Our Time Is Gone (80 page)

His body shot up, fell flat, he found himself being washed to and fro, face downwards upon the water. Behind him two great steel plates disappeared beneath the surface. The clouds were decreasing, the stokehold had lost its darkness, its smells, its feel, the stokehold held only an alien smell of the sea. The stokehold was in the sea.

Mr. Fury turned over on his back, turned over again, struck out with both arms. Towards the light. The brass circle of sea had vanished. There was only a bright arc of light. The water flung him towards this. And then he saw a black object, a man—a boy—caught beneath the ladder. As he was flung forward he grabbed instinctively and held on. A white face looked out at him. It was his trimmer. Mr. Fury hung on, and he got his breath back. Then with all his strength he pulled. The other's body freed, shot like a catapult through the water, and Mr. Fury was flung with it. They seemed to leap up into the light. The stokehold he no longer saw. They were in the sea. With one free hand he turned the trimmer over on his back, and slapped his face.

‘Come on, son! Come on, son.'

He began to swim into the sun, into the light. It blinded him. He struck out strongly, one fist closed about the shirt and vest of the lad. He did not look back.

He began to float on his back, he let the sea take them on. He did not look back, he was afraid. The head of the lad flopped beneath the water.

‘Come on, son,' he spluttered.

He thought of only one thing. Swimming on and pulling the other with him, towards a patch of water that seemed to blaze into flames, in which he saw, or thought he saw a long oar, floating.

He slapped the face again, shook the head.

‘Head up! Come on, son!'

Floating again he held up the head with both his hands. His mind cried: ‘Move!
Move!
' The two explosions unnerved him, but only for a second. He would
not
look back. Instinct told him to move as far as possible from the ship.

The water was calm, it bore them on. There was a sudden feeling of security in it, of being carried along on its surface. The weight upon his left arm increased. Then he turned his head and looked back. There was no ship, no boat, no bodies. Where was he? Had he been dreaming? The ship, the ship, where was the ship? The oar floated past his ear. He reached out and grabbed. He slapped the white face under him.

‘Come on, son! Come on, son!'

He forced the head up, endeavoured to get the oar under the other's shoulders and behind him he left an ever-widening circle of foam, of threshing water. He had now manreuvred the oar so that it was ahead of him, and he had forced head and shoulders across it, whilst with the other hand he still endeavoured to force the head over, all the time spluttering:

‘Come on, son! Come on!'

He felt a sudden feeling of exhilaration pass through him, as though his body had given voice, had cried: ‘I'm alive! I'm free!'

The oar broke free, floated ahead.

‘I wonder,' he was muttering and his mouth was filled with water. He turned over on his back, shut his eyes.

‘I wonder——'

He floated, suddenly kicked out with both feet, floated again. With all his strength he forced the other's head above water again.

‘Up, up,' he said. ‘Up. Up.'

A girdle of silence formed about him. He swam again.

‘Up, son! Up,' he said.

At ten minutes past nine in the morning a bell rang in the great building, rang clear in a small office at the top of this building and a girl answered the'phone.

‘Radio Message! H.M.T.
Ronsa
torpedoed. Position, Latitude 40° 53′ 30″ N. North Long 24° 6′ 0″ E. At ten a.m.'

The Editor of the
Gelton Times
read: ‘H.M.T.
Ronsa
torpedoed. Believed no survivors.'

‘Hold the line,' he cried; ‘hold the line.'

At eleven the bell in the top of the building rang, but the girl was gone. A nervous hand held the ‘phone. A nervous voice said: ‘Yes. Speaking.'

‘H.M.T.
Ronsa
torpedoed about five a.m. Wednesday. Position as given. No troops aboard. Established no survivors. Advise you wait fuller confirmation.'

At a quarter to twelve all mail forwarded for the
Ronsa
travelled no farther than G.P.O., London. It lay in bags in a room's dark corner.

At one in the afternoon a bell rang in the office of the
Gelton Times
. A man listened, scratched lines on paper with a pencil.

‘Confirmed two a.m. Information from H.M.S.
Hercules
. Lifebuoys found bearing the name
Ronsa
—awaiting further information.'

‘Hold,' the editor cried. ‘Hold for stop-press news.'

At a quarter to four Mrs. Fury bought bluebells from a man at the door and she put them in two vases on the altar in her room.

In Bristol Mrs. Gumbs laughed with her friend at Charlie Chaplin doing somersaults.

At half-past five bells rang all over the great building and five hundred yards away the editor of the
Gelton Times
said:

‘Let her go.'

At six in the evening the news burst over Gelton like a bomb.

H.M.T.
Ronsa
torpedoed. All hands lost. No troops aboard. It is officially confirmed that the troopship
Ronsa
was torpedoed about five o'clock in the morning. News has reached the owners, from whom the ship was chartered, that H.M.S.
Hercules
was advised to proceed with all speed to the position. First intimation of the disaster came from a Greek fisherman. This is the seventeenth boat to be torpedoed since the beginning of August.

At half-past nine in the evening Mrs. Fury was dressed for church. As she stuck a hat-pin through her hat a knock came to the door. When she opened it a small telegraph boy said: ‘Fury,' and thrust a telegram into her hand.

Down below, the raucous voices of playing children floated up the cool stairways of Edcott Court, and the boy, his back to the woman, began to whistle. He heard the door creak as the woman leaned heavily against it. The telegram was at her feet.

‘Shall I shut the door, m'am?' he said.

She did not answer him, did not look at him, stared at the floor.

‘No answer, m'am?' he said, showing signs of impatience.

She did not move, muttered, ‘No—no answer,' and watched him go away.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ!' she said.

She held on to the knob of the door with both hands, the door began to swing, she swung with the door. It closed. She went to the table and sat down. In the street she heard the newsboys shout. She collapsed across the table, and lay there and from her hand her purse hung, then fell to the floor. A gust of wind came through the window, and pieces of paper blew about at the bottom of the door, making tiny whistling sounds. She sat there, quite still until it grew so dark she could not be seen. The fire burned low. The upper room was silent. Mrs. Gumbs was worlds away. A clock at the rear of Edcott Court struck eleven.

The woman got to her feet, searched about, found matches and lit the gas.

‘I don't believe it. I don't believe it,' she cried into the room.

She stood erect upon the carpet, holding on to the table with both hands. She stiffened where she stood, began to cry: ‘I don't believe it,' she said. ‘I
don't
.'

At half-past eleven a special edition of the
Gelton Times
came out.

We are now able to give further particulars concerning the tragedy of the
Ronsa
in which so many Gelton men have lost their lives. It is now presumed that she was on her way to board a fresh consignment of Indian troops, who fortunately were later transferred to H.M.T.
Z9
. It is now believed that she sank in the space of only a few minutes from the time she was struck, and it is doubtful whether, considering her position, any help could have reached her in time. It was at first thought that one or two of her boats might have got away, but this would seem to have been founded on a rumour. Additional evidence now proves beyond doubt that the ship has sunk with all hands and we share the feelings of the whole of Gelton, in fact of the whole country, when we say that our sympathy is for all those who have lost by this, brave husbands, brave sons. The country feels with them to-day. It is a day of mourning for Gelton.

Stop Press;
Two raids were successfully carried out by the 2nd Geltonian Regiment on the Arras sector last night between Roye and Albert.
Official
.

At a quarter to midnight she put out the gas and left her room. She made her way towards the centre of the city. From time to time she stopped, once she leaned against the wall of a warehouse.

‘Denny! Oh, my God! I don't believe it. I don't believe it!'

She wanted to cry, but somehow managed to control herself. The source of weakness was suddenly stiffened, strengthened. She was numb. She walked on quickly, a late car passed her dizzily, sweeping its way towards the sheds. A night-worker looked at her as she passed, turned round to look at her again. A policeman moved out of the shelter of a shop doorway on hearing the footsteps, and stood there watching a tall, very erect woman pass him by. Her long coat swung open and about her like sails, her hands clasped the lapels of it. She descended a hill. A siren screeched from the river, a tug hooted, its note curiously hollow upon the still night air. On the main road she passed nightmen sweeping up the debris of the day into the gutters. A water cart washed the centre of the roadway, and one cold splash touched her face as she passed.

Once she stopped dead, wrung her hands, then went on. Her lips moved, but no sound broke from them. She pressed her hat down on her head, feeling it lift under the sudden wind that blew in across the river from the east. She was getting near the busy streets, the towering buildings. The smell of the sea. She increased her pace. She knew where she was. She knew each stick and stone, she had tramped too often in the past and none could cry: ‘Intruder! Stranger.' She had passed across this road, down that street. She had gone on behalf of John, on behalf of Anthony, on behalf of Denny.

‘Oh, Denny! I don't believe. I don't believe it.'

She stood at the bottom of a short narrow street. Here the street almost hid the sky from view. Like Hey's Alley the roofs seemed to lean forward and touch each other, so that sky was a pencil line between the two seas of slate. Cotton wisps, and cotton waste strewed the gutters. Great hoist doors were closed, their iron locks shone in the darkness. The walls either side were high, they seemed to fling themselves upwards and outwards. They toppled. The air was thick with the smell of rope, of raw seeds, of fruit and cheeses, of powder, and a smell like wet canvas came to her nostrils as she reached its end. Here she stopped.

The place was silent, there was nobody about. She could cry here and nobody would ever know. The great walls would hide, the roofs cover. High up on her right hand, almost near the roof-top, a single light shone down, yellow, casting shadows criss-cross beneath her feet. She passed out of this court. She was in the main street. This was the centre of Gelton.

She turned right. Then she saw others, some in groups, some alone, walking ahead of her. Some children and the rest women. There was one old man and he walked so slowly that she passed him and glanced his way, but he was just an object that moved. The face she could not see, it was hidden behind a reefer collar. She knew who he was, who the rest were. They went her way, she theirs. They both moved towards the big building. She heard cries as she passed another group, and they knew that she, like themselves, was bound for the big offices of the company. The bell of Sailor's Church struck half-past twelve. She walked into a sudden blaze of light. The building was alive and the windows were like many bright eyes set in the stone of the towering walls.

As she drew nearer to the building she saw a crowd about the big swing-doors. The pavement was flooded with light. She saw a man gesticulating, heard somebody shout.

‘But that they've two boats docking to-night, they wouldn't bother to shift their backsides.'

She saw the hand fall. Then she reached the fringe of the crowd. Now she knew. She knew all. She saw it in the faces round her, the huddled figures, the hands, the pressing, uncontrollable crowds. And she saw the man.

‘How can I tell you anything?' he cried to them. ‘I'm nothing here. I know nothing. Listen to me——'

The crowd pushed forward, swept over the man, he stretched headlong upon the marble steps. Mrs. Fury followed them.

‘I know! My God! I know now. Oh, Denny! I can't—I can't——' and her voice trailed off to a whisper.

The floorage on which she stood was like a desert. An immaculate cold desert. Somehow the remainder of her words seemed to have been absorbed into it. Without at first realizing what she was doing she began to run. And when she ran others followed. They swarmed up the stairs, vanished into the many long corridors. They cried, they shouted, running. The feet upon the stone sounded like those of an advancing army. Those behind glass doors heard it, heads raised themselves from desks.

One said: ‘It has begun.'

The storming feet could be heard ascending, running past, the lifts whizzed up and down through the electric air. Mrs. Fury climbed, head down, staring at each stairway. She said aloud: ‘Blessed Mother, give me strength! give me strength—stren——' and a tiny sound like a whistling came from her mouth. She had reached the top.

‘I don't believe it. Oh, Christ—I don't believe it. Denny! Denny!'

She hung on to the stairway.

One dashed by her crying: ‘
Gone!
'

A man with coat tails flying vanished even as she looked up. A tiny bell struck down in the depths. She leaned over the banister looking down. This was all of the sea, but the sea did not flow in here. This was the gigantic agent of the sea. All this.

The corridor she looked down had no end. People rushed this way and that. Doors opened and closed like mouths, words beat into the air. Everywhere bells rang. And far below an incessant hum, and the great floor dark with shadows. One came upstairs towards her as she stood there, shoulders hunched, head forward, covered in a voluminous shawl, stood a moment, unseeing, turned, descended, halted half-way, dashed madly to the bottom, turned, slowly ascended again.