by Bartimeus
*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 withthe bell-mouthed funnel of burnished brass and vermilion paint insideher cowls--was standing under the electric light at the battery doorreading the Commander's night order-book.
"Second Picket Boat to have steam by 5 A.M., and will perform duties ofD.S.B. for the Second Division." He closed the book and stoodmeditatively looking out into the darkness beyond the quarter-deckrails. It was blowing fitfully, gusts of wind shaking the awning in amanner that threatened dirty weather on the morrow. "Why the deucecouldn't the other Picket boat...? But she hadn't got a brassfunnel--only a skimpy painted affair. Decidedly it was the fatal beautyof his boat that had influenced the Commander's decision. Still..." Heyawned drearily, and opening the deck log, ran his finger down thebarometer 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 tothe outlook. Ten o'clock had struck, and forward in the waist theboatswain's mate was "piping down," the shrill cadence of his pipefloating aft on the wind. Sorrowfully the Midshipman descended to thesteerage flat, and crouching beneath the hammocks that hung from theoverhead beams, reached his chest and noiselesslyundressed,--noiselessly, because the sleeping occupant of the adjacenthammock had the morning watch, and was prone to be unreasonable whenaccidentally 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 apair of sea-boots, an oilskin and sou'wester and a sweater. He made hispreparations mechanically, propping the sea-boots where they would behandiest when he turned out. Lastly, he hung his cap over apolice-light, because he knew from experience that the light caught hiseyes when he was in his hammock, locked his chest, and, choosing a spotwhere two mess-mates (who were scuffling for the possession of ahammock-stretcher) would not fall over his feet, he unconcernedly kneltdown and said his prayers. The corporal of the watch passed on hisrounds: the sentry clicked to attention an instant, and resumed hisbeat: above his head the ward-room door opened to admit a new-comer, andthe jangle of a piano drifted down the hatchway; then the door closedagain, shutting out the sound, and the kneeling figure, in ratherdilapidated pyjamas, rose to his feet. Steadying himself by a ringboltoverhead, he swung lightly into his hammock and wriggled down betweenthe 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 theblanket close under his chin. Presently the voice sounded again--
"Freckles, dear, aren't you glad you sold your little farm and came tosea?"
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-reefedthrough 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 tofall from the police-light it had shielded, and the glare shone full ina face which (for all the valiant razor locked away in its owner'schest) was that of a very tired child.
* * * * *
"Orders for the Picket Boat, sir?"
The Officer of the Morning Watch, who was staring through his binocularsinto the darkness, turned and glanced at the small figure muffled inoilskins at his side. Many people would have smiled in somethingbetween amusement and compassion at the earnest tone of inquiry. Butthis is a trade in which men get out of the way of smiling at 5A.M.--besides, he'd been through it all himself.
"Flagship's signalled some empty coal-lighters broken adrift up towindward--cruisin' independently. Go an' round 'em up before they driftdown on the Fleet. Better man your boat from the boom and shove straightoff. Smack it about!"
The small figure in oilskins--who, as a matter of fact, was none otherthan the Midshipman of the Second Picket Boat, brass funnel,vermilion-painted cowls and all--turned and scampered forward. It waspitch dark, and the wind that swept in rainy gusts along the batterycaught the flaps of his oilskins and buffeted the sleep out of him.Overside the lights of the Fleet blinked in an indeterminate confusionthrough the rain, and for an instant a feeling of utter schoolboy woe,of longing for the security of his snug hammock, filled his being. Thenthe short years of his training told. Somewhere ahead, in that welterof 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 hisshoulders, climbed the rail, and descended the ship's side by a steelladder, until he reached the lower boom. It jutted out into thedarkness, a round, dimly-discerned spar, and secured to it by aboat-rope at the farthest point of his vision, he saw his boat. Thecircular funnel-mouth ringed a smoky glow, and in the green glare of aside-light one of the bowmen was reaching for the ladder that hung fromthe boom. Very cautiously he felt his way out along it steadied by aman-rope, breast high. Looking downward, he saw the steamboat frettinglike a dog in leash; the next instant she was lurching forward on thecrest 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 wereplunging just below ... the ladder tautened with a jerk.
"Now, sir!" said the voice. He relaxed his hold and dropped nimbly onto the triangular space in the bows. As he landed, the Jacob's laddershot upwards into the darkness, as though snatched by an unseen hand.
Steadying himself by the rail along the engine-room casing he hurried tothe wheel. A bearded petty officer moved aside as he came aft. This washis Coxswain, a morose man about the age of his father, who obeyedorders like an automaton, and had once (mellowed by strong waters) beenknown to smile.
"Cast off forward!" The engine-room bell rang twice, and the Midshipmangave a quick turn to the wheel. For an instant the boat plunged as ifin uncertainty, then swung round on the slope of a slate-grey wave andslid 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!" Hepointed ahead to where indistinct shapes showed black against thetroubled waters. The bell rang again in the tiny engine-room, and theLeading Stoker, scenting adventures, threw up the hatch and thrust ahead and hairy chest into the cold air. His interest in the proceedingsapparently soon waned, however, for he shut the hatch down again andbusied himself mysteriously--always within reach of the throttle andreversing-lever--with an oil-can.
Going very slow, the boat crept alongside the foremost lighter, a hugederelict that, when loaded, carried fifty tons of coal. They had beenmoored 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 swellrunning, and to moor it safely in the spot whence it came, is a piece ofwork that requires no small judgment. However, one by one, the threetruants were captured and secured, and then, with the grey dawn of awinter morning breaking overhead, the picket boat swung round on herreturn journey. On the way she passed another boat racing shoreward forthe mails. The Midshipman at the wheel raised his hand with a littlegesture of salutation, and she went by in a shower of spray.
Half an hour later the Midshipman of the Second Picket Boat, garbed inthe "rig of the day," was ladling sugar over his porridge with theaband
on of one who is seventeen and master of his fate. A messengerappeared at the gunroom door--
"Duty Steam Boat's called away, sir."
Her Midshipman locked away his pet marmalade-pot (for there are limitseven 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!"