Hollow Sea (27 page)

'Yes. It's dreadful! Now I
do
wish I had known him better. That's the devil of it all.'

'How one is just messed about,' he was thinking. 'That fellow, Travers, now,' and he suddenly said, 'Curious that Travers never came aboard, neither at Liverpool or Avonmouth. One has to be thankful that Mr. Walters has had some medical training.'

Mr. Deveney began to lather his face. He was indeed just on the point of shaving when Mr. Dunford entered. He was going up there at two sharp.

'Hope you don't mind, sir, if I don't get this growth off
now
I'll never shave again, never.' He laughed at himself in the glass – saw Mr. Dunford's face in that glass. 'I'm surprised we went without a substitute,' Deveney said.

'Hm! Whom are we to thank for that! First we are told to proceed to Avonmouth and lie up at Prince's Quay, and what happens? We are ordered to lie out in the stream, and board troops by tender. And, by God, it simply never occurred to me. Never! Look at the way we set off. Disgraceful. This ship turned upsidedown overnight, and the confusion, the orders, orders, orders, falling one over the other! Still we managed. And of course we had two or three among the draft. One shouldn't be surprised at anything, Mr. Deveney. What a report I shall have when we get to Alexandria—'

He tapped the table, paused. 'One hardly likes to use the word, for all I know they may yet change the orders. In their present state of mind, when I say "their," Deveney, I speak, I refer to something with an almost ethereal body, "their" means the something you can't define. I've never seen "their." One speaks of "their orders," "their ideas," "their mistakes, etc., etc." But I often wonder who they are.'

Mr. Deveney's razor scraped its way down the left side of his neck. He heard Dunford talking. Was he supposed to comment, to appraise or damn the powers that be? Instead, Mr. Deveney proceeded to focus a microscopic eye upon his pale thin face.

'I'm getting on in the fifties, greying on top! Hang it, I never noticed that, though!' And he put a finger on a swelling on his right temple. Mr. Dunford talked on, Mr. Deveney scraped himself clean.

'What exactly happened aft?' asked Mr. Dunford. He stood up and leaned against the bunk. 'Gradually, I'm piecing things together. Bradshaw's gone, Ericson was rather overwrought, but plucky, yes, damned plucky. I know we were hit five times, peculiar thing not a man for'ard was hurt. But I'd have expected that, anyhow. But you were aft?'

Mr. Deveney put down the razor and turned round. Whilst he applied bay rum to his face, he said, 'Yes. So
many
things happened in that short time, that it is hard to remember them all. Everything was so sudden, so full of confusion. And God! I was afraid of those men. I was really. We got the rafts away anyhow, thank heaven, and there was never any need to tell them the quickest way to get aboard them. A shell shook the poop, almost under my feet, but I can't even recollect the sound it made. I can still remember the smell, but that's all. And it seems both ratings took things into their own hands and went off with the rafts. I thought it the most natural thing in the world at the time. And I saw the soldiers using the paddles. But I never looked at them again. I forgot about them completely; for when that shell struck amidships I rushed down there to superintend things. Phew! It was pretty warm, I can tell you.'

'Of course! You see how one is continually confounded by the little thing, Deveney. Right up to the last moment boats were inspected, thoroughly overhauled, and then, damn it, two had to jam. But I don't know yet whether ten and eleven were the ones that fouled.'

'Ten and eleven worked beautifully. I superintended their lowering. Before they touched water a shell smashed into the middle of them.'

Mr. Deveney put on his collar, and his white drill coat and cap.

'We'll all have extra work to do until we get a substitute at the next port. I won't mention names. We might be caught out. We might be sent anywhere! All is confusion –
CONFUSION
,' Dunford said. 'Do you know – but perhaps you know already, birds fly in the air, and news gets around. D'you know that for a month, longer than that, the powers that be have been crying out for men? And when they do get them – What happens? Well, what
does
happen? They are uncertain, the mountain is higher than they thought it was, the river deeper, and they don't know what to do with them. The army says this, the navy thinks that – as for the ethereal voice, what it mumbles is incomprehensible. Well, there they are. The men. All the men – thousands upon thousands. And what happens? They are bottled up in boats for three weeks – three whole weeks – whilst "They" consider the matter. Not a sound – not a word to disturb the air – the ethereal voice – the power behind all this – this bravery and courage and idiocy, is strangely silent. And at last they move. What happens? There is no need for me to tell you that, Mr. Deveney. The answer is written under canvas down below. But they landed at the wrong beach after all. They sent men to scale a cliff at flood tide, a cliff that rises sheer from the beach like a sharp knife, a terrific claw. And the men scaled that cliff. One could see every move through the glasses. That's not all. The boats full are lowered, are rowed away, and fire is poured upon them. Fire all round them, there is no order, no sense of direction, the distant voice is strangely silent. The attitude is, well, it's done now. The beach is red with blood, but it was a mistake, just a mistake – an unhappy mistake. Yes, the cliff was scaled. They landed – oh, yes, they landed, the living by power and courage, the dead by the current that flung them like dunnage upon the beach.' He suddenly crossed to the door as though by some divination he could already see the hand that was to rap upon it so loudly. 'Yes! Come in!'

The door opened. The quartermaster was standing there.

'Mr. Ericson, sir,' the man said. 'We are being signalled by a destroyer.'

'All right!' The door closed again. A second later it opened again. Mr. Dunford and Mr. Deveney went up to the bridge. But there was no destroyer in sight.

'She's moved off, sir. You can just see her over there, Mr. Dunford.'

'What was the message?' asked Dunford. Ericson took a piece of paper from the little cupboard under the bridge-rail.

'Usual one, sir! Name – identification number – destination.' He handed the paper to Dunford.

'And you replied?'

'A.10
PROCEEDING
UNDER
ORDERS
ALEXANDRIA
.
TWO
HUNDRED
WOUNDED
–
NO
CARGO
.'

'Is that all?'

Mr. Deveney stared at Captain Dunford. 'Is that all, Mr. Ericson?'

'Yes, sir.'

'There are one hundred and thirty men below you forgot to mention.'

Ericson stared bewilderedly at the Captain. 'Yes – sir – but I thought we—'

'Don't think,' Dunford said. 'Go below instead.' He turned away and went and stood by himself in the port wing, leaving Ericson and Mr. Deveney standing looking at each other, and Deveney said, 'Consider yourself relieved, anyhow, young man, go below! Don't take too much notice of Mr. Dunford. I think he's very worried about something.' He went to the wheel-house window, looked in at the man.

Ericson was going when Dunford called out, 'As you go below, Mr. Ericson, you might tell Mr. Walters I want his report as early as possible, and that's all.'

He turned his back on them again, looked ahead. 'Two days, three days,' he thought. How suddenly quiet it was. And nothing ahead. Breakers, white manes, sinking, rising. Nothing else. He walked across to Deveney.

'Ericson was miles out in his position today.'

'Extraordinary,' Deveney said. 'I've never known it happen before, Mr. Dunford.'

'I am going below. There is a man standing by here for all urgent calls. 1 will be in the chart-room, Deveney.' He picked up his sextant, his glasses. 'Confound these bloody flies,' he said, as he brushed past the quartermaster.

He went into the chart-room and sat down. Existence had no set rhythm, one's mind was bits and pieces, one went on in a series of jerks, the body jerked the mind to action. The personal thought lay smothered, the personal voice choked, urgency, the unexpected, saw to that! He went out again very suddenly, went to the first officer's room. He looked at the dead man lying on the bunk. At the closed eyes, the red curly hair, the large hands, the browned hands – hand that held the pipe in Liverpool – the strong mouth that had said, 'I call it suicide.'

Sadness stole over him. He sat very still, hands flat on his knees, his eyes still resting on the man. He looked hard at him, his look was penetrating, anxious, he wondered, he doubted, he summed up. This thing shut all else out. This was very near, very deep, he had loved this man. He stood up, looking down now, as from a great height, upon a face that was getting smaller and smaller, receding, fading away into distance.

'Poor fellow!' he said. 'The devil's luck! The devil's own luck.' He covered the face with a sheet. 'But it has no
meaning
,
no meaning,' he shouted aloud in the silent room. Then he went out again, walked back to the chart-room. He would look up the log again, there were many things to write down. He would do this now, get it done before Mr. Walters arrived with his report. 'Yes. I must go below! I must make a thorough inspection.' He took up a pen, and poised it for a moment over the clean white page. Then he began to write rapidly. A.10's engines seemed to heighten their throb, panels and doors creaked. The ship, like a great cradle, seemed to swing gently from side to side.

'Monday 17th. – Position
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
' The pen raced across the page now. Everything vanished. There was only the white page becoming rapidly black, the firm hand, the racing pen.

Mr. Walters was no longer himself. He was indeed a changed man. He knew this instinctively. A mere look in his shaving mirror told him that plain fact. His head was no bigger, it is true, but there was certainly something wrong with his face. He didn't like the haggard, worried look it wore. And those eyes. But what could one expect? 'Even Hump is a different man,' he told himself. 'I am not greedy, not ambitious, I like money, and I would like a pub before I grow much older.' He had his modest side, too. Not for him the heroic, the crusader and the adventurer. Moderation, a dignified indifference to big things. It was the little things over which he was concerned. Gone the mock-serious look to give place to one of deep concern. One look at Mr. Walters was enough to reveal that he was a gentleman suddenly conscious of the seriousness of it all. And a ruthless hand had dragged him out from his little fastness, swamped all thoughts of his savings, of the hoped-for pub and contented retirement. This hand seemed determined to put Mr. Walters in the path, if not of fame, at least of history. An unsparing hand, it had transfigured Mr. Hump also, revealed to him the futility of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who long since had found his way to the bottom of the sea. Mr. Walters, who worked, who carried on his job, hidden away in the twilight of his storeroom, he had been dragged into the light. Necessity turned a key in the lock, and all
that
, so far as the chief steward was concerned, was now a closed book. He didn't want to be important and now he was important. Circumstance, like a powerful light, illuminated the dark pages of his past. Mr. Walters by virtue of his calling filled stomachs, big and little ones, sometimes he half filled them, no matter, he was the cause and the effect. He starved, half-starved or satiated, according to a mood of the moment, the state of things still to come. The entries in the pass-book. Now the matter of bodily sustenance had been taken over entirely by Mr. Hump. Mr. Walters must look to wounds, not stomachs. Yes. From now on. From that fateful hour when he had seen them fall, hoist, shout, swear, writhe, lie still, one upon another. Fortune stripped off his coat, flung away his cap, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, had revealed indeed another and quite different chief steward. As he looked in the shaving mirror at his bared arms, his open shirt, the two days' growth of beard upon his face, the stains upon his hand, he hardly realized he was the same man. Before he had moved about resplendent, pompous, dignified, indifferent, his head erect, neck harnessed in a clean linen collar, cap at the correct angle upon his head, black tie lying tame upon the breast of his white shirt, resplendent coat, shining buttons, brilliant braid, speckless trousers, immaculate black shoes. Now all this was done with!

'I look ten years older,' he spoke to his reflection in the glass. He had been standing looking at himself for nearly five minutes now while there raced through his mind many conflicting thoughts. Thoughts that remained impressed upon his brain, facts, and facts and figures, these mixed with looks and gestures, murmurings, questions, answered and unanswered; names – Devons, Lanes, Manchester, Surrey, London, Buffs, a mad whirl, round and round. Perhaps he had better sit down. 'But how in the name of heaven did that man, Bradshaw, get killed? And those sick men aft? And the rating they've just taken down from the pooprail? Hard to understand indeed, very hard. Well, he had better get that report ready right away. Dunford, whom he had not seen for a whole day, would be waiting for this.

'Greedy swine!' he exclaimed. They didn't take all the stuff, anyhow. And what they paid for they're well entitled to, but it's a good job all the same that something is left.'

He went to the cupboard then, opened it and looked in. Yes. There were two bottles, there! Thank heaven. And Lord, when the time came, it wouldn't be long now, he was certain of that, would he sleep? By God, yes, he would. He would sleep deeply, sink deeper and deeper into the bunk, the bed would get softer and softer, he would go down, down, down, deep peaceful sleep. He stretched his arms and yawned. 'Oh, well! That report. It must be got ready. Let's see now!' He pressed a button on his desk. 'Send Mr. Hump here right away,' he said. He cleared his desk. Sat down.