Hollow Sea (40 page)

Mr. Hump for his part could only stand and stare. It was all a mystery to him. He knew that Mr. Walters had been called to the bridge, what about he did not know, didn't very much care But was this the result of the visit there? Then what in the name of heaven had they been discussing? And why, and what had happened? He could see what had happened to Walters all right. But at the moment nothing was very intelligible. Mr, Walters sat back and roared with laughter, swore a bit, and his fat face grew redder still. Then he leaned forward across the table and was subject to yet another outburst. Twice he had asked the man what was wrong, to be met on each occasion with a more vigorous round of laughing. Well, he would stand there and stare sense into the fellow. He was completely balmy. There could be no doubt about that. And hadn't he, Mr. Hump, had enough training during these past days to realize when a man was going a bit soft in the head? He lowered his head and looked at Mr. Walters. He was stretched right across the table, hands hanging over it, cap askew on his head, his white cuffs now dirty with some kind of mud, it looked like mud to Mr. Hump. He trembled to speak, but something held him back. A little fit. It would soon be over. Mr. Walters had overreached himself. He understood. It had been a trying time. But now the chief steward suddenly sat up again, got up from the table and roared.

'Oh, Christ Almighty! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Oh, heavens above, heavens above. Ha! Ha! Ha! I can't believe it. Can't get over it.
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He sat down again. He shook, his long arms moved across the table like feelers, pawed the letters, the thoughts put upon the paper, all that was private in them, all that was sacred in them, hidden feelings, profound hopes, nervous fears, simple faith, all were soiled now by Mr. Walters's uproarious laughter, by his puckish expression, and those arms like feelers pawing the table.

'Oh, my heavens! It's stupendous I say. Ha! Ha! Ha!'

He stood up, flung his arms in the air, a leer came into his face, his loose mouth opened wide, he seemed on the threshold of a terrific yawn, but instead he gave vent to a long 'Ee—ee— Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!' He rocked to and fro, letters were swept from the table.

'Mr. Walters, sir,' Mr. Hump was terrified now. Surely Mr. Walters hadn't gone mad? But suddenly the waves of laughter subsided, Mr. Walters's expression changed, his face seemed to assume normal shape again.

'Good Christ! Who ever heard of the like! A concert! A goddam concert on a death-ship, a stink ship, and wine, sir, wine by my mother's sacred memory, wine, whisky, for everybody. We can't leave the dead out of this, Mr. Hump, Lord no! We must open the hatch, we must have them out. We must give them plenty to eat, plenty to drink. Oh, I say, it's terrific. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!'

Again laughter held him, he seemed to choke, he went very red in the face, water came out of his eyes, his greasy skin shone under the light.

'Let me get you a drink, sir. Do keep calm, Mr. Walters, sir. You've overworked yourself, sir. That's what it is. Perhaps Mr. Dunford was only joking. How can we have dead men in a concert? Besides, sir, we're in the danger-zone—'

'Oh, yes, and, Lord Harry, we mustn't forget those crazy beggars aft. Lord no! Oh-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.'

Mr. Walters became now the slave and prisoner of his own laughter, an inexhaustible flood, he was still laughing when Mr. Hump ran from the room.

The first person he bumped into in the alleyway was a quartermaster hurrying aft to take temperatures of air and water. Examine the log.

'What's wrong?' asked Hump.

He began shaking the quartermaster like one possessed. The quartermaster pushed him off.

'Here,' he said, 'what the hell's wrong? Got the bloody rats or something?'

He pushed Mr. Hump headlong towards the bulkhead, went on his way whistling.

Mr. Hump leaned up from the bulkhead. He seemed staggered like one drunk. Had Mr. Walters really gone funny in the head? Or was it just this overwork, this goddam foulness all around, and vomit and blood, dirt and – and oh – hell! he must have gone off his rocker.

Mr. Hump went for'ard. He went no farther than the port alleyway. He stopped dead there. Listened. Shouting, laughing, singing, somebody called out above the din, Well, here's to the skin of your bloody nose, your old aunt – and all the grandmothers with flat feet.' Everybody seemed to be singing.

'Good heavens!' said Hump. 'What does it mean? And five minutes ago I was going through those letters.'

He went up the alleyway. Turned the knob of the fo'c'sle door, looked in. Empty bunks. Nobody slept. Sailors were standing, sitting, sprawling round the table.

'Well, here's three cheers for the best bloody old war I ever was in,' and 'Here's to the skipper, God blast him! I always thought he was sour, stuck up as hell, and hang it, he's just like one of us,' and 'Here's to old Walters!' A good-natured goddam fox. Got a nose that shines like an arc-light. Three cheers for every bloody body aboard this roarin' old tub. A.1. bloody 0 – here's to you.'

Mr. Hump's hand gripped the fo'c'sle door-knob, his eyes looked in upon that, to him, strange, impossible scene, and he could not understand. What did it all mean? Or was it just a dream? Perhaps it was. He had been having curious dreams lately, hanging head downwards over the sea, his thin grey hair trailing water, money showering from his pockets, hands from below the surface reaching up and clutching those falling coins, dead hands. Yes. That had been a real dream, but this, this.

He quietly closed the door. Yet beyond that fo'c'sle, beyond that alleyway all seemed as usual. She was moving fast through the dark waters. All was quiet save for the throb of her engines. Suddenly he bumped into another figure, jumped and shouted, 'Sorry! Didn't see you.'

There was no reply. The ventilator had no voice. He touched it gingerly with his hand. Then went back the way he came. Outside the door he stopped. Bent down and looked through the key-hole. Real fear held him now; he jumped again as a voice split the silence: 'I want to do it! Steward! I want to do it.' That must be one of the wounded in the saloon. 'Steward! Hurry up. I'm near crapping.' Hump hoped the stewards were there, he hoped this very earnestly, as he looked through the keyhole. He could not bear the sound of that voice. Walters was having a time. He began muttering. Hump saw him picking up letters, reading them.

'Oh! Aye! Hello, what's this? "Dear Annie—" Oh, hell, look at this. "I don't know whether I can get your Boston garters where we're going, but I'll try." Oh, Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha Lovely. Have a good try, Higginbottom, old boy. Your missus must have a nice long leg. Oh!' He went on laughing. 'Oh, hell, here's Misery's letter. "At sea, April
 
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Dear Polly, Just a line hoping you—' Christ! What a silly bloody name. Polly! Polly – Oily. Oh, damn my bloody soul. I must get ready for this concert. Oh, yes, I must get ready! What's this: "Dear Lizzie, if anything happens
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Ha! Ha! Ha! What a Jonah he is.'

He looked at the childlike signature of the stoker's letters. 'H'm. Black crowd. What silly, fat-headed, ignorant baboons they are.' Then all was quiet. Mr. Walters sat very still, eyes closed, thinking. Mr. Hump went in.

'Are you all right now, Mr. Walters, sir?' he asked. He bent down and began picking up the letters that littered the deck. Mr. Walters watched him.

'Yes. Pick that bloody stuff up and return the letters to their owners, with my compliments and thanks. They mustn't mind the pencil markings.-That's merely an objection to their simple generous natures. But I must get ready for this concert. Oh, yes. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! And he'll have to come. Yes, Mr. Dunford will have to come. I'll see to that, even if the goddam ship has to sail along on her own.'

Mr. Hump still could not understand, yet he so much wanted to say, 'But, Mr. Walters, explain yourself. What does it all mean? This hilarity, this scattering of the crew's letters, after all the trouble I had getting them into some kind of order. Please explain what you mean by concert. You see, I am all confused.' He could find no opening. 'Ah!' he said to himself. 'He's moody, that's what it is, just moody.' But it would be a bloody caution if everybody aboard suddenly started having moods. Things were in a mess, but everybody having moods all at once might be worse than a bad dream. A nightmare, in fact.

'Well, damn it, don't stand there staring at me, Mr. Hump,' Walters roared out. 'Shift all this junk, return it to its owners. Say it was a case of one, two, three, and the post had gone. A concert,' he said. 'Oh, hell. Oh, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!'

Mr. Hump swept letters and envelopes into a heap, crushed them into the diddy-bag, went out, banging the door behind. That bang voiced his anger, his bewilderment. Oh, but he must control himself. He'd like to let himself go. Yes, by the Lord Harry he would! But he wouldn't in any case. He had always been of a quiet disposition, he went about his work with great dignity and tact, he allowed nothing to ruffle the calm surface of his life, but the sudden outburst of his chief steward had upset him. Still, here he was standing in the alleyway holding this diddy-bag.

He could be a fool, he could take the diddy-bag and all its comical, pathetic little messages to wives and lovers and others, chuck it over the side. But he would not do that. He would go into the mess, sort the stuff out, deliver it back to the owners. He swung the bag on his shoulder and went into the mess-room. He sat down and began sorting the mail, putting each letter or scribbled note back into its right envelope. Whilst he sat there performing this simple task it seemed as though he derived something from the act itself, as though he had been touched by simplicity itself. He became quite calm. The lens seemed to adjust itself. As he looked down at the array of correspondence it seemed to vanish and there before him was a map, and the map became a ship. It became A.10. All was calm aboard this ship, order reigned. Below the decks, look-out men ascended and descended. Officers paced the bridge. The dead were quiet, peaceful. The wounded were attended to by stewards. All was order, calm, peace. 'That's it! We're all set. That's it, we're actually going home, home! She's speeding along. That's what made me so excited before. It's the thought of going home at last!'

But this idea of a concert in the saloon, how had that come about? Mr. Hump couldn't even imagine. He had attended ship's concerts many a time, but this was different. Aboard a ship like the A.10. Yes, sir, very different indeed. Maybe Walters knew all about it. But oh, it was too bloody funny for words. Never heard of the like. Who had started the idea. Mr. Dunford? Surely not. Then who? Mr. Hump didn't know.

Had he gone for'ard an hour ago and listened as Mr. Deveney had listened he would have heard all about it.

'I'll be hanged,' he said, then went on quietly sorting the letters for return to their owners.

Ericson had gone on ahead. But in the alleyway aft he had stopped. He would wait for the men. Already he could hear them approaching, their voices were always raised, loud voices, he would know them anywhere. Then he caught sight of Mr. Tyrer.

'All set, Bosun?'

'All O.K., sir,' replied Mr. Tyrer. He turned round.

'Now, you fellers, get below there and get that bulkhead door open abaft C deck,' and in an encouraging, almost sympathetic tone, 'We shan't be down there long, lads. Old man's orders. Maybe he's decided to do something. But I know nothing.'

He walked on to stand talking in whispers to Mr. Ericson. The men passed him, slouching by. 'Dirty job,' he thought. 'A good crowd. Didn't complain much. Run any confounded war with chaps like that.' Then they passed through the door. They descended the ladders noisily, he heard an exclamation, said, 'Pretty tough below, sir. Hope something's going to be done about that state of affairs. My men have been complaining it don't seem right, somehow. Still I suppose—' He stopped dead.

Ericson turned away, saying, 'Right, Bosun. Better get below there.'

'Yes,' Ericson said to himself, 'best get below and stand by.'

Beyond that he knew nothing. That was the funny thing about it, as though it were an order with no real decision behind it. Perhaps Mr. Dunford was at loggerheads with himself. And yet opening those doors could only mean one thing. Yet he had said nothing beyond open them and have the watch stand by.

They passed below. A queer shaft of light, a kind of half light, now filled the 'tween-deck. The bulkhead door was already swung open, and the men were gathered around it now, silhouetted against that shaft of light; the background was the greater darkness, and the sounds of water, then dripping sounds from pipes. The men were conversing one with another, in whispers. Ericson stood looking at them, but the bosun went on and stood amongst them. He too was speaking in whispers, but it was quite unintelligible. Ericson sat down on an empty wooden crate and looked out through the open door. There was nothing to see there, and he liked looking out there. There was something about it that satisfied him, a kind of blankness that suits well a certain blankness of mind. He thought about nothing in particular. His brain seemed shut off from the rest of his body. There was something lulling, something restful about sitting in the dark there, looking towards the group of men, their forms huge in the curious light. Somebody laughed and he stiffened, sat up, and looked behind. He thought that laugh was behind him. The lulling sensation vanished. He was himself again. Now things were clear, clear and plain, things were very near to him. He got up and went over to the men, pulled the bosun's sleeve.

'You'd better go above and tell them we are ready, Bosun.'

'Very good, sir.'

Mr. Tyrer marched off. He himself thought the whole thing strange, sending men down there and now – he looked at his watch. Almost one bell. And as he went away he exclaimed to Mr. Ericson, 'The smell's getting pretty bad, sir. I think somebody ought to make their minds up, one way or the other, before very long. It may get that bad that the men will refuse to go below after this.'