The Acting-Bishop

By COMMANDER C. H. ROLLESTON, R.N. (Retired).

In certain circumstances a Naval Officer may be granted what is called “Acting Rank,” corresponding roughly to “Brevet Rank” in the Army. A Brevet- Lieutenant-Colonel, for example, is realty a Major who has been given the higher rank for the time being, on account of a shortage of Lieutenant-Colonels.

Similarly, if the Captain of a battleship were to die while on service abroad, and if no other Captain were available locally to take his place, the Commander, nor mally second-in-command of a big ship, might be made an “Acting Captain” temporarily. This is merely by way of introduction and in order not to inter rupt this little story with an explanatory digression later on.

BEFORE the days of universal wireless, before the days of auction

bridge —but after bridge had superseded

whist —a small British cruiser was mak ing a long voyage in the South Seas.

She was not many weeks out from Eng land; and her Captain, a rather pom pous individual with no illusions as to the dignity and importance of the skip per of a British man-of-war, was thoroughly enjoying his first taste of unfettered power in this, his first, com mand.

One evening, after dinner, H.M.S.

Bandbox was sliding smoothlv over

Kipling’s “planet-powdered floor." The

day s work was over, the night was glori

ous, and everybody was happy—every body, that is, except one man, Able- Seaman Smithers, who had had a nasty accident while the ship was last in har bour, and was lying in the Sick Bay, exceedingly ill.

Captain Plantaganet, Royal Navy—

to give the skipper of the Bandbox a name which somehow seems to suggest his character —had descended from on high, and condescended to indulge in the new game of bridge in the Ward Room, with some of the less exalted officers, to wit, the First Lieutenant, the Paymaster, and the Chaplain. He played very badly.

The Captain of a man-of-war, of course, has his own quarters and is re quired, as the Admiralty Regulations put it, to “keep a separate table”; in other words, to live and eat by himself.

He may ask other officers to dine or lunch or, if he likes, to breakfast with him as his guests, but his normal position is one of splendid isolation. It goes without saying that he is always made an honor ary member of the ward room officers’ mess, which in a small cruiser such as the Bandbox is the habitat , when off duty, of the other commissioned officers, from the First Lieutenant, to the newest and most junior sub-lieutenant. Some

skippers are very welcome when they use their honorary membership and visit the ward room; others are not. Captain Plantaganet was in the in-between class.

The paymaster was the Captain’s part ner, and the padre had just dealt.

“I leave it to you, Number One,” said the chaplain to his partner, the First Lieutenant.

“Thank you partner," replied Number One. “I make it hearts.”

“Your lead, sir"—this to the Skipper.

The game progressed normally till near the end of the rubber, when Captain Plantaganet glaringly revoked. He had refused the last round of trumps and then produced the three of hearts to take the chaplain’s ace of spades.

“You've revoked, sir,” said the padre, who was fresh from Oxford, and had not acquired that respect for a Post-

Captain in the Royal Navy which

purely naval officers absorb with their first brass buttons.

“Me! Revoke! Never did such a thing in my life! Impossible, padre,

impossible!”

“But you did, sir," persisted the chap lain, in spite of a hack on the shins from the First Lieutenant, as a hint not to pursue the subject.

The chaplain had turned up the in criminating tricks and proved his point.

Fortunately, it was the last hand and the game had finished. The party broke up and the Skipper and the P’irst Lieutenant had the mess to themselves.

“Never did like chaplains, First Lieutenant; never did like them,” said

the Captain. “The impertinence of the fellow. I didn’t revoke, did I?”

“I don’t think so, sir!” said Number One, tactfully but with no regard for the truth. He hoped for his promotion at the end of the commission and had no intention of incurring the Skipper’s wrath by repeating the padre’s mistake.

He remembered the old naval slogan which says that there is one thing worse than getting to leeward of the Owner, and that is getting to windward of him.

Just then the door opened. A worried looking doctor entered the mess, rang the bell, and ordered a whisky and soda.

“Good evening, P.M.O.,” greeted

Captain Plantaganet. A warship’s

surgeon is always called the “Principal Medical Officer” even though he may be, as in this case, the only doctor on board.

“Good evening, sir. I’m afraid poor Smithers is in a very bad way, sir.”

“Dear me, dear me; I am sorry. Poor

chap.”

“Unless he takes a decided turn for the better soon, I don’t think he can last out to-morrow, sir.”

“That’s very sad, P.M.O., very sad.

And I don’t like funerals at sea; they’re much too depressing. That splash as the body goes over the side, you know— it’s nerve-wracking, P.M.O., nervewracking.”

“Oh, well, he’s not dead yet, sir,” said Number One, trying to make the conversation a little more cheerful.

“No, no, of course not, First Lieuten ant, but it’s always well to be prepared.

Boy Scouts’ motto, you know. Always think ahead and be ready for eventual ities. Well, good-night. Let me know how Smithers is first thing in the morn ing—Sunday to-morrow. If that padre preaches at me for revoking or anything like that . . . bumptious young man. . .

Good-night.”

Number One and the doctor smiled at each other.

“The Reverend Tudor accused the Old Man of revoking at bridge,” said the former, “and the Skipper didn’t like it.”

“Did he revoke?”

“Of course he did! I kicked the padre under the table when he drew at tention to it, but it was no use; he would go on.”

“Silly ass! The Skipper won’t forget it; he’ll get even somehow.”

“I expect so; but that’s the padre’s funeral. By the way, talking of fune rals, is Smithers really bad or are you just making it up in order to effect a

miraculous cure and gain much profes sional kudos?”

“No; he’s a sick man. I don’t think there’s any hope.”

“Poor devil; wife and family, too—

at Pompey.”

* * * After evening quarters next day—that is, soon after four p.m. —the doctor knocked at the captain’s door.

“Come in!” said the occupant, “Ah, P.M.O. Yes, what is it? Smithers ?”

“Yes, sir. He died ten minutes ago.

He never had a chance.”

“Everything possible was done, I sup pose, P.M.O. ?”

“Oh, yes, sir, everything. When will the funeral be, sir?”

“I don’t know yet, P.M.O. I’ll see the First Lieutenant and let you know.”

When the P.M.O. had gone Captain Plantaganet rang for his sentry.

“Tell the navigating officer I’d like to see him, and tell him to bring the chart.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Did you send for me, sir?” asked the navigator, a minute or two later.

“I did, Mr. —er —er —Navigator. How far is the nearest land?”

The pilot spread out the chart and the two leaned over it.

“We’ve just passed this island here, sir; it’s about sixty miles astern now.

This other one is about a hundred miles ahead, and thirty or forty miles off our course.”

“We could call there then for an hour or so without losing any time if we went on another knot or two afterwards?”

“Oh, yes, easily, sir.”

“Know anything about the place, navigator?”

“I happened to look it up in the Sail ing Directions this morning, sir; it’s just a coral atoll —uninhabited.”

“Desert island, eh? Well, that will do all right. When can we get there at our present speed?”

The pilot measured off the distance with his dividers. “About ten o’clock to-morrow morning, sir, and the course would be —” . . . here the parallel ml

ers were requisitioned . . . “the course would be North 63 East, sir.”

“Thank you.” The Captain unhooked a telephone which hung on his cabin bulkhead. When the answering light

appeared he spoke:

“Officer of the watch? Alter course to North 63 East.”

“North 63 East, sir. Aye, aye, sir,” replied the O.O.W. The helm rattled over and steadied again.

“Thank you, navigator. Please tell the First Lieutenant we’ll hold the funeral ashore to-morrow. And would you mind telling the sentry to send the

chaplain here?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“And leave the chart with me; I’ll send it back to the bridge.”

A few minutes later the padre knocked and came in.

“Ah, padre; you know poor Smithers has died?”

“Yes, sir; I was with him when he passed away; it was rather merciful —"

“No doubt, no doubt, Mr. Tudor,” said the Skipper. He didn’t want to discuss the ethics of dying with a man he disliked. “Now, I don’t care for funerals at sea; they’re too gloomy, and they upset people. So I’ve had the course altered for this island here” —he pointed to the chart. “We’ll anchor at about 10 a.m.; you will leave the ship at 10.30 with a working-party, and select a spot for the grave; it should be dug by noon, when you will return on board for lunch,

and the funeral will leave the ship at 1.30. Have everything ready by then, please.”

“What sort of an island is it, sir? I shall want a little time to make arrange ments with the shore authorities.”

“Shore authorities? What do you mean? It’s a desert island,” snapped the Skipper; he didn't like being inter rogated. “There may be some monkeys, or land-crabs, if you want to consult them.”

“In that case I'm afraid we can’t have a funeral there, sir. I can only officiate at a funeral in consecrated ground.” The padre was secretly delighted to be able to tell Captain Plantaganet he couldn't do something he had evidently set his heart on doing.

The Skipper was correspondingly dis pleased. Also, he remembered that this young man from Oxford had bowled him out for revoking at bridge.

“That’s easily overcome, padre — easily overcome.” He had a habit of repeating his more momentous pro nouncements. “You shall take your cleri cal attire ashore with you and conse

crate some ground first of all. The grave digging party can be witnesses if such are required.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible too, sir.

No one but a Bishop can conduct a con secration ceremony.” The padre was now enjoying himself immensely.

The discomfited Skipper was obliged to give in for the moment; he said he would send for the chaplain again later.

In the ward-room, the padre retailed the conversation with relish.

“I would nae be too cock-a-hoop, your reverence,” said the Chief Engineer, "Yon Captain Plantaganet is a man o' resoorce; I fancy he’ll hae the last woord.”

“Never fear,*’ said the padre. “I've got him cold. You'll hear the helm go ing over soon, and we’ll be back on our course.”

But the helm did not go over. Half an hour later, the Captain’s Sentry came to the chaplain, and said; “The Captain wants to see you, sir.”

“Oh, all right.”

“Mr. Tudor," said the Captain, “I’m determined that our late shipmate shall have a decent burial. A funeral at sea, though it may be quite in order, seems to me a horrible, cold-blooded, almost pagan ceremony, I know you won’t agree with me, but my mind is made up.

Now, I have consulted the K.R. and A.I. —King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions in case you don’t know — and I have decided to make you an

Acting-Bishop"— the padre looked

startled —" .. an Acting-Bishop, so that there need be no further hitch in the arrangements I have made.”

This astounding decision left the padre breathless. He knew the Captain of any ship, and particularly of a Brit ish man-of-war, had wide powers when out of touch with the world in which men live their ordered lives; but he did not think there was any authority to make such a startling promotion as was involved in conferring even a temporary bishopric on a young and very junior “Clerk in Holy Orders.” However, he was not prepared with chapter and verse with which to argue the point. Also, having a quick wit, he scented possibil ities. " He accepted the situation with every appearance of disappointment at having lost the contest of wills. He had no gaiters, of course, but he reflected that after all they were merely an outward sign and that Able-Seaman Smithers, at any rate, would not worry if the Acting- Bishop’s legs were encased in mundane trousers.

Having made himself acquainted with the consecration ceremony that would — or would not —convert a few square yards of desert island into a Church of Eng land cemetery, the now Acting-Right Reverend John Tudor did some thinking on other and less ecclesiastical lines.

Victory certainly lay with Captain Plan taganet up to that point.

Suddenly; “Eureka!” he cried, and made a dash for the ward-room in search of the Chief Engineer.

“Chief!” he said, “I'm not a betting man, of course, but do you remember saying the Owner would have the last word?”

“Aye, I do. Ye’ll hae to get up airly in the morning to get to windward o yon naval gentleman.”

“Very well; if I let him get away with that revoke without squaring the account I’ll shout you a glass of port—or is it gin and angostura you prefer?”

“Padre, a glass o' port costs saxpence; a gin and bitters costs ain penny. Til hae sax gins and bitters.”

“Oh, all right; and, if I win, I look to your Scottish generosity for a suitable recognition of the fact.”

“A’ right, your reverence, but ah’m no worrying.”

That evening the padre was compelled to stand the mess a second glass of port all round in honour of his new status as

an Acting-Bishop.

Next day the Captain’s arrangements were carried out to the letter and by two o’clock the remains of Able-Seaman Smithers were under six feet of good mother earth.

The Skipper attended the funeral and then went for a walk along the palm shaded beach, while the funeral and firing parties and the Acting-Bishop re turned to the Bandbox.

Half an hour later the boatswain’s whistle announced that Captain Plan taganet was on board. Having told the first lieutenant to shorten in cable, he went to his cabin. Judge of his horror, when he found the Acting-Right Rever end John Tudor comfortably seated in the Captain’s armchair, smoking one of the Captain’s own cigars, reading the Captain’s Times , and with his feet, if not actually, at least metaphorically, on the Captain’s table.

“What the dev dickens does this mean, sir?” he exploded.

“Mean, Plantaganet, mean? I don’t understand,” said the padre, coolly.

“What the blazes are you doing in my cabin —and don't call me Plan taganet . . . Captain Plantaganet, if you please . . . Stand up, sir, and ex plain yourself!”

"I should hardly have thought any explanation was necessary,” said the reverend gentleman, sweetly. “You for get I am now an Acting-Bishop, un doubtedly senior in rank to yourself, and no longer a mere chaplain. I assumed, of course, you would have taken these things into consideration when you so kindly promoted me. Surely you realise that a Bishop could not be expected to mess with the more junior officers in the

ward-room; why, I might overhear some

bad language; it would not be becoming.

I presume your sense of the fitness of things will allow me to be your guest for the remainder of the cruise. Why, I may even be entitled to a seat in the House of Lords, you know.”

“So,” thundered Captain Plantaganet,

‘‘this is my reward for taking steps to

ensure that our late shipmate shall be decently buried. Gross discourtesy, I call it, gross discourtesy. Look here, young man, last night I created you an Acting-Bishop for a special and most commendable reason. The purpose lias been achieved. So now, sir, I disrate you once more to the position of chaplain.

Get out of my cabin!”

But the padre had another shot in his locker.

“This is very distressing,” he said, “but I must point out that only the Arch bishop of Canterbury or, in this case, a Naval Ecclesiastical Court, can inter fere with the status of a minister of the Church. I was doubtful of your author ity to make me a temporary bishop, but I am quite certain that, having done so, an acting-bishop I must remain. I can not even surrender my status voluntar ily.”

“And do you mean to tell me that I must put up with your society till we get back to England?” cried the outraged

Captain.

“Oh, no, not at all, Tajjy.” The Skipper winced —“Tajjy,” indeed! “In the circumstances, as you seem to take it so badly, I now propose to remove my self to the ward-room again, where the atmosphere is more congenial, not to say more Christian . .

From the door, the padre delivered his final broadside—

“And you know you did revoke, Tajjy.”

“Get out!” roared the Skipper.

A few minutes later, the Acting-Right Reverend John Tudor was describing the interview in the ward room, while the fuming Captain Plantaganet pon dered the situation. He reflected that he was probably wrong in the beginning; also, that the United Services Club would revel in the tale, if matters were left where they were. Besides, he was at heart quite a good chap; a latent sense

of humour began to assert itself. He decided on a certain course.

Just before dinner, the Chief Engineer entered the ward-room. The padre claimed his reward from the reluctant son of Scotland. But he was interrupted by the Captain’s sentry, who approached him and said: “The Captain’s compliments, sir, and would you dine with him to-night, and play bridge afterwards?”

“What? Me?” gasped the padre.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’m damned!”

“Padre! Padre! But I tell it ye Cap-

tain Plantaganet would hae the last word. . . Waiter, bring me a gin and bitters, and put it doon to the chaplain.”