GOOD-BYE.
PORT Melbourne pier was a scene of hurry and bustle.
Along every yard of its great length lay mighty ocean-going steamers:
mail-boats, Orient and P. & O., big White Star cargo-ships, French
liners, and all the miscellaneous collection of ships that ply from up
and down the world to Australia. Trains were coming and going along the
railway lines running down the centre of the pier, piercing the air with
their shrieks of warning, while people moved hastily out of their way,
stumbling over the intricate network of rails. A motley crowd they were:
passengers from the steamers; officers—sunburned men in blue uniforms;
wharf labourers; sailors in blue jerseys, bearing the name of their ship
across their breasts; dark-skinned Lascars from the P. & O. ships;
Chinese; well-dressed city people tempted out by bright sunshine and
blue sea; and the never-failing throng of children to be found on every
great wharf, drawn to “the beauty and mystery of the ships.” Amidst the
crowd dock hands worked at loading and unloading cargoes; the shrieks of
steam-cranes sounded as great wooden cases were lifted from the trucks,
to be poised perilously in mid air over the pier before being swung
in-board and lowered into the gaping holds. Each ship bore on its
mooring-ropes wide discs of tin, to discourage the rats which would
otherwise have found the rope an easy track into the steamer.
It was the usual Australian wharf scene; but there was another factor in
it, by no means so familiar. Among the crowded ships were several
painted in neutral colours, bearing no name, but only the letter A and a
number. They were alongside the wharf, and on their decks men in uniform
were working with a feverish activity quite unlike the ordinary
movements of the dock-hand in Australia. At each gangway stood a sentry;
and other men in khaki went up and down swiftly, some of them receiving
salutes from the men who worked—not always, because the new Australian
soldier was a free-and-easy person, and, having much to learn, did not
easily see that saluting is a mark of respect to the King’s uniform,
more than to the man who wears it. The privates did not mean any
disrespect to the uniform—they only knew they were busy, and that it
seemed to them foolish to stop and salute a man whom they had perhaps
known for years as “Bill” or “Dick,” who might have been the fag of one
of them at school, or perhaps worked for another for wages on a farm.
There are all sorts of queer ups and downs in the composition of a
Colonial volunteer force, and social distinctions are apt to collapse
altogether before military ability; so that the man with a big property
and more money than he knows what to do with may find himself a mere
private working under a martinet of a captain who possibly delivered his
meat in the piping times of peace. Moreover, he will do it cheerfully.
But he will find the saluting hard.
There was a steady hum of preparation on all the grey troopships with
the white numbers. Stores and kit were being loaded into them rapidly,
each item checked by an officer; on some, the decks of which were
boarded up, soldiers, stripped to shirt and breeches, were working with
great bundles of compressed hay and straw, emptying truck after truck in
readiness for the horses that were to be the chief passengers. From
within these could be heard the sound of hammering; they had been
stripped of all their inside fittings, and every available inch of space
was being turned into stalls and loose-boxes, made with due regard to
the comfort of the puzzled four-footed occupants whose homes they would
be for so many weary weeks.
All the quay-room was taken up; and besides, out in Port Phillip Bay,
the ships lay thick: troopships; cargo-boats waiting their chance to
unload, or busy discharging their goods into lighters; sailing vessels,
tramps from every harbour in the world, with towering masts and rusty
sides; and a host of smaller craft that nosed in and out among the big
ships. Near some steps leading to the water a motor-launch tossed in the
wash of a paddle-steamer leaving for some Bay port.
A large party, variously laden with hand-baggage, came rapidly along the
wharf from the railway-station, and down the steps. At sight of their
leader one of the men in the launch steadied her, while the other busied
himself with the engine.
“We’ve sent all our heavy things on board, and this is quite the most
comfortable way to get over to Williamstown,” David Linton was saying.
“No, it’s quite unusual, of course, to be sailing from there; but war
has upset everything, and there’s simply no room for any more big ships
at this pier. Williamstown is a fearsome place to embark from; it’s bad
enough to get there, to begin with, and when you have done so, the pier
is miles from anywhere, and you traverse appalling tracks in finding
your ship. Much simpler to run across the Bay from Port Melbourne by
launch.”
Edward Meadows, a tall, lean man, very like Wally, nodded assent.
“I’ve never seen the fascination of travel,” he said lazily. “To me it’s
only bearable with the maximum of comfort—especially when you go to
sea.”
“Well, there’s not much maximum of comfort about your back-country trips
in Queensland,” said Wally, rather amazed. “And you have plenty of
those, Edward.”
“Oh, yes, but that’s different! You don’t expect comfort, and you’d be
rather surprised if you got it. And the Bush is different, too,” replied
his brother, a trifle vaguely, yet conscious that his hearers
understood. “You can live on corned-beef, damper and milkless tea for
weeks in the Bush, and sleep in the open, with your saddle for a pillow,
and on the whole you quite enjoy it; but you’d feel quite injured if you
had to do it on board ship. Possibly it’s the clothes you wear—I don’t
know.” He looked round, as if expecting to find enlightenment. “Let me
help you in, Miss Norah.”
The launch held them all comfortably, though they were a large party:
the travellers themselves, various relatives who had come to see them
off, and a sprinkling of school friends who were openly envying Norah
and the boys. They included a couple of lads in khaki, fresh from the
camp of the Expeditionary Force at Broadmeadows.
“Well, you’re lucky to be getting straight to the middle of things,”
said one of these. “Here we are, tied up week after week, waiting to get
away, and nobody quite knows why we don’t start—they talk about German
cruisers, of course, and there are stories of warships not being ready
to convoy us, and a dozen other yarns. Every now and then comes a rumour
that we’re just off, and we say good-bye wildly—and then we don’t go.
I’ve made all my fond farewells four times, and I believe my people are
beginning to feel a little less enthusiastic about it than they did. It
must be jolly hard to keep on regarding one as a departing hero!”
“And when we do start, it’s going to be slow enough,” put in his
companion. “There will be such a crowd of us—and we’ve got to make the
pace by the slowest ship.” He jerked his hand towards a troopship round
the stern of which the motor-launch was chug-chugging slowly. “That’s
one of them. She was a German tramp steamer that strolled in here after
war broke out and was collared; she didn’t know a thing about the war,
and her captain said most unseemly things to the pilot who had gone out
to bring them through the Heads and held his tongue about war until he
had the ship covered by our guns at Queenscliff.” The soldier grinned
with huge enjoyment. “I wish I’d seen him! But she’s not much of a tub,
anyhow; I expect the Orient boat that has been turned into the Staff
troopship has just about twice her pace, but she will have to
accommodate herself to the slowest.”
“Yes, it will be a deliberate sort of voyage,” said the other. “No
ports; no news; just dawdling along for weeks, packed like herrings.
Hope they’ll keep us busy with drill; it will be something to pass the
time away.”
“And you don’t know when you are to sail? Edward Meadows asked.
“For all we know it may be a case of strike camp to-night. There are too
many German warships in the way—it wouldn’t be healthy to let the news
leak out. Wouldn’t the _Emden_ like a chance of meeting a crowd like
ours!—a lot of transports like helpless old sheep, with a few
men-o’-war to protect the whole mob. The _Emden_ would not mind going
down herself if she sank some of us.”
“Well, at least you’ll have the men-o’-war” Norah put in. “We won’t have
anything at all to protect us.”
“You don’t seem very troubled about it, either,” grinned the soldier
lad.
“Why, it would be an experience. I don’t suppose they would hurt us,
even if they sank the ship. And our luggage is insured,” said Norah,
practically.
“The danger of a hostile cruiser does not seem to weigh heavily on the
minds of the insurance companies,” remarked her father. “It cost me a
good deal more to insure against pilfering than against war risks!”
“You don’t say so!” said Edward Meadows, staring.
“I do, though. It’s a queer state of affairs, but I suppose they know
their business. There’s the old ship.”
They had nearly crossed the narrow portion of the Bay that lies between
Port Melbourne and Williamstown, and the docks were coming into view.
Everywhere the wharves were crowded with shipping, mostly of a smaller
character than the vessels they had seen; but towering above everything
else, larger than even the Orient liner, lay a great ship. She had but
one funnel, painted a vivid blue; it loomed vast above them, a mighty
cylinder—large enough, if it lay on its side, to drive a coach-and-four
through it.
“Whew-w! She’s a big one!” ejaculated the young soldier.
“Yes; there’s only one larger ship in the Australian trade,” Jim
answered.
“Many passengers?”
“Hardly any, I believe. But she’s enormously valuable; she’s carrying a
huge cargo—the richest, with the exception of gold, that ever left
Australia. And it’s just what they want in England—frozen meat, wool,
tallow, and things like that, and a huge consignment of food the
Queensland people are sending to the troops at the Front. They say she’s
worth a million and a half!”
“By Jove, what a prize she’d make!” said the soldier. “I should think
the German cruisers will be keeping a pretty sharp look-out for her.”
“Yes—and I believe the _Emden_ is particularly anxious to get a Blue
Funnel ship before she goes under. The _Perseus_ would make a pretty
good scalp, wouldn’t she?”
The engineer shut off the motor, and the little launch came to rest
beside a gangway under the lee of the _Perseus_—whose bulk, seen close
above them, seemed like that of a mountain. A sailor ran down the steps
to steady the launch and offer a helping hand as its passengers climbed
out. In a moment Norah stood for the first time upon the deck of a ship.
It gave her a queer little thrill of exultation. Everything about her
was new and unfamiliar: the long lines of the deck, the hurrying
officers and sailors, the creak of machinery, punctuated with crisp
commands; and over all, the smell of the ship and the salt air blowing
up from the wider spaces of the Bay. It seemed to mount to her head.
Instinctively she put out her hand to her father.
“Well, my girl,” he said. “It’s a bit different to the old wind-jammer
that I came out in.”
“It’s—it’s lovely, Daddy!”
He laughed. “I hope you’ll continue to think so,” he said. “Come and
we’ll find our cabins.”
A passing steward, to whom they gave their numbers, took them in charge
and piloted them below. They went down a winding oak staircase with
rubber treads that were soft to the feet, and passed through an open
space invitingly furnished with lounge-chairs. Thence a passage led a
little way until their guide turned sharply to the right.
“This is yours, sir,” said the steward. “The young lady’s is opposite.”
The cabins were alike—roomy ones, each containing three berths, and lit
by wide port-holes. The _Perseus_ had accommodation for over three
hundred passengers, and at an ordinary time went out with every berth
taken; but war had made people disinclined to travel, and on this voyage
her passenger-list held only about thirty names. Therefore there was
room and to spare, and each passenger could have had two or three cabins
had he been so disposed.
Already Norah’s luggage was placed in readiness; and scattered on one of
the berths were a number of parcels and letters, to which so many were
immediately added that the bunk looked like a jumble-stall, but very
interesting.
“No, you mustn’t open them now,” said her special school-chum, Jean
Yorke; “they will keep, and you’ll have loads of time going down the
Bay. Come and explore the ship.”
At the entrance to their alley-way they met Jim and Wally, returning
from inspecting their cabin, which was near-by and “very jolly,” said
its owners; and then they all trooped off to find their way about the
steamer, discovering big drawing-rooms and lounges, a splendid
smoking-room panelled in oak, with a frieze of quaint carvings running
round it, and the dining-saloon—a roomy place, furnished with
swing-chairs and small round tables, on which ferns and tall palms
nodded a friendly greeting. Everything was big and spacious and airy.
Smart stewards, white-jacketed, darted hither and thither. They passed
the galley, catching a glimpse of rows of bright cooking-ranges,
gleaming copper saucepans, and busy cooks, with snowy aprons and flat
caps—all so spotlessly clean that Norah wished audibly that Brownie
could see it—Brownie having expressed dark doubts as to whether her
belongings would be decently fed on board, coupled with unpleasant
allusions to cockroaches. Then they came out on the decks, of which
there were three—roomy enough for a regiment to drill, and with
pleasant nooks sheltered from the wind, no matter from what quarter it
might come. In one of these the deck steward had already set up their
long chairs—made of Australian blackwood and dark green canvas, with
“Linton” painted on each of the four.
“I ran you in as one of the family, Wally,” said the squatter.
“Thanks awfully, sir,” said Wally, gratefully.
People were coming aboard quickly; though there were so few passengers,
the _Perseus_ was a popular ship, and many came to see her off. The
first of the three warning bells clanged out sharply above the din.
“Come and have tea,” said David Linton. “I told them to have it ready at
first bell.”
They crowded round the biggest table in the saloon, while the stewards
brought tea. Every one was becoming a little silent; there seemed
suddenly a great many things to say, but no one could remember any of
them. No one wanted tea at all, except the soldier boys, who drank
immense quantities, and did their best to keep the conversation going.
Aunts and cousins heaped on Norah good advice about the journey. Edward
Meadows stared at his young brother’s bright face—a sudden fear at his
heart lest he should be looking at it for the last time.
“He’s such a kid,” he said inwardly. “I wonder if we ought to be letting
him go.”
On the deck, after the second bell had brought them up from the saloon,
he drew David Linton aside.
“You’ll take care of him, if you get a chance, won’t you, sir? He’s only
a kid.”
“To the utmost of my ability,” said Mr. Linton, gravely. “He is like my
own son to me.”
Then came the final bell, and with it a sudden gust of good-byes.
Telegraph-boys came racing up the gangway with belated messages. Every
one was trying to say twenty farewells at once.
“Good-bye, you chaps,” said the soldier lads. “Expect you’ll be in
Flanders before we are—but we’ll meet you there. Keep Australia going!”
“Hope we’ll get a chance,” Jim said, “and not mess it up if we get it.
We’ll try, anyhow. Good voyage. Don’t be sea-sick!”
“Same to you. Write to us if you can.”
“You too. Say good-bye to all the chaps we knew at school.”
“Good-bye, Norah, dear,” from an aunt. “Remember you’re growing up—you
can’t be a Bush girl in England.”
“I’ll try,” said Norah meekly. “I expect every one will be too busy with
the war to notice me.”
“I’m sure you’ll be a credit to us,” cried the aunt, inflicting a damp
embrace. “If only you have a safe voyage!” She kissed Jim with fervour,
and showed such signs of beginning on Wally that that timid youth
retired precipitately into the crowd.
“All visitors ashore!” sang out a stentorian voice. People flocked down
the gangway.
“You’ll write, won’t you, Norah?” asked Jean Yorke, a little shakily.
Jean was a silent person, but Norah was very dear to her.
“Of course I will,” said Norah, hugging her. “And you—lots! Oh, won’t
we want letters when we’re right away over there!”
“It’s awful at school without you,” said Jean. “Oh, and everybody sent
you their love—even Miss Winter! And they say, ‘Come back soon.’ So do
I.”
“Just as soon as ever we can. Oh, I don’t want to go a bit!” said poor
Norah. “There can’t be any place as good as Australia.”
“Of course there isn’t. But you’ll come back.”
“Any more for the shore?”
“Oh, I must go!” cried Jean, and fled, after a final hug. Edward Meadows
wrung Wally’s hand hard, and went slowly down the gangway—in his mind a
helpless feeling that perhaps they had not done as much as they might
for the little brother who had known neither mother nor father. On the
last step he hesitated, turned, and went back.
“Remember you needn’t ever go short of money,” he said. It seemed such a
foolish thing; and yet it was all he could find to say.
“Thanks, ever so much, Edward. I’m sure I’ll have plenty.”
“And—come back safe,” said his brother. He gripped his hand again, and
went down. Already sailors were busy with the gangway ropes.
At the last moment, just as the cumbrous ladder began to be drawn up, a
figure came racing down the wharf, uttering shouts that were incoherent
through breathlessness. Behind him puffed a couple of porters,
staggering under a leather suit-case and a Gladstone bag. The sailors
above the gangway hesitated, and the newcomer sprang upon it.
“What are you up to, sir?” came the sharp voice of an officer. “Are you
a passenger?”
“Certainly I am,” responded the breathless one—a short, stout
individual by no means fitted for violent exercise. “Kindly send some
one for my baggage.”
A couple of sailors ran down the gangway and took the burdens from the
panting porters. The late arrival puffed up the steps.
“You cut it pretty fine,” was the comment of the officer.
“Who ever heard of a ship being punctual before?” was the reply.
“Extraordinary—almost ridiculous!”
The officer laughed in spite of himself.
“It’s never safe to bank on the _Perseus_ being unpunctual,” he
remarked. “Lucky you caught us. Haul away!”
The gangway came up slowly. Three piercing whistles shrilled from the
siren. Down on the wharf, the people who had seemed so many on the ship
now appeared dwindled to a little huddled crowd, with faces upturned; it
was hard to pick out individuals.
Norah leaned on the rail, looking down—suddenly realising that it was
indeed “good-bye.” The ship was drawing out slowly—foot by foot the
water appeared between her side and the pier—unpleasant, dirty water,
full of floating rubbish. A little way out it sparkled to meet them, a
dancing mass of foam-flecked blue. But Norah could not see that side
now—only the little widening strip of brown water, and the wharf with
its wistful faces. Her own, as she looked, was very wistful. Beyond, sea
and sky might be blue, calling to her—but on this side lay Australia.
[Illustration: “At each gangway stood a sentry.”]
_From Billabong to London_] [_Page 92_