Читать книгу Half a Sovereign - Major General John Hay Beith - Страница 6

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I lay on my back on the top of the chart-house of the Virginia—the yacht which weighed thousands of something—extracting what comfort I could from the pleasant sun and a bubbling briar pipe, and indulging in a little morning hate.

I had not been long in discovering this refuge. It was approached by a difficult little iron ladder, and was employed mainly as a depository for spare spars and coils of rope. Consequently it had been overlooked by my fellow-passengers as a place of resort—a fact which rendered it invaluable to me: this was the second time I had taken sanctuary there in twenty-four hours.

I had reached Marseilles the previous morning, having fortified myself for the forthcoming ordeal by a quiet week-end in Paris. The yacht was waiting for me, as inexorable as Fate, and as I dragged my reluctant feet up the gangway I was received by both Mutt and Jeff in person. Mutt, whom I had interrupted in a game of bridge, contented herself with shaking hands, and then hurried off to put her oar in at the subsequent recriminations; but her consort was kind enough to show me my cabin and rehearse me in the rules of the ship.

The cabin was a pleasant enough place, with a port-hole opening on to the main deck, and a neat brass bedstead instead of a berth: also that indispensability of the bad sleeper, an electric reading-lamp over the pillow.

Sir James got to work at once.

'We breakfast at eight bells,' he announced. 'Luncheon is at three bells. Tea is served on deck during the first dog-watch. We dine at eight bells again. Do not attempt to open your port-hole: when the state of the weather permits, your steward will do so for you. In the rack above your head you will observe a life-jacket: kindly try it on at your earliest convenience. There will be an emergency boat-drill during the course of the day: I have purposely postponed it until your arrival. The exact time of the alarm is, of course, an official secret, but its occurrence will be notified by three short blasts on the yacht's siren, when all hands will proceed at once to the upper deck and take station. Ship's discipline must, of course, be maintained, even upon pleasure-excursions. You are in Boat Number Two: your fellow-passengers will be Mrs. Dunham-Massey, Mr. Jubberley, Mr. Bumpstead, Miss Hockley, and—er—Miss Gowlland. The chief engineer will command, and eight members of the yacht's crew will also be in the boat—which I need hardly say has been already provisioned and watered. You will find a résumé of these instructions on the printed card hanging on that wa—bulkhead. Have you breakfasted?'

'Yes, thank you.'

'Very good. If you should require anything before luncheon, do not hesitate to ring for your steward. There shall be no stint of rations and grog under my roo—fo'c'sle.' And with this brief lapse into jocularity, my little host left me, already determined in my own mind that if we were fortunate enough to be wrecked I would go down with the ship rather than commit myself for an indefinite period to a small boat containing Jubberley, Mrs. Dunham-Massey, and Gwen.

It was at boat-drill that I first encountered my shipmates. The alarm sounded barely an hour after our departure from Marseilles; and summoning to my aid my entire stock of respect for good order and discipline, I arrayed myself in a singularly unbecoming life-jacket and went on deck. Needless to say, I was the first arrival.

I found Boat Number Two, a steam launch, swung outboard on its davits, and waited forlornly. Presently I was joined by the chief engineer, a sardonic Scot, who evidently had his own opinion of emergency boat-drills. He accepted a cigarette, and we conversed laboriously.

Next came various members of the crew, looking sheepish and resentful after the manner of seafaring men when called upon to perform what they regard as unnecessary antics in company with passengers. They were followed by Rorison, wearing his life-jacket wrong way round, and depressed to the roots of his being. (This was not because of the postponement of his nuptials, which were a pure figment of my own hard-pressed imagination; but because, like his master, he disliked making a public exhibition of himself.) The only person who seemed to be extracting any enjoyment from the proceedings was the cook's mate, an enormous negro, with rolling eyes and flashing teeth, who arrived straight from his labours in the galley, armed with a knife about two feet in length. I remember hoping that he would bring it along if we were actually wrecked: it might be useful with Jubberley.

Finally my fellow-passengers began to put in an appearance. I had not encountered any of them since the dinner at Mulberry Lodge, and to my jaundiced eye they appeared even more repulsive in their present setting than in Regent's Park.

Jubberley wore white duck trousers, a red cummerbund, an alpaca jacket, and a panama hat. Upon Margate sands, or at the annual picnic of his parliamentary constituents, he would have made a majestic and appropriate figure; but against a Mediterranean background he was merely a polychromatic and gelatinous outrage. Mrs. Dunham-Massey was spruce enough; she was too shrewd a woman to be caught napping where her personal appearance was concerned. I knew that if the alarm had sounded at three o'clock in the morning she would have answered the call with her nose perfectly powdered and her mouth on quite straight.

Gwen, whose appearance was more than proof against picturesque disorder, arrived with her hair down, wearing a fetching kimono and little pink bedroom slippers. Needless to say, she was in a becoming state of distress. The siren had frightened her to death, and no one had warned her that it was only a joke, and no one had helped her on with her life-jacket, and she knew she looked horrible.

'You mean to be kind, Leslie,' she wailed, as I shook hands and began to fumble with the strings of her jacket; 'but now that you have come on board, at last, you might have—you are a tiny bit thoughtless, dear, aren't you?'

'I'm sorry,' I mumbled.

'These sudden shocks don't upset big strong Leslie; but poor little Gwen's different. She gets terrified! You might have come and knocked at Gwen's cabin door!'

'I've only been on board an hour,' I said, 'and didn't even know if you were up or not.'

'I wasn't. That's why I'm dressed like this.' She looked up, meltingly. 'Does Leslie like Gwen's kimono?'

When Gwen gets down to baby-talk—which is her way of indicating extreme favour—I turn sick and faint. She does it for the same reason that a kitten throws a live mouse into the air two or three times before swallowing it—because she knows there is no need to hurry over such absolutely helpless provender as this. She had started in on baby-talk half-way through my so-called convalescent days at Bagworthy, and she had talked it whenever she felt like talking it, ever since. She had even done it in the presence of her father, and I still remember that long-suffering nobleman's start of incredulous joy and relief when he realised that here, upon the horizon, was the glimmering dawn of a hope that Gwen was at last going to permit some one to take her off his hands. As for me, it was only by calling up my entire stock of mental and moral fortitude that I had left Bagworthy still sane and free.

I may as well be quite frank about my relations with Gwen. A man has to admit certain things about himself sometimes, even to himself. Sentimental attachments are formed with fatal ease in days of national stress, especially when the pursuer is disguised as an angel and the pursued is an interesting invalid. Gwen certainly looked lovely in her hospital uniform, and I suppose I looked lovely in my jaeger dressing-gown; because there is no denying that for a short time it was what is technically known as 'a case' between us. It was a very mild case. I never even kissed her: disillusion came too swiftly.

Gwen proved to be a clinger of the most wistful and exhausting type—and not a particularly fastidious clinger at that. She angled impartially for the admiration of every man in sight, and, to be just, she usually got it. And she seldom let any of her victims go. An old Irishwoman of my acquaintance once summed up a particularly artful friend and neighbour of hers for my benefit by saying: 'That one would mind a flock of mice at a cross-roads!' She must have been thinking of some one just like Gwen.

Unfortunately, for some reason which I could never understand, Gwen elected to install me as Principal Mouse. Other members of the flock were permitted, in fullness of time, to escape by devious ways, their places being taken by younger and less experienced victims; but I went on for ever. I do not believe that Gwen cared for me one particle after the first fortnight—in fact, I do not believe she ever cared for any one in the world except Gwen Gowlland—but I seem to have grown into a habit. At any rate, without denying herself anything at all in the way of auxiliary attachments, she had pursued me from that day to this with gentle, reproachful, remorseless fidelity until the world in general had taken an understanding between us for granted.

I had just succeeded in adjusting my appointed soul-mate's life-jacket, when our numbers were augmented by the arrival of an odd-looking being, whom I took to be Miss Arabella Hockley, the female hobbledehoy. I must say that Mrs. Dunham-Massey's candid description seemed to fit her well. She was a stocky, shambling creature of fifteen or sixteen. She wore horn-rimmed spectacles and a pigtail, the latter fastened apparently with a piece of fishing-line. She suffered from the further disability of beetling brows and a shiny nose. She was attired in a ragged old Aquascutum and rubber boots, and was eating an orange—a rather pulpy orange—and trailing her life-jacket behind her by one of the strings. She was suffering from a heavy cold in the head, an affliction which I afterwards discovered to be more or less chronic.

'Hallo!' she remarked to Gwen and myself. 'Spoodig?'

'Arabella darling, don't be naughty!' protested Gwen, in becoming confusion. 'Here's Sir James!'

There was another group lined up on the deck, not far from ours. It consisted of the remainder of the yacht party, headed by Lady Rumborough, and a further contingent of the crew. Sir James himself, in white ducks and a yachting cap, accompanied by the captain, a large man with an obvious sense of humour, had just finished inspecting them.

'You may dismiss,' I heard him say. 'Life-jackets will be replaced exactly where found, forthwith.'

Instead of obeying these perfectly explicit orders, several of Number One Boat party, headed by Lila and Jimmy, followed the inspector and escort along the deck in our direction.

Sir James took his stand facing us, and surveyed us longingly. It was quite obvious that he would have liked to call us to attention in military style, but possibly he was deterred by the somewhat ribald attitude of at least two of the spectators. He contented himself by barking, 'Silence, please!' He then produced a memorandum-book from his pocket, and proceeded to call out our names.

'The Honourable Gwendolyn Gowlland?'

'Yes, Sir James; do you want me?' inquired the lady indicated, bestowing upon her host the unused half of a smile which she had already employed, without success, to demoralise the ship's boy, who formed part of the gallery.

Sir James frowned. Evidently this was not the right answer.

'Mrs. Dunham-Massey?' he called.

'Here I am, James. It's a lovely morning, isn't it?'

Sir James's frown deepened. Wrong again.

'Miss Arabella Hockley?'

'Hallo!' responded Arabella affably, her utterance obscured by orange-pulp. With a little sigh Sir James turned over a page and tried a fresh sex.

'Mr. Oswald Jubberley?'

'Present!' This was evidently the right word, for Sir James proceeded briskly:

'Colonel Leslie Miles?'

'In attendance!' At the last moment my tongue had flatly declined to follow a lead set by Jubberley. Jimmy and Lila sniggered. My host gave me a reproving look over his pince-nez, and passed on.

'Mr. George Bumpstead?'

There was silence. Evidently the renowned explorer, big-game hunter, humorist, and mimic had not heard the siren.

'Mr. George Bumpstead?' repeated Sir James, raising his voice.

Arabella removed her orange with an audible squelch.

'It's dot buch use callig hib out,' she observed: 'he's dot here.'

'But he ought to be here,' rejoined Sir James severely. 'An order is an order. My God! what's that?'

The door of the deck-house behind us burst violently open, and, with an ear-splitting shriek, the figure of a female, closely veiled, shot forth and projected itself upon Sir James's bosom.

'Save me! save me!' the apparition howled, in a robust falsetto. 'Don't let me go to the bottom of the sea! I will be good! Stop the storm! I'm not fit to die. Don't go down the ladder, laddie: they've taken it away! Ow! Ow!'

Further lamentations were cut short by Lady Rumborough, who strode forward and seized the suppliant by the shoulders.

'You're wearing my hat!' she announced.

Besides the hat and veil this singular vision wore a multi-coloured jumper, a pink chiffon scarf, and a green silk petticoat. Below all protruded trousered legs and a pair of number eleven yachting shoes.

'Come, come!' spluttered Sir James. 'This is an official parade——'

But these very proper remonstrances were drowned by a second outbreak of hysteria, in the course of which the new arrival scrambled up by one of the davits into the boat. Having achieved this eminence, she removed her hat and veil with a single flourish, revealing herself as a pudding-faced young man of about thirty, with a low forehead and a mouth like a fish. To the appreciative laughter of Jimmy, Lila, the cook's mate, and the ship's boy, he now placed his right elbow in his left palm, and his right palm behind his right ear, uttered a parrot-like screech, and embarked upon an imitation of that incomparable comedian, Mr. Biff Burbidge.

In other words, it was George Bumpstead being funny—at eleven o'clock in the morning!

After lunch I discovered the iron ladder and the roof of the chart-house. Here I spent a tolerable afternoon. And now, next morning, I was up there again, chiefly to escape fulfilment of various commitments entered into, under duress, at dinner, or thereafter, the previous evening.

At that meal, as the tenderfoot of the party, I sat next to Lady Rumborough. On her other side was Jubberley, who had Lila for his right-hand neighbour. Mrs. Dunham-Massey, Podmore, and Arabella Hockley were at Sir James's end of the table. I was particularly glad to be removed from the neighbourhood of Arabella. She had taken a sort of ungainly fancy to me, and after tea had insisted on bringing her chair over beside mine, where she sat extracting mussels from their shells, with a view to a little deep-sea fishing in the near future, breathing heavily, and endeavouring to charm me to some romantic confidence upon the subject of Gwen.

Upon my left, needless to say, was Gwen herself. Beyond her sat George Bumpstead, at the top of his form. Apparently he always was.

Beyond the fact that he was an oaf of the first water, possessed enormous quantities of money, and had mysteriously acquired a reputation—among the Rumborough household, at any rate—as a sportsman, I knew nothing of him. To my intense satisfaction he devoted practically the whole of dinner to a sort of cave-man courtship of Gwen. If he did not actually strike her over the head with a decanter, he contradicted all she said, commanded her in thunderous tones to eat or drink this or that, and issued a stream of intimations as to what she was to do—in his company, of course—to-morrow. Gwen, to whom no form of masculine attention came amiss, sized up her man with unerring instinct, and adopted the rôle of trembling fawn, thus luring the uncouth youth to incredible heights of palæolithic gallantry. Occasionally she gave me a 'poor-little-Gwen' look. But I was not to be drawn: I kept my eyes resolutely on my plate.

'Well, we've got nearly all of them on board now,' said Lady Rumborough to me. 'Do you know Barbara Hatton?'

'Yes. I used to see her a bit before she—was married.'

'He was impossible. Besides, he's dead. She's coming on board at Algiers.'

'When will that be?'

'Next week, I think. Where is it, do you know?'

'Algiers? North Africa, I believe.'

'Oh! Is it near Majorca? We're on our way there now: we ought to arrive to-morrow evening. Isn't Majorca the place where the pottery comes from? Or is it canaries?'

'Hens, I think. Anyhow, Minorca is.'

'Well, it doesn't matter in the least. I suppose you know every one else on board by this time?'

'Yes: I had met them at your house at dinner, except Miss Hockley.'

'Oh, Arabella? We had to have her. She's a niece of some kind of James's—his younger brother Vernon's second wife's daughter by her first husband, or something rather tiresome like that. Did you find her a nuisance this afternoon?'

'Not at all. I found her delightful.'

'Speak up! You're on my deaf side.'

I perjured myself a second time, fortissimo.

'Oh! I thought you said "frightful,"' said Lady Rumborough unconcernedly, and continued:

'Are you a good sailor?'

'Yes.'

'So am I. Margot Massey isn't, so you may have to take her place at bridge. You haven't met George Bumpstead before?'

'Only at Mulberry Lodge.'

'Oh! His father was a brewer. He's very amusing, isn't he? What?'

'Yes,' I bellowed. Gwen turned to me.

'Leslie dear,' she said pathetically, 'your voice goes through my head.'

'I'm sorry. I didn't know you were listening.' My tone was a trifle short, and I was punished at once.

'Leslie dear, don't bully me to-night: I can't bear it! I had been looking forward to a perfectly sweet talk with you; but this man'—with an attractive left shoulder-blade she indicated Bumpstead, who was showing Mrs. Dunham-Massey how it is possible to play a tune on one's cheek with the flat of a table-knife—'simply won't let me talk to any one but him. Poor little——'

As if to give point to Gwen's words, the humorist at this moment demanded and received her undivided attention while he gave his celebrated imitation of Biff Burbidge's celebrated imitation of a man eating spaghetti. I took a despondent draught of claret. And this was only the first night of my trip!

My hostess was conversing with Jubberley, in what she plainly imagined was an undertone.

'He was blown up in the war,' she announced in a reverberating stage whisper. 'He's very moody and unsociable: I don't think he's always quite right in his head.'

'Extremely likely,' commented Jubberley. 'I will have a chat with him afterwards. He may like to hear of the conclusions reached by the Parliamentary Sub-committee, of which I was chairman, appointed a few years ago to inquire into the questions of War Strain and Industrial Fatigue. I feel sure I could interest him.'

I had just realised who Jubberley's after-dinner auditor was going to be, when Lady Rumborough gave the signal for upheaval, and we adjourned to the upper deck for coffee.

I spent the next hour enduring or evading the attentions of my shipmates. By bedtime I had danced a one-step with Arabella Hockley, heard all there was to be known about War Strain and Industrial Fatigue, played a rubber of bridge with George Bumpstead as partner, reduced Gwen almost to tears by failing to exhibit resentment over her flirtation with the same gentleman, and faithfully promised to attend choir-practice upon the fo'c'sle deck at nine o'clock next morning—subject of practice, Sea Chanties; conductor, Mr. Podmore.

That was why I was now lying doggo upon the roof of the chart-house. Below me, on the main deck, I could hear Mr. Podmore's high-pitched voice inciting Lila, Mrs. Dunham-Massey, Jimmy Rumborough, and, to judge by the noise, the ship's boy—who, since his voice had just reached the cracking stage, was able to sing two octaves at once—to persevere in a ditty beginning:

Boney was a warrior—

Yah! Yay! Yah!

Boney was a warrior—

John Frangswah!

Well, Majorca was in sight, and with luck they would all be ashore during the afternoon. If not, I would be. I leaned against a coiled two-inch hawser, and refilled my pipe.

I may note that my escape from the musical exercises in progress was due to the fact that Mr. Podmore, to his bitter disappointment, had discovered that the yacht possessed no capstan.

'Chanties are of two kinds,' he explained—'Capstan Chanties and Halyard Chanties. In the former case, capstan bars were inserted into the customary holes in the capstan—usually eight in number—and the crew walked round the capstan, pushing the bars before them, and singing the chanty. The musician stood upon the summit of the rotating capstan, and accompanied. In this manner the labour of raising the anchor was agreeably lightened. However, as there appears to be no capstan upon this vessel—nothing, in fact, but a quite unsuitable horizontal contrivance, operated by steam—we must content ourselves with a Halyard Chanty. In that case, I shall not require quite so many volunteers.' (I began to back stealthily towards the chart-house.) 'We will haul on to this rope, which I have secured to the foot of this mast, in time to the music of the chanty, singing and heaving rhythmically together until I cry, "Belay, there!"—which means, "Pause for rest."'

By this time I was out of sight, and almost out of hearing. That was half an hour ago, but Mr. Podmore's voice was still audible at intervals.

'This chanty,' I could hear him say, 'is employed by sailors when operating the top-gallant halyards. "Boney," of course, is Napoleon Bonaparte. The expression "John Frangswah!" is a corruption of "Jean François." It is not known precisely who——'

Feet grated upon my hitherto inviolate iron ladder, and a snoring sound became audible. Next moment an unclean hand rose above the edge of the chart-house roof, followed by an unkempt head, and I found myself gazing into the face of Arabella Hockley.

'Hallo,' she said; 'you're sittig od by bussels.'