by Bartimeus
*VIII.*
*THE LEGION ON THE WALL.*
"Not now. Not now. Not yet." --_Sea Law and Sea Power_.
The last of the Battle Squadrons filed majestically to its appointedanchorage. A snake-like flotilla of Destroyers slid in under the lee ofthe land and joined the parent ship; wisps of smoke east and westheralded the arrival of far-flung scouts. The great annual War-game wasat an end, and the Fleet had met, with rime-crusted funnels andrust-streaked sides, to talk it over and snatch a breathing space erereturning to their wide sea-beats and patrols. Evening drew on, and thesemaphores were busy waving invitations to dinner from ship to ship.Opportunities of meeting friends are none too frequent, and when theyoccur, are often of the briefest. So no time was lost, and a sort of"General Post" ensued among Wardrooms and Gunrooms.
In the Flagship's Wardroom dinner was over, and a haze of tobacco smokespread among the shaded lights and glinting plate. Conversation thatbegan with technical discussion had become personal and reminiscent. "Doyou remember that time..." commenced one. His immediate listenersnodded delightedly, and sat with narrowed eyes and retrospective smilesas the narrator continued, twirling the stem of his wine-glass. Welldid they recall the story, but it had to be told again for the joy ofthe telling, while they supplemented with a forgotten name or incident,harking back to the golden yesterday, when the world went very wellindeed. The talk swung north to the Bering Sea and south to Table Bay,forging swift links with the past as it went. It would have seemed to astranger as if the members of a club had met to discuss a commonexperience. And yet these men were here haphazard from a dozenships--their club the Seven Seas, and their common experience, life, asit is to be met in the seaports of the world. As chairs were pushedfrom the table and the evening wore on, fresh greetings sounded on allsides: "Hullo! Old Tubby, as I live! Good Lord! How long is itsince--seven--nine--my dear soul! It's ten weary years..." and so on.They were all young men, too: almost boys, some of them, with eager,excited faces, lean with hard work--worthy sons of the same grey, hardMother.
Through the skylight came the opening bars of the "Lancers," and therewas a general move on deck. The Gunroom was there already, and, twosets being formed, the dance began. Much it left in point of elegance,it is to be feared, but it was fine strenuous exercise. The last figurewas reached, and on completion of the Grand-Chain, the two sets linkedarms, dashed whooping across the deck, and met in an inextricable heapof arms, legs, crumpled shirt-fronts and mess-jackets.
"Oh, my aunt!" gasped an ex-International, crawling from beneath a moundof assailants, and vainly striving to adjust collar and tie. "My lastboiled shirt--and it's got to last another week!"
Presently every one repaired to the Wardroom, where corks were poppingfrom soda-water bottles, and an amateur humourist of renown sat down tothe piano as the laughing crowd gathered round. A couple ofbridge-tables were made up, and the players settled down with thatcomplacent indifference to outside distraction peculiar to men who livehabitually in crowded surroundings. Seated astride the chairs at one endof the mess, two teams of would-be polo-players were soon locked inconflict, table-spoons and an orange being accessories to the game.
The singer of comic songs had finished his repertoire, and the Messturned in search of fresh distraction. "Come on, old Mouldy, what aboutputting up your little turn?" called out one, addressing a grave-facedofficer who sat smoking on the settee. "Yes," chorussed half a dozenvoices, "go on, do!" The officer addressed as "Mouldy" sat down at thepiano, fingered the keys contemplatively for a moment, and then in adeep baritone voice began--
"God of our fathers, known of old, Lord of our far-flung battle line,"
and so on to the end of the first verse. The polo-players ceased theirhorseplay, and leaned panting over the backs of their wooden steeds tolisten. The second verse drew to a close--
"An humble and a contrite heart,"
and then the group round the singer joined in the refrain--
"Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!"
At the fourth verse the Mess clustered round the piano. Thebridge-players had laid their hands down, and at the skylight overheadappeared faces and the glint of uniforms. The Gunroom started the lastverse, and the rest joined--men's voices, bass and tenor, lifting thestately words in a great volume of harmony up through the skylight intothe night--
"All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not thee to guard, For frantic boast and foolish word Thy mercy on thy people, Lord! Amen!"
The last solemn chord died away, and a sudden silence fell upon theMess: it was some moments before the conversation once more becamegeneral. By twos and threes the guests departed. Groups clustered atthe gangways; the night was full of farewells and the hooting ofpicket-boats' syrens. Gradually the Mess emptied, and in the flat wherethe midshipmen slept silence reigned among the chests and hammocks. TheAdmiral's guests had also departed, but on the silent quarter-deck twotall figures walked up and down, pipes in mouth.
"I wonder why they sang that thing," said one musingly. His companionpaused and stared across the water at the lights of the town. Fromthere his gaze travelled round to the silent Fleet, line after line oftwinkling anchor-lights and huge hulls looming through the darkness."Somehow, it seemed extraordinarily appropriate, with things as they areashore just now."
"You mean all these strikes and rioting--class-hatred--this futilediscussion about armaments--brawling in Parliament.... 'Lesser breedswithout the law' gradually assuming control....?"
The other nodded and turned again to the sea; as he moved, a row ofminiature decorations on his jacket made a tiny clink. "Yes. Andmeanwhile we go on just the same, talking as little as they will letus--just working on our appointed task: holding to our tradition of'Ready, Aye Ready!'"
"Our tradition--yes." His companion gave a little grim laugh. "D'youknow the story of the last Legion left on the Wall--?" he jerked hishead towards where the Pole Star hung in the starry heavens. "How Rome,sliding into Chaos, withdrew her Legions till only one was left togarrison the Wall. And it was forgotten. Rumours must have reached thefellows in that Legion of what was going on at Home: of blind folly inhigh places--corruption: defeat. The draggle-tailed Roman Eagle musthave been a jest in the market-places of the world."
He paused, puffing thoughtfully. "You can imagine them," he continued,"falling back, tower by tower, on the centre: attacked in front andbehind and on both flanks by an enemy they despised as barbarians, butwho, by sheer force of numbers, must annihilate them in the end--unlessRome rallied, suppose they could have retreated--orcompromised,--haggled for their skins. No one would have thought lessof them for it in those days. But they had been brought up in all thebrave traditions of their Empire.... When you think of it, there wasn'tmuch left to fight for, except their proud traditions. And yet theyfought to the last ... while the Roman Empire went fiddling into ruin."
Far away down the line a mast-head lamp flickered a message out of thedarkness. The Fleet was resting like a tired giant; but the pin-pointof light, and another that answered it on the instant a mile away,showed that its sleep was light. "But the end is not yet," concludedthe speaker.
"No," replied his companion. He made a little gesture with hispipe-stem, embracing the silent battle-array stretching away into thenight. "Not yet."