Hollow Sea (5 page)

'Let me see,' he said to himself. 'Last time it was mules. Eighteen hundred of them from Yonkers to Saint Nazaire. Savage creatures. A hell of a lot died. There was plenty of overtime then, hauling the dead ones out of the holds and swinging them overboard. Fat money. H'm.' They had been arguing for an hour
 
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they
had. But there wouldn't be any this time. After all, troops were different. One time he had used to be sorry for them; yes, he could even remember being sorry for the mules suffocating in the 'tween-decks under a blistering sun. Yet somehow he didn't feel that way now. He had had two years of it. Perhaps absorption created this indifference.

'I don't give a damn, anyhow. So long as Rosie and the kid's all right – the world's all right to me.'

Then a bell rang, shutting memory out. He listened. The tug's bell. He looked down. Forms moving hither and thither upon the deck below. The tugs were sheering away. Yes, he could see their dark shapes fast receding into that greater darkness of distance, A.10 was under her own steam. Under way. He pulled out his watch and looked at it. One-thirty. She was now heading for the open sea. Suddenly sadness came over him. He could hear the men below clearing decks, lashing down, making all movable objects fast. He liked them, and wished he was below. He wasn't quite used to this. He always liked crowds and hearing people talk, and watching them going about at their work. Still, he would get used to it. He was a bit lonely at first, but perhaps it was the darkness, the eerie something about her departure that stole in upon him now. Of course, there was the extra ten bob a week. He
had
to keep that in mind. He could put that extra two pound a month away for Rosie and never feel the loss of it. He saw a queer light to port, it came so quickly, it seemed to fling itself at him. He rang the bell, its sounds reverberating down to the decks. Land to starboard, flash of lights, the ceaseless drone of the engines, the whistle of the wind, the wash of waters, the sounds, all these things shaped themselves to a pattern for Rochdale as he stood in the nest. He couldn't think of Annie and the kid even if he tried, urgency had washed them out. Urgency gave life to the ship, created her rhythm. They were going forward. Somewhere people were already awaiting her appearance. Rochdale visioned a quay, a quay even darker than that A.10 had just left. Visioned it black with men, breathing quickly after a long march – cases, crates, baggage.

'I suppose it's Plymouth or Avonmouth, all the time. The bloody fools. It's as easy as sin. Everybody knows, but one kids the other up he doesn't know. Damn silly,' he thought. Making mountains out of molehills, the little thing seems gigantic. Red light to port now. His hand went automatically to the bell. How quiet and peaceful it was up here. And below – well, the world under his hand was blacked out. The world and its unrest. He rang two bells. He answered a voice from the bridge. Again he rang the bell.

There was a continuous flash of light away on the port quarter. Rochdale was all eyes and ears. He must be careful. He had been thinking something, then the light came. No! He mustn't be thinking of anything. He must wash his mind clear of everything except the job in hand. He turned round and looked towards the bridge. He saw the dim reflection of navigation lights, their hoods seeming like gaping black mouths. He looked down. He saw the faint outline of the derricks like long thin fingers, pointing to the heavens.

A.10 seems to be creeping through the water. The sea was quite calm. Only a driving rain made the work a bit uncomfortable. He lowered his head now until only his eyes were visible above the canvas dodger. The steady hum of her engines rang in many voices upon the bridge now. And as suddenly they ceased. All was silent again.

'Funny thing,' he thought, 'even now nobody seems to know
where
she is going.' He smiled then. Perhaps this game, this grown-up game of blind-man's-bluff, did amuse him. The huge thing was beneath his feet, her passage through the water slow and uncertain. And the darkness. If he put out his hand he would almost be able to feel it. Well, she would have the land all the way to anywhere. And at anywhere when they'd loaded their cargo aboard she would go right out. Clear the land. When once you cleared the land, everything was different, sky and water, time, the air, even one's thoughts. Suddenly he heard voices on the fo'c'sle head. They came up out of the night with the clearness of a bell. Men seemed to be leaning over her starboard rail. What were they looking at? She dipped, took water, and the men drew away and were swallowed up in the darkness. Sometimes Rochdale closed his eyes, a sudden spasm of pain would shoot across them. He wondered why. Perhaps it was the ceaseless concentration; the eye focused upon hidden and immeasurable distance. Space. Space. Water. Clouds. He spat. The wind caught it and flung it back in his face. He wiped his mouth. He clutched his arms and yawned. He was beginning to feel a little stiff and he began stamping his feet on the iron floor. A sudden desire overwhelmed him. He wanted to tear down the dodger, to free his limbs from their cramped position, to sail down through space to his bunk and lie there, quiet, undisturbed, to fall asleep. But one could not do that. There was no escape from the nest, nor from that fo'c'sle below. He was like the others. He was held. One did not move but was moved. He recalled how they had signed on, how no questions were asked. One said nothing. Just signed on and went away.

'Ah, well!' He had had his fill of bleeders. But this was much better. No more serving on bleeders for him. Soon he could hear welcome steps climbing the steel ladder. He could go down then. But when he returned it would be growing light. He would see shadowy shapes to port, ships, smacks, other liners like A.10, a destroyer or two, perhaps. They would dip flag for the destroyers. He could turn in right away. Not even bother about a cup of tea. The very thought of bunk made him feel tired now and he stretched his arms, yawning again. Somebody below shouted: 'Steam's on.' They must be trying out the winches. Then he was all attention. A light flashed across his bow. Damn! Where had that come from? He was forgetting, he must be more careful. Tonight would soon pass and the next day and then there would be many things to be seen. He was thinking of this when suddenly he heard a voice just below say:

'O.K., Rochdale! I'm coming.'

Then a head loomed up and a pair of eyes rested on the man in the nest. Rochdale smiled a welcome. How quickly the time had gone. He jammed his body against the mast whilst the other man climbed in. Then he fastened his coat, jammed the cap down on his head and saying 'Best of luck', climbed over.

He was looking at the relief whilst his right foot felt for the rung of the ladder.

'How's it?' enquired the relief.

'Now't much,' Rochdale replied. 'Better to-morrow, perhaps. I always hate skimming the bloody land like poison. Better in the wilderness.'

The relief laughed as he tightened his woollen scarf round his ears. 'So long!' he said. Rochdale vanished. He descended the ladder, his eyes searching for the flat shape which was the deck. Once he looked up as though he were measuring the distance. He reached the deck and went for'ard. Hot coffee had just been brought in. The fo'c'sle was full of draughts, men's snores, lowered voices, the creaking of the table when A.10 dipped, the banging of a tin cup that hung behind the fo'c'sle door.

'Why don't the feller who owns that bloody thing take it down? It gives you the rats.'

Some of the watch just off had gone to the galley to make toast. Rochdale took a round of bread and went to make some, too. He didn't really want it, in fact he just wanted to fling himself in his bunk, clothes and all. Still everybody seemed to be making the toast this evening, so why shouldn't he? He returned to the fo'c'sle and sat down to eat.

'Cold up there?' O'Grady asked. He was stretched out on a form.

'Not bad,' replied Rochdale. He ate his toast, gulped his coffee down. The rest of the watch off came in then. They crowded round the table, filling cups and mugs from the lukewarm kettle. The table was covered with breadcrumbs, pieces of crust, cigarette ends. Rochdale got up and went over to his bunk. He began to undress. In three hours and a quarter he would be out again. The man who slept above him, whom they called Vesuvius, suddenly sat up in his bunk and cried out:

'I smelt a smell. Hey, O'Grady, are you still cutting your damned toe-nails? Why don't you cut them in the petty outside?' A chorus took up the cry. Yes. Why the hell didn't he? Cutting his bloody nails where men were eating. O'Grady put his socks on. He always slept in his socks.

'What delicate stomachs you boys have,' he said, and immediately returned to his bunk. 'Maybe you'll be sitting to something worse than bare toes soon,' was his final rejoinder. Then he covered his head with the blanket. Save for the now recumbent man the fo'c'sle was deserted.

'Where's Turner?' The voice came from a bunk near the door.

'I'm here,' Turner said. 'Why? Got another of your crazy ideas?'

'Crazy! No! Let me tell you one and all that this ship is going to carry nothing save horse-muck for the supplies.'

Everybody laughed. 'Quite correct,' Turner said. 'Nothing to laugh about. The only person who has a right to laugh is that fellow up there with the eye.'

'You mean the skipper?'

'That's it.'

'But he never laughs. He always goes about with a long face. I reckon he doesn't like this ship.'

Rochdale said: 'You're both wrong. It's Vesuvius's misery that the captain don't like.' Rochdale laughed. 'Good night.'

'Good morning you mean,' shouted O'Grady. 'Switch out that confounded light.'

A hand appeared out of the corner bunk and switched off the light. The fo'c'sle settled itself down to sleep. From time to time they heard the water break over her head, whilst whistling sounds came up the hawse-pipe. The bosun heard these sounds, too. He climbed out of his bunk and stood in the dark alleyway in singlet and drawers shouting at the top of his voice: 'There's that damned door again. I thought I told you fellers to keep the bloody chain-locker door fast. Damn you all, so there! Are you deaf?' Only snores answered him. 'D'you hear me?' he roared, then without waiting for a reply and shivering violently he rushed back to his bunk. Something made him think of Avonmouth and the embarkation.

'We ought to have had more sand,' he thought. The door of the room banged. 'Oh blast,' he said, and got out, kicking it shut. Aye! They'd want all the sand they could get. He chuckled to himself and made himself snug in the bunk again. He left his light burning. At one-thirty-five A.10 increased her speed.

It was fast growing light: Dark clouds scurried across the sky. Mr. Dunford at the moment was very interested in them. Bradshaw was standing to the left, Ericson to the right. Mr. Dunford was speaking, looking up at the clouds and tapping his finger on the canvas.

'We should sight her at any moment. By the way, Bradshaw, did you tell the bosun about the extra look-out on the monkey bridge?' Bradshaw replied that he had. Conversation ceased abruptly, when two loud clangs came from the crow's-nest. The three men took up their glasses and searched the horizon. It was much lighter now. Mr. Dunford was the first to see the tiny speck of smoke. It was about two points to starboard now. He put down his glasses on the fog-locker and said quietly, 'That's her now, I'll swear. Wait a minute.' He put a hand on Ericson's arm. 'Wait.' And he took up the glasses once more.

'Yes. That's her! Get Tomlinson here right away.'

'Yes, sir.' And Ericson hurried away for the chief quartermaster. Bradshaw, his eyes upon the speck of smoke, could see the outlines of the destroyer. She was bearing down on them. Mr. Dunford picked up the glasses again. She had drawn nearer. Yes. He could even see a man upon the bridge. 'They're going to signal us,' he said quietly, without removing his eye from the glass. Tomlinson came then, carrying two flags.

'Ready,' Dunford said. 'They're already signalling.' Are you A.10?
ARE
you A.10? He forgot Bradshaw's presence. He suddenly commenced to laugh. 'Are you A.10?' he was saying in his mind, '
ARE
you A.10?' Of course they were. Fourteen thousand tons of steel and sixty human beings proclaimed the fact. And under his eye was the board. A.10. Lettering a foot high. 'Take this message,' he said, half turning to where Bradshaw was standing. He sighted again. 'You will proceed to a point outside the harbour at midnight and await further orders.'

'Reply,' shouted Dunford to the quartermaster. 'Reply.'

'Proceeding slowly. Will await orders outside the harbour at midnight. Dunford, Transport A.10.' He could see the signalman descending from the bridge. He trained his eye upon the destroyer's bow, and held it there. She seemed to be heading off. He put down the glasses.

'That's all, Bradshaw,' he said. 'Dismiss the quartermaster.' Then he left the bridge. He went straight to his room. He sat down at the table, looked at the long official-looking envelope the tall thin gentleman from the shore had given him. Well, he was alone. And now he could laugh. 'Methodology in excelsis,' he said, and laughed loud and long. 'Methodology in excelsis.' He looked at the envelope again. 'Confidential,' he read. Again he laughed. He picked it up and flung it into the drawer. As if the men didn't know. As if everybody didn't know. Damn fools. This secrecy, this furtiveness. That was what galled him. He stood up, looked thoughtful for a moment and then found himself exclaiming with quiet emphasis: 'Well, if you were against it, if you thought the whole thing crazy, Dunford, you should have resigned. But you haven't; and now you're here. You're in the swim, you're part of the whole thing, and you must go through with it.' Of course, He
would
go through with it. He wasn't going to back out like a fool. Not at all. 'God damn! If they only brought some intelligence into the mad game. No! That's quite wrong. Dear me. Well now perhaps I can turn in and really go to sleep. Method in their madness. Good Lord. One positively feels ashamed at sleeping.'