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Pincher Martin, O.D.: A Story of the Inner Life of the Royal Navy

by H. Taprell Dorling · English · Gutenberg #41774 · 697,438 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Pincher Martin, O.D.: A Story of the Inner Life of the Royal Navy

Author: H. Taprell Dorling

Illustrator: C. Fleming Williams


        
Release date: January 4, 2013 [eBook #41774]
                Most recently updated: November 27, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PINCHER MARTIN, O.D.: A STORY OF THE INNER LIFE OF THE ROYAL NAVY ***




Produced by sp1nd and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet Archive)






  [Illustration: 'That's 'er.'
                 ''Oo?'
  PAGE 1.]




Pincher Martin, O.D.

A STORY OF THE INNER LIFE OF THE ROYAL NAVY


By

'TAFFRAIL'
Author of 'Carry On,' &c., &c.


ILLUSTRATED BY

C. Fleming Williams


LONDON: 38 Soho Square, W.
W. & R. CHAMBERS, LIMITED
EDINBURGH: 339 High Street
1916

Edinburgh:
Printed by W. & R. Chambers, Limited.




PREFACE.


This story was written in rather difficult circumstances, and subject
to frequent interruption. Indeed, when the first chapters appeared
in _Chambers's Journal_ early in 1916 the narrative was barely
half-finished. Sometimes I almost despaired of ever completing it,
for it can perhaps be understood that writing on board a small ship
actually at sea in time of war is impossible for more reasons than one.

The reader is cautioned against accepting the story as an official
account of the part played by a certain section of the Navy during the
war. Incidents described are true; but, for reasons which must be
obvious, it has been necessary to give them fictitious colouring. It
also seems desirable to add that all my characters are fictitious, and
that each chapter was submitted to the censors at the Press Bureau
before publication.

It should be added that a considerable amount of matter is contained
in this volume which did not appear in _Chambers's Journal_ when the
story appeared in serial form.

More than ever am I deeply sensible of the very real debt which I owe
to my wife, both for her help in revising and correcting the proofs,
and for her many suggestions for improvements.

TAFFRAIL.

1916.




TO MY WIFE.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER                                                          PAGE

    I. HIS FIRST SHIP                                               1

   II. THE DAILY ROUND                                             12

  III. WORK AND PLAY                                               30

   IV. THE STRENUOUS LIFE                                          50

    V. THE OFFICERS                                                67

   VI. 'THE 'ORRIBLE DEN'                                          84

  VII. AN AFFAIR OF THE HEART                                     101

 VIII. A FAIR SKY                                                 124

   IX. THE CLOUD                                                  151

    X. WAR                                                        171

   XI. BLACK FRIDAY                                               191

  XII. H.M.S. 'MARINER'                                           212

 XIII. FRITZ THE FRIGHTFUL                                        234

  XIV. THE NORTH SEA                                              248

   XV. COMINGS AND GOINGS                                         271

  XVI. MINOR INCIDENTS                                            298

 XVII. THE DAY                                                    313

XVIII. CONCLUSION                                                 338




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


                                                                 PAGE

'That's 'er.' ''Oo?'                                    _Frontispiece_

'It was 'is fault! I saw 'im stick 'is foot out!'                 115

'Gosh! there ain't no bloomin' error abart this 'ere'             152

Raising his voice, he tried to shout for help                     203

''Ow do, granfer? Where did yer git that 'at?'                    230

The shooting was very accurate, far too accurate to be pleasant   310

The dark hulls of the enemy were hidden in the blinding
glare of their searchlights                                       333




PINCHER MARTIN, O.D.




CHAPTER I.

HIS FIRST SHIP.


'There ye are, Martin. That's 'er.'

The leading seaman in charge of the party paused, and waved a hand
toward a squat gray battleship lying on the other side of one of the
basins in Portsmouth Dockyard.

The little expedition of which he was the leader consisted of himself;
Martin, the man he had spoken to; and a small hand-cart propelled by
another ordinary seaman, breathing heavily. The cart contained a
sausage-shaped, khaki-coloured hammock, bound with its seven regulation
turns of lashing, and a bulbous brown kit-bag. They were Martin's
belongings. He was joining his first seagoing ship.

''Er?' he queried in answer to the leading seaman's remark, shivering
and looking rather puzzled. ''Oo?'

He was a puny, undersized little rat of a man, with a pallid, freckled
face and a crop of sandy hair. It was early winter, and the piercing
wind bit through to his very marrow, while the drizzling rain had
already found its way through his oilskin and down the back of his
neck. It was distinctly chilly. The tip of his nose and his fingers
were blue with cold, and he looked, and felt, supremely miserable.

He repeated his question as the leading seaman executed a few violent
steps of a clog-dance, and flapped his arms like an elderly penguin to
restore his circulation. ''Er?' he said at last, pausing for breath and
seemingly rather surprised at Martin's ignorance. 'That there's the
_Belligerent_. That's the ship we're goin' to join--you're goin' to
join, that is.'

'That 'er?' Martin ejaculated, gazing with awe at the battleship's
great bulk. 'That 'er? Gor' blimy!' He seemed rather appalled.

The leading seaman tittered and sucked his teeth. 'Lor'!' he laughed,
not unkindly, noticing the anxiety in the youngster's eyes, 'you
needn't look like that. They can't eat yer; leastways not if you
be'aves yourself they won't. 'Er commander's a werry nice gentleman;
'e wus shipmates along o' me in th' _Duncan_ up the Straits[1] six
year ago. 'E wus a lootenant then, an' a bit of a flyer; but 'e's a
gent so long as you don't get in the rattle.'[2]

          [1] 'The Straits' = the Mediterranean.

          [2] 'In the rattle' = in trouble.

He paused and eyed the ordinary seaman with the hand-cart, who had
released the shafts and was swinging his arms. ''Ere, young fella, not
so much of it!' he ordered abruptly, quite forgetting that he had
called the halt himself. 'Get a move on yer! You ain't no bloomin'
baronite drivin' your own motor-car, to stop 'ere an' stop there has
you thinks fit. You ain't wheelin' no perishin' whelk-barrer down
Commercial Road neither. Show a leg, me lad!'

The ordinary seaman seized the shafts, and the procession moved
forward.

Ten minutes later Martin, with his bag and hammock, was standing on the
quarterdeck of his Majesty's first-class pre-Dreadnought battleship
_Belligerent_. The leading seaman and the man with the hand-cart were
already on their way back to the Royal Naval Barracks, and Pincher
Martin, alone, for the first time, felt horribly nervous and
uncomfortable. He had been received with scant courtesy or interest by
the marine corporal of the watch, who had told him to remain where he
was while he fetched a ship's corporal; and now, eyed critically by the
grinning side-boy and the messenger, youngsters like himself, who made
facetious, rather uncomplimentary, and very audible remarks about his
personal appearance, he shivered and waited.

Over on the other side of the deck a tall officer, clad in a greatcoat
and swinging a telescope, was walking up and down dodging the
rain-drips from the awning. He was a lieutenant, from the two gold
stripes and the curl on his shoulder-straps, and was, as a matter of
fact, the officer of the watch. Presently the merriment at Martin's
expense became rather raucous, and the officer turned round and saw the
messenger and the side-boy laughing together. The chubby-faced youths
caught his eye roving over them, and immediately both became rigid,
with an innocent expression on their faces.

'Come here, you two!' he called, beckoning with his telescope.

The two youngsters trotted up and halted before him with a salute.

'Skylarking again, eh?' the lieutenant asked.

'Oh no, sir. We wusn't skylarkin',' the elder of the two protested.

'Humph! I don't know so much about that. I suppose you were making fun
of that man who's just joined, eh?'

'Oh no, sir. I only said to Horrigan'----

'I don't want to hear what you said to Horrigan, or what Horrigan said
to you,' interrupted the officer of the watch, smiling to himself.
'Evidently the time hangs heavily on your hands, and I'll not have the
quarterdeck turned into a bally music hall.' He looked round the deck,
and noticed some untidy ends of rope near the ship's side.

'You, Bates,' he went on, 'can amuse yourself by coiling down the ends
of these boats' falls and awning jiggers; and you, Horrigan, can broom
all that water into the scuppers.' He waved his hand toward some pools
of rain-water near the edge of the deck. 'When you've done that you can
let me know, and I'll find you another job. Go on--away you go!'

The boys pattered off, and the lieutenant resumed his perambulation.

Presently a ship's corporal, accompanied by the marine who had gone in
search of him, came through the battery door and went up to Martin.

'Name and rating?' he demanded abruptly, referring to a book in his
hand.

'Martin. Ord'nary seaman.'

'You'll be in No. 47 mess,' said Ship's Corporal Puddicombe, 'and will
be in the forecastle division, starboard watch, first part, first sub.
The capten of your top--Petty Officer Casey's 'is name--will tell you
off for your stations in your part of the ship. You'll stow your bag in
the fore cable flat, starboard side, and your 'ammick in the starboard
forecastle rack. I'll show you where to put 'em, and if you comes along
to my office after tea to-day I'll give you a card with it all written
on--see?'

'Yessir,' said Martin, looking very bewildered, for he had hardly
understood a word of what the man had said.

'It's all right, me lad,' the corporal went on, more kindly. 'You
needn't look so scared. You'll soon shake down. Is this your first
ship?'

'Yessir.'

The corporal nodded and went off to report to the officer of the watch,
who presently returned with him.

'Ord'nary Seaman Martin, sir. Come to join the ship from the barricks.'

The lieutenant eyed the new arrival critically. 'What division's he in,
corporal?' he queried.

'Yours, sir. Forecastle division.'

'How long have you been in the service?' the officer asked next.

'Six an' a narf months, sir,' said Martin.

'Well, it's about time you got your hair cut, my lad. It's much too
long. The forecastle division's my division, and the smartest in the
ship, so look out you uphold its reputation. Is your kit complete, by
the way?'

'Yessir, all but one pair o' socks.'

'All right; we'll see to that another day. Show him where to put his
bag and hammock, corporal, and tell him where his mess is. You'd better
introduce him to the barber, too. I can't have the men of my division
looking like a beauty chorus.--You,' he added, addressing Martin, 'had
better get yourself thoroughly warm. We don't want you to start off by
catching a chill.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Come along o' me,' said the ship's corporal gruffly; and Pincher,
picking up his bag and hammock, followed him along the deck.

In another minute they were on the mess-deck. It was a strange place to
Martin, accustomed as he was to the large and airy rooms in the
barracks ashore. It seemed cramped and restricted. The steel beams
supporting the deck above were barely eighteen inches over his head,
and every inch of space seemed occupied with something or other. But a
sense of order and cleanliness prevailed; for, though the ship was in
dockyard hands, and the first lieutenant would have described the
mess-deck as 'filthy,' it seemed specklessly clean to an outsider. The
glare of the electric lights shone on the spotless white enamel and
polished metal-work, and every inch of wood-work which was not
varnished and polished was well scrubbed and white.

Moving along a narrow gangway about eight feet wide, they passed the
officers' and men's galleys or kitchens. These were placed amidships,
and the great cooking-ranges, newly blacked and with their polished
steel knobs and utensils winking in the glare, vomited wisps of steam
and savoury smells. The black-and-white tiled floors were spotless, and
so were the wooden slabs upon which the meat and the vegetables were
cut up. Farther forward came small, curtained-off enclosures serving as
messes for the chief petty officers; and then, forward again, white
enamelled steel bulkheads stretching from floor to ceiling.

Extending out from the ship's side, with its row of scuttles and wooden
mess shelves and boot-racks, were numbers of white wooden mess tables
and narrow wooden forms. They were spaced at precisely equal intervals,
and at the end of each table was a neatly rolled strip of white
linoleum which served as a tablecloth at meal-times, a couple of
shining tin mess kettles, and a teapot. On the deck at the foot of each
table was a bread-barge, a squat-shaped tub, to contain the bread
belonging to the mess. The barges were all exactly similar, having
scrubbed teak sides and polished brass hoops, with the number of the
mess in neat brass figures, and each stood at precisely the same
distance from its own table.

From the ceiling or deck overhead hung racks for the reception of the
men's circular, black-japanned cap-boxes, and others for their white
straw hats--each in its duck cover to keep out dust and dirt--and the
newly scrubbed ditty-boxes. These, of white wood, are the receptacles
in which sailors keep their small personal belongings. They contain, as
a rule, photographs of wives, sweethearts, relations, and friends;
letters; and other purely private and valued relics; but, though
provided with a lock and key, it is an unwritten and invariable law of
the mess-deck that they shall be left unlocked. A man must show his
trust in his messmates, and a thief has no place on board one of his
Majesty's ships. If petty pilfering does occur, there is no mercy for
the culprit, and he is speedily discovered and removed.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and, as the ship was in dockyard hands
undergoing a refit, more than half the men were on leave, and the
mess-deck was comparatively empty. Those men who were left on board
were spending the half-holiday in blissful slumber, for many of the
tables and forms bore sleeping figures wrapped in blankets or
greatcoats. They snored melodiously and in many keys.

Here and there a man writing a letter or reading looked up with some
curiosity as Martin passed, but otherwise he attracted little
attention. The advent of another ordinary seaman was too common an
occurrence to call for remark, though to the ordinary seaman himself
the day of his arrival on board his first seagoing ship would
thereafter be mentally marked with a red figure in the calendar of his
life.

The ship's corporal, anxious to resume his interrupted sleep in the
police-office, hurried on; and soon, after climbing down one slippery
steel ladder and up another, they arrived in the foremost bag-flat.
This compartment was provided with tiers of numbered racks stretching
from deck above to deck below. Each division in the racks held its own
brown canvas or painted kit-bag, with the brightly polished brass tally
on the bottom stamped with the owner's name, all the tallies being set
at precisely the same angle. The guide halted and pointed to a vacant
space. 'There you are,' he said. 'That's where you stow your bag.'

Martin dropped his hammock, and after some difficulty succeeded in
insinuating his bag into its appointed place.

''Ere, that won't do,' observed the ship's corporal, shaking his head
with a pained expression on his face. 'Slew 'er round till the letters
on your tally are 'orizontal. The first lootenant'll 'ave a fit if 'e
sees it shoved in any'ow like that.'

Martin did as he was told, and when at last he had stowed his bag to
the corporal's satisfaction, was taken to another flat somewhere in the
bowels of the ship, where he was shown where to put his hammock.

He was next taken to his mess, and was introduced to the leading seaman
who acted as senior member and caterer. This worthy, a ruddy-faced,
heavily built man called Strumbles, was discovered asleep on the table,
and was none too pleased when the ship's corporal tapped him on the
shoulder and woke him up.

'Strumbles,' he said, ''ere's another O.D.[3] come to join your mess.
Martin's 'is name. Just keep an eye on 'im. 'E's a bit noo to the
service. 'E wants 'is 'air cut, too, so you might send 'im along to the
'aircutter after tea.'

          [3] O.D. = the slang term for 'ordinary seaman.' 'O.S.' is
          one official naval contraction, and 'Ord.' another. 'O.D.' is
          derived from the latter, in the same way as an able seaman is
          known as an 'A.B.'

Strumbles sat up sleepily and signified his willingness to perform
these favours, but the moment the corporal was safely out of sight
glared unpleasantly at the new arrival. 'Bit noo to the navy, are yer?'
he demanded. 'Name o' Martin, eh?'

'Yessir.'

'Don't call me "sir." My name's Strumbles. Nutty Strumbles they calls
me. Is this yer first ship?'

'Yes.'

'Thought so. If it wasn't, you'd know better than to come wakin' up a
bloke wot's 'avin' 'is Saturday arternoon caulk.'

'I'm sorry,' Martin stammered. 'It wusn't my fault. I didn't know'----

'Course you didn't. 'Owever, now you're 'ere you can just wake me up at
seven bells. Know what seven bells is, eh?'

'Yes. 'Arf-parst three.'

'Right. At 'arf-parst three you wakes me up, an' when you done that you
can go along to the galley an' wet the tea. Me, an' Ginger Strudwick,
an' Nobby Clarke, an' one or two others, is the only blokes o' this
'ere mess aboard. Them two's on watch now, but they'll be down at eight
bells clamourin' for their scran like a lot o' wolves; so look out you
'as it ready. When you've wetted the tea you can run along to the
canteen an' git height heggs an' height rashers for our supper--I'll
give you a _chit_ for it when I wakes up; an' when you done that
you can tidy up them there mess shelves an' polish the mess kettle an'
teapot ready for the rounds to-morrow. Understan'?'

'Yes,' said Martin, hesitatingly.

'Orl rite, look out you does it, then,' remarked Strumbles, laying his
head back and resuming his interrupted slumbers.

Martin began to feel rather sorry he had ever joined the navy, for as a
young and very ordinary seaman on board a ship it appeared as if every
one was his master. The recruiting posters which had been responsible
for his entry had said something about 'seeing the world, with plenty
of pocket-money.' This was what they meant, evidently. He sniffed
dubiously. In the barracks where he had undergone his preliminary
training he had been one of many others of his own age; but here he was
cast entirely on his own resources. He felt lonely and miserable;
nobody seemed to take any interest in him, and everybody ordered him
about in a dictatorial way which he didn't like at all. He gulped
suspiciously, and then looked round with a nervous expression lest the
slight sound should have awakened Strumbles.

When, seven months before, Martin had put on his bluejacket's uniform
for the first time, he had felt immensely proud of himself. Everybody
in his own small village had turned round to stare when he first
appeared in it; and he was rather disappointed when, on his arrival in
Portsmouth, people in the street neglected to notice him. He liked his
jumper, with the V-shaped opening in front, and the blue woollen jersey
underneath. He was proud of his blue jean collar with its three rows of
narrow white tape, which, he had been told, commemorated Nelson's three
great victories of the Nile, Copenhagen, and Trafalgar. He had heard,
too, that the black silk handkerchief worn round his neck and tied in
front was a badge of mourning for the same great naval hero. But both
in the matter of the collar and the handkerchief he had been led into
believing a very popular fallacy.

The square collar was first introduced in the latter portion of the
eighteenth century as a means of preventing the grease and flour with
which the sailors anointed their pigtails from soiling their clothes.
The three rows of tape, moreover, were placed upon it merely for
ornament, for there is no evidence to support the belief that they
commemorate the three famous victories. The black silk handkerchief
came in at much the same time. In early sea-fights the heat on the
gun-decks was stifling, so much so that the men were forced to strip to
the waist. To prevent the perspiration from running down into their
eyes and blinding them, they were in the habit of tying handkerchiefs
round their foreheads, and at ordinary times these were worn round the
neck for the sake of convenience. It is true that up till a few years
ago our modern bluejackets wore their spare black silk handkerchiefs
tied in a bow on the left arm when attending funerals; but there is
nothing to support the theory that they were introduced as badges of
mourning for the immortal Nelson.

But Martin believed these things implicitly, and perhaps, as it
fostered the traditions of the service, it did him no harm.

Another portion of his attire of which he was inordinately proud was
his bell-bottomed trousers. He firmly imagined that these had been
introduced merely to give the sailor a rakish appearance, and was not
aware that they were brought in so that the garments could conveniently
be rolled up to the knee when their barefooted wearers were giving the
decks their usual morning scrub.

Some few years ago a proposal was on foot to do away with the loose
trousers, and to clothe the seamen in garments shaped like those in
everyday use ashore. As a reason for the change it was urged, with some
truth, that in modern ships the men seldom went barefooted, and that
less flowing trousers would be less likely to catch in the intricate
machinery with which modern ships were supposed to be crammed. But the
storm of indignation with which the proposal was received by the men
speedily caused it to be dropped. The seamen take no small pride in
their nether garments; some of them even go to the trouble and expense
of providing themselves with specially wide pairs in which to go ashore
on leave.

The wide-brimmed straw hat, which constitutes the modern bluejacket's
full-dress headgear, was first introduced in the West Indies early in
the nineteenth century, but was not made an article of uniform until
much later. Before that time, and up till thirty or forty years ago,
shiny black tarpaulin hats, much the same shape as the straw 'boater'
of commerce, were _de rigueur_ in the navy. The term 'bluejacket,'
too, owes its origin to the short, blue, brass-buttoned jacket--rather
similar in shape to an Eton jacket, but with no point at the
back--which was worn until 1891.

But all Martin's ideas as to his own importance were speedily knocked
on the head. By the time he sought his hammock at nine-thirty on that
first eventful day he had come to realise that he was very small beer
indeed, a mere excrescence on the face of the earth; and that, like
Agag, it behoved him to walk warily and with circumspection.

The captain of the forecastle, Petty-Officer Casey--'Mister Casey,' as
he insisted on being called--had taken him to his bosom in a gruff,
fatherly sort of way, and had given him a few words of advice.

'It's like this 'ere, me lad,' he had pointed out, but not unkindly.
'You're an ordinary seaman, an' wot you've got to do is to carry out
other people's orders. If you're told off to do a thing, do it at once,
an' cheerful like; don't slouch about th' ship like a ploughboy, nor
yet a Portugee militiaman neither. 'Old yourself erec'; take a pride in
yourself, an' obey all orders at the rush. If you gives no trouble I'm
yer friend, remember that; but if you gits up agin me, an' starts
givin' trouble, I won't raise a finger to 'elp you, an' you'd best
stan' clear. Don't forget, neither, that I've got my eye on you the
'ole time; an' don't run away wi' the idea that you're doin' the navy a
good turn by joinin', like so many on 'em do. It's the navy wot's doin'
you a favour by 'avin' you. If you bears orl this in mind me an' you'll
get along orl right, an' some day, p'r'aps, you'll be a petty-orficer
the same as me.'

Martin remembered Casey's words of wisdom, and derived no small benefit
therefrom.




CHAPTER II.

THE DAILY ROUND.


I.

A considerable amount of art is necessary in laying out a kit for
inspection; but when he had folded his clothes, and had placed the neat
rolls and bundles, together with his cap-box, ditty-box, hairbrush,
comb, toothbrush, type, and other small belongings, in the exact order
prescribed by the clothing regulations, Martin was by no means
dissatisfied with his attempt.

Now, Mr Midshipman Taut, R.N., was used to the wiles and deceptions of
those men who would sooner do anything than purchase new clothes. He
had known individuals who borrowed garments from their friends to make
up for the deficiencies in their own kits when these were being
inspected. Sometimes, to heighten the deception, they even went to the
trouble of marking the loaned clothes with their own names. The
regulations on the subject lay it down that blue articles shall be
marked with white paint and white garments in black, each man being
provided with a wooden type inscribed with his name for this purpose.
But the gay deceivers had discovered that white chalk and ordinary
boot-blacking were very efficient substitutes for the paint, for the
temporary markings so caused could easily be brushed out before the
garments were returned to their rightful owners after kit inspection.
Moreover, unless the mustering officer was particularly inquisitive or
suspicious, the chances were fully fifty-four to one that the deception
would never be noticed.

But the midshipman, though he had left the college at Dartmouth less
than a year before, was up to all these dodges. He kept the divisional
clothing-book, wherein was recorded the contents of the bag of each
seaman in the division, whether the clothes therein were in a state of
thorough repair and cleanliness, and whether the condition of the man's
hammock was 'V.G.,' 'G.,' 'Mod.' or merely 'Bad.' He regarded all men
with a certain amount of suspicion unless he had positive truth that
they were guileless; while newly joined ordinary seamen, in particular,
were brands to be snatched from the burning.

'Serge jumpers?' he asked, sucking his pencil.

'Two 'ere, sir,' said Martin, holding up a couple of neat bundles; 'an'
one on.'

The officer took one, unrolled it, and lifted the square collar to look
at the marking underneath. There was no deception, for the name W.
Martin stared at him in large white letters. He gently rubbed it with a
finger, but it did not brush off; and, holding the garment up by its
sleeves, he examined it with a critical eye. There was nothing the
matter with it.

'That's all right,' he remarked, handing it back, and making a note in
the book. 'Let me see your serge trousers.'

One by one the articles comprising Martin's kit, even down to his
'pusser's dagger' or seaman's knife, the more intimate garments of
underwear, towels, socks, toothbrush, blacking-brushes, were minutely
examined. The midshipman even went to the length of producing a tape
measure, wherewith he measured the distance between the three rows of
tape on the collars, the depth of the V-shaped opening in the front of
the jumpers, and the width of the trousers at the foot. But nothing was
really wrong. One pair of socks was missing and another required
darning, one flannel shirt was unwashed, a pair of white duck trousers
had been left unmarked, and one pair of blue serge ditto proved
slightly wider in the leg than was permissible; but everything else was
in good order and of the proper uniform pattern.

He seemed slightly surprised. 'Hm,' he observed, making further
hieroglyphics in the clothing-book; 'not at all bad. Look out you keep
it so.'

He went off to make his report to the lieutenant of the division, who
presently arrived to make his own inspection. But he also was tolerably
satisfied, and Martin was told that he could restore his belongings to
his bag, and report himself to Petty Officer Casey for work.

For many a long day Pincher was sorely puzzled by the different
varieties of uniform he was called upon to wear. They were all
designated by numbers, and the 'rig of the day' was always piped at
breakfast-time, when the men were allowed the necessary extra minutes
to change their clothes. On Sundays, for instance, the boatswain's
mates, after a preliminary twitter on their pipes, would bellow, 'Dress
o' the day, No. 1, an' 'ats!' This meant that the men were required to
array themselves in their best blue serge suits, with gold good-conduct
badges and badges of rating, and their white straw hats, for the Sunday
inspection by the captain. These garments constituted the seamen's full
dress, for the expensive blue cloth trousers, worn over the jumper and
tied behind with black silk ribbons, had been obsolete for some time.
They are retained, however, in the royal yachts; and here, also, as a
distinctive mark, the men wear their badges in silver and white,
instead of the customary gold and red.

Dress No. 2, Martin found, was a similar rig to No. 1, except that a
cap was usually worn instead of the hat, and the badges were red
instead of gold. No. 3, again, was the same as No. 2, except that the
jumper was not buttoned at the wrists; while No. 4 (known as 'night
clothing') was an old suit of No. 3, worn without the collar. No. 5 was
of white duck, and was worn without the collar, and with a white-topped
cap. The suit was washable, and hence was usually donned by men doing
dirty work or in hot weather in the summer. White caps, or blue caps
with white covers, both of which were kept pipeclayed for the sake of
appearance, were worn at home from May to the end of September, or with
white clothing at other times.

The _Belligerent_, like every other large vessel in the navy, carried a
stock of ready-made garments of various sizes, besides underclothing,
boots, shoes, stockings, socks, shirts, collars, rolls of serge and
flannel, and sixty-and-one other articles necessary to the bodily
comfort and personal adornment of the ship's company. There was hardly
a thing in the clothing line which could not be obtained from the
paymaster; and the 'slops,' as they were called, were issued about once
a month, their value being deducted from the men's pay.

When Martin joined his first ship, toward the end of 1913, ready-made
garments, supplied by the Government, were almost universally worn.
Within the past fifteen years or so the blue-jackets have lost much of
their original handiness with the needle and the sewing-machine. It is
hardly to be wondered at, for in the days of sailing-ships the men were
sailors pure and simple. Now they are seamen-specialists, with an
expert and highly technical knowledge of gunnery, torpedo-work,
electricity, wireless telegraphy, signals, or some other highly
important subject. They are essentially busy men, with little time to
spend on making their own clothes. Twenty years ago one afternoon of
the week (Thursday) was always set aside as a half-holiday, or 'make
and mend clothes afternoon.' Then it was no uncommon sight to see the
sheltered corners of the upper deck and mess-deck crowded with men,
some busy with sewing-machines, making clothes from the raw serge or
duck as issued from the store; others furbishing up their wardrobes;
and the rest either sleeping or looking on. The term 'jewing,' as
sewing is still called, came in because the men with the machines
manufactured their shipmates' clothes for a consideration, such things
as 'reach-me-downs' being still undreamt of. By Pincher's day, however,
the 'make and mend' day had been altered to Saturday, to allow the men
to indulge at intervals in the week-end habit. Moreover, most of the
clothes were issued ready-made, being afterwards altered to fit
individuals by the ship's tailors, seamen with sewing-machines, who had
a special aptitude for the work, and were entitled to charge stipulated
sums for their labours. They were still known as 'jews,' and, like the
'snobs' (bootmakers) and the barbers, often had considerable sums
standing to their credit in the savings bank.

On the afternoon of the day on which he had had his kit inspected
Martin found himself detailed as a member of a working-party told off
to draw stores from the dockyard. Eleven other men went with him; and,
taking a small hand-cart, the little expedition set off at one-thirty
P.M. in the charge of a petty officer. The rain had stopped, and it was
a sunny winter day, with a touch of frost; and, as it gave him an
opportunity of looking about him, Martin rather enjoyed the experience.
Before joining the navy he had lived in the depths of the country, and
had spent most of his days trundling the local baker's hand-cart. His
experience of the sea and ships had been limited to a single visit to
Skegness as a member of the village choir; and even during his training
in the barracks he had seen practically nothing of men-of-war. Now for
the first time in his life he came across battleships, cruisers,
destroyers, torpedo-boats, and submarines at close quarters.

'Gosh!' he ejaculated, marvelling exceedingly.

''Ullo! Wot's up wi' you, Pincher?' asked another ordinary seaman,
Hawkins by name. Martin had already been nicknamed, and 'Pincher,' he
understood, was the sobriquet accorded to all men with his particular
surname.

'I wus only wonderin' to meself if'--he hesitated timidly.

'Wonderin' wot?' persisted his companion.

'Wonderin' if this wus the 'ole navy. There seems plenty o' ships
'ere.'

'Lawks, 'ark at 'im!' exclaimed the other youngster, going off into a
shrill cackle of amusement 'Jist 'ark at 'im, you blokes! Arskin' if
the 'ole navy is 'ere. 'Strewth! there ain't a quarter nor a 'undredth
of 'em in this 'ere bunch.'

Martin, rather ashamed of his ignorance, reddened and nodded. 'Wot's
that there?' he asked, changing the subject, and pointing to a gray,
cigar-shaped vessel lying in a dry dock, with dockyard 'maties'
swarming on board her.

'That there's a submarine,' Hawkins explained; 'one o' them there craft
wot goes under water.'

'Gosh! She's a funny-lookin' thing. Wot sort o' blokes serves in 'em?'

'Matloes,[4] Pincher, the same as you an' me. They doesn't carry
O.D.'s, though; only A.B.'s an' E.R.A.'s,[5] an' such like. They get
extra pay for wot they does. It's a bit dangerous like.'

          [4] The term 'matlo,' derived from the French for 'sailor,'
          is always used by bluejackets in referring to themselves.

          [5] E.R.A. = engine-room artificer.

Martin thought for a minute, looking interestedly at the submarine as
they trundled past. ''Ow does men jine 'em?' he asked eventually.

''Ow does they qualify for 'em, d'you mean?' Hawkins queried.

Martin nodded.

'Well,' his neighbour explained, with a broad grin on his face, and
inventing a still broader fiction on the spur of the moment, 'they
fu'st ties a five-'underweight sinker to yer feet an' a rope round yer
neck. Then they lowers you down to nineteen fathom, an' leaves you
there for two minutes.--Let's see, Shorty,' he added, pretending to
consider, and, turning to another ordinary seaman with a solemn wink,
'is it two minutes or three minutes they leaves yer down?'

'Three minutes, chum,' answered the other unblushingly.

'Well, they leaves you down three minutes, an' they pulls you up again,
an' if yer nose ain't bleedin' they reckons as 'ow you're fit an'
proper for submarines. If you are bleedin' you ain't no good--see?'

'That's a bit 'ard, ain't it?' Martin queried innocently.

'Yus, it is a bit 'ard,' Hawkins replied, without a smile on his face.
'But then, o' course, the men wot man the submarines 'as to be extra
special sort o' blokes wot 'as got plenty o' guts.'

Martin drank it all in; but at that moment the story-teller's face
failed him, and he burst into uncontrollable laughter. 'Oh Pincher!' he
gasped, spluttering, 'I believes you'd swaller anythink any one tells
yer!'

'D' you mean that wot you said ain't true?' Martin asked.

'Course it ain't, fat'ead. I wus only kiddin' yer,' guffawed the other,
with tears of amusement trickling down his cheeks. 'Lawks! you'll be
the death o' me yet.--Did yer 'ear wot he arsked, you blokes?'

But the 'blokes' had no opportunity of replying, for at that instant
Petty Officer Simpson turned round. 'Not so much noise there!' he
ordered abruptly.--' 'Awkins, if I sees you larfin' an' shoutin' agen I
takes you before the orficer of the watch when we gets back to the
ship!'

Their faces fell. There was dead silence.

Rattling over the cobbled roadways and railway lines, they presently
came to a store, where, in return for paper demand-notes handed in by
the petty officer, they received sundry drums of paint, turpentine, and
varnish. Then on again to another building, where an apoplectic-looking
storekeeper condescended to allow them to load the cart still further
with coils of rope and spun-yarn, and hanks of cod and mackerel line.
Presently there came another stoppage to receive a bundle of
broomsticks and some boathook staves. By this time the cart was heavily
laden, and its manipulators were perspiring and far from cheerful; but,
stopping again, they were solemnly presented with half-a-dozen shallow
tin baths. They were the 'baths, sponge, thirty inches, pattern
seventeen,' commonly seen suspended from the ceilings in the officers'
cabins on board a man-of-war; and Martin, as he helped to drag the
conveyance back to the ship, with the last consignment lodged
precariously on the summit of the other articles and threatening every
instant to descend in a noisy avalanche, wondered vaguely to himself if
the dockyard was a sort of glorified general store, and if, by the
simple presentation of a demand-note, they could obtain, say,
half-a-dozen kippers or a cargo of tinned salmon. He was frightened to
ask the question for fear of having his leg pulled again; but as
everything in the way of ironmongery, furniture, ship's stores, paint,
rope, and blocks seemed obtainable, why not also provisions?

They got back to the _Belligerent_ without further incident, and
the articles were carried on board and stowed in the various
storerooms.


II.

At first, until he got used to it, the regular routine of the ship was
not altogether to Martin's liking. At five-thirty each morning they
were all roused out of their warm hammocks by the strident shouting of
the boatswain's mates and the ship's corporals. 'All hands! turn out,
turn out, turn out! show a leg, show a leg, show a leg!' they yelled
with insistent monotony. He soon learnt, from being shot violently out
of his hammock, and from sundry threats of being taken before the
officer of the watch for slackness in turning out, that it did not pay
to disregard the noisy summons to wake up. Other men had tried the
game, and it generally ended in their being turned out at five
A.M. for several days together.

By five-forty-five, therefore, Martin had stowed his hammock, had given
his face and neck a perfunctory dab with a damp towel, and was having a
bowl of steaming hot ship's cocoa in his mess. Splendid stuff this, so
thick that a spoon would nearly stand upright in it; and he little
realised that the long-suffering cooks were turned out of their
hammocks at about three each morning to prepare it. The cocoa was
issued in large slabs the best part of an inch thick. It was the best
of its kind; and though it required a deal of boiling, it was an
excellent drink wherewith to start the day's work.

At six o'clock both watches were piped to fall in on the upper deck;
and when parties had been told off for various other odd jobs, the rest
of the men were detailed to scrub decks under the supervision of their
petty officers. Cold work this, with the thermometer nearly down to
freezing, the hoses spouting water, and one's feet bare and trousers
turned up to the knee. Lines of men armed with hard, short-haired
brooms went solemnly up and down, scrubbing as they went, and woe
betide the hapless individual who did not exhibit the necessary energy!
On Saturdays the routine was varied, for then the decks were sprinkled
with sand and were well holystoned. This work was more back-breaking
and chilly than ever, for one had to get down on one's knees and
manipulate a heavy holystone in each hand.

When Martin joined, the ship was in dockyard hands, and a special
routine was in force; and at seven o'clock, by which time the men who
had been granted night-leave had returned, the decks had been finished
and the guns cleaned. A quarter of an hour later the bugle sounded off
'Cooks,' when the men detailed as cooks of messes went to the galley to
procure their own and their messmates' breakfasts; and at
seven-twenty-five the boatswain's mates heralded the first meal by more
shrill whistling, and the hungry men trooped below.

Breakfast, Martin always thought, was quite the most satisfactory meal
of the day, and with the addition of a couple of canteen kippers, or
eggs and bacon, he generally managed to acquit himself pretty well. The
dietary of the modern bluejacket is a liberal one, while a paternal
Government allows each man the sum of fourpence a day with which to
purchase extra articles. An hour was allowed for the meal, for washing,
for changing into the 'rig of the day,' and for smoking; and at
eight-twenty-five the men were once more summoned to work. Shortly
before nine o'clock the guard of marines and the band marched on to the
quarterdeck; and when two bells struck, the marine bugler sounded the
'Attention,' the guard presented arms, the band played 'God Save the
King,' and every officer and man on deck stood rigidly at the salute
while the White Ensign was slowly hoisted. This ceremony is carried out
at nine A.M. in winter, and an hour earlier in summer.

At nine-five came a warning blast on the bugle, followed five minutes
afterwards by 'Divisions.' This was the usual morning muster, at which
the entire ship's company--seamen, marines, stokers, and artisan
ratings--fell in in their respective groups. The seamen themselves were
divided up into four 'parts of the ship'--forecastlemen, foretopmen,
maintopmen, and quarterdeckmen; and each was responsible for, and so
far as possible manned, the guns in its own particular portion of the
vessel. Each division, moreover, had its own lieutenant in charge, one
or two midshipmen, and its quota of petty officers and leading seamen.

Now, Martin knew all about saluting. He had learnt how to do it by
spending many weary hours in a windy barrack square at Portsmouth
paying obeisance to a red brick wall under the horny eye of an
irascible gunner's mate. He was aware that one saluted when addressed
by an officer, when meeting an officer in uniform ashore, and the first
time each morning one passed any particular officer on board ship. He
had also been taught that it was customary to raise a hand to one's cap
when the band played 'God Save the King,' and, for some reason unknown
to him, whenever one had occasion to go on the quarterdeck. He was not
aware that in medieval days the ship's shrine or crucifix was always
kept on the quarterdeck under the break of the poop, and that, on
passing, officers and men made an obeisance. Hence the origin of
'saluting the quarterdeck.'

But all this was nothing to the saluting which took place every morning
at divisions.

The game started by the 'captain of the top'--the senior petty
officer--calling the division to attention, saluting, and reporting it
'Present' to the midshipman, Mr Henry Taut. The midshipman, returning
the salute, produced a notebook, mustered the men by name, and
satisfied himself that the petty officer's statement was correct; and
then, touching his cap, made known the fact to Lieutenant Tobias
Tickle, R.N. The lieutenant, walking round the ranks, found fault with
irregularities in the men's attire, or asked searching and personal
questions as to when they had last washed, shaved, or had their hair
cut, and requested the midshipman to make a note of the delinquents'
names.

Taut acquiesced, with a salute.

The inspection complete, Taut saluted Tickle, and Tickle saluted Taut,
and the lieutenant then walked aft to the quarterdeck, saluted as he
reached it, approached the commander, saluted again, and reported his
men 'Present.'

The commander returned the courtesy, and murmured, 'Thank you.'

When all the divisions had been reported present, the commander, in his
turn, reported the fact to the captain, with another salute. The latter
raised his hand to his gold-peaked cap and muttered, 'Carry on,
please;' whereupon the commander held up his hand, a bugle blew, some
one forward tolled a bell, the band on the after shelter-deck played a
lively march, and the divisions marched aft to the quarterdeck for
prayers. Here they were halted, and presently the chaplain appeared
from one of the after-hatches, with his surplice flapping in the
breeze. He did not salute. He was bareheaded.

'Ship's company! 'Shun!' from the commander. 'Off caps! Stand easy!'

The chaplain read the prayers, followed by the usual intercession for
those at sea: 'O Eternal Lord God, who alone spreadest out the heavens,
and rulest the raging of the sea; who hast compassed the waters with
bounds until day and night come to an end: Be pleased to receive into
Thy almighty and most gracious protection the persons of us Thy
servants, and the fleet in which we serve. Preserve us from the dangers
of the sea and from the violence of the enemy; that we may be a
safeguard unto our most gracious Sovereign Lord King George and his
Dominions, and a security for such as pass on the seas upon their
lawful occasions.'...

'The dangers of the sea,' 'the violence of the enemy,' 'a safeguard,'
'a security.' The words conveyed little to Martin's mind when first he
heard them. Less than a year later, in the autumn of 1914, he had come
to learn their true meaning.

The short service was over by nine-twenty, and was followed by a
quarter of an hour's hard physical drill, conducted by the lieutenants
of divisions. This strenuous exercise was a daily feature of the
routine, and there was no doubt that it kept the men in excellent
condition. At any rate, Pincher was generally perspiring freely by the
time it was over.

This finished, both watches were piped to fall in, and the various
parties of men were detailed for the day's work. The commander, with a
notebook, would be present on the quarterdeck, and would hold a hurried
conversation with the first lieutenant, the gunner, the boatswain, and
the carpenter, all of whom required men for the performance of various
odd jobs.

'Party painting on the mess-deck yesterday, fall in aft!' would come
the first order. A group of about a dozen men and a petty officer, clad
in ancient, paint-stained overalls, would detach themselves from the
remainder. The first lieutenant, in charge of the mess-decks, gave his
detailed orders to the petty officer, and he, in turn, doubled his men
off to their work. 'Two hands from each part of the ship of the
starboard watch, and a leading hand from the foretop, fall in aft!' The
captain of the top told off the men, who were then taken charge of by
the gunner--a warrant officer--who required them for restowing the
small-arm magazine. Next the boatswain wanted a party, some for
refitting rigging, and others for drawing stores from the dockyard;
and, lastly, the carpenter took his toll for some purpose best known to
himself.

The Royal Marines, meanwhile, had been sent down below to clean the
flats, under the orders of their own non-commissioned officers; and
when the various flat-sweepers and the mess-deck sweepers had been
detached to their work, the remainder of the seamen were detailed for
their labours, under the direction and supervision of their petty
officers. There were always a hundred and one different jobs to be
done. Nobody was ever idle in working-hours, and sometimes Martin found
himself armed with a pot of gray paint and a brush to touch up bare
portions of the superstructure. On other mornings he was detailed to
scrape and red-lead rusty plates on the ship's side, or to holystone a
particularly obstinate section of deck which was not quite up to the
mark. At other times he found himself told off as assistant to a fully
qualified A.B., one Joshua Billings, who was quite the best hand in the
ship at splicing or putting an eye in a wire hawser, neither of which
is a job for an amateur. Martin liked this sort of work, for he was
keen and anxious to learn, and the able seaman taught him far more in
an hour than he could pick up elsewhere in a fortnight.

The worthy Joshua, by reason of an inordinate thirst and capacity for
malt liquor, had served in his present rank for seven years, and did
not hesitate to give the youngster good advice. 'It's like this 'ere,'
he would remark, deftly tucking in an obstinate strand of springy wire.
'It's beer wot's bin the ruin o' me, and I don't mind ownin' it. I've
bin in the navy ten years come January, and most o' them men wot served
along o' me as boys in the trainin'-ship is now petty orficers. I
reckons I'm as good a man as they is aboard a ship; but, though I was
rated leadin' seaman once, I dipped the killick[6] abart six weeks
later for comin' off drunk. It's beer wot done it; I carn't keep orf
it, some'ow, w'en I gits ashore. Give us that there ball o' spun-yarn,
young fella.'

          [6] A 'killick' is an anchor, which is the badge worn by a
          leading seaman. 'Dipping the killick' means that the badge is
          removed, and that its wearer has been disrated to A.B.

''Ard luck,' Martin murmured, handing the spun-yarn across.

The hoary-headed old sinner shook his head and gave vent to a throaty
sigh. 'No,' he said sadly, 'I reckons it wus orl right. The commander
'e sez to me, "Billings," 'e sez, "w'y is it you carn't go ashore
without gittin' a skinful?" "It's like this 'ere, sir," I tells 'im. "I
'as the rheumatics werry bad, an' as soon as I gits 'longside a pub I
comes orl over a tremble, an' directly I gits inside I meets with hevil
companions." "Rheumatics!" 'e sez. "I've 'eard that yarn before; an'
has for your hevil companions, my man, you ain't a baby!" "No, sir,"
sez I, gittin' rattled, "I ain't; but directly I gits a pint inside me
my legs orl gits dizzy like." "A pint!" sez 'e, werry surprised.
"Surely it wus more'n a pint?" "Well, sir," I sez to 'im, "maybe it wus
a quart; I carn't 'xactly remember." "Several quarts, I should think,"
sez 'e, waggin' 'is 'ead; "you wus werry drunk." "No, sir, not drunk,
only a bit shaky like," I sez, though I knowed orl the time I'd bin
properly tin 'ats. "Well," 'e sed, shakin' 'is 'ead werry sad, "I
should 'ave liked to 'ave given you another chance; but I'm afraid you
ain't fit to be a leadin' seaman. You must go before the capt'in." I
sees the owner, an' has a consequence wus dipped to A.B.; an' now I
shall never be anythin' else. Sad 'istory, ain't it?' concluded Joshua
sadly. 'But it's beer wot's done it, so look out you don't git meetin'
with hevil companions.' He solemnly winked one eye.

Now, Joshua Billings, A.B., though officially a bad hat, was one of the
best seamen in the ship when there was any work on hand, and the
commander knew it. Only that fatal predilection for beer kept him from
rising to the top of the tree. Martin took his advice to heart, and was
rather proud to have him as a friend.

At ten-thirty in the forenoon came a ten-minute stand easy for smoking;
after which work was resumed until eleven-forty-five, when the decks
were cleared up and the bugle sounded 'Cooks.' At noon there was
dinner, the staple meal of the day; and half-an-hour later the cooks of
messes were summoned on deck to receive the allowance of grog for the
members of their messes. The rum, mingled with its due proportion of
water, was served out with some ceremony. It stood in a huge
brass-bound tub bearing in brass letters the words, 'The King: God
bless him;' and when the recipients had assembled in a long queue with
their mess kettles and other receptacles, the liquid was solemnly
measured out by the ship's steward, under the supervision of the
warrant officer and the petty officer of the day. Martin, being under
twenty, was not officially allowed to partake of the beverage. He
tasted it once, and it made him cough and splutter.

At one-ten the bugle sounded 'Out pipes,' and the decks were cleared
up; and at one-thirty the forenoon's work was resumed. At
three-forty-five labour, except for odd jobs done by the watch on
board, was over for the day; and at four o'clock came 'evening
quarters,' a repetition of the morning 'divisions,' without the prayers
and the music. Immediately afterwards the men went to tea, and the
watch whose turn it was to go ashore were sent on leave till seven
o'clock the next morning. Each man, provided his character was good,
thus got leave every alternate night; but Martin, with the rest of the
newly joined ordinary seamen, was not allowed out of the ship after ten
P.M.

Saturday afternoon was generally a half-holiday, and a portion of the
ship's company went away till seven o'clock on the following Monday;
while on Sundays those men left on board had the usual service in the
forenoon, and did no work that was not absolutely necessary.

Every day of the week supper came at seven-fifteen P.M., and after this
the hammocks were piped down and were slung on the mess-decks. At
eight-thirty came another clearing up of the ship, and at nine o'clock
the commander, preceded by the master-at-arms with a lighted lantern,
and followed by the sergeant-major of marines, made his final rounds of
the ship to see that everything was correct for the night, and that the
galley fires were extinguished. At ten o'clock the boatswain's mates
'piped down,' and everybody was chased off to his hammock. So ended the
day.


III.

In a mixed company of eight hundred and fifty odd souls, comprising
seamen, marines, and stokers; boiler-makers, copper-smiths, and
moulders; blacksmiths, plumbers, shipwrights, caulkers, carpenters, and
joiners; butchers, bakers, and bandsmen; signalmen and telegraphists;
ship's police, stewards, and writers--men of all ranks and ratings, of
forty-and-one different trades and persuasions--it took Martin some
little time to find his own level. The subtle little differences
between the various grades and ranks were rather puzzling, and, as a
new-comer fresh to the navy and its traditions, he was constantly
making mistakes. At first he imagined that any one who wore clothes of
the ordinary shore-going cut, with a collar and tie, was a person to be
respected and called 'sir.' On one never-to-be-forgotten occasion he
used the title in addressing a 'dusty-boy,' or ship's steward's
assistant, a youth scarcely older than himself. For this he was
seriously taken to book by his messmates, and had his leg pulled
unmercifully.

Some of his shipmates, moreover, were not slow to take advantage of his
ignorance as a 'softy' to amuse themselves at his expense. One ordinary
seaman in particular, a fresh-complexioned Irish youth of bullying
propensities, rejoicing in the name of Peter Flannagan, regarded a
newly joined ordinary seaman as a gift sent from heaven for his
especial amusement, though he himself had joined the ship only a few
months before. He was for ever devising new schemes of petty
persecution, until Martin's soul grew bitter, and he longed to
retaliate. But Flannagan was larger and heavier than himself, and a
direct assault could only end in defeat; so for a fortnight he stood
the ragging without complaint, and nursed his grievance in silence.
Then one morning he came late to breakfast to find powdered soap
mingled with his food, pepper in his coffee, and Flannagan sniggering
on an adjacent seat. He did nothing at the time, but that morning
sought the advice of Joshua Billings.

That same afternoon Flannagan happened to be watch ashore. He had asked
a messmate to sling a hammock for him, and when, at ten o'clock, he
returned to the ship he promptly undressed and turned in. He had barely
had time to get comfortably to sleep, however, when his foot lanyard
gave an ominous crack. He knew what was about to happen, and tried to
save himself, but in an instant found himself precipitated abruptly to
the deck, feet first. Falling from a height of five odd feet, and
landing in rather scanty attire across the sharp edge of a mess-table,
is necessarily a painful business; and Martin, who was lying four tiers
away, with one cautious eye peering over the edge of his hammock, could
hardly restrain his merriment as the victim hopped round on one leg,
swearing and rubbing a badly barked shin.

'Wot yer makin' all that bally row abart?' demanded the Irishman's
next-door neighbour with a chuckle. 'Fallen out o' yer 'ammick, 'ave
yer?'

'Did you cut me foot lanyard?' demanded the angry Flannagan.

'Me? Lord, no!' guffawed the other.

'Well, you knows 'oo did it, any'ow!'

'I knows nothin',' retorted the A.B., getting angry in his turn. 'If
yer says I did it you're a bally liar. I'll give yer a clip 'longside
the ear'ole if you ain't careful. Don't act so wet. Wot 'ave I to do
wi' yer rotten 'ammick?'

'Some one's cut it,' the Irishman replied furiously, examining a clean
cut through two strands of the rope. 'If it ain't you wot done it, you
must know 'oo it was. 'Oo was it? tell us.' He looked round to see if
anybody else was awake, but every one seemed to be snoring peacefully.
Sailors are very heavy sleepers sometimes.

It took Flannagan fully a quarter of an hour to repair damages and turn
in again. It was bitterly cold, and he cursed vehemently.

But his troubles were not over yet. Towards eleven-thirty, when he had
got thoroughly warm and was dozing off, he felt an uncomfortable,
prickly sensation down his back and legs. He sat up blinking, and put a
hand under the blanket to find a thin film of something warm and
sticky. It resembled glue. The best part of a pound of finely ground
brown sugar, cunningly insinuated between the bedclothes, is not a
pleasant bedfellow. It melts with the heat of the body. The results are
nasty in the extreme.

He leapt out, fuming. ''Ere!' he shouted, violently shaking the A.B.
next to him. ''Ave you bin puttin' sugar in my 'ammick?'

'Look 'ere!' exclaimed the newly awakened man, 'I'm fair sick o' yer. I
told you afore I 'adn't touched yer 'ammick, an' I sed I'd give yer a
thick ear if yer went on worryin' me. Now I'm goin' to do it.' He
hopped out, gave the astonished Irishman a box on the ear which sent
him sprawling, and then stood over him with clenched fists. 'D'you want
any more?' he asked grimly.

Flannagan did not.

Martin and the other men in the neighbourhood, meanwhile, had been
waked by the disturbance, and were enjoying the fun. 'Go on, Ginger!
Give 'im another!' somebody advised the A.B. 'Give 'im a clip under the
lug! Slosh 'im one on the ruddy boko! Wakin' of us orl up at this time
o' night!'

'Look 'ere, you blokes,' protested the still recumbent victim, 'some
one 'as put sugar in my 'ammick!'

A roar of laughter greeted his words. His hearers were not sympathetic.
They longed to see a really good fight, and there would have been more
bloodshed if Flannagan, terrorised by the A.B.'s fists, had not thought
discretion the better part of valour. He retired grumbling, to spend
the rest of the chilly night on the hard mess-table, wrapped in a
greatcoat.

At five-forty-five the next morning he sidled up to Martin, as the
latter sat drinking his cocoa. 'Look 'ere!' he exclaimed aggressively,
'was it you wot done that to my 'ammick last night?'

'Done wot?' asked Pincher, grinning innocently.

'Cut my ruddy foot lanyard an' put sugar on my blanket,' the Irishman
shouted, advancing threateningly with his fists clenched. 'I see'd yer
larfin' last night, an' yer larfin' now. If it wos you 'oo done it
I'll'----

'Stop yer bloomin' noise, Paddy!' chipped in Strumbles, who was always
inclined to be irascible in the early morning. 'If yer wants ter fight
Pincher you'd best take 'im on in the dog watches arter tea, not at
this un'oly hour o' the mornin'.'

'But if it was 'im wot cut'----

'Don't chaw yer fat!' growled the leading seaman, giving the Irishman a
push in the chest. 'If it was Pincher wot done it, I reckons you arsked
for it. If you comes makin' a row 'ere I'll land you one on the conk,
so you'd best clear out!'

Popular opinion was evidently not on his side; and, seeing how affairs
stood, Flannagan slouched off, vowing vengeance on some person or
persons unknown.

But he never had his revenge; for, though he had a shrewd suspicion
that Martin was somehow responsible for his discomfiture, he could
never fix the blame on him for certain. The tables were turned at last,
and Pincher suffered no further inconvenience at the hands of Peter
Flannagan. The end had justified the means. Joshua Billings, A.B., was
an adept at dealing with a young and bumptious ordinary seaman who made
himself objectionable.




CHAPTER III.

WORK AND PLAY.


I.

'Nice sort o' craft, isn't she?' growled the first lieutenant, eyeing
the grimy collier lying alongside. 'Enough to break the heart of a
plaster saint!'

Tickle, the junior watch-keeping lieutenant, nodded in agreement.
'She's broken mine already,' he observed dolefully. 'How on earth we're
going to take in six hundred tons from her the Lord alone knows.'

Chase, the first lieutenant, refilled his pipe. 'I'd like to get hold
of the blighter who charters these colliers,' he mumbled savagely.
'This one doesn't appear to have a winch that'll lift more than
half-a-ton; and as for her hatches--lord! they're only the size of--of
that.' He could think of no suitable simile, so held his hands out a
couple of feet apart.

'You should just see her whips, No. 1,' put in the watch-keeper. 'They
were new in the year one; used by Admiral Noah in the Ark, by the look
of 'em. I tried to lift one of the cross beams in No. 1 hold just now.
Took me about twenty minutes to get the winch to gee to start with.
Then, when I'd gingered it up, and had got the beam in mid-air, the
whip parted, and the whole caboodle came down with a crash. It would
have gone clean through her bottom if there'd been no coal in the
hold.'

'M'yes. I heard the yelling,' observed Chase. 'Any one hurt?'

'No. A silly young ass of an ordinary seaman--chap called Martin, who's
just joined--jolly nearly got it in the neck, but not quite, luckily
for him. It weighed the best part of half-a-ton, and it missed him by
about six inches. He'd have been done in all right if his head had been
in the way.'

'Silly blighter!' said the first lieutenant unsympathetically. 'What
the dooce did he want to get in the way for?'

'Ask me another,' laughed Tickle. 'Some of these O.D.'s keep their eyes
in the back of their head. However, this chap seems a bit better than
some of 'em, though that's not saying much. He had the fright of his
life, though, and won't do it again, I'll bet.'

The first lieutenant snorted.

S.S. _Ben Macdhui_ certainly deserved all the strictures passed upon
her by both officers. She was no chicken, merely a nine-and-a-half
knot, pot-bellied monstrosity of a tramp built in the early 'eighties,
which, by inadvertence on somebody's part, or through a shortage of
more suitable craft, had temporarily been chartered as an Admiralty
collier. She belonged to a small company who appeared to earn their
dividends by buying all the old crocks of ships they could lay their
hands upon, and then running them on the cheap, for all her gear and
fittings were as elderly and unsafe as herself. Her middle-aged winches
wheezed cheerfully, and vomited forth jets of steam, scalding water,
and gouts of oil when they could be persuaded to revolve. Her derricks
groaned and sagged perilously when they lifted half their proper load;
while the less said about her coaling-whips--supposed to be brand-new
two-and-a-half-inch steel wire of the best quality--the better. The
officers and men were thoroughly in keeping with their ship. The
former, according to their own account, had all seen better days; while
the latter, bleary-eyed and stiff in the joints, looked more like a
party of workhouse inmates than the crew of a British merchant ship. A
more decrepit and ancient set of mariners it would be impossible to
find. They all had bald heads, several were grandfathers with flowing
white whiskers--when they washed; but then, of course, Messrs Catchem &
Flintskin preferred men of experience to mere scatter-brained
youngsters. They were more reliable, they said; but they also got them
cheaper, and their appetites were smaller.

The 'Belligerents' swore lustily when the venerable _Ben Macdhui_
secured alongside. The commander shared their feelings; while the first
lieutenant--who was in general charge of the collier during
coaling--nearly wept, and retired to the wardroom to seek liquid
consolation. The lieutenants in charge of the holds, who would have to
bear the brunt of the whole business if the coal did not come in at its
usual rate, cursed long and loud. They were all justified, poor souls,
for a bad collier may mean a long coaling; and a long coaling in the
winter is the 'perishin' limit,' as some one put it.

The collier came alongside before dark, and that evening new whips were
rove, derricks were rigged and topped, bags and shovels were brought up
from the dim recesses of the _Belligerent's_ bowels and distributed
among the holds, the battleship's deck was brushed over with a moist
mixture of sand and lime to prevent the coal-dust from soaking in, and
all paintwork on the upper deck was swathed in canvas for the same
reason.

Martin, as Lieutenant Tickle has already explained, had nearly lost the
number of his mess when assisting in the collier. He thought his narrow
escape was deserving of a certain amount of sympathy, but precious
little he got. He was bluntly called a '---- young fool,' and asked
'why the ---- he wanted to get his ---- head in the way.' Even his
messmates laughed at him, for to all bluejackets a miss is as good as a
mile. In the course of their careers, even in time of peace, they look
death in the face so often as to be utterly unmindful of narrow
squeaks. Their calling is essentially a risky one, and to become inured
to danger is part and parcel of their training. If a man has a close
shave he is chaffed unmercifully; if he is killed, his shipmates
express their sympathy, shrug their shoulders, attend the funeral with
tears in their eyes and a glass case of wax flowers in their hands, and
subscribe their shillings and pennies toward providing for the widow
and children. It is all in the day's work.

Punctually at five-thirty the next morning, while it was yet dark, the
boatswain's mates were piping, 'Clear lower deck! 'Ands fall in for
coaling ship!' and officers and men, clad in the oldest and grimiest of
garments, repaired to the quarterdeck. Coaling ship was always a 'clear
lower deck' evolution, and nobody was excused except a few privileged
officers and men.

On the quarterdeck was the commander; and presently, when the men had
been reported present, he gave them a few words.

'Men,' he said, 'we've got a bad collier this time, just about the
worst thing in colliers I've ever seen. We have six hundred tons to
take in, so let's see if we can't make an evolution of it. We've been a
pretty good ship for coaling up to date, remember, so don't let us
spoil our good record now. Coal ship!'

The groups of men scattered and fled to their several stations. The
forecastlemen, foretopmen, maintopmen, and quarterdeckmen repaired to
their respective holds in the collier, where they were divided up into
gangs of five for shovelling the coal into the two-hundredweight bags,
which were hoisted on board ten at a time. The 'dumping-ground
parties,' composed principally of artisan ratings like the carpenter's
mates, shipwrights, plumbers, and blacksmiths, were sent to the places
on the battleship's deck where the hoists would presently be coming in.
Their duty was to unhook and unstrap the bags as they arrived, and to
place them on the barrows, which were then trundled to the various
bunker-openings in the deck by the Royal Marines. Here the bags were
seized by the 'tippers,' and their contents emptied down the shoots
into the bunkers below, where they were stowed by the stokers doing
duty as 'trimmers.' The empty bags were collected by a number of
ordinary seamen and boys, who returned them to the holds in the
collier; and woe betide these youths if the men digging in the holds
were delayed through a shortage of empties!

Practically all the officers coaled with their men. The commander was
in general charge of the whole operation, while the first lieutenant
exercised supervision in the collier. The lieutenants and midshipmen of
divisions worked with their men in the holds; while Vernon Hatherley,
the lieutenant-commander (T.), clad in an ancient Panamá hat and a suit
of indescribable overalls, acted the part of traffic manager on the
upper deck. He had the assistance of a couple of midshipmen, and among
them they organised the movement of barrows between the dumping-grounds
and the bunker-openings, so that no two streams moving in opposite
directions should come into sudden and violent contact, and so cause a
congestion in the traffic. The captain of marines, Hannibal Chance,
supervised his barrow-men, and, assisted by the sergeant-major,
exhorted them when they became languid. Nearly every other officer in
the ship, save only the fleet surgeon, the fleet paymaster, the
surgeon, and the assistant-paymasters, was in charge of something or
other. The lieutenant-commander (N.), Christopher Colomb, otherwise the
navigator, kept the 'day on' as officer of the watch; while even the
chaplain, the Reverend Stephen Holiman, set an example by shedding his
clerical garments and trundling a barrow. The men loved seeing Holy Joe
'sweatin' hisself,' as they put it; but, for all that, they voted him a
good fellow, and he was immensely popular on the lower deck.

Martin found himself detailed as a member of one of the gangs of
diggers in the forecastlemen's hold. The work of shovelling the coal
into bags was back-breaking, for no two consecutive shovelfuls were
exactly the same weight; in addition, he found it extremely difficult
to keep his footing. The confined space reeked of coal-dust, and before
long he and his companions were jet-black from head to foot. He
breathed the fine powder down into his lungs. He perspired profusely.
His back, shoulders, arms, and thighs ached with the strain; but he was
game, and managed to struggle on somehow. Five other gangs were at work
besides his own. Each one was responsible for a hoist of ten bags, and
had to have them filled and strapped together by the time the whip was
ready to hoist them. They occasionally had a few minutes' rest between
the hoists, but otherwise the work went on continuously; and it was a
point of honour that the whip, which visited all the gangs in rotation,
should not be kept waiting. If there was any undue delay in hooking on,
there were loud shouts from above, and angry, nautical exhortations
from the lieutenant, midshipmen, and petty officers working in the
hold.

It was sultry work, very sultry, though it was winter. The dust was so
thick that the powerful arc lights could only be seen in a blurred
glare across the hold. Jet-black figures whirled in and out of the
murky cloud like demons on the brink of the nethermost pit. Shouts of
'Stand from under!' and empty bags came from the deck above; and every
now and then there came a shrill screech on a whistle, a frenzied shout
of 'Mind your backs! Stand clear!' a frantic clattering from the
long-suffering winch, and a hoist would go hurtling, swinging, and
banging across the hold as the wire whip strained and tautened out. The
labouring men would spring aside to get clear, for a ton of coal in the
small of the back will send a twelve-stone man flying, and may cause
him serious injury. But still the work went on without a stop, and
hoist after hoist left the hold, disappeared in the darkness above,
swung through space, and finally landed with a thud and more shouts on
the battleship's deck.

The _Ben Macdhui_ was certainly a bad collier. Twice during the first
hour did two of her winches break down, and each time they caused a
delay of fully twenty minutes. Another time a block on the head of a
derrick carried away, and the suspended hoist fell back into the hold
with a crash, knocking over two men. They were not seriously hurt, and
picked themselves up with many full-blooded sea oaths, to resume their
work as if nothing had happened.

The 'Belligerents' prided themselves on their coaling. With a good
collier they had been known to average one hundred and seventy-seven
tons per hour; but this time they had only embarked one hundred and
ninety-eight by eight o'clock, at which time there came half-an-hour's
respite for breakfast. They had been at it since about five-forty (two
hours twenty minutes), and the commander was not at all pleased. But
even he realised that it was not the fault of the men. 'Bad!' he
growled. 'Damned bad! We're only averaging eighty-four point eight an
hour. What can one do with a collier like this?'

During breakfast-time, wardroom, gunroom, and mess-decks were invaded
by hordes of black-faced demons, ravenous and clamouring for food. Some
of the more fastidious among them had washed their hands and had
cleared a circle of grime from about their mouths; but time was short,
and most of them had not troubled to do even this. Officers' messes,
cabins, and mess-decks were pervaded with the strange, penetrating
smell of coal. The dust hung and lodged everywhere, and even the
porridge, eggs and bacon, and milk were covered with films of black
powder. But what did it matter? They were hungry, and the food tasted
just as good, dust or no dust.

At eight-thirty work was resumed, and the ship's company, rejuvenated
by breakfast, set to with redoubled energy. The _Belligerent's_ once
white deck was covered with black dust, caked by the wheels of the
barrows. Officers and men alike were black from head to foot; but still
the hoists crashed in, still the barrows flew round the deck, and still
the coal went tumbling down the shoots into the bunkers. On the after
shelter-deck the bandsmen were doing their share of the work by braying
out the latest music-hall songs; but even their strident and not very
tuneful efforts could only be heard at intervals in the clatter of the
winches and the hollow rumble of the barrows.

The best hour's work was done between ten and eleven, when one hundred
and twenty-four tons were taken in, and shortly before noon the full
six hundred had been embarked. The bugle sounded the 'Cease firing,'
the last hoists of empty bags and shovels came clattering inboard from
the collier with throaty cheers from the tired men, and swarms of
bluejackets set about lowering the derricks and unrigging the gear.

Soon afterwards, when the _Ben Macdhui's_ chief engineer had raised
sufficient steam in his tin-pot boiler to revolve the engines, and when
the ancient crew could be induced to bestir themselves, the collier let
go her wires and waddled off. The 'Belligerents' cheered and waved
ironical farewells as she departed. They were heartily glad to see the
last of her.

'Gosh!' muttered Martin, with a heartfelt sigh, as he watched her go
from the forecastle, 'I ain't sorry that job's done!' His back ached,
and he felt very weary. He also wanted his dinner.

Able Seaman Billings heard his remark and smiled. 'Garn!' he jeered
good-naturedly; 'this 'ere coalin' ain't bin nothin', only six 'undred
ton. You wait till we joins up wi' the fleet, me lad, w'en we coals
once a fortnight reg'lar.'

It was quite true, as Martin afterwards discovered.

That afternoon, armed with the hose, scrubbers, and soap, they set
about cleaning the ship, themselves, and their clothes. Coal-dust
seemed to be everywhere; it had lodged in every nook and cranny, but by
dark most of it was removed and the battleship was looking more or less
like her old self. So ended Martin's first experience of 'coaling
ship,' an evolution which subsequently was carried out with such
frequency that it became a mere incident.

The next day they took in ammunition and explosives enough to send a
whole squadron of Dreadnoughts to the bottom. Innocent-looking lighters
and barges, crammed to the hatches with shell for the twelve-inch,
six-inch, and smaller guns; cases of cordite-cartridges; boxes
containing the copper war-heads for the torpedoes, filled with
gun-cotton; small-arm ammunition; gun-cotton charges in cylindrical
red-painted cases, and detonators, came alongside in the early morning
while it was yet dark.

Soon after eight o'clock the work began. It was preferable to coaling,
as it was cleaner; but the labour was very strenuous. There were three
lighters on each side, and each had its own party of men employed in
hooking on the projectiles and metal cordite-cases, which were then
hoisted on board by the battleship's winches. Other men on deck with
barrows transported the shell and cases as they arrived to square
hatches in different parts of the deck, through which they were lowered
to the magazines and shell-rooms in the bowels of the ship, to be
stowed in their proper racks, bays, and compartments.

The great eight hundred and fifty pound projectiles for the twelve-inch
guns dwarfed all the others, and they were slung inboard singly on
account of their weight. The hundred-pound shell for the six-inch guns
came in in canvas bags a couple at a time, while the lighter
projectiles for the smaller weapons were hoisted in consignments.

Such a variety of shell there was! Some had bright-yellow bodies with
red bands round their middles, and sundry stencil-marks on their sides
denoting the date and place of manufacture, date of filling with
explosive, and other purely personal details. These were the lyddite
high-explosive shell Martin had often heard about; and he was informed,
by an A.B. who was lowering them below as if they had been mere sacks
of potatoes, that they burst into thousands of minute fragments on
impact, and that they were designed primarily for use as man-killing
projectiles against the unarmoured portions of an enemy's ship. Then
there were the common shell with black-painted bodies and red-and-white
bands round their noses. They, too, were deadly in their way, but not
quite so deadly as the lyddite, since they were filled only with black
powder, and did not burst so violently on striking. The armour-piercers
were also black, and had white-red-white bands round their heads. They,
Martin was told, had very thick walls and specially toughened points,
and were designed to bore their way through an enemy's armoured sides
and to burst inside. Then came the shrapnel shell for the lighter guns,
with their red tips and red bands; they were provided with a small
bursting charge, were filled with bullets, and had time-fuses, so that
they could be burst in the air at any moment, to send their leaden
bullets flying on over a cone-shaped region of destruction. The
practice projectiles were black, with yellow bands round their middles
and white tips. They were quite harmless, being made of cast-iron, with
small quantities of salt inside to bring them up to the exact weight.

It was quite six o'clock in the evening by the time the ammunition had
all been taken in, and even then there were many hours' work in stowing
the shell, cordite, and explosives in their several shellrooms and
magazines.

The next morning, at cock-crow, they started another very similar job,
taking in slops and stores of provisions from the victualling yard.
This time the deck was littered with bundles of clothing done up in
sacking, bags of flour, boxes and cases containing boots, shoes, straw
hats, caps, biscuits, condensed milk, tea, coffee, chocolate, jam,
preserved meat, tinned salmon and rabbit, mustard, pepper, salt,
raisins, rice, dried beans and peas, pickles, suet, compressed
vegetables, oatmeal, split peas, celery-seed for flavouring pea-soup,
soap, and tobacco. There were also casks or drums of rum, vinegar, and
sugar. The total consignment ran into well over a hundred tons dead
weight, and all the hundred and one different articles had to be
hoisted on board, sorted out, transported, and stowed in their proper
storerooms.

The ship's steward and his assistant 'dusty boys' had a very busy day.
Quite early in the proceedings a flour-bag burst like a shell and
deluged the steward with its contents. He was powdered from head to
foot, and remained so for the rest of the day; and the little runnels
of perspiration running down his whitened face made a strange
criss-cross pattern which transformed his ordinarily rubicund
countenance into a very fair representation of a map of the planet
Mars, with all the canals clearly marked. His appearance caused titters
of amusement and howls of derisive merriment when his back was turned,
as, armed with an enormous note-book and a sheaf of coloured pencils,
he flitted in and out of the piles of boxes and packing-cases like a
lost soul. He was endeavouring to trace odd cases of raisins, or errant
boxes of jam or pickles, and looked very worried, poor man! At any
rate, it was hardly safe to talk to him, for finding the mislaid things
among the heaps of barrels, drums, cases, and boxes, which covered the
deck in places to a height of fully five feet, was for the time being
rather like searching for a pebble on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.


II.

The _Belligerent_ was a 'Pompey'[7] ship. Many of her officers and men
had their homes in or near the port, so the 'funny party'--otherwise
the ship's concert troupe--prevailed upon the first lieutenant, their
honorary president, to petition the commander for permission to give a
farewell entertainment on board the evening before they sailed to
rejoin the squadron.

          [7] 'Pompey' is the naval slang term for Portsmouth.

The commander, with visions of endless trouble in rigging a stage for
the performance, and the sacred quarterdeck being littered with
cigarette-ends, banana-skins, and orange-peel, was not altogether
pleased at the prospect. 'They want to give a show!' he said, in
surprise, when the first lieutenant mooted the subject. 'Great Scott!
they must be mad. It's mid-winter. Suppose it's raining or blowing a
gale o' wind?'

'Yes, sir. I pointed that out to them,' answered No. 1. 'I quite
realise there are serious objections. They're so jolly keen on it,
though, that I couldn't choke 'em off.'

'And they propose that we shall bring all the guests off in our boats,
eh?'

Chase nodded. 'They do, sir,' he said. 'But I'll take the management of
all that off your hands if you'll let me. They want the show to start
at eight o'clock.'

'The devil they do!' laughed the commander, beginning to relent.
'You'll have to cut the encores, though. It'll have to be over by
ten-fifteen at the latest. We're sailing the next morning.'

'I'll see to that, sir.'

'Are the officers and their wives to be asked?' the commander wanted to
know.

'Oh yes, sir. They specially mentioned that.'

'Well, for goodness' sake censor the programme. Last time we gave a
show and had ladies on board, one of the songs was altogether
too--er--spicy. I can't remember who sang it, but one of the captain's
guests was very much shocked. For heaven's sake make certain it doesn't
occur again!'

'Yes, I'll do that, sir,' smiled No. 1, with vivid recollections of the
incident.

'All right. I'll ask the captain, then. I don't expect he'll object.
You'd better tell me beforehand how many boats you want to bring the
people off, and I'll leave all the rest in your hands.'

'Thank you, sir.'

The captain raised no objections; and on the afternoon of the
entertainment the carpenter and his men, assisted by the members of the
'funny party' and many willing volunteers, set about preparing the
quarterdeck. The day, luckily, was fine, but bitterly cold. A temporary
stage, built up of planks placed upon biscuit-boxes, was rigged right
aft athwartships. It was provided with the necessary scenery painted on
board, was decorated with flags and coloured bunting, and was flanked
by a brightly polished twelve-pounder gun and a Maxim on their
field-carriages. The awning overhead was shrouded in enormous foreign
ensigns, while canvas side-curtains were laced all round the
quarterdeck to keep off the wind. Seating accommodation for several
hundred people was provided by bringing all the available stools from
the mess-decks, and placing them in rows on the deck and the top of the
after-barbette with its two 12-inch guns. The first two rows of stalls,
so to speak, were reserved for the officers, and consisted of
arm-chairs and other chairs borrowed at the last moment from the
officers' cabins and messes.

By seven-forty-five the preparations were complete, and the guests were
beginning to arrive. As they stepped over the gangway they were claimed
by their respective hosts, presented with printed programmes, and
conducted to seats. By seven-fifty-five the last boats had come off,
and the quarterdeck was tightly packed with men and their female
belongings. They were all very much on their best behaviour, talked in
hushed, expectant whispers, and spent the time criticising their
neighbours and admiring the drop-scene.

The drop-scene was a truly terrific representation of the _Belligerent_
in action. It had been painted on board, and the artist had allowed his
colours to run riot. The sea, well covered with shell-splashes, was
very, very blue, and so was the sky. The ship herself, with flaunting
White Ensigns hoisted everywhere, was fiercely blazing away with every
gun at some invisible enemy over the horizon. Here and there the blue
expanse of sky was punctuated with large yellow and white blotches.
Whether or not they represented clouds, the bursting of hostile shell,
or cordite smoke, nobody but the artist could say. They did equally
well for any one of them. At the bottom was an elaborate scroll, royal
blue in colour, inscribed with the battle honours of previous
_Belligerents_ in gold letters; while in the centre came the ship's
crest and motto, '_Ut Veniant Omnes_' the Latin equivalent of 'Let
'em all come!'

Before long the guests thawed a little, and the place began to hum like
a beehive. The ladies produced chocolate and other edibles from
handbags, and thrust them on their neighbours in token of friendship.
The men lit pipes and cigarettes until the air was blue with
tobacco-smoke. Martin, with several other youngsters, had installed
himself in an excellent position on the top of the after-turret, and
waited anxiously for the performance to start.

The chattering ceased as the orchestra filed out from the wings and
took their places behind a zareba of bunting-covered biscuit-boxes and
hired palms erected in front of the stage. They all wore their best
tunics, had their hair well parted and greased, and seemed very full of
their own importance. They concealed themselves behind their barricade
until only the tops of their heads were visible, leaving the bandmaster
perched precariously on a chair set on a couple of rather insecure
boxes. He wore a brand-new pair of white gloves in honour of the
occasion, twirled his moustache, and tried hard not to look
self-conscious.

'Swanker!' came a loud and very raucous remark from the top of the
after-turret. Martin, greatly daring, but carried away by the
excitement of the moment, had been responsible for the utterance. He
looked round apprehensively, half-expecting to get into trouble for his
temerity; but every one seemed quite pleased. The audience was actually
tittering. The titter became a laugh, and the laugh a roar of delighted
amusement. The bandmaster, with his back to the gathering, seemed
rather agitated. He half-turned on his chair, thought better of it when
it gave a dangerous wobble, and then pretended he had not heard.

The culprit, undiscovered save by his immediate neighbours, hugged
himself at the success of his sally.

A minute later, when the band began to tune up for the overture, the
first lieutenant appeared from one of the after-hatches. He had the
reputation of being a 'taut hand;' but the men loved him dearly, and
his arrival was the signal for a volley of cheers and hand-claps. He
faced the audience nervously, bowed and smiled, and then, watch in
hand, walked across to the bandmaster and held a whispered
conversation.

Other officers came up the after-hatches and filed into their places.
They were greeted with round after round of applause, as, very red in
the face and very uncomfortable, they settled down in their seats. The
_Belligerent_ was notoriously a happy ship, and on occasions of this
kind her ship's company were not slow in showing their appreciation for
their officers.

The captain had been having a dinner-party in his cabin for some of the
married officers and their wives; and he, the commander, the
engineer-commander, the fleet surgeon, Hatherley, and Tickle, with
their respective wives, arrived last. They, too, received their share
of cheers while taking their seats. The captain, however, remained
standing, and held up his hand for silence.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said when the uproar had subsided, 'I am
very glad to see you all here to-night, and I hope you will enjoy the
entertainment. The first lieutenant asked me to sing you a song myself,
but I'm afraid I'm getting too old for that sort'----

Loud cries of 'No, no!' and more cheering.

'I am,' he continued, laughing, 'though you may not believe it. What I
want to tell you is that I have arranged for light refreshments to be
served in the battery during the interval, so I hope you will
all--er--do full justice to them.'

Loud cheers, during which Captain Spencer sat down and nodded to the
first lieutenant for the entertainment to begin.

The latter rose from his chair and glanced at his programme. 'Ladies
and gentlemen,' he said, 'the first item on the list is a selection by
the band. It is called--er--"Down Channel," and has been specially
composed for the occasion by Mr Johnson, the bandmaster.' He sat down
again.

The bandmaster rapped twice with his baton, and with a rattle of drums
the music began. The selection was a strange pot-pourri of every
nautical song that Mr Johnson had ever heard. It started off with a
variation of 'Hearts of Oak,' wandered into 'The Bay of Biscay,' 'Tom
Bowling,' 'They all love Jack,' and several other tunes, ancient and
modern, and finished off with 'The Red, White, and Blue' and 'Rule
Britannia.' It was hardly original, but it was received with vociferous
applause. The bandmaster, highly satisfied, turned and bowed his
acknowledgments with great dignity.

'The next item on the programme,' said the first lieutenant, rising to
his feet again, 'is a comic song entitled "Archibald," by Stoker
Williams.'

The footlights were turned on, and the curtain went up to disclose
Stoker Williams dressed in the height of fashion. He wore a morning
coat, gray trousers, patent-leather boots and spats, eyeglass,
immaculate shirt, collar, and tie. He represented, it would seem, a
young man about town looking for a friend named Archibald. Presumably
he had some difficulty in finding him, for he walked mincingly across
the stage, grasping a cane and a pair of gloves in one horny hand, and
in the other a very glossy top-hat, which he twirled violently when the
spirit moved him. The first lieutenant fidgeted uneasily. The hat, a
brand-new Lincoln & Bennett, belonged to him. So did the clothes. The
chorus of the song went something like this:

          Har-ar-chibald! Har-ar-chibald!
            Son of a belted hearl.
          Har-ar-chibald! Har-ar-chibald!
            I'll bet 'e's mashin' 'is girl.
    'E promised to meet me at 'arf-past three;
    But 'e's such a nut that 'e's gone on the spree,
          With 'is girls, girls, girls.
      (_Spoken_) 'Har-ar-chibald! where are you?'

The words were not conspicuous for their wit or cleverness, but the
tune went with a swing, and the audience, highly appreciative, rocked
with laughter; and after the performer's 'Now all together, please,' at
the end of the first verse, joined in the inane chorus until the roar
of 'Har-ar-chibald! where are you?' could have been heard as far as the
dockyard gates.

The song eventually came to a close with Archibald still missing, and
Stoker Williams, very pleased with himself, left the stage amidst
clapping, cat-calls, and loud cries of 'Encore!' But encores were
barred, and the curtain came down with a crash.

The next turn was by the P.T.I. (Physical Training Instructor). He was
a magnificently built man, and appeared, despite the weather, clad in
flesh-coloured tights, sandals, and an imitation tiger-skin. 'Ladies
and gentlemen,' he said, advancing to the front of the stage and
addressing the audience in the approved music-hall manner, 'with your
kind indulgence I will now introduce a few lifting feats without
apparatus of any kind. After that I shall have pleasure in giving a
display with the Indian clubs. For the first part of my performance I
must ask a member of the audience weighing at least ten stone to join
me on the stage.'

After some hesitation and tittering, the challenge was presently
accepted by Able Seaman M'Sweeny. Tubby, as he was called by his
shipmates, was a short, rotund, and very bulbous person, who was a
source of unfailing amusement to his friends. He had a fat red face
rather like an apple, and a pair of humorous blue eyes; and, being
something of a buffoon, was delighted at the idea of making himself
conspicuous. He pretended to be very nervous, left his seat amid shouts
of laughter and cries of 'Good old Tubby boy!' from the lookers-on, and
presently appeared on the stage with the P.T.I.

'This gentleman informs me that he weighs thirteen stone,' said the
P.T.I., producing a broad strap; 'one hundred and eighty-two pounds. I
first place the strap round him, so'--buckling it round Tubby's
middle--'and will now ask him to lie flat on the deck in the centre of
the stage.'

This was rather more than M'Sweeny had bargained for, for he guessed
what was coming next. But he acquiesced nevertheless, and, turning his
funny face toward the audience with a solemn wink, began to agitate his
arms and legs as if he were swimming.

Martin, on the verge of hysterics, was slowly becoming purple in the
face. He had never seen anything quite so funny in all his life.

'Look at our Tubby boy!' came another loud remark from a youth seated
near him. 'Ain't 'e the limit?'

The P.T.I., seeing that Tubby was getting all the applause, became very
wroth. 'Look here!' he growled in a very audible whisper, 'is this your
turn or is it mine? Knock off playing the fool, can't you!'

The victim, breathing heavily and balanced on his most prominent part,
with the tips of his toes just touching the floor, looked up with a
grin. ''Ere,' he asked loudly, 'w'ere do I come in?'

The audience rocked in their seats, with tears streaming down their
faces.

'Shut your fat head!' whispered the gentleman in the
tiger-skin.--'Ladies and gentlemen,' he went on, producing another
short strap fitted with a stout hook, 'I hook this into the strap
passing round the gentleman's body, so, and shall now carry him round
the stage in my mouth.'

The 'gentleman' seemed distinctly nervous, but it was too late to back
out now.

The band broke into slow music. The P.T.I, bent down, seized the strap
in his mouth, and, bracing himself with his hands on his knees, lifted
M'Sweeny a few inches off the floor. Then, with another heave which
very nearly precipitated his victim and himself into the middle of the
orchestra, he swung his burden waist-high, and staggered slowly round
the stage with his back bowed and his muscles bulging.

Tubby, suspended by his centre of gravity, hung limply, with drops of
perspiration trickling off his face. He was desperately alarmed lest he
should be dropped with a crash, poor man!

The P.T.I., who, judging from his stertorous breathing, had undertaken
more than he had bargained for, tottered once round the stage, and then
went to the side and lowered his prey gently to the floor out of sight
of the audience. At the same time the big drum gave a prearranged and
very resounding crash. The audience laughed themselves hoarse, and
cheered uproariously. After sundry other feats of strength with a long
wooden bar from which depended the limp figures of two Royal Marines,
one ordinary seaman, and one stoker, the performer gave his
club-swinging display with lively music from the band. It was quite
effective, and came to a close with great _éclat_.

The next item was a very doleful sentimental ditty about a lonely
robin. It was sung by an intensely serious A.B., and the bird, it
appeared, was on terms of great intimacy with a lady suffering from an
incurable disease, who was slowly dying in the top back-room of a
cottage. Every morning at breakfast-time the robin appeared on the
window-sill; but on one memorable occasion he came rather late, to find
the undertakers in the house. The shock unnerved him to such an extent
that he died too, poor bird! It was so intensely pathetic that some of
the ladies in the back-rows actually wept. The two rows of officers and
their wives blew their noses and hid their faces in their programmes.
Their shoulders shook visibly, but not with grief.

'The next thing,' said the master of ceremonies--rather perturbed
because the last man had exceeded his appointed time by three
minutes--'is a song called "Slattery's Mounted Foot," by the members of
the troupe.'

The curtain went up to show a man clad more or less as a soldier. He
wore a marine's red tunic, baggy blue trousers with broad yellow
stripes, a cocked hat with an enormous plume, a naval cutlass, and a
pair of leather sea-boots with huge tin spurs. He sang the first verse
of a song amidst much amusement, and then started the rollicking chorus:

    Down from the mountains came the squadrons and platoons,
    Four-and-twenty fighting men and a couple of stout gossoons.

At the cue 'squadrons and platoons' the Mounted Foot, riding home-made
hobby-horses with flowing manes and tails, galloped on to the stage.
Their appearance was the signal for a volley of shouts and laughter, in
which the music was quite inaudible, and truly they were comical. There
were six others besides the first man, who, it would appear, was
General Slattery himself. They all wore burlesque military uniforms.
One was a hussar, another a lancer, a third a soldier in a British line
regiment, a fourth an Indian cavalryman with lance and turban all
complete, a fifth a cross between a Chasseur d'Afrique and a Chinese
brave, and the last an artilleryman. The _pièce de résistance_ was
the artillery itself, for the last man to arrive led the very unwilling
Nellie, the ship's pet pig, to which was attached a large cardboard
cannon. Headed by their General, they pranced about the stage enjoying
themselves hugely. Their efforts brought the house down, for they quite
succeeded in making fools of themselves, and 'Slattery's Mounted Foot'
was a long way the best event of the evening.

The remaining turns were too numerous to be mentioned in detail. They
included further ditties by the singers of 'Archibald' and 'The Lonely
Robin,' a banjo solo, some really clever conjuring and lightning
sketching by an engine-room artificer, and an absurd sketch, written on
board, called 'The Broker's Man.' The plot of this production, if it
could be called by such a name, can be deduced from the list of
characters:

        _Mr Stony-Broke_--an impoverished aristocrat.
        _Mrs Stony-Broke_--his wife.
        _Miss Gertrude Stony-Broke._
        _General Sir Thomas Dammit, K.C.B._--a rich uncle.
        _Mr Hardcash_--a hard-hearted landlord.
        _Mr Theodore Buggins_--the broker's man.
        _Hon. Bertie de Montmorency_--Gertrude's fiancé.
        _Giles_--a footman.

    Scene--The Stony-Brokes' drawing-room in London.

    Time--The present.

The parts of Mrs and Miss Stony-Broke were played by seamen. Mrs
Stony-Broke appeared in black satin and a shawl, and the fair Gertrude
in an evening-dress of pale yellow. Both mother and daughter were very
shapeless, while their home-made wigs, white cotton gloves, bare red
arms, and enormous feet brought tears of joy to the eyes of the
audience. So did the gallant General Sir Thomas Dammit, who, it would
seem, made a habit of wearing his full-dress uniform, cocked hat, and
sword on all occasions.

Mr Hardcash, the villain of the piece, was loudly hissed; while his
emissary, Mr Theodore Buggins, a truly dissolute fellow, became
hilariously intoxicated at Mr Stony-Broke's expense. But everything
ended happily. Gertrude and the Hon. Bertie plighted their troth, and
were duly set up for life with a handsome cheque from Sir Thomas.

The curtain came down amidst scenes of the wildest enthusiasm from the
audience, and the orchestra playing Mendelssohn's 'Wedding March.'

When finally the band played 'God Save the King,' Pincher Martin was
convinced that it was quite the best entertainment he had ever seen.
His shipmates agreed with him.




CHAPTER IV.

THE STRENUOUS LIFE.


I.

Twenty-four hours later the _Belligerent_ was at bleak, wind-swept
Portland; and during the next fortnight Martin began to realise what
life in the navy really meant. He fondly imagined that he had been
hard-worked at Portsmouth, but it was mere child's-play compared with
what went on when they were with the squadron.

The anchorage was full of men-of-war. First came seven other
battleships precisely similar to the _Belligerent_ herself, squat,
ponderous-looking vessels, with piled-up superstructures and heavy
gun-turrets which gave them an aspect of strength rather than of speed.
They were commanded by a vice-admiral, who flew his flag in the
_Tremendous_. Next came an independent cruiser squadron of four
sister-ships under the orders of a rear-admiral. They were long, lean
craft, with four funnels like factory chimneys, and raking masts. They
had an ungainly appearance, but looked fast. Then came a couple of
light cruisers, slender, graceful vessels, with beautiful lines. They,
too, had four funnels, and gave the impression that they were fliers,
as indeed they were. Innumerable black destroyers, with another light
cruiser as their flagship, lay in glorified sheep-pens jutting out from
the shore. They were evil-looking craft, and could do their thirty
knots with ease.

But the ships were not always in harbour. Most days of the week they
spent outside the breakwater, indulging in what was officially known as
'aiming rifle practice.' It meant that 1-inch or .303-inch aiming
rifles were placed in all the guns, and that the ship steamed past a
minute target, firing as she went. It kept the gunlayers and guns'
crews proficient, for the weapons were worked, aimed, and fired exactly
as if they had been using their proper ammunition. Unofficially, this
practice was known as _piff_, from the feeble sound of the
reports.

Sometimes the whole battle-squadron went to sea for steam tactics under
the orders of the vice-admiral; while at least one night a week was
spent somewhere out in the Channel without lights, to give the
destroyers practice in making torpedo attacks under war conditions.

It was all very wonderful to Martin; but what impressed him most was
the way in which the entire squadron of eight battleships steamed about
as a whole. Each vessel remained at precisely the same distance from
her next ahead, until it seemed as if they were all joined together by
some invisible string, rather than free units capable of independent
motion and movement. How they managed to achieve this result he could
not imagine. It savoured of necromancy. He did not know until later
that on the bridge of each vessel was a young lieutenant with a
sextant, whose duty it was to measure the angle between the masthead
and the water-line of the next ship ahead. Briefly, if the angle grew
larger it meant that the ship was drawing up on her next ahead; if
smaller, that she was dropping behind; and the revolutions of the
engines were accordingly decreased or increased to get her back into
her correct position. 'Station keeping!'--the officers of watches would
have laughed if they had been asked how they did it. 'My dear chap,
it's as easy as falling off a log. Any fool could do it.' Perhaps he
could; but then there are fools and fools. Some of them are wise fools.

Steam tactics, too, were very impressive. The eight battleships would
be steaming along in two ordered columns of four ships each. A string
of gaily coloured bunting would suddenly appear at the flagship's
masthead, to be repeated by the rear-admiral leading the other line.
Hardly had the flags blown out clear than every other vessel would be
flying a white-and-red 'answering pendant,' meaning 'I have seen and
understood.' The flagship's signal would come down with a rush, and
after a brief interval of suspense every ship would be swinging round
under the influence of her helm. They formed single line ahead, line
abreast, and quarter line, each gray ram cutting the water at precisely
the same distance from the next ahead. Now and then they broke off into
pairs. Sometimes they circled round in succession, each vessel
following dead in the wake of her leader. Occasionally they wheeled,
the pivot ship reducing her speed, the wing ship increasing, and the
intermediate vessels adjusting the revolutions of their engines until
every foremast was exactly in line. They twisted themselves into knots,
and unravelled themselves again. The effect was really rather
wonderful. The squadron seemed to manoeuvre this way and that with
the same ease and flexibility as a company of well-drilled soldiers.

It must be very difficult, Martin concluded; but he wondered vaguely
why the admiral should take it upon himself to act the part of a
glorified drill-sergeant. He did not know that flexibility of movement
and ability to change formation with rapidity and precision are even
more important in a squadron at sea than with a regiment ashore.

The admiral, experienced officer though he was, was merely accustoming
himself to handling his squadron as a compact and organised whole
against the time when he might be called upon to do it with an enemy's
fleet looming up over the horizon. Moreover, no two ships are ever
handled in quite the same way, and he was giving his captains--who,
provided they lived, would be admirals themselves one day--an
opportunity of learning the ways and tricks of their several ships, so
that, when the time came, they should not fail him. Practice makes
perfect, even with such gilded potentates as admirals and captains.

The destroyer attacks after dark, too, were very spectacular. The long
winter nights were usually overcast and very dark, and the squadron
would be steaming without lights; but even then the lynx-eyed young
gentlemen on the bridge would not admit that they had any real
difficulty in keeping station. They were used to it. On such occasions
the men kept their watches, and the lighter guns and the searchlights
were manned exactly as they would be in war. Martin, being an ignorant
new-comer, found himself detailed as a bridge messenger; and there, in
the very nerve-centre of the ship, he had an excellent opportunity of
seeing everything that went on. He never forgot the first destroyer
attack he ever saw.

Looking ahead, he could just see the next ship as an intense black blur
against the lighter darkness of the sky and sea. Astern came another
ponderous mass. The intervals seemed dangerously close, but the officer
of the watch showed no anxiety. On the contrary, he stood at the
standard compass on the upper bridge, using his binoculars every now
and then, and giving occasional muffled orders in a calm voice through
the voice-pipe communicating with the man stationed at the engine-room
revolution telegraph below. Even the captain and the navigator, who
were up there as well, did not seem to be taking things very seriously,
though in reality they both had their weather-eyes very much lifting,
and were using their glasses constantly. They were always on very
friendly terms, and were carrying on an animated conversation about
nothing more important than--golf!

'Well, sir,' Colomb was chuckling, 'if your putting hadn't been so bad
you'd have knocked me endways. You were shocking on the greens.'

'Yes; but you wait till I get used to that new putter of mine,' the
skipper returned, not in the least offended. 'I botched every single
putt, and if I hadn't done that---- Hallo!' he suddenly broke off,
sniffing; 'd'you smell that?'

'That' was a pungent whiff of crude petroleum floating down from
windward, and Captain Spencer knew well enough that it meant the
attacking craft were somewhere fairly close. The greater number of
modern destroyers consume nothing but oil-fuel in their furnaces, and
in a strong wind the reek of its burning can often be smelt for several
miles.

'M'yes. They're pretty close, sir,' Colomb agreed.

'Keep your eyes skinned, officer of the watch,' the captain cautioned,
busy with his own glasses. 'Warn the group officers and guns' crews!'

'Ay, ay, sir,' said the lieutenant, pressing a push by his side, which
caused an alarm-bell to sound at all the anti-torpedo-craft guns
throughout the ship.

For some minutes there was silence, broken only by the humming of the
wind through the rigging and the liquid plop of breaking seas. But all
the time the smell of oil-fuel became gradually stronger; and then,
quite suddenly, the flagship--two ships ahead--switched on a
searchlight. She had seen something!

The powerful blue-white beam flickered out, swung round slightly, and
then fell on a black phantom shape rushing through the water. She was a
destroyer, and came along with the wind and sea dead astern; but even
then sheets of spray were flying over her low decks and bridge.

Martin held his breath.

The moment the attacker was lit up by the ray there came the loud crash
of a gun, and an instant later more searchlights joined the first.

_Boomp! Bang! Boom! Boomp!_ went the guns in an irregular volley, as
the first and second ships in the line got to work. Sharp stabs of red
flame danced in and out of the beams of the lights. The thick smoke of
the blank discharges wreathed and eddied through the rays as it drifted
down the line on the wind; but the destroyers--two of them--still came
on at full speed, pitching and rolling horribly.

They seemed to be about six hundred yards on the starboard bow of the
flagship, travelling down the line of battleships in an opposite
direction to that in which the latter were steaming, and so brilliantly
were they illuminated in the glare that even the figures of the men
crouching on deck round the torpedo-tubes were clearly visible through
glasses. The water was washing knee-deep over their decks as they
rolled, but it was not until they were nearly abeam of the flagship
that a ball of red fire shot up into the air from each of them. This
indicated the moment at which, if it had been the real thing, their
torpedoes would actually have been discharged.

'That pair were sunk all right,' muttered Captain Spencer, watching
them through his glasses as they swept past barely three hundred yards
off. 'They were under fire for quite half-a-minute before they let go
their torpedoes. Poor devils! they're having a pretty rotten time.
Great Scott! just look at that sea!'

The leading destroyer had put her helm over to alter course outwards.
It brought her nearly head on to the sea, and she had shoved her nose
straight into the heart of an advancing wave. It was not really rough,
as seas go, but the speed with which she was travelling caused the mass
to break on board until she seemed literally to be buried in a smother
of gray-white water, while sheets of spray swept high over her
mastheads and funnels. For quite an appreciable time she was hidden,
but then slid back into sight on the crest of a sea, with her twin
propellers revolving wildly in the air, to disappear in the darkness as
suddenly as she had come, with her consort still in close station
behind her.

'Thank the Lord I'm not in a T.B.D.!' muttered the officer of the watch
to the navigator.

Martin shared his feelings.

For the next forty minutes the guns' crews in the battleships were very
busy; for, having sighted the searchlights during the first attack, the
remainder of the flotilla, attracted to the spot like wasps to a
honey-pot, came dashing in from all directions to deliver their
assaults. They came on gallantly, some singly, others in pairs or fours
at a time; and though, naturally enough, the battleships claimed to
have sunk every mother's son of them long before they had had a chance
of getting home with their torpedoes, the destroyers themselves thought
otherwise.

The attacks were over by two A.M., and at this time the weary men at
the guns and searchlights were free to go to their hammocks, the
scattered destroyers were collected by their senior officer, and
attackers and attacked, with navigation lights burning, turned their
bows homeward.

By eight o'clock the battleships had moored in Portland Harbour, and
the destroyers, in a long single line, headed by their light cruiser,
came silently in through the northern entrance on their way to the
pens. Their funnels were caked white with dried salt, but they steamed
past jauntily, showing few traces of their buffeting.

Martin watched them with a new interest, for to him it seemed nothing
short of miraculous how such slender-looking vessels could stand the
weather he had seen them in a few hours before.

'Wot yer lookin' at, Pincher?' asked Billings, stopping on his way to
his mess for breakfast.

'Them,' said Martin, jerking his head in the direction of the
destroyers.

'Them!' said Joshua, rather surprised. 'Wot's up wi' 'em?'

'I wus thinkin' it must be a dawg's life to be aboard one o' 'em. They
looked somethink horful larst night.'

Billings, who had served in a destroyer himself in his young and palmy
days, grinned broadly. 'They ain't so bad,' he murmured. 'You gits a
tanner a day,[8] 'ard lyers in 'em, an' that's a hextry three an' a
tanner a week. It's werry welcome in these 'ere 'ard times.' The old
reprobate smacked his lips longingly, for three-and-six a week meant
many pints of beer.

          [8] Men serving in destroyers receive sixpence a day extra
          pay. It is known as 'hard-lying money.'

'I reckons they deserves it,' Martin remarked.

'I reckons all matloes deserves double wot they gits,' laughed his
companion. 'But larst night weren't nothin'. You wait till yer sees 'em
in a gale o' wind; then they carries on somethin' horful. Larst night
it weren't blowin' nothin' to speak o'. They 'ad a bit o' a dustin'
p'r'aps, an' got their shirts wet, but that ain't nothin'!'

Martin gasped. He had seen the destroyers plunging about like maddened
racehorses, with water breaking over their decks; but yet Billings
referred to it casually as a 'bit o' a dustin'.' If their behaviour of
last night was nothing out of the ordinary, he prayed his gods he might
never serve in one of them. 'A bit o' a dustin',' indeed! What must
they be like in a gale of wind? It nearly made him seasick to think of
it.


II.

As a start to his seagoing training, Martin found himself put in the
gunnery-training class with eleven other youngsters like himself; and
here, under the expert guidance of Petty Officer Samuel Breech, he was
soon being initiated into the mysteries of squad drill, the rifle and
field exercise, the various parts of a rifle and their uses, gun drill,
the anatomy and interior economy of lighter weapons and machine-guns,
and their ammunition. Much of it he had already learnt before, during
his period of preliminary training at the barracks, and the
instruction, essentially practical, did not overtax his intelligence.

Petty Officer Breech, a fully qualified gunner's mate, was a strict
disciplinarian and something of a martinet. He was a short, burly
little man, with a bull-neck and a rasping voice; and the former,
combined with a closely clipped red beard and a pair of piercing gray
eyes, gave him an air of ferocity which he really did not possess. He
was naturally kind-hearted, and the buxom Mrs Breech could twiddle him
round her little finger. But on board ship he upheld his dignity with
firmness. After long experience with ordinary seamen and their ways, he
had come to the conclusion that the only way of getting them thoroughly
in hand was to frighten them at the start, and to keep them frightened;
so he invariably commenced operations by giving each new class a short
lecture.

'You 'ave joined the navy,' he used to say, glaring fiercely, 'to learn
discipline, an' you've come to me to learn somethin' about gunnery, or
as much of it as I can drive into your thick 'eads. The sooner we
understand each other the better; an' before we start work I warns you
that I'll stand no sauce from the likes o' you, so just bear it in
mind. W'en I gives you an order I expects it to be obeyed at once, an'
at the rush. I don't want no shufflin' about in the ranks, nor
skylarkin' neither,' he added, gazing ferociously at Martin, who was
endeavouring to remove a spot of moisture from the end of his nose
without using a handkerchief.

'I wants to blow me nose,' murmured the culprit, reddening.

'An' I wants no back answers unless I asks you a question,' Breech went
on, wagging an admonitory finger. 'Wen you're standin' at attention you
must keep still, no matter whether a moskeeter's bitin' you 'longside
the ear'ole, or a wild monkey's chewin' your stummick. I wants you to
look like a squad o' Henglish sailors, not a party o' mourners at a
Hirishman's funeral, nor yet a gals' school out for a airin.' It's no
laughin' matter, neither,' he continued, eyeing one of his pupils who
had a suspicion of a smile hovering round the corners of his mouth.
'Wen I makes a joke you can laugh--bu'st if you like; but if I sees you
laughin' w'en I'm not, that's hinsolence, an' you knows wot to expect.'

The smile vanished.

'I'm 'ere to enforce discipline,' the petty officer resumed, 'an'
discipline I'll 'ave. I wants you to be smart, an' if I sees you're
tryin' to learn I'll do my best for you. If I sees any one skylarkin'
or talkin' in the ranks I runs 'im in at once, so don't forget it. To
start with, I'm goin' to teach you the parts o' the rifle; an' w'en you
knows that, we passes on to squad drill with an' without arms.
Squad!--stand easy! This 'ere,' he explained, balancing a Lee-Enfield
in his hand, 'is a magazine rifle, Lee-Enfield, Mark 1 star. Its weight
is a trifle over nine pounds, as you'll find w'en you 'ave to carry it;
an' its length, without the bay'nit, is four foot one an' a narf
inches. This 'ere's the bay'nit, with a blade 'xactly twelve inches
long, an' 'e fixes on to the muzzle o' the rifle, so. The bay'nit is
only sharpened on the outbreak o' 'ostilities, an' is provided for
stickin' your enemy; not, as most sailors thinks it's for, for openin'
corned-beef tins, an' such like. 'Owever, we'll 'ave plenty o' bay'nit
exercise later on.'

It took them a full day and a half to learn the ins and outs of the
rifle; and, having mastered it thoroughly, the class passed on to squad
drill and the rifle and field exercise. The greater number of them
already had some smattering of these, but that fact did not prevent
Petty Officer Breech marching and counter-marching them up and down the
deck as if their very lives depended upon it. He kept up a running
commentary the whole time.

'Squad!--'shun! Stand at--ease! A little more life in it; an' keep still
w'en you're standin' at attention, can't you? Knees straight, 'ead an'
body erect, eyes straight to the front.--'Awkins, you're waggin' your
'ead.--Flannagan, keep your knees straight, an' stand up.--Now then, try
again. Squad!--'shun! Ah, that's more like it now. Number! Form fours!
As you were! A little life in it, please! Form fours! Right turn! Quick
march! Come along, come along, step out smartly with the left foot, an'
take a full pace. Left--left--left--right--left! Mark time! Pick your
feet up! Pick 'em up! Bend the knees! That's more like it! Forward!
About turn! Not a bit like it. Squad!--halt! Left turn! Stand easy!
Look 'ere, now. Wen I says, "About turn!" I don't want you to shuffle
round any'ow. I gives the order "turn" as the left foot comes to the
ground, an' each man turns on 'is own ground in three paces. At the
fourth pace step off with the left foot in this manner.' He marked
time himself, and proceeded to demonstrate how easy it really was.

For a whole week they were hard at it, learning to march, side step,
change step, double, form fours, turn, and change direction. Sometimes,
when one or other of the pupils was called out to drill the class, they
got tied up into inextricable knots, with the rear rank facing the
front, and the men in their wrong places; but after seven hard days
even Breech admitted that he was fairly satisfied with their progress.

Then they spent hours fixing and unfixing bayonets, ordering,
shouldering, sloping, trailing, changing, grounding, and securing arms,
until they were sick of the very sight of a rifle. It was dreary
work--very dreary; and if they showed the least signs of slackness or
inattention they were doubled round the deck until they were ready to
drop from sheer fatigue, or did 'muscle drill' until their biceps
ached.

They saluted mythical officers, varying in rank from the sovereign
himself to second lieutenants and midshipmen, and attended imaginary
funerals as the escort or firing-party. On these occasions Breech
walked solemnly up and down to represent the officer or party to be
saluted, or, in the case of the funerals, the corpse on its
gun-carriage. 'The next time I passes I represents 'is Majesty the King
inspectin' a guard o' honour, mounted at Bucking'am Palace,' or 'Now
I'm a Field-Marshal,' and 'Now I'm a lootenant in the navy,' he would
say, approaching with what he considered the slow and stately gait
befitting his exalted rank. 'Now I represents a regiment o' soldiers
with their colours flyin'.' 'Now I'm the corpse comin' out o' the
mortu-ary.'

The first time he made this last remark it caused the second man from
the left in the rear rank to burst out into a raucous chuckle of
amusement, and in another instant the whole class was tittering.

Breech fixed the culprit with a horny eye. 'There's not nothin' to
laugh at, 'Awkins,' he observed without the ghost of a smile. 'This is
a very sad occasion. You'll be the corpse yourself one day.'

They made pretty good progress on the whole--all except Peter Flannagan,
that is. He was by way of being a 'bird'--a man who is constantly in
trouble--and had already been through the gunnery-training class once,
but had failed in the examination at the end of it. As a result he had
been put back for a further period. He was naturally as obstinate as a
mule, and unusually thick-headed; but, instead of doing his best with
what wits he possessed, he endeavoured to show his superiority by
taking as little trouble as he dared. He was Breech's _bête noire_;
and, if ever anybody was wrong, it was pretty certain to be Flannagan.
But he deserved everything he got, and was very unpopular with the
others.

On one never-to-be-forgotten occasion the petty officer cautioned him
for talking and joking in the ranks whilst at drill. The Irishman, in
some fit of devilment, promptly repeated the offence, and, not content
with that, put out his tongue to show his contempt.

Breech saw it. 'Flannagan,' he thundered in a voice of iron, 'come out
to the front!'

The Irishman came out and stood before him with a sullen scowl.

'You disobeys my order wilfully, an' puts out your tongue,' the petty
officer said. 'Disobedience an' hinsolence. 'Ave you anythin' to say?'

'Nothin', except that I'm fair fed up wi' bein' chased about this 'ere
deck like a dawg.'

'Fed up, are you?' Breech answered, keeping his temper, but with a
dangerous ring in his voice. 'You 'ave the himpertinence to spin me a
yarn like that! If I chooses to take you on the quarterdeck, you gets a
couple o' months in the detention quarters for hinsolence. But you're
long past the stage where punishment'll do you any good. No; I shall
'ave to deal wi' you another way, my lad. I'll see that you're taken
out o' the trainin' class, to start with, an' you comes an' reports
yourself to me at five o'clock this evenin'. Now you takes off your
accoutrements, returns your rifle, an' reports yourself to the capt'n
o' your top. Perhaps 'e'll find some use for you; you're no good to
me.'

Flannagan, rather ashamed of himself, slouched off.

What happened at five o'clock that afternoon the class never
discovered; but the fact remains that Mr Peter Flannagan trod rather
delicately, and had some slight difficulty in sitting down for the next
ten days or so. Rumour had it that Breech, who was a powerful little
man, had armed himself with a singlestick, and had taken the law into
his own hands. Very reprehensible conduct on his part, no doubt, for it
was strictly against the regulations, and might have got him into
trouble if the Irishman had lodged an official complaint. But Breech
knew his victim to a nicety, and was perfectly well aware that he
lacked the necessary courage to make the matter public. He knew,
moreover, that to a man of Flannagan's type a little concentrated
physical pain was far and away a better deterrent than any other form
of punishment. Whatever his method was, it had the desired effect, for
thereafter Ordinary Seaman Peter Flannagan treated Petty Officer Samuel
Breech with a respect which almost amounted to reverence. A strong arm
and a thick stick do sometimes achieve wonders.

Martin and the remainder of the class waxed hilarious over Peter's
downfall. He was not popular. He was a K.H.B.,[9] and they were not
sorry to be rid of his presence.

          [9] K.H.B. = King's hard bargain, a term used in connection
          with a man who is an undesirable character.


III.

The life, however, was not all work, and Martin found he had a certain
amount of leisure for amusement. He was allowed ashore every alternate
day from four o'clock in the afternoon till ten o'clock at night, and
on Saturdays and Sundays from one-thirty.

The _Belligerent_ ran her own football team--she ran everything,
from a concert-party, a pipe-band, and a tame pig, to a monthly
magazine (written, edited, and produced on board); and Pincher, who had
been rather a shining light as a wing forward in his village team at
home, invariably went ashore to watch the matches.

The squadron always played a football league competition during the
winter, each ship playing every other vessel in turn, and the winner
of the most points at the end of the season holding a challenge
cup--presented by the flag officers and captains--for the ensuing year.
In addition to this, the members of the winning team received personal
prizes in the shape of inscribed silver medallions. The _Belligerent_
had come out top in the league the year before, and the victorious team
had promptly had their photographs taken, with, of course, the
medallions and the cup; and the latter, enshrined in its glass case,
now lived on the fore mess-deck as a tribute to their prowess. They
were very proud of it. They were keen to win again, but rumour had it
that the _Tremendous_, which had been newly commissioned, had a
remarkably good team. Two of them were reported to be county players,
so the 'Belligerents' were rather fearful of their laurels.

Now Martin, small and puny though he was, was fleet of foot and very
tricky with his feet, but he was far too modest to let anybody know it.
He always watched the matches, however, and took an intelligent
interest in the games, and eventually, by dint of being present on many
occasions, found himself installed as a sort of honorary member of the
team in the shape of their recognised touch-judge. He was even
permitted to appear in the photograph which was taken soon after the
ship arrived at Portland. He was in the back row, it is true, and wore
his seaman's clothes instead of a highly coloured shirt, blue shorts,
stockings, and football boots. But he carried a small hand-flag as his
insignia of office, and considered himself no small beer in
consequence. It was an honour to be associated with the team in any
way; and as most of the officers, and practically the whole of the
ship's company who happened to be ashore, made a point of attending the
matches, Martin, running about with his flag, felt he was a--if not
the--centre of attraction. At any rate, he was quite a personage, and
talked about the game to the other ordinary seamen and boys with an air
of great authority.

The scenes of excitement during some of the matches baffled description.
'Play up, Yaller-bellies!' two hundred of the _Belligerent's_ men would
shout in unison. The yellow referred to the canary-coloured shirts
worn by their team, while the other rather inelegant word was the
abbreviated name of the ship.

'Come on, the Cockneys!' or 'the Duffos!' would come the answering roar
from the partisans of the other team, according to whether their ship
hailed from Chatham or Devonport. 'Down wi' the Pompeyites!'

For minutes at a time the repartee bandied to and fro was so vociferous
that the whistle was well-nigh inaudible; but the referee was used to
it. He had an unenviable time in other ways, poor man! for whatever
decision he gave was quite certain to be wrong from the point of view
of fully half the spectators, in spite of the fact that he was a
strictly neutral man from some other ship. 'Foul!' somebody would
bellow, as the whistle blew for a free kick. 'Garn! That ain't no
foul!' was hurled back from the men of the ship against which the
penalty had been given. 'Play the game! Play the game, carn't you?'
'Goal! Well shot! Good old Yaller-bellies!' would come a roar,
accompanied by a shower of caps in the air, as the ball flew past the
white posts into the net. 'That's the style! Knock 'em end-ways!'
'Offside! Offside!' came louder yells from the other side. 'Where's the
referee? What's 'e thinkin' of?' And so it went on.

But the referee, used to the ways of seamen, merely smiled, and paid no
attention whatever to the ribald remarks hurled at his head, personal
as some of them were. He was proof against such attacks, and his
decisions were always fair.

Occasionally there were stormy scenes at the end of the matches; for
when a favourite team had lost, their adherents were sometimes anxious
to take on the partisans of the other side with their fists to discover
which really was the better ship. More than once men returned on board
with black eyes and swollen noses; but actual bloodshed was rare,
though feeling always ran high. More often than not, victors and
vanquished alike repaired to the canteen, and absorbed malt liquor at
each other's expense, the former to celebrate the victory and the
latter to drown their sorrow. They were very keen on the result of the
league matches. The canteen did a roaring trade.

At one of the most important matches a member of the _Belligerent's_
eleven happened to be absent at the time the game was due to start, and
Lieutenant Boyle, who captained the team, was at his wits' end to find
a suitable substitute. 'Have any of you men played this game?' he
asked, going up to a group of seamen belonging to the _Belligerent_ who
had come to watch. 'Parkins hasn't turned up. We want a forward badly.'

Pincher, seizing the opportunity, stepped forward before any one else
had a chance of answering. 'I've played at 'ome, sir,' he said,
reddening at his own temerity. 'I used to be on the right wing.'

Boyle seemed rather surprised. 'You!' he said. 'Can you run? D' you
know how to dribble and shoot?'

'Yessir.'

The officer looked at him for a moment without replying. He seemed
rather doubtful.

''E's orl right, sir,' chipped in Billings, who happened to be present.
''E's pretty nippy on 'is feet. I've seen 'im kickin' the ball abart.'

The lieutenant looked up with a laugh. 'All right, Billings; we'll take
him on your recommendation.--Martin, rush across to the pavilion and
borrow some gear. Hurry up about it; we're late already.'

Pincher, overjoyed and very proud of himself, flew off like the wind,
and presently reappeared clad in full regalia, yellow shirt and all. It
was his first really important match; but he felt he was on his mettle,
and played well, almost brilliantly. At any rate, he shot two goals;
whereat the 'Belligerents' howled themselves hoarse, raised cheers for
'young Pincher,' and wished to treat him with much beer at the end of
the game. It was the first time in his life he had ever received
adulation, and he was a proud man. His play had undoubtedly helped to
win the match.

He was prouder still when Boyle sought him out afterwards. 'You played
excellently, Martin,' he said. 'Why on earth didn't you let us know you
played?'

'Didn't like to, sir.'

The officer laughed. 'I wish you men wouldn't be quite so modest,' he
remarked. 'How d' you expect us to raise a decent team if you all hide
your lights under bushels? You're the very man we've been looking for.'

'I'm sorry, sir,' said Martin sheepishly. 'I didn't know as 'ow I wus
wanted.'

'We didn't know you were a player. However, now we've got you, you will
remain in the team; so look out you keep yourself in decent training. A
pint of beer after each game, and no more, mind. If you come to my
cabin this evening I'll give you your jersey and other gear.' The
lieutenant strolled off to change.

Martin could have jumped for joy. He was a full-fledged 'Yellow-belly'
at last, and would appear before the whole ship's company in all the
glory of a canary-yellow shirt with a large blue 'B' on the left
breast. It was one of the things in this world he had been longing for.
He was no longer a mere excrescence on the face of the earth--a poor,
puny Pincher who was everybody's whipping-boy. On the contrary, he was
a very proud Pincher, for at last he had come into his own. The
_Belligerent_ had some use for him, after all.




CHAPTER V.

THE OFFICERS.


The _Belligerent's_ captain, John Horatio Spencer, D.S.O., was a fine
type of the modern British naval officer, and a thorough seaman, who
had risen in his profession through sheer merit and force of character.
He had been lucky, it is true, for as a young lieutenant he had seen
much active service in West Africa, had been severely wounded, was
mentioned in despatches for 'great gallantry and resource,' and had
received the Distinguished Service Order. In 1900, again, as the senior
lieutenant of a second-class cruiser on the Cape of Good Hope station,
he was landed with the naval guns for the relief of Ladysmith. He again
did excellent service, was promoted to commander in 1901, to captain
seven years later, and 1914 found him commanding a first-class
battleship at the comparatively early age of forty-three.

In appearance he was a big, thick-set man, nearly six feet tall, and
broad in proportion. He had a red, clean-shaven face, a pair of
penetrating blue eyes which seemed to read one's innermost thoughts,
and dark hair slightly shot with gray over the temples.

Every ship he had ever commanded, from a destroyer upwards, had been a
happy one. His officers loved him as a friend and admired him as a
superior, and 'Our John,' as they affectionately called him, spent far
more time in their company than he did in the fastnesses of his own
cabin. He hated the solitude of life in his own apartments in the
after-end of the ship, and, when he had no guests of his own,
frequently had meals in the wardroom as an honorary member, and played
bridge and spun yarns in the smoking-room. He had the happy knack of
being friendly with every one with whom he came in contact, and
invariably treated his officers as equals when he was off duty.

On deck, of course, it was a different matter, for there he was very
much their commanding officer, and they his subordinates; and, as
Tickle, the junior watch-keeper, once put it, 'the owner[10] was the
whitest and the straightest man on God's earth; but Heaven help you if
you make a fool of yourself on deck!'

          [10] The commanding officer of a man-of-war is frequently
          referred to as 'the owner,' or 'the old man.'

Captain Spencer did bite sometimes, and bite hard; but the culprit
generally deserved all he got, and bore no grudge whatsoever. More
often than not he would be discovered the same evening in the
smoking-room having a sherry-and-bitters with 'the old man,' just to
show there was no ill-feeling on either side.

On the mess-deck the captain was revered in rather a different way, for
the men, while admiring him, regarded him with a certain amount of awe.
Some of the younger and more timid ordinary seamen and boys, indeed,
looked upon him as a sort of awful deity, an ogre almost, who sat in
his cabin all day long inventing new schemes for their eternal
damnation. They were frightened of him, and, on the rare occasions when
they did catch sight of his four gold stripes on deck, felt rather
inclined to run away and hide their faces. It was foolish of them, for
a kinder-hearted man than the skipper it would be impossible to
imagine.

But the men saw comparatively little of him, and had few opportunities
of discovering his true character. He appeared on deck for 'divisions'
every morning; walked round on Sundays criticising their clothes, the
length of their hair, and the cleanliness of the ship; was always on
the bridge at sea; and punished them when they misbehaved themselves.
They realised he was just, and justice is what the bluejacket most
admires; but they were not aware that he took a deep interest in them
and their affairs, and that he knew everything that went on on board.
Neither did they perceive that he frequently went to a great deal of
trouble to stretch points in their favour in the way of leave and other
privileges.

'Our John' hated advertisement in any form; and this, perhaps, was why
the men never really understood his true kindliness of heart. For
instance, when he subscribed five pounds towards a fund for the benefit
of the widow of one of his men who had died, or two pounds towards the
ship's concert party, he gave the money anonymously. When he granted
the men an extra forty-eight hours' leave on his own responsibility,
and because he considered they had earned it by their good behaviour,
he never told them so.

So, from the lower-deck point of view, Captain Spencer was justly
admired and greatly feared; but there was not a man on board who had
not the fullest confidence in him and his judgment, or who would not
cheerfully have followed him to the very gates of hell if he had asked
them. Neither was there a more efficient or a happier ship than the
_Belligerent_. Her officers and men knew it, and gloried in the fact.

But no small credit for this excellent state of affairs was due to the
commander and other officers. The former, the Honourable Algernon
D'Arcy Travers, was the direct antithesis of the captain in appearance.
He was tall and very thin, but was a pleasant messmate with a very
pronounced sense of humour, and on occasions behaved with all the
boisterous bonhomie of a junior sub-lieutenant. His excessive leanness
did not worry him in the least, though he did once say that he wished
his 'hinge' were a little better padded and the wardroom chairs rather
softer. It was a matter of some import to his wife, though, for that
lady sent him bottles of malt extract to thicken the flesh on his
bones. This nutritive compound, however, was generally handed over to
his bluejacket messenger, who liked the sweet taste of it; and that
youth, already chubby and well-favoured, was gradually assuming the
proportions of a young elephant. The commander found that being thin
was an advantage in some ways; and on riotous guest nights, when he
made as much noise as anybody present, it certainly permitted him to
scramble through the square opening in the back of one of the wardroom
chairs without much difficulty.

It was a feat few of his messmates could perform. The
engineer-commander, George Piston, a well-covered officer, had tried it
on one occasion, and had stuck half-way through. His messmates, headed
by the commander himself, cheered him on with howls of merriment; but
the victim was laughing so much that he seemed to have swelled. He
could not budge one way or the other, and there was every prospect of
his having to go through life with a chair securely fastened round his
portly middle. They took off his garments one by one; but it was no
use. They used vaseline and oil as lubricants, and endeavoured to tuck
the folds of flesh through the narrow opening, but without avail.

'For heaven's sake send for a saw!' spluttered the gasping officer,
relapsing uncomfortably on the sofa and beginning to feel rather
alarmed. 'I can hardly breathe. Give me a whisky-and-soda, some one, or
I shall burst!'

The saw arrived in due course, and the chair was removed with some
damage to itself. The gallant officer never attempted the feat again.

The commander, an ex-torpedo specialist, was a good officer at his
work, and the _Belligerent_ always looked as clean and as smart as
a new pin. Her organisation, too, was as perfect as it could be. The
ship's company were very fond of 'the Bloke,' as they called him; and
when men did misbehave themselves he generally made the punishment fit
the crime. When two ordinary seamen, Barter and Hitchcock, began to
give trouble, for instance, he hit upon rather an original method of
dealing with them. He provided both of them with an ordinary
singlestick and a face-mask, but no body-pads, and then promised them
one penny each for every visible wale inflicted on the anatomy of the
other. The instigator imagined that he would have to shell out a
shilling at the most; but after a bout lasting for a fierce fifteen
minutes, examination in the bathroom at the hands of a ship's corporal
showed that Barter had earned one shilling and eightpence, and
Hitchcock two and a penny. They were never obstreperous again, and the
ship's company, instead of offering them sympathy, laughed
immoderately.

The commander, like other naval officers, had his bad moments, and
sometimes the watch-keepers found it advisable to steer clear of him
before breakfast. But even if an explosion did occur no bones were ever
broken, for they all knew he said a great deal more than he meant.
After breakfast and a pipe he was amiability itself, provided nothing
went wrong.

Chase, the senior lieutenant-commander and gunnery officer, has already
been described; and the next in seniority was Vernon Hatherley, the
lieutenant-commander (T.). He was something of an exquisite. He took a
great pride in his personal appearance, was reported to wear silk
slumber-wear, and kept a store of cosmetics and unguents in his cabin
for the anointing of his face and hair. His messmates knew this, and,
headed by No. 1, sometimes shampooed him with whisky-and-soda after
dinner. But Torps, as they called him, was an excellent fellow, and
took the ragging all in good part. Moreover, he generally succeeded in
getting his own back by discovering something wrong with the electric
lights in his tormentors' cabins at times when they most wanted to use
them. He was an x-chaser, in that he had done remarkably well in all
his different examinations; but besides being an expert theorist, he
was an officer who knew the practical side of his business from A to Z.

The navigator, Christopher Colomb, had just married a young and pretty
wife, and did not spend more time on board than he could possibly help.
As a consequence, his messmates saw comparatively little of him, unless
the _Belligerent_ was cruising, and Mrs Colomb could not follow her
husband. The captain occasionally succeeded in getting him to play golf
in the afternoons; but Colomb preferred his wife's society to that of
any one else. When he was on board in the evenings he shut himself in
his cabin, and spent the time writing a learned treatise on _Magnetic
Influences at Sea_. The book is still being written.

Peter Wooten, the next senior non-specialist officer of the military
branch, was doing a two-year spell in a battleship, after having been
in command of destroyers and gunboats for the past six years. He hated
the drudgery of big-ship life, where he acted as the commander's
understudy on the upper deck, had charge of the midshipmen and their
instruction, arranged the ordinary seamen's training classes, worked
the derrick for hoisting in and out boats, and generally acted as a
sort of 'odd job' man. The life was fairly comfortable, it is true; but
he much preferred the joys of commanding his own small ship to being a
comparative nobody in a vessel the size of the _Belligerent_. He was a
burly, deep-chested man, with fair, curly hair, tanned face, and a pair
of clear, humorous blue eyes. He was fresh from China, where he had
commanded a tiny river gunboat up the Yang-tse-kiang; and there, miles
up the great river, far away from any admiral, and completely 'on his
own,' he had made history in a small way. He was a great character, and
his stories of the Chinese revolution, when he could be induced to tell
them, were sometimes amusing and always interesting. (He was the
commanding officer of Martin's destroyer when that ordinary seaman
joined the 'black navy' soon after the outbreak of the present war, so
perhaps we may be pardoned for allowing him to spin one of his yarns.
It has the advantage of being true.)

'It was quite a pretty little show,' he said one evening in the
smoking-room after dinner, when somebody had egged him on to talk after
a second glass of port. 'Have any of you fellows ever heard of a place
called Kiang-fu, up the Yang-tse? You might know it, No. 1; you're an
old China bird.'

Chase shook his head. 'Sorry I don't, Peter. But let's have the yarn,
all the same.'

Wooten lit his pipe. 'Kiang-fu,' he started, 'is one of their walled
towns on the banks of the river. It's a beastly place, full of stinks
and bugs and abominations generally; and the only white people there
are the consul and his wife, a couple of missionaries, and two
merchants. Well, one morning my old _Kingfisher_ was lying about
twenty miles downstream, and a Chinaman from the consulate at Kiang-fu
arrived in a sampan with a note from the consul to say that five
thousand rebels had arrived before the place, and that there was going
to be some scrapping. There were about a thousand Imperial troops
inside the town, Johnson the consul said, and he was in a bit of a funk
as to what would happen when the rebels took the place. They'd have
butchered every one, of course, Europeans included. My orders were to
protect British interests, but not to fight, so I upped killick[11] and
steamed for Kiang-fu for all I was worth. We got about six and an
onion[12] out of the old bus, I remember, and reached there about noon.'
He paused and sucked thoughtfully at his pipe.

          [11] Weighed anchor.

          [12] A fraction of a knot.

'And what happened then?' queried some one.

'I found the bally battle in full swing,' Wooten went on. 'Guy Fawkes
Day wasn't in it, and both sides were blazing away for all they were
worth, and making a hell of a row. However, they weren't doing much
damage to each other. I anchored my hooker about a couple of hundred
yards from the shore, where we could get a decent view of what went on,
manned my two six-pounders and the Maxim, and hoisted an ensign and a
large white flag--wardroom tablecloth it was--in a boat, and then went
ashore to see Johnson. Things were pretty lively, and shells were
bursting and bullets were whistling all over the place. The rebel
attack was to come off that night, and as there could be only one end
to it, I took Johnson and his missus, the two missionaries, the two
shopkeepers, and Heaven alone knows how many Christian Chinese off to
my ship. The upper deck was fairly packed with 'em. Then we sat down to
watch the sport. One of the shopkeepers, I may say, was a Scotsman, and
the other a Yank, and they wanted me to order the rebs. to shove off
out of it and leave Kiang-fu alone. They had a lot of valuable stuff in
their godowns[13] waiting to be shipped down the river, and said the
whole lot of it 'u'd be looted if the city fell.

          [13] A 'godown' is a warehouse.

'I cursed them for a couple of tizzy-snatchers,' he resumed, grinning
at the recollection; 'I told 'em they ought to be jolly thankful to
have got off with their lives; and asked 'em how the dooce I could
dictate to five thousand ruddy cut-throats with Mauser rifles and Lord
knows how many field guns--decent guns, too; none of your clap-trap
rubbish. I had exactly thirty men all told, a broken-winded eighty-ton
gun-boat, two six-pounders, and one Maxim. Pretty tall order, wasn't
it? However, I was still yapping to 'em on deck when I heard a sort of
_phut_, and a bally bullet buried itself in the deck about a foot
off my leg. It came from the direction of the rebel trenches, about
five hundred yards off, and some silly blighter had evidently eased off
a rifle at us for the fun of the thing. I heard one or two more bullets
come whistling overhead--damned bad shooting they made--so sent all the
refugees over to the lee side of the deck out of harm's way. Then I
trained my guns on the rebs., and hoisted all the ensigns I had. They
knocked off firing then, so I got into the boat with the consul, the
wardroom tablecloth, and the largest ensign I could find, and pulled
ashore.' He paused.

'Had you any weapons with you?' somebody asked.

'Lord, no!' said Wooten. 'Doesn't do to let a Chinaman see you're
frightened of him. I took a walking-stick, and Johnson had a white
umbrella. I was in a dooce of a funk, though, and when we landed we
found a whole bally company of soldiers waiting to receive us.'

'What! a guard of honour?' asked Chase.

'Don't you believe it. They had fixed bayonets and loaded rifles, and I
felt rather nervous as to what was going to happen. You see, there
wasn't another British ship within a hundred miles of us. However, I
landed with the consul, and a Chinese officer with a drawn sword came
forward to receive us. He wasn't a bad fellow, and talked quite decent
English, with an American accent. I asked him what the dooce they meant
by having the troops there as if they wanted to scupper us, and told
him who the consul was, and that I was the C.O. of the man-of-war, and
that, on behalf of his Britannic Majesty, we wished to see his General.
He said the old bloke was having his afternoon caulk, and that they
daren't wake him. I said he'd better roust the old josser out, and be
damned smart about it. He hummed and hawed a bit over that, and then
said that if we'd come along with him he'd take us to the headquarters,
and see if we could have an interview. I wasn't going to kow-tow to any
bally Chinaman, though, so I told him that if he didn't take steps to
have the General brought to us in less than half-an-hour I'd raise
hell's delight. It's no use being anything but dictatorial with
Chinamen,' he went on to explain; 'and if you can bluff 'em into
believing that you've got the whip-hand they generally knuckle under.
We had some more talkee-talkee, and then he did go off with his men,
and jolly glad I was to see the last of 'em. Twenty minutes later the
General arrived. He was rather a fine-looking old boy, with no pigtail,
and was dressed up in khaki and a sword. He had a couple of A.D.C.'s
with him. He couldn't talk English, so I asked him through the consul
what he meant by allowing his troops to fire on my ship, and said that
I should have to report it, and so on. He said they hadn't done it. I
said they had, and that if he came on board I'd jolly soon prove it.
Well, after a lot of jawbation we got him into the boat, with the
A.D.C.'s, took him off to the ship, and showed him the bullet-mark in
the deck. He got in a bit of a funk then, so Johnson and I drew up a
document in Chinese and English, in which he said he was sorry for what
had occurred, and so on. It went on to say that he agreed to abandon
the siege of Kiang-fu, as British interests were at stake, so we'd more
or less cornered him. He signed like a lamb, wily old devil; but then
we remembered that no document is valid in China unless it's stamped
with the official seal of the man who signed it. We asked him where the
seal was, but he hadn't got it on him. Johnson asked him where it was,
and he said he'd got it in his old headquarters, about ten miles
downstream. He volunteered to go and fetch it, but we weren't having
any. The upshot of the whole affair was that we sent one of the
A.D.C.'s ashore to order the siege to be stopped, and the rebels to
retire, and took the General and the other A.D.C. down the river. Then
we sent the A.D.C. ashore to get the seal, and had the document
properly stamped. That's all, I think.'

'But did the rebels retire?' asked the commander.

Wooten nodded. 'Yes,' he said. 'They left the place like lambs, and the
Imperialist colonel inside nearly fell on my neck and wept. The two
shopkeepers gave me a box of a hundred cigars between them! Damned
nasty cigars, too!'

His listeners laughed.

'And what happened to you?' asked Chase.

'Oh,' smiled Wooten, 'I sent the document to the admiral, with a
covering letter, and jolly nearly got badly scrubbed for exceeding my
duty and abducting the General. However, it was all right in the end,
and I believe the old man was secretly rather pleased with what I'd
done.'

'So he jolly well ought to have been,' remarked one of the
watch-keepers.

'M'yes, but he was a man who didn't say much. However, a month later a
British colonel and a couple of other officers came down from Pekin to
confer with me about putting Kiang-fu in a state of defence in case the
rebels came again, for by that time the powers that be had come to the
conclusion that if they did capture it, it wouldn't do us any good. The
colonel and I went ashore together, he with his two officers, and I
with a sheet of paper and a pencil.

'"You'd better loophole that wall," he started off, pointing at a solid
stone affair about three feet thick. "This house had better be
demolished, and you'll have to dig a trench along here, with decent
sand-bag head-cover. I should think a hundred and fifty rifles will be
enough to man it, provided you have a couple of Maxims at each corner.
Over there we'll have an emplacement for a field-gun, and there another
trench."

'He went on like that the whole of one grilling forenoon, and by the
time he'd finished I'd totted up my figures, and found he'd used the
best part of a thousand men.

'"That's all right, sir," said I; "and when may I expect the regiment?"

'"Regiment!" he said, rather surprised. "What regiment d'you mean?"

'"The regiment for doing all this work and garrisoning the place, sir,"
said I innocently. "You've been talking about knocking down houses,
erecting barricades, and digging trenches right and left. I've only got
thirty men."

'"The deuce you have!" he said thoughtfully. "We'd better"----

'"Go and have lunch, sir," I chipped in.

'"Excellent idea," said he, mopping his face.

'So off we went, had a top-hole _tiffin_, and that was the last we
ever heard of it. Kiang-fu never was put in a state of defence so far
as I know. However, the rebels never came there again, so every one was
quite happy. I tell you,' Wooten concluded with a grin, 'one
occasionally has some pretty rummy times up the Yang-tse.'

One had, apparently, and Peter Wooten was an officer of great
initiative and resource, who had served his country well, and had
upheld the dignity of her flag on more than one occasion. Chinese
generals, mandarins, and other Celestial potentates were nothing to
him. He bullied or bluffed them all into doing what he wanted, and they
used to walk in terror of 'the red-faced devil with the loud voice,' as
they called him. No wonder, then, that Peter felt himself tied by the
leg in a battleship, where, to use his own expression, he was a 'mere
dog's body.'

The watch-keeping lieutenants were George English, Aubrey Plantagenet
Fitz-Johnson (usually known in the wardroom as 'the Dook'), Henry
Archer Boyle, and Tobias Tickle.

English was a mild, inoffensive little man, whose chief ambition in
life was to retire from the navy while he was still young, marry a
wife, live in a small whitewashed cottage miles away from any sea, rear
pigs and chickens, and collect butterflies. For all his lack of
ambition, however, he was a good and zealous officer. He never made a
bad mistake; but never, on the other hand, did anything very brilliant.
He was a conscientious plodder.

'The Dook' was a tall, dashing, immaculate person, with sleek and shiny
hair. He had a wonderful taste in dress, and how many different suits
of plain clothes he possessed nobody but himself and his servant knew.
How much he owed his tailor and his haberdasher nobody was aware of but
those long-suffering tradesmen themselves, for Fitz-Johnson cast all
his bills into the fire immediately on their receipt. His garments were
always fashionable and well cut; his ties, collars, shirts, and socks
of the newest and most exclusive pattern. His uniform frock-coat fitted
his _svelte_ figure like a glove; his trousers were always perfectly
creased; and on Sundays he always appeared at 'divisions' with a
brand-new pair of kid gloves--he never wore the same pair twice. The
men called him Algy. He looked it. He was essentially a lady-killer.
His cabin was full of autographed photographs of feminine admirers and
mementoes in the shape of faded dance-programmes and little knots and
bows of ribbon. His bedspread, a wonderful creation in blue silk,
embroidered with his crest and monogram, had been worked by one set of
fair fingers; his door and scuttle curtains, of chintz, by some one
else; and a little bag for his hairbrushes by a third lady. When the
mail arrived his letter-rack in the wardroom was crammed with bills,
and letters in feminine handwriting. He kept up a voluminous
correspondence, but was wise enough never to have more than one ardent
admirer in any one place. He was a regular 'devyl with the girls,'
there was no doubt about that; and if the ship arrived at some new
place, and the wardroom took it into its head it would like to give a
tea-fight, 'the Dook' was immediately sent ashore to prospect. How he
did it nobody quite knew; but at the end of twenty-four hours he would
be on friendly terms not only with all the young and pretty girls in
the place, but also with their mothers, aunts, and female cousins. He
was always on the verge of being engaged to be married, but never quite
pulled it off. His host of unpaid bills, and the fact that he had
little or no money besides his pay, probably frightened him. But, at
any rate, he was a valuable acquisition as a messmate, for he sang
well, and could play almost any musical instrument under the sun.

His chief failing was that he was never less than a quarter of an hour
late for his watch. 'I'm deuced sorry, old chap,' was his usual excuse
to the officer he had to relieve. 'The fella didn't call me properly.'

'Oh, to hell with you and your rotten excuses!' would growl the
irritated watch-keeper who had been kept up. 'You're about the frozen
limit! The corporal of the watch was hammering on your cabin door for
at least a quarter of an hour!'

'It really wasn't my fault, though,' Fitz-Johnson would protest mildly.
'Please don't get shirty, old chap.'

It was impossible to be really angry with him; but he continued to
relieve late until the other watch-keepers hit upon a scheme of keeping
him up for an extra half-hour at the end of his own watch. That cured
him eventually.

Boyle, the next in seniority, was a young, enthusiastic, and very
energetic officer, who wished one day to become a gunnery officer. He
had charge of the after-turret, with its pair of twelve-inch guns, and
spent much of his time in a suit of oily overalls scrambling about in
the depths of the hydraulic machinery. He was of an inventive turn of
mind too, and even at the comparatively early age of twenty-four had
already designed a self-stabilising seaplane, a non-capsizable boat, a
patent razor-stropper, and an adjustable chair. This last, which he
used in his cabin, was really most ingenious. It had hidden springs all
over it, and you pushed a button and it did the rest. You could use it
for anything, from an operating-table to a trousers-press; and it was
often brought into the wardroom after dinner on guest-nights for its
various uses to be demonstrated. It worked beautifully, until one night
the _padre_, who was reclining gracefully at full length, pressed
the wrong button in a sudden fit of exuberance. The chair promptly
bucked like a kicking mule. The front shot up and the back fell down,
and the reverend occupant hurtled adroitly backwards straight into the
arms of an astonished marine servant with a tray full of whiskies and
sodas. He came to the ground with a crash, with the marine and the
liquid on top of him, and everybody laughed.

The servant, drenched through, retired grumbling to change his
garments; and the Rev. Stephen Holiman scrambled to his feet, surveyed
the mess of broken glass and liquor on the deck, and then felt his
pulped collar and examined his clothes.

'Boyle, you silly ass!' he expostulated, justifiably annoyed, and
trying to mop himself dry with a handkerchief, 'why the d-dickens
couldn't you tell me the thing was going to pitch me over backwards
like that?'

'I'm awfully sorry, _padre_,' spluttered the inventor, weak with
laughing. 'You must have pressed the wrong button; but even then I've
never known it do that before. Perhaps it wants oiling.'

'Take the rotten thing away and drown it!' retorted the _padre_, as
angry as he ever got. 'It oughtn't to be allowed on board. It's ruined
my clothes!' But the _padre_ was a sportsman with a sense of humour,
and after a little more grumbling, during which he got no sympathy from
his messmates, cheered up and went off to change. Ever afterwards, when
the chair appeared, he endeavoured to make it play the same trick on
some unsuspecting guest. But it never would.

Tobias Tickle, commonly known as 'Toby,' was the officer of Martin's
division, whom we have already met. He had married very young, and had
a rich and pretty wife, who was as popular as himself; but this did not
prevent Toby from being a very riotous member of society on occasions.
He was loved by his men; for, while very strict, he took a great
interest in them and their affairs. He knew the surname and Christian
name of every bluejacket in his division; knew whether they were
married, engaged to be married, courting, or single; and always gave
them good advice when they asked for it. They often did. On more than
one occasion he or his wife had helped them in other ways.

Once, when Mrs Buttings, the wife of an able seaman, had been ailing,
and had had to undergo a rather serious operation, Mrs Toby heard of it
through her husband. She promptly visited the patient, found her living
in a miserable little dwelling in a back street in Landport, with four
children between the ages of six months and five years, and nobody to
look after her except the neighbours. This would not do for Mrs Tickle.
She promptly engaged a trained nurse, sent the children off to a
farmhouse in the country, visited the invalid daily, saw that she had a
proper diet, and provided her with many sovereigns' worth of coal and
luxuries.

Buttings himself, when he went ashore and saw the transformation in his
usually rather slovenly home, was furious. Like most bluejackets, he
hated the idea of charity in any form, and went straight off to see
Tickle.

'Look 'ere, sir,' he said; 'with orl my doo respects to you, it ain't
playin' the game!'

'Not playing the game!' answered the lieutenant, quite at a loss to
understand what the man was driving at. 'What d'you mean?'

'Well, sir, it's like this 'ere. I goes 'ome an' finds my 'ouse rigged
up like a bloomin' 'orspitle, an' the missus lyin' in bed with flowers,
an' beef-tea, an' port wine, an' sich like. I finds another 'ooman
there a-lookin' 'arter 'er--dressed up like a 'orspitle nurse, she
wus--an' w'en I arsks 'er wot she done with the kids, she sez as 'ow
they'd bin sent to the country. W'en I wants to know 'oo's done it, she
sezs Mrs Tickle. It ain't fair on a man, sir, doin' a thing like that,
an' habductin' of 'is kids. S'welp me, it ain't!' Buttings paused for
breath.

'I'm sorry you think that, Buttings,' said Tickle gently. 'Your wife
has been very ill, and what she wants is good food and proper
treatment. She's getting that now. The children, too, are out in the
country having an excellent time. After all, my wife didn't do it
without asking Mrs Buttings.'

'Yessir. That's all werry well; but I pays the rent o' the bally
'ouse.'

'Of course I understand that. But surely you don't grudge your wife a
little comfort after she's been so ill?'

'No, sir, o' course not,' said the seaman, scratching his head. 'But
'oo's goin' to pay for orl this 'ere? Port wine an' chicken jelly ain't
got for nothin'.'

Tickle felt half-inclined to tell him outright that he, or, rather, his
wife, was prepared to pay for everything; but if he had, the able
seaman would at once have been in open rebellion. The nurse alone came
to two guineas a week, and the food and little luxuries for the invalid
to as much again. 'Well, Buttings,' he said, pretending to consider,
'suppose it costs about seven-and-six a week. That's about it, I should
imagine.'

Buttings seemed rather relieved. 'Seven an' a tanner,' he said, more
happily. 'I kin manage that, sir. I ain't got much money to splosh
abart, o' course,' he hastened to explain; 'but I don't like ter think
as 'ow I ain't payin' for what my old 'ooman's gettin'.'

And so, for the time being, the matter ended, and both parties were
satisfied.

Mrs Buttings recovered in due course, and became her old buxom self,
and then it was that she enlightened her husband as to what the Tickles
had really done. Buttings was speechless with rage.

But Christmas came soon afterwards, and on the morning itself, as
Tickle was having his bath, there came a knock at his cabin door.
'Hallo, what is it?' he asked, springing up and wrapping a towel round
himself.

'It's Buttings, sir,' said the seaman, pulling aside the curtain. 'I've
got this 'ere for you, sir, from my missus an' meself; an' this, sir,
is for your lady. We both wishes you an' your lady a 'Appy Christmas,
sir.' There was a suspicious huskiness in his voice; and, after pushing
two small parcels into the astonished officer's hands, he fled before
Tickle could say so much as 'Thank you.'

One package contained a highly ornamental silver cigarette-case, and
the other a small gold brooch of impossible design. Accompanying each
gift was a flamboyant card with a chaste design of clasped hands,
wreaths and sprigs of forget-me-nots, and true-lovers' knots. Below
were the words: 'In friendship we are united.' Inside, in very
laborious handwriting, came the inscription: 'With great gratitude from
Able Seaman and Mrs Reuben Buttings.'

'Well, I'm damned!' muttered the lieutenant, gazing at the presents,
deeply touched. The little gifts, which had cost Buttings and his wife
many of their hard-earned shillings, were their way of showing that
they had not forgotten.

Mrs Toby was so overcome when she received her brooch that she nearly
wept with emotion. 'Dear, dear people!' she murmured gently; 'I love
them!'

And still some folk have the effrontery to say that there is no bond of
sympathy between the officers and men of the Royal Navy.




CHAPTER VI.

'THE 'ORRIBLE DEN.'


I.

From the quarterdeck one climbed down a steep ladder, walked aft along
the maindeck past the wardroom, descended another ladder, and finally
emerged into a large flat lit by electricity. To starboard was a
bulkhead with rifles in racks, their blued barrels gleaming dully in
the glare of the electric bulbs. Behind the rifle-racks came some of
the officers' cabins, through the open doorways of which one was
vouchsafed an occasional fleeting glimpse of sea and sky framed in the
circular opening of a scuttle in the ship's side.

The small habitations seemed to reflect the personalities and tastes of
their several occupants. Some were gay with pictures, photographs,
brightly coloured bedspreads and curtains, and had easy-chairs,
well-filled bookcases, and a glittering array of silver-backed brushes,
photograph-frames, and ornaments on the chests of drawers serving as
toilet-tables. In others there was little or no attempt at decoration,
and they were furnished with almost Spartan simplicity, with nothing
but what the Admiralty allowed. This consisted of a bunk with drawers
underneath, a solid mahogany chest of drawers, a book-shelf, a folding
washstand, a minute writing-table, a straight-backed cane-bottomed
chair, a small strip of carpet, ugly maroon-coloured scuttle and door
curtains, and, by way of decoration, the inevitable shallow circular
tin bath suspended from the roof.

Amidships in the flat, in ordered rows, came the midshipmen's
sea-chests. They were painted white, with black lids, and bore their
owners' names on small brass plates. Each was exactly three feet six
inches long, one foot eight and a half inches broad, and three feet
seven and three-quarter inches high, neither more nor less. Admiralty
regulations are explicit and precise, even on the subject of
midshipmen's sea-chests. In these receptacles the 'snotties'[14] kept,
or were supposed to keep, all their worldly belongings, and woe betide
them if the first lieutenant discovered their clothes or boots lying
about when he went his rounds twice a day! The garments were promptly
impounded and placed in the scran-bag, which was opened only once a
week. Moreover, one inch of soap--which went toward cleaning the
ship--had to be paid for each article claimed.

          [14] 'Snotty' is the naval slang term for midshipman.

On the opposite side of the flat were more rifle-racks and two
curtained doorways. One of these gave access to a pantry, the other to
what the commander called 'the 'Orrible Den,' otherwise the gunroom. It
was the habitat of the junior officers, and provided accommodation for
two sub-lieutenants, an assistant-paymaster, ten midshipmen, and Mr
Hubert Green, the assistant-clerk.

Imagine an apartment about thirty feet long by twenty feet wide, with
plenty of head-room. It ran fore and aft, and on the ship's side
opposite to the door were four circular scuttles. They were about six
feet above the water-line, and could be left open in harbour or in the
calmest weather at sea. If it was blowing at all hard, however, they
had to be kept tight shut to prevent the entry of the water. On these
occasions the atmosphere, well impregnated with the smell of food from
the pantry, could be cut with a knife. The sub-lieutenant, complaining
bitterly of the 'fug' or 'frowst,' sometimes ordered a junior
midshipman to carry out what was known as 'scuttle drill.' This meant
that the unfortunate youth had to open the port gingerly to let in the
air, but that he must bang it to again whenever a sea came rushing
past. If he allowed water or spray to enter he was chastised. He
generally was, but not really hard. Underneath the scuttles, and along
the after bulkhead, were narrow cushioned settees serving as seats.
Then came two long tables, with, outside them again, padded forms.
Altogether there was seating accommodation for about twenty-four people
at meals.

On the inner bulkhead near the door was a stove, and beyond this again
a small piano. This instrument had been quite a good one once upon a
time, but, owing to an accumulation of foreign matter in its interior,
caused no doubt by a youthful officers' steward, who found it a
convenient receptacle for dirty cotton-waste, polishing-paste,
bathbrick, and emery-paper, was long past its palmy days. However, it
still made a noise, and was useful for sing-songs.

On the foremost bulkhead was a small hatch with a sliding door
communicating with the pantry, and underneath it a mahogany sideboard.
The appointments were completed by three wicker arm-chairs, provided by
the occupants themselves, a sofa, a rack for the midshipmen's dirks, a
mahogany letter-rack and notice-board, and rows of small lockers, just
under the ceiling, round two sides over the settees. In these the
'snotties' kept their small personal belongings, books, and pots of jam
or potted meat. But we have forgotten the beer-barrel. It occupied a
conspicuous position near the sideboard.

Pictures and prints hung on the white enamelled walls, rugs were
scattered about the floor, and the two long tables were covered with
crimson cloths of the usual Admiralty pattern, and were adorned with
palms in pots and vases of flowers. So, taking it all round, 'the
'Orrible Den' was not quite so bad as it was painted. In fact, it was
quite a cheerful apartment.

Sub-Lieutenant Archibald Bertrain Cook--commonly known as Alphabetical
Cook--was the senior member of the mess and _ex officio_ president.
He was a lusty, riotous, red-faced fellow of twenty-two, and ruled
the midshipmen with a rod of iron. The other sub was Roger More, six
months junior to him. Wilfrid Shilling, the A.P.,[15] was a tall,
anæmic-looking officer, with an incipient beard and rather long hair.
He wore glasses, and was deeply in love with a young lady at Weymouth.
He went by the name of Blinkers.

          [15] Assistant-paymaster.

Next came the senior midshipmen, Antony Charles Trevelyan, Roderick
MacDonald, William Augustus Trevor, and Henry Taut. They varied in age
between eighteen and a half and nineteen and a half; and the first, on
account of his rather blue chin and heavy growth of hair, went by the
elegant name of Whiskers. MacDonald, who was short and had rather a
barrel-like appearance, was nicknamed Shorty or Tubby; while Trevor, a
small youth, sometimes answered to Winkle. Taut, the midshipman of
Martin's division, was the Long Slab. He was tall and very thin, rather
like a lighthouse.

Then came the six junior 'snotties,' whose names do not really matter.
They were all under eighteen, and had only just joined the ship from
the training-cruiser. They were, in consequence, very small beer
indeed--mere excrescences on the face of the earth. Collectively they
were referred to as the Warts, Crabs, or Dogs' Bodies, and had to do
what everybody else chose to tell them.

The Wart of all the Warts was Mr Hubert Green, the assistant-clerk. He
was a small, freckle-faced youth, with a squeaky voice and ginger hair,
and had only just come to sea. He was only seventeen and a half, the
baby of the gunroom, and on account of his youth and general ignorance
of the navy and naval affairs, spent his life having his leg pulled by
the midshipmen.

Both the subs and the A.P. had cabins of their own. The midshipmen
'lived in chests,' as the saying is; slept in hammocks in the gunroom
flat; and performed their ablutions in a small tiled bathroom farther
forward. Publicity was a thing they had no qualms about whatsoever, and
between seven o'clock and seven-forty-five in the morning, when they
were dressing or parading about with or without towels, waiting for
their turns to wash, the flat was no fit place for the general public.

Except on Sundays, when they lay in till seven o'clock, the 'snotties'
turned out at six-fifteen, and from six-forty till seven were on deck
at physical drill. At seven, therefore, came the rush for baths, the
usual exaggerated tin saucers, of which there were only six. The
bandsmen servants procured their respective masters' hot water
beforehand; but it was always a case of first come first served, and
nobody hesitated to use anybody else's belongings if he were big and
strong enough to do so with impunity. Such things as hot water,
sponges, soap, and nail-brushes were regarded as common property unless
their owners chose to retain them by force. Towels and toothbrushes
alone were sacred to the individual.

The subs and the senior midshipmen bathed first, and woe betide any
Crab who was discovered in the bathroom when they arrived! He was
promptly hurled out. Then came the junior 'snotties,' and lastly the
assistant-clerk, who, poor wight, usually had to be content with cold
water. But they were all quite happy, and made a great deal of noise.

Pay of one shilling and ninepence _per diem_, plus a compulsory
allowance of fifty pounds a year from one's people, which was what the
midshipmen received, is not great affluence, even in the navy, where
living is comparatively cheap. It amounts in all to six pounds fifteen
shillings and tenpence per month of thirty days.

Mr Tubbs, the long-suffering gunroom-messman, and a bit of a villain,
undertook to provide breakfast, luncheon, and dinner for the sum of
thirty shillings a month a head from each member; but in addition
to this he also took the ten-pence _per diem_ allowed to each
officer by the Government in lieu of rations. Afternoon tea, cake,
bread-and-butter, tins of biscuits, potted meat, jam, fruit, and other
extraneous edibles were charged for as extras, in which category also
came such things as soap, bootlaces, drawing-paper, pens, ink, pencils,
&c. The sum of ten shillings _per mensem_ was supposed, by Admiralty
regulation, to suffice for the midshipmen's needs in the way of extras;
but the most of them, with the connivance of the messman, ran what they
called 'extra-extra bills.' It was on the profit made on these that Mr
Tubbs was able to make two ends meet at all, for one and tenpence a day
is not much wherewith to satisfy the food capacity of a young and lusty
lad with a healthy appetite.

'Snotties' over eighteen were allowed to expend fifteen shillings a
month on wine, and those under this age five shillings less; but
nobody under twenty was permitted to touch spirits. The mess
fund--for newspapers, breakages, washing, and other small incidental
expenses--came to a nominal five shillings a month, but generally
exceeded it; servant's wages were ten shillings; personal washing,
say, ten shillings; and tobacco--if the officer was over eighteen,
and allowed to smoke--about seven shillings and sixpence or
half-a-sovereign. The monthly balance-sheet, omitting all
extravagances, therefore, worked out somewhat as follows:

    RECEIPTS.

    1s. 9d. a day for 30 days      £2 12  6
    One-twelfth of £50              4  3  4
                                   --------
    Total                          £6 15 10

    DEBITS.

    30 days' messing at 1s. a day   £1 10 0
    Mess Fund                        0  5 0
    Wine                             0 15 0
    Tobacco                          0  7 6
    Extras                           0 10 0
    Servant                          0 10 0
    Washing                          0 10 0
                                    -------
    Total                           £4  7 6

This, omitting the 'extra-extra,' left a nominal credit balance of two
pounds eight shillings and fourpence wherewith to last out the month.
Only one or two of the 'snotties' received anything extra in the way of
allowances from their people, though their outfitters' bills for all
necessaries in the way of clothing were usually met by their parents.
But even this did not improve matters to any great extent, and not one
of the young officers was ever known to have much in the way of money
unless parents or relations behaved handsomely on birthdays or at
Christmas. Even then the gift dwindled rapidly, for if one of them did
receive a windfall of an odd pound or two, he took care that his
messmates shared his good fortune. The clothes they had, too, were in a
perpetual state of being lost; and if one of them was asked out to dine
in another ship, everybody contributed something towards his attire.
One provided a shirt, and others handkerchief, collar, tie, and evening
shoes; but in spite of it all they somehow always managed to look smart
and well-dressed.

This state of chronic hardupness is hereditary in midshipmen. History
relates that a youth once came home from China, and landed at
Portsmouth with no soles to his boots, a hole in the crown of his straw
hat--it had been eaten by cockroaches--the seat of his trousers darned
by himself with sail-makers' twine, and no tails to any of his shirts.
With the ready resource of the sailor, he had removed these for use as
pocket-handkerchiefs.

The Royal Navy is essentially a poor man's service, and comparatively
few of its officers have anything considerable in the way of means over
and beyond their pay. It is sometimes difficult to keep out of debt,
for they are expected to go everywhere and do everything, while uniform
is expensive, and the cost of living is always increasing. It seems to
be part of a midshipman's job to be poor, and one would as soon expect
to find a dustman with a gold-mounted shaving-set as a 'snotty' with
more than half-a-crown in his pocket on the 28th of the month.

The 'snotties' of the _Belligerent_ were no exception to the
general rule. They were quite irrepressible, and were as happy and
cheerful as they could be, though sometimes they did complain bitterly
that they were half-starved. On occasions, to the accompaniment of
spoons beaten on the table, they chanted a mournful dirge anent the
iniquities of the messman. It was long and rather ribald, but the last
two lines of the chorus ran:

    We're starving! we're starving!
    And the messman's name is Mr Tubbs!

They weren't really so famished as they pretended to be, but Tubbs
certainly was an old rogue. One celebrated morning, when the senior
sub-lieutenant was absent, he peered through the pantry hatch at
breakfast-time.

'Now, gennelmen,' he said, 'wot we 'ave for breakfast is 'ot sardines
an' 'am. Sardines is a bit orf, the 'am is tainted, an' fruit is extra.
Wot'll you 'ave?'

The ship was half-way across the Bay of Biscay at the time, and had
been at sea for several days, so perhaps there was some slight excuse
for the inadequacies of the morning meal. But Tubbs had tried this game
before; and, headed by Roger More, the junior sub-lieutenant, the
members of the mess rose _en bloc_ and hastily armed themselves with
dirks.

The messman, scenting trouble, promptly fled from the pantry with his
satellites after him, while the hungry officers rushed in, broke open
various cupboards, and helped themselves liberally to Tubbs's private
store of tinned kippers and haddock. He complained bitterly, but got no
redress.

Another time the members of the mess were sitting round the table
waiting impatiently for lunch. Noon was the proper time for the meal;
but at twelve-ten nothing had appeared on the table except the
vegetables. The hungry officers commenced to bang on the table with
eating implements, and started the inevitable dirge, and in the middle
of it Tubbs's face appeared framed in the pantry hatch.

'I'm sorry, gennelmen,' he said when he could make himself heard in the
uproar. 'The boy's fallen down the 'atch with the joint, an' it ain't
fit be to seen. I've some werry nice corned beef'----

A chorus of groans drowned his utterance. 'Let's see the joint,' some
one demanded.

'It's bin thrown overboard, sir,' the messman explained glibly,
disappearing from view.

Several of the junior midshipmen and the assistant-clerk were
despatched to visit the scene of the alleged accident, and to report on
what traces they found. There were none. There never had been any
joint.

'Tubbs!' they yelled in unison when the spies came back.

The messman's head appeared, and the minute it bobbed up into sight it
was greeted with a volley of vegetables. On the whole the shooting was
good, and Tubbs made an excellent Aunt Sally. Potatoes baked in their
jackets spattered and burst all round the pantry hatch like a
_rafale_ of shrapnel-shell, while some, passing through, exploded
on impact with the messman's head. The _pièce de résistance_ was a
cauliflower. It struck the ledge and detonated like a high-explosive
projectile, and the messman received its disintegrated stickiness full
in the face. He slammed the hatch up with a bang, and rushed into the
mess with his face, beard, and hair dripping with vegetable products;
while the culprits, wildly excited, shrieked with laughter. The
bombardment would have continued, but the available ammunition was
expended.

Tubbs was furious. 'I'll 'ave the law on yer!' he shouted wildly,
waving his fists. 'I'll report yer to the commander, and 'ave yer
court-martialled, see if I don't! It's disgraceful, that's wot it is,
an' wot the navy's comin' to I don't know! Calls yerselves gennelmen,
do yer?'

He went on for quite a long time; but nothing further ever came of it.
He knew well enough that he had brought it on himself, and thereafter
he became rather more particular over the matter of providing meals.

It must not be imagined that the inhabitants of the _Belligerent_'s
gunroom always behaved like this. On the contrary, they were an
unusually well-conducted mess, and they broke out only when they were
really exasperated, and their feelings got the better of them.

The sub, assisted by the senior 'snotties,' had drilled the Crabs into
a high state of discipline and efficiency. He believed in using the
terror of the stick as a deterrent rather than in employing the weapon
itself, and as a consequence the junior midshipmen were never beaten
really hard unless they misbehaved themselves. But as Cook himself once
remarked, 'You can bet your bottom dollar that for every sin they've
been bowled out committing, there are fully fifty more that we haven't
discovered;' and there was some truth in the remark.

One of the methods of smartening up the Crabs was an evolution known as
'fork in the beam.' This was a time-honoured custom which must have
started in the days of wooden sailing-ships, since it is hardly
possible to stick an ordinary table-fork into the steel beams of a
modern vessel. It generally took place during dinner, when the younger
members of the mess had been making too much noise.

The sub, standing up at his place at the end of the table, would
insinuate a fork into the electric wires overhead, and at this signal
all the junior midshipmen and the assistant-clerk had to leave the
mess, scamper twice round the boat-deck, and return in the shortest
possible time. In the old-time evolution itself the 'snotties' used to
run up the rigging and over the masthead, but Cook substituted the race
round the boat-deck as being less dangerous. The last officer back had
to repeat the performance; and, as the loser generally found that
somebody had drunk his beer during his absence, there was always great
competition to be away first. It usually started by a seething mass of
seven Crabs being stuck in the doorway. After much struggling and
pushing, they would eventually fall through into the flat amidst shrill
yelps from the young gentlemen who happened to be underneath, and
remarks of 'Get off my face!' 'Ow! let go my leg, you beast!' Then,
sorting themselves out one by one, they would dart off, to return a few
minutes later flushed and breathless after their exercise.

They were also organised as what were known as the 'dogs of war,' with
the idea, as the sub explained, of instilling them with martial ardour
and making them fierce. On the order, 'Dogs of war out--so and so!'
they were expected to growl viciously, hurl themselves upon the person
named, and cast him forth from the mess. Sometimes the assistant-clerk
was the victim, sometimes one of the 'snotties' themselves; but, to
make things really exciting, the 'dogs' were occasionally divided into
two sides, Red and Blue, and each party endeavoured to expel the other.
It always meant a frantic struggle, for the victim or victims resisted
violently. They were none too gentle either, for clothes were torn,
shirts and collars were destroyed, and bruises were by no means
infrequent. Sometimes people's noses bled, and the fight waxed really
furious; but cases of lost temper were comparatively rare, and the
'dogs' usually enjoyed the fun as much as any one else. Their parents,
had they been present during the strife, might not have been quite so
amused. They paid for the clothes.

The star turn, however, was the Crabs' _corps de ballet_, and it
occasionally disported itself on guest nights for the amusement and
edification of any strangers who happened to be present. Trevelyan, the
senior midshipman, was the stage manager, and what the ballet lost
through lack of histrionic power on the part of the performers it more
than made up for by its originality. Their attire was sketchy, to say
the least of it. It consisted mainly of bath-towels, sea-boots, and
straw hats; and the songs and dances, to the strains of the elderly,
asthmatic piano, and bagpipes played by a Scots midshipman, MacDonald,
usually brought down the house. If by any chance the performance fell
at all flat through a lack of energy on the part of the performers,
they were promptly converted into 'dogs of war,' with the inevitable
result. So, taking it all round, the occupants of 'the 'Orrible Den'
managed to amuse themselves.

But because they sometimes became riotous and irresponsible in the
gunroom, it must not be imagined that the younger officers were not
learning their trade. Far from it; they worked really very hard, on
deck, in the engine-room, and in pursuit of the wily and elusive
_x_. Their day started at six-fifteen, and between six-forty and
seven o'clock they were either away boat-pulling or at physical drill
or rifle exercise. After this came baths, and from seven-forty-five
till eight instruction in signals. Breakfast was at eight; and from
nine till eleven-forty-five, and again in the afternoon from
one-fifteen to three-fifteen, they were at instruction in seamanship,
gunnery, torpedo, navigation, or engineering. Voluntary instruction in
theoretical subjects took place for one and a half hours on three
evenings of the week, and those more backward youths who did not
volunteer were compelled to attend. Two nights a week, from
eight-thirty till nine, there were signal exercises with the Morse
lamp, and these had to be attended by all the midshipmen until they
attained a certain standard of proficiency.

In addition to this, they had their regular watches to keep--day and
night at sea, and from eight-thirty A.M. till eight P.M. in harbour;
while no boat ever left the ship under steam or sail without a 'snotty'
in charge. Their days, therefore, were pretty busy.

They generally managed to get ashore between three-thirty and seven
P.M. about two days out of every four, and on Saturdays and Sundays
from one-thirty; but no late leave was granted save in very exceptional
circumstances. They amused themselves with hockey and football in the
winter, and golf, tennis, and cricket in the summer; and at places
where games could not be played, solaced their feelings by borrowing
one of the ship's boats on Sunday afternoons, stocking her with great
hampers containing provender of all kinds, and then sailing off for a
picnic. There is an irresistible fascination in cooking sausages and
boiling a kettle over a home-made fire on some unfrequented island or
beach which appeals to the most sober-minded of us.

Your modern midshipmen are no longer the rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed little
cherubs of fiction. Many of them are over six feet, some of them shave,
and nobody but their aunts and female cousins refer to them as
'middies.' To call them by that diminutive term to their faces would
make them squirm. They refer to themselves as 'snotties,' and
'snotties' they will remain till the end of the chapter. The name,
rather inelegant perhaps, owes its origin to the three buttons on the
cuffs of their full-dress short jackets, which ribald people used to
say were first placed there to prevent their sleeves being put to the
use generally delegated to pocket-handkerchiefs. Any schoolboy will
tell you what a 'snot rag' is; but I have never yet heard of a modern
midshipman being without this rather important article of dress.

'Snotties' are a strange mixture. They possess all the love of fun and
excitement of schoolboys, but once on duty are very much officers. They
have to undertake responsibility very young, and at an age when their
shore-going brothers are still at public schools their careers in the
service have started.

Seamanship is not an exact science; it is an art. It comprises, amongst
other things, experience, sound judgment, good nerve, a vast deal of
common-sense, and a happy knack of knowing when risks are justifiable
and when they are not. It is a subject which cannot be taught by rule
of thumb after the first groundwork of elementary knowledge has been
assimilated, and circumstances alter cases so greatly that no preceptor
on this earth could lay down hard-and-fast rules for each of the
thousand-and-fifty contingencies which may arise at sea, and which may
one day have to be guarded against or overcome. The sea, moreover, is a
fickle mistress. The navy is always on active service, in peace or in
war, for its men and its ships are for ever pitting their skill and
strength against the might of the most merciless of enemies--the
elements. From the very moment that midshipmen join their first ship
they are expected to take part in the great game, and sometimes it is a
game of life and death. They start off by being placed in charge of
boats in all weathers. They may be steamboats, or boats under sail; but
whichever they are, the 'snotties' are learning their trade. If they do
something foolish they may cause great damage to valuable property, may
even be the means of men losing their lives; but they generally succeed
in getting out of scrapes and difficulties with some credit to
themselves.

The strenuous training and habit of early responsibility may convert
them into men before their time; but they still manage to retain their
boyish instincts, and when they are off duty these generally appear
uppermost. At times they are noisy, riotous, and altogether
irrepressible; but when it comes to work they are very much all there.


II.

'Ain't got a fill o' bacca abart yer, 'ave yer?' asked Joshua Billings,
A.B., producing an abbreviated, blackened, and very foul clay pipe
from the lining of his cap and gazing at it pensively. It was
twelve-forty-five P.M., the middle of the dinner-hour, and Joshua,
having just assimilated his tot of navy rum, was at peace with himself
and the world in general.

'Sorry,' Martin answered, 'I ain't got nothin' but fags.'

'Fags!' the able seaman growled. 'Why you young blokes smokes nothin'
but them things I dunno. They tastes like smokin' 'ay. W'en I fu'st
jined I takes up me pun' o' bacca reg'lar, an' I done it ever since.
It's got some taste abart it. Fags! S'welp me, I dunno wot th' blessed
navy's comin' to!'

Martin looked rather sheepish.

Billings grinned. 'Seein' as 'ow you ain't got no bacca, then I s'pose
I've got ter use me own,' he went on, producing a well-filled pouch
from the waistband of his trousers, and proceeding to ram some coarse,
dark tobacco into his pipe. 'I never believes in usin' me own s'long as
I kin git a fill orf another bloke. Got a match?'

The ordinary seaman handed a box across, and his companion lit up.

'Comin' ashore along o' me this arternoon?' Joshua asked, puffing out a
cloud of smoke with a satisfied grunt.

Martin thought for a moment. For an ordinary seaman to be asked to go
ashore with a man of Billings's age was undoubtedly a great honour;
but, at the same time, he was rather doubtful as to what might happen.
Joshua, on his own statement, had an unquenchable thirst for malt
liquor, and always felt 'dizzy like' outside public-houses, and Martin
had no wish to join him in a carouse, with the prospect of ending the
afternoon under the supervision of the local constabulary.

'Goin' on th' razzle?'[16] he asked cautiously.

          [16] Going on the 'razzle' = going on the spree.

Billings laughed. 'Razzle!' he exclaimed. 'No, I ain't on that lay.
I'll 'ave jist one pint w'en I gits ashore, but no more'n that. The
fac' o' the matter is, Pincher, I'm in love.' He paused to give his
words time to sink in.

'In love!' Martin echoed with some astonishment.

The A.B. nodded gravely. 'Yus,' he said; 'an' I want some one to come
along an' 'old me 'and like, some bloke wot looks young an' innercent
like you.' He endeavoured to look young and innocent himself, gazed
heavenwards with a rapt expression on his homely face, contorted his
mouth into what he considered was a sweet smile, and sighed deeply. 'I
tell yer,' he added, resuming his normal appearance and winking
solemnly, 'she's a bit o' orl right, an' I reckons she's took a fancy
ter me. Leastways she 'inted that she'd come to th' pictures along o'
me ter-night if I arsked 'er polite like, an' 'ave a bit o' somethin'
t' eat arterwards.'

'You in love!' Martin gasped again, for to him it seemed impossible
that any woman could succumb to the doubtful charms of the hoary-headed
old reprobate. 'Garn! you're 'avin' me on.'

Joshua seemed rather annoyed. 'Oh no, I ain't,' he retorted testily.
'An' if yer gits talkin' like that me an' you'll part brassrags.[17] She
ain't th' sort o' 'ooman ter take a fancy to a

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