REALLY OFF!
It is exciting to start on any journey, even if it is only one we have
done before, but to go off round the world that is a real adventure!
There are many lines of steamers we could choose to go by, but we will
select for this first part of the journey the Orient Line. The choice
really lies between that and the P. & O., as we have already decided,
and for many reasons it is best to begin with the Orient and join the
other later. The main reason being that I want you to see a little of as
many European countries as possible, and the Orient ships stop at
Naples, in Italy, while those of the other line do not.
The ships in the Orient fleet all begin with an O; there are the
_Otranto_, _Otway_, and many more, but the boat which suits us and
happens to sail on the date we want to start--in the beginning of
November--is the _Orontes_. She is not the largest ship in the fleet,
having about half a dozen before her on the list, but she is a good ship
and very steady.
Our jumping-off place is London, whence a special train runs from the
station of St. Pancras down to the docks at Tilbury, where the _Orontes_
is waiting for us. The long platform beside the train is covered with
people when we arrive there, so that we have some difficulty in finding
seats. If all these people were coming with us we should have a full
ship indeed, but the one half of them is only seeing the other half off!
The line passes through dreary flat country, and at last we catch sight
of open water and funnels and feel as if we must be right down at the
Thames' mouth, but we are very far from that yet.
[Illustration: THE _ORONTES_.]
The heavy luggage has all been sent on ahead, and passengers are told
only to bring with them what can be carried in the hand; judging from
the piles of boxes that are tumbled out of the train many of them must
have tolerably large hands!
[Illustration: A STEWARD.]
We pass through a great shed, and coming out on the other side find our
ship there, right up against the dock side. It towers above us, blocking
out the sky as a street of six-storey houses would do. In fact, it is
rather like looking up at a street side, and when we see the sloping
ladder leading to the deck, like those used for hen-roosts but on a
giant scale, we feel our adventure is well begun. Hang on to the
hand-rail, for the wind is blowing hard, and if you went down into the
black dirty water between the ship and the dock there would be very
little chance of getting you out again; even as we climb up something
flicks past us and is carried away, and we see it floating far below; it
is an enormous white handkerchief which the man up there on deck has
been waving to his wife in farewell. It is gone, and it is to be hoped
he has another handy, he'll need it to-day. At the top of the ladder a
man in uniform looks at our ticket and calls out the number of our
cabin. He is so smart and has such a dignified manner we might well
mistake him for the captain, but he is an officer, called the purser,
who looks after the passengers. A bright-faced steward, unmistakably
English, takes possession of us and pilots us down some well-carpeted
stairs, through a large room where small tables are laid for lunch, and
into a very long narrow passage shining with white enamel paint. There
are little doors with numbers on them on one side, and about half-way
along the steward stops and ushers us into our cabin. It is a tiny room.
If you lay down from side to side you could touch each wall with head
and heels, and if I lay down from end to end I could do the same, and I
am rather bigger than you! There are two shelves, one above the other,
made up as beds, a piece of furniture with drawers and a looking-glass
in it, a fixed basin such as those you see in bathrooms, and a few pegs
to hang things on, and that is all. Our cabin trunks, which we sent on
ahead, are here before us, and through the open round port-hole we catch
a glimpse of grey water. We are lucky indeed to get a cabin to
ourselves, for in many, not a bit larger than this, there would be a
third bunk or bed, and a stranger would be forced in on us. When we have
settled our things you will be surprised to find how comfortable it all
is, for everything is so conveniently arranged. It is just as well to
put out what we shall want at once while the ship is steady, for once
she begins to roll----
When we have done this we go back to the saloon, encountering many
people rushing wildly to and fro with bags and bundles, still unable to
find their cabins, having come on at the last minute. In the great
saloon, those who are going ashore are hastily swallowing cups of hot
tea, and just as we arrive a bell rings to warn them to get off the ship
if they don't want to be carried away with her.
They flock down the gangway while we stand high above, and many
good-byes are shouted, and some are tearful and some are quite casual
and cheerful. Then the gangway is moved, but just before it goes down
with a run there is a shout, and two policemen hurry along the quay
hauling two shamefaced-looking men who are hustled up into the ship
again. They are stokers who fire the furnaces for the engines far down
below in the bowels of the ship. They had signed on for this voyage and
at the last minute tried to slink away, but have been caught and forced
back to their work.
Now the strip of water widens and very slowly we move from the quay,
being dragged ignominiously backward across the great basin in which we
lie by a diminutive steamer called a tug. We are not out in the river
yet and our own engines have not begun to work. You can understand that
it would be very difficult to load a ship if she stood always in the
river, where there are rising and falling tides, so, to make this
easier, great docks have been built along the river, and in them the
flow of the tides is regulated, so that the water remains always at
pretty much the same level.
The tug that pulls us across the dock on our way out looks absurdly
small, like a little Spitz dog pulling a great deerhound; but it does
its work well, and presently we glide into a narrow cut between high
walls; this is the lock, the entrance to the dock, and the water is held
up by great gates at each end as required, just as it is on river locks
for boats. Once we are inside the great gates behind us are shut, and
presently those at the farther end open and we see two other little tugs
waiting there to take us in charge. We are going out at the top of the
tide, and if we missed it should have to wait for another twelve hours,
or there would not be sufficient water in the river to float the ship
comfortably. We are still stern first, so if we want to see the fun we
must climb up to the top deck at that end. The wind is blowing a perfect
gale and almost drives us off our feet; it catches the side of the ship
and makes it far harder work for the gallant grimy tugs, which are
pulling and straining at the taut ropes till they look like bars of iron
lying between us and them. They churn the water to a fury, and pour
forth volumes of black smoke; inch by inch we feel the ship moving out;
her stern is dragged up-stream, so that when she is finally swung clear,
her bows are pointing seaward and she is ready to go. It is an exciting
moment when the ropes are cast off, and there is a great deal of running
about and shouting, and then our own engines begin gently but powerfully
to do their work. The screws beneath the stern revolve and we have
started on our long, long voyage!
[Illustration: SHE IS ON THE POINT OF LEAVING HER COUNTRY. PERHAPS FOR
EVER.]
There are no waves in the river; only those who are very nervous will
think about being ill yet awhile, and this is a good chance to examine
the great ship which is to be our home for some time.
There is plenty of room to walk about on the decks or to play games when
we reach a more summer-like climate. There are many rooms where we can
shelter in the wet and cold weather, a great lounge with writing-tables,
and a smoking-room--and there is no house on earth kept so spotlessly
clean as a ship!
[Illustration: THE CAPTAIN.]
When we go down to dinner we sit on chairs that swing round like office
chairs, only they are fixed into the floor, and as they only swing one
way, there are some funny scenes till people get used to them. We have
hardly taken our seats when a very magnificent man with a white
waistcoat and gold shoulder straps and much gold lace on his uniform
comes and sits down too, and smiles and bows to everyone. This is the
captain, and we must be more distinguished than we guessed, for we have
been put at his table, where the honoured passengers usually find seats.
Though this captain has such a kindly smile, a captain can be very
terrifying indeed; he is king in his ship, and has absolute authority;
his word is law, as, of course, it must be, for the safety of the whole
ship's company depends on him, and there is the fine tradition, which
British captains always live up to, that in case of any accident
happening to the ship the captain must be the last man to quit her.
Innumerable captains indeed have preferred to go down into the
unfathomable depths with their ships sooner than leave them when they
have been wrecked.
For several days there are very few people to be seen about, and the
rows of empty chairs at the table and on deck are rather depressing, but
as the weather brightens a little people creep out of their cabins;
white-faced ladies come to lie, rolled in rugs, on the sheltered side of
the deck, and the chairs are filled. Yet it is still a little dismal,
though we tramp sturdily up and down and would not admit it for the
world. The strong wind blows endlessly and the great grey waves are
always rolling on monotonously one after another, one after another, in
huge hillocks. So we plough down the English Channel and across the Bay
of Biscay, which is no rougher than anywhere else, though people ask
with bated breath, "When shall we be in the Bay?" "Are we through the
Bay yet?" as if there was no other bay in all the world.
Then comes a day when all at once everyone on board seems to wake up and
become alive again. The sun shines in patches along the decks and the
sea is blue and sparkling. We are passing close beside a steep and rocky
coast, and so near do we go that we can see the white waves dashing
against it and even spouting up in sheets of spray through blow-holes in
the cliffs. What we see is the coast of Spain, so we have set eyes for
the first time on another country than our own. There are many other
steamers in this stretch of water, some small and some as large as ours,
some coming and some going. It is all much more lively than it was.
Soon we have pointed out to us the place where the battle of Trafalgar
was fought, when Britain won a victory that assured her the dominion of
the seas up to the present time--a battle in which our greatest sailor,
Lord Nelson, was killed in the moment of victory!
It is the next morning after this that, when we wake up, we find that
the tossing and rocking motion has ceased; it is curiously quiet, the
iron plates that bind the ship together no longer creak and groan as if
they were in agony. We are bewildered. Then in a moment the meaning of
all this flashes upon us. We have reached Gibraltar!
Coming up on deck we find the scene glorious. The sun is shining out of
a cloudless sky on to a sea so blue that it gives one a sort of pleasant
pain to look at its loveliness. The air is brilliant, as if we were
living at the heart of a crystal. The ship is stealing along so silently
and gently she hardly seems to move, and then she comes to anchor in a
bay that seems to be surrounded on all sides with hills. Some of these
hills, lying rather far away, gleam white in the sunshine; they are part
of the great continent of Africa, and so, though it is only in the
distance, we have set eyes on our first new continent. Towering up
before us, with mighty bulk, is an immense rock, rising bald and rather
awful into the pure sky. Near the summit its sides are completely bare,
seamed by great gashes, and broken by masses of rock that look as if
they might crash down at any moment. Apes live up there, wild
mischievous creatures, who descend to steal from the orchards below, but
are so shy that they are hardly ever seen of men. They are of a kind
called Barbary apes, only found elsewhere in Africa; and it is thought
that perhaps, many ages ago, Europe was joined to Africa at this point,
and that when a great convulsion occurred which broke the two asunder
and let the water flow through the Straits of Gibraltar some of the apes
may have been left on this side, where their descendants still are,
sundered for ever from their kinsfolk by the strip of sea.
About the base of the rock is a little town running up the hill and
brightened by many trees--this is Gibraltar itself, one of the most
famous places in the world. For this alone it is well worth while to
come round by sea.
[Illustration: A BARBARY APE.]
Anyone can see at a glance why it is so important. That little strait,
about a dozen miles across, is the only natural entrance by water into
the Mediterranean Sea, which lies all along the south of Europe. At the
other end men have had to cut a way out by means of a canal. If ever
European nations were at war, the nation which held Gibraltar would be
able to prevent the ships of other countries from getting into or coming
out of the Mediterranean. It could smash them with big guns if they
tried, or blow them up. So that even if the country on each side were
flat this would still be an important place; but nature has made here a
precipitous rock, which is a natural fortress, and by great good luck
this belongs, not to the country of Spain, of which it is the southern
part, but to Great Britain. To find out how this is so you must go to
history. Gibraltar has been held by Britain for many years now, and
though the King of Spain is very friendly with Britain, and has married
an English princess, I think he must sometimes feel a little sore over
Gibraltar.
Lying in a basin on one side of us are some of our own powerful and ugly
ironclads, like bulldogs guarding the fort, and on the other side are
ships of all nations, come on peaceful trading errands or for pleasure
cruises, including a dainty little white French yacht that looks like a
butterfly which has just alighted.
We go ashore in a launch and are met on the quay by a medley of strange
folk and a great clamour of voices! The men and women are nearly all
dark skinned and black eyed, and yet they are all speaking English after
a fashion. A woman offers us a curiously twisted openwork basket of
oranges, with the deep-coloured fruit gleaming through the meshes, a man
implores us to take some of the absurdly neat little nosegays he has
made up, picture postcards are thrust under our noses, and cabmen wildly
beseech us to patronise their open vehicles. It is a brilliant scene,
full of life and colour and warmth, and the people all seem
good-humoured and jolly.
Sitting huddled up against a wall, with some odd-looking bundles beside
them, are a group of very poor people; they are emigrants about to leave
their own country for South America. Out there in the bay is the
emigrant ship, and dipping toward her over the open water are several
boats loaded down to the gunwale going out; others have reached her side
and the people swarm up like flies. This group on the quay are awaiting
their turn. A small boy and girl are rolling about in the sun like
little lizards and laughing gaily. The little girl is called Maria and
is about ten years old; she has a tiny scarlet shawl pinned across her
chest, and her bright black hair shines in the sunlight; in her wee
brown ears are little gilt ear-rings, and she is hugging tightly to her
bosom a large and very gaudy doll. It is not exactly the kind of doll an
English child would care about, because its face is the face of an idiot
and it is made of some sort of poor composition stuff; its clothes are
tawdry material of tinsel and stiff muslin, and are pinned on by pins
with coloured glass heads glittering in the sun. Maria thinks it lovely
and shrieks if her young brother Sebastian lays a finger on it. She is
on the point of leaving her own country, perhaps for ever, to travel for
thousands of miles to a land where everything is different from what she
is used to; but she is as unconscious of this as if she were a little
kitten, and as long as she can roll in the sunshine and hug her doll,
the first she has ever possessed, the thought of the morrow does not
trouble her soul.
Her home lies far away in the interior of Spain, and her parents have
travelled to Gibraltar in carts and then in a marvellous thing called a
train which made the children shriek with delight when it moved off
without horses. Maria and Sebastian were brought up in a hovel with a
mud floor, and only one room, shared with the donkey and the goat. They
were never taught to obey, or to have their meals at regular hours, or
to go to bed at night at a particular time; they ran in when they
pleased, clamoured for something to eat or drink, or else fell down on a
bundle of rags in the corner and were sound asleep in a moment. They
often slept in the heat of the day and were up almost all night
listening to a neighbour playing the guitar, or singing and rollicking
with other children. Their usual drink was sour red wine made from
grapes grown on the neighbouring hillsides after all the best juice had
been already pressed out of them. This the peasants bought in immense
bottles, swollen out below like little tubs, and cased in wicker-work
with handles which made them easy to carry. In every hovel there was a
bottle like this. To match it there was an enormous loaf of
dark-coloured bread, made flat and round as a cart-wheel or a small
table; bits of this were chopped off as required, and when Sebastian and
Maria cried out they were hungry they had a lump of bread and sip of
wine given to them, and then they became quite happy again. Sometimes
they had olives with their bread, or chestnuts, or a salad made from
herbs growing by the roadsides, and they had oranges very often and
goat's milk cheese. On high days and festival days they had sometimes
very thin hot cabbage soup out of a great black pot that boiled over a
few sticks; they dipped their bread into it or supped it up out of large
flat wooden spoons, wrinkling their little noses meantime because it was
so hot. A grand treat was a purple or crimson pomegranate given by a
kindly neighbour.
When Maria was about seven the whole family moved into a town where the
narrow streets were always dark between the tall thin houses. It was
much more exciting here than in the country; there was always something
to see, and in the evenings the whole place was like a bazaar with
people coming and going, and shows and entertainments open half the
night. On festival days the streets were gay with lanterns, and festoons
of coloured paper and flags were waved until the children thought it
like heaven.
Then came a talk of crossing the sea. Some members of the family and
very many friends had already made a journey to a far-away country
called Argentina, and others were thinking of going. It seemed that in
that land, which was as sunny and warm as their own, there was more
money to be made than in Spain, and as party by party made up their
minds and set off in one of the great emigrant ships Maria's father grew
more gloomy and unsettled, until at last, by one means or another, he
had scraped together enough money to pay for their passages, and then
they all started on the great adventure, even a greater one than our
going round the world.
[Illustration: A FLOWER SELLER AT TOULON.]
It is only a couple of days after leaving Gibraltar that we reach Toulon
in good time in the morning. We anchor well outside the splendid bay, as
Toulon is one of the most important French ports, and no prying eyes are
wanted there. In the little steam-launch we run past the huge
battleships _La Verite_, _La Republique_, and others lying solidly in a
row manned by French sailors with little red top-knots on their flat
caps. Then we see the beautiful range of high hills surrounding the bay,
and are landed on the quay. The market is one of the most interesting
things here, and we are lucky to be in time for it. Up a long narrow
street are lines of open-air stalls covered with masses of fruit and
vegetables. The natty little Frenchwomen who sell them almost all wear
blue aprons and black dresses, and have little three-cornered shawls
over their shoulders.
Look at that bunch of celery there, it is monstrous--the size of a
child! Everything seems on a huge scale; there are artichokes on great
stalks, melons gleaming deep orange-red and too large for any but a man
to lift; scattered all about are bunches of little scarlet tomatoes not
much bigger than grapes. But the oddest thing to us are the bunches of
fungi, tawny-coloured, piled up in heaps, and evidently very popular!
There are squares of matting covered with chestnuts, and whelks, like
great snails, sticking out their horns and crawling over each other in a
lively way. A strange medley! The flowers are lovely; you can buy a big
bunch of violets for a son, and sou is the peasant word for a halfpenny.
Gladiolus, anemones, roses, and mignonette fill the air with fragrance.
It is a beautiful place this market.
After lunch we stroll down to the quay again and wander idly about
looking at the people until the launch comes to take us back to the
steamer. There is a huge fat man seated on a low stool cleaning the
boots of another man equally stout. Wedged into the corner beside them,
so that they cannot stir, are two small white boys with thin pathetic
little faces. As we watch we see the boot-cleaning man, who has a cruel,
mean expression, pull hold of the little tunic of the nearer one, and
point to a smear upon it, then deliberately he raises his large hand and
smacks the child hard across the cheek. The little chap makes no effort
to escape,--he evidently knows it is hopeless,--he only crooks a thin
little arm over his cheek as he shrinks back. Deliberately the great man
holds down the thin little arm and strikes him again with savage force.
It is sickening! If we interfere the child will probably only get it
worse afterwards. There are a few brutes like this who make their own
children's lives a misery, though mostly French people are very kind.
The children look so ill and pale, too, they probably don't get half
enough to eat.
"May I get them some sweets?"
Happy thought! We passed a shop a minute ago. Here, wait a second, say
to the father in your best French this sentence--
"Ils sont a vous, ces garcons, Monsieur? Tres beaux garcons!"
You see you have put him in a good humour, he is pleased, though the
poor little chaps are very far from being "beaux." They seem almost too
stupefied to understand the sweets, but they know the way to put them in
their mouths.
While we are waiting on the tender before it starts we see a different
set of little boys; one, a delicate, pretty-looking little fellow, about
your age, but not nearly so tall or strong, raises his cap and begins in
English, "Good-day, Monsieur." His little companions sit around in awe
at his knowledge and audacity. His name is Pierre, he tells us, and that
badly dressed sturdy little boy with a sullen face is Louis. Pierre
tries to make conversation in our own language to entertain us. "Are you
to Australie going?" he asks. We tell him we are going first to Egypt.
"Monter au chameau!" he cries excitedly, going off into a gabble of
French and beseeching us to take him with us as "boy." We tell him that
he is too small and that it costs much money. "Have you money--English?"
he asks. He is very much interested when we show him half a crown and
explain that it is equal to three francs of his own money. Then he
catches sight of some English stamps. "Timbres!" he cries, and then,
with a great effort, "I college," meaning "I collect." We give him a
halfpenny stamp, which he carefully puts away in a battered purse
already containing two French pennies. Louis, who has been giving
convulsive hitches to his little trousers, which threaten to part
company altogether with the upper garment, bursts in eagerly, asking us
to give him a penny, adding solemnly: "Ma mere est morte," as if the
fact of his mother being dead entitled him to demand it. We explain that
it is not polite to ask for money. "Cigarette," he then says promptly.
We tell him that in England the law forbids boys under sixteen to smoke,
whereat they all shriek with laughter. So we add that Englishmen want to
grow up tall strong men, and if they smoke as boys they won't, whereupon
they grow grave again and nod their little heads wisely.
The waves are quite wild out in the bay and we have considerable
difficulty in jumping on to the slippery step at the foot of the long
gangway up the ship's side. Hanging on with a firm grip we struggle
upward, and when we reach the top we see the little French boys waving
their good-byes to us from the tender, Pierre bowing gracefully, cap in
hand, Louis with his disreputable air of being a little ragamuffin and
rejoicing in it.
[Illustration: A STREET IN POMPEII.]