I
On the morning of his first full day in the King Arthur John Lynwood enjoyed the luxury of a lie-in until a quarter-past seven. In the course of ordinary routine, he and all midshipmen not engaged in other duties would by this time have done half an hour’s physical drill on the quarter-deck; but Krame, trusting that the Snotty Walloper would be unobservant on this occasion, had sent a messenger for’ard the previous evening to tell the Physical Training Instructor that the midshipmen would not require him in the morning. Therefore, when he turned out of his hammock, John went immediately to his chest, took off his pyjamas, wrapped a towel round his middle, and pattered barefoot down to the bathroom.
Here the senior midshipmen, who had already secured the shallow hip-baths, were sliding them over the tiled floor towards the cold water tap, disputing with vigour as to whose servants had brought the cans of hot water, shouting for soap, and calling down curses upon the heads of those who had presumably stolen their sponges.
“Damn that marine,” Ollenor’s lazy voice was saying, “he has taken my soap again. I hid it in the corner of this locker yesterday.... Shouldn’t mind so much if he ever looked as if he used it.”
John waited his turn, bathed, dressed, and went into the Gunroom for breakfast. The senior midshipmen seemed to be in good humour, the sun was shining, the coffee was hot, and John, in obedience to one of those moods of his of which it was always difficult to discover the cause, was a thousand times more cheerful than he had been on the previous night. When Prayers and Divisions were over, the Chaplain, who was also a naval instructor, came into the Gunroom to conduct School. John learned much of him before his arrival. He had hoped that the Chaplain would be a scholar, a little precious, it might be, but possessed of an ununiformed mind, more pliant than routine, simpler than discipline. He had met one Chaplain of such a kind, and had been grateful for the relief that his contrast afforded. But this man, it seemed, was above all a Wardroom officer. Ollenor summed him up: “He is always trying to bowl you out,” he said. Only Reedham, who had a good word to say for everybody, spoke in his defence. “I dare say he means well. We don’t give him much chance. We’re not exactly Padre’s blue-eyed boys, are we?”
John saw at once that the Padre, when he entered, looked round him in expectation of hostility.
“There you are,” said Hambling, in an aside that was intentionally audible, “he hasn’t even the decency to knock.”
“Will you young gentlemen please keep silence when School has begun?” said the Padre. He looked round him. “No duster, no chalk; blackboard not in position. Who is the Senior Midshipman?”
“I am, sir,” said Krame.
“Then you will in future see that the Gunroom is properly rigged for School before I come in.”
“That will be your job, Cunwell,” said Krame abruptly.
The Padre continued in his even tone. “And you will give your instructions at a proper time, please, and not interrupt me when I am speaking.”
By this time the Gunroom, which, in the manner of Gunrooms, resented nothing so much as cold superiority, was determinedly hostile. If the Padre had ever hoped to win the midshipmen he had set about his task wrongly, and had definitely failed. Of all soil the Gunroom is to a chaplain the most stubborn. Few attempt to cultivate it; fewer succeed in such an attempt.
The navigation lecture became a mere occupation of time, the teacher being as mechanical as the pupils. When he talked, they let him talk, asking no questions. When he drew on the board, they watched him, for he had a habit of turning quickly to discover the direction of their eyes. For this amount of attention, because it was a part of discipline, he made a rigid demand, but so long as their answers to his questions were not flagrantly irrelevant, he seemed to care not at all for the direction of their minds. His manner was a strange contrast to that of the masters at Dartmouth. And here—from the pupils’ point of view—there were no marks to be won, there was no competition, no incentive but the fear of the examinations for the rank of lieutenant, which were yet comfortably far off.
When the lecture was over, the Padre interrupted the thud of books thrown ostentatiously aside to say he wished every new midshipman to come in turn to his cabin. He would see the most junior first. “And I hope,” he added, “that the Gunroom will learn to behave itself at an early date. If ordinary persuasions, which ought to be sufficient, fail, there is always the Leave Book. You understand me, Krame?”
“Quite, sir.”
In his own cabin the Padre was more tolerant. John found him sitting at his desk with a heap of papers before him.
“With regard to Voluntary Subjects for your lieutenant’s exams, Lynwood—what are your tastes? You can choose three or less of the following: Higher Mathematics, Naval History, Mechanics, German, French, and Electricity.” John examined the paper that was handed to him, while the Padre went on: “Most midshipmen, when they come to sea, regard it as an opportunity to abandon all their study. I admit that the ordinary circumstances of their lives—boat running, watch-keeping, crowded quarters, and—er—so on—do not make book work easy. Commonly, the work that should have engaged them for three years is left to the last three months. That is not necessary. It is merely a question of character and concentration. I want you junior midshipmen to choose your Voluntary Subjects at once, and to work at them and at the compulsory subjects consistently from the beginning.”
In this speech it was easy to recognize the intonation of a formula. The man spoke without enthusiasm, apparently without the least hope that his advice would be followed. He was doing his duty, that was all. John chose as his three subjects, Higher Mathematics, French, and Naval History; the first because it was necessary in Gunnery, and the last because it was a subject after his own heart. The examination consisted in the writing of an essay with the aid of books. There were three years in which to write it. He intended, as he said ambitiously in a letter home, to “write a big essay in chapters, and if possible to publish it later as a book.” When he suggested this to the Padre, the Padre smiled.
“I am afraid you have literary tendencies,” he said.
“I like books,” John answered.
The Padre looked away from him and talked to the open scuttle. “It would be better from the Service point of view if you liked mechanics. They promise very rapid promotion to those who specialize in Engineering.”
“I don’t think I should do well as an engineer, sir.”
“Perhaps not. Make your own choice.... Do you care for poetry?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Padre looked at him sharply, an odd expression in his eyes, as if memories were pressing on him.
“I have a few books there,” he said, pointing to his cabin shelves. “Borrow them if you like, but don’t leave them sculling about the Gunroom—they wouldn’t like volumes of verse. And don’t give too much thought to them, old man. They won’t make you happier here.”
“Why not, sir,” asked John, “if I like them?”
“Because—oh, never mind why not.... Think over the question of Voluntary Subjects, Lynwood, and send in the next midshipman, will you please?”