THE CONVOY
For two days we lay at anchor opposite the Citadel of Quebec and
bemoaned the fate that separated us from the twinkling lights of the
Chateau Frontenac and the Dufferin Terrace. Then one evening the throb
of the propeller drew the crowd from the saloons to the decks and we
watched the lights fade away in the night. From the forts long fingers
of light followed us down stream, and blinking lights here and there
sent us farewell greetings. Up on the bridge we could hear the clatter
of the signal lamps, and the sooty odour of petroleum smoke hung in the
calm air around us. Begbie Lyte was on the job and became an important
unit in our little company. Through him alone would we get news of the
outside world for some weeks to come.
Nearing Father Point, below Quebec, where normally the pilot is dropped
or taken on when one is leaving or proceeding to Canada, the ship's
officers pointed out a small twinkling light that marked the grave of
the ill-fated _Empress of Ireland_. We had seen the collier _Storstadt_
that sent her to her doom while at anchor off the Citadel, and were much
impressed.
As night wore on the groups on the deck became smaller until the ship's
officers alone remained, and with darkened port-holes we slipped on
through the night. A distinct freshness in the wind spoke of a change
around us. We were nearing salt water. Next day we anchored in Gaspe
Basin. Already some six or eight ships lay there.
There we lay for some days watching the jellyfish and the gulls while
one by one our number was increased to thirty-two.
At this point a diversion occurred in the form of the last visit by the
Minister of Militia in a noisy tugboat. More important than the printed
copies of his farewell speech that were handed us was the news that now
was our last chance to mail letters. In childish simplicity we handed
down our mail, thinking the "hame folk" would receive these in a few
short days. The sacks were collected and taken to one of the other ships
and journeyed across the Atlantic with us. So our departure was kept
secret from all but a few, for, with a shrewd knowledge of the
"habitant" mind, Captain Gee, the gallant commander of "E" Company, tied
up a few letters in a handkerchief, weighted it with sundry pieces of
silver, and dropped the package into a fishing boat that had come
alongside with a load of fresh meat. The very amount enclosed spoke of
secrecy, and the "habitant" sailor used all due precautions in
forwarding the missives.
[Illustration: SAILING DOWN THE ST. LAWRENCE, NEAR BIC.]
By Sunday noon the ground swell had driven some of the officers to deck
chairs, while the others marshalled the troops on the rear deck for
Divine service. Service over, we watched the celebrated Perce Rock
fading in the distance and knew that Canada now lay far behind us. A day
later and Newfoundland too lay in the distance, and the magic circle of
the horizon closed around us.
Interest now began to be taken in things nautical. The sextant, compass,
and log were the cause of much discussion, and the usual bets were made
on the daily run, the stakes being held by the chaplain.
Three days out and the ship's library was taken by assault, and the
sevenpenny novels that formed it disappeared into the cabins. In vain
an officer was appointed librarian with powers to search and to seize,
but conditions were not bettered.
Lectures, physical drill, and other mild duties relieved a little of the
monotony, for the journey was a slow one, a condition made necessary by
the horse transports, one of which rolled in line ahead of us.
Occasionally a stir would be noticed on her decks and a horse that had
succumbed to _mal-de-mer_ would be unceremoniously dumped overboard.
Such occasions were marked by a fusillade of pistol shots from each ship
as the carcase drifted past, for, contrary to traditions, most of us
carried revolvers for the first time in our lives and were anxious to
display our prowess.
Nearly a fortnight was thus passed gazing in singular apathy at the most
remarkable demonstration of the command of the seas that military
history of any age affords.
In three long lines, roughly a mile apart, the transports formed an
armada such as Philip of Spain never dreamed of.
But about two days out from England a black column of smoke was seen to
port, and presently the contour of a heavy battleship could be
determined bearing down on us. There was wild excitement till the
Cross of St. George could be distinguished at her masthead. It was the
ill-fated _Queen Mary_, our latest and finest battle-cruiser. At an
almost incredible speed she overtook us and passed up our lines with her
crew manning the decks and her band playing "The Maple Leaf."
[Illustration: CHURCH PARADE.]
From then on we always could see the smoke of heavier battleships in the
offing, and knew we were getting close to somewhere.
We passed the Scilly Islands about 4 o'clock in the morning, but as
cards had continued till late the preceding night few but the ship's
officers saw the pin-point of light marking the westward sentinel of the
Old World.
Then on October 14th fishing smacks again appeared and the grey coast of
Cornwall hove in sight, and by noon we could distinguish buildings along
the cliffs.
Passing the Eddystone our course was altered and all hopes of landing at
Southampton vanished. Captain H----r was much excited. After nineteen
years he was returning to his native town--Plymouth. To a running fire
of his explanations we passed up the Sound to the Hamoaze. A tugboat,
looking ridiculously small against the gigantic liner ahead, now took
us in tow, and the throbbing of the ship's screw stopped. The cessation
of this pulse added a sombre touch to our voices; we were nearing the
end of the voyage, and in another day would know the ship no more.
Thus we glided slowly past the old wooden cruisers now used as training
ships, and from their crowded riggings came shrill treble cheers. To the
piping of the young cadets' voices was added the screaming of sirens and
the tooting of many whistles. Halyards on all sides of us broke out into
brilliant bunting and semaphores wagged with a madness that even Lyte
could not translate.
The clarion notes of the mess bugle called us from the decks to other
duties, and there between the soup and the fish we heard the hoarse
rattle of the anchor chain as we found our moorings.
Captain H----r, seizing the opportunity, rose, and in the capacity of an
old Plymothian gave us greeting.
Such was our welcome to England.
In the morning we looked out and saw rows and rows of chimney pots,
impressive in their similarity.
Then later we read an editorial in _The Times_ describing us as
pioneers and backwoodsmen. This provoked much comment, but the writer
for one was not greatly distressed, for he had been born within sound of
the shrill of a sawmill, and the perfume of cedar is still sweeter to
his nostrils than the costly unguents of Araby.