“Eight bells, sir.”
“Make it so,” responded the captain in the time-honored formula of the
navy to the petty officer who had just informed him that it was high
noon.
The _Manhattan_ from stem to stern presented a busy scene. From her
tops and bridge stations the wig-wag flags were busily signaling the
orders of the flag-ship to the rest of the squadron. A stiff northwest
wind was blowing, and before it small white clouds were scudding like
clippers across a bright blue California sky.
From the stacks of each of the grim sea bulldogs, black clouds of smoke
were vomiting, and semaphore arms were jerking up and down frantically.
On the bridges of every ship of the squadron stood the officers in
full uniform. On the bridge of the _Manhattan_, of course, was the
rear-admiral, a bluff, hearty seaman known the world over as “Fighting
Bob.” From the after truck of the dreadnought’s cage masts fluttered
his insignia.
The steamer came off with the last mails from the shore and was swung
hastily into her davits. Below in the engine-rooms and boiler spaces,
the great vessels of the squadron throbbed and hummed with pent-up
energy. It was as if they were impatient to get to sea once more after
the royal time they had enjoyed in San Francisco. From the gaff of each
ship of the long line fluttered proudly Old Glory.
“What a sight, eh, Herc?” remarked Ned to his red-headed chum as, being
temporarily unemployed, the two found a chance to look about and to
chat.
“Never could have seen anything like this if we’d stayed at home on the
farm,” grinned Herc. “Although, speaking of the farm, the ships do
remind me of a long line of gray geese with the old _Manhattan_, the
daddy gander, that shows ’em the way.”
“Well, I never saw geese that gave out black or any other colored
smoke,” chuckled Ned, “nor do geese have funnels sticking up out of
their backs. Otherwise your comparison is all right, Herc.”
A messenger came bustling up to them and thrust two packages into their
hands.
“Just come off on the steamer,” he said.
“Now what in the world can this be?” wondered Ned as he opened his
package, while Herc did the same. When the coverings were torn off,
within each was revealed a purple plush box. Within these, in turn,
nestling in beds of white satin, were two gold watches. On the back of
each was this inscription: “_Presented in token of appreciation of a
gallant act. San Francisco, 19----._”
The boys’ eyes sparkled. No need to ask from whom the handsome presents
came. The consul at dinner the night before had hinted at gifts, but
that they were to be such magnificent ones had never entered the boys’
heads.
They had small time to admire them, however. Orders came to take
stations, and each lad hastened to his turret to get everything in
readiness for the good-bye salute of twenty-one guns.
The decks were in what to a landsman would have seemed hopeless
confusion. Yet, underlying all was the system that has made our navy
what it is. Orders were passing rapidly, bos’uns’ pipes screaming
shrilly, and Jackies running hither and thither like so many ants when
their nest has been disturbed.
High up on the lofty bridge, Commander Dunham and the admiral surveyed
the scene.
“I think we are ready, sir,” said the admiral at length.
The captain saluted and turned to the executive officer who stood
beside him.
“All ready, Mr. Jenks,” he said.
The executive officer saluted, and then came a hoarse hail through his
megaphone while the wig-waggers on the _Manhattan_ transmitted the
signal, “Up anchor,” to the other ships of the squadron.
“Up anchor!” bellowed Mr. Jenks.
The band crashed out into “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” swinging into
“Nancy Lee,” “Auld Lang Syne” and other favorites. The blue-jackets
grabbed each other around the waist and pirouetted about on the
foc’scle like schoolboys. Some sang with the band until “Boom! Boom!
Boom!” the stately measured farewell to San Francisco began to boom
from the steel mouths of the big guns.
“Anchors shipped, sir!” sang out a middy from the forepart of the ship.
“Slow speed ahead!” ordered the captain to the ensign at the
engine-room telegraph.
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“Both engines.”
The _Manhattan_ slowly swung around and headed to sea, with her big
guns belching yellow smoke and flashes of scarlet flame. Ashore, every
whistle in the city sent up a deafening roar of screeching and hooting.
The wharves and tall buildings on the water-front, black with people,
added to the din.
Slowly, and in stately fashion, the huge dreadnought maneuvered till
her bow pointed straight for the historic Golden Gate. Each ship of the
squadron followed at a measured distance of four hundred yards. From
each came clouds of smoke, the fulminating roar of the big guns and the
crashing of bands.
Up on the signal halliards of the _Manhattan_ went a string of bunting.
“Increase distance to sixteen hundred yards.”
Gradually and as perfectly measured as if they had been figures in a
minuet, the great fighting ships lengthened the distance between each
other.
Out through the Golden Gate they steamed “in column,” and as they
passed the twin headlands, the guns from the forts on either side
answered the barking throats of the fleet’s heavy artillery. Out past
the Farallones they steamed, keeping perfect distance or “interval,” as
it is called, between each ship.
“Say, Herc,” remarked Ned, when after the firing was over he rejoined
his chum on the foc’scle, “I’ve been doing some figuring. Do you know
how much water this fleet displaces?”
“I haven’t the smidge of an idea, ship-mate.”
“Well, just about five hundred thousand tons of water.”
Herc peered over the side and then looked around in a puzzled way.
“What’s become of it all?”
“Of what?”
“Of all that misplaced water.”
“Oh, it’s just distributed about. It is merely a technical term.”
“I suppose the misplaced water goes to the same place that your lap
goes to when you stand up,” commented Herc, grinning broadly.
“I reckon that’s about it, Herc. Isn’t it good to get to sea again,
though? They gave us a fine time in ’Frisco, but, after all, a sailor’s
place is out on the ocean.”
“That accounts for so many recruits being all at sea,” rejoined Herc
whimsically.
On the bridge of each ship stood a middy working a little instrument of
bars and glasses and wheels, graduated to a scale of figures and called
a stadimeter. It showed to a fraction of an inch the exact distance
each ship was from the one preceding her, and according to the readings
of this instrument the number of revolutions of the ship’s propellers
would be slowed down or speeded up.
This involved incessant watchfulness, and was calculated to keep the
bridge officers on the jump. Everything in Uncle Sam’s navy must be
done with a precision almost incomprehensible to a landsman, but which
forms a part of every seaman’s training.
Looking back and watching the long line of “gray geese,” as Herc had
called them, Ned gave a sudden exclamation. From the signal-yard of the
_Louisiana_, the third ship in line, there suddenly fluttered a white
triangular pennant with a red border.
“Oh, wow!” yelled Herc. “There’s the old Luzzy out of line again.”
“She’s the hardest ship to steer in the whole squadron,” rejoined Ned.
The signal that the ship in question had just displayed meant that she
was more than forty yards out of the way. This was duly noted against
her on board the flag-ship, and it may be imagined that the officer on
duty hated to have to send that signal aloft.
The Farallones were mere tiny clouds on the eastern horizon, as the sun
went down with a glow of burnished gold in the west that seemed like
a benediction. Just as it sank below the horizon, the rays shone on
the sullen, lead-colored sides of the grim sea-fighters, giving them a
softened touch. To a landsman it would have appeared a beautiful sight.
But to Ned and Herc, and to most of the sailors on board, that sunset
bore a different significance.
“We’re in for a blow,” declared Ned.
“Storm of some sort, that’s as sure as shooting,” rejoined Herc.
Up on the bridge the officers were discussing the outlook.
“The glass is falling rapidly, sir,” reported the navigating officer to
Commander Dunham.
“Yes; we are in for some sort of bad weather,” was the response. “Have
all made snug.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
As the sun dipped below the horizon, bugles began to sing, and on the
foremost main-truck, the stern and the sides of every vessel in that
long line, appeared simultaneously flashing lights. Night time had shut
down on the fleet as it rolled across the vast Pacific wastes.
Other lights began to twinkle and glimmer through the gloom like the
illuminated windows of a small city after night has fallen. Behind the
great ships streamed a dark, sullen storm cloud of black smoke.
The supper call came and the crew sat down to a meal of beef pot-pie,
jelly, bread and butter and tea. Conversation ran mainly on the
prospects of the voyage and the lands they were to visit. Many of the
old tars had been in the far East and the Mediterranean before, and
these regaled the youngsters with many stories of their experiences.
Naturally this talk only served to sharpen the appetites of the sailors
who awaited their arrival in the Orient with avidity. Then, too, Ned’s
rounding up of the recalcitrant stragglers was discussed, and the
sentences meted out to the culprits were approved. Of course, Ned and
Herc had to show their handsome gold watches, also, and explain the
story connected with them.
After supper the Jackies talked and lounged,--those that were off duty,
that is. Then came tattoo, and following that the long, melancholy
sweet notes of “Taps,” which is the bugle’s way of saying good-night.
The sky was heavily overcast and the sea was beginning to heave and
roll under the twenty-thousand-ton dreadnought as the bugles sang
plaintively the sailors’ bed-time call:
“Go to sleep! Go to sleep! G-o t-o s-l-e-e-p!”