Traffics and Discoveries. Rudyard KiplingЧитать онлайн книгу.
chaos of the grand deck, I ascended – always with a whisky-and-soda in my hands – to a scene truly grotesque. Behold my captain in plain sea, at issue with his Navigator! A crisis of nerves due to the enormous quantity of alcohol which he had swallowed up to then, has filled for him the ocean with dangers, imaginary and fantastic. Incapable of judgment, menaced by the phantasms of his brain inflamed, he envisages islands perhaps of the Hesperides beneath his keel – vigias innumerable.' I don't know what a vigia is, Mr. Pyecroft. 'He creates shoals sad and far-reaching of the mid-Atlantic!' What was that, now?"
"Oh, I see! That come after dinner, when our Navigator threw 'is cap down an' danced on it. Danby was quartermaster. They 'ad a tea-party on the bridge. It was the old man's contribution. Does he say anything about the leadsmen?"
"Is this it? 'Overborne by his superior's causeless suspicion, the Navigator took off the badges of his rank and cast them at the feet of my captain and sobbed. A disgusting and maudlin reconciliation followed. The argument renewed itself, each grasping the wheel, crapulous' (that means drunk, I think, Mr. Pyecroft), 'shouting. It appeared that my captain would chenaler' (I don't know what that means, Mr. Pyecroft) 'to the Cape. At the end, he placed a sailor with the sound' (that's the lead, I think) 'in his hand, garnished with suet.' Was it garnished with suet?"
"He put two leadsmen in the chains, o' course! He didn't know that there mightn't be shoals there, 'e said. Morgan went an' armed his lead, to enter into the spirit o' the thing. They 'eaved it for twenty minutes, but there wasn't any suet – only tallow, o' course."
"'Garnished with suet at two thousand metres of profundity. Decidedly the Britannic Navy is well guarded.' Well, that's all right, Mr. Pyecroft. Would you mind telling me anything else of interest that happened?"
"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' anythin' 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 the 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!