Hollow Sea (8 page)

'What a lot of youngsters there are,' he said.

The officer smiled. He was a young man about Ericson's age.

'Young but sound.'

He did not forget the remark. He imagined the officer had been feeling proud. Mr. Dunford advised him to steer clear of the officers. He said he thought the officer had momentarily forgotten himself. Probably he was thinking of prime beef. Mr. Ericson writhed under such callousness.

'You don't want to take too much notice of what Mr. Dunford says,' advised Bradshaw.

The two officers were sitting in the mess-room. They were waiting for Mr. Walters's tit-bit. This consisted of fresh rock-cakes and cream.

'Where can he have got the cream from?' asked Ericson.

What a question to ask, thought Bradshaw.

'Heaven knows. Mr. Walters is in many ways an amazing man. I suppose it's just one of his miracles. I once had a rabbit-pie from Walters, which I thoroughly enjoyed, but there was no rabbit in it.'

They fell to when the tit-bit came to the table.

'Deveney's in bad luck,' Ericson remarked suddenly.

Bradshaw looked up. 'Yes,' he said. 'But it's nothing much. You'll see worse things than malarial seizures before you've finished.'

They finished their meal and lighted cigarettes. Then they went outside, standing by one of the boats. From where they stood they had a clear view of the stern-decks. Ericson flung his cigarette away.

'What's your opinion about it?' he asked Bradshaw.

'My opinion? Well, I think we'll go full-speed ahead, allowing for accidents, of course, or a sudden change of order, which wouldn't be unusual. Full-speed to that gory spot called O.' He smiled. 'But you know where I mean, don't you?'

Ericson nodded his head.

'We'll discharge these soldiers, then clear out. Anchor in some damned stinking hole and wait for more orders.'

'Mr. Dunford thinks it both unwise and unsound.'

'Mr. Dunford,' replied Bradshaw. 'Mr. Dunford thinks everybody's crazy. That's what he thinks. Sometimes I have a mind to agree with him. But I'm not going to go into that now. I'm turning in. So-long.'

He walked away, leaving the younger officer still staring at the crowd of soldiers lining the stern-rail. After a while Ericson, too, retired to his room. Five minutes later he was on the bridge again. He looked at his watch. Two more hours. When the quartermaster came along he handed him a book saying:

'That's for Mr. Dunford.'

'Very good, sir.'

The mist was fast gathering. Already her fo'c'sle-head was hidden from view. Looking to his left the second could see this rolling cloud. Automatically his hand went to the fog-clock set in the bulkhead below him. At a quarter to two he set it in motion and blew for the quartermaster on duty. When the man appeared he said:

'Stand by that clock.' Then he added, 'Blow.' The mist was fast covering the ship.

R
OCHDALE
, who liked occasionally to be addressed by his proper name of Higginbottom, stepped out of the fo'c'sle and walked leisurely down the alleyway with the air of a man who hasn't a care in the world. Confusion had given way to order. The excitement was over. Order reigned everywhere. So it seemed to Mr. Higginbottom, as he emerged from the alleyway and looked out over the ship. She was moving pretty fast, he thought. Soldiers were everywhere. The well-deck, the flush-deck, saloon-deck, the poop, the fo'c'sle-head, the boat-deck. One sea of khaki. A forest of faces, which at a quick glance were but one face. An innocent face. An earnest one. Higginbottom sat down on the hatch-top and took out his pipe. He filled it with hard stuff and struck a match. He thought the watchers had it pretty enough. Nothing to watch – down – watch – down – watch after watch. Changing the ventilators round – shipping and unshipping awnings. And, of course, dumping rubbish. There seemed to be plenty of that. They would have hot weather soon. There would be plenty of sweating, he thought. Raised voices could be heard coming from the fo'c'sle, but nothing, not even a cannon, could drown out this orgy of sound, the continuous murmur that rose from her crowded decks. It was like a continuous succession of wants. Laughter and curses, titters. Exclamations, questions, answers, all mingled, became one – one voice just as that forest of faces was one face. And on that face was written purpose. They were going somewhere. That was certain. Where, exactly, Rochdale didn't know, nor did he care. His job was to stand in the nest and with his eyes measure distances. Now he was off duty. His purpose was to sit quietly on the hatch-top, and think of Annie and Rosie. Annie and Rosie were the orbits of Mr. Higginbottom's world. He puffed away at his pipe and then deliberately turned his head and looked out on the waters. It was difficult to find a place where one could sit and feel absolutely alone, absolutely with oneself. The fo'c'sle was impossible. Arguments – arguments. And to walk the deck was impossible. In the nest he couldn't think of them. Here he could. At least they'd left the alleyway and well-deck to the crew. This was really the first time Mr. Higginbottom had had the chance of what he called a breather. Anybody who glanced at him now and seeing the broad smile he wore would have assumed that he was making jokes with himself, or that he had reached the crest of some delightful reflection. But the smile passed and Rochdale got up from the hatch. He stood hands in pockets, looking up at the bridge, and saw what seemed to be a motionless figure standing in the middle of it. Perhaps the person was looking down at him now. Rochdale gave a little laugh, wondering what he looked like from that height. Then he heard a step behind him and a voice saying:

'Hello, Rochy, watching that eye up there?'

He turned round. It was the sailor, Vesuvius.

'Yes,' replied Rochdale. 'I was trying to get the colour of it.'

'Come and sit down. I want to talk to you, Rochdale.'

The two men sat down on the hatch. Vesuvius took a half sweat-rag from his pocket and wiped his face. To look at the man's face, with its large pimples, was like looking at the blisters on a burnt cake, though, unlike a cake, Vesuvius's face was reddish-purple. He was always dabbing at these pimples. It seemed that they only sweated.

'Well,' said Rochdale, 'what are you going to tell us now. A miracle?'

'We're going to Oran,' said Vesuvius. He spat on the deck.

'Oran? What for? But I heard—'

'Fact. Oran, first call. No reason why we shouldn't call there, is there? Probably coaling. D'you know it's about the best coaling-station in the Mediterranean?'

'But is that all? Christ! I thought you were going to tell me that Mr. Dunford had had a child or something.'

'No,' Vesuvius whispered in Rochdale's ear. 'No. But that fellow Walters will soon. D'you know that Williams has got hold of a uniform and aims to go down the hold to-night with his Crown and Anchor? And what's more, O'Grady and him are going to start selling scoff to the boys. That's what I wanted to tell you, Rocky, my bloody lad. Why shouldn't we be in on this? In fact, why shouldn't the whole bloody lot of us start selling scoff? They're hungry enough, God knows. And they've got the money. What damned use will money be to them fellers, say in a week? Sweating in a bloody desert. Getting their arses fanned by the Turks?'

In the excitement of this short narrative one of the pimples on the man's face burst and he jabbed the sweat-rag to his face.

'Can't you ever get rid of these bloody things, Vesuvius?' asked Rochdale.

'Get rid of them? What for? No! That's a little legacy from France. I was a mug. Still I'm hanged if I want to get rid of them now. In fact, Rochdale, I like my bloody pimples.' He suddenly coughed. Rochdale stroked his chin, looked terribly serious and said:

'I'm having beggar-all to do with this scoff business. That's that.'

'You bloody saint,' said Vesuvius, registering his disgust. 'God damn my soul, everybody's in on it. After all, it's only a few bob.'

'We're not billionaires. The troops don't get half enough to eat. And I tell you they have the money. Why shouldn't they fill their bellies now?'

'I said I'd have nothing to do with it. Besides, I consider it's just lousy. Those stewards are minting a pile out of it. There's two or three I know already who've chucked the sea. Retired – one's got a bloody pub. And to make it out of these poor sods. No, sir.'

'You won't, then,' said Vesuvius. 'I can't press you. But think about it. Blast my bloody soul, isn't everybody on the make? Everybody. Why should you be an exception? Who the hell are you anyhow?'

'A man I hope,' replied Higginbottom. 'That's all. I'm not in on it. You'll be able to have my share as well, Vesuvius. But don't get excited about it. Your face would be a bloody mess if all those pimples burst at the same time. It's a dirty, lousy, bloody game.'

He got up and walked away, leaving Vesuvius sitting in the hatch. Vesuvius immediately rose and went after him. 'Look here,' he said. 'It beats me really, you and your bloody conscience. Everybody else is in on this game. Are you better than any of us? Or what? Strike me bloody pink.'

'Oh! Go to hell,' said Rochdale angrily, and went back into the fo'c'sle. Vesuvius's friends, he had no doubt at all they were cronies, were sitting together, and they were engaged in an earnest conversation. Rochdale looked at them saying 'Fairy-tale time?' and then went across to his bunk and taking up his diddy-bag turned out its contents on the bed. Williams, Turner and O'Grady went on talking. 'It's that old sod Walters,' said Williams. 'He wants all the bloody fat for himself. That's how it is.'

'Is it?' roared the bosun from the fo'c'sle doorway. 'Seems you fellers haven't been to kip since wash-down. Where's your Peggy?'

'Gone for the grub, I suppose,' Turner said. Turner was a married man with a large family. He had a face like a seal, and it was almost hairless. Friends taunted him about his woman's skin. The bosun leaned against the door. 'Listen, soon as eight bells goes I want you fellers – the whole bloody gang aft. Right aft. Understand. I'll be there. There's a hell of a mess there I believe.'

'Not gun practice by the way?' asked Turner.

The bosun did not answer. He looked farther off the fo'c'sle to where Rochdale was sitting, apparently inspecting the contents of his diddy-bag. 'And what are you doing, Higginbottom?'

'Me! Making ready my bloody trousseau. What d'you think?'

'You'll have to keep those damned eyes of yours well skimmed, Higginbottom my lad, judging from the reports I've had from Mr. Mate.'

'Aye!' This from Williams. 'Oh, aye; well you can keep his reports to yourself, Bosun. Trying to put the wind up us?'

'Gangway, there,' shouted the peggy, hurrying up the alleyway with a large kid of steaming stew. 'Gangway, there.'

The bosun made way for him. 'And you get aft too, son, when you've slopped up their bloody mess. Aft. On that poop. Hear me?'

'I hear you,' replied the peggy, as he dumped the kiddy in the middle of the table. There was a concerted rush to table. Spoons, plates, knives and forks seemed to appear out of the air. Everybody ate. Everybody talked, even Rochdale, though nobody seemed to take much notice of him. They weren't interested. They were too absorbed in their own plans for the day-watch. Rochdale looked at his watch. A few minutes to go. He went to his bunk, took his reefer and helmet and went out on deck. It wasn't very cold to-day. To-morrow he probably wouldn't need a jacket at all. As he climbed the ladder five sudden blasts on the whistle made him jump. Boat-drill. He looked down. Indescribable confusion. The crew and the troops mixed together. All running towards the boat-deck. Shouting. Faces emerging from holds, rooms, alleyways. Rochdale climbed on.

'Relieve,' he shouted and his head appeared over the nest. 'Hurry up,' he said, 'you'll just be in time for a nice bit of boat-drill. Fancy being bloody well holed with a crowd like that on board. Kids. All of them.'

Just kids. Aye! Hadn't he seen them? Every one of them. Kids. Rosy cheeks, hairless faces, wide-open eyes, the wonder and innocence as yet unspoiled. Laughing and joking. Singing and shouting. A wonderful adventure – the tang in the air, the rhythm's throb of her engines, the thoughts of new horizons, distant shores, the urgency, the aptness. Ah! Just a lot of bloody kids. Rochdale got into the nest. The relieved man began the descent of the ladder. So here he was again, up in the sky. The same colours, the same measureless distances, the same silence. A floating barrel passed by. Later an oar. Rochdale exclaimed: 'H'm! Fancy that.' An oar and then a barrel. He made himself as comfortable as possible, settling his feet on the mat. He spread out his arms and leaned over the nest. A nice height to look down from. Men looked funny from such a height. The air was electric with shouts, orders.

'Stand by here! Stand by here.' He wouldn't look, anyhow. No! Anything might happen, yes at any minute, then he'd get all the looking he wanted. He thought, 'What could I do if she got holed? Get into a boat with all those kids? No, sir! I'd take a header over the side and chance it.' But he'd better not start getting thoughts like that into his head. Then suddenly all thought was gone. He was one with space, with the calm it holds. He looked straight ahead. Once he turned his head to glance down at the bridge. And there was that figure, still, motionless, like something carved in stone.

Dunford was standing there looking down at the deck below. And he saw hundreds of bodies, faces, heads, legs. Now he knew where they were going. Yes. He knew. In an hour he would go below for inspection. He could be amongst these men, these youths, these boys. 'They will go ashore on rafts,'he thought. 'Yes. On rafts.' He looked to the starboard wing. There was Bradshaw, leaning over like himself, absorbed by the crowded life below. But they would not be thinking the same thing. No! A gulf separated them. There was one Bradshaw, two Dunfords. And one of the Dunfords was tired, suffering a certain discomfort of mind. How many times had he gone through this? How many thousands had he seen pass out? Was this the key to the discomforting thoughts? No. Then what? It seemed to have no meaning. Perhaps that was it. No meaning. A fine frenzy. Nothing more. 'You do it but you don't believe in it. That's what it is,' he told himself. Telling yourself it was the curt gesture, the emphatic nod, the unconscious acceptance of later wounds, wounds, annihilation. Suddenly he stood erect, as though struck a blow by some unseen hand, and he pointed sharply and glared in at the quartermaster. 'I said a point, you fool.' He went across and rapped on the window of the wheelhouse. 'One point! We're not taking in the whole confounded seven seas.' He was glad of that, yes. Glad of that break. It broke the tension. He began pacing the bridge. In five, perhaps six days they would have reached their destination. And then? Clear decks. That was all. Clear decks. Then more orders. Yes. More orders. He called to Bradshaw.