Hollow Sea (39 page)

Now what on earth could he be wanted for? This was the second time in two days that he'd been called to that bridge. He gave the tea-chest on which he had been sitting a final vicious kick. All was disorder, confusion. The rhythm of his days had been unduly broken. Nobody considered his awkward position. Then he hurried to the bridge. In his rush he bumped into the figure of the quartermaster, who stood rock-like outside the wheel-house. Walters swore. 'Sorry,' he said. 'Sorry.' The telegraph rang. A.10 was full speed now. How dark it was. And which of those two motionless figures
was
Captain Dunford? Mr. Walters stumbled for'ard, he imagined the bridge-deck littered with debris, whereas it was clear of all obstacles except the telegraph, which instrument shone dully in the darkness. Ah! there he was. He went up to Captain Dunford.

'You sent for me, sir,' he announced and stood beside him.

'Yes,' Dunford said. 'Yes.' He did not look at Mr. Walters. 'Yes, I sent for you,' he went on. He turned quickly and looked at Walters. 'How many men have you in the saloon?'

'Thirty,' Mr. Walters said. He wanted to add 'Why?' – the Captain's sudden interest in what went on below seemed too surprising to be genuine. 'No! Thirty-five, I should have said.'

'How have you managed with these men, Mr. Walters? I meant to have an inspection today but circumstances made that impossible! Tell me, are there any men in a serious condition?'

'There were four sir, but they are dead. They were placed in the hold two days ago. A score suffered from shell-shock, the remainder were flesh wounds. Then there—'

'I'm still trying to fathom out the meaning of the signal I got last Monday morning. "Monitor approaching with two hundred men. Pick up and proceed Alexandria at once." There weren't anything like two hundred, Mr. Walters.'

Smiling, Mr. Walters replied: 'Perhaps they were merely anticipating, sir. It wouldn't have been a code signal?'

'Ridiculous! No! But there are now well over a hundred men in the hold. These represent those who got no chance, those from boats ten and eleven. But that isn't the point, Mr. Walters. Tell me, how much room can you make in the saloon without interfering with the men's comfort? That's what I want to know. Why I sent for you, Walters.'

Mr. Walters's surprise increased. Perhaps he intended to make for some port, land these men, or on the other hand bury the dead, clear out the ship. Ideas grew, whirled about in Walters's brain.

'I don't know that I could make any room, sir. Most of the furniture has already been removed to number two hatch. I had to get these men fixed up, and if you don't mind my saying so, Captain Dunford, it's been a great worry to me. My men have been worked off their feet. I'll be surprised if I don't lose the whole bang lot of them when we get home. You can't blame them, sir, they've done everything outside what is prescribed in the articles. They wouldn't be human if they didn't complain, Captain Dunford.'

'Are they complaining?'

'No, sir. On the contrary. They've been decent, kept their mouths shut! It was I who removed them from the glory-hole, gave them spare cabins in the port alleyways. It was more than flesh and blood would stand, sir!'

'How earnest, how forthright he is,' thought Mr. Dunford, 'how human all of a sudden.'

'Well, I
want
you to make room in that saloon, Mr. Walters.'

'What the hell has this man got on his mind, at all?' Mr. Walters was beginning to ask himself. Making room in the saloon. All well and good. But what the devil for? And another thing. Why send for him at this time? As though the whole confounded ship shouldn't know that he, Walters, was the busiest and the most pestered man of them all. And why shouldn't he appear a little bewildered, summoned like this, a little disgruntled, having to leave Hump down there, and he could be such a fool, unfit for responsibilities of any kind? Well, here he was and here was Mr. Dunford looking down at him. He hoped that august personage would take good stock of him now. See the worried look on his face, the deep lines underneath his eyes, the shabbiness of his clothes, the general untidiness of himself as man, and let him begin to wonder how he, Walters, had had to get on down below, well hidden away from everybody on top, carry on down there in face of every difficulty, he and his stewards. Why should he give a hang about any fool's orders? Let them take the ship to hell if they liked. And suddenly he was looking Dunford straight in the face, and saying in a quiet voice, 'Well, sir, and is there anything else?' and turning his head away and looking anywhere now but at that enigmatic countenance, glimpsing the quartermaster's head over the binnacle, then turning to look at Dunford again.

'Yes,' Dunford said, and slowly he walked farther away into the dark corner, Mr. Walters following him, and again asking himself, 'What the devil has got hold of the man at all, acting like this?' Some terrible secret somewhere. And beating about the bush and saying, 'Yes, there is something else,' and walking away like that, and he, Walters, trooping after him like a little dog. Hang it. Let the man get it off his chest and be done with it. He looked at Mr. Dunford again. This time he smiled. And Mr. Dunford smiled back at him. He was looking at Walters, yet he wasn't seeing him clearly, nor yet thinking about this fat middle-aged steward. He was just thinking about certain words and certain phrases he had heard in the air for'ard there, just a few minutes ago. And now he knew what all the fuss was about. But Mr. Walters would not know of this. Down in his fastness he was out of it all. 'So that's how it is,' he was saying to himself, and at that moment Mr. Walters smiled at him, and there were no barriers of any kind any more. And he could tell him about something that had been on his mind for some while now. Deveney would be listening, and maybe under the bridge others would listen, too.

'I've an idea,' the sailor with the accordion said, and the bosun grunted back at him.

'Good!' the bosun said. 'And what a surprise it must have been to you. Still, keep it to yourself,' he concluded sarcastically. 'We've seen enough of ideas aboard this man's ship. So you put that idea back where it came from. I don't want to hear any more of 'em. We're going home, home to bloody old England, and that's the only thing I got fixed in my head. And that's that.'

'Yes, but you don't understand,' continued the sailor. 'This has nothing at all to do with the bloody old war or anything like it. I meant to mention this to you before now, but somehow I forgot, see? Now I'm a man has sailed in many a ship, and every ship I bin on we always had a concert on the homeward-bound voyage. See? A concert. A crew's own concert. I bin thinking about that. It's just an ordinary idea.'

'Well, keep it to yourself until I see the gangway run out from the dock-shed, and when I've got me bag packed, and I'm walking down that gangway, you can tell me then.'

He took his nose between finger and thumb and blew vigorously. It almost seemed like an ultimatum. He was sitting on the settee in his room, the sailor stood outside, leaning against the door.

'Listen, Bosun,' he said, 'whether you like it or not it can't harm you. But we've been talking things over on the fo'c'sle, and we decided to give a concert.'

'A concert!' said the bosun. 'A bloody concert! What for? What an idea! Concert!'

'Lumme, you've heard of ship's concerts, you've bin at them, so I can't see anything to surprise you. Easy as winkin'! I've got an accordion, Simmons is good at recitin', Williams has a banjo, and Turner and Whaller can be a good pair of comics. Christ A'mighty, Bosun, it's quite harmless, and you don't have to pay anything. Besides, everybody for'ard agrees it would be fine, we could entertain the fellers lying in the saloon. Goddam, it won't break anybody's heart, and it wouldn't stop her bloody engines. Anyhow, I'm going to ask Mr. Ericson what he thinks,' concluded the sailor, and he turned to go.

'Half a mo! You'll ask him! Suppose I ask him instead. I've been thinking over this and it seems a bit of all right to me, especially as Mr. Walters has been so generous. Let's go into the fo'c'sle and talk about this.'

Mr. Ericson, who still happened to be on the fo'c'sle-head, was heard moving about on top. They knew he was there.

The bosun said to all hands: 'I'll ask Mr. Ericson what he thinks, lads,' and left them. He stood at the foot of the ladder waiting. 'Goddam, I don't want to look mean. They're a good crowd, they've had a lousy trip, why shouldn't they have a concert?'

'Mr. Ericson, sir,' he said, as the officer descended the ladder.

'Yes, what is it, Bosun?' asked Ericson, he was hurrying to the bridge.

The bosun kept pace with him. They both stopped dead in the middle of the well-deck. 'Excuse me, sir, my men had an idea of—'

'Idea!' thought Ericson. 'The men for'ard had an idea.' He began to move again.

'Well, sir,' went on the bosun, 'the men wondered if Mr. Dunford would mind their getting up a little concert, sir. They'd like to give these soldiers an entertainment. We've got a singer or two, two musical sailors, and a reciter. It's only an idea of theirs, sir. I said I'd ask you first, sir.' He stood in front of Ericson now, blocking his way.

'But I don't know, Bosun. It seems to me a funny time to be giving a concert – I—'

'That's what I thought, sir! But they're all set on it, sir, and I wouldn't like to disappoint the men, sir. They're a decent crowd, Mr. Ericson – and I know men—'

Mr. Tyrer was becoming expansive, almost oratorical. And the officer was in a hurry. He had an idea that Mr. Dunford had seen him, seen him through the darkness, and Mr. Ericson always had a curious feeling when he was being looked at from a height. He became brusque.

'Well, I'll see! I'll see what Captain Dunford says. But I don't think he'll agree. He's naturally very worried. He has many things to think about, Bosun, and I might not ask him at once. I might wait till I feel it's worth while asking. On top of that, there's this fact: We are in the danger zone. There are minefields ahead, and there are submarines about. The word concert has a funny sound when you come to weigh up the pros and cons.'

He hurried away but called from the foot of the ladder, 'I won't forget, Bosun.'

The bosun ran up to him. 'Thank you, sir,' he said, then retraced his steps to the fo'c'sle. Concert. A crew's concert. The word seemed to float fore and aft, into fo'c'sles and cabins. The news spread. Even the Black Pan watch had heard about it below. And for some it was a strange, an alien word, for others a word full of exciting possibilities. The bosun shouted into the fo'c'sle.

'All right, lads! Out now. We got to get down to those 'tween-decks.' And in a louder voice, 'I spoke to Mr. Ericson about that and he says he'll see about it.'

He could hear the watch just up moving about in the fo'c'sle. They would be out any second now. Then in a more cautionary tone of voice, 'Of course, don't youse fellars be too sure about it. You can't be sure about anything in these parts. And there's a bloody war on, don't forget, and we're in the danger zone every tick of the clock.' Then he went back to his room.

Somebody shouted after him. 'Thanks, Mr. bloody Squeers, thanks.' The bosun laughed as he shut the door. Now who the hell was Mr. Squeers? Mr. Tyrer had never heard of him, though he agreed it was a very queer name for a man. And then the whole thing passed out of his mind.

Had he but known it, this very idea was now the subject of a conversation between Mr. Dunford and Mr. Walters.

He came into the alleyway, calling, 'All out there! Down to D deck, fellers. Mr. Ericson is waiting for us down there.'

The men streamed untidily out through the fo'c'sle door and tramped down the alleyway. Mr. Tyrer was waiting for them.

'What's the lay now, bos'?' asked one of the men.

'Ask me! It's 'tween-decks and that goddam smell again. That's all I know. Let's go.'

M
R
. W
ALTERS
had stood and listened, had heard, and now he couldn't believe it. No. What had come over everybody? And Mr. Dunford? Well, he had heard of some queer things, he had seen queer things,
he
had, but there Mr. Walters's bewilderment came to a halt and he began to run, and he did not stop running until he had reached his own cabin door. A concert? Tomorrow night. A concert! He stood shaking with laughter outside the door, then he turned the knob, almost fell inside the cabin, leaving the door swinging behind him. Mr. Hump, busily engaged at the table, looked up with astonishment. A thought in his head had occasioned a smile, but this promptly vanished when he looked into his chief's face.

'What is wrong, sir?' he asked. He could not hide his concern any longer. He had never seen the chief looking like this before. He jumped up from the table then.

Mr. Walters sat down, spread his arms over the table, then suddenly burst out laughing. 'Oh, Christ Almighty,' he said.

'Whatever's wrong, sir?' asked Mr. Hump. He was genuinely alarmed now. Was Walters hopelessly drunk or what?

'Oh!
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
ha! ha! ha! Oh, My God! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!' ha!
haw!
Oh, Lord bless us all.
I
.
 
.
 
.
 
Oh, dear me!
I
.
 
.
 
.
 
'

'Mr. Walters, has anything happened, sir?' asked Mr. Hump. He bent down over his chief. He had grown quite pale now, the floor was littered with the crew's letters. Mr. Walters's eyes fell on these, words and phrases leaped up at him from the letters lying on the table.

'Oh! Ha! ha! ha! ha!'

His deep velvety laugh swelled out, rose, fell, it shook him
;
overwhelmed him. He was flooded in laughter, caught in the throes of it, its ever ascending waves that seemed to rise from the very roots of himself. He stood up and roared again.