FullReads

In the turrets were the gun-crews, six men to a gun, with an officer above in the sighting-hood; behind the superstructure-ports were the quick-fire men, sailors and marines; and above all, in the fighting-tops, were the sharp-shooters and men who handled the one-pounders and Gatling guns–the easiest-minded of the ship’s company, for they could see and breathe. Each division of fighters and workers was overseen by an officer; in some cases by two and three.

Preparatory work was done, and, excepting the “black gang,” men were quiescent, but feverish. Few spoke, and then on frivolous things, in tones that were not recognized. Occasionally a man would bring out a piece of paper and write, using for a desk a gun-breech or -carriage, a turret-wall, or the deck. An officer in a fighting-top used a telegraph-dial, and a stoker in the depths his shovel, in a chink of light from the furnace. These letters, written in instalments, were pocketed in confidence that sometime they would be mailed.

From the captain down each man knew that a large proportion of their number was foredoomed; but not a consciousness among them could admit the possibility of itself being chosen. The great first law forbade it. Senior officers pictured in their minds dead juniors, and thought of extra work after the fight. Junior officers thought of vacancies above them and promotion. Men in the turrets bade mental good-by to their mates in the superstructure; and these, secure in their five-inch protection, pitied those in the fighting-tops, where, cold logic says, no man may live through a sea-fight. Yet all would have volunteered to fill vacancies aloft. The healthy human mind can postulate suffering, but not its own extinction.

In a circular apartment in the military mast, protected by twelve inches of steel, perforated by vertical and horizontal slits for observation, stood the captain and navigating officer, both in shirt-sleeves; for this, the conning-tower, was hot. Around the inner walls were the nerve-terminals of the structure–the indicators, telegraph-dials, telephones, push-buttons, and speaking-tubes, which communicated with gun-stations, turrets, steering-room, engine-rooms, and all parts of the ship where men were stationed. In the forward part was a binnacle with small steering-wheel, disconnected now, for the steering was done by men below the water-line in the stern. A spiral staircase led to the main-deck below, and another to the first fighting-top above, in which staircase were small platforms where a signal-officer and two quartermasters watched through slits the signals from the flag-ship, and answered as directed by the captain below with small flags, which they mastheaded through the hollow within the staircase.

The chief master-at-arms, bareheaded, climbed into the conning-tower.

“Captain Blake, what’ll we do with Finnegan?” he said. “I’ve released him from the brig as you ordered; but Mr. Clarkson won’t have him in the turret where he belongs, and no one else wants him around. They even chased him out of the bunkers. He wants to work and fight, but Mr. Clarkson won’t place him; says he washes his hands of Finnegan, and sent me to you. I took him to the bay, but he won’t take medicine.”

Captain Blake, stern of face and kindly of eye, drew back from a peep-hole, and asked: “What’s his condition?”

“Shaky, sir. Sees little spiders and big spiders crawling round his cap-rim. Him and the recording angel knows where he gets it and where he keeps it, sir; but I don’t. I’ve watched him for six months.”

“Send him to me.”

“Very good, sir.”

The master-at-arms descended, and in a few moments the unwanted Finnegan appeared–a gray-bearded, emaciated, bleary-eyed seaman, who brushed imaginary things from his neck and arms, and stammered, as he removed his cap: “Report for duty, sir.”

“For duty?” answered the captain, eying him sternly. “For death. You will be allowed the honorable death of an English seaman. You will die in the fighting-top sometime in the next three hours.”

The man shivered, elevated one shoulder, and rubbed his ear against it, but said nothing, while Mr. Dalrymple, the navigating officer, with his eyes at a peep-hole and his ears open to the dialogue, wondered (as he and the whole ship’s company had wondered before) what the real relation was between the captain and this wretched, drunken butt of the crew. For the captain’s present attitude was a complete departure. Always he had shielded Finnegan from punishment to the extent that naval etiquette would permit.