by James Hanley
Over these crowded decks, into the stuffy holds, through the alleyways and state-room, came the incessant throb, the lulling rhythmic throb of her engines. The destroyer moved through the water, its razor-like bows cutting the seas apart, water broke over her fo'c'sle-head. She held back now. A.10 forged ahead, the destroyer abeam. Sometimes she made a complete circle round A.10, sometimes was lost to view, veered away and vanished and returned as quickly, as mysteriously as she had vanished. Still half-speed. Dunford supposed they were passing through the mine-field. He knew this position, knew it only too well, harbour of the worst of things. Ah! There he was signalling again. Starboard your helm. He looked up. Funny, couldn't see a single star tonight. From below came the swelling sounds of a song – 'One man went to mow – went to mow a meadow.'
'Ericson.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Go below and tell Captain Percival the Adjutant that an inspection must be made by the N.C.O.'s. Each man must keep his belt by him. I can see one or two derelict belts hanging on the derrick below me. Go below and take Mr. Tyrer with you and Captain Percival and go through from A. to E.'
'Yes, sir.'
'There won't be any stand-easy for the next forty-eight hours. Bradshaw. Oh! Here's a quartermaster. Now what could the fellow be coming for?'
'Sir, Mr. Deveney's temperature has gone up. Dr. Donaldson would like you to go below to his cabin, sir.'
'Yes. Yes. Very well. Tell Dr. Donaldson I'll be down in a minute.'
He looked at Bradshaw. 'Keep your eye on her – she has a habit of signalling every few minutes. Her commander must have the jumps.'
He went below to see Mr. Deveney. Good God! What a change in a man.
'Why, Deveney! My dear fellow, you look as though—'
'He's very ill, Mr. Dunford.' It was the doctor, stepping into the cabin, noiselessly, speaking under his breath, looking anxiously at Deveney.
'I was rather doubtful from the first. He shouldn't really have been passed, Dr. Donaldson. But there! What can you expect?' He threw his hands out in a gesture of disgust. 'What else! It's a complete farce, this passing men like Deveney. It's not only malaria.'
'Of course not!'
'If you have one eye, one leg, and one – well—, Donaldson, you can still get through.'
'What do you think?' Donaldson asked. He felt the man's pulse. Deveney opened his eyes, saw nobody, only a bug crawling on the deck-head; it was very hot, he put his tongue out, seemed to be staring down at it.
'Give him a drink, Dr. Donaldson! Did the M.O. say anything about the quinine pills? '
'I've hundreds of them. It's a shame to give him any more. If it wasn't for these damned fools changing their orders, we might have got him ashore. But what about the destroyer?' he concluded.
'Quite useless so far as I can see. If we can't do anything for him then nobody can.' Dunford took Mr. Deveney's hand. 'Cheer up, old man.'
He might as well have talked to the bulkhead. Mr. Deveney, though opened-eyed, was a little delirious. The doctor gave him a drink.
'If he gets worse send word, though I hope he won't. He's a good chap. I don't want him getting worse. Look here! I have to go! Must go.' And he rushed back to the bridge.
'She's signalling again, sir.'
'Yes. I knew she was. She's leaving us.'
'Proceed full speed towards Hartspill. Am watching you. Half-speed 48 degrees East.'
'Must be rushing off to somebody up against it. Signal at full speed, Bradshaw.' Well, that was awkward about Deveney. Deveney! He kept repeating his name in his mind. He must get better. He was a good man, a clever officer. Too few about these days. His eye was following the destroyer. When Ericson returned he reported more men down with fever. Dunford seemed to stiffen where he stood. More men down!
'How many?' he asked.
'Nine, sir. C deck! The M.O. and two orderlies were there when I passed through. The order for life-belts to be worn is being carried out throughout the ship, sir. It's a bit uncomfortable sleeping there below, sir.'
'Of course it is, Ericson! We all know that! That's another matter, don't air private opinions. They're not allowed. Keep them to include in your night prayers. You say your night prayers, I hope. Now get below and get yourself a drink and turn in. There's lots of work for you when you come up here again. And sleep well,' he called out after the already retreating figure. He left Bradshaw and went and stood by himself in the port wing. 'Good night, sir.'
'Good night.'
'Who's the man aloft, Mr. Bradshaw?' he called through the darkness.
'Higginbottom, sir.'
'What's the matter with him?'
Bradshaw crossed over to where Dunford stood. 'I don't know, sir.'
'Then the confounded man must have fallen asleep then. Blow for the bosun.' He began pacing the deck again. He seemed irritated.
'Mr. Tyrer, send a man aloft and see what that fellow's doing there. I've been watching the light on our starboard quarter this last five minutes, but not a sound from that nest.'
'Very good, sir,' replied Mr. Tyrer. 'Surely,' he was thinking, 'old Rochdale can't have fallen asleep up there,' and he hurried for'ard to give the necessary order.
The swell had died down. A.10 was doing nine and a half knots, moving smoothly through what looked like a vast lake. 'I wonder where we'll all be this time tomorrow?' thought the bosun. This half-way business was always the same, time dragged, things seemed to hang fire, somehow. The men were listless, the troops ravenous after the seasickness, why, there were a couple of them now hanging round the crew's galley. Always looking for something to eat. He took some cheese from a locker and a quarter loaf and went out to them.
'Here! Take this, eat it in the dark somewhere, and I don't want a whole army up here. And then stay away. The fellers for'ard get little more than you do, but then they has to work, whereas you young beggars have nowt to do but sit on your backsides all day. Good night, and don't let me see you near this galley any more.'
CHAPTER SIX
'DON'T make a row, will you!'
'I'm not making a row. What the hell are you gassing about, anyhow?'
'Shut it! Talk easy for Christ's sake. Have you no eyes, you fool! Can't you see these fellers – all fast asleep? Having their lovely dreams too, I reckon. Just look at them. Ssh! Ssh!'
And Vesuvius and Williams looked. Yes. All sleeping. The whole of C deck cradled in sleep. How they lay on their backs, on their faces, faces to the open hatch, to the black bulkhead. Feet hanging over bunks. Knees drawn up. And how they looked. What a map. Mouths open, mouths shut. Heads upon pillows – life-belts below that. The patterns and shapes, the air of abandonment and the urgent air, the deep sleep and the sleep that was only surface sleep, awareness coiled ready for the spring to action. The waves of snores, of puffs, of quiet breathing, a groan, a violent movement of a body. The two men stood between a long tier of bunks looking at the sleeping men. 'It's twenty-five to twelve, now,' Vesuvius said.
'Sure! I know that! I'm not deaf. And I told you, you want to talk low.'
He growled low in the other's ear. 'That goddam swine Walters has been hanging about here for a long time, and you got to watch your step.'
'Listen, him again! That feller gives me the jim-jams. Crying, I reckon.' He pointed to a low corner bunk.
'What's it got to do with us! Can't a feller cry if he wants to – you goddam ass. D'you want to wake the whole deck up. He has nothing to do with us. He's only a kid, anyhow. All kids cry. Now let's move on and not another word until we get to the top of that ladder. Understand me! Once you're caught, you're caught, and that's all there is to it. Go ahead, shift your body and let's get out.'
'Got the winnings?' Vesuvius asked. 'You don't want to forget that, you know.' The other man thumped him in the back.
'Shut your bloody mouth.' Well, he wouldn't answer him again. He wasn't taking any chances. They came from B deck, where voices could still be heard. Men were talking to each other across the bunks – but they
were too far away for the sound sleepers on C deck to hear them. The two men were nearing the ladder. They stood at the hatch-edge looking down to the lower deck. A sort of haze hung in the air, stagnation met stagnation, the smoke, the foul air, all the exhalations of that day rose up to C deck, hung there, where a little cloud seemed to have gathered.
'There's our bell,' Vesuvius said. Williams answered with a kick in the rear.
Nobody would have taken them for sailors. They were both in soldiers' uniform, uniform that lacked any mark of identity or distinction, badgeless, buttonless, the tunics were fastened with safety-pins. They wore forage caps.
'Ssh!' Williams said, and then a hand gripped his shoulder. It was Walters.
'Goddam! I've got you two swine at last,' he said in a low whisper. He had dashed from behind a steel pillar. The two figures made to go on towards the ladder – but the stocky form of Mr. Walters now stood in their path.
'Stop, I tell you! You don't get away as easy as all that. I've been watching you two for a long time.'
He dare not raise his voice for fear of waking the whole company of troops; Mr. Walters raged inwardly, and every moment added coals to the fire of that rage. To have caught them, well that was a triumph. To have to talk like this was humiliating. He wanted to shake them, punch them, roar his indignation and his triumph into their ears. But the sleeping men had robbed him of his loud, bronze-like bark. He must be content with whispering. It only required a single glance to see how uncomfortable Mr. Walters was. Rage and gloating, like waving gusts of wind, mirrored themselves in the ever-changing expressions upon his round red face. Still he had caught them. The sly swine. He had caught them at last. All the same he had to be careful. A far-distant Mr. Walters, more rotund than ever, called to him to be careful, a fat prosperous licensee told him even in this moment he must control himself. To look at these two men, and to hold allegiance to that inner voice, was, to say the least, difficult! Then for a moment or two he stood looking at them, in complete silence, these meddlers, these sly swines whom he would now like to kick – both of them up each rung of the ladder. Bunks creaked, wire threatened to give way, water lapped behind the dead-lights, A.10's engines throbbed, a man suddenly shouted, lost in dream, the shaded cluster swung, like a pendulum of a clock, the great billowed ventilator, looking like an enormous stocking, hung motionless, and above the sky like some enormous lid showed a few stars. Vastness and pettiness staring each other in the face. Mr. Walters looked at this sky, but only for a moment, looked at it as though at any minute the solution of his problem would drop from it. The other two men looked up too, but their vision was narrowed down, they saw no sky, only the top rungs of the ladder which would take them to the open deck, and so back to their watch, which each knew must at any moment emerge from the fo'c'sle. And the bosun would miss them. 'Eagle-eye,' he would. The bells would ring out any time now. Then they faced each other. Two somewhat devilish-looking soldiers and a short fat man dressed in black serge, gold-braided, important-looking, his big mouth half open as if a flood of words were about to pour through, a flood of words that could find no passage, for they were held up by something impersonal, indifferent to his ambition and his arrogance and importance. He had triumphed – he had caught the men. But the sleepers had taken toll of Mr. Walters's triumph. 'Now I've really got you, both of you,' he whispered. 'You have no business here. D'you understand! These are troops' quarters. You're not allowed here on any pretext. And take those uniforms off at once, or I'll report it to the bridge.'
The two men smiled at him. They leaned against stanchions, hands in pockets. Williams holding handfuls of silver against his body. He did not want the money to rattle. If Walters was angry with them, they were not angry with him. They were only amused. It was as if this bustling, loud-mouthed steward had been forced into a collar much too tight for him, to match perfectly his pettiness, and now the collar was choking him to death. Their eyes devoured Mr. Walters, their ears were listening for the ring of bells. Where they had obtained the uniforms, Mr. Walters did not know. What he did know was that they had been down in the lower decks for nearly the whole of their watch. 'What a pair,' he was thinking as he looked at the mass of pimples on Vesuvius's face, and at the ferret-like face of the Welshman. Their expressions riled him. Complete calm, absolute indifference. And that awful collar was holding him in leash. Williams suddenly smiled. Walters might be angry, have an apoplectic fit, but he, Williams, was quite unruffled. He understood Mr. Walters, he knew him inside out, he even felt a spark of admiration for his ambition and enterprise, but this, this was quite different. In fact it was going too far. Vesuvius changed from one leg to the other, then leaned against the stanchions again.
'Come on! You two, get to hell out of here,' Walters growled under his breath. 'Come on! D'you think I'm going to stand here all night! Get out.'
Williams walked up to him, looked him straight in the eyes saying, 'Ever heard of a feller by name of Rajah? That old sod who was watchman aboard this ship? You do know him, Mr. Walters, don't you?'
'Never mind Rajah! Get to hell out of it. D'you hear me? I'll kick you out.'
Vesuvius came up, smiling, showing rotten teeth, the whole face looking like an over-ripe fruit. The pimples red and tender. If one touched that face one felt it would melt away under the hand. He squinted at Walters.
'Oh! That's how it is,' he began, 'you want all the place to yourself then? You begrudge a feller earning an honest penny – you begrudge the troops here a bit of fun. Rajah knows you. You're famous, Mr. Walters, and you don't realize it. Rajah said to me, "Feller named Walters coming aboard this trip. He's an experienced hand. Been on transports as far back as the Boer War." '
'Aye, said you were transferred from L.5. "You got to watch him," Rajah said. "He'll take the nice curve off your belly for you." Come on, Mr. Walters, you run a goddam quick lunch-bar aboard here, down in this place, see? We're not blind, and we don't grudge it you, either. Don't think that. We aren't narrow-minded for'ard, same's you think, Mr. Walter Walters. You're coining money. Go ahead. But mind your own damned business at the same time. Understand! We're both in the same ship, S.S. Opportunity.'
'You get on top at once and none of your damned impertinence. Hear me?'
Williams laughed! 'No!' he whispered – it was almost a snarl – 'no – we can't hear you, funny feller. Speak up,' and so added one more faggot to Mr. Walters's inner furnace.
'Do be sensible! What about that galley aft?' Vesuvius said. Mr. Walters gripped the bottom of Vesuvius's tunic and tore at it. 'Are you going up or not?' He wanted to scream at them, he wanted to kick them where they stood.
'Perhaps you'll put us on top, funny feller,' Vesuvius said. He scratched himself. Mr. Walters took out his watch and looked at it. Five to twelve.
I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to this man Williams, who, ever since this ship left port, has been down below here gambling with these soldiers. Robbery isn't the word for it. These men are fighting for us, you seem to forget.'
'Aw, for Christ's sake,' Williams said, 'money's no good to them. No damn good. I've said it once and I'll say it again. And you know it, you fat ape. Half them will be in queer street before Sunday. What you telling me, anyhow? The patriotic stunt. Hell! Nobody gives a hang in this ship. I know. I've seen as much of it as you, Mr. Walters. Ever been on a "bleeder"? Try one. Us fellers for'ard shut our eyes to lots of things see? We say nothing. Nothing about the mouldy chuck these fellers get. And the stinking tea and the bloody old bully, bully and jam, and pink potatoes, and a few raisins floating in hot water called pudding. You can't kid us. How much of the stores d'you keep back to sell to dagoes at Salonika? You know who I mean. Those fellers who call themselves soldiers. The Italianos. You goddam twister, and here you are – all soul and sanctity, begrudging us the chance of getting a few shekels together. You get twenty-four quid a month and sleep well on it. We get nine and sleep if we can. Be fair. So far as I'm concerned you can sell muck to them, but don't you i
nterfere with us. You report us to the bridge. We'll do likewise. One fox is as good as another, Mr. Walters, but in your case I should say it was very sharp breeding. You've a nose that shines whenever it smells money. Ssh! There's that kid again. Now, just listen to that! Why do they have such kids going to the Dardanelles? Daft I call it. Quite daft.' They were silent. Williams said again, 'Ssh! listen. Did you hear that, then?'
He turned and pointed to a low bunk on the starboard side of the lower deck, hard against the bulkhead. It was in complete darkness, that row of bunks excluded from the light by the steel pillar.
'It's that kid. That's two nights I've heard him weeping. He isn't sea-sick, either. They've all done their duty there.'
'Crying for his mammy,' Vesuvius said.
'Look here! Are you men going to get up that ladder or not? D'you want me to call an officer down here?' Mr. Walters's inner rage had lost its punch and sting. He was feeling wretched, almost defeated, and how in the name of the devil had these two fellers got wind of his hopes for the future? Somebody had been talking. Who? Only that fool Hump. The silly damn fool.
'Don't you get yourself all worked up, Mr. Walters. It isn't good for a man as fat as you. No! We're not going up. At eight bells we're going because we have to then. It's our watch on. One of these blokes here promised me a swell pair of boots tonight, and now I'm beggared if I can remember his name or even what he looks like. Louis something it was. Young feller from Kent, and now I wouldn't know him from a turnip. There are so many of them, and somehow they all seem to look alike. It's the uniform, I suppose. It's the face, Mr. Walters; I suppose I'll bump into him again some time before we land.'
'Hear that,' Vesuvius said.
'Come on, now, Williams, that's your name, I suppose,' Mr. Walters interrupted.
'Yes, and his real name isn't Vesuvius, Mr. Walters. They call him that on account of those pimples. They're always threatening to burst. His name's Charlie Herring, isn't it, Charlie,' he said, laughing low in his throat.