by James Hanley
'Pass the mustard, Hump. Thank you! I've been wondering, Mr. Hump, whether you and I ought not to look for something else. Something with real money in it, something really alive, spectacular, something really worth while.'
Mr. Hump began digging at an elusive piece of meat with his fork. What were you thinking about?' asked Mr. Hump, before he swallowed the meat.
'I was thinking of the Atlantic route! You know all along I was given to understand that we were eventually proceeding in that direction. But it doesn't look like it. No. Far from it! We're going to run up and down and in and out. Excursions in the dark, and hushed voices. The bare limit in food, Mr. Hump; A mystery ship, you know. Cantankerous young officers – Empire-builders, pots of money and put it in handy, sir. Hump! I'm getting sick of it. I wouldn't mind if there was anything in it. But there isn't, and I tell you I'm determined to make – yes, sir, to make. And now is the time! Not out of these children, Lord, no, I have in view a large ship, a transport, to be precise, a transport sailing from New Brunswick or Montreal, even Halifax. Then there's a better chance. A chief steward aboard a ship like this, Mr. Hump, is an absolute nonentity! I've been on real liners in my time. And carrying people worth while, too! What do you think? Let's have the mustard again, Hump. Thanks, very much.' He put the blade of his knife in the pot, lifted out a large amount of mustard and deposited it on the edge of his plate.
'It's not a bad idea, Mr. Walters,' he said. 'But I shouldn't think chances are all so easy as that. A man gets a berth like that on the Atlantic route and he hangs on to it. Personally, I'm fairly satisfied where I am, though I reckon they ought to carry more men, Mr. Walters, and you'll agree with me there, after the last twelve hours on board this magnificent vessel. I keep telling myself how lucky I am to be alive, and when fellers are sick all over me, and the dead lying there, I just think of that. It's great being alive, Mr. Walters.'
The second steward raised his head, looked up at the deck-head. Mr. Walters looked up too, not at the deck-head, but at the second steward's face. Was that white face aglow – smiling? Yes. Mr. Hump was smiling. He glowed, in fact, at the very thought of being alive!
'I agree. It's a great thing to be alive, but living isn't just everything. Even your friend, Sherlock Holmes, would agree with me on that.'
They went on eating. A silence fell between them. Fresh air blew in through the open port-hole. The mess was oblong in shape. It had two doors, outsides were dark mahogany, inside they were painted white. The brass knob shone. The mahogany sideboard which stood behind Mr. Hump shone darkly, it threw up a dim reflection of the side of the bowl where the three dried apples had lain since leaving port. They were now hidden by flies. Mr. Hump loathed them, he would like to shut 'that bloody port-hole,' but Mr. Walters had no objection to flies, he liked fresh air when he could get it and he was patient, even forgiving. He continually waved his hand and swept the flies from the table.
'Well, you see, Mr. Hump, this is what put the idea into my head. This ship is going to stay out here, so it seems to me, for the duration. Mr. Dunford told me as much, though to be sceptical is to be on the level aboard this boat. I have a wife at home, a child. I don't aim to stay aboard a ship I begin to dislike! And from the moment I became a doctor, good God, a year's medical training has given me a status over-blown and preposterous, but since then I've got fed up. I don't mind a bandage here and there, but honestly, since those men were put below I've been everything except a bloody midwife. And I shouldn't do these things. There should be more stewards! And if they made us embark hundreds of wounded men, damn, they only did that when they realized the slaughter was a serious business, and turn us into a goddam hospital-ship, why didn't they have the nous to put an orderly or two aboard? And what chance have we, even now? True we haven't got a flaming red cross on our side, but we've an ugly-looking customer sitting on that poop.' Mr. Walters talked on, pausing every now and then to open his mouth wide for the morsel on the uplifted fork. This seemed to tremble in his hand as though it dreaded going into the cavernous mouth. Meanwhile, Mr. Hump ate prettily as he always did, and he listened most patiently and attentively to all that Mr. Walters said. But was the fat man in front of him simply talking for talking's sake, or was he really set on looking for a more lucrative berth?
'Sounds hopeful,' thought the Second Steward. 'But why should I go with him?' Yes. Why should he? Let him go! Why shouldn't he, Mr. Hump, take Mr. Walter's place?
They pushed their plates away at the same moment. Mr. Hump poured out a glass of burgundy and pushed it towards the chief steward. Then he filled one for himself. They leaned back in their chairs. Mr. Walters lit his pipe. Mr. Hump thought he would try a cheroot, a half-packet of which he discovered in Captain Percival's room when that boyish yet serious looking officer had got into the boat with his men. He lit this and its faint aroma hung about the mess.
Suddenly Mr. Hump said, 'If we did go back to England, Mr. Walters, I think there'd be a general clearance. The men wouldn't wait to watch the rats run down the ropes, and over the rat guards. I know that. Complaint after complaint has been dinned into my ears, all the trip across. Worked off their feet they said, and rotten accommodation, worse than the fo'c'sle, and that's saying something. I agree it was pretty lousy. Only one man to a section of three tables.'
'Yes, I know! I know that, Hump! I'm not blind! But God Almighty, don't you understand the position! We were turned into a hospital at a moment's notice. It couldn't be helped. Up there—' he jerked his thumb towards the sea – 'up there they've been yelling for men for weeks.'
'Aye! And now, by God, they've got them!' exclaimed Mr. Hump.
Mr. Walters put on his old cap with the white cover and left the mess.
Mr. Hump finished his glass of burgundy, stumped out his cheroot and did likewise. He went to his room, put on a dingy white jacket, and an even dirtier cap. He felt suddenly miserable. There was something about A deck he did not like!
'Well, get it over,' he told himself. 'Get it over.' Aye! All was fair in love or war, as the saying went, but what a stupid pig Mr. Dunford was, carrying all those men to Alexandria. There was only one place for them, one place. Oh! the whole thing was disgusting. Still it was even worse for Marvel and the others. He had better keep telling himself that and also that he was alive, yes, still alive. Thus fortified, he could descend that ladder with a firm step. He could watch those sailors – turn them over and over, body after body, call out names and numbers, in between go into a dark corner for a smoke. Lucky. They were lucky. And that thoughtful-looking chap, the look-out man. It was a wonder indeed that he wasn't sitting on that fo'c'sle head ladder when the first shell struck her. A wonder! Sitting there with that large, pugnacious, innocent-looking, yet thoughtful mug turned to the bridge. Half-way down the ladder Mr. Hump paused, he heard approaching footsteps, deep breathings – somebody ascending. The bosun.
'Afternoon, Bosun. Where are we now?'
'SSW. of Stinktown,' the man said. And pushing his way past the tall lean figure of the second steward, stepped out on to the deck. 'All those men should be put overboard. Yes, sir! It's a living disgrace. Aye! But who was right – Who was wrong? Who cared a goddam – I don't know, beggar me, I don't!' And he took in fresh air to his lungs. 'Phew!' he said.
A deck is silent, somehow it seems to cower under the light, sickly looking, yellowish, that filters through the heavy air. The bulb was shaded. Purpose has given it a hood. It is still – caught in air. Once it swung, throwing enormous fantastic shadows across the hold. The iron deck looked wet. It had been newly brushed. There was a shimmer upon it. Shiny under the light. Mr. Hump sat down on the hatch-top. He saw figures moving about in the dark corner on the starboard side. He was not tired, no longer afraid, he smelt nothing. He just listened.
'Ah – and he saw three mouths, all torn like bloody, hungry wolves been at them, and he was sick. Sick as hell. An' Williams, here, he went to Walters, d'you see – asked him for a nip of brandy. Lousy bastard, says no!
But that's nowt. They got that kid aft now. Goddam, that kid's winnick! I know what saw him! Aye, I know!'
'Goddam, we know that, but can't you put that blasted rag you got, that old pimple rag, put it in your pocket for Christ's sake. Talkin' through that, even if we was listenin'. There's Mr. Hump on the hatch. Dozy-Ozy that man.'
'Ah! I saw him – I was there first, anyhow! You see, when that last shell struck her, this kid he got blew in on the deck again. He was balmy, I reckon. He ran all ways, here and there, and nobody took no notice, everybody was too excited, and then we got orders to move around. There he was again. Aye! a nice lad he was, frizzy hair he had, and eyes like saucers, d'you know. Could he shout! God love me, Charlie! We had to catch hold on him he might have gone over the side, d'you see? – and I reckon there were enough fellers struggling about there! So we caught hold on him. Christ! he was strong. "Let me go! Let me go!" he kep' shouting all the while. "Let me go! I want to fight for my bloody King. Let me go! I want to defend my bloody King." So O'Neill, here, he knocked him out. It was lousy, but there you are, fancy a sailor having to knock out a mere kid. But he had to. Oh – aye, shut eye, up there, he saw it. Old Captain shouted "Put him out." We took him aft then, and Mr. Ericson came with us then. We slipped about in all kinds of muck and this kid he was deado. Knocked right out. So he can't fight for his bloody King, no more! We had a hell of a job when he come to in that cabin aft. It was bloody awful. But Mr. Ericson, he's clever, he's a cool'n, he just slipped the poor kid's arms into the jacket. And he gets beef-tea, and they have a fellow outside the door all the while. Well, here you are, easy, mate. "Ready, Mr. Hump." '
'Call out,' Mr. Hump said, not looking towards them, not smiling. He took a notebook from his back pocket, and got his pencil ready. 'Ready,' he said.
'When I call out the name and number – you pin this to the tunic pocket. Right. Cruickshank, G. Number 1030682. Got that? Right. Put him back on the floor. Murphy, P. W. Number 81905. Ready again. Evans, J. L. Number 57519. Ready again. Yes. Yes. All right. Christ! I told you – put each man back where you got him from, when you got twenty put the boat cover on 'em. Nineteen. Right, Mr. Hump, sir. Number 88113. Purves, J., Jack, I expect. Jack Purves. He's a Lanes. Co. Poor sod.'
Mr. Hump scribbled rapidly in his book. The bosun came below again.
'O'Grady! Bring all spare canvas from the storeroom, Damn! I told you hours ago we wanted all the canvas we could find. Isn't enough here.'
'All right – all right,' the man replied, a begrudging, harassed tone in his voice.
Vesuvius blew his nose with the black rag. 'Phew!' he said. 'Right, Mr. Hump. Clarkson, F. J. Gunner. Number 10951. Got that? O.K. Next.' The men moved farther along the 'tween-decks uncovered a second group of bodies. 'Of course it's pretty bad,' thought Williams, 'but I suppose Mr. Dunford is right. Anyhow, if they say bury them, at least we'll know who we've buried and who we haven't. Seems to me we're going to be quids in on overtime this trip, all right.' His sing-song voice, dreary, with the sharp accent only proper to his native tongue, drifted across the cavernous hold. This, and the hum of the engines, were the only sounds to be heard. Vesuvius kept wiping his face, he dabbed the rag to his nose. If he looked left, he saw white faces still under the light. If he looked right, he saw faces. Faces were everywhere. And he closed his eyes sometimes, he could not look at them all the time. Why were they covered by boat canvas? Why did they begin to fill the lower deck with that repulsive odour?
'Right there,' Williams said. 'Next lot. Bosun, is it true we're transferring all these bodies to D deck?'
Bosun: 'I heard nothing about it. Get on with the job. Want me to stand here all night, do you?'
'Is that you, Turner?'
No answer. 'Seven three, Mr. Hump. Seventy-three in your book, then?'
Mr. Hump said, 'Yes . . . yes . . . ' a half-hearted, plaintive, pathetic yes. 'There's the bell, you fellers. Cover those fellers up. You'd better go up the ladder for a breather. Stand by for relief. Oh! here's my mate now.'
Mr. Tyret's mate was descending the steel ladder, coming straight from the deck into number one hold.
'Oh, there you are!'
The bosun waited until he was beside him. 'Sit down a minute. 'Scuse me, Mr. Hump.'
'Er – I don't know what's happening aboard here, and that's a bloody fact. But these men, they've been taking inventories, or whatever you call them, half the afternoon, and the orders are that all the dead be laid in the after hold: that is, D deck. Maybe the Captain is expecting a bright idea to strike him on the head at any moment. I don't know. Personally, I hope a very original one hits him. Just look at the position. Half those wounded fellers will peg out before we get to port. We'll be a real death-ship then. However, it's no use talking, all we got to do is to carry out the orders. Put them all aft. Group them according to the draft they were in, and cover them with the boat-covers. We may get orders to put them overboard, you never know, but I should think myself that the port authorities will make some trouble about it. The most peculiar thing to me is that nobody gives a goddam about us, us who're alive. We've been signalled twice to-day, only natural, this bloody place is alive with subs, floating mines, enemy destroyers. And Dunford has given the information. But what seems extraordinary – Mr. Ericson was telling me this – is that when he tells them we've a large number of dead on board, they say nothing. What d'you think about that, mate?'
'They just don't give a hang, that's all,' replied the bosun's mate. 'That's the only way of looking at it. On the other hand, there's so many goddam ships on the water that it's easy to be overlooked.'
'Rubbish! How can you overlook twenty thousand tons?'
'Why not? They overlooked hundreds of dying men at three-thirty this morning and said beggar you to everything, d'you mind? so long as they got that bloody old beach of theirs.'
'Now I can see you're getting real personal about this, bosun's mate. Take my advice! Don't! You never know what'll come of it all! Shouldn't think hard! Let them do the thinking. We do the work. When it's all over, maybe we'll get our chance to do some talking. But not now, no sir, not now. Just listen with your ears, take the orders, and say nothing. This man's war has nothin' to do with us. And it never has, mate. I mind the last time I was trooping and it was the Boers then. Sometimes I wonder if it can't just be all piffle. Like that, see.' He flicked finger and thumb in the air. 'Well, go to it! You got your orders . . . '
He went to the ladder. 'There's the bell, you men. I don't have to say one – two – three! I'd be too damned late, anyhow.
' 'Course I would,' he was saying, as he climbed out of the hold, for not one of his watch was to be seen. They had vanished on the first stroke of the bell. He heard men talking, feet on ladders, clumsily descending. Good! The bosun's mate's watch was out.
'Now for my cart,' said the bosun, 'You can't beat the old cart. I hope that greedy mate of mine hasn't gone and eaten all my sardines.'
He went along the deck, head down, seeing nothing. There was nothing to see. Water! Well, he was always seeing that. The waters wouldn't miss his glance, that curious questioning eye that scanned them from time to time, but which to-day was closed to their mystery and distance. 'Hello! Cook! Just been over. Good! I'm as hungry as an elephant.' He slapped the cook on the back. 'Say, cook, when you bin where I've been, you say to yourself, "Jesus. It's great being alive and feeling hungry!" But you haven't bin in those 'tween-decks. It's mustard, white face. Bloody mustard.' Laughing, he went to his room.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
'THANK the Lord,' thought Dunford. 'Things are becoming normal again. There's more space. More room to breathe.' He stood in the deserted saloon. How different it was forty-eight hours ago. He pulled a gold hunter from his vest-pocket. A few minutes to go. He was sitting waiting for the engineer, Mr. Walters, the carpenter, Ericson, the bosun. Ah! Here was somebody coming at last. He looked towards the door.
'Morning, sir, rather hot; afraid it'll be a sweater to-day.'
; 'Good morning, Mr. Walters!' He had a good look at the chief steward. 'I see very little of you,' he went on. 'As for Mr. Hump, I haven't seen him twice since the trip began.'
Mr. Walters stood very upright, hands behind his back, he swayed to and fro, balancing on his toes, then on his heels, a gentle rocking movement. The extreme weight seemed to lie amidships. Dunford could not help but look at the half-moon, the great protruding waist. Mr. Walters was dressed up in his 'best.' Another arrival.
'Morning, sir.' A man of few words this. The engineer sat down, began drawing imaginary figures on the highly polished table. Dunford looked at Walters again. He seemed very far away indeed, he was looking out over the waters. Clear, blue waters these. Oiliness, and a dead surface that belonged to a different sea.
'See nothing of you at all,' said Dunford, laughing; 'what the devil do you do in that room of yours, Mr. Pearson? I get your precious notes regularly, of course.'
'I do simply nothing, Mr. Dunford. Simply nothing.' He dug his hands into his pockets.
'Um!' Dunford said. 'Ah! here's the carpenter and bosun.' He got up from the settee. Ericson was coming along the saloon-deck when the party stepped out.
'I dont really need you, Mr. Ericson. Go back to the bridge. You never know what might suddenly pop up.'
The party went slowly for'ard. Mr. Ericson returned whence he came. Mr. Dunford walked in front, Mr. Walters talked about the affair of Y.125. Carpenter and bosun came behind. They talked about women. Who were the most beautiful? The bosun said Circassians. The carpenter said, 'I prefer men any time!' They came to a halt at the end of the saloon-deck. It wasn't a signal. Each man halted as though instinctively. There was a heavy head swell running now. The sun beat down unmercifully. Flies were everywhere. Mr. Walters spread a white handkerchief out, placed the corner of it under his cap. It trailed down, covering his neck.