XIII.THE TIZZY-SNATCHER.In the beginning he was an Assistant Clerk—which is a very small potato indeed; his attainments in this lowly rank were limited to an extensive and intimate knowledge of the various flavours of gum employed in the composition of envelopes. Passing straight from a private school, he began life in the Gunroom of a sea-going ship, and was afraid with a great amazement.The new conditions amid which in future he was to have his being unfolded themselves in a succession of crude disillusionments. He found himself surrounded by Midshipmen: contemporaries, but, as they took care to remind him, men in authority—beings with vast, dimly conceived responsibilities: barbarous in their manners, incomprehensive of speech. To the pain of countless indignities was added the fear of personal chastisement (had he not read of such things?), and, having been delicately nurtured, it is to be feared that the days of his earlier service were not without unhappiness.With the experience of a commission abroad, however, things began to assume their proper perspective. He became a Clerk, R.N., and blossomed into the dignity of a frock-coat and sword at Sunday morning Divisions, whereby was no small balm in Gilead.Your Midshipman differs but little in point of thoughtless cruelty from his brethren of "Quad" and school bench. But the mess-mates who (obedient to the boyish dictates of inhumanity, and for the good of his immortal soul) had chaffed and snubbed him into maturity, now appreciated him for the even temper and dry sense of humour he acquired in the process.Having mastered the queer sea-oaths and jargon of a Gunroom, he learned to handle an oar and sail a boat without discredit. The Sub. took him on deck in the dog-watches, and punched into him the rudiments of the art of self-defence; and, lastly, under the tutorship of a kindly Paymaster, he came to understand dimly the inner workings of that vast and complex organisation that has its seat in Whitehall, by whose mouths speak the Lords of Admiralty.His twenty-first birthday confronted him with the ordeal of an examination, which, successfully passed, entitled him to a commission in His Majesty's Fleet with the rank of Assistant Paymaster.For the next four years he continued to live in the Gunroom, where, by reason of an alleged unholy intimacy with the King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions, his advice was commonly sought on questions pertaining to the Service. His mode of speech had become precise—as befitted a wielder of the pen in life's battle, and one versed in the mysteries of Naval Correspondence. The ship's Office was his kingdom, where he was Lord of the Ledgers, with a lack of tan on face and hands that told of a sedentary life in confined spaces: not infrequently he wore glasses.Some day he will become a Paymaster, warden of the money-chest, and answerable for the pay, victualling, and clothing of every man on board. The years will bring three gold rings to his cuff, a Fleet Paymaster's grey hairs, and a nice perception between the digestible and otherwise in matters of diet.* * * * *The A.P. leaned back in his chair and threw down his pen: in the glare of the electric light his face looked white and tired. Beside him the Chief Writer sat totalling a column of figures: on deck a bell struck midnight."What d'you make it?" asked the A.P. wearily. The Writer named a sum."Penny out," replied the A.P. laconically, picking up his pen again. Outside the Office door, where the hammocks of the guard were slung, a Marine muttered in his sleep.The two great ledgers that lay open on the desk contained the names of every man on board. They were duplicates, worked independently, and by a comparison of the two mistakes could be detected and rectified. Opposite the names were noted the credits of pay and allowances, adjusted for different charges, the period borne, and all particulars affecting the victualling of each man."Ah!" The missing penny had been found. "It's in the account of that confounded Ordinary Seaman who broke his leave and got seven days cells," said the A.P. "No. 215." He gave a sigh of relief and closed the ledger. Perhaps he experienced something of the satisfaction an author might feel on writing the magic word "Finis." It was his creation, every word and figure of it, working as irrevocably as Destiny towards its appointed end: and on the morrow eight hundred men would file past the pay tables, and in less than twenty minutes have received, in coin or postal orders, the balance of pay due to them."I'm going to turn in now," said the A.P. "We'll coin to-morrow."Now the coins on a Paymaster's charge are of certain denominations—usually sovereigns, half-sovereigns, florins, shillings, and sixpenny bits. Each man is paid, as a rule, to the nearest shilling, and the odd pence, if any, are carried forward to the succeeding quarter. Thus the pay due to a man is, say, £3, 19s. 4d. He receives three sovereigns, a half-sovereign, four florins, and a shilling; the four pence are brought on to the next ledger. A Paymaster is thus enabled to foretell with some degree of accuracy the number of coins that he must demand from time to time.Having coined the total amount to be paid out in wages, and ascertained the number of coins of each denomination required, the pay-trays were laid on the desk in the Office. Each tray was made up of compartments large enough to hold a man's pay.The Paymaster divested himself of his coat, lit a pipe, and arranged side by side the two bags containing sovereigns and half-sovereigns. The A.P. similarly disposed of the florins and shillings, so that he could reach them easily. They contained the exact total amount required for the payment in the requisite coins."Ready, sir?" he asked."Right," said the Paymaster.The Chief Writer read out the amount due to the first man. Quick as a flash the amount had clinked into the first division of the tray, both officers making mental calculations as to the coins required. For the next half-hour the only sounds in the Office were the voice of the Chief Writer and the tinkle of the coins as each one was slipped into its compartment. In an incredibly short time the piles of gold and silver had melted away; as a tray was filled it was placed in a box and locked up in readiness for the payment. The three faces grew anxious as the piles dwindled and the number of empty compartments lessened.... The last total was reached: the Paymaster threw down two sovereigns; the A.P. added a florin and a shilling. The bags were empty: would it "pan out"?"Two pounds three," read out the Chief Writer, craning his neck to see the result."Thank the Lord," murmured the A.P.* * * * *On the quarter-deck, facing aft, the ship's company were mustered: seamen, stokers, artisans, cooks, and police, one after another, as their names were called by the A.P., stepped briskly up to the pay table, where the Captain and the Commander stood, scooped their wages into their caps and hurried away. The Marines followed, receiving their pay in their hands, with a click of the heels and a swinging salute.At the break of the forecastle an Ordinary Seaman stood regarding a few silver coins in his grimy palm. Having broken his leave during the month and been awarded cells in consequence, he had received considerably less pay than usual—a penalty he had not foreseen and did not understand."Bloomin' tizzy-snatcher," he muttered, slipping the coins into his trousers-pocket.He referred to the A.P.XIV."C/O G.P.O."The bell above the door of the village post-office tinkled and the Postmistress looked up over her spectacles."Is it yourself, Biddy?"A barefooted country girl with a shawl over her head entered and shyly tendered an envelope across the counter."Can you tell me how much it will be, Mrs Malone?" she queried. There was anxiety in the dark-blue eyes.The Postmistress glanced at the address. "Sure, it'll go for a penny," she said reassuringly."That's a terrible long way for a penny," said the girl. "Sure, it's a terrible long way."From under her shawl she produced a coin and stamped the envelope. It took some time to do this, because a good deal depended on the exact angle at which the stamp was affixed. In itself it carried a message to the recipient."It's grand writin' ye've got," said the Postmistress, her Celtic sympathy aroused. "An' himself will be houldin' it in his hands a month from now."The girl blushed. "Father Denis is after learnin' me; an' please for a bit o' stamp-paper, Mrs Malone," she pleaded softly, "the way no one will be after opening it an' readin' it in them outlandish parts." It was the seal of the poor, a small square of stamp-paper gummed over the flap of the envelope.As she was concluding this final rite the bell tinkled again. A fair-haired girl in tweeds, carrying a walking-stick, entered with a spaniel at her heels.She smiled a greeting to both women. "A penny stamp, please, Mrs Malone." She stamped a letter she carried in her hand, and turned the face of the envelope towards the Postmistress. "How long is this going to take getting to its destination?"The Postmistress beamed. "Sure, himself—" she began, and recollected herself. "A month, me lady—no more." Outside, the girl with the shawl over her head was standing before the slit of the post-box; the other girl came out the next moment, and the two letters started on their long journey side by side. As the two women turned to go, their eyes met for an instant: the country girl blushed. They went their way, each with a little smile on her lips.* * * * *The Destroyer, that for three hours had been slamming through a head sea, rounded the headland and came in sight of the anchored Fleet.The Yeoman of Signals on the Flagship's bridge closed his glass with a snap. "She's got mails for the Fleet," he called to the Leading Signalman. "I'll report to the Flag-Lieutenant." As he descended to the quarterdeck he met the Officer of the Watch."Destroyer coming in with mails, sir." The Lieutenant's face brightened; he called an order to the Boatswain's Mate, who ran forward piping shrilly. "A-wa-a-ay picket-boat!" he bawled.The Flag-Lieutenant was reading in his cabin when the Yeoman made his report. Snatching up his cap, he hastened in to the Admiral's apartments. "Destroyer arriving with mails for the Fleet, sir." The Admiral glanced at the calendar. "Ah! Eight days since we had the last. Thank you."The Flag-Lieutenant poked his head inside the Secretary's Office. "Now you fellows will have something to do—the mail's coming in!""Thank you," replied the Secretary's Clerk. "But, Flags,trynot to look quite so inanely pleased about it. She's probably forgotten all about you by now."The Destroyer with rime-crusted funnels drew near, and men working on the upper decks of the Fleet ceased their labours to watch her approach. One of the side-party, working over the side in a bowline, jerked his paint-brush in her direction. "If I don't get no letter this mail—so 'elp me I stops me 'arf pay," he confided grimly to a "Raggie," and spat sententiously. In the Wardroom the married officers awoke from their afternoon siesta and began to harass the Officer of the Watch with inquiries. The news spread even to the Midshipmen's Schoolplace, and the Naval Instructor found straightway that to all intents and purposes he was lecturing on Spherical Trigonometry to deaf adders.With the eyes of the Fleet upon her, the Destroyer anchored at last, and the Flagship's picket-boat slid alongside to embark the piles of bloated mail-bags. As she swung round on her return journey the Yeoman on the Flagship's bridge glanced down at a signal-boy standing beside the flag-lockers, and nodded. Two flags leaped from the lockers and sped to the masthead. Instantly an answering flutter of bunting appeared on each ship."Send boats for mails." The Flagship had spoken.* * * * *In Wardroom and Gunroom a rustling silence prevailed. Each new-comer as he entered rushed to the letter-rack and hurriedly grabbed his pile of letters: there is a poignant joy in seeing one's name on an envelope twelve thousand watery miles away from home, no matter whose hand penned the address. In some cases, though, it mattered a good deal.The Flag-Lieutenant retired to his cabin like a dog with a bone, and became engrossed with closely-written sheets that enclosed several amateur snapshots. One or two portrayed a slim, fair-haired girl in tweeds; others a black spaniel. The Flag-Lieutenant studied them through a magnifying-glass, smiling.The Admiral, busy over his private correspondence, was also smiling. He had been offered another group of letters to tack after his name (he had five already). The agent of his estate at home had a lot to say about the pheasants.... His wife sprawled an account of life at Aix across eight pages. He had been invited to be the executor of one man's will and godfather to another's child. But a series of impressionist sketches by his youngest daughter (ætat.5), inspired by a visit to the Zoo, was what he was actually smiling over.Up on the after-bridge the Yeoman of the Watch leaned over the rail and whistled to the signal-boy. "Nip down to my mess an' see if there's a letter for me."The boy fled down the ladder and presently returned with a letter. The Yeoman took it from him and turned it over in his hands, scanning it almost hungrily.The stamp was cryptically askew and the flap of the envelope ornamented by a fragment of stamp-paper."An' what the 'ell areyougrinnin' at?" he began. The boy turned and scampered down the ladder into safety. The Yeoman of Signals stood looking after him, the letter held in his hand, when a bell rang outside the signal-house. He put his ear to the voice-pipe. The Flag-Lieutenant was speaking."Yes, sir?""Make the following signal to the Destroyer that brought our mails—"To Commanding Officer. Admiral requests the pleasure of your company to dinner to-night at eight o'clock.""Aye, aye, sir." He turned away from the voice-pipe. "An''e could 'ave my tot on top o' that for the askin'."XV.THE "LOOK-SEE."SOUTHEND, AUGUST 1909.A bunting-draped paddle-steamer, listed over with a dense crowd of trippers, thrashed her leisurely way down the lines. On the quarterdeck of one of the Battleships the Midshipman of the Afternoon Watch rubbed the lense of his telescope with his jacket cuff, adjusted the focus against a stanchion, and prepared to make the most of this heaven-sent diversion. Over the water came a hoarse roar of cheering, and, as she drew near, handkerchiefs and flags fluttered along the steamer's rail. The Lieutenant of the Watch, in frock-coat and sword-belt, paused beside the Midshipman and raised his glass, a dry smile creasing the corners of his eyes."What's up with them all, sir?" murmured the boy delightedly. "My Aunt! What a Banzai!""Ever seen kids cheer a passing train? Same sort of thing.""But look at the girl in white; she's half off her chump—look at her waving her arms.... Friend of yours, sir?""No—only hysterical. The man with her is trying to make her stop." The sailor laughed. "He's given it up ... now he's waving too—what at?" He closed his glass. "Curious, isn't it?"The steamer passed on, and a confused burr of cheering announced that she had reached the next silent warship. "It's all-same 'Maffick,'" he continued presently, "Entente—Banzai—anything you like to call it. An' when we've gone they'll come to their senses and feel hot all over—like a fellow who wakes up and finds his hat on the gas-bracket and his boots in the water-jug!"The Midshipman nodded: "I saw some kids dancing round a policeman once. Made the bobby look rather an ass—though as a matter of fact I believe he rather liked it. Bad for discipline, though," he added with the austere judgment of eighteen summers.A launch bumped alongside, and a stout man in the stern-sheets shouted for permission to come on board."Do," said the Lieutenant gravely. The stout man took a valedictory pull at a black bottle in the stern-locker, pocketed a handful of shrimps for future consumption, and, accompanied by three feminine acquaintances, laboriously ascended the ladder. They gazed stolidly and all uncomprehending at the sleek barbette guns, the snowy planking underfoot, over which flickered the shadow of the White Ensign, and finally wandered forward through the screen-doors, where they were lost to view among the throngs of sightseers.The afternoon wore on; every few minutes a launch or steamer swirled past, gay with bunting and parasols. Many carried bands, and in the lulls of cheering the light breeze bore the notes of martial, if not strictly appropriate, music across the line. An Able Seaman paused in his occupation of burnishing the top of the after-capstan, and passed the back of his hand across his forehead."Proper dizzy, ain't they?" he remarked in an undertone to a companion. "Wot's the toon?""Sons of the Muvverland," replied the other. He sucked his teeth appreciatively, after the manner of sailor-men, and added, "Gawd! Look at them women!..."A launch with a crimson banner, bearing the name of a widely-circulated halfpenny paper, fussed under the stern. A man in a dingy white waistcoat hailed the quarter-deck in the vernacular through a megaphone."No, thank you," came the clear-cut reply; "we have to-day's papers." The Lieutenant hitched his glass under his arm and resumed his measured walk. "I'm no snob, Lord knows," he confided to the other, "but it bores me stiff to be patted on the head by the halfpenny press— Sideboy! pick up those shrimps' heads that gentleman dropped."By degrees the more adventurous spirits found their way down between decks, where, in a short time, the doorway of each officer's cabin framed a cluster of inquisitive heads. In one or two cases daring sightseers had invaded the interiors, and were examining with naïve interest the photographs, Rugby caps, dented cups, and all thelares atque penatesof a Naval Officer."'Ere, Florrie!" called a flushed maiden of Hebraic mien, obtruding her head into the flat, "come an' look!" She extended a silver photograph frame,—"Phyllis Dare—signed an' all!"The other sighed rapturously and examined it with round-eyed interest. Then she gazed round the tiny apartment. "Ain't'e a one! Look at 'is barf 'anging on the roof!..."The harassed sentry evicted them with difficulty."Better'n Earl's Court, this is," opined a stout lady, who, accompanied by a meek-looking husband and three children, had subsided on to a Midshipman's sea-chest. She opened the mouth of a string-bag. "Come on, 'Orace—you just set down this minute, an' you shall 'ave 'arf a banana."A very small Midshipman approached the chest. "I hate disturbing you, and Horace," he ventured, "but I want to go ashore, and all my things are in that box you're sitting on—would you mind...?""Ma!" shrilled a small boy, indicating the modest brass plate on the lid of the chest they had vacated. "Look—" he extended a small, grubby forefinger, "'e's a Viscount!""Garn," snapped his father, "that's swank, that is. Viscounts don' go sailorin'—they stops ashore an' grinds the faces of the poor, an' don' forget what I'm tellin' of you."The Marine Sentry overheard. "Pity they don' wash 'em as well," he observed witheringly. His duties included that of servant to the Midshipman in question, and he resented the scepticism of a stranger who sat on the lid of his master's chest eating cold currant pudding out of a string-bag.* * * * *On the pier-head a dense perspiring crowd surged through gates and barriers, swarmed outward into all the available space, and slowly congested into a packed throng of over-heated, over-tired humanity. Those nearest the rails levelled cheap opera-glasses at the distant line of men-of-war stretching away into the haze, each ship with her attendant steamer circling round her. An excursion steamer alongside hooted deafeningly, and a man in a peaked cap on her bridge raised his voice above the babel, bellowing hoarse incoherencies. A gaitered Lieutenant clanked through the crowd, four patrol-men at his heels, moving as men do who are accustomed to cramped surroundings.At the landing-stages, where the crowd surged thickest, the picket-boats from the Fleet swung hooting alongside, rocking in the swell. As each went astern and checked her way, the front of the excited throng of sightseers bellied outward, broke, and poured across the boats in a wild stampede for seats. They swayed on the edge of the gunwales, floundered hobnailed over enamelled casings, were clutched and steadied on the heaving decks by barefooted, half-contemptuous men. The Midshipmen raised their voices in indignant protest: drunk and riotous liberty-men they understood: one "swung-off" at them in unfettered language of the sea, or employed the butt-end of a tiller to back an ignored command on which their safety depended. But here was a people that had never known discipline—had scorned the necessity for it in their own unordered lives. The Midshipman of the inside pinnace jerked the lanyard of the syren savagely. "Look at my priceless paintwork! look at—That'senough—no more in this boat—it's not safe! Please stand back, it's—oh, d——!"A man, in utter disregard of the request, had picked up a child in his arms and jumped on board, steadying himself by the funnel guys. "Orl right, my son, don't bust yerself," he replied pleasantly.* * * * *An old woman forced her way through the crush towards the Lieutenant of the Patrol, who with knotted brows was trying to grasp the gist of a signal handed to him by a coastguard."I want to see my 'usband's nephew," she explained breathlessly; "'e's in 39 Mess." The Lieutenant smiled gravely. "What ship?" She named the ship, and stood expectant, a look of confidence on her heated features, as if awaiting some sleight-of-hand trick. There was something dimly prophetic in the simple faith with which she voiced her need."I see. Will you excuse me a minute while I answer this signal, and I'll send some one to help you find the right boat."A Petty Officer guided her eventually to the landing-place and saw her safely embarked; he returned to find his Lieutenant comforting with clumsy tenderness a small and lacrymose boy who had lost his parents, turning from him to receive the reproaches of a lady whose purse had been stolen. The two men exchanged a little smile, and the Petty Officer edged a little nearer—"'Arf an hour on the parade-ground at Whale Island,[#] sir, I'd like to 'ave with some of 'em," he confided behind a horny palm. The jostling throng surged round him, calling high heaven to witness the might of its possessions.[#] The hotbed of Naval Discipline."I'dmake 'em 'op..." he murmured dreamily.XVI."WATCH THERE, WATCH!"Dinner in the long, antler-hung mess-room of the Naval Barracks had come to an end. Here and there along the table, where the shaded lights glinted on silver loving-cups and trophies, a few officers lingered in pairs over their coffee. Presently the band moved down from the gallery that overlooked one end of the Mess, and began playing in the hall. This was the signal for a general move to the smoking-room, where a score of figures in mess undress uniform were grouped round the fire, lighting pipes and cigars and exchanging mild, after-dinner chaff.A few couples of dancing enthusiasts were solemnly revolving in the hall. Others made their way up the broad staircase to the billiard-room, or settled down at the bridge tables."Come on," shouted a tall Commander seated on the "club" fender in the smoking-room, "what about a game of skill or chance? Come up to the billiard-room, and bring your pennies!" He stirred a form recumbent in an arm-chair with the toe of his boot. "What about you, young feller? Are you going to play pool?"The young Lieutenant shook his head. "Not to-night, sir, thanks. I'm going to bed early: I've got the Night Guard trip."Gradually the room emptied. The figure in the arm-chair finished the paper he was reading, glanced at the clock and rose, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. "Call me at 1.15," he said to the hall porter as he passed him on his way to his room.An officer, immaculate in evening dress, who was putting his overcoat in the hall, overheard the speaker, and laughed. "That's the spirit! Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise!""More'n you'll ever be, my sprig o' fashion," grumbled the Lieutenant, and passed on.* * * * *The Lieutenant of the Night Guard went cautiously down the wooden steps of the Barracks' Pier that led to the landing-place. Cautiously, because the tide was low, and experience had taught him that the steps would be slippery with weed. Also the night was very dark, and the lights of the steamboat alongside showed but indistinctly through the surrounding fog. At the bottom of the steps one of the boat's crew was waiting with a lantern. Its rays lit for a minute the faces of the two men, and gleamed on the steel guard of the cutlass at the bearer's hip."Infernal night!" said the Lieutenant from the depths of his overcoat collar. He had just turned out, and there was an exceeding bitterness in his voice. The lantern-bearer also had views on the night—possibly stronger views—but refrained from any reply. Perhaps he realised that none was expected. The other swung himself down into the sternsheets of the boat, and, as he did so, the Coxswain came aft, blowing on his hands."Carry on, sir?""Please. Usual rounds: go alongside a Destroyer and any ship that doesn't hail. Fog's very thick: got a compass?""There's a compass in the boat, sir." The Coxswain moved forward again to the wheel, wearing a slightly ruffled expression which, owing to the darkness and the fact that there was no one to see it, was rather wasted. For thirty years he'd known that harbour, man and boy, fair or foul, and his father a waterman before him.... He jerked the telegraph bell twice, gave a half-contemptuous turn to the wheel, and spat overside."Compass!" he observed to the night.The boat slid away on its mission, and the shore lights glimmered wan and vanished in the fog astern. A clock ashore struck the hour, and from all sides came the answering ships' bells—some near, some far, all muffled by the moisture in the heavy atmosphere.Ding-ding! Ding! Half-past one.He who had borne the lantern deposited it in the tiny cabin aft, and with a thoughtful expression removed a frayed halfpenny paper from the inside of the breast of his jumper. To carry simultaneously a cutlass and a comic paper did not apparently accord with his views on the fitness of things, for he carefully refolded the latter and placed it under the cushions of the locker. Then he unhooked a small megaphone from the bulkhead, and came out, closing the sliding-door behind him. Finally he passed forward into the bows of the boat, where he remained visible in the glare of the steaming light, his arms crossed on his chest, hands tucked for warmth one under each arm-pit, peering stolidly into the blackness ahead.Once in mid-stream the fog lessened. Sickly patches of light waxed out of indistinctness and gleamed yellow. Anon as they brightened, a human voice, thin and lonely as a wraith's, came abruptly out of the night."Boat ahoy!" The voice from nowhere sounded like an alarm. It was as if the darkness were suddenly suspicious of this swiftly-moving, palpitating thing from across the water. The figure in the bows removed his hands from his arm-pits, picked up the megaphone, and sent a reassuring bellow in the direction of the hail."Guard Boat!" he answered, and as he did so a vast towering shape had loomed up over them. "Answer's, 'Guard Boat!' sir," said the faint voice somewhere above their heads, addressing an unseen third person. A dark wall appeared, surmounted by a shadowy superstructure and a giant tripod mast that was swallowed, long before the eye could reach its apex, in vapour and darkness. The sleek flanks of guns at rest showed for an instant.... A sleeping "Super-Dreadnought." It faded into the darkness astern; then nothing but the mist again, and the throb of the boat's engines.Another, and another, and yet another watchful Presence loomed up out of the night, hailed suspiciously, and, at the megaphone's answering bellow, merged again into the silent darkness. A figure stepped aft in the Guard Boat and adjusted the tarpaulin that covered the rifles lying on top of the cabin: moisture had collected among the folds in little pools. Then the engine-room gong rang, and a voice quite near hailed them. A long black shadow appeared abreast, and the Guard Boat slid alongside a Destroyer at anchor. The dark water between the two hulls churned into foam as the boat reversed her engines. A tall figure holding a lantern leaned over the Destroyer's rail."Night Guard," said the Lieutenant curtly. As he came forward, three men climbed silently up from below and stood awaiting orders at his side. The lantern shone unsteadily on their impassive faces."Are you the Quartermaster?""Yessir." The tall man in oilskins leaning over the Destroyer's rail lowered his lantern."All right, I won't come inboard. All correct?""All correct, sir.""Right. Put it in the log that I've visited you. Good-night.""Good-night, sir."The gong clanged, and the Guard Boat slid away into the mist again. The figure in the bows was relieved by a comrade, and together with the remaining two vanished down the foremost hatch. The faint reek of Navy tobacco drifted aft to the stern-sheets, where the Lieutenant of the Night Guard had resumed his position, leaning against an angle of the cabin with his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat. He was reflecting on the strangeness of a profession that dragged a man from his bed at one o'clock in the morning, to steam round a foggy harbour in the company of armed men, these times of piping peace.Once a night throughout the year, in every Dockyard Port in the kingdom, a launch slid away from the Depot jetty, slipped in and out among the anchored ships, and returned to her moorings when the patrol was completed. Why? Some grim significance surely lay in the duty, in the abrupt hails that stabbed the stillness, greeting the throb of her engines: in the figure of the armed man in the bows with the megaphone, ready to fling back the reassuring answer....He shifted his position and glanced forward. The bowman was chewing tobacco, and every now and again turned his head to spit overside. Each time he did so the port bow-light lit his features with a ruddy glare. It was a stolid countenance, slightly bored.The Lieutenant smiled gravely. Did the figure wonder why he wore a cutlass in peace time? Did he realise the warning it embodied—the message they conveyed night by night to the anchored ships? His thoughts took a more sombre turn. Would the night ever come—just such a night as this—and under the fog a Menace glide in among the blindfold Fleet? To the first hail of alarm answer with a lever released, a silvery shadow that left a trail of bubbles on the surface.... And then—the fog and silence riven to the dark vault of heaven.He raised his head. "All right, Coxswain, enough for to-night. Carry on back." Over went the helm: the boat swung round on a new course, heading whence she had come an hour before.Carry on back! It was so easy to say.His thoughts reverted to the grim picture his imagination had created. How would that shadowy Terror, her mission fulfilled, "carry on back"? Wheel wrenched over, funnels spouting flame, desperate men clinging to the rail as she reeled under the concussion, racing blindly through the outraged night for safety.Thus had a warring Nation written a lesson across the map of Manchuria for all the world to read—and, if they might, remember.Where did he come in, then—this figure leaning thoughtfully against the angle of the steamboat's cabin? What was his mission, and that of the steamboat with its armed crew, night after night, in fog and by starlight, winter and summer...?A chord of memory vibrated faintly in his mind. There was a phrase that summed it up, learned long ago.... He was a cadet again on the seamanship-deck of the oldBritannia, at instruction in a now obsolete method of sounding with the Deep-Sea Lead and Line. They were shown how, in order to obtain a sounding, a number of men were stationed along the ship's side, each holding a coil of the long line. As the heavy lead sank and the line tautened from hand to hand, each man flung his coil overboard. As he did so he called to warn the next—"Watch there, watch!"The steamboat, slowed as she passed close under the stern of a battleship. The fog had lifted, and the Officer of the Middle Watch was leaning over the quarter-deck rail. The Lieutenant of the Night Guard raised his head, and in the gleam of the ship's stern light the two officers recognised each other. They had been in theBritannia, together. The former laughed a greeting."Go back to bed, you noisy blighter!"The cloaked figure in the boat chuckled. "That's where I am going," he called back.XVII."FAREWELL AND ADIEU!"The Junior Watch-keeper paused at the corner of the street and smote the pavement with the ferrule of his stick."Lord!" he ejaculated, "to think this is the last night! Look at it all...." Dusk had fallen, and with it a wet mist closed down on the town. The lights from the shop windows threw out a warm orange glow that was reflected off the wet pavements and puddles in the street. The shrill voice of a paper-boy, hawking the evening paper, dominated all other sounds for a moment. "Eve ... nin' Er-r-rald!" he called. Then, seeing the two figures standing irresolute on the kerb, ran towards them."Evenin' 'Erald! sir? Naval 'Pointments, sir ... To-night's Naval 'Point——"The Lieutenant shook his head half impatiently, then added as if speaking to himself, "No—not yet." It was such a familiar evening feature of life ashore in a Dockyard Port, that hoarse, "jodelling" cry. One bought the paper and glanced through the columns over a gin-and-bitters at the Club. But this was the last night: every familiar sensation and experience should be flavoured in their turn—ere they two went hence and were no more seen!The Young Doctor at his elbow gave a curt laugh: "We shan't be very interested in the Appointments to-morrow night, Jerry!" An itinerant seller of violets drifted down the pavement and thrust his fragrant merchandise upon them."What shall we do first?" asked the Junior Watch-keeper. "Let's go and have our hair cut and a shampoo.""I hate having my hair cut," pleaded the Surgeon."Never mind: it's all part of the show. You won't get another chance of talking football to a barber for years.... And that awful green stuff that he rubs in with a bit of sponge—oh, come on!"Together they drifted up the familiar street, pausing to stare into shop windows with a sudden renewal of interest that was half pathetic. A jeweller's shop, throwing a glittering white arc of light across the pavement arrested their progress."I never realised before," mused the Surgeon, "how these fellows cater for the love-lorn Naval Officer. Look at those brooches: naval crowns; hat-pins made of uniform buttons, bracelets with flags done in enamel—D-E-A-R-E-S—" he spelt out, and broke off abruptly, "Pouf! What tosh!"The other was fumbling with the door-latch. "Half a minute, Peter, there's something I've just remembered..." and vanished inside muttering. The Young Doctor caught the words "some little thing," and waited outside. The traffic of the street, a fashionable shopping street in a Dockyard town at 6 P.M., streamed past him as he stood there waiting. Girls in furs, with trim ankles, carrying parcels or Badminton raquets, hurried along, pausing every now and again to glance into an attractive shop window. Several tweed-clad figures, shouldering golf clubs, passed in the direction of the railway station; one or two nodded a salutation as they recognised him. Little pigtailed girls with tight skirts enclosing immature figures, of a class known technically as the "Flapper," drifted by with lingering, precocious stares. The horns of the motors that whizzed along the muddy street sounded far and near. They, together with the clang and rumble of tram-cars a few streets away, and the voices of the paper-boys, dominated in turn all other sounds in the mirky night air. The man with the basket of violets shuffled past again, and left a faint trail of fragrance lingering. Long after that night, in the uttermost parts of the earth he remembered it, and the half-caught scent of violets, drifting from a perfume shop in Saigon, was destined to conjure up for the Surgeon a vision of that glittering street, with its greasy pavement and hurrying passers-by, and of a pair of grey eyes that glanced back for an instant over their owner's furs....The Junior Watch-keeper reappeared, buttoning up his coat. "Sorry to have kept you waiting, Peter," and fell into step beside his companion.Half an hour later they emerged from the hairdresser's establishment, clipped and anointed as to the head."Now," breathed the Lieutenant, "where to?""Sawdust Club!" said the Surgeon. They crossed the road and turned up a narrow passage-way. As they quitted the street, a diminutive boy, with an old, wizened face and an unnaturally husky voice, wormed his way in under the Young Doctor's elbow, "'Erald, sir? Latest, sir! Naval—" The Surgeon slipped a sixpenny bit into his hand and took the proffered paper, still damp from the press. They entered a long vault-like apartment, its floor strewn with sawdust and long counters and a row of wooden stools extending down each side. Behind the counters rose tiers of barrels, and in one corner was a sandwich buffet, with innumerable neat piles of sandwiches in a glass case. The place was crowded with customers: a bull-dog sauntered about the floor, nosing among the sawdust for pieces of biscuit. As the new-comers entered several of the inmates, perched on their wooden stools, looked round and smiled a greeting."Ah-ha! Last night in England, eh?""Yes," replied the Junior Watch-keeper, "the last night." He sniffed the mingled aroma of sawdust, tobacco-smoke, and the faint pungent smell of alcohol. "Good old pot-house! Good old Sawdust Club! Dear, dear, curried egg sandwiches! ...Anda drop of sherry white-wine 'what the orficers drinks'—yes, in a dock-glass, and may the Lord ha' mercy on us!"
XIII.
THE TIZZY-SNATCHER.
In the beginning he was an Assistant Clerk—which is a very small potato indeed; his attainments in this lowly rank were limited to an extensive and intimate knowledge of the various flavours of gum employed in the composition of envelopes. Passing straight from a private school, he began life in the Gunroom of a sea-going ship, and was afraid with a great amazement.
The new conditions amid which in future he was to have his being unfolded themselves in a succession of crude disillusionments. He found himself surrounded by Midshipmen: contemporaries, but, as they took care to remind him, men in authority—beings with vast, dimly conceived responsibilities: barbarous in their manners, incomprehensive of speech. To the pain of countless indignities was added the fear of personal chastisement (had he not read of such things?), and, having been delicately nurtured, it is to be feared that the days of his earlier service were not without unhappiness.
With the experience of a commission abroad, however, things began to assume their proper perspective. He became a Clerk, R.N., and blossomed into the dignity of a frock-coat and sword at Sunday morning Divisions, whereby was no small balm in Gilead.
Your Midshipman differs but little in point of thoughtless cruelty from his brethren of "Quad" and school bench. But the mess-mates who (obedient to the boyish dictates of inhumanity, and for the good of his immortal soul) had chaffed and snubbed him into maturity, now appreciated him for the even temper and dry sense of humour he acquired in the process.
Having mastered the queer sea-oaths and jargon of a Gunroom, he learned to handle an oar and sail a boat without discredit. The Sub. took him on deck in the dog-watches, and punched into him the rudiments of the art of self-defence; and, lastly, under the tutorship of a kindly Paymaster, he came to understand dimly the inner workings of that vast and complex organisation that has its seat in Whitehall, by whose mouths speak the Lords of Admiralty.
His twenty-first birthday confronted him with the ordeal of an examination, which, successfully passed, entitled him to a commission in His Majesty's Fleet with the rank of Assistant Paymaster.
For the next four years he continued to live in the Gunroom, where, by reason of an alleged unholy intimacy with the King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions, his advice was commonly sought on questions pertaining to the Service. His mode of speech had become precise—as befitted a wielder of the pen in life's battle, and one versed in the mysteries of Naval Correspondence. The ship's Office was his kingdom, where he was Lord of the Ledgers, with a lack of tan on face and hands that told of a sedentary life in confined spaces: not infrequently he wore glasses.
Some day he will become a Paymaster, warden of the money-chest, and answerable for the pay, victualling, and clothing of every man on board. The years will bring three gold rings to his cuff, a Fleet Paymaster's grey hairs, and a nice perception between the digestible and otherwise in matters of diet.
* * * * *
The A.P. leaned back in his chair and threw down his pen: in the glare of the electric light his face looked white and tired. Beside him the Chief Writer sat totalling a column of figures: on deck a bell struck midnight.
"What d'you make it?" asked the A.P. wearily. The Writer named a sum.
"Penny out," replied the A.P. laconically, picking up his pen again. Outside the Office door, where the hammocks of the guard were slung, a Marine muttered in his sleep.
The two great ledgers that lay open on the desk contained the names of every man on board. They were duplicates, worked independently, and by a comparison of the two mistakes could be detected and rectified. Opposite the names were noted the credits of pay and allowances, adjusted for different charges, the period borne, and all particulars affecting the victualling of each man.
"Ah!" The missing penny had been found. "It's in the account of that confounded Ordinary Seaman who broke his leave and got seven days cells," said the A.P. "No. 215." He gave a sigh of relief and closed the ledger. Perhaps he experienced something of the satisfaction an author might feel on writing the magic word "Finis." It was his creation, every word and figure of it, working as irrevocably as Destiny towards its appointed end: and on the morrow eight hundred men would file past the pay tables, and in less than twenty minutes have received, in coin or postal orders, the balance of pay due to them.
"I'm going to turn in now," said the A.P. "We'll coin to-morrow."
Now the coins on a Paymaster's charge are of certain denominations—usually sovereigns, half-sovereigns, florins, shillings, and sixpenny bits. Each man is paid, as a rule, to the nearest shilling, and the odd pence, if any, are carried forward to the succeeding quarter. Thus the pay due to a man is, say, £3, 19s. 4d. He receives three sovereigns, a half-sovereign, four florins, and a shilling; the four pence are brought on to the next ledger. A Paymaster is thus enabled to foretell with some degree of accuracy the number of coins that he must demand from time to time.
Having coined the total amount to be paid out in wages, and ascertained the number of coins of each denomination required, the pay-trays were laid on the desk in the Office. Each tray was made up of compartments large enough to hold a man's pay.
The Paymaster divested himself of his coat, lit a pipe, and arranged side by side the two bags containing sovereigns and half-sovereigns. The A.P. similarly disposed of the florins and shillings, so that he could reach them easily. They contained the exact total amount required for the payment in the requisite coins.
"Ready, sir?" he asked.
"Right," said the Paymaster.
The Chief Writer read out the amount due to the first man. Quick as a flash the amount had clinked into the first division of the tray, both officers making mental calculations as to the coins required. For the next half-hour the only sounds in the Office were the voice of the Chief Writer and the tinkle of the coins as each one was slipped into its compartment. In an incredibly short time the piles of gold and silver had melted away; as a tray was filled it was placed in a box and locked up in readiness for the payment. The three faces grew anxious as the piles dwindled and the number of empty compartments lessened.... The last total was reached: the Paymaster threw down two sovereigns; the A.P. added a florin and a shilling. The bags were empty: would it "pan out"?
"Two pounds three," read out the Chief Writer, craning his neck to see the result.
"Thank the Lord," murmured the A.P.
* * * * *
On the quarter-deck, facing aft, the ship's company were mustered: seamen, stokers, artisans, cooks, and police, one after another, as their names were called by the A.P., stepped briskly up to the pay table, where the Captain and the Commander stood, scooped their wages into their caps and hurried away. The Marines followed, receiving their pay in their hands, with a click of the heels and a swinging salute.
At the break of the forecastle an Ordinary Seaman stood regarding a few silver coins in his grimy palm. Having broken his leave during the month and been awarded cells in consequence, he had received considerably less pay than usual—a penalty he had not foreseen and did not understand.
"Bloomin' tizzy-snatcher," he muttered, slipping the coins into his trousers-pocket.
He referred to the A.P.
XIV.
"C/O G.P.O."
The bell above the door of the village post-office tinkled and the Postmistress looked up over her spectacles.
"Is it yourself, Biddy?"
A barefooted country girl with a shawl over her head entered and shyly tendered an envelope across the counter.
"Can you tell me how much it will be, Mrs Malone?" she queried. There was anxiety in the dark-blue eyes.
The Postmistress glanced at the address. "Sure, it'll go for a penny," she said reassuringly.
"That's a terrible long way for a penny," said the girl. "Sure, it's a terrible long way."
From under her shawl she produced a coin and stamped the envelope. It took some time to do this, because a good deal depended on the exact angle at which the stamp was affixed. In itself it carried a message to the recipient.
"It's grand writin' ye've got," said the Postmistress, her Celtic sympathy aroused. "An' himself will be houldin' it in his hands a month from now."
The girl blushed. "Father Denis is after learnin' me; an' please for a bit o' stamp-paper, Mrs Malone," she pleaded softly, "the way no one will be after opening it an' readin' it in them outlandish parts." It was the seal of the poor, a small square of stamp-paper gummed over the flap of the envelope.
As she was concluding this final rite the bell tinkled again. A fair-haired girl in tweeds, carrying a walking-stick, entered with a spaniel at her heels.
She smiled a greeting to both women. "A penny stamp, please, Mrs Malone." She stamped a letter she carried in her hand, and turned the face of the envelope towards the Postmistress. "How long is this going to take getting to its destination?"
The Postmistress beamed. "Sure, himself—" she began, and recollected herself. "A month, me lady—no more." Outside, the girl with the shawl over her head was standing before the slit of the post-box; the other girl came out the next moment, and the two letters started on their long journey side by side. As the two women turned to go, their eyes met for an instant: the country girl blushed. They went their way, each with a little smile on her lips.
* * * * *
The Destroyer, that for three hours had been slamming through a head sea, rounded the headland and came in sight of the anchored Fleet.
The Yeoman of Signals on the Flagship's bridge closed his glass with a snap. "She's got mails for the Fleet," he called to the Leading Signalman. "I'll report to the Flag-Lieutenant." As he descended to the quarterdeck he met the Officer of the Watch.
"Destroyer coming in with mails, sir." The Lieutenant's face brightened; he called an order to the Boatswain's Mate, who ran forward piping shrilly. "A-wa-a-ay picket-boat!" he bawled.
The Flag-Lieutenant was reading in his cabin when the Yeoman made his report. Snatching up his cap, he hastened in to the Admiral's apartments. "Destroyer arriving with mails for the Fleet, sir." The Admiral glanced at the calendar. "Ah! Eight days since we had the last. Thank you."
The Flag-Lieutenant poked his head inside the Secretary's Office. "Now you fellows will have something to do—the mail's coming in!"
"Thank you," replied the Secretary's Clerk. "But, Flags,trynot to look quite so inanely pleased about it. She's probably forgotten all about you by now."
The Destroyer with rime-crusted funnels drew near, and men working on the upper decks of the Fleet ceased their labours to watch her approach. One of the side-party, working over the side in a bowline, jerked his paint-brush in her direction. "If I don't get no letter this mail—so 'elp me I stops me 'arf pay," he confided grimly to a "Raggie," and spat sententiously. In the Wardroom the married officers awoke from their afternoon siesta and began to harass the Officer of the Watch with inquiries. The news spread even to the Midshipmen's Schoolplace, and the Naval Instructor found straightway that to all intents and purposes he was lecturing on Spherical Trigonometry to deaf adders.
With the eyes of the Fleet upon her, the Destroyer anchored at last, and the Flagship's picket-boat slid alongside to embark the piles of bloated mail-bags. As she swung round on her return journey the Yeoman on the Flagship's bridge glanced down at a signal-boy standing beside the flag-lockers, and nodded. Two flags leaped from the lockers and sped to the masthead. Instantly an answering flutter of bunting appeared on each ship.
"Send boats for mails." The Flagship had spoken.
* * * * *
In Wardroom and Gunroom a rustling silence prevailed. Each new-comer as he entered rushed to the letter-rack and hurriedly grabbed his pile of letters: there is a poignant joy in seeing one's name on an envelope twelve thousand watery miles away from home, no matter whose hand penned the address. In some cases, though, it mattered a good deal.
The Flag-Lieutenant retired to his cabin like a dog with a bone, and became engrossed with closely-written sheets that enclosed several amateur snapshots. One or two portrayed a slim, fair-haired girl in tweeds; others a black spaniel. The Flag-Lieutenant studied them through a magnifying-glass, smiling.
The Admiral, busy over his private correspondence, was also smiling. He had been offered another group of letters to tack after his name (he had five already). The agent of his estate at home had a lot to say about the pheasants.... His wife sprawled an account of life at Aix across eight pages. He had been invited to be the executor of one man's will and godfather to another's child. But a series of impressionist sketches by his youngest daughter (ætat.5), inspired by a visit to the Zoo, was what he was actually smiling over.
Up on the after-bridge the Yeoman of the Watch leaned over the rail and whistled to the signal-boy. "Nip down to my mess an' see if there's a letter for me."
The boy fled down the ladder and presently returned with a letter. The Yeoman took it from him and turned it over in his hands, scanning it almost hungrily.
The stamp was cryptically askew and the flap of the envelope ornamented by a fragment of stamp-paper.
"An' what the 'ell areyougrinnin' at?" he began. The boy turned and scampered down the ladder into safety. The Yeoman of Signals stood looking after him, the letter held in his hand, when a bell rang outside the signal-house. He put his ear to the voice-pipe. The Flag-Lieutenant was speaking.
"Yes, sir?"
"Make the following signal to the Destroyer that brought our mails—
"To Commanding Officer. Admiral requests the pleasure of your company to dinner to-night at eight o'clock."
"Aye, aye, sir." He turned away from the voice-pipe. "An''e could 'ave my tot on top o' that for the askin'."
XV.
THE "LOOK-SEE."
SOUTHEND, AUGUST 1909.
A bunting-draped paddle-steamer, listed over with a dense crowd of trippers, thrashed her leisurely way down the lines. On the quarterdeck of one of the Battleships the Midshipman of the Afternoon Watch rubbed the lense of his telescope with his jacket cuff, adjusted the focus against a stanchion, and prepared to make the most of this heaven-sent diversion. Over the water came a hoarse roar of cheering, and, as she drew near, handkerchiefs and flags fluttered along the steamer's rail. The Lieutenant of the Watch, in frock-coat and sword-belt, paused beside the Midshipman and raised his glass, a dry smile creasing the corners of his eyes.
"What's up with them all, sir?" murmured the boy delightedly. "My Aunt! What a Banzai!"
"Ever seen kids cheer a passing train? Same sort of thing."
"But look at the girl in white; she's half off her chump—look at her waving her arms.... Friend of yours, sir?"
"No—only hysterical. The man with her is trying to make her stop." The sailor laughed. "He's given it up ... now he's waving too—what at?" He closed his glass. "Curious, isn't it?"
The steamer passed on, and a confused burr of cheering announced that she had reached the next silent warship. "It's all-same 'Maffick,'" he continued presently, "Entente—Banzai—anything you like to call it. An' when we've gone they'll come to their senses and feel hot all over—like a fellow who wakes up and finds his hat on the gas-bracket and his boots in the water-jug!"
The Midshipman nodded: "I saw some kids dancing round a policeman once. Made the bobby look rather an ass—though as a matter of fact I believe he rather liked it. Bad for discipline, though," he added with the austere judgment of eighteen summers.
A launch bumped alongside, and a stout man in the stern-sheets shouted for permission to come on board.
"Do," said the Lieutenant gravely. The stout man took a valedictory pull at a black bottle in the stern-locker, pocketed a handful of shrimps for future consumption, and, accompanied by three feminine acquaintances, laboriously ascended the ladder. They gazed stolidly and all uncomprehending at the sleek barbette guns, the snowy planking underfoot, over which flickered the shadow of the White Ensign, and finally wandered forward through the screen-doors, where they were lost to view among the throngs of sightseers.
The afternoon wore on; every few minutes a launch or steamer swirled past, gay with bunting and parasols. Many carried bands, and in the lulls of cheering the light breeze bore the notes of martial, if not strictly appropriate, music across the line. An Able Seaman paused in his occupation of burnishing the top of the after-capstan, and passed the back of his hand across his forehead.
"Proper dizzy, ain't they?" he remarked in an undertone to a companion. "Wot's the toon?"
"Sons of the Muvverland," replied the other. He sucked his teeth appreciatively, after the manner of sailor-men, and added, "Gawd! Look at them women!..."
A launch with a crimson banner, bearing the name of a widely-circulated halfpenny paper, fussed under the stern. A man in a dingy white waistcoat hailed the quarter-deck in the vernacular through a megaphone.
"No, thank you," came the clear-cut reply; "we have to-day's papers." The Lieutenant hitched his glass under his arm and resumed his measured walk. "I'm no snob, Lord knows," he confided to the other, "but it bores me stiff to be patted on the head by the halfpenny press— Sideboy! pick up those shrimps' heads that gentleman dropped."
By degrees the more adventurous spirits found their way down between decks, where, in a short time, the doorway of each officer's cabin framed a cluster of inquisitive heads. In one or two cases daring sightseers had invaded the interiors, and were examining with naïve interest the photographs, Rugby caps, dented cups, and all thelares atque penatesof a Naval Officer.
"'Ere, Florrie!" called a flushed maiden of Hebraic mien, obtruding her head into the flat, "come an' look!" She extended a silver photograph frame,—"Phyllis Dare—signed an' all!"
The other sighed rapturously and examined it with round-eyed interest. Then she gazed round the tiny apartment. "Ain't'e a one! Look at 'is barf 'anging on the roof!..."
The harassed sentry evicted them with difficulty.
"Better'n Earl's Court, this is," opined a stout lady, who, accompanied by a meek-looking husband and three children, had subsided on to a Midshipman's sea-chest. She opened the mouth of a string-bag. "Come on, 'Orace—you just set down this minute, an' you shall 'ave 'arf a banana."
A very small Midshipman approached the chest. "I hate disturbing you, and Horace," he ventured, "but I want to go ashore, and all my things are in that box you're sitting on—would you mind...?"
"Ma!" shrilled a small boy, indicating the modest brass plate on the lid of the chest they had vacated. "Look—" he extended a small, grubby forefinger, "'e's a Viscount!"
"Garn," snapped his father, "that's swank, that is. Viscounts don' go sailorin'—they stops ashore an' grinds the faces of the poor, an' don' forget what I'm tellin' of you."
The Marine Sentry overheard. "Pity they don' wash 'em as well," he observed witheringly. His duties included that of servant to the Midshipman in question, and he resented the scepticism of a stranger who sat on the lid of his master's chest eating cold currant pudding out of a string-bag.
* * * * *
On the pier-head a dense perspiring crowd surged through gates and barriers, swarmed outward into all the available space, and slowly congested into a packed throng of over-heated, over-tired humanity. Those nearest the rails levelled cheap opera-glasses at the distant line of men-of-war stretching away into the haze, each ship with her attendant steamer circling round her. An excursion steamer alongside hooted deafeningly, and a man in a peaked cap on her bridge raised his voice above the babel, bellowing hoarse incoherencies. A gaitered Lieutenant clanked through the crowd, four patrol-men at his heels, moving as men do who are accustomed to cramped surroundings.
At the landing-stages, where the crowd surged thickest, the picket-boats from the Fleet swung hooting alongside, rocking in the swell. As each went astern and checked her way, the front of the excited throng of sightseers bellied outward, broke, and poured across the boats in a wild stampede for seats. They swayed on the edge of the gunwales, floundered hobnailed over enamelled casings, were clutched and steadied on the heaving decks by barefooted, half-contemptuous men. The Midshipmen raised their voices in indignant protest: drunk and riotous liberty-men they understood: one "swung-off" at them in unfettered language of the sea, or employed the butt-end of a tiller to back an ignored command on which their safety depended. But here was a people that had never known discipline—had scorned the necessity for it in their own unordered lives. The Midshipman of the inside pinnace jerked the lanyard of the syren savagely. "Look at my priceless paintwork! look at—That'senough—no more in this boat—it's not safe! Please stand back, it's—oh, d——!"
A man, in utter disregard of the request, had picked up a child in his arms and jumped on board, steadying himself by the funnel guys. "Orl right, my son, don't bust yerself," he replied pleasantly.
* * * * *
An old woman forced her way through the crush towards the Lieutenant of the Patrol, who with knotted brows was trying to grasp the gist of a signal handed to him by a coastguard.
"I want to see my 'usband's nephew," she explained breathlessly; "'e's in 39 Mess." The Lieutenant smiled gravely. "What ship?" She named the ship, and stood expectant, a look of confidence on her heated features, as if awaiting some sleight-of-hand trick. There was something dimly prophetic in the simple faith with which she voiced her need.
"I see. Will you excuse me a minute while I answer this signal, and I'll send some one to help you find the right boat."
A Petty Officer guided her eventually to the landing-place and saw her safely embarked; he returned to find his Lieutenant comforting with clumsy tenderness a small and lacrymose boy who had lost his parents, turning from him to receive the reproaches of a lady whose purse had been stolen. The two men exchanged a little smile, and the Petty Officer edged a little nearer—
"'Arf an hour on the parade-ground at Whale Island,[#] sir, I'd like to 'ave with some of 'em," he confided behind a horny palm. The jostling throng surged round him, calling high heaven to witness the might of its possessions.
[#] The hotbed of Naval Discipline.
"I'dmake 'em 'op..." he murmured dreamily.
XVI.
"WATCH THERE, WATCH!"
Dinner in the long, antler-hung mess-room of the Naval Barracks had come to an end. Here and there along the table, where the shaded lights glinted on silver loving-cups and trophies, a few officers lingered in pairs over their coffee. Presently the band moved down from the gallery that overlooked one end of the Mess, and began playing in the hall. This was the signal for a general move to the smoking-room, where a score of figures in mess undress uniform were grouped round the fire, lighting pipes and cigars and exchanging mild, after-dinner chaff.
A few couples of dancing enthusiasts were solemnly revolving in the hall. Others made their way up the broad staircase to the billiard-room, or settled down at the bridge tables.
"Come on," shouted a tall Commander seated on the "club" fender in the smoking-room, "what about a game of skill or chance? Come up to the billiard-room, and bring your pennies!" He stirred a form recumbent in an arm-chair with the toe of his boot. "What about you, young feller? Are you going to play pool?"
The young Lieutenant shook his head. "Not to-night, sir, thanks. I'm going to bed early: I've got the Night Guard trip."
Gradually the room emptied. The figure in the arm-chair finished the paper he was reading, glanced at the clock and rose, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. "Call me at 1.15," he said to the hall porter as he passed him on his way to his room.
An officer, immaculate in evening dress, who was putting his overcoat in the hall, overheard the speaker, and laughed. "That's the spirit! Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise!"
"More'n you'll ever be, my sprig o' fashion," grumbled the Lieutenant, and passed on.
* * * * *
The Lieutenant of the Night Guard went cautiously down the wooden steps of the Barracks' Pier that led to the landing-place. Cautiously, because the tide was low, and experience had taught him that the steps would be slippery with weed. Also the night was very dark, and the lights of the steamboat alongside showed but indistinctly through the surrounding fog. At the bottom of the steps one of the boat's crew was waiting with a lantern. Its rays lit for a minute the faces of the two men, and gleamed on the steel guard of the cutlass at the bearer's hip.
"Infernal night!" said the Lieutenant from the depths of his overcoat collar. He had just turned out, and there was an exceeding bitterness in his voice. The lantern-bearer also had views on the night—possibly stronger views—but refrained from any reply. Perhaps he realised that none was expected. The other swung himself down into the sternsheets of the boat, and, as he did so, the Coxswain came aft, blowing on his hands.
"Carry on, sir?"
"Please. Usual rounds: go alongside a Destroyer and any ship that doesn't hail. Fog's very thick: got a compass?"
"There's a compass in the boat, sir." The Coxswain moved forward again to the wheel, wearing a slightly ruffled expression which, owing to the darkness and the fact that there was no one to see it, was rather wasted. For thirty years he'd known that harbour, man and boy, fair or foul, and his father a waterman before him.... He jerked the telegraph bell twice, gave a half-contemptuous turn to the wheel, and spat overside.
"Compass!" he observed to the night.
The boat slid away on its mission, and the shore lights glimmered wan and vanished in the fog astern. A clock ashore struck the hour, and from all sides came the answering ships' bells—some near, some far, all muffled by the moisture in the heavy atmosphere.
Ding-ding! Ding! Half-past one.
He who had borne the lantern deposited it in the tiny cabin aft, and with a thoughtful expression removed a frayed halfpenny paper from the inside of the breast of his jumper. To carry simultaneously a cutlass and a comic paper did not apparently accord with his views on the fitness of things, for he carefully refolded the latter and placed it under the cushions of the locker. Then he unhooked a small megaphone from the bulkhead, and came out, closing the sliding-door behind him. Finally he passed forward into the bows of the boat, where he remained visible in the glare of the steaming light, his arms crossed on his chest, hands tucked for warmth one under each arm-pit, peering stolidly into the blackness ahead.
Once in mid-stream the fog lessened. Sickly patches of light waxed out of indistinctness and gleamed yellow. Anon as they brightened, a human voice, thin and lonely as a wraith's, came abruptly out of the night.
"Boat ahoy!" The voice from nowhere sounded like an alarm. It was as if the darkness were suddenly suspicious of this swiftly-moving, palpitating thing from across the water. The figure in the bows removed his hands from his arm-pits, picked up the megaphone, and sent a reassuring bellow in the direction of the hail.
"Guard Boat!" he answered, and as he did so a vast towering shape had loomed up over them. "Answer's, 'Guard Boat!' sir," said the faint voice somewhere above their heads, addressing an unseen third person. A dark wall appeared, surmounted by a shadowy superstructure and a giant tripod mast that was swallowed, long before the eye could reach its apex, in vapour and darkness. The sleek flanks of guns at rest showed for an instant.... A sleeping "Super-Dreadnought." It faded into the darkness astern; then nothing but the mist again, and the throb of the boat's engines.
Another, and another, and yet another watchful Presence loomed up out of the night, hailed suspiciously, and, at the megaphone's answering bellow, merged again into the silent darkness. A figure stepped aft in the Guard Boat and adjusted the tarpaulin that covered the rifles lying on top of the cabin: moisture had collected among the folds in little pools. Then the engine-room gong rang, and a voice quite near hailed them. A long black shadow appeared abreast, and the Guard Boat slid alongside a Destroyer at anchor. The dark water between the two hulls churned into foam as the boat reversed her engines. A tall figure holding a lantern leaned over the Destroyer's rail.
"Night Guard," said the Lieutenant curtly. As he came forward, three men climbed silently up from below and stood awaiting orders at his side. The lantern shone unsteadily on their impassive faces.
"Are you the Quartermaster?"
"Yessir." The tall man in oilskins leaning over the Destroyer's rail lowered his lantern.
"All right, I won't come inboard. All correct?"
"All correct, sir."
"Right. Put it in the log that I've visited you. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir."
The gong clanged, and the Guard Boat slid away into the mist again. The figure in the bows was relieved by a comrade, and together with the remaining two vanished down the foremost hatch. The faint reek of Navy tobacco drifted aft to the stern-sheets, where the Lieutenant of the Night Guard had resumed his position, leaning against an angle of the cabin with his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat. He was reflecting on the strangeness of a profession that dragged a man from his bed at one o'clock in the morning, to steam round a foggy harbour in the company of armed men, these times of piping peace.
Once a night throughout the year, in every Dockyard Port in the kingdom, a launch slid away from the Depot jetty, slipped in and out among the anchored ships, and returned to her moorings when the patrol was completed. Why? Some grim significance surely lay in the duty, in the abrupt hails that stabbed the stillness, greeting the throb of her engines: in the figure of the armed man in the bows with the megaphone, ready to fling back the reassuring answer....
He shifted his position and glanced forward. The bowman was chewing tobacco, and every now and again turned his head to spit overside. Each time he did so the port bow-light lit his features with a ruddy glare. It was a stolid countenance, slightly bored.
The Lieutenant smiled gravely. Did the figure wonder why he wore a cutlass in peace time? Did he realise the warning it embodied—the message they conveyed night by night to the anchored ships? His thoughts took a more sombre turn. Would the night ever come—just such a night as this—and under the fog a Menace glide in among the blindfold Fleet? To the first hail of alarm answer with a lever released, a silvery shadow that left a trail of bubbles on the surface.... And then—the fog and silence riven to the dark vault of heaven.
He raised his head. "All right, Coxswain, enough for to-night. Carry on back." Over went the helm: the boat swung round on a new course, heading whence she had come an hour before.
Carry on back! It was so easy to say.
His thoughts reverted to the grim picture his imagination had created. How would that shadowy Terror, her mission fulfilled, "carry on back"? Wheel wrenched over, funnels spouting flame, desperate men clinging to the rail as she reeled under the concussion, racing blindly through the outraged night for safety.
Thus had a warring Nation written a lesson across the map of Manchuria for all the world to read—and, if they might, remember.
Where did he come in, then—this figure leaning thoughtfully against the angle of the steamboat's cabin? What was his mission, and that of the steamboat with its armed crew, night after night, in fog and by starlight, winter and summer...?
A chord of memory vibrated faintly in his mind. There was a phrase that summed it up, learned long ago.... He was a cadet again on the seamanship-deck of the oldBritannia, at instruction in a now obsolete method of sounding with the Deep-Sea Lead and Line. They were shown how, in order to obtain a sounding, a number of men were stationed along the ship's side, each holding a coil of the long line. As the heavy lead sank and the line tautened from hand to hand, each man flung his coil overboard. As he did so he called to warn the next—
"Watch there, watch!"
The steamboat, slowed as she passed close under the stern of a battleship. The fog had lifted, and the Officer of the Middle Watch was leaning over the quarter-deck rail. The Lieutenant of the Night Guard raised his head, and in the gleam of the ship's stern light the two officers recognised each other. They had been in theBritannia, together. The former laughed a greeting.
"Go back to bed, you noisy blighter!"
The cloaked figure in the boat chuckled. "That's where I am going," he called back.
XVII.
"FAREWELL AND ADIEU!"
The Junior Watch-keeper paused at the corner of the street and smote the pavement with the ferrule of his stick.
"Lord!" he ejaculated, "to think this is the last night! Look at it all...." Dusk had fallen, and with it a wet mist closed down on the town. The lights from the shop windows threw out a warm orange glow that was reflected off the wet pavements and puddles in the street. The shrill voice of a paper-boy, hawking the evening paper, dominated all other sounds for a moment. "Eve ... nin' Er-r-rald!" he called. Then, seeing the two figures standing irresolute on the kerb, ran towards them.
"Evenin' 'Erald! sir? Naval 'Pointments, sir ... To-night's Naval 'Point——"
The Lieutenant shook his head half impatiently, then added as if speaking to himself, "No—not yet." It was such a familiar evening feature of life ashore in a Dockyard Port, that hoarse, "jodelling" cry. One bought the paper and glanced through the columns over a gin-and-bitters at the Club. But this was the last night: every familiar sensation and experience should be flavoured in their turn—ere they two went hence and were no more seen!
The Young Doctor at his elbow gave a curt laugh: "We shan't be very interested in the Appointments to-morrow night, Jerry!" An itinerant seller of violets drifted down the pavement and thrust his fragrant merchandise upon them.
"What shall we do first?" asked the Junior Watch-keeper. "Let's go and have our hair cut and a shampoo."
"I hate having my hair cut," pleaded the Surgeon.
"Never mind: it's all part of the show. You won't get another chance of talking football to a barber for years.... And that awful green stuff that he rubs in with a bit of sponge—oh, come on!"
Together they drifted up the familiar street, pausing to stare into shop windows with a sudden renewal of interest that was half pathetic. A jeweller's shop, throwing a glittering white arc of light across the pavement arrested their progress.
"I never realised before," mused the Surgeon, "how these fellows cater for the love-lorn Naval Officer. Look at those brooches: naval crowns; hat-pins made of uniform buttons, bracelets with flags done in enamel—D-E-A-R-E-S—" he spelt out, and broke off abruptly, "Pouf! What tosh!"
The other was fumbling with the door-latch. "Half a minute, Peter, there's something I've just remembered..." and vanished inside muttering. The Young Doctor caught the words "some little thing," and waited outside. The traffic of the street, a fashionable shopping street in a Dockyard town at 6 P.M., streamed past him as he stood there waiting. Girls in furs, with trim ankles, carrying parcels or Badminton raquets, hurried along, pausing every now and again to glance into an attractive shop window. Several tweed-clad figures, shouldering golf clubs, passed in the direction of the railway station; one or two nodded a salutation as they recognised him. Little pigtailed girls with tight skirts enclosing immature figures, of a class known technically as the "Flapper," drifted by with lingering, precocious stares. The horns of the motors that whizzed along the muddy street sounded far and near. They, together with the clang and rumble of tram-cars a few streets away, and the voices of the paper-boys, dominated in turn all other sounds in the mirky night air. The man with the basket of violets shuffled past again, and left a faint trail of fragrance lingering. Long after that night, in the uttermost parts of the earth he remembered it, and the half-caught scent of violets, drifting from a perfume shop in Saigon, was destined to conjure up for the Surgeon a vision of that glittering street, with its greasy pavement and hurrying passers-by, and of a pair of grey eyes that glanced back for an instant over their owner's furs....
The Junior Watch-keeper reappeared, buttoning up his coat. "Sorry to have kept you waiting, Peter," and fell into step beside his companion.
Half an hour later they emerged from the hairdresser's establishment, clipped and anointed as to the head.
"Now," breathed the Lieutenant, "where to?"
"Sawdust Club!" said the Surgeon. They crossed the road and turned up a narrow passage-way. As they quitted the street, a diminutive boy, with an old, wizened face and an unnaturally husky voice, wormed his way in under the Young Doctor's elbow, "'Erald, sir? Latest, sir! Naval—" The Surgeon slipped a sixpenny bit into his hand and took the proffered paper, still damp from the press. They entered a long vault-like apartment, its floor strewn with sawdust and long counters and a row of wooden stools extending down each side. Behind the counters rose tiers of barrels, and in one corner was a sandwich buffet, with innumerable neat piles of sandwiches in a glass case. The place was crowded with customers: a bull-dog sauntered about the floor, nosing among the sawdust for pieces of biscuit. As the new-comers entered several of the inmates, perched on their wooden stools, looked round and smiled a greeting.
"Ah-ha! Last night in England, eh?"
"Yes," replied the Junior Watch-keeper, "the last night." He sniffed the mingled aroma of sawdust, tobacco-smoke, and the faint pungent smell of alcohol. "Good old pot-house! Good old Sawdust Club! Dear, dear, curried egg sandwiches! ...Anda drop of sherry white-wine 'what the orficers drinks'—yes, in a dock-glass, and may the Lord ha' mercy on us!"