Naval Occasions, and Some Traits of the Sailor-man. Bartimeus

      "

       TO MY MOTHER

      PREFACE.

      "I reckon that's proper 'New Navy,'" said the coxswain of a duty cutter to the midshipman perched on the "dickey" seat beside him in the stern.

      It was 6 A.m.: the boat was returning from the early morning beef trip, and the midshipman in charge of her had seen fit to discuss with his coxswain the subject which at most hours, and particularly at this one, lay nearest to his heart—the subject of Food.

      "Proper 'New Navy,'" repeated the petty officer with contempt. He referred to the recent introduction of marmalade into his scale of rations. He spoke bitterly, yet his quarrel was not with the marmalade, which, in its way, was all that marmalade should have been. His regret was for the "dear dead days" before marmalade was thought of on the Lower-deck.

      That was ten years ago, but fondness for the ancient order of things is still a feature of this Navy of ours. There was never a ship like our last ship: no commission like the one before this one. Gipsies all: yet we would fain linger a little by the ashes of our camp-fire while the caravans move on.

      The most indifferent observer of naval affairs during the last decade will admit that it has been one of immense transition. Changes, more momentous even than this business of the marmalade, have followed in the wake of a great wave of progress. "Up and onward" is the accepted order, but at the bottom of the Sailor-man's conservative heart a certain reluctance still remains. The talk of smoking-room and forecastle concerns the doings of yesterday; the ties that link us in a "common brotherhood" were for the most part forged in the "Old" Navy, so fast yielding place to new.

      In 'Naval Occasions' the Author has strung together a few sketches of naval life afloat in the past ten years. They relate to ships mainly of the "pre-Dreadnought" era, and officers (those of the Military branch at least) who owe their early training to the old Britannia. At the same time, for all the outward changes, the inner work-a-day life of the Fleet remains unaltered. With this, and not in criticism of things old or new, these Sketches are concerned. Pathos and humour continue to rub elbows on either side of us much as they always have, and there still remains more to laugh about than sigh over when the day's work is done.

      DEVONPORT, 1914

      NOTE.

      With the exception of "A Committee of Supply," "That which Remained," "A Galley's Day," "C/o G.P.O.," "Watch there, Watch!" "A One-Gun Salute," "The Greater Love," "A Picturesque Ceremony," and "Why the Gunner went Ashore," the following Naval Sketches were published originally in 'The Pall Mall Gazette.'

      The first three exceptions appeared in 'The Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News,' 'The Magpie,' and 'The Naval and Military Record' respectively. The remainder have not before appeared in print.

      The Author's best thanks are due to the Editors of the above Journal and Periodicals for their ready permission to reproduce these Sketches.

      * * * * *

      The short day was fading into dusk, and the Mess sat eyeing one another sorrowfully over the tea-table. You can't drink champagne, sing "Good King Wenceslas," and beat the fire all day.

      "What price being at home now?" said the Engineer-Lieutenant, gloomily buttering a piece of bread and smearing it with treacle.

      "Yes, and charades, and kids, and snapdragon," added the A.P. He mused awhile reminiscently. "Christmas is rotten without kids to buck things up."

      The Day-on looked up from a book. "You're right. I don't feel as if it were Christmas day—except for my head," he added reflectively.

      The First Lieutenant entered, holding a note in his hand. "Look here, the Skipper wants us to have him and his missus to supper. He'll motor in, and"—he referred again to the note—"he's bringing the four youngsters—and a Christmas-tree. Wants to know if we can put up a turn for them."

      In the annals of the Service had such a thing ever happened before? The Mess stared wild-eyed at one another. "Crackers," gasped the Day-on, visions of childhood fleeting through his mind. "Santa Claus!" murmured the Young Doctor, already mentally reviewing his store of cotton-wool. "Holly and mistletoe," supplemented the Engineer-Lieutenant, eyeing the bare walls of the Mess.

      There was much to be done, but they did it somehow. The A.P. sallied forth and stole crackers from a Mission schoolroom. The First Lieutenant and Young Doctor between them fashioned a wondrous wig and beard for Santa Claus. The Junior Watch-keeper is rumoured to have uprooted (under cover of darkness) an entire holly bush from the Admiral Superintendent's garden, and their guests arrived to find the Mess transformed. No sooner was supper over than the First Lieutenant vanished, and they entered the smoking-room to find a genuine Santa Claus, with snowy beard and gruff voice, dispensing gifts from the magic tree. There were miraculous presents for all: Zeiss binoculars for one (had he not been bemoaning the want of a pair on the bridge a fortnight before?): a wrist-watch for another (it replaced one smashed while working targets not long ago), a fountain-pen for another, a cigarette-holder for a fourth, whose tobacco-stained fingers had long been a subject of reproach from his Captain's wife.

      And when the tree was denuded at last, what an ambush for lurking dragons! They were slain ultimately with a sword-scabbard by a flushed Knight astride the champing Junior Watch-keeper. It figured further in the tiger-shoot conducted from the howdah of an elephant—a noble beast in whose identity no one would have recognised the grey-painted canvas cover of a 3-pdr. gun, much less the Engineer-Lieutenant inside it.

      For the matter of that, had you seen the tiger who died, roaring terribly almost within reach of its tethered quarry (Jess, the bored and disgusted terrier), you would never have known the A.P.—especially as he had broken his glasses in the throes of realistic dissolution.

      When it was all over, the "Skipper's Missus" sat down at the piano, and together they sang the old, memory-haunted Christmas hymns, the woman's contralto and children's trebles blending with the voices of men who at heart were ever children themselves.

      The First Lieutenant didn't sing. The fire needed so much attending to.

      V.

      THE ARGONAUTS.

      " … Lest perchance them grow weary

      In the uttermost parts of the Sea,

      Pray for leave, for the good of the Service,

      As much and as oft as may be."

      —The Laws of the Navy.

      Life on board a man-of-war in the tropics, especially Gunroom life, is attended by discomforts peculiarly its own. To begin with, a trip at sea heats the ship like a steel-walled Inferno, and on reaching harbour she swings at her anchor, bows-on to what breeze there may be; the chances of getting a cool draught through scuttles and gun-ports are thus reduced to a minimum.