Hollow Sea (21 page)

'Shut it, for Christ's sake! Goddam, we all know you were wounded at Saint— but shut it – shut it.'

'Lay it down, goddam, lay it down. Any more for any more?' He raised his voice, his eyes followed movements of hands, looked into the corners, but all was dark there.

'Every sod in the ship must have seen his beggaring wound by now.'

'Who's for the sergeant-major! Nobody for the sergeant-major?' Williams sighed and his mind cried, 'Fast and furious, thick and heavy, you tight-fisted lot of bastards! – Who's for the fireman's friend?
Nobody
for the fireman's friend?'

'Let her go, sailorman! Let her bloody well go.'

'Oo – Christ! It ain't arf swole to-night. You'll lose your bloody leg, mate.' The speaker came into the ray of light. Two others came. They held the arms of a fourth. 'Look at this feller's leg, mate. Like a socking pudding. Ugh!' And the light fell upon the wound. 'God, it stinks! You can't go ashore—'

'Damn and blast that leg, that beggaring bloody wound!' someone shouted. 'Hey, you sailorman! Shake the damned dice, Rat-face.'

Laughs. The dice was thrown again. 'Shamrock! Lucky old shamrock!'

Ten yards away Vesuvius sat. He smoked a cigarette. He was half hidden in the darkness. Past him – up and down, up and down – went soldiers. They said 'Beggar me. Sorry, mate!' said nothing, some laughed, one said: 'It's like a blinking dungeon up there, nothing but water, water, water, and the silly cows up there looking over the rails. Watching for land. My holy blithering aunt. Land!'

Their words fell like pellets from their mouths. Their words floated in air, circled round Vesuvius. He smoked, saying nothing, watching. He heard money clink on the board, heard Williams's voice. Well, it hadn't been a bad trip after all. They'd probably end up with a couple of quid apiece. He pulled his soldier's cap farther down, the peak covered his eyes, the upper part of his nose. Somebody sang. He looked upwards. Dark sky. All darkness. The bell rang. The engines' low hum made the ladder vibrate. Soon he would join his mate. A soldier sat on the stair, put his head in his hands. Vesuvius heard his heavy breathings. Their bodies touched. They were both silent. Darkness covered them. 'Well, I don't know, I don't know,' the soldier began to mutter. Vesuvius sat quite still. After a while the soldier got up and walked away. They hadn't noticed each other. They were like pieces of stone. There was no meaning for them. They were wrapped up in themselves.

'Well, I guess I'll get along now,' Vesuvius thought, 'and see what that rat-faced bastard is doing.'

He got up and walked slowly along, hands folded behind his back. He stopped by the stanchion, then looked down. The deck could not be seen. Khaki flooded it. He saw bare heads, bent backs. He saw Williams put more money in his pocket. He saw him take pound notes from another pocket, fold each note in half, lay them between fingers; they were spread like a fan; heard him call 'Away she goes.' He saw a bare leg, a wound, men looking at this. It was nothing to him., A bare leg. 'You'll lose that bloody leg, matey,' a voice said.

'I'm here,' Vesuvius said, bending down and kneeling behind Williams. 'How's she goin', mate?' He crossed his legs, sat on his heels, spat the stump of his cigarette out, and leaning forward watched the money flung on the board. Williams was kneeling, his body partly over the board. He gave one the impression of some queer priest intoning over an altar. His arms were spread out, one clenched fist held the dice, the other hand was open, clutching notes.

'Lay her down, my lucky lads. Thick and heavy she goes.' Money lay thick upon the board. 'All the more the merrier! Any more for any more?'

'Say, will somebody take that bloody ass out of it? – Him and his goddam wound.'

'Come on! Never mind the leg, my lucky lads. If it's a girl's leg, well, come on, nobody on the lucky crown?
Nobody
on the lucky crown?
Who's
for the lucky crown? Goddam it, mates! –
nobody
for the lucky sergeant-major?'

'Four bells have just rung,' Vesuvius said in Williams's ear. '
Four
bells.'

Bells! – 'Any more for any more?' His arms began threshing the air. 'No more for any more. Then off she goes. Off she goes, sir.'

'One minute you're in an oven, the next you're blinkin' well freezing.'

'Up she comes – Lucky old spade!' His hand, which in the yellowish light resembled a claw, lay flat upon the board. He drew the money towards him, it lay piled against his knees. He picked some coins up, paid out on the 'fireman's friend' and dropped the remainder in his pocket. His face could not be seen, his head was bent forward upon his breast. 'Once again, mates! Once again! What say for the old mud-hook? The lucky old mud-hook.' He shook the dice up in his hands. 'All for the mud-hook. Two bob on the anchor there. Two on the old mud-hook. Two it is. Any more for any more? Come on, my lucky lads.'

He leaned farther across the board, the notes spread fan wise in his hands crinkled as he moved his fingers. Vesuvius looked on, silent, thoughtful. The laying was bad. The laying was lousy! Mean lot of swine they were. 'You won't want money tomorrow, mates, but you will on Sunday. Lay her down, lay her down.' Williams's voice trailed off into a sort of sigh. And the sudden silence made way for the sullen roar which the confusion of sounds – men's voices' and breathings, singing and snoring – wafting in air, poured through the five holds of A.10.

Suddenly Williams looked up. 'Submarine! Submarine, fellers!' a voice was calling from the ladder in A deck. The mass of life became rigid, nobody spoke. An awed silence.

'Beggar the submarine! Some soft bastard playing a joke! Come on, my lucky lads. Lay it down there, thick and heavy. What about a spot on the lucky old sergeant-major? Come on, my lads! Be a pauper or a millionaire. One for the sergeant-major. Good. Two for the mud-hook. Strike me bloody pink, five bob on the lucky old spade! That's the style, soldiers, that's the style! Get it down, thick and heavy!' He leaned back, Vesuvius took the weight of his body, but so far as Williams was concerned, it was just something he was leaning against, he had forgotten his mate, forgotten the time, Mr. Walters, he had forgotten everything. The world lay below him. Was bounded by khaki-clad bodies – the world was oblong in shape, a piece of canvas with six divisions, six symbols stitched upon it, but now he could not see them. They were buried in coins. Silver and copper, two notes, but that was not enough! The laying was simply rotten. There was money somewhere, piles of the bloody stuff, but it wasn't on that board. No, sir, it was in the soldiers' pockets. 'Lay it down, my lads! Nobody for the spade! The lucky old spade. Then off she goes again. Yes,
sir,
off she goes again.' He wiped his nose upon his sleeve, a violent action, then shook the dice. He kept on shaking.

'Let her go! Let the bloody thing go, sailor!' the soldiers cried.

'Sure!' Williams said. 'End up she bloody well comes. Well, I'll be—, lucky old club again, and not a stinking penny on her. Well—' He made a peculiar sound in his throat, put out both hands and drew the money towards him, making a greater pile at his knees. 'Hard lines, my lucky lads! But what did I tell you? What did I say? Nobody for the lucky old club? No more for no more! And Christ, up she comes!
Come
on, my lads!
Come
on, soldiers, get it down thick and heavy, and don't forget the lucky old club this time. Hee, hee— Hee! Hee! All luck! Come on, now, any more for any
more
?'

He flung his arms in the air as in a gesture of despair. 'Money for jam! Money for bloody jam!' He crouched there, waiting.

Men drew closer together – and just above them others lay flat upon hatch-tops. Others wrote home. Others washed, shaved, emptied bladders. Once Williams looked up. It was black darkness above! It meant nothing except that it was night. Men were continually coming and going. There had been a concerted rush at the word submarine, but now even they were back, and those who had been unnerved looked wise, schooled as it were by that calm, indifferent face before them, that sailor wearing a uniform of the Australian Light Horse, who bent over his board, dice in hand – still waiting for the flood.

'I'm cutting along to see how things are going. And you—' he spoke in the other's ear – 'you shake these fellers up. They've got the dough all right but they're lazy, just lazy, that's all.' He got to his feet. He fell in with a crush of soldiers going to number four hold, for rumour had it that food was available, food from a mysterious source. Vesuvius elbowed his way clear, and passed along.

A deck was silent like the tomb. Everybody seemed to have turned in. He went up on deck. Well, you couldn't really measure the stink down there until you went up on deck and got the fresh air in your face. 'God love me, but it's dark,' he said. Soldiers everywhere. He walked on them, bumped into them, said 'Sorry, mate,' but received no reply. He went aft, returned down a ladder. He might as well go right through. He didn't like Mr. Walters, he was afraid of him. And he was certain that in the end Williams would be caught. That could mean but one thing. No good time for them. He walked slowly along – eyes everywhere, but no sign of the steward. Well and good. Here was B deck again and there was Williams. 'My, what a bloody crowd! Gosh!' He forced his way through and stood behind Williams. The man had a cigarette clutched between the fingers that held the fan-shaped pound notes, the stump of another he held in his mouth. He was very hot and excited, the money kept dropping on the board, he spoke through his teeth. He ignored Vesuvius. Never even glanced his way. 'Lay it down thick and heavy.' His voice, his whole attitude carried something of triumph in it and the spell of great excitement held him tense, nervous, he could see nothing now, not even the board. He saw only the falling shower of coins. Six bells. Hang the bells. Let them ring. Here was money! Money. Beggar the ship, and the bloody war; and as for the submarines, here was money. Money for nothing! 'Ten bob on the major! Lucky major!' He spat out the cigarette end, put the other one in his mouth. 'Get it down there.'

'Light, sailor?'

A lighted cigarette was thrust at him. He gave two big draws.

'Thanks, soldier! An' how've you done to-night? Twelve bob. H'm! Hard lines, mate. All right, you goddam sons of your mothers, any more for any more? I say any more for any more? Jesus!' he shouted. 'Jesus! Just look at that! An elephant's pile and not a damn cent on the mud-hook! What about a spot on the old mud-hook? Good Christ, soldiers. The lucky old mud-hook! The sailor's song in the chain-locker. Hey!'

And the coins fell, hands shook, faces tensed, the air became electric, charged with thrill, the flushed face of Williams bent lower over the board. And the coins showered down. 'Any more for any more?'

Mr. Hump and Mr. Walters had returned to the latter's room. The door was shut. For some reason or other Mr. Walters had turned the key in the lock. They sat facing each other across the table. There was a bottle of dinner ale on the table, an open packet of cigarettes. Mr. Walters puffed a pipe.

'Well, Mr. Walters, I don't think, all things considered, that it's been too bad. There's a war on.'

'No! Not too bad! But I've done better, Hump! I done better in the Boer War really and that was a long time ago. Anyway, you can't grumble.'

'We might as well get down to brass-tacks now then,' Mr. Hump said. 'I hear there's only one more meal before we say good-bye to them.'

'Only one more meal!' Mr. Walters said. He put the hot pipe on the table. 'Oh, yes! Just a minute! I got it down in a book here! Let's see! Monday. Two-fourteen-nine. Tuesday, three-eighteen and a penny. Wednesday, eight pounds two shillings. Not bad for Wednesday, though really it's nowt really. I've done better at the Boer War. Righto! Thursday, eleven pound exactly. That would be raisin and bully-beef day, of course.'

Well, you needn't go through it like that, Mr. Walters. I never asked you to after all – fair's fair. I'm not being suspicious. Just want my whack. And not a penny more.'

'I wish it would last another thirty years,' Mr. Walters said.

He got up from the table, went to a cupboard and took out a cedar box. He emptied the box on the table, littering it with coins, mostly silver, a sprinkling of coppers, two dirty notes. Somebody knocked then.

'Who's that?'

'Dowling, sir.'

What d'you want?'

'It's about the hot meal for the men, sir.'

'What about it?'

'Shall I detail the men for the deck pantries, sir?'

'No. Go to the devil and wait till I come down!
Do that.
' He shouted.

Mr. Hump smiled. No doubt about it, Mr. Walters had a way with him.

'What do you think of our chances, Mr. Walters?' asked Mr. Hump.

'Well, I could hardly say, Hump. Be like last time I was here. Get covered with muck and that's about all. Ah! But they're greedy. Still, I don't want to touch on anything like that, Mr. Hump! It's their war, not ours. We have nothing to do with it, we should let them run it. Meanwhile we can pick up the scraps. Eh? Now to business. We've already agreed on takings. Although I have what you call a delicate ability for compound interest, I'm as fair as fair. Over fifty, I said fifteen per cent Under, ten per cent. There's forty-seven ten here – and—'

'That's only four-seven something. I reckon I ought to get ten out of that. And that's being frank, Mr. Walters, if you don't mind. You see, in the first place, it was entirely my idea about the chicken sandwiches.'

'But who has charge of the stores, Hump?'

'Ten or nothing,' went on Hump. 'I don't want to make a bother, Mr. Walters.'

'No! We agreed on the percentage and I am not going to give you a penny more than five. I don't care what you say; as for what you think, Hump, that counts even less. Here! Five-ten! I've got to pay others out of my share. Dowling, for instance. He knows everything. He has to get his whack. Bleat all over the bloody ship if he didn't. God! Doesn't the whole thing make you greedy, Hump? Only human nature after all.' He yawned, and as he did so his head fell forward. Mr. Hump thought for a moment that the chief steward was going to swallow the money. 'The whole blinking lot,' he thought. He raised his head and looked towards the porthole. There was a little muslin curtain drawn across it. It reminded Mr. Hump of the curtains in the bedroom at home. Mr. Walters got up. He agreed then. 'Five quid. You might as well have it. I'll throw in a silk shirt with it if you like. I got a couple from that chap Percival. He says to me he doesn't need so many shirts where he's going and I agreed. Damn swell shirts they are. Never been worn. Real silk. Well, here's your money.' He picked up the two dirty notes, then counted a pile of silver into the second steward's hand.