A Tall Ship Part 18

Silence fell on the audience at length, and the concertina solo began.

As has been indicated, Private Mason could play the concertina. In his rather tremulous hands it was no longer an affair of leather and wood (or of whatever material concertinas are constructed), but a living thing that laughed and sobbed, and shook your soul like the Keening.

It became a yearning, pa.s.sionate, exultant daughter of Music that somehow wasn't quite respectable.

And when he had finished, and pa.s.sed his hand across his moist forehead preparatory to retiring from the stage, they shouted for more.

"Church bells, n.o.bby!" cried a hundred voices. "Garn, do the church bells!" So he did the church bells, as the wind brings the sound across the valley on a summer evening at home, wringing his s.h.i.+pmates'

sentimental heartstrings to the limit of their enjoyment.

"Strewth!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed a bearded member of the audience when the turn was over, relighting his pipe with a hand that shook. "I 'ear n.o.bby play that at the Canteen at Malta, time Comman'er-in-Chief an' 'is Staff was there--Comman'er-in-Chief, so 'elp me, 'e sob' like a woman.

The reminiscence may not have been in strict accordance with the truth, but, even considered in the light of fiction, it was a pretty testimony to Private Mason's art.

The last turn of the evening came an hour later when the slightly embarra.s.sed Junior Watchkeeper stepped on to the stage. His appearance was the signal for another great outburst of enthusiasm from the men.

He was not perhaps more of a favourite with them than any of his brethren seated on the chairs below; but he was an officer, obviously not at ease on a concert stage, only anxious to do his bit towards making the evening a success. They realised it on the instant, with the readiness of seamen to meet their officers half-way when the latter are doing something they evidently dislike to help the common weal.

They knew the Junior Watchkeeper didn't want to sing, and they cared little what he sang about, but they cheered him with full-throated affection as he stood gravely facing them, waiting for a lull.

It is just this spirit, of which so much has been imperfectly conveyed to the layman--is, in fact, not comprehended in its ent.i.ty by outsiders--which is called for want of a better term "sympathy between officers and men." It is a bond of mutual generosity and loyalty, strong as steel, more formidable to an enemy than armaments; strengthened by monotony and a common vigil, it thrives on hards.h.i.+ps shared, and endures triumphant, as countless tales shall tell, down to the gates of Death.

The Junior Watchkeeper's song was an old one--one that had stirred the hearts of sailors no longer even memories with his audience. He sang simply and tunefully in the strong voice of one who knew how to pitch an order in the open air. When it was finished, he acknowledged the tumultuous applause by a stiff little bow and retreated, flus.h.i.+ng slightly. The sing-song was over.

The officers were rising from their chairs, the A.P. at the piano was looking towards the Commander for permission to crash out the opening bars of the Anthem that would swing the audience as one man to its feet. At that moment a Signalman threaded his way through the chairs and saluted the Captain.

The latter took the signal-pad extended to him, and read the message.

Then he turned abruptly to the audience, his hand raised to command silence. The last of the warm glow that lingered long in the northern summer twilight lit his strong, fine face as he faced his men. There was a great hush of expectancy.

"Before we pipe down," he said, "I want to read you a message that has just come from the Commander-in-Chief. 'One of our destroyers engaged and sank by gunfire two of the enemy's destroyers this afternoon.'"

A great roar of cheering greeted the curt message. The listening fleet took it up, and in the stillness of the land-locked harbour the volume of sound reverberated, savagely and triumphantly exultant.

The hills ash.o.r.e caught the echo and tossed it sleepily to and fro.

Then, flushed with excitement and hoa.r.s.e with shouting, they sang the National Anthem to a close.

Altogether, it was a very noisy evening.

IX

CHUMMY-s.h.i.+PS

The Lieutenant for Physical Training Duties came down into the Wardroom and sank into the one remaining arm-chair.

"I must say," he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "the sailor is a cheerful animal. Umpteen days steaming on end without seeing any enemy--just trailing the tail of our coat about the North Sea--we come into harbour and we invite the matelots to lie on their backs on the upper-deck (minus cap and jumper) and wave their legs in the air by way of recreation. They comply with the utmost good humour. They don't believe that it does them the smallest good, but they know I get half-a-crown a day for watching them do it, and they go through with it like a lot of portly gentlemen playing 'bears' to amuse their nephews."

The Indiarubber Man broke off and surveyed his messmates with a whimsical grey eye. The majority were a.s.similating the contents of ill.u.s.trated weeklies over a fortnight old; two in opposite corners of the settee were asleep with their caps tilted over their noses, sleeping the sleep of profound exhaustion. One member of the mess was amusing himself with a dice-box at the table, murmuring to himself as he rattled and threw.

The Indiarubber Man, in no wise irritated at the general lack of interest in his conversation, wriggled lower in his arm-chair till he appeared to be resting on the flat of his shoulder-blades, with his chin buried in the lappels of his monkey-jacket. "I maintain," his amiable monologue continued, "that there's something rather touching about the way they flap their arms about and hop backwards and forwards, and 'span-bend' and agonise themselves with such unfailing good humour--don't you think so, Pills?"

The Young Doctor gathered the dice again, knitting his brows. ". . .

Seventy-seven, seventy-eight--that's seventy-eight times I've thrown these infernal dice without five aces turning up. And twenty-three times before breakfast. How much is seventy-eight and twenty-three?

Three and eight's eleven, put down one and carry one--I beg pardon, I wasn't listening to you. Did you ask me a question?"

"I was telling you about the sailors chucking stunts on the quarter-deck."

"I don't want to hear about the sailors: they make me tired. There isn't a sick man on board except one I've persuaded to malinger to keep me out of mischief. They're the healthiest collection of human beings I've ever met in my life."

"That's me," retorted the Indiarubber Man modestly. "_I_ am responsible for their glowing health. They haven't been ash.o.r.e for--how long is it?"

"Ten years it feels like," said someone who was examining the pictorial advertis.e.m.e.nts of an ill.u.s.trated paper with absorbed interest.

"Quite. They haven't had a run ash.o.r.e for ten years--ever since the war started, in fact; and yet, thanks to the beneficial effects of physical training, as laid down in the book of the words, and administered by the underpaid Lieutenant for Physical Training Duties, the Young Doctor is enabled to sit in the mess all day and see how often he can throw five aces. In short, he becomes a world's worker."

"It's just _because_ they haven't been ash.o.r.e for weeks and months, and in spite of the Lieutenant for Physical Training--och! No, Bunje, don't start sc.r.a.pping--it's too early in the morning, and we'll wake . . . those . . . poor devils----Eugh! Poof! There! What did I tell you!"

The two swaying figures, after a few preliminary cannons off sideboard, arm-chair and deck stanchion, finally collapsed on to the settee. The sleepers awakened with disgust.

"Confound you, Bunje, you clumsy clown!" roared one. Between them they seized the Young Doctor, who was a small man, and deposited him on the deck. "Couldn't you see I was asleep, Pills?" demanded the other hotly. "You've woken Peter, too. He's had--how many is it, Peter?--eight morning watches running. I've brooded over him like a Providence from the fore-top through each weary dawning, so I ought to know." He yawned drowsily. "Peter saw a horn of the crescent moon sticking out of a cloud this morning, and turned out the anti-aircraft guns' crews. Thought it was the bows of a Zeppelin. Skipper was rather peevish, wasn't he, Peter?"

The Junior Watchkeeper grunted and turned over on to his other side.

"Well, you nearly opened fire on a northern diver in that flat calm at dawn the other morning." The speaker c.o.c.ked a drowsy eye on the mess from under his cap-peak. "Silly a.s.s vowed it was the periscope of an enemy's submarine coming to the surface."

"Truth is," said the Indiarubber Man, "your nerves are shattered.

Pills, here's a job for you. Give the lads two-penn'orth of bromide and stop their wine and extras. In the meanwhile," he pulled a small book out of his pocket, "I have here a dainty _brochure_, ent.i.tled, '_Vox Humana_--Its Ascendancy over Mere Noise'--otherwise, 'Handbook for Physical Training.' I may say I was partly responsible for its production."

"I believe you, faith!" said the Fleet Surgeon bitterly, over the top of the B.M.J.

The Indiarubber Man wheeled round. "P.M.O.! That's not the tone in which to speak to your Little Ray of Suns.h.i.+ne. It lacked _joie de vivre_." The speaker beamed on the mess. "I think we are all getting a little mouldy, if you ask me. In short, we are not the bright boys we were when war broke out. Supposing now--I say supposing--we celebrated our return to harbour, and the fact that we haven't b.u.mped a mine-field, by asking our chummy-s.h.i.+p to dinner to-night, and giving them a bit of a chuck-up! Which is our chummy-s.h.i.+p, by the way?

Where's the _What Ho!_ lying?" He walked to the scuttle and stuck his head out. "Blessed if I can tell t'other from which now we're all so beautifully disguised."

"We haven't got a chummy-s.h.i.+p," replied the A.P. "We don't want a chummy-s.h.i.+p. n.o.body loves us. We hate each other with malignant hatred by reason of hobnailed livers."

"And if we had," interposed another Lieutenant gloomily, "they'd far rather stay on board their own rotten s.h.i.+p. They're probably getting used to their messman by now. The sudden change of diet might be fatal." The speaker turned to the Young Doctor. "Pills, what d'you get when you change your diet sudden-like--scurvy, or something awful, don't you?"

"Hiccoughs." The Surgeon dragged his soul from the depths of a frayed _Winning Post_ and looked up. His face brightened. "Why? Anyone here----"

"No, no, that's all right, my merry leech. Only Bunje wants to ask the _What Ho's_ to dinner."

"Yes," interposed the Gunnery Lieutenant, with a sudden access of enthusiasm. "Let's ask 'em. Where's the Navy List?" He flung a tattered Navy List on the table and pored over it.

"Hear, hear!" chimed in the Engineer Lieutenant-Commander. "Let's be a band of brothers, an' all drinks down to the mess the whole evening."

The mess generally began to consider the project.

"Here's the Commander," said someone. "Casting-vote from him! D'you mind if we ask the _What Ho's_ to dinner, sir? We all feel we should be better, n.o.bler men after a heart-to-heart talk with our chummy-s.h.i.+ps."