Although it all happened in that dim, remote period of time "Before the
War," Torps and the First Lieutenant, the Indiarubber Man (who was the
Lieutenant for Physical Training Duties), the Junior Watchkeeper, and
others who participated, long afterwards referred to it as "The Day."
Since then they have seen their own gunfire sink an enemy's ship as a
well-flung brick disposes of an empty tin on the surface of a pond.
The after twelve-inch guns, astride whose muzzles David and Freckles
once soared to the giddy stars, have hurled instantaneous and awful
death across leagues of the North Sea. The X-ray apparatus, by the
agency of which Cornelius James desired to see right through his own
"tummy," has enabled the Fleet Surgeon to pick fragments of steel out
of tortured bodies, as a conjurer takes things out of a hat. The
after-cabin, that had witnessed so many informal tea-and-muffin
parties, has been an ether-reeking hospital.
Yet these memories grew blurred in time, as mercifully such memories
do. It was another and more fragrant one that sweetened the grim
winter vigil in the North, when every smudge of smoke on the horizon
might have been the herald of Armageddon. They were yet to see men die
by scores in the shambles of a wrecked battery, by hundreds on the
shell-torn decks of a ship that sank, fighting gallantly to the last.
And the recollection of what I am about to relate doubtless supplied
sufficient answer to the question that at such times assails the minds
of men.
Two who helped in that unforgettable good-night scene on the aft-deck
were destined to add their names to the Roll of Britain's Honour. It
is not too much to hope that the echo of children's merriment guided
their footsteps through that dark Valley of the Shadow to the peaks of
Eternal Laughter which lie beyond.
* * * * *
It all started during one of those informal tea-parties the Skipper's
Missus sometimes held in the after-cabin. They were delightful
affairs. You needn't accept the Invitation if you didn't want to;
there was no necessity to put on your best monkey-jacket if you did.
You were just told to "blow in" if you wanted some tea, and then you
made your own toast, and there was China tea, in a big blue-and-white
pot, that scented the whole cabin.
The Skipper's Missus sat by the fire, with her hands linked round her
knees in her habitually graceful and oddly characteristic attitude;
Torps and Jess, those gentle philosophers, occupied the chintz-covered
settee; the A.P. sat on the hearth-rug, cross-legged like a tailor, so
that he could toast and consume the maximum number of muffins with the
minimum amount of exertion; the Junior Watchkeeper, who by his own
admission "went all the bundle on his tea," and the Indiarubber Man,
who was clumsy with a tea-cup, shared the table and a jam-pot, and sat
munching, tranquil-eyed, like a pair of oxen in a stall.
The Captain and the First Lieutenant were rummaging through the drawers
of the knee-hole table in search of an ancient recipe of the former's
for manufacturing varnish of a peculiar excellence wherewith to
beautify the corticene on the aft-deck.
"How are the children?" asked the Torpedo Lieutenant, helping himself
to milk and Jess to a lump of sugar. "Out of quarantine yet?"
"Yes," replied the youthful mother of Georgina, Jane, and Cornelius
James. "At last, poor things! Christmas is such a wretched time to
have measles. No parties, no Christmas-tree----"
The A.P. looked up from the absorbing task of buttering a muffin to his
satisfaction. "D'you remember the Christmas when you all came on
board--wasn't it a rag? I broke my glasses because I was a tiger. I
was that fierce."
"And I was chased by the dockyard police all the way from the Admiral
Superintendent's garden with a young fir-tree under my arm. We had it
for a Christmas-tree in the wardroom. Do you remember?"
They were all old friends, you see, and had served two commissions in
succession with this Captain.
"Isn't it rather hard on the _Chee-si's_?" asked Torps, "being done out
of their parties--no, Jess, three lumps are considered quite enough for
little dogs to consume at one sitting."
The Skipper's Missus looked across the cabin at her husband: "Tim, your
tea's getting cold. Why shouldn't we have a children's party on board
one day next week? It isn't too late, is it?"
"Yes, sir," chimed in the Indiarubber Man. "A _pukka_ children's
party, with wind-sails for them to slither down and a merry-go-round on
the after-capstan?"
The Captain drank his tea thoughtfully; his blue eyes twinkled. "Let
us have a definition of _children_, Standish. I seem to remember a
certain bridesmaid at the Gunnery Lieutenant's wedding of what I
believe is technically called the 'flapper' age----"
"Quite right, sir," cut in the Torpedo Lieutenant. "Our lives were a
misery for weeks afterwards. He burbled about 'shy flowerets' in his
sleep, sir----"
The Indiarubber Man blushed hotly. "Not 't'll, sir. They're talking
rot. She thought I was ninety, and daft at that. They always do," he
added sighing, the sigh of a sore heart that motley traditionally
covers.
"I propose that we have no one older than Georgina or younger than
Cornelius James," suggested the Junior Watchkeeper. "That limits the
ages to between ten and seven, and then I think Standish's susceptible
heart would be out of danger."
"How many children do you propose to turn loose all over the ship?"
inquired the First Lieutenant dourly. "No one seems to have taken my
paint-work into consideration. It's all new this week."
The Skipper's Missus laughed softly. "We were so concerned about Mr.
Standish's heart, Mr. Hornby, that we quite forgot your paint-work.
Couldn't it be all covered up just for this once? Besides, they are
such tiny children . . ."
There are many skippers' missuses, but only one mother of Georgina,
Jane, and Cornelius James.
The First Lieutenant capitulated.
"I vote we don't have any grown-ups, either," contributed the Junior
Watchkeeper, "except ourselves. Mothers and nurses always spoil
children's parties."
The mother of Georgina, Jane, and Cornelius James wrung her hands in
mock dismay. "Oh, but mayn't I come? I promise not to spoil
anything--I love parties so!"
The A.P. rushed in where an angel might have been excused for
faltering. "Glegg means that you don't count as a grown-up at a
children's party," he explained naively, regarding the Skipper's Missus
through his glasses with dog-like devotion.