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Lewis Anselm da Costa Ricci
Published by Good Press, 2021
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They obeyed with alacrity, rather glad to escape from the atmosphere of hash, and bewildering talk about submarines, and a Sub-lieutenant who threw eggs. They reached the upper deck and saw the Fleet lying round them in the sunlight against the green heights of Portland. Along the battery men were standing about and smoking, all within range of spit-kids. Along the superstructure, facing the paintwork with their hands behind their backs, were half a dozen defaulters undergoing the punishment known as 10a. No one took the slightest notice of these unfortunates, but Nick felt it would be embarrassing to stand in their vicinity. He indicated a ladder that led up on to the booms. “Let’s go and wait up there,” he whispered. The others followed him, and they reached a quiet place occupied by hawser reels, hen-coops, and a searchlight. They clustered silently together, looking down at the battery and the throng of brawny, bearded, bare-footed men grouped round the spit-kids. The air was pungent with the smell of plug-tobacco.
A small figure walked towards them from the other side of the booms. Instead of a midshipman’s patches he wore a thin line of white cloth round his sleeve. He had a pale freckled face and a wide smile. They all liked the look of him.
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