'You go through into the sitting-room, Mister Martin,' she went on, with a mischievous wink and a jerk of her thumb. 'I'll be along in a minute, and—and mother's out!'
IV.
Soon afterwards, when the bleak and stormy winter was nearly over, the Belligerent and the other vessels of the squadron started off on their first real cruise since Pincher had joined. They had had plenty of time at sea before this, of course; for gunnery, gunnery, toujours gunnery—unless it was torpedo-running, steam tactics, or P.Z. Exercises[ [26] —was carried on throughout the year, winter, spring, summer, and autumn alike. They were always at it; and though the frequent south-westerly gales made the winter work very unpleasant and trying, though officers and men bemoaned their fate and swore 'twas a 'mug's game,' it did them all the good in the world. So, at the end of February, the squadron left the short, choppy seas of the Channel and the familiar hump of Portland behind them, and waddled south, for all the world like a family of turtles migrating to a sunnier sea. It was then, for the first time, that Pincher knew what it was to be really seasick.
Their first port of call was Arosa Bay, in Spain, just to the southward of Cape Finisterre, and for once the much maligned Bay of Biscay upheld its reputation by providing a very fair sample of a south-westerly blow for Pincher's especial benefit. But he was by no means the only sufferer, though.
It was a snorter of a gale, a regular snorter, and the short, snappy little seas of the Channel were nothing to these long, gigantic, foam-crested mountains of water rolling in with all the might of the Atlantic behind them. The battleships wallowed and plunged about to their hearts' content Their movements were slow, deliberate, and very stately; but how they rolled! One could feel their enormous weight smashing through the seas instead of riding over them. Water came over the fore-castle in solid gray-green masses, until the deck was buried and the fore-turret, with its pair of twelve-inch guns, looked like a half-tide rock. Sheets of spray drove over the bridges. The quarterdecks were untenable; and at times gigantic, white-capped billows would blot out every vestige of the next ship astern—only five hundred yards away—except her topmasts.
The Belligerent was battened down, but even then a considerable amount of water found its way below. The atmosphere on the mess-decks, well impregnated with the mingled odours of cooking, damp clothes, and crowded humanity, was nauseating. Tables and other fittings had carried away from their fastenings, and a horrible mixture of sea-water, hats, caps, boots, food, broken crockery, pickle-jars, tins of condensed milk, and pots of jam swished to and fro across the deck every time the ship heeled over. Each roll added something fresh to the collection.
On one particularly heavy lurch the door of the officers' galley shot open, and the wardroom cook slid gracefully out on to the mess-deck, accompanied by an avalanche of frying-pans and saucepans, the stock-pot, and a large receptacle full of Irish stew for the officers' lunch.
'If this ain't the ruddy limit!' he observed dismally, picking himself up and gazing at the débris with disgust written on his pea-green face. 'They'll git nothin' 'ot fur lunch ter-day, that I'm bloomin' well certain!' Nobody listened to what he said; and, after surveying the scene for another instant, he yawned twice, and then bolted hastily towards the upper deck. He got there just in time, poor man!
Most of the younger men were past caring whether it was Christmas or Easter. They merely became as limp and as pale as pocket-handkerchiefs, wedged themselves in convenient corners, unconscious of the water and rubbish washing round them, and wished that they might die. Some of them nearly did. It was only the old stagers like Billings who were not affected, and they, instead of offering consolation to their suffering shipmates, went about casting rude gibes at the poor wretches.
''Ullo!' remarked Joshua, strolling aft to his mess at dinner-time, and coming to a halt opposite a miserable little party sitting with their backs up against the ship's side. ''Ullo! 'ere we 'ave Mister Pincher Martin, Rile Navy! 'Ow are we, ole son? Feelin' a bit squeamish—wot?'