I HAD never seen a Naval Review. It was to come off on the Saturday, and
this was the Thursday previous. When therefore in answer to a modest
inquiry, I received a wire from Mr. RICHARD ROSSHER, Chairman of the
Great M. & N. Steamship Company, saying, "Come aboard our new boat,
_Regina_, to-morrow, Friday; tickets and instructions by post," I made
up my mind on the spot to accept, if I could return on the Saturday
night, as business of the utmost importance demanded my presence in
London on Sunday morning. What that business was is nobody's business
but mine, so I need not explain. Suffice it to say that to miss a
certain appointment on Sunday morning, would have been fraught with most
disastrous consequences to myself and others.
[Illustration]
I answered ROSSHER'S telegram, "Yes, with pleasure, if you can land me
Saturday night." To which the reply was, "Think it can be managed; try
to come." To this I wired, "Instructions and tickets received. Am
coming." Within two hours I got a message from a Clerk in the M. & N.
Office, City, "ROSSHER on board at Southampton. Too late to wire."
What this was meant to convey I did not understand, but my mind was made
up, and very soon my bag was packed, and I was ready for the start. At
all events, there was the utter novelty to me of being a guest on board
one of the largest vessels afloat in the Indian Merchant Service (I
believe it is the Indian Merchant Service, or, as OLLENDORFF would put
it, "the Service of the Indian Merchant,") with a select party, limited,
I supposed, to about a dozen "jolly companions every one," and in being
taken in and done for _en prince_, _en prince indien_.
"Immensely kind of ROSSHER," I said to myself (and subsequently said it
to him) as I alighted at the Waterloo Station, and proceeded at once to
the wrong platform. I do not remember ever having been to Waterloo
Station without having been to the wrong platform to begin with.
Bag in hand, and coat over arm--the wary sea-dog provides against
probable squalls--I strode to another platform--wrong again. "The M. &
N. Special," I panted to a porter, who was so taken aback by being
appealed to suddenly, that for a few seconds he could only mop his
heated brow and stare at me vaguely. Then after repeating my question
twice, once to me and once to himself, he shook his head as if he were
giving up a conundrum, whereupon to interest him personally in my
proceedings I handed him my bag to carry. This looking like real
business, he showed himself a man of vast resources by stopping an
official in a buttoned-up uniform and a tall chimney-pot hat, and
obtaining the information from him. Across the bridge and then second on
the left. Off we go. Here we are. Board up labelled "M. & N. Special.
_Regina._" A crowd is pouring in at the wicket-gate. Can they all be
going by the M. & N. Special? Yes. I hear the question put, and those
not possessing the proper tickets are sternly rejected. Some are sent
off to another platform where there is another "M. & N. Special" for the
_Italia_.
I present my ticket. It is examined, clipped, and I am passed in. Seeing
a number of people ahead and an empty smoking-carriage close at hand, I
jump into this, stow away my bag, and find myself with a quarter of an
hour to the good. I get out to look about me. Enter Sir PETER PORTLAND
(looking younger than ever, as he always does whenever I meet him) in
decidedly fashionable yachting-costume, cap and all (he once owned a
yacht), carrying a brown-paper parcel. Delighted to see one another. He
secures a seat in my carriage. So does another fellow, name unknown, but
evidently a gallant seaman with a weather-beaten countenance. At the
last moment hurries up Sir THOMAS QUIRCKE, also in full
yachting-costume, cap and all, only not so bright and gay as Sir PETER,
who I observe has on an evening white waistcoat and patent leather
shoes, which combination gives a light and airy and hornpipy appearance
to the wearer, which mere navy blue serge can never convey.
We, including the unknown man in the corner, with the weather-beaten
face--the Knight of the Bronzed Features--congratulate ourselves on
being the guests of the M. & N. Sir PETER produces his card of
invitation. So does Sir THOMAS; so does the Weather-beaten One. I feel
in all my pockets. No. I've left it behind me. Sir PETER, Sir THOMAS,
and the Weather-beaten Stranger eye me suspiciously. There is a lull in
the conversation. I tell my story, and try to interest them. It strikes
me that they don't believe it; but my railway ticket proves my veracity.
They brighten up again, but are evidently still far from clear that they
are not travelling with an impostor.
"I don't see your name on the list," says Sir PETER, scanning a large
card through his glasses.
"What list?" I ask, somewhat disturbed.
"List of guests," replies Sir THOMAS, examining his card.
Weather-beaten Man hasn't got a list; he asks to be allowed to examine
Sir PETER'S. Aha! the Weather-beaten Man's name is not there. Sir THOMAS
and Sir PETER eye _him_ with suspicion now. He explains and tells his
story. If my name had been on the list I should have disbelieved him;
but as it isn't, I only think that his account of being here at all is
not so plausible and clear as my own.
"You've got the number of your berth?" asks Sir THOMAS, looking round at
me doubtfully, as if he were giving me a last chance.
"Berth!" I exclaim. "No, I haven't. You see I only telegraphed----" and
here I am about to repeat my entire explanation, when Sir PETER and Sir
THOMAS cut it short by shaking their heads ominously. "I'm going away on
Saturday night," I say, as if the prospect of my leaving them soon would
soften them a bit.
"Saturday!" returns Sir PETER, with a chuckle. "'Pon my soul I don't see
how you're going to do that." And he smiles derisively.
"No one goes on shore till Monday," observes Sir THOMAS, with decision.
"Certainly not," says the Weather-beaten Man, who is not on the list,
turning against me; "and, for my part, I don't care how long I stay in
such good quarters."
After this there is an uncomfortable silence. Sir THOMAS says there are
two hundred and fifty guests. Heavens! and I had thought it was a small
and select party of genial bachelors! We read our papers, the
Weather-beaten Man in his corner, I in mine. Sir PETER and Sir THOMAS
smoke, and then both fall asleep. Waking up, they fall to conversing
about a trip they have already had on the _Regina_, comparing notes of
comfort and so forth. I'm out of it. So is the Weather-beaten Stranger.
I begin to wish I hadn't come, or, at all events, that I had brought my
invitation card as proof of my identity, and a verification of my
statement. Wish, too, I'd brought ROSSHER'S telegram. No good wishing. I
haven't. I'm not there yet; but what frightens me is, that as there are
two hundred and fifty passengers, if I am the only one who wants to go
on shore on Saturday night, they will never upset all the arrangements
for the sake of sending me off in a launch or a gig, or whatever they
have in use. And if I can't return Saturday----However, here I am, and
I'll go through with it.
Southampton, directly alongside of the _Regina_. Magnificent vessel.
Crowd trooping in out of train. Men in uniform at gangway, directing
everyone to go below and get billeted. I join the crowd descending the
companion. As everyone comes to a table where certain M.& N. officials
are standing, each person shows his or her invitation-card, and receives
a number. Then they disappear, some singly, some in couples, as if it
were the Ark, and ROSSHER were NOAH settling it all. Evidently the first
thing necessary is the invitation-card. Ha! there is ROSSHER in the
distance, at the far corner of the table. I wave my hand to him in the
heartiest manner, expressive of my delight at seeing him, and I am
sincerely grateful, for I feel at this moment that ROSSHER is the only
friend I have in this strange world, from which I am liable at any
moment to be summarily ejected, being unable to show my _raison d'etre_
in the shape of the invitation-card.
"Name?" says a sharp man in ordinary civilian's dress, from whom,
judging by his tone and business-like manner, I feel confident I can
expect no mercy. "I haven't got one," I reply, whereat he frowns as if
he didn't mean to stand any nonsense, and I apologise humbly for having
mistaken his question. _I_ thought he was asking for my card. "No," he
says, eying me suspiciously. "Name! Where is it? Down here?" And he
hands me the confounded list, at which I make no pretence of looking,
but cast an appealing look towards ROSSHER, who at that moment, most
fortunately for me, comes up, having finished shaking hands with two
hundred out of the two hundred and fifty arrivals.
"Ah! you here!" he exclaims, with an air of cheery surprise. "That's
capital. Didn't know you were coming."
I am considerably staggered. "Why," I say to him, protesting, "I
telegraphed----"
"Ah!" says ROSSHER in an off-hand way, "then I didn't receive it. You
wait quietly here, and we'll see what can be done for you."
I catch Weather-beaten Stranger's eye. He is waiting, also, with his
back against a cabin-door, most patiently. I meet several friends. I
explain to them all, over and over again, my melancholy story, and while
I do so I stand as near the table as possible, so that the sad tale may
reach some of the officials, and excite them to pity and immediate
action on my behalf. My friends nod at me pleasantly, hope it will come
all right, and leave me, to see after their own comforts. What a
selfish, unsympathetic world this is!
"Hallo!" says a young man, not in naval costume, but evidently an
official of some sort, blithely turning towards me and mentioning my
name inquiringly, which I immediately acknowledge, whereupon he
continues, "I'm delighted to meet you. My name's CRICK." I smile, and
shake his hand warmly, as if congratulating him on his appellation.
"Where's your berth?" Then I have to explain it all over to him. I'm
becoming sick of these explanations. They're asking me for the number of
my berth, as if they wanted an extract from my baptismal-register, or my
marriage-certificate. "Don't know what you'll do," says CRICK, smiling
as if the whole thing were a good joke. And I thought he could help me!
"Where's your dinner-place?" he asks. Good heavens! I don't know--how
should I? Where's _his_ dinner-place? "Oh," he replies, "mine's aft. If
you like to join us, we'll find room. It's very jolly. Not so swell, you
know." No, I don't know, and haven't an idea what he means. But if I
can't get dinner "forward," I'll dine "aft" with pleasure. ROSSHER comes
up.
"All right," he says to CRICK. "Just take this gentleman" (meaning me)
"to the Saloon; there are several spare places." ROSSHER pats me on the
back, encouragingly. Oh, how grateful I am to ROSSHER! CRICK says, "Yes,
Sir," (what is CRICK?) and takes me to the Saloon--beautifully laid out
for two hundred and fifty guests--and finds me a capital place. Why
didn't he do this before? No matter, it's settled now. First bell
sounds. CRICK directs me to the wash-and-brush-up. In ten minutes I have
made my toilette, including opening my bag and getting out a dark serge
for dinner wear, and I walk into the Saloon as the convives are
assembling, with the air of a man who is well within his rights.
_Happy Thought._--I won't ask ROSSHER anything more about berth and
cabin until after dinner. After dinner is always a good-natured,
complaisant time.
Excellent dinner. Amusing company. Chiefly stories about long voyages,
rats and cockroaches. From what I hear I should not like a long voyage
in an old ship. We disperse over the vessel. Music, coffee, cigars, and
conversation. Lovely sight. Still, it will be lovelier if I am quite
certain where I am going to sleep. I find ROSSHER. "Ah!" he cries out,
cheerily, as if he had quite forgotten my particularly sad case, "how
are you getting along? All right? Eh?" And he is just going on to join a
lively party of distinguished visitors when I detain him sharply, as the
Ancient Mariner did the guest, and hold him with my glittering eye.
"How about the berth?" I say, with as little show of anxiety as the
desperate circumstances of the case will permit.
"The berth!" he repeats. "Why, haven't you got a berth yet?"
"No," I return, abjectly, as if I were a poor stowaway, without a friend
to speak up for me. He meditates a moment. What can he be thinking
about? Putting me on shore at once? Getting rid of me politely, as a
sort of Jonah. I await his decision nervously.
"Come to the Purser," he says. I follow him.
The Purser is in his counting-house, counting out his billets. Aha! at
the sight of me he knows what we have come about. "You're all right," he
says to me. "Your berth is No. 273."
"There!" exclaims ROSSHER, triumphantly, exulting in the capabilities of
the M. & N.'s new ship _Regina_. "Now you're fixed up." I am. I could go
on my knees to ROSSHER; I could bless the Steward, Purser, I
mean,--whatever a Purser is,--but I content myself with concealing my
agitation, thanking ROSSHER simply but warmly, and then I follow a black
man dressed in white, who carries my bag to No. 273. A lovely outside
cabin, airy as if it were on deck, with an electric light, and three
empty bunks (I think they are called "bunks,"--but am not certain)
besides mine. How four persons on a long voyage, or a short one, can
live, move, and have their being in this, I don't know; but how _one_
can is evident, and temporarily I am that privileged one. I hope I shall
remain so. I do; and have it all to myself.
Up on deck again. Evening spent happily--chiefly in smoking-room. Turn
in at twelve. Up next morning at 5.30. Awoke by the light, and fresh
breeze. Lovely marble bath--then early coffee. Breakfast _a la
fourchette_, at 9.30. Everything as I had anticipated, _en prince
indien_. Lounge on deck. Newspapers arrive. More lounging. Refreshments.
Chatting. Then luncheon. The Review becomes quite a secondary
consideration. Ships everywhere, bunting and flags all about. Weather
lovely--scene gay. At three what is called "the fun" is to commence. The
"fun" for the coloured seamen in white, consists in their having to
stand in a row on the yards up aloft for about an hour and a half. If
this is nautical etiquette, I'm very glad I'm not one of the coloured
sailors. I suddenly remember that I have to get away. Now begins my
trouble again. I find four other persons to whom getting away is an
absolute necessity, and not one of them knows how he is going to achieve
it, and not one of them likes to broach the subject to ROSSHER. We try
the Captain, a bluff seaman, who replies, with a pleasant sort of
sea-doggishness, that "he is ready to take the ship wherever Mr. ROSSHER
orders him." At present Mr. ROSSHER hasn't issued any orders, but he
(the Captain) thinks he means sailing for Cherbourg to-morrow (Sunday)
early. Cherbourg!! The Purser, on being asked, can't say any more.
For one moment I see ROSSHER. I remind him that he promised to land me.
"Did I?" he says, with an air of quiet astonishment which is most
provoking. "Well, I don't know how I'm going to do it. We'll see--after
the QUEEN has gone." I catch at a first chance, and say, cajolingly, as
if suggesting a plan that he could have adopted long ago if he had only
thought of it--"Couldn't you send us off in a launch or the tender?" I
had ascertained the existence of these two boats in attendance, "After
the fireworks?" ROSSHER looks at me, thunderstruck. He simply says,
"Impossible!" and turns on his heel.
The fact is, when you get out to sea on board a great ship, the visitor
is in the power of the owners of the vessel, who have settled all their
arrangements for the comfort and amusement of two hundred-and-fifty
persons, and if a proposition is made which will interfere with these
laws of nautical Medes and Persians in the smallest degree, it is like
suggesting the slightest possible alteration, _pro tem._, in the solar
system. No help for it. I make up my mind philosophically. If they can't
put me on shore, they can't. It's a serious matter, it's the loss of
thousands, it's misery for a year, perhaps, it's ruin to a family,
but----I shall see the fireworks and illuminations, and have a cruise
to Cherbourg, where I don't particularly wish to go. In the meantime let
us look at the Review. I am temporarily resigned.
_The Review._--Which are the War-vessels? Where is the QUEEN? How silent
it all is. The yards are manned everywhere. Very pretty. Firing and
smoke in distance, hardly any noise, and though there must be cheering
somewhere, yet the wind blows it away from us and we hear scarcely a
sound. Dull. Through the glass we see the QUEEN'S Yacht passing along:
then as the ship swings round we turn and turn, and everybody gets more
or less of a stiff neck. The Band stands ready to play "_God Save the
Queen_," but two hours elapse, and HER MAJESTY is nowhere near us, and
never will be; most of the Band are fast asleep, the violoncello, having
gone off first, is nodding over his instrument. The ladies yearn for
five o'clock tea, and gradually disappear to get it. The party watching
the QUEEN dissolves.
Aha! the Tender! The four separatists are to be put on shore, and to do
this a large party, wishing to see the ships of war, the torpedo-boats,
and gun-boats, will accompany us on the tender. We steam down the line,
we dodge in and out, we see all the ships, and this is the liveliest and
most interesting part of the day's proceedings. Then comes the most
melancholy, when we steam back, and allow the other guests to re-embark
for dinner on board ("Wish you'd stop," says ROSSHER, heartily, and I as
heartily wish I could; so do we all), and then the four separatists,
waving their _adieux_, are conveyed on board the tender to Southsea. In
the crowd I lose the other three. I see no illuminations. I am thankful
for what I have seen, and am content to imagine the rest, which I do as,
in a carriage all to myself, I am taken up to London, stopping only
once--at Guildford--_en route_, and am finally at home by 1.30 A.M.,
when I find the card of invitation of the M. & N. Co. on my desk. It is
over. It is an experience. _Vive la Compagnie!_
* * * * *