by James Hanley
Vesuvius went away to empty his bladder then.
'Come, now,' Walters went on. 'I understand more than you think I do. Williams, I'm no fool. Be sensible, man. Go on up and go quickly. Just supposing you were found here like this? There'd be trouble. And you wouldn't be able to blame me. Come along now, we'll call it quits. Mum's the word.'
He began pushing Williams towards the ladder. Williams became truculent.
'Here! Keep your fat paws off me, will you! You're in the same bloody boat as we are, Mr. Walters, and don't you forget it. And you've been caught napping see? We're no mugs. What you've got to do is to shut your gob, and say nowt. Mind you, Mr. Walters, you're selling rotten food, we're not. All we are doing is joining in the fun down below. You see if it came to the point, well you'd be in a mess, wouldn't you? But while you're here it might be as well to ask you to let us fellers for'ard have a bit more grub. And decent grub. You've got piles in that storeroom and you can't eat it all yourself, can you?'
He smiled at Walters, whose misery was now complete. They had made a fool of him. And he was powerless, helpless. There was nothing he could do. Those sleeping men wardered him, as they wardered the two disguised sailors, held them prisoners, chained his rage, smothered the hot word and the sly word in his very mouth.
Vesuvius came back again. All were silent, one with the sleeping troops. The lower deck seemed larger, more cavernous than ever, and somehow for the first time they appeared really conscious of their surroundings and the life around them. The still forms, the lines of up-turned faces, quietened and softened to innocence by sleep, conscious of the breathing, whilst they held their own, as though to listen to the vast body of breathing that floated in air, touched the farthest corner of the hold. They were disarmed; each was separated from the other, lost in the world of his own thoughts and feelings. Only the ceaseless throb of the engines, the communicating point to Reality.
Vesuvius spat on a hatch-cover, dug his hands into his pockets and spoke: Well, what was Walters going to do about it? He'd better hurry up and say. They had nothing against him. Being a chief steward didn't worry them. He was only a man after all. And he was in the same boat as themselves. Was he going to prevent them coming down again? Did he intend to report it and not report the cook in the troops' galley who had nearly poisoned him with a cup of tea from the tank? And did these fellers really care about anything after all? In two days they would have forgotten their little voyage. It was only a bit of fun. Did he begrudge them a few bob, the price of a short time in Salonika, or whatever confounded place this bum-ship was really making for? Well? He, Charlie Herring, would like to know.
Williams fingered the pile of silver coins in his pocket, looked at the folded Crown and Anchor board sticking out of the pocket of his tunic, a tunic that was soaked with history like Vesuvius's own, and looked at one and then at the other.
'Don't be all bloody night making up your mind, Mr. Walters. We've got work to do aboard this ship. If she were holed we would sink together.'
'Listen! I know what's at him. It's not the gambling,' Vesuvius was whispering. 'It's those two fellers selling sandwiches from the slops. Isn't that it, Mr. Walters?' He smiled at Mr. Walters. He was stroke oar in their boat. If he liked he could upset the whole bloody apple-cart. So they argued, over the heads of sleeping men.
'Come along, now,' Mr. Walters said. 'Be a sensible chap. I shut my eyes to lots of things. You be as sensible and we'll get on very well together! There! The bell's gone.'
Williams did not move. Vesuvius was already climbing the ladder.
'Let's get this straight, Mr. Walters,' Williams said. 'You bring that fellow down from the bridge. That's the best way to settle the whole matter. I told you I don't give a goddam, gambling's no harm to anybody, and I tell you money's no bloody use to them. But selling grub is another matter. What you aim to do? I tell you what. You sell your grub and I'll retain full rights over my board. How's that? And we won't say another word about it.'
For answer Mr. Walters walked quietly away and was lost in the distance.
Vesuvius was half-way down the ladder. He called under his breath, 'Come up, dafty! Bosun's looking for you. Hurry if you don't want to get necked.'
Williams swore to himself. 'Blast that damned fox,' he said.
'Ssh! There's that thing again. D'you hear it?' Vesuvius said, hanging from the ladder.
Williams began to go up. He punched the man on the behind. 'Yes, I can hear it! D'you think my ears are plugged? It's that fellow crying again. Got the bloody jim-jams I reckon! What a war!'
As soon as they put their feet on the decks the out-coming watch from the fo'c'sle surrounded them. 'How much did you fellers win tonight?'
'Oh, never mind talking about that now,' Williams said, and he crossed over to the bosun. 'What's the job tonight?' he asked. 'Scuppers again?'
The bosun could see nothing but the face. It was black darkness everywhere. And then the face vanished for Williams had rushed away to join Vesuvius in the lavatory where he was already getting out of the Buffs uniform. They folded the bundles up and sneaked back to the fo'c'sle. They opened the chain-locker door and hung the bundles on a nail. Then they rejoined the watch – Williams singing sotto voce: 'Where are we going to – we don't know! – we don't know.'
'Stop that damn row below there.' A ghostly voice spoke from the bridge.
'Christ! D'you ever see such decks?' O'Grady said. 'You'd think ten thousand kids had been playing on it, 'stead of fourteen hundred grown men on the way to serious business.'
They started work. The whole watch was spent clearing up after the troops. The bosun had gone aft to talk to the quartermaster in the wheel-house. Williams and Vesuvius, like inseparable twins, worked together. They carried a huge trough to the lee side and emptied it. The other men were still sweeping up papers, tins, tobacco, boxes, derelict nose wipers, cigarette butts, string, matches, slops.
'What do they care, anyhow?' said O'Grady joining them. He helped them drag back the trough ready for filling again.
'They don't care any thin',' said Williams. 'That's how men should be I reckon. Not carin' about anything saves you responsibilities.'
'Some people like to have responsibilities,' Vesuvius said.
'Aye! Like that fellow up there. That eye on the bridge looking down. Some people just love it. Give a hand here!' They dragged the trough farther along and lashed it to the bitt. The remainder of the watch, like sheep, had wandered aft. The wheel-house was certainly the ideal place for a smoke. But the bosun always got first go of everything. Williams went aft, too. O'Grady and Vesuvius leaned over the sail, talking. They punctuated the talk with much spitting. Vesuvius kept scratching his head, removing his cap for each operation.
'From below stairs?' enquired O'Grady, laughing.
'No! There are no lice there yet, and no lice'll ever beat the bugs in that fo'c'sle, sir. Maybe in a day or two we'll see them everywhere. They like the heat – these crawling hungry bugs.' He pulled his cap hard down over his head.
'Robson said to me an hour ago that he'd heard that we were going to land these fellers at' – pause then to spit into the sea – 'er.'
'Aw, shut guessin'. Anyhow, there's bald-head calling. Let's go aft.'
'You fellers cleared that rubbish up?' the bosun called as they drew near. He was standing outside the wheel-house door.
'Have a look. – Yes. All cleared.'
'Right! Come this way!' They ascended the ladder to the boat-deck.
'These two boats, five and six, want overhauling and contents checking. Get going.' He turned to Williams. 'See this job done, Williams,' he said. 'I have to go below to see that finicky second. You never can get a proper force of water on this bloody ship.'
'O.K.,' replied Williams.
As soon as Mr. Tyrer turned his back the men climbed into the boats and made themselves comfortable. They could hear the clear measured tread of the officer on the bridge. Port to starboard! Starboard to port! They talked.
There seemed little else to do but talk, and exciting possibilities of every kind seemed to loom up from the distant horizon.
'You see, fellers, there's beggar all to do aboard this ship! except clean up slops. Old Tyrer looks on that second as a sort of second Old Moore's Almanack. Why, I heard somebody singing.'
They laughed. 'Never mind the bloody singing. Some feller below got a bad dream. Never mind that! Shell out the dibs.' They sat close round Williams.
'Sure!' He pulled a large handful of silver from his pocket. 'Share-out! Sure thing. Only thing is you fellers got to back me up against Walters.'
'Yes. Go ahead! Shell the stuff out,' they said as with one voice.
'How the hell he knew you were down there tonight beats me,' Vesuvius said.
Williams handed money to each man in the watch. 'It's sharp neckin', that's what it is. A damned fox can smell anything. That's what Walters is – a damned fox. Wasn't any trouble wangling a uniform. I can manage that any time. But how'd he know I was down those 'tween-decks tonight? Nobody told him. No. The bastard's been there himself half the evening. Well, I say if he can sell muck to them I reckon I can have a nap hand or a turn at the old sergeant-major. God lumme, you only got to be down there half an hour before you know how rotten it is for them. They like a turn at cards – and having a smack at a fortune on my board. They don't want money. Goddam, I told Walters it's no use to them. They'll never care again what money looks or feels like after they've got off this packet. You fellers know that! No! This beggar Walters he's making his nest whilst the war goes – but he's greedy like any damn fox. Wants it all to himself.'
'Here's the bosun back again,' O'Grady said.
There was a wild scramble to the various jobs as the short fat form of Mr. Tyrer loomed up. He stood watching them go over the tackle.
'You done that job, Williams?' he asked. . . He breathed heavily after his long climb up the engine-room ladder. He saw Williams examining a water-keg.
'Sure!' Williams said. 'And did you find out where this tub's making for? Has old Moore any more prophecies for tomorrow, bos?'
'Yes, she's going to Marseilles right now for a cargo of wood. Plywood. Come on, for Christ's sake. Nearly time to go for'ard again. You're the best crowd I've ever had for years. You really like work.'
The men left the boat. 'Seven bells already,' one man said. 'How bloody time flies.'
As they walked slowly along the port side of the saloon-deck, Vesuvius pulled up, so that all stood and looked at the box he was pointing at.
'Say, bos, what they aim to do with that box there?'
'Box! What box?'
'You know! That box old Rajah used to sit on, you know, bosun.'
'Oh! That's for something special. Don't you get worrying about that, Mr. Herring.' It was the first time the bosun had called this man by his proper name.
'His name's Vesuvius,' Williams said. 'VESUVIUS. And he isn't going to loot your bloody old box either,' he added.
'Bradshaw wants it for something,' O'Grady said. 'I wonder what?'
They clattered noisily down the ladder to the well-deck. They could hear snatches of conversation from the fo'c'sle. A flash of light appeared as the fo'c'sle door opened. They heard the bosun's mate shouting at the men: 'Yes. You ought to know they have to be shifted round every watch. Yes. Every time the wind changes. Want to suffocate the fellers below?'
'To hear you gassing, one might think we begrudged the men a breath of air.'
'Come on! Get outside and on to the confounded job.'
An old man about sixty shouted in a cracked voice: 'All right, we're not deaf. Think we don't know?'
They came down the alleyway, meeting the incoming watch.
'Know again then,' the bosun shouted to the old man. 'It won't do you any harm.' He turned to his mate. 'Goddam fools below, they think the pressure of a kitchen tap will wash those filthy decks down. I wish you luck.'
The watchers-on stood in a group listening to the conversation that went on.
'Always growling,' the old man said.
'Aye, that's true enough.'
'You cut and make that coffee when we leave number three,' a man said. 'Yes.' A.10 gave a sudden roll. 'Ah! the dirty bitch! They must have changed her course.'
They began work, and whilst they swung the ventilators to windward they heard voices talking on the bridge.
'I told you! That's Bradshaw talking to the O.M. I'll bet they've changed her course.'
'Changed my aunt! Put a move on and get to number four,' growled the bosun's mate. He walked restlessly up and down alongside the hatch where the men were working. 'You beggars seem to like work. You'll be on the bunkers in a day or two if you don't watch out.'
Nobody answered. They ignored him. Left him to his irritation. Because he couldn't sleep the whole confounded ship had to put up with his fit of bad temper. 'Half you fellers should be below now. In the bloody army. Going where these fellers are going to. Shake you up a bit. Come on, now. Over to number four.'
They made fast on the huge billowing ventilators, and walked further amidships. The old man was sent to make coffee. The bosun's mate did not see him go. As he went he took his nose between two skinny fingers and blew hard. 'That's to the swine,' he said. 'Telling the likes o' me I ought to be in the army. Huh!'
The bosun's mate stood watching them work. One of the men, he couldn't tell which, was saying: 'Seems to me they don't know what to be at half the time in this packet. It just must give them a pain to see an ordinary man with a little time on his hands. You'll see, he'll be off up there in half a tick' – this for the special information of the listening bosun's mate – 'he'll be off up to that bridge to see if there are any other jobs we can do! Christ! He'll finish up by being a commodore. Can't just let men lounge about, you know, maybe they'd just rot. 'Spect next thing is Bradshaw'll say, "And, bosun, that dirt-box of Rajah must come up from below." '
Everybody laughed, except the bosun's mate.
'Hurry up! There's number five to be shifted before we flush down. You, Turner, you search around these decks and if you find any of these fellows taking the fresh air, tell them to get below, or they'll get the best shower-bath they've ever had.'
'There you are! Begrudges the fellers a spot of fresh air. Who'd sleep in that place below? Not me, sir! Nor any decent man. Fit for rats. That's all.'
They went along to number five. There! All the ventilators were shifted round. They stood about wondering. Two bells rang from the bridge. Whatever's he going to do now? They had cleared up everything, shifted all ventilators. Go up the ladder and ask for more work. Just like him!
'Get those hoses laid, and see they are coupled to the hydrants.'
'Has Turner come back yet?'
'No,' the bosun's mate said. 'You, Currie, cut along and see what the devil he's doing. Picking up cigarette ends on the saloon-deck, I suppose.'
He sat down on the ladder, looking from man to man. Suddenly the moon came out and the decks were flooded with light. The bosun's mate got off the ladder at once, saying: 'Come on! Get started on the decks.'
He waited till the diver came and took up the hose. Behind him another sailor took the weight and kept the kinks from forming.
'Start forward and work aft,' the bosun's mate said, and suddenly went off and left them. He went on to the saloon-deck. Here the moonlight showed up the debris of the day. The man went into the saloon and sat down. The place was deserted. It had a stale air about it, tobacco and cigarette smoke; the carpet was littered with papers, the long tables covered with blow ash, cigarette ends, a sickly looking light looked down on all this. He made himself comfortable in a swing armchair. He would like to fall asleep there and then, and though the light was sickly and cast a sort of gloom upon the deserted saloon, he had no objection to it. What he did object to, and what he shut out as he noiselessly closed the saloon door, was the bright moonlight. And he hated moonlight nights. He hated them any time, but at sea he hated them more. It wasn't that he
objected to the moon, it was quite free to hang up there and turn what colour it liked. It might have suggested a sort of nakedness to him, this cold, clear white light, but it was a something else. The bosun's mate associated a moonlight night at sea with bad luck. He called it his theory, and the urgent and perilous times had shot up the seeds of more theories than there were hairs on men's heads. The bosun's mate as soon as he saw the light went off and hid himself. So far his theory had stood the test. Ships did have a habit of bumping into trouble on clear moonlight nights, submarines had a habit of bobbing up, and even a floating mine wilfully floated into the track of the oncoming bows. He could hear the sounds of brooms, the water, the loud voices of men, the diver's curse when a kink formed in the hose, the occasional joke, women, Italian soldiers, Greek trousers, garlic, the licensed house, all the various sounds floated in under the door and the bosun's mate heard them and they meant nothing to him for his thoughts were focused upon things that were associated with bright moonlight. And towards half-past one he began to doze in the chair, unmindful of the moon or the now waiting men, and the large can of coffee in the fo'c'sle and the old man standing by. The men had passed right aft. They were washing the poop, and brooms scrubbed round the steel bedding where the gun lay. All looked at this gun, covered with its canvas hood. And it meant nothing to them and was nothing, this long squat machine. It might boast on occasion, but now it was a poor neglected unmentionable thing, and even the rating on watch was indifferent, and it was divorced from purpose – shut away from sight and mind, and A Safety Match was a most absorbing novel.
But he heard the watch-on scrubbing down, divined them for ignorant careless persons and immediately put down his book and left the room to go and see them. They in turn saw him, standing silent by his gun. No words were spoken. They were not necessary. Understanding was final. They were men, he was a machine. They didn't like him, he looked arrogantly down upon all merchant seamen. The Navy was the salt of the earth. So be it. They left the poop – left him to his child, and the quiet night, and the angry tormented wake of the ship, for his visioning, and the floating weed and the dull patch of water, soiled by dumped ashes, the trailing log line and the small steel fish that recorded mileage for A.10. They made noises descending the ladder, tramped into the wheel-house – it was almost smoke time. All were asking the same question: Where had the man got to?