Our Time Is Gone (79 page)

He went back and stood by his furnace door, and from time to time he wiped his face and shoulders. ‘She'd accept help from them if they offered it to-morrow. There she and me don't hit it. I wouldn't take a cent off any of them. Blast the lot of them. They've never seemed like real children to me. I've always been too far away from them.'

Here he was back again at the old game after only a year or two ashore. He might have stayed on the railway, but it wouldn't have done. ‘It would have killed me. I never worked with such a lot of old women.' The sea was better than that.

‘This damned coughing tells me I'll have to chuck it soon.' Well, perhaps he'd see the war out, anyhow. His trimmer came through with a load of coal. Mr. Fury began to stoke up. Oil engineer stuck his head in, a vision in white.

‘You'll have to make her go,' he said; ‘make her go.'

The stokehold heard it, smiled to itself. Make her go? Wasn't that their job. In every ship that had ever put to sea, it had been making her go. A fireman went up to Denny Fury.

‘Have you heard?'

‘Heard what?' asked Mr. Fury, and upon the impact of the furnace door, a cloud of dust streamed upwards. ‘Heard what? The same old story—yes.'

‘No need to say a word then, pal, so long as you know. Some people in this world know everything. Some know so much.' And he walked back to his furnace door, the remainder of his words becoming a jumble of sound, and when suddenly a mountain of coal in the near-by bunkers moved, the sound was dimmed out, a long soft slithering sound as the coal moved.

Of course he'd heard. Every trip, every watch. Of course he'd heard. Nothing new. The calm sea, the blue sea, shimmering under the sun. But streaked with danger. Everybody knew that. Yet you never gave much thought to it. You were far too busy, too hot, too stifled for breath. You swung open the furnace door and looked into the blaze. You closed it again and heard the quick roar in that burning mouth. And the throb of the steel beyond reminded you. You were in the centre of a world, the world you inhabited in order to make ‘her go.'

Suddenly a ring of bells above his head. Nothing in that. Bells rang out in every watch, and what they said with their brass voices was no different to what they had said a watch ago, a year ago. Again the other fireman came over, put a hard calloused hand on Mr. Fury's shoulder.

‘We're being chased,' he said and went off again.

To people who knew everything you could do no more than deliver the ultimatum. ‘We're being chased.' Denny Fury heard it, smiled. Well, they were last trip, and the trip before. It had lost its surprise, it didn't matter. You were chased. You weren't chased. What did it matter? Didn't stop you from thinking about the world at home, nor of how cool and fresh beer could taste if at this moment some fairy hand emerged complete with tray, and offered you a full glass of it.

‘I must drop a line to Fanny,' thought Mr. Fury. ‘She'll be wondering. It's been a longish trip. A break this time will be worth while, anyhow.' At the next port he'd hand a letter to the mail-man. ‘She'll be worrying.' Yes, he took the pills. Had he written to Peter? Yes, twice in fact. How long would it be before he'd be home? Very difficult to say. There was a war on. ‘Ah sure, Fanny's not a worldly creature at all, anyhow. Sure, she no more understands what it's like at sea than the rake there.'

That was the truth of it. She didn't understand what the sea was like. He wiped his face with an already sodden rag. ‘She should never have left Ireland. She was born there—belonged there.' Of course. And he'd had no right to take her out of it. Fanny would have been all right if she'd had a family of priests to look after. ‘Ah well,' he thought. ‘Perhaps I shouldn't have said that. She's a good woman and makes us all ashamed. She believes and I admire her for it.'

‘More steam! More power.'

The voice roared in, it struck the ear-drums. The trimmers came then. A trimmer stood by.

‘Why, mister, you look as if you were just going to kneel down and pray on them ashes. We're being chased by a sub.'

It went into one ear and out of the other. A submarine. Chasing them. Damn rot!

‘Come here, son,' said Mr. Fury and the black-faced lad came over. Denny Fury put a hand round his neck. ‘Now I can see you haven't been going to sea very long. Why, son, every ship that sails to-day gets chased one time or other. But what does it matter? Now you get me more coal, there's a lad. They want steam, more power. And we're going to give it them, son.'

He stood there, watching the boy go over with the barrow.

‘Chased,' he said to himself. ‘Chased,' and then he went to the foot of the ladder and looked up. He could see nothing. The tense heat became like a film, the furnaces belched it. He picked up a can and took a drink of oatmeal water from it.

‘Here,' he called, stretching out his arm.

‘Thanks,' and the other fireman took a gulp from the can.

‘It's a sub, I'll bet you any money you like. I don't like the look of it. They're bawling up and they're bawling down.'

‘Aye! Well, maybe it is, maybe it's not. The world is full of scares. Every time I wake up aboard this bloody boat I expect to be told: “Get your lifebelts on.” It's marvellous weather, isn't it, and just like going over a pond? Well, this ship has dodged more subs than you'd care to count. You weren't in her that trip she took the horses from Yonkers. That was a trip and horses are more particular than men, I tell you. You weren't? Of course you weren't. Hang it, just listen to those bells,' said Mr. Fury, and then rushed back to his fire-door, for he sensed now that something was wrong, and for the third time the enormous voice bawled into them from the engine-room.

There you were steadily stoking away at your furnace, thinking about how nice a long drink in the bar of ‘The Throstle's Nest' would be, thinking about your wife and your long apprenticeship at the fires, and suddenly the bells rang, the voice bellowed and you remembered. The war was on. The war that might go on for ever was still raging.

He swung back the door and at the same time that figure in white seemed to be standing behind him, pushing at his arm, shouting into his ear.

‘Feed it! Feed it! Make her go!'

Every furnace door swung open, fuel was hurled in, the fire roared, the doors clanged to. Barrows ran backwards and forwards, the coal was tipped. Up, down; up, down. The shovel swung right, left, up, down. The heat blinded, sweat blinded. The figure in white still cried:

‘Make her go.'

Make her go. More coal, more steam. More power. Make her go.

Denny Fury was in the act of stretching himself, and he distinctly heard his bones crack as he did so. He saw the lad come through with a fresh load, saw the other fireman scratching his neck. Beyond that he could not see. Slice in hand he was on the point of swinging open his fire door. But he did not reach it, and there was no need to open it. No need to open it or shut it ever again. The sound of the explosion was like thunder.

It deafened him. The furnace door was blown off, hurled itself into the sea through the enormous hole that the torpedo had made. He could see the sea, the blue sky, the boiling sun. He saw it, trapped. The stokehold was deluged by rushing water, by clouds of steam, by streams of hot ashes. He heard one cry so loud that all other sounds were drowned out. He cried himself:

‘God! We're hit.'

He cried it, trapped, numbed, half blinded, thought-scattered, trembling. She had been chased, she had been hit. He saw the gaping mouth of the furnace, was drenched in the blinding glare. Water poured on, rose up, leaped, gobbled the plates, the bars, the walls, the ladders. Sucked over, leaped to the fires. The stokehold one gigantic hiss.

‘O Jesus!' he said. ‘O Fanny!' he said. He said this, trapped, helpless. Alone. When the furnace blew out, when the great hole was made he saw objects hurtle past. His trimmer went out that way, body already cold, hurled into the sea. He cried: ‘O God! We're done.' Slobbered, it ran down his chin. He could not move. He was trapped. He was choking. He faced the sea, the bright sun, and from where he stood, held, all the world looked beautiful. Innocent blue water, drenching indifferent sun, blue sky. The morning was the end and not the beginning. Something held him by the legs, by the arms and by the neck. The water rose. The boiler burst, he could no longer see. The steel against his face was cool. The ship shuddered. The steel held him upright, pressed back his head, forced him to see out beyond the gaping hole. The ship was already trembling. The engines had ceased, but the ship went on trembling, a living thing. The stokehold was now invisible. Walls of steam rose, the sun shone through, the water rose higher, and the ship leaned over so that its topmast seemed to be endeavouring to spear the sun.

Dennis Fury cried: ‘My God! We're done.'

He was done.
They
were beyond all knowing, all seeing, all understanding. He was alone. The stokehold held only him.

‘I'm choking,' he muttered.

The explosion had blown him backwards, he was caught between steel, the rung of a ladder throttled, the great steel plate held him upright for the throttling. Sweat poured down his body. He tried to break free, to shout, instead, slobbered, cried:

‘My God! Fanny! I'm done.'

He felt the flesh over the bones must burst, the bones break beneath the weight. His eyes were full of ash dust, a livid weal from the eye to the lower ribs, a bright stripe down his body.

‘I can't move. Oh, God, I can't move!'

The ship began to rock like a cradle. Through the white cloud the sun shone, and the smell of the sea rose up and flooded where he stood. The deck beneath him slipped this way, slipped that. The great steel ladder rocked, was torn from the plates, fell lengthwise across the stokehold; two rungs shone bright, and he saw these. Began to struggle. He tried to bend, to move to the right, to the left, to stretch himself. The steel pressed, held fast.

‘Oh, God! I'm done for! Done for!'

He started to shout. Words rose, broke, scattered, a confusion of sounds. The stokehold flung them back to his face.

‘I can't get out! Oh, Christ! I can't get out, I'm done. Oh, I'm——'

His head throbbed. It would not move. He was in a vice. He could not break free. He was caught.

He had joked with the lad, smiled at the engineer's voice, laughed at the other man's fears. He had tried to open the fire-door, had sailed through the air, all arms and legs. Here he was, and he was finished. It was the end. Caught and held upright by an enormous steel plate and something that choked, that pressed, something he could not see. Something unnamable that pressed against his neck, and down to his heart. Was it a piece of the ladder, a girder, a door? He did not know. He could not bend to see. It was as though he were held by an iron fist.

The ship swung, the circle of sea seemed no longer blue. It was a brass face into which he looked as he struggled, as fragments of words broke from his lips. His mouth was covered by spittle, and in it like a ruby, shone a bright drop of blood.

‘I'm choking! I'm choking! I can't shout—I can't——! I'm stuck!'

Where were the others? Where was everybody? What did it mean? Everything. Nothing. The whole weight of the ship held him. The water rose higher. The ship shook again. He listened, he listened and heard nothing. His ears were plugged by ash, his nostrils were full of it.

‘Oh, my God!' he said.

Arms and legs were growing numb. The ship gave a terrific lurch.

‘Oh! I'm alive! Alive!' he said, tried to shout, tried to move, to writhe, to squeeze, to make himself smaller, to bend, to slip down from the vice-like grip.

But Denny Fury was fast, secure. His head was held upright towards the sun, towards the brass face that glared in upon him.

‘My God, if I could get out of this. If I could get out of this.'

The water reached his mouth.

‘If I could——' He spoke into the water, made bubbles of air.

Forty-seven years of it, and here you were. Like a rabbit in a trap. With finger and thumb he tried to reach the small silver medal on his neck. His arms were held to the hand, only the fingers that were powerless could move. You were being chased by a submarine and you laughed at that because you had been chased before. You put a hand on the lad's neck, and you said,‘Don't worry, son,' and then he flashed out cold and was lost somewhere beneath that bright circle of brass. You listened to the voices. You had done these things so often. There had been mistakes before, miracles of chance. But this time there was no mistake. You were caught. You were finished.

The water reached his ears, and at once Denny Fury spluttering, choking, made one terrific effort to raise his head, to stretch it above the smothering water.

The ship lurched again, the water fell away as though drawn off by pipes. He cried in his mind.

‘Not yet. I'm alive! Oh, Fanny! Fanny! What would be the end of this.'

The ship rocked again. What was happening? Where was everybody?' Oh, God! I can't shout. I can't!'

Nothing is happening, said the sun. Nothing is happening, said the sea. He looked at both. Sun shone, sea flowed.

‘Oh, Jesus! I must get out. I must——'

Slobber trickled down his chin.

‘I never thought—I never knew—I——'

The ship heaved again and there was the sky, seen through clouds of steam, through dust, through fume-laden air.

‘God help me. I must get out.'

Suddenly there was a terrific increase of the pressure upon his back, and at the same time he was aware of a dull thud behind him, and he shouted.

‘My God, I'm free! I'm out of it!'

He felt a curious tickling sensation in his legs, and when he could move one he spluttered into the water.

‘I'm free. God, I'm free!'