Hollow Sea (44 page)

'Any minute now, Snowball,' a voice answered back.

'Keep cool. Though I reckon it's only a stunt all the same.'

Feet began to move, stamping upon the canvas.

Mr. Hump and Mr. Walters had done their work well. They had cleared all movable objects with the exception of chairs, every one of which was occupied by those members of the crew who were fortunate or unfortunate enough to be off duty at the time. At one end of the saloon were the soldiers, some lying stretched out on their palliasses. The thick pile carpet had been covered over with sheets of canvas begrudgingly loaned by the lamp-trimmer. The air was heavy with smoke, pipes and cigarettes glowed, and Vesuvius's cigar continued to send up spirals of rich blue smoke. Everybody talked. The sea of sound wafted to and fro, even floating down what Mr. Walters was pleased to call the Grand Staircase.

And suddenly he appeared, as though he had been shot into view, resplendent in his go-ashore uniform, a clean linen collar that seemed a little too tight for him making his face red, causing him to tilt back his head every so often as though endeavouring to relax the collar's stranglehold. And he surveyed the scene before him. All looking at him saw how red his face was, how splendid he looked with his best clothes on, but that was all. He might be in a good humour, he might be in a bad one. It was impossible to tell.

Whispering began.

Mr. Walters's eye fell upon this man, now upon that man. He saw lips moving, heard the whispering, but it was just a low murmur, a wave of incoherency to him. Briefly Mr. Walters surveyed with a calm and authoritative air whatever happened to be visible through the now increasing clouds of smoke.

Mr. Hump, his second steward, was standing immediately behind him. He saw nothing but the middle of Mr. Walters's back – the black serge encasing the fat body. Mr. Walters placed his hands on his hips, raised himself on his toes and called out:

'Where are the artists?'

His tone was sharp, authoritative. Perhaps after all Mr. Walters was in a bad humour. Perhaps he thoroughly disapproved of Mr. Dunford's crazy idea. He called again: 'Where are the artists?'

A chorus of voices took up the cry:

'Where are the artists?'

'Where are you bloody artist fellers? Not hiding yourselves, we hope. Come on, beggar it.'

Again Mr. Walters raised himself on his toes, and again surveyed the motley crowd. But one face was just like another face. The buzz of conversation still went on. Were they really ignoring him? He shouted at the top of his voice:

'Where are the artists?'

All heads were turned.

Somebody was trying to push his way through a row of knees, outstretched legs.

'Strike me bloody pink! Here's one! Betcher he's been asleep. Hurray! Hur-bloody-ray!'

Everybody joined in the cheering.

In the midst of this cheering Mr. Walters felt a finger poking him in the middle of the back. He swung round, glaring at Mr. Hump.

'What is it, Hump?' he growled under his breath. 'Can't you see I'm busy?'

But Mr. Hump seemed not to have heard. The din in the saloon was becoming quite deafening. Cries assailed him: 'What about our bloody concert, eh? Where are you bloody artists, anyhow! Come on there! Shake your bloody legs, you fellers.'

Mr. Walters suddenly shouted at the top of his voice, 'What the hell d'you want poking me for?'

He thrust his face into Hump's.

'Goddam it, can't you see I'm busy? And I'm going to be busy from now on.'

He turned his back upon Mr. Hump, again shouted 'Artists forward. Please,
PLEASE
. This way.'

'Mr. Walter, sir!'

Mr. Hump's finger began work again. Walters felt as if he had been stabbed. He turned round, glared at his second steward, snarled, 'Damn it, man, what d'you think I am, jabbing your bloody finger into my back – a sirloin or something?'

Men were laughing now.

Perhaps this was the first act of the concert. A dialogue between Mr. Walters and Mr. Hump. Somebody clapped. Mr. Hump was silent.

Suddenly he stepped up to Mr. Walters's level and said: 'Everything's O.K. and set for this concert, Mr. Walters, sir. I've done my job. Let them sing their insides out if they like. I'm not struck about sitting here listening to it, anyhow. I want to go below.'

He shuffled his feet, looked dully at his chief.

'But I depend on
you
,' said Walters.

He spoke in almost a whisper. From the audience it looked as though Mr. Walters and Mr. Hump were kissing each other.

'I depend on you, Hump. You can't go below. You
can't
do it, man. Why we might as well call the whole bloody thing a joke, and tell the men to clear out of it. Now. It wasn't my idea. I never agreed to it. It was Dunford. Goddam fool!'

'No it wasn't. It was the men for'ard. The silly bastards,' replied Mr. Hump tartly.

'When does this bloody concert commence, anyhow?'

This bronze-like voice seemed to pierce through the waves of titters and laughter to drown Mr. Walters's pleadings.

'Listen to me, Mr. Hump. Don't be such a fool. There's nothing
extraordinary
about men getting up a concert. Live and let live. And apart from anything else?'

'I want to
go below
,' Hump said. 'I don't want to see their goddam concert. I'm nearly falling asleep – in fact I can't get to sleep lately. I'm always waked up to attend to someone or other.'

He kept running his fingers up and down his coat.

Walters smiled for the first time.

'But it's all in the day's work, Mr. Hump. All in the day's work. Don't be silly. I don't want to act as M.C. any more than you want to help me out in the matter. But
I
can't refuse. Look here! It'll all be over in an hour. An hour. What's an hour? Nothing. Then you can go and sleep your head off. You seem to forget your position at times, Mr. Hump. After all you are under me. And I would remind you that—'

Mr. Hump's pale face appeared to grow paler still.

'I told you, Mr. Walters, that I didn't want to attend the damn thing. I'm not in the humour for bloody concerts. I'm dead beat. Besides, I'm in my own time. Surely I can do what I like with it. I helped as much as I could – I—'

'Concert! Concert! What about it? Come on, for Christ Almighty's sake.'

Well, Hump, can you hear them? There'll be a riot very soon. I'm not in the humour either, but I have to swallow that. Just listen to the row.'

'I don't begrudge them having a sing-song,' went on Hump. 'It would be a poor swine who would, anyhow. But—'

'Hey! Hey! Mr. Walters! When are you starting up, or are you simply kidding?'

The noise became deafening. The port door opened.

A man came in, scowling.

'Shut that bloody door, you damn fool. You were told which way to come.'

'There you are!' exclaimed Walters. 'Even before we start there's trouble. Go to that bloody door and lock it. I definitely gave instructions that those doors were to be locked. I said everybody must come by way of the hatch.'

What about it! What about it! Have you had one too many already?'

'Silence there!' roared Walters.

He was raging now.

'Silence! Silence! The concert will commence at any minute. Keep quiet, men. Don't be impatient.'

The only reply to this was a loud chorus of guffaws.

'Some of the men wouldn't come that way, Mr. Walters, 'count of the—'

'That's got nothing to do with me, Hump. I tell you now, go to the devil.'

Ignoring Hump Mr. Walters turned round to face the impatient gathering.

'Will the artists for this concert please come forward and follow me down the ladder?'

He clapped his hands. 'Now boys. Quick. Artists forward please.'

Mr. Hump had long since vanished.

'Hurray! Three cheers for the M.C. The concert's actually going to begin. Jesus! I got a scare at first, I thought the crazy beggar was waiting for the stiffs to come out of the hold. What a bloody hope.'

A man was struggling forward, leaving in his wake a backwash of remarks, grunts and curses as he trod first on one toe, then on another.

'Mind where you're going, duck-foot, even though you can play the bloody accordion.'

The sailor swung this by one handle. It looked dangerous.

Even Mr. Tyrer drew his head clear, having no wish to receive a blow on the head from the bass end of the instrument.

'Quiet! Quiet, boys,' Walters was shouting through his cupped hands.

'Hell! How affectionate he's getting, isn't he, with his "quiet boys." Bloody fox. I wouldn't trust him with a mug.'

The accordionist had reached the top of the stairway.

Mr. Walters said: 'Just step down the ladder a moment, sailor,' then he looked at the audience again.

'Come along,' he said, 'or we'll never get started. There are four more artists to come yet. Do get a move on.'

But nobody moved.

The accordionist looked up at Walters and said, 'They're down here, Mr. Walters. The other fellers. The song and dance, the elocutionist and the dancer. They look to me as though they were pretty tight already. I'm not greedy, but I didn't know they were down there all the time. Filling up on good stuff.'

The accordionist looked sad, flopped down into a sitting position. 'Christ!' he said.

Mr. Walters bent down, saying, 'All right, sailor. You go down that ladder. I'll call you later.'

The sailor went below and joined the other artists.

The din in the saloon was now so great that even that ceaseless monotonous drone of engines was drowned out. A chorus of voices immediately opened up. Mr. Walters dived down the ladder out of sight. Like Mr. Hump he was entirely disinterested, but the devil of it was, yes, the devil of it was he had to go through with it. No, he couldn't go sick, not even feign madness.

The voices swelled out.

'There
was
a man named Walters. There
is
a man named Walters. Where
is
this man named Walters? He's in his bloody prime. Oh,
Mr.
bloody Walters. We—'

They went on singing, stamping feet.

They were convinced now that the whole thing was a hoax. Being so, it seemed but just that all should eye the innocent Mr. Tyrer, the only one in authority who represented the for'ard deck. It seemed but natural that they should begin to chivvy him, but Mr. Tyrer took no notice.

True, he had managed to get a bottle out of that damned Jew of a steward, but he wasn't responsible for the breakdown in the arrangements.

'Well, s'help
my
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
If somebody don't get out on that deck bloody quick, I'll get up myself and give you a song and dance.'

'Hurray! Three cheers for Lynch! Three cheers for the pox professor!' everybody cried.

But here was Mr. Walters at last. Behind him the sailor and fireman who were to do the duologue. The two men stood in front of Walters, grinning at the crowd.

Somebody shouted: 'What about a good story and get some dirt into it. We don't want your bloody old duologues.'

Mr. Walters stood motionless. But his aplomb was breaking up, his desire to serve was slowly giving way to a desire to spit, to shout, damn them all right and left. To rush out of the saloon and let them, as Hump had said, 'Sing their bloody insides out.'

He looked very grave. His mouth moved but no words came. The two artists went on grinning, And the audience looked on, wondering, yet returning the grin. Perhaps this was after all a part of the performance.

A voice from the back cried: 'Say, Mr. Walters! Would you mind being so kind as to give each of those men a tap on the head and ask them to begin? But don't hit too hard or the sawdust will come out.'

The whole saloon laughed. But this was short-lived.

What in Christ's name were they standing there for? Doing nothing. Absolutely nothing.

But Mr. Walters's iron reserve had not deserted him. The crowd had now been waiting twenty minutes. And all this time Vesuvius and Williams had beeen watching Walters, whilst Mr. Tyrer watched Vesuvius's cigar get shorter and shorter. Mr. Walters remained quite cool. He was merely waiting for the din to die down. At last one could hear a pin drop. And at last he spoke.

'Now! Mr. Kerns and Mr. Burke are going to sing you a song. We haven't a piano but we hope that everybody will join in the chorus.'

Having made this announcement Mr. Walters placed a hand on each man's shoulder and pushed them forward nearer to the raised platform that had been made out of half a dozen tea-chests. When the men bowed their acknowledgment of the cheers and clapping, Mr. Walters thought it diplomatic to retire once more down the ladder.

'Beggar it,' he said.

He looked at the accordionist, at the dancer, and at the comedian, a fireman who had blackened his face like a nigger and sat on the bottom step of the ladder.

'Well!' he exclaimed, 'this is a mess up and no mistake! I suppose you fellers first thought of this crazy idea, and just because an idea – one does get them sometimes – just because you took it into your head, I've got to beggar about, and—'

'Aw! Can it!' said the man with the black face. 'You're on Easy Street and you don't know it. I should be in my bloody bunk. But instead I just made myself look a proper mug and came up here to amuse the fellers. No one would begrudge that, surely? The trip hasn't exactly been a cakewalk, has it? And I got to go below soon's I done my turn.'

The accordionist picked up his instrument, struck a chord on it.

'Mr. Walters is O.K. by me,' he said, 'and he is by you. But I reckon he's got a lot to do, and I reckon a steward may be tired too. Besides, we get a tot of rum for this, don't we, Mr. Walters?' he concluded laughing.

'Just listen to those fellers up there. "Sweet Adeline." I think it's the only goddam song they know. Oh hell!'

He jumped to his feet, slapped everybody on the back. 'Let's all be friends. Let's give the fellers a bloody fine show. It'll make this goddam trip move faster anyhow.' Then he sat down again and began fiddling with his instrument.