Ours is a marvelous exploit. We are going to plant mines near the
enemy's coast, only a bare kilometer from its formidable batteries. The
ensign fastens the black collar around his neck, and will presently
inflate it with his breath.
We are ready. We sail. The firmament over our heads is covered with
smoke and sparks. Along the gunwale, on each side of the ship, the
enormous mines in their iron cages rest on the supports projecting over
the water. The long torpedoes are ready for the attack, protected by
their iron tubes, with their bronze heads charged with trytol, beasts
in ambuscade. The sailors, their heads covered, are grouped around the
guns, whose breeches are open. All the available space is strewn with
weapons and contrivances, and full of alert men. In order to go from
stern to prow it is necessary to crouch, bend, pass under a greasy
torpedo, leap over outstretched sailors, strike the leg against the
fastening of a torpedo, squeeze against a hot funnel, entangle one's
self in a rope, receive squarely in the face a dash of foam while
grasping the railing.
I ascend the bridge. We are already clear of the anchorage. It is dark.
The moon is dipping in the sea. In an hour it will have disappeared.
The ship quivers at the vibration of the machinery. The funnels still
emit too much smoke and too many sparks. On board all the lights are
out, even the cigarettes. Darkness enshrouds alike both prow and stern.
The last order megaphoned resounds in an azure dotted with sparks and
stars--which are only inextinguishable sparks. A light mist rises from
the water. The wake foams, and the sea ahead parts in two broad furrows
along the sides of the ship, giving forth, now and then, strange
reflections.
Following in our wake the second destroyer looms up darkly, and after
her all the others in line. When the route is changed to reconnoitre
the coast, from the great central wake many oblique ones part,
designing an immense silver rake.
The commander is against the railing, leaning out toward darkness,
with his whole soul in his scrutinizing eyes. Now and then he turns
his ruddy face and transmits an order with exact and sharp words. The
helmsman at the wheel never once removes his eyes from the compass,
lighted by a small lamp in a screened niche. Clearly he is a man of
the purest Tyrrenean race, a true comrade of Ulysses, with a face
which seems to have been modeled by the trade wind. Near by is the
signal box. "Half Speed," "Full Speed," "Slow," "Stop." Through
the speaking tube the orders are transmitted to the engine room.
"Four--Three--Zero."
We are making twenty-three knots an hour. The foam of the great wake
glitters under the stern lights. "A little to the right."
The navigating officer is bending over the chart, held down by lead
weights covered with cloth, measuring, figuring with the compass and
the square, under the blue light of a shaded lamp. A great shooting
star crosses the August sky, disappearing toward the Cappella.