by Bartimeus
*III.*
"Did remain absen' over leave thirty-six tours, under haggravatedcircumstances," declaimed the Master-at-Arms.
It was the first time Ivor had broken his leave for three years. Hishead ached intolerably: he felt sick, too, and heard as from an infinitedistance the cool, crisp tones of the Commander, who spoke sternly ofthe penalties attached to "not playing the game." Ivor listenedsullenly. It was another and an older game he had tried to play,--agame in which Fate seemed to hold most of the trumps. There was a gooddeal more in the same strain about the abuse of privileges, and it allended in his being placed in the Captain's Report, to stand over tillnext day.
At dinner his resentment against the Universe in general swelled into anexcited flood of lower-deck jargon. In particular, he poured outinvective on the perfidy of Woman, and 43 Mess, with the peculiarunderstanding vouched in the matter to men who go down to the sea inships, sucked its teeth in sympathetic encouragement.
"I'd serve 'er to rights," said a youthful Second-Class Stoker darkly.He removed the point of his clasp-knife from his mouth, whither it hadconveyed a potato, and illustrated with a gesture an argument certain ofhis feminine acquaintances in the Mile End Road were supposed to havefound conclusive.
"Don't you take on, Taff," said another, pushing over his pannikin ofrum. "'Ave a rub at this lot." Ivor finished his sympathiser's tot,and several others that were furtively offered him--for he was a popularlittle man among his messmates. But spirit--even "three-water" rum--isnot the soundest remedy for an alcoholic head. It set him coughing, anddeepened the sense of injury that rankled within him.
"Wot you wants," said a Leading Stoker, "is to run about an' bitethings, like. You go on deck an' 'ave a smoke." He knew thedanger-signals of a mess-deck with the intimacy of seventeen years'experience, and Ivor went sullenly. But it was a dangerous man thatstopped at the break of the forecastle to light his pipe.
"Well," he said presently, "what d'you reckon I'll get whateffer?" His"Raggie" considered the situation. "Couldn't rightly say; there's theJauntie[#] over by the 'atchway--go 'long an' ask 'im." Ivor smoked insilence for a moment, then nodded, and stepping through the wreaths oftobacco smoke, touched the Master-at-Arms on the shoulder. The latter,who was listening to a story related by the Ship's Steward, was a smallman, with a grim vinegary face. He turned sharply--
[#] Master-at-Arms.
"Well?" he said curtly.
Now Ivor had stepped across the deck, honestly intending to ask theprobable extent of the punishment the Captain would award him forbreaking his leave. The suddenness with which the Master-at-Arms turnedjarred his jangled nerves; the sour face opposite him was the face ofthe man who, on the Lower Deck, represented Law, Order, and Justice,things Ivor knew to be perverse and monstrous mockeries. His brain swamwith the fumes of the thirty-six hours' debauch, reawakened by hismessmate's rum. A sudden insane rage closed down on him like a mist,leaving him conscious only of the Master-at-Arms' face, as in the centreof a partly fogged negative, very distinct, and for an instantimperturbable and maddening.... Yet, as Ivor struck, fair and truebetween the eyes, he somehow realised that not even now had he got levelwith Fate.
*IV.*
A man seated in the foremost cell raised an unshaven face from his handsas the sullen report of a gun reached him through the open scuttle. Fora while he speculated dully what it was for; then with curiousdisinterestedness remembered that it was the court-martial gun, and thathe, Ivor Jenkins, was that day to be tried for an offence the extremepenalty for which is Death.
They said he'd slogged the Jauntie. For a while he had been, dazed andincredulous, but as the testimony of innumerable witnesses seemed toleave no doubt about the matter, Ivor accepted the intelligence withstoical unconcern. Personally he had no recollection of anything save agreat uproar and a sea of excited faces appearing suddenly on all sidesout of a red mist.... However, there were the witnesses, and, moreover,there was still an unexplained tenderness about his knuckles.
"I pleads guilty," was all the prisoner's friend (a puzzled andgenuinely sympathetic Engineer Lieutenant) could get out of him.
"Well, I should have thought you were the last man to have done such athing in the whole of the ship's company."
"Same 'ere, sir," said Ivor, and fell a-coughing.
Subsequent proceedings bewildered and finally bored him. They thrustdocuments upon him, wherein he found his name coupled to theincomprehensible prefix "For that he," and his misdemeanour described ina style worthy of the 'Police Budget.' The Chaplain visited him andspoke words of reproof in a kindly and mechanical tone. For the rest,he was left to himself throughout the long days; to cough and coughagain, to watch the light grow and fade, to count the stars in thebarred circle of the scuttle, and to the recollection of green, slantingeyes vexed by dusty sunlight in their depths....
* * * * *
"Have you any objection to any members of this Court?"
Ivor started at the question and looked round the cabin. Till then hehad not noticed his surroundings much. A Captain and several Commandersin frock-coats and epaulettes were seated round a baize-covered table;they were enclosed by a rope covered with green cloth, securedbreast-high to wooden pillars, also covered with green cloth. It was theCaptain's fore-cabin, and the bulkheads were covered with paintings ofships. One of these in particular--a corvette close-hauled--arrestedIvor's attention. The Deputy Judge-Advocate, a Paymaster with apreternaturally grave face and slightly nervous manner, repeated hisquestion.
"Do you object to being tried by any of the Officers present on theCourt?" Ivor moistened his lips; why on earth should they expect him toobject to them? An unknown Master-at-Arms standing beside him with adrawn sword nudged him in the ribs.
"No, sir."
The Captains and Commanders then rose with a clank of swords, and sworeto administer justice without partiality, favour, or affection, in tonesthat for a moment brought Ivor visions of a stuffy chapel (Ebenezer,they called it) in far away Glamorganshire. Then the Judge-Advocateturned to him again.
"You need not plead either 'Guilty' or 'Not Guilty.' But if you wish toplead 'Guilty' you may do so now."
At last: "Guilty," said Ivor Jenkins.
For an instant there was utter silence. The junior Commander stirredslightly and glanced at the clock: he would have time for that round ofgolf after all.
The Prisoner's Friend then gave evidence, and Ivor experienced his firstsensation of interest at hearing himself described as an excellentworking hand, who had never given anything but satisfaction to hissuperiors. A perspiring and obviously embarrassed Chief Stokerfollowed.
"The last man in the ship I'd 'a' thought 'ud do such a thing," hemaintained. Ivor glanced at him indulgently, as one who hears anoft-repeated platitude, and resumed his study of the corvetteclose-hauled.
"Clear the Court," said the President briskly. Ivor found himself oncemore in the lobby, sitting between his escort. One, a kindly man,pressed a small, hard object into his hand. Ivor nodded imperceptiblethanks, and under cover of a cough, conveyed it to his mouth. It was aplug of Navy tobacco.
A bell rang overhead, and the prisoner was marched back into Court.
"... to be imprisoned with hard labour for the term of twelve calendarmonths." It was over.
* * * * *
"Now say 'Ah!' ... Again! ... Raise your arms ... H'm." The Surgeondisentangled himself from his stethoscope and looked Ivor in the eyes.
"My lad," he said bluntly, "it's Hospital for you--and too late atthat."
In the Wardroom later on he met the Engineer Lieutenant. "I'd make abetter Prisoner's Friend than ever you will," he remarked. Pressed foran explanation, he tapped the stethoscope-case in his pocket.
"Consumption--galloping," he said.
Perhaps Ivor had held the Ace of Trumps after all.<
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