Down to the Sea/A Hero of the Cloth

HE Argyll's crew had been dismissed from quarters, and the usual sea-drill was now on. Three men, idlers for the moment, met casually on the after superstructure-deck and discussed—not the subject uppermost in the minds of the whole ship's company, the prospect of meeting the enemy before dark—but Finnegan—poor, disgraceful old Finnegan, the ship's drunkard, who had appeared at quarters fairly steady of legs and voice, but the center of an atmosphere of whisky fumes which, like other radiant energy, decreased in potency only with the square of the distance. The three were the first lieutenant, the surgeon, and the chaplain.

"Wonder where he gets it?" the surgeon had remarked. "My stores are intact; stewards don't miss any."

"Makes it," answered Mr. Clarkson, the first lieutenant, twirling a couple of large keys around his finger by the ring. " Makes it, inside or out. He may have a private still in his ditty-box, or else he swallows corn, rice, barley—anything at all—and distills it in his stomach. I've brigged him until I'm tired; it does him no good."

"Let him alone, then," said the surgeon.

"A horrible enslavement!—truly horrible!" said the chaplain, a young man, with fine eyes, delicate features, and a rather weak mouth. "What can be done for him? I have talked with him when sober, and he promises; I have prayed for him when he has broken his promise, and that is all that I can do. I cannot approach him when in that condition. It is unchristianlike, I know, but I cannot. The disgust and horror inspired by drunkenness are overmastering. I fear I am out of place here."

"Nonsense!" laughed the surgeon. "Let Finnegan alone. When sober, he's a fool; when drunk, a capable man—at least, he is at his best. Finnegan's cerebral connections are reversed. Stop his nourishment, and you make him feel as you would if you filled up; he'd have all the frills—languor, remorse, double vision, liver out of plumb—bad headache—"

"Hello! what's up?" interrupted Mr. Clarkson, laying the keys on a gun-breech and picking up a weather-worn pair of binoculars which lay around for any one's use. He looked ahead, where bunting was flying from the signal-yard of the flagship. A first lieutenant usually has most of the naval code in his head.

"Double column," he said, as he made out the signal. "A matter for the man at the wheel and the engineer; but I'll go forward."

"And I'll get down to my sick men," said the surgeon, also turning toward the steps. "And, say Mr. Parmlee," he added, from the top stair, "better give Finnegan up, or hand him over to me "

He followed the first lieutenant, and the young chaplain, with troubled face, leaned against the six-pounder on which lay the keys left by Mr. Clarkson. He spied them, and absently picked them up; then he peered forward and about, watching the methodical shifting of ships from single to double column. Soon he was conscious that some one had ascended the steps, and was now behind him. Turning he saw Finnegan, who seemed, in the strong sunlight, to be a little more watery-eyed, a little more unsure ot his footing—in short, a little drunker—than he had been at quarters. He shuffled his feet, smiled vacantly, and knuckled his forehead. Mr. Parmlee shuddered, and moved over toward a ventilator, on the lower rim of which Mr. Clarkson had placed the binoculars. He lifted them to his eyes—an operation requiring both hands—and nervously scanned the ships of the squadron. Finnegan approached.

"'Xcuse me, sir," he began, but the chaplain moved away.

"'Xcuse me, sir," continued Finnegan, following, but did ye know, sir—"

"Why do you not go down to your duties?" asked the disturbed chaplain. "Have you nothing to do?"

"Yes, sir; but jess wanted to ask ye, sir—"

Mr. Parmlee moved on, and Finnegan shuffled after.

"Jess wanted to ask ye, sir, if ye didn't want the keys."

At this moment Mr. Clarkson appeared, hurrying aft on the superstructure. He spied the grinning, stumbling, and aggressive Finnegan, and noticed the annoyance, which was almost fear, in the face of the retreating chaplain.

"What's this?" he said, sharply. "What are you doing up here? Down below with you, quickly! Corporal," he called down to the quarter-deck, "take this man below and hand him over to the master-at-arms. Put him in the brig for drunkenness."

So Finnegan was led down. His hammock was slung in the brig—the slatted apartment in which misbehaving man-of-war's-men are confined—and he turned into dreamless sleep, while his mates above drilled and perspired, and the conscience-stricken chaplain, locked in his room, prayed fervently for courage and strength and self-control to aid him in his duty to the souls in his care.

At dinner time he visited the brig; but Finnegan's snores apprised him that he was not yet in a receptive or responsive condition, and with a sigh of mingled shame and relief for the good intent had cost him a struggle—he left him to finish his sleep. At two o'clock Finnegan wakened, sober. He vociferated loudly for water, complaining of "hot coppers," and, when this was given him, he asked for his dinner. A sympathetic and envious messmate brought what had been saved for him, and, on Finnegan's inquiring what he was "in for," told him that he had pursued the sky-pilot around the superstructure-deck, intent upon braining him with a breech-block, and that it had taken six marines and a corporal to subdue him. He would certainly be court-martialed and dismissed the service in disgrace. To which Finnegan responded, mournfully, that he "didn't 'member nothin' about it."

But the tale reduced him to a penitent frame of mind, which inspired him to respond warmly to the forgiving chaplain's prayers when he called a little later; and, as Mr. Parmlee, with a delicacy equaled only by Finnegan's, made no reference to the cause of his incarceration, but merely begged that, for his sake, if not his own, he would stop drinking, the remorseful prisoner stoutly averred that the chaplain was a good man, that he would oblige him—that he had taken his last drink, and henceforth would lead a sober life. And Mr. Parmlee departed, with reviving hope for Finnegan and a glowing sense of duty well performed.

He sought the after superstructure-deck, where he had talked with the surgeon and first lieutenant in the morning, and here he found the former, peering through the binoculars at a long line of black spots drawn up in battle formation on the horizon ahead.

"The enemy, Mr. Parmlee," he said, handing him the glasses. "We'll be hammer and tongs at him in half an hour. All ready in your department? I'm prepared—knives and saws all sharpened, gallons of chloroform, tubs of water, bales of bandages, everything ready for the good work."

The chaplain took the glasses, but, before he could adjust them to his eyes or reply to the surgeon, the bugle-call to general quarters sounded, and for a few minutes the great battle-ship seemed a floating bedlam. Men swarmed from below, scurried about, sprang from high places to low, from low to high; they did things to boats, davits, ventilators, gratings, ladders, and hatches; then, stripping their shirts from their backs as they ran, disappeared through ports, hatches, and companions. And now, up the steps on a run, anxious of face and wild of eye, came Mr. Clarkson.

"Did you see the keys?" he asked, hurriedly, as he approached and looked about. "The keys of the magazines. I had them at inspection quarters, and I had them up here. What did I do with them? Did either of you notice?"

"No," they both answered, as they aided in the search. "Saw them on your finger," added the surgeon. "Didn't you take them with you?"

"No, no; I must have laid them down here somewhere. I went right to my room, but don't remember putting them away, and they've not there now. Great Heavens, this is awful! I'll be laughed out of the service, if not court-martialed and broken. Got machinists at work cutting round the locks, but it's a four-hours' job, and we'll be at it in no time. And we can't fight—we can't fire a gun; and we're the only ship in the lot fit to engage that crowd ahead. I haven't told the old man yet—not yet, while there's a chance to find them. Great God! Where are they anyhow?"

He groaned as he mopped the perspiration from his face.

"I remember, Mr. Clarkson," said the chaplain, thoughtfully. "You laid them here on this gun, and then—"

"Yes, by George, I did!" responded the officer, joyously, as he rummaged about the gun-breech and the deck beneath; "but where are they now?" he asked, and his face took on the troubled look.

"And then," continued the chaplain, doubtfully, after you had gone, I picked them up."

"Where did you put them?"

"I have not the slightest idea—I do not know—I cannot remember."

"Try—for God's sake, try! Did you take them below?"

"I am positive that I did not. Still, we can look in my room. I was somewhat agitated at the time."

Down rushed the three to the chaplain's room; but the closest search failed to discover the missing keys.

"What were you agitated about, Mr. Parmlee?" asked the surgeon.

"Why, I confessed to you my weakness, did I not? It was Finnegan's incomprehensible behavior. He was trying to accost me."

"Drunk, was he? Then there was method in his incomprehensible behavior. What did he say? What did he do?"

"Did he have the keys?" asked the lieutenant, starting toward the door.

"Wait. Let me think," said Mr. Parmlee, with his hand pressing his forehead. "I believe that he did say something about keys; but what it was I cannot remember."

"Come on," said Mr. Clarkson, and away they hurried to the brig, where a sentry admitted them. Finnegan was asleep again, but they ruthlessly awakened him, and he rolled out of his hammock, blinking his eyes and knuckling his brow. He was as sober as the chaplain.

"I don't know nothin' about it, sir," he stuttered. "I wouldn't ha' done nothin' only I was loaded, sir. He's a good man, sir, an' I wouldn't hurt a hair of his head."

"Finnegan," demanded the lieutenant, impressively, "what did you do with the keys?"

"Keys, sir! What keys?"

"The keys that you found on the superstructure-deck just before you were taken down by the corporal."

"I don't 'member anything 'bout that, sir. They told me I 'most killed the chaplain, but I don't know anything 'bout it, sir. I wouldn't hurt him for all the world, sir."

Mr. Clarkson groaned in despair.

"Finnegan," interposed the chaplain, "try and think. Don't you remember that you wanted to speak with me? Don't you remember saying something about keys? I cannot remember what it was. Can you? Try and think."

But Finnegan's bewilderment only increased, and he protested again that he meant no harm, and knew nothing of what he had done.

"Come outside," said the surgeon; and they followed through the door, beyond Finnegan's range of hearing.

"There is but one thing to do," he said. "We must get him drunk again. If we knew his brand of whisky, it would be better; but we must get him as drunk as he was, and quickly, too. Then he will remember what was on his mind up there. He must be assisted, too. We have no time to lose, and he might take too long to load up—stomach's too sour to take in much right away. Can you spare the time, Clarkson?

"No, no—Heavens, no! I ought to be on the bridge now, or in the turret."

"I have no time, either. Candidly, Mr. Parmlee, I was joking when I said I was prepared for wounded men. I am not. My sick-bay is full of patients and everything is in confusion. I belong there now. It is for you."

"I!" exclaimed the chaplain, in accents of horror. "I—make him intoxicated? I cannot!"

"You can," said the surgeon, vehemently. "You and the captain are the only idlers in the ship when going into action. And the captain must not be told, unless the case is hopeless. Would you see Clarkson ruined for your fault in mislaying those keys? You or old Finnegan had them last, you know. And it won't help matters to lay it on to Finnegan. Would you see this fleet defeated to-day? Are you under no obligations to your country? Your duty, Mr. Parmlee, requires that you lay aside all personal scruples and get this man drunk as quickly as you can. You must pour it down his throat—and, if necessary, you must drink with him to encourage him."

"I cannot! I—a minister of the Gospel? Only this afternoon I adjured him to give it up. No; is there no other way? Are there no duplicate keys?"

"There were," answered the agonized lieutenant, "but they went overboard, and have not been replaced. Decide quickly, Mr. Parmlee. You are the only man aboard with leisure at this moment. Every one else, from the captain down to the band-drummer, has a station and a duty."

"And you will go down with Clarkson," added the surgeon, warmly. "You are the one who really lost the keys. Shall we tell this to the captain? It won't do to say that Finnegan lost them."

"That consideration does not influence me," said the chaplain, with dignity. "Gentlemen, I am a novice—in fact, I have never tasted the poison—but I will endeavor to perform this distasteful task."

"Good for you, chaplain!" said the surgeon, slapping him on the back. "Go to your room, quick. I'll send up the booze from the bay, and Clarkson can sentence Finnegan to a bad half-hour with you for spiritual instruction. That's the game, Clarkson. Prisoner released from the brig on eve of action wants spiritual help. Now, I'm off."

They separated, the surgeon going down to the sick-bay, the first lieutenant to the bridge, and the chaplain to his room, where he fell upon his knees in prayer. In a few minutes a knock at the door aroused him, and he admitted an apothecary's clerk, who, when he had deposited an opened quart bottle, some glasses, and a pitcher of water on the table, respectfully, though rather facetiously, asked him for a little of the "Dutch courage."

"Certainly," said Mr. Parmlee, with a ghastly smile. "Help yourself. But you will kindly say nothing, I hope, to others about this service of stimulant. I—you see—in fact, I am in poor health, and this is my first experience of war."

"That's all right, sir," answered the man, with a grin, as he helped himself. "Lots of it floatin' round for every one outside of our department, but old Pills is meaner 'n a pawnbroker on this question."

He drank and departed, and soon another knock on the door announced the arrival of the wondering Finnegan, in charge of the brig sentry, who smiled hugely as he said:

"The first lieutenant's compliments, sir, and he wants to know would you pray for Finnegan 'fore he goes to his station, sir."

"Why, yes, of course—most certainly. Step in, Finnegan," responded the chaplain. "Step in and be seated."

Finnegan entered, seated himself on the edge of a chair, and the sentry closed the door.

"I didn't 'xpect to be prayed for, sir," said Finnegan, with reproach in his voice. "I swore off, all right, an' I'll stick to it on your account, sir, 'cause you're a good man, an' didn't go for to have me court-martialed; but I can't pray, sir—not a little bit."

"No, no, certainly not, Finnegan," answered the chaplain, drawing another chair up to the table. "This is just a ruse—a little ruse of mine to make it easier for you to reform. You know—that is—you see, there are different roads to the same end, or, rather, more than one method of—well, I am afraid I express myself poorly. I mean—"

"More'n one way to skin a cat, sir? That what you mean?"

"Well, possibly. Your metaphor, in a measure, covers the problem before us," answered the chaplain, smiling painfully as he wiped the perspiration from bis brow, "I mean that a sudden deprivation of stimulants to one thoroughly accustomed to their use is apt to produce harmful effects on the nervous system; and that, in your case—valuable man that you are to this ship—it is deemed by the first lieutenant, the surgeon, and myself advisable, as we will shortly engage the enemy, to provide you with a reasonable quantity of the liquor to which you lately have been accustomed."

"Some o' the hair o' the dog, sir. You mean I'm to have a drink, sir?"

"Yes, Finnegan, help yourself."

"But, say, chaplain," said Finnegan, his hand pausing in mid-passage toward the bottle, "I swore off, you know—"

"Yes, but hurry. You will be needed at your station soon."

"Well, if you say it's all right, it must be all right, sir. But I'd feel better if you'd take a nip, too, sir. I don't go for to presume you'd be drinkin' with me, sir, but you swore me off—"

"I will drink with you. Help yourself—hurry!"

"Thank ye, sir."

Finnegan poured out a share of the stimulant, and so large was it that the chaplain, judging by the comparison, made his own smaller portion slightly larger than an average man cares to swallow at once. They drank together, without toast or comment.

Finnegan sighed gratefully as he put down the glass; but Mr. Parmlee, with streaming eyes and choked breath, grasped the water-pitcher, and, disdaining table etiquette, raised it to his lips and flushed his blistered oesophagus with fully a pint of water. Then he pressed his hands to his stomach and glared wildly about the room.

"I can see yer not used to it, sir," remarked Finnegan, in a patronizing tone. "Have yer chaser all ready next time, sir; and p'rhaps ye'd better water it a little, till ye can take it straight."

"Yes," gasped the chaplain, "perhaps I had. As you say, I am not an adept—in fact, I drink very little; but, of course, this need not influence you. It is very good liquor, is it not? From what I know about whisky I should say that it is very good—very good, indeed. Shall we have another?"

"What, so soon, sir? Well, if you says so, all right, sir."

Finnegan filled his glass again, and volunteered to adjust in Mr. Parmlee's the right proportions of whisky and water; but his judgment was certainly biased by his own experience, to the result that the chaplain imbibed a second portion of the whisky fully as large as the other. Tempered by the water, it went down easier, but, coupled with the first, soon produced the later effects. His face took on an expression of fierce gravity, much in contrast to the amiable countenance of Finnegan. Ten minutes passed before either spoke; then Finnegan, judging, no doubt, that precious time was slipping by, coughed gently and said: "Shall we hit it up again, sir?"

"Shertainly, shertainly," answered Mr. Parmlee, reaching a wavering hand toward the bottle; but Finnegan had it and was helping himself.

"Thash right, Finnegan—thash right. Don't be 'fraid. Very good whishky. 'Hit up again.' Very forshfu' figure of speesh. Whash th' other? Lesh shee—whash th' other?" Mr. Parmlee scratched his head and nearly fell off the chair from the disturbance of his center of gravity. He clutched the table and continued: "Lesh shee—'hair on the dog'? Thashit. An' whash th' other? Shkin cats? Thash th' other. 'Good way shkin cats.' Very epi-epigig—very ep-igramash-ical. Wonder whash matter? Feel shea-shick. Ship mush be pitching. An' I shee two of you—two Finnegans. Thash funny."

"Shall I help you again, sir?" asked the still intact Finnegan.

"Yesh, if you pleash. Very good whishky. Not 'customed to it, but got duty to p'form—duty to my country an' to my bro'r offisher."

"Here ye are, sir."

The door is not locked. Let us leave this painful scene and hie us to the bridge, where Mr. Clarkson stands, with others, as nearly insane as a man may become with an outward semblance of sanity. With him are the captain, the navigating officer, and the gunnery and torpedo lieutenants. Aloft in the fighting-top an officer manipulates a range-finder and occasionally calls out results. The nearest ship of the opposing fleet is but seven miles away, and Mr. Clarkson knows by inspection of his watch that Finnegan has been closeted but twenty minutes with the chaplain. He has paced up and down, shuffled his feet, wiped his face, and made such inane and sometimes explosive comments on the situation that his manner and mood have become apparent to all. And the calm, grim, imperturbable captain, who has been observing him furtively for the last five minutes, at last speaks.

"You say that everything is ready below, Mr,. Clarkson?"

"Y-y-yes, sir," answered the officer, paling at the lie which might ruin him.

"You seem strangely upset. Yet I have seen you under fire as steady as a rock. Anything the matter?"

"A jumping toothache, sir."

"Well, well—a toothache! Go down at once to the surgeon. No man may work and fight with a jumping toothache. Hurry, though, for, by all indications, we will commence firing within five minutes."

Mr. Clarkson hurried. He rushed down the bridge steps, at the risk of his neck; he raced aft on the main-deck and down to the gun-room, where he hurled himself bodily at the chaplain's door, hardly taking time to turn the knob. It opened, and a glance apprised the officer of the situation. Mr. Parmlee sat with his head bowed on the table, breathing heavily; the bottle was three-quarters empty, and Finnegan, in the act of putting down his glass as the officer entered, stood erect and saluted. The room reeked with the odor of whisky, but Finnegan was most certainly in a normal condition.

"Finnegan!" yelled the lieutenant in his ear. "Where did you put the keys—the keys you found on the superstructure-deck this morning—the keys that Mr. Parmlee lost?"

"I didn't have 'em, sir," answered Finnegan. "I only wanted to tell the chaplain 'bout 'em; but he didn't seem to care, and then you put me under arrest, sir."

"But what about them? Where are they?"

"They went down the ventilator, sir. He put 'em on the lower rim, 'longside the glasses, an' when he picked up the glasses he knocked 'em down."

"Which ventilator?"

"Last one aft on the port side, sir."

Mr. Clarkson shot out of the door. He was gone five minutes—long enough for an active man to visit the coal bunkers and the two magazines in the bowels of the ship, and not too long, perhaps, for a sufferer from toothache to obtain treatment in a crowded sick-bay. He returned with the face of a happy boy and assisted Finnegan in lifting Mr. Parmlee to his berth.

"I don't understand this at all, sir," Finnegan ventured to remark.

"Don't try," said Mr. Clarkson, seizing him by the two shoulders and looking him squarely in the face. "Don't try—and, Finnegan"—he gave the old fellow a vigorous shake—"say nothing about this, and I'll see that you have all you need of—of this stuff, that keeps you in good condition. Understand?—all you need. But don't tell on the chaplain!"

"Very good, sir—thank ye. I won't blab on him, sir. He's a good, kind man, but any one can see, sir, that he can't stand much of it."

"Go to your station, Finnegan."

Finnegan passed through the door, and Mr. Clarkson drank some of the whisky. Perhaps he needed it more than did Finnegan.

Through the fierce sea-fight that wound up that day—through the thunderous uproar of heavy guns and the rattling, ringing, and crashing of hostile shot and shell—the worthiest hero of that ship's company slept the sleep of the overtaxed and exhausted. He had done his utmost and had given his all.

For the apothecary's clerk betrayed him.