THE RESULT OF THE LEADING STOKER'S CURIOSITY
"CLEAR lower deck. Hands fall in to coal ship."
The hoarse orders following the shrill trills of the bos'n's mates'
pipes rang from end to end of H.M.S. "Pompey". In the stokers' messes
men arrayed in motley garbs, for the most part consisting of old
canvas suits and coloured handkerchiefs tied tightly over their
foreheads, cleared out at the double to fall in on the quarter-deck.
Stoker James Jorkler, otherwise known as Rhino Jorkler, heard the
order not without emotion. He was a tall, sparely-built man of about
twenty-four years of age. At first sight he lacked physique, until
one noticed the ripple of supple muscles on his partly-bared arms.
His face was long and pointed, his eyes blue and deeply set
underneath a pair of thick and overhanging brows. His hair closely
cropped, tended to exaggerate the elongation of his head. His
features betrayed neither signs of good humour nor bad temper, but
rather an intelligence bordering upon cunning.
Three months previously the Royal Navy in a somewhat excusable haste
had accepted the services of James Jorkler. In war time, with a heavy
drain upon personnel the authorities had to be a trifle less
particular as to whom they enlisted for temporary service, and
amongst a batch of stoker recruits was Jorkler.
His answers upon enlistment evidently satisfied the petty officer
responsible for obtaining the necessary particulars. He was a
Canadian, he declared, born at Woodstock, New Brunswick. Former
occupation? Trimmer on board a White Star liner. His discharge papers
confirmed that statement. Next of kin? James Jorkler rubbed his chin
thoughtfully. He was on the point of replying that he did not possess
such a luxury, but upon consideration he gave the name of Jonas
Brocklebunk, his half-brother, of Leith.
Promptly the newly entered stoker was fired off to the R.N. Barracks
at Portsmouth. His cap-ribbon, like those of the rest of the men
borne on the books of that establishment, was embellished with the
words "H.M.S. Victory," although his acquaintance with the
time-honoured three-decker was limited to a distant glimpse of the
ship as she swung to her moorings in Portsmouth Harbour.
The rest of the stokers' mess could not come to a unanimous decision
concerning the tall recruit. His reserve puzzled them. Although he
made no attempt to "choke off" any questions, he kept much to
himself. He had no bosom pal. He showed no inclination to "split
brass rags" with any of his messmates, who, for some unexplained
reason, nicknamed him "Rhino."
When in due time he emerged from his course of preliminary training
and was drafted to H.M.S. "Pompey," the name stuck. He showed neither
appreciation nor resentment at it; it would have been useless to have
done either. So he accepted the sobriquet without any outward and
visible sign of interest in his messmates' solicitude for his need of
a nickname.
The mess-deck was all but cleared. Jorkler, usually amongst the first
to respond to orders, lingered until he was almost the last. Then,
kneeling over his ditty-box, he unlocked and threw back the lid,
delving amongst his belongings until he found what he required. "Wot
the 'Ades 'ave you got there, mate?" broke in a deep voice.
Jorkler turned with a start to find that a leading stoker was
standing behind him.
"Kind of souvenir," he replied weakly. "I guess is isn't of any interest
to you."
"Thought as it might be a plug o' 'bacca," continued the man. "Fact
is, I believes it is. 'Ow about it?"
"Reckon you're wrong," snapped Jorkler with returning confidence as
he slammed and locked the box.
"Too jolly fishy to my liking," rejoined the petty officer bluntly.
"You just wait till we've done coaling and I'll see for myself wot
your little game is. Strikes me it ain't all jonnick."
At this threat Jorkler started to his feet Fortunately for the
leading stoker there were others still in the mess, otherwise----
Jorkler set his jaw tightly and followed his inquisitor on deck. At
the first opportunity he would nip below and throw the object of
discussion overboard rather than let the leading stoker see it.
It was still night, with a cold, drizzling rain. Overhead arc-lamps
threw a pale gleam upon the serried lines of men--seamen, stokers,
and marines--on the quarter-deck. Everything liable to be affected by
coal-dust had been covered up. The huge 9.2-in. guns were swathed in
sacking; canvas covers encased the closed hatchways; whips for
hoisting inboard the sacks of coal, trollies for bearing them to the
nearest shoots, and a medley of other gear were in readiness, while
steam was already raised to operate the winches.
Skilfully a large "haulabout"--a hulk converted into a floating
coal-depôt--was manoeuvred alongside to starboard. To port a couple
of deeply laden lighters had already been made fast.
"Commence--carry on!" shouted the commander from the after-bridge.
Instantly it seemed as if pandemonium had broken loose. With a rush
the men set to work, for, if possible, H.M.S. "Pompey" was to break
her own record.
Winches clattered. Jets of steam drifted across the slippery deck.
Men shouted, knocked one another and each other, and worked till, in
spite of the chilliness of the morning, their faces, quickly blacked
with coal-dust, ran with perspiration.
Most of the junior officers joined in the actual labour. They found
that even handling sacks of coal was preferable to standing by and
shivering in the damp air. Clad in garments that outvied the bizarre
rig of the hands, sub-lieutenants and midshipmen were soon toiling
like Trojans.
With an almost reckless disregard for life and limb, sacks in batches
of half a dozen at the time were hoisted from the coaling craft and
dumped with a dull crash upon the cruiser's deck. Woe-betide the
luckless wight who failed to heed the warning cry of "Stand by,
there!" Like a pack of wolves the energetic men threw themselves upon
the bags and dragged them to the shoots, until the ship vibrated with
the clatter of coal descending to the bunkers.
At eight bells the word was passed to "Stand easy." A hasty
breakfast, consisting largely of coal-dust washed down with ship's
cocoa, was served out. The mess-decks were seething with human beings
resembling imps and satyrs in their grimy garbs and blackened faces.
Reluctantly Stoker Jorkler came to the conclusion that this was no
time to go to his ditty-box. Up to the present no opportunity had
occurred.
Again the ship's company resumed their labours. It was now daybreak.
The rain still fell, unheeded by the enthusiastic toilers. The only
people who minded the horrible climatic conditions were the band,
who, to keep up the spirits of the coaling party, were discussing
lively airs in which rag-time predominated.
Suddenly an engine-room artificer working the main derrick hoist gave
vent to an oath. "Here, one of you; bear a hand," he claimed. "I've
nipped my fingers."
Without a word Stoker Jorkler relieved the luckless man at the steam
winch. The E.R.A., with two fingers crushed to a pulp, hurried away
to the sick-bay; while Jorkler, whose knowledge of machinery and of
winches in particular was far from perfect, remained in control of
the hoisting gear. He, of the whole of the ship's company, didn't
exactly see why he should break his back over sacks of coal when he
could take on the comparatively light job of running the steam hoist.
"Avast heaving there on the main derrick!" shouted Sub-lieutenant
Tressidar, whose quick eye had noticed that something had gone wrong
aloft.
Jorkler obeyed promptly, shutting off steam and applying the
band-brake. A hundred pairs of eyes followed the direction of the
sub's outstretched hand. The wire hawser had "jumped" the sheave at
the end of the derrick that, projecting at an angle of forty-five
degrees, terminated fifty feet or more above the deck of the lighter.
"Up aloft, one of you," continued Tressidar, addressing the men whose
operations had perforce to be suspended.
But before the order could be carried out a man working in the
lighter gripped the wire rope, shouting for the winch to be put in
motion.
Dangling at the end of the rope as he rose swiftly into the air was a
burly figure rigged out in grimy canvas. With his teeth gleaming in
contrast to his black face and with a dash of colour imparted by the
scarlet handkerchief bound round his head, the volunteer for the
dangerous service cut a picturesque figure.
Stoker Jorkler gave an involuntary start. He recognised the man as
Leading Stoker Smith, the petty officer whose insistence had given
him such a bad turn. For a few seconds he thought--and thought hard.
The winch was still in motion. Higher and higher rose the petty
officer until his head was almost level with the huge metal block at
the end of the derrick.
Sub-lieutenant Tressidar raised his hand as a signal for the winch to
be stopped. Jorkler, his eyes fixed upon the man who had aroused his
enmity, made no effort to obey.
Leading Stoker Smith realised his peril. The wire rope which he was
grasping was being drawn completely through the sheave. He changed
his grip from the rope to the metal block, but the latter afforded no
adequate hold.
"Stop winding, you blithering idiot!" roared the commander, who from
the after-bridge was a witness of all that occurred.
Still Jorkler, ostentatiously fumbling with the mechanism, allowed
the winch to revolve. The end of the rope, including the eye-splice,
pulled through the sheave and fell with a thud upon the deck, the men
scattering right and left to avoid it in its descent.
In the midst of his peril Smith espied a short length of rope bent to
the end of the derrick. Again he shifted his hold, and, grasping the
rope's-end, strove to fling his legs athwart the steeply sloping
spar.
As he did so the rope parted like pack-thread. Groans escaped the
on-lookers as the doomed man, with arms and legs outstretched,
hurtled through the air. To the spectators he seemed to fall slowly,
but with a sickening crash his back came into contact with a beam in
the hold of the lighter.
A dozen of his shipmates rushed to his assistance, but the man was
beyond mortal aid.
"What the deuce have you been up to?" inquired the
engineer-lieutenant of the man at the winch.
"Sorry, sir," replied Jorkler with well-feigned grief. "The engine
got out of gear. Is he dead, sir?"
"As if he could be anything else!" retorted the irate officer. "Stand
aside, you blithering idiot! There'll be something for you to
answer." Five minutes later the interrupted work was resumed. The
lifeless victim had been removed; only sheer hard work could dispel
the gloom that had fallen on the ship's company.
Beneath the mask of regret Jorkler was smiling to himself; from which
it was evident that the mysterious "thing" that had excited his
victim's curiosity was something of great importance, since Jorkler
put its value above that of the life of a shipmate.
He was a firm believer in the adage, "Dead men tell no tales."
On the following day the county coroner and twelve good men and true
assembled, as the law directs, to inquire into the manner of Leading
Stoker Smith's death.
Although not knowing the difference between a derrick and a hand
spike, a whip or a tackle, they listened with an air of profound
wisdom to the engineer-lieutenant's technical explanations. They
heard Stoker Jorkler's account, although most of his sentences were
Dutch to the Highlanders who formed the jury. They accepted the
commander's statement that everything had been done to safeguard the
interests of the crew, and, satisfied, returned a verdict of
Accidental Death.
Leading Stoker Smith received the only salute to which a lower deck
man is entitled--three volleys over his grave; and the "thing" still
remained locked away in Rhino Jorkler's ditty-box.