by C. S. Lewis
IV
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On the seventh day, as Lord Big was walking happily along the road on which the ‘Dragon’ was situated, he was surprised and somewhat alarmed by the sudden and noisy advent of some half a dozen armed soldiers of the governor: his dismay and wrath may well be imagined when the sturdy rascals advanced to him, and, without leaving him time for expostulation or query, gripped him firmly and proceeded to hurry him along at a brisk pace.
For a few minutes the unfortunate Piscian was too astounded to utter a word, and when he had recovered enough to frame a sentence he found that he had to devote all his breath and concentrate all his energy on the work of running. His captors ran him through the labyrinth of steep thouroughfares which led to the harbour: on reaching it, the frog found two persons who seemed to expect the arrival of his jailors and himself: one was the excellent gentleman who he had kicked on his first day, and his companion was His Excellency the Imperial Deputy Governor for Than-Kyu. The latter spoke ‘My good Sir, I have a disagreeable duty to perform: it is the Emperor’s law that no foreigner should stay on our soil for six consecutive days: you have outstayed your time, and must therefore be thrown out.’
‘Thrown out? Come Sir, this is irregular,’ cried the frog, ‘and whats more I won’t stand it. I knew nothing of this law.’
‘You should have made it your business to learn our laws,’ said the gentleman Lord Big had kicked.
‘Oh its you I have to thank for this?’ said Big.
The gentleman bowed.
At a monosyllable from the governor the frog was born to the jetty’s edge. Then he felt a sudden thrill, a rush of air, and the smack of luke-warm water.
Ten minutes later a dripping frog stood disconscolately on the deck of the Albatross. ‘Well Redige,’ it said, ‘I can’t go back there for some time.’
‘Nut ever,’ said the puffin.
THE SAILOR
A Study
VOLUME I
Chapter I
THE TRAVELLER
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The Charlestown express panted its noisy way into the Murry terminus, and its entrance was the signal for a rush of eager porters towards the edge of the brown platform whose surface afforded landing to the passengers of the train. As the brakes squeaked and the wheels ceased to revolve, the door of a first class compartment opened to give egress to a passenger, of whom it is desirable for us to take a brief survey.
He was a strong & wiry young cat, whose shortness of stature was no deformity, since the rest of his well-moulded figure was modelled in harmony with his inches. His face had nothing in common with most of his fellow-countrymen, that soft expression of languid sloth, which is so often predominant in a cat’s physiognomy, being replaced by one of an intellectual briskness whose vigor amounted almost to ferocity. His head, like that of all cats, was handsome and well placed on his firm shoulders, and was adorned with a wealth of soft grey fur which betrayed him to be a so-called ‘Persian’. His firm, elastic step, his clear and inquisitive expression, the decision and composure with which he responded to any remark of his fellow-travellers, all tended to show a character bubbling over with youthful enthusiasm and decision. Although his attire betrayed no foppery, nor even an undue attention to the toilet, his blue serge suit and carefully knotted brown necktie were neat and well kept.
Having collected his belongings from the van, and, not without difficulty procured a cab, he directed the driver to the Royal Wharf, a well-known centre of the Murry docks. As he was driven through the busy streets of the capital of Animalland, the young, home-bred cat, could not help being interested by the curious and vivacious panorama which they presented to his view. The tall buildings, and the crowded thouroughfares, could scarce fail to impress one who had seen only the quiet avenues of Charlestown, or the sleepy markets of feline villages.
Thus agreeably occupied in watching surroundings as novel as they were attractive the young cat did not observe the lapse of time or the distance his vehicle travelled, and was somewhat startled on percieving he had halted, and his driver had opened the door to admit the grey wet fog and thin rain which were at present honouring the metropolis by their presence.
‘Oh – er – yes: where do I want to go? Oh, do you know where I could get a waterman to row me out to His Majesties ship Greyhound?’
‘Aye, Sir. Would ye be wantin’ the pinnace, like?’
‘If I can have her,’ rejoined the cat. By way of answer, the cab driver siezed on his fare’s solitary trunk and bidding the latter follow, bore it to the edge of the wharf, and, peering down into the fog, cried ‘Mr Mus?’
The traveller’s keen eyes had not much difficulty in deciphering a small steam pinnace lying in the oily water below his feet. In the stern, what had before resembled an inanimate bundle, but which was now presumably ‘Mr Mus’, rose and shouted up in a strong mouse accent, ‘Is thon you, Harvey?’
‘Aye. A’ve got the gent here.’
‘A’ll just bring me wee boat to the steps, and you have peace.’
In case our readers have not guessed it, it may be expedient to state that our young feline was a naval marine officer, who, having been just recently freed from the trammels of a naval college, was on his way to join his first vessel. Thus, as may be readily understood, he listened with mingled emotions of expectancy and nervousness to this dialogue, and gazed into the steaming mist, in a vain attempt to make out the vessel which was already in his mind the scene of many triumphs and adventures. But the driver of the pinnace did not allow him much time for such reflections, and, pulling his vessel up to a flight of steps built for that purpose against the towering wall of the wharf, cut them short by a respectful but cherry ‘Hop aboard, Sir! You’re Mr Cottle, the new marine-officer, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ returned the youth, ‘and I am speaking to – ?’
‘Jerry Mus, Sir, second engineer and head of the foc ’sle.’
Greatly relieved to find that he was as yet in the presence of his official inferior, Alexander Cottle paid the cab-driver, and ensconced himself in the stern sheets of the pinnace, where a couple of padded seats were provided for the engineer and his passenger. His trunk was settled on a corresponding seat in the bow, the mouse opened his throttle, and the young feline set off towards the Greyhound and towards his naval career.
As the little boat puffed noisily across the oily waters of the river, he had plenty of time to observe his companion and guess at his probable position on board the ship. Mus was a short, spare mouse whose lean and ragged muzzle savoured more of the rat than of that tribe to which he professed membership.
After some ten minutes run, a black mass loomed up in the mist, and Cottle’s heart beat strong as he gazed at last on the vessel which he had so often constructed in his mind, and saved from disaster in his dreams. She was a second class cruiser, and had been built but a week ago, so that even through the curling fog she looked bright and new. Of her details, Cottle could make out little, and so, without any knowledge of what was before him, he stepped on board.
Chapter II
THE SERVICE
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It was not untill Cottle had gained a point of vantage by coming up to the deck of the cruiser that he realized that she was not lying alone in the river but was alongside a small gunboat from which numbers of men – the whole crew it seemed to him – were engaged in transporting all sorts of goods from rifles and canon to tables and dishes. So engrossed were these persons in their task that the young cat was able to stand unobserved for some time, and contemplate the busy scene, which was so unlike any former experience of his. He conjectured, and rightly so, that the smaller vessel was the gunboat Thrush, which was now being put out of commission, while her officers and crew were taking over the newly-built Greyhound.
On the navigating bridge stood a tall, cleanshaven man, whose handsome but somewhat caustic face was overcast by an expression of worrey and anxiety. This person, Cottle put down in h
is mind as Commodore Murray, the master of the vessel, in which surmise he was correct. A young and intellegent cat, who knew by sight the uniform of each rank and department, had naturally no difficulty in mentally fixing the majority of the officials who were engaged in transporting the goods.
By the saloon door stood a short bear, so short indeed that even Cottle might look over his head. He was plump and well nourished, not to say bloated, and his fur which was of the richest hock-brown color was fastidiously combed and brushed back over his little bullet head: he wore a broad, all-embracing smile, and looked absurdly satisfied with himself and all the world. He was clad in dusty blue trousers and a long makintosh. This grotesque personage, however, seemed to exercise unlimited authority over his fellows, and from his post shouted tyrranical orders to those who were at work. Thus in spite of a certain absence of decorum in his attire and an insignificance of countenance and stature, Cottle could not help thinking that the little bear was an inspecting admiral at the least.
As he was reflecting in this strain he felt a light touch on his arm, and, turning round, found himself face to face with the individual whom he had espied a few minutes ago on the navigating bridge.
‘Ah!’ said the stranger, ‘I suppose you are Mr Cottle, the junior marine officer?’
‘Yes,’ replied the other, ‘I –’
‘Well, may I ask,’ interrupted the Commodore, ‘what you intended to do or how long you purposed to stand here and watch the view?’
‘Really Sir,’ replied Cottle, covered with embarrassment at such a question, ‘Really, I didn’t quite know what to do.’
‘You ought,’ said Murray, ‘to have come and reported yourself to me as soon as you came aboard, and I’d have given you a job. But there’s plenty of work, still to be done. You see that big man with the moustach over there? That’s Mr Wilkins, the gunnery-officer, your chief. Go and get a job from him.’
With these words the stranger hurried off, leaving the newcomer in a somewhat breathless condition. Cottle feared he had not made such an impression on his new master as he should have liked, and hastened to make amends by hurrying towards Mr Wilkins, who was a very big, loosely built man, with a lazy, good-natured face, and curling chestnut hair and moustaches: he stood sprawling against the wall of the central deckhouse, and blinked recognition as the cat approached.
‘So you’re our young friend Alexander Cottle, are you?’ he said, ‘and you want a job? No accounting for tastes!’
Cottle made an affirmative noise.
‘Well,’ continued his Mentor, ‘the best you can do is to go into the armoury & see that the fellows put things straight: I’ve got to see them out of the Thrush. Dear old Thrush! Do you remember – but that’s an old yarn. Be off!’
Cottle scurried through the deckhouse door, and, having accosted the first marine he met as to the whereabouts of the armoury, descended thither and passed the rest of the morning working harder, perhaps, than anyone on board. It was, therefore, with relief, that he heard the bell for lunch, and rushed on deck to find his new friend, Wilkins. The latter was on the promenade and escorted him to the saloon: on their way, Cottle enquired ‘Who’s that hock-brown bear, who’s managing everything? Some admiral?’
The other laughed uproarously, and said ‘Why, its only little James Bar, the steward.’
‘Who called me steward?’ cried the bear himself, appearing from the saloon: turning to Cottle, he said in a highly patronising tone, ‘I, my little friend, am second lieutenant, James Bar, R.N., paymaster and head of the victualling department. You mustn’t believe all Wilkins tells you.’
Whether it was the condescension of the little bear, or Cottle’s own pride is uncertain, but this speech left a highly disagreeable impression on the cat’s mind. As he was trying to choke down what he considered to be a mere prejudice they arrived at the saloon and sat down to a well deserved luncheon. Cottle noticed one new face in the officer’s mess, and he was formally introduced to its owner as Macphail, the engineer. He was a spare, sour but not unkindly man, whose demeanour, which was grave and even morose, seemed to point to a greater age than that attained by any other members of the mess, save only the Commodore.
The conversation during the meal turned upon naval topics where the young cat had little to say. Just as they were rising from the table, a sailor entered to say that a message had just come from Oliver Vant, the first Lord, that Mr Cottle was to go ashore to the admiralty at once.
Chapter III
THE POLITICIANS
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Although the city of Murry actually stands on Animallandish ground and is separated by water from any part of India, yet it is here, to their stately palace of Riverside that the monarchs of these two united nations chiefly resort. And here too the Little-Master follows them. The Little-Magisterial office is, as everyone knows, a weighty and responsible post, but bearing this in mind we may still say that Lord Big filled it admirably.
This remarkable frog, in addition to his many excellent qualities, posessed an advantage over his two sovereigns which was of great utility to himself. As a youthful frog he had been their tutor, and for several years discharged the duties of that post well and devotedly: and since princes of the blood royal have extremely little chance of associating with their own fathers, the two princes had come to regard Lord Big, if not as a parent, at least as an esteemed and venerable relation. Hence in his capacity of Little-Master (which, I may add for the benefit of foreigners, is an office comprising the duties of Speaker of the Double House and adviser general of the Kings), in this capacity, I say, he exercised a power, which, if he occasionally misdirected it, he at any rate always meant for the best.
Such was the worthy who was anxiously pacing the Grand Gallery of Riverside Palace, with an anxious and impatient expression on his handsome face. He was clad in a sombre suit of serge, well cut in the fashion of some ten years ago, and again and again turned his great amber eyes to the clock, as if he awaited a guest. As the devoted piece of mechanism startled its master by booming three oclock just by the Little-Magisterial ear, the door of the gallery was opened, and a footman announced ‘Lord Oliver Vant, and Field-Marshall Fortescue, to see his Worship.’
These two individuals entered and advanced towards the frog. The former, of whom we have already heard as First Lord of the admiralty, was a tall, gaunt pig, of exceedingly melancholy but kind countenance. He was clad in the braided morning-coat & silk-stockings pertaining to his office, and walked with his tiny eyes fixed on the stone pavement before him. His companion was a man of medium hight, plainly clad in a sober suit. His face was all alive with vigour and interest and his eyes had a piercing glance that seemed to be ubiquitous. These two persons, respectively the heads of the naval and military war-offices, were men of widely different characters.
Why the former had attained to his post, was a mystery which few Boxonians could solve: he was a pompous and highly unpractical philosopher, on whom the veriest simpleton could impose with ease: by trace, he was originally a stockbroker, and in this profession he displayed an intelligence quite out of keeping with his usual character.
Fortescue, on the other hand, was a brisk, practical soldier, who had made an attempt so vigorous to reform the army, that he was now one of the least popular men in Boxen.
Such then were the frog’s visitors, and glad he seemed to see them.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘My dear Little-Master,’ said the pig, ‘It is as we feared. On consulting our friend Putney, the treasurer, he confirms your opinion that the National debt is so large that Boxen may scarcely keep her head above water, let alone see to reforming the services.’
‘And,’ put in Fortescue, ‘in their present condition they are quite unfit to defend the country against any first rate power.’
‘Well,’ said Lord Big, ‘where lies the fault? What exactly is wrong in them? How can it be mended?’
‘By money!’ snapped the Field-Marshall.
&nbs
p; ‘And not only by money, my young friend,’ said Oliver, ‘but by reform. It is not the lack of ships or armament that has degenerated our navy into what it is. It is the incompetency and immorality of individuals – the lack of “esprit de corps”.’
‘Ah such nonsense,’ said the Little-Master, forgetting all conventions, ‘Sure, you may talk all night like that and never strike anything concrete.’
‘And yet, My Lord,’ said Fortescue, ‘There is truth in Lord Vant’s remarks. The officers set a bad example.’
‘Oh, they do?’ said Lord Big, ‘Well drum them all out.’
‘One cannot,’ said Fortescue, ‘act like that in this case. It is a tone we move against, not a concrete offence.’
‘Or rather,’ observed Oliver, ‘an absence of tone.’
‘Well,’ said Big, ‘I confess I don’t know what to do!’
‘Listen!’ said Oliver, ‘There is a steady stream of young recruits issueing all the time from our naval and military colleges, and in them we must place our hope. The present generation is too far gone to be influenced by any efforts of ours. It is our duty, therefore, to choose out a trustworthy young fellow in each ship or regiment and make it his work to reform that ship or regiment. If he is young, enthusiastic and discreet, and is well-warned against those with whom he must contend, he has every hope of success.’
‘Your scheme is excellent in theory, My Lord,’ replied the Field-Marshall, ‘but, I fear, impracticable. Where shall we find such young officers, and how will we ensure their worth?’
‘The scheme’s all right,’ said Lord Big, with great approval in his voice.
‘Well,’ said Vant, with the air of a conjurer who has just found the egg, ‘I have, providentially, brought with me, for experiment, a young man whom I have watched carefully through his college career, and of whose integrity and patriotism I am convinced. Allow me to bring him from the ante-room.’