A grey drizzly morning, with yellow fog to seaward and every prospect
of a really wet day. At each side of the black basin gates stood a
little group of men, the majority "Dockyard mateys" of the rigger's
party. A few wore the insignia of higher rank--bowler hats and
watch-chains. The bowler hats conferred together in low voices, while
the rank and file conferred not at all, but stared solemnly out at the
wall of mist that cut the visibility in the harbour down to a bare
four hundred yards.
Round the corner of the rigger's store two uniformed figures appeared
walking briskly towards the basin entrance. Both wore overcoats. The
shorter man was grey where the hair showed beneath his gold-peaked
cap, while the pale face and "washed-out" look of the younger man
indicated that the hospital ship which took him away from Gallipoli
had done so none too soon.
As they approached, one of the bowler-wearers detached himself from
the group and spoke to the senior of the two. There was a
three-cornered comparison of watches and then a move to the wall, over
the edge of which they gazed down at the slowly moving yellow water.
"We'll give her another quarter of an hour, Mr Johnson, and then pack
up," said the officer. "I think it has cleared a little since six, and
I know they'll bring her up if they possibly can."
Through the medley of horns, syrens, and whistles that had been
sounding through the fog, four short blasts caught the ear of a rigger
who leaned against the outward capstan bollard. He lounged forward a
couple of paces, and the men nearest looked round at him with a
symptom of interest. The blasts sounded again, and he turned and
looked at the foreman rigger behind him. The foreman nodded and spoke
and the group separated a little, some of the men picking up long
flexible "heaving-lines" coiled in neat rings on the cobble-stones.
"She's coming, sir," said the foreman, turning to the King's
Harbourmaster; "she'll just do it nicely. That was the new tug's
whistle."
A couple of capstan bollards began to clatter round as steam was
turned on and a heavy wooden fender swung with a crash over the
rounded edge of each entrance wall. The mist was clearing now, and the
traffic in the harbour could be dimly seen. A foreman pointed to
seaward, and the younger officer followed his arm with his tired eyes.
Over the fog a slender dark line showed with a blurred foretop below.
The unmistakable tripod mast of a big ship showed gradually through,
and as he watched he was reminded of a magic-lantern picture out of
focus being gradually brought into definition by the operator. The
mist cleared faster than she approached, and at a quarter of a mile
he could see the great looming bow surmounted by tier on tier of
bridges, which mounted almost to the high overhanging top. She crawled
slowly on, using her own engines, the hawsers leading to the furiously
agitated paddle tugs on bow and quarter sweeping slack along the
stream. On the tall "monkey's island" a group of figures clustered
together, and the gleam of gold-peaked caps showed among the blue
overcoats. At half a cable's length the voices of the leadsmen,
inarticulate and faint before, could be clearly heard. "And a
_ha-a-a-f_ nine"--"and a _ha-a-a-f_ nine." The bow tugs sheered off to
each side, and whistles blew shrilly. The heavy bow hawsers fell
splashing in the water, and the jingle of engine-room telegraph bells
echoed up the walls of the entrance. A couple of dingy black "rigger"
boats, propelled "Maltee fashion," with the rowers standing facing
forward, appeared between the dockyard wall and the great curved stem.
Heaving-lines sailed through the air, uncoiling as they flew, and the
boats rowed furiously back to the entrance. From somewhere aft by the
turret a great bull voice spoke through a megaphone. The riggers at
the entrance leapt into sudden activity, and for five minutes the din
and clatter of capstans, shrilling of whistles, and splash of hawsers
in the water broke the spell of silence. The noise died suddenly, and
the note of telegraph bells came ringing again from the high grey
monster. Slowly she gathered way, and to the clatter of the dockyard
capstans as the slack of the hawsers was taken in, her forty-foot
curved stem passed the black caisson gates. The two officers, the
young and the old, stepped to the edge of the wall and looked across.
Her stem had hit off the exact centre of the entrance, but there was a
good two hundred yards of her to come yet. In dead silence, with
groups of men fallen in at attention along her side, she flowed on,
her speed a bare two knots, but a speed in keeping with her enormous
bulk and majesty. As she entered, and the finer lines of her bow
passed, she seemed to swell, till she almost filled the entrance, and
it looked as if one could step aboard her from the lock-side. The eyes
travelled from the mighty turret guns that glistened in the rain, and
were attracted up and up till heads were tilted back to look at the
highest bridge of all. A quiet incisive voice could be clearly heard:
"Port ten"--"'Midships"--"Stop both." Again the "kling-kling" of bells
and then silence. The grey-haired officer on the wall raised his hand
in salute, and a tall grave captain, looking down from above, saluted
in return, showing a flash of white teeth in a smile of recognition.
As she passed the hawsers came with her, transferred from bollard to
bollard by gangs of staggering men. The passage of her stern past the
outer entrance seemed to break a spell, as if the hypnotism of
hundreds of staring eyes had passed away. The caisson gates ground to
with almost indecent haste behind her, as some castle portcullis might
do as the last prisoner was dragged through. Whistles blew, answering
each other across the oily, rain-pitted water of the basin, and to the
_weeep we-ooo_ of pipes and the roar of the boatswains mates' voices,
the lines of rigid men on the great ship's side broke up and fell
back. She had left the open sea and had become "Number 955--for
refit--in Dockyard hands."
"How long is she for, sir? Ten days?"
The grey-haired officer turned: "No, only eight. They want her back as
soon as possible. Four days' leave to each watch and she'll be off
again. You're looking cold, boy--come up to breakfast. That malaria
hasn't left you yet."
"I wish it would, sir. I want to get to sea again.
"I know. It's not so bad to watch them come in, but it makes me feel
old when I see them leaving again. But you needn't worry, the War's
going on a long time yet."
"OUR ANNUAL."
Up the well-remembered fairway, past the buoys and forts we drifted--
Saw the houses, roads, and churches, as they were a year ago.
Far astern were wars and battles, all the dreary clouds were lifted,
As we turned the Elbow Ledges--felt the engines ease to "Slow."
Rusty side and dingy paintwork, stripped for war and cleared for
battle--
Saw the harbour-tugs around us--smelt the English fields again,--
English fields and English hedges--sheep and horses, English cattle,
Like a screen unrolled before us, through the mist of English rain.
Slowly through the basin entrance--twenty thousand tons a-crawling
With a thousand men aboard her, all a-weary of the War--
Warped her round and laid alongside with the cobble-stones
a-calling--
"There's a special train awaiting, just for you to come ashore."
Out again as fell the evening, down the harbour in the gloaming
With the sailors on the fo'c'sle looking wistfully a-lee--
Just another year of waiting--just another year of roaming
For the Majesty of England--for the Freedom of the Sea.