THE JOY OF BATTLE
Hughie stepped out of the ferry-boat on to the towpath, which was
crowded with young men hastening to the places where the boats were
moored and young women who would have been much better employed on the
opposite bank.
The punctilious Hughie was looking about for a friendly hedge or other
protection behind which he might decorously slip off the white flannel
trousers which during the afternoon had been veiling the extreme brevity
of his rowing-shorts, when he was tapped on the shoulder. He turned and
found himself faced by a stout clean-shaven man, with eyes that twinkled
cheerfully behind round spectacles. He looked like what he was, a
country parson of the best type, burly, humorous, and shrewd, with
unmistakable traces of the schoolmaster about him.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, with a rather old-fashioned bow, "but
are you Mr. Marrable?"
Hughie admitted the fact.
"Well, I just want to say that I hope you are going Head to-night. You
are to row stroke yourself, I hear."
"Yes."
"Quite right, quite right! It's a desperate thing to change your crew
about between races, but it's our only chance. You could never have
caught them with the man you had last night. He's plucky, but he can't
pick a crew up and take them with him. Have you been out in the new
order?"
"Yes. We had a short spin a couple of hours ago."
"Satisfactory?"
"Yes, very fair."
"That's excellent. Now we shall see a race!"
The speaker turned and walked beside Hughie in the direction of the
Railway Bridge. Hughie wondered who he could be.
"I suppose you are an old member of the College, sir," he said.
"Yes. Haven't been able to come up for fifteen years, though."
"In the crew, perhaps?" continued Hughie, observing his companion's
mighty chest--it had slipped down a little in fifteen years--and
shoulders.
"Yes,"--rather diffidently.
"I thought so. About what year?"
The stranger told him.
Hughie grew interested.
"You must have been in D'Arcy's crew," he said,--"the great D'Arcy. My
father knew him well. _Were_ you?"
"Er--yes."
"My word!" Hughie's eyes blazed at the mention of the name, which,
uttered anywhere along the waterside between Putney Bridge and Henley,
still rouses young oarsmen to respectful dreams of distant emulation and
middle-aged coaches to floods of unreliable reminiscence. "He must have
been a wonder in his time. Did you know him well? What sort of chap was
he?"
"Well--you see--I _am_ D'Arcy," replied the stranger apologetically.
After that he gave Hughie advice about the coming race.
"I have watched the All Saints crew for three nights now," he said.
"They are a fine lot, and beautifully together; but it is my opinion
that they can't last."
"They're a bit too sure of themselves," said Hughie. "Too many Blues in
the boat."
"How many?"
"Four. Seven, Six, Five, and Bow."
"Good! They are probably labouring under the delusion that a boat with
four Blues in it is four times as good as a boat with one Blue in it.
Consequently they haven't trained very hard, especially those two fat
men in the middle of the boat. What about their Stroke?"
"Pretty enough, but a rotter when it comes to the pinch."
"Good again! Well, these fellows have not once been extended during the
races, for you gave them no sort of a run last night. You went to bits
at the start and never quite recovered. However, that will give All
Saints some false confidence, which is just what we want. Now what do
you propose to do to-night? Jump on to their tails at the start?"
"No good," said Hughie. "They are too old birds for that game. Besides,
my crew want very carefully working up to a fast stroke. I can't trust
Six at anything above thirty-four. He'll go on rowing that all day; but
if I quicken up to thirty-six or seven he gets flustered, and forty
sends him clean off his nut after about a minute. No, we must just wear
them down."
"Quite right," said D'Arcy. "If you are within a length at the Railway
Bridge you ought just to do it."
"The difficulty is," said Hughie ruefully, "that the crew are only good
for about one spurt. It's a good spurt, I must say, but if it fails we
are done. They can never slow down to a steady stroke again--especially
Six. So it simply has to be made at the right moment. The difficulty is
to know when."
"Have you got a reliable cox?"
"First-class."
"Can't he tell you?"
"Too much row going on," said Hughie. "The whole College will be on the
towpath to-night."
The Reverend Montague D'Arcy plunged his hand into the tail-pocket of
his clerical frock-coat, and produced therefrom a large-pattern service
revolver.
"Look here," he said. "You would be able to hear this lethal weapon on
the Day of Judgment itself. Will you consent to take your time from me?"
"Rather! Thank you, sir." There was no doubting the sincerity of
Hughie's gratitude.
"Well," continued the clergyman briskly, "I shall wait by the Railway
Bridge, on the Barnwell side, away from the towpath. If you have made
your bump before that you won't want me. Well and good. But I don't
think you _will_ have made it, and I don't advise you to try. For the
first half of the course those All Saints men will match you stroke for
stroke, and if you hustle your heavy man at Six he will probably lose
his head. As you pass under the Railway Bridge quicken slightly--not
more than two strokes a minute, though. I have six shots in this
revolver. When you hear two of them, that will mean that you are getting
within jumping distance and must be ready for the spurt. When you hear
the remaining four in quick succession you must simply swing out and put
the very last ounce of your blood and bones and bodies and souls into
it. And if you catch 'em," concluded the reverend gentleman, "by gad!
I'll dance the Cachuca on the bank!"
By this time they had reached the spot where their
racing-shell--sixty-two feet of flimsy cedar wood--was lying waiting for
them. The rest of the crew, already assembled, were standing about in
the attitudes of profound dejection or forced hilarity which appear to
be the only alternatives of deportment open to men who are suffering
from what is expressively termed "the needle." Some were whistling,
others were yawning, and all were wondering why on earth men took up
rowing as a pastime.
Hughie gathered his Argonauts into a knot, and at his request the
Reverend Montague D'Arcy outlined to them the plan of campaign. Then the
crew embarked, and the stout clergyman assisted the grizzled College
boatman--the only person present whose nerves appeared unaffected by the
prevailing tension--to push their craft clear of the bank, and set them
going on a half-minute dash as a preliminary to their long paddle down
the course to the starting point of the race.
In accordance with a picturesque but peculiar custom they wore in their
straw hats bunches of marigolds and corn-flowers--the College
colours--as an intimation that they had achieved bumps during the
preceding nights; and so bedecked they paddled majestically down the
Long Reach, feeling extremely valorous and looking slightly ridiculous,
to challenge a comparison (in which they were hopelessly outclassed from
the start) with the headgear of the assembled fair in Ditton Paddock.
The method of sending off a bumping race is the refinement of cruelty.
As each boat reaches its starting-post the crews disembark and stand
dismally about, listening to the last exhortations of coaches or
nervously eyeing the crew behind them. Presently an objectionably loud
piece of artillery, situated half-way down the long line of boats, goes
off with a roar. This is called "first gun," and means chiefly that
there will be another in three minutes. The crew mournfully denude
themselves of a few more articles of their already scanty wardrobe,
which they pile upon the shoulders of the perspiring menial whose duty
it is to convey the same to the finishing-post, and crawl one by one
into their places in the boat. Finally, the coxswain coils himself into
his seat and takes both rudder-lines in his left hand, leaving the right
free to grasp the end of the boat's last link with _terra firma_, her
starting-chain. Then the second gun goes, and the crew shudder and know
that in sixty seconds precisely they must start.
The ritual observed during the final minute is complicated in the
extreme, and varies directly with the nervous system of the coach, who
dances upon the bank with a stop-watch in his hand, to time the
ministrations of the College boatman, who stands by with a long
boat-hook ready to prod the vessel into midstream.
"Fifteen seconds gone," says the coach. "Push her out, Ben."
Ben complies, with a maddening but wise deliberation. If the boat is
pushed out too promptly the starting-chain will grow taut and tug the
stern of the boat inwards towards the bank, just when her nose should be
pointing straight upstream. But this elementary truth does not occur to
the frenzied octette in the boat. The gun will go, and bow-side will
find their oar-blades still resting on the towpath. They _know_ it.
"Thirty seconds gone," says the coach. "Paddle on gently, Bow and Two."
His object is to get the full advantage of the length of the chain, but
Bow and Two know better. They are convinced that he merely desires that
they shall be caught at a disadvantage when the gun fires. However, they
paddle on as requested, with a palsied stealthiness that suggests
musical chairs.
"Fifteen seconds left," says the coach. "Are you straight, Cox? Ten more
sec--"
Ah! As usual the chain has drawn tight, and the stern of the boat is
being dragged inwards again.
"Paddle on, Two!" yells the coxswain.
Two gives a couple of frenzied digs; the Dervish with the watch,
accompanied by a ragged and inaccurate chorus all down the bank, chants
"Five, four, three, two--"; there is a terrific roar from the gun; the
coxswain drops the chain; the boatman slips the point of his boat-hook
(which, between ourselves, has been doing the lion's share in keeping
the ship's head straight) from Five's rigger; and they are off.
The Benedictine crew got under way very unostentatiously. Their coach
was actually rowing in the All Saints boat,--and it would be difficult
to select a more glowing testimonial to the sterling sportsmanship of
English rowing,--so the starting operations were wisely left to the
College boatman, who had performed the office for something like half a
century. The flight of time was recorded by Hughie himself, from the
watch which hung on his stretcher beside his right foot. The experienced
Mr. Dishart-Watson kept those too-often fatally intimate acquaintances,
the rudder-lines and starting-chain, tactfully apart, and the St.
Benedict's boat got off the mark with a start that brought her within a
length of All Saints during the first half-minute.
After that their opponents drew away. As D'Arcy had said, they were a
seasoned crew, and nothing short of sheer superiority would wear them
down. The two boats swung round Grassy Corner and entered the Plough
Reach about their distance apart. All Saints were rowing the faster
stroke.
Hughie, who was keeping to a steady thirty-two, felt with satisfaction
that the men behind him were well together. Number Seven, small but
plucky, was setting bow-side a beautiful example in steady swing and
smart finish. Six--Mr. Puffin--was rowing a great blade. To look at him
now, you would ask why he had not been included in the University Crew.
If you saw him trying to row forty to the minute, you would marvel that
he should be included in any crew at all.
Five was not looking happy. He was lying back too far and tugging at the
finish. To him the boat seemed heavier than usual, for he was just
beginning to realise the difference between seconding the efforts of
Hughie Marrable and those of Mr. Duncombe. Still, he was plugging
gamely. Four, a painstaking person, was encouraging himself in a fashion
entirely his own. After every stroke, as he sat up and swung forward, he
gasped out some little _sotto voce_ remark to himself, such as, "Oh,
well _rowed_, Four!--Stick to it, Four!--Use your _legs_, old
man!--That's better!--That's a _beauty_!--Oh, well _rowed_, Four!" And
so on. Where he got the necessary breath for these exercises nobody
knew; but some folk possess these little peculiarities, and row none the
worse for them. Bow was another instance. He was a chirpy but eccentric
individual, and used to sing to himself some little ditty of the
moment--or possibly a hymn--all through a race, beginning with the first
stroke and ending exactly, if possible, with the last. He had been
known, when stroking a boat, to quicken up to a perfectly incredible
rate simply because he feared that the song would end before he
completed the course, a contingency which he regarded as unlucky in the
extreme. On the other hand, he would become quite depressed if he had to
stop in the middle of a verse, and he was quite capable of rowing
_rallentando_ if he desired to synchronise his two conclusions.
But few people have the time or inclination for these diversions while
oscillating upon a sixteen-inch slide, and the rest of the crew were
swinging at and plugging in grim silence.
The two boats swept into the roaring medley of Ditton Corner. They
flashed past the row of piles and tethered punts amid a hurricane of
shouts and waving handkerchiefs. Hughie, wrongfully exercising his
privilege as Stroke, allowed his eyes to slide to the right for a
moment. He had a fleeting glimpse of the crimson and excited countenance
of Miss Gaymer, as some man held her aloft in the crowd. Then the boat
gave a slight lurch, and Joey was swallowed up again. Hughie felt
guiltily responsible for the lurch, and recalling his gaze into the
proper channel--straight over the coxswain's right shoulder--swung out
again long and steadily.
"Are we straight yet?" he gasped to Dishy.
"Yes--just."
"Tell 'em to reach out a bit."
Mr. Watson complied, in tones that rose high above the tumult on the
bank and penetrated even into the harmonious soul of Bow, who was
grappling with a difficult cadenza at the moment.
"Six good ones!" said Hughie, next time his face swung up towards the
coxswain's.
"Now, you men, six good ones!" echoed Dishy. "_One! Two!_ Five, you're
late! _Three! Four! Five!_ Bow, get hold of it! _Six!_ Oh, well rowed!"
There was a delighted roar from the bank. The Benedictine crew were
together again after the unsteadiness round Ditton.
"How far?" signalled Hughie's lips.
"Length--and--a--half," replied Cox. "Less," he added, peering ahead.
They were half-way up the Long Reach now. In another minute or two they
would be at the Railway Bridge, beyond which hard-pressed boats are
popularly supposed to be safe.
"Tell 'em--going--quicken," gurgled Hughie, "if can."
Cox nodded, rather doubtfully, and Hughie ground his teeth. If only this
accursed noise on the bank would cease, even for five seconds, Dishy
would get a chance to make the crew hear. As it was, the ever-increasing
crowd, rolling up fresh adherents like a snowball, made that feat almost
an impossibility.
But the coxswain was a man of experience and resource. Just as the boat
passed under the Railway Bridge itself there was a momentary silence,
for the crew were shut off from their supporters by some intervening
balks of timber. Dishy seized the opportunity.
"Be ready to quicken," he yelled. "Now! Oh, well done!"
The crew had heard him, and what was more, they had obeyed him. Stroke
in the All Saints boat suddenly realised that the oncoming foe had
quickened to thirty-five or six, and that the interval between the two
boats had shrunk to something under a length. He spurted in his turn,
and his men spurted with him, but their length of stroke grew
proportionately shorter, and the pace of the boat did not increase. St.
Benedict's were holding their advantage.
"Half a length," said Dishy, in response to an agonised interrogation
from Hughie's right eyebrow.
Suddenly above the tumult there rang out two reverberating
revolver-shots. A stout clergyman, whooping like a Choctaw, was tearing
along the right bank of the river, which was practically clear of
spectators, with his weapon smoking in his hand. Dishy's voice rose to a
scream.
"Look out--be ready! _Only_ six feet!"
And now the musical gentleman who was rowing bow felt the boat lift
unsteadily under him. A wave rolled across the canvas decking behind
him, and he felt a splash of water on his back.
"Washing us off!" was his comment. "Glory, glory! Another verse'll do
it. Now then, all together,--
"_What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft, o'er Ceylon's--_"
Bang! bang! bang! bang!
The great service revolver rang out. The nose of the Benedictine boat,
half submerged in a boiling flood, suddenly sprang to within three feet
of the All Saints rudder.
"_Now_, you men!" Mr. Dishart-Watson's wizened and saturnine countenance
shrank suddenly and alarmingly to a mere rim surrounding his mouth.
"Just _ten_ more! _One--two--_"
Like St. Francis of Assisi, "Of all his body he made a tongue." He
counted the strokes in tones that overtopped all the roars of
encouragement and apprehension arising from the now hopelessly mixed-up
mob of Benedictine and All Saints men that raged alongside. Hughie
Marrable quickened and quickened, and his crew responded sturdily.
Faster and faster grew the stroke, and more and more pertinaciously did
the nose of the Benedictine boat plough its way through the turbid waves
emitted by the twitching rudder in front. Never had they travelled like
this. Six was rowing like a man possessed. Four had ceased to encourage
himself, and was plugging automatically with his chest open and his eyes
shut. Bow may or may not have been singing: he was certainly rowing.
There was a world of rolling and splashing, for the All Saints coxswain
was manipulating his rudder very skilfully, and ever and again the
aggressive nose of the Benedictine boat was sent staggering back by a
rolling buffeting wave. But there was no stopping the Benedictines.
Suddenly Dishy gave vent to a final cataclysmic bellow.
"You're overlapping!"
They were almost at Charon's Grind. The coxswain's lank body stiffened
in its little seat, and Hughie saw him lean hard over and haul on to the
right-hand rudder-line.
"Last three strokes! Now, you devils! _Plug! plug!
pl_--Aa--a--ee--ooh--ee--easy all! Oh, well rowed, well rowed, well
rowed!"
There was a lurch and a bump.
"Done it!--'_Bows down to wood and stone_,'" gasped Bow.
The eight men let go their oars and tumbled forward on to their
stretchers, and listened, with their heads and hearts bursting, to the
din that raged on the bank.
It was a fine confused moment.
In the boat itself Cox was vainly endeavouring to shake hands with
Stroke, who lay doubled up over his oar, with his head right down on the
bottom of the boat, oblivious to everything save the blessed fact that
he need not row any more. Consciousness that he had taken his crew to
the Head of the River was yet to come. At the other end Bow, with his
head clasped between his knees, was croaking half-hysterically to
himself, "Two bars too soon, Hughie! Oh, my aunt, we've gone Head! Two
bars too soon!"
On the towpath every one was shouting and shaking hands with
indiscriminate _bonhomie_,--this was one of those occasions upon which
even the ranks of Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer,--and everybody,
with one exception, seemed to be ringing a bell or blowing a trumpet.
The exception was supplied by a trio of young gentlemen, two of whom
held an enormous Chinese gong suspended between them, while a third
smote the same unceasingly with a mallet, and cried aloud the name of
Marrable. It must be recorded here, to his honour, that the smiter bore
upon his forehead an enormous and highly coloured bruise, suggestive of
sudden contact with, say, a bedroom-door.
On the opposite bank of the river, a stout, middle-aged, and apparently
demented Clerk in Holy Orders was dancing the Cachuca.
BOOK TWO
_FORTITER IN RE_