SV - 03 - Sergeant Verity Presents His Compliments Read Free

fiercely. His lantern-jaw seemed to hang slack of its own weight and his pock-marked face shone with the heat between decks.
    'Not here!' she looked about her in the gloom. 'Not this minute!'
    'Thou fool!' he said, with a kind of stern affection. 'This very night thy soul may be required of thee!'
    'Ay,' she said thoughtfully, and moved closer to his side.
    Seton chose not to notice. Once a commanding officer tried to regulate the affairs of soldiers and their women there was no end to it. He thought, however, that a word in Major Moxon's ear might not come amiss.
    Further aft, a row of glass panels offered a view of the deep well of the Birkenhead's engine-room. The massive and polished hammer-heads of the three pistons drove forward and back through their elipse with the power of trapped animals seeking escape. There was a pervasive smell of coal dust and hot oil. Through the open door of the stoke-hold, the black silhouettes of the stokers appeared against a tapestry of flame, like figures already consigned to Fusilier Atherton's hell.
    Among the polished brass and steel, the engineer officer of the watch surveyed his little kingdom, while the paddles beat their throbbing rhythm alongside the hull. The telegraph was set at 'Full Ahead' for the night as the ship cut the ocean swell towards Algoa Bay, where the first of the depot companies were to be disembarked. Chalked on a little board, for the engineer officer's information, were the locations of the senior officers on the vessel. Captain Salmond, rn , commander of the Birkenhead, was already in his cabin, having retired at the first opportunity.
    Seton turned about and dismissed the orderly officer and sergeant, returning their salutes punctiliously. It was past one in the morning, but the knowledge that his men might have to face the ubiquitous fire of Kaffir marksmen the next day had prompted this final tour of inspection. Seton's satisfaction with the quiet orderliness of his men was not equalled by general admiration for their officers. His own 74th Highlanders were well led, and some of the other infantry companies were adequately commanded, but he felt the natural antipathy of a foot soldier and a Scot towards the dandy officers of cavalry. The smooth, affluent young wastrels of the dragoons and lancers displayed a peacock arrogance which he found loathsome. As he walked slowly along the carpeted corridor, the cabins of the 12th Lancers on either side still showed cracks of light at their doors and emitted a muffled hum of voices and the occasional boisterous guffaws. A door opened, illuminating the unbuttoned figure of Lieutenant Chamberlain. With tunic open and breeches askew, the young man belched and moved unsteadily towards the infantry berths. The door closed before Seton reached it but he caught the warm stench of sour wine and stale cigar. He made no attempt to call Chamberlain back. Officers were to be reprimanded when sober. Chamberlain blundered into the cabin which he shared with Lieutenant Keston. Seton heard the voices and subdued laughter of the two young men. Thoughtfully, he entered his own stateroom in the stern of the ship. As he lay down, the engines of the Birkenhead beat their strong, soothing double rhythm. Five hundred men and their hundred and thirty women and children slept their deep final sleep.
    Joseph Morant-Barham was alone in his cabin with Lieutenant John Ransome after the other three subalterns had left. The two men sat either side of the green baize table, lolling in their chairs. Between them was a litter of empty glasses and piled cigar bowls, scraps of paper on which the reckonings had been made, and several scrawled IOUs with Charley Keston's signature.
    'Two hundred and eighty,' said Ransome, taking the cheroot from his mouth. 'Two hundred and eighty your departed guests left us, not counting the damned paper you let young Keston issue for the last half hour. Paper's a blue look-out, Joey. You and I shan't be rich while you