And so you too were taken from your ship, like Blangy! (By the way, I
have received nothing from him, not even a card. I suppose his laziness
has got the better of him again.) All the same, I wish I might see
you on your battleship, in a double-turret, on the lookout for twelve
hours out of the twenty-four--How fed up you must be, poor old dear.
I remember you telling me in New Orleans how you were soon going to
command a Chilian sailing-vessel--“And tack about here and let out the
sheets there!” I can still hear you. And now you are a gunner! They
must need excellent observers on your battleships and I remember that
with the sextant and the table of logarithms you used to beat us all to
a frazzle. Position found within half-a-mile in twelve minutes--that
was your style! Tut, tut, and so you mayn’t smoke your pipe. Never
mind! As a hooker, the battleship Auvergne is right there--the very
latest thing! I saw her launched. You ought to have nothing to complain
of, and one of these fine days you will drop a few of the best “eggs”
on the Austro-Boches at Pola or Cattaro. You won’t miss them, will you,
like the Goeben and the Breslau? Taking it all in all, I’ve no sympathy
for you.
As to the _Pamir_, they let her play bumpety-bump on the bottom for
ten days there in Morocco. We rolled from one side to the other,
notwithstanding our five thousand bales of cotton. I wouldn’t have
believed there could be so much swell on that damned coast. It’s a nice
place for loading! Try it! You have to look smart or bang goes your
tackle, your derrick, and the whole caboodle, and get your load in your
face. The most annoying part of it is that when there isn’t a cloud
nor so much as a breath of breeze, you still get rollers and rollers,
high as houses, from the sea. Furniture, dishes, books--down comes
everything. In dead calms you would think you were in a Malay Straits
monsoon.
They had no idea what to do with us down there. Fourgues would not set
foot on land again, he was so riled at being “to Hell and gone” with a
lot of blacks while others were working in France. And what a song they
made about letting us have coal! There was a German ship, a great hulk
of the Woermann line, in the roads, which had been stuck ever since the
mobilization, hold and bunkers full of coal. All that was necessary was
to take it! Oh, dear, no! Mustn’t touch the Boche even for a painter
or a tarpaulin! The Boche is sacrosanct! This ship carried bananas and
peanuts. All had rotted on the spot and you could smell them two miles
away.
All the same, Fourgues kicked up such a row about the coal that they
gave him some. We hadn’t enough to get as far as Gib.! We took some
from the dock, from a heap intended for the Expeditionary Corps. You
can imagine all the forms we had to fill up, and besides, they counted
the sacks--just enough to get us to our destination. If the _Pamir_ had
taken one more day, it would have stopped dead like a sailing ship on
the Equator.
Finally, one day, we were told to hook it right there for Oran, to
transport Algerian troops. At the last moment a counter-order! Two days
later, order to leave for Dakar and to put ourselves at the disposal of
the Navy down there. We had weighed anchor, but not yet stowed it when
they signalled us to let go again where we were. Five days passed. No
news, no letters from home. We got down in the mouth. Fourgues stayed
in his cabin, telling fortunes with his cards, swearing like a trooper.
I gave lectures to the reservists on drain-pipes and valves. Muriac
would have been amused to hear me explaining the way things worked. The
rest of the time I played the mandolin, but enthusiasm was lacking,
and, moreover, a good deal would have been necessary to keep up the
strumming, when you had to clutch the wall every ten beats to keep from
taking a toss when it rolled. Finally I played lying down! One fine
morning they ordered us to get under way in a hurry and sail for T----,
twenty miles to the north, to transport a tribe of Germans driven out
of Morocco. Dirty work, but we were glad to be moving. My Gawd, what
a stinking anchorage T---- is,--straight coast, open roadstead, no
anchor-hold, a swell and a pebbly bar! Lovely! We are beginning to
learn what rolling ninety degrees means.
On land there were about fifty Boches with all their goods and
chattles--furniture, pianos, enormous trunks, a regular migration. The
Germans do very well in Morocco. They have all passed the military
age, for it is so written in their papers--the youngest was fifty. You
who are a physiognomist would have put him down at thirty-five. The
authorities ordered us to treat them with respect in accordance with
a section in the International Law, and to give them accommodation,
not as prisoners, but as passengers “under supervision.” Fourgues, who
hates underhand dealing, said that he was not going to inconvenience
the crew for the Boches and that he should put them on deck. Then he
was told to construct wooden shelters on the deck, for dormitories and
cabins. He said he had no wood for the purpose, so they sent him planks
and new joists and some military carpenters, and in forty-eight hours
the entire deck from the funnel to the stern was covered over with a
fine hutment. We looked like one of those wash-houses on the Seine.
But, Lor’ love you! that wasn’t all! There was the furniture of these
gentlemen, enough to fill a train, and they did not want it broken.
Fourgues had planned to pile it forward and then lash it above the main
hatch.
“You see, my boy,” he said to me, pulling his goatee, “there won’t be
much left of their gadgets if we get a good sou’-wester in our backs.
However, they can make matches with the remains.”
Unfortunately, in the first batch there was a piano. We slung and
hoisted it with tackle, and in spite of the swell it came aboard
pretty well and was just over the hatch. But as it began to descend,
blowed if the cable didn’t foul the winch and stop short, our piano
in the air. Three huge rollers came along, and everybody hung on to
keep from taking a toss. The piano swung once, then once again, and
then _bang_ on to the port railing. The lid and cover flew off. _Bang_
to starboard! The piano veered, the black and white keys chased each
other over the deck, the strings snapped one after the other like a
machine-gun, and the whole show smashed up. It looked like a burst
spring mattress. Fourgues was overcome with that laugh of his which
makes his tummy shake, and turned as red as a tomato. As for me, I
was laughing so much I could hardly stand up, and the crew howled
for joy. But the owner, a Boche in spectacles, raised the deuce. He
fired broadsides of insults at us, but fortunately he spoke in his
own disgusting language, for Fourgues was beginning to lose his hair
and would have chucked him overboard without hesitation if he had
understood a single word. It was just before the Marne and the Boches
were jeering at us to their hearts’ content. This particular one went
on land shaking his fist. We dumped what remained of the piano into the
sea and loaded the rest of the furniture. But the next day we received
an order to put all their stuff in the hold. A little tin-pot officer
of sorts came aboard to announce this to Fourgues. He was well received:
“I am loaded to the hatches with cotton and I won’t unload a single
bale. Even if you bring me a written order, I forbid my men to touch it
without the order of my owner. I can’t keep you from unloading cotton,
but you will have to provide the men.”
So a gang from land came and cleared half the hold. I wonder what in
the world they did with it! We stowed the stuff as well as we could.
To be sure, several chairs and gladstone bags went overboard, but
nobody fished them up again. The Boches asked--but they did not ask
Fourgues--to be given some bales of cotton for mattresses. So during
the entire voyage they slept like pigs in clover while we continued to
enjoy the Company’s usual board and lodging.
On the whole, we got on fairly well with the Huns. They tried to swank
at the first meal. One of them, a genuine old one, had the face to go
on the bridge afterwards and tell Fourgues that there wasn’t anything
to eat, that Germans had to have beer instead of water, and that all
these from Hamburg and Leipzig and elsewhere were gentleman of rank
who had helped France conquer Morocco and had colonized there because
France lacked the ability to do so and that they intended to be treated
with respect. It was worth paying for a seat to see Fourgues during
this little address. He put his hands in his pockets in order not to
pitch the man of beer overboard. When the other had finished, Fourgues
answered in his little calm voice, the one he uses, you know, when he
is in such a rage that he is absolutely expressionless:
“The first person, you or another, who makes any complaint I shall put
into the hold with the furniture. If you don’t like the food of the
crew, you are not obliged to eat it. I forbid any of you speak to me.
This officer is to look after you. Get to H---- off the bridge!”
They were quite subdued and we heard no more from them. They attended
to their little affairs in their wooden stable and they slept. Easy
enough to manage, these folks, when you put the wind up them. The old
man would ask me politely when they wanted anything:
“_Could_ you add a little sugar to the coffee? _Could_ you sell us some
matches?”
The latter was in order to start conversation, for always afterwards he
would ask me if the _Pamir_ was surely going back to France.
“Why do you wish to know?”
“Just because! Honestly, you aren’t going to a neutral port, are you?”
“No, we are bound for France.”
“And where?”
“If you know the country, you will recognize it.”
“All right, and I may tell my friends that we are not going to a
neutral country?”
After the fifth or sixth time I told Fourgues about this.
“You bet!” he said; “all these humbugs are of military age. If we
landed them in Spain they would have to hurry over and take a taste of
our 75’s. They prefer a season in France snugly interned. They know we
are much too stupid to hurt them.”
Fourgues was right. When I said as much to the old Boche, he smiled
without answering. We landed them at ---- and they have gone to hang
themselves somewhere else. And whew! but their quarters were filthy! We
had to swab and holystone for two days and it still smells.
You can be sure that the owner arrived by the first train. He was
beginning to ask himself what had become of the _Pamir_ and he doesn’t
at all like losing money. His first interview with Fourgues was a
little stormy. He didn’t quite dare reproach him for having turned
about before Liverpool because that would have been a little bit too
thick, but he was a little liverish all the same.
“You might just as well have gone on to your destination. Two days more
or less isn’t anything.”
“It wouldn’t have happened,” said Fourgues, “if the propeller shaft
hadn’t broken in mid-Atlantic. Muriac got us out of that splendidly,
but with all respect to you, the whole engine is falling to pieces.”
“Anyway,” said the other, “you have your five thousand bales of cotton.”
“Five thousand! Minus fifteen hundred which are high and dry in
Morocco!”
Well, sir, that hurt! He completely lost his hair. It had to be
explained ten times, with the little tin-pot officer’s written order
and all the rest of the red tape.
“Fifteen hundred bales of cotton gone! Fifteen hundred bales of cotton
gone!” He kept repeating it over and over.
Then Fourgues, who had had all he could stand ever since Morocco, put
it to him straight and told him to his face that if he didn’t like the
way things had been run, he could hand the _Pamir_ and her engine and
her cotton over to some one else, and that without officers or crew it
was pretty rough to be blamed. The owner was scared. He slapped the Old
Man on the back and said:
“We’ll square all that, my good friend. Don’t get excited. It’s all
right--everything I said was from the shareholders’ point of view. I am
going to see the Admiral, and since you’re O.K. with your papers the
Government will look after everything and we’ll try to have the _Pamir_
chartered or some other arrangement made.”
He went away as sweet as honey, but I know what that means--somebody’ll
have to pay heavily for it. He must have moved heaven and earth, for
the next day a post-captain came on board to ask Fourgues how much coal
he could take.
“Three thousand tons!”
“The Government engages you to carry coal to the navy. Lighters will
come alongside at noon and you are to load at once.”
“And where shall I put it? I have one hold full and the other half full
of cotton.”
Then the captain roared like a bull and said that he had been disturbed
for nothing and that he didn’t know where to put the cotton, and that
Fourgues might just as well have put it all ashore in Morocco, and
that there wasn’t any sense in a boat that was neither full nor empty.
They don’t mince their words in the Navy when they are talking to the
Merchant Service. But Fourgues took it with a good grace because he
wanted to get down to Orange and so he didn’t care. Moreover, he knew
the owner could arrange it all with the authorities much better than
he. No time was lost. The owner returned the next day and said that
after consultation it had been agreed that the forward hold was to
be emptied and loaded with fifteen hundred tons of special coal for
torpedo-boats, but that the cotton should be left aft. After having
supplied the Fleet, the _Pamir_ would go to England and unload her
cotton at Liverpool in order that all might not be lost, and then get
more coal at Cardiff and go again to the Fleet.
“In this way my interests and those of the Government are equally
protected. I sell only half my cotton and you get a load of coal at
Cardiff at a cheap rate.”
I should like very much to know how much he made them pay for our
stroll to Morocco and the fifteen hundred bales of cotton that were
left behind and the chartering of the _Pamir_. He can’t have lost much
by it because he went away very sprightly after authorizing Fourgues
to go to Orange. So I am here alone with ship, engine, loading, and
everything. As for La Rochelle, it’s all up. The coal is due to-morrow
at 4 a.m.
Fourgues has just gone and I am in charge. There had to be a war for me
to get a command! Well, perhaps I shall see you on your _Auvergne_ down
there and we’ll swap yarns. So long, old man.
CARDIFF,
_November 15, 1914_.