III
Early in November, when the day of joining the King Arthur seemed to be separated from the present by a lifetime, instead of by little more than a month, of experience, and when the prospect of Christmas leave, not infinitely remote, coloured even the present with hope, John had an adventure in night boat work. For him the day had been more than usually strenuous. The King Arthur had been at sea for Commander-in-Chief’s firing. From half-past eight in the morning until half-past seven at night, John had been almost continuously on duty. It had happened, as sometimes it must happen, that when he was not on watch he was required in a duty boat, and when neither in a boat nor on the bridge, he had had to go to his gun. At dinner he thought his day was over, and, Krame having chosen a sing-song that night in preference to Gunroom Evolutions, he settled down to read as best he could among the choruses. But soon after nine a cutter was called away again. Banford-Smith, whose duty it should have been, had advanced too far into a cheerful evening to venture out into the night. Some midshipman must run the boat, and the choice fell upon John.
Fortunately the evening was fine, for the trip seemed likely to be long. It appeared that the Vera was bringing or had brought into harbour a target of which the King Arthur stood in need. This target required repairs and a new sail. “And first of all,” added the officer of the watch, “you’ve got to find the thing.”
“Where is the Vera lying, sir?” John asked.
“The Lord knows! The bridge seems to have lost her. She hasn’t come to her buoy yet. But go to the dockyard wall first. The target is probably there already. If it isn’t, you’ll have to look round till you find the Vera, and make enquiries.”
John ran down the gangway into his cutter, seated himself on the “dicky,” and gave orders to shove off. The oars dropped into the water and the boat drew away from the ship. On one hand, the many lights of the Fleet winked at their reflections in the smooth water; on the other, the great rock, magnified by the night, and speckled with the illumination of innumerable windows, rose, dark and gigantic, against the sky. When the wall was reached they searched in vain for the target, and turned to cruise the harbour in quest of the Vera.
Although he was tired and needed sleep before the morrow’s coaling, he was glad that he had come. The click of the oars’ looms and the hiss of their blades, the spring at the beginning and the slackening at the end of each stroke, the ripple and suck about the stern, the regular breathing of the crew and the synchronous creaking of their stretchers, bespoke a romance that was not the romance of steel ships. The coxswain sat motionless, his hand on the tiller, as rugged as a statue rough-hewn in wood. Clustered in the stern sheets, with their bags of glistening tools, the carpenter’s party lent emphasis to man’s silence by their occasional whispering. John’s gaze strayed for’ard: the white gleaming of the crew’s faces and of their hands curved over the ears grew more and more indistinct towards the bows, and the line of gunwale shrank to a delicate thread.
Swing, catch, and an easy stroke; the gleam, the dip, and the swirl of blades; the hidden faces and the arms outstretched, the arms drawn in and the faces raised. And he, above them, commanding them, passed among the shadows of great ships into the darkness. On either hand the little bow-wave ran out lapping, and flattened itself wide of the stern.
“Don’t see no Vera, sir,” said the coxswain.
“Not yet.”
“’Adn’t we better arst, sir?”
“Ask? Where?”
“Report at the ship for orders, sir.”
“The orders were to find the Vera.” John had no intention of returning to the King Arthur and confessing himself defeated.
“Don’t think we’ll find ’er, pullin’ round the ’arbour, sir—not to-night, anyway.”
John had made up his mind. He would seek information elsewhere. The helm was put over a little. At no great distance from him, lay the London. At first he thought of going alongside her and asking her officer of the watch for the position of the Vera, but he dismissed this idea when he realized that this was no polite hour for midshipmen to pay calls. Moreover, a story of his being lost might easily become a jest in the Wardrooms of the Fleet.
“Goin’ alongside the London, sir?”
“No. When she hails, answer ‘passing.’ I’m going to stop under her bridge.”
Came the hail: “Boat ahoy!”
“Passing!”
Judging the amount of way necessary to carry his boat to the forebridge, John very quietly gave the order: “Oars!” The rowing ceased, and the water licked at the sides. Presently the cutter was still.
“Hail the bridge,” John said, “and ask the signalman of the watch for the Vera. Hail quietly, so that they can’t hear you aft.”
The coxswain stood up. “London”—a thick sound, for it is no easy thing to hail quietly. Then a little louder, in a tone almost melodramatic: “London ... London ... London—bridge!”
The bowman could not resist it. “Change at the Elephant an’ Castle!”
The crew heard. The crew choked down a laugh hurtful to the coxswain’s dignity. He turned on them.
“Knock orf chawin’ yer fat there,” he said angrily, and silence fell. Someone peered over the bridge rails.
“D’you know where the Vera ’angs out?” the coxswain asked quickly, before the other had time to hail him.
“Lyin’ outside at anchor. Comin’ to ’er buoy to-morrer.”
“Outside the ruddy ’arbour?”
“Yes.”
“Gawd!” The coxswain sat down disconsolately. “We shall ’ave a night of it,” he observed.
The music of the oars began again. They pulled slowly between the ships, beyond the ships, out of the harbour. Soon the Vera, an outpost of twinkling lights, beyond which lay the open sea, was hailing them. Much to his surprise, John was welcomed by the officer of the watch.
“That infernal target?” he said. “It is alongside the wall—right at the far end. What an hour to send you out after it! I’m afraid you have a long job of repairs; it was knocked about a bit. Come down into the Wardroom before you start.”
John went below and accepted whisky and soda, an illegal proceeding, for by regulation he was too young to drink spirits. They offered cigarettes, and when he refused to smoke one because his crew was waiting, they gave him a handful to take away with him.
“You’ll have time to smoke them all before you get home to-night,” said the Gunnery Lieutenant. “Well, so long. You will have luck if you are turned in before the end of the middle watch. Sorry you have had so far to come.”
A long pull shoreward brought the cutter at last to the target. John turned out the carpenter’s party and all the boat’s crew save one, whom he kept with him as a boat-keeper. John soon found that in the man he had retained he was to have a remarkable companion. He came aft, seated himself in the stern sheets, and looked up expectantly.
“’Ave a smoke, sir?”
“Yes; carry on smoking.”
“’Ave a cigar, sir?”
John hesitated. He would have felt safer with one of the Vera’s cigarettes. He was not inured to cigars, but for company’s sake he took one and lighted it.
“Funny thing, sir,” the man said, “these night trips always make me feel mysterious-like. You feel more powerful some’ow in the dark. Do it take you that way, sir?”
“Powerful?” John asked, wondering how much this had in common with his own sensation.
“Same as you feel, sir, when you’re alone, an’ there ain’t no one to see ’ow small you are. I always thinks then o’ the things I might do if I liked—but it don’t seem a fair advantage to take o’ folk what aren’t made the same way.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s this way, sir. You see, I can make people do things—anything. I don’t rightly know what the name of it is—’ypnotism, or mesmerism, or the like. It don’t make much odds what they call it. But I can make people do things all right, I can, an’ ’ere they are makin’ me do things all day. I’m a proper bad ’at, I am—always on the carpet. I get to feel angry like, knowin’ the power I ’ave. I did a turn at a ship’s concert once—afore you young gen’lemen joined—an’ the Commander, ’e won’t ’ave me doin’ it no more.”
“Could you make me do things now?”
The man held up a finger. “I could make you ’op into the water, sir.” John looked over the side, and the voice went on. “An’ if I went up close to ’em, I could make the ruddy carpenter’s party stand on their ruddy ’eads an’ stop there. An’ if I stepped out in front of ’em, an’ the ship’s police kep’ their ’ands off, I could make the Captain an’ the Commander do a cake-walk at Sunday Divisions, I could.”
“Why on earth don’t you?” said John.
“Oh, it wouldn’t never do, sir. That ain’t Service, sir—the orficers cake-walkin’. I should be doin’ detention for the rest o’ me mortal.... Besides, that ain’t what I likes doin’—sing-song turns, an’ funny stunts, an’ the like.” He looked away, and his words drifted into vagueness, being no longer addressed to an audience. “I likes talkin’ to a crowd an’ seein’ ’em all comin’ round, comin’ round gradual-like, not knowin’ ’ow or why, all of ’em comin’ round to my way o’ thinkin’. They don’t agree to start off, but soon I sees ’em noddin’ their ’eads, an’ smilin’ an’ smilin’, an’ sayin’ ‘Aye, aye,’ an’ ‘’Ere, ’ere.’ An’ their faces looks strange some’ow till they douse the glim.” He paused, shot out both hands in an expansive gesture, and let them fall again to his sides. “’Ere I be, Able Seaman, ’undredth class for conduck, ’undredth class for leaf, an’, Gawd Almighty! I might ’a bin Prime Minister of All England, wi’ the Albert ’All risin’ up to me, jus’ as if I ’ad ’em on strings....”
Together they sat there, dreaming vast dreams. Above them the carpenter’s party was driving in nails. John held his cigar close to the water, and watched the diffused red of its reflection. When he dropped it, as if by accident, it fizzled sharply.
“Dropped yer cigar, sir?”
“Yes.”
“’Ave another, sir?”
“No, thanks.”
Silence again.... The work on the target was at last completed. Tired men climbed back into the boat. Oars were got out lazily. It was five in the morning when they reached the King Arthur. A bugle was calling the hands to coal ship.