Part 13

"Yes, I see...." The Captain adjusted his glasses the fraction of a degree. "She's flying our colours ... Can you see her number...?" The Officer of the Watch moved to the voice-pipe, as if to give an order to the helmsman.

"No; steady as you go!" said the Captain. "She's a mile away yet. I want to see her a bit closer--ah..." He broke off disgustedly as the fog closed down on them again, blotting out the pale sunlight. The distant trawler vanished as a picture vanishes from the screen when a hand withdraws the lantern slide. The Captain blinked as the tiny beads of moisture collected on his eyelashes, and rubbed his glasses impatiently. "Damn this fog! Put a look-out in the eyes of the ship." Going to the voice-pipe, he gave a curt order to the Quartermaster at the helm and came back again to the compass. "I didn't like the look of that fellow, for all his display of bunting. Too many men on deck for one of our trawlers." He looked up into the blindfold drifts overhead. "Oh, for one little minute...!"

The Officer of the Watch had stepped to the head of the ladder and beckoned to a messenger:

"Jump down and tell the Captain of the Forecastle to tell off a hand as look-out forward in the eyes of the ship. He's to get him there at once!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" The boy sped off on his errand and darted off along the upper deck. The petty officer whose official title was "Captain of the Forecastle" was seated with his back against the engine-room casings, playing "crib" with a Chief Stoker. The messenger pulled up panting:

"Please--the--Officer--of--the--Watch--sez--tell --off--a--hand--to--look--out--in--the--eyes--of--the--ship!" he gasped. He had run so fast and spoke so quickly, in his fear lest he should forget the message, that to a less trained ear it would have sounded unintelligible.

The Captain of the Forecastle turned a clear grey eye upon him, and moistened a thumb preparatory to dealing. "Right, my son.... Nip along on to the fo's'cle an' pass the word to Able-Seaman Eggers--'e's one of the party standin' by the foremost gun--to get up quick 's 'ell into the eyes of the ship. Tell 'im to get back smart to 'is gun if 'e's wanted. An' then jump down to 19 Mess an' warn Able-Seaman Leckey to relieve 'im nex' watch. Tell 'em both from me to keep their eyes skinned, or they'll get 'ung at the port fore-tops'l yard-arm!"

The boy departed as if wings were attached to his bare heels, his freckled face solemn with the burden of these grave responsibilities. In his Pantheon three deities presided over the affairs of men. There was Mr. Corbett the Boatswain, terrible in wrath, iron-handed, implacable, who drank rum (so rumour had it) as weak mortals drink swipes, and could put an eye-splice in a bit of six-inch wire single-handed in his sleep.... A more mysterious power was that invested in a trinity of Lieutenants known collectively as "Orficer-of-the-Watch"; and, lastly, there was the Captain of the Forecastle. But the greatest of these was the Captain of the Forecastle. Other gods there may have been, but they were too remote and magnificent to concern themselves about Boys 1st Class, or to be concerned about.

Able-Seaman Eggers was leaning against the shield of his gun, inhaling the delicate aroma of bloaters that drifted up from the ship's galley. He hoped his mess was going to have bloaters for supper; he liked them best when they had soft roes.... To him came Mercury, in the form of the fore-bridge messenger, repeating breathlessly the edict of the Captain of the Forecastle. Able-Seaman Eggers accepted the change of duties philosophically; he would as soon spend the remainder of his watch in the "eyes" of the ship as closed up round a gun.

"Oo sez?" he queried--not from any desire to question the order, but because it was necessary to maintain appearances before the Boy 1st Class who delivered it.

"Cap'n of the Forecastle. An' 'e sez you gotter keep your eyes skinned."

Able-Seaman Eggers cuffed the emissary of the Great Powers for form's sake, and betook himself into the foremost point of the "V" formed by the ship's bows.

* * * * *

Down in the Wardroom the occupants had finished tea; the Paymaster rose from the table, and crossed over to the notice-board, carrying a sheet of foolscap over which he had expended much thought and labour. He pinned it up, and stepped back a pace to admire the effect.

The Young Doctor came over to his side. "What are you up to, Pay?"

The other smiled in all the pride of authorship. "I don't know what you think, but I call that rather a neat bit of wit, eh?"

The notice read as follows:

"GRAND QUOITS COMPETITION."

"Subject to interference by atmospherics, barratry, mines, fog, lyddite shell bursting on board, and the King's enemies, it is proposed to hold the above in the dog watch whenever possible:

"First Prize--A good cigar. "Second Prize--A blood orange. "Third Prize--A bag of nuts.

"Penalty for throwing a quoit overboard: "First Offence--Fined half a crown. "Second Offence--Thrown overboard himself.

"And what'll he do the third time?" inquired the Surgeon, who was suspected of being Irish. "But anyway, it's a grand idea--let's go and play before the light gets too bad."

The Paymaster stepped into his cabin and returned with half a dozen discs of indiarubber. "I wheedled these out of the 'Chief.' Padre, come on and play quoits--you and I'll take on 'Pills' and the Gunnery Lieutenant."

"Never played in my life. I should probably chuck them down the funnel or hit the Skipper in the eye on the fore-bridge."

"That doesn't matter--it's your money we want. Come along, 'Guns,' we'll take these two on." The Paymaster led the way out of the Mess, followed by the other three.

A Lieutenant dozing in the one remaining armchair opened his eyes and watched their retreating backs. "Noisy devils," he murmured drowsily. "Why don't they sleep when they can?" and lapsed into slumber again.

A Marine servant entered to remove the tea-things and tidy up the Mess. As a matter of fact, there was not much to tidy: a table and the bare number of chairs required to accommodate the members was all the woodwork in the place. Two ash-trays that no one used stood on the stove, together with a novel, several pipes, and an open tin of tobacco. On the sideboard lay a little pile of newspapers a week old and a "Bradshaw"--pathetic reminder of the days when one looked up trains with a view to leave and suchlike vanities. A couple of war-maps ornamented the bulkhead: otherwise, the Mess--the home and place for sleep, meals, and recreation of a dozen English gentlemen--was bare and unadorned.

The voices of the quoit-players outside came in through the open door, mingling with the soft thud of the rubber quoits as they played. The figure in the arm-chair stirred slightly and smiled in his sleep.

* * * * *

Forward in the bows of the ship Able-Seaman Eggers leaned over the rail, staring into the mist. The ship's bows seemed to be carving their way through liquid jade that fell away on either side of the bows with a deep sobbing sound. He wondered when the bell would strike ... he wanted his supper...

A blinding sheet of flame leaped into the air, hurling a mountain of water after it with a report that rent the fog in tatters.

What was left of the cruiser lifted half clear of the water and lurched forward, sickened and stricken ... her stern rose slowly in the air, the propellers kicking wildly.

After a while objects began to descend out of the riven patches of mist overhead--fragments of wood and steel, wisps of clothing still alight ... shattered images of God...

Then, somewhere aft in the reeling hull, a magazine exploded. The cruiser sank as a bull sinks in the ring before the crowning mercy of the last thrust. A pall of smoke closed down upon the outraged sea.

3

In a ground floor room at the back of Portsmouth Hard an old woman was laying the table for supper. Not much of a supper: the remains of a loaf of bread, some dripping in a saucer. But the chief item of the meal, a bloater, lay on a plate in front of the fire, keeping warm.

An old man sat in a chair by the hearth, reading a newspaper through steel-rimmed glasses. Laying it aside, he leaned forward and prodded the bloater speculatively with a nubbly forefinger. He turned and looked at his wife over the top of the steel-rimmed spectacles.

"It's a soft roe, Mother. '_E_ liked 'em wiv soft roe."

The woman had completed the arrangements for their meal, and was tying on her bonnet before the scrap of mirror that hung on the wall.

"Well, don' get pokin' it _about_!" she snapped, with unexpected vehemence that told of overstrung nerves. She took a jug off a nail on the dresser and covered it with her apron. There is an etiquette to be observed in these matters when one carries a beer-jug abroad. "I'm goin' out to fetch the beer for supper, an' when I come back you shall 'ave your bloater."

The old man nodded. "That's right; an' buy an evening paper 'fore you come back. P'raps we'll see some news of the boy. Pity 'e ain't 'ere to fetch the beer for supper same's 'e did use to. 'E should 'ave a gallon to 'isself if 'e wus 'ere this minute!" The old man chuckled.

The woman went out and closed the door behind her. The rays of the setting sun glowed red on the old tiled roofs and sparkled on the waters of the harbour. It was a golden evening, and a peaceful haze hung over the far-reaching Dockyard and the few ships lying at anchor in the distance.

The hoarse cry of a paper-boy arrested her attention, and she stopped outside a newsvendor's shop to read the contents bill of the evening paper. She read slowly, for she was no great scholar and her sight was not so good as it had been. Then she went quickly into the shop and bought a copy of the paper.

NAVAL DISASTER IN THE NORTH SEA

BRITISH CRUISER SUNK BY MINES

FULL LIST OF CASUALTIES

The glaring type attracted several passers-by, amongst them a policeman on his beat. When the little old woman came out of the shop her face was screwed up with grief, and she held her apron to her eyes. Red eyes and tear-blotched faces are not uncommon in war-time in a garrison town. The bystanders that gathered round understood as if by common intuition, and the policeman spoke encouragement in a gruff, kindly tone. Standing there on the kerb, she had her cry. A Boy Scout held the jug her son would never carry again to fetch the supper beer.

VII

THE WAY THEY HAVE

(1915)

1

The coastguard was turning over the earth in one of the tiny cabbage patches that belonged to the row of whitewashed cottages on the flank of the headland. The sun was hot and he paused frequently, straightening up and passing the back of his hand across his forehead. Each time he did this his eyes travelled half-mechanically round the blue curve of the horizon, thence along the foreshore, and so back to the cabbage patch, when he resumed his digging.

It was during one of these pauses that he noticed the gulls, and stood motionless for several seconds, shading his eyes from the sun. The tide had turned and left a few yards of sand below high-water mark wet and gleaming in the October sunlight.

Half a mile away a couple of gulls were circling curiously above something that lay in the shallow water, stranded by the fast-receding tide.

The coastguard watched the birds intently. The dark speck that broke the smooth shimmering surface of the sea might have been seaweed or driftwood, but for them. Seaweed interests nobody--not even sea-gulls. On the other hand what interests sea-gulls interests coastguardmen. Acting apparently along this chain of reasoning, the coastguard dug his spade into the earth, and made off down the winding gravel path that led to the beach. Once on the sand he stopped, said something in an undertone, and glanced back at the coastguard station; he had come without his telescope.

For a moment he paused, measuring the distance with his eye. He was a man of leisurely and deliberate habit of mind. It was a question whether he went back for his telescope or walked along the foreshore and decided at close quarters what it was that the tide was shrinking from in the warm morning sunlight.

There wasn't much in it one way or the other, he decided after due reflection, and set out accordingly along the wet sands at the edge of the sea.

He was in no particular hurry. Whatever his vices, curiosity wasn't one of them. But it was his job; and as he walked he eyed the sea distastefully as if it had been responsible for more jobs than he personally had much use for.

One of the sea-gulls soared suddenly and flew swiftly out to sea with quick strong beats of its wings.

The other still hovered, as if questioning the sea with thin querulous cries. The coastguard drew near, and it too fled seaward, abandoning the enigma that lay with the little waves lapping round it in retreat.

The coastguard stopped at the edge of the water and stood with his hands on his hips contemplating the jetsam.

"Another of 'em," he said, and was for wading out there and then, till he remembered his wife and what she said the last time he went in with his boots on.

Accordingly he removed his boots and socks, rolled up his bell-bottomed trousers, and splashed out to where the thing was lying. He turned it over gingerly and he shook his head.

"'Dentity disc," he muttered, and pulling out his knife, severed the cord that connected a little metal disc to what lay at his feet.

Then he retraced his steps to where his boots were lying, examining the disc as he walked. Three rows of letters and some figures were stamped on it. With difficulty he deciphered them:

A. E. JONES, TMR. R.N.R.T. 1347 BAP.

With more haste than he had hitherto exhibited the coastguard replaced his socks and boots and returned to the coastguard station.

His mate was examining a steam-drifter far out to sea through the big brass-bound high-power telescope. He turned as the new-comer entered. The latter threw the disc down on to the desk and stepped to the telephone. "A. E. Jones," he said; "Trimmer, Royal Naval Reserve, Trawler Section, No. 1347. Religion, Baptist."

The other nodded, and resumed his scrutiny of the distant drifter. "Bin in the water long?" he inquired.

"Weeks," said the other, turning the handle of the telephone bell, "an' weeks." Then he picked up the receiver, and in half a dozen terse sentences set in motion that part of the vast and complex machinery of the British Admiralty interested in the affairs--even unto death--of R.N.R. (T.) No. 1347.

An hour later an immaculate young gentleman with paper protectors to his cuffs, who occupied a corner of a large dusty room overlooking Whitehall, was running his pen down the pages of a tome resembling in appearance the Doomsday Book. "J," he said. "Um--m--m. Jo--Jones--1347. Next of kin, mother. That's the fellah." Then he wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to a messenger, glanced at the clock, removed his paper protectors from his cuffs, and went off to his lunch, and the spiritual refreshment of twenty minutes' badinage with a rather coy waitress at a popular café.

His part in the drama was taken a couple of hours later by a Registrar of the Naval Reserve at a grimy Welsh seaport, who was also the Assistant Collector of Customs and a deacon at the local chapel; he, at the bidding of a curt telegram, pumped up the back tyre of his bicycle and rode some three miles along a cobbled thoroughfare, till he came to a row of cottages that stared across an evil-looking canal at mounds of slag. He dismounted at the door of the third house and knocked. An old woman answered the summons, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Mrs. Jones?"

"Aye," said the old woman. "Have they found 'im?"

"They have," said the registrar grimly. "An' buryin' him they are to-morrow."

The old woman sat down in a chair and threw her apron over her head. "Anwl!" she wailed. "Anwl, Anwl! Seven year since I set eyes on 'im, an' then he did hit me a clout and went foreign--drinkin' he'd been... _Dhu_! _Dhu_! And me his mother."

The registrar entered the squalid room, drew a chair up beside the old woman, and, sitting down, prepared to enjoy himself.

"The _Ard_-miralty," he began sonorously, unfolding the telegram and clearing his throat; "the Ard-miralty, look you, gives me authority to pay your fare to the East Coast of England so's you can be present at the funeral, Mrs. Jones." Then, his voice rising to the triumphal mournful "_hoeul_"* of the Welsh preacher, he added, "Are not two sparrows sold for one farthing----!"

* A sort of sing-song chanty.

The old woman ceased to rock herself to and fro. Her head emerged from under her apron.

"Maggie Ann!" she cried shrilly.

A slovenly girl, with a sallow face, and masses of untidy hair twisted up in curl papers, crossed the yard at the back, and stood in the doorway.

"Get you out my black dress an' my red flannel petticoat, Maggie Ann."

The registrar eyed the girl sternly. "Have you got a black dress too?" he inquired.

"I have indeed," replied Maggie Ann simply. "In the pawnshop, it is."

The registrar consulted the telegram as if it contained directions as to the method of redeeming articles from pawn.

"I am authorised by the Ard-miralty to issue two tickets to the next of kin of the deceased." He cleared his throat and contemplated Maggie Ann. "I am prepared to give you one so's you can go to the funeral too."

"There's my married sister," said Maggie Ann reflectively, "with a black dress as would fit me----"

"Get it you from her," commanded the registrar majestically. "An' be at the station at 4 o'clock. I will find a train for you." His manner suggested that trains were things that took even a man a good deal of finding.

He was as good as his word, however. The two quaint figures clad in rusty black, voluble and breathless with the enormity of this adventure, were bundled into a third-class carriage. The registrar handed the elder woman a sheet of directions, and, being a kindly-hearted man, he pressed five shillings into the palm of Maggie Ann's black-cotton-gloved hand. Then he spoke magnificently to the guard--as one brass-bound official to another--and with a wide gesture of farewell that was partly a military salute and partly a parochial benediction he turned on his heel.

The train slowly gathered speed, and the two women sat staring out of the window as if they were hypnotised. Then Maggie Ann opened her clenched palm and displayed the two half-crowns which she held together with the tickets.

"Did 'e give 'em to you?"

"Aye," said Maggie Ann.

"Well, well! Who'd ha' thought it?" said her mother. "Put 'em somewhere safe, Maggie Ann, for fear of robbers." They had the carriage to themselves, and Maggie Ann obeyed her mother accordingly.

Then whispering together in the vernacular, after the manner of the Welsh, crying a little from time to time to keep one another company, and sustained throughout the long journey by peppermint drops of amazing pungency, they were whirled out of the land of their fathers into the unknown.

Among the passengers who shared their carriage later on was a dignified, elderly lady, with silver-white hair and a face of a singular, though rather sad, sweetness of expression. She was dressed in deep black, and listened intently as the old woman told her story for the benefit of their fellow passengers. She did not smile, as did the others, when Maggie Ann of the reddened eyes and nose, with wisps of untidy hair protruding from under her married sister's hat, was bidden to display the tickets in token of an Empire's solicitude for the women of the humblest of her sons.

"You are lucky," she said gently. "You can at least bury your dead. That was denied me. I lost my first-born in that battle too. He was a sailor like your son was."

They reached Paddington as the dusk was falling, and in the vast echoing dimness of the station the immensity of the unknown descended upon the two Welsh women, as they stood bewildered upon the platform among the jostling throng of passengers.

"Find a policeman, Maggie Ann," said the elder woman, consulting the sheet of directions given her by the registrar. "An' ask 'im where to find a tidy li'l' public-'ouse where we can stop the night."

But before Maggie Ann could invoke the aid of the law in quest of lodgings, the grey-haired lady who had spoken to them in the train again approached the pair.

"My car is waiting," she said. "Will you both come home with me for the night? I have a big house and a very empty one; there is room for you both. Cook will give you breakfast early, and you can start for the East Coast to-morrow morning in good time for the funeral."

"Well, indeed to goodness!" said Mrs. Jones, and suffered herself to be led to a waiting car in which, to the visible astonishment of an elderly chauffeur, she and Maggie Ann were placed. "There's kind you are, Mum."

"Not at all," said the grey-haired lady as the car started. "I have very few servants now, and there are plenty of spare servants' rooms. I am grateful to Providence for bringing us together into the same railway carriage," she continued simply. "I--I am so glad to be able to help"--her hands twisted together on her lap with a little nervous, rather pathetic gesture--"another mother."

The visitors supped in a vast spotless servants' hall, where the floor was of polished linoleum in black and white squares, and the electric light shone down on burnished copper pans and scoured woodwork.

Cook, a stout sentimentalist, afterwards bade the old woman draw a chair to the fire and together they brewed strong tea.

"I've buried two husbands," she said, "but never a bairn have I borne. I don't know but what you're to be envied, Mrs. Jones. Her ladyship, she gave her only son, same's what you did, and her heart is broken. But she holds her head the prouder 'There's worse things than dyin' for the right,' she sez." Cook dabbed at her eyes with a huge pocket-handkerchief.