CHAPTER IX
LOWERING THE FLAG
"Colors! Fall in for colors!" shouted petty officers in different parts of the ship as the bugle blew its warning notes.
Sam Hickey limped into place with the gun squad, and awaited the order to march.
"Colors," means the formalities that are observed at sunset on shipboard, consisting of impressive ceremonies when the Stars and Strips are lowered from the after flagstaff. The ceremony of colors, however, is never observed when the ship is under motion, but only when the vessel is at anchor.
Just before the moment when the sun was to set, the different divisions, in charge of midshipmen and ensigns, were marched to the quarterdeck with measured step; then, facing toward amidships, they banked themselves on each side of the deck. Behind the jackies, next to the starboard and port rails, were the marines, carrying their rifles.
Grouped aft on the starboard side was the band, its members resplendent in white and gold uniforms.
Between these lines of color stood the captain and his executive officer, facing the Flag that was lazily fluttering in the soft evening breeze.
All was silence, the only sound being the water lapping the steel sides of the battleship.
"Attention!"
The bugle blew a few short notes. The Flag began creeping slowly down the after flagstaff, with every eye fixed on the ensign as it fluttered toward the deck.
Instantly upon the Flag's reaching the deck, the band broke forth into "The Star Spangled Banner." The hearts of the Battleship Boys swelled with patriotism, and the strains of the national anthem seemed to bring a deeper shade to the rows of tanned, manly faces lined up in solid ranks on the quarter-deck of the battleship "Long Island."
"Attention! First division, right face! Forward march!"
The command was repeated for the other divisions. Snare drums rolled, the band changed to a livelier tune, to which each division marched off in steady lines, one division following the other. Soon all had disappeared, save a group of officers who remained chatting on the quarter-deck. These, too, soon turned and went below for the evening mess.
The day's work was done for all except those who were to go on watch duty for a two-hour trick.
Mess finished, Sam went out to the forward deck to growl at the jackies who had been responsible for the pig's foot on his own right foot. The pig's foot hurt him, and the lad limped painfully.
While Sam was forward Dan got out his ditty box, to which, by this time, he had become as much attached as were the other sailors to theirs. From the box he drew a recent letter from his mother, which the Battleship Boy, sitting on the steel deck under a wall lamp in a corridor, read over several times. It seemed a long time to Dan since he had left her at Piedmont, and had gone on to New York to enlist in the service of his country.
"I think I must know this letter by heart," mused Dan, folding the letter and tenderly laying it away in the precious ditty box. Then, fixing up his fountain pen, he began writing industriously, using his elevated knees for a desk, on which he had laid his writing pad.
"I have written in more comfortable places than this, but I never had more to say than I have this time," he said.
Mails were not very regular on shipboard, and sometimes it was a matter of weeks before a single mail was put over the side.
Dan was still writing, an hour later, when Sam came along looking for him.
"Oh, here you are, eh?"
"Yes."
"Writing a book?"
"No, I'm writing to mother. Is there any word you would like to send to the folks at Piedmont?"
"You might say hello to Mrs. Davis for me. If they'd let a fellow change his mind in this business, you'd see me back there to-morrow. What are you writing to her?"
Dan smiled quizzically.
"If it were anyone else who asked me that question I might tell him it was none of his business."
"But you don't dare tell me that, hey?"
"Maybe, Sam," answered Dan with a good-natured laugh.
"All right; what you are telling her?"
"Want to know very much?"
"I shouldn't have asked you if I didn't."
"Very well; I'll tell you, You know I have something more than two hundred dollars laid up with the paymaster——"
"Yes; aren't you afraid the Jack-o'-the-Dust will run away with it?"
"Hardly. Even if he does, the Government would make the amount good."
"What you going to do with the money?"
"I was about to tell you. That is what I am writing to mother about. I am sending the money to her."
"All of it?" interrupted Sam.
"Yes, of course. Why not?"
"You're a good sport, you are."
"I am telling her to go buy a lot out on the Perkins road. That amount will just about purchase one. Then, as fast as I earn more money, I tell her, I will send it to her, and by next summer she will have enough to go on and build a house. Mother will have a home of her own then, and I'll feel much better when she has."
"How much does a house cost in that neck-o'-the-woods?"
"Well, I should say that eight hundred dollars will put up a very fair place. At least, it will satisfy us. Why do you ask?"
"I was thinking. Say, did you hear about my pig's foot?"
"Your pig's foot?"
"Yes."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I've got one on my right foot."
"I haven't the least idea what you are talking about."
"You would have, if you'd got a pig's foot. It's a lot different from a rabbit's foot, and don't you make any mistake about that."
"Somebody gave you a pig's foot, for luck, eh? I never heard they were lucky."
"Oh, yes; they gave it to me, all right. Here, look at this."
Sam pulled off a shoe and stocking, exhibiting his freshly tattooed foot.
"Well, what do you think of that?" marveled Dan.
"Not much," growled Sam.
"Who did it?"
"Old Pin Head—No, I mean old Needle Johnson."
"Why did you let him do that, Sam?"
"Let him? I didn't. The whole forecastle sat on me, and tied my foot up to a stanchion, while the head butcher performed the operation. I can hardly walk. But I forgot to tell you. Those black-faced fellows from the other side of the world sailed into me as if they wanted to eat me up. I don't like that pair a little bit, Dan."
"Imagination, Sam. Just because they are a little darker than we are, you do not like them. That is foolish."
"That's just the trouble. If it was only skin deep I wouldn't give a rap. The trouble with those fellows is that the black goes all the way through. I'll bet they are black clear to the bones. If Pills ever has to cut either of them open for anything I'm going to take a peek."
"I am surprised at you, Sam," chided Davis.
"You needn't be. You'll find, one of these days, that I am right. But how about that house and lot?"
"If you keep on talking to me, hammocks will be piped up before I finish my letter."
"Go on with your writing. I'm mum." Sam sat down and was soon lost in deep thought.
"There," announced Dan finally. "I guess that's all I can write to-night. I've done eight pages. That's pretty good for a sailor."
"I never wrote as much as that in all my life—that is, I never wrote as much as that in letters. Say, Dan."
"Yes."
"Do you mind if I say a few words to Mother Davis at the end of your letter!"
"Of course, you may. Mother will be delighted."
"All right. You go outside and take a walk for your health. I can't write with anybody looking at me. It makes me nervous."
"Too bad about your sensitive nerves," retorted the other with a laugh. "All right; I'll go out. Do not be long, for it is nearly hammock time."
Leaving Sam grumbling about having to go to bed at nine o'clock, Dan strolled out on the deck.
"Dear Mother Davis," began Sam, "I want to tell you that your Dan isn't the only jackie who has money. I've got two hundred dollars, too. But I haven't any mother. The two hundred isn't any good to me. I've been thinking of giving it to the government some of these times, for they could use it where it would do some good. I've got a new idea, now. I'm going to send the two hundred to you, along with Dan's. You start that house right away, and, by the time all the money is used up, Dan and I will have some more for you. We're getting too rich. If Dan kicks about it, you know how to stop him. P. S. I'm a real sailor, now. I've got a rating and a pig's foot. The rating made me glad, but the pig's foot hurt worse than having a tooth pulled. Lovingly, Sam."