"Gentlemen--Sweethearts and Wives!"
"And may they never meet!" added the Engineer Commander. In reality the
most domesticated and blameless of husbands, it was the ambition of his
life to be esteemed a sad dog, and that, men should shake their heads
over him crying "Fie!"
The First Lieutenant gathered together his silver rings. "Now then,
clear the table. She's rolling like a good 'un. Seven to one on the
field, bar----"
"Speech!" broke in the Paymaster. "Speech, Shortie! Few words by a
young officer about to embark on the troubled sea of matrimony. Hints
on the Home----"
The prospective bridegroom shook his head, laughing, and coloured in a
way rather pleasant to see. He rose, pushing in his chair. In the
inside pocket of his mess-jacket was an unopened letter, saved up-to
read over a pipe in peace,
"My advice to you all is----"
"'Don't,'" from the Engineer Commander.
"Mind your own business," and the Engineer Lieutenant fled from the Mess
amid derisive shouts of "Coward!" The voice of the First Lieutenant
rose above the hubbub--
"Seven to one on the field--and what about a jump or two? Chuck up the
menu-card, Pay. Now, boys, roll, bowl, or pitch ... 'Every time a
blood-orange or a good see-gar'...!"
* * * * *
The Officer of the First Watch leaned out over the bridge rails, peering
into the darkness that enveloped the forecastle, and listening intently.
The breeze had freshened, and the cruiser slammed her way into a rising
sea, labouring with the peculiar motion known as a "cork-screw roll":
the night was very dark. Presently he turned and walked to the
chart-house door: inside, the Navigation Officer was leaning over the
chart, wrinkling his brows as he pencilled a faint line.
"Pilot," said the other, "just step out here a second."
The Navigator looked up, pushing his cap from his forehead. "What's
up?"
"I think the starboard anchor is 'talking.' I wish you'd come and
listen a moment." The Navigator stepped out on to the bridge, closing
the chart-house door after him, and paused a moment to accustom his eyes
to the darkness. "Dark night, isn't it? Wind's getting up, too...."
He walked to the end of the bridge and leaned out. The ship plunged
into a hollow with a little shudder and then flung her bows upwards
into, a cascade of spray. A dull metallic sound detached itself from
the sibilant rushing of water and the beat of waves against the ship's
side, repeating faintly with each roll of the ship from the
neighbourhood of the anchor-bed. The Navigator nodded: "Yes, ... one of
the securing chains wants tautening, I should say. 'Saltash Luck'[#]
for some one!" He moved back into the chart-house and picked up the
parallel-rulers again.
[#] A thorough wetting.
The Lieutenant of the Watch went to the head of the ladder and called
the Boatswain's Mate, who was standing in the lee of the conning-tower
yarning with the Corporal of the Watch--
"Pipe the duty sub. of the watch to fall in with oilskins on; when
they're present, take them on to the forecastle and set up the securing
chain of the starboard bower-anchor. Something's worked loose. See that
any one who goes outside the rail has a bowline on."
"Aye, aye, sir." The Boatswain's Mate descended the ladder, giving a
few preliminary "cheeps" with his pipe before delivering himself of his
tidings of "Saltash Luck" to the duty sub. of the port watch.
The Officer of the Watch gave an order to the telegraph-man on the
bridge, and far below in the Engine-room they heard the clang of the
telegraph gongs. He turned into the chart-house and opened the ship's
log, glancing at the clock as he did so. Then he wrote with a stumpy bit
of pencil--
"9.18. Decreased speed to 6 knots. Duty Sub. secured starboard
bower-anchor."
He returned to the bridge and leaned over the rail, straining his eyes
into the darkness and driving spray towards the indistinct group of men
working on the streaming forecastle. In the light of a swaying lantern
he could make out a figure getting out on to the anchor-bed; another was
turning up with a rope's end; he heard the faint click of a hammer on
metal. The ship lurched and plunged abruptly into the trough of a sea.
An oath, clear-cut and distinct, tossed aft on the wind, and a quick
shout.
He turned aft and rushed to the top of the ladder, bawling down between
curved palms with all the strength of his lungs.
* * * * *
The Engineer Lieutenant who left the Wardroom after dinner did not
immediately go on deck. He went first to his cabin, where he filled and
lit a pipe, and changed his mess-jacket for a comfortable, loose-fitting
monkey-jacket. Then he settled down in his armchair, wedged his feet
against the bunk to steady himself against the roll of the ship, and
read his letter. Often as he read he smiled, and once he blinked a
little, misty-eyed. The last sheet he re-read several times.
"... Oh, isn't it good to think of! It was almost worth the pain of
separation to have this happiness now--to know that every minute is
bringing you nearer. I wake up in the morning with that happy sort of
feeling that something nice is going to happen soon--and then I realise:
you are coming Home! I jump out of bed and tear another leaf off the
calendar,--there are only nine left now, and then comes one marked with
a big cross.... Do you know the kind of happiness that hurts? Or is it
only a girl who can feel it? ... I pray every night that the days may
pass quickly, and that you may come safely."
It was a very ordinary little love-letter, with its shy admixture of
love and faith and piety: the sort so few men ever earn, and so many (in
Heaven's mercy) are suffered to receive. The recipient folded it
carefully, replaced it in its envelope, and put it in his pocket. Then
he lifted his head suddenly, listening....
Down below, the Engine-room telegraph gong had clanged, and the steady
beat of the engines slowed. With an eye on his wrist-watch he counted
the muffled strokes of the piston.... Decreased to 6 knots. What was
the matter? Fog? He rose and leaned over his bunk, peering through the
scuttle. Quite clear. He decided to light a pipe and go on deck for a
"breather" before turning in, and glanced at the little clock ticking on
the bulkhead. Twenty past nine; ten minutes walk on the quarter-deck
and then to bed. It was his middle watch.
As he left his cabin some one in the Wardroom began softly playing the
piano, and the Paymaster's clear baritone joined in, singing a song
about somebody's grey eyes watching for somebody else. The Mess was
soaking in sentiment to-night: must be the effect of Saturday Night at
Sea he reflected.
He reached the quarter-deck and stood looking round, swaying easily with
the motion of the ship. The sea was getting up, and the wind blew a
stream of tiny sparks from his pipe. Farther aft the sentry on the
life-buoys was mechanically walking his beat, now toiling laboriously up
a steep incline, now trying to check a too precipitous descent. The
Engineer Lieutenant watched him for a moment, listening to the notes of
the piano tinkling up through the open skylight from the Wardroom.
"I know of two white arms
Waiting for me ..."
The singer had started another verse; the Engineer Lieutenant smiled
faintly, and walked to the ship's side to stare out into the darkness.
Why on earth had they slowed down? A sudden impatience filled him.
Every minute was precious now. Why----
"MAN OVERBOARD. AWAY LIFEBOAT'S CREW!" Not for nothing had the Officer
of the Watch received a "Masts and Yards" upbringing; the wind forward
caught the stentorian shout and hurled it along the booms and battery,
aft to the quarter-deck where the little Engineer Lieutenant was
standing, one hand closed over the glowing bowl of his pipe, the other
thrust into his trousers pocket.
The Engine-room telegraph began clanging furiously, the sound passing up
the casings and ventilators into the night; then the Boatswain's Mate
sent his ear-piercing pipe along the decks, calling away the lifeboat's
crew. The sentry on the life-buoys wrenched at the releasing knob of
one of his charges and ran across to the other.
The leaden seconds passed, and the Engineer Lieutenant still stood
beside the rail, mechanically knocking the ashes from his pipe.... Then
something went past on the crest of a wave: something white that might
have been a man's face, or broken water showing up in the glare of a
scuttle.... A sound out of the darkness that might have been the cry of
a low-flying gull.
Now it may be argued that the Engineer Lieutenant ought to have stayed
where he was. Going overboard on such a night was too risky for a man
whose one idea was to get home as quickly as possible--who, a moment
before, had chafed at the delay of reduced speed. Furthermore, he had
in his pocket a letter bidding him come home safely; and for three years
he had denied himself his little luxuries for love of her who wrote
it....
All the same--would she have him stand and wonder if that was a gull he
had heard...?
Love of women, Love of life....! Mighty factors--almost supreme. Yet a
mortal has stayed in a wrecked stokehold, amid the scalding steam, to
find and shut a valve; Leper Settlements have their doctors and pastor;
and "A very gallant Gentleman" walks unhesitatingly into an Antarctic
blizzard, to show there is a love stronger and higher even than these.
The Engineer Lieutenant was concerned with none of these fine thoughts.
For one second he did pause, looking about as if for somewhere to put
his pipe. Then he tossed it on to the deck, scrambled over the rail,
took a deep breath, and dived.
The Marine sentry ran to the side of the ship.
"_Christ!_" he gasped, and forsook his post, to cry the tale aloud along
the seething battery.
The ship shuddered as the engines were reversed, and the water under the
stern began to seethe and churn. The Commander had left his cabin, and
was racing up to the bridge, as the Captain reached the quarterdeck. A
knot of officers gathered on the after-bridge.
"Pin's out, sir!" shouted the Coxswain of the sea-boat, and added under
his breath, "Oars all ready, lads! Stan' by to pull like bloody
'ell--there's two of 'em in the ditch...." The boat was hanging a few
feet above the tumbling water.
"Slip!" shouted a voice from the invisible fore-bridge. An instant's
pause, and the boat dropped with a crash on to a rising wave, There was
a clatter and thud of oars in row-locks; the clanking of the
chain-slings, and the boat, with her motley-clad[#] life-belted crew,
slid off down the slant of a wave. For a moment the glare of an electric
light lit the faces of the men, tugging and straining grimly at their
oars; then she vanished, to reappear a moment later on the crest of a
sea, and disappeared again into the darkness.
[#] Any one near the boat responds to the call "Away Life-boat's crew!"
The Commander on the fore-bridge snatched up a megaphone, shouting
down-wind--
"Pull to starboard, cutter! Make for the life-buoy light!"
The watchers on the after-bridge were peering into the night with
binoculars and glasses. The A.P. extended an arm and forefinger:
"There's the life-buoy--there! ... Now--there! D'you see it? You can
just see the flare when it lifts on a wave.... Ah! That's better!"
The dazzling white beam from a search-light on the fore-bridge leaped
suddenly into the night. "Now we can see the cutter--" the beam wavered
a moment and finally steadied. "Yes, there they are.... I say, there's
a devil of a sea running."
"Ripping sea-boats our Service cutters are," said another, staring
through his glasses. "They'll live in almost anything; but this isn't a
dangerous sea. The skipper 'll turn in a minute and make a lee for
them."
"Think old Shortie reached the buoy?"
"Probably swimming about looking for the other fellow, if I know
anything of him; who did he go in after?"
"One of the duty sub.--they were securing the anchor or something
forward, and the bowline slipped----"
"By gad! He's got him! There's the buoy--yes, two of them. _Good_ old
Shortie.... My God! _Good_ old Shortie!" The speaker executed a sort
of war-dance and trod on the Paymaster's toes.
"When you've quite finished, Snatcher.... By the way, what about
hot-water bottles--blankets--stimulants.... First aid: come along!
'Assure the patient in a loud voice that he is safe.' ... 'Aspect
cheerful but subdued.' ... I learned the whole rigmarole once!"
From the fore upper bridge the Captain was handling his ship like a
picket-boat.
"'Midships--steady! Stop both!" He raised his mouth from the
voice-pipe to the helmsman, and nodded to the Officer of the Watch.
"She'll do now.... The wind 'll take her down."