Authors: James Hanley
The monkey spat. The man in the shadow did not move. Once he looked at the bulwarks patterned with tobacco quids and he smiled. The yellow face was raised, the light caught it now, and the man in the shadow thought, 'A good name for him. A good name.'
The figure on the box moved slightly, changing his position. '
"I ain't allowed to let anybody pass this spot." I said to him. "Soon as this ship tied up here eleven hours ago everything was changed. See! This'n came in in the dark, and I reckon she'll go out the same way." "But I got to get that parcel," he said. "I simply got to get it." I knew he was mad angry then. But I got me orders. "Isn't there somebody on board who can identify me? What about the third? He's bound to be in his room? I got to get it, anyhow." Way back in the shed I heard somebody shouting. "Hurry up there, Jack." I looked at this fellow. Reckon you got to be mighty careful these times. Can't tell, but you might be talking to a spy or something. "Eh? I tell you this'n can't be boarded. See! Ain't that enough for you? Or d'you prefer an order signed by the Admiralty? Get down that gangway." He never moved. "You goin' down?" I said. Anyhow, I blew my whistle. He never expected that. Fellow came from the hut then. I said to him: "This fellow wants a parcel. He wants it so badly that I reckon it must have knickers in it, or the best Boston garters, anyway." You should'a seen his face. I nearly laughed because it was so funny. Anyhow, he went away and I ain't seen him since – and I've watched every man Jack come aboard here. But he ain't come. No, sir! Not him!' He cleared his throat and spat again. The other man's eyes were still upon him, but no word passed between them.
'So you're in her, too?' the monkey said. He laughed then. 'I remember this'n on her trials. Aye! Even did two trips in her.' The other said:
'Christ! What a stink.'
'Stink? Reckon this'n will stink before long. Don't tie up ships at this quay for nothing. See! Somebody else got her now. By God! I'm sittin' on velvet meself with this bloody war on. Aye!' He laughed again. 'I knew when she'd dock. Sure! I mind that mate of mine telling me about her. Stick her in amongst the riff-raff, eh?' They stared at each other in silence for a long time. The rattle of the winch at number three suddenly stopped. The man leaned back against the bulkhead. 'Raining again,' he said.
'Aye! She was a good'un, one time. But she's fair fixed now. Sure thing. The others got her now. See! Believe you me or believe you me not, she's a fixed 'un. 'Bout an hour's time this army on board'll clear out, then she'll clear out too. Reckon you'll take an army on board some other place. Don't know which, though. Nobody does. And when I was your age I remember I read about the plans for laying her down. That's a while ago I reckon. So you're in her, too. Well! Well! I got two sons on one, too. Can't remember her number. Numbers ain't as good as names. Suppose those fellows know best.' He yawned and lay back, his head sunken on his breast. The man said: '
'Night, Rajah.' He went away.
The light above the box grew dim, then brightened again. The figure on the box turned round, so that the red light in the saloon caught his face. He was grinning. 'Nothing'll get you save rats.' That was what he said. For the first time he laughed aloud. He took the half-plug of tobacco from his pocket, bit a piece off and began to chew. His eyes wandered to the bulwarks, lighted on the bad patch which the painter had forgotten to cover, and remained there.
He heard the harsh, guttural sound of running water. Somebody had opened the hydrant on the quay. Figures passed him continuously but he did not raise his head. A light flashed on the bridge and went out again. He could hear men talking together on the poop. Behind him somebody shouted, 'Turn it off now.' The harsh sound died away. He did not seem to notice it, his eyes were still staring at the bad patch. 'Nothing'll get you, Rajah, save the rats.' He laughed again, seeing the man's face, the expression in his eyes as he let fall the remark. 'Special kind of rats'll get them.' He chuckled. He withdrew his hands from his pockets, joined them together, whilst the expression upon his face changed for a moment. 'Special kind of rats'll get them. Ha! Ha!'
The clock in the graving-dock struck the hour. He rose to his feet then and walked up and down the deck in the neighbourhood of the gangway. He could hear hammering, shouting, the hissing of ropes as they passed round the drum end. They were trying the windlass forward. A tall figure coming out of the saloon door almost knocked him down. He felt strong hands on his body. He said, '
'Scuse me,' but did not look up. The figure went on aft.
The gangway was deserted. From the open hatch there came the strong smell of varnish, burning paint, new wood. He bit again on the plug. 'Coffin-shaped before tide-time,' he thought. 'Sand in her guts.' When she'd gone, where'd he be then? He grinned, thinking. 'Not any place where rats'll get me. Reckon they'll grin other side of their faces before long.'
He pulled up suddenly and leaned against a samson post. His eyes were following the line of the hawser. He could see the rat-guards near the bottom. The bitts over which the bight of the hawsers lay looked like many squat fists pushing their way up through the stone floor of the quay. He pulled a large red handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. The handkerchief was covered with large white spots. He buttoned the reefer jacket more tightly about his throat. His eyes followed the line of the huge, black shape. The water beneath him had an oily surface. He ejected his tobacco quid, cleared his throat once again and returned to his place on the box. Bradshaw came up. He had a thick white scarf wrapped round his neck.
'You can clear out now, Rajah,' he said.
The man on the box looked up. Then he nodded his head and got off the box. He pulled it out from the bulk-head, almost bent double owing to the weight of it. He gasped. Bradshaw put a hand to the box.
'What have you got in there, Rajah?' he asked, smiling.
'Ain't nothin' of yours. See!' The man began to gather his things together. There was a small, brown-paper parcel, some old clothes, a handkerchief, a pair of rope shoes. Bradshaw eyed these and said:
'Isn't that the lost parcel, Rajah?' He began to dismantle the cluster overhead. The other looked at him. His jaws ceased to move. 'Ah!' he said under his breath. Then aloud: 'Reckon I carry knickers about with me, Mr. Bradshaw?' he said, and grinned.
Bradshaw said nothing. He was looking into the man's mouth. It was toothless. He lowered the cluster and laid it down on the desk. Then he switched the light on to the bulwark. 'You clear that filthy mess from there, Rajah,' he said. His manner had changed. The man, after wrapping his things together, tied them up with a piece of rope-yarn. He looked from Bradshaw to the bulwark, then back to Bradshaw again. 'Sure,' he said.
He picked a piece of cotton-waste from a bundle in his pocket and began to clean the bulwark. 'Reckon when you get her covered with muck you won't be so particular like. An' full of rats, too. Eh?' He raised his head and spat over the side. Bradshaw leaned against the half-open saloon door. Wipe it clean,' he said. The little man looked at him, held his eye whilst he extracted the now nearly finished plug of hard-stuff from his pocket. As he bit on it, he lowered his head. Bradshaw said, 'Hurry!' The other flung a vicious glance at him.
Above them there was a sudden rush of steam from her whistle. They were testing it. A tiny brass cock opened and shut. From the funnel a cloud of smoke ascended spirally. Bradshaw looked up, hearing the whistle. The man in front of him had finished wiping the bulwarks. He threw the waste into the river. 'Satisfied now?' he said. He picked up his bundle. A group of sailors went past. A man hurried up the gangway.
'You'll find Temple in his hut, Rajah,' Bradshaw said. 'He's got your time.' The man was staring at Bradshaw. He drew near to him, staring into the officer's face. 'Think you're clever.' he said. 'Reckon those funny rats cleverer than you, eh?' Bradshaw exclaimed angrily:
'Get off this damned ship. You've got more to say than a regiment!' The other watched him coil up the heaving line attached to the cluster.
This'n ain't got any number yet. Reckon she'll never need one.' He spat into the scupper, picked his greasy cap from the deck and turned towards the gangway. He went to the gangway head, his eyes still following the man as he passed into the shed. 'Dunford's right. He's a monkey, not a man. Glad to see his back. Where they picked him from, heaven knows.' The Rajah passed out of sight. Bradshaw picked up the cluster and went and put it by the hatch coverings. Then he went on the bridge again. He saw Mr. Dunford standing in the port wing. He went on to his room. Below the hammering continued. The ship seemed to throb beneath the avalanche of sound.
The man standing in the wind heard the sound of footsteps, but he did not move. He was looking right ahead. Well, her name had gone and the spell was cast. In those few hours it seemed as though the old life in her had been cast out. Nothing remained now but the bare bones of a future, and that was uncertain and invisible. It lay hidden in the unfathomable depths of the mist that hung like a pall over the living waters of the seven seas. Necessity's great hand had struck. She lay alone and aloof on that dark, miserable February night, the rain pouring down upon the decks from which the old life had flown. He knew it was like a blight, this sudden sentence of isolation. Already he seemed to sense the enormity of the wilderness into which she would soon thread her way. From stem to stern, from the eyes of her to the poop, she was grey. A mask.
It spread from hawse-pipe to truck-top. It hid away the clean white lines, the shining brass. He thought: 'A letter and a number.' With her name had gone her spirit. A letter and a number. An ironic clue to the mystery into which she so soon must sink. With each moment of time and each throb of thought, the net was widening. In the night three men sitting at a table changed her future. Hard against the quay, the dark murky waters lapping ceaselessly at her side, she lay waiting. The gangway was now deserted. The swinging yellow light had gone, the monkey with it. She would pass out as silently and as furtively as any thief. Mr. Dunford called out: 'Bradshaw!' He heard the man coming along the bridge.
'All correct for'ard, Bradshaw?' he asked. The other man went into the wing. They carried on their conversation in whispers. Bradshaw took a white paper from his pocket and handed it to Mr. Dunford.
'Right!' Dunford said. He went away to his cabin then, leaving Bradshaw on the bridge. He locked the paper in his drawer. He heard the voice of the bosun break the silence, as he announced that everything was ready. He heard Bradshaw say, 'All right. Stand by then.' The bosun went below again.
Mr. Dunford imagined that OIO was more for convenience than anything else. 'OIO,' he said, adding, 'to L.' He visioned the man under the light again, thinking: 'Figurehead for a mad-ship. Ought to have allowed him to remain on board. Could have nailed him under the bow, arms outstretched.' He would have plugged the jaws. They irritated him so. This sudden vision of 'the Rajah' was accompanied by mental confusion. His thoughts were of the pilot, but the numbers crept in. OIO.L.X. They seemed to get mixed up. The pilot was proceeding towards L, and the monkey was grinning under the bow. 'OIO to L,' he said aloud. Bradshaw came again. He thrust open the door and called in to Dunford: 'They're here now, Mr. Dunford.'
D
ARKNESS
and confusion. The crew were making their way clumsily for'ard. In the darkness, ropes, hatch-coverings, canvas, wedges, the ship's sailing-day paraphernalia, could not be seen. Sailors went to port – the stokehold crowd to starboard. When the first man stepped over the fo'c'sle step he halted suddenly and said to the others: 'Somebody's here already.'
Exclamations. Laughs. They had an idea who that was. Then they filed in. Aye! It was him. Bound to be there first. And all eyes fixed on the occupant of the stool, who, with almost studied indifference, had ignored their entrance. He was busy writing a letter. A pad lay on his knee, a pen in his large hand, ink-bottle standing on the cold bogie. 'Writing to her already,' remarked one from his bunk. There was no reply. General chorus: 'Oh, leave him alone.'
The men began making up their bunks, unpacking their bags – the air was soon thick with tobacco smoke. The deadlights were screwed down over the ports. Only a dull glare came from the unshaded bulb that hung over the somewhat rickety table. A ceaseless hum of conversation, a continuous movement of bodies in the half-darkness. The man near the bogie went on writing, laboriously, in his large child-like hand. He was a short man, broad-shouldered, with powerful arms. There was something beautiful about his hands, large, browned by sun. He had a massive head. His black hair was cut short, almost to the bone. His name was George Higginbottom, and he lived in Rochdale, where he had a wife and one child. The crowd had christened him 'Rochdale,' and the name stuck to him. To see Rochdale at work was not only a revelation, but an education. The poetry, the very core of movement seemed to have stored itself up inside that man's body. One watched his hands when he coiled a heaving-line or even the great tow-rope, and the movements of the muscles of his arms when he was engaged in holystoning the decks. Yet Rochdale himself seemed the least aware of how fascinating his short strong body was. At the moment he was very busy writing to Annie, who kept the little tobacco shop he had started some six years previous, and he was telling her about the ship, and about the mystery of her departure. He told her also that he had been removed from watches – in other words, promoted.
From now on – at least during the life of A.10 – he was to be special look-out man. He wouldn't coil ropes again, or run the stone along her sand-sprinkled decks. In future his place would be high in the air, and he would look down from the serenity and isolation of the nest on the less fortunate mortals below. These were some of the thoughts now passing through Rochdale's mind. Noise, incessant movement, a continuous chatter, occasional swearings and exclamations, but he, Rochdale, was dead to them all. Only once did he look up and then only when the bosun's bronze-like voice called up the dark alleyway, 'The standby boys. No one can turn in yet.' Several voices answered him back. Well, of course not. Watches hadn't been picked yet. Rochdale dipped his pen in the bottle and went on with his letter.