Free Hollow Sea by James Hanley Page A

nodded his head.
    'We'll discharge these soldiers, then clear out. Anchor in some damned stinking hole and wait for more orders.'
    'Mr. Dunford thinks it both unwise and unsound.'
    'Mr. Dunford,' replied Bradshaw. 'Mr. Dunford thinks everybody's crazy. That's what he thinks. Sometimes I have a mind to agree with him. But I'm not going to go into that now. I'm turning in. So-long.'
    He walked away, leaving the younger officer still staring at the crowd of soldiers lining the stern-rail. After a while Ericson, too, retired to his room. Five minutes later he was on the bridge again. He looked at his watch. Two more hours. When the quartermaster came along he handed him a book saying:
    'That's for Mr. Dunford.'
    'Very good, sir.'
    The mist was fast gathering. Already her fo'c'sle-head was hidden from view. Looking to his left the second could see this rolling cloud. Automatically his hand went to the fog-clock set in the bulkhead below him. At a quarter to two he set it in motion and blew for the quartermaster on duty. When the man appeared he said:
    'Stand by that clock.' Then he added, 'Blow.' The mist was fast covering the ship.

CHAPTER FOUR
    R OCHDALE , who liked occasionally to be addressed by his proper name of Higginbottom, stepped out of the fo'c'sle and walked leisurely down the alleyway with the air of a man who hasn't a care in the world. Confusion had given way to order. The excitement was over. Order reigned everywhere. So it seemed to Mr. Higginbottom, as he emerged from the alleyway and looked out over the ship. She was moving pretty fast, he thought. Soldiers were everywhere. The well-deck, the flush-deck, saloon-deck, the poop, the fo'c'sle-head, the boat-deck. One sea of khaki. A forest of faces, which at a quick glance were but one face. An innocent face. An earnest one. Higginbottom sat down on the hatch-top and took out his pipe. He filled it with hard stuff and struck a match. He thought the watchers had it pretty enough. Nothing to watch – down – watch – down – watch after watch. Changing the ventilators round – shipping and unshipping awnings. And, of course, dumping rubbish. There seemed to be plenty of that. They would have hot weather soon. There would be plenty of sweating, he thought. Raised voices could be heard coming from the fo'c'sle, but nothing, not even a cannon, could drown out this orgy of sound, the continuous murmur that rose from her crowded decks. It was like a continuous succession of wants. Laughter and curses, titters. Exclamations, questions, answers, all mingled, became one – one voice just as that forest of faces was one face. And on that face was written purpose. They were going somewhere. That was certain. Where, exactly, Rochdale didn't know, nor did he care. His job was to stand in the nest and with his eyes measure distances. Now he was off duty. His purpose was to sit quietly on the hatch-top, and think of Annie and Rosie. Annie and Rosie were the orbits of Mr. Higginbottom's world. He puffed away at his pipe and then deliberately turned his head and looked out on the waters. It was difficult to find a place where one could sit and feel absolutely alone, absolutely with oneself. The fo'c'sle was impossible. Arguments – arguments. And to walk the deck was impossible. In the nest he couldn't think of them. Here he could. At least they'd left the alleyway and well-deck to the crew. This was really the first time Mr. Higginbottom had had the chance of what he called a breather. Anybody who glanced at him now and seeing the broad smile he wore would have assumed that he was making jokes with himself, or that he had reached the crest of some delightful reflection. But the smile passed and Rochdale got up from the hatch. He stood hands in pockets, looking up at the bridge, and saw what seemed to be a motionless figure standing in the middle of it. Perhaps the person was looking down at him now. Rochdale gave a little laugh, wondering what he looked like from that