Читать книгу Under Sealed Orders - Lewis Anselm da Costa Ricci - Страница 4

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The three midshipmen had been told that a boat would fetch them off from the landing-place at 7.30 a.m., and to the landing-place they repaired at that hour, wearing their “bum-freezers,” as the short round jacket was called, and their very new and shiny dirks. The hotel porter wheeled their bags down on a barrow, and, wishing them good luck, left them standing at the head of the steps, waiting for the boat. Nick had said goodbye to his father at the hotel, and the big adventure lay before them.

It was a crisp September morning with a fresh breeze blowing. The Fleet was hidden from them by a headland and an arm of the distant breakwater. Where they stood they could see the entrance to the camber and the sea beyond, sparkling in the early-morning sunlight.

“I suppose they’ll give us some breakfast,” said Sheep gloomily, “when we get on board.”

They were all speculating what sort of a breakfast it would be, when a two-masted cutter suddenly appeared in the entrance. She was heeling over to the breeze, and the crew were all sitting in the bottom of the boat with only their heads showing above the gunwale. Suddenly she went about, dipped her foresail smartly, and came bowling towards the steps. They saw the midshipman at the tiller then, leaning back nonchalantly with his foot braced against the thwart. They heard him shout an order: there was a flapping of sails, sheets and blocks thrashed noisily to and fro, and as the sails came down she glided neatly alongside. It was a smart bit of boat-handling, and the young gentleman responsible for it seemed aware of the fact as he came up the steps blowing his nose on a coloured bandana handkerchief, his dirk swinging at his thigh.

He had a red, weather-beaten face and frosty blue eyes, and he looked what he was, hard as nails and as fit as a fighting cock.

“Hallo!” he said, and grinned at them. “You’re for the Vengeance, ain’t you?”

They murmured an affirmative, still rather overwhelmed by the spectacular efficiency with which the boat had been brought alongside.

“God help you!” said the stranger. “Grab your bags and tumble in.”

They obeyed with clumsy alacrity, and settled themselves in the stern of the cutter. Her midshipman rattled out a string of orders, and before the newcomers realised what was happening they were spinning out through the entrance, heading towards the breakwater.

The midshipman of the boat, who had introduced himself as Carver and ascertained their names, entered into a conversation with his coxswain, a little ferrety man with a scraggy beard. It was highly technical, and concerned the lacing of the mainsail on to the yard, and Nick felt free to study the boat’s crew; he realised for the first time that each of the twelve men crouched in the bottom of the boat, with their eyes on the newcomers, wore a beard. He wondered if Usher and Sheep had noticed this phenomenon.

Carver intercepted his glance.

“Ever seen a boatful of sets before?” he asked. They shook their heads, assuming that “sets” meant beards.

“We got special permission,” continued Carver, “after the Fleet obstacle race. The crew all put in to grow a set, and the First Lieutenant granted it, and this is the crack cutter of the Channel Fleet. Ain’t it, Larkins?”

The bearded giant, crouched aft with the main sheet in his fist, grinned, showing stumps of teeth stained with tobacco juice. His eyes rested on Carver’s face with trust and affection: they were like a dog’s eyes. Carver surveyed the crew as a sovereign might contemplate his loyal subjects. “Cradock trained ’em really. He used to have this boat. Cradock and Casey. Cradock’s our senior snottie,” he added by way of explanation, and as he spoke they cleared the arm of the breakwater and the Fleet came in sight.

They lay in irregular lines of black hulls, white upperworks, and yellow funnels, the sun shining on their bright work and enamel; boats under sail were spinning across the surface of the harbour, hoists of gay-coloured flags were climbing to the mastheads, fluttering in the breeze and descending again.

Carver looked at it all with a rather proprietory air. “All those cutters under sail are the beef-boats racing back to their ships with beef and stewards,” he explained. “You’ll know all about beef and stewards before long.”

Usher said something about the busy strings of signals.

“That’s the snotties doing signal exercise. Racing hoists of flags to the masthead, ship against ship——” He interrupted himself to shout an order. They realised that the cutter was approaching the Vengeance.

She seemed to rush towards them; they could see groups of men polishing the guns, others drying the upper deck. Carver shouted orders: down came the foresail, the mainsail was brailed up, and the boat was brought deftly alongside the gangway.

Carver looked at his passengers. “Hop out!” he said. The moment had come.

In single file they ascended the ladder to the quarter-deck, to be greeted by a midshipman with a telescope under his arm. He was a very small midshipman, but he had very large ears and a look of great wisdom. He grinned at the newcomers, and indicated the officer of the watch who was walking up and down the other side of the quarter-deck.

“Go and report,” he murmured.

They made their way across the deck to where the Lieutenant was pacing. He walked at a great speed, with his chin jutting out in front of him and his hands behind his back, as if he were walking for a wager. Nick thought it would be silly to walk after him, so he waited till the Lieutenant turned and began retracing his hurried steps. As he came abreast of them they all three saluted and said, “Come aboard to join, sir!”

The Lieutenant halted, returned their salute most punctiliously, and replied:

“Carry on.”

He then resumed his hurried pacing, as if he had forgotten their existence.

The midshipman of the watch rescued them. “Come below,” he said, and led the way forward till they came to a hatchway. Down this he clattered into the semi-gloom of an alleyway; Nick, following at his heels, was aware of a faint not unpleasant odour. It was a mixture of tar, paint, cordage, hot oil, serge clothing, soap, brass polish, tea ... an indescribable medley of smells all combining to make the curiously distinctive atmosphere of a man-of-war in an age when there was not much ventilation. Nick met it then for the first time, but it was to grow so familiar that it became part of his life, and welcomed him like a friend every time he returned on board from the shore.

They followed their guide down another ladder to an open space amidships. Cabins opened off both sides of it, and in a hollow square in the centre stood about a dozen sea-chests. What light there was came from electric lights burning behind thick glass, screened by brass wire, ranged at intervals along the bulkhead where rifles and bayonets stood in racks. There were hooks for hammocks at intervals overhead, and an assortment of cutlasses in between the beams.

“There’s your chests,” said the midshipman with big ears. “I’ve got to get back on watch. Wonky Willie is inventing something, but he may come to at any moment.” They concluded Wonky Willie was the officer of the watch who paced the deck in a trance of abstraction. “Breakfast’s at eight,” shouted their guide, who turned and ran back towards the ladder.

At that moment Nick saw his sea-chest. It had a small brass plate inscribed:

Nicholas Ainsworth

R.N.

He felt rather like an explorer who has been lost in the jungle and comes unexpectedly upon his camp. For this sea-chest had been his in the Britannia, and besides containing all his earthly belongings it had, pinned inside its lid, photographs of his father and mother and sister, one of his favourite dog, and one of his home: the latter had been taken by an uncle, a retired Naval officer with a craze for photography; it had faded to the tint of a biscuit, and very little of the house was discernible. But Nick treasured it because it was his home, even though a stranger would not have realised what it depicted. He drew out his key, unlocked and flung open the lid. The chest contained a wash-basin, a mirror, and a brass bracket designed to hold a candle. There was also a new and shiny telescope clamped to the lid. Sheep and Usher had also unlocked their chests and were gazing at the photographs in their lids with much the same emotions as Nick’s. Sheep, thus engaged, looked more like one of his namesakes than ever. They removed their dirks and sat down, each on the edge of his chest.

“Well,” said Usher, without much enthusiasm in his voice, “here we are!”

At this moment an avalanche of midshipmen poured down the hatchway. They were all talking at once, and they rushed each to his chest, flung it open, and began to undress with prodigious haste. The one nearest to Nick kept shouting, “Bags first bath, bags first bath!” as he tore off his garments. Finally, naked, he snatched up a towel and rushed towards a steel door on the foremost side of the flat. It opened into a small compartment which in a few minutes was filled with a crowd of nude figures, splashing, singing, arguing. Clouds of steam poured out of the door into the flat and escaped as best it might up the hatchway.

So far nobody had taken the slightest notice of the newcomers, but presently Nick’s neighbour returned, dripping wet and rubbing his hair with a doubtful-looking towel. He smelt of carbolic toothpowder and yellow soap.

“Hallo!” he said to Nick, and grinned affably. “Are you Ainsworth?” Nick said he was. “Have you such a thing as a clean shirt?” inquired the other. He had a round bullet head, and one of his front teeth was broken in half.

“I expect so,” said Nick doubtfully.

“It’s funny,” pursued the other, stirring the contents of his chest interrogatively, “but I’ve lost the run of all my shirts. Give me one of yours, will you?”

Nick realised that this was barefaced piracy, but there seemed no alternative but to comply. He extracted a shirt, in all its immaculate newness, starched and folded and marked with his name, and handed it over. It was small consolation to observe that another brigand, crudely tattoed about his arms, was levying toll on Sheep’s socks, and yet a third demanding a clean collar from Usher.

All round them the noisy gabble continued, some dressing, some hurriedly shaving, some scrapping, when a voice shouted:

“Who’s dressed?”

“I am,” said Nick’s neighbour.

“Take those warts up to the gunroom.”

It was the voice of the senior midshipman, the voice of authority. In the midst of all the turmoil of the chest-flat he was unconcernedly shaving with a large black-handled service razor. Above the latter he smiled at them.

“I’ll come along in a minute,” he shouted. “You go with Giles. You’ll get some breakfast soon.”

They followed their guide along dim alleyways starred with rivets and painted white, with hammocks lashed up like sausages and stowed on end in troughs along the bulkheads. Finally Giles jerked back a curtain.

“There you are!” he said, not without a note of pride in his voice, and ushered them into the gunroom. It was lit by scuttles in the ship’s side. A table ran the length of the mess, with a row of lockers above it. A beer barrel occupied one corner and a battered piano another. There were some forms and a couple of arm-chairs and a dirk-rack. There was a picture of Queen Victoria on the bulkhead, and a questionable cloth on the table. A Maltese domestic with a severe squint was laying the table for breakfast, dealing out plates as if they were a pack of cards.

“José—what’s for breakfast?” demanded Mr. Giles ferociously.

“’Ash,” retorted the Maltese. “’Ash—fri’ potatoes.” He continued to deal out the plates. A marine with a bald head and a drooping moustache appeared and began to clatter cups and saucers through a trap-hatch connecting with a dark, evil-smelling pantry.

Mr. Giles sniffed appreciatively. “Well, smack it about,” he said in tones of authority.

“Breakfast, eight bells,” said the Maltese. He picked up one of the plates, examined a smear of egg doubtfully, gave it a rub with a corner of the tablecloth, and replaced it.

Suddenly the senior midshipman appeared. He was tall, smiling, and nice to look at.

“Which is which?” he asked. The three newcomers introduced themselves.

“I’m Cradock. I’m the senior snottie. Awful time to join a ship, isn’t it? Empty belly, and all that. You’ll see the Commander at nine o’clock, and then you’ll get twenty-four hours to sling your hammocks and shake down. You’ve come to the best ship in the Channel Fleet. But you’ll have time to learn a lot before we pay off!” He surveyed their faces with a friendly grin. “This is the worst moment in all your lives. Cheer up!”

They had a feeling, brief, transitory, emotional, that they would cheerfully have died for Cradock. Somewhere on deck a bell rang eight times. He turned to the trap-hatch. “Breakfast!” he roared.

Within the next few minutes the mess filled with hungry midshipmen. They came tumbling in by twos and threes and sat down at the table, loudly demanding food. The Maltese rushed from one to the other, ladling portions of hashed mutton and potatoes on to their plates. The marine with drooping moustaches poured out cups of black bitter tea from a vast metal teapot and handed them round. Loaves of bread occupied the centre of the table at intervals, and everybody carved off slices for himself. For a while there was a lull in the conversation while the mountainous helpings of hash and potatoes disappeared. Most of the midshipmen produced pots of jam or marmalade from their lockers. One had a jar of pickled cabbage which he ate on his bread as if it were a preserve.

“How’s Wonky Willie?” he shouted across the table at the small midshipman with the big ears.

“He’s been inventing a submarine all the morning watch.”

There was a roar of laughter. “Does he think we are going to start submarines in the British Navy?” inquired another.

“Why not? The Americans are experimenting with one.”

“Not sporting!”

“Well,” said Giles, “Wonky says that they are going to revolutionise war. He has designed one that will carry a crew of ten men, and fire a torpedo when it’s submerged.”

“How can it see what it’s firing at?”

“Well, Wonky explained that, but it was a bit difficult to understand. He’s designing a sort of tube to stick out of the water with lenses and a mirror.”

“He’s as wet as a scrubber,” observed another, licking the jam off his spoon and returning the pot to his locker. “I kept the middle watch with him one night, and he told me he had invented a net, to be towed between trawlers, to catch an enemy’s submarines. It had bombs at intervals that burst on impact——”

In the midst of the amusement occasioned by this flight of imaginative fancy, the Sub-lieutenant entered the mess and sat down at the head of the table. He was lean and cadaverous, with a lock of hair hanging over one temple.

“No gentleman speaks at breakfast,” he announced, a remark of which no one took the slightest notice. The Maltese placed two eggs in front of him. He removed the top of one and smelt it. Then, turning in his seat in the direction of the trap-hatch, he shouted:

“Messman!”

“Sair?” A face like a grizzled monkey’s, with gold rings in its ears, appeared in the opening. As quick as a flash the Sub snatched the egg and flung it; but the messman was quicker. He dodged and the egg burst somewhere in the dark interior of the pantry.

There was a roar of laughter round the table.

“Bring me another,” commanded the cadaverous gentleman.

Nick, who was rather shocked, wondered whether the Sub-lieutenant threw eggs about when he was in the privacy of his own home. He noticed that Cradock did not appear to be amused. He had finished his breakfast and was filling a fascinating-looking pipe. It had a clay bowl fashioned to resemble the head of an Indian, with a cherrywood stem.

“You three had better get up on deck,” he said. “Take your dirks. I’ll take you to report to the Commander presently.”

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.

“My name is Freyer. I’m an Assistant Clerk. I’ve been in the Navy three weeks. Do you like being in the Navy?” He addressed the question to Wainwright.

“Pretty well,” admitted Sheep cautiously. “Do you?”

“No. I am the lowest form of animal life.”

“Who said you were?” demanded Nick, who for some reason felt he wanted to champion this small creature against the buffets of fate.

“Lascells. He’s the Sub-lieutenant. I’ve got to make up a song about it and sing it on guest night.”

“How far have you got?” asked Usher, interested.

“Not very far, I’m afraid. I come up here after breakfast and try to compose the words. But I’m no poet, I’m afraid.”

“We’ll help you,” said Sheep reassuringly. He stared up at the muzzle of a quick-firing gun projecting from the after fighting top. The others stood and looked at him hopefully. “How would this do?” suggested the self-appointed poet after some minutes’ communion with the muzzle of the quick-firer:

“I’m the lowest form of animal life,

And I’ve no children or even a wife.”

“Of course he hasn’t,” expostulated Usher. “Don’t be an ass, Sheep. Think of something better than that. Perhaps you have a better second line in your head already?” he asked Freyer politely.

“Actually I have,” admitted the little Clerk. “It goes like this:

“I’m the lowest form of animal life—

I’d cut my throat if I’d got a knife.”

He eyed them gravely.

Nick nodded. “Well, go on.”

“There isn’t any more, so far. But I expect I shall think of something presently. Guest night is not till next Thursday.”

“Rather morbid,” said Usher. “What about the tune?”

“I know.” The little Clerk looked gloomy. “I thought perhaps I could work it into a hymn tune. Or perhaps make up a tune as I went along. On the night.”

“Awfully difficult to do that. Better choose a good hymn tune, like Onward Christian Soldiers.”

“Let’s try that,” suggested Sheep. He cleared his throat and hummed a few bars. “No, that won’t do.”

“Abide with me,” proposed Nick. “That’s more the kind of tune you want. It’s a sad sort of song really, isn’t it, Freyer?”

Freyer said he thought it would turn out to be a saddish song when it was finished. Everything pointed that way.

“Well, we’ll see what we can do between us,” said Nick. “It’s a long way to Thursday. It needn’t be a sad song, need it?”

Freyer agreed that there was no absolute necessity for it to be sad; “but,” he pointed out, “if it isn’t a good song Lascells said he’d beat me, and that makes me feel sad.” He produced a piece of bread from his pocket. “There’s a turkey in one of the coops. I generally come and feed it after meals. Would you like to come and see it?” He led them to a coop on the far side of the shelter-deck.

“Are you fond of turkeys?” asked Usher.

“Not particularly, but no one talks to me much and I find it rather lonely, so I got into the way of doing this.” The turkey, huddled disconsolately in a small coop, brightened at the sight of Freyer. He handed his companions each a small piece of the bread. “But it’ll be better now you’ve joined.”

“We’ll do things together,” said Nick. “You can come ashore with us.” They fed the turkey in turns with crumbs of bread.

“Thanks awfully,” said Freyer. He brushed the crumbs from his hands. “Now I don’t mind so much about poor old Gregory.” He nodded at the turkey. “I was rather dreading his being killed to tell you the truth.”

The others were touched. “Why do you call him Gregory?” asked Nick.

Freyer looked at the turkey and the turkey looked at Freyer. Its flabby wattle hung over one eye, giving it a rather disreputable appearance.

“I don’t know. It just came to me.”

“I expect the song will, too,” said Nick. He meant to be encouraging, but in his heart he felt that it was one thing to christen a turkey and quite another to compose a song. At that moment Cradock appeared.

“Come along,” he said to the three midshipmen, “I’ll take you to see the Commander.”

They followed their guide down the ladder to a door in the superstructure where they could see a thin, angular man with a pink face, grey hair, and very blue eyes. The combination of these things was reassuring. He was sitting in an arm-chair, throwing dog biscuits to a red setter.

He looked up as Cradock knocked. “Come in,” he said, “all of you.”

They complied, and stood in a row stiffly at attention. The owner of the cabin sat with a bit of biscuit in his hand, and scanned them in turn with a penetrating but not unkindly gaze.

“Come aboard to join, sir,” said Nick, who was the senior of the three newcomers. He thought he had better deliver himself of this announcement, which Mandy had rubbed into him as the correct way to introduce himself to the Commander although actually it seemed half a lifetime since he had stepped on board.

“Had any breakfast?” asked the Commander.

“Yes, thank you, sir,” they replied in chorus.

“Which is going to be my doggie?” he asked Cradock.

Cradock indicated Nick.

“Ainsworth, sir. I thought he’d be all right. He’s the senior of the three.”

The blue eyes were again turned on Nick. “Heaven help you,” said their owner. “I’m a beast till I’ve had my breakfast—aren’t I, Cradock?”

“Sometimes, sir,” replied Cradock after a moment’s pause, and they all laughed, but they could see that Cradock didn’t really think the Commander was anything but the most marvellous human being in the world.

“Which of you is Usher?”

Usher indicated that such was his name.

“Had you a father in the service?”

“No, sir—uncle.”

“Well, he taught me more seamanship than any Commander I ever had, and with the luck of the fat priest I’ll do the same by you.”

Usher thanked him rather nervously, wondering how his Uncle Ronald had ever managed to teach anything to anybody. He had been retired for many years and spent most of his time in his club, telling his friends about the state of his internal organs, which interested him to an incredible and most boring extent.

Then it was Sheep’s turn.

“Wainwright?” asked the Commander.

Sheep had a stupid habit of blushing when he was nervous. He blushed now.

“Good swimmer, aren’t you?”

Sheep blushed still more. The other two felt a bit ashamed of him. “Not as good as Ainsworth, sir.”

“Mandeville said you both were,” pursued the Commander. “He used to be one of my snotties. He wrote to me before you joined, and said he hoped you’d do him credit.” He tossed the biscuit to the dog which caught it with a snap, and then he nodded dismissal to Cradock. “Don’t wait, boy,” he said; Cradock slipped through the door and disappeared. The Commander began to fill a briar pipe, black and charred with age. He appeared to be reflecting about something and to have forgotten the three midshipmen before him. The dog wagged its tail as if to attract his attention.

“You’ve got to do him credit,” he said suddenly. “You’ve got to do the old Britannia credit. In a while other things will take its place: bigger responsibilities. You’ll have to be a credit to the ship and to the Navy; men will look to you for example, for orders, for the safety of their lives. How you act then—in emergencies—depends on the sum of all the little things you learn, every minute, every day. Never slack up, never dodge responsibilities. I’ll lay ’em on you bit by bit, never more than you should reasonably be able to tackle.”

He broke off and lit his pipe, sucking at it in the same reflective way as he had spoken; and suddenly he turned his eyes towards them and smiled. His rather stern face was lit by that smile, so that all three midshipmen never forgot his next words.

“You must trust me—but even more you must trust yourselves. Now, off you go. I’ll send for you after Divisions and take you to see the Captain. Wait in the gunroom. Carry on.”

They returned to the gunroom. It was empty, except for José, the Maltese domestic, who was folding up the tablecloth.

“Well!” gasped Usher. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? I was in a blue funk when we went in. He’s a ripper, although I can’t say I understood all he was jawing about.”

“I did,” said Sheep.

“Then why did you blush like a silly ass?” inquired Nick.

“I didn’t,” protested Sheep.

“You did, Sheep. Like a beetroot,” confirmed Usher.

“Da Commander, ’e’s all right. You taka dat from me,” José suddenly announced. He thrust the tablecloth into a drawer in the sideboard, and a cockroach fell out. José pounced on it and caught it with the agility of a monkey. “I ’ave a glass of beer to-night to drink to your ’ealth. Dat all right? Put it down on your wine bill. T’ree glass of beer. Dat bring you good luck. José drinka your ’ealth.”

They looked at each other. Usher nodded.

“Certainly,” said Nick with dignity.

José walked to the scuttle and dropped the cockroach over the side. “Dat’s all right,” he said, and shuffled out of the mess.

“I think everything’s going to be all right,” said Sheep suddenly, “with a Commander like this one.”

The other two agreed. But as they spoke Nick thought of little Freyer and his song and the egg bursting in the pantry. So far everything was all right. But the future might reveal another side to the picture.