Hollow Sea

by James Hanley

  'Gangway, there,' shouted the peggy, hurrying up the alleyway with a large kid of steaming stew. 'Gangway, there.'

  The bosun made way for him. 'And you get aft too, son, when you've slopped up their bloody mess. Aft. On that poop. Hear me?'

  'I hear you,' replied the peggy, as he dumped the kiddy in the middle of the table. There was a concerted rush to table. Spoons, plates, knives and forks seemed to appear out of the air. Everybody ate. Everybody talked, even Rochdale, though nobody seemed to take much notice of him. They weren't interested. They were too absorbed in their own plans for the day-watch. Rochdale looked at his watch. A few minutes to go. He went to his bunk, took his reefer and helmet and went out on deck. It wasn't very cold to-day. To-morrow he probably wouldn't need a jacket at all. As he climbed the ladder five sudden blasts on the whistle made him jump. Boat-drill. He looked down. Indescribable confusion. The crew and the troops mixed together. All running towards the boat-deck. Shouting. Faces emerging from holds, rooms, alleyways. Rochdale climbed on.

  'Relieve,' he shouted and his head appeared over the nest. 'Hurry up,' he said, 'you'll just be in time for a nice bit of boat-drill. Fancy being bloody well holed with a crowd like that on board. Kids. All of them.'

  Just kids. Aye! Hadn't he seen them? Every one of them. Kids. Rosy cheeks, hairless faces, wide-open eyes, the wonder and innocence as yet unspoiled. Laughing and joking. Singing and shouting. A wonderful adventure – the tang in the air, the rhythm's throb of her engines, the thoughts of new horizons, distant shores, the urgency, the aptness. Ah! Just a lot of bloody kids. Rochdale got into the nest. The relieved man began the descent of the ladder. So here he was again, up in the sky. The same colours, the same measureless distances, the same silence. A floating barrel passed by. Later an oar. Rochdale exclaimed: 'H'm! Fancy that.' An oar and then a barrel. He made himself as comfortable as possible, settling his feet on the mat. He spread out his arms and leaned over the nest. A nice height to look down from. Men looked funny from such a height. The air was electric with shouts, orders.

  'Stand by here! Stand by here.' He wouldn't look, anyhow. No! Anything might happen, yes at any minute, then he'd get all the looking he wanted. He thought, 'What could I do if she got holed? Get into a boat with all those kids? No, sir! I'd take a header over the side and chance it.' But he'd better not start getting thoughts like that into his head. Then suddenly all thought was gone. He was one with space, with the calm it holds. He looked straight ahead. Once he turned his head to glance down at the bridge. And there was that figure, still, motionless, like something carved in stone.

  Dunford was standing there looking down at the deck below. And he saw hundreds of bodies, faces, heads, legs. Now he knew where they were going. Yes. He knew. In an hour he would go below for inspection. He could be amongst these men, these youths, these boys. 'They will go ashore on rafts,'he thought. 'Yes. On rafts.' He looked to the starboard wing. There was Bradshaw, leaning over like himself, absorbed by the crowded life below. But they would not be thinking the same thing. No! A gulf separated them. There was one Bradshaw, two Dunfords. And one of the Dunfords was tired, suffering a certain discomfort of mind. How many times had he gone through this? How many thousands had he seen pass out? Was this the key to the discomforting thoughts? No. Then what? It seemed to have no meaning. Perhaps that was it. No meaning. A fine frenzy. Nothing more. 'You do it but you don't believe in it. That's what it is,' he told himself. Telling yourself it was the curt gesture, the emphatic nod, the unconscious acceptance of later wounds, wounds, annihilation. Suddenly he stood erect, as though struck a blow by some unseen hand, and he pointed sharply and glared in at the quartermaster. 'I said a point, you fool.' He went across and rapped on the window of the wheelhouse. 'One point! We're not taking in the whole confounded seven seas.' He was glad of that, yes. Glad of that break. It broke the tension. He began pacing the bridge. In five, perhaps six days they would have reached their destination. And then? Clear decks. That was all. Clear decks. Then more orders. Yes. More orders. He called to Bradshaw.

  'Come here, Bradshaw, will you?' And when he came up he said, 'I want you to go and see Deveney. I'm a bit worried about him. I think he's going to be ill.'

  Bradshaw laughed. To him illness, like death, was a foreign word.

  'I thought he was getting on very well, sir,' replied Mr. Bradshaw.

  'Did you! Optimistic! He was only thirty miles out in his position yesterday. That's the thermometer to go by, Bradshaw. You better go and see him.'

  Six bells rang out. 'There! It's time now, Bradshaw. Here is Ericson.'

  Mr. Bradshaw and Mr. Dunford retired to their rooms. Both would change into their best. Inspection! Mr. Dunford put on his best coat and trousers, clean collar and go-ashore cap. In five minutes he was joined by Bradshaw. They went straight to the saloon. And, as usual, Mr. Walters, spick and span, was there on time. Punctuality was a religion with the chief steward. Yes. And there was Dobson. Bradshaw said 'Hello.' Mr. Dunford, drawing himself to his full height, said 'Good morning, Mr. Walters. Good morning, Mr. Dobson.'

  The party left the saloon, Mr. Bradshaw leading. 'Better begin for'ard,' Mr. Dunford said.

  'Yes, sir, very good.'

  Soldiers made a gangway for them. Mr. Dunford whispered to the mate, 'And how many times, a day are those scuppers cleaned? It looks like a market-place.'

  Bradshaw said, 'Every watch.' Mr. Dunford kept silent then. They reached the fo'c'sle alleyway. They passed along, stopped suddenly. The peggy, still on hands and knees, was scrubbing the last patch of fo'c'sle-deck. He was a boy. 'Good morning, sonny,' Dunford said. And laughing, 'Don't move.' The four men passed over his head and entered the fo'c'sle. Half darkness here, the sounds of sleeping men, overturned bunks, the creaking of timbers, a whistling sound from the hawse-pipe, a stale smell in the air. Debris. The table littered with it. Oilskins lying round the bogie. The deck white like milk. All looked forward sideways, turned, swept the fo'c'sle with quick experienced glances. A man snoring loudly. Faces to view, disarmed, at peace, the full glim of the bulb shining down on them. Sounds of scrubbing. All watched the peggy as he rose to his feet. He came up with the bucket. He was very small, white-faced, with black tousled hair. He smiled at the men. He was ambitious. He liked the uniform, the gold glittered on it. His eyes remained fastened on the gold oak-leaves on Mr. Dunford's peak. Mr. Dunford had to smile at this child, yes, and somehow also a man. All frankness there! Nothing beyond that but dreams. They went out, Bradshaw speaking the only words uttered during the inspection.

  'Very clean boy,' he said.

  Mr. Dunford patted his head – they went. Crossed the well-deck. Entered the starboard alleyway. Ah! This was different. This was black, even darker, hidden, soundless. Like some deserted hell. They went into the firemen's fo'c'sle. An old man near seventy, huge, bony, a great scar upon his long horse-like face, was seated at the table. He was writing a letter. He had done his work. Now he was free till seven bells. They came in – as though on wings – silent, looking very officious. The old man stood up and left the table. He stood stiff, looking towards the bulkhead, and said sharply, 'Good morning, sirs.'

  'Good morning.' It was the engineer who had spoken. 'Everything O.K. here?' he asked as his eyes wandered from bunk to bunk. Dunford looked too. What faces – what gestures – what figures. Apes. No! Men! What blackness. Beneath the eyes.

  'This is kept very clean,' he remarked to Dobson.

  'Yes,' the other replied. 'They are clean, these men, Mr. Dunford.'

  'Thank you.' This from the mate. They began walking out from the fo'c'sle.

  'Yes, sir! Yes, sir!' They could see the old man was trembling. A very old trembling man. They went down the alleyway, everybody taking good care to walk directly down the middle. The bulkhead seemed to ooze dust. Black dust. Heritage of the world below. The hidden world. And now the air. The fresh air. Mr. Dunford stopped suddenly. How far for'ard exactly did the troops come? Not farther than this well-deck.
Mr. Walters looked down at the deck and scowled. He knew how far for'ard they came. Yes. By heavens, he knew! And he was going to stop it. Aye. Sooner than they thought Damn thieves.

  'Better begin at number one and work right aft, sir.'

  Good! This was agreed to. They passed through the house door, down the ladder, reached the first deck. Already that smell of varnish was in Mr. Dunford's nostrils. A purely imaginary smell. And suddenly they were joined by the officer commanding. He came forward at the salute, uttering a brisk good morning. 'Good morning,' everybody appeared to reply. The party went on, Dunford and the commander in front. The officer appeared to be thinking about something. He looked a little puzzled. He was tall, forty-five, with soft pink skin, a small bristling fair whisker. Dunford only saw. The officer began talking to him then, but he did not hear it. He was so occupied just looking at things. Clouds of smoke, upturned faces, the smell of varnish in his nostrils. He looked round. The others were slacking pace, talking in whispers to one another. He heard a man break wind. Then loud laughter, broken quickly upon the wheel of a stony silence. Their footsteps sounded clear against it. Lines of faces, white, red, brown. Young, old, thin, fat. Legs stiff, sprawling. An incessant buzz of conversation. And from behind them coughs, laughs, sudden fits of expectoration. The periodic sounds of water running into the vessels. Smells. And in a far corner on the starboard side, a huddled figure, hands lifting it up.

  'This way, please.' Through A to D decks. One to five hatches. A sudden halt. A rigidity on the part of the mass. The faces motionless – everybody standing to attention. Dunford thought, 'Flesh! Flesh! Flesh for wounds, for insult, for humiliation. Corruption, laughter.'

  'This way, please.'

  Complaints! Ventilator over hatch number three does not function properly. Very well. Mr. Tyrer would see to that. Anything else? Food all correct! No answer. Silence meant approval. Farther along and another halt at number four. Again clouds of smoke from pipes and cigarettes. God! It was stuffy down here! How the devil did they stand it? Still a few days and all would be over. Aye! The inevitable. And then. . .

  Dunford laughed. Laughed loudly so that the party with him stared, wondering, and remained to wonder, for Dunford's face was a mask. Now to the ladder, the climb and so to free air again. The party broke up. Dunford said to the commander, 'I shall want to see you in my cabin immediately after lunch, Colonel Ffoulkes.' Then he went away. Straight back to the bridge. A quarter to twelve. Ericson was cleaning his sextant. Bradshaw came up then. Time for position. Mr. Dunford walked the length of the bridge, stood for a moment, then fell into a quiet leisurely pacing. A.10 suddenly dipped her nose. It was getting a bit rough. Dunford looked into the wheel-house, stood watching the compass, the rough red hand upon the spoke of the wheel. Sometimes he thought of A.10 as being of flesh, so that she could feel the touch of his hand. Bear for'ard under the power of his eye. The quartermaster stood motionless, mute. He watched the man for some minutes. He seemed to see in that still figure, purpose. Purpose cried aloud. The purpose for which he now stood upon that bridge, for which men sweated below, for which that boy was destined. Thought and action suddenly mirrored themselves where that mute figure stood. Then the continuance of his pacing, to and fro; the restlessness had him again. The very air was festered by it. It was that sudden silence, like the breaking of breath itself. Yes. It was the men, the silence, the still hand, red roughened. The eye of the compass. His steps rang out sharp and clear upon the deck. Under the sun the sea of khaki sprawled; there was something abandoned, helpless about the sprawling men. At times drifts of conversation came to him. Words, phrases. He thought, 'They are armed with everything save the realization.' Above his head the sky was blue studded here and there by patches of woolly cloud. The surface of the broken water burnished beneath the light. He halted to look ahead at what he thought to be the faintest whiff of smoke from the horizon. But it was nothing. Then a message came from below. He listened, smiled. A.10 was making good progress. So far an uneventful voyage. The bell rang, and Dunford picked up his glasses. Ah! Something this time. Yes. The glasses trembled in his hand. Was it a destroyer?

  The bell rang again. Ericson came up then. He looked too. 'A sailing ship,' he said, holding the glasses in one hand. Dunford smiled.

  'Probably!' He had always liked sailing ships. 'I don't get the same thrill out of seeing one now, Ericson. They're in this dirty business, too.'

  Ericson said nothing. What should he say, anyhow? Bradshaw came along. It was time for position now. 'You told Deveney I didn't want him up here?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Good.' They took up their sextants. Two bells from the nest.

  All clear. A set course. They would receive orders. They must proceed towards Oran. Coal there. Yes. but at the moment the war could look after itself, and so could the dead. Meanwhile there were the living.

  'Mr. Bradshaw those ventilators on three and four must be unstripped at once. What kind of men have we got for'ard there, in Christ's name? And Mr. Walters has been making some complaint. The holds will be like a furnace in a day or two. We're running right into the heat. Yes. And right into that danger zone. He must have more eyes. Yes. More eyes. A soldier every fifteen yards with loaded rifle. Four on. Four off. And there must be more drill. When he left the bridge at a quarter-past two he seemed agitated. As though chaos had suddenly descended upon his ordered world. The tiger had been waiting for him ten minutes. He arrived in the mess. The steward spoke.

  'No!' Dunford said. 'Definitely not.'

  He seemed angry about something. He wasn't having lunch with the officer commanding. Not to-day. Perhaps to-morrow. 'And I'm commanding,' he cried in his mind. 'I'm commanding. Children! And some lunatics!' He sat down. The tiger served the meal. The atmosphere seemed changed. The steward was uncomfortable. Captain Dunford had always been so easy to serve, so nice, kind, considerate.

  'When you have quite finished,' said Dunford, at the moment surrounded by plates, knives, forks, glasses and bottle, 'I want to inform Mr. Walters that I shall expect him at my cabin at a quarter-past three. That will give him time to see to the last sitting below and in the saloon.' He began to eat.

  'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.' The man went out. The door closed without a sound. Dunford poured himself out a half-glass of red wine. And before he was half-way through his meal the interruption came. The timid knock at the door could only be that fellow Walters. Well – 'Come in! And shut the door, please.' And when he turned round, there was Walters, looking hot, tired, a little breathless, still on the crest of that urge that had sent him flying to Dunford. Complaints? Yes. Plenty of complaints. Mess? Yes. Officers, too. who would hold a steward's job on such a boat? Irritated! Lord! Yes. Of course. There was a war on right enough – he never ceased to forget that. Aye! He had a wife and children. He knew what war was. Sometimes it could be a bloody nuisance, of course, but he wouldn't mention a word about it. No. Not now! He felt a bit sick. Mr. Walters hadn't spoken a word. Dunford looked at him and imagined things. And he sized the little man up. He stood up, saying gruffly, 'I asked you to see me in my cabin, Mr. Walters, not to barge in here when I'm in the middle of a meal. Am I to have no privacy?'

  Mr. Walters apologized, though Dunford could see at a glance how he hated it. It must be a mighty complaint that could send him up here half an hour before the time arranged; perhaps he had been waiting so long for the opportunity. 'Well I'm not going to hear any complaints in this dining-room. In this room one eats, rests, reflects sometimes. Petty squabbles in my cabin, Walters.' He went out, Mr. Walters following. It was one thing making complaints to a captain, it was quite another making them to a man like Dunford, there being two of them, continually see-sawing for the dominant position: it was difficult. Mr. Walters had heard for the past month a remark passed here and there, and in a remote corner of his mind a word floated. The word 'conscience'. A queer word, Walters thought, and the knowledge of this coming afresh made him feel uncomfortable. Perhaps Mr. Dunford woul
d tell him to go to hell.

  'This way, please.'

  The two men sat down in Dunford's cabin. Dunford said sharply:

  'What is the complaint?' And he looked straight across at the steward.

  'Yes, sir! The complaint. The complaint is that certain members of the crew have been spending their evenings below decks. That is to say when they're off duty. Mr. Dunford, these men are selling food to the troops, and as the ship's caterer I object strongly and want it stopped.' He raised his eyebrows at Mr. Dunford's laconic reply.

  'On what grounds?'

  'Well, sir! For one thing the men's officers have come to hear about it. They want it stopped. It's bad for the troops, sir. Very bad, sir.'

  Dunford laughed. 'What! The food! I hope you're looking after them properly, Mr. Walters. They want lots to eat. They're all young, have good appetites, and great hopes for the future. Look here, Mr. Walters, why do you come to me? Could you not have complained to our bosun, Mr. Tyrer, or even my first officer? How long has this been going on?' He took a pen-knife from his pocket and began trimming his nails. He looked at the deck, heard Mr. Walters's asthmatic breathing. 'A zealot without a doubt,' he said to himself. 'Well Walters?' – this without moving or raising his head – 'Is that all?'

  'I can assure you, Mr. Dunford, sir, that my job on this boat is not an enviable one. I am charged to look after these men – I have all fixed rations – fixed times for meals. But there it must stop. If these men go below selling food to the soldiers it might make them dissatisfied with their own fare. It's a very harmful thing to do.'

  'They sell the food then? You are quite certain about that, Walters? Think before you speak. In any case no complaint but yours has reached me. Everybody seems satisfied except yourself. But perhaps chief stewards are different. I don't know. I'm no authority on catering, its mysteries or anything else. If they have been selling food, I shall have it stopped. But I doubt it, Walters. I doubt it.'