OF A T.B.D. CAPTAIN, WHO DREAMS THAT HE HAS FOUND HIS LOG BOOK MADE UP
BY MR. PH*L*P G*BBS.
_Time:--7.30 A.M._--Once more we set out on our never-ending mission,
our ceaseless vigil of the seas. The ruddy weather-stained coxswain
swung the wheel this way and that--his eyes were of the blue that only
the sea can give--in obedience to, or rather in accord with, the curt,
mystic, seaman-like orders of the young officer of the watch. "Hard
a-port! Midships! Hard a-starboard! Port 20! Steady as she goes!" And
ceaselessly the engine-room telegraph tinkled, and the handy little
craft, with death and terror written in her workmanlike lines for
the seaman, for all her slim insignificance to the landlubber on the
towering decks of the great liner, swung smartly through the crowded
water-way out to the perils lurking 'neath the seeming smile of the
open sea: the guardian angel of our commerce it went, to meet--what
Heaven alone could foretell!
_Course_.--S. 70° E. Towards the rising sun and our brethren in khaki,
toiling in the wet mud as we toil on the wet waters!
_Deviation_.--1° E. Wonderful the accuracy of the little instrument
whereon men's lives do hang, wise in the lore of the firmament!
_Patent Log_.--O. Nothing--as yet! What will it register ere the day
be done? Or will its speckless copper lie rusting in the grey chill of
the sea's dank depths?
_Revs_.--I don't know, but the propellers swirl faithfully and
unceasingly.
_Wind_.--W. by E. Bearing a message across the vast Atlantic of hope
and present succour from our new great Ally, the mighty Republic of
the West. America, ah America! But we of the sea are men of few words,
and this is not the place.
_Force_.--3. A balmy zephyr, yet with the sharp salt tang of the sea
that a sailor loves.
_Sea_.--2. Softly undulating is the swell, scarce perceptible to
inexperienced eyes, such as those of the land-lubbers on the towering
decks of the great liners; gleaming dead copper and blue in the
morning sun, flecked with spectral white in the distance--the easy
roll of untrammelled waters!
_Weather_.--C. Detached clouds. Almost had I written "B," seeing the
perfect filmy blue all around the horizon; but a seaman's scrutiny
showed me faint fluffy wisps o'erhead, luminous and marged with
palest gold; and ever must a sailor be suspicious of the treacherous
weather-god.
_Thermometer_.--42°. Not yet is Winter here, but its threat
approaches.
_Barometer_.--30·01. Will it stay there?
_Remarks_.--Once more we set out on our ceaseless vigil, our
* * * * *
_Remarks_.--(7.30 P.M.).--Another day has passed, another day's duty
has been done. Nothing _apparently_ has happened outside the ordinary
routine of the ship. One keen-eyed young officer has succeeded another
on the bridge, with tired lines on a face grey beneath the great brown
hood of his duffle--a face so youthful, yet with the knowledge of
the command of men writ plain thereon. The propellers have swirled
faithfully and unceasingly; the good ship in consequence has cleft the
passive waves. But who knows what hideous lurking peril of mine or
torpedo we have not survived, what baleful eye has not glowered at us,
itself unseen, and retired again to its foul underworld, baulked of
its thirsted prey?