'

  'Oh, yes. There it is.'

  He picked up the pen and made an additional entry on the page, blotted it, then turned back again to the last page of entries. Facts. Figures. Random thoughts. When one kept looking at these figures for a long time they began to dance about on the page. It gave one a bit of a headache. 'Oh, hell,' he said, closed the book, and stood up from the table. He leaned over the desk, looking out on the open sea.

  Clear horizon, clear sky, water bluish-green. He shut his eyes, leaned more heavily over his desk.

  He had done this sort of thing before, carried men, seen them go. Seen them go, wondering. A crusade across a continent, a crusade across the whole world to test the terror of unkindness. That's all it was. No more and no less. But he was here, in this cabin, alive, thinking about it all. But it didn't mean anything. One could think about it until the very last throb of thought was squeezed out and the mind run dry, but it didn't mean anything. Purpose was a blind man climbing a precipice. Living was no different, excepting that, foiled by this purpose, there was no longer balance. No. No balance. A few cowards might give it that, but there weren't any. No, not a single one. He did it, did what the others did, but he didn't believe in it. And though one didn't believe in the thing it made no difference. One was dragged into the filth with the others, soiled. One didn't even believe in their precious conundrums, nor in those far-off voices that not only mapped lands and oceans, but poisoned the wells of living there.

  He suddenly laughed. Tall thoughts, very tall
thoughts. As if A.10 cared a damn for any of them. As though anybody aboard gave a damn for them. Yes. He was quite alone there, separated from the others, he wished he wasn't, he would always be uncomfortable, unbelieving, tortured by the fact that it meant nothing in the end anyhow. That steward Marvel probably refused to believe anything. 'Yes, that's just it,' he said loudly, scarcely believing that it was his own voice that was speaking. He went across to the table and sat down again. Why couldn't he concentrate on this job and be done with it? Weren't there many other things to be done?

  On the new page he wrote, quickly, making a bad blot. 'Horace Marvel, fourth steward, found hanged. 9th. 10.21 p.m.' Well, that was done. His eye caught the following:

  'L. At Lat. 40° Y 3" N. Long. 26° 24' E. approx. S. of C. 11.'

  He closed the book, put it under his arm and left the cabin. He found Ericson making knots with a piece of string, hands and string almost hidden beneath the rail. He never looked at the string. 'Mr. Ericson, will you tell the quartermaster that I want Mr. Walters up here?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Mr. Dunford paced to port, waited there. In a few minutes Mr. Walters arrived. Ericson went back to his place, looked ahead, absentmindedly picked up the piece of string, fiddled about with it. He was watching also two men standing on the fo'c'sle head. He heard Mr. Walters and Mr. Dunford in conversation. It was about the steward Marvel.

  Mr. Ericson had his own thoughts on that affair. But he was not the sort of man to go about telling everybody how glad he was that he was alive, still alive, in spite of Mr. Bradshaw and that doctor, and the young wireless operator, and now the steward. Death everywhere and he was still alive, standing on the bridge. It wasn't luck either. Something more than that. It was a feeling. Mr. Ericson kept these intimate matters to himself. He felt very secure, very hopeful, and wholly optimistic as regards this war which seemed to so get on Mr Dunford's hat. Yes, it was rather grand still being alive, eating, sleeping, pacing the bridge, making entries in the log, looking forward to going home, meeting his girl on the quay. Everything was exciting and above all time moved so quickly that one simply hadn't the time to think of anything beyond the very fundamental things. Of course Mr. Dunford, and Mr. Deveney for that matter, were years older than him. They couldn't see as far ahead as he could in spite of this advantage, or disadvantage, or whatever being old meant. He could see as far as that theatre to which he would take Else. And the ride in the taxi when they docked and the feel of Else's hand. Seeing his mother, and his sister. Having high tea and Else there too. The very day of docking.

  He wouldn't be thinking about things like Mr. Dunford. Why, those chaps for'ard would be the very same. Rushing home to their sweethearts. Of course there was a war, everybody knew that, and a queer war at that, but after all, if you weren't as old as Mr. Deveney and Mr. Dunford, why, you had no time to be remembering anything. It didn't mean anything to you. It was looking forward. That was the great thing. And standing here, keeping his eyes 'skinned,' and watching those men on the fo'c'sle head, well, you were just full of a joyous feeling that you'd broken the back of one trip and that the margin between its end and a new beginning was full of exciting things. Else and the theatre, and holding hands and talking about what they would do next trip, and laughing, and realizing how nice it was to be together again. He stood there, listening, words floated about in air, but they meant nothing to him. It was sad, he knew that, but it had happened, one could do nothing about it, and certainly nobody was any the better off for doting on such things. No. That was simply a legacy for all people years older than himself. He liked Mr. Dunford, hoped he would sail many more trips with him, but at the same time, it was an uncomfortable thought. – No. Hang it, he wouldn't think about it. Think of Else.

  Raptures, waving handkerchiefs, the first glimpse, the warmth in the first feel of her arms round him, and rushing along in that taxi, and remembering nothing. It was great being alive. He was sorry about Mr. Bradshaw, nobody could say he wasn't, and the doctor, and that steward chap for that matter, but you had to take whatever was coming to you. It seemed like that to him. Yet Mr. Dunford, if all that Mr. Deveney had told him was true, well, Mr. Dunford worried far too much about this war. Often he was sorry for the man, and was glad he was sorry, watching him pace up and down, watching his face looking sad, or very worried, but nobody could do anything. You had to live your own way, simply because you were your own self, separate from anybody else. He liked all those men who had gone ashore on rafts, in boats, on monitors, and those swimming, and he hoped they got ashore all right. But beyond that one could not go. One couldn't keep on looking in the one direction all the time. You had to look the way you yourself were going, and had to go because you were a person going your own way, belonging to nobody but yourself, and our road was much longer than Mr. Dunford's or Mr. Deveney's. You had to do all this because your name was Ericson, and you were twenty-five years of age, and your girl's name was Else.

  The string dropped from Ericson's hand. Now he looked to port, noting Walters's broad back, Mr. Dunford's hat at an unusual angle for Mr. Dunford. And they were still talking about that steward. Still talking. A man hung, and the thing was done. But the air was full of it, and everybody talked of that thing, so that the man was something he could never have been whilst living. Important. Marvel the name was, he didn't know the age. Believed he was married with one or two children. And they went on talking about him, and he knew Mr. Dunford and Mr. Deveney were married and he understood why they talked so long, looked so serious. Yes, and the funny thing was that Mr. Dunford had not mentioned it to him at all. Even Mr. Walters coming along the bridge; he had caught his eye, but Mr. Walters ignored him. Turn of the head. Just like that. He wasn't anything, not counting. It had nothing to do with him at all. He was Ericson, feeling happy inside and keeping it secret, being twenty-five and in love with Else. So they both ignored him.

  He bent down and picked up the string again. Somehow his mind was full of nothing but bells. Big and little bells, bells clanging warnings, clanging homecoming and joyousness, clanging messages that land was nigh, that they were nearing home. The bells went on ringing inside him. Then telegraph bells, and again the bell from the nest was ringing loudly in his ears. Bells. Bells. What had made him think so suddenly of bells? He was smiling to himself now. He did not look towards the others, besides, both had turned their backs upon him now. They were in deep conclave, ignoring him, mindful of things his mind could not hold. Not yet. When he grew to be like them it would be different. There were the bells ringing again. Or was it Mr. Dunford speaking the word bells? Or was he imagining the whole thing? At that moment Mr. Walters turned round and looked his way. He heard Dunford saying, 'Yes. At six bells, Mr. Walters.'

  'Very good, sir. Six bells.'

  Mr. Walters was getting near him now. Passing him. He looked at him, Ericson. Ericson looked back at him. It meant nothing to him. It meant nothing to Mr. Walters.

  'Are you burying that steward at six bells?' he asked Walters. 'We are, sir,' the chief steward replied. He passed on, leaving Mr. Ericson isolated, just as he was before. Mr. Dunford looked his way. He caught the look. He straightened himself up, took a focus on the skyline, rested his hands on the well-scrubbed rail, thought of Else. He couldn't help it. It didn't matter a bit what happened. He had to think of Else. A.10 was speeding home to England, and England was Else. That was how it was, how it should be, and wars meant no difference to that.

  One was sad when seeing a thing done, looking at men a certain way, but there was no falsity inside one, the heart didn't lie to the rest of one's self. So one was sad seeing blood and dirt, and fine faces greying, but something sung inside one also. One laughed not at a joke, but at the silly things one sometimes did, like the silly things he himself had done on this trip, and that was not false either, and suddenly he was sad, there was no Else to pattern one's mind with bright colours, the song in the heart was stilled, and that was under the bright sun, footing the sullen cliffs, mo
re sullen sea. Watching Bradshaw descend, seeing him stretched out in canvas. His eyes were closed, one hand clenched where he had held the knife, and he saw him from a height, and was looking down, steadily as though he would drink in that look, the long look from the dead face, but Else's hands pulled him back and he didn't see Mr. Bradshaw any more. Remembering was for Mr. Dunford and Deveney, closest to him, and he was not close to him in their way. He was close to Else, to himself, his life. Their roads were together. Others branched off in odd places. Mr. Dunford remembered all that had happened, and it was just something greying inside him. He, Ericson, thought of it that way, but that was a secret to himself. Mr. Dunford was above him, in years, in position. He looked up, Dunford looked down.

  'Your days, at the most five,' he was re-echoing Mr. Dunford's very words. 'Four days, at the most five,' and then he would see her, see Else. He lived because of her, did things, saw things, felt things because of Else. All else was meaningless, aimless and very dark. He began walking up and down, glancing now and again in Mr. Dunford's direction, now in at the quartermaster. But Else was where he looked.

  'Turner, Williams, O'Grady, Vesuvius. All you fellers be on the poop at five bells. Understand me?'

  'We understand you, Bosun,' they called back as one voice.

  They were stood in a group at the end of the fo'c'sle alleyway. The bosun had his head half out of the door of his room. Now, hearing the O.K. from them, he went in again, slammed his door. The four men stood with their hands in their pockets, always talking. Sometimes they turned about as one man, looked at A.10 from fore-well-deck to as far astern as they could see, watched her wake, looked at her as though she were a ship behind them, a ship sailing up to them, where they stood, talking excitedly, whilst in the fo'c'sle others sang:

  'Swing along, old timer, swing along.

  Where's the ship that I could call my own?