*NOTE.*
With the exception of "A Committee of Supply," "That which Remained," "A
Galley's Day," "C/o G.P.O.," "Watch there, Watch!" "A One-Gun Salute,"
"The Greater Love," "A Picturesque Ceremony," and "Why the Gunner went
Ashore," the following Naval Sketches were published originally in 'The
Pall Mall Gazette.'
The first three exceptions appeared in 'The Illustrated Sporting and
Dramatic News,' 'The Magpie,' and 'The Naval and Military Record'
respectively. The remainder have not before appeared in print.
The Author's best thanks are due to the Editors of the above Journal and
Periodicals for their ready permission to reproduce these Sketches.
*CONTENTS.*
I. "D. S. B."
II. CAPTAIN'S DEFAULTERS
III. A GALLEY'S DAY
IV. "NOEL!"
V. THE ARGONAUTS
VI. A GUNROOM SMOKING CIRCLE
VII. THE SHIP-VISITORS
VIII. THE LEGION ON THE WALL
IX. A TITHE OF ADMIRALTY
X. THE CHOSEN FOUR
XI. A COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY
XII. THAT WHICH REMAINED
XIII. THE TIZZY-SNATCHER
XIV. "C/O G.P.O."
XV. THE "LOOK-SEE"
XVI. "WATCH THERE, WATCH!"
XVII. "FAREWELL AND ADIEU!"
XVIII. THE SEVENTH DAY
XIX. THE PARRICIDE
XX. THE NIGHT-WATCHES
XXI. A ONE-GUN SALUTE
XXII. CONCERNING THE SAILOR-MAN
XXIII. THE GREATER LOVE
XXIV. "A PICTURESQUE CEREMONY"
XXV. WHY THE GUNNER WENT ASHORE
*NAVAL OCCASIONS.*
*I.*
*"D. S. B."[#]*
[#] Duty Steam Boat.
"The songs of Greece, the pomp of Rome,
Were clean forgot at seventeen.
Oh Lord! At seventeen!"
--G. STEWART BOWLES.
The Midshipman of the Second Picket Boat--that is to say, the boat with
the bell-mouthed funnel of burnished brass and vermilion paint inside
her cowls--was standing under the electric light at the battery door
reading the Commander's night order-book.
"Second Picket Boat to have steam by 5 A.M., and will perform duties of
D.S.B. for the Second Division." He closed the book and stood
meditatively looking out into the darkness beyond the quarter-deck
rails. It was blowing fitfully, gusts of wind shaking the awning in a
manner that threatened dirty weather on the morrow. "Why the deuce
couldn't the other Picket boat...? But she hadn't got a brass
funnel--only a skimpy painted affair. Decidedly it was the fatal beauty
of his boat that had influenced the Commander's decision. Still..." He
yawned drearily, and opening the deck log, ran his finger down the
barometer readings. "Glass low--beastly low--and steady. Wind 4-5,
o.c.q.r. H'm'm." The cryptic quotations did not appear to add joy to
the outlook. Ten o'clock had struck, and forward in the waist the
boatswain's mate was "piping down," the shrill cadence of his pipe
floating aft on the wind. Sorrowfully the Midshipman descended to the
steerage flat, and crouching beneath the hammocks that hung from the
overhead beams, reached his chest and noiselessly
undressed,--noiselessly, because the sleeping occupant of the adjacent
hammock had the morning watch, and was prone to be unreasonable when
accidentally awakened.
In rather less than a minute he had undressed and donned his pyjamas;
then, delving amid the mysterious contents of his sea-chest, produced a
pair of sea-boots, an oilskin and sou'wester and a sweater. He made his
preparations mechanically, propping the sea-boots where they would be
handiest when he turned out. Lastly, he hung his cap over a
police-light, because he knew from experience that the light caught his
eyes when he was in his hammock, locked his chest, and, choosing a spot
where two mess-mates (who were scuffling for the possession of a
hammock-stretcher) would not fall over his feet, he unconcernedly knelt
down and said his prayers. The corporal of the watch passed on his
rounds: the sentry clicked to attention an instant, and resumed his
beat: above his head the ward-room door opened to admit a new-comer, and
the jangle of a piano drifted down the hatchway; then the door closed
again, shutting out the sound, and the kneeling figure, in rather
dilapidated pyjamas, rose to his feet. Steadying himself by a ringbolt
overhead, he swung lightly into his hammock and wriggled down between
the blankets. From the other side of the flat came a voice--
"Freckles, you're D.S.B. to-morrow."
The Midshipman of the Second Picket Boat grunted in reply and pulled the
blanket close under his chin. Presently the voice sounded again--
"Freckles, dear, aren't you glad you sold your little farm and came to
sea?"
But he who had sold a farm only snuggled his face against the pillow,
sighed once, and was asleep.
Had you seen the sleeper in waking hours, nursing a cutter close-reefed
through a squall, or handling a launch-load of uproarious liberty-men,
you might, passing by at this moment, have found food for meditation.
For the vibration of the dynamo a deck below presently caused the cap to
fall from the police-light it had shielded, and the glare shone full in
a face which (for all the valiant razor locked away in its owner's
chest) was that of a very tired child.
* * * * *
"Orders for the Picket Boat, sir?"
The Officer of the Morning Watch, who was staring through his binoculars
into the darkness, turned and glanced at the small figure muffled in
oilskins at his side. Many people would have smiled in something
between amusement and compassion at the earnest tone of inquiry. But
this is a trade in which men get out of the way of smiling at 5
A.M.--besides, he'd been through it all himself.
"Flagship's signalled some empty coal-lighters broken adrift up to
windward--cruisin' independently. Go an' round 'em up before they drift
down on the Fleet. Better man your boat from the boom and shove straight
off. Smack it about!"
The small figure in oilskins--who, as a matter of fact, was none other
than the Midshipman of the Second Picket Boat, brass funnel,
vermilion-painted cowls and all--turned and scampered forward. It was
pitch dark, and the wind that swept in rainy gusts along the battery
caught the flaps of his oilskins and buffeted the sleep out of him.
Overside the lights of the Fleet blinked in an indeterminate confusion
through the rain, and for an instant a feeling of utter schoolboy woe,
of longing for the security of his snug hammock, filled his being. Then
the short years of his training told. Somewhere ahead, in that welter
of rain and darkness, there was work to be done--to be accomplished,
moreover, swiftly and well. It was an order.
Stumbling on to the forecastle, he slipped a life-belt over his
shoulders, climbed the rail, and descended the ship's side by a steel
ladder, until he reached the lower boom. It jutted out into the
darkness, a round, dimly-discerned spar, and secured to it by a
boat-rope at the farthest point of his vision, he saw his boat. The
circular funnel-mouth ringed a smoky glow, and in the green glare of a
side-light one of the bowmen was reaching for the ladder that hung from
the boom. Very cautiously he felt his way out along it steadied by a
man-rope, breast high. Looking downward, he saw the steamboat fretting
like a dog in leash; the next instant she was lurching forward on the
crest of a wave and as suddenly dropped away again in a shower of spray.
Releasing his grip with one hand he slipped astride of the boom,
wriggled on his stomach till his feet touched rungs of a Jacob's ladder,
and so hung in a few feet above the tumbling water.
"'Arf a mo', sir," said a deep voice behind him. The boat's bows were
plunging just below ... the ladder tautened with a jerk.
"Now, sir!" said the voice. He relaxed his hold and dropped nimbly on
to the triangular space in the bows. As he landed, the Jacob's ladder
shot upwards into the darkness, as though snatched by an unseen hand.
Steadying himself by the rail along the engine-room casing he hurried to
the wheel. A bearded petty officer moved aside as he came aft. This was
his Coxswain, a morose man about the age of his father, who obeyed
orders like an automaton, and had once (mellowed by strong waters) been
known to smile.
"Cast off forward!" The engine-room bell rang twice, and the Midshipman
gave a quick turn to the wheel. For an instant the boat plunged as if
in uncertainty, then swung round on the slope of a slate-grey wave and
slid off on her quest. Forward in the bows the bowmen were crouched,
peering through the rain. Presently one of them hailed hoarsely.
"Port a bit, sir," supplemented the Coxswain. "That's them, there!" He
pointed ahead to where indistinct shapes showed black against the
troubled waters. The bell rang again in the tiny engine-room, and the
Leading Stoker, scenting adventures, threw up the hatch and thrust a
head and hairy chest into the cold air. His interest in the proceedings
apparently soon waned, however, for he shut the hatch down again and
busied himself mysteriously--always within reach of the throttle and
reversing-lever--with an oil-can.
Going very slow, the boat crept alongside the foremost lighter, a huge
derelict that, when loaded, carried fifty tons of coal. They had been
moored alongside one another to the wharf, but, rocking in the swell,
had chafed through their moorings and broken adrift.
Now to take in tow an unwieldy lighter in the dark with a heavy swell
running, and to moor it safely in the spot whence it came, is a piece of
work that requires no small judgment. However, one by one, the three
truants were captured and secured, and then, with the grey dawn of a
winter morning breaking overhead, the picket boat swung round on her
return journey. On the way she passed another boat racing shoreward for
the mails. The Midshipman at the wheel raised his hand with a little
gesture of salutation, and she went by in a shower of spray.
Half an hour later the Midshipman of the Second Picket Boat, garbed in
the "rig of the day," was ladling sugar over his porridge with the
abandon of one who is seventeen and master of his fate. A messenger
appeared at the gunroom door--
"Duty Steam Boat's called away, sir."
Her Midshipman locked away his pet marmalade-pot (for there are limits
even to the communism of a gunroom) and reached for his cap and dirk.
"We ain't got much money," he observed grimly, "but we _do_ see life!"
*II.*
*CAPTAIN'S DEFAULTERS.*
At the last stroke of six bells in the Forenoon Watch the Marine bugler
drew himself up stiffly, as one on whom great issues hung, and raising
his bugle sent the imperious summons echoing along the upper deck.
Clattering forward along the battery he halted at the break of the
forecastle and repeated the blast; then, shaking the moisture from the
instrument, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and strutted aft.
He had sounded "Captain's Defaulters."
An Able Seaman burnishing a search-light on the boat-deck heard the
strident bugle-call and winced. Hurriedly he replaced his cleaning
rags, and with a moistened forefinger and thumb adjusted a dank curl
that peeped beneath his cap. He shared the belief, not uncommon among
sailor-men, that the Captain's judgment at the defaulter-table is duly
swayed by the personal appearance of the delinquent. Eyeing his
inverted reflection in the big concave mirror, he screwed his face into
an expression of piteous appeal, and, cap in hand, repeated several
times in varying notes of regretful surprise: "I 'adn't 'ad no more'n a
drop, sir, w'en I come over all dizzy." The rehearsal concluded, he
flung himself pell-mell down the ladder. On the way he met a messmate
ascending, who remonstrated in the brusque parlance of the tar.
"In the bloomin' rattle, I am," explained the disturber of traffic.
"Wha's up, then?"
The other made a little upward gesture with his elbow and gave a laugh
of pleasant retrospection. "'Strewth!" he supplemented. "Wasn't 'arf
blind, neither," implying that when last ashore he had looked upon the
cup when it was very ruddy indeed.
At the screen door to the quarter-deck he overtook a companion in
misfortune _en route_ to "toe pitch." This was a frightened
Second-class Stoker, harried aft by one of the Ship's Police at the
shambling gait officially recognised as the "steady double." Together
they saluted and stepped on to the quarter-deck, where, already standing
between his escort, a sullen-eyed deserter, captured the previous day,
scowled into vacancy. The new-comers took their places in the
melancholy line, stood easy, and commenced to preen themselves
furtively, after the manner of sailors about to come under the direct
eye of authority. Then the Captain's Clerk arrived with a bundle of
papers in his hand.
"All ready, Master-at-Arms?"
"All ready, sir." The iron-visaged Chief of Police saluted and went to
report to the Commander. The Commander ran his eye over the
defaulter-sheet and, entering the Captain's cabin, disappeared from
view. For a minute a hush settled over the group as silently they
awaited the coming of the man who, to them, represented all that was
Omnipotent upon earth. The breeze led the shadow of the White Ensign a
fantastic dance across the spotless planking, and rustled the papers on
the baize-covered table. Overhead a gull soared, screaming at
intervals, and then swooped suddenly to the water. The owner of the
cherished curl, who was what is technically known in the Service as a
"bird," sucked his teeth thoughtfully and speculated as to the probable
extent of his punishment. The Second-class Stoker fallen-in beside him,
who had broken his leave twenty-four hours, and apparently expected to
be executed, suddenly sniffled and was reproved in an undertone by the
Master-at-Arms. "'_Old_ yer row!" said that dignitary. Then, raising
his voice, he shouted, "'Faulters, 'Shun!"
The Captain's Clerk, who had been abstractedly watching the sea-gull's
antics and thinking about trout-fishing, came to earth with a start: the
waiting group stiffened to attention and saluted. The Captain walked to
the table and picked up the charge-sheet.
'"Erbert 'Awkins!" snapped the Master-at-Arms. "Off cap. Absenover
leave twenty-four hours, sir."
The Second-class Stoker stepped forward; it was his first offence in the
Service, and the Adam's-apple in his throat worked like a piston.
Suddenly recollecting, he snatched off his cap and stood, moistening dry
lips.
"How long has this man been in the Service?" asked the Captain, grave
eyes on the delinquent's face.
"Four months, sir," replied his Clerk.
Then to the culprit: "Why did you break your leave?" The lad shook his
head in obstinate silence. As a matter of fact, he had broken it
because a glib-tongued slut ashore kept him too drunk to return till he
was penniless. But what was the use of telling all that to a Being with
four gold rings on his sleeve, and grey eyes like gimlets in the shadow
of the cap-peak. He wouldn't understand how desperately bad the liquor
had been, and the way the women talked...
"Why did you break your leave?" The voice was neither harsh nor
impatient. Its tone merely implied that the speaker not only wanted an
answer but meant to have one. Rather a kind voice for a Captain. Queer
little wrinkles he had round the corners of his mouth and eyes ... made
a bloke look wise-like ... as though after all ... Lord! How his head
ached.... Steady eyes those were...
"It's like this 'ere, sir----" The gates of sulky reserve opened
suddenly and without warning: in a flood of words came the sorry
explanation, sordid, incoherent, clothed in half-learned _patois_ of the
lower deck. But the figure in the gold-peaked cap seemed to accept it,
such as it was, for presently he nodded dismissal.
"Cautioned," he said curtly.
With a click of the heels, the escort and their prisoner wheeled before
the table. The Commander made a brief report, and the Captain scanned a
few papers. The charge was desertion.
"Anything to say?"
"No, sir."
"Why did you desert?"
"I'm fed up with the Navy."
The Captain's eyes grew stern, and he nodded as one who comprehends.
There had been moments in his own career when he too had been "fed up
with the Navy." But life holds other things than obedience to
inclinations.
Now this deserter represented a type that is to be met with in both
Services, these days of "piping peace." Recruited from the slums of a
great city, bone-lazy and vicious as a weasel, small wonder he found a
life wherein men worked hard and cleanly little to his taste. The
immaculate cleanliness and clock-work regularity around him were bad
enough, but far worse was the discipline. It astonished him at first;
then, half-awed, he hated it with all the sullen savagery of his warped
nature. The so-called Socialism of black-garbed orators, idly listened
to on Sunday afternoons in bygone days, had hinted at such
possibilities--but here he met it face to face at every turn.
For a while--a very little while--he defied it, as he had defied
impassive policemen in guttersnipe days, with shrill, meaningless
obscenities. Then he strove to elude it, and was clouted grievously by
O'Leary, the brawny Chief Stoker, in that he had skulked from his
lawfully appointed task. He had meant to drop a fire-bar on O'Leary's
head for that, but hadn't the courage requisite for murder. Because of
his dirty habits and an innate habit for acquiring other men's gear, he
was not beloved of his messmates; and to be unpopular on the mess-deck
of a man-of-war means that the sooner you seek another walk of life the
better. He strove to seek it, accordingly, burrowing back into the
teeming slum-life of yore, until one night, in the flare of a hawker's
barrow, a policeman's hand closed upon his collar.
"... I think there's time. I believe we'll make a man of you yet. I'll
deal with you by warrant."
The escort swung him on his heel.
The Captain glanced again at the charge-sheet and thence to the third
culprit before him.
"You were drunk on leave?"
"No, sir."
"But the Officer of the Patrol and the Officer of the Watch and the
Surgeon all say you were drunk."
The "bird" sighed deeply. "I 'adn't 'ad no more'n a drop, sir----" he
began.
"Deprived of one day's pay," interrupted the Captain; "and get your hair
cut."
"'Air cut--forfeit one day's pay," echoed the Master-at-Arms. "_Hon_
cap; 'bout turn, quick march!"
* * * * *
The day passed as most days do in harbour. In the afternoon the Captain
played a game of golf, and in the evening dined with a brother Captain.
During the meal they discussed submarine signalling and a new putter.
The Commander, who contemplated matrimony, was in a conservatory
conducting himself in a manner calculated to reduce his ship's
company--had they been present--to babbling delirium. In the twilight,
the Captain's Clerk, with rod and fly-book, meandered beside a stream
twenty miles away. The Master-at-Arms, who had a taste for melodrama,
witnessed from a plush-lined box "The Body-Snatcher's Revenge" in the
company of Mrs and Miss Master-at-Arms and a quart of stout. On board,
in the foremost cell, sat a recovered deserter under sentence of ninety
days' detention.
"Gawd!" he whined--and in his voice was an exceeding
bitterness--"Wotcher want to 'ate me for?"
Now these things were happening at about the same time, so you see the
drift of his argument with his Maker.
*III.*
*A GALLEY'S DAY.*
Boom! On board the Flagship a puff of smoke rose and dissolved in the
breeze; the cluster of whalers and gigs that had been hovering about the
starting-line sped away before the wind. The bay to windward resembled
the shallows near the nesting-ground of white-winged gulls as the
remaining gigs, whalers, and cutters zigzagged tentatively to and fro,
and a couple of belated 25-feet whalers, caught napping, went tearing
down among them.
The launches and pinnaces do not start for another hour, and are for the
most part still at the booms of their respective ships. There are three
more classes before us, and it only remains to keep out of the way and
an eye on the stop-watch. The breeze is freshening, and it looks like a
"Galley's day." A 32-feet cutter (handiest and sweetest of all Service
boats to sail) goes skimming past on a trial run. Her gilded badge
gleams in the spray, and there is a sheen of brasswork and enamel about
her that proclaims the pampered darling of a ship. The Midshipman at the
helm--to show a mere galley what he can do--chooses a squall in which he
put her about; she spins round like a top, and is off on her new tack in
the twinkling of an eye.
Casey, Petty Officer and Captain's Coxswain, is busy forward with the
awning and an additional halliard rove through a block at the foremast
head. This, steadied by the boat-hook, will serve us as a spinnaker
during the three-mile run down-wind; and, in a Service rig race, is the
only additional fitting allowed beyond what is defined as "the rig the
boat uses on service, made of service canvas by service labour."
Only half a minute now.... Check away the sheets. Spinnaker halliards
in hand.
Boom! We are off! Hoist spinnaker!
As we cross the line the 32-ft. cutter and a couple of gigs slip over
abreast of us; astern a host of white sails come bellying in our wake;
up to windward the pinnaces and launches are manoeuvring for positions.
The cutter has "goose-winged" her dipping-lug and is running dead before
the wind. In a narrow boat like a galley this is dangerous and does not
pay. Luffing a little, we get the wind on our quarter, and the gigs
follow suit. Presently the cutter gybes and loses ground; the gigs, too,
have dropped astern a little.
Our galley's crew settle down in the bottom of the boat, and producing
pipes and cigarettes from inside their caps, speculate on the chances of
the day. Far ahead the smaller fry are negotiating the mark-buoy.
Imperceptibly the breeze freshens, till the wind is whipping a wet smoke
off the tops of the waves. Casey, tending the main-sheet, removes his
pipe and spits overside. "I reckons we'll want our weather-boards
before we'm done, sir," he prophesies. We have shown the rest of our
class a clean pair of heels by now, and are fast overhauling the
whalers. At last the mark-buoy.
"Down spinnaker!" and round we go, close hauled. Now the work starts.
A white squall tearing down the bay blinds us with spray and fine desert
sand. The water pours over the gunwale as we luff and luff again.
There's nothing for it: we must reef, and while we do so, round come the
remainder, some reefed and labouring, others lying up in the wind with
flapping sails. A nasty short sea has set in, and at the snub of each
wave, the galley, for all the careful nursing she receives, quivers like
a sensitive being.
"She can't abear that reef in her foresail," says Casey; "it do make her
that sluggish." As he spoke, our rival, the 32-ft. cutter, went
thrashing past under full sail, her crew crouched to windward. It was
going to be neck or nothing with them. Then, by James--
"Got anything to bail with, forward there?"
"Yessir!" replied seven voices as one.
"Stand-by to shake out that reef!" We luffed for a second while two
gigs and a pinnace crept up on our quarter, and then off we went in the
seething wake of the cutter. Even Casey's big toe curled convulsively as
he braced himself against the thwart and spat on his hands to get a
fresh grip on the main-sheet. The spray hissed over us like rain, and,
under cover of his oilskin, I believe No. 5, perched on the weather
gunwale, was sorrowfully unlacing his boots.
"If it don't get no worse," says Casey, "we'll do all right." With his
bull-dog chin above the gunwale he commenced a running commentary on the
proceedings. "... 'Strewth! There's 'is foremast gorn!" He gazed
astern enraptured. "Commander's weather-shroud carried away, sir, an'
'im a-drifting 'elpless.... Them whalers is bailin' like loo-natics--"
he gave a hoarse chuckle, "like proper loo-natics, sir.... That there
launch precious near fouled the mark-buoy.... 'E'll run down that gig if
'e don't watch it. Their owner sailing 'er too."
Then the squalls died away and the breeze steadied. I could hear the
surge of a launch as she came crashing along on our quarter, but once
round the second mark-buoy and on the port tack no one could touch
us--at least so Casey vowed.
Suddenly, the half-drowned bowman gave the first sign of animation that
he had displayed since the green seas began to break over him. "She's
missed stays," he announced with gruff relish, peering under the lip of
the foresail.
"'Oo? Not that cutter...?" Casey so far forgot himself as to squirt
tobacco juice into the sacred bottom of his own boat. "Yessir, an' so
help me," he added in confirmation, "she's in Hirons!"[#]
[#] A boat is said to be "in irons" when she lies dead head-to-wind and
cannot pay off on either tack.
The next minute we passed to windward of our rival, as with flapping
sheets and reversed helm she drifted slowly astern. Her Midshipman
avoided our eyes as we passed, but his expression of incredulous
exasperation I have seen matched only on the face of one whose loved and
trusted hunter has refused a familiar jump. Above the noise of the wind
and waves I heard his angry wail--
"O-o-oh! Isn't she a cow!"
The wind held fair and true, and, as Casey prophesied, it proved a
Galley's day after all. A launch and two pinnaces raced us for the
Flagship's ram, and our rudder missed the cable by inches as we wore to
bring us on to the finishing line. Even then the launch nearly had it;
but I think that the observations exchanged, as we slipped round side by
side (_sotto voce_ and perfectly audible to every one in both boats),
between Casey and the launch's Coxswain, did much to spoil the nerve of
the First Lieutenant who was sailing her.
Much of that day I have forgotten. But the sheen of white sails
sprinkled along the triangular nine-mile course, the grey hulls of the
Fleet against the blue of sea and sky, the tremor of the boat's frame as
the water raced hissing past her clinker-built sides, the bucket and
shrug, the lurch and reel and plunge as she fought her way to
windward,--all these things have combined to make a blur of infinitely
pleasant memories.
* * * * *
Casey gave a sigh of contentment and handed back an empty glass through
the pantry door.
"Well, sir," he said, "I reckon that was a proper caper!" Then, as if
realising that his summing up of the race required adequate
embellishment, and less formal surroundings in which to do the occasion
justice, he wiped his mouth on the back of a huge paw and moved forward
out of sight along the mess-deck.
*IV.*
*"NOEL!"*
"'Arf-pas' seven, sir!" A private of Marines rapped heavy knuckles
against the chest of drawers, and, seeing the occupant of the bunk stir
slightly, withdrew from the cabin. For a little while longer the figure
under the blankets lay motionless; then a tousled head appeared,
followed by shoulders and arms.
"Gr-r-r!" said their owner. He blinked at the electric light a moment,
then reached out a lean, tatooed arm for his tea. He drank it
thoughtfully, and, lighting a cigarette, lay back again. His gaze
travelled from the rack overhead that contained his gun and golf-clubs,
down over the chest of drawers with its freight of battered silver cups,
photographs, and Japanese curios, to the deck where a can of hot water
steamed beside the shallow bath; finally it lit on the chair, on the
back of which hung his frock-coat. Why had his servant put out his
frock-coat? Was it Sunday? For a while he considered the problem.
Then he remembered.
With a grunt he hoisted himself on to one elbow and looked out of the
scuttle into the gloom. It was snowing, and the reflected lights of the
ships blinked at him across the water.
"Oh Lord!" he ejaculated, and buried himself anew among the blankets.
Twenty minutes later, as he was sitting in his bath, the curtain across
the door was unceremoniously jerked aside and a ruddy face appeared in
the opening.
"No-o-el-l-l! N-o-el!" chanted the apparition. A sponge full of water
cut the caroller short, and the sounds of strife and expostulation
drifting from adjacent cabins marked the trail of Yuletide greetings.
In the Wardroom the fire was smoking fitfully, each outpour being
regarded with philosophic resignation by the Marine duty-servant. Him
the First Lieutenant, entering at that moment, drove wrathfully on deck.
"Go up an' trim the cowl to the wind: don't stand there trying to
mesmerise the infernal thing."
One by one the members of the Mess struggled in and seated themselves in
gloomy silence. There were many gaps in the long row of chairs, for
every one "spared by the exigencies of the Service" was on leave, the
heads of departments being represented by their juniors, and a couple of
Watch-keeping Lieutenants completing the complement.
The Young Doctor alone preserved a cheerful mien. "Boy, you're as
yellow as a guinea!" was his greeting to the Junior Watch-keeper
(recently a sojourner on the West Coast, with a constitution to match).
"How's the fever?"
The Junior Watch-keeper ascribed to the malady a quality hitherto
unrecognised by the most advanced medical science, and scanned the
_menu_ indifferently.
The belated arrival of the postman as the table was being cleared did
much to brighten matters. A rustling silence, interspersed by an
occasional chuckle (hurriedly repressed), presently gave way to general
conversation. Pipes were lit, and the fire coaxed into a more urbane
frame of mind. The Junior Watch-keeper was seen to transfer stealthily
from a letter to his pocket something that crackled crisply. The Young
Doctor and the Assistant Paymaster (hereinafter known as the A.P.) sat
complacently on his chest while they explored his pockets.
"Let me--it's years since I touched a fiver.... _And_ a dun from
Ikey--well, I'm blessed! _And_ a Christmas card from Aunt Selina to
dear Gussie--oh, Gussie, look at the pretty angels! He hides it in his
pocket----"
"He stands fizz all round at seven bells," announced the First
Lieutenant in a calm, judicial voice.
The Junior Watch-keeper didn't stand it, but fizz all round there was.
The First Lieutenant read prayers on the snow-powdered quarterdeck, and
then, following the immemorial custom of the Service, the Wardroom made
a tour of the garland-hung mess-deck, halting at each mess to exchange
the compliments of the season and to sample the plum-duff.
Properly observed, this ritual would put the normal stomach out of
action for the remainder of the day. But there are discreet methods of
sampling. The Day-on flopped exhaustedly on to a Wardroom settee, and
proceeded to empty his cap of lumps of "figgy-duff," cigarettes, and
walnuts. "Bless their hearts," he murmured, "I love them and I love
their figgy-duff, but there are limits--here, Jess!" He whistled
gently, and a fox-terrier asleep by the fire rose and delicately
accepted the tribute. "Number One," continued the speaker, "you looked
quite coy when they cheered you, going rounds just now." Then raising
his voice he sang--
"For he's a jolly good fe-ello-o-O!"
The First Lieutenant's grave face relaxed. "Less of it, young fellow,"
he replied, smiling. He had lost a wife and child as a young lieutenant,
and something of his life's tragedy still lingered in the level grey
eyes.
Then followed the popping of corks and the tinkle of glass. Even the
fever-stricken one brightened. "Now then," he shouted truculently to
the Young Doctor, "I don't mind if you do wish me a happy Christmas, you
benighted body-snatcher." But the Surgeon was opening the piano, and as
he fingered the opening bars of "Good King Wenceslas," some one turned
and smote the fire into a blaze.
* * * * *
The short day was fading into dusk, and the Mess sat eyeing one another
sorrowfully over the tea-table. You can't drink champagne, sing "Good
King Wenceslas," and beat the fire all day.
"What price being at home now?" said the Engineer-Lieutenant, gloomily
buttering a piece of bread and smearing it with treacle.
"Yes, and charades, and kids, and snapdragon," added the A.P. He mused
awhile reminiscently. "Christmas is rotten without kids to buck things
up."
The Day-on looked up from a book. "You're right. I don't feel as if it
were Christmas day--except for my head," he added reflectively.
The First Lieutenant entered, holding a note in his hand. "Look here,
the Skipper wants us to have him and his missus to supper. He'll motor
in, and"--he referred again to the note--"he's bringing the four
youngsters--and a Christmas-tree. Wants to know if we can put up a turn
for them."
In the annals of the Service had such a thing ever happened before? The
Mess stared wild-eyed at one another. "Crackers," gasped the Day-on,
visions of childhood fleeting through his mind. "Santa Claus!" murmured
the Young Doctor, already mentally reviewing his store of cotton-wool.
"Holly and mistletoe," supplemented the Engineer-Lieutenant, eyeing the
bare walls of the Mess.
There was much to be done, but they did it somehow. The A.P. sallied
forth and stole crackers from a Mission schoolroom. The First
Lieutenant and Young Doctor between them fashioned a wondrous wig and
beard for Santa Claus. The Junior Watch-keeper is rumoured to have
uprooted (under cover of darkness) an entire holly bush from the Admiral
Superintendent's garden, and their guests arrived to find the Mess
transformed. No sooner was supper over than the First Lieutenant
vanished, and they entered the smoking-room to find a genuine Santa
Claus, with snowy beard and gruff voice, dispensing gifts from the magic
tree. There were miraculous presents for all: Zeiss binoculars for one
(had he not been bemoaning the want of a pair on the bridge a fortnight
before?): a wrist-watch for another (it replaced one smashed while
working targets not long ago), a fountain-pen for another, a
cigarette-holder for a fourth, whose tobacco-stained fingers had long
been a subject of reproach from his Captain's wife.
And when the tree was denuded at last, what an ambush for lurking
dragons! They were slain ultimately with a sword-scabbard by a flushed
Knight astride the champing Junior Watch-keeper. It figured further in
the tiger-shoot conducted from the howdah of an elephant--a noble beast
in whose identity no one would have recognised the grey-painted canvas
cover of a 3-pdr. gun, much less the Engineer-Lieutenant inside it.
For the matter of that, had you seen the tiger who died, roaring
terribly almost within reach of its tethered quarry (Jess, the bored and
disgusted terrier), you would never have known the A.P.--especially as
he had broken his glasses in the throes of realistic dissolution.
When it was all over, the "Skipper's Missus" sat down at the piano, and
together they sang the old, memory-haunted Christmas hymns, the woman's
contralto and children's trebles blending with the voices of men who at
heart were ever children themselves.
The First Lieutenant didn't sing. The fire needed so much attending to.
*V.*
*THE ARGONAUTS.*
"... Lest perchance them grow weary
In the uttermost parts of the Sea,
Pray for leave, for the good of the Service,
As much and as oft as may be."
--_The Laws of the Navy_.
Life on board a man-of-war in the tropics, especially Gunroom life, is
attended by discomforts peculiarly its own. To begin with, a trip at
sea heats the ship like a steel-walled Inferno, and on reaching harbour
she swings at her anchor, bows-on to what breeze there may be; the
chances of getting a cool draught through scuttles and gun-ports are
thus reduced to a minimum. There is, furthermore, an Affliction known
as "prickly heat," beside which chastisement with scorpions is futile
and ineffectual; moreover, you must meet the same faces day after day,
month after month, at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, till Junior Officers
of His Majesty's Navy have been known to revile one another over each
other's style of masticating food. From these conditions of life
spring, indeed, a candid and illuminating intimacy; but they are also at
times responsible for a weariness of the soul that passes utterly all
boredom.
* * * * *
The trouble began in the bathroom, an apartment 12 feet long by 8 feet
broad, and occupied at the time by six people in various stages of their
ablutions. It concerned the ownership of a piece of soap, which may
seem a trivial enough matter--as indeed it was; but when you have lain
sweating under the awnings all through a breathless night, when, having
watched another aching dawn creep over the sea, you descend to splash
sulkily in three inches of lukewarm water, the tired brain lacks a fine
sense of the proportion of things.
It finished as suddenly as it flared up, and both combatants realised
the childishness of it all ere the blood had time to dry on their
damaged knuckles. But beyond a peevish request that they should not
hold their dripping noses over the basins, no one present appeared
interested or dismayed--which was a very bad sign indeed.
* * * * *
The Senior Midshipman burst into the Gunroom with a whoop of joy and
flung the leave-book on the table.
"What did he say?" chorussed the inmates anxiously.
"Said we could take the third cutter, an' go to Blazes in her," replied
the delegate breathlessly, grovelling under the table for his gun-case.
"We can clear out till Sunday night, an' if there's a scratch on the new
paint when we come back"--the flushed face appeared for an
instant--"we'll all be crucified!"
Whereupon ensued swift and awful pandemonium. Three blissful days of
untrammelled freedom ashore, in which to eat, bathe, and sleep at will!
The Mess rose with one accord and blessed the name of the Commander in
ornate phraseology of the Sea. Four navigating experts flung themselves
upon a large-scale Admiralty Chart: guns and cartridges appeared as if
by magic. A self-appointed Committee of Supply, wrangling amicably,
invaded the pantry; blankets were hurriedly dragged from the
hammock-nettings, while willing hands lowered the cutter from her
davits. In crises such as these there is no need to detail workers for
any particular duty. Each one realises his own particular metier and is
a law unto himself.
"Hoist foresail!" The boat sheered off lazily from the gangway, and the
bowmen tugged and strained at the halliards. "Set mainsail!" A light
breeze whispered in from the open sea, and the rippled water clucked and
gurgled along the clinker-built sides. Perched on a bundle of rugs in
the stern sat the Coxswain, one hand on the tiller, the other shading
his eyes from the afternoon sun. The remainder of the crew disposed
themselves in more or less inelegant attitudes of ease in the bottom of
the boat. She had been rigged and provisioned in silence--not lightly
does one imperil one's emancipation by making a noise alongside; but
once clear of the ship, the youth tending the main-sheet lifted up his
voice in song, a babble of spontaneous nonsense set to a half-remembered
tune--
"Isn't this a bit of all-right!
Oh, _isn't_ this a bit of all-right!"
he chanted joyously, eyes half closed under the brim of his tilted
helmet. Forgotten the weary monotony of ship routine, with its
watch-keeping and school, squabbling and recrimination, and the
ceaseless adjustment of the scales of discipline. Forward in the bows
one of the bowmen hove the lead, chanting imaginary soundings with
ultra-professional intonation: "A-a-and a ha' five..." Clinging to the
weather shroud, another, a slim, white-clad figure against the blue of
sea and sky, declaimed "The Ancient Mariner"--or as much of it as he
could remember.
The islands, that half an hour earlier had been but vague outlines
quivering in the heat-haze, took form and substance. Rock-guarded
inlets crept up to beaches of white sand where the kelp and drift-wood
of ages formed a barrier at high-water mark, and overhanging palms threw
shadows deep and delectably mysterious. As the water shoaled, seaweed
stretched purple tentacles upward out of the gloom, swaying and
undulating towards the swirl beneath the rudder. A half-clad figure in
the bows, trailing naked toes over the side, shattered the sleepy
silence with shouts that sent the echoes rioting among the rocks.
Overhead a startled gull wheeled inquisitively.
"Hard a-port! Now, steady as you go!" With lowered sails and oars
rising and dipping lazily, the boat headed towards an inlet whose
shelving beach promised good camping-ground. Presently came the order--
"Way enough!" The oars clattered down on to the thwarts, the anchor
splashed overside, and a moment later a dozen figures were swimming
lustily for thrice-blessed terra firma.
A tent was pitched and the precious guns ferried ashore. An intrepid
party of explorers headed off into the jungle in search of pigeon.
Others played desultory Rugby football in the shallows, chased lizards,
rent the air with song. The long day passed all too quickly. Swiftly
the tropic night swept in over painted sky and tree-top. Ghost-like
figures came splashing from pools, sliding down from trees, floating
shoreward on improvised rafts, to gather round the fire and fizzling
frying-pans. Tinned sausages ("Bangers") and bacon, jam, sardines and
bananas, cocoa, beer, and sloe-gin: the Argonauts guzzled shamelessly.
When it was over and pipes and cigarettes were lit, some one rose and
flung an armful of dry kelp into the white heart of the fire. It
spluttered angrily and then flared, throwing an arc of crimson light on
the beach, deepening the obscurity that ringed the seated group.
The Argonaut nearest the fire picked up a pebble and pitched it lazily
at a neighbour. "What about a song, you slacker! Something with a
chorus." The other removed his pipe from his mouth, wriggled into a
sitting posture and, hugging the corners of his blanket over his
shoulders, started a song. It was from a comic opera two years old, but
it was the last thing they heard before leaving England, and the refrain
went ringing across the star-lit bay. The firelight waned, and a yellow
moon crept up out of the sea, setting a shimmering pathway to the edge
of the world.
"Hai-yah!" yawned one. "So sleepy." He hollowed out the sand beneath
his hip-bone, drew his blanket closer round him, and was asleep. One by
one the singers were silent, and as the moon, full sail upon the face of
heaven, flooded the islands with solemn light, the last Argonaut rolled
over and began to snore. The waves lapped drowsily along the beach;
tiny crabs crept out in scurrying, sidelong rushes to investigate the
disturbers of their peace; the dying embers of the fire clinked and
whispered in the silence.
* * * * *
The Commander, smoking on the after sponson, smiled as the sound of oars
came faintly across the water. Out of the darkness drifted the hum of
voices, and presently he heard a clear laugh, mirthful and carefree.
Knocking the ashes out of his pipe, he nodded sagely, as though in
answer to an unspoken question.
*VI.*
*A GUNROOM SMOKING CIRCLE.*
Be it understood that Gunroom Officers do not usually talk at breakfast.
The right-minded entrench themselves behind newspapers, and deal in all
seriousness and silence with such fare as it has pleased the Messman to
provide. In harbour, those favoured of the gods make a great business
of opening and reading letters, pausing between mouthfuls to smirk in an
irritating and unseemly manner. But it is not until one reaches the
marmalade stage, and the goal of repletion is nigh, that speech is
pardonable, and is then usually confined to observations on the
incompetency of the cook in the matter of scrambling eggs and the like.
Abreast the screen-door, which opened from the battery to the
quarter-deck, the ship's side curved suddenly into a semicircular
bastion. It was thus designed to give the main-deck gun a larger arc of
fire, but had other advantages--affording a glimpse ahead of splayed-out
seas racing aft from the bow, and in fine weather a sunny space
sheltered from the wind by casemate and superstructure.
Here, one morning after breakfast, came the Gunroom Smokers, pipe and
tobacco-pouches in hand. Cigarettes were all very well in their way:
"two draws and a spit" snatched during stand-easy in the forenoon. A
cigar was a satisfying enough smoke after dinner when one's finances
permitted it; but while the day of infinite possibilities still lay
ahead, and the raw, new sunlight flushed the world with promise, then
was the time for briar or clay: black, well seasoned, and of a pungent
sweetness.
Each smoker settled into his favourite nook, and, cap tilted over his
nose, with feet drawn up and hand-clasped knees, prepared to sit in
kindly judgment on the Universe. The Sub-Lieutenant blew a mighty cloud
of smoke and gave a sigh of contentment. He had kept the Middle Watch.
From midnight till four that morning he had been on the bridge, moving
between the faint glow of the binnacle and the chart-house, busying
himself with a ruler and dividers, and faint lines on the surface of the
chart. He was clear-eyed and serene of brow, as befitted a man who had
seen the dawning. For a like reason he had neglected to shave.
"What's the news?" inquired the Assistant Paymaster between puffs. The
ship had been three days at sea, and was even then a hundred and fifty
miles from her destination. But very early in the morning a tired-eyed
Operator in the Wireless-house had sat, measuring in dots and dashes the
beating of the world's pulse.
"A disastrous earthquake--" began a Midshipman, reading from the
closely-written sheet.
"Oh, hang you and your earthquake!" said the Sub. "I'm sick of
earthquakes--who won the Test Match?" Which, when you consider the
matter, is no bad attitude towards life in which to start the day.
"A new aeroplane--" resumed the reader.
"Talkin' of aeroplanes," interrupted some one, "I once knew a girl----"
"Why don't they have Snotties in the Flying Corps?" chimed in a third.
"Why, if I were in the Government, I'd----"
But the reader continued in tranquil indifference. Quite a number of
years had passed since he first learned that in Gunroom communities to
stop speaking on account of interruptions meant spending your days in
the silence of a Trappist.
"... at the point of the bayonet, the enemy retreating in disorder."
Silence on the group at last. This was of more account than cricket or
aeroplanes, for this was War, their trade in theory, and, perchance--and
the Fates were wondrous kind--the ultimate destiny of each. The Censor
of Governments gave a delighted blast from his pipe--
"The bayonet!" he breathed. "That's the game...!" In all his short
life he had never seen a blow delivered in hate--the hate that strikes
to kill. Yet a queer light smouldered in his eyes as half-dreamily he
watched the waves scurrying to join the smother of the wake.
The Clerk by the muzzle of the 6-in. gun took his pipe out of his mouth
and turned towards the speaker. "I've got a brother on the
Frontier--lucky blighter, I bet he's in it!" He removed his glasses, as
he always did in moments of excitement, and blinked short-sightedly in
the morning sunlight. He came of a fighting strain, but had been doomed
by bad sight to exchange the sword, that was his heritage, for pen and
ledger. "Does it say anything else--let me see, Billy."
"No--no details; only a few casualties; they killed a Subalt--" he
stopped abruptly; the wind caught the sheet and whisked it from his
fingers. His face had grown white beneath its tan.
"Oh, you ass!" chorussed the group. The piece of paper whirled high in
the air and settled into the water astern. A shadow fell athwart the
seated group, and the Sub. looked up.
"Hullo! Good-morning, Padre!"
"Good-morning," replied the sturdy figure in the mortar-board. A genial
priest this, who combined parochial duties with those of Naval
Instructor, and spent the dog-watches in flannels on the forecastle,
shepherding a section of his flock with the aid of boxing-gloves.
"Discussing the affairs of your betters, and the Universe, as usual, I
suppose! I came over to observe that there is a very fine horizon, and
if any of ye feel an uncontrollable desire to take a sight----"
"Not yet, sir!" protested a clear tenor chorus. "Morning-watch, sir,"
added a voice; then, mimicking the grumbling whine of a discontented
Ordinary Seaman: "Ain't 'ad no stand-easy--besides, sir, the index-error
of my sextant----"
Somewhere forward in the battery the notes of a bugle sang out. The
members of the Gunroom smoking circle mechanically knocked out their
pipes against the rim of the white-washed spitkid, and rose one by one
to their feet, straightening their caps. In a minute the sponson was
deserted, save for the Clerk who lingered, blinking at the sunlit sea.
A moment later he turned, encountering the kindly, level eyes of the
Chaplain.
"The name," he said, with a little inclination of his head to where, far
astern, a gull was circling curiously, "was it--the same, sir, as--as
mine?"
"Yes," replied the Chaplain gravely.
The boy nodded and turned again to the sea. His young face had
hardened, and the colour had gone out of his lips. The other, thrice
blessed in the knowledge of how much sympathy unmans, and how much
strengthens to endure, laid a steadying hand on the square shoulder
presented to him. "He died fighting, remember," said this man of peace.
The Clerk nodded again, and gripped the hand-rail harder. "He always
was the lucky one, sir." He adjusted his glasses thoughtfully, and went
below to where, in the electric-lit office, the ship's Ledger was
awaiting him.
*VII.*
*THE SHIP-VISITORS.*
"There's the boat!" exclaimed the younger girl excitedly. Her sister
nodded with dancing eyes, and half turned to squeeze her mother's arm.
Half a mile away a picket-boat detached itself from one of the anchored
battleships and came speeding across the harbour. Breathless, they
watched it approach, saw bow and stern-sheet men stoop for their
boat-hooks, heard the warning clang of the engine-room bell, and the
next moment the Midshipman in charge swung her deftly alongside the
landing-stage with a smother of foam under the stern. A figure in
uniform frock-coat jumped out.
"Hullo, mother! Sorry I'm late: have you been waiting long? ... Mind
the step!"
The descent into a picket-boat's stern-sheets, especially if you are
encumbered by a skirt, is no easy matter. Perhaps the Midshipman of the
boat realised it too, for he abandoned the wheel and assisted in the
embarkation with the ready hand and averted eye that told of no small
experience in such matters.
Then they heard a clear-cut order, the bell rang again, and the return
journey commenced; but they did not hear the hoarse whisper conveyed
down the voice-pipe to the Leading Stoker to "Whack her up!" And so
they failed to realise that they were throbbing through the water at a
speed which, though causing the Midshipmen of passing boats to gnash
their teeth with envy, was exceedingly bad for the engines and wholly
illegal. But then one does not bring a messmate's sisters off to the
ship every day of the week.
Presently the bell rang again, and a grey steel wall, dotted with
scuttles and surmounted by a rail, towered above them. The boat stopped
palpitating beside a snowy ladder that reached to the water's edge. The
occupant of the stockhold threw up the hatch of his miniature Inferno
and thrust a perspiring head into view; but it is to be feared that no
one noticed him, though he had contributed in no small degree to the
passengers' entertainment. The Mother looked at the mahogany-railed
ladder and sighed thankfully. "I always thought you climbed up by
rope-ladders, dear," she whispered.
The ascent accomplished, followed introductions to smiling and somewhat
bashful youths, who relieved the visitors of parasols and handbags, and
led the way to a deck below, where racks of rifles were ranged along
white-enamelled bulkheads, and a Marine sentry clicked to attention as
they passed. Down a narrow passage, lit by electric lights, past a
cage-like kitchen and rows of black-topped chests, and, as the guide
paused before a curtained door, a glimpse forward of crowded mess-decks.
Then, a little bewildered, they found themselves in a narrow apartment,
lit by four brass-bound scuttles. A long table ran the length of the
room, with tea things laid at one end; overhead were racks of golf-clubs
and hockey-sticks, cricket-bats and racquets. A row of dirks hung above
the tiled stove, and a baize-covered notice-board, letter-racks, and a
miscellaneous collection of pictures adorned the rivet-studded walls. A
somewhat battered piano, topped by a dejected palm, occupied one end of
the Mess, and beneath the sideboard a strip of baize made an ineffectual
attempt to cover the end of a beer barrel.
"This," said the host, with a tinge of pride in his voice, "is the
Gunroom--where we live," he added.
"It's very nice," murmured the visitors.
"It's not a bad one, as Gunrooms go," admitted another of the escort.
He did not add that under his personal supervision a harassed throng of
junior Midshipmen had pent a lurid half-hour "squaring off" before their
arrival.
After tea came a tour of the ship, and to those who inspect one for the
first time the interior of a man-of-war is not without interest. They
emerged from a hatchway on to the Quarter-deck, beneath the wicked
muzzles of the after 12-inch guns: they crossed the immaculate planking
and looked down to the level waters of the harbour, thirty feet below.
They admired the neatly-coiled boat's falls, the trim and slightly
self-conscious figure of the Officer of the Watch, and as they turned to
mount the ladder that led over the turret a Signalman came on to the
Quarter-deck, raising his hand to the salute as he passed through the
screen-door.
"Who did that sailor salute?" inquired the Mother.
"Oh," replied her escort vaguely, "only salutin' the Quarter-deck. We
all do, you know." So much for his summary of a custom that has
survived from days when a crucifix overshadowing the poop required the
doffing of a sailor's cap.
Then they were taken forward, past the orderly confusion of the "booms,"
to a round pill-box, described as the Conning Tower. with twelve-inch
walls of Krupp steel, and introduced to an assortment of levers and
voice-pipes, mysterious dials, and a brass-studded steering-wheel. Then
up a ladder to the signal-bridge, where barefooted men, with skins
tanned brick-red and telescopes under their arms, swung ceaselessly to
and fro. They examined the flag-lockers--each flag rolled neatly in a
bundle and stowed in a docketed compartment--the black-and-white
semaphores, and the key of the mast-head flashing lamp that at night
winked messages across five miles of darkness.
From then onwards that afternoon became a series of blurred impression
of things mysterious and delightfully bewildering. They carried away
with them memories of the swarming forecastle and batteries, where they
saw the sailor-man enjoying his leisure in his own peculiar fashion. Of
the six-inch breech-block that opened with a clang to show the spiral
grooved bore--rifled to prevent the projectile from turning
somersaults.... The younger girl wiped a foot of wet paint off the
coaming of a hatch and said sweetly it didn't matter in the least. They
invaded the sanctity of the wireless room, with its crackling spark and
network of wires, and listened, all uncomprehending, to the petty
officer in charge, as, delighted with a lay audience, he plunged into a
whirl of technical explanations. And, lastly, the Mother was handed the
receivers, and heard a faint intermittent buzzing that was a ship
calling querulously three hundred miles away.
After that they descended to electric-lit depths, and were invited into
cabins; they visited the "Slop-room" (impossible name), where they
fingered serge and duck with feminine appreciation. They saw the
nettings where the hammocks were stowed, and the overhead slinging
space--eighteen inches to a man! And so back to the upper deck, to find
the picket-boat again at the bottom of the ladder.
* * * * *
"Hasn't it been lovely!" gasped the elder girl, as they walked back to
their hotel.
"Scrumptious!" assented her sister. "And _did_ you notice the boy who
steered the boat that brought us back?--he had a face like a cherub
looked at through a magnifying-glass!"
Meanwhile, he of the magnified cherubic countenance was rattling dice
with a friend preparatory to indulging in a well-earned glass of
Marsala. Outside the gunroom pantry the grimy gentleman whose sphere of
duty lay in the picket-boat's stockhold sought recognition of his
services in an upturned quart jug.
Which is also illegal, and contrary to the King's Regulations and
Admiralty Instructions.
*VIII.*
*THE LEGION ON THE WALL.*
"Not now. Not now. Not yet."
--_Sea Law and Sea Power_.
The last of the Battle Squadrons filed majestically to its appointed
anchorage. A snake-like flotilla of Destroyers slid in under the lee of
the land and joined the parent ship; wisps of smoke east and west
heralded the arrival of far-flung scouts. The great annual War-game was
at an end, and the Fleet had met, with rime-crusted funnels and
rust-streaked sides, to talk it over and snatch a breathing space ere
returning to their wide sea-beats and patrols. Evening drew on, and the
semaphores were busy waving invitations to dinner from ship to ship.
Opportunities of meeting friends are none too frequent, and when they
occur, are often of the briefest. So no time was lost, and a sort of
"General Post" ensued among Wardrooms and Gunrooms.
In the Flagship's Wardroom dinner was over, and a haze of tobacco smoke
spread among the shaded lights and glinting plate. Conversation that
began with technical discussion had become personal and reminiscent. "Do
you remember that time..." commenced one. His immediate listeners
nodded delightedly, and sat with narrowed eyes and retrospective smiles
as the narrator continued, twirling the stem of his wine-glass. Well
did they recall the story, but it had to be told again for the joy of
the telling, while they supplemented with a forgotten name or incident,
harking back to the golden yesterday, when the world went very well
indeed. The talk swung north to the Bering Sea and south to Table Bay,
forging swift links with the past as it went. It would have seemed to a
stranger as if the members of a club had met to discuss a common
experience. And yet these men were here haphazard from a dozen
ships--their club the Seven Seas, and their common experience, life, as
it is to be met in the seaports of the world. As chairs were pushed
from the table and the evening wore on, fresh greetings sounded on all
sides: "Hullo! Old Tubby, as I live! Good Lord! How long is it
since--seven--nine--my dear soul! It's ten weary years..." and so on.
They were all young men, too: almost boys, some of them, with eager,
excited faces, lean with hard work--worthy sons of the same grey, hard
Mother.
Through the skylight came the opening bars of the "Lancers," and there
was a general move on deck. The Gunroom was there already, and, two
sets being formed, the dance began. Much it left in point of elegance,
it is to be feared, but it was fine strenuous exercise. The last figure
was reached, and on completion of the Grand-Chain, the two sets linked
arms, dashed whooping across the deck, and met in an inextricable heap
of arms, legs, crumpled shirt-fronts and mess-jackets.
"Oh, my aunt!" gasped an ex-International, crawling from beneath a mound
of assailants, and vainly striving to adjust collar and tie. "My last
boiled shirt--and it's got to last another week!"
Presently every one repaired to the Wardroom, where corks were popping
from soda-water bottles, and an amateur humourist of renown sat down to
the piano as the laughing crowd gathered round. A couple of
bridge-tables were made up, and the players settled down with that
complacent indifference to outside distraction peculiar to men who live
habitually in crowded surroundings. Seated astride the chairs at one end
of the mess, two teams of would-be polo-players were soon locked in
conflict, table-spoons and an orange being accessories to the game.
The singer of comic songs had finished his repertoire, and the Mess
turned in search of fresh distraction. "Come on, old Mouldy, what about
putting up your little turn?" called out one, addressing a grave-faced
officer who sat smoking on the settee. "Yes," chorussed half a dozen
voices, "go on, do!" The officer addressed as "Mouldy" sat down at the
piano, fingered the keys contemplatively for a moment, and then in a
deep baritone voice began--
"God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle line,"
and so on to the end of the first verse. The polo-players ceased their
horseplay, and leaned panting over the backs of their wooden steeds to
listen. The second verse drew to a close--
"An humble and a contrite heart,"
and then the group round the singer joined in the refrain--
"Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!"
At the fourth verse the Mess clustered round the piano. The
bridge-players had laid their hands down, and at the skylight overhead
appeared faces and the glint of uniforms. The Gunroom started the last
verse, and the rest joined--men's voices, bass and tenor, lifting the
stately words in a great volume of harmony up through the skylight into
the night--
"All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word
Thy mercy on thy people, Lord!
Amen!"
The last solemn chord died away, and a sudden silence fell upon the
Mess: it was some moments before the conversation once more became
general. By twos and threes the guests departed. Groups clustered at
the gangways; the night was full of farewells and the hooting of
picket-boats' syrens. Gradually the Mess emptied, and in the flat where
the midshipmen slept silence reigned among the chests and hammocks. The
Admiral's guests had also departed, but on the silent quarter-deck two
tall figures walked up and down, pipes in mouth.
"I wonder why they sang that thing," said one musingly. His companion
paused and stared across the water at the lights of the town. From
there his gaze travelled round to the silent Fleet, line after line of
twinkling anchor-lights and huge hulls looming through the darkness.
"Somehow, it seemed extraordinarily appropriate, with things as they are
ashore just now."
"You mean all these strikes and rioting--class-hatred--this futile
discussion about armaments--brawling in Parliament.... 'Lesser breeds
without the law' gradually assuming control....?"
The other nodded and turned again to the sea; as he moved, a row of
miniature decorations on his jacket made a tiny clink. "Yes. And
meanwhile we go on just the same, talking as little as they will let
us--just working on our appointed task: holding to our tradition of
'Ready, Aye Ready!'"
"Our tradition--yes." His companion gave a little grim laugh. "D'you
know the story of the last Legion left on the Wall--?" he jerked his
head towards where the Pole Star hung in the starry heavens. "How Rome,
sliding into Chaos, withdrew her Legions till only one was left to
garrison the Wall. And it was forgotten. Rumours must have reached the
fellows in that Legion of what was going on at Home: of blind folly in
high places--corruption: defeat. The draggle-tailed Roman Eagle must
have been a jest in the market-places of the world."
He paused, puffing thoughtfully. "You can imagine them," he continued,
"falling back, tower by tower, on the centre: attacked in front and
behind and on both flanks by an enemy they despised as barbarians, but
who, by sheer force of numbers, must annihilate them in the end--unless
Rome rallied, suppose they could have retreated--or
compromised,--haggled for their skins. No one would have thought less
of them for it in those days. But they had been brought up in all the
brave traditions of their Empire.... When you think of it, there wasn't
much left to fight for, except their proud traditions. And yet they
fought to the last ... while the Roman Empire went fiddling into ruin."
Far away down the line a mast-head lamp flickered a message out of the
darkness. The Fleet was resting like a tired giant; but the pin-point
of light, and another that answered it on the instant a mile away,
showed that its sleep was light. "But the end is not yet," concluded
the speaker.
"No," replied his companion. He made a little gesture with his
pipe-stem, embracing the silent battle-array stretching away into the
night. "Not yet."
*IX.*
*A TITHE OF ADMIRALTY*
It was the hour preceding dinner, and a small boy in the uniform of a
Naval Cadet stood on the balcony of an hotel at Dartmouth.
Earlier in the day a tremendous self-importance had possessed his soul;
it was begotten primarily of brass buttons and a peaked cap, and its
outward manifestation at Paddington Station had influenced a
short-sighted old lady in her decision that he was a railway official of
vast, if premature, responsibilities. He leaned over the balustrade and
looked up harbour; beyond the scattered yachts and coal-hulks, black
against the path of the sunset, lay the old _Britannia_. She was
moored, this cradle of a generation's Naval destiny, where the Dart
commenced to wind among green hills crowned by woods and red-brown
plough lands; and as he stared, the smaller vanities of the morning
passed from him.
He was barely fifteen, and his ideas were jumbled and immature, but in a
confused sort of way he thought of the thousands of other boys those
wooden walls had sheltered, and who, at the bidding of unknown powers,
had gone down to the sea in ships.
He pictured them working their pinnaces and cutters--as he would some
day--soaked and chilled by winter gales. Others departed for the
Mediterranean, where, if the testimony of an aunt (who had once spent a
winter at Malta) was to be accepted, life was all picnics and dances.
He saw them yet farther afield, chasing slavers, patrolling
pirate-infested creeks, fighting through jungle and swamp, lying stark
beneath desert stars, ... and ever fresh ones came to fill the vacant
places, bred for the work--even as he was to be--on the placid waters of
the Dart, amid Devon coombes. It was all a little vainglorious,
perhaps; and if his imagination was coloured by the periodicals and
literature of boyhood, who is to blame him?
Why it was necessary for these things to be he understood vaguely, if at
all. But in some dim way he realised it was part of his new heritage, a
sort of brotherhood of self-immolation and hardship into which he was
going to be initiated.
His thoughts went back along the path of the last few years that had
followed his father's death. With a tightening of the heart-strings he
saw how an Empire demands other sacrifices. How, in order that men
might die to martial music, must sometimes come first an even greater
heroism of self-denial. Years of thrift and contrivance, new clothes
foresworn, a thousand renunciations--this had been his mother's part,
that her son might in time bear his share of the Empire's burden.
She came out on to the balcony as the sun dipped behind the hills, and
the woods were turning sombre, and slipped a thin arm inside his. It is
rarely given to men to live worthy of the mothers that bore them; a
few--a very few--are permitted to die worthy of them. Perhaps it was
some dim foreknowledge of the end that thrilled him as he drew her
closer.
They had dinner, and with it, because it was such a great occasion, a
bottle of "Sparkling Cider," drunk out of wine-glasses to the
inscrutable Future. Another boy was dining with his parents at a
distant table, and at intervals throughout the meal the embryo admirals
glanced at one another with furtive interest. After dinner the mother
and son sat on the balcony watching the lights of the yachts twinkling
across the water, and talked in low voices scarcely raised above the
sound of the waves lapping along the quay. At times their heads were
very close together, and, since in the star-powdered darkness there were
none to see, their hands met and clung.
She accompanied him on board the following day, to be led by a
grave-faced Petty Officer along spotless decks that smelt of tar and
resin. She saw the chest-deck, where servants were slinging hammocks
above the black-and-white painted chests--the chest-deck with its wide
casement ports and rows of enamelled basins, and everywhere that smell
of hemp and scrubbed woodwork.
"Number 32, you are, sir," said the Petty Officer; and as he spoke she
knew the time had come when her boy was no longer hers alone.
They bade farewell by the gangway, under the indifferent eyes of a
sentry, and Number 32 watched the frail figure in the waterman's boat
till it was out of sight. Then he turned with a desperate longing for
privacy--anywhere where he could go and blubber like a kid. But from
that time onwards (with the rare exceptions of leave at home) he was
never to know privacy again.
*II.*
The old _Britannia_ training consisted of four terms, each of three
months' duration, during which a boy fresh from the hands of a tutor or
crammer had many things to learn. He was taught to "drop everything and
nip!" when called; how, when, and whom to salute. To pull an oar and
sail a boat; to knot, splice, and run aloft; how to use a sextant. He
learned that trigonometry and algebra were not really meaningless mental
gymnastics, but a purposeful science that guided men upon trackless
seas. In short, at an age when other schoolboys see their education
nearing its end, he had to begin all over again, to be moulded afresh
for a higher purpose.
The path of the "New" in those days was by no means strewn with roses.
Jerry had to submit to strange indignities and stranger torments at the
hands of Olympian "Niners" (Fourth-term Cadets). He had to accustom
himself to bathe, dress and undress, to sleep and to pray, surrounded by
a hundred others. There was also the business of the hammock, in and out
of which he was learning to turn without dishonour.
But the conclusion of the first breathless three months found him
amazingly fit and happy. His mind was stored with newly-acquired and
vastly interesting knowledge. The beagles and football sweated the
"callow suet" off him and gave him the endurance of a lean hound. He
was fitting into the new life as a hand into a well-worn glove.
The end of his second term brought the coveted triangular badge on the
right cuff that marks the Cadet Captain among his fellows. The duties
(which are much the same as those of monitor or prefect) offered him his
first introduction to the peculiar essence we call tact, necessary in
dealing with contemporaries. About this time began his friendship with
Jubbs. This young gentleman's real name was as unlike his sobriquet as
anything could be; among a community of Naval Cadets this was perhaps a
sufficient _raison d'etre_: anyhow none other was ever forthcoming.
They earned their "Rugger" colours together as scrum and stand-off
halves, and as time went on a slow friendship matured and knit between
them. Their first sight of each other had been in the hotel the evening
before joining. Thenceforward it pleased the power that is called
Destiny to run the brief threads of their lives together to the end.
At the close of their third term they became Chief Cadet Captains, and
Jubbs' papa, a long, lean baronet with a beak-like nose, came down to
attend the prize-giving. At the conclusion of the ceremony he was
piloted to the Canteen, where the Cadet Captains were pleased to
"stodge" at his expense, while he--as one who sits at meat among the
gods--trumpeted his satisfaction into a flaring bandana handkerchief.
At the end of the fourth and last term Jerry's mother came down to see
the last prize-giving, and thus was present when her son received the
King's Medal. For one never-to-be-forgotten moment she watched him turn
from the dais and come towards her, erect and rather pale, with
compressed lips. But the cheering broke from the throats of three
hundred inveterate hero-worshippers like a tempest, and then a mist hid
him from her sight.
*III.*
A P. & O. liner, a few months later, carried Jerry and Jubbs to China.
During the voyage they came in contact with a hitherto unrecognised
factor in life, and found themselves faced with unforeseen perplexities.
One evening, as they leaned over the rail experimenting gingerly with
two cigars, Jubbs unburdened himself. "... Besides, they jaw such awful
rot," was his final summary of feminine allurements. Jerry nodded,
tranquil-eyed. "I know. I told Mrs What's-her-name--that woman with
the ear-rings--that I'd got one mother already; and as I'm going to
China, and she's going to India, I didn't see the use of being
tremendous friends. 'Sides, she's as old as the hills."
Jerry! Jerry! The lady in question was barely thirty, even if she had
an unaccountable partiality for taking him into the bows to watch the
moon rise over the Indian Ocean.
They joined their ship at Hong-Kong, and found themselves members of a
crowded, cockroach-haunted gunroom, where every one was on the best of
terms with every one else, and there reigned a communism undreamed of in
their philosophy. It is said that in those days of stress and novelty,
among unknown faces and unfamiliar surroundings, their friendship bound
them in ever-closer ties. The Sub-Lieutenant, when occasion arose for
the chastisement of one, thrashed the other out of sheer pity. They
kept watch, took in signal exercise, went ashore, shot snipe, picnicked
and went through their multifarious duties generally within hail of one
another. Till at length Jerry's call of "Jubbs!" and Jubbs' unfailing
"Coming!" brought half-wistful smiles to older eyes.
The Boxer rising broke out like a sudden flame, and their letters home,
those voluminous and ill-spelt missives that meant so much to the
recipients, announced the momentous tidings. Jerry was landing in
charge of a maxim gun; Jubbs was to be aide-de-camp to the Commander.
Their whites were being dyed a warlike tint of khaki, and they were
being sent up to take part in the defence of Tientsin. For a while
silence, then at last a letter scrawled in pencil on some provision
wrappers. Jerry boasted a three-weeks' growth of stubble, and had
killed several peculiarly ferocious Boxer bravos. They were looking
forward to being moved up to Peking for the relief of the Legations, and
there was practically no danger as long as a fellow took reasonable
precautions. He had not seen Jubbs for some time, but expected to meet
him before long.
As a matter of fact, they came together the next afternoon, and their
meeting-place was a Joss-house that had been converted into a temporary
field-hospital. Jerry was the first to arrive, "in the bight of a
canvas trough"--Jerry, very white and quiet, a purple-brown stain
spreading over his dusty tunic and a bullet lodged somewhere near the
base of the spine. Towards sunset he became conscious, and the Red
Cross nursing sister supported his head while he drank tepid water from
a tin mug. "'Sparkling Cider,'" he whispered weakly, "for luck, ...
thank you, mummie darling."
The firing outside was becoming intermittent and gradually growing more
distant, when the patch of dusty sunlight in the doorway was darkened by
a fresh arrival. The stretcher party laid him on the bed next to Jerry
and departed. The Surgeon made a brief examination, and as he
straightened up, met the pitying eyes of the Red Cross sister. He shook
his head.
"The poor children," she whispered. Outside there came a sudden renewal
of firing and the spiteful stammer of a maxim. It died away, and there
was silence, broken by the buzzing of flies in the doorway and the sound
of some one fighting for his breath. In the heavy air the sickly smell
of iodoform mingled with the odours of departed joss-sticks and
sun-baked earth.