At half-past nine the crew of the _Merman_ were buried in slumber, at
nine thirty-two three of the members were awake with heads protruding
out of their bunks, trying to peer through the gloom, while the fourth
dreamt that a tea-tray was falling down a never-ending staircase. On
the floor of the forecastle something was cursing prettily and rubbing
itself.
“Did you ’ear anything, Ted?” inquired a voice in an interval of
silence.
“Who is it?” demanded Ted, ignoring the question. “Wot d’yer want?”
“I’ll let you know who I am,” said a thick and angry voice. “I’ve broke
my blarsted back.”
“Light the lamp, Bill,” said Ted.
Bill struck a tandsticker match, and carefully nursing the tiny
sulphurous flame with his hand, saw dimly some high-coloured object on
the floor.
He got out of his bunk and lit the lamp, and an angry and very drunken
member of Her Majesty’s foot forces became visible.
“Wot are you doin’ ’ere?” inquired Ted, sharply, “this ain’t the
guard-room.”
“Who knocked me over?” demanded the soldier sternly; “take your co—coat
off lik’ a man.”
He rose to his feet and swayed unsteadily to and fro.
“If you keep your li’l’ ’eads still,” he said gravely, to Bill, “I’ll
punch ’em.”
By a stroke of good fortune he selected the real head, and gave it a
blow which sent it crashing against the woodwork. For a moment the
seaman stood gathering his scattered senses, then with an oath he
sprang forward, and in the lightest of fighting trim waited until his
adversary, who was by this time on the floor again, should have
regained his feet.
“He’s drunk, Bill,” said another voice, “don’t ’urt ’im. He’s a chap
wot said ’e was coming aboard to see me—I met ’im in the Green Man this
evening. You was coming to see me, mate, wasn’t you?”
The soldier looked up stupidly, and gripping hold of the injured Bill
by the shirt, staggered to his feet again, and advancing towards the
last speaker let fly suddenly in his face.
“Sort man I am,” he said, autobiographically. “Feel my arm.”
The indignant Bill took him by both, and throwing himself upon him
suddenly fell with him to the floor. The intruder’s head met the boards
with a loud crash, and then there was silence.
“You ain’t killed ’im, Bill?” said an old seaman, stooping over him
anxiously.
“Course not,” was the reply; “give us some water.”
He threw some in the soldier’s face, and then poured some down his
neck, but with no result. Then he stood upright, and exchanged glances
of consternation with his friends.
“I don’t like the way he’s breathing,” he said, in a trembling voice.
“You always was pertickler, Bill,” said the cook, who had thankfully got
to the bottom of his staircase. “If I was you—”
He was not allowed to proceed any further; footsteps and a voice were
heard above, and as old Thomas hastily extinguished the lamp, the
mate’s head was thrust down the scuttle, and the mate’s voice sounded a
profane _reveille_.
“Wot are we goin’ to do with it?” inquired Ted, as the mate walked
away.
“_’Im_, Ted,” said Bill, nervously. “He’s alive all right.”
“If we put ’im ashore an’ ’e’s dead,” said old Thomas, “there’ll be
trouble for somebody. Better let ’im be, and if ’e’s dead, why we don’t
none of us know nothing about it.”
The men ran up on deck, and Bill, being the last to leave, put a boot
under the soldier’s head before he left. Ten minutes later they were
under way, and standing about the deck, discussed the situation in
thrilling whispers as opportunity offered.
At breakfast, by which time they were in a dirty tumbling sea, with the
_Nore_ lightship, a brown, forlorn-looking object on their beam, the
soldier, who had been breathing stertorously, raised his heavy head
from the boot, and with glassy eyes and tightly compressed lips gazed
wonderingly about him.
“Wot cheer, mate?” said the delighted Bill. “’Ow goes it?”
“Where am I?” inquired Private Harry Bliss, in a weak voice.
“Brig _Merman_,” said Bill; “bound for Bystermouth.”
“Well, I’m damned,” said Private Bliss; “it’s a blooming miracle. Open
the winder, it’s a bit stuffy down here. Who—who brought me here?”
“You come to see me last night,” said Bob, “an’ fell down, I s’pose;
then you punched Bill ’ere in the eye and me in the jor.”
Mr. Bliss, still feeling very sick and faint, turned to Bill, and after
critically glancing at the eye turned on him for inspection,
transferred his regards to the other man’s jaw.
“I’m a devil when I’m boozed,” he said, in a satisfied voice. “Well, I
must get ashore; I shall get cells for this, I expect.”
He staggered to the ladder, and with unsteady haste gained the deck and
made for the side. The heaving waters made him giddy to look at, and he
gazed for preference at a thin line of coast stretching away in the
distance.
The startled mate, who was steering, gave him a hail, but he made no
reply. A little fishing-boat was jumping about in a way to make a
sea-sick man crazy, and he closed his eyes with a groan.
Then the skipper, aroused by the mate’s hail, came up from below, and
walking up to him put a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“What are you doing aboard this ship?” he demanded, austerely.
“Go away,” said Private Bliss, faintly; “take your paw off my tunic;
you’ll spoil it.”
He clung miserably to the side, leaving the incensed skipper to demand
explanations from the crew. The crew knew nothing about him, and said
that he must have stowed himself away in an empty bunk; the skipper
pointed out coarsely that there were no empty bunks, whereupon Bill
said that he had not occupied his the previous evening, but had fallen
asleep sitting on the locker, and had injured his eye against the
corner of a bunk in consequence. In proof whereof he produced the eye.
“Look here, old man,” said Private Bliss, who suddenly felt better. He
turned and patted the skipper on the back. “You just turn to the left a
bit and put me ashore, will you?”
“I’ll put you ashore at Bystermouth,” said the skipper, with a grin.
“You’re a deserter, that’s what you are, and I’ll take care you’re took
care of.”
“You put me ashore!” roared Private Bliss, with a very fine imitation
of the sergeant-major’s parade voice.
“Get out and walk,” said the skipper contemptuously, over his shoulder,
as he walked off.
“Here,” said Mr. Bliss, unbuckling his belt, “hold my tunic one of you.
I’ll learn ’im.”
Before the paralysed crew could prevent him he had flung his coat into
Bill’s arms and followed the master of the _Merman_ aft. As a
light-weight he was rather fancied at the gymnasium, and in the all too
brief exhibition which followed he displayed fine form and a knowledge
of anatomy which even the skipper’s tailor was powerless to frustrate.
The frenzy of the skipper as Ted assisted him to his feet and he saw
his antagonist struggling in the arms of the crew was terrible to
behold. Strong men shivered at his words, but Mr. Bliss, addressing him
as “Whiskers,” told him to call his crew off and to come on, and
shaping as well as two pairs of brawny arms round his middle would
permit, endeavoured in vain to reach him.
“This,” said the skipper, bitterly, as he turned to the mate, “is what
you an’ me have to pay to keep up. I wouldn’t let you go now, my lad,
not for a fi’ pun’ note. Deserter, that’s what you are!”
He turned and went below, and Private Bliss, after an insulting address
to the mate, was hauled forward, struggling fiercely, and seated on the
deck to recover. The excitement passed, he lost his colour again, and
struggling into his tunic, went and brooded over the side.
By dinner-time his faintness had passed, and he sniffed with relish at
the smell from the galley. The cook emerged bearing dinner to the
cabin, then he returned and took a fine smoking piece of boiled beef
flanked with carrots down to the forecastle. Private Bliss eyed him
wistfully and his mouth watered.
For a time pride struggled with hunger, then pride won a partial
victory and he descended carelessly to the forecastle.
“Can any o’ you chaps lend me a pipe o’ baccy?” he asked, cheerfully.
Bill rummaged in his pocket and found a little tobacco in a twist of
paper.
“Bad thing to smoke on a empty stomach,” he said, with his mouth full.
“’Tain’t my fault it’s empty,” said Private Bliss, pathetically.
“’Tain’t mine,” said Bill.
“I’ve ’eard,” said the cook, who was a tenderhearted man, “as ’ow it’s
a good thing to go for a day or so without food sometimes.”
“Who said so?” inquired Private Bliss, hotly.
“Diff’rent people,” replied the cook.
“You can tell ’em from me they’re blamed fools,” said Mr. Bliss.
There was an uncomfortable silence; Mr. Bliss lit his pipe, but it did
not seem to draw well.
“Did you like that pot o’ six-half I stood you last night?” he inquired
somewhat pointedly of Bob.
Bob hesitated and looked at his plate.
“No, it was a bit flat,” he said at length.
“Well, I won’t stop you chaps at your grub,” said Private Bliss,
bitterly, as he turned to depart.
“You’re not stopping us,” said Ted, cheerfully. “I’d offer you a bit,
only—”
“Only what?” demanded the other.
“Skipper’s orders,” said Ted. “He ses we’re not to. He ses if we do
it’s helping a deserter, and we’ll all get six months.”
“But you’re helping me by having me on board,” said Private Bliss;
“besides, I don’t want to desert.”
“We couldn’t ’elp you coming aboard,” said Bill, “that’s wot the old
man said, but ’e ses we can ’elp giving of him vittles, he ses.”
“Well, have I got to starve?” demanded the horror-stricken Mr. Bliss.
“Look ’ere,” said Bill, frankly, “go and speak to the old man. It’s no
good talking to us. Go and have it out with him.”
Private Bliss thanked him and went on deck. Old Thomas was at the
wheel, and a pleasant clatter of knives and forks came up through the
open skylight of the cabin. Ignoring the old man, who waved him away,
he raised the open skylight still higher, and thrust his head in.
“Go away,” bawled the skipper, pausing with his knife in his fist as he
caught sight of him.
“I want to know where I’m to have my dinner,” bawled back the
thoroughly roused Mr. Bliss.
“Your _dinner_!” said the skipper, with an air of surprise; “why, I
didn’t know you ’ad any.”
Private Bliss took his head away, and holding it very erect, took in
his belt a little and walked slowly up and down the deck. Then he went
to the water-cask and took a long drink, and an hour later a generous
message was received from the skipper that he might have as many
biscuits as he liked.
On this plain fare Private Bliss lived the whole of that day and the
next, snatching a few hours’ troubled sleep on the locker at nights.
His peace of mind was by no means increased by the information of Ted
that Bystermouth was a garrison town, and feeling that in spite of any
explanation he would be treated as a deserter, he resolved to desert in
good earnest at the first opportunity that offered.
By the third day nobody took any notice of him, and his presence on
board was almost forgotten, until Bob, going down to the forecastle,
created a stir by asking somewhat excitedly what had become of him.
“He’s on deck, I s’pose,” said the cook, who was having a pipe.
“He’s not,” said Bob, solemnly.
“He’s not gone overboard, I s’pose?” said Bill, starting up.
Touched by this morbid suggestion they went up on deck and looked
round; Private Bliss was nowhere to be seen, and Ted, who was steering,
had heard no splash. He seemed to have disappeared by magic, and the
cook, after a hurried search, ventured aft, and, descending to the
cabin, mentioned his fears to the skipper.
“Nonsense!” said that gentleman, sharply, “I’ll lay I’ll find him.”
He came on deck and looked round, followed at a respectful distance by
the crew, but there was no sign of Mr. Bliss.
Then an idea, a horrid idea, occurred to the cook. The colour left his
cheeks and he gazed helplessly at the skipper.
“What is it?” bawled the latter.
The cook, incapable of speech, raised a trembling hand and pointed to
the galley. The skipper started, and, rushing to the door, drew it
hastily back.
Mr. Bliss had apparently finished, though he still toyed languidly with
his knife and fork as though loath to put them down. A half-emptied
saucepan of potatoes stood on the floor by his side, and a bone, with a
small fragment of meat adhering, was between his legs on a saucepan lid
which served as a dish.
“Rather underdone, cook,” he said, severely, as he met that worthy’s
horror-stricken gaze.
“Is that the cabin’s or the men’s he’s eaten?” vociferated the skipper.
“Cabin’s,” replied Mr. Bliss, before the cook could speak; “it looked
the best. Now, has anybody got a nice see-gar?”
He drew back the door the other side of the galley as he spoke, and
went out that way. A move was made towards him, but he backed, and
picking up a handspike swung it round his head.
“Let him be,” said the skipper in a choking voice, “let him be. He’ll
have to answer for stealing my dinner when I get ’im ashore. Cook, take
the men’s dinner down into the cabin. I’ll talk to you by and by.”
He walked aft and disappeared below, while Private Bliss, still
fondling the handspike, listened unmoved to a lengthy vituperation
which Bill called a plain and honest opinion of his behaviour.
“It’s the last dinner you’ll ’ave for some time,” he concluded,
spitefully; “it’ll be skilly for you when you get ashore.”
Mr. Bliss smiled, and, fidgeting with his tongue, asked him for the
loan of his toothpick.
“You won’t be using it yourself,” he urged. “Now you go below all of
you and start on the biscuits, there’s good men. It’s no use standing
there saying a lot o’ bad words what I left off when I was four years
old.”
He filled his pipe with some tobacco he had thoughtfully borrowed from
the cook before dinner, and dropping into a negligent attitude on the
deck, smoked placidly with his eyes half-closed. The brig was fairly
steady and the air hot and slumberous, and with an easy assurance that
nobody would hit him while in that position, he allowed his head to
fall on his chest and dropped off into a light sleep.
It became evident to him the following afternoon that they were nearing
Bystermouth. The skipper contented himself with eyeing him with an air
of malicious satisfaction, but the crew gratified themselves by
painting the horrors of his position in strong colors. Private Bliss
affected indifference, but listened eagerly to all they had to say,
with the air of a general considering his enemy’s plans.
It was a source of disappointment to the crew that they did not arrive
until after nightfall, and the tide was already too low for them to
enter the harbour. They anchored outside, and Private Bliss, despite
his position, felt glad as he smelt the land again, and saw the
twinkling lights and houses ashore. He could even hear the clatter of a
belated vehicle driving along the seafront. Lights on the summits of
the heights in the background, indicated, so Bill said, the position of
the fort.
To the joy of the men he partly broke down in the forecastle that
night; and, in tropical language, severally blamed his parents, the
School Board, and the Army for not having taught him to swim. The last
thing that Bill heard, ere sleep closed his lids, was a pious
resolution on the part of Mr. Bliss to the effect that all his children
should be taught the art of natation as soon as they were born.
Bill woke up just before six; and, hearing a complaining voice, thought
at first that his military friend was still speaking. The voice got
more and more querulous with occasional excursions into the profane,
and the seaman, rubbing his eyes, turned his head, and saw old Thomas
groping about the forecastle.
“Wot’s the matter with you, old ’un?” he demanded.
“I can’t find my trousis,” grumbled the old man.
“Did you ’ave ’em on larst night?” inquired Bill, who was still half
asleep.
“Course I did, you fool,” said the other snappishly.
“Be civil,” said Bill, calmly, “be civil. Are you sure you haven’t got
’em on now?”
The old man greeted this helpful suggestion with such a volley of abuse
that Bill lost his temper.
“P’r’aps somebody’s got ’em on their bed, thinking they was a patchwork
quilt,” he said, coldly; “it’s a mistake anybody might make. Have you
got the jacket?”
“I ain’t got nothing,” replied the bewildered old man, “’cept wot I
stand up in.”
“That ain’t much,” said Bill frankly. “Where’s that blooming sojer?” he
demanded suddenly.
“I don’t know where ’e is, and I don’t care,” replied the old man. “On
deck, I s’pose.”
“P’r’aps ’e’s got ’em on,” said the unforgiving Bill; “’e didn’t seem a
very pertickler sort of chap.”
The old man started, and hurriedly ascended to the deck. He was absent
two or three minutes, and, when he returned, consternation was writ
large upon his face.
“He’s gone,” he spluttered; “there ain’t a sign of ’im about, and the
life-belt wot hangs on the galley ’as gone too. Wot am I to do?”
“Well, they was very old cloes,” said Bill, soothingly, “an’ you ain’t
a bad figger, not for your time o’ life, Thomas.”
“There’s many a wooden-legged man ’ud be glad to change with you,”
affirmed Ted, who had been roused by the noise. “You’ll soon get over
the feeling o’ shyness, Thomas.”
The forecastle laughed encouragingly, and Thomas, who had begun to
realise the position, joined in. He laughed till the tears ran down his
cheeks, and his excitement began to alarm his friends.
“Don’t be a fool, Thomas,” said Bob, anxiously.
“I can’t help it,” said the old man, struggling hysterically; “it’s the
best joke I’ve heard.”
“He’s gone dotty,” said Ted, solemnly. “I never ’eard of a man larfing
like that a ’cos he’d lorst ’is cloes.”
“I’m not larfing at that,” said Thomas, regaining his composure by a
great effort. “I’m larfing at a joke wot you don’t know of yet.”
A deadly chill struck at the hearts of the listeners at these words,
then Bill, after a glance at the foot of his bunk, where he usually
kept his clothes, sprang out and began a hopeless search. The other men
followed suit, and the air rang with lamentations and profanity. Even
the spare suits in the men’s chests had gone; and Bill, a prey to acute
despair, sat down, and in a striking passage consigned the entire
British Army to perdition.
“’E’s taken one suit and chucked the rest overboard, I expect, so as we
sha’n’t be able to go arter ’im,” said Thomas. “I expect he could swim
arter all, Bill.”
Bill, still busy with the British Army, paid no heed.
“We must go an’ tell the old man,” said Ted.
“Better be careful,” cautioned the cook. “’Im an’ the mate ’ad a go at
the whisky last night, an’ you know wot ’e is next morning.”
The men went up slowly on deck. The morning was fine, but the air,
chill with a breeze from the land, had them at a disadvantage. Ashore,
a few people were early astir.
“You go down, Thomas, you’re the oldest,” said Bill.
“I was thinking o’ Ted going,” said Thomas, “’e’s the youngest.”
Ted snorted derisively. “Oh, was you?” he remarked helpfully.
“Or Bob,” said the old man, “don’t matter which.”
“Toss up for it,” said the cook.
Bill, who was keeping his money in his hand as the only safe place left
to him, produced a penny and spun it in the air.
“Wait a bit,” said Ted, earnestly. “Wot time was you to call the old
man?” he asked, turning to the cook.
“Toss up for it,” repeated that worthy, hurriedly.
“Six o’clock,” said Bob, speaking for him; “it’s that now, cookie.
Better go an’ call ’im at once.”
“I dassent go like this,” said the trembling cook.
“Well, you’ll ’ave to,” said Bill. “If the old man misses the tide, you
know wot you’ve got to expect.”
“Let’s follow ’im down,” said Ted. “Come along, cookie, we’ll see you
righted.”
The cook thanked him, and, followed by the others, led the way down to
interview the skipper. The clock ticked on the mantlepiece, and heavy
snoring proceeded both from the mate’s bunk and the state-room. On the
door of the latter the cook knocked gently; then he turned the handle
and peeped in.
The skipper, raising a heavy head, set in matted hair and disordered
whiskers, glared at him fiercely.
“What d’ye want?” he roared.
“If you please, sir—” began the cook.
He opened the door as he spoke, and disclosed the lightly-clad crowd
behind. The skipper’s eyes grew large and his jaw dropped, while
inarticulate words came from his parched and astonished throat; and the
mate, who was by this time awake, sat up in his bunk and cursed them
roundly for their indelicacy.
“Get out,” roared the skipper, recovering his voice.
“We came to tell you,” interposed Bill, “as ’ow——”
“Get out,” roared the skipper again. “How dare you come to my
state-room, and like this, too.”
“All our clothes ’ave gone and so ’as the sojer chap,” said Bill.
“Serve you damned well right for letting him go,” cried the skipper,
angrily. “Hurry up, George, and get alongside,” he called to the mate,
“we’ll catch him yet. Clear out, you—you—ballet girls.”
The indignant seamen withdrew slowly, and, reaching the foot of the
companion, stood there in mutinous indecision. Then, as the cook placed
his foot on the step, the skipper was heard calling to the mate again.
“George?” he said, in an odd voice.
“Well?” was the reply.
“I hope you’re not forgetting yourself and playing larks,” said the
skipper, with severity.
“Larks?” repeated the mate, as the alarmed crew fled silently on deck
and stood listening open-mouthed at the companion. “Of course I ain’t.
You don’t mean to tell me—”
“All my clothes have gone, every stitch I’ve got,” replied the skipper,
desperately, as the mate sprang out. “I shall have to borrow some of
yours. If I catch that infernal—”
“You’re quite welcome,” said the mate, bitterly, “only somebody has
borrowed ’em already. That’s what comes of sleeping too heavy.”
* * * * *
The _Merman_ sailed bashfully into harbour half an hour later, the
uniforms of its crew evoking severe comment from the people on the
quay. At the same time, Mr. Harry Bliss, walking along the road some
ten miles distant, was trying to decide upon his future career, his
present calling of “shipwrecked sailor” being somewhat too hazardous
even for his bold spirit.