Authors: James Hanley
No one spoke. The man went out, stood for a moment leaning against the bulkhead. He staggered down to the well-deck, reached the rail and clung to this. 'Yought've seen the stuff that come out of his gob. Aye, and these had mouths all torn to pieces. You'd think that snarling wolves had been at them, you would.'
Rochdale suddenly lurched and was violently sick, but he did not lose his grip upon the rail. He felt as though his whole body was being torn through and through. 'Aye! I was sorry, mates,' he said, and suddenly retched violently again. 'Ugh,' he said.
A hand touched his shoulder but he did not move. His head went lower and lower.
'Steady, Rochy, lad! It's bloody lousy I know, but it's all right. Goddam! They didn't mean anything. Sides I've been on a "bleeder" and I know. You can't help being sick. That's how it is! D'you feel any better now, old man? What a war, mate, what a bloody war.' He put both hands on the sick look-out man's shoulders. 'Stand up now.'
It was Williams. He had followed Rochdale out from the fo'c'sle. He liked Mr. Higginbottom, and now he was sorry for Mr. Higginbottom. 'Look here, Rochdale, I'll tell you what! You go back now and get undressed, and turn in. Nobody'll bother you. And what's more I'll go along and see if I can't get a nip of brandy off that damned fox, Walters. Christ, he's made his pile this trip. Ah, but I wouldn't be in his shoes, sir, not for a billion pounds. Think of his bloody conscience, and look at the work he'll have to do. All by himself, d'you see?'
But the man at the rail was too sick to hear, too sick to laugh. He saw fast moving water, bits of wood, weed floating past and suddenly he was sick again. But this time Williams dragged him clear of the scuppers.
'Come on now! Turn in.'
Goddam, if he stood there spewing much longer there'd be nothing of him left. He looked up at the bridge. There was Mr. Dunford looking directly at them. 'That eye!' said Williams. 'Oh, that eye! Come on.' He put an arm round Rochdale's shoulder, and led him slowly towards the alleyway. All the way to the man's bunk he kept up a running commentary, the words came in flood, poured from his mouth, a mouth so small, and lips so thin, it seemed a miracle words could pour forth in such a torrent. But what was the fellow talking about? Rochdale didn't know. The violent retching gave him a splitting headache.
'Ugh,' he said. 'It was bloody. Bloody.'
'Why, there you are! You're getting better already. I knew it! Wait till you get that nip of brandy! You'll sleep like the bloody Sleeping Beauty. But d'you know, Rochy, I'd rather pinch this brandy, d'you see! That storeroom is full of bottles. Aye, they even got wine, the lousy suckers, and I haven't even set eyes on a glass of lemonade since we left port.'
Men were standing by the fo'c'sle door as they approached. Williams helped the look-out man over the step.
'Make way, fellers, this man is ill, fact! He's emptied his guts out there. Goddam, I thought every minute he'd go over, else burst a blood vessel. Christ, you know I never could see how a sailor could be a married man. A sailor is no sailor really unless he's broke, hasn't a friend in the world except the lady with the big paps corner of every sailor's street, that's a sailor. Rochdale should be home. He's got a missus, kids, a little shop. I got sweet beggar all, same to you O'Grady, Turner; same to you, O'Neill. Look out of the bloody way. There you are! Damn it, you don't get a minute on this ship. Listen him! Listen him! Goddam fat-bellied toad.'
'Outside there! Outside there.'
'Sure! We're coming now! Keep your shirt on, bosun. Keep your buttons fastened.'
Williams undressed Rochdale, put him into his bunk, folded his clothes, drew the curtains, then rejoined the watch on deck.
'Bosun.'
'Hello! H
ELLO
! God! You again. What's come into your Welsh nut now?'
'Nothing,' Williams said, and spat into the scuppers. 'D'you think that Walters would give a nip of brandy to a sick man? A very sick man.'
'I suppose the sick man's you. No, sir. We have no brandy. He hasn't any brandy, I haven't any brandy! It's all been drunk, my lad.' The bosun laughed.
'Listen you,' Williams said, 'that look-out Rochdale – he's a sick man. Christ, you should've seen him like I seen him standing in that scupper.'
'Where is he?'
'In his bunk,' Williams said. The other stood around, hands in pockets.
'All right! You know your job. Get to C deck and carry on till I come!' He went back to his room, unlocked his cupboard and took out a half-bottle of whisky. He poured some neat into a glass, then relocked the cupboard. He went to the fo'c'sle, drew aside Rochdale's curtain and rudely shook him.
'Hey, Rochdale! Drink this! Wake up. Drink this down.' The look-out man was fast asleep. He shook him again. The man stirred, sat up. 'Ugh!' he said.
'Here,' he said, 'get this down your gullet, lad. Gosh! I'm surprised a man like you acting like he was a little kid at a tea-party. Come on! Get it down.' How ill the man looked. He put his hand behind the look-out man's head and held the glass to his mouth.
'Head back, mouth open, there.' Rochdale lay back. 'Jeese, he does look bad,' the bosun said under his breath. He threw the man's reefer coat across the bunk. 'And now nice sweet dreams till two o'clock, laddie.' He drew the curtain and went out again. He banged the door. The ring hanging on it rattled loudly. What a trip! What a boat! What a mess! he was thinking as he hurried to join the men on C deck. Well, he wouldn't be sorry when they got to Alex., by Harry no, he'd lie on something, anyhow!
He passed number one hatch. 'Wounded,' he muttered. Passed number two and three: 'Dead,'
'Empty,' he said. Then he vanished below. Ah! There was the very man he was looking for. He saw him coming forward at a quick pace. He dodged two great piles of rubbish, dust, decayed food, slops, old belts, filthy pieces of rag, handkerchiefs, tins, cigarette packets, pieces of photographs torn to shreds, lice-ridden shirts.
'Can I speak to you, Mr. Ericson, sir?' he called out. And here he was. He examined the young officer from head to foot. His eye, a bleary, bloodshot eye, passed slowly from the clean linen collar to the meticulously speckless black serge, right down to the highly polished black boots. 'If you'll excuse me, sir,' he went on, and shifted his eye quickly, watching the sailors gathering up the rubbish for clearance.
'Yes, bosun,' Ericson said. 'I was just coming down here to tell you to take down the ventilators at three and five. You'd better batten down three and five.'
He paused for a moment. He seemed to be in the act of smelling, at least it appeared so to the bosun. Mr. Ericson was smelling, not so much the something under his nose as something afar off – an approaching smell. 'What is that, bosun?'
'Dunno, sir. I never noticed anything in particular – like.'
'By God, no,' thought Ericson. 'But Mr. Dunford will.' He looked from corner to corner of the 'tween-deck. Saw the watch busy working.
Williams suddenly stood erect and looked at the junior officer. He looked at his back, a long, slim back, Mr. Ericson looked more youthful behind than he did in front. He grunted then. 'Um,' he said. 'Um! he's smelling somethin' and he doesn't know what it is. Blind bat. He's smellin' and it's in the corner where queerness is.'
'It's about these men, sir,' the bosun began. 'Are there any orders, sir? I mean: Are we burying these men at sea? There's a fair number, sir. Over a hundred. I'm not counting the wounded of course, Mr. Ericson, sir.'
'We should reach Alexandria in two – in three days time.'
'But I'd like to know, sir! If as I am informed, sir, they're changing us over, d'you, sir—'
'Oh no, they're not, bosun. Only circumstance makes this necessary. Besides, we haven't the accommodation for a hospital-ship here! She's fitted for troops, not wounded men. It was a question of minimizing the loss of life, bosun. No! I want you to clean out these 'tween-decks, and don't forget your ventilators. I've been wondering whether we couldn't dispense with the lot now. Captain Dunford doesn't like them. At night it's – well – carry on, bosun.'
'Yes, sir. Very good, sir! I—' but Mr. Ericson was hurrying away as fast as he could.
'Ah! D'you see now, Bosun! See the goddam difference, sir, between a well-bred nose, and an ordinary one. Who'd have smelt that pile of muck in the corner, only him, and that's where they bin doing their duty, sir! Yes, sir, and we jolly jack lads, we're beggars for work, so we'll clear up the corner where queerness is. Ten pettys for two hundred men. What ďyou expect? The way they run this beggaring war, and by every right, Bosun, I tell you, this ship should stink from here to Honolulu. From Hell to Timbuctoo! From Cape Horn to Paradise! We're a coffin ship and by the living Christ, Rajah, that old swine was right. And believe me, as soon as this one touches cold stone I'm hooking it. I'd sooner work on a dhow.'
'Nobody's listening, Williams! We close our ears to you. Welsh! Welsh! You talk like a parrot.'
'Vesuvius, or Mr. Bloody Herring, whichever you prefer to be called, get up on top, send a sling down, and then a barrel, and keep doing that until I tell you to stop. You Williams, you Turner, O'Grady, get that stuff piled into buckets, all those old rags into slings, and those bloody coats and shirts as well. And when you've done that you can clean out that smelly corner. I hate stinks myself, you fellers, but remember it's only the stink of damn good men. Goddam, I stood there this morning watching them go, and by God, they were brave, they—'
'Listen him!' Williams said. 'Listen him! Three cheers for the General. Hip-hip, hurray!'
S
INCE
the sun had risen bringing with it millions of flies, flies which one swallowed as one breathed, Captain Dunford's eyes had constantly looked back at the accursed land. The blurred outlines of that yellow coast were clear now, all too clear, the green hills beyond enriching their greenness under the light. From time to time he put the glasses to his eyes and slowly looked down the coast. Was it bluff, was it sheer ignorance, madness maybe, he had always thought that, or was it just an innocent mistake? To run seven great ships across that bay, under cover it is true of steel, stout guns, though of what avail against that frightful moonlight? Perhaps it was a curse. Only, perhaps. Yes. There it was. Clear as daylight now. All the preparations, the fiddling preliminaries under darkness, and then when the grim business really began, the confounded moon must come up. Maybe there was magic in that moon, maybe it went to the head – but – ah, the wrong head. Yes. The wrong head! They had landed those men at the wrong beach. Frightful! What confusion! Ghastly! Boats blown adrift, drifting helplessly down the coast under murderous fire, the drowned, and the— He shut his eyes. Wherever I look I shall see them! Above or below – today and tomorrow. If I open my eyes now and look down I shall see that canvas covering those struck and for ever silent. Poor old Bradshaw! Poor Bradshaw!' Dunford began pacing the bridge They were not safe yet – far from safe.
'Starboard, a bit, quartermaster.'
This without looking in through the window where stood the sphinx-like figure of the helmsman; head bowed, hands tense upon the wheel.
'And all those wounded,' thought Dunford. 'All those wounded!' But it would be A.10 Lucky A.10! She would get them. No matter, there would be Alexandria soon; and men would soon forget, for with one stroke purpose would wipe clean all infamy from that deck, there to be repeated, again and again. Upon those decks where only ten hours ago the feet of men had stood, the feet of the simple and the insulted, the brave and the terrible, there would stride the bared feet of Arabs, and they would patter along those decks, coaling her, spitting here and there where history had been made.
'These cursed flies.' Well, yonder they swallowed them with bully-beef, they coated the tongue, covered the eyes, filled the nose, a pestilence upon the face; here at least was wind, and soon security, and a little peace, a quiet hour and time to run the film across one's brain again. Up and down, hands clasped behind his back, up and down, the same rhythm, up down, up down, a glance through the wheel-house window—
'Port a bit, quartermaster.'
'Port a bit, sir,' he replied, eyes to the compass, his world prisoner of that world. Beyond, sky, space, water, passing craft, wreckage, a great liner, a rowing-boat, a destroyer, a huge battle-cruiser. He saw only his needle-point, thought of relief at 2 p.m., hot tin-food, a lie down – oblivion.
'I shall make a thorough inspection tomorrow at eleven o'clock. I shall bury Bradshaw at midnight then. The others – I'll bury later. The death-ship. Lord, if I had that grinning monkey now – God! I would plug those jaws, nail him to the bow.'
He stopped suddenly in the wing, leaned on the rail. 'It is clear, quite clear, it is irrevocable, proceed to Alexandria. Very well, I shall proceed!'
He began pacing again. He saw barrels of rubbish, slings full of rubbish, filth and memories in the same sling, rise from the holds, rise beneath the hovering cloud of flies. Down went the barrel, up came the sling. 'And that is only the beginning.' Sometimes he looked at a sailor, he did not know him, nor any of them. Strangers all. They worked here, lived and slept for'ard. How cool they were.
'Here you are, Ericson!' he exclaimed with a sigh of relief, as he saw the junior officer coming along the deck.
'You
can take over. One hour. Understand? I shall be back then, I or Mr. Deveney.' He gave him the course, some instructions, an important one: 'Blow for the
slightest
thing. We can't afford to be indifferent yet.' Then he was gone.
Straight to the one remaining officer's cabin. For the first time in days he laughed loudly, and long; he put his hands on his knees and laughed. For there was Deveney at last, naked to the eye, the real Deveney, the Deveney of that great coat, that Mephistophelian cloak, that strutting marshal's great-coat. Good Lord! 'You are better than I', said Dunford. He went into the cabin and closed the door behind him.
Deveney said: 'Sit down, sir. Yes. Mr. Walters says so, and I go by Mr. Walters the human thermometer, who is simply wasting his time here feeding soldiers, Mr. Dunford. He should have a large house in Harley Street, not only because I believe he's missed his real vocation, but because the man is so tremendously ambitious. Really. I am better, Mr. Dunford. I think I can relieve Mr. Ericson now. My God! It's sad about young Bradshaw.' He dusted his face with his loose open hand, it gave the impression of a cat washing itself. Dunford looked at the man. For a long time he was silent. Then he said: