PART II

[Illustration: THE RULER OF PILOTS AT DEAL]

VI

THE COASTAL SERVICES

THE HOME TRADE

"_We're a North-country ship, an' a deep-water crew.

A--way, i-oh!

Ye can stick t' th' coast, but we're damned if we do.

An' we're bound t' Rio Grande!_"

SO we sang--sounding a bravery at the capstan as we hove around and

raised anchor to begin a voyage. We had our ideas. We were foreign-going

sailors, putting out on a far venture. In pride of our seafaring--of

rounding the Horn, of crossing Equator, perhaps of a circumnavigation--we

looked down upon the coaster. He was a hoveller, a tidesman, a

mud-raker--his anchors could shew no coral on the flukes as they came

awash. We carried these ideas to the beach. Deliberately, we produced an

atmosphere that is unjust to the cross-channel man.

The oversea voyage possesses a greater appeal to the imagination. Long

distances, variation of the climes, storm and high ocean seas--a burthen

of goods brought from a far country, all contribute to make an

impression that the tale of a coasting voyage could not produce.

Familiarity, perhaps, has robbed the short-carriers' sea-trip of what

shreds of romance existed. In tide and out, the smaller vessels have

grown to the sight as almost part of the familiar quays and wharves they

frequent. A voyage from Tyne to the Thames or from Glasgow to Liverpool

is so common and everyday that little remark is excited. We are

unconcerned at its incident; the gale that wrecked a collier on the

Black Middens may have blown a tile or two from our roof; the fog that

bound the Antwerp boat for a tide is, perhaps, the same that held us in

the City for an hour over time. We may entertain our friends with

recital of a sea-voyage, but we have not a great deal to say of a

Channel passage.

At war, this focus of the public outlook has persisted. The threat to

our sea-communications, to the source by which the nation gains its

daily bread, has drawn an intense interest to the fortunes of the ships,

but that interest has rarely been extended to the coasting vessels and

the seamen who man them; there is little said of the work of the coastal

pilots, on whose skill and local knowledge so much depends. We are

concerned for our _Britannics_ and _Justitias_, but the fate of the

_Sarah Pritchard_ of Beaumaris, or the escape of _Boy Jacob_ are small

events in relation to the toll of our tonnage. Their utility has not

been brought before us in the same way as the direct service of the

great ocean carriers. It is not difficult to understand that a breakdown

of that source of supply would mean starvation and disaster. Our

dependence on the coasting vessels is not so apparent. The vital needs

served by them are, in part, obscured. We are, perhaps, satisfied that

alternative channels exist for passage of the tonnage they transport:

road and rail are open for inland carriage.

The situation is not quite so clear. Pressure at the rail-heads, at the

collieries, at the steelworks and the manufactories, has thrown a burden

on our island railways that they are unable to bear. But for the service

of the coasters and the resolution of the home-trade seamen, the block

to our traffic could not have been other than fatal. By relieving the

congestion on the lines, they made possible the expansion of our output

of munitions. Millions of tons that would otherwise have been put upon

land transport (and have lain to swell the accumulations), are brought

to tide-mark to be handled and cleared and ferried between home ports

and across the channels by the coasting vessels. The Fleet is coaled

and stored almost entirely by sea. Our men in France and Flanders are

carried and fed and refitted by light-draught steamers. Power is

transmitted to our Allies from British coalfields by our grimy colliers.

Constant voyaging, dispatch at the ports of lading and discharge,

seagoing through all weathers, make huge the total of their tonnage, but

their individual cargoes rank small against the mammoth burdens of the

oversea merchantmen. The sea-ants (however busily they throng the ports)

are seldom remarked; their work is carried on in the shadow of more

spectacular and lengthy voyaging. On occasion, a stray beam of popular

recognition is turned on the smaller craft--as when _Wandle_ steams up

Thames after her gallant fight, or when _Thordis_ (Bell, master) rams

and sinks a U-boat--but the light is quickly slewed again to illuminate

the seafaring of the oversea vessels. Similarly--with the men--interest

has centred on the deep-water mariner; the coasting masters and their

crews, together with the pilots, are little heard of. Their navigations,

steering by the land on a short passage of a tide or two, have not the

compelling emphasis of long voyaging on distant seas. Chroniclers of our

deeds and fates have set out the drawn agony of the raft and the open

boat in mid-Atlantic; they are less insistent on the tragedies (as

bitter and prolonged) of inshore waters. Perhaps they are influenced by

a common misconception that succour is ever ready at hand in the narrow

sea. There are the lifeboats on the coast, patrols on keen look-out in

the channels, vessels are ever passing up and down the fairways; the

land, in any case, is not far distant. Such assurance has but slender

warrant. Gallant, unselfish, and thorough as are the services of the

lifeboatmen, their operations in the main are intended to serve known

wrecks and strandings. A flare in the darkness or a flash of gunfire in

the channels is now no special signal; the new sea-casualty gives little

time or warning for a muster of resources. The ready succour of the

patrols is, perhaps, more instant and alert, but the channel seaways

cover an area that no system could place under a quartered post or

guard. No vigilance could prevent the capture of _Brussels_ and the

martyrdom of Captain Fryatt; the crew of the _Nelson_ smack were for

over thirty hours adrift in the narrow seas ere they were sighted and

rescued. In the busy waters of the Irish Sea, three men of the ketch

_Lady of the Lake_ made ten miles in eight hours under oars, after their

vessel had been sunk by gunfire. A weary progress, with ships passing

near and far, but none daring too close the boat that might, for all

they know, be trap for an enemy mine or torpedo.

It is time we ceased to sing that Rio Grande chanty: an _amende_ is

overdue.

While we, the foreign-going men, have our 'ins and outs' of the most

dangerous seas--serving our turn in the front-line sea-trenches, then

retiring to a rest in safer and more distant waters--the coastal seaman

has no such relief. His daily duty lies in the storm-centre, in the

very midst of the sea-war. From harbour mouth to the booms of his port

of entry, no course can be steered that does not drive his keel through

minable areas and across the ranges of lurking submarines.

The new sea-warfare has developed a scheme of offence that renders our

inshore waters peculiarly fraught with peril to navigators. The

coast-line is no longer a defence and protection; rather, by limiting

sea-room in manoeuvre, the shoals and rock-bound beach have turned

ally to the enemy. Sea-mark and headland provide a guide in estimating

the run of a torpedo; note of a point definite, on which sea-routes

converge, is of value to a submarine commander. Even in the shallower

waters--depths in which a torpedo attack would be difficult--an equally

deadly offence may be maintained. The run of the sea-bottom in the

channels offering a good hold to slipped mine-moorings, it was not long

before the enemy had adapted submarines to continue the minelaying that

our command of the surface had stopped. While new and larger U-boats are

sent abroad on the trade routes, special submarines, less encumbered by

the stores and equipment that longer passages would demand, make

frequent visits to the fairways to sow a freight of mines. No section of

the channels holds sanctuary for the coaster. Close inshore, as in the

offing, is all a danger area, open to the stealthy visits of the

submarine minelayers. Right on the Mersey Bar, the Liverpool pilot

steamer went up with a loss of forty lives; remote West Highland bays

have echoed to the crash of mines exploded; seaward of the Irish banks,

the deeps are alike dangerous. Counter-measures there are (services as

efficient and resourceful in life-saving as those of the enemy are

cunning and viciously ingenious in murder), but even the gallantry and

skill and untiring efforts of our minesweepers cannot wholly clear the

immense water-spaces. Mechanical contrivances--the Otters--are valuable,

and aid in fending the mines, but (the sea-bottom being foul with

wreckage) they are often a danger to their carriers. There is ever the

harassing uncertainty which no vigilance may allay. The sheer relief of

passing over the hundred-fathom line to the comparative safety of the

deeps of ocean is never experienced by the cross-channel captain.

Favoured by their light draught and smaller proportions, the coasters

are perhaps less exposed to successful torpedo attack than their larger

and deeper ocean sisters. In the early days of submarine activity, the

enemy was loath to use his deadlier and more expensive weapon on the

small craft. He relied on gunfire to produce effects. The channel seas

were not then as well patrolled as now by armed auxiliaries: he could

have a leisurely exercise in frightfulness at little risk to

himself--there was no return to his fire--it was an easy target

practice. _Cottingham_ was shelled at short ranges when off the Bristol

Channel. Unarmed and outdistanced, the master stopped his engines,

lowered the two boats, and abandoned ship. The shelling continued, but

was directed on the sinking ship; the submarine commander evidently

thought the bitter wintry weather would accomplish a more refined

_Schrecklichkeit_ than the summary execution of his shell-bursts. In the

heavy battery of a sou'west gale, the boats drove apart. The master's

boat was sighted by a patrol, and the crew of six rescued after some

hours' exposure. The mate's boat came ashore at Portliskey in Wales,

bottom up and shattered; of the seven men who had manned her there was

no trace. Six of _Cottingham's_ crew survived the bitter weather--six

hardy seamen were spared to return to service afloat. The German became

dissatisfied with a frightfulness that murdered only half a merchant

ship's crew when it was possible to murder all. It was not enough to

destroy the ships and leave the seamen to the wind and sea and bitter

weather. If they were not to be driven from their calling by fear, there

were other measures--sure, definite, final. There was to be no weakness

among the apostles of the new creed, no shrinking, no humanity--British

seamen were to follow their shattered ships to the litter of the channel

bottom. The _Koelnische Zeitung_ set forth that "in future, our German

submarines and aircraft would wage war against British mercantile

vessels without troubling themselves in any way about the fate of the

crews." The _Koelnische Zeitung_ could not have been well informed. Their

submarine commanders troubled themselves greatly about the fate of our

crews. They shelled the boats in many subsequent attacks. They expended

ammunition in efforts to secure that no further seafaring would be

possible to their victims. Sheer individual murder took the place of an

illegal act of war. ". . . We were unarmed, a slow ship. The submarine

hit us with a shot on the bow and then ran up the signal to take to the

lifeboats. We did so, and several shots were fired at the _Palermo_.

They did not take effect, however, and a torpedo was sent into her side.

She sank within a few minutes. Whether the fact that he had to use a

torpedo to send our vessel to the bottom angered the commander I do not

know, but the submarine came directly alongside of our lifeboats. The

commander was on the deck, and yelled, 'Where is the captain of that

ship?' The captain stood up and made his way to the side where the

German was standing. The German held his revolver close to our captain's

head. 'You will never bring _another ship across this ocean_,' he said,

using several oaths, then he pulled the trigger. Our captain fell dead,

and we were permitted to continue."

The new campaign was directed particularly against the coasters and

fishermen. The procedure was simple. No great speed or gun-range was

required. There was no risk, if a good look-out was kept for patrols and

war craft. The helpless, unarmed vessel, outsped and hulled, was

brought-to within easy range, and shelling could be continued to

augment the confusion of boat-lowering in a seaway. If by resolution and

fine seamanship the boats were got away, there was further target

practice with shrapnel or machine-gun. The schooner _Jane Williamson_ of

Arklow was attacked without warning. The first shot smashed one of her

boats, the second killed one of the crew. At shouting distance--a

hundred yards range--point-blank under the submarine's gun--there could

be no question of defence or escape. The remaining five hands put over

the second boat, tumbled into her and shoved clear. To hit the boat the

submarine's gun must have been slewed deliberately from the larger

target: bad shooting could not have occurred. Afloat and helpless, a

shell struck her, killing one man outright, mortally wounding the master

and another, and damaging the frail row-boat. The Germans beckoned the

boat to them, but it was only to laugh at the throes of the dying men.

The U-boat submerged, leaving the three survivors to ship oars and face

the long weary pull towards the distant land. The _William_ was sunk by

gunfire; the gun's crew of the U-boat then loaded shrapnel and turned

the gun on the open boat, wounding a man of the crew. _Redcap_ was

hauling her trawl when without any warning shrapnel burst on board.

There was no challenge, the fishermen had made no attempt to get under

way and escape. Busied with the gear, all hands were grouped together,

when the shell exploded among them. One hand was killed instantly, the

mate's leg was blown off, two seamen were wounded. Under fire, the

survivors put the boat over and removed the wounded; the Germans gave no

thought to their distress, but centred rapid fire on the trawler, sunk

her, and disappeared.

[Illustration: A HEAVILY ARMED COASTING BARGE]

When guns were served to merchant ships, the coasters shared in their

issue. Encounters with enemy submarines were no longer one-sided and

hopeless. Effects could not be secured by the Germans at so small a

cost. Frequently the effects were those that the submarine commander was

most anxious to avoid. _Atalanta_ picked up the crew of _Marechal de

Villars_, then fought off the U-boat that had sunk that vessel. Watchers

on the coastal headlands saw many a running fight between handy little

home-traders and the under-sea pirates. Nor were the fishermen slow in

action. Once armed for defence, they proved that they could use their

weapons with skill and precision. Off Aberdeen in stormy weather, a

German submarine hove up from his depths for practice on a fleet of

trawlers. It was to be a _Redcap_ diversion: rapid fire, shrapnel, boats

thrown out hastily, common shell on the hulls of the trawlers--wholesale

destruction. But there was a mistake. A 'watch-dog' was among the

fleet--_Commissioner_, armed and alert. At an opportune moment she cut

her gear adrift, canted under speed and helm, returned the U-boat's fire

and sank her in five rounds. Submarine commanders soon realized that

'diversions' were risky, the target could now hit back. It was safer to

submerge when within range of anything larger than a row-boat. Even the

sailing barges acquired a sting. In proportion to her tonnage, _Drei

Geschwister_--a captured German, refitted to our coastal service--is

probably the heaviest armed vessel afloat.

In channel waters, look-outs must not be confined to the round of the

sea. To the U-boat's gunfire and torpedo, to the menace of moored and

drifting mines, is added a danger that rarely threatens the oversea

trader--an attack from the air. Striking distance from enemy bases has

given opportunity for exercise of aircraft. Zeppelin and seaplane have

their turns of activity in the North Sea and the Straits. Steering a

careful course in a sea 'foul with floating mines,' the Cork steamship

_Avocet_ was attacked by three aeroplanes. The action lasted for over

half an hour. Bombs exploded alongside, the bridge and upper decks were

scarred and pitted by a hail of machine-gun bullets. The master and mate

kept the aircraft at a respectful height by using their rifles--the only

arms carried. By skilful handling, Captain Brennell saved his ship. He

is probably the only seaman who has steered a deliberate course between

a 'fall' of bombs; swinging on starboard helm, 'three bombs missed the

starboard bow and three the port quarter by at most seven feet.' The

_Birchgrove_ was attacked by two seaplanes carrying torpedoes--a novel

adaptation. Again the use of ready helm proved a moving ship a difficult

target. Both torpedoes missed. Less fortunate was the _Franz Fischer_,

an ex-German collier. Anchored off the Kentish Knock, the night black

dark, the thunder of a Zeppelin's engines was heard overhead. Before

there was time to extinguish all lights, the huge airship was able to

take up a position for attack. One heavy bomb sufficed. _Franz Fischer_

reeled to a tremendous explosion, heeled over, and sank. Only three

survived of her crew of sixteen.

Constant sea-perils are enhanced by war measures in the channels. On

open sea there is less confusion; the issue is narrowed to contest

between ship and submarine and the hazard of a derelict or floating

mine--there is ample sea-room in which to 'back and fill.' The coaster

has a harder task. His navigational problem is complicated by the eight

hundred odd pages of 'Notices to Mariners'--the amends and addends and

cancellations of Admiralty instructions relating to the seafaring of the

coast. Inner channels are confused by 'friendly' minefields or by

alteration of the buoyage; aids to navigation are suspended or

rearranged on scant notice; coastwise lights are put out or have their

powers reduced to small efficiency in the mists and grey weather.

Unmarked wrecks, growing daily in numbers, litter the sea-bottom; areas

are to be avoided to leave a fair field for the hunters; zigzag courses

in close proximity to the land sustain a constant anxiety. Above all,

navigation without lights increases the danger to all merchantmen and to

the patrols and naval craft that crowd the seaways of the coast.

Through all that the enemy can set against them, the home-trade vessels

proceed on their voyages. Their losses are heavy in numbers (if the sum

of their tonnage be not great), but the press of short sea-carriers that

passes up Channel or down shews no evidence that frightfulness achieves

an effect in holding them, loath, at their moorings. There is freight

enough for all. Every vessel that has a sound keel and a helm to steer

her is actively employed. Old craft and odd are come on the sea to serve

turn in our emergency. Barges and inland watermen, Hudson Bay sloops,

whilom pleasure craft, mud-hoppers reshelled, hulks even, are used; if

they can neither sail nor steam, the ropemakers can supply a

hawser--there is trade and bargain for a tow. After peace-years of

grinding competition with the freight-grabbing steam coasters, the

sailing craft of the smaller ports have found a new prosperity, from

which no risks can daunt them. Sailmakers and rigging-cutters, the block

and spar makers, have taken up their old tools again, and the gallant

little topsail schooners, brigantines, cutters, and ketches are out

under canvas.

The German boast that he can achieve victory by submarine policy could

be nowhere more plainly refuted than in the War Channel that extends

from the Thames to the Tyne. The evidence is there for all to judge. The

seaway is foul with wrecks, foundered on beach and sandbar--the tide

vexed by under-water obstructions. Topmast spars with whitened cordage

whipping in the wind stand out above the swirl of the tides; a shattered

bow-section or gaunt listed shell of a wrecked vessel sets the turn to a

new shoal drift; crazy funnels, twisted and arake by the broken hulls

below, stud the angles of the buoyage that marks the fairway. Disaster

to our shipping is plainly shewn, grouped in a way that no figures or

statistics could rival. But there is other evidence. Daybreak in the

Channel gives light to a progress of seaworthy craft that seems in no

way diminished by the worst that the enemy can do. He has failed,

despite the sinister sea-marks that litter the fairway. Down the river

estuaries and out from the sea-harbour and roadstead, the coasters still

join in company through the channels. An unending procession; the grey

seascape is never free of their whirling smoke-wreaths. Passing and

turning in the deeps, they steam close to the red-rusted, shattered

hulls of their sister ships. The gaunt masses of tortured steel stand

out as monuments to an indomitable spirit--or to an influence that calls

their sea-mates out to steer by the loom of their wreckage.

PILOTS

IF we may count antiquity and precedence a claim, the pilot is the real

senior of our trade. Before the ship and her tackling--the rude coracle,

setting across the river bars or steering on a short passage by

sea-marks on the coast, before the oversea venturer with his guide in

sun and star--the lodesman, who marked the deeps and the shallows.

The pilot's departure and boarding are definite and well-marked

incidents in the course of a voyage, and have a significance and

interest few other ship-happenings claim. He is our last and first

connection with the shore. His leaving is attended by a sober emotion, a

compound of regret and impatience; regret that his sure support is

withdrawn--impatience to go ahead to open sea. He backs over the rail

and lurches down the swaying side-ladder to his dinghy to an

accompaniment of cordial good-byes. Passengers crowd the bulwarks to

watch his small boat go a-bobbing in the stern-wash as we gather way. It

hardly occurs to them that their farewell letters, now in his

weather-stained bag, may be for days or weeks unposted; to them he is

the last post--the link is snapped, the voyage now really begun.

There may be masters who affect a fine aloofness when the pilot boards

them on incoming, others who preserve a detached air--but there are few

who do not feel relief in answering the cheerful hail--'All well aboard,

Captain?'--as the pilot puts a cautious testing foot on the side-ladder.

Here is the voyage practically at an end with the coming of an expert in

local navigation. The anxiety of a landfall is over. The channel buoys,

port hand and starboard, stretch out ahead to mark definite limits to

shoal and sandbank; familiar landmarks loom up through the drift of

distant city haze; the outer lightship curtsies in the swell, beckoning

us into port to resume the brief round of longshore life. After a

lengthy period of silence and detachment, we are again in touch with the

affairs of the beach; the news of the day and of weeks past is told to

us in intervals of steering orders--sailor news, edited by a competent

understanding of our professional interests. The tension of the voyage

is unconsciously relaxed. We are in good hands. The engines turn

steadily and we come in from sea.

If the pilot was ever a welcome attendant in the peaceful days, his

services in the war earn for him an even warmer appreciation. War

measures in their operation have rendered our seaports difficult of

entry. The buoyage has, perhaps, been reset in the interval of a

voyage's absence. Boom defences and examination areas exist, channels

are closed or obstructed; certain of the lightships or floating marks

may be withdrawn on short warning. Amid all our doubts and

uncertainties, we look for the one assured sea-mark on the unfamiliar

bars--the red-and-white emblem of a pilot vessel on her boarding

station. Undeterred by the risk of mine or torpedo while marking time on

their cruising ground, the pilots are constantly on the alert to board

the incoming vessels as they approach from seaward. No state of the

weather drives the cutter from her station to seek shelter in safer

waters. If the seas are too high for boatwork, she steams ahead and

offers a lead to a quieter section of the fairway where boarding may be

attempted.

Turn and turn of the pilots in service can no longer be effected. The

even balances of their roster (that worked so well in peace-time) have

been rudely disturbed by war. The steady round of duty, in which every

man knew the date of his relief, has given place to a state of 'feast

and famine'; all hands are frequently mustered to meet the sudden and

unheralded demands of an inward-bound convoy, or the limited

accommodation of the cutter is taxed and overloaded by the release of

pilots from an outward mass sailing.

There are grades of pilotage--from that of the rivers and protected

waters to the more hazardous voyages between coastal ports. It is,

perhaps, to the sea-pilots of Trinity we are most intimately drawn.

While the river pilot is with us for the short term of the tide, the

Trinity man is of our ship's company for a day or days. His valued local

knowledge is at our service to set and steer fair courses in the

perplexing tangents of unfamiliar tideways; operations of the

minesweepers and patrols--that alter and multiply beyond counting in the

course of a voyage abroad--are a plain book to him. If we meet disaster

in the channels, we have a prompter at our elbow to advise a favourable

beaching. We have a peer to confide in throughout our difficulties.

After days of anxious watchkeeping on the bridge we are well served by a

competent relief.

Ship movements in the western waters are controlled by the naval

authorities in a manner that allows of independent sailings, but the

Trinity pilots' duties lie in the Channel and the North Sea, where a

more exacting regime is in force. From the Downs to the north, measures

adopted for protection of the ships call for a time-table of sailings

and arrivals that can only be adhered to by the pilot's aid. A 'War

Channel' is established, a sea-lane of some two hundred and eighty miles

that has constantly to be swept and cleared in advance of the traffic.

Navigation in the channel obstructs an efficient search for mines;

sweeping operations interfere with the passage of the ships. No small

amount of control and management is necessary to reconcile conflicting

actions and expedite the safe conduct of the shipping. Latterly,

sailings were restricted to the hours of daylight; a system of sectional

passages is enforced, by which all vessels are scheduled to make a

protected anchorage before nightfall. An effect of this is to group the

vessels in large scattered convoys, forming a pageant of shipping that

even the busiest days of peace-time could not rival.

In all the story of the Downs, the great roadstead can rarely have

presented such a scene as when, on a chill winter morning, we lay at

anchor awaiting passage. Overnight, we had come in under convoy from the

westward, eighteen large ships, to swell the tonnage that had gathered

from the Channel ports. From Kingsdown to the Gull, there was hardly

water-space to turn a wherry. Even in the doubtful holding ground of

Trinity Bay some large ships were anchored, and the fairway through the

Roads was encroached upon by more than one of us--despite the summary

signals from the Guardship. All types were represented in our assembly;

we boasted a combination in dazzle paint to set us out, and our signal

flags carried colour to the mastheads to complete the variegations of

our camouflage. Troop transports from the States, standard cargo ships,

munition carriers come over in the night from the French ports,

high-sided empty colliers returning to the north for further loads,

deep-laden freighters for London, ammunition and store ships for the

Fleet, coasters and barges, made up the mercantile shipping riding at

anchor, while naval patrols and harbour craft under way gave movement to

the spectacle. Snow had fallen, and the uplands above Deal and Walmer

had white drifts in the quartered fields. To seaward, we could see twin

wreaths of smoke blowing low on the water, marking the progress of a

flotilla of minesweepers, on whose operations we waited. A brisk north

wind held out our signal flags, shewing our ports of destination, and

the pilot cutter, busily serving men on the inward bound, took note of

our demands. In time, the punt delivered our pilot, and we hove short,

awaiting a signal from the Guardship that would release the traffic.

The teeth of the Goodwins had bared to a snarl of broken water that

shewed the young flood making when movement began among the ships. Long

experience had accustomed the pilots to the ways of the minesweepers,

and when the clearing signal 'Vessels may proceed' was hoisted at the

yard-arm of the Guardship, there were few anchors still to be raised.

Crowding out towards the northern gateway, we found ourselves in close

formation. Variations of speeds rendered the apparent confusion

difficult to steer through, but the action of a kindred masonry among

the pilots seemed to clear the narrow sea-lane. There was little easing

of speed; with only a few hours of winter daylight to work in, shipping

was being driven at its utmost power to make the most of the precious

time. 'All out,' stoking up and setting a stiff smoke-screen over the

seascape, we thinned out to a more comfortable formation, while the

smaller craft, taking advantage of the rising tide, cut the inner angles

of the channel to keep apace.

With flood tide to help us, we made good progress. The press of shipping

gradually dropped astern till only the troop transport, our

sea-neighbours of the convoy, kept company with us. Satisfied with the

speed made, the pilot reckoned up the mileage and the tide. We were for

Hull and, with luck, he expected to make Yarmouth Roads before darkness

and the Admiralty regulations obliged us to bring up. Like all who serve

the tide, he was prepared for an upset to his plans. "Not much use

figuring things out in these days, Capt'n," he said. "A lot o'

happenings come our way. In spite o' these fellows out there"--he

pointed to a group of destroyers lining out on our seaward beam--"the

U-boat minelayers get in on the channels to lay 'eggs'; as fast as we

can sweep them up, sometimes. But"--cheerfully--"they don't always get

back for another load: saw the bits o' one being towed into Harwich last

week."

Happenings came our way. At the Edinburgh Channel, where the troop

transports parted company and turned away for London, we were halted by

an urgent signal from a spurring torpedo-boat. 'Ships bound north to

anchor instantly,' was the reading of her flags; we rounded to and

obeyed. In groups and straggling units, we were joined by the larger

number of the fleet that had left the Downs with us. Some few were for

the Thames and steamed ahead in wake of the troop-ships, but the most

were bound for east-coast ports and anchored near the Channel Lightship.

Two hours of precious daylight were lost to us as we rode out the last

of the flood. High water came and we swung around on the cant of the

wind. The pilot grew visibly impatient. The traverse of his reckoning

lessened in mileage with every hasty step or two up and down the bridge.

Yarmouth Roads receded into the morrow; Lowestoft (if the chief could

crack her up to thirteen) was possible, but unlikely. Time passed, with

no clearing signal--we were to be 'nipped' on the long stretch with no

prospect but to dodge into Hollesay Bay before black night came.

By some mysterious agency, the coasters developed a foreknowledge of

permission to proceed. Feathers of white steam curled from their

windlasses, and their anchors were awash before the block was signalled

clear. They had start of us. Less handily, we got under way and stood on

into the Black Deep, where the smaller craft were throwing green smoke

in their efforts to get ahead. The tide had now turned ebb to set us on

our way. As we surged past the channel buoys the pilot was reassured.

The prospect of windy Lowestoft Roads beckoned him on with every coaster

we overhauled and passed; the outlook improved as we timed our passage

between the sea-marks. Off the Sunk, we came on the cause of our

stoppage. The pilot noted a new wreck on the sands, one that had not

been there when last he steered over this route. Beached at high water,

he said. She had not been long on. The wreck lay listed on a spit of

the sandbank. Her bows were blown open, exposing the interior of

forecastle and forehold. Neutral colours were painted on her topside;

the boats were gone and dangling boat-falls streamed alongside in the

tideway. There was no sign of life on her, but a patrol drifter was

standing by with a crowd of men on her decks. Out to seaward a flotilla

of minesweepers was busily at work. Turning no more than a curious eye

on the mined neutral, the pilot paid attention to the steering. That we

were over a mined area had no grave concern for him. Relying on the

minesweepers, he kept course and speed--the channel was reported clear.

LIGHTSHIPS

DEVOTED to the service of humanity, in a bond that linked all seafarers,

lightships and isolated sea-beacons were regarded as exempted from the

operation of warlike acts. The claim of the 'beacons established for the

guidance of mariners' rested upon a high conception of world-wide

service to mankind. Their duties were not directed to military uses or

to favouring alone the nation who manned them. Their upkeep was met by a

universal levy. Their warning beams were not withdrawn from foreign

vessels; no effort was made to establish the nationality of a ship in

distress ere setting portfire to the signal-gun to call out the

lifeboat. On rare occasions sea-rovers interfered with the operation of

the guide-marks. Retribution overtook them; they were outlawed by even

the loose opinion of the period. There is surely more than legend in the

ballad of Sir Ralph the Rover; if death by shipwreck was not actually

his fate, it is at least the penalty adjudged to him by popular acclaim.

Smeaton, in his Folio, records an instance of reparation for a similar

'diversion.'

"Lewis the Fourteenth being at war with England

during the proceeding with this building, a French

privateer took the men at work upon the Eddystone

Rock, together with their tools, and carried them

to France, and the Captain was in expectation of a

reward for the achievement. While the captives lay

in prison, the transaction reached the ears of

that monarch. He immediately ordered them to be

released and the captors to be put in their place:

declaring that though he was at war with England,

he was not at war with mankind. He therefore

directed the men to be sent back to their work

with presents, observing that the Eddystone

Lighthouse was so situated as to be of equal

service to all nations having occasion to navigate

the Channel."

A lightship is as peaceful and immobile as the granite blockstones of a

lighthouse. She requires an even greater protection, exposed as she is

to dangers on the sea that do not threaten the landward structure. She

is incapable of offence or defence. Unarmed, save for the signal-gun

that is only used to warn a vessel from the sands or to summon

assistance to a ship in distress, she can offer no resistance to a show

of force. She is moored to withstand the strongest gales, and cannot

readily disengage her heavy ground-tackle. She has no efficient means of

propulsion; parted from her stout anchors, she would drive helplessly on

to the very shoals she had been set to guard. To all seafarers, in war

as in peace, she should appeal as a sea-mark to be spared and protected;

in the service of humanity, she is exposed to danger enough--to the

furious gales from which she may not run.

Unlike the Grand Monarch, the Germans are bitterly at war with mankind.

As one of their first war acts at sea, they shelled the Ostend

Lightship. Like the Lamb, she was using the water; the Wolf would suffer

no protestation of her innocency. Was she not floating placidly on the

same tides that served the German coast?

In view of his subsequent atrocities in torpedoing hospital ships and

shelling rafts and open boats, it is probable that our light-vessels

would have been similarly destroyed by the enemy, but that his submarine

commanders found under-water navigation required as accurate a check as

in coasting on the surface. The fury of the Wolf was, in his own

interest, tardily suppressed. He recognized that the value of the

lightships in establishing a definite position was an asset to him.

Withal--his 'fix' decided--he had no qualms in sowing mines in the area

of these signposts; nor did he stay his hand in the case of a sea-mark

that was not vital to his plans. Two lightships on the east coast were

blown up by mines; one, off the coast of Ireland, was deliberately

torpedoed.

[Illustration: THE LAMPMAN OF THE GULL LIGHTSHIP]

The menace of the German sea-mine remains the greatest war danger to

which the lightships are exposed. Zeppelin and seaplane pay visits to

the coastal waters, but the sea is wide for a chance missile from the

air, and no great success has attended their bombing efforts. But the

enemy mine has no instant aim. Full-charged and deadly, its activity is

not confined--as the British mine is--to the area of the mooring. Their

minelayers, creeping in to the fairways in cloak of the darkness, are

anxious to settle their cargo of high explosive as quickly as possible.

Not all of the mines they sow hold to the hastily slipped 'sinkers' till

disaster to our shipping or the untiring search of the minesweepers

reveals their presence. Many break adrift and surge in the tideways,

moving as the set of the current takes them. Vessels under way, by keen

look-out and ready helm, can sight and avoid the drifting spheres, but

the lightships have no power to steer clear. Moored on the offset of

a shoal or sandbank (their position, indeed, a guide to the minelayer),

their broad bows offer contact to all flotsam that comes down on swirl

of the tide. The authorities were unwilling to expose their men to a

danger that could not be evaded, however gallant the shipmen or skilled

their seamanship. It was not a seagoing risk that could be met; no

adequate protection consistent with the lightship's mission could be

devised. As the submarine war became intensified, the more distant

vessels were withdrawn; new routes were set to divert shipping from the

outer passages; only those floating sea-marks are now maintained whose

removal would entail disaster to the traffic that passes by night and

day.

Holding station in waters that are patrolled and, in part, protected,

the Trinity men who form the crews of the lightships have readjusted

their manning. A large proportion of the able-bodied men have joined the

naval forces, leaving the older hands (and some few who have a physical

disability) to tend the lights. War risks still remain, for the German

minelayers have followed the shipping to the inner channels, but the

greybeards have grown stolid and immovable in a service that was never

at any time a safe and equable calling. They have become sadly familiar

with the new sea-warfare--with disaster to the shipping in the channels.

While they have incident enough, in the movement and activity of patrols

and war craft, in the ceaseless sweeping of the channels, to judge our

sea-power and take pride in its strength, they have all too frequent

experience of the murderous under-water mechanics of the enemy. Living

in the midst of sea-alarms, the old placid tedium of their 'sixty days'

has given place to an excitement that even the monotonous rounds of

their small ship-life cannot suppress. The men on the 'Royal Sovereign'

were observers of the terrific power of the sea-mine; three ships in

sight being blown to small wreckage within an hour. 'Shambles' jarred to

distant torpedoings off the Bill. The 'South Goodwin' saw _Maloja_

brought up in her stately progress by a thundering explosion, then

watched her list and settle in the stormy seaway; a second crash and

upheaval drew the eyes of the watch on deck to the fate of the _Empress

of Fort William_ as she was hastening to succour the people of the

doomed liner. Up Channel and down, the lightshipmen were observers of

the toll exacted by the enemy--the price we paid for the freedom of the

seas.

But not all their observations of sea-casualties brought gloom to the

dog-watch reckoning. If there remained no doubt of the intensity and

power of German submarine activity, they were equally assured of the

efficiency of our surface offence, and the deadly precision of our own

under-water counter-measures. On occasion, there were other sea-dramas

enacted under the eyes of the lightshipmen--short, swift engagements

that set an oily scum welling over the clean sea-space of the channel,

or an affair of rapid gunfire that cleared a pest from the narrow

waters. There is at least one instance of a lightship having a

commanding, if uncomfortable, station in an action between our drifters

and a large enemy submarine. The lampman of the 'Gull' had a front view.

. . . "Misty weather, it was. Day was just breakin', about seven o' th'

mornin' when I see him. I see him just over there--a little t' th'

nor'ard o' that wreckage on th' Sands. A big fella, about th' size o'

them oil-barges as passes hereabouts. I didn't make him out at

first--account o' th' mornin' haze, but there was somethin' over there

where no ship didn't oughta be. I calls down th' companion--'Master,' I

says, 'there's somethin' on th' north end o' th' Sands.' He comes up an'

has a look. Then we made 'im out what he was, a big German sub.--but he

hadn't no flag flyin'. Jest then we hears firin', an' th' shells goes

over us an' lands nigh him. They was three drifters jes' come out o' th'

Downs t' start sweepin' an', all three, they goes for him like

billy-o--firin' as they comes. We was right atween them an' th' shots

passes over th' lightship. One as was short just pitches clear an

'undred yards ahead o' us. Two guns he had--th' sub.--an' they didn't

half make a din as they goes at it--_bang-bang-bang!_ Th' drifters

passes us, goin' a full clip. The first one, she got hit a-top th'

wheelhouse, but they didn't stop for nothin'. The' keeps bangin' away

with th' gun. . . . Yes. Some shots landed hereabouts, but we was busy

watchin' th' drifters. . . . I see their shots hittin', too. I see one

blaze up on th' submarine's deck, an' one o' his guns didn't talk back

no more. Th' drifters was steerin' straight for him. I dunno how one o'

them didn't go ashore herself--near it, she was. The sub. was hard on by

this time, an' he stands high--with a list, too, but fightin' away like

he was afloat.

"Two more drifters come up an' they joins in, an' th' shells goes

_who-o-o-o!_ overhead again. Then a destroyer, he comes tearin' along at

full speed, an' he puts th' finishin' touch to him. There was an

explosion on th' submarine, an' th' nex' we see--we see his men tumblin'

out o' him overside t' th' Sands. . . . Them up t' their middles in th'

water an' holdin' their hands up."

The lampman was, of his service, a trained observer. He said nothing of

the scene on the deck of the lightship--the watch tumbling up from

below, their clothing hastily thrown on--the questioning, the alarmed

cries. His concern was directed to the happenings on spit of the Sands.

"Some shots landed hereabouts," he said; but his interest was on the

Goodwins.

[Illustration: MINESWEEPERS GOING OUT]

VII

'THE PRICE O' FISH'

THE inshore patrol hailed us and reported the channel clear as far as

the Nore, and we stood on at full speed, making the most of the short

winter daylight. Past the Elbow buoy, we met the minesweepers returning

from a sweep of their section. They were steaming in two columns, line

ahead, and we sheered a little to give them room; within the reading of

our Admiralty instructions, they were a 'squadron in formation,' to

whose movements we were advised to give way. They passed close. The

leader of the port column was _Present Help_; we read the name on a gilt

scroll that ornamented her wheelhouse. For the rest, she was trim in a

coat of iron-grey, with her port and number painted over. A small gun--a

six-pounder, perhaps--was mounted on her bows, and she carried a

weather-stained White Ensign aloft. She scurried past us, pitching to

our bow wash in an easy sidling motion that set her wheelhouse glasses

flashing a cheery message. The skipper leaned from an open doorway, in

an attitude of ease that, somehow, assured us of his day's work being

well done--with no untoward happenings. He waved his cap to our

greeting. _Present Help_ and her sisters went by, and we returned to our

course in the fairway.

"These lads," said the pilot, waving his arm towards the fast-receding

flotilla. "If it wasn't for these lads, Capt'n, you and I wouldn't feel

exactly comfortable on the bridge in channel waters. Two went up this

week, and one a little while agone." He turned his palms upward and

raised both arms in an expressive gesture. . . . "Three gone, one with

all hands, but only one merchant ship done in by mines hereabouts in the

last month. (_Starboard, a little, quartermaster!_) . . . I dunno how we

could carry on without them. Out there in all weathers, clearing the

fairways and--Gad!--it takes some doing. . . . I was talking to one of

the skippers in Ramsgate the other day. Saying what I'm

saying--(_Steady, now, steady's you go!_)--what I'm saying now, and all

he said was--'Right, pilot,' he says. 'If you feels that way, remember

it when we gets back to th' fishin' in peace-time, an'--for th' Lord's

sake--keep clear o' our gear when th' nets is down! I lost a tidy lot o'

gear,' he says, 'with tramps an' that bargin' about on th' fishin'

grounds.'. . . He didn't think nothing of this minesweeping. His mind

was bent on his nets and the fish again." A pause, while he conned the

ship on a steady course, then, reflectively, "An' there's some

folks--there's folks ashore growling about the price o' fish!"

Of courage in the war, on land as on sea, there are few records

comparable to the silent devotion of the fishermen. The heat of attack

and fury of battle may call out a reckless heroism that has no bounds to

individual gallantry, but the sustained courage required for a lone

action under heavy odds--every turn of the engagement being assessed and

understood--is of a rarer quality; mere physical health and high spirit

cannot generate it; tradition of a sea-inherence and long self-training

alone can bring it forth. That the fishermen (inured to a life of bold

hazard and hardship) would offer valuable service in emergency was never

doubted, but that the level of their gallantry should reach such

heights, even those who knew them were hardly prepared to assume. And we

were weak in our judgment, for their records held ample evidence by

which we should have been able to predict a bravery in war action no

less notable than their courage in the equally perilous ways of their

trade. For a lifetime at war with the sea, wresting a precarious living

from the grudging depths, their skill and resolution required no

stimulus under the added stress of sea-warfare. In the fury of the

channel gales, shipwreck and disaster called forth the same spirit of

dogged endurance and elevating humanity that marks their new seafaring

under arms. The countless instances of their service to vessels in

distress, to torpedoed merchantmen and warships, in the records of

strife, are but repetitions of their sea-conduct throughout the years of

their trading. When Rozhdestvensky's panic-stricken gunlayers opened

fire on the 'Gamecock' fleet on the Dogger, the story of that outrage

was distinguished by the same heroism of the trawlermen that ennobles

their diary to-day. When the _Crane_ was sinking, the crew of _Gull_,

themselves suffering under fire, boarded her to rescue the survivors. . . .

"When they got on board the _Crane_ they found the living members of the

crew lying about injured. The vessel was in total darkness, and it was

known that at any moment she might founder; yet Costello (the _Gull's_

boatswain) went below to the horrible little forecastle to bring up

Leggatt's dead body. Smith (the second hand), who took charge of the

_Crane_ when the skipper was killed, refused to leave her till every man

had been taken off. Rea (the engineer) showed unyielding courage when,

in spite of the fact that the little ship was actually foundering, he

groped back to the engine-room, which was in total darkness, to reach

the valves. The stokehold was flooded with water, and Rea could do

nothing. He went on deck, where the skipper was lying dead, and all the

survivors, except the boy, were wounded."

In all its bearings, the comradely action of the _Gull_ was but a

foreshadowing of _Gowan Lea's_ assistance to _Floandi_ in the raid by

Austrian cruisers on the drifter line in the Adriatic. The circumstances

were curiously alike--the actual occurrence, the individual deeds. We

have Skipper Nichols refusing to leave until his wounded were embarked,

and Engineman Mobbs groping (as Rea did) through the scalding steam of

_Floandi's_ wrecked engine-room to reach the stokehold and draw the

fires. Then, as in the Russians' sea-panic of October 1904, the

fishermen (fighting seamen now) came under a sudden and murderous

gunfire at close range. Overpowered by heavy armament, there was no

flinching, no surrender. _Gowan Lea_ headed for the enemy with her one

six-pounder spitting viciously. The issue was not considered--though

Skipper Joseph Watt must have had no doubt that he was steering his

drifter towards certain destruction. Her gun was quickly put out of

action. Her funnel and wheelhouse were riddled and shot to pieces. Water

made on her through shot-holes in the hull. On the gun-platform, her

gunlayer struggled to repair the mechanism of the breech--his leg

dangling and shattered. Shell-torn and incapable of further attack, she

drifted out of the line of fire. Bad as was her own condition, there

were others in worse plight. _Floandi_ had come under direct point-blank

fire, and her decks were a shambles. Out of control--her main steam-pipe

being shot through--seven dead or badly wounded, and only three

remaining to work her, she was in dire need of assistance. Skipper Watt

observed the distress of his sea-mate and steered _Gowan Lea_ down to

her to offer the same brotherhood as of the _Gull_ to _Crane_. The

analogy is peculiarly complete: the boarding, the succour to the

wounded, the reverent handling of the dead. Not as a new spirit born of

the stress of war, but as the outcome of an age-old tradition, Gowan Lea

stood by.

After four years of warfare at sea, serving under naval direction and

discipline, one would have expected the fisherman sailing under the

White Ensign to lose at least a certain measure of his former

character--to have become a naval seaman in his habits of thought, in

his actions, his outlook. Four years of constant service! A long term!

He has come under a control that differs as poles apart from the free

days of 'fleeting' and 'single boating.' He is set to service in

unfamiliar waters and abnormal climates, but the habits of the old trade

still cling to him. New gear comes to his hands--sweeps, depth-keepers,

explosive nets, hydrophones, and paravanes--but he regards them all as

adaptations to his fishing service. He is unchanged. He is still

fishing; that his 'catch' may be a huge explosive monster capable of

destroying a Dreadnought does not seem to have imposed a new turn to his

thoughts. He is apart from the regular naval service. The influence of

his familiar little ship, the association of his kindred shipmates, the

technics of a common and unforgettable trade, have proved stronger than

the prestige of a naval uniform. In his terms and way of speech, he

draws no new farrago from his brassbound shipmate. Did not the skipper

of the duty patrol hail _Aquitania_ on her approach to the Clyde booms

and advise the captain? . . . 'Tak' yeer _bit boatie_ up atween thae twa

trawlers!'

The devotion and gallantry and humanity of the fishermen is not confined

to the enlisted section who man the patrol craft and minesweepers. The

regular trade, the old trade, works under the same difficulties and

dangers that ever menaced the ingathering of the sea-fishery. Serving on

the sea in certain areas, the older men and the very young still

contrive to shoot the nets and down the trawls. Their contribution to

the diminished food-supply of the country is not gained without loss;

'the price o' fish' is too often death or mutilation or suffering under

bitter exposure in an open boat. The efforts of the enemy to stop our

food-supply are directed with savage insistence towards reducing the

rations drawn from the deeps of the sea; brutality and vengeful fury

increase in intensity as the days pass and the indomitable fishermen

return and return to their grounds. In August 1914, fast German cruisers

and torpedo-boats raided our fleets on the Dogger Bank. Twenty fishing

vessels were sunk, their crews captured. There was no killing. ". . .

The sailors [of the torpedo-boat] gave us something to eat and drink,

and we could talk and were pretty free," said the skipper of _Lobelia_.

Later, on being taken ashore ". . . with German soldiers on each side of

us, and the women and boys and girls shouting at us and running after us

and pelting us, we were marched through the streets of Wilhelmshaven to

a prison." Hardship, abuse! Now ridicule! ". . . The Germans stripped

us of everything we had. . . . But they were not content with that--they

disfigured us by cutting one half of the hair of our heads off and one

half of the moustache, cropping close and leaving the other half on,

making you as ugly as they could. . . . It was a nasty thing to do; but

we made the best of it, and laughed at one another."

Hardship, abuse, ridicule! The fishermen still served their trade at

sea. Now, brutality! The third hand of _Boy Ernie_ details the callous

precision of German methods in September 1915. The smack was unarmed.

". . . It was very heavy and deliberate fire. [There were two enemy

submarines.] The shots . . . were coming on deck and going through the

sails. We threw the boat overboard and tumbled into her. . . . I started

sculling the boat away from the smack, all the time under fire; but the

Germans were not content with firing shells at a helpless craft--they

now turned a machine-gun on to defenceless fishermen in a boat on the

open sea. . . . The boat was getting actually riddled by the machine-gun

fire, and before I knew what was happening, I was struck by a bullet on

the right thigh, and began to bleed dreadfully. . . . The smack was

blown to pieces and went down. This was the work of one of the

submarines--while she was sinking the smack the other was firing on us."

Throughout all the malevolent and calculated campaign of destruction,

the fishermen remain steadfast to their old traditions of humanity. When

_Vanilla_ is torpedoed without warning and vanishes in a welter of

broken gear, her sea-mate, _Fermo_, dodging a second torpedo, steams to

the wreckage to rescue the survivors--but finds none. In a heavy gale,

_Provident_ of Brixham risks her mast and gear, gybing to close the

sinking pinnace of the torpedoed _Formidable_, and rescue the exhausted

seventy-one men who crowded her. The instances of fisher help to

merchantmen in peril are uncounted and uncountable.

In the distant days when the Sea Services were classed apart, each in

its own trade and section--working by a rule that admitted no

co-partnery--we foreign traders had little to do with those whom (in our

arrogance) we deemed the 'humble' fishermen. In the mists of the channel

waters, we came upon them at their trawls or nets. Their floats and

buoys obstructed our course; the small craft, heading up on all angles,

confused the operation of a 'Rule of the Road.' Impatient of an

alteration that took us miles from a direct course, we felt somewhat

resentful of their presence on the sea-route. That they were gathering

and loading a cargo under stress and difficulty that contrasted with

_our_ easy stowage in the shelter of a dock or harbour, did not occur to

us; they were obstructionists, blocking our speedy passage with their

warps and nets and gear. Although most masters grudgingly steered clear,

there were those in our ranks who elected to hold on through the fleets,

unconcerned by the confusion and risk to the fishermen's gear that

their passage would occasion. There were angry shouts and protests; the

gear and nets were often the sole property of the fishermen; serious

losses were sustained.

At war, we have incurred debts. When peace comes and the seas are free

again, we shall have memories of what we owe to the fishermen in all the

varied services they have paid to us. The minesweepers toiling in the

channels, that we may not meet sudden death; patrols riding out bitter

weather in the open to warn us from danger, to succour and assist the

remnants of our manning when a blow goes home. War has purged us of many

old arrogant ways. When next we meet the fishing fleet at peaceful work

in the channels, we shall recall the emotion and relief with which we

sighted their friendly little hulls bearing down to protect us in a

menaced seaway. We shall 'keep clear o' th' gear when th' nets is

down.'

[Illustration: SOUTHAMPTON WATER]

VIII

THE RATE OF EXCHANGE

THE Bank of England official, who had been a close attendant on the

bridge during the early part of the voyage, seems now to be reassured.

We are nearing land again. Another day should see us safely berthed at

New York, where--his trust discharged--a pleasant interval should open

to him ere returning to England. The gold and securities on board are

reason for his passage; he is with us as our official witness, should

the activity of an enemy raider compel us to throw the millions

overboard. Nothing has happened. The 'danger zone' has been passed

without event. Stormy weather on the Grand Banks has given way to light

airs and a smooth sea as we steer in to make our landfall.

Together on the navigation bridge, we are discussing the shipment.

". . . It is the exchange, Captain," he says. "The exchange is against

us. These huge war purchases in the States cannot be balanced by the

moderate exports we are able to send over. When we left Liverpool the

sovereign was worth four dollars, seventy-one cents in America. I don't

know where it is going to end. We can't make securities. There must be a

lim----" Drumming of the wireless telephone cuts in on his words.

"Operator wishes to know if he can leave the 'phones, sir? Says he has

to see you."

The bridge messenger turns aside inquiringly, holding out the receiver

of the telephone as a context to his words. The request, that would have

aroused an instant disquiet six days ago, now appears trivial and

normal. There may be receipts to be signed. Approaching port the

operator will be completing his accounts. We are unconcerned and resume

our conversation until he arrives.

He is insistent that it cannot be due to atmospherics. "A queer

business, sir. Thought it best to report instead of telephoning. Some

station addressing a message to ABMV [all British merchant vessels], and

another trying to jam it out. Can't get more than the prefix, when

jamming begins. No, not atmospherics. I've taken ABMV, though distant,

twice in this watch, and, looking up the junior's jottings for the last

watch, I see he had traces. Whatever is jamming the message out is

closer to us than the sender. I dunno what to make of it!"

"You mean that a message from a land station to us is being interfered

with, deliberately, from somewhere near at hand?"

He produces the slip of his junior's scribbles. Among the jumble of

noughts and crosses, there is certainly a hastily scrawled ABMV, then

x's and x's. "What else, sir? At first I thought it was

atmospherics--x's were fierce last watch--but x's can't happen that way

twice running!"

"All right! Carry on again. Let me know at once if anything further.

Gear to be manned continuously from now on. Keep your junior at hand."

[Illustration: 'OUT-BOATS' IN A MERCHANTMAN]

A queer business! We trim the possibilities in our mind. It is now

nearly dark. As we go, we should make Nantucket Lightship at daybreak;

our usual landfall on the voyage. There is not much to work on. 'A

message being sent, and some one making unusual efforts to prevent

receipt.' A raider? It is now some months since _Kronprinz Wilhelm_ was

driven into Norfolk; she cannot surely, have escaped internment.

_Karlsruhe?_ Nothing has been heard of her for a long term. A submarine?

Perhaps _Deutschland_, with his torpedo-tubes refitted and a gun

mounted? He knows the way; he could carry oil enough to reach the coast,

do a strafe, and sneak into a port for internment. . . . Figuring on the

chart, measuring distance and course and speed, it comes to us that

enemy action would best succeed off Nantucket or the Virginia Capes. We

resolve to cut in between the two, to make the land below Atlantic City,

and take advantage of territorial waters. If there is no serious

intention behind the jamming of the wireless, there will be no great

harm done--we shall only lose ten hours on the passage; if a raider

is out, we shall, at least, be well off the expected route. We pass the

orders.

A quiet night. We are steering into the afterglow of a brilliant sunset.

The mast and rigging stand out in clear black outline against lingering

daylight as we swing south four points. The look-out aloft turns from

his post and scans the wake curving to our sheer; anon, he wonders at

the coming of a mate to share his watch. Passengers, on a stroll, note

unusual movement about the boat-deck, where the hands are swinging out

lifeboats and clearing the gear. As the carpenter and his mates go the

rounds, screwing blinds to the ports and darkening ship, other

passengers hurry up from below and join the groups on deck; an

excitement is quickly evident. They had thought all danger over when, in

thirty degrees west, we allowed them to discard the cumbersome

life-jackets that they had worn since leaving the Mersey. And

now--almost on the threshold of security and firm land--again the

enervating restrictions and routine, the sinister preparations, the

atmosphere of sudden danger. Rumours and alarms fly from lip to lip; we

deem it best to publish that the wireless has heard the twitter of a

strange bird.

Before midnight, the bird is identified. Our theories and conjectures

are set at rest. The operator, changing his wave-length suddenly from

600 to 300 metres, succeeds in taking a message. '_From Bermuda_'--of

all places--'_to ABMV German armed submarine left Newport eighth stop

take all precautions ends_.' A submarine! And we had thought the limits

of their activity stopped at thirty degrees west. Even the Atlantic is

not now broad enough! The definite message serves to clear our doubts. A

submarine from Newport will certainly go down off Nantucket. Our course

should now take us ninety miles south of that. There remains the measure

of his activity. A fighting submarine that can navigate such a distance

is new to us. His speed and armament are unknown. We can hardly gauge

his movements by standards of the types we know. We are unarmed; our

seventeen knots top speed may not be fast enough for an unknown

super-submarine. Crowded as we are by civilian passengers, we cannot

stand to gunfire. A hit will be sheer murder. It is a problem! We return

to the deck and make three figures of that ninety miles.

The pulse of the ship beats high in the thrust and tremor of the

engines, now opened out to their utmost speed; the clean-cut bow wave

breaks well aft, shewing level and unhindered progress. In the calm

weather, the whirl of our black smoke hangs low astern, joining the sea

and sky in a dense curtain; we are prompted by it to a wish for misty

weather when day breaks--to make a good screen to our progress. Though

dark, the night is clear. A weak moon stands in the east, shedding

sufficient light to brighten the lift. We overhaul some west-bound

vessels in our passage and warn them by signal. Two have already taken

Bermuda's message and are alert, but one has no wireless, and is heading

up across our course. We speak her; her lights go out quickly, and she

turns south after us.

Daybreak comes with the thin vapours of settled weather that may turn to

a helpful haze under the warm sun. We zigzag in a wide S from the first

grey half-light, for we are now due south of the Lightship. In the

smooth glassy surface of the sea we have an aid to our best defence--the

measure of our eyes. We note a novel vigilance in the watchkeepers, a

suppressed anxiety that was not ours in the infinitely more dangerous

waters of the channels. The unusual circumstance of zigzagging and

straining look-out for a periscope almost in American waters has gripped

us. Every speck of flotsam is scanned in apprehension. The far-thrown

curl of our displacement spitting on the eddy of the zigzag, throws up a

feather that calls for frequent scrutiny. We have no lack of unofficial

assistance in our look-out. From early morning, the passengers are

astir--each one entrammelled in a life-jacket that reminds them

continually of danger. For the children, it is a new game--a source of

merriment--but their elders are gravely concerned. Gazing constantly

outboard and around, they add eyes to our muster. Every hour that passes

without event seems to increase the tension; the size and numbers of

enemy vessels grow with the day. A telegraph-cable ship at work is

hailed as 'a raider in sight'--a Boston sea-tug, towing barges south, is

taken for a supply-ship with submarines in tow.

The wireless operator reports from time to time. The 'humming bird'

(whoever he is) has ceased jamming. The air is full of call and

counter-call. Halifax is working with an unknown sea-station--long

messages in code. Coastal stations are joined in the 'mix-up.' Cape Cod

is offering normal 'traffic' to the American steamer _St. Paul_, as

though there was no word of anything happening within reach of the

radio. It is all very perplexing. Perhaps the Bermuda message was a

hoax; some 'neutral' youth on the coast may have been working an

unofficial outfit, as had been done before. Anon, an intercepted message

comes through. A Hollands steamer sends out '_S.O.S._ . . . _S.O.S._. . .'

but gives no name or position. Then there is silence; nothing working,

but distant mutterings from Arlington.

Throughout the day we swing through calm seas, shying at each crazy

angle of the zigzag in a turn that slows the measured beat of the

engines. Night coming and the haze growing in intensity, we use the

lead--sounding at frequent intervals--and note the lessening depth that

leads us in to the land. At eight, we reach six fathoms--the limit of

American territorial waters. It is with no disguised relief we turn

north and steer a straight course.

Although now less concerned with the possibility of enemy interference,

we have anxiety enough in the navigation of a coastal area in hazy

weather. We reduce speed. The mist has deepened to a vapour that hangs

low in the direction of the shore. House lights glimmer here and there,

but only by the lead are we able to keep our distance. A glow of light

over Atlantic City shews itself mistily through a rift in the haze and

gives an approximation of our latitude, but it is Barnegat's

quick-flashing lighthouse beam that establishes our confidence and

enables us to proceed at better speed. We shew no lights. For all we are

in American waters, we have not forgotten _Gulflight_ and _Nebraskan_

and other international 'situations'; we look for no consideration from

the enemy and preserve a keen look-out. Vessels pass us in the night

bound south with their deck lights ablaze, but we stand on up the coast

with not a glimmer to show our presence. Turning wide out to the

shoal-water off Navesink, we sight the pilot steamer lying to. We switch

on all lights and steer towards her.

It is not often one finds the New York pilots unready, but our sudden

arrival has taken them aback. We have to wait. Daybreak is creeping in

when the yawl comes alongside with our man. He is an old

Swedish-American whom we had long suspected of pro-German leanings, but

the relief and enthusiasm on his honest old face is undisguised. "Gott!

I am glat to see yo, Cabtin," he calls. "Dere vas a rumour dat yo vas

down too! Yoost now, ven yo signal de name of de ship, I vas

glat--glat!" He is full of his news; there are rumours and rumours. 'The

White Star mailboat is down,' 'a Prince liner is overdue,' 'there are

fears for a Lamport and Holt boat.' In view of our safe arrival, he is

prepared to discount the rumours. What is certain is that U 53 has

arrived in these waters, and has already sunk six large ships off

Nantucket.

* * * * *

A day later we turn to the commercial pages of the _New York Herald_.

Our arrival is reported, and it seems that the sovereign is now worth

$4.72 1/16!

IX

INDEPENDENT SAILINGS

UNTIL nearly three years of war had gone on, we sailed independently as

'single' ships, setting our speeds and courses and conforming only to

the general route instructions of the Admiralty. The submarine menace

did not come upon us in a sudden intensity. Its operation was gradually

unfolded and counter-measures were as methodically advanced to meet it.

The earliest precaution took the form of a wide separation of the ships,

branching the sea-routes apart on the sound theory that submarines would

have voyaging to do to reach their victims. While this was a plan of

value on the high seas, it could not be pursued in the narrower waters

of the channels. Destroyers in sufficient numbers not being available to

patrol these waters, fishing craft--trawlers and drifters--were

commissioned to that service. Being of moderate speed, their activities

were not devoted to a mass operation, by which they could group the

merchantmen together for protection. The custom was still to separate

them as widely as possible, each zigzagging on her own plan. Until the

convoy system was established, measures for our protection did not take

the form of naval escorts sailing in our company: such vessels were only

provided for transports or for ships on military service: vessels on

commercial voyages were largely left to their own resources when clear

of harbour limits.

[Illustration: FIREMEN STANDING BY TO RELIEVE THE WATCH]

That all sea-going vessels should carry a wireless installation was one

of the first measures enforced by Admiralty. The magnificent resources

of the Marconi Company, though strained, were equal to the task. There

was a life-labour alone in the technical education of their operators,

but they drilled the essentials of their practice into landward youths

in a few months--blessed them with a probationer's licence--and sent

them to sea. It is idle to speculate on what we could have done without

this communication with the beach: it is inconceivable that we could

have served the sea as we have done. Throughout the length of channel

waters, we were constantly in visual touch with the patrols, but in the

more open seas we relied on the wireless to keep us informed of enemy

activities. At first, we were lavish in its use. The air was scored by

messages--'back chat' was indulged in by the operators. An _S.O.S._ (and

they were frequent) was instant signal for a confusion of

inquiries--a battery of call and counter call--that often prevented the

ready succour of a vessel in distress. We grew wiser. We put a seal on

the switch. Regulations came into force to restrain unnecessary

'sparking'; we sat in to listen and record, and only to speak when we

were spoken to.

Codes were issued by the Admiralty for use at sea. Their early

cryptogram was easily decoded by friend and enemy alike. Knowing that

certain words would assuredly be embodied in the text of a message

(words such as, _from_--_latitude_--_report_--_submarine_--_master_), it

was not difficult to decipher a code of alphabetical sequence. There

were famous stories of traitors and spies, but our authoritative

simplicity was responsible for the occasional leakage of information. At

this date, 1915-16, wireless position-detectors came into use by the

enemy. A spark-group, repeated after an interval, could give a fair

approximation of distance and course and speed. More than ever it was

necessary to maintain silence when at sea. Withal, the air was still in

strong voice. At regular periods the great longshore radios threw out

war warnings to guide us in a choice of routes and warn us away from

mined areas. Patrols and war craft kept up an incessant, linking report.

Distress signals hissed into the atmosphere in urgent sibilance, then

faltered and died away. On occasion, the high note of a _Telefunken_ set

invited a revealing confidence that would lead us, 'chicky-chicky,' to

the block. We were well served by Marconi.

Extension of the power of enemy submarines brought new practice to our

seafaring. We had made the most of a passage by the land, steering so

close that the workers in the fields paused in their toil and waved us

on; but the new under-water craft crept in as close, and mined the

fairways. We were ordered to open sea again, to steer the shortest

course by which we could reach a depth of water that could not be mined.

Zigzag progress now assumed the importance that was ever its right. It

had been but cursorily maintained. The 'shortest distance between two

points' had, for so long, been our rule that many masters were unwilling

to steer in tangents. On passage in the more open sea, they were soon

converted to a belief in the efficacy of a crazy course. Statistics of

our losses proved the virtue of the tangent: of a group of six vessels

sunk in a certain area only one--a very slow vessel--was torpedoed while

maintaining a zigzag. Extracts from the diary of a captured submarine

commander were circulated among us, giving ground for our confidence, in

the frequent admissions of failure--"owing to a sudden and unexpected

alteration of course."

Still, we were unarmed. If, by zigzag and a keen look-out, we were

fortunate in evading torpedo attack, the submarine had by now mounted a

surface armament, and we were exposed to another equally deadly offence.

For our protection, Admiralty placed a new type of warship on the

routes approaching the channels. Built originally for duty as

minesweepers, the sloops were faster and more heavily armed than the

drifters. They patrolled in a chain of five or six over the routes that

we were instructed to use. During the daylight hours we were rarely out

of sight of one or other of the vessels forming the chain. Our route

orders were framed towards a definite point of departure into the high

seas when darkness came. There, the patrol of the sloops ended: we had

the hours of the night to make our offing and, by daybreak again, were

assumed to be clear of the 'danger zone.' But the 'danger zone' was

being extended swiftly; it was not always possible to traverse the area

in the dark hours of a night: only the fast liners could stretch out a

speed that would serve. Profiting by experience that was constantly

growing, the _Reichsmarineamt_ constructed larger submarines capable of

remaining long at sea, and of operating in ocean areas that could not

adequately be patrolled. Twelve, fifteen--then twenty degrees of

longitude marked their activity advancing to the westward: they went

south to thirty-five: in time the Mediterranean became a field for their

efforts. Gunfire being the least expensive, they relied on their deck

armament to destroy unarmed shipping. The patrols were but rarely in

sight; the submarine became a surface destroyer. There was no necessity

for submergence on the ocean routes: under-water tactics were held in

reserve for use against fast ships--the slower merchantmen were

brought-to in a contest that was wholly in favour of the U-boat. In a

heavy Atlantic gale, _Cabotia_ was sunk by gunfire, 120 miles from land.

She had not the speed to escape. Despite the heavy seas that swept over

the submarine and all but washed the gunner from the deck, the enemy was

able to keep up a galling fire that ultimately forced the master to

abandon his ship. _Virginia_ was fired upon at midnight when steering

for the Cerigo Channel. Notwithstanding the courage of Captain Coverley,

who remained on board to the last, there could be but one end to the

contest. _Virginia_ was sunk. A strong ship; the enemy had to expend two

of his torpedoes to destroy her.

Against such attacks only one measure could be advocated--the measure we

had for so long been demanding. It was impossible to patrol adequately

all the areas of our voyaging. Guns were served to us and we derived a

confidence that the enemy quickly appreciated. We did not expect wholly

to reduce his surface action, but we could and did expose him to the

risk he had come so far out to sea to avoid. On countless occasions our

new armament had effect in keeping him to his depths, with the

consequent waste of his mobile battery power. Even in gun action he

could no longer impose his own speed power on a slow ship. Under

conditions that he judged favourable to his gunnery, the submarine

commander still exercised his ordnance--usually after a torpedo had

failed to reach its mark. Many of the hazards were against us, but our

weapons brought the contest to a less unequal balance. If we did present

the larger target, we had--in our steady emplacement--a better platform

from which to direct our fire. From the first it was a competition of

range and calibre. Six-pounders led to twelves; these in turn gave way

to 4.7's. Anon, the enemy mounted a heavier weapon, to which we replied

by a new type of 4-inch, sighted to 13,000 yards.

Thus armed and equipped, we were in better condition to meet the enemy

in our independent sailings. He was again obliged largely to return to

the use of his torpedoes, with all the maze of under-water approach that

that form of attack involved. If outranged in a surface action, we had

our smoke-producing apparatus to set up a screen to his shell-fire, and

that form of defence had the added value of forcing him to proceed at a

high and uneconomical speed to press an attack. Some of our gun actions

resulted in destruction of a sea-pest, but all--however

unsuccessful--contributed to lessen his power of offence. Every torpedo

fired, every hour of submergence, every knot of speed expended in a

chase, was so far a victory for us as to hasten the date when he would

be obliged to head back to his base. His chances of survival in that

passage through the patrols and the nets and mines could not be

considered as good.

[Illustration: QUEEN'S DOCK, GLASGOW]

X

BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK

"_All vessels are prohibited from approaching within four miles

of Rathlin Island between sunset and sunrise_"

IN view of Admiralty instructions, we are 'proceeding as

requisite'--turning circles, dodging between Tor Point and Garron

Head--and awaiting daybreak to make a passage through Rathlin Sound.

Steering south from the Clyde, we had reached Skullmartin when the

wireless halted us. Enemy activity off the south coast of Ireland had

become intensified, and all traffic from west-coast ports was ordered to

proceed through the North Channel. In groups and singles, the ships from

Liverpool and the Bristol Channel join us, and we make a busy

channel-way of the usually deserted coastal waters. We show no lights,

but the moon-ray reveals us, sharply defined, as we pass and repass on

the lines of our courses. We keep well within the curve of the coast

until the light grows in the east, then turn finally to the north. The

sun comes up as we reach Fair Head, and we stand on towards the entrance

of the Sound.

In the first hour of official clearance, the North Channel is busy with

the traffic. Outside as well as within, ships have been gathering in

anticipation of Admiralty sunrise. The seaway over by the mainland shore

is scored and lined by passage of the inward-bound vessels, all pressing

on at their best speed to make their ports before nightfall. A strong

ebb tide runs through, favouring our company of outward-bounders. We

swing past Rue Point in a rip and whirl that gives the helmsman cause

for concern, cross the bight of the Bay at a speed our builders never

contemplated, and round the west end of the Island before the sun has

risen high.

It is fine weather in the Atlantic. Only the slight heave of an

under-running swell, and the rips and overfalls of the tide, mark the

smooth surface of the sea: the light north airs that come and go have no

strength to ruffle the glassy patches. Everything promises well for

speedy progress. The engines are opened out to their utmost capacity.

Already we have drawn ahead of the press of shipping that marked time

with us on the other side of the channel. Our only peer, a large Leyland

liner, has opened out abeam of us and the whirl of black smoke at his

funnel-tip shows that he is prepared to make and keep the pace. 'To

proceed at such a time as to reach 56 deg. 40' North, 11 deg. West, by

nightfall'--is the reading of our new route orders. We shall have need

of the favour of the elements if we are to reel off 200 miles between

now and 10 p.m. Anon, we pass Oversay and the Rhynns of Islay and head

for a horizon that has no blue mountain-line to break the level thread

of it. Our sea-mates of the morning are hull down behind us--the slower

vessels already turning west on the inner arms of the fan formation that

is devised to keep us widely separated in the 'danger area.' Only the

Leyland boat remains with us. We steer on a similar mean course, but the

angles of our independent zigzags make our progress irregular in

company. At times we sheer a mile or more apart, then close perceptibly

to crossing courses. She has perhaps the better speed, but her stoking

is irregular. Drawing ahead for a term, she shows us her broad sternwash

in a flurry of disturbed water; then comes the cleaning of the fires--we

pull up and regain a station on her beam.

So, till afternoon, we keep in company--pressing through the calm seas

at a speed that augurs well for our timely arrival in 11 deg. West. We

sight few vessels. A lone drifter on patrol speaks us and reports no enemy

sighted in the area: an auxiliary cruiser with a destroyer escorting her

passes south on the rim of the landward horizon. A drift of smoke astern

of us hangs in the clear air, then resolves to a fast Cunarder that

speedily overhauls and passes us. As though impressed by the mail-boat's

progress, our sea-mate puts a spurt on and maintains a better speed than

any she has shown since morning. She draws ahead and we are left with

clear water to exercise the cantrips of our zigzag.

An _allo_ is intercepted by the wireless in the dog-watch. (We have

coined a new word to report an enemy submarine in sight, a word that

cannot offer a key to our codes.) It comes from the Cunarder, now out of

sight ahead. We figure the radius on the chart, and bear off six points

on a new course to keep well clear of the area. The Leyland liner is by

now well ahead and we note she has turned to steer west. There is a

slight difference in our courses and we draw together again as we steam

on. The wireless operator now reports that a vessel near at hand has

acknowledged the Cunarder's _allo_. Shortly a man-o'-war sloop appears

in sight and passes north at high speed, steering towards the position

we are avoiding.

The second officer keeps a keen look-out. He has had bitter experience

of the power of an enemy submarine and is anxiously desirous that it

should not be repeated. A 'check' on the distant sea-line (that we had

taken for the peak of a drifter's mizen) draws his eye. He reports a

submarine in sight--broad on the port bow. The circle of our telescope

shows the clean-cut horizon ruling a thread on the monotint of sea and

sky. Sweeping the round, a grey pinnacle leaps into the field of view.

It is over-distant for ready recognition. Only by close scrutiny,

observing a hair-line that rises and falls on either side of the grey

upstanding point, are we able to recognize our enemy. He is pressing on

at full speed, trusting to our casual look-out, that he may secure a

favourable position to submerge and attack. Our fine confidence with

which we have anticipated such a meeting gives place to a more sober

mood. Though not yet in actual danger, there is the former _allo_ to be

thought of--the possibilities of a combination. Quick on recognition, we

alter course, steering to the north again. The gun, already manned, is

brought to the 'ready,' and the intermittent crackle of the wireless

sends out an urgent warning. The Leyland steamer starts away at first

sight of our signals: ahead, grey smoke on the horizon marks where the

patrol sloop has gone hull-down.

A spurt of flame throws out from the distant submarine. He has noted our

sudden alteration of course and knows that he has now no prospect of

reaching torpedo range unobserved. His shell falls short by about a

thousand yards. We reply immediately at our extreme elevation, but

cannot reach him. The next exchange is closer--he is evidently

overhauling us at speed. Mindful of our limited fifty rounds, we

telephone to the gun-layer to reserve his fire until he has better

prospect of a hit. Two shots to our one; the enemy persists though he

does not now seem to be closing the range. Our seventh shot pitches

close to him, and ricochets. There is a burst of flame on his

deck--whether from his gun or the impact of our shell we shall never

know; when the spume and spray fall away he has dived.

Suddenly, it is recalled to us that we have been, for over half an hour,

steering into the radius of the Cunarder's _allo_. The patrol sloop has

turned to close us and is rapidly approaching. A decision has quickly to

be made. If we stand on to keep outside torpedo range of our late

antagonist, we may blunder into the sights of number two. North and east

and west are equally dangerous: we may turn south-east, but our course

is for the open sea. The sloop sheers round our stern and thunders up

alongside. Receiving our information, her helm goes over and she swings

out to investigate the area we have come from. We decide to steer to the

north-west as the shortest way to the open sea.

We have the luck of the cast. As we ease helm to our new course, the

ship jars and vibrates--a thundering explosive report comes to our ears.

The Leyland liner close on our starboard quarter has taken a torpedo and

lies over under a cloud of spume and debris.

XI

ON SIGNALS AND WIRELESS

FOR war conditions our methods and practice of signalling were woefully

deficient. In sailing-ship days the code was good enough; we had no need

for Morse and semaphore. We had time to pick and choose our signals and

send them to the masthead in a gaudy show of reds and blues and yellows.

Our communications, in the main, were brief and stereotyped. "What ship?

Where from? How many days out? Where bound? Good-bye--a pleasant

passage!" Occasionally there was a reference to a coil of rope or a

tierce of beef, but these were garrulous fellows. The ensign was dipped.

We had 'spoken'; we would be reported 'all well!'

Good enough! There were winches to clean and paint, bulwarks to be

chipped and scaled, that new poop 'dodger' to be cut and sewn. "Hurry

up, there, you sodgerin' young idlers! Put the damned flags in the

locker, and get on with the _work_!"

With steam and speed and dispatch increasing, we found need for a

quicker and more instant form of signal correspondence. New queries and

subjects for report grew on us, and we had to clip and abbreviate and

shorthand our methods to meet the lessening flag-sight of a passing

ship. We altered the Code of Signals, adding vowels to our flag

alphabet. We cut out phrases like 'topgallant studding sail boom' and

'main spencer sheet blocks,' and introduced 'fiddley gratings' and

'foo-foo valve.' Even with all our trimming, the book was tiresome and

inadequate. We began to fumble with Morse and semaphore, with

flashlights and wig-wags and hand-flags.

We did it without a proper system. As a titbit to our other 'snippings,'

medicine, the Prayer Book, the law, ship's business, the breeches buoy,

ship-cookery! Fooling about with flags and tappers and that, was all

very well for the watch below, but there was _work_ to be done--the

binnacles to be polished, the sacred _suji-mudji_ to be slapped on and

washed off!

Hesitating and slipshod and inexact as we were, at least we made, of our

own volition, a start; a start that might, under proper and specialized

direction, have made an efficient and accurate addition to the sum of

our sea-lore. But we were wedded to titbits. Late on the tide, as

usual, the Board of Trade woke up to what was going on. They added a

'piece' to our lessons, without thought or worry as to the provision of

facilities for right instruction. We crammed hard for a few days, fired

our shot at the right moment, and forgot all about it.

[Illustration: THE BRIDGE-BOY REPAIRING FLAGS]

Withal, in our own amending way, we were enthusiastic. We learned the

trick of _Ak_ and _Beer_ and _Tok_ and _Pip_. We slapped messages at one

another (in the dog-watches), in many of which a guess was as good a

translation as any. Our efforts received tolerating and amused

recognition from naval officers (secure in possession of scores of

highly trained signal ratings). If we came, by chance, across an affable

British warship, she would perhaps masthead an E (exercise), to show

that there was no ill-feeling. Then was the time to turn out our star

man, usually the junior-est officer, and set him up to show that we were

not such duffers, after all! Alas! The handicaps that came against us!

The muddled backgrounds (camouflage, as ever was!), the fatal

backthought to a guess at the last word! The call and interfering

counter-call from reader to writer, and writer to reader, and, finally,

the sad admission--an inevitable _Eye_, _emmer_, _eye_ (I.M.I.--please

repeat), when our scrawl and jumble of conjectural letters would not

make sense! We have yet a mortifying memory of such an incident, in

which a distant signalman spelt out to us, clearly and distinctly, "_Do

you speak English?_"

Under the stress of war we have improved. Fear for the loss of important

information has spurred us to keener appreciation. If you promise not to

flirt the flags backhanded (a most damnably annoying habit of superior,

_flic-flac_ Navy men) we can read you in at ten or twelve words a

minute. For single-ship work, that was good enough; if we had a press of

signalling to attend, we could make up for our busy time in leisurely

intervals. But convoy altered that. In the Naval Service a signalman

has nothing whatever to do in the wide world but attend to signals. It

is his only job: a highly trained speciality. With us the demands of

ship work on our bare minimum crews do not allow of a duty signaller; he

must bear a hand with the rest to straighten out the day's work. In

convoy, with signals flying around like crows at the harvest, we found

our way of it unworkable. It resolved itself to what used to be called a

'grand rally' in pantomime--all hands on the job, and the officer of the

watch neglecting a keen look-out to see that note of the message was

kept properly.

The naval authorities took counsel. The experiment had been a 'try on,'

in which they (with their large staff of special signalmen) had assessed

our ability as greater than their own! It was decided to train

signalmen--R.N.V.R.--for our service. Pending their formation and

development, we were given skilled assistance from the crews of our

ocean escorts. But for our gun ratings, and they mostly R.N.R., we had

no experience of the regular Navy man in our muster. He spun a bit,

trimming the grass, before he found rest and a level. With us only for a

voyage, we did not get to know him very well, but in all he was

competent enough.

One we had, from H.M.S. _Ber--Sharpset_, Private Henry Artful, R.M.L.I.

Drouthy, perhaps, but a good hand. At the end of sailing day, when the

flags were made up and stowed, he came on the bridge.

"Fine night, sir!" We assented, curiously; democratic and all as we are,

it is rather unusual for our men to be so--so sociable. "Larst capt'in I

wos with, sir, 'e allus gimme a drink after th' flag wos stowed."

We stared, incredulous. "What! Do you say the captain of _Sharpset_ gave

you a drink when your work was done?" He started in affright. "Not the

capt'in o' _Sharpset_, sir! Oh no, sir!--Gawd!--No! Th' capt'in o' th'

larst merchant ship wot I wos signallin' in!"

His horror, genuine and unconcealed, at our suggestion of such an

unheard-of transaction, gave illustration alike of the discipline in His

Majesty's ships and, sadly, the lack of it in ours.

In time our quickly trained R.N.V.R.'s joined. They came from Crystal

Palace, these new shipmates. Clean fellows--smart. Bacon-curers,

Cambridge men, lawyers, shopmen, clerks, haberdashers--trimmed and able

and willing to carry on, and lacking only a little ship practice, and a

turn of sea-legs, to fit them for a gallant part in delivering the

goods. With their coming we are introduced to a line of longshore life

that had escaped us. There is talk and ado of metropolitan habits and

styles, of 'Maudlen' and high life, of music scores, the latest revue,

the quips of the music-halls. ("When Pa--says--_turn_" is now the

correct aside, when Commodore gives executive for a new angle on the

zigzag!)

At the first we were somewhat concerned at the apparent 'idleness' of

our signalman. He was on our books for but one employment--the business

of flags and signals. In intervals of his special duties he made an odd

picture on the bridge of a merchant ship--a man without a 'job.' The

firemen, on deck to trim ventilators, would take a peep at him as at

some strange alien; seamen, passing fore and aft on their reliefs, would

nod confidently. "Still diggin' wet sand, mate? . . . Wish I 'ad your

job!" There were days when he was busy enough--'windmilling' with the

hand-flags, or passing hours in hoist and rehoist when Commodore was

sharpening the convoy to a precision in manoeuvre, but on open sea his

day was not unduly crowded. There were odd hours of 'stand-by' under

screen of the weather-cloth, intervals of leisure which he might use as

he liked, provided he kept a ready ear for the watch officer's call.

Reading was usual. In this his taste was catholic. _Tit-Bits_ and _My

Dream Novelettes_ found favour; one had back numbers of the _Surveyor

and Municipal and County Engineer_, old volumes of _Good Words_ from the

Bethel box found a way to the bridge; we saw a pocket volume of Greek

verse that belonged to the bold lad who altered our signalled 'will' to

'shall'!

For all his leisured occupation he was quick enough when the call of

"_Signals_" brought him to business. His concentration on the speciality

of the flags brought an accuracy to our somewhat haphazard system of

signalling. We benefited in more than his immediate work by promoting

his instruction of our young seamen. Spurred, perhaps, by the knowledge

of our quondam haberdasher's efficiency, the boys improved rapidly under

his tuition. We paid a modest bonus on results. We are looking forward.

We shall not have our duty signalman with us when there is 'peace bacon'

to be cured.

Another new shipmate who has signed with us is the wireless operator,

the lieutenant of Signor Marconi, our gallant _salvator_ in the war at

sea. If we may claim for our sea-service a foremost place in national

defence, it is only by grace of our wireless we register a demand.

Without it, we were undone. No other system of communication would have

served us in combat with the submarine; _spurlos versenkt_, without

possibility of discovery, would have been the triumph of the enemy. If

to one man we seamen owe a debt unpayable, Marconi holds the bond.

Unthinking, we did not accept our new shipmate with enthusiasm. Before

the war he could be found on the lordly liners, tapping out all sorts of

messages, from the picture-post-card-like greetings of extravagant

passengers to the deathless story of _Titanic_ and _Volturno_. We looked

upon him as a luxury, only suited to the large passenger vessels. We

could see no important work for him in the cargo-carriers; we could get

on very well without a telegraph to the beach. A week of war was

sufficient to alter our views; we were anxious to have him sign with us.

Although he is now an important member of the crew, his reception at

first was none too cordial. The apparent ease and comfort of his office

rankled in contrast to the rigours of the bridge and the hardships of

the engine-room. His duties--specialized to one operation--we deemed

unfairly light in comparison with our jack-of-all-trades routine. In

port, he was a lordling--no man his master--able to come and go as the

mood took him. Frankly, we were jealous. Who was this to come among us

with the airs of a full-blown officer, and yet not a dog-watch at sea?

Messed in the cabin too, and strutted about the decks with his hands in

his pockets, as bold and unconcerned as any first-class passenger! We

were puzzled to place him. He talked airily of ohms and static leaks,

ampere-hours and anchor-gaps, and yet, in an unguarded moment, had he

not told us of his experiences in a Manchester broker's office, that

could have been no more than six months ago? The airs of him! Absurd

assumption of an official confidence between the Old Man and himself, as

if _he_ had the weight of the ship's safety on his narrow shoulders! As

for his baby-brother assistant--that kid with the rosy cheeks--everybody

knows that all he does is to screw up his 'jimmy fixin's' and sit down

good and comfortable to read "The Rosary," with his dam mufflers on his

ears! _Huh!_

But we are wiser now! Here is a text for our conversion. It is a record

of a wireless conversation between a merchantman attacked and a British

destroyer steaming to her assistance from somewhere out of sight.

"Are you torpedoed?"

"Not yet. . . . Shots in plenty hitting. Several wounded. Shrapnel, I

believe. Broken glass all round me."

"Keep men below. Stick it, old man!"

"Yes, you bet. Say, the place stinks of gunpowder. Am lying on the

floor. . . . I have had to leave 'phones. My gear beginning to fly

around with concussion. . . . Captain is dead. . . ."--an

interval--"Submarine has dived! Submarine has dived!"

Yes, we are wiser now! We admit him to full fellowship at sea. And on

land, too! We admit him the right to trip it in Kingsway or the Strand,

with his kid gloves, and his notebook, and his neat uniform, for his

record has shown that it does not require a four-years' apprenticeship

to build up a stout heart; that on his 'jimmy fixin's' and their proper

working depends a large measure of our safety; and if the crack does

come and the air is thick with hurtling debris, broken water and acrid

smoke, our first look will be aloft to see if his aerial still stands.

We do him and baby brother the honour that we shall not concern

ourselves to wonder whether they be ready at their posts!

[Illustration: A TRANSPORT EMBARKING TROOPS FOR FRANCE]