You must be wondering what has become of me in this unholy mix-up.
How far it seems to our Fourteenth of July in New Orleans when we
said good-bye at the Dollar Bar after a cake-walk to the sound of the
gramophone! Here goes for my tale of woe.
Well, the _Pamir_ was loading her cotton--five thousand bales--up to
the twenty-fifth of July. It was hottish and we were in a hurry to
clear for Liverpool and find cooler weather. The news, too, seemed
a bit inflammable. American papers were getting up stunts in big
headlines over Serbia and the rest, but we thought it a “try-on” of
the pro-German press and the Hearst crowd. You guess we were glad to
be going to see what was happening in France and what the old things
thought about it.
We got under way at 2 a.m. At the start a d---- great sea-elephant just
missed ramming us, but the Old Man steered like a wizard. I took the
watch at three o’clock for Blangy, who was having a touch of fever and
had been loading up with quinine for two days.
The ship nearly had sunstroke in the Gulf! Ninety-five on the bridge,
one hundred and four in the cabin--not a breath of wind! In the
Atlantic it freshened up a bit and Blangy reported fit again.
The boat was doing ten knots and a bittock, but at the end of three
days our engine started racing like the very devil. The propeller shaft
broke off short about a yard from the thrust block. We must have run
into a submerged spar which had fouled the screw. It wouldn’t surprise
me if a chunk of the propeller had gone to the bottom.
No good trying the S.O.S. stunt, as we have no wireless! Muriac, the
engineer, was a wonder. He found some way of forging on our wretched
anvil a couple of steel collars which he fixed on to the two broken
ends of the shaft with eight bolts. That took two days. You can
imagine how Old Man Fourgues cursed to see himself a-floatin’ like a
bloomin’ buoy in the middle of the sea. You figure him, with his slant
eyes and his goatee, shouting down the engine-room hatch every five
minutes:
“Hullo there! Muriac! Will your turnspit be ready to turn by the time
the grapes are ripe?”
“Another hour--maybe two!” yells Muriac. “But for God’s sake leave us
alone!”
We got under way again after having drifted fifty miles to the west.
Fourgues was afraid the engines would not run to more than ten knots,
but the shaft was stronger than ever.
This delayed us considerably. On the night of the seventh of August we
entered the Irish Channel and looked for lights. _Search me!_ I had the
watch and for three hours Fourgues blackguarded me like the expert he
is, because I could not see a lighthouse or any other kind of light!
“What have I done to have a blind man like this? Get a new set of eyes!
Run her aground! Shove her up against it! Get nice and close! You may
see the lighthouses then. You’ll have made us lose three hours. This
trip will never end!”
He couldn’t see the lighthouses any more than I and that was why
he was making such a row about it. We had got almost near enough
to touch land; you could see it, like a wharf--but devil a light
anywhere!--when, all of a sudden, a craft going at full speed
over-hauled us! It only showed lights at intervals. It kept its
position as we could see it to port. I kept on my course. _Bang! Bang!_
The ship fired twice with blank.
“The devil!” said Fourgues. “We have struck destroyers at practice.
There must be others. Keep your weather eye skinned, my boy.”
I did! _Bang!_ A shell fell ten yards ahead of us. The destroyer came
up and yelled through the megaphone:
“Stop! Or we’ll sink you!”
Sir, we stopped! The destroyer came closer still. We could see nothing
except a red hot cinder or so now and then.
“Who are you?”
“_Pamir_, French cargo-boat with cotton from America for Liverpool. Why
do you stop us?”
“Oh! You’re French, are you?”
“Yes!”
“Right-oh! War’s declared!”
“By G----!” cried Fourgues and I at the same time and he fell on me and
hugged me.
“_Ça y est_, my boy! We are having it out with the Boches!”
“What are you going to do?” yelled the destroyer.
“Go back to France!” answered Fourgues immediately, and added:
“Is England with us?”
“You bet!”
“Hurrah!” cried Fourgues. “Hard a-starboard and full speed for H----.
We’ll report to the Admiralty.”
The destroyer accompanied us a little way and finally left us, calling:
“Good-bye and good luck!”
“Thanks. Same to you!”
You can’t deny it, Fourgues is a brick! No hesitation about his turning
back to France! He slapped me on the back, offered me a cigar, and
joked on the bridge.
“No wonder there weren’t any lights! It’s likely we’d show the Huns the
way! Tumble down, my boy, and tell Muriac and Blangy. Rout them out if
they are asleep. My word, won’t they stare! Send them to the bridge and
bring up a bottle of fizz. My treat!”
Blangy and Muriac didn’t faint; the guns had awakened them, but they
supposed it was manœuvres.
“Not pulling our legs?” they both said.
“No, to H---- with pull-legs. The Old Man will tell you.”
Every one embraced every one else. No one thought of sleep. On the
bridge Fourgues tried to pour the champagne, but he spilled it on our
hands in the dark, he was trembling so with excitement. We drank what
was left.
“With all this,” he said, “we don’t know when the thing started. Pretty
fools we look without wireless or anything! We might have butted into
the Boches! However, all’s well. Decent chaps, the English, to be on
our side. What should we have done if they had left us in the lurch?”
“What about the Russians?” queried Muriac.
“They’re all right!” said Fourgues. “We are all going in together.”
“And the Italians?” said Blangy.
“Um! We must get some information. Could you hit it up a bit, Muriac?”
“We ought to manage eleven knots. The coal is good and the shaft will
hold.”
“All right. Let her rip! We must get to H---- to-morrow.”
We put on all the speed we could. As for me, I didn’t sleep. I had been
counting on a leave in August while the boilers were being cleaned, and
was going home, to La Rochelle. You know why, old man. I told you about
it in New Orleans; it was to have been this year. What will she say,
poor little thing? I had to put to sea again without seeing her!
The _Pamir_ reached H---- at nine in the morning. Fourgues went to the
Naval Préfecture and returned at noon with the daily papers and the
news.
“No one knows what is to be done with the _Pamir_. We have to wait for
orders. I wired to the owner; I asked the Admiral to unload the cotton.
They told me to keep it pending further instructions. We are forbidden
to touch anything. No examination of our engine or boilers! Muriac,
your shaft will be looked after later! This afternoon a Naval officer
will come aboard to settle the destination of officers and crew.”
If we had not been at war Fourgues would have exploded. To leave us
with five thousand bales of cotton in the hold, the boilers and shaft
unrepaired and without a notion of what we were going to do the next
day! But he took it very well, even not being allowed to go ashore and
the order to keep up steam.
The Naval officer, one of the Tin Hat sort, came on board about three
o’clock. He mustered the crew, looked at the Service certificates, and
in half an hour had fixed everything up. Muriac went, Blangy also. Half
the deck crew and three-quarters of the engine-room artificers packed
up and landed. The officer said that it was to man the war-vessels and
coast-defences. He told us to leave that very evening for the port
of ---- in Morocco, where we should receive further orders. Fourgues
became a bit restive.
“See here! You want me to run over to Morocco with two officers missing
and half the crew?”
“We need the officers. Ships of war come first. Those registered for
active service afloat serve in the Fleet, officers or men. As for men,
we will send you at five o’clock a contingent of reservists, five
seamen and ten engine-room ratings.”
“Might just as well leave me mine, who know the ship! My shaft is
broken, my boilers are falling to bits!”
“Pooh! You’ll get on all right!”
“But coal? And provisions?”
“Go ahead; you can provision on the way if necessary. You are needed in
Morocco.”
“To do what?”
“You will receive orders.”
“Can you let me have charts for Morocco? I have only those of America
and Europe.”
“We’ll see. I don’t believe there are any left. We gave them all to the
battleships.”
“I haven’t any wireless.”
“What’s the need? Are you afraid of meeting the Germans. We are
guarding the routes.”
“And my five thousand bales of cotton?”
“No use to us! Please hold yourself in readiness to get under way at
six o’clock, as soon as you have received your reservists. Do you
understand?”
“All right.”
“Send all going ashore into my launch smartly. I still have three ships
to deal with.”
Muriac, Blangy, and the men packed in five secs., believe me. They were
in such a hurry that they hadn’t time to shake hands. What can have
become of the beggars?
“This is a nice game,” says Fourgues to me when we were alone again.
“You can take charge of the engines and we will take the watch by
turns--the two of us--unless they send us some one who knows starboard
from port. Hurry up! Go and write home--I’m going to do the same. It’s
two years since I’ve seen my wife and the children at Orange. And you,
poor devil of an engaged man! Oh, well, it doesn’t matter! I’m quite
happy. They’ll find the old _Pamir_ can account for herself.”
He shook hands. We both wanted to weep. To start like that, with a
damned dislocated ship! We went below; he wrote to Orange, I wrote to
La Rochelle--not much, you know; just to say that we were there and
to address letters c/o the Admiralty with “Please forward” in large
letters on the envelope. And then the reservists arrived. What in
Fortune’s name had they sent us!
I can see now why they keep the “active service” reservists in the
Navy. The others are too much of a good thing! For the deck, there was
a _croupier_ from Deauville, a tram-driver, a newsvendor, a shopman,
a cabby; for the engine-room, a hotel lift-boy, a cinema man, three
carriers, a bill-poster, a cattle-dealer, and three others of the same
sort. What do they remember about the sea? They arrived, stupid, fat,
and full of questions. We shoved ’em along proper! The lift-boy and the
movie-man are to take duty in the boiler-room, the driver will steer,
the movie-man also runs the dynamo. I forgot a _chef_ of the Hotel
Romantic at Monte Carlo! We bagged him for the officers’ table. If he
can do anything with beans and bully beef he’s a wonder! As to Fabrice,
whom you may remember--little Fafa who made such good cocktails at
Galveston--he went forward again.
The _Pamir_ left H---- at exactly six o’clock. No need to add that
Fourgues and I did not shut an eye during the trip. Twelve hours’ watch
apiece out of the twenty-four and filthy weather. The rest of the time
I spent in the engine-room in overalls trying to see to overheating
and leaks. At the Training School one learns little about mechanics--I
am the more aware of this, having forgotten everything! The first
day we had a lot of bother with condensation and the hammering on
the cylinder cover was so great that we were obliged to reduce speed
and drain the cylinder. The engine-room filled with steam. All the
reservists ran off, squealing like pigs. With the old _Pamir_ men we
patched it all up and the next day it was the tubes of boiler 3 which
began to blow. That’s the old one which was in urgent need of repair.
The cattle-dealer, who was on duty at the feed pump, did not know where
the cocks of the tanks were. When one had emptied itself he simply let
it go. The gauge fell to zero and you can imagine the explosion. We
drew the fire under one boiler and after that could barely make seven
knots. In the Bay of Biscay we caught it proper. Two of the carriers
and the bill-poster came out of the bunkers half dead, spitting blood
and coal-dust by the quart, so now there was no way of getting the coal
on the fire. Fourgues slowed to five knots. Our firemen were simply
unable to stoke. It was more than they could manage, and at every
shovelful they fell down, sending the fuel everywhere except into the
mouth of the furnace.
With such a crew Fourgues was afraid the trip would take a month, and
that we should run short of provisions and coal. So he put in at the
port of ---- and had a pretty cold reception. In the first place, it
was Sunday and they wanted to know why he came bothering people then
instead of on a week-day. He must have talked to them like a father,
but I was unfortunately not there to hear. They gave him permission to
get the provisions, but as for coal, search me!
“What!” says he, “you have heaps there! Can’t you give me half of one
heap?”
“Impossible. What you see there is not to be touched. It is the
mobilization reserve.”
“Great Scott! We are not merely mobilized, we are at war!”
“Possibly, but this is stock belonging to the mobilization--which means
that it can’t be touched.”
There was no way out of it. But of what use is coal which is there for
war, but which cannot be given out in time of war? The _Pamir_ sailed
after eight hours in port. We got provisions. Fourgues telegraphed
to the office for money to be sent to Morocco. We were stony-broke,
and would have to eat down there and pay for coal and get water and
everything.
The rest of the passage was completed somehow or other at between
five and six knots. The grease ran short, the bearings got hot, the
bilgepump got out of order, and there were three feet of water under
the planks of the stoke-hole. You can imagine the stink! Really, Muriac
had points; he would never let any one put a nose into his shop, but
he made things work! As for me, I give it up. Between bridge and
engine-room--it was enough to drive a man crazy! Blangy was a lucky
devil! By this time he must be on a really-and-truly ship with a full
complement, officers and men. I wonder why it was he instead of me who
went. We belong to the same year; only he gave his certificate to the
officer at H---- first and was already packed up when I handed in mine.
We’re in for a nice time, my boy, but much water will pass under the
Pamir before they give us any officers.
We reached Morocco the day before yesterday. How did we get into the
harbour? Ask Fourgues! We didn’t get the charts at H---- after all, and
had nothing but the track-chart of the Atlantic, where the coast of
Morocco occupies about half an inch. The bottom is bad, the coast is
flat. We spent a day and a night wandering around in sight of beaches
with three cacti and a palm-tree. Fourgues didn’t want to make the
wrong port and at a distance they all looked alike. Quite impossible to
get our bearings--clouds or fog all the time. Fortunately we came upon
an American who signalled our position to us and the route to follow.
And that’s how the _Pamir_ got in.
In port everybody had skipped to France by the last boat. There was one
shore officer, one chief petty officer, and no one else. They asked us
what the deuce we had come for and if we had any munitions.
“Munitions!” cried Fourgues. “Five thousand bales of cotton, boilers
shaken to pieces, nothing more to eat, some scrapings of coal, and no
cash in the locker.”
“What the devil are you doing in Morocco then?”
“I was sent here from H---- and they said there would be orders here
for the _Pamir_.”
“First we’ve heard of it. Never mind! Wait a bit and we’ll find
something for you to do.”
And that’s why, old fellow, I write you from Morocco. We are waiting
for the orders which have been requested from Paris, Rabat, and
Tangier. Nothing comes. Fourgues will never recover his temper again.
Our cotton had begun to heat, for it is warm here. Half the reservists
are on their backs--diarrhœa, gastric troubles, general breakdown. You
ought to hear them. Impossible to go anywhere or to unload, for we were
told to be ready to start at two hours’ notice. As for me, I slept for
nearly thirty-six--I had had my share! Fourgues is very nice to me.
He takes it out on the reservists, and lor’! he does talk to them! At
bottom he is right. All those fellows thought they were going to have
an easy time and they need to be jacked up.
Consider yourself in luck, my son, to get such an epistle from me.
Fact is, I’m Fed Up and I want to know what has become of you and the
fellows. A ship from the south is passing to-morrow and I shall send
this at a venture. I address it c/o your people, hoping they will see
that it reaches you. Shall we write to each other once a month as
before? I will try to. Shake, old man!
PORT OF K----,
MEDITERRANEAN,
_October 5, 1914_.