Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (488 page)

“There was a good deal, one way an’ another. I’d like to know what this
Antonio thought of our sails.”

“He merely says that ‘
the engines having broken down, an officer extemporised a mournful and useless parody of sails
.’ Oh, yes! he says that some of them looked like ‘
bonnets in a needlecase
,’ I think.”

“Bonnets in a needlecase! They were stun’sles. That shows the beggar’s no sailor. That trick was really the one thing we did. Pho! I thought he was a sailorman, an’ ‘e hasn’t sense enough to see what extemporisin’ eleven good an’ drawin’ sails out o’ four trys’les an’ a few awnin’s means. ‘E must have been drunk!”

“Never mind, Mr. Pyecroft. I want to hear about your target-practice, and the execution.”

“Oh! We had a special target-practice that afternoon all for Antonio. As I told my crew — me bein’ captain of the port-bow quick-firer, though I’m a torpedo man now — it just showed how you can work your gun under any discomforts. A shell — twenty six-inch shells — burstin’ inboard couldn’t ‘ave begun to make the varicose collection o’ tit-bits which we had spilled on our deck. It was a lather — a rich, creamy lather!

“We took it very easy — that gun-practice. We did it in a complimentary ‘Jenny-’ave-another-cup-o’ tea’ style, an’ the crew was strictly ordered not to rupture ‘emselves with unnecessary exertion. This isn’t our custom in the Navy when we’re
in puris naturalibus
, as you might say. But we wasn’t so then. We was impromptu. An’ Antonio was busy fetchin’ splits for the old man, and the old man was wastin’ ‘em down the ventilators. There must ‘ave been four inches in the bilges, I should think — wardroom whisky- an’-soda.

“Then I thought I might as well bear a hand as look pretty. So I let my
bundoop
go at fifteen ‘undred — sightin’ very particular. There was a sort of ‘appy little belch like — no more, I give you my word — an’ the shell trundled out maybe fifty feet an’ dropped into the deep Atlantic.

“‘Government powder, Sir!’ sings out our Gunnery Jack to the bridge, laughin’ horrid sarcastic; an’ then, of course, we all laughs, which we are not encouraged to do
in puris naturalibus
. Then, of course, I saw what our Gunnery Jack ‘ad been after with his subcutaneous details in the magazines all the mornin’ watch. He had redooced the charges to a minimum, as you might say. But it made me feel a trifle faint an’ sickish notwithstanding this spit-in-the-eye business. Every time such transpired, our Gunnery Lootenant would say somethin’ sarcastic about Government stores, an’ the old man fair howled. ‘Op was on the bridge with ‘im, an’ ‘e told me — ’cause ‘e’s a free-knowledgeist an’ reads character — that Antonio’s face was sweatin’ with pure joy. ‘Op wanted to kick him. Does Antonio say anything about that?”

“Not about the kicking, but he is great on the gun-practice, Mr. Pyecroft. He has put all the results into a sort of appendix — a table of shots. He says that the figures will speak more eloquently than words.”

“What? Nothin’ about the way the crews flinched an’ hopped? Nothin’ about the little shells rumblin’ out o’ the guns so casual?”

“There are a few pages of notes, but they only bear out what you say. He says that these things always happen as soon as one of our ships is out of sight of land. Oh, yes! I’ve forgotten. He says,
‘From the conversation of my captain with his inferiors I gathered that no small proportion of the expense of these nominally efficient cartridges finds itself in his pockets. So much, indeed, was signified by an officer on the deck below, who cried in a high voice: “I hope, Sir, you are making something out of it. It is rather monotonous.” This insult, so flagrant, albeit well- merited, was received with a smile of drunken bonhommy’
— that’s cheerfulness, Mr. Pyecroft. Your glass is empty.”

“Resumin’ afresh,” said Mr. Pyecroft, after a well-watered interval, “I may as well say that the target-practice occupied us two hours, and then we had to dig out after the tramp. Then we half an’ three-quarters cleaned up the decks an’ mucked about as requisite, haulin’ down the patent awnin’ stun’sles which Number One ‘ad made. The old man was a shade doubtful of his course, ‘cause I ‘eard him say to Number One, ‘You were right. A week o’ this would turn the ship into a Hayti bean-feast. But,’ he says pathetic, ‘haven’t they backed the band noble?’

“‘Oh! it’s a picnic for them,’ says Number One.

“‘But when do we get rid o’ this whisky-peddlin’ blighter o’ yours, Sir?’

“‘That’s a cheerful way to speak of a Viscount,’ says the old man. “E’s the bluest blood o’ France when he’s at home,’

“‘Which is the precise landfall I wish ‘im to make,’ says Number One.’
It’ll take all ‘ands and the Captain of the Head to clean up after ‘im.’

“‘They won’t grudge it,’ says the old man. ‘Just as soon as it’s dusk we’ll overhaul our tramp friend an’ waft him over,’

“Then a sno — midshipman — Moorshed was is name — come up an’ says somethin’ in a low voice. It fetches the old man.

“‘You’ll oblige me,’ ‘e says, ‘by takin’ the wardroom poultry for
that
. I’ve ear-marked every fowl we’ve shipped at Madeira, so there can’t be any possible mistake. M’rover,’ ‘e says, ‘tell ‘em if they spill one drop of blood on the deck,’ he says, ‘they’ll not be extenuated, but hung.’

“Mr. Moorshed goes forward, lookin’ unusual ‘appy, even for him. The
Marines was enjoyin’ a committee-meetin’ in their own flat.

“After that, it fell dark, with just a little streaky, oily light on the sea — an’ any thin’ more chronic than the
Archimandrite
I’d trouble you to behold. She looked like a fancy bazaar and a auction-room — yes, she almost looked like a passenger-steamer. We’d picked up our tramp, an’ was about four mile be’ind ‘er. I noticed the wardroom as a class, you might say, was manoeuvrin’
en masse
, an’ then come the order to cockbill the yards. We hadn’t any yards except a couple o’ signallin’ sticks, but we cock-billed ‘em. I hadn’t seen that sight, not since thirteen years in the West Indies, when a post-captain died o’ yellow jack. It means a sign o’ mourning the yards bein’ canted opposite ways, to look drunk an’ disorderly. They do.

“‘An’ what might our last giddy-go-round signify?’ I asks of ‘Op.

“‘Good ‘Evins!’ ‘e says, ‘Are you in that habit o’ permittin’ leathernecks to assassinate lootenants every morning at drill without immejitly ‘avin’ ‘em shot on the foc’sle in the horrid crawly-crawly twilight?’”

“‘Yes,’ I murmured over my dear book, ‘
the infinitely lugubrious crepuscule. A spectacle of barbarity unparalleled — hideous — cold-blooded, and yet touched with appalling grandeur
.’”

“Ho! Was that the way Antonio looked at it? That shows he ‘ad feelin’s. To resoom. Without anyone givin’ us orders to that effect, we began to creep about an’ whisper. Things got stiller and stiller, till they was as still as — mushrooms! Then the bugler let off the ‘Dead March’ from the upper bridge. He done it to cover the remarks of a cock-bird bein’ killed forrard, but it came out paralysin’ in its
tout ensemble
. You never heard the ‘Dead March’ on a bugle? Then the pipes went twitterin’ for both watches to attend public execution, an’ we came up like so many ghosts, the ‘ole ship’s company. Why, Mucky ‘Arcourt, one o’ our boys, was that took in he give tongue like a beagle-pup, an’ was properly kicked down the ladder for so doin’. Well, there we lay — engines stopped, rollin’ to the swell, all dark, yards cock-billed, an’ that merry tune yowlin’ from the upper bridge. We fell in on the foc’sle, leavin’ a large open space by the capstan, where our sail-maker was sittin’ sewin’ broken firebars into the foot of an old ‘ammick. ‘E looked like a corpse, an’ Mucky had another fit o’ hysterics, an’ you could ‘ear us breathin’ ‘ard. It beat anythin’ in the theatrical line that even us
Archimandrites
had done — an’ we was the ship you could trust. Then come the doctor an’ lit a red lamp which he used for his photographic muckin’s, an’ chocked it on the capstan. That was finally gashly!

“Then come twelve Marines guardin’ Glass ‘ere. You wouldn’t think to see ‘im what a gratooitous an’ aboundin’ terror he was that evenin’. ‘E was in a white shirt ‘e’d stole from Cockburn, an’ his regulation trousers, barefooted. ‘E’d pipe-clayed ‘is ‘ands an’ face an’ feet an’ as much of his chest as the openin’ of his shirt showed. ‘E marched under escort with a firm an’ undeviatin’ step to the capstan, an’ came to attention. The old man reinforced by an extra strong split — his seventeenth, an’ ‘e didn’t throw
that
down the ventilator — come up on the bridge an’ stood like a image. ‘Op, ‘oo was with ‘im, says that ‘e heard Antonio’s teeth singin’, not chatterin’ — singin’ like funnel-stays in a typhoon. Yes, a moanin’ æolian harp, ‘Op said.

“‘When you are ready, Sir, drop your ‘andkerchief,’ Number One whispers.

“‘Good Lord!’ says the old man, with a jump. ‘Eh! What? What a sight! What a sight!’ an’ he stood drinkin’ it in, I suppose, for quite two minutes.

“Glass never says a word. ‘E shoved aside an ‘andkerchief which the sub-lootenant proffered ‘im to bind ‘is eyes with — quiet an’ collected; an’ if we ‘adn’t been feelin’ so very much as we did feel, his gestures would ‘ave brought down the ‘ouse.” “I can’t open my eyes, or I’ll be sick,” said the Marine with appalling clearness. “I’m pretty far gone — I know it — but there wasn’t anyone could ‘ave beaten Edwardo Glass, R.M.L.I., that time. Why, I scared myself nearly into the ‘orrors. Go on, Pye. Glass is in support — as ever.”

“Then the old man drops ‘is ‘andkerchief, an’ the firin’-party fires like one man. Glass drops forward, twitchin’ an’ ‘eavin’ horrid natural, into the shotted ‘ammick all spread out before him, and the firin’ party closes in to guard the remains of the deceased while Sails is stitchin’ it up. An’ when they lifted that ‘ammick it was one wringin’ mess of blood! They on’y expended one wardroom cock-bird, too. Did you know poultry bled that extravagant?
I
never did.

“The old man — so ‘Op told me — stayed on the bridge, brought up on a dead centre. Number One was similarly, though lesser, impressed, but o’ course ‘is duty was to think of ‘is fine white decks an’ the blood. ‘Arf a mo’, Sir,’ he says, when the old man was for leavin’. ‘We have to wait for the burial, which I am informed takes place immejit.’

“‘It’s beyond me,’ says the owner. ‘There was general instructions for an execution, but I never knew I had such a dependable push of mountebanks aboard,’ he says. ‘I’m all cold up my back, still.’

“The Marines carried the corpse below. Then the bugle give us some more ‘Dead March,’ Then we ‘eard a splash from a bow six-pounder port, an’ the bugle struck up a cheerful tune. The whole lower deck was complimentin’ Glass, ‘oo took it very meek. ‘E
is
a good actor, for all ‘e’s a leatherneck.

“‘Now,’ said the old man, ‘we must turn over Antonio. He’s in what I have ‘eard called one perspirin’ funk.’

“Of course, I’m tellin’ it slow, but it all ‘appened much quicker. We run down our trampo — without o’ course informin’ Antonio of ‘is ‘appy destiny — an’ inquired of ‘er if she had any use for a free and gratis stowaway. Oh, yes? she said she’d be highly grateful, but she seemed a shade puzzled at our generosity, as you might put it, an’ we lay by till she lowered a boat. Then Antonio — who was un’appy, distinctly un’appy — was politely requested to navigate elsewhere, which I don’t think he looked for. ‘Op was deputed to convey the information, an’ ‘Op got in one sixteen-inch kick which ‘oisted ‘im all up the ladder. ‘Op ain’t really vindictive, an’ ‘e’s fond of the French, especially the women, but his chances o’ kicking lootenants was like the cartridge — reduced to a minimum.

“The boat ‘adn’t more than shoved off before a change, as you might say, came o’er the spirit of our dream. The old man says, like Elphinstone an’ Bruce in the Portsmouth election when I was a boy: ‘Gentlemen,’ he says, ‘for gentlemen you have shown yourselves to be — from the bottom of my heart I thank you. The status an’ position of our late lamented shipmate made it obligate,’ ‘e says, ‘to take certain steps not strictly included in the regulations. An’ nobly,’ says ‘e, ‘have you assisted me. Now,’ ‘e says, ‘you hold the false and felonious reputation of bein’ the smartest ship in the Service. Pigsties,’ ‘e says,’ is plane trigonometry alongside our present disgustin’ state. Efface the effects of this indecent orgy,’ he says. ‘Jump, you lop-eared, flat-footed, butter-backed Amalekites! Dig out, you briny-eyed beggars!’”

“Do captains talk like that in the Navy, Mr. Pyecroft?” I asked.

“I’ve told you once I only give the grist of his arguments. The Bosun’s mate translates it to the lower deck, as you may put it, and the lower deck springs smartly to attention. It took us half the night ‘fore we got ‘er anyway ship-shape; but by sunrise she was beautiful as ever, and we resoomed. I’ve thought it over a lot since; yes, an’ I’ve thought a lot of Antonio trimmin’ coal in that tramp’s bunkers. ‘E must ‘ave been highly surprised. Wasn’t he?”

“He was, Mr. Pyecroft,” I responded. “But now we’re talking of it, weren’t you all a little surprised?”

“It come as a pleasant relief to the regular routine,” said Mr. Pyecroft. “We appreciated it as an easy way o’ workin’ for your country. But — the old man was right — a week o’ similar manoeuvres would ‘ave knocked our moral double-bottoms bung out. Now, couldn’t you oblige with Antonio’s account of Glass’s execution?”