Hollow Sea

by James Hanley

  'Hurry up,' he said, tapping the boy's knee. 'Hurry up. Good job I found you. Heaven knows what game you might have been on.'

  Boy and man sat silent then. Each seemed to be looking with curiosity at the iron range, a very common iron range, covered with films of grease here and there. The boy handed back the cup. 'Thanks,' he said. 'We are really going home then?' he asked. 'We are really going home, Mr. Rochdale?' To which question Rochdale replied by a curt nod of the head. Then he said: 'Aye. We're going home. And when we tie up, if we do tie up, touching wood, there won't be a man aboard her who'll stay more than a minute. Take me? Now I'm going to scoot, simply scoot and get a job in the Atlantic Route. This one's much too dirty for me. Look here! What is your name, anyhow? Peggy's one, what's the other?'

  The boy gulped down the coffee. Then he placed the cup on the bench and said: 'Jennings. My name's Jennings, Robert Jennings. My father's a bosun on the Oresa. He sails to India. I have a brother who is A.B. aboard a tramp ship. He comes home every two years. And I have an uncle who's a third officer.'

  'Gosh! You must be proud,' Rochdale said, bursting into laughter.

  'Why did the Captain keep all those dead men in the hold?'

  Rochdale looked intently at the boy. He couldn't be more than fifteen years old. Perhaps younger. And he had seen the same things. All the things. Everything. And he was a little boy just the same.

  'Oh, I don't know! Perhaps he's – I don't know. It doesn't matter anyhow. But listen to me, sonny. You ought to go to bed. D'you hear me? You have no right to be sitting up here at this time of night I'll bet your mother wouldn't allow it. Now you just get into that bunk of yours, and fall asleep like a good lad. I've told you a fairy tale. Now what bloody more can you want?'

  The peggy laughed. 'Are you going to the concert, Mr. Rochdale?'

  He got to his feet.

  'I don't know,' Rochdale replied. 'Maybe the best part's over, anyhow! All I may have missed is hearing one of the fellers telling that yarn about the Orange woman. But shut your ears to that; youngster. Well, let's go.'

  They went back to the fo'c'sle. The peggy went straight to his bunk and sat down. He started to undress. Rochdale glanced up at the sleeping men.

  'Now they've got real sense. More than I have, for I'm just going to go along there and see what's going on. Perhaps they'll be giving us a drink.'

  He leaned his head on his hands, his eyes followed the grooves in the clean wooden table, clean except for the grease-filled grooves.

  The peggy had already climbed into his bunk.

  A man woke at that moment saying sleepily, 'What's all the bloody row?' and, yawning, 'Put out that goddam light, somebody.'

  Rochdale got to his feet, left the fo'c'sle, switched off the light as he went out.

  After all, perhaps he would be best off along there, see some of the fun anyhow. Somehow the fo'c'sle gave him the dithers tonight. 'I'm not usually like that,' he was telling himself as he ambled leisurely down the well-deck. 'But everybody's out. Everybody's on holiday. Now if that little peggy hadn't actually been falling asleep without really knowing it' – Well, he would have sat in that galley with him the whole watch, just telling him fairy tales. A bright, quick, good-working lad without a doubt. All the same he was glad it wasn't any kid of his. Yes, sir.

  He stopped by the alleyway, leaned against the bulwarks. All was laughter ahead. The laughter of men who didn't care a hang, who heard no sounds save that of their own laughter, saw nothing except the many faces inside that saloon. Thought nothing in particular perhaps. Yet somehow he, Rochdale, couldn't help thinking. It was as though he had cut down every thought in his head, just like wheat, that he had long forgotten how to think, and then suddenly like the growing wheat the thoughts had come up again. All kinds of thoughts. Why did he feel so suddenly lonely? Why had he sat talking to the kid? Why didn't he go for'ard right now, turn in, fall asleep like a sensible man? He didn't know. He felt a bit queer, and that was all he did know. Not frightened, not lonely, just aware of something, like a man kidding himself that there is a figure before him, yet all is space. Nothing there.

  Rochdale went on down the alleyway. There was a sudden silence in the saloon. Then he heard Mr. Walters speaking. He stopped to listen. A squeaky sound. What the hell was the fellow talking about?

  Rochdale climbed the ladder, found himself on the saloon deck. As he stood there a hand touched his shoulder. When he looked up he saw a steward.

  'Come this way. Quick!' the steward said. Rochdale knew this man. His name was Marvel. He followed the man along the saloon.

  'What's up?' he asked.

  'You'll see,' the steward snapped back. 'Hurry up.'

  Rochdale became quite excited. 'Well, Christ Almighty,' he swore loudly. 'You can say what it is can't you? Pulling a feller away from a sing-song.'

  The steward did not answer. . . They reached the after-deck. Went down the ladder.

  Marvel suddenly gripped the look-out man with both hands, held him fast, for almost a minute, stared, glowered, seemed to ransack this other face.

  Rochdale said, 'What's up? Gone crazy or something? Let go my arm will you?'

  The hands dropped quickly, heavily, there was a sort of abandon in their quick movement as though the person had been shot. Then he turned on his heel.

  'This way,' he snapped.

  Rochdale followed behind him. He saw that Marvel was wearing the white jacket as usual, but he did not see the wet blood that coated its front. In any case the look-out man was far too excited, too bewildered by this sudden summons to see anything but that strange face that had looked at him by the companion ladder. At last he pulled Marvel's arm. Held it tight. It was a thin arm, but then the steward was thin too.

  'What you want, anyhow?' demanded Rochdale. 'Is it help? Or are you just going off your nut, or are you walking in your sleep or what?'

  Marvel did not answer. He seized Rochdale's hand and pulled him towards the hospital under the poop, the cabin where the loonies were. He knew too that this steward did night watches at the aft end.

  Again he looked at Rochdale. Said, 'I want you to help me.'

  'Yes. Yes. Certainly,' replied Rochdale. 'But what is wrong? Don't you get any relief or what? Or has something happened? That's just what it is. Something's happened. One of those fellers gone west. I'll bet it is.'

  'Go in. Take a look,' Marvel said. He pushed Rochdale towards the door.

  The man opened it and went inside. Marvel shut the door on him and waited.

  Rochdale looked round. He saw a man in the bunk, stark naked, laughing, his mouth afroth with slobber. In the lower one he saw the boy. He was wide awake. Already his eyes were fastened upon the newcomer. For the first time in all his life, Rochdale was afraid. He laughed. Laughed at his silliness. Afraid? For what? Of what?

  'Silly bastard I am.' A boy. No. That was wrong. Like the peggy for'ard. A little man. Half a man. But the peggy could listen to a fairy-tale, even laugh, but this one—. He drew away from the bed.

  'Come on in, Marvel,' he called. 'All's O.K.'

  The door opened and the steward came in.

  'What were you afraid of?' asked Rochdale.

  He leaned against the opposite bunk. And now he looked at the man in the top bunk. Going bald this man, possibly fifty, no, about forty-five. There was something fierce about the man, his whole body hymned a dynamic energy. But he could not move. Except for one hand which he had managed to free from the leather belt, he was safely tied down.

  Marvel stood by the look-out man. They both looked at the man in the top bunk. What they thought no one could divine, their expression conveyed nothing. They just went on looking as though the mere act were the one human function in existence. Looking and speaking no word. Looking and thinking. But thinking was different. Rochdale actually went red in the face, but beyond this he remained quite calm.

  The man began to laugh. He went on laughing more fiercely, sweat came out on his forehead. He seemed unable to stop l
aughing, he was caught in the mad rhythm of movement.

  Suddenly Marvel struck the bunk-rail with his fist, screeched, laughed loud.

  'Here! Here! Hold yourself, matey,' Rochdale said. 'I understand. You've reached the pitch. I'll tell you what, I'll stay here. You go and get a sleep. How long you bin up, anyhow?' He waited for the steward to speak. Meanwhile he could not take his eyes off the man in the top bunk. He felt no shame looking at him.

  Marvel said, 'I came on last night at seven and worked till twelve o'clock. Then I went below. But Sloane woke me up at four. I had to go and help him. There was a chap messing in a corner of the saloon. And we couldn't get him to budge. He had a hole in his head. It was plug full of wool. You could see he'd been trying to fish it out. Anyway, we managed to get him away from the corner and we threw him into a bunk and tied his legs. Then I went back to my bunk. I was up at six. Came aft here. Gave four men pans. Had a hell of a job with this kid. He only asks you one question now: "Why don't they let me fight for my bloody king?" I used to laugh once. But Jesus! I chucked laughing long ago. I just swear at the crazy little bastard, and d'you know sometimes I feel so cruel towards him that it takes me all my time when I get him to the pan, takes me all me time to prevent myself jabbing a knife in his backside? That feller up there can go ahead doing that until the end of the bloody war. I don't give a damn. Let him enjoy himself. Who started this bloody game, anyhow? But this little swine, I get that way that every watch I come here, I hope I find the crazy little bastard snuffed it. But he won't. By Christ! he won't,' shouted Marvel.

  He stamped his foot on the deck. Hammered the rail. 'It's all wrong! Wrong. It's me, I'm balmy.'

  Rochdale caught the steward's free hand, gripped it in his own.

  'Listen, chum,' he said, 'you're just excited. You've seen things. And you don't get enough sleep. But God, mate, you can't say things like that about a mere slip of a lad. He's got a mother probably, and maybe she thinks he's the loveliest lad in the world. Well, he mightn't look it now, but still – now you go down below. Duck your head under the tap, have a good rub down, then turn in. I can hang on here for two hours. I'm doing nowt at the moment. These things would happen when half the ship has forgotten the bloody war. Now come along, Marvel, I know your name's Marvel because I heard Walters bawling at you once in the 'tween-decks.' He put a hand on the steward's shoulder.

  The steward suddenly started off again. He was like a marionette, at a touch he became electrified, the works began to move. He talked on and on. 'I went below again at eleven for half-hour's spell. And then I had to help Mr. Walters with bandages in the saloon. After that – blast you, you little bastard, are you starting again?' he shouted as he saw the strapped youth begin to struggle in the bed. And now he was afraid again. He knew what that wriggling was, how it grew to wild, delirious, convulsive movements, and then the pupils of the eyes dilated, the mouth opened, and a torrent of words burst forth, but they were always the same words: 'Let me go! Let me go! I want to fight for my bloody king.'

  Marvel leaned over the youth in the bunk. He struck him across the mouth with his open hand.

  'There!' he said. 'Perhaps you'll shut that goddam mouth of yours now. Perhaps. But take care or I'll cut it out of you. See?'

  But now shame came upon Rochdale. What was all this? What did it mean?

  'This bloody awful scene,' he said.

  This misery and degradation. Were they all going crazy? Perhaps after all it was, it was a dream. To-morrow they would wake up and the sun would be shining, gulls wheeling overhead, the smell of the land, the nearing to home.

  'Marvel,' he said. 'I've told you. If you don't go below now, this very minute, well, I'll give you such a one under the jaw and I'll carry you down. Get me! You're not fit for anything, man. You're run down, run off your feet. You don't get time to eat, to sleep, even to crap. I've watched you fellers, and many a time I've thought I'd come along and help a bit in the dog watch, but the rules, you see. The daft bloody rules they have. So I couldn't. Only the other day I was sitting talking soft loony stuff to that kid, before they carried him aft. He was lying on the saloon deck. But you see, old Walters came along, then the officer on top calls down "What the hell are you doing there?" So what could I do? But us fellers for'ard understand all right. We call you glass-backs, but that's surely a joke. I've seen nothing but bent backs of stewards this trip, but none of them cracked under the strain.'

  Marvel said nothing. He just stood there looking at Rochdale. He looked wooden. The man in the top bunk had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion.

  'Oh sonny, for the love of Jesus! Will you shut your mouth? You'll be home on Sunday. And your mammie'll be waiting for you. And maybe she'll give you a suck of her tit, you little ninny, I—'

  'Outside you go, old son,' Rochdale said. 'You're going dippy. I heard a bit about you. Come on now. I heard a bit about you sneaking down of a night and dragging chaps up here and slinging them over the side when nobody was looking. Yes, you're going a bit dippy yourself, all right. Come on, I tell you. Suppose you'd have chucked everybody over in time. Well, well.' He caught the steward round the waist, lifted him bodily, held him tight. Then he managed to turn the knob of the door. The two men in the lower bunk, who all this time had been sleeping, now woke up.

  'Pan there. Wanna do it. Pan, wanna do it. Hey.' But Rochdale now outside on the deck and still holding on to Marvel walked struggling with him to the wheel-house. Without losing his hold upon the steward, he managed to push open the heavy steel door. They went inside. Rochdale plumped Marvel down on a coil of rope. Then he closed the door, shot the catch, and went and sat down by the steward.

  This place is empty. There are no smells. Hear me.' He pressed his mouth against Marvel's ear. 'No smells.' And suddenly shouted into the ear as though afraid the now trembling steward would not understand, 'NO SMELLS,' he shouted. 'Are no smells, not any more. No crazy faces. No sweat-caps, no mad staring eyes, no smells I say, no filthy messes. Nothing. Hear me. Nothing. All is clear here. All is clean. Like a new pin. Understand me, matey. If you can smell anything its good sound rope. If you can see anything its steel. Everywhere you look. Stout steel. Now lad, take it easy and just tell me all about it.' And Rochdale put one arm round the steward's shoulder.

  Marvel simply stared at the door and said nothing. And Rochdale could feel his whole body trembling, trembling as though somewhere inside him, there was something trying to leap out, to break free. So he tightened his grip and said again, 'Tell me all about it.' He knew he would hear nothing, yet he hoped this man would hang on there until he did. He did not look at the man, but sat with his head half-turned, as though he were afraid that the steward would be sick over him at any minute. But the silence there was stouter, was stronger than his arm round Marvel's shoulder. They sat quiet, one staring, one thinking, wondering.

  'H'm,' said Rochdale, under his breath. 'Hm!' And to himself, 'Well, I'm damned. So this was the feller, was it? Dragging up dead men and heaving them over the side when nobody was looking. Now I wonder. I just wonder,' and with his free hand he began rubbing his chin. Would that be why the skipper had so suddenly decided to bury them all? Perhaps. Maybe he'd heard about this chap, this white-faced steward sitting alongside of him. No. No, he hadn't. He hadn't heard about him at all. He'd heard nothing. He wouldn't ever hear anything either, he was different. He was up there. They were down here. Two different places. Suddenly he looked at Marvel. But he did not look too soon.

  The steward made a violent leap towards the door, but the look-out man held him fast. And when he could hold him no longer he struck him, carried him to a corner, laid him down. Then he sat by him, waiting.

  He heard sounds of cheering, sounds of wind, the steady throb of engines, turn of screws, rattling of the steel door. He felt he should really go now, get somebody to look after this steward. But something held him back. Twice he got up and made for the door, but one look at the reclining form on the boat-cover held him back.

  H
e looked at his watch. Well, he had asked that fellow to tell him everything and 'he won't tell nothing.'

  'Well, here goes,' said Rochdale, and he picked the steward up, carried him from the wheel-house and descended the ladder to the stewards' room.

  'Hey there, you, steward,' he called, seeing a white-coated young man dashing along the alleyway. 'Hey there. Here's a mate of yours. You better carry him to his bunk. Let him sleep it off. He's had a bit of a fit or something. I tried to cool him down. Here.'

  'What's the matter with him?' asked the young steward.

  'How the hell do I know.'

  'Then stick him in that room then and mind your own bloody business in future.'

  And before Rochdale could make a reply the white-coated figure had vanished down the alleyway.

  'I'm blowed,' said Rochdale. 'I do believe, yes I do believe as true as God's in heaven this very night that every man Jack aboard here is balmy. Absolutely bloody well balmy. Even me, hanging about here 'stead of being in my own bunk. Steward! With your white coat. Blast you and good night to you I say. The rotten swine.'

  He carried Marvel to the improvised glory-hole, laid him in the first bunk he came to, covered him up with a blanket, left the room, and closing the door quickly behind him, walked quietly away to the fo'c'sle.

  ' 'N I said to him, "Look here, chummy, you tell me what you think about all this," and he said, "I'll tell you to-morrow." Damn me for the thickest skull in Rochdale. Tell you tomorrow. H'm!'

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MR. WALTERS stood and stared at his factotum. Mr. Hump stared back.

  'Don't stand there staring at me,' protested Mr. Walters, trying to be heard above the frightful din around him. 'Don't stand there.'

  Mr. Hump, who seemed to have added an inch or two to his stature during these last few and vital minutes, said nothing. Just stared on.

  'I'm not a bloody oracle, you know,' said Mr. Walters savagely.