by Bartimeus
*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 allseriousness and silence with such fare as it has pleased the Messman toprovide. In harbour, those favoured of the gods make a great businessof opening and reading letters, pausing between mouthfuls to smirk in anirritating and unseemly manner. But it is not until one reaches themarmalade stage, and the goal of repletion is nigh, that speech ispardonable, and is then usually confined to observations on theincompetency of the cook in the matter of scrambling eggs and the like.
Abreast the screen-door, which opened from the battery to thequarter-deck, the ship's side curved suddenly into a semicircularbastion. It was thus designed to give the main-deck gun a larger arc offire, but had other advantages--affording a glimpse ahead of splayed-outseas racing aft from the bow, and in fine weather a sunny spacesheltered from the wind by casemate and superstructure.
Here, one morning after breakfast, came the Gunroom Smokers, pipe andtobacco-pouches in hand. Cigarettes were all very well in their way:"two draws and a spit" snatched during stand-easy in the forenoon. Acigar was a satisfying enough smoke after dinner when one's financespermitted it; but while the day of infinite possibilities still layahead, and the raw, new sunlight flushed the world with promise, thenwas the time for briar or clay: black, well seasoned, and of a pungentsweetness.
Each smoker settled into his favourite nook, and, cap tilted over hisnose, with feet drawn up and hand-clasped knees, prepared to sit inkindly judgment on the Universe. The Sub-Lieutenant blew a mighty cloudof 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, movingbetween the faint glow of the binnacle and the chart-house, busyinghimself with a ruler and dividers, and faint lines on the surface of thechart. He was clear-eyed and serene of brow, as befitted a man who hadseen the dawning. For a like reason he had neglected to shave.
"What's the news?" inquired the Assistant Paymaster between puffs. Theship had been three days at sea, and was even then a hundred and fiftymiles from her destination. But very early in the morning a tired-eyedOperator in the Wireless-house had sat, measuring in dots and dashes thebeating of the world's pulse.
"A disastrous earthquake--" began a Midshipman, reading from theclosely-written sheet.
"Oh, hang you and your earthquake!" said the Sub. "I'm sick ofearthquakes--who won the Test Match?" Which, when you consider thematter, 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 ofyears had passed since he first learned that in Gunroom communities tostop speaking on account of interruptions meant spending your days inthe 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 oraeroplanes, for this was War, their trade in theory, and, perchance--andthe Fates were wondrous kind--the ultimate destiny of each. The Censorof Governments gave a delighted blast from his pipe--
"The bayonet!" he breathed. "That's the game...!" In all his shortlife he had never seen a blow delivered in hate--the hate that strikesto kill. Yet a queer light smouldered in his eyes as half-dreamily hewatched 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 mouthand turned towards the speaker. "I've got a brother on theFrontier--lucky blighter, I bet he's in it!" He removed his glasses, ashe always did in moments of excitement, and blinked short-sightedly inthe morning sunlight. He came of a fighting strain, but had been doomedby bad sight to exchange the sword, that was his heritage, for pen andledger. "Does it say anything else--let me see, Billy."
"No--no details; only a few casualties; they killed a Subalt--" hestopped abruptly; the wind caught the sheet and whisked it from hisfingers. His face had grown white beneath its tan.
"Oh, you ass!" chorussed the group. The piece of paper whirled high inthe air and settled into the water astern. A shadow fell athwart theseated group, and the Sub. looked up.
"Hullo! Good-morning, Padre!"
"Good-morning," replied the sturdy figure in the mortar-board. A genialpriest this, who combined parochial duties with those of NavalInstructor, 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, Isuppose! I came over to observe that there is a very fine horizon, andif 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 discontentedOrdinary Seaman: "Ain't 'ad no stand-easy--besides, sir, the index-errorof my sextant----"
Somewhere forward in the battery the notes of a bugle sang out. Themembers of the Gunroom smoking circle mechanically knocked out theirpipes against the rim of the white-washed spitkid, and rose one by oneto their feet, straightening their caps. In a minute the sponson wasdeserted, save for the Clerk who lingered, blinking at the sunlit sea.A moment later he turned, encountering the kindly, level eyes of theChaplain.
"The name," he said, with a little inclination of his head to where, farastern, a gull was circling curiously, "was it--the same, sir, as--asmine?"
"Yes," replied the Chaplain gravely.
The boy nodded and turned again to the sea. His young face hadhardened, and the colour had gone out of his lips. The other, thriceblessed in the knowledge of how much sympathy unmans, and how muchstrengthens to endure, laid a steadying hand on the square shoulderpresented to him. "He died fighting, remember," said this man of peace.
The Clerk nodded again, and gripped the hand-rail harder. "He alwayswas the lucky one, sir." He adjusted his glasses thoughtfully, and wentbelow to where, in the electric-lit office, the ship's Ledger wasawaiting him.