WORK AND PLAY.
I.
'Nice sort o' craft, isn't she?' growled the first lieutenant, eyeing
the grimy collier lying alongside. 'Enough to break the heart of a
plaster saint!'
Tickle, the junior watch-keeping lieutenant, nodded in agreement.
'She's broken mine already,' he observed dolefully. 'How on earth we're
going to take in six hundred tons from her the Lord alone knows.'
Chase, the first lieutenant, refilled his pipe. 'I'd like to get hold
of the blighter who charters these colliers,' he mumbled savagely.
'This one doesn't appear to have a winch that'll lift more than
half-a-ton; and as for her hatches--lord! they're only the size of--of
that.' He could think of no suitable simile, so held his hands out a
couple of feet apart.
'You should just see her whips, No. 1,' put in the watch-keeper. 'They
were new in the year one; used by Admiral Noah in the Ark, by the look
of 'em. I tried to lift one of the cross beams in No. 1 hold just now.
Took me about twenty minutes to get the winch to gee to start with.
Then, when I'd gingered it up, and had got the beam in mid-air, the
whip parted, and the whole caboodle came down with a crash. It would
have gone clean through her bottom if there'd been no coal in the
hold.'
'M'yes. I heard the yelling,' observed Chase. 'Any one hurt?'
'No. A silly young ass of an ordinary seaman--chap called Martin, who's
just joined--jolly nearly got it in the neck, but not quite, luckily
for him. It weighed the best part of half-a-ton, and it missed him by
about six inches. He'd have been done in all right if his head had been
in the way.'
'Silly blighter!' said the first lieutenant unsympathetically. 'What
the dooce did he want to get in the way for?'
'Ask me another,' laughed Tickle. 'Some of these O.D.'s keep their eyes
in the back of their head. However, this chap seems a bit better than
some of 'em, though that's not saying much. He had the fright of his
life, though, and won't do it again, I'll bet.'
The first lieutenant snorted.
S.S. _Ben Macdhui_ certainly deserved all the strictures passed upon
her by both officers. She was no chicken, merely a nine-and-a-half
knot, pot-bellied monstrosity of a tramp built in the early 'eighties,
which, by inadvertence on somebody's part, or through a shortage of
more suitable craft, had temporarily been chartered as an Admiralty
collier. She belonged to a small company who appeared to earn their
dividends by buying all the old crocks of ships they could lay their
hands upon, and then running them on the cheap, for all her gear and
fittings were as elderly and unsafe as herself. Her middle-aged winches
wheezed cheerfully, and vomited forth jets of steam, scalding water,
and gouts of oil when they could be persuaded to revolve. Her derricks
groaned and sagged perilously when they lifted half their proper load;
while the less said about her coaling-whips--supposed to be brand-new
two-and-a-half-inch steel wire of the best quality--the better. The
officers and men were thoroughly in keeping with their ship. The
former, according to their own account, had all seen better days; while
the latter, bleary-eyed and stiff in the joints, looked more like a
party of workhouse inmates than the crew of a British merchant ship. A
more decrepit and ancient set of mariners it would be impossible to
find. They all had bald heads, several were grandfathers with flowing
white whiskers--when they washed; but then, of course, Messrs Catchem &
Flintskin preferred men of experience to mere scatter-brained
youngsters. They were more reliable, they said; but they also got them
cheaper, and their appetites were smaller.
The 'Belligerents' swore lustily when the venerable _Ben Macdhui_
secured alongside. The commander shared their feelings; while the first
lieutenant--who was in general charge of the collier during
coaling--nearly wept, and retired to the wardroom to seek liquid
consolation. The lieutenants in charge of the holds, who would have to
bear the brunt of the whole business if the coal did not come in at its
usual rate, cursed long and loud. They were all justified, poor souls,
for a bad collier may mean a long coaling; and a long coaling in the
winter is the 'perishin' limit,' as some one put it.
The collier came alongside before dark, and that evening new whips were
rove, derricks were rigged and topped, bags and shovels were brought up
from the dim recesses of the _Belligerent's_ bowels and distributed
among the holds, the battleship's deck was brushed over with a moist
mixture of sand and lime to prevent the coal-dust from soaking in, and
all paintwork on the upper deck was swathed in canvas for the same
reason.
Martin, as Lieutenant Tickle has already explained, had nearly lost the
number of his mess when assisting in the collier. He thought his narrow
escape was deserving of a certain amount of sympathy, but precious
little he got. He was bluntly called a '---- young fool,' and asked
'why the ---- he wanted to get his ---- head in the way.' Even his
messmates laughed at him, for to all bluejackets a miss is as good as a
mile. In the course of their careers, even in time of peace, they look
death in the face so often as to be utterly unmindful of narrow
squeaks. Their calling is essentially a risky one, and to become inured
to danger is part and parcel of their training. If a man has a close
shave he is chaffed unmercifully; if he is killed, his shipmates
express their sympathy, shrug their shoulders, attend the funeral with
tears in their eyes and a glass case of wax flowers in their hands, and
subscribe their shillings and pennies toward providing for the widow
and children. It is all in the day's work.
Punctually at five-thirty the next morning, while it was yet dark, the
boatswain's mates were piping, 'Clear lower deck! 'Ands fall in for
coaling ship!' and officers and men, clad in the oldest and grimiest of
garments, repaired to the quarterdeck. Coaling ship was always a 'clear
lower deck' evolution, and nobody was excused except a few privileged
officers and men.
On the quarterdeck was the commander; and presently, when the men had
been reported present, he gave them a few words.
'Men,' he said, 'we've got a bad collier this time, just about the
worst thing in colliers I've ever seen. We have six hundred tons to
take in, so let's see if we can't make an evolution of it. We've been a
pretty good ship for coaling up to date, remember, so don't let us
spoil our good record now. Coal ship!'
The groups of men scattered and fled to their several stations. The
forecastlemen, foretopmen, maintopmen, and quarterdeckmen repaired to
their respective holds in the collier, where they were divided up into
gangs of five for shovelling the coal into the two-hundredweight bags,
which were hoisted on board ten at a time. The 'dumping-ground
parties,' composed principally of artisan ratings like the carpenter's
mates, shipwrights, plumbers, and blacksmiths, were sent to the places
on the battleship's deck where the hoists would presently be coming in.
Their duty was to unhook and unstrap the bags as they arrived, and to
place them on the barrows, which were then trundled to the various
bunker-openings in the deck by the Royal Marines. Here the bags were
seized by the 'tippers,' and their contents emptied down the shoots
into the bunkers below, where they were stowed by the stokers doing
duty as 'trimmers.' The empty bags were collected by a number of
ordinary seamen and boys, who returned them to the holds in the
collier; and woe betide these youths if the men digging in the holds
were delayed through a shortage of empties!
Practically all the officers coaled with their men. The commander was
in general charge of the whole operation, while the first lieutenant
exercised supervision in the collier. The lieutenants and midshipmen of
divisions worked with their men in the holds; while Vernon Hatherley,
the lieutenant-commander (T.), clad in an ancient Panamá hat and a suit
of indescribable overalls, acted the part of traffic manager on the
upper deck. He had the assistance of a couple of midshipmen, and among
them they organised the movement of barrows between the dumping-grounds
and the bunker-openings, so that no two streams moving in opposite
directions should come into sudden and violent contact, and so cause a
congestion in the traffic. The captain of marines, Hannibal Chance,
supervised his barrow-men, and, assisted by the sergeant-major,
exhorted them when they became languid. Nearly every other officer in
the ship, save only the fleet surgeon, the fleet paymaster, the
surgeon, and the assistant-paymasters, was in charge of something or
other. The lieutenant-commander (N.), Christopher Colomb, otherwise the
navigator, kept the 'day on' as officer of the watch; while even the
chaplain, the Reverend Stephen Holiman, set an example by shedding his
clerical garments and trundling a barrow. The men loved seeing Holy Joe
'sweatin' hisself,' as they put it; but, for all that, they voted him a
good fellow, and he was immensely popular on the lower deck.
Martin found himself detailed as a member of one of the gangs of
diggers in the forecastlemen's hold. The work of shovelling the coal
into bags was back-breaking, for no two consecutive shovelfuls were
exactly the same weight; in addition, he found it extremely difficult
to keep his footing. The confined space reeked of coal-dust, and before
long he and his companions were jet-black from head to foot. He
breathed the fine powder down into his lungs. He perspired profusely.
His back, shoulders, arms, and thighs ached with the strain; but he was
game, and managed to struggle on somehow. Five other gangs were at work
besides his own. Each one was responsible for a hoist of ten bags, and
had to have them filled and strapped together by the time the whip was
ready to hoist them. They occasionally had a few minutes' rest between
the hoists, but otherwise the work went on continuously; and it was a
point of honour that the whip, which visited all the gangs in rotation,
should not be kept waiting. If there was any undue delay in hooking on,
there were loud shouts from above, and angry, nautical exhortations
from the lieutenant, midshipmen, and petty officers working in the
hold.
It was sultry work, very sultry, though it was winter. The dust was so
thick that the powerful arc lights could only be seen in a blurred
glare across the hold. Jet-black figures whirled in and out of the
murky cloud like demons on the brink of the nethermost pit. Shouts of
'Stand from under!' and empty bags came from the deck above; and every
now and then there came a shrill screech on a whistle, a frenzied shout
of 'Mind your backs! Stand clear!' a frantic clattering from the
long-suffering winch, and a hoist would go hurtling, swinging, and
banging across the hold as the wire whip strained and tautened out. The
labouring men would spring aside to get clear, for a ton of coal in the
small of the back will send a twelve-stone man flying, and may cause
him serious injury. But still the work went on without a stop, and
hoist after hoist left the hold, disappeared in the darkness above,
swung through space, and finally landed with a thud and more shouts on
the battleship's deck.
The _Ben Macdhui_ was certainly a bad collier. Twice during the first
hour did two of her winches break down, and each time they caused a
delay of fully twenty minutes. Another time a block on the head of a
derrick carried away, and the suspended hoist fell back into the hold
with a crash, knocking over two men. They were not seriously hurt, and
picked themselves up with many full-blooded sea oaths, to resume their
work as if nothing had happened.
The 'Belligerents' prided themselves on their coaling. With a good
collier they had been known to average one hundred and seventy-seven
tons per hour; but this time they had only embarked one hundred and
ninety-eight by eight o'clock, at which time there came half-an-hour's
respite for breakfast. They had been at it since about five-forty (two
hours twenty minutes), and the commander was not at all pleased. But
even he realised that it was not the fault of the men. 'Bad!' he
growled. 'Damned bad! We're only averaging eighty-four point eight an
hour. What can one do with a collier like this?'
During breakfast-time, wardroom, gunroom, and mess-decks were invaded
by hordes of black-faced demons, ravenous and clamouring for food. Some
of the more fastidious among them had washed their hands and had
cleared a circle of grime from about their mouths; but time was short,
and most of them had not troubled to do even this. Officers' messes,
cabins, and mess-decks were pervaded with the strange, penetrating
smell of coal. The dust hung and lodged everywhere, and even the
porridge, eggs and bacon, and milk were covered with films of black
powder. But what did it matter? They were hungry, and the food tasted
just as good, dust or no dust.
At eight-thirty work was resumed, and the ship's company, rejuvenated
by breakfast, set to with redoubled energy. The _Belligerent's_ once
white deck was covered with black dust, caked by the wheels of the
barrows. Officers and men alike were black from head to foot; but still
the hoists crashed in, still the barrows flew round the deck, and still
the coal went tumbling down the shoots into the bunkers. On the after
shelter-deck the bandsmen were doing their share of the work by braying
out the latest music-hall songs; but even their strident and not very
tuneful efforts could only be heard at intervals in the clatter of the
winches and the hollow rumble of the barrows.
The best hour's work was done between ten and eleven, when one hundred
and twenty-four tons were taken in, and shortly before noon the full
six hundred had been embarked. The bugle sounded the 'Cease firing,'
the last hoists of empty bags and shovels came clattering inboard from
the collier with throaty cheers from the tired men, and swarms of
bluejackets set about lowering the derricks and unrigging the gear.
Soon afterwards, when the _Ben Macdhui's_ chief engineer had raised
sufficient steam in his tin-pot boiler to revolve the engines, and when
the ancient crew could be induced to bestir themselves, the collier let
go her wires and waddled off. The 'Belligerents' cheered and waved
ironical farewells as she departed. They were heartily glad to see the
last of her.
'Gosh!' muttered Martin, with a heartfelt sigh, as he watched her go
from the forecastle, 'I ain't sorry that job's done!' His back ached,
and he felt very weary. He also wanted his dinner.
Able Seaman Billings heard his remark and smiled. 'Garn!' he jeered
good-naturedly; 'this 'ere coalin' ain't bin nothin', only six 'undred
ton. You wait till we joins up wi' the fleet, me lad, w'en we coals
once a fortnight reg'lar.'
It was quite true, as Martin afterwards discovered.
That afternoon, armed with the hose, scrubbers, and soap, they set
about cleaning the ship, themselves, and their clothes. Coal-dust
seemed to be everywhere; it had lodged in every nook and cranny, but by
dark most of it was removed and the battleship was looking more or less
like her old self. So ended Martin's first experience of 'coaling
ship,' an evolution which subsequently was carried out with such
frequency that it became a mere incident.
The next day they took in ammunition and explosives enough to send a
whole squadron of Dreadnoughts to the bottom. Innocent-looking lighters
and barges, crammed to the hatches with shell for the twelve-inch,
six-inch, and smaller guns; cases of cordite-cartridges; boxes
containing the copper war-heads for the torpedoes, filled with
gun-cotton; small-arm ammunition; gun-cotton charges in cylindrical
red-painted cases, and detonators, came alongside in the early morning
while it was yet dark.
Soon after eight o'clock the work began. It was preferable to coaling,
as it was cleaner; but the labour was very strenuous. There were three
lighters on each side, and each had its own party of men employed in
hooking on the projectiles and metal cordite-cases, which were then
hoisted on board by the battleship's winches. Other men on deck with
barrows transported the shell and cases as they arrived to square
hatches in different parts of the deck, through which they were lowered
to the magazines and shell-rooms in the bowels of the ship, to be
stowed in their proper racks, bays, and compartments.
The great eight hundred and fifty pound projectiles for the twelve-inch
guns dwarfed all the others, and they were slung inboard singly on
account of their weight. The hundred-pound shell for the six-inch guns
came in in canvas bags a couple at a time, while the lighter
projectiles for the smaller weapons were hoisted in consignments.
Such a variety of shell there was! Some had bright-yellow bodies with
red bands round their middles, and sundry stencil-marks on their sides
denoting the date and place of manufacture, date of filling with
explosive, and other purely personal details. These were the lyddite
high-explosive shell Martin had often heard about; and he was informed,
by an A.B. who was lowering them below as if they had been mere sacks
of potatoes, that they burst into thousands of minute fragments on
impact, and that they were designed primarily for use as man-killing
projectiles against the unarmoured portions of an enemy's ship. Then
there were the common shell with black-painted bodies and red-and-white
bands round their noses. They, too, were deadly in their way, but not
quite so deadly as the lyddite, since they were filled only with black
powder, and did not burst so violently on striking. The armour-piercers
were also black, and had white-red-white bands round their heads. They,
Martin was told, had very thick walls and specially toughened points,
and were designed to bore their way through an enemy's armoured sides
and to burst inside. Then came the shrapnel shell for the lighter guns,
with their red tips and red bands; they were provided with a small
bursting charge, were filled with bullets, and had time-fuses, so that
they could be burst in the air at any moment, to send their leaden
bullets flying on over a cone-shaped region of destruction. The
practice projectiles were black, with yellow bands round their middles
and white tips. They were quite harmless, being made of cast-iron, with
small quantities of salt inside to bring them up to the exact weight.
It was quite six o'clock in the evening by the time the ammunition had
all been taken in, and even then there were many hours' work in stowing
the shell, cordite, and explosives in their several shellrooms and
magazines.
The next morning, at cock-crow, they started another very similar job,
taking in slops and stores of provisions from the victualling yard.
This time the deck was littered with bundles of clothing done up in
sacking, bags of flour, boxes and cases containing boots, shoes, straw
hats, caps, biscuits, condensed milk, tea, coffee, chocolate, jam,
preserved meat, tinned salmon and rabbit, mustard, pepper, salt,
raisins, rice, dried beans and peas, pickles, suet, compressed
vegetables, oatmeal, split peas, celery-seed for flavouring pea-soup,
soap, and tobacco. There were also casks or drums of rum, vinegar, and
sugar. The total consignment ran into well over a hundred tons dead
weight, and all the hundred and one different articles had to be
hoisted on board, sorted out, transported, and stowed in their proper
storerooms.
The ship's steward and his assistant 'dusty boys' had a very busy day.
Quite early in the proceedings a flour-bag burst like a shell and
deluged the steward with its contents. He was powdered from head to
foot, and remained so for the rest of the day; and the little runnels
of perspiration running down his whitened face made a strange
criss-cross pattern which transformed his ordinarily rubicund
countenance into a very fair representation of a map of the planet
Mars, with all the canals clearly marked. His appearance caused titters
of amusement and howls of derisive merriment when his back was turned,
as, armed with an enormous note-book and a sheaf of coloured pencils,
he flitted in and out of the piles of boxes and packing-cases like a
lost soul. He was endeavouring to trace odd cases of raisins, or errant
boxes of jam or pickles, and looked very worried, poor man! At any
rate, it was hardly safe to talk to him, for finding the mislaid things
among the heaps of barrels, drums, cases, and boxes, which covered the
deck in places to a height of fully five feet, was for the time being
rather like searching for a pebble on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.
II.
The _Belligerent_ was a 'Pompey'[7] ship. Many of her officers and men
had their homes in or near the port, so the 'funny party'--otherwise
the ship's concert troupe--prevailed upon the first lieutenant, their
honorary president, to petition the commander for permission to give a
farewell entertainment on board the evening before they sailed to
rejoin the squadron.
[7] 'Pompey' is the naval slang term for Portsmouth.
The commander, with visions of endless trouble in rigging a stage for
the performance, and the sacred quarterdeck being littered with
cigarette-ends, banana-skins, and orange-peel, was not altogether
pleased at the prospect. 'They want to give a show!' he said, in
surprise, when the first lieutenant mooted the subject. 'Great Scott!
they must be mad. It's mid-winter. Suppose it's raining or blowing a
gale o' wind?'
'Yes, sir. I pointed that out to them,' answered No. 1. 'I quite
realise there are serious objections. They're so jolly keen on it,
though, that I couldn't choke 'em off.'
'And they propose that we shall bring all the guests off in our boats,
eh?'
Chase nodded. 'They do, sir,' he said. 'But I'll take the management of
all that off your hands if you'll let me. They want the show to start
at eight o'clock.'
'The devil they do!' laughed the commander, beginning to relent.
'You'll have to cut the encores, though. It'll have to be over by
ten-fifteen at the latest. We're sailing the next morning.'
'I'll see to that, sir.'
'Are the officers and their wives to be asked?' the commander wanted to
know.
'Oh yes, sir. They specially mentioned that.'
'Well, for goodness' sake censor the programme. Last time we gave a
show and had ladies on board, one of the songs was altogether
too--er--spicy. I can't remember who sang it, but one of the captain's
guests was very much shocked. For heaven's sake make certain it doesn't
occur again!'
'Yes, I'll do that, sir,' smiled No. 1, with vivid recollections of the
incident.
'All right. I'll ask the captain, then. I don't expect he'll object.
You'd better tell me beforehand how many boats you want to bring the
people off, and I'll leave all the rest in your hands.'
'Thank you, sir.'
The captain raised no objections; and on the afternoon of the
entertainment the carpenter and his men, assisted by the members of the
'funny party' and many willing volunteers, set about preparing the
quarterdeck. The day, luckily, was fine, but bitterly cold. A temporary
stage, built up of planks placed upon biscuit-boxes, was rigged right
aft athwartships. It was provided with the necessary scenery painted on
board, was decorated with flags and coloured bunting, and was flanked
by a brightly polished twelve-pounder gun and a Maxim on their
field-carriages. The awning overhead was shrouded in enormous foreign
ensigns, while canvas side-curtains were laced all round the
quarterdeck to keep off the wind. Seating accommodation for several
hundred people was provided by bringing all the available stools from
the mess-decks, and placing them in rows on the deck and the top of the
after-barbette with its two 12-inch guns. The first two rows of stalls,
so to speak, were reserved for the officers, and consisted of
arm-chairs and other chairs borrowed at the last moment from the
officers' cabins and messes.
By seven-forty-five the preparations were complete, and the guests were
beginning to arrive. As they stepped over the gangway they were claimed
by their respective hosts, presented with printed programmes, and
conducted to seats. By seven-fifty-five the last boats had come off,
and the quarterdeck was tightly packed with men and their female
belongings. They were all very much on their best behaviour, talked in
hushed, expectant whispers, and spent the time criticising their
neighbours and admiring the drop-scene.
The drop-scene was a truly terrific representation of the _Belligerent_
in action. It had been painted on board, and the artist had allowed his
colours to run riot. The sea, well covered with shell-splashes, was
very, very blue, and so was the sky. The ship herself, with flaunting
White Ensigns hoisted everywhere, was fiercely blazing away with every
gun at some invisible enemy over the horizon. Here and there the blue
expanse of sky was punctuated with large yellow and white blotches.
Whether or not they represented clouds, the bursting of hostile shell,
or cordite smoke, nobody but the artist could say. They did equally
well for any one of them. At the bottom was an elaborate scroll, royal
blue in colour, inscribed with the battle honours of previous
_Belligerents_ in gold letters; while in the centre came the ship's
crest and motto, '_Ut Veniant Omnes_' the Latin equivalent of 'Let
'em all come!'
Before long the guests thawed a little, and the place began to hum like
a beehive. The ladies produced chocolate and other edibles from
handbags, and thrust them on their neighbours in token of friendship.
The men lit pipes and cigarettes until the air was blue with
tobacco-smoke. Martin, with several other youngsters, had installed
himself in an excellent position on the top of the after-turret, and
waited anxiously for the performance to start.
The chattering ceased as the orchestra filed out from the wings and
took their places behind a zareba of bunting-covered biscuit-boxes and
hired palms erected in front of the stage. They all wore their best
tunics, had their hair well parted and greased, and seemed very full of
their own importance. They concealed themselves behind their barricade
until only the tops of their heads were visible, leaving the bandmaster
perched precariously on a chair set on a couple of rather insecure
boxes. He wore a brand-new pair of white gloves in honour of the
occasion, twirled his moustache, and tried hard not to look
self-conscious.
'Swanker!' came a loud and very raucous remark from the top of the
after-turret. Martin, greatly daring, but carried away by the
excitement of the moment, had been responsible for the utterance. He
looked round apprehensively, half-expecting to get into trouble for his
temerity; but every one seemed quite pleased. The audience was actually
tittering. The titter became a laugh, and the laugh a roar of delighted
amusement. The bandmaster, with his back to the gathering, seemed
rather agitated. He half-turned on his chair, thought better of it when
it gave a dangerous wobble, and then pretended he had not heard.
The culprit, undiscovered save by his immediate neighbours, hugged
himself at the success of his sally.
A minute later, when the band began to tune up for the overture, the
first lieutenant appeared from one of the after-hatches. He had the
reputation of being a 'taut hand;' but the men loved him dearly, and
his arrival was the signal for a volley of cheers and hand-claps. He
faced the audience nervously, bowed and smiled, and then, watch in
hand, walked across to the bandmaster and held a whispered
conversation.
Other officers came up the after-hatches and filed into their places.
They were greeted with round after round of applause, as, very red in
the face and very uncomfortable, they settled down in their seats. The
_Belligerent_ was notoriously a happy ship, and on occasions of this
kind her ship's company were not slow in showing their appreciation for
their officers.
The captain had been having a dinner-party in his cabin for some of the
married officers and their wives; and he, the commander, the
engineer-commander, the fleet surgeon, Hatherley, and Tickle, with
their respective wives, arrived last. They, too, received their share
of cheers while taking their seats. The captain, however, remained
standing, and held up his hand for silence.
'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said when the uproar had subsided, 'I am
very glad to see you all here to-night, and I hope you will enjoy the
entertainment. The first lieutenant asked me to sing you a song myself,
but I'm afraid I'm getting too old for that sort'----
Loud cries of 'No, no!' and more cheering.
'I am,' he continued, laughing, 'though you may not believe it. What I
want to tell you is that I have arranged for light refreshments to be
served in the battery during the interval, so I hope you will
all--er--do full justice to them.'
Loud cheers, during which Captain Spencer sat down and nodded to the
first lieutenant for the entertainment to begin.
The latter rose from his chair and glanced at his programme. 'Ladies
and gentlemen,' he said, 'the first item on the list is a selection by
the band. It is called--er--"Down Channel," and has been specially
composed for the occasion by Mr Johnson, the bandmaster.' He sat down
again.
The bandmaster rapped twice with his baton, and with a rattle of drums
the music began. The selection was a strange pot-pourri of every
nautical song that Mr Johnson had ever heard. It started off with a
variation of 'Hearts of Oak,' wandered into 'The Bay of Biscay,' 'Tom
Bowling,' 'They all love Jack,' and several other tunes, ancient and
modern, and finished off with 'The Red, White, and Blue' and 'Rule
Britannia.' It was hardly original, but it was received with vociferous
applause. The bandmaster, highly satisfied, turned and bowed his
acknowledgments with great dignity.
'The next item on the programme,' said the first lieutenant, rising to
his feet again, 'is a comic song entitled "Archibald," by Stoker
Williams.'
The footlights were turned on, and the curtain went up to disclose
Stoker Williams dressed in the height of fashion. He wore a morning
coat, gray trousers, patent-leather boots and spats, eyeglass,
immaculate shirt, collar, and tie. He represented, it would seem, a
young man about town looking for a friend named Archibald. Presumably
he had some difficulty in finding him, for he walked mincingly across
the stage, grasping a cane and a pair of gloves in one horny hand, and
in the other a very glossy top-hat, which he twirled violently when the
spirit moved him. The first lieutenant fidgeted uneasily. The hat, a
brand-new Lincoln & Bennett, belonged to him. So did the clothes. The
chorus of the song went something like this:
Har-ar-chibald! Har-ar-chibald!
Son of a belted hearl.
Har-ar-chibald! Har-ar-chibald!
I'll bet 'e's mashin' 'is girl.
'E promised to meet me at 'arf-past three;
But 'e's such a nut that 'e's gone on the spree,
With 'is girls, girls, girls.
(_Spoken_) 'Har-ar-chibald! where are you?'
The words were not conspicuous for their wit or cleverness, but the
tune went with a swing, and the audience, highly appreciative, rocked
with laughter; and after the performer's 'Now all together, please,' at
the end of the first verse, joined in the inane chorus until the roar
of 'Har-ar-chibald! where are you?' could have been heard as far as the
dockyard gates.
The song eventually came to a close with Archibald still missing, and
Stoker Williams, very pleased with himself, left the stage amidst
clapping, cat-calls, and loud cries of 'Encore!' But encores were
barred, and the curtain came down with a crash.
The next turn was by the P.T.I. (Physical Training Instructor). He was
a magnificently built man, and appeared, despite the weather, clad in
flesh-coloured tights, sandals, and an imitation tiger-skin. 'Ladies
and gentlemen,' he said, advancing to the front of the stage and
addressing the audience in the approved music-hall manner, 'with your
kind indulgence I will now introduce a few lifting feats without
apparatus of any kind. After that I shall have pleasure in giving a
display with the Indian clubs. For the first part of my performance I
must ask a member of the audience weighing at least ten stone to join
me on the stage.'
After some hesitation and tittering, the challenge was presently
accepted by Able Seaman M'Sweeny. Tubby, as he was called by his
shipmates, was a short, rotund, and very bulbous person, who was a
source of unfailing amusement to his friends. He had a fat red face
rather like an apple, and a pair of humorous blue eyes; and, being
something of a buffoon, was delighted at the idea of making himself
conspicuous. He pretended to be very nervous, left his seat amid shouts
of laughter and cries of 'Good old Tubby boy!' from the lookers-on, and
presently appeared on the stage with the P.T.I.
'This gentleman informs me that he weighs thirteen stone,' said the
P.T.I., producing a broad strap; 'one hundred and eighty-two pounds. I
first place the strap round him, so'--buckling it round Tubby's
middle--'and will now ask him to lie flat on the deck in the centre of
the stage.'
This was rather more than M'Sweeny had bargained for, for he guessed
what was coming next. But he acquiesced nevertheless, and, turning his
funny face toward the audience with a solemn wink, began to agitate his
arms and legs as if he were swimming.
Martin, on the verge of hysterics, was slowly becoming purple in the
face. He had never seen anything quite so funny in all his life.
'Look at our Tubby boy!' came another loud remark from a youth seated
near him. 'Ain't 'e the limit?'
The P.T.I., seeing that Tubby was getting all the applause, became very
wroth. 'Look here!' he growled in a very audible whisper, 'is this your
turn or is it mine? Knock off playing the fool, can't you!'
The victim, breathing heavily and balanced on his most prominent part,
with the tips of his toes just touching the floor, looked up with a
grin. ''Ere,' he asked loudly, 'w'ere do I come in?'
The audience rocked in their seats, with tears streaming down their
faces.
'Shut your fat head!' whispered the gentleman in the
tiger-skin.--'Ladies and gentlemen,' he went on, producing another
short strap fitted with a stout hook, 'I hook this into the strap
passing round the gentleman's body, so, and shall now carry him round
the stage in my mouth.'
The 'gentleman' seemed distinctly nervous, but it was too late to back
out now.
The band broke into slow music. The P.T.I, bent down, seized the strap
in his mouth, and, bracing himself with his hands on his knees, lifted
M'Sweeny a few inches off the floor. Then, with another heave which
very nearly precipitated his victim and himself into the middle of the
orchestra, he swung his burden waist-high, and staggered slowly round
the stage with his back bowed and his muscles bulging.
Tubby, suspended by his centre of gravity, hung limply, with drops of
perspiration trickling off his face. He was desperately alarmed lest he
should be dropped with a crash, poor man!
The P.T.I., who, judging from his stertorous breathing, had undertaken
more than he had bargained for, tottered once round the stage, and then
went to the side and lowered his prey gently to the floor out of sight
of the audience. At the same time the big drum gave a prearranged and
very resounding crash. The audience laughed themselves hoarse, and
cheered uproariously. After sundry other feats of strength with a long
wooden bar from which depended the limp figures of two Royal Marines,
one ordinary seaman, and one stoker, the performer gave his
club-swinging display with lively music from the band. It was quite
effective, and came to a close with great _éclat_.
The next item was a very doleful sentimental ditty about a lonely
robin. It was sung by an intensely serious A.B., and the bird, it
appeared, was on terms of great intimacy with a lady suffering from an
incurable disease, who was slowly dying in the top back-room of a
cottage. Every morning at breakfast-time the robin appeared on the
window-sill; but on one memorable occasion he came rather late, to find
the undertakers in the house. The shock unnerved him to such an extent
that he died too, poor bird! It was so intensely pathetic that some of
the ladies in the back-rows actually wept. The two rows of officers and
their wives blew their noses and hid their faces in their programmes.
Their shoulders shook visibly, but not with grief.
'The next thing,' said the master of ceremonies--rather perturbed
because the last man had exceeded his appointed time by three
minutes--'is a song called "Slattery's Mounted Foot," by the members of
the troupe.'
The curtain went up to show a man clad more or less as a soldier. He
wore a marine's red tunic, baggy blue trousers with broad yellow
stripes, a cocked hat with an enormous plume, a naval cutlass, and a
pair of leather sea-boots with huge tin spurs. He sang the first verse
of a song amidst much amusement, and then started the rollicking chorus:
Down from the mountains came the squadrons and platoons,
Four-and-twenty fighting men and a couple of stout gossoons.
At the cue 'squadrons and platoons' the Mounted Foot, riding home-made
hobby-horses with flowing manes and tails, galloped on to the stage.
Their appearance was the signal for a volley of shouts and laughter, in
which the music was quite inaudible, and truly they were comical. There
were six others besides the first man, who, it would appear, was
General Slattery himself. They all wore burlesque military uniforms.
One was a hussar, another a lancer, a third a soldier in a British line
regiment, a fourth an Indian cavalryman with lance and turban all
complete, a fifth a cross between a Chasseur d'Afrique and a Chinese
brave, and the last an artilleryman. The _pièce de résistance_ was
the artillery itself, for the last man to arrive led the very unwilling
Nellie, the ship's pet pig, to which was attached a large cardboard
cannon. Headed by their General, they pranced about the stage enjoying
themselves hugely. Their efforts brought the house down, for they quite
succeeded in making fools of themselves, and 'Slattery's Mounted Foot'
was a long way the best event of the evening.
The remaining turns were too numerous to be mentioned in detail. They
included further ditties by the singers of 'Archibald' and 'The Lonely
Robin,' a banjo solo, some really clever conjuring and lightning
sketching by an engine-room artificer, and an absurd sketch, written on
board, called 'The Broker's Man.' The plot of this production, if it
could be called by such a name, can be deduced from the list of
characters:
_Mr Stony-Broke_--an impoverished aristocrat.
_Mrs Stony-Broke_--his wife.
_Miss Gertrude Stony-Broke._
_General Sir Thomas Dammit, K.C.B._--a rich uncle.
_Mr Hardcash_--a hard-hearted landlord.
_Mr Theodore Buggins_--the broker's man.
_Hon. Bertie de Montmorency_--Gertrude's fiancé.
_Giles_--a footman.
Scene--The Stony-Brokes' drawing-room in London.
Time--The present.
The parts of Mrs and Miss Stony-Broke were played by seamen. Mrs
Stony-Broke appeared in black satin and a shawl, and the fair Gertrude
in an evening-dress of pale yellow. Both mother and daughter were very
shapeless, while their home-made wigs, white cotton gloves, bare red
arms, and enormous feet brought tears of joy to the eyes of the
audience. So did the gallant General Sir Thomas Dammit, who, it would
seem, made a habit of wearing his full-dress uniform, cocked hat, and
sword on all occasions.
Mr Hardcash, the villain of the piece, was loudly hissed; while his
emissary, Mr Theodore Buggins, a truly dissolute fellow, became
hilariously intoxicated at Mr Stony-Broke's expense. But everything
ended happily. Gertrude and the Hon. Bertie plighted their troth, and
were duly set up for life with a handsome cheque from Sir Thomas.
The curtain came down amidst scenes of the wildest enthusiasm from the
audience, and the orchestra playing Mendelssohn's 'Wedding March.'
When finally the band played 'God Save the King,' Pincher Martin was
convinced that it was quite the best entertainment he had ever seen.
His shipmates agreed with him.