by C. S. Lewis
Well was it that the care and foresight of Hogge had removed the marines from a post which they could not have maintained with safety. But there was yet another danger to be faced, and against this the lieutenant’s ingenuity could form no plan. On either side of the bridge deck stood a light, quick-firing gun, and, as the waves mounted higher every time they hurled themselves with a reverberating crash against the deckhouse wall, it became evident to the watchful pig that they must soon reach to the guns, which, loosely constructed and lightly fastened on, could ill bear such a strain. He mentioned his fear to Cottle, and the cat descended from the bridge to order the marines to strengthen them by transvers lashings, he himself staying to assist in the work. It was a scene that in after life frequently recurred to the cat: the slippery deck reeling at an inconceivable angle, and covered with streams of water by each breaker: the three figures of himself and the marines working with almost superhuman energy to get their lashing finished before the waters rose to the height of the guns: and the faint outline of Hogge and the steersman far up in the high bridge.
Just as he bent to secure the last rope he caught a vision of a high, hoary-crested wave swooping down on him and on the gun. There was a crash, and he was buried in a world of green chilliness, and had a vague idea of being mixed up with the sharp corners and angles of the gun: he was carried over the far bulwark, and would have been buried in the boiling ocean had not the two marines siezed him by the arms and drawn him back. He staggered, dripping, to his feet, and, clutching to the half-submerged railings saw a twisted gap in the far bulwark, where the vicious wave had carried off the quick firing gun! His head rang, as if with some metallic blow.
‘Are you all right, Cottle?’ came the voice of Hogge from the darkness above.
‘Yes, but the gun’s gone,’ panted the cat.
‘Well come up to the bridge again and bring the marines with you. You can do no good down there.’
Before Cottle could obey or reply, he was bowled over again by a second wave. He felt himself kicking and being kicked by the two hapless marines. Next instant his head struck the bulwarks and he became insensible.
When Cottle revived, he found himself lying in a blanket before the saloon stove, with the commodore standing over him, holding in his hand a small bottle of brandy.
‘All right?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Good gracious! That was a night! It was bad enough when I came on at 3, but it must have been awful for you and Hogge.’
‘I didn’t know one got weather like that here.’
‘Its the worst storm there’s been for years.’
‘Did the other quick firer go?’
‘Yes. Bar, take Cottle to his cabin.’
As may be imagined, Cottle was in no wise sorrey, even with Bar as his conductor, to seek his bunk, and forget his troubles in sleep.
Chapter VIII
THE SUGGESTION
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For the next two days the unfortunate novice led a simple and placid life without moving from his bunk, the pity of himself and the envy of Bar. On the third day he was able to go and sit on the quarter-deck in a deck chair, and enjoy the calm weather, which was rendered all the more agreeable to him by contrast to that which he had at first experienced. While he was thus sitting, together with the watch below, namely the commodore’s, which consisted of Wilkins & Macphail, Murray himself being in the saloon compiling his log. Of course Bar was present, since the worthy little paymaster stood no watch.
‘By the way,’ said Cottle, ‘when we’re not on voyague, how many gunnery practices do we have a week?’
‘One,’ said Wilkins. ‘And quite enough it is.’
‘Why?’ returned Cottle, with surprise. ‘Surely you like them.’
‘Good Heavens! no,’ said Wilkins. ‘What-ever’s the attraction?’
‘Well,’ said Cottle, ‘there is all the excitement about the prize.’
‘And about the detention,’ said Bar.
‘Yes,’ laughed Wilkins, ‘poor Bar always gets put down.’
‘But,’ said Cottle, ‘one has to be a very, very bad shot for that.’
‘Oh really!’ ejaculated Bar with some warmth. ‘We are much grieved that our shooting does not meet with the Alexandrian aproval!’
‘But,’ said Cottle to the company in general and ignoring the sarcasm, ‘setting aside the question of Mr Bar, you can’t deny that the educational value of a gunnery practice is undeniable.’
‘Having your word for its being undeniable, we wouldn’t dream of so doing,’ said Macphail, who had been watching his mess-mates with the amused air of a philosopher watching children at play.
Cottle bridled.
‘Being my official superior, Mr Macphail,’ said he, ‘I suppose you HAVE the right to jest at what is meant to be in earnest, but I must beg to disaprove of the taste which prompts you to do so.’
Macphail did not seem at all annoyed at this sally, but lent back in his chair and smiled obscurely at the clouds, while Bar openly chuckled. But Cottle bore in mind the scene at Riverside, and was not to be daunted from his heroic plan: he believed it was his mission in life to reform the Boxonian navy, and he meant to fulfill it. So he continued boldly.
‘I’m going to ask Murray if we can have two a week, when we get home.’
Had a thunderbolt suddenly fallen on the quarter-deck of the Greyhound, the officers would have been scarcely more astounded. Bar dropped his lower jaw and gazed with horror at this ‘viper they had been cherishing’, as he told his friends afterwards: Wilkins, handsome, indulgent and lazy, laughed awkwardly: Macphail alone was unembarassed and smiled indulgently.
To break this unpleasant pause, came the clang of the bell for changing watch, and the officers filed off the quarter deck, leaving behind Bar and Cottle, for the latter had not yet returned to his duties.
‘Cottle,’ said Bar in a grave voice, ‘will you come below and speak to me in my cabin for a few moments?’
‘Certainly,’ said Cottle, meaning exactly what he said. The bear rose and led the way through the saloon and down to his cabin.
Cottle followed with unsteady steps, and, as he went, he knew that the crisis was at hand: he realized that the long series of grudges stored up between himself and Bar had at last come to a head: that this was to be a battle between the old and the new.
And Bar fully appreciated these facts, and awaited with confidence a struggle in which he felt sure his superior wits and longer experience must be triumphant. One thing, however, was clear to him: he must not agravate his opponent to such an extent as to induce him to resort to his fists, for, as the shrewd paymaster was not slow to see, nothing but a painful and ignominious thrashing could be his share of such a ‘contretemps’. Of course, even in this event, he had one refuge left, namely that of apealing to his fellow-officers against ‘The vicious cat who had suddenly assaulted him in the middle of a friendly argument’, and thus bring the force of public opinion to bear on his rival. But the coldness with which his complaints had been met by Hogge, and friendliness of Wilkins towards the interloper, showed him all too plainly that he would receive but little support from his messmates: as well, if the quarrel were the property of the whole mess, it could scarce escape becoming that of the commodore also, and this was entirely at variance with Bar’s schemes.
All these ideas, which flashed through the paymaster’s brain at lightening speed, have taken some time to describe, but in reality the walk to Bar’s cabin occupied less than a minute, so that Cottle, not so skilled or practiced as his adversary, had little time to arrange his plans, before the door was thrown open and he entered the lion’s den.
Bar’s cabin was, of course, the same in construction as any other, and yet it was different. The bulk of the bear’s savings had gone to provide a large over-padded easy chair which formed the principle furniture of the apartment. The floor was littered over with books, coats, pamphlets and brown paper, so thickly that the carpet wa
s quite invisible. The bunk was strewn with shore-going clothes, these last being the only articles in the room which were neatly placed and folded. The walls were covered with signed photographs of actresses, intermingled with ones of the bear himself. Cottle felt he was at a disadvantage, and his enthusiastic young mind recieved an unwholesome impression of his rival’s cabin.
Chapter IX
THE TURNING POINT
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‘Look here,’ began Bar as soon as he had shut the door. ‘This can’t go on!’
‘What do you mean?’ said Cottle.
‘I mean, that its either you or me manages this boat. Which is it to be?’
‘I was not aware that either of us should.’
‘What, then?’
‘Surely, Commodore Murray is the master of the Greyhound.’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Bar wearily. ‘But that’s not what I meant.’
‘Really, Mr Bar, you don’t make yourself very plain.’
‘I mean, to be simple, that either your ways or my ways must prevail.’
‘What are your ways?’
‘The opposite of yours! I don’t want two gunnery days a week. I don’t want a lot of rot about my duty. I can manage my duty alright, and I expect you to mind yours.’
‘So I do. But I want the whole ship to be keen.’
‘Keen on what?’
‘Work and competition and that sort of thing.’
‘What awful rot. And, as well, what business is it of yours?’
Cottle thought a minute, and, deciding it was time to play what he considered his trump card, said ‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Yes, of course, or I shouldn’t ask!’
‘Well then, listen: before we left Murry Lords Vant, Fortescue and Big interviewed me, and honoured me by commissioning me to reform this vessel.’
Cottle looked at Bar with a satisfied air, as if expecting the latter to fall to pieces and apologise, and was dissappointed to hear his adversary answer carelessly, ‘But nobody takes any notice of that old kod Vant.’ He knew well that these words destroyed his enemy’s last support, and threw a whole volume of sarcasm and cruelty into the words, whose apparant carelessness was the outcome of polished art.
‘It is a lie!’
‘Oh,’ said Bar with a debonair smile. ‘And who does respect that dolorous bletherer?’
‘Every Boxonian sailor who is true to his masters the kings, and under them to the admiralty! And you who –’
‘Don’t get angry,’ said Bar with his diabolical skill in interrupting his opponent just when the latter was going to draw matters to a head, and, by a deliberate insult, compel the paymaster to resort to his fists. ‘Pray, don’t get angry! Let us discuss this matter like sane men. To return to the point, do you seriously intend to reform us?’
‘THE HEAD OF THE VICTUALLING DEPARTMENT … WAS KICKED THROUGH HIS OWN … DOOR.’
‘I will try my best.’
‘Oh! And have you started reforming the Commodore?’
‘Your sarcasm is quite unnecessary. The Commodore is a man of honour, and I have no need to approach him.’
‘Ah yes! A man of honour, and one who would kick you through his door, as I should, were you not just recovered from an illness.’
‘Never mind the ilness. Try it.’
‘I’m no fool,’ said Bar, adopting the tone of a martyr. ‘I know your game: you’ll make me attack you and then talk to Murray about my striking weak, sick cats.’
‘If you say that again,’ said Cottle, towering over the little bear, ‘I’ll batter your ugly, varnish-colored snout till you look like a piece of mud – I mean till you look more like it than you do already!’
‘But, to go back to the question of reform,’ said Bar, who saw the argument getting into dangerous channels again, ‘How were you going to go about it?’
‘How “was” I? How AM I, you mean.’
‘Oh, you’re going to keep it up?’
‘I see no reason to discontinue my efforts.’
‘Look here,’ said Bar. ‘Drop it. Thats the advice of a man who has been at the game for fifteen years.’
‘Yes. And what has he done in fifteen years?’
Bar shrugged his shoulders.
‘What does anyone do?’ he asked.
‘His duty!’ Cottle fired the words at his opponent, like so many cannon balls.
‘What is duty?’
‘Well, I suppose, work.’
‘Well, I do enough work, at any rate.’
‘You’ve never done a hand’s turn.’
‘And you, what have you done? Nothing except fool about melodramatically on the bridge deck.’
‘I did my best.’
‘Well, I’ve been doing my best for fifteen years.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘That does not change the fact.’
‘Well, any way, what do you want with me down here? Eh?’
‘I want to warn you to drop this absurd idea about reform: it won’t work. And I’ve got the whole mess to back me up.’
It was a good lie, and went well.
‘What can they do? And, I don’t believe you have them.’
‘Oh, rubbish!! But that is not the point: are you going to drop it?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then look out, young hero.’
‘Alright. But, before I go, I must give you a few lessons, my fine hock brown.’
These words were a death knell to Bar’s hopes of averting a hand to hand combat, and as he heard them he saw the brisk, well trained cat throw himself into a boxing attitude, whose correctness boded ill for the paymaster. In his long life in the navy – a life which was blotted by one or two ugly marks – Bar had acquired the habit of thinking very quickly, and it did not take him long to realize his position. He knew he had no chance of victory, nor even of safety, in an open fight, and hastily formed the plan of dashing in on his opponent, delivering one crushing blow, and escaping instantly through the door. Thus, and thus only, could the paymaster hope to escape the punishment he so richly deserved: in a long & evenly contested battle, clean living and the hard life of a naval college were sure to defeat self indulgence and unwholesome rotundity.
These thoughts flashed through the paymaster’s brain in a few seconds, and (it seemed to Cottle) almost immeadiately he stood in a defensive posture. For a moment the two officers measured each other with their eyes, and then Cottle shot out a straight left-handed blow, which would have brought Bar to the ground, had not that worthy swerved aside, and delivered to his adversary a stinging punch on the nose. With this stroke, Bar turned and made for the door, but even as he did so, he realized that Cottle had grasped his maneouvre and was at his heels. One stride was enough to carry him across the room, and into the stride Bar concentrated all the power, speed and vigor of which his nature was capable. But his efforts were in vain! A relentless hand gripped the back of his collar & raised him off the ground, while a fierce vituperation rang in his hock-brown ears.
A moment later, Lieutenant James Bar, R.N., Paymaster and Head of the Victualling department, was ignominiously kicked through his own cabin door!
END OF VOLUME ONE
THE SAILOR
VOLUME II
Chapter X
THE RETURN
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At the back of the Alhambra at the quiet little town of Danphabel there stands a low and small but snug villa, separated from the music hall only by a high-walled yard used for storing scenery, and having two pondorous gates, the one opening into a narrow street by which one approaches the stalls entrance, and the other onto the railway line. Many people think that this house is part of the music hall, in which opinion, although it is not actually correct, there is a considerable tincture of truth, for it is the residence of the manager, Mr Vorling. Nevertheless Mr Vorling does not at present occupy it, but has surrendured it to Viscount Puddiphat The Owl, who, being the owner of this and fourteen other musi
c halls, has come down from Murry to give his subordinate a holyday, and to inspect this out of the way house, of which he knows comparatively little.
Viscount Puddiphat had long held the enviable title of the best dressed gentleman in Boxen, and to mantain and confirm this reputation was the object of the owl’s life.
On a certain spring morning, the viscount’s valet had entered his master’s bed chamber with a cup of chocolate, and the ironed morning paper. No sooner had his step resounded on the floor than a mass of feathers stirred in the large bed, and the owl raised himself on his elbow, with blinking eyes. He was a well built bird of medium hieght, whose figure would have been of the finest, had it not been inclined to corpulence: his face was intellegent, and even handsome, and his curved beak shone like mahogany when the light caught: his expression was one of bland and unruffled benevolence, only occasionally to be fanned into temper or excitement, and his usual mode of expressing anger was by lending a scarcely audible tone of vexation to his mellow voice.
‘Your chocolate, My Lord,’ said the servant: the other took it, and, as he sipped it enquired what were the contents of the newspaper.
‘The chief thing, My Lord, is that a cruiser called the Greyhound has dropped anchor in the bay this morning.’
‘Ah,’ said Puddiphat, half to himself and half aloud, ‘I suppose my little friend James Bar will be onboard. Or was the Ariadne his boat? Anything else?’
‘A long review of the Alhambra bill last night.’
‘Favourable, I hope?’
‘Yes, My Lord.’