And those who sailed in her might look further than Colombo. There they would take over the Pathshire from her homeward bound crew, and depart towards the freedom of the East. A small ship with its implied intimacy and informality; long cruises independent of even the ladylike China Squadron flagship; few fleet exercises; coaling with shore-labour; new countries, new faces, new interests—this was their prospect. It changed them all, and put new life and hope into them. For two years they were to be outside the vice whose jaws were Gibraltar Straits and the Shetland Isles. It was the release of their lives, a visit of slum children to the open fields. From the Home Fleet they came, and to the Home Fleet they would return, and they were all determined to make the best of the time that was to intervene.
“It’s extraordinary,” John wrote to his mother, “the contrast between this ship and the King Arthur. Ordith is odd to me—but nothing on earth to complain of; and the other two-stripers treat the Gunroom almost as equals off duty. Even on duty they are always polite, except when they let fly in moments of justifiable excitement, and that does no harm. And often they yield points of strict etiquette in a way that makes four hours on the bridge pass like two. I don’t know how long all this will last. I dare say that as the end of good things draws near, the good things themselves will deteriorate. But now everyone is so pleased with life that all goes well. Hartington, the Sub, I like immensely. You don’t know how much happier I am. There’s always something to which to look forward. I think the absence of that was the trouble of the King Arthur, and the trouble of all the unfortunates in home waters.”
The Colonsay put in to Arosa Bay to drop ratings who were taking passage to other ships, and of these the ship’s company took farewell with the air of schoolboys who, going out into the playing-fields, leave comrades to do impositions in class-rooms. At Gibraltar they did not tarry long. Soon after the Rock had gone down over the western horizon they were overtaken by a storm, which continued with extraordinary violence until they were within a few hours of Valetta. To reach the bridge was a formidable task. In the batteries, where the fo’c’sle gave shelter against the head wind, progress was comparatively easy, but, once over the break of the fo’c’sle, the trouble began. There was a space of several yards between the head of the battery ladder and the foot of the ladder that led to the bridge. Across this space had been stretched a rope, by clinging to which it was possible to avoid being whisked off the deck and blown, but for the friendly intervention of a davit or a sighting-hood, into the mountainous sea. John, heavy with sea-boots, and with skirts of oilskins clinging to his legs, held this rope and tried to advance, but the combined strength of legs and arms could not move him. While the boatswain’s-mate, secure under the lee of the bridge ladder, smiled at his attempts, John pulled and pulled but went forward not an inch. Then, suddenly realizing how ridiculous he must look, he burst out laughing, and swiftly choked because he had opened his mouth to the gale. And it was not until the boatswain’s-mate—himself securely lashed to a stanchion—came to his assistance, that John could move at all.
“Is this an official hurricane?” he said to Dyce, whom he was relieving.
“No, not yet. We are logging the wind as eleven. A hurricane is twelve.” He turned over the details of his watch. “Which battery did you come up?”
“Port.”
“Is that the driest to go down?”
John laughed. “There’s devilish little to choose. I think the port’s the better.”
Dyce ran his fingers over his face. “I’m sticky all over with it,” he said. “I feel as if I should crack if I grinned. It stings after a time. All the same, it’s exciting on watch. You never know when the foretopmast will go over the side.... Well, d’you know everything you want to know? Will you take over now? I’m going to the Gunroom to fug.”