PART II

IN THE ADRIATIC

_Adriatic Sea, 25 September._

The ships keep shelter in Pola and Cattaro, and will not come out!

There is nothing Austrian in sight except the names on the maps and the

silent coasts. We continue, however, to sail along the shore, we brave

their submarines, their mines, their torpedo-boats. Like the knights of

the Crusades challenging their adversaries, we go to offer ourselves to

their attack. But they do not issue forth.

Like a great army corps that waits the engagement, the armored

squadrons run the barrage of Otranto. They are the lions of our naval

menagerie. Claws sheathed, jaws closed, they strain their ears for the

call of the cruisers.... In small groups the torpedo-destroyers circle

round them, sweeping the road where the great beasts of battle are

about to pass, and watching to see that no submarine is prowling on the

path.

Further north on the skirts of the Adriatic great-lunged battleships

are holding the jungle. The cruisers know no rest; they pursue their

anxious watch along the outposts, traversing the waves and piercing

the sky. Upon their observations, in sun and shadow, depends the safety

of the great battleships. Theirs is the joy of spying the enemy upon

the horizon, of rushing forward, of receiving the first shots and

launching the first shells, of so calculating the retreat as to draw

the enemy within range of the battleships’ guns.

We are three brothers--the _Ernest Renan_, the _Edgar Quinet_, are

as beautiful and majestic as the _Waldeck-Rousseau_. Their six

stacks belch forth the same clouds. Engaged in the same work, all

are acquainted with the same fatigue. Older and less sturdy, the

_Gambetta_, the _Ferry_, the _Hugo_, and the _Michelet_ have the same

tasks. Their family is known by its four smokestacks.

From Otranto to Fano, and along its whole shadowy line, the seven

cruisers blockade the Adriatic at the end of which the Austrians are

entrenched. From the summit of the bridge one can see for ten miles;

that is why we navigate at twenty miles’ distance, on circuits of short

circumference, ever the same. The cruisers never sight each other, but

each knows that below the horizon a brother ship is within reach and on

guard. Sometimes the ceaseless rhythm of their march brings them to the

confines of their “beat,” and they sight each others’ masts glistening

on the horizon like the bayonets of a double sentry. Then both tack

about, and go their opposite directions; the masts sink out of sight,

the smoke drifts away, and nothing is left but a solitary vigil on a

deserted sea.

Since our departure from Toulon the _Waldeck-Rousseau_ has been in

constant motion. In the waste of waters the clamors of the world are

stilled. We have commenced the pilgrimage known to so many generations

of sailors. At a venture we halt some small game--packet-boats,

three-masted schooners, or steamers, which submit to our examination.

They bring us a faint echo of human affairs--Italians, Greeks, or

Spaniards--and are fraught with I know not what continental aroma. We

send these timid travelers on their voyage; their examination is but

play; the important affair lies up there at Pola or Cattaro. Every

week after coaling--which we do at sea--we go and shake our fists at

the enemy, crying shame upon him in his retreat and challenging him to

an encounter. Many times already we have gone up there in the night;

in the daytime we have circled about Lissa, the Dalmatian Isles, and

even further still. Far behind us the battleships follow, alert for the

signal--“Enemy in sight!” But our guns are leveled in vain; in vain

our eyes face the tracery of sun and shadow. Nothing appears within

our range except the motionless shores, the slumbering isles--never a

quarry.

This disappointment does not slacken our vigilance. In times of peace

a single lieutenant, aided by an ensign, suffices for the many duties

involved in managing a ship. Whether it has to do with observing the

heavens, avoiding collisions, or coordinating the movements of many

hundreds of sailors, during his four hours’ command he can easily

attend to and handle it all.

Those times are no more. War puts a tenfold burden upon the cruiser

without adding to its staff of officers. For now the ship is at once

an organ of navigation and an instrument of battle. This duality

of function demands at every moment two directing heads; the first

continues to direct the watch, the second assumes responsibility for

the lookout, defense, and battle. On the _Waldeck_ we have only six

lieutenants; so we form three crews of two each, who relieve one

another on the bridge in an endless round, by day and night, in all

weathers. One of them looks after the route, the crew and the signals

from the shores; the other keeps his eye upon the sea and is ready at

any moment to let loose the guns. My rank of seniority gives me the

second rôle.

Throughout the rest of the war, whether it be short or long, my mate

and I are destined to the same changes of fortune. He must have my

confidence, and I his. These things are not uttered. But they are

implicit in our handshake at the moment when we take the watch and

assume the precious charge of the ship for our four-hour period.

He is a Fleming, I am Latin. This difference extends even to our ways

of thinking, and lends piquancy to our two daily meetings. As we lean

on the bridge rail, he at port and I at starboard, we watch the sea

with equal vigilance. But in our secret souls move thoughts which

have nothing to do with our profession. This is one of the privileges

of men of action. They can surrender themselves wholly to their task

without ceasing to dream of a thousand things. My comrade and I talk

in low voices. The war, Germany, the future, everything comes up in

these murmured conversations. We do not believe in keeping silent, for

our motionless position is likely to bury us in a dangerous torpor. As

our eyes search space, we passionately discuss the great drama, and

we never agree. But if, in the treacherous night, a shadow appears,

or a suspicious shape, suddenly we are one. Each performs instantly

the necessary rites; one commands the helm and the machinery, the

other directs the primers and gunners. The two of us in the darkness

cooperate perfectly.

And then a few minutes later the scare is over. The gunners resume

their posts, the primers unprime the guns. We two officers--one on the

port, the other on the starboard--continue our vigil and our whispered

talk.

_Adriatic Sea, 27 September._

Three English cruisers--the _Cressy_, the _Hogue_ and the

_Aboukir_--have just found their last resting-place in the North Sea.

Still intact, but bearing in their sides torpedo-wounds, they have

slipped into their winding-sheet of sea-weed, where the skeletons of

vessels sunk in ancient wars await them. The sea-water, that patient

embalmer, will reclothe their keels with a shroud of rust and lime.

On bright days, when the sun shines on the still sea, they will see

the shadows of living vessels pass overhead. They will be caressed by

the ripple from those screws, and their petrified hulks will quiver

with pleasure. During the tedious hours of the lookout, I have been

meditating upon the wireless messages which announced the death of the

_Cressy_, the _Hogue_, and the _Aboukir_. That same tragedy may cut

short the very phrases which I am commencing to unite. I imagine the

whole scene, I recreate it. I have sailed the North Sea, I have lived

two years in a submarine, and I am at war now on a cruiser.

I see three ships, somber and silent like ourselves, following the

course laid down by the Admiral. North and south, other patrol vessels

are traversing the appointed routes. While the soldiers of France and

the children of England sleep, the sailors are keeping watch on the

sea, that no one may force the barriers of their countries. But the

sea is illimitable, the cruisers are few and far between, and cannot

lend each other aid. For this the sailor must make up in toil and

weariness; he takes less sleep, he watches unceasingly, he is always

cold, he never touches land. Up there, just as in the Adriatic, he

mounts his guard, longing with all his heart for an adventure.

Thus sailed the _Cressy_, the _Hogue_, and the _Aboukir_, how many

days I do not know. But I do know the vigilance, the labor, the

self-sacrifice of their crews. More than all the others, they offered

their souls to the service of victory--these sailors whose ships are

decorated with the famous names of English victories. These three

noble names, did they not foretell a new harvest of laurels? Did they

not symbolize a return to more fraternal policies, which dedicated

to the service of France these namesakes of French defeats? English

officers and sailors, with the clear instinct of men participating in

great deeds, should offer France, in a single victory over our common

enemies, a recompense for these three disasters England had inflicted

upon her!

This night passed like all the others. Along the horizon were trails

of gray light. The rolling sea emerged from the chaos of dawn, and

the lookouts, with heavy heads and quivering eyelids, scanned for the

thousandth time the troubled awakening of the North Sea. They saw

nothing. Perhaps one of them had descried a streak of foam whiter and

clearer than the rest, and quickly raised his glass to his eyes. But

the streak of foam had already been covered again, and he dropped the

glass which had not revealed the periscope. The three cruisers pursued

their way amid the ridges of foam, one of which, though they were

unaware of it, meant death to them.

A shock went through the first ship. The sailors on deck thought there

had occurred an accident to the machinery; those below thought that a

gun had been fired.... Everyone listened. Under the brave fellows’ feet

the ship turned, lazily at first, while the waves boiled impatiently

about her. Then they understood, all of them; they knew that death

was near. Before they sank into the sailors’ grave, they looked again

for the enemy who had destroyed them without granting them the joy

of battle. Their staring eyes fell upon their comrade of the patrol,

and filled with fear, for the _Aboukir_ was lurching too. Both had

been stung to death by the stealthy advance of the submarine vipers.

Generous still in their very death-agony, the two wounded ships hoisted

warning signals, that their comrade might evade the deadly track. But

she, as generous in her pity, raced to save the lives of the sailors in

the engulfing waters. She too received her mortal wound, without being

able to fire a single gun, although, clearer-sighted in the face of

death, she was able to discern the submarine under its white streak of

water.

As the chill of the hemlock poison rises to the heart, the water

rose in the three ships. The boilers choked with it, the machinery

was drowned; one by one the watertight compartments, exploded by the

pressure of the waves, burst with the noise of thunder. The electricity

failed everywhere at once, and the sea became a tomb where men

struggled and were buffeted by the waves. On the deck, drawn up in

line, the crews gazed straight into their doom. The triple choir raised

a hymn which they had learned on their English Sabbaths, and they sank

to meet their God.

Farewell, sailors of the three cruisers, fallen perhaps through

the same fate that is in store for our Adriatic cruisers! Your

anguish, your vigils, your last thoughts, we feel here on the

_Waldeck-Rousseau_. Your end was noble, even if no one around me envies

it. For we pray the God of Battles, if he sends us death, that we may

at least exact a heavy toll from our enemies!

_Strait of Otranto, 8 October._

How can one describe the atmosphere of the Adriatic? For that

marvel our most delicate adjectives are inadequate. It is more than

diaphanous, better than translucent; it dreams. It seems to exist only

to contain pure color.

How many times has this immaterial air deceived the officer of the

watch! How many miles away is a certain steamer? In how many hours

shall we skirt the island that rises amid the clouds?

Formerly we solved these problems without thought, for our eyes had

learned to gauge the density of the air and its deceptions. The

Adriatic atmosphere has lowered our conceit. Skies or sails, lighthouse

or shore, each object is always further off than we suppose. Prudent

now, we hesitate to say whether Corfu is thirty miles away, or that

this pale line of the Otranto coast is not a cloud resting on the

water. We are not wrong to mistrust ourselves. Corfu is fifty miles

away, and this imagined cloud is the coast of Italy.

The officers on the bridge struggle with these illusions. The sea

itself multiplies their difficulties. Formerly the sailor dreaded only

what moved above the surface of the sea. He noticed at almost any

distance traces of smoke, indistinct masts, and all the signs by which

a ship reveals her presence. But the sailors of to-day level their gaze

upon that surface which was once so innocent.... Between two crests

floats a dark speck.... Is it not a mine charged with explosives? Those

shining lines, like the trail of a snail, are they not the oily tracks

of a submarine lying in wait for us?

But sailors learn secrets. Formerly, they contemplated the waves

and ripples carelessly, as queer old comrades whose every mood one

pardoned. But now they keep them under a stern inflexible eye. The play

of a wave, the alternate strips of light, the shadows of a cloud--we

grapple with everything, and never relax our vigilance. For everything

is illusion.

The lookout wavers between a fear of being ridiculed and a fear of

having seen amiss. There is never a day that some wireless message

does not come from one of our sentinels of the sea, telling the “naval

army” that a submarine is in sight. From Saint Maure to Lissa, from

Tarento to Corfu, all the French ships are anxious about the outcome of

this encounter, and hope that the comrade engaged will be victorious.

Minutes slip away, we imagine the whole drama; a noble envy stirs every

heart. And then the second message comes over the sea. “It was not a

submarine!” it declares. Then the Adriatic and the Ionian Sea resound

with a burst of mocking laughter, one of those bursts of laughter which

only the descendants of the Gauls know how to give.

Tragedy, nevertheless, comes close on laughter. From the bridge the

officer of the watch has seen something, two or three miles away,

that is not quite the color of its surroundings. He fastens his glass

on this dark or light speck, which moves slowly like a periscope on

the lookout.... The thing disappears and reappears, like a periscope

which is taking its bearings, ordering its course, and waiting.... The

officer’s heart leaps. His orders start the engines, direct the pilot,

send the gunners to their guns. His body is tense with joy, his eyes

shine; on the bridge, at the port-holes, officers and sailors follow

the alarm with excited interest, and gaze out at the suspicious speck

in the distance. Everyone envies the comrades who have charge of the

ship at this brave moment, the gunners and steersmen who will pit

their wits against the submarine. A sort of joyful anguish grips their

hearts, for it is war to the death, and perhaps the torpedo is already

launched and making straight for the keel. We fairly suffocate with

excitement.

But some more experienced eye has made out the shape. “It’s a bit of

wood!” murmurs a top-man.... “No, it’s a bottle!” whispers a gunner.

Each one gives his opinion. “It’s a seagull!” “It’s the branch of a

tree!” “It’s a broom-handle!” “It’s a box of preserves!” The uproar

increases and rises to the officer on the bridge, who wipes his glass

in order to see better. He is still expectant; he curses this encounter

a thousand times. He is responsible for the boat and for all these

laughing sailors. Torn between derision and danger, he remains prudent,

and makes for the dangerous object, with the order to open fire still

on the tip of his tongue.

Suddenly, when we are eight hundred or a thousand meters away, he takes

a few nervous steps, countermands the alarm, orders the engines to slow

down, and turns his eyes away from the preserve-box, the branch, the

bottle, whatever it may be. The ship shoots by at a short distance.

The jokers in the crew salute the innocent waif that floats past and

disappears.... Unless it be a gull, busy with its bath; in which case

it dives, preens its feathers, dives again, without bothering about the

ship, or her officer on the bridge. Between its plunges, sunk up to

its breast in the water, it rides past the flying steel monster with a

mocking “Kwang! Kwang!”

At the end of his watch, the officer goes below to the ward-room where

he is received with mocking laughter. These sorry jokes he scorns as

a stoic should. He knows that the next night or to-morrow, at any

moment, his comrades are as likely to make a mistake as he. We had all

rather see a periscope than seagulls or branches. In the North Sea the

_Cressy_, the _Hogue_ and the _Aboukir_ had seen gulls and branches a

thousand times. The day they sighted nothing they went to their doom.

_Adriatic Sea, 15 October._

The Adriatic is our private estate. The cruisers make use of it as if

Austria did not exist. They ascend it, circle about, stop in front of

the islands, challenge the coasts, without a single visible enemy’s

attacking them. Doubtless the submarines come out daily from Cattaro in

quest of the prize booty that our vessels would make. But either chance

or our vigilance has prevented the disaster. We watch, we are worn

out; nothing happens. Sometimes in the West, low on the water, trails

the Italian coast; smoke floats over Otranto or Brindisi; for forty

days this is all we have known of human activity. The lighthouse of

Santa Marin of Leuca marks the uttermost point of Latin soil; it is a

desolate object, like a pale needle stuck into the blue air. By night,

its light falls on the veils of the horizon. It is one of the lonely

friends of our solitude.

Towards the eastern coasts other friends watch our passage--the gaunt

peaks of Albania or Epirus, or even the Ionian Archipelago, that

delicate jewel of stone. Albania and Epirus! Famous but sinister names!

Wherever Islam rules dwells devastation. The bases of the mountains

are buried in the sea, and they look colossal; death lives on their

gray slopes. A warm sun, however, shines on them, and busy hands may

be tending vineyards and olive orchards. Yet one sees only masses

of rocks, and the scars of mountain-streams. Here and there a bald

yellowish circle stains the mass of stone. In that spot flourished in

former times an Albanian or Epirote village. Fire destroyed it, and

the fury of men has left it only a charred waste. A dizzy silence

comes from these mountains. It falls and rolls over the blue water, so

hard a blue one thinks a hammer might strike sparks from it. No one

lives in these somber regions. Along the bays and inlets barks with

Levantine sails scud before the wind, passing by in all possible haste.

These barks carry mountaineers crowded in their holds like sheep in a

pen. In these brigand realms life is so unsafe that even the brigands

themselves prefer the hazards of the sea to journeys by land.

Our cruiser halts these tiny boats. Then the human cargo bursts out

from the hold, and their distress shows that they think their last hour

has come. Clothed in sheepskins, armed with daggers and pistols, these

rascals conceal in their hearts a world of unknown crime; every time

they find it profitable they are ready to massacre and betray. Their

dark minds do not know who we are nor why we have come. We can only be

executioners, equipped with irresistible weapons.

The visiting officer reassures them, of course, with his gestures.

The passengers remain suspicious; their keen eyes watch him as he

points to the holds and orders their contents turned out. The bullies

understand; we are robbers and will let their lives go in exchange

for their merchandise. Pell-mell they throw out their figs, their

bundles of dried fish, their little sacks of corn--wretched food of

wretched beings. They spread them out at the foot of this plunderer

in a lace-covered uniform. Their broken language and raised hands

call Christ to witness, or Allah, or even the Demons of the caves,

that nothing further of value is left in the hold. The officer turns

the sacks over, opens some, for fear that cans of essence or cases of

explosives have been the object of this furtive journey to Cattaro or

Pola. His foraging fingers encounter nothing but figs or herrings,

which leave on his finger-nails a faint spicy smell. Carelessly he

wipes off with his handkerchief the mixed fragments of fruit sugar.

With a severe glance he makes a last inspection of the boat. The good

bandits relapse into disquietude. They don’t understand; what does he

want of them? One of them speaks, and at once their faces clear up.

It is gold he demands, good sterling coin, an easy ransom to carry.

The richer ones extract from their belts some pieces from the Balkan

States, much worn and effaced; the poor ones spread out on their palms

some sous and centimes, so bent and filed they are good only for

jacket-buttons for our sailors. An old bashi-bazouk, white around the

temples and at the ends of his mustache, has not a single good coin;

crouched on the deck, he tells over a blackened rosary and from his god

begs absolution for past sins. The others plead; the women kiss the

hands and knees of the uniformed stranger; the children cry bitterly.

The visiting officer embarks majestically in his long-boat, and makes

a gesture of disdain that sends all this misery on its way again. The

pilot hoists the sail, the rich man pockets his piasters and the beggar

his coppers, the bashi-bazouk his prayers, the women their kisses, and

the children their tears. The sheet swells, and the bark passes below

the cruiser, whose crew smile indulgently, while our Albanians and

Epirotes, seated on their hatches, understand nothing whatever.

On other days our police duty takes us further south. Steamers and

sailing vessels frequent the approaches to Corfu, and our visits are

more careful and more profitable. The shores have lost their gloomy

appearance; black herds are pasturing on the hills; each slope is

checkered in squares of olive orchards and clusters of vineyard; in

little well-sheltered coves four white houses are grouped round a

ruined mosque.

On the edge of the water, overhanging a harbor, rises the castle of

some erstwhile pasha. This castle is round, copper-colored, classic in

design, beautifully situated. The blue water reflects its pale image,

and we often slow down for the mere pleasure of admiring it. Victor

Hugo would have loved this stronghold, whence pirates used to surge

forth, and the village where the booty was brought together; his lines

would have celebrated the pasha-corsair, the beauty of his odalisks,

and the romance of their jeweled retreat. These lovely walls, however,

conceal tragedies of Islam. They brood over the sea paths, and their

silence is that of a beaten vulture. I prefer to forget that sinister

grandeur. I prefer this empty silhouette, artistically placed here in a

happy setting for the brief delectation of a few passing sailors. These

are empty pleasures, perhaps, but we have no others.

Perfect hours await us at sea, off Corfu, Paxo and Cephalonia. When

the twilight unfolds its pageant of air and light, we get a sense of

joy and confidence that sustains us in our exile. The sun sinks in a

procession of purple clouds, shading away to a faint heliotrope in the

sky overhead. From mid-heaven hang sheafs of eglantine and geranium,

beneath which blossom red carnations, tulips and poppies. The sun feeds

all this floral fire. Under the iridescent play of color the sea has

disappeared. Its liquid surface has merged with the luminous air, and

the cruiser, rose-colored, moves through myriad rainbows.

Everything about the suspended ship is changed to silence and fantasy.

The shadows of twilight succeed the colors that glow and disappear.

Air and sun create marvels that are not of our world. The light falls

on us like a blessing which penetrates our hearts and thoughts with an

inexpressible ecstasy.

At last the sun rests on the horizon, which slowly swallows it. Our

sad thoughts are drawn toward the West, towards France. For some of us

that sun is gilding the faces of loved ones and caressing the windows

of our homes; for others it is glimmering in the tearful eyes of a

sweetheart. From our lips, like a messenger of feelings that cannot be

written, its beams carry our kisses to lay on other lips.... But it

also sweeps over fields bathed in the pure blood of our soldiers--and

the thoughts of these “vagabonds” it bears onward toward their spoil.

Certain evenings, while the glorious sun is thus bearing away our

dreams, the moon, languorous and discolored, rises laboriously over

the Ionian Isles, and offers us her pale rays. But we do not look at

her. For her sickly light, her capricious form, her pilgrimage among

the shadows--all serve to remind us too painfully of the obscurity of

our own labor, the uncertainty of our thoughts and the memory which our

work will leave behind us to the ages.

_Strait of Otranto, 18 October._

Day before yesterday the “naval army” gathered at the rendezvous

appointed by the Admiral off Fano. It was a warm, clear day. The

sea seemed asleep; light clouds came and went in the sky. From all

directions gathered the squadrons, the divisions, and the separate

vessels. Slow and thickset, the ironclads rose over the horizon and

moved down upon us. Round about them destroyers performed evolutions

like greyhounds frolicking round a hunter. From Italy, from the Ionian

Isles, raced black-striped cruisers, swift and graceful, plowing up the

foam; they had left their monotonous patrol guard to join the French

cohorts about to ascend the Adriatic.

At the rendezvous, crouching like a beautiful tiger in repose, and

covered with flags and pennants, the _Courbet_, the Admiral’s vessel,

awaited the others. Breathless they paused beneath her gaze, and

received their final orders. From the bridges of the _Courbet_, the

signalmen, with movements of their arms, sent preliminary instructions

to each ship; the many-colored signals ascended and descended the

halyards. Boats and launches left the ships and hurried to the Admiral

from whom the officers received long closed envelopes which they

quickly carried back to their ships. The commanders opened them, bent

over maps and plans, and divined the wishes of their chief.... Every

week since we left Toulon this has been the episode which interrupts

our tedious voyages. After it is over, our “naval army,” numerous

and impressive, again breaks up. One after another, the ships begin

to churn the purple water, taking their proper posts and lines, and

dispersing towards their regular night routes. The Admirals lead their

squadrons and divisions; long dim streaks in the sky, far apart,

indicate the tracks of our departure, but the fickle sea effaces

all its lines. Towards the North, losing itself in the distance,

the immense procession moves on to offer a tournament of battle. It

stretches out the length of a province. Behind, and at a great distance

from each other, the armored squadrons move at a slow and steady pace.

At the head, offering their breasts, deploy the cruisers, sweeping the

Adriatic. Ahead of them there is nothing but emptiness.

The _Waldeck-Rousseau_ advances in the night. Tense with watching, she

trembles in the darkness. All the ports, all the scuttles are closed,

and not a particle of light betrays us. The fires are controlled, so

that they throw off no sparks or cinders. Absolute silence prevails.

Our invisible progress makes no more sound than the flight of a

night-bird. It is my detachment which has the first watch.

There is a certain powerful excitement in concentrating all one’s

energy in ear and eye, in restraining the desire of the blood for

sudden action. My comrade to port, I to starboard, do not stir. If our

fingers mechanically touch our eyelids or scratch our itching neck,

our intent eyes never waver. They see nothing but blackness. The light

of the stars is veiled in a thin mist, and there are no reflections on

the water. We move in a darkness as of the tomb. Thus, in the forest,

animals creep along on guard, bending the weeds and crawling through

the brush they do not even rustle. Our engines and screws drive us

along, supple and furtive like groups of cats. Our prow cuts the water

without stirring it.

Of this cautious being, my comrade and I are the temporary brain.

Around us perhaps lurk Austrian destroyers, also invisible and

silent, which may be launching at us, as they pass, their pointed

torpedoes. Before we have suspected that death prowls there, they

will have perceived a gigantic hulk making a spot in the darkness.

Let the two officers on watch, safeguarding the ship, have a second

of forgetfulness or fatigue, and a thousand men may be lost in the

abyss whence none returns. In us these thousand sailors place implicit

confidence. If disaster should happen, they would forgive us in their

last agony, because they know that no human power could have prevented

it. Presently, when we lie down on our bunks, worn out with the strain,

we shall deliver our lives over to our successors without a thought.

The two watchers on the bridge are the guardian angels of the crew.

That is the greatness of our vocation. Nowhere in this war, in which

the battlefields will have seen so much heroism, will there be a

heavier task imposed on leaders of men. No general or sergeant could

commit a mistake which would annihilate his army or his squad in a

single instant. The ball kills only one man, the shell carries off

only a file; and the mine spares those at a distance. Every fighter

on land has his chance of surviving the worst disaster, and the most

careless officer will never have upon his conscience the death of all

the men he has commanded.

But a boat is a prison, more confining than stones and bars and chains;

we are suspended over the abyss. Naval catastrophes are like a vomit

from hell; no other catastrophe crushes so many lives at a single

stroke. Lives and goods lost together! Terrible words, which cannot be

said of cataclysms on land. Earthquakes, fires leave reminders, ruins,

witnesses of that which was.... But the ocean tears from her surface a

handful of metal and men, and sends them to rot in her bowels. And the

next day the unchangeable deeps smile their eternal smile.

Long ago the sea knew the whole art of murder. Our diabolical genius

had to add tenfold to the horror. Human ingenuity has invented the

mine, more remorseless than a hundred reefs; the torpedo, more

destructive than a hurricane, and those explosives which tear to pieces

still living tissue into projectiles of flesh.

The slow night ebbs away. These forebodings of the fate of sailors

invade the souls of the watchers, and make them long to vanquish the

specters of the shadow. For to die is nothing if one has been able to

save others. From the interior of the ship, from the hammocks and the

posts of the watch, rises the voice of a hundred trusting hearts. That

unity of appeal creates this thing which has neither form nor law, but

which draws its strength from the very depths of the soul, in that

affection, that complete devotion of oneself: Duty.

* * * * *

Tedious as are the hours filled with such distressing thoughts, the

night, nevertheless, finally begins to fade. The East pales and the

mists disappear and unveil the depths of the sky, where a few faint

stars go out one after the other before the approach of the sun. The

light slowly conquers the limits of space, and sea and ships take on

form and substance. From the South a cruiser emerges, gray as the waves

through which it comes, the dawn strips it of its veil, moulds its

shape, reveals the masts and the smoke from its stacks. Farther away

there is a row of motionless points on the surface of the water; these

are the masts of the ironclads that have followed on our track. Others

still farther South are entirely invisible.

The mountains of Austria and Montenegro take possession of a segment

of the sky; their white peaks have a scarlet hem. They form a wall

stretching from North to South, of which the ravines, the escarpments

and the summits are still buried in mist. Our cruiser gets orders to

bear farther northward, while the other cruisers deploy between it and

the ironclads. It puts on speed, its whole bulk quivering under its

armor. When it has taken position, it can still see its neighbor in the

South, and the stacks of the ship behind it. But only puffs of smoke

reveal the presence of the other ships, of which the most distant is

opposite Antivari or St. John of Medua, fifty kilometers away.

The entire “naval army” bears off to the right and moves toward the

enemy coast, which every moment renders clearer. I take the watch,

which has been resigned before midnight. A few hours of uneasy sleep

have left me with the taste of ashes in my mouth, and a painful

fluttering in my eyelids. But have we not all lived in this way for I

know not how many weeks? And should one not whip up his blood in the

face of approaching danger? And can one stay drowsy in the marvel of

this dawn?

Here is light in all its purity and perfection. The blue of a young

girl’s eyes, or the delicate green of April meadows, seem gross and

hard in comparison with this light. It is quiet, yet alive with beauty.

It enchants like a perfume; it evokes a solemn rapture. Surely the

robes of angels must be woven from rays of such light.

But from behind the mountains the sun rises. Objects appear more

clearly and lose their delicacy of line. Far to the North over the

Dalmatian Isles a few clouds stain the sky. The haze is lifting

from the bay of Cattaro, the details of which we study through our

glasses--gray spots of forts, white streaks of lighthouses, smoke of

Austrian ships sheltered in the roadstead. Above the town, which is

still invisible, slowly rises a black point like a dark bubble; I watch

this suspicious ascension, but cannot yet make out what it means. On

the other side the sun hangs on the summit of a mountain.

All the air seems to vibrate. One’s eyes are dazzled at such

refulgence, such clearness. The sun frees himself from the mountain

peaks, and as he rises pours down a triumphal torrent of light. The

Dalmatian Isles, the Austrian coast rise suddenly, imposing and

menacing. The cruisers to the South reflect a radiance from their

hulls, the sheet of sea over which our cruiser advances alone is

covered with a glassy surface which the eye cannot penetrate. With

their hands on the mortar, the gunners stand stiller than ever. In the

bow of the ship the sailors who do not belong to the watch keep their

eyes on the approaching land and the gliding sea. The ascending black

point has stopped, and seems held at the end of a line. Now I recognize

it for a captive balloon. Its casing, its cording, looks as transparent

as a spider’s web. But from its height a human eye has observed us;

the submarines and destroyers have been warned by telephone; and all

is astir, in this inaccessible arsenal, with the effort to attack,

without danger to themselves, the cruiser that offers them battle. In

the splendor of the still morning, this captive balloon symbolizes the

troubled passions of men--murder and destruction. But it is delightful

to approach the enemy through all this enchantment. Under the sunlight

the sea has become blue and seductive again, and the death of the

cruiser, should it occur, will take on a sort of divine beauty in this

brightness.

Things begin to happen. Out of the last bank of mist which stretches

along the coast there mount in spiral flights two almost imperceptible

insects. At so great a distance they resemble two animated bits of

dust. They are Austrian aeroplanes seeking the height and the currents

of air favorable for attack. They see the _Waldeck-Rousseau_, lost in

the sea-mist, and instantly separate, one drawing northward, the other

southward. In a few minutes their outlines are hidden in the clouds,

and we no longer know what has become of them.

Soon the Montenegrin post of Lovcen signals us by wireless that the

harbor of Cattaro is astir. A squadron of torpedo-destroyers is getting

up steam. Some ironclads are moving, submarines are making for the

channel outlet. Forewarned, the watchers on the bridge, sailors and

officers, gaze at the narrows, and soon discern on the surface of the

water some fine bluish tufts like the smoking butts of cigarettes.

It takes the acute vision of seamen to distinguish them, for we are

sailing more than twenty miles from shore. They are two submarines

coming out of Cattaro and preparing to submerge. The brightness of the

air is enough to dazzle us. And then we see nothing more. These metal

fish are buried under the waves, taking unknown paths, and moving

mysteriously towards us who are their prey.

All eyes on the bridge are fixed upon the scene. We approach danger

with clear vision and mind and with a quiet pleasure. On the forward

deck the marines not on duty scrutinize alternately the horizon and the

faces of the officers on watch to make out what adventures they hold in

store.... Among the winding straits of Cattaro glide masts as fine as

hairs; these are the destroyers which in their turn are issuing forth

to attack us. The _Waldeck-Rousseau_ keeps on toward the hostile coast.

At last the first destroyers appear, gray, and plumed with smoke; the

moment has come to prepare ourselves for battle, and the commander

orders the trumpets sounded to clear the decks for action.

At the first notes of this music which they have heard so many times

for mere drill, the sailors prick up their ears and cast questioning

glances at the bridge. Voices are raised asking nervously: “Is it in

earnest this time?” With an affirmative nod I reassure them. A joyous

clamor rises from all their hearts, the clamor of children who are at

last going to play. In an instant everyone has rushed to his post of

battle. The decks are deserted, the ship is abandoned.

But in its bosom a hidden life goes forward. The port stanchions are

closed; the powerful bolts, which the men hastily shoot, make out of

the enormous hull a hive partitioned by steel. In every cell of the

hive groups of men, sometimes a single man, look after the apparatus,

set it working, and wait. They see nothing, and will see nothing. If

the ship is conquered, they will not know how or why. Everyone is

silent. Where soldiers in the great moment of battle translate their

joy of action into shouting, sailors, on the contrary, must keep

absolute silence. Only the rattle of the engines, the telephone orders,

and the trumpet calls may be heard. In the turrets and the casemates,

behind the guns, the gunners and pointers hold themselves motionless,

ready for the swift, precise movements, repeated so many times in

innumerable drills, which will send straight to their mark the rain of

well-aimed shells.

From the guns, the engines, the helm, the mute tension of a thousand

men flows back to the turret, the brain of a cruiser. In this armored

enclosure are stationed the commander, his two officers in charge of

the firing, his navigating officer. They know that the safety of the

ship depends on the clearness of their judgment. With lowered voices,

as if they were conversing on matters of no importance, they address

sailors who transmit their orders. Crouching before the artillery

keyboard, a few men manipulate the fly-wheels, the bells and signals

which tell the orchestra of guns their distances, correct their aim,

give them orders to fire. Behind the three dials which direct the

engines three sailors quickly write the orders. To right and left,

mouth and ear to a line of telephones and speaking trumpets, two

sailors listen to the word from below and reply. With his hand on the

lever of the steering-gear, and his eyes on the compass of the route,

an impassive petty-officer executes the orders of maneuver. There

is no noise except the slight grating of the rudder indicating each

degree to starboard or port. Through the horizontal embrasures of the

turret, like the narrow iron-barred slits in the helmets of knights,

the four officers survey the horizon. They make out the churning of

foam from a periscope which is moving toward the cruiser’s starboard

at top speed. Instantly the whole volley of light guns opens fire on

this enemy; the rudder is turned to starboard to change the course of

the cruiser, deceive the submarine, and attempt to ram it.... Almost

at the same moment there appears from the clouds to the northward an

aeroplane, which descends towards us like a water-spout, and wheels

about, trying to get a long-distance aim. Our sharpshooters cover this

enemy of the air, and their shots crackle above us like drums. As soon

as we are close enough to fight the charging destroyers effectively,

our heavy guns open a steady fire on them. Our cruiser becomes a mass

of smoke and noise as it confronts the triple peril of air, surface and

deep. Every man works with the precision of a clock. I cannot begin to

enumerate all the episodes of these exciting moments....

Three hundred meters above us, the aviator lets loose his bombs. Their

fall makes a noise like the rending of a sheet of iron. But the turn

of the cruiser to starboard has defeated the precision of his aim.

Near our hull, fore and aft, they burst with an uproar which deadens

the voice of the guns; bits of them rebound to the decks and turrets,

and around the spot where they have exploded the sea quivers as if it

had been peppered with a hail of pebbles. The aviator mounts higher,

pursued by our sharpshooters, who, however, soon abandon him.

Despite the turn to starboard, the cruiser misses the submarine by a

few feet, and it disappears beneath the water. The sailors below hear a

rippling and lapping of water pass along the hull; they even think they

feel the impact of a solid object which scrapes the keel without being

able to penetrate it. There is very little doubt but that the submarine

did torpedo us, but the quick maneuver of the ship saved us. Instead

of hitting us squarely, and damaging our sides, the torpedo--perhaps

there were several--merely grazed us and passed on without effect.

In order to see whether it has touched us and to get another aim at

us, the submarine comes to the surface again; as it rises we see its

periscope and turret athwart us, and without delay the light guns

cover it a second time. The water boils about it, the shells burst and

envelop it in yellowish smoke. Had it been struck? Is it destroyed?

One never knows the fate of these enemies, which, whether victor or

vanquished, immediately submerge. The course of the cruiser sweeps us

far ahead; we no longer concern ourselves with the submarine, which is

no menace to us now. Only our heavy guns speak.

At a great distance the Austrian torpedo-destroyers are encircled by

our falling shells. But, like the snipes they are, they twist and

zig-zag on the water. We rush along at a speed of eleven meters a

second; and if our fire halts the destroyers, it does not seem to

touch them. Their prudence triumphs over their boldness. Persuaded

that our fire will never admit them within torpedoing distance, they

describe a half-circle and flee. In succession, like rabbits regaining

their burrow, they take shelter in the channel of Cattaro, until we

distinguish only the tips of their masts, which recede, and disappear.

Our heavy guns next engage the coast-works, lighthouses, or batteries,

which are now in range. Since the explosions on rocks and earth enable

us to regulate our fire, we should shortly be doing great damage to the

shore, except for a wireless from the commander-in-chief ordering us

to cease our solitary combat. Doubtless the land forts are waiting for

us to come nearer, and their guns, more powerful than ours, will do us

more harm than the aviator, the submarine and the destroyers together.

Regretful but obedient, the _Waldeck-Rousseau_ turns her back on

the shore and moves southward toward the waiting cruisers. In a few

seconds their distant outlines, as well as the squadrons of ironclads,

grow large and stand out in relief against the sky. They would all

have come to our rescue if our challenge had succeeded in drawing

out the powerful armament sheltered in Cattaro. But once more the

Austrians fail to offer battle, having attempted only to send the

_Waldeck-Rousseau_ to her death, with the smallest possible loss to

themselves.

While our cruiser regains her own division at top speed, the periscope

of a second submarine, on watch in the offing, reveals its furrow

of foam on our port side. Regardless of whether it has launched its

torpedoes, we rain upon it a steady fire from our lighter guns, not

pausing to pursue it, for the order to return is imperative. Half an

hour later the _Waldeck-Rousseau_ slows down and again takes her place

in the line of cruisers. Their crews look with envy upon this vessel,

the first in the naval war to have the triple honor of facing the

triple enemies of the ships.

Two signals are raised. We take new positions for descending the

Adriatic. In a few days we shall come back to insult Austria, and

perhaps we shall be more fortunate. It is now the end of a white,

translucent morning. On board, the battle organization is abandoned,

the ordinary watch resumed. While the officers and sailors on the

bridges continue to study the sea, we meet again in the ward-room.

Meal-time approaches, no one mentions the moments through which the

cruiser has just lived. A certain officer of engineers comes out of

the boiler-room and tries to beat his record at cup and ball, playing

with a steady hand. Four others, their ears still filled with the roar

of the guns, plunge into the peaceful subtleties of “bridge.” Others

examine maps of Flanders and Poland.

In a profound calm, a kind of oblivion, we talk of things remote from

war. And when, after the meal, the commander assembles the officers in

the saloon to celebrate in a glass of champagne their baptism of fire,

his speech already seems to call up an event from the far past.

_Adriatic Sea, 25 October._

Something dark brushes the horizon. A spot on the sky? A storm cloud?

The mirage of an island? Our eyes do not hesitate for long; the thing

lives and breathes; it is the smoke of a vessel. The officer on watch

speeds up the engines, changes the rudder, and points the bow toward

this smoke. Since our departure from France not a ship, not a sail,

has evaded investigation by our cruisers and destroyers, the Argus and

Cerberus of the ocean paths.

Above the horizon rise the masts, the stacks, the hull of the

ship. Innocent or guilty, it knows it cannot escape our speed, and

does not attempt to flee. At fifteen thousand meters, its outline

indicates whether it is a liner, or a freighter; at ten thousand, its

displacement shows us whether it is loaded or carries no cargo; at

five thousand, its flag reveals its nationality. If it be English or

French, it is allowed to pass. If neutral, we show it the signal of the

international code: “Halt immediately!”

It has to stop. If it shows any inclination to pursue its way, the

first blank shot warns it not to play with fire. If it pretends not to

hear this reprimand, a shell falls in its path to inform it that we are

not joking. If it insists upon proceeding, a few shots straight at its

hull assure it that the matter is becoming serious. It always stops in

time.

The cruiser halts within range of the suspect. In an instant one of our

long-boats has been lowered and its crew seizes the oars. An officer,

armed with sword and revolver and carrying a big record-book, jumps

into the boat, which puts off from our vessel. A sailor accompanies

him. When the wind is rough and the sea choppy, the boat bounds,

plunges and rolls on this passage which seems interminable; the seven

sailors struggle with all their might at the oars; buckets of water

drench the heads of officer and men; in a few minutes they are soaked

through.

The long-boat accosts the steamer, from the rail of which hangs a

rope ladder, sometimes merely a knotted rope. Why are they always too

short? I don’t know. Anyway the officer, hampered by his sword and his

register, and strangled in a uniform which was never meant for jumping,

stretches out his arms and tries to grasp the ladder. But the swell

rolls back and forth and tips the boat. As he approaches the ship,

there is the ladder swaying two meters above him; as soon as he is

high enough to seize it, the ship lurches off. It is like a skittish

horse that refuses the mount. At these gymnastics the passengers and

crew of the ship smile maliciously. The officer rages. He puts his

sword between his teeth, his register between coat and shirt, waits for

the least unfavorable moment, launches himself headlong--and grasps

the ladder. For a few seconds he performs on this flying trapeze. A

playful wave laps his knees, his hips, his chest. Recovering himself,

he makes a few rungs, hoists himself up the slippery ropes, throws his

leg over the rail, and at last puts his foot on the deck.

This adventure, thank heaven, is not always so unpleasant! Some visits

seem like pleasant duties. But what has the bad winter weather in store

for us?

It would be demanding superhuman virtue from the captains to expect

them to like these visits on the high seas. We delay them, we bore

them, and sometimes we turn them away from their route. Ordinarily they

show us a very surly face; too polite a mien, on the other hand, is to

be distrusted. The officer readjusts his disordered uniform, controls

his ill-humor, assumes an impassive air, and gives a military salute.

“Captain,” he says, “have the kindness to show me your papers.”

This formula is pronounced in English, Spanish, Italian or French.

Grammar sometimes suffers, but not all the world is polyglot. When the

visiting officer has exhausted all his vocabularies without anyone’s

understanding him, he contents himself with a gesture, reinforced by a

contraction of his brows in the direction of his revolver. Thereupon

intelligence comes to the most obtuse. A little procession forms.

The captain looking important, the officer severe, the commissary

obsequious, the sailor escort bringing up the rear; by means of the

passage and stairs these four actors in the little drama reach the

navigation room, where are kept the regulation papers. The more

luxurious liners sometimes set a table with cigars and liqueurs in the

first cabin. Such an attention arouses double suspicion.

The passengers line up along the deck. This episode makes a pleasant

interruption in the monotony of the voyage, and gives their pacific

minds a slight shuddering taste of the great war. Every man begins to

feel like a hero, and to invent a tale which will astonish his future

hearers. The men search the face of the French officer, but read little

on this cold mask. The women, bolder, solicit his glances, his smile,

press themselves on his attention. “Vive la France!” cries one. “He has

a real revolver!” whispers another, shuddering. “Stop, officer, and let

me photograph you!” begs a third.

The visiting officer does not reply, does not stop, but hastens on his

mission. In his register he consults the original of all the documents

he has warrant to verify; text, stamps, signatures are exactly

reproduced, and not one word of the ship’s papers must differ from the

original. If they are in Arabic, Norwegian or Japanese, the officer’s

pencil compares them line by line. In curt phrases he approves or

objects.

The civil status of the ship seems correct; its name, its country,

its record, reveal nothing ambiguous. The captain is then questioned.

Whence has he come, where is he going, and where has he stopped? What

are the owners’ orders? The chart and the log, the dates and hours

of calls at ports, certified by the official authorities, are all

verified. The slightest inaccuracy requires explanations, proofs. In

such times as these, all movements at sea must be above suspicion, and

the least evasion renders one suspect. To help his captain the ship’s

commissary bustles about, pours a glass of liqueur, uncorks a bottle of

champagne, introduces a foaming glass between two incisive questions.

But the French officer courteously waves aside these seductions.

The commissary in his turn goes on the stand; he spreads out and

explains the bills of merchandise, illegible scrawls in every language,

dotted with strange abbreviations, with obsolete weights and measures

in the jargon of grocer and manufacturer. Every line has them, and

twenty special dictionaries could not disclose their traps. Like an

archæologist poring over a worn stone, the visiting officer weighs,

unravels, interprets these hieroglyphics; from a pocket-book he

extracts lists of shippers and consignees friendly to our enemies, and

inspects the ship’s papers to see that their names do not figure on

them.

Every bill of merchandise raises a question. Certain cargoes always go

through, others under certain conditions, some, officially contraband,

are fair booty. The texts of the treaties of The Hague and of London

pretend to solve all these problems. The officer consults these texts,

looking for helpful suggestions. But these treaties, drawn up in times

of peace for the despair of sailors in war, are full of ambiguities,

over which the crafty neutrals slide. How many enigmas does not the

officer have to solve in a few minutes under the dull gaze of his two

colleagues!

According to such and such a paragraph the case appears clear, but a

footnote throws everything into confusion again. There are neither

precedents nor regulations. Upon our decision rests a fraction of our

country’s honor. Too much good nature runs us the risk of providing our

enemies with valuable materials; too much rigor will bring vigorous

complaints from injured neutrals. Let our decision leave a loophole

in the dispute, and learned jurists will deliberate over it in the

prize-courts for weeks and months; then will consume endless hours

and heaps of paper before discovering what ought to be the judgment

actually rendered in the interval between a drenching in a long-boat

and a submarine scare.

Bah! We have our privileges of State. Our conscience is clear, our

intentions are pure, and little remorse accompanies our verdicts.

Yesterday, as well as to-morrow, we make a seizure or release,

according to the simple dictates of common sense. The smiles and

grimaces of the commissary do not warp our judgments; even when the

captain, at a critical moment, presses on us a whole box of choice

Havana cigars this seduction adds not a grain to our weighing-scale.

The officer politely declines, ends his examination, makes his

decision, and demands the passenger list.

“Captain, have the kindness to draw up on deck all the persons on

board. Let each one hold his identification papers in his hand. In five

minutes I shall make my inspection.”

Women, stewards and waiters scatter through the cabins, which suddenly

fill with commotion. In the midst of a chorus of exclamations, of

murmurs and laughs, feverish fingers ransack writing cases and bags;

travelers with good consciences easily discover what they need; the

women adjust their hair, hastily powder a suspicion of tan on their

faces, and with a turn of their hand put all the details of their

toilette in order. They are tremendously entertained. It’s like a

real play! For a very little more they would put on their prettiest

gowns.... But the officer is in a hurry, and the captain excuses

himself: one passenger cannot lay his hand on his passports, which he

has certainly shut up in a trunk. Exactly! The story is well-known!

That bird from Germany must be held.

Everyone lines up in two or more rows. Irresistibly, an order rises to

the lips of the visiting officer--“Right dress! Eyes front!” But no,

these passengers are not soldiers. And now the task is to keep in line

this fat lady in a rather short skirt, who inserts herself between an

asthmatic youth and a rugged American. Let us stifle our laughter! The

lines sway, somewhere at the back a boy sneezes, two Brazilians or

Argentinians burst into shameless laughter, a huge negro trembles with

fear. The officer passes on his inspection.

Like a row of blind people holding out their wooden bowls, everyone

carries his passport in his hand. The men are extremely grave, almost

indignant, and one can imagine the silent perturbation behind their

brows. They lie in wait for an imprudent word in order that they may

at once invoke their counsel, their ambassador, and the unwritten

laws of neutrals. Vain hope! The officer looks them over swiftly, and

opens their papers with a scrupulous touch. Stamps and signatures

are correct, the descriptions too; the passports, the certificate of

nationality, have no taint of fraud. But no touchstone is worth so much

as that of speech: to expert ears a few words, a few phrases, reveal

many secrets, and a hesitating manner accuses where the documents

acquit.

“Kindly tell me where you come from.... Kindly tell me your name and

the date of your birth.... Did you leave your country some time ago?

Kindly answer me in your own language.... What is your profession?”

One has to question closely and in various ways, and keep oneself from

getting into dialogues. There is never a discussion; an immediate

judgment, and we go on.

Compatriots, Russians, English, undergo the questioning. They are

cheerful and anxious to chat.

“In too much of a hurry, my friend!... A handshake and bon voyage!...

The last news from the wireless?... Everything goes well, very well!”

Click! Click! Right and left, the kodaks are at work. Who will ever

count the albums in which playful passengers have put their naval

inspection? They imagine they have not been seen, but their faces,

suddenly serious, and their air of having touched nothing, betray their

crime.

“And you, mademoiselle? What signatures on your passport? What journey

are you making?”

“I am from Valparaiso, and I am on my way to my family in Moscow!”

Ye gods! What are all these women doing wandering about the vast world?

Half the soldiers in Europe have thrown themselves on the other half,

but travelers come and go like doves, without thought of trouble.

The passports of the men are comprehensible--functionaries,

manufacturers going from port to port, mobilized men, producers from

the Far East; all avow intentions which are definite and easy to deal

with. But the origin and destination of the women are puzzling enigmas.

In America, in Asia, in Africa, all the chancelleries of remote

consulates have written over and scratched out the most bewildering

itineraries. These papers are fantastic.

The mystery is increased by the contradictions of the passengers’

appearance. The visiting officer examines a modest passenger in

tennis shoes, flannel suit and traveling cap, who blushes like a

boarding-school miss, and answers very timidly. And what does he see

on the photograph of the passport she shows him? A smiling doll,

buried under a hat as large as a millstone, adorned with aigrettes and

feathers; a very elaborate arrangement of the hair which hides half her

face, and three rows of pearls on her bare throat. Is there anything in

common between this luxurious figure and the timid person wringing her

hands in the line, whose inward mirth appears in her sparkling eyes and

an imperceptible trembling of her elbows? He would be a perjurer who

would swear to it.

It is even a relief when they know their own nationality exactly.

I never suspected that one’s native country could be mislaid, lost

and found like a pair of gloves. But in these latitudes one learns

something every day. Wars, treaties, and revolts, have so confused the

map of the East that it seems as if every passenger were provided with

two or three spare countries.

“Now, Madam, will you explain for your husband, whom I do not

understand? What is his nationality? And you yourself, are you Turkish,

Egyptian, Greek or Russian?”

“It is very simple, Mr. Officer. My husband was Armenian, that is to

say, a Turkish subject. At the time of the massacres he fled to the

Caucasus and found it wise to put himself under Russian protection. His

business called him to Crete, which became Greek while he was living

there. I was born in Macedonia, a Turkish subject, but the last war has

made me a Serb. We went to Alexandria because it was quieter there, for

since the English are suzerains of Egypt, we intended....”

So goes the story. Adventuresses, spies, or wanderers tossed about in

Levantine eddies, their talk is as picturesque as their papers. It

would be absurd to persecute them in this maze where they are astray.

To what end, moreover? The real prize, the choice booty, is recognized

by infallible signs: German faces, Teutonic accents, insolent or

honeyed replies, stammered explanations. However much they may have

garbled their names and submitted to us false ones in writing, the

race of these Germans oozes from every pore. They are on their way

to foment rebellion in Egypt or in Tripoli; they are going to work

the Balkans, to pursue in India or China their secret intrigues.

Invariably their passports derive from Switzerland or Holland, but

their certificates of nationality, very new, just off the press,

remind one of coins that are counterfeit and too bright. Suspects!...

The officer goes down to their cabins; everything he finds in the

valises, the steamer trunks, denotes innocence and sincerity. But he

is nauseated by a strange odor. It cannot be defined, but whoever has

smelt it recognizes unerringly the kind of flesh it comes from. With

handkerchief to nose; he turns over the bed and ransacks the furniture.

Under the mattress, behind the wash-basin, in the folds of a blanket,

lies the fatal paper, the envelope or the packet.... Enemies!...

Now the affair must be ended decisively, elegantly, in the French

style. Invested with discretionary powers on a neutral boat, the

visiting officer conforms to courtesies which would satisfy the most

exacting. His attitude, the tone of his voice, his words, affirm, in

surroundings often hostile, always excited, the sovereign will of his

country. The staff-officer of the boat, the crew and the passengers

form a hostile jury of free witnesses who would jeer to the ends of the

earth the slightest clumsiness. But we are at any rate vain enough not

to imitate the ruffianly manners of our enemies.

The visiting officer stops before the German, calls him by name, lays a

finger lightly on his sleeve or shoulder, and says, without raising his

voice:

“I take you prisoner. Follow my sailor, who will carry your baggage and

conduct you to the ship’s boat.”

Cries, bursts of rage, insults, are of no avail. One adds nothing.

What is said is said. At the worst, if the scene becomes painful, the

officer turns to the captain.

“Commandant, I direct you to use your authority to compel Monsieur

to follow me. Otherwise I shall be obliged to use force. I take the

responsibility for the order I give you, and I will draw up for you a

report of the proceedings.”

That is enough. Protected by the owners and his government, the

captain abandons the prisoner to his fate, and speeds the removal of

his baggage. The German taken in the snare protests, sheepish and

mortified. But the faithful sailor has already seized him and is

hurrying him without much ado to the long-boat. The audience makes

comments. The kodaks work their fastest. A few hands applaud, a few

malcontents murmur. The circle opens deferentially before the officer,

who copies on the log the formulas appropriate to the visit, recounts

the incident, exonerates the captain, and signs the deposition which

will go the round of the chancelleries.

Then, and only then, when the business is all settled, will he accept

perhaps a cigarette, or a file of newspapers, or a cup of coffee.

While the prisoner’s baggage is being somehow tumbled into the bottom

of the long-boat, the officer takes a few steps along the deck. The

crowd of passengers precipitate themselves upon his suddenly humanized

person. “News! News!” implore all the voices. He repeats the wireless

messages received from the Eiffel Tower, from Poldhu, and is careful to

make no comments. As if by magic, the misses, the donnas and senoras

of all the nations and of every type of beauty slide under his hand a

pencil, albums, post-cards. He defends himself. They beg with alluring

glances. Must he not yield? Feverishly he scrawls, signs, dates the

cards and albums. He is promised photographs--which he never receives.

Sly scissors clip from his coat a button to mount on a hatpin. Families

invite him to the Ukraine, to California, to Buenos Aires, after the

war is over.

Finally the sailor escort returns: “Ready!” he says, saluting.

The officer pushes his way through the crowd, throws his leg over the

rail, commences his tumbling descent. On the seat of the boat the

prisoner, quite still, takes up the least possible room.

“You may continue your voyage!” cries the visitor to the captain, who

is awaiting his release.

More questions, and farewells; a waving of scarfs and handkerchiefs.

But he is already in the hollow of the waves; he wipes the spray from

his face, and, raising his cap, makes a fine salute of farewell to all

these passengers whom he will never see again.

Ten minutes later the boat with its prisoner is hoisted on board. The

officer reports to his commandant, and at once draws up his statement.

The cruiser begins to move, heading west; the liner recedes to the

south, and soon we see nothing but her smoke. For several hours we

prowl about, expecting the same ceremony to recommence. Five or six

times a day we stop, make a visit, permit them to go on, or show

our teeth. There are some amusing and some dramatic adventures,

but for a few profitable visits how many futile ones there are!

Yesterday in battle; always on the watch; a beast hunting for prey;

the customs-officer of the high sea; traveling ceaselessly; never in

port--such is the lot of the cruiser. Who of us reckoned on this as

war? No one, I swear.

_North of Corfu, 30 October._

Was it not a dream from which we have just emerged? For several

days--no, I must be mistaken--for a few hours the _Waldeck-Rousseau_

has been lying in the harbor of Malta, and our feet have trod the

ground, the shore, the sidewalks. Fifty-three days at sea had persuaded

us that everything in the world is in motion. One has to be a sailor to

appreciate the delights of the shore.

It was in fact a dream. To-night finds us again on our patrol, between

the coasts of Epirus and Corfu. Our rest is brief, we move very slowly,

the screws seem almost asleep, and during my watch, from ten in the

evening until two in the morning, the cruiser has slipped through

magnificent shadows.

This sea is too lovely. Anxious to solace our exile with her feminine

caresses, she shows us from hour to hour a delicious and ever-changing

countenance. In moments of alarm and trial she succeeds in pervading

us with her gentle consolation. But to-day, far from the Austrian

coast, everything seems kindly, and the sailor can abandon himself to

the magic of the shadows. Not a sound, not a breath, in these happy

moments. Nature never slumbers so softly as on the sleeping waves, and

the most smothered words are too noisy to express this silence. The sea

opens languorously at our prow, and receives us amorously, so to speak,

in her watery arms, which embrace us tenderly along our hull. The

reflections of the stars, which ordinarily rock without ceasing up and

down the ridges of water, stand motionless in it like nails of light.

The coast is mirrored in the black element, reversed so perfectly that

the land and its image seem cut from the same block. Epirus, Corfu and

Merlera surround us in an immense circle, enclosing us almost as in a

lake. But this lake is filled with a limpid water that extends from the

shores of yesterday to the cliffs of to-morrow.

Enlarged in the transparent air, the stars seem to have come down

nearer to us; the moon does not disturb the happy shadow. The star

Sirius rises in the heavens, detached suddenly from the mountains like

a slow rocket. She is round like some heavenly fruit, and the beacons

on the coast are dim before this queen of our heaven.

On the Balkan cliff, halfway up the side of the mountain, flames a

red light. Evidently it is a conflagration; in some little valley a

wretched village is burning and expiring. Is it Albanian, Greek or

Epirote? Some bandits with torches have set on fire the first barn on

their path; the thatch, the mud walls, the dim huts, are consumed in

whirlwinds, and the starlight is stained with streaks of smoke. The

herds up there bleat and bellow in the flames; disheveled mothers carry

off their nurslings; the men load their guns and unloose the dogs.

To-morrow, in reprisal, another hamlet will be burned.

We are so far away, so lost in the night, that this sinister fire

does not affect us at all. Why pity or curse, when distance smothers

all sound? Yet how can we help being carried back to the obsession

of the war, which the sea, the sky, and the stars, had banished from

the present moment? Have not these distant flames been lighted by the

incendiary of Berlin, and do they not portend the track of murder that

will soon soak the East in blood?

But on this night I do not wish to abandon myself to sorrow. I wish

to let my whole being slip into the rich blackness, and to ask of it

the serenity demanded for the coming danger. Before dawn a velvety

freshness creeps up, and banishes my insidious fatigue. This freshness

of the end of night seems to make still smoother the surface of the

sea, in which are sunk the reflections of the stars, clear, numberless,

white as wax. Sparkling above each taper, every star recalls the flame

which trembles on Christian altars at dusk, when the tardy penitent

cannot distinguish the dim wick between the wax and the fire. Among the

unreal columns of this Adriatic temple glides the cruiser.

This temple has neither nave, organ, nor pavement. The chandeliers have

burned there since the first breath of things. The tabernacle is the

immensity wherein swing the divine planets. The nameless architect is

God, who has sown the stars near His throne in order that the humble

regard of men shall be lifted to Him.

_Among the Austrian Islands, 2 November._

It is dawn. We are moving in a long file towards the Austrian islands.

From cruiser to cruiser the cocks are calling and answering each other.

As their clear call salutes the dawn, it is accompanied by the cackling

of our poultry-yard. In the fresh air the melancholy cattle are lowing,

and the restless sheep are bleating; each of our dinners diminishes

their number. To the officers on watch there rises the country smell

from the henhouses, the cattle manure, and the hay, their fodder; and

the air is filled with all the sounds of an awakening farm. Into the

preoccupations of the watch creep precious memories and nostalgia;

one would like to be in some country place, surrounded by meadows and

woods, and one wants to close one’s eyes so that nothing may destroy

the dream.

But it is the green sea that forms our meadows; and the Dalmatian

Isles, which emerge from the mist, are the groves of our horizon. The

three big cruisers with six stacks are in the upper Adriatic, at the

approaches to Lissa, a bastion of the Austrians on that sea, over which

we sail without opposition. Further south, toward the isles of Lagosta

or Pelagosa, the armored squadrons move at reduced speed. Once again,

the tenth or twentieth time--we have lost count--the French “naval

army” emerges from the dawn and offers the challenge they will not

accept.

Only a short distance away, Lissa wakens under our eyes. Pleasant

wooded slopes clothe this island; a tiny town, the principal place,

surrounds a quiet harbor. We do not need our glasses to count the

houses or even the windows; the people who come into the streets raise

their hands to Heaven at sight of us and retreat behind their doors,

which they barricade. The ribbon of water separating us from the shore

is hardly broader than a river, and without taking aim our guns could

pulverize houses and people. The Germans, in our place, would assure

themselves a tremendous triumph, which their journals would celebrate

in the list of German victories. But the French are incorrigible; they

will never learn these illustrious methods, and will never destroy

defenseless cities and men. Think what you will, our gospel contains no

such precept.

Our division is accompanied by two squadrons of destroyers; they make

their presence known by doing legitimate damage. The lighthouse of

Lissa might assist the movement of Austrian ships at night; the cable

can transmit to the arsenals news of the movements of the French

fleet. Our destroyers do not hesitate to destroy these tools of war.

Their guns thunder against the lighthouse; their dredges search for

the cable at the bottom of the sea. To emphasize the ease with which

we approach the enemy, small French vessels enter the harbor of Lissa

with a haughty air. The fisherfolk and other people on the coast

are terrified; no one expects mercy; everyone commends his soul to

God. From the bridge the officers of the cruiser observe all this

excitement; they see swarms of people fleeing into the country, where

our guns could nail them like flies against the wall. It all makes

us smile. Our sailors are quietly washing their linen, or gaily

chattering. Like their officers, they are savoring the deliciousness of

this quiet morning, in front of this island filled with sunlight and

with terror. Their generous souls do not desire the destruction of this

defenseless town. But at the bottom of their hearts and their talk lies

a question which three months of naval warfare had not solved--“What

must be done to these Austrians to make them revenge themselves? Will

they make us no return for our insults?”

An officer and some sailors from the destroyers set foot on land. The

population is humble and suppliant. We ask them the names and addresses

of the two principal notables of the island, and immediately the

notables are made known to us. No threats or revolvers! Everything goes

off admirably. The two notables are brought before the chief of the

French detachment; they tremble at first, but the courteous firmness

of the all-powerful sailor reassures and conquers them. When it is

announced to them that the Navy will hold them as hostages, they are

not afraid to deliver themselves over to the good faith of men who do

not abuse the rules of war. When we demand from Lissa a contribution of

twenty-five thousand francs, they give it themselves, in hard cash of

full weight, convinced that this gold is not passing into the pockets

of highwaymen. When they are asked to deliver themselves up on board

the torpedo-destroyers, they are given time to dress in their best

clothes, to embrace their wives and children, and to assure the city

that the enemy cruisers will not bombard it. In this little corner of

the world where fate confers upon us these extraordinary powers, a few

hours are sufficient to make the people our friends. If by any chance

French victory should mean that the tricolor is planted on this island,

it will float on friendly soil there.

Morning passes. Halted before the harbor of Lissa, the three cruisers

wait while the destroyers finish their task at leisure. Midday sounds.

Beyond doubt, the Austrian bases of Cattaro, Pola, and Sebenico have

been notified of our action. The early hours of the afternoon pass. No

enemy squadron appears to take up the challenge. Will our armed forces

below the horizon have to wait in vain for the wireless announcing that

our enemy will avenge the insult offered their territory? Is France

really at war with Austria? The commander of the squadrons comes to

make his report to the rear-admiral of the _Waldeck-Rousseau_. He

tells of the terror of the inhabitants of Lissa, their meekness, the

taking of two hostages on board his destroyer. Our wireless requests

supplementary orders from the Commander-in-Chief. Suddenly, emerging

from the maze of the Austrian islands, appear at last two columns

of smoke. All the glasses and telescopes are turned towards these

longed-for shadows. Our hearts leap; our eyes fear they are mistaken.

But no! The enemy is replying to the insult. Numerous masts are graven

on the horizon. Everyone sees them rise, and whenever a new one appears

utters a cry of joy. Five! Ten! Fifteen! Eighteen! The great Day has

come.

The sun shines brightly. Not a ripple breaks the sea. Our rear-admiral

hoists signals of chase and combat, the division of cruisers and two

squadrons of destroyers advance with all speed toward the hostile

smoke. As yet we do not know the strength, the number, the armament, of

this enemy who offers battle. What matter! The tops of its stacks cover

the northwest sky. We must hasten to the fray. If our first engagement

is not victorious, the wireless calls we send to the battleships will

bring them hurriedly to the victory we have led up to with our first

attack. Joyous trumpets sound to clear the decks for action; the ships

of France hoist the shield of battle, the national flag, perfectly new,

at the junction of two masts. In a few minutes all the men are running

to their posts. They laugh, they sing, they are crazy with excitement.

But hardly have they reached their apparatus than they have regained

the silence of duty. Firemen at the fires, engineers at the engines,

gunners at the guns, have prompt arms, steady spirits, and alert eyes.

Along the hull the spray leaps and glides, like the road beside an

automobile. In the turret the commandant, the firing officers, and the

maneuver officer, await anxiously the moment when they will recognize

the enemy as he presents himself to us. They want to increase the speed

of the ship, but our screws are already turning madly; they cannot

add a millimeter to our speed. At last, on the curve of the sea, are

clearly drawn the outlines of our enemy.

Alas! They are nothing but destroyers! Rapid and powerful destroyers,

indeed; but Austria could have afforded to offer us antagonists equal

to ourselves. Let us be content with the windfall. Too many days have

been squandered against invisible enemies. These are real, living, and

full of fight. They gallop towards us, with torpedoes leveled. We point

our guns, which cannot yet reach them. The match is even. Like us, they

have hoisted the flag of battle; and the _Waldeck-Rousseau_, springing

over the water like a full-blooded steed, leads the cruisers and the

two squadrons to the adventure where death awaits.

A few minutes of anxious silence pass. Shut in the cells below, the

men listen, trying to catch the heavy sound of the first broadside;

they would be killed in an instant if a well-aimed torpedo should touch

the cruiser, but they devote their stalwart souls to the machinery

and the engines, that no one may be wanting in this crisis. Through

their telescopes the gun-pointers watch the distance vanishing as if

by miracle. Twenty thousand meters.... Eighteen thousand.... Fifteen

thousand.... Fourteen thousand.... Only two thousand more, and the

rattle of our artillery will rain upon the enemy. In three parallel

lines the Austrian destroyers throw out torrents of smoke, which seem

to merge; each line glides over the blue water like a shining serpent.

Around us our own destroyers have closed up, and are plowing up clods

of spray silvered by the sunlight.

But what is this! The Austrian lines swerve, deflect; their head makes

a great curve! Is it possible? They would retreat! They would refuse

an engagement! We are so angry that our eyes refuse to believe the

retreat. It is an illusion of the light; a jest of the wind that makes

the smoke bend. Not at all. They complete the circle, turn their backs

on us, and fly off at top speed like three trains along their rails of

foam.

Oh! To have this revenge in sight for so many futile weeks, and then

to see it escape just at the point where our guns cannot reach! To

feel that the great engines under our feet, strong as they are, are

unable to catch the prey, because its legs are too long! To measure

the distance, and feel it increase a little with every second, like an

elastic band of air stretched between us! Fourteen thousand meters!

Fourteen thousand one hundred.... Fourteen thousand two hundred. Ah! we

should like to be able to control the waves, to throw into the air a

sudden squall, to chop up a sea of billows and swells. Our own powerful

keels would not be slowed down, but the destroyers would run foul of

each crest of the waves, would slacken, become exhausted, and our

mettle would triumph over their cowardice.

They make speed towards the labyrinth of the Dalmatian Isles, which

loom before us as a family of marine monsters might emerge from the

water. We continue the pursuit. Sixteen thousand meters.... Seventeen

thousand meters.... Perhaps remorse or faintness will seize the

cowards. But no, their confusion is a premeditated ruse. Up in the sky,

gliding and descending through the transparent clouds, an aviator drops

toward the French ships, enfilades them, and lets fall on us bombs

which only the cleverest tacking evades; they burst against the hulls.

One of the cruisers catches the wake of a periscope on the surface of

the water. It may be that some prowling submarine has already fired

its torpedoes, and our speed has deluded it; no one is affected. We

shell the path of this streak of foam, which immediately vanishes.

The submarine flees below the water, the aeroplane is already out of

sight, the destroyers are nearing the entrance to the islands. Eighteen

thousand meters.... Nineteen thousand.... Each second of pursuit

increases the danger, the useless danger which has no chance of reward.

It is becoming evident that this Parthian flight leads us into the zone

where other submarines are prowling, and other aviators lurking, where

slumber dangerous mines, which can inflict slaughter without stirring

from their position. Why excite ourselves? We are rushing towards a

death that will bring no glory to the Navy, no benefit to France.

Austria will have a victory which will not even have _achetée son

courage_.

The rear-admiral has the signals hoisted. While the Austrian destroyers

are hidden in the straits into which they hope to draw us, our cruisers

and destroyers make a wide detour in the offing; our engines carry us

disdainfully away from these coasts which shelter no gallant enemy. One

by one, from the depths of the ship, the men who have been enclosed

during the combat come out again. They have seen and heard nothing,

and they eagerly ask the news. The sailors on deck talk to them in a

low voice. Their cheeks turn pale, they clench their hands, their eyes

flash with rage. The dejected crew moves silently up and down. Their

faces are melancholy, their hearts sore, their nerves seem to have lost

their spring.

At twilight, a few hours later, we call together the “naval army.” By

means of the wireless messages sent during our chase, the ships have

followed with passionate interest the enthusiasm, effort, dangers,

and disappointments we have been through. Ready enough to help us,

and to give the Austrian fleet a good reception had it come out, they

are awaiting us for still another descent of the Adriatic, also to be

unfruitful, like so many others. For half an hour, under the golden

beams of the setting sun, the squadrons go through the usual maneuvers

and get their sailing orders for the night. The majestic, supple lines

cross one another, approach and recede upon the parade ground of the

sea. Every movement is perfect; the scene resembles a procession of

moving cathedrals. In the evening light the hulls take on all the

colors of stained windows. The water is strewn with azure and purple

flowers. The signals run up and down the masts. Into the sky rise curls

of smoke. A religious silence prevails.

The night falls. Up among the islands, enveloped in mist, the Austrians

can observe our contemptuous evolutions and our dignified departure.

Not one of our movements displays any disquietude. Let this sorry enemy

dare to rouse us, and they will find, at any hour of day and night,

something to talk about! But we are learning to know them. Lazily

the battleships and destroyers spread over the broad surface of the

Adriatic and begin their majestic descent. This morning the cruisers

were to northwards, in the vanguard. This evening they are deployed to

the south, where their vigilance will win them some consolation for

the afternoon.

_Off Bari, 3 November;

four o’clock in the morning._

Thank God, I was on watch during the dark hours of the night. I should

never have been able to abandon myself to sleep. For the disappointment

of yesterday left me full of an exaltation there was no real battle

to exhaust, and a thousand disconnected ideas raced through my brain.

Even yet, after four hours of watching disturbed by alarms, I cannot

find an instant of repose on my bed. I rise and come to talk with the

confidante who is always ready, this notebook, which has received the

confession of all my moods. Perhaps after this one-sided conversation

my mind will become calmer and forget itself in sleep. But I am not

sure. For we do not really know how to put ourselves to sleep.

I envy the soldiers on the solid land, confronting an enemy present

before them. Whether he hides or reveals himself, the conflict is

not slow in coming. They rush forward, they sing and shout; they

thrust out their bayonets, they bite, and trample with their feet. At

the moment of killing it is delicious to become a beast, to think no

longer, to dry with a single gesture the sweat from one’s brow, and the

blood from one’s wounds. But the sailors spend their energies in a long

silent waiting. The more active they are, the more profound is their

silence. The nearness of death makes them machines of precision.