Loe raamatut: «Pincher Martin, O.D.: A Story of the Inner Life of the Royal Navy», lehekülg 11

No answer.

'I only did it to save you getting into trouble,' she continued, emerging from behind the counter and coming very close to him. 'It's very kind of you to bring me the violets, dear Bill; I'll wear 'em in my dress. You're not angry with me, are you?'

Pincher looked up at her with a slow smile hovering round his lips. She had called him 'dear,' a thing she had never done before, and that showed he was forgiven.

'Angry!' he said, tucking his offering clumsily into the front of her blouse. 'Course I ain't. I wus a bit rattled at th' time, but I shouldn't 'a bin 'ere if I 'ad broke me leaf. I reckons you done me a good turn, Hemmeline.' He gulped, and gazed wistfully at a little strand of golden hair which curled tantalisingly behind her left ear. 'Give us a kiss, ole gal?' he pleaded softly. 'I've bin longin' ter see yer agen.' He put his arm round her waist, drew her towards him, and touched her face with his lips.

Emmeline squeaked, pushed him away, and darted behind the counter with a flutter of a white petticoat and a momentary glimpse of a pair of well-shaped ankles clad in black silk stockings. 'You're a naughty boy!' she scolded, safe in her refuge – 'a very naughty boy, to behave like that when customers may come in at any minute! You've rumpled my new blouse, too,' she added, patting herself and rearranging the violets. 'My, they do smell nice!' She bent her head and buried the tip of a very fascinating and somewhat retroussé nose in the flowers.

Pincher laughed happily. He felt he was very lucky.

'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. Exercises²⁶ – 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?'

The 'ole son,' whose face was a ghastly yellow, whose eyes were closed, and whose head rested carelessly on the shoulder of his next-door neighbour, a man whose name he didn't even know, looked up with a sickly grin, and then relapsed into torpitude.

Billings, swaying easily to the violent rolling of the ship, looked at him with amusement. ''Ave a bit o' somethin' t' eat?' he suggested, with horrible cheeriness. 'Nice little bit o' corned beef, or a drop o' pea-soup? Pea-soup's fine scran fur blokes wot's seasick.' He smacked his lips appreciatively.

Pincher shook his head.

'Then 'ave a nice bit o' fat 'am?' suggested his tormentor. 'Slips down nice an' easy like, an' don't rest 'eavy on th' stummick, fat 'am don't.'

Pincher groaned at the idea.

''Strewth! you ain't 'arf a sailor, you ain't!' the elder man snorted contemptuously, moving off.

Pincher expressed no emotion at all. The very sight of Billings's rubicund countenance made him feel worse than ever, while a man who could mention food at such a time was surely beyond the pale. Moreover, a sailor's life was the very last thing that he took any interest in at that particular time.

Even some of the officers were unwell. The padre retired to his bunk, and was fed by his marine servant on soda-water and Bath Oliver biscuits; while Cutting, the young surgeon, Hannibal Chance, the captain of Marines, and the fleet pay-master refused nourishment of any kind whatsoever. Nearly all the others made some attempt to eat their meals; but all except the most hardened sea-dogs bolted a few mouthfuls, and then beat a hasty retreat to their cabins. The only person who did really enjoy it was Harry Derrick, the Royal Naval Reserve lieutenant, or 'Cargo Bill,' as his messmates invariably called him. He always had an insatiable appetite, whatever the weather, and a 'little bit of a sea like this' did not incommode him in the slightest. It was nothing to what he had experienced off Cape Horn in the wind-jammer days he never tired of talking about when he could persuade any one to listen.

But all things come to an end in time; and, after thirty-six hours of absolute misery, Pincher revived to find the squadron steaming into Arosa Bay.

So this was Spain! he thought to himself, looking round with interest as they passed into the sheltered anchorage. He had imagined it to be rather a wonderful country, but if this was a fair sample, he didn't go much on it. A large indented bay; a few blue hills in the distance; a low-lying, arid-looking country, dotted here and there with wooded clumps and patches of cultivated ground; a few small white houses and a gray stone church or two; a straggling town and a long pier at the head of the bay; and many fishing-boats with strangely cut sails. There was a peculiar tang in the air, the nature of which he could not at first determine. It was neither the sweet odour of freshly turned earth, new-mown hay, or heather, nor yet the honest salty smell of the open sea. It was something far more pungent and overpowering. He found out afterwards that it emanated from various sardine-preserving factories, and the discovery put him off canteen 'sharks' for quite a week. There are sardines and sardines; let us be thankful they are not all Spanish sardines!

No, Pincher's impressions of the first foreign country he had ever visited were not exactly enthralling. Spain looked a very ordinary place from the water, and it did not improve on further acquaintance when he went ashore with Billings the same afternoon.

The town, Villagarçia, was not a delectable spot. It smelt of garlic and ancient fish. Its streets, badly paved and odoriferous with heaps of nameless garbage, seemed to provide a happy hunting-ground for many lean, fierce dogs, perambulating pigs and goats accompanied by their families, and prowling poultry. The people, too, looked dirty and ill-favoured, and the better-class men all smoked cigarettes and wore long black cloaks and wideawake hats, like clergymen at home in England. Numbers of barefooted boys and girls of all ages between three and seventeen followed Pincher and Billings about wherever they went. 'I say! On' penni!' they demanded persistently, holding out their grubby hands. 'I say, Jack! Damn you! I say, on' penni!' There was no getting rid of them until the pennies were forthcoming; and their stock phrases – all the English they knew – seemed to have been handed down from generation to generation, ever since British men-of-war first started to visit the place in the year one. It was a paying game, for the bluejacket is always free with his hard-earned money.

No, Villagarçia was not attractive. There was nothing to do except to drink vinegary vino blanco in the taverns, and to buy picture post-cards, silk shawls, paper fans showing fierce and bloodthirsty bullfights, and hideous tambourines depicting plump, gaily dressed ladies in short skirts dancing the mattiche. On the whole, Pincher was not sorry to get back to the ship, and he did not trouble to go ashore again.

A fortnight later they arrived at Gibraltar, where the ships went alongside the Mole in the inner harbour to take in coal. But here the operation was quite gentlemanly compared with coaling from a collier, for the fuel was carried on board in small baskets on the backs of nondescript, garlic-scented aliens known as 'rock scorpions,' and all the ship's company had to do was to stow it in the bunkers as it came on board. There was none of the back-breaking work of shovelling.

Coaling completed, the ships went out almost daily for aiming rifle practice; and then came the annual 'gunlayers' test' with the twelve-inch, six-inch, and lighter guns.

'Wot is this 'ere gunlayers' test they talks abart?' Pincher, rather mystified, asked Billings.

'Gunlayers' test!' the A.B. returned, staring at him very much surprised. 'You've bin in this 'ere ship nigh on six months, an' yer don't know wot a gunlayers' test is?'

''Ow can I know wot it is?' Martin sniffed. 'I ain't see'd it, 'ave I?'

'Ain't see'd it, ain't yer?' Joshua snorted. 'Ignerance, that's wot it is! 'Owever, I'll larn yer. Gunlayers' test is wot we carries art every year wi' orl th' guns in th' ship – see? Th' ship steams parst a targit at fairly close range, an' orl th' gunlayers fires in turn. It's a bit of a competition like, an' they orl 'as a certain number o' rounds ter fire in a certain time – see? It's just ter see if' —

''Ow fur orf is th' targit?' Pincher wanted to know, for even he could understand that this was rather a vital point.

'Don't yer git interruptin' w'en I'm spinnin' a yarn!' Joshua remonstrated. 'I loses th' thread o' wot I'm sayin'.' It was fairly early in the morning, and he was still feeling cantankerous.

The ordinary seaman apologised. 'Sorry,' he said. 'I didn't mean no 'arm.'

'Course yer didn't; but if yer gits arskin' stoopid questions, 'ow kin a bloke remember wot 'e's sayin'? Wot wus it yer wanted ter know?'

''Ow fur orf th' targit wus.'

'Not werry fur,' Joshua explained. 'Leastways, it ain't exac'ly fur, an' it ain't exac'ly close. You oughter know wot I means; I carn't remember th' exac' distance. Any'ow, gunlayers' test ain't th' same as battle practice, 'cos then we fires orl th' guns at once, same as we do in haction, likewise at long range – see? Gunlayers' test is simply a competition like, ter see if th' blokes kin shoot strite – see?'

'An' wot 'appens then?' Pincher asked, still rather hazy as to what really did take place.

'Wot 'appens? Orficers comes aboard from other ships as humpires, an' they takes th' time each bloke takes ter fire 'is rounds, an' counts th' number o' rounds 'e gits orf; likewise th' number of 'its an' misses on th' targit. The results is then packed up an' sent ter th' Admiralty, an' them blokes wot's done extry well gits medals an' money prizes, an' them wot ain't 'as a court o' hinquiry on 'em, an' probably gits disrated from bein' gunlayers – see?'

'An' kin I git a medal fur this 'ere?' Martin eagerly asked, for he, also, was a humble member of one of the twelve-pounder guns' crews.

Joshua was amused. 'Kin you git a medal?' he laughed. 'A little cock-sparrer like you! Course yer bloomin' well carn't! They only whacks 'em art ter them gunlayers wot's done extry well, an' there's werry few on 'em given. You ain't a gunlayer, an' ain't likely to be one neither. Gunlayers 'as brains.'

'But 'oo gives these 'ere medals?' Pincher asked, ignoring the insult. 'The admiral?'

'No; th' King gives 'em. Leastways they 'as 'is likeness on 'em, so I reckons they comes from 'im. Nutty Buttolph, th' gunlayer o' my gun, 'ad one larst year. 'E wears it Sundays wi' 'is No. 1's. I reckons I oughter got it too, 'cos I'm th' loadin' number wot shoves in th' projectile, an' each six-inch projectile weighs a 'undred pounds. We got orf eight rounds an' got eight 'its on th' targit, an' I reckons it wus me wot done it just as well as 'im.' Billings's chest swelled with pride at the recollection.

''Ard luck!' Pincher murmured.

''Ard luck?' remarked Joshua. 'Course it wus 'ard luck! 'Owever, I took ten bob orf my opposite number in th' flagship, an' fifteen bob orf another bloke wot thought 'is gun could shoot strite. We were top o' th' 'ole bloomin' squadron larst year,' he added; 'precious near top o' th' 'ole navy, an' don't yer bloomin' well forgit it. Our ship's company made a bit of a pay-day over it.'

'Pay-day! 'Ow d' yer mean?'

Joshua grinned and winked one eye. 'Bettin'!' he said in a hoarse whisper.

'But I thought bettin' wusn't allowed?' Martin remonstrated, remembering the regulations.

'No more it is, me son; but th' skipper won 'is ten quid from th' flagship's skipper, 'oo said 'is ship 'u'd beat us; an' w'en 'e won it 'e whacked it art among th' guns' crews, 'e did. Proper gennelman, 'e is. Th' Bloke, an' Jimmy the One,²⁷ an' most o' th' other orficers made a bit too. We're wot we calls 'ot stuff in th' shootin' line, I kin tell yer.'

Billings was quite right. There was certainly no lack of rivalry, for the officers and men of the squadron were as keen on the results obtained by their respective ships as they possibly could be. The gunlayers' test was treated in much the same way as a regatta or a race-meeting, for sweepstakes were got up and bets were freely offered and taken on the performances of individual gunlayers. Strictly against the regulations, of course, but nobody seemed to mind, and the favourites themselves became very important personages for the time being.

To the ship's company of any man-of-war, 'our ship' is invariably the best shooting and the smartest ship not only in the whole squadron, but also in the entire British navy. Disputes as to the merits of two crack vessels have been known to lead to regrettable incidents ashore. Pewter beer-mugs are handy missiles, and black eyes and contusions, though rare, are by no means unheard of. Moreover, if a smart ship which fancies herself is beaten at gunnery by some dark horse, the obvious inferences, from her men's point of view, are: (1) that the umpires have been bribed; (2) that the ammunition was bad, and it therefore affected the shooting; (3) that the sea was much rougher and the ship had far more motion than when H.M.S. So-and-so fired; (4) that the sun was in the wrong place, and that the light was bad; (5) that the weather was misty; and so on, ad infinitum, all the excuses being equally futile.

But rivalry between ships, despite occasional bickerings ashore when their respective partisans wax argumentative, does no harm. On the contrary, it is a good sign. It shows there is esprit de corps.

On this occasion, however, the Belligerent's guns were possessed of a devil. She did very well, it is true, and came out second in the squadron, but was just beaten by the Tremendous. The defeat came as a severe blow, particularly as a treasured silver challenge cup, presented by the admiral and awarded annually to the best ship, now left its resting-place on the Belligerent's mess-deck and found its way to the flagship. It was carried off in triumph by the winners; but the Belligerent's gunlayers cursed long and loud, and swore by all their gods that it had been won by a fluke. So did some of the officers.

'This 'ere's th' ruddy limit!' Billings muttered fiercely. 'Ter think o' these 'ere Duffos²⁸ 'avin' th' imperence ter say they 'ave beaten us! They ain't done it fair! S' welp me, they ain't! It's enuf ter make a bloke take ter – ter anythin'!' He was going to say 'beer;' but, remembering Mrs Figgins and his new-found respectability, he wisely refrained.

After spending a month at Gibraltar, they returned to Portland to give four days' Easter leave, and then sailed off to Berehaven, where they did more gunnery. Then on to the west coast of Scotland for a cruise, and finally back to Portland again.

The time passed very rapidly. Spring gave way to summer, and in due course Pincher found himself passed out of the seamanship training-class and handed over to the tender mercies of a torpedo gunner's mate, who crammed his head with an astounding number of facts pertaining to electricity and torpedo work generally.

One Sunday in the early summer, however, the chaplain rather electrified his congregation. 'I publish the banns of marriage,' he read, 'between Able Seaman Joshua Billings, bachelor, of this ship, and Martha Ann Figgins, widow, of the parish of St Cuthbert's, Weymouth. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, you are to declare it. This is for the first time of asking.'

The commander, and various other officers who knew Joshua intimately, could hardly restrain their mirth.

'The old devil!' Tickle exclaimed in the smoking-room after the service. 'To think of any woman wanting to marry him!'

'There are plenty of worse men than Billings,' the commander disagreed. 'He's not very attractive to look at, I'll admit; but, provided he keeps off beer, he and his Martha'll get on all right. What he wants is a woman to rule him with a rod of iron.'

'You'd better give the lady a few tips, sir,' Tickle suggested.

'Not I!' laughed the commander. 'I shall merely present them with an ormolu timepiece – whatever that may be. It shall be suitably inscribed, too. You see,' he added, 'Billings, in spite of beer, is quite one of the best seamen in the ship, and I shall be very sorry to lose him when he takes his pension.'

There is no need to describe Joshua's wedding, or to tell how some of the officers and a goodly proportion of the ship's company attended the ceremony, how Pincher performed his duties as 'best man,' and how the commander himself was prevailed upon to make a speech and to drink the health of the happy couple in grocers' port wine. It all went off like a house on fire; but at the tea-party afterwards Pincher seemed rather distracted.

''Ullo, chum!' the beaming bridegroom asked him, 'wot's up wi' yer? You've got a face on yer like a sea-boot.'

'I'm just thinkin' somethin',' Pincher explained.

'Thinkin' wot?' Joshua wanted to know. 'Wot an 'appy hoccasion this is, or wot?'

'No, 'ardly that.'

'Wot is it, then?'

'I wus thinkin' that now you've gorn an' married Missis Figgins you are Hemmeline's farther, ain't yer?'

'S'pose I am,' Billings assented, scratching his head, for the question had not occurred to him before. 'Leastways, 'er step-farther.'

'An' s'pose I marries Hemmeline, wot relation are yer to me?'

'You ain't arsked my leaf to court 'er,' Joshua pointed out. 'An' s'pose yer does, I don't know as 'ow I shall give my consent. These haffairs is important – see? I'll 'ave ter hinquire as ter yer prospex, an' suchlike. Supposin' yer wusn't respeccable?'

'Respeccable!' Pincher retorted. 'Don't talk so wet! If I ain't good enuf ter marry Hemmeline, you ain't good enuf fur Missis Figgins – see? She's 'er mother, ain't she?'

'Don't go an' git dizzy on this 'appy day,' Joshua went on with mock gravity. 'Don't go gittin' rattled! Carn't you see w'en a bloke's 'avin' a joke like?'

'It ain't no subjec' ter make fun o',' Pincher answered, rather mollified. 'But, any'ow, s'posin' I does marry 'er, wot relation would you be ter me? That's wot I wants ter know.'

'I reckons I'd be yer step-farther-in-lor,' Joshua answered after due consideration. 'Leastways, that's 'ow I looks at it. I'll arsk th' missis, though. Come an' 'ave a wet.'

Pincher, nothing loath, acquiesced. They went off arm-in-arm.