THE STRENUOUS LIFE.
I.
Twenty-four hours later the _Belligerent_ was at bleak, wind-swept
Portland; and during the next fortnight Martin began to realise what
life in the navy really meant. He fondly imagined that he had been
hard-worked at Portsmouth, but it was mere child's-play compared with
what went on when they were with the squadron.
The anchorage was full of men-of-war. First came seven other
battleships precisely similar to the _Belligerent_ herself, squat,
ponderous-looking vessels, with piled-up superstructures and heavy
gun-turrets which gave them an aspect of strength rather than of speed.
They were commanded by a vice-admiral, who flew his flag in the
_Tremendous_. Next came an independent cruiser squadron of four
sister-ships under the orders of a rear-admiral. They were long, lean
craft, with four funnels like factory chimneys, and raking masts. They
had an ungainly appearance, but looked fast. Then came a couple of
light cruisers, slender, graceful vessels, with beautiful lines. They,
too, had four funnels, and gave the impression that they were fliers,
as indeed they were. Innumerable black destroyers, with another light
cruiser as their flagship, lay in glorified sheep-pens jutting out from
the shore. They were evil-looking craft, and could do their thirty
knots with ease.
But the ships were not always in harbour. Most days of the week they
spent outside the breakwater, indulging in what was officially known as
'aiming rifle practice.' It meant that 1-inch or .303-inch aiming
rifles were placed in all the guns, and that the ship steamed past a
minute target, firing as she went. It kept the gunlayers and guns'
crews proficient, for the weapons were worked, aimed, and fired exactly
as if they had been using their proper ammunition. Unofficially, this
practice was known as _piff_, from the feeble sound of the
reports.
Sometimes the whole battle-squadron went to sea for steam tactics under
the orders of the vice-admiral; while at least one night a week was
spent somewhere out in the Channel without lights, to give the
destroyers practice in making torpedo attacks under war conditions.
It was all very wonderful to Martin; but what impressed him most was
the way in which the entire squadron of eight battleships steamed about
as a whole. Each vessel remained at precisely the same distance from
her next ahead, until it seemed as if they were all joined together by
some invisible string, rather than free units capable of independent
motion and movement. How they managed to achieve this result he could
not imagine. It savoured of necromancy. He did not know until later
that on the bridge of each vessel was a young lieutenant with a
sextant, whose duty it was to measure the angle between the masthead
and the water-line of the next ship ahead. Briefly, if the angle grew
larger it meant that the ship was drawing up on her next ahead; if
smaller, that she was dropping behind; and the revolutions of the
engines were accordingly decreased or increased to get her back into
her correct position. 'Station keeping!'--the officers of watches would
have laughed if they had been asked how they did it. 'My dear chap,
it's as easy as falling off a log. Any fool could do it.' Perhaps he
could; but then there are fools and fools. Some of them are wise fools.
Steam tactics, too, were very impressive. The eight battleships would
be steaming along in two ordered columns of four ships each. A string
of gaily coloured bunting would suddenly appear at the flagship's
masthead, to be repeated by the rear-admiral leading the other line.
Hardly had the flags blown out clear than every other vessel would be
flying a white-and-red 'answering pendant,' meaning 'I have seen and
understood.' The flagship's signal would come down with a rush, and
after a brief interval of suspense every ship would be swinging round
under the influence of her helm. They formed single line ahead, line
abreast, and quarter line, each gray ram cutting the water at precisely
the same distance from the next ahead. Now and then they broke off into
pairs. Sometimes they circled round in succession, each vessel
following dead in the wake of her leader. Occasionally they wheeled,
the pivot ship reducing her speed, the wing ship increasing, and the
intermediate vessels adjusting the revolutions of their engines until
every foremast was exactly in line. They twisted themselves into knots,
and unravelled themselves again. The effect was really rather
wonderful. The squadron seemed to manoeuvre this way and that with
the same ease and flexibility as a company of well-drilled soldiers.
It must be very difficult, Martin concluded; but he wondered vaguely
why the admiral should take it upon himself to act the part of a
glorified drill-sergeant. He did not know that flexibility of movement
and ability to change formation with rapidity and precision are even
more important in a squadron at sea than with a regiment ashore.
The admiral, experienced officer though he was, was merely accustoming
himself to handling his squadron as a compact and organised whole
against the time when he might be called upon to do it with an enemy's
fleet looming up over the horizon. Moreover, no two ships are ever
handled in quite the same way, and he was giving his captains--who,
provided they lived, would be admirals themselves one day--an
opportunity of learning the ways and tricks of their several ships, so
that, when the time came, they should not fail him. Practice makes
perfect, even with such gilded potentates as admirals and captains.
The destroyer attacks after dark, too, were very spectacular. The long
winter nights were usually overcast and very dark, and the squadron
would be steaming without lights; but even then the lynx-eyed young
gentlemen on the bridge would not admit that they had any real
difficulty in keeping station. They were used to it. On such occasions
the men kept their watches, and the lighter guns and the searchlights
were manned exactly as they would be in war. Martin, being an ignorant
new-comer, found himself detailed as a bridge messenger; and there, in
the very nerve-centre of the ship, he had an excellent opportunity of
seeing everything that went on. He never forgot the first destroyer
attack he ever saw.
Looking ahead, he could just see the next ship as an intense black blur
against the lighter darkness of the sky and sea. Astern came another
ponderous mass. The intervals seemed dangerously close, but the officer
of the watch showed no anxiety. On the contrary, he stood at the
standard compass on the upper bridge, using his binoculars every now
and then, and giving occasional muffled orders in a calm voice through
the voice-pipe communicating with the man stationed at the engine-room
revolution telegraph below. Even the captain and the navigator, who
were up there as well, did not seem to be taking things very seriously,
though in reality they both had their weather-eyes very much lifting,
and were using their glasses constantly. They were always on very
friendly terms, and were carrying on an animated conversation about
nothing more important than--golf!
'Well, sir,' Colomb was chuckling, 'if your putting hadn't been so bad
you'd have knocked me endways. You were shocking on the greens.'
'Yes; but you wait till I get used to that new putter of mine,' the
skipper returned, not in the least offended. 'I botched every single
putt, and if I hadn't done that---- Hallo!' he suddenly broke off,
sniffing; 'd'you smell that?'
'That' was a pungent whiff of crude petroleum floating down from
windward, and Captain Spencer knew well enough that it meant the
attacking craft were somewhere fairly close. The greater number of
modern destroyers consume nothing but oil-fuel in their furnaces, and
in a strong wind the reek of its burning can often be smelt for several
miles.
'M'yes. They're pretty close, sir,' Colomb agreed.
'Keep your eyes skinned, officer of the watch,' the captain cautioned,
busy with his own glasses. 'Warn the group officers and guns' crews!'
'Ay, ay, sir,' said the lieutenant, pressing a push by his side, which
caused an alarm-bell to sound at all the anti-torpedo-craft guns
throughout the ship.
For some minutes there was silence, broken only by the humming of the
wind through the rigging and the liquid plop of breaking seas. But all
the time the smell of oil-fuel became gradually stronger; and then,
quite suddenly, the flagship--two ships ahead--switched on a
searchlight. She had seen something!
The powerful blue-white beam flickered out, swung round slightly, and
then fell on a black phantom shape rushing through the water. She was a
destroyer, and came along with the wind and sea dead astern; but even
then sheets of spray were flying over her low decks and bridge.
Martin held his breath.
The moment the attacker was lit up by the ray there came the loud crash
of a gun, and an instant later more searchlights joined the first.
_Boomp! Bang! Boom! Boomp!_ went the guns in an irregular volley, as
the first and second ships in the line got to work. Sharp stabs of red
flame danced in and out of the beams of the lights. The thick smoke of
the blank discharges wreathed and eddied through the rays as it drifted
down the line on the wind; but the destroyers--two of them--still came
on at full speed, pitching and rolling horribly.
They seemed to be about six hundred yards on the starboard bow of the
flagship, travelling down the line of battleships in an opposite
direction to that in which the latter were steaming, and so brilliantly
were they illuminated in the glare that even the figures of the men
crouching on deck round the torpedo-tubes were clearly visible through
glasses. The water was washing knee-deep over their decks as they
rolled, but it was not until they were nearly abeam of the flagship
that a ball of red fire shot up into the air from each of them. This
indicated the moment at which, if it had been the real thing, their
torpedoes would actually have been discharged.
'That pair were sunk all right,' muttered Captain Spencer, watching
them through his glasses as they swept past barely three hundred yards
off. 'They were under fire for quite half-a-minute before they let go
their torpedoes. Poor devils! they're having a pretty rotten time.
Great Scott! just look at that sea!'
The leading destroyer had put her helm over to alter course outwards.
It brought her nearly head on to the sea, and she had shoved her nose
straight into the heart of an advancing wave. It was not really rough,
as seas go, but the speed with which she was travelling caused the mass
to break on board until she seemed literally to be buried in a smother
of gray-white water, while sheets of spray swept high over her
mastheads and funnels. For quite an appreciable time she was hidden,
but then slid back into sight on the crest of a sea, with her twin
propellers revolving wildly in the air, to disappear in the darkness as
suddenly as she had come, with her consort still in close station
behind her.
'Thank the Lord I'm not in a T.B.D.!' muttered the officer of the watch
to the navigator.
Martin shared his feelings.
For the next forty minutes the guns' crews in the battleships were very
busy; for, having sighted the searchlights during the first attack, the
remainder of the flotilla, attracted to the spot like wasps to a
honey-pot, came dashing in from all directions to deliver their
assaults. They came on gallantly, some singly, others in pairs or fours
at a time; and though, naturally enough, the battleships claimed to
have sunk every mother's son of them long before they had had a chance
of getting home with their torpedoes, the destroyers themselves thought
otherwise.
The attacks were over by two A.M., and at this time the weary men at
the guns and searchlights were free to go to their hammocks, the
scattered destroyers were collected by their senior officer, and
attackers and attacked, with navigation lights burning, turned their
bows homeward.
By eight o'clock the battleships had moored in Portland Harbour, and
the destroyers, in a long single line, headed by their light cruiser,
came silently in through the northern entrance on their way to the
pens. Their funnels were caked white with dried salt, but they steamed
past jauntily, showing few traces of their buffeting.
Martin watched them with a new interest, for to him it seemed nothing
short of miraculous how such slender-looking vessels could stand the
weather he had seen them in a few hours before.
'Wot yer lookin' at, Pincher?' asked Billings, stopping on his way to
his mess for breakfast.
'Them,' said Martin, jerking his head in the direction of the
destroyers.
'Them!' said Joshua, rather surprised. 'Wot's up wi' 'em?'
'I wus thinkin' it must be a dawg's life to be aboard one o' 'em. They
looked somethink horful larst night.'
Billings, who had served in a destroyer himself in his young and palmy
days, grinned broadly. 'They ain't so bad,' he murmured. 'You gits a
tanner a day,[8] 'ard lyers in 'em, an' that's a hextry three an' a
tanner a week. It's werry welcome in these 'ere 'ard times.' The old
reprobate smacked his lips longingly, for three-and-six a week meant
many pints of beer.
[8] Men serving in destroyers receive sixpence a day extra
pay. It is known as 'hard-lying money.'
'I reckons they deserves it,' Martin remarked.
'I reckons all matloes deserves double wot they gits,' laughed his
companion. 'But larst night weren't nothin'. You wait till yer sees 'em
in a gale o' wind; then they carries on somethin' horful. Larst night
it weren't blowin' nothin' to speak o'. They 'ad a bit o' a dustin'
p'r'aps, an' got their shirts wet, but that ain't nothin'!'
Martin gasped. He had seen the destroyers plunging about like maddened
racehorses, with water breaking over their decks; but yet Billings
referred to it casually as a 'bit o' a dustin'.' If their behaviour of
last night was nothing out of the ordinary, he prayed his gods he might
never serve in one of them. 'A bit o' a dustin',' indeed! What must
they be like in a gale of wind? It nearly made him seasick to think of
it.
II.
As a start to his seagoing training, Martin found himself put in the
gunnery-training class with eleven other youngsters like himself; and
here, under the expert guidance of Petty Officer Samuel Breech, he was
soon being initiated into the mysteries of squad drill, the rifle and
field exercise, the various parts of a rifle and their uses, gun drill,
the anatomy and interior economy of lighter weapons and machine-guns,
and their ammunition. Much of it he had already learnt before, during
his period of preliminary training at the barracks, and the
instruction, essentially practical, did not overtax his intelligence.
Petty Officer Breech, a fully qualified gunner's mate, was a strict
disciplinarian and something of a martinet. He was a short, burly
little man, with a bull-neck and a rasping voice; and the former,
combined with a closely clipped red beard and a pair of piercing gray
eyes, gave him an air of ferocity which he really did not possess. He
was naturally kind-hearted, and the buxom Mrs Breech could twiddle him
round her little finger. But on board ship he upheld his dignity with
firmness. After long experience with ordinary seamen and their ways, he
had come to the conclusion that the only way of getting them thoroughly
in hand was to frighten them at the start, and to keep them frightened;
so he invariably commenced operations by giving each new class a short
lecture.
'You 'ave joined the navy,' he used to say, glaring fiercely, 'to learn
discipline, an' you've come to me to learn somethin' about gunnery, or
as much of it as I can drive into your thick 'eads. The sooner we
understand each other the better; an' before we start work I warns you
that I'll stand no sauce from the likes o' you, so just bear it in
mind. W'en I gives you an order I expects it to be obeyed at once, an'
at the rush. I don't want no shufflin' about in the ranks, nor
skylarkin' neither,' he added, gazing ferociously at Martin, who was
endeavouring to remove a spot of moisture from the end of his nose
without using a handkerchief.
'I wants to blow me nose,' murmured the culprit, reddening.
'An' I wants no back answers unless I asks you a question,' Breech went
on, wagging an admonitory finger. 'Wen you're standin' at attention you
must keep still, no matter whether a moskeeter's bitin' you 'longside
the ear'ole, or a wild monkey's chewin' your stummick. I wants you to
look like a squad o' Henglish sailors, not a party o' mourners at a
Hirishman's funeral, nor yet a gals' school out for a airin.' It's no
laughin' matter, neither,' he continued, eyeing one of his pupils who
had a suspicion of a smile hovering round the corners of his mouth.
'Wen I makes a joke you can laugh--bu'st if you like; but if I sees you
laughin' w'en I'm not, that's hinsolence, an' you knows wot to expect.'
The smile vanished.
'I'm 'ere to enforce discipline,' the petty officer resumed, 'an'
discipline I'll 'ave. I wants you to be smart, an' if I sees you're
tryin' to learn I'll do my best for you. If I sees any one skylarkin'
or talkin' in the ranks I runs 'im in at once, so don't forget it. To
start with, I'm goin' to teach you the parts o' the rifle; an' w'en you
knows that, we passes on to squad drill with an' without arms.
Squad!--stand easy! This 'ere,' he explained, balancing a Lee-Enfield
in his hand, 'is a magazine rifle, Lee-Enfield, Mark 1 star. Its weight
is a trifle over nine pounds, as you'll find w'en you 'ave to carry it;
an' its length, without the bay'nit, is four foot one an' a narf
inches. This 'ere's the bay'nit, with a blade 'xactly twelve inches
long, an' 'e fixes on to the muzzle o' the rifle, so. The bay'nit is
only sharpened on the outbreak o' 'ostilities, an' is provided for
stickin' your enemy; not, as most sailors thinks it's for, for openin'
corned-beef tins, an' such like. 'Owever, we'll 'ave plenty o' bay'nit
exercise later on.'
It took them a full day and a half to learn the ins and outs of the
rifle; and, having mastered it thoroughly, the class passed on to squad
drill and the rifle and field exercise. The greater number of them
already had some smattering of these, but that fact did not prevent
Petty Officer Breech marching and counter-marching them up and down the
deck as if their very lives depended upon it. He kept up a running
commentary the whole time.
'Squad!--'shun! Stand at--ease! A little more life in it; an' keep still
w'en you're standin' at attention, can't you? Knees straight, 'ead an'
body erect, eyes straight to the front.--'Awkins, you're waggin' your
'ead.--Flannagan, keep your knees straight, an' stand up.--Now then, try
again. Squad!--'shun! Ah, that's more like it now. Number! Form fours!
As you were! A little life in it, please! Form fours! Right turn! Quick
march! Come along, come along, step out smartly with the left foot, an'
take a full pace. Left--left--left--right--left! Mark time! Pick your
feet up! Pick 'em up! Bend the knees! That's more like it! Forward!
About turn! Not a bit like it. Squad!--halt! Left turn! Stand easy!
Look 'ere, now. Wen I says, "About turn!" I don't want you to shuffle
round any'ow. I gives the order "turn" as the left foot comes to the
ground, an' each man turns on 'is own ground in three paces. At the
fourth pace step off with the left foot in this manner.' He marked
time himself, and proceeded to demonstrate how easy it really was.
For a whole week they were hard at it, learning to march, side step,
change step, double, form fours, turn, and change direction. Sometimes,
when one or other of the pupils was called out to drill the class, they
got tied up into inextricable knots, with the rear rank facing the
front, and the men in their wrong places; but after seven hard days
even Breech admitted that he was fairly satisfied with their progress.
Then they spent hours fixing and unfixing bayonets, ordering,
shouldering, sloping, trailing, changing, grounding, and securing arms,
until they were sick of the very sight of a rifle. It was dreary
work--very dreary; and if they showed the least signs of slackness or
inattention they were doubled round the deck until they were ready to
drop from sheer fatigue, or did 'muscle drill' until their biceps
ached.
They saluted mythical officers, varying in rank from the sovereign
himself to second lieutenants and midshipmen, and attended imaginary
funerals as the escort or firing-party. On these occasions Breech
walked solemnly up and down to represent the officer or party to be
saluted, or, in the case of the funerals, the corpse on its
gun-carriage. 'The next time I passes I represents 'is Majesty the King
inspectin' a guard o' honour, mounted at Bucking'am Palace,' or 'Now
I'm a Field-Marshal,' and 'Now I'm a lootenant in the navy,' he would
say, approaching with what he considered the slow and stately gait
befitting his exalted rank. 'Now I represents a regiment o' soldiers
with their colours flyin'.' 'Now I'm the corpse comin' out o' the
mortu-ary.'
The first time he made this last remark it caused the second man from
the left in the rear rank to burst out into a raucous chuckle of
amusement, and in another instant the whole class was tittering.
Breech fixed the culprit with a horny eye. 'There's not nothin' to
laugh at, 'Awkins,' he observed without the ghost of a smile. 'This is
a very sad occasion. You'll be the corpse yourself one day.'
They made pretty good progress on the whole--all except Peter Flannagan,
that is. He was by way of being a 'bird'--a man who is constantly in
trouble--and had already been through the gunnery-training class once,
but had failed in the examination at the end of it. As a result he had
been put back for a further period. He was naturally as obstinate as a
mule, and unusually thick-headed; but, instead of doing his best with
what wits he possessed, he endeavoured to show his superiority by
taking as little trouble as he dared. He was Breech's _bête noire_;
and, if ever anybody was wrong, it was pretty certain to be Flannagan.
But he deserved everything he got, and was very unpopular with the
others.
On one never-to-be-forgotten occasion the petty officer cautioned him
for talking and joking in the ranks whilst at drill. The Irishman, in
some fit of devilment, promptly repeated the offence, and, not content
with that, put out his tongue to show his contempt.
Breech saw it. 'Flannagan,' he thundered in a voice of iron, 'come out
to the front!'
The Irishman came out and stood before him with a sullen scowl.
'You disobeys my order wilfully, an' puts out your tongue,' the petty
officer said. 'Disobedience an' hinsolence. 'Ave you anythin' to say?'
'Nothin', except that I'm fair fed up wi' bein' chased about this 'ere
deck like a dawg.'
'Fed up, are you?' Breech answered, keeping his temper, but with a
dangerous ring in his voice. 'You 'ave the himpertinence to spin me a
yarn like that! If I chooses to take you on the quarterdeck, you gets a
couple o' months in the detention quarters for hinsolence. But you're
long past the stage where punishment'll do you any good. No; I shall
'ave to deal wi' you another way, my lad. I'll see that you're taken
out o' the trainin' class, to start with, an' you comes an' reports
yourself to me at five o'clock this evenin'. Now you takes off your
accoutrements, returns your rifle, an' reports yourself to the capt'n
o' your top. Perhaps 'e'll find some use for you; you're no good to
me.'
Flannagan, rather ashamed of himself, slouched off.
What happened at five o'clock that afternoon the class never
discovered; but the fact remains that Mr Peter Flannagan trod rather
delicately, and had some slight difficulty in sitting down for the next
ten days or so. Rumour had it that Breech, who was a powerful little
man, had armed himself with a singlestick, and had taken the law into
his own hands. Very reprehensible conduct on his part, no doubt, for it
was strictly against the regulations, and might have got him into
trouble if the Irishman had lodged an official complaint. But Breech
knew his victim to a nicety, and was perfectly well aware that he
lacked the necessary courage to make the matter public. He knew,
moreover, that to a man of Flannagan's type a little concentrated
physical pain was far and away a better deterrent than any other form
of punishment. Whatever his method was, it had the desired effect, for
thereafter Ordinary Seaman Peter Flannagan treated Petty Officer Samuel
Breech with a respect which almost amounted to reverence. A strong arm
and a thick stick do sometimes achieve wonders.
Martin and the remainder of the class waxed hilarious over Peter's
downfall. He was not popular. He was a K.H.B.,[9] and they were not
sorry to be rid of his presence.
[9] K.H.B. = King's hard bargain, a term used in connection
with a man who is an undesirable character.
III.
The life, however, was not all work, and Martin found he had a certain
amount of leisure for amusement. He was allowed ashore every alternate
day from four o'clock in the afternoon till ten o'clock at night, and
on Saturdays and Sundays from one-thirty.
The _Belligerent_ ran her own football team--she ran everything,
from a concert-party, a pipe-band, and a tame pig, to a monthly
magazine (written, edited, and produced on board); and Pincher, who had
been rather a shining light as a wing forward in his village team at
home, invariably went ashore to watch the matches.
The squadron always played a football league competition during the
winter, each ship playing every other vessel in turn, and the winner
of the most points at the end of the season holding a challenge
cup--presented by the flag officers and captains--for the ensuing year.
In addition to this, the members of the winning team received personal
prizes in the shape of inscribed silver medallions. The _Belligerent_
had come out top in the league the year before, and the victorious team
had promptly had their photographs taken, with, of course, the
medallions and the cup; and the latter, enshrined in its glass case,
now lived on the fore mess-deck as a tribute to their prowess. They
were very proud of it. They were keen to win again, but rumour had it
that the _Tremendous_, which had been newly commissioned, had a
remarkably good team. Two of them were reported to be county players,
so the 'Belligerents' were rather fearful of their laurels.
Now Martin, small and puny though he was, was fleet of foot and very
tricky with his feet, but he was far too modest to let anybody know it.
He always watched the matches, however, and took an intelligent
interest in the games, and eventually, by dint of being present on many
occasions, found himself installed as a sort of honorary member of the
team in the shape of their recognised touch-judge. He was even
permitted to appear in the photograph which was taken soon after the
ship arrived at Portland. He was in the back row, it is true, and wore
his seaman's clothes instead of a highly coloured shirt, blue shorts,
stockings, and football boots. But he carried a small hand-flag as his
insignia of office, and considered himself no small beer in
consequence. It was an honour to be associated with the team in any
way; and as most of the officers, and practically the whole of the
ship's company who happened to be ashore, made a point of attending the
matches, Martin, running about with his flag, felt he was a--if not
the--centre of attraction. At any rate, he was quite a personage, and
talked about the game to the other ordinary seamen and boys with an air
of great authority.
The scenes of excitement during some of the matches baffled description.
'Play up, Yaller-bellies!' two hundred of the _Belligerent's_ men would
shout in unison. The yellow referred to the canary-coloured shirts
worn by their team, while the other rather inelegant word was the
abbreviated name of the ship.
'Come on, the Cockneys!' or 'the Duffos!' would come the answering roar
from the partisans of the other team, according to whether their ship
hailed from Chatham or Devonport. 'Down wi' the Pompeyites!'
For minutes at a time the repartee bandied to and fro was so vociferous
that the whistle was well-nigh inaudible; but the referee was used to
it. He had an unenviable time in other ways, poor man! for whatever
decision he gave was quite certain to be wrong from the point of view
of fully half the spectators, in spite of the fact that he was a
strictly neutral man from some other ship. 'Foul!' somebody would
bellow, as the whistle blew for a free kick. 'Garn! That ain't no
foul!' was hurled back from the men of the ship against which the
penalty had been given. 'Play the game! Play the game, carn't you?'
'Goal! Well shot! Good old Yaller-bellies!' would come a roar,
accompanied by a shower of caps in the air, as the ball flew past the
white posts into the net. 'That's the style! Knock 'em end-ways!'
'Offside! Offside!' came louder yells from the other side. 'Where's the
referee? What's 'e thinkin' of?' And so it went on.
But the referee, used to the ways of seamen, merely smiled, and paid no
attention whatever to the ribald remarks hurled at his head, personal
as some of them were. He was proof against such attacks, and his
decisions were always fair.
Occasionally there were stormy scenes at the end of the matches; for
when a favourite team had lost, their adherents were sometimes anxious
to take on the partisans of the other side with their fists to discover
which really was the better ship. More than once men returned on board
with black eyes and swollen noses; but actual bloodshed was rare,
though feeling always ran high. More often than not, victors and
vanquished alike repaired to the canteen, and absorbed malt liquor at
each other's expense, the former to celebrate the victory and the
latter to drown their sorrow. They were very keen on the result of the
league matches. The canteen did a roaring trade.
At one of the most important matches a member of the _Belligerent's_
eleven happened to be absent at the time the game was due to start, and
Lieutenant Boyle, who captained the team, was at his wits' end to find
a suitable substitute. 'Have any of you men played this game?' he
asked, going up to a group of seamen belonging to the _Belligerent_ who
had come to watch. 'Parkins hasn't turned up. We want a forward badly.'
Pincher, seizing the opportunity, stepped forward before any one else
had a chance of answering. 'I've played at 'ome, sir,' he said,
reddening at his own temerity. 'I used to be on the right wing.'
Boyle seemed rather surprised. 'You!' he said. 'Can you run? D' you
know how to dribble and shoot?'
'Yessir.'
The officer looked at him for a moment without replying. He seemed
rather doubtful.
''E's orl right, sir,' chipped in Billings, who happened to be present.
''E's pretty nippy on 'is feet. I've seen 'im kickin' the ball abart.'
The lieutenant looked up with a laugh. 'All right, Billings; we'll take
him on your recommendation.--Martin, rush across to the pavilion and
borrow some gear. Hurry up about it; we're late already.'
Pincher, overjoyed and very proud of himself, flew off like the wind,
and presently reappeared clad in full regalia, yellow shirt and all. It
was his first really important match; but he felt he was on his mettle,
and played well, almost brilliantly. At any rate, he shot two goals;
whereat the 'Belligerents' howled themselves hoarse, raised cheers for
'young Pincher,' and wished to treat him with much beer at the end of
the game. It was the first time in his life he had ever received
adulation, and he was a proud man. His play had undoubtedly helped to
win the match.
He was prouder still when Boyle sought him out afterwards. 'You played
excellently, Martin,' he said. 'Why on earth didn't you let us know you
played?'
'Didn't like to, sir.'
The officer laughed. 'I wish you men wouldn't be quite so modest,' he
remarked. 'How d' you expect us to raise a decent team if you all hide
your lights under bushels? You're the very man we've been looking for.'
'I'm sorry, sir,' said Martin sheepishly. 'I didn't know as 'ow I wus
wanted.'
'We didn't know you were a player. However, now we've got you, you will
remain in the team; so look out you keep yourself in decent training. A
pint of beer after each game, and no more, mind. If you come to my
cabin this evening I'll give you your jersey and other gear.' The
lieutenant strolled off to change.
Martin could have jumped for joy. He was a full-fledged 'Yellow-belly'
at last, and would appear before the whole ship's company in all the
glory of a canary-yellow shirt with a large blue 'B' on the left
breast. It was one of the things in this world he had been longing for.
He was no longer a mere excrescence on the face of the earth--a poor,
puny Pincher who was everybody's whipping-boy. On the contrary, he was
a very proud Pincher, for at last he had come into his own. The
_Belligerent_ had some use for him, after all.