I
There was no Gunnery after the first days of September, and on the fifth the squadron sailed for Yokohama in order that it might send representatives to the Mikado’s funeral. The Gunroom was cheered by the prospect, though the enthusiasm of the midshipmen who were then attached to the Engine-room staff was somewhat damped by the thought of so many days continuously at sea. John, however, had by now returned to the Upper Deck, and to him watch-keeping on the fore-bridge had ever been the most attractive of his duties. By night it was even pleasanter than by day; for then the bridge’s isolation was accentuated; there was no routine, no hurrying to and fro of the hands; no Commander, no Captain, no Navigator, save in exceptional circumstances. The Gold Lace, together with all that the Gold Lace implied, was securely packed away. The officer of the watch and his midshipman drew closer together, the barriers of Service were dissolved, and personality lived again. Sipping the cocoa that John had made, he and his officer would stoop over charts of strange regions and weave tales of the places whose names they found; or, together on monkey’s island, they would exchange reminiscences of Dartmouth and the Britannia; or discuss books, women, politics, or spiritualism, according to the officer’s taste.
In the Pathshire the relations between Wardroom and Gunroom were excellent—a circumstance which, as had been said at that last dinner in the King Arthur, went far towards the making of a Happy Ship. There was not one watch-keeping Lieutenant with whom John was reluctant to spend four hours on the bridge. It was necessary, when the watch began, to make a swift estimate of his officer’s mood, and to regulate his conduct accordingly. Sometimes the four hours were allowed to pass almost in silence, and, in any case, it was not the midshipman’s part to begin anything but a strictly Service conversation. Often it was cocoa that loosened the officer’s tongue.
“Well, young fellah-me-lad,” Dendy, the ship’s rake, would begin. “I’m damned bored. I don’t know about you?” This would open the way for tales of Dendy’s invariably triumphant loves—tales which John had found he was required, not to comment upon, but to believe. Dendy had his moments of seriousness, too, when he would take hold of John’s arm and explain that love could not always be lightly regarded....
Lanfell, a stolid salt-horse, was a less amusing companion. At times when other officers were more carefully dressed, Lanfell had a habit of appearing in a sweater and scarf, an incredibly old monkey-jacket and trousers, and a pair of sea-boots. When at sea he would ask his midshipman how he would moor ship, or rig sheers, or lay out a bower anchor, and the watch was liable to degenerate into a peripatetic seamanship lecture. If he could think of no more questions he would sometimes consent to be diverted into lighter paths; but even then his imagination led him with painful regularity to a football field. He was never tired of explaining that he was neither a mathematician nor a theorist.
“I can’t chase X—never could,” he would say. “And in a destroyer with a sea running I’d rather have a drop o’ rough seamanship than all your ballistics.”
“Then you don’t believe in specializing, sir?”
“Specializing? Oh, I don’t know. I suppose the specialists have the pull. But there’s still room for the seaman—more room than most fellows think.”
There were times when Lanfell’s faith failed him, and he saw himself as a salt-horse eternally waiting for promotion; but such misgivings he drowned quietly. His skin would become pasty and opaque, his eyes heavy, his movement cumbrous. Then, by taking violent exercise and cold baths, he would restore his health and hope. The Service suited him, and, save in those periods when his wine bill mounted prodigiously, he was happy.
The most exciting watch-keeping partner was undoubtedly the First Lieutenant; but his visits to the bridge were voluntary, and unfortunately few. He would appear at odd hours—usually at night when he had been unable to sleep. At first he would take no notice of anyone, but stand at the end of the bridge, staring down upon the chains. Then, rousing himself jerkily—every movement of his was a jerk—he would do breathing exercises, a performance so strange that the Quartermasters shook their heads and sometimes tapped their foreheads significantly.
When the breathing exercises were finished the First Lieutenant would turn swiftly, his cap over his eyes, and rattle up to monkey’s island, where the officer of the watch and his midshipman were standing by the compass.
“Ee!” he began. This was a strange sound, peculiar to himself, which was forced from his throat—apparently in spite of some physical obstruction. “Ee! Finish your watch for you. You go below. Anything to turn over?”
“Can’t you sleep, Number One?”
“No. Ee. Yes, I mean. You push off. Mm?”
One night, after such preliminaries, the First Lieutenant being left on watch, he rapped out at John:
“Ever seen a sea-monster?... Ought to see a sea-monster.... No, boy, don’t look mazed. This isn’t a Peter-Piper-Picked-a-Peck exercise. Common sense. Ought to see a sea-monster. Good for snotties. Mm?”
After a pause. “Seamen’s fairies. Believe in fairies. Believe in fairies, believe in God. Look for sea-monster and you have your eye on the Devil. Catch sea-monster; catch Devil by tail.”
Other midshipmen had been known to laugh, as they thought, politely; but John knew the First Lieutenant too well. Left alone he would presently become comprehensible and interesting. Interruption would drive him into silence.
Soon he began a rambling disquisition upon the probable anatomy, functions, and habits of sea-monsters. His talk was full of the technicalities of doctors and zoologists. The longer a word the more rapid his pronunciation of it.... From sea-monsters to prehistoric beasts, and thence to were-wolves and vampires was an easy progress. Of the supernatural he spoke with none of the nervous suggestion of one who visits séances. He did not persuade or argue, and his tales, frankly imaginary, seemed to be told to himself rather than to John. They were wonderful tales.
“D’you read Algernon Blackwood?... Ee.... More fun to spin the yarns yourself. Mm? Now, if ever you get writing, don’t lose a sense of Eternity. That’s what the modern people lack. Brilliant enough: dozens of women—acid mostly; brilliant like chandeliers, though—not stars. So taken up with their own few years they forget the rest. Scramble for the nuts; forget the tree; forget the forest; forget the hawk overhead. That’s why Hardy sits in the inner parlour with the giants and all the others rattle their mugs in the taproom. Know Hardy? Every word a new link in chain from Adam; every kiss taught by Eve. Sense of Eternity.... Sense of Eternity makes a watch pass quicker. Read Gibbon, boy, when the Commander curses——”
“Light on the port bow, sir!” sang the look-out in the foretop.
“Aye, aye.... Take a bearing, boy.” He took off his cap and flung it on to the bridge below. “Ee.... Signalman o’ the Watch—my cap. Dropped it. Bring it.” And when the Signalman had come and gone he added to John: “Must keep them awake. Must remind ’em I’m here. They like it. Bad for morals to stare too long at the sea. Breaks the morbid current if you bash things about. That’s why Cabinet Ministers ought to have Jesters with balloons. Smack on the head with a balloon restores sense of proportion. Mm?... What was the bearing?... Take the Corporal of the Watch with you and go the Rounds.”
Almost any occasion—especially the solemn and pompous—might be enlivened by the flight of the First Lieutenant’s cap. Once he had hurled it, without explanatory comment, into the midst of the ship’s company when they were engaged in prayer during quarter-deck Church.
“Sorry, padre,” he said afterwards. “Forgot about you. Fellow talking. Had to stop him. No other means of communication.”