BETWEEN TIDES.
A stranger, if suddenly transplanted to the spot, would have taken some time after opening his eyes to realise that the boat was submerged. He would probably decide at first that she was anchored in harbour. Far away forward, under an avenue of overhead electric lamps, figures could be seen—all either recumbent or seated—and from them the eye was led on till it lost its sense of distance in a narrowing perspective of wheels, pipes, and gauges. All the while there was a steady buzzing hum from slowly turning motors, and about every half minute there came a faint whir of gear wheels from away aft by the hydroplanes. From the bell-mouths of a cluster of voice-pipes a murmur of voices sounded—the conversation of officers by the periscope; while the ear, if close to the arched steel hull, could catch a bubbling, rippling noise—the voice of the North Sea passing overhead.
The men stationed aft near the motors were not over-clean, and were certainly unshaven; some were asleep or reading (the literature carried and read by the crew would certainly have puzzled a librarian—it varied from 'Titbits' and 'John Bull' to 'Piers Plowman' and 'The Origin of Species'): a few were engaged in a heated discussion as they sat around a big torpedoman—the only man of the group actually on duty at the moment. His duties appeared only to consist in being awake and on the spot if wanted, and he was, as a matter of fact, fully occupied as one of the leading spirits in the argument.
"Well, let's 'ear what you're getting at," he said. "We 'eard a lot of talk, but it don't go anywhere. You say you're a philosopher, but you don't know what you do mean."
"I know blanky well, but you can't understand me," said the engine-room artificer addressed. "Look here, now—you've got to die some time, haven't you?"
"Granted, Professor."
"Well, it's all arranged now how you're to die, I say. It doesn't matter when or how it is, but it's all settled—see? And you don't know, and none of us know anything about it."
"That's all very well—but 'oo is it knows, then? D'you mean God?"
"No, I don't—I'm an atheist, I tell you. There's something that arranges it all, but it ain't God."
"Well, 'oo the 'ell is it, then—the Admiralty?"
The Artificer leaned forward, his dark eyes alight and his face earnest as that of some medieval hermit. "I tell you," he said, "you can believe in God, or Buddha, or anything you like, but it's the same thing. Whatever it is, it doesn't care. It has it all ready and arranged—written out, if you like—and it will have to happen just so. It's pre—pre——"
"Predestination." The deep voice came from the Leading Stoker on the bench beside him.
"Predestination. No amount of praying's any good. It's no use going round crying to gods that aren't there to help you. You've got to go through it as it's written down."
"Prayer's all right," said the Leading Stoker. "If you believe what you pray, you'll get it."
"That's not true. Have you ever had it? Give us an instance now——"
"I don't pray none, thank you. All the same, it's good for women and such that go in for it, like. It ain't the things that alter; it's yourself that does it. Ain't you never 'eard o' Christian Science?"
"Yes; same as the Mormons, ain't it? Is that what you are?"
"No, it ain't—an' I'm a Unitarian, same as you are."
"I'm not—I'm a Baptist, same as my father was; but I don't believe in it."
"Well, if you believe in one God, that's what you are."
"But I'm telling you, I don't. Look here, now. I don't believe there's anything happens at all that wasn't all arranged first, and I know that nothing can alter it."
"Well, 'oo laid it all down first go off, then?" said the Torpedoman.
"Ah! I don't know and you don't know; but I tell you it wasn't God."
"Well, 'e's a bigger man than me then, an' I takes me 'at off to 'im, 'ooever it is. I tell yer, yer talkin' through yer neck. You say if you're going to be shot, there's a bullet about somewhere in some one's pouch with yer name writ on it. Ain't that it? Well, 'oo the 'ell put yer name on it, then?"
"It doesn't matter to me so long's it's there, does it?"
"Well, if that was so, I'd like to know 'oo 'e was, so's I could pass 'im the word not to 'ave the point filed off of it for me, anyway."
"Well, you couldn't—and he couldn't alter it for you if he was there, either."
The Torpedoman moved along the bench and twisted his head round till his ear was against one of the voice-pipes. The others sat silent and watched him with lazy interest.
"We're takin' a dip," he said. "Thought I 'eard 'im say, 'Sixty feet.'" The faint rolling motion that had been noticeable before died away, and the boat seemed to have become even more peaceful and silent. The Leading Stoker leaned back against the hull and rested his head against the steel. From the starboard hand there came a faint murmur, which grew till the regular threshing beat of a propeller could be distinguished. The sound swelled till they could hear in its midst a separate piping, squeaking note. The ship passed on overhead, and the threshing sound passed with her and faded until again the steady purr of motors remained the only reminder of the fact that the boat was diving. They felt her tilt up a little by the bow as she climbed back to regain her patrol depth.
"That's a tramp," said the Torpedoman; "nootral, I reckon."
"Squeaky bearing, too," said the Artificer judicially. "Don't suppose he's looked at his thrust since he left port. What's the skipper want to go under her for?"
"Save trouble, I s'pose; didn't want to alter helm for 'er. What was you talkin' of—yes, Kismet—that's the word I've been wantin' all along. You're a Mohammedan, you are?"
"Aw, don't be a fool; I tell you I'm nothing."
The fourth wakeful figure, another Torpedoman, spoke for the first time. "If you're nothing, and you think you're nothing, what the 'ell d'yer want to make such a fuss about it for?"
"I don't make a fuss. It's all you people who think you're something who make a fuss. You can't alter what's laid down, but you think you can. You fuss and panic to stave things off, but you're like chickens in a coop—you can't get out till your master lets you, and he can't understand what you say, and he wouldn't pay any attention to it if he did."
The big Torpedoman put out a hand like a knotted oak-root and spoke—
"You an' your Kismet," he said scornfully. "Look 'ere, now. This is Gospel, and I'm tellin' of yer. S'pose there is a bullet about with your name on it, but s'posing you shoot the other —— first, and there's to 'ell with yer Kismet. Gawd 'elps those that 'elp themselves, I say. S'pose we 'it a Fritz now, under water—'oo's Kismet is it? Never mind 'oo's arranged it or 'oo's down in the book to go through it, the bloke that gets 'is doors closed first and 'as the best trained crew is goin' to come 'ome and spin the yarn about it. I say it may be written down as you say, but there's Someone 'oldin' the book, an' 'e says: 'Cross off that boat this time,' 'e say. 'They've got the best lot aboard of 'em,' 'e'd say. Is it Kismet if yer thrust collars go? Are you goin' to stop oilin' 'em because it's in the book an' you can't alter it? Yer talkin' through yer neck. Call it luck, if yer like. It's luck if we 'it a mine, and it's luck if we don't; but if we met a Fritz to-night an' poop off the bow gun an' miss—that's goin' to be our blanky fault, an' you can call it any blanky name, but you won't alter it."
"But you don't understand," said the Artificer. "I didn't——"
"Action Stations—Stand by all tubes." The voice rang clearly from the mouth of the voice-pipe, and the group leapt into activity. For sixty seconds there was apparent pandemonium—the purr of the motors rose to a quick hum, and the long tunnel of the hull rang with noises, clatter and clang and hiss. The sounds stopped almost as suddenly as they had begun, and the voices of men reporting "Ready" could be heard beyond the high-pitched note of the motors.
The big Torpedoman stretched across his tube to close a valve, and caught the eye of the fourth participant in the recent debate. "Say, Dusty," he whispered, "'ere's Someone's Kismet—in this blanky tube, an' I reckon I ain't forgot the detonator in 'er nose, neither."
The Captain lowered the periscope, his actions almost reverent in their artificial calm. He looked up at the navigating officer a few feet away and smiled. "Just turning to east," he said. "We'll be in range inside three minutes." He glanced fore and aft the boat and then back at his watch. "By gum," he said, "it's nice to have a good crew. I haven't had to give a single order, and I wouldn't change a man of 'em."