by James Hanley
In the distance muffled roars – drowning the roar of water at her bows.
'Port a bit.'
'Port a bit, sir.'
'Steady – steady—'
'Put out that bloody light, madman!'
'Starboard a point. Steady, where's your bloody eye, man? Steady.'
The decks were alive with men. The light of the moon transfigured the faces. The bell ringing.
'Starboard, man. Starboard a bit.'
'Easy she goes, sir!'
Rochdale looked down from his height. 'Eee!' he said. 'How strange it seems. Them chaps all so quiet, huddling there.'
A.10 crept through the water.
CHAPTER NINE
ROCHDALE was half-way down the ladder when he suddenly stopped. 'God,' he said. He was afraid. He knew not why. He was just afraid – fear pinned his two feet to the ladder. 'Of what am I afraid?' He wondered if it was the silence, the silence so sudden that covered the ship like a pall, that men had buried their heads beneath it. Then he went on. No darkness now. The white light flooded the decks. Once again he stopped, listening. A low murmurous sound. A.10's engines throbbing. Lord! It was getting quite cold, too. He looked round. Seven ships moving slowly through the water. How far were they from the land? He did not know, couldn't guess. He heard footsteps coming towards him. He reached the deck. Oh, the bosun! He smiled then. 'Hello, bosun. Christ, you look serious to-night.'
The bosun looked at Rochdale as though he had not heard him speak. He put a hand on the man's arm.
'Go below right away and stand by bulkhead door number three,' the bosun said. Then he walked away.
Rochdale saw him climb the companion-ladder, vanish along the saloon-deck. He stood at the foot of the mast. 'H'm,' he exclaimed. 'There's no bloody doubt about that, anyhow. No, sir!'
'Stand by bulkhead door number three. Well! Well!' He wasn't tired, not a bit, though it had been a bit of a beggar up there the last two hours, but he had been glad of the moon. Darkness only tormented. 'Aye,' he said. 'Well, I'll stand by when I've had a drink of coffee. Yes, sir! And for the moment they can run their damned war without me.' He went forward, hurried up the alleyway and stepped into the fo'c'sle. 'Goddam,' he said. The fo'c'sle was deserted. Ah, something funny was up all right! Something funny indeed. How strange the place seemed, those empty bunks, those drawn curtains, those dangling blankets, that mess of a table, the ominous position of sea-boots flung here and there upon the floor. Coffee! There wasn't any coffee. That was funny, too. Damned funny. There was always a drink of hot coffee for the look-out when he came down. He went out, closing the door behind him with a loud bang so that the tin mugs hanging behind it rattled loudly, a sound like thunder in the silence of the ship. He went towards the galley scratching his head. He was thirsty! Hang it all, perhaps there was something in the galley. The port door was shut – locked from inside. He crossed the hatch. The other door was wide open. Nobody in the galley, of course it was early yet. Cook wouldn't be out for an hour and a half. 'If he gets out at all this morning,' he said to himself. He looked anxiously round the galley. But not a thing, excepting a large urn on the end of the range. But that only held boiling water. What was in the locker? 'Locked – goddam it! They even begrudge the rats.'
In the corner he found a small teapot with a half spout. It was half full of dead tea-leaves. Well, he'd get a refresher after all. He poured some hot water on the leaves, shook the pot vigorously, and then drank the contents through the spout. He had better go. Something was going to happen soon. No doubt of that whatever! He went down the for'ard well-deck, turned a corner of the alleyway, reached the house door and went down the ladder. Perhaps things were more interesting below. On top he had seen nothing, water, seven black shapes moving in line. When he emerged on the 'tween-decks the first person he bumped into was the bosun's mate.
'Hello! What the hell's happening? Where is everybody? Like being on a ghost ship.'
The bosun's mate was coiling an iron chain near the bulkhead door. 'Everybody's on top, my bloody lad – you and I are here in case anything goes wrong, d'you see? Very soon this here ship is going to stop dead. And then all the boats will be lowered, d'you see? They'll all go in a line, and some what can will be towed and some what can't will have to pull like hell. And some'll be lucky and some won't. I had to go twice to that bridge, and love me, they're just like hens on hot bricks. And who d'you think's returned? The ghost! Christ, you never saw such a mess.'
'You mean Mr. Deveney?'
'Aye! that's him. He's so weak he can hardly stand on his legs, but I was standing taking orders from Bradshaw when he came along wrapped in his bloody big coat, and I heard him telling the old man he wasn't staying below. He'd come out to see the fun. But he's goosed really. They'll have to put him ashore at Alex. He's no bloody use on this here boat.' The bosun's mate dragged a wooden chest against the bulwarks. 'Look what I've got here. Old Rajah's bloody box. Sit down. No need to stand. Nearly everybody's sitting down now, saying nothing, just waiting. It's a bloody Cakewalk.'
'Hell, it seems strange! Not a sound,' Rochdale remarked. 'I haven't seen these holds like this since we tied up at Glasgow. ' It seems queer to me, empty like this, and only an hour ago you could hear nothing but shouts and laughing and singing, and I think somebody was having a fight. I could hear it all from above. Got a watch on you, Bosun?' he asked.
'Here! Well, you see everybody got orders. So quiet. Just went along to each deck whilst the men were having their coffee, and told them to muster quickly alongside the boats. At first I thought we'd be detailed off for this mucky job, taking those boats to the beach, and, Jesus, what a beach! It's ten yards long and a foot wide and a whopping bloody cliff overhead. But now they ain't, d'you see? Soon's we stop our engines, those boats will be lowered, d'you see, and they going to have naval ratings pilot each boat to the shore. We can only go in so far, I reckon. Twenty thousand tons draws too big a draught, I reckon. Mind you, I wouldn't put it past them letting us take the risk. It's all or nothing with them. I've been talking to one or two of these fellers, fellers who've been up this way before on transports, and they ought to know. Of course all they saw was the bloody land, and a fat glimpse they got of that. They had to clear out quick, I tell you, and sit on their backsides in Alexandria waiting for orders. It's a bloody muck up. I wouldn't be in the shoes of them high fellers – no, sir! – not for a million a year. Fancy getting thousands of bloody men up here and then because they don't know what to do with them they send the ships outside Lemnos somewhere, keep the poor beggars bottled up in ships for three whole weeks, and them simply bustin' to have a smack at Johnny Turk, believe me. But it was a mess, this feller said.'
The two men sat together, heads bent forward, the bosun's mate periodically slapping his knees. Rochdale's hands were loosely clasped and hanging in the air seemed useless appendages devoid of purpose. Yet there seemed purpose in their being seated there, in their very demeanour, as though whilst they talked the very thread, the core of the life of the ship and all its meaning passed through them as they sat together in that half darkness, hard against the cold steel plates, against the door which so soon might open, all-revealing door, pregnant with meaning, opening upon the waters, slow moving, oily surfaced, soon to be burdened with the desperate life which at this very moment waited, silent, one with that other life, in all those seven ships.
'There wasn't a soul in the fo'c'sle,' Rochdale said. 'I never even got a drink of bloody coffee. And the goddam galley was like Mother Hubbard's cupboard.'
'That's so,' the other said. 'Every man Jack is out and every man Jack is going to work overtime, for bloody soon, Rochdale, my lad, there'll be something doing. But the bloody fun of it is that everybody knows this, but they don't know what will be doing, d'you see? It's like being blindfolded in the dark. Let me tell you that they aren't even ringing the bells case those bastards over there should hear a sound.' He swung his hand in the air to indicate the distant shore. 'So far it's working lovel
y. All these fellers as quiet as bloody mice. You listen now. . . You see what a row those engines make now? That's because everybody is silent. I've a bloody good mind to nip up on deck and see what's going on. There's a port-hole there but I wouldn't like to open that. Ah well! We've done one-half the goddam trip, anyhow. I've just come down from that boat-deck and, d'you know, I got the surprise of my life.' He looked at Rochdale and added with emphasis, 'A hell of a surprise.'
'And what was that?' asked the look-out man. He stamped out his cigarette.
'Williams, you know, the Talker. There he was standing by his boat as silent as the grave. I could have dropped dead, I tell you, for that feller would talk anybody soft, he even talks in his sleep. Hello! Why, that's funny.'
'What?'
'The bloody engines have stopped,' said the bosun's mate, jumping up from the box.
At the same moment a voice called down to them – 'Standing by, Bosun? Send that man up here, will you?'
He called back 'All right, all right.' He didn't recognize the voice. 'You better go up, Rochdale. Something new's happened. And I'm stuck here on my ownio. Well, if anything happens, I'll be in the middle of it.' He saw Rochdale go up the ladder.
The bosun met him, whispered in his ear: 'Don't talk! Keep your mouth shut! Hold your breath. Makes your chest swell. Now stand by boat number nine, Higginbottom, and see she reaches the water, and you'll see you get no more than forty-five men to a boat. There are enough boats for everybody. We're going to see precious little of each other for the next hour or so, so don't forget. Use that nut of yours. It's not a bad one for size, as nuts go. Come along!'
Rochdale followed the bosun, who suddenly side-stepped and disappeared down an alleyway. Rochdale stood quite still and looked about him.
A deluge of movements, the creaking of wood, the whistle of falls, the clop-clopping sound of hanging falls against the boat's side, the low sizzling sound that emerged from the steam whistle, whispered conversations upon the bridge. 'How bloody queer,' said Rochdale to himself. Was there any picture, any scene, in all that panorama of his life as strange as this? There was not. Annie and Rosie! the tobacco shop in the Blackburn Road. 'Good God!' he said. 'I wonder what's going to happen. I just wonder.' So he went forward to his boat, all ordinary things sunk, swamped, buried, in the nightmarish quality of this scene. Here was the boat. Wood and flesh. He looked at the soldiers. Looked into their quiet features, he would like to say something, 'Good luck, my bloody lads,' or 'Give Johnnie a kick in the behind for me,' but words remained lifeless, trapped upon the tongue. He just looked at them, and at the boats against which they now stood. Wood and flesh.
A.10 lay broadside to the land, and beyond her the Hartspill, and nearer still to the beach those other boats. And the work went on, slowly, silently. Mr. Dunford watched it all from the bridge. Already he could see some half-dozen boats, veering away from the Hartspill, six boats crowded to suffocation – gunwales flush to the water. They were bending on the tow-ropes. Soon that long snake-line would go forward. He saw his own boats slowly filling, heard falls screech, men's accoutrements rattle. There was something grim in the rattle, it was indeed a grim voice, rattle, rattle. Two boats were lowering now. Yet there seemed to be hundreds still, hundreds of heads, hundreds of bodies, standing motionless, waiting their turn to go. Order was perfect.
'Twenty-seven – twenty-eight. Come on, lads, shift your backsides a bit. Easy there.'
'No goddam noise, you fools. D'you want us blown sky-high?'
Words upon the wind, floating upwards. He heard it all, and for a moment or two those sounds smothered the uproar that was going on in his mind. Echoes of things past. Always his eyes rested on them, upon their backs, humped beneath the heavy fat. He heard Bradshaw, later Ericson, then the bosun speaking. A man laughed. 'And don't forget if ever your boat gets to Tilbury, mate, you call and see my missus. She'll be glad to hear about me. And I was wondering if you would . . . '
'Yes. Yes. Get in for Christ's sake. The other boats are waiting, can't you see? Forty-two – forty-three – forty-four – forty-five – whoa, wait a minute. Right. Forty-seven – forty – lower away, mate, lower away, and not so much bloody row.'
Dunford looked to starboard. Raised faces. Eyes towards the land. Urgency written there. The simple men. Clothed with power, loaded with kit, the tinkle of steel against wood, the fetters of science, the steel and the gleam of steel. Line on line. Company on company, purpose written upon their faces. All eyes landwards. And what lay there? They did not know. Dunford began to wonder then. Did they care – these simple men? He did not know that, either. Would they reach that shore? He did not know. Three more boats away. He looked upwards then. 'Confound the moon.' But soon it would be daylight. And then. . . That distant roar was always in his ears. Well, here was somebody at last. Mr. Bradshaw. Now what could he want?
'We're clear except for nine, ten and eleven, sir. I sent Deveney aft to superintend the launching of the rafts. Those clear are now joining up with the Hartspill. I must get my coat. I left it lying in the wing there.'
'So I see,' Dunford said. 'Mr. Bradshaw, would you call this crack-brained?'
Mr. Bradshaw picked up his coat, put it on, and looked at Mr. Dunford.
'I think it's magnificent, sir,' he replied, and rushed from the bridge.
'Magnificent,' thought Dunford. H'm! That's where knowledge supplants wisdom. So they had managed to get nine hundred men away. The rafts would hold sixty, yes, they must hold sixty somehow or other. So Mr. Deveney and his malaise were aft. Seeing to the rafts. Goddam! Why don't they hurry? Why don't they hurry? It's getting light. Are we to be trapped like rats in this hell-hole? He swung round suddenly. 'Here! What the devil are you doing in there?' he shouted at the helmsman.
'Standing by, sir. I was ordered to stand by, sir.'
'Then don't. Get along and give a hand with those boats. What d'you think this is, a children's party?' He followed the man. 'Get these boats clear right away. Come along. Get these boats away.' He thrust his way through a mass of scrambling bodies. 'Where are you, Bradshaw?'
'Here,' sir.' The cry came from the water. Dunford looked down. Number eight boat, full of soldiers, was suspended in air; ten feet above the water. The falls had fouled. Mr. Bradshaw was clinging on the rope, suspended in air himself, looking down at the loaded boat.
'Damn! Damn! Bradshaw, come up here!' Dunford called down. He wanted to shout his rage, but he dare not. And Bradshaw climbed up the fall.
'The block has fouled. You, bosun – can't that man do better than that?'
'As you know, sir . . . '
'Mr. Bradshaw, cut the rope,' Dunford said. 'Here! Bosun – your knife. I said cut the rope. Are you deaf – or crazy or what the hell? I said cut the rope. The rest must take care of itself. It had no right to be foul. I've repeated time after time that these falls must be unreeved and reeved again, every watch. Now you've got men below there trapped.'
Suddenly there was a flash of light upon the beach. Then another and another. Daylight was ushering in, and the moon, its work done, shuffled off behind a sheaf of clouds.
'Cut the goddam rope, will you?' shouted Dunford.
'Yes, sir.' But Bradshaw dropped the knife from his hand. There was a flash, a dull roar, and the whole of the starboard side of A.10 seemed to shiver as the shell struck her amidships.
'Great God!' exclaimed Dunford. What am I seeing?' his mind cried out. 'What am I seeing?' A rope, a knife. A stampede of soldiers, frenzied screams, a thunderous splash. Trapped. They had been seen! A curtain of fire seemed to be spreading over the beach, light flashed upon that eagle's beak. Dunford gripped a fall. 'They're shelling! Here! You! You! You! You! Get below Bosun, down to that bulkhead door. Quickly Ericson! Ericson! Are your boats clear there?'
'Clear! Eleven lowering now, sir.' Where was that voice coming from? It sounded from a great distance. Dunford ran aft. Reached the poop. The rafts were gone. 'Thank God! They've gone.' Yes, there they were veering slowl
y away to join that mad crusade. 'I knew! I knew! What madness!' Alone on the deserted poop he stamped his rage, he hammered on the rope pile. 'They'll never do it.' The shore batteries were shelling. Each ship, rooted in that patch of water, seemed helpless. But beyond them were those other boats, that long line drawing nearer and nearer to the shore. Dunford went back to the bridge. Fountains of water, cries, the screech of blocks, the shouting of men. Deluge of sound. 'Get those men up. Everyone! Everyone!' He saw their bodies struggling in the water. Suddenly he fell flat upon his face, but the third shell struck forward, exploded upon her fo'c'sle head, carried away the port fo'c'sle-head ladder. 'Get them up! Everyone!' Another whistling sound, a low scream, he shut his eyes. A terrific explosion. The deck shuddered beneath his feet. 'Jesus Christ!' he shouted. 'What is wrong? What is wrong?'
But Ericson was shaking him. 'Number eleven has been smashed by the explosion, sir. A good many of the men were thrown back on to the deck. The boat, sir—'
Dunford said: 'Stay here!' and rushed away, almost flung himself down the ladder. 'Goddam! What was this? In Christ's name!' A shambles, a slaughterhouse. Bodies lay everywhere. He saw only that. Bodies around him. He did not look farther across the waters dotted with struggling figures, did not see men throwing themselves from the boats, loaded like beasts, swimming, power in the body, courage in the heart, fighting their way to that bloody beach. Where was Bradshaw? Where was Deveney? He rushed below. Stopped dead. The bulkhead doors were open, rope ladders hung out, men clung to them, bodies were being hauled up, laid down. Bosun, sailors, firemen, stewards, all working feverishly. Dunford looked at the bosun.
'This is the last man, sir. There are the others!' He jerked his thumb to the left. Yes. There they were. The living and the dead, the drowned and the crazy, heaped together, body upon body. Dunford was motionless, staring at the bodies. God! What am I thinking of? What am I standing here for? 'Bosun, close that door. Take your men to the boat-deck at once, number eleven boat was struck in the act of lowering. Hurry man! Hurry! Where is Mr. Bradshaw?' He seemed stupefied, agitated, without control.