Authors: James Hanley
'They might well have sent those men's things up in slings.'
'They think it saves time if they manage their own packs,' Bradshaw said.
Mr. Dunford thought, 'And money too.'
Then he heard somebody say, 'The galley is right aft. The troops' galley is right aft.' It seemed to him that this line of moving figures was everlasting, that long skein of bobbing faces, that continuous slow breathing of fatigued and sweating men. Bradshaw was counting. An officer stood beside him, saying, 'There are two hundred more. Then there's the supplies.' Mr. Dunford listened.
Bradshaw said, 'How many officers?' and the officer replied, 'Twenty-three.'
'More tenders out there, bosun,' Bradshaw said. He was thinking of A.10's plates. The moon came out and bathed the ship in light. Now those bobbing lights seemed to disintegrate, and there emerged faces. Faces young and old, thin and fat, long and short, a living map.
'Numbers four and five. This way, please.'
Mr. Dunford's eyes swept the long deck of A.10. A hand touched his arm.
'The officer commanding would like to see you, sir.' Mr. Dunford stared.
'Tell the officer commanding that I cannot see him now, but that he must see me in my room immediately this embarkation is completed.' He walked away, smiling inwardly. It was very kind of the officer, he was thinking.
He was sitting in his cabin an hour later when he was informed that the officer commanding the troops was outside. 'Send him in,' he said.
The door opened. A tall man, about forty-five years of age, was standing outside. 'Come in,' Dunford said quickly, 'and shut that door.' Then he ignored the man, stopping to look into his drawers for something which he very well knew he would not find there, conscious of the other's embarrassment. Then he swung round.
'Yes, sir,' he said, without looking at the officer.
The lives of those fifteen hundred men were in his hands, he was thinking. He looked sharply at the officer. 'Everything going all right?' he asked. Pause. Then he added quickly, 'Sit down.'
He was so used to this procedure. Time and time again he had gone through the same thing. At last the officer spoke. He had issued the necessary orders. Was there anything upon which Captain Dunford wished to be informed? The other shook his head, saying in a slow drawling voice, 'There is nothing.' Then he turned his back on the officer again. After all, why had he called the fellow in? Why had he bothered to have him in the cabin? It was all so silly. Waste of time. Issuing orders regarding observance of rules, conduct of officers and troops, warnings, the importance of giving privileges to the crew on every occasion. When he got outside his authority was simply laughed at. He knew it only too well. This man had a large number of men under him. Very good. What did that responsibility involve? He looked at the officer again, but he was thinking how silly it all was. Then he asked pointedly, 'Do you know where you are going?' The other man shook his head.
'Of course,' Dunford said, 'of course. Well you can go, sir.' He was alone again. To embark those men, fifteen hundred of them. And they did not know where they were going. But he knew. He, Dunford, knew. How? He laughed. 'When they are silent I know. When they are most revealing I don't know.' He looked at his watch. A quarter to three. H'm! One more tender. He got up and switched out the light. Then he dropped the dead-light on the port-hole and looked out into the darkness. What would the officer be thinking of him? He smiled, seeing his embarrassment, seeing his tall figure standing so ungainly in the cabin. Men had stood in his cabin before, in just the same way, and they had passed out. He had never seen them again. Of course it was the damned uncertainty of everything. Bradshaw was knocking at his door. 'What is it, Bradshaw?' he called out, recognized the man's sharp knock. The man's hand fell upon the knob.
'Last tender's away, Mr. Dunford.'
'Very good.' He heard the man's footsteps on the ladder. Then he, too, went up. He could see the tender quite clearly in the moonlight. The rope ladders had been unshipped. The decks were clear. The watch out were already busy coupling up on the hydrants.
'That faulty hydrant's fixed, Bradshaw?'
'Yes, Mr. Dunford.'
Mr. Deveney made his appearance. He was dressed in a blue suit, over which he wore a greatcoat. Around his neck was a thick red woollen scarf. Over a woollen helmet he wore his uniform cap.
Mr. Dunford was on the point of laughing, but, seeing the expression on the third's face, he refrained.
'Feeling better, Deveney?' he asked.
'Yes, sir.'
'Good. You'll be all right as soon as we steer south-east. It'll just be like home to you.' The man laughed.
'Did Walters attend to your wants, Deveney?'
'Oh yes, sir. I got more than I wanted really.'
'Blow for a quartermaster.'
Bradshaw took out his whistle and blew. The quartermaster came up.
'Tell the carpenter to stand by for that cable,' Mr. Dunford said. Then he turned to Bradshaw. 'Better go for'ard now, Bradshaw. We must get out of here inside half an hour.' Mr. Dunford was addressing the air, for the first officer had already gone. He now retired to his favourite place in the port wing. He kept looking across at Deveney. He wasn't quite certain about the man. 'Don't stay, Deveney, unless you really feel equal to it. It's going to be pretty hard going before we get through this net.' He was thinking of the orders, of the official chart. Dangerous and advantageous points, currents, observations and wind, soundings. He thought: 'A paralogical flight of the official mind.' Such charts were useless. There was something fortuitous about their reckoning. And they had even asked for his advice. What was he doing? Taking fifteen hundred men from one point to another. But he must only go by a certain route. At a certain time. He must only touch certain points, the chart his infallible guide. Observe certain signals. If ordered to lay to, he must do so. If told to wait, he must wait. He knew every inch of the ground as well as he knew his own hand, but the official voice announced: 'This route and no other. This method and no other.' The mathematical calculations of lunatics. What he, Dunford, noticed most about their reasoning was the entire absence of it. Well, he would get that cable up now. Already the men were standing by. He would steam outside and wait. 'Wait!' he said aloud. Then he repeated the exclamation, so that the man on the other side of the bridge looked sharply at him. Mr. Dunford went over to Deveney.
'You're shivering, man. Get to your room at once. I'll have Ericson up here.' The third protested. He was quite all right. Nothing to worry about. But Mr. Dunford remained adamant. He was apprehensive. This violent fit of shivering was only the prelude to something disastrous. 'Go to your room, Deveney,' he said. He did not call Ericson, but remained alone on the bridge. The men washing down had now reached the saloon-deck. They were scrubbing their way aft. The windlass rattled. They were hauling up the cable. He looked at his watch again. 'I wonder how long I'll have to remain outside?' The words were hardly out of his mouth before he received his orders, '
PROCEED
AS
ADVISED
.' The cable was up and secure. He went to the telegraph and pulled the handle over,
HALF
SPEED
. The message rang loud in the engine-room: '
HALF
SPEED
.'
It was now growing light. When Mr. Dunford cast his eyes shorewards the harbour appeared to be rising slowly from out the white mist that was fast gathering and heading towards the open sea. A.10 settled down to her easy rhythm. A slight drizzle fell. Below decks he could hear the ceaseless murmur. The sounds seemed to rise out of the hatches in waves. He would go down there at eleven o'clock and look around. He would have the tall ungainly-looking officer with him. The thought was amusing. Deveney came to his mind. Yes! He was worried about him. As soon as he was relieved he must go and see him. The men washing down had now reached the poop. Mr. Dunford could hear them talking. There was one voice he recognized above all the others. The human barometer. What a tongue the man had!
He looked at the ventilators swinging gently in the wind. They looked like long stockings. He walked up and down the bridge, his hands dug deep in his coat-pockets. Nothing much mattered now except to get those men to their destination. If that officer had been a school-boy going on his first train journey he could not have been more excited. So Dunford thought. What a responsibility for that type of man! He expected they were lounging about in the saloon. He looked at his watch again. Almost time for Ericson to come up. In the wheel-house the quartermaster coughed.
This sudden disturbation of the silence on the bridge caused the man to pull up sharply, and he turned round and stared through the window at the man. But the helmsman's head was bent, so that he could not see the man's face. A light flared up, died down again. As daylight grew one could see the low-lying clouds that threatened rain; the sky itself was almost slate-coloured. The mist seemed to veer off, then return again. He heard a door close, then footsteps.
'Ah! That you, Ericson?' he called out.
'Yes, sir.'
'Good! I advise you to be extra vigilant. Good morning.' He then left the bridge. The saloon was deserted. The officers had retired to their various rooms. He heard somebody whistling, the sound drew nearer. Then Walters passed him, a bundle of papers in his arms.
'Morning, sir,' he said.
Mr. Dunford looked at the man. A door banged to. Walters was gone. He sat down on the settee, allowing his eyes to wander slowly round the saloon. Though tired he knew he would not sleep. For five full minutes he sat there, looking at nothing in particular, thinking nothing, as though his body were drugged. He heard voices, many different sounds. Then he jumped to his feet. Of course. He had meant to go and see Deveney. He hurried back to the bridge and went straight to the man's room. The third was lying on the settee, covered with his great-coat. He was smoking.
'How are you feeling, Deveney?' asked Mr. Dunford.
He had knocked, then pushed open the door. Now he closed it quietly and sat down. He liked this quiet, inoffensive man. Deveney smiled.
'It's the first time for five years,' Deveney said. 'Funny how it came on like that. All of a sudden. I'll be all right to-morrow.' He flung the cigarette into the ash-tray. Mr. Dunford watched it burning, the spiral of blue smoke climbing heavily in the air.
'Well, we're clear at last,' Dunford said. 'With fifteen hundred men, too. To-morrow I shall make a thorough inspection. This ship, these men, I hardly know which is unlucky, the men or the ship. The people ashore never ask questions. That's the difficulty. If only they asked questions. Things would be much different, less difficult. But no. One just agrees with them.'
Deveney sat up. 'No orders yet, Mr. Dunford?' he asked. He drew the great-coat about his legs.
'Nothing. Their silence is generally significant, too.'
The man on the settee laughed.
'I had some experience before,' he said.
'Of course. Of course. Why did you decide to go into the service?'
'You mean why did I decide to leave it?' replied Deveney. 'Only that I got sick of it.'
'You've been east before then?'
'Twice only. All my time was spent up north,' Deveney said.
There was a loud rapping at the door.
'A message, sir. A message, sir.' Mr. Dunford jumped up just as the door opened. 'Oh!' he exclaimed excitedly, and rushed from the room. Mr. Deveney waved his arms.
'The door. The door.'
'Yes, sir,' the quartermaster said, and pulled the door to.
Mr. Dunford was reading the message in his room. A voice was whispering in his ear. 'You were wrong all the time. You were wrong all the time. She's going to O.' He sat down at the table and spread out his chart. His finger followed a blue line until it alighted on O. 'O,' he said, and smiled. So they were going to O. That meant without escort. He was glad. He hated being chaperoned. Too much interference. Too much red tape. 'To O,' he kept saying under his breath. 'To O. Fifteen hundred men to O.' He undressed and climbed into bed. His thoughts took flight, passing beyond the ship, beyond the wide waste of waters. They alighted at O. Darkness. More tenders. Rafts. Muffled oars. A swift and silent movement of many bodies, a deluge of movement, the smell of sweat, volcanic noises in the distance, gun-flashes. The smell of blood, the urgency, the ceaseless passage of men from ship to raft. Shouts, screams, the sharp ring of steel against steel, the air seething with sound, the monotonous drone of a voice saying, 'Quiet. Careful.' Curses, threats, laughter. More men, wild aimless movements, flashes of white in the darkness, the very air breathing an urgency, a desperateness, the mass of life caught up and convulsed, the continuous climbing, periodic splashes, then moans, the conglomeration of smells, of sweat, of urination, of putrefaction. Then darkness and silence. Daylight. A paradisal moment of sun. Then darkness again. Low thunderous sounds. Sleep. Confusion. A series of furtive movements. That was at O. He thought of that. He thought of the impotent rage that had seized mere flesh and blood. He thought of wounds, spiritual wounds, of the futility, of the circle that ringed them. All that he remembered at O. It was as though with the switching off of the light he had opened the door to the past. He lay in the darkness, one hand holding the pipe in his mouth, the other resting on his breast. He fell asleep with the throb of her engines in his ears.
On the deck soldiers were scattered about in groups, sitting, standing, sprawling, and still they climbed up the ladders. The decks were filling. For'ard men were sitting in groups on the hatch, talking, indifferent to the life beyond the well-deck. On the saloon-deck officers had gathered and were talking. Below men were still dressing, washing, tidying bunks, the air rank with a sort of stale smell, of food festered in the night by many breaths, the smell of leather, new varnish and paint. The canvas ventilators hung limp. The decks were not yet dry. Aft there stood outside the galley a huge tank, from which a continuous cloud of steam rose into the air, carrying with it the unmistakable odour of strong tea. The scuppers cleared an hour ago were now full again, tins, cigarette ends, pieces of belting, discarded food of rebellious stomachs. Men leaned on the rails, looking seawards, others walked up and down. And still more appeared. The air was filled with the bass and treble of men's voices. A continuous hum. Sailors and firemen came out and passed along to their work, with unseeing eyes, indifferent to these crowds. The bosun, smoking his clay pipe, leaned against the bulkhead outside his room. There was something lazy about his attitude, he had just finished his breakfast. Mr. Tyret's bald head sported itself in a unique way, surrounded as it was by a forest of hair of many colours. Heads of black hair, grey, brown, red. The long brushes stood upended in the scuppers, still dripping water. The hoses lay coiled, looking like so many fat and contented snakes. The sea was choppy now. Men were continuously picking up their belongings and going over to the lee side of the ship. All space was ransacked, it seemed there could be no more room. But men continued to appear. The officers were now promenading round the saloon-deck. Below them men could not move. When A.10 blew her whistle a sea of faces turned towards the bridge. Mr. Ericson saw them, a sort of confused and shapeless mass, a blue of white against khaki. The second officer wasn't thinking about anything in particular. He was still caught up in this bewilderment. It was the first time he had ever been aboard a ship like A.10. Now he stared straight at the sea of faces. It brought to his mind his adventure in the 'tween-decks. He had been glad to come up into the fresh air again. Gradually parts emerged from the whole. The mass seemed to be disintegrating. Now he picked out a face, studied the expression upon it, and shifted his gaze to another one. He noticed that quite a number were mere youths. There were old men, too. No doubt veterans. Then the individual faces sank again, becoming part of the white mass, as though they could not exist cut away from the whole, as though it were continually threatening their separate existences, their individualities. Such were Ericson's thoughts as he looked at the crowds below. After a while they turned their backs on him, broke up, groups scattered here and there. Eight bells rang out from the bridge. When Mr. Ericson went down to the mess-room for lunch he remarked to Bradshaw upon the large number of youngsters amongst the troops. Bradshaw wasn't in any way interested. Later Mr. Ericson fell into conversation with one of the officers.