VAGABONDS OF THE SEA
VAGABONDS OF THE SEA
_The Campaign of a French Cruiser_
BY
RENÉ MILAN
_Translated by_
RANDOLPH BOURNE
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 FIFTH AVENUE
COPYRIGHT, 1919
BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
_All Rights Reserved_
_Printed in the United States of America_
CONTENTS
PART I
THE AWAKENING OF THE CRUISER 1
PART II
IN THE ADRIATIC SEA 17
PART III
IN THE IONIAN SEA 144
VAGABONDS OF THE SEA
PART I
THE AWAKENING OF THE CRUISER
_From Paris to Toulon, end of July, 1914._
From the corridor I watch through the windows the swift receding of
Paris. In this express-train, the last to run according to the normal
schedule, are numerous naval officers en route for Toulon. Some have
broken their brief vacations; almost all are returning on leaves of
absence from their studies. The call of our country sends us towards
the sea, that field of battle which we have chosen. To the French Navy
belongs the “honor” of the Mediterranean, and our fleet is at its
summit of preparedness. We know that the decisive duel will be fought
in the fields of Flanders or on the slopes of the Vosges. But our
effort will not be useless. We have only one fear--that we shall arrive
too late, and miss that battle which our imaginations have pictured
without actually believing.
Dijon, Lyons, Valence, Marseilles. I have just left a Paris full of
excitement, where life is of so poignant a sweetness that the people
are eager to defend the happiness they possess in such abundance. I am
traveling through our smiling France. How many times, as I have passed
from one seaport to another, on my way from a Chinese to an Atlantic
cruise, have I not understood the envy which is directed towards her!
How could our neighbors help casting towards this delightful land the
glances of beasts of prey! Now they have spread out their claws, and
hurled at her a cry of war. France has drawn herself erect. Everywhere
squads of sentinels are guarding the roadways, the crossings, the
stations, all the nerve-centers of mobilization. Into the eyes of the
French people these last few days has come a magnificent expression; a
new visage, which our race has put on as if for a fête, gives a family
likeness to all its members. The foster-mother of children like these
is no moribund being such as the Germans think they will succeed in
doing away with. She has just felt again the vivid sense of her duty,
and the heirs of her wonderful past draw from her strength attitudes so
natural that they are not even astonished at them. This astonishment
they leave to the rest of the world.
Dijon, Lyons, Valence, Marseilles, Naguére. I amuse myself with
observing the various types and accents of the provinces. To-day
everyone speaks the same language, has the same expression; in every
breast is the same heart. I know that in the West, in the regions I
have not traveled through, Gascons, Normans, and Picards are feeling
and acting alike. Among these troops assembled on the platforms of the
stations, in the sleeping cottages of remote countrysides, in the towns
past which glides our flashing train, there is only one dream. This
dream I know, for it is my own:
“What post does France give me for the great combat? Wherever it may
be, whether I fall, or whether I survive, it will be well.”
_Toulon, 1 August._
Alas! Several hours have passed, and I find that all is not well. The
vessels of the “naval army” have their staffs of officers completed,
and from hour to hour await the order to put to sea. I was assigned to
the _Waldeck-Rousseau_. At another time I should have been proud to be
a part of this splendid vessel. But she is not prepared to leave port.
In an accident at sea some months ago, she ripped herself open on the
shoals of the Gulf of Juan. The healing of great ships is a tedious
affair, and in a repair basin the engineers are still treating her
gaping wounds. In reply to my anxious questions, I am told:
“The workmen are busy on her day and night. In six weeks she will take
the water again.”
Six weeks! And the other night on the train I saw myself already at
sea, my vessel en route for her assigned zone. And now I must be
satisfied with a cruiser that will not stir for six weeks!
_2 August._
We lived in an atmosphere heated by the sun of Provence. Arriving from
Paris as I did, I was questioned. Circles formed, strangers consulted
me. In vain did I relate what I had seen in the North, describe my
journey on the railway; these listeners only half believed me. In the
climate of Provence care disappears; my questioners shook their heads.
One regretted his ruined vacation; another doubted my testimony; some
of them invoked the prudence of the Powers, and concluded:
“Everything will end in a ‘Congress of Algeciras.’”
Far removed from the vivid Parisian energy, I felt myself overcome by
the enervation of Provence. The whole drama of the week took on the
guise of nightmare. I was annoyed that the great convulsion, ordered by
Fate, seemed once more delayed by man. I reproached my prudent friends
for not taking their part in it. Before them the curtain of an epic
drama was already rising, and they were not hailing with enthusiastic
acclaim the opening of the spectacle. Their mediocre souls were merely
taking up again the thread of their daily preoccupations!
* * * * *
Towards two o’clock I cross the threshold of the arsenal gate, to pay
the _Waldeck-Rousseau_ my visit of embarkation. The sky is pouring
down an avalanche of dusty heat. In such an oven no one can think
vigorously. Sprawled against the walls, the arsenal workers are mopping
their faces and chests, and, at the end of their tether, are drinking
greedily at the roadside bars. Several officers, handkerchiefs in hand,
are walking along the rows of plane-trees.
The commander of the _Waldeck-Rousseau_ receives me:
“You are in luck,” he says. “All the officers who arrive at the port
ask for the _Waldeck-Rousseau_.”
He guesses the question I dare not utter.
“The engineers are counting on six weeks.... Let us hope nothing
decisive happens at sea ... in case events are so precipitate....”
Thinking over these words, I return to the gate of the arsenal. It is
getting on towards five o’clock. The flame and shimmer of the afternoon
light are marvelous. The Pharon, a mirror of stone, reflects the
dazzling violet rays. It is the hottest part of the day. After this
will follow cooling breezes. In front of the Missiessy gate mothers and
wives crouch on the sidewalk, awaiting their sailors, who come out of
the arsenal raising clouds of dust. A beverage-vender calls his wares
in a nasal voice; several barkers offer for ten centimes a hundred
attractions in the way of café-concerts; the tramcars, caparisoned in
dust, go by in a torrid blast. It is so warm, the boulevard is so
torpid, that I cannot think, and have but one swift desire--to change
my stifling uniform for a more comfortable suit, and on a terrace to
sip some cooling drink.
Suddenly, smothered by the distance and the heavy air, a dull cannon
shot strikes into the fringe of my reverie. I fear I have heard
amiss. I wait motionless, my whole body concentrated in my hearing.
The boulevard seems petrified. With a brusque jamming on of brakes,
the tramcars grind along the track; the windows bristle with anxious
faces. The women squatting on the sidewalk silently rise; barkers
and passers-by forget to live; everyone, in the posture in which the
vague shot has surprised him, listens to the dramatic silence. All the
noises of the city, the deepest as well as the shrillest, vanish into
nothingness to leave room for the one sound that has significance. In a
sort of religious atmosphere the second shot booms and rolls, sonorous,
the master of Space.... At length the third dies away, the third voice
of a France who is placing herself on guard.
At the same time, over the deserted roadway, the trumpets sound from
the barracks. Listen to those majestic singing tones, which bring tears
to the driest eyelids! It is the call of France! Drawn up under the
great trees a whole wan city salutes two little soldiers who swell
their cheeks upon the shining trumpets. They are much affected, these
two little soldiers in fatigue uniform; their step is hesitant, and
their breath breaks. But their eyes are sparkling, each measure brings
new vigor to their step, they find the theme again, and without taking
breath they sound the “générale” out to the suburbs, to the slopes of
the Pharon, to the roads of the countryside roundabout. They are the
heralds of their country.
At this instant all over this land the same trumpet is being blown. It
has found me in a warm and fragrant province, but everywhere millions
of reapers, with suspended sickles, are listening to the same notes
flung out over oceans of grain. Mountains and valleys give back its
echo to the huts of cattlemen and shepherds, and the silent waters of
the rivers quiver as they receive its melody. For the first time in the
course of the centuries the race of France is listening at the same
instant to a voice which orders her to face towards a common point.
Stirred by a great hope, her hearts are celebrating together this first
communion of heroism.
Fortune compels me to wait six weeks before playing my rôle. My weapon
of war is not yet ready. I can only admire, as a spectator, deeds in
which I have no share.
In the streets leading to the harbor, the heart of Toulon, swarm crowds
of people. I am not acquainted with these figures that slip along
beside me, but I recognize them all. Marines from Brittany, blue-eyed,
with swinging step, white-coiffed wives on their arms; sailors of
Provence, brown and eloquent; thick-set Basques and fair Flemings--all
these men whom I have commanded, managed, loved, hasten along their
way. A kind of enchantment dilates their eyes, a sort of innocent
ecstasy. They go gaily towards the sea and the combat, towards their
constant mistress and their unknown bride. Already the squadrons have
steam up; a forest of stacks vomit streamers of smoke which portend
adventurous cruises. They get under weigh to-night; perhaps to-morrow
the great adventure will occur. The sides of the ironclads and cruisers
in the roadstead let loose a flock of boats and launches to seek on the
quay their loads of brave marines.
* * * * *
Around the approaches to the wharves it is impossible to move. There
is a suppressed shuffling of feet; only jackets and uniforms can get
through to the boats. I slip in. On the sidewalk a Breton woman is
weeping softly into the corner of her apron; her four little children,
lost in the forest of legs, press round her skirt, clutching the cloth
with their fingers; heads turned upward, they watch through great
limpid eyes the endless flow of people. Each step reveals a similar
scene; women clasp for the last time their beloved son, lover, or
husband; their frail arms cannot let him go, and their tongues are
stammering inexpressible things. Yet, as I listen, I hear in all this
chorus of despair not a single word of revolt. These women comprehend
everything. They nod their heads approvingly at the words of those who
are leaving them. Their last kiss holds even a smile, a heavenly smile,
which the fighting man is to carry with him on the sea, and recall at
the instant of death. But when the sailor has disappeared toward the
boats, the smile slowly fades; the women bite their lips, their faces
grow distorted, and the tears, more sublime for having been held back
so long, trickle through lids which for many months will not cease to
weep.
As becomes naval tragedies, the farewell took place in a splendid
setting. The twilight was glorious with an incomparable splendor of
sky, and the purple evening seemed to vibrate in unison with the city.
On the edge of the quay, between the boats and the crowd, I could watch
the faces, both of those who had to stay behind, and of those who were
leaving. As long as the sailors were forcing their way along between
those parting embraces and the boats, they were pale beneath their
tan, and only with difficulty restrained their sobs. But hardly had
they jumped to the benches of the launches, hardly had their comrades
greeted them with hearty blows on shoulders and hips, when their color
returned, their mouths let forth sonorous pleasantries, and they
thought no more of anything but the sea and the adventure.
At my feet hundreds of sailors are laughing and singing; they
intoxicate themselves with anticipation in order not to betray their
tenderness and their grief. On the quay, overshadowing this gayety,
stands a forlorn crowd; those in front smile vaguely, but those
behind are silently choking back their tears. And over there in the
gold-flaked roadstead, the gray ships sparkle in the setting sun. All
faces turn towards them. They are the geniuses of the moment. Entrusted
with a portion of the honor of France, they await their orders. Before
their prows, the country has swung open the gates of glory. Their guns
and their sailors are made of the same steel.
_3 August._
In the morning I went with some friends to the top of Cape Capet to see
the departure of the “naval army.”
On the _Courbet_, flagship of the commander-in-chief, the admirals
had assembled in a night council of war. A few hours later, in the
deep silence of the blue morning, the squadrons began to move. One
after another, they took position and formed before our eyes; we
heard the faint sound of orders. On the heavy water the ships moved
without an eddy; squat, slender, or graceful, battleships, cruisers,
or torpedo-boats fell into well-ordered formations, and quietly took
their proper distances and intervals. They reminded one of ancient
gladiators stripped naked for the combat. During these last days they
had sent back to the land-stores all the superfluities of peace; they
had kept only the bare necessities in rigging and boats, and the paint
on their steel sides had disappeared under the hand of the scraper.
Their only ornament is the curling smoke which rises through the still
air and mingles on high in an immense cloud modeled by the faint
breeze. Their only paint is the light flashing on port-holes and brass.
Their only finery, the guns, well-cleared, with mouths pointing out to
sea. They are beautiful and they are invincible. Designed for battle
and the chase, they push their bows through the water they know so
well, on their way to carry to enemy shores the frontier of France. At
the hour when human beings are still asleep, they go to take possession
of the field of battle.
Their task is various and hard, and without any doubt destined to
remain unappreciated. On the sea the paths are innumerable, and the
legends of the sea tell of many a patient cruiser that has rarely been
rewarded by a battle.
The transports have to carry to France our troops from North Africa. To
the “naval army” belongs the duty of protecting these lives. No one can
tell whether or not this enterprise will be successful. Let a single
transport fail the summons, and a deluge of sarcasm will fall upon the
fleet of war! Let sharpshooters and Algerian cavalry within fifteen
days show their mettle in the valleys of the Vosges, and who will give
thanks to those who had protected their dangerous voyage? No matter!
France has distributed the tasks among her children. To the fighters on
the frontier falls the honor of crushing the Germans; to the sailors,
the silent guard of the sea.
Perhaps, however, these too will not be denied the glory of battle. At
the foot of the Adriatic, Austria maintains a fleet that without doubt
will try to rob us of our empire of the Mediterranean. To release her
shores she will offer us a naval engagement. The fleet of France will
prove itself no less worthy than the army; and its deeds, less decisive
than those of Alsace and of Flanders, will yet prove that the flag
which flaps at the stern of her ships is without stain.
Au Revoir!
_Eve of departure, 5 September._
The crew and staff of the _Waldeck-Rousseau_ are stirring to snatch a
day, an hour, from the delay of her departure; already we have gained
two weeks.
Stretched on its granite rests, the cruiser resembles some metal giant
harnessed with machinery. With a great pounding of hammers, the
cohorts of expert workmen are putting life into the great hull. Each
day the Depot sends us marine reservists, with instructions as to the
posts and offices where they are to labor and to fight. A thousand men
are assembled now, and the engineers have given the ship over to us.
Shining and new she floats. Like a thoroughbred that after a sickness
breaks her own record, the good cruiser has gained some tenths of a
mile on her old speed. The steam runs freely in her arteries, the
electricity through her nerves. From bow to stern a hundred and fifty
meters of steel are aquiver. Off the Hyeres Islands, on a fine August
day, the voice of her guns, so many months silenced, resounds again
in celebration of her recovery. Woe to anyone who passes within ten
kilometers of our cannon!
From hour to hour, little by little, officers and men extend their
control of the vessel, and get better acquainted with her mazes. As
their skill becomes surer, they adapt themselves to the particular
moods of the ship, and to her caprices, which can only be mastered with
prudence and with affection.
Our crew, an amorphous crowd collected at random from the four quarters
of France, had lost that sense of discipline and responsibility which
the humblest of sailors should have. We have had to drill them, direct
their discordant forces, and make them a living being animated by
a will. Each one in his place now applies his intelligence and his
strength to his special task, and tries to get himself into trim. Time
presses. In a few days we have put new life into the great torpid
cruiser. After a few hours we shall depart, nor shall we cut the figure
of poor relations or of cripples in the “naval army.”
Thank heaven, the decisive action has held off. We dread the telegram
announcing an encounter of the fleets; but it has not yet come. Opening
the chapter of Mediterranean events, the _Breslau_ and the _Goeben_,
German cruisers, have attacked Algerian ports, and fled towards the
Dardanelles, where a miracle has turned them into Turks. Here is game
for a later time. In the middle of August the French navy has sunk the
_Zepta_, a small Austrian cruiser. But that’s a minor affair. We shall
arrive in time.
On certain evenings we go to sleep on land. Friend of those who
frequent her, the sea is execrated by the women who live on her
shores; their mourning is harsh and bitter. War adds tenfold to their
anxieties. Our comrades who left at the beginning of August suffered
an uprooting that was short and sharp. We, who have remained too long,
run the gamut of anxious concern. For those men from my cruiser who
meet feminine affection on shore, each moment holds an unknown torture.
Between a sob and a caress passes the phantom of naval hecatombs.
Beneath his lowered eyelids the sailor sees his future glory, but the
arms clasped about his breast are an embrace of despair. A sunset, a
walk between dusty hedges or over fragrant grass--everything suggests
agitation and dread. Eye and ear acquire a mysterious perceptivity. One
longs to retain, like a viaticum, the voices of loved ones in their
most inconsequential inflections. We can bid farewell to France, for
the treasures of our hearts have been wrung dry.
To this feeling the sadness of the news from the front adds poignancy.
When in the morning the officers study the map of operations, brought
up to date according to the communiqué, a profound silence falls over
the salon of the _Waldeck-Rousseau_. We cannot believe this sweep over
Belgium, this tidal wave over the French provinces. We wish to depart,
to do no matter what, to work, to die. Under our feet the cruiser
trembles, our own child, our friend, our master. Each hour of delay
irritates us. We are indifferent about the road to victory. Painful
and tragic as it is, all Frenchmen accept it, and the sailors about to
leave cherish no other thought. The other day, while a crew of gunners
were loading shells charged with melinite, I overheard this exclamation
from a man whose brawny arms held a yellow projectile:
“Gawd! Why don’t they just use shells stuffed with sawdust? It wouldn’t
take any more than that to give them theirs!”
I doubt if this war will be won in so childish a manner. But it is
pleasant for an officer to command such children.