IN WHICH THE "YANKEE" CRUISES FOR PRIZES.
It was evening, the evening of the day on which the "Yankee" sailed from
Tompkinsville bound out on her maiden cruise as an auxiliary ship of
war. The afternoon had passed without event, save that which attacks the
amateur sailor when he first feels the heaving swell of old ocean. The
crew had shaken into its place, and the men of the watch on deck were
commencing to appreciate their responsibilities.
The ship was quiet, save for the faint chug-chug of the propeller under
the stern and the occasional clang of a shovel in the fire room deep
down in the innermost reaches of the ship. The sun had vanished in a
hazy cloud which portended a stiff breeze, but the wind was still
gentle, and, as it swept across the decks from off the port quarter, it
seemed grateful indeed to those who came from below for a breath of air.
Orders had been issued to darken the decks. The running lights of red
and green were still in the lamp room, and, except for a soft, rosy
glow from the binnacle-bowl, there was a blackness of night throughout
the upper part of the ship. Cigars and pipes and cigarettes had been
tabooed, and doors were opened in the deck houses only after the inside
lights had been lowered to a flickering pin point.
Up on the forward bridge Captain Brownson stood talking in a low voice
to the executive officer, Lieutenant Hubbard. The lurching swing of the
ship caused them to sway back and forth against the rail and a metallic
sound came from a sword scabbard suspended from the captain's belt. The
presence of this sword, betrayed by the clatter it made, told a secret
to several sailors gathered under the lee of the pilot house, and one
said, in an excited whisper:
"There's something up, Chips. The old man is fixed for trouble. I'm
going aft and stand by."
The speaker started off, but before he had taken ten steps the shrill
blast of a bugle suddenly broke the stillness of the night. The
discordant notes rang and echoed through the ship, and, while the sound
was still trembling in the air, two score of shadowy figures sprang up
from different parts of the deck and scurried toward the ladders leading
below.
The transformation was instant and complete.
From a ship stealthily pursuing its way through the darkness--a part of
the mist--the "Yankee" became the theatre of a scene of the most intense
activity.
There was no shouting, no great clamor of sound; nothing but the
peculiar shuffling of shoes against iron, the hard panting of hurrying
men, the grating of breech-blocks, low muttered orders from officer to
man, and a multitude of minor noises that seemed strange and weird and
uncanny in this blackness.
A belated wardroom boy, still carrying a towel across his arm, slips
from the cabin and hastens forward to his station in the powder
division. The navigator, an officer of the regular navy, whose ideas of
discipline are based on cast iron rules, espies the laggard and
administers a sharp rebuke. A squad of marines dash from the "barracks"
below and line up at the secondary battery guns on the forecastle. Some
of the marines are hatless and coatless, and one wiry little private
shambles along on one foot. He stumbles against a hatch-coaming and
kicks his shoe across the deck.
Suddenly an order comes out of the gloom near the main hatch and is
carried from gun to gun.
"Cast loose and provide!"
The hitherto motionless figures waiting at the battery spring into
activity. Hands move nimbly at the training and elevating gear.
Breech-blocks are thrown open, sights adjusted, the first and second
captains take their places, the former with the firing lanyard in
readiness for use at his gun; then there is silence again as the officer
in charge of the division holds up one hand as a signal that all is
prepared. Then comes the word to load.
In a twinkling the ammunition hoists are creaking with their burdens and
boxes of shell appear on deck. These are quickly lifted to the guns and
taken in hand by the loaders. The latter do their part of the general
work thoroughly and with despatch, and presently the breech-blocks are
swung to and the battery is ready for action.
In the meantime there has been systematic preparation in other parts of
the auxiliary cruiser. Down in the sick bay aft, the surgeon and his
assistants have made ready for their grewsome task. Cases of glittering
instruments have been opened, lint and bandages and splints are in their
proper places, and the apothecary and bayman are getting the cots in
trim for instant use.
In the fire room the firemen and coal-passers are heaping up the
furnaces, a couple of men hurry away to attend to the fire mains, and,
standing by in readiness for duty, are the engineers and crew of the off
watch. The carpenters are ready below with shot-hole plugs, and
everywhere throughout the ship can be found officers and sailors and
marines and men of the "black gang," each at his proper station in
readiness for the word to begin action.
But that word does not come. Instead a stentorian command is heard from
the bridge:
"Secure!"
Laughing and joking, the crew of the "Yankee" hasten to restore the ship
to its former state. All this has been a drill, the drill known as
general quarters. It is the first time it has been held under service
conditions, and when the captain steps down from the bridge and says in
his brisk, authoritative way, "Very well done, very well done indeed,"
the boys of the cruiser are satisfied and happy.
Twice during the night the drill is repeated. There is no grumbling
because of disturbed sleep, for a rumor has gone about the ship that
Spanish vessels have been seen off the coast, and even the cranks on
board admit that drills and exercises are necessary.
Sea watches have been set, and the rules followed when under way are now
operative. A brief explanation of the routine attending the first hours
of a naval day may help to make succeeding descriptions more plain. The
ship's daily life commences with the calling of the ship's cook at
3:30 a.m. The ordinary mess cooks are awakened at four o'clock, so that
coffee can be prepared for the watch. Coffee is always served with
hard-tack to the watch coming on deck at four. It is all the men get
until breakfast at 7:30, and a great deal of work must be accomplished
before that time.
After the hard-tack and coffee had been consumed--and it went to that
spot always reserved for good things--the lookouts of the other watch on
the port and starboard bridge and the patent life buoys port and
starboard quarter were relieved. As soon as the first streaks of dawn
Were to be seen a long-drawn boatswain's pipe, like the wail of a lost
soul, came from forward, and the order "scrub and wash clothes" given.
A day or two before the "Yankee" left the navy yard, one of the pretty
girls who had come over to visit her asked: "Where do you have your
washing done? It must require a great many washerwomen to keep the
clothes of this dirty [glancing rather disdainfully at her somewhat
grimy friend] crew clean." Though we knew that the luxury of a laundry
would not fall to our lot, we were at a loss as to the method pursued to
clean clothes.
We soon learned.
We who had been anticipating an order of this sort came running forward
with bundles of clothes that would discourage a steam laundry. This was
the first opportunity we had had to clean up. The forecastlemen led out
the hose, which was connected to the ship's pump, and, after wetting
down the forecastle deck (where all clothes must be scrubbed), we were
told we might turn to.
The "Kid," who was the youngest member of the crew aboard, very popular
with officers and men, and who afterward became the ship's mascot, said,
"How do you work this, anyway?" I confessed that I was in the dark
myself, but proposed that we watch "Patt," the gunner's mate, who had
served in the navy before. Presently we saw him lay his jumper flat on
the deck, wet it thoroughly with water from the hose, then rub it with
salt-water soap. Then he fished out a stiff scrubbing brush and began to
scrub the jumper as if it was a floor. We then understood the
significance of the order _scrub_ and wash clothes. In salt water the
clothes have not only to be washed, but scrubbed as well.
The "Kid" remarked, "Well, I'll be switched," and forthwith fell on his
knees and proceeded to follow "Patt's" example.
Though we scrubbed manfully, "putting our backs into it" and "using
plenty of elbow grease," as instructed, still the result was hardly up
to our expectations. The navigator remarked, as we were "stopping" the
clothes on the line, "You heroes might scrub those clothes a little bit;
it does not take a college education to learn how to wash clothes."
I agreed with the "Kid" that, though cleanliness was next to Godliness,
cleanliness, like Godliness, was often a difficult virtue to acquire. We
found it almost impossible to be cleanly without the aid of fresh water,
so the schemes devised to avoid the executive's order and get it were
many and ingenious.
One man would go to the ship's galley, where the fresh water hand-pump
was, and, without further ado, begin to fill his bucket, remarking, if
the cook attempted to interfere, that he had to scrub paint work or he
had orders from the doctor to bathe in fresh water. These excuses would
be successful till too many men came in with buckets and plausible
excuses, when the cook would shut down on the scheme for the time. The
man with fresh water was the envy of his fellows, and must needs be
vigilant, or bucket and water would disappear mysteriously.
The "Kid" happened to be next me when "stopping" his clothes on the
line, and remarked, as he tied the last knot on his last jumper, "I like
to be clean as the next chap, but this scrubbing clothes on your knees
is no snap."
He stopped to feel them.
"Why, I can feel the corns growing on them already. How often do we have
to do this scrubbing job, anyhow?" he asked.
"You _can_ do it every morning, if you really feel inclined," I replied,
smiling at his rueful countenance; "clothes can only be washed during
the morning watch (four to eight), I understand, and, as the starboard
men are on duty one day during that time and the port watch the next,
each is supposed to 'scrub and wash clothes' in his own watch. See?"
The "Kid" looked up at the dripping line of rather dingy clothes, then
down at his red and soapy knees, and said, as he turned to go aft,
"Well, when we get back to New York, I am going to have a suit of whites
made of celluloid that can be washed with a sponge."
At 6:30 the order "knock off scrubbing clothes" was given, and then all
hands of the watch "turned to" and scrubbed decks, scoured the gratings
and companion-way ladders with sand and canvas, brass work was polished,
paint work wiped down, and everything on board made as spick and span as
a new dollar.
A vast quantity of water is brought from over the side through the
ship's pump, and the men work in their bare feet. In fact, the usual
costume during this period of the day consists of a pair of duck
trousers and a thin shirt. On special occasions even the shirt is
dispensed with. During warm weather it is delightful to splash around a
water-soaked deck, but there are mornings when a biting wind comes from
the north, and the keenness of winter is in the air, and then Jackie,
compelled to labor up to his knees in water, casts longing glances
toward the glow of the galley fire, and makes his semi-yearly vow that
he will leave the "blooming" service for good and go on a farm.
This scrubbing of decks and scouring of ladders put an extra edge on our
appetites, so we agreed with "Stump" when he said, "I feel as if I could
put a whole bumboat load of stuff out of commission all by my lonely."
"Stump's" appetite was out of proportion to his size.
When the boatswain's mate gave his peculiar long, quavering pipe and the
order "spread mess gear for the watch below," at 7:20, we of the watch
on deck realized that there was still forty minutes to wait. Every man's
hunger seemed to increase tenfold, so that even the odor of boiling
"salt-horse" from the galley did not trouble us.
Finally the order came, "on deck all the starboard watch"; followed by
the boatswain's mess call for the watch on deck. The scramble to get
below and to work with knife, fork, and spoon resembled a fire panic at
a theatre. It is first come first served aboard ship, and the man who
lingers often gets left.
The gun deck of the "Yankee," like the gun deck of most war vessels, is
Jack's living room. Here he sleeps, in what he facetiously calls his
folding-bed, which is swung from the deck beams above; here he enjoys
the various amusements that an ordinary citizen would call work; here he
goes through his drills; here he fights, not his shipmates, but his
country's enemies, and here he eats.
The remark, "he spread his legs luxuriously under the mahogany," would
hardly apply to Jack's mode of dining. His table is a swinging affair
that is hung on the hammock hooks--a mere board a couple of feet wide
and twelve or fourteen feet long, having a ridge around the edge to keep
the plates from sliding off in a seaway. Jack's dining chairs are called
"mess benches," and consist of a long folding bench that with the table
can be stowed away in racks overhead when not in use. A mess chest for
each mess, an enamelled iron plate and cup, and a knife, fork, and spoon
for each man complete the "mess gear" outfit.
The ship's company is divided into messes, each man being assigned to a
certain mess at the same time his billet number or ship's number is
given to him. There are from fifteen to thirty men in a mess. Each has
its own "berth-deck cook," who prepares the food for the galley; each,
too, has a mess caterer, or striker, whose business it is to help the
mess cook and see that all goes well. The caterer is a volunteer from
the mess, and generally serves for a week, when another volunteer takes
his place. If the quantity or quality of the food is not up to
expectations, it would be better for the caterer that he be put down in
the "brig" out of harm's way, for Jack is apt to speak his mind in
vigorous English, and his mind and stomach have generally formed a close
alliance.
The twenty minutes allowed for meals are well spent, and the clatter of
knives and forks attests the zest with which Uncle Sam's
man-o'-war's-man tackles his not always too nice or delicate fare. The
nine dollars a month allowed by the navy for rations is expended by the
paymaster of the vessel, not by the men, so, if the paymaster concludes
that the men shall have "salt-horse," rice, and hard-tack, Jack gets
"salt-horse," rice, and hard-tack, and that is all he does get unless
his mess cook and caterer are unusually prudent and save something from
the previous day's rations, or the mess has put up some extra money and
has "private stores."
As the man with the biggest appetite or the fellow who eats slowly are
putting away the last morsel of cracker hash or the last swallow of
coffee, "Jimmy Legs" (the master-at-arms) comes around, shouting as he
goes, "Shake a leg there, we want to get this deck cleared for
quarters." He is often followed by the boatswain's mate of the watch,
who echoes his call, and between them they clear the deck. Then begins
the real work of the day.