PART III

[Illustration: A STANDARD SHIP AT SEA]

XVI

THE CONVOY SYSTEM

EARLY in 1917 the losses of the merchants' ships and men had assumed a

proportion that called for a radical revision of the systems of naval

protection. Concentrating their energies on but one specific form of sea

offence, the enemy had developed their submarine arm to a high point of

efficiency. Speed and power and lengthy sea-keeping qualities were

attained. To all intents and purposes the U-boats had become surface

destroyers with the added conveniency of being able to disappear at

sight. They conducted their operations at long distance from the land

and from their bases. The immense areas of the high seas offered a

peculiar facility for 'cut-and-run' tactics: the system of independent

sailings of the merchantmen provided them with a succession of victims,

timed in a progression that allowed of solitary disposal.

Notwithstanding the matured experience of submarine methods gained by

masters, the rapid evolution of counter-measures by the Royal Navy, the

courage and determination of all classes of seafarers, our shipping and

that of our Allies and the neutral nations was being destroyed at a rate

that foreshadowed disaster.

Schemes of rapid ship construction were advanced, lavish expenditure

incurred, plans and occupation designed--all to ensure a replacement of

tonnage at a future date. More material in point of prompt effect were

the efforts of the newly formed Ministry of Shipping to conserve

existing tonnage by judicious and closely controlled employment. All but

sternly necessary sea-traffic was eliminated: harbour work in loading

and unloading was expedited: the virtues of a single control enhanced

the active agency of the merchants' ships--now devoted wholly to State

service. Joined to the provisional and economic measures of the bureaux,

Admiralty reorganized their methods of patrol and sea-supervision of the

ships. The entry of the United States into the world war provided a

considerable increase of naval strength to the Allied fleets. Convoy

measures, that before had been deemed impracticable, were now possible.

Destroyers and sloops could be released from fleet duties and were

available as escorts. American flotillas crossed the Atlantic to protect

the sea-routes: Japanese war craft assisted us in the Mediterranean.

In the adoption of the convoy system the Royal Navy was embarking on no

new venture. Modern ships and weapons may have brought a novel

complication to this old form of sea-guardianship, but there is little

in seafaring for which the traditions of the Naval Service cannot offer

text and precedent. The constant of protection by convoy has remained

unaltered by the advance of armament and the evolution of strange war

craft: the high spirit of self-sacrifice is unchanged. When, in October

1917, the destroyers _Strongbow_ and _Mary Rose_ accepted action and

faced three German cruisers, their commanders--undismayed by the

tremendous odds--reacted the parts of the common sea-dramas of the

Napoleonic wars. The same obstinate courage and unconquerable sea-pride

forbade them to desert their convoy of merchantmen and seek the safety

that their speed could offer. H.M.S. _Calgarian_, torpedoed and sinking,

had yet thought for the convoy she escorted. Her last official signal

directed the ships to turn away from the danger.

[Illustration: BUILDING A STANDARD SHIP]

The convoy system did not spring fully served and equipped from the

earlier and less exacting control. Tentative measures had to be devised

and approved, a large staff to be recruited and trained. The clerical

work of administration was not confined to the home ports; similar

adjustment and preparation had to be conducted in friendly ports abroad.

As naval services were adapted to the new control, the system was

extended. The comparatively simple procedure of sending destroyer

escorts to meet homeward-bound convoys became involved with the timing

and dispatch of a mercantile fleet sailing from a home port. The escorts

were ordered out on a time-table that admitted of little derangement.

Sailing from a British port with a convoy of outward-bound vessels, the

destroyers accompanied that fleet to a point in the Atlantic. There the

convoy was dispersed, and the destroyers swung off to rendezvous with a

similar convoy of inward-bound vessels. While the outgoing merchantmen

were allowed to proceed independently after passing through the most

dangerous area, the homeward-bound vessels were grouped to sail in

company from their port abroad. An ocean escort was provided--usually a

cruiser of the older class--and there was opportunity in the longer

voyage for the senior officer to drill the convoy to some unity and

precision in manoeuvre.

The commander of the ocean escort had no easy task in keeping his

charges together. The age-old difficulty of grouping the ships in the

order of their sailing (now steaming) powers has not diminished since

Lord Cochrane, in command of H.M.S. _Speedy_, complained of the

'fourteen sail of merchantmen' he convoyed from Cagliari to Leghorn. In

the first enthusiasm of a new routine, masters were over-sanguine in

estimation of the speed of their ships. The average of former passages

offered a misleading guide. While it was possible to average ten and a

half knots on a voyage from Cardiff to the Plate, proceeding at a speed

that varied with the weather (and the coal), station could not easily be

kept in a ten-knot convoy when--at the cleaning of the fires--the steam

went 'back.' Swinging to the other extreme (after experience of the

guide-ship's angry signals), we erred in reserving a margin that

retarded the full efficiency of a convoy. Our commodores had no small

difficulty in conforming to the date of their convoy's arrival at a

rendezvous. The 'cruising speed' of ten knots, that we had so blithely

taken up when sailing from an oversea port, frequently toned down to an

average of eight--with all the consequent derangement of the destroyers'

programme at the home end; a declared nine-knot convoy would romp home

at ten, to find no escort at the rendezvous.

In time, we adjusted our estimate to meet the new demands. Efforts of

the Ministry of Shipping to evolve an order in our voyaging that would

reduce irregularities had good results. The skilfully thought-out

appointment of the ships to suitable routes and trades had effect in

producing a homogeneity that furthered the employment of our resources

to the full. The whole conduct of our seafaring speedily came within the

range of governmental control, as affecting the timely dispatch and

arrival of the convoys. The quality of our fuel, the state of the hull,

competence of seamen, formed subject for close investigation. The rate

of loading or discharge, the urgency of repairs and refitment, were no

longer judged on the note of our single needs; like the states of the

weather and the tide, they were weighed and assessed in the formula that

governed our new fleet movements.

The system of convoy protection had instant effect in curbing the

activities of the U-boats. They could no longer work at sea on the lines

that had proved so safe for them and disastrous for us. To get at the

ships they had now to come within range of the destroyers' armament.

Hydrophones and depth-charges reduced their vantage of submersion. The

risks of sudden rupture of their plating by the swiftly moving keel of

an escorting vessel did not tend to facilitate the working of their

torpedo problem. In the coastal areas aircraft patrolled overhead the

convoys, to add their hawk-sight to the ready swerve of the destroyers.

The chances of successful attack diminished as the hazard of discovery

and destruction increased. Still, they were no fainthearts. The German

submarine commanders, brutal and hell-nurtured, are no cowards. The

temptation of a massed target attracted them, and they sought, in the

confusion of the startled ships, a means of escape from the destroyers

when their shot into the 'brown' had run true.

Convoy has added many new duties to the sum of our activities when at

sea. Signals have assumed an importance in the navigation. The flutter

of a single flag may set us off on a new course at any minute of the

day. Failure to read a hoist correctly may result in instant collision

with a sister ship. We have need of all eyes on the bridge to keep apace

with the orders of the commodore. In station-keeping we are brought to

the practice of a branch of seamanship with which not many of us were

familiar. Steaming independently, we had only one order for the engineer

when we had dropped the pilot. 'Full speed ahead,' we said, and rang a

triple jangle of the telegraph to let the engineer on watch know that

there would be no more 'backing and filling'--and that he could now nip

into the stokehold to see to the state of the fires. Gone--our easy

ways! We have now to keep close watch on the guide-ship and fret the

engineer to adjustments of the speed that keep him permanently at the

levers. The fires may clag and grey down through unskilful stoking--the

steam go 'back' without warning: ever and on, he has to jump to the

gaping mouth of the voice-tube: "Whit? Two revolutions? Ach! Ah cannae

gi' her ony mair!"--but he does. Slowly perhaps, but surely, as he

coaxes steam from the errant stokers, we draw ahead and regain our place

in the line. No small measure of the success of convoy is built up in

the engine-rooms of our mercantile fleets.

Steaming in formation at night without lights adds to our 'grey heires.'

The menace of collision is ever present. Frequently, in the darkness, we

have no guide-ship in plain sight to regulate our progress. The

adjustments of speed, that in the daytime kept us moderately well in

station, cannot be made. It is best to turn steadily to the average

revolutions of a former period, and keep a good look-out for the broken

water of a sister ship. On occasion there is the exciting medley of

encountering a convoy bound the opposite way. In the confusion of wide

dispersal and independent alterations of course to avert collision,

there is latitude for the most extraordinary situations. An incident in

the Mediterranean deserves imperishable record: "We left Malta, going

east, and that night it was inky dark and we ran clean through a

west-bound convoy. How there wasn't an accident, God only knows. We had

to go full astern to clear one ship. She afterwards sidled up alongside

of us and steamed east for an hour and a half. Then she hailed us

through a megaphone: 'Steamer ahoy! Hallo! Where are you bound to?'

'Salonika,' we said. 'God Almighty,' he says. 'I'm bound to Gibraltar.

Where the hell's _my_ convoy?'"

[Illustration: THE THAMES ESTUARY IN WAR-TIME]

XVII

OUTWARD BOUND

CUSTOMS clerks--may their name be blessed--are worth much more than

their mere weight in gold. We do not mean the civil servants at the

Custom House, who listen somewhat boredly to our solemn Oath and

Compearance. Doubtless they, too, are of value, but our concern is with

the owner's shipping clerk who attends our hesitating footsteps in the

walk of ships' business when we come on shore. He greets us on arrival

from overseas, bearing our precious letters and the news of the firm: he

has the devious paths of our entry-day's course mapped out, down to the

train we may catch for home. As an oracle of the port, there is nothing

he does not know: the trains, the week's bill at the 'Olympeambra,' the

quickest and cheapest way to send packages to Backanford, suitable

lodging in an outport, the standing of the ship laundries, the merits of

the hotels--he has information about them all. During our stay in port

he attends to our legal business. He speeds us off to the sea again,

with all our many folios in order.

In peace, we had a settled round that embraced the Custom House for

entry, the Board of Trade for crew affairs, the Notary for 'Protest.'

(". . . and experienced the usual heavy weather!") War has added to our

visiting-list. We must make acquaintance with the many naval authorities

who control our movements; the Consuls of the countries we propose to

visit must see us in person; it would be discourteous to set sail

without a p.p.c. on the Dam-ship and Otter officers. Ever and on, a new

bureau is licensed to put a finger in our pie: we spend the hours of

sailing-day in a round of call and counter-call. The Consul wishes to

_vise_ our Articles--the Articles may not be handed over till we produce

a slip from the Consul, the Consul will grant no slip till we have seen

the S.I.O. "Have we identity papers for every member of the crew, with

photograph duly authenticated?"--"We are instructed not to grant

passports!" Back and forward we trudge while the customs clerk at our

side tells cheerfully of the very much more trying time that fell to

Captain Blank.

By wile and industry and pertinacity he unwinds the tangle of our

longshore connections. He reconciles the enmity of the bureaux, pleads

for us, apologizes for us, fights for us, engages for us. All we have to

do is to sign, and look as though the commercial world stood still,

awaiting the grant of that particular certificate. Undoubtedly the

customs clerk is worth his weight in red, red gold!

On a bright summer afternoon we emerge from the Custom House. We have

completed the round. In the case which the clerk carries we have

authority to proceed on our lawful occasions. Customs have granted

clearance; our manifests are stamped and ordered; the Articles of

Agreement and the ship's Register are in our hands. The health of our

port of departure is guaranteed by an imposing document. Undocking

permit, vouchers for pilotage and light dues, discharge books,

sea-brief, passports, and store-sheets, are all there for lawful

scrutiny. In personal safe-keeping, we have our sea-route ordered and

planned. The hard work is done. There is no more _business_--nothing to

do but to go on board and await the rise of tide that shall float us

through the river channels to sea.

Cargo is stowed and completed; the stevedores are unrigging their gear

when we reach the ship. Our coming is noted, and the hatch foremen (in

anticipation of a 'blessing') rouse the dockside echoes with carefully

phrased orders to their gangs: "T' hell wit' yes, now! Didn't Oi tell

ye, Danny Kilgallen, that _th' Cyaptin_ wants thim tarpolyan sames

turned fore an' aff!" (A shilling or two for him!)--"Beggin' yer pardon,

sir--I don't see th' mate about--will we put them fenders below _for ye_

before we close th' hatch?" (Another _pourboire_!)--Number three has

finished his hatchway, but his smiling regard calls for suitable

acknowledgment. (After all, we shall have no use for British small

coinage out West!) The head foreman, dear old John, is less ambitious.

All he wants is our understanding that he has stowed her tight--and a

shake of the hand for good luck. Firmly we believe in the good luck that

lies in the hand of an old friend. "'Bye, John!"

In groups, as their work is finished, the dockers go on shore, and leave

to the crew the nowise easy task of clearing up the raffle, lashing

down, and getting the lumbered decks in something approaching sea-trim.

Fortunately, there is time for preparation. Usually, we are dragged to

the dock gates with the hatches uncovered, the derricks aloft, and the

stowers still busy blocking off the last slings of the cargo. This time

there will be no hurried (and improper) finish--the stevedores hurling

their gear ashore at the last minute, slipping down the fender lanyards,

scurrying to a 'pier-head jump,' with the ship moving through the lock!

Some happy chance has brought completion within an hour or two of

tide-time. The mate has opportunity to clear ship effectively, and we

have leisure to plot and plan our sea-route (in anticipation of hasty

chart glances when we get outside) before the pier-master hails

us--"Coom along wi' t' _Massilia_!"

Tugs drag us through the inner gates, pinch and angle our heavy hull in

the basin, and enter us into the locks. The massive gates are swung

across, the sluices at the river-end eased to an outflow and, slowly,

the great lock drains to the river level. The wires of our quay-fasts

tauten and ring out to the tension of the outdraft, as we surge in the

pent water-space and drop with the falling level. Our high bridge view

over the docks and the river is pared in inches by our gradual descent;

the deck falls away under cope of the rough masonry; our outlook is

turned upwards to where the dockmaster signals his orders. The ship

seems suddenly to assume the proportions of a canal-boat in her contrast

with the sea-scarred granite walls and the bulk of the towering gates.

At level with the flood, the piermen heave the outer lock-gates open for

our passage. We back out into the river, bring up, then come ahead,

canting to a rudder pressure that sheers us into the fairway. The river

is thronged by vessels at anchor or under way, docking and undocking on

the top of the tide, and their manoeuvres make work for our pilot. At

easy speed we work a traverse through the press at the dock entrances

and head out to seaward.

[Illustration: DROPPING THE PILOT]

Evening is drawing on as we enter the sea-channels--a quiet close to a

fine summer day. Out on the estuary it is hard to think of war at sea.

Shrimpers are drifting up on the tide, the vivid glow of their tanned

canvas standing over a mirrored reflection in the flood. The deep of the

fairway is scored by passage of coasting steamers, an unending

procession that joins lightship to lightship in a chain of transport.

The sea-reaches look in no way different from the peaceful channels we

have known so long, the buoys and the beacons we pass in our courses

seem absurdly tranquil, as though lacking any knowledge that they are

signposts to a newly treacherous sea. Only from the land may one draw a

note of warning--on shore there are visible signs of warfare. The

searchlights of the forts, wheeling over the surface of the channels,

turn on us and steady for a time in inspection. Farther inland, ghostly

shafts and lances are sweeping overhead, in ceaseless scrutiny of the

quiet sky.

At a bend in the fairway we close and speak the channel patrol steamer

and draw no disquieting impression from her answer to our hail. The port

is still open and we may proceed on our passage to join convoy at ----.

An escort will meet us in 1235 and conduct us to 5678. 'Carry on!'

It is quite dark when we round the outer buoy and reduce speed to drop

our pilot. The night is windless and a calm sea gives promise of a good

passage. We bring up close to the cutter, and, shortly, with a stout

'Good-bye,' the pilot swings overside and clambers down the long

side-ladder to his boat. We shut off all lights and steer into the

protecting gloom of the night.

[Illustration: EXAMINATION SERVICE PATROL BOARDING AN INCOMING STEAMER]

XVIII

RENDEZVOUS

ALMOST hourly they round the Point, turning in from seaward with a fine

swing and thrash of propellors to steer a careful course through the

boom defences. Screaming gulls wheel and poise and dive around them,

exulting to welcome the new-comers in, and the musical clank and rattle

of anchor cables, as the ships bring up in the Roads, mark emphatic

periods to this--the short coasting section of the voyage.

"Safe here!" sing the chains, as they link out over the open hawse.

"Thus far, anyway, in spite of fog and coast danger, of mine and

submarine," and the brown hill-side joins echo to the clamour of the

wheeling gulls, letting all know the ships have come in to join the

convoy.

The bay, that but a day ago lay broad and silent and empty, now seems to

narrow its proportions as each high-sided merchantman comes in; the

hills draw nearer with every broad hull that anchors, wind-rode, in the

blue of the bay. As if in key with the illusion, the broad expanse of

shallow, inshore water, that before gave distance to the hills, now

sheds its power, cut and furrowed as it becomes by thrash and wake of

tugs and launches all making out to serve the larger vessels.

On the high mound of the harbour-master's look-out, keen eyes note all

movements in the bay. The signal-mast and yard bear a gay setting of

flags and symbols, and rapid changes and successions show the yeoman of

signals and his mates at work, recording and replying, taking mark and

tally of the ships as they arrive. Up and down goes the

red-and-white-barred answering pendant to say that it is duly

noted--"_War Trident_, _Marmion_, and _Pearl Shell_ report arrival"--or

the semaphore arms, swinging smartly, tell H.M.S. _03xyz_ that

permission to enter harbour (she having safely escorted the trio to

port) is approved.

Out near the entrance to the bay, where the 'gateships' of the boom

defences show clear water, the patrol steamer of the Examination Service

lays-to, challenging each incoming vessel to state her name and

particulars. These, in turn, are signalled to the shore and the yeoman

writes: "Begins war trident for norfolk va. speed nine knots is ready

for sea stop marmion for Bahia reports steering engine broken down will

require ten hours complete repairs stop pearl shell nine and half

short-handed one fireman two trimmers report agents stop ends."

If room is scanty, the convoy office has at least an atmosphere in

keeping with its mission. Nestling close under the steep brow of the

harbour-master's look-out, it was, in happier days, the life-boat

coxswain's dwelling, and a constant reminder of sea-menace and emergency

almost blocks the door--the long boat-house and launch-ways of the

life-boat. Four square and solid, the little house only has windows

overlooking the bay, as if attending strictly to affairs at sea and

having no eyes for landward doings; the peering eaves face straight out

towards the 'gateships' as though even the stone and lime were intent on

the sailing of the convoys, whose order and formation are arranged

within their walls. The upper room has a desk or two, a telephone, a

chart table, and a typewriter, and here the port convoy officer and his

assistants trim and index and arrange the ships in order of their

sailing. At the window a seaman-writer is typing out 'pictures' for the

next sailing--signal tables, formation and dispersal diagrams, call

signs, zigzags, constantly impressing that Greenwich Mean Time is the

thing (no Summer Time at sea), and that courses are True, _not_

Magnetic. The clack and release of his machine seem quite a part of

conversation between the convoy officer and his lieutenant; the whole is

so apparently disjointed in references to this ship and that, to repairs

and tides, and shortage of 'hands' and water-supply and turns in the

hawse, and even Spanish influenza! To one accustomed to single-ship

work the whole is mildly bewildering, and one readily understands that

sailing a merchant convoy calls for more than the simple word of

command.

"_War Trident_, nine knots," reads the junior, from a signal slip.

"_Marmion_, a doubtful starter--steering-gear disabled. _Pearl Shell_,

three stokehold hands short."

"_Trident_ only nine! That be damned for a yarn!" says his senior,

reaching for the slip. "Nine will reduce the speed of the whole convoy a

knot. She must be good for more--new ship, isn't she?"

"Yes. One of these new standards--built for eleven knots and chocked up

afterwards with fancy gear and 'gadjets' to rob the boilers."

"Lemme see--nine knots"--turning to the pages of a tide-book, the convoy

officer makes a rough sum of it. "High water at Oysterpool--so--arrived

here--distance--and seventy-one. Why, he's come on from Oysterpool at

ten, no less, and that's not allowing for the zigzag either!"

The lieutenant looks round for his cap. Clearly there is a definite

'drill' for captains who come on from Oysterpool at ten and declare

their speed as nine, and he is ready when the P.C.O. passes orders. "All

right. You go off and see the captain. Try to get him to spring at least

half a knot. I expect he's allowing a bit for 'coming up,' and going

easy till he knows his new ship. . . . I'll 'phone _Pearl Shell's_

agents and warn 'em to hustle round for firemen. _Marmion?_ Yes. Board

_Marmion_ on your way back. Wants ten hours--she should be able to keep

her sailing." A year agone there would have been but moderate and

passive interest in the varying troubles of the ships and their crews,

but much water has flowed over the Red Ensign since then, and we are

learning.

The convoy lieutenant goes down a winding path to the boat-slip and

boards his launch to set off for the Roads. The morning, that broke fair

and unclouded, has turned grey; a damp sea-mist is wandering over the

bay in thin wraiths and feathers, but sunlight on the brown of the

distant hills promises a clearing as the day draws on. Fishing-smacks,

delayed by want of wind, are creeping in to the market steps under sweep

of their long oars, and their lazy canvas rustles, and the booms and

sheet-blocks creak as the wash of the picket-launch sets them swaying.

In from the sea channels, with their sweeps still wet and glistening,

come the _Agnes Whitwell_, _Fortuna_, the _Dieudonne_, and _Brother

Fred_, each with a White Ensign aloft and a naked grey gun on their high

bows. They are late in their return, and one can guess at deadly iron

spheres stirred from the depths of the fairways, thrown buoyant in the

wash astern, and destroyed by crack of gunfire. The commodore of the

sisterly pairs, a young lieutenant of Reserve, waves a cheery greeting

as we pass.

[Illustration: DAWN: CONVOY PREPARING TO PUT TO SEA]

And now the Roads, windless and misty, the anchored merchantmen swung at

different angles, in their gay fantasy of dazzle-paint, borrowing

further motley from the mist, and leering grotesquely through the thin

vapours. But for her lines, undeniably fine and graceful, _War Trident_

is the standardest of standards. Dazzle-painters have slapped their

spite at her in lurid swathes and, not content, have draped her sheer in

harlequin crenellations. Her low pipe-funnel upstands in rigid

perpendicular. ("Chief! Pit yer haun' up an' feel if th' kettle's

bilin'!") No masts break the long length of her, saving only a midship

signal-pole that serves her wireless aerials and affords a hod-like

perch for the look-out aloft. She is stark new, smooth of plating, and

showing even the hammer-strokes on her rivets. Through the thin paint on

her sides, marks and symbols of construction appear, the letters of her

strakes painted in firm white, with here and there an unofficial

shipyard embellishment--"Good old Jeemy Quin," or "Tae hell wi' the

Kiser!" She is ready for sea, and life-boats and davits, swung outboard,

tower overhead as the picket-launch draws up at her gaunt side. She is

in ballast trim, and it is evident that her standard carpenters hold

strictly to a rule that ignores a varying freeboard--the side ladder is

short by eight feet, and only by middling the rungs (a leap at the

bottom, a long swaying climb, and a drag at the top) are we able to

clamber on board.

A special 'drill' for conducting affairs with masters of brand-new ships

should be devised immediately by Admiralty, and the mildest of

Low-Church curates (trimmed by previous dire tortures to the utter limit

of exasperation) be provided, on whom officials may be well practised.

Usually the master has been hurried out of port by the last rivet driven

home, with strange officers and the very weakest of new crews, in a ship

jam-full of the newest 'gadjets,' and the least possible reserve of gear

to work them. Quickly and bitterly the fourth sentence of Confession at

Morning Prayer is recalled to him--the things undone crowd round, and

there is nothing in the bare hull to serve as a makeshift. The engines

and _auxiliaries_ (that, with a builder's man at every bearing, worked

well on trials) now develop tricks and turns to keep the chief engineer

and his fledgling juniors on the run; the mate cries "Kamerad" to all

suggestions, pointing to his hopeless watch of one. (Eight deck: four in

a watch, less one helmsman and two look-outs, equals one.) Add to the

sum of difficulties that the captain has probably been ashore since he

lost his last ship, and finds the new tactics and signals and zigzags

unfamiliar; through it all the want of familiar little trifles and

fixings (that go so far to help a ready action), sustains a feeling of

irritation.

It is little wonder that the convoy lieutenant goes warily, and, indeed,

but for the brilliant inspiration of using the 'last ship,' it seems

probable that the convoy will have to proceed at _Trident's_ modest

nine knots. Bluntly, the captain is in undisguised ill-humour. He has

been on deck practically since leaving the builder's yard, and his weary

eyes suggest a need for prompt sleep. His room, still reeking of new

paint and varnish, is in some disorder, and shows traces of an anxious

passage along the coast. 'Notices to Mariners' lie open at the minefield

sketches, with a half-smoked pipe atop to keep the pages open; chart

upon chart is piled (for want of a rack) on bed and couch; oilskins,

crumpled as when drawn off, hang over the edge of a door--not a peg to

hang them on; an open sextant case, jammed secure by pillows, lies on

the washstand lid; books of sailing directions, a taffrail log, some red

socket-flares, are heaped awry in a corner of the room; the whole an

evidence that lockers and minor ship conveniences are not yet

standardized. Pray goodness he may have a stout honest thief of a chief

mate, able and willing to find a baulk or two of timber, and a few nails

and brass screws and copper tacks and a curtain-rod or two and a bolt of

canvas!

The convoy lieutenant, unheeding a somewhat surly return of his

greeting, produces Convoy Form No. AX, and starts in cheerfully to fill

the vacant columns. "Tonnage, captain?--register will do. Crew? Guns?

Coal?--consumpt. at speeds. Revolutions per half-knot?" The form

completed, he hands it over for signature, thus tactfully drawing the

captain's attention to the secretarial work he has done for him. "What's

the speed? Nine and a half?" "Speed!" answers the Old Man. "Hell! This

bunch of hair-springs can't keep out of her own way! Speed? The damned

funnel's so low we can't get draught to burn a cigarette-paper; and

these new pumps they've given her! . . . Well, we might do nine, but

only in fine weather, mind you. Nine knots!"

"You'll have to do better for this convoy, captain. There's not a ship

under nine and a half; but there may be a bunch of eight-knotters going

out in five days."

"Nothing under nine and a half! What? Why, there's _Pearl Shell_ came in

with us. She hasn't a kick above nine. When I was in the old _Collonia_,

we. . . ."

"The _Collonia_? A fine ship, Gad! Were you in her, captain, when she

was strafed? Let's see--Mediterranean, wasn't it?" The captain nods

pleasantly, as if accepting a compliment.

"_Umm!_ Mediterranean--troops--a hell of a job to get them off. Lost

some, though"--regretfully.

The convoy lieutenant turns a good card. "Must be a change to come down

to ten knots, captain, after a crack ship like _Collonia_. What could

she do? Sixteen?"

"Oh no. We could get an eighteen-knot clip out of her--more, if we

wanted!" (If _War Trident's_ speed be low and doubtful, the Old Man can

safely pile the knots on his stricken favourite.) "_She_ was a ship, not

a damned parish-rigged barge like this--a poverty-stricken hulk

that. . . ."

"Yes. I heard about her from Benson, of _War Trumpet_. He sailed in last

convoy. Said he was glad he wasn't appointed here."

"Wasn't appointed here, be damned! Didn't have the chance. Why, that

ship of his isn't in the same class at all. The _Trident_ can steer,

anyway, and when we get things fixed up. . . . She has the hull of a

fine ship. If only we could get a decent funnel on her. . . . Here, I'll

try her at your nine and a half knots! I'll bet _War Trumpet_ can't do a

kick above nine!"

* * * * *

Be it noted that the convoy officers have the wavy gold lace of the

R.N.R. for their rank stripes; plain half-inch ones of the Royal Navy

might have had to let the convoy sail at nine, after all--not knowing

the 'grip' of the 'last ship.'

[Illustration: EVENING: PLYMOUTH HOE]

XIX

CONFERENCE

"A LAUNCH will be sent off at 3 p.m., S.T., to bring masters on shore

for conference. You are requested to bring"--etc. So reads the notice,

and p.m. finds the coxswain of the convoy office picket-boat steaming

and backing from ship to ship, and making no secret of his disapproval

of a scheme of things that keeps him waiting (tootling, perhaps, an

impatient blast), while leisurely shipmasters give final orders to their

mates at the gangways. ("That damned ship's cat in the chart-room again,

sir!")

More ships have come in since the clearing of the morning mist, and calm

weather and vagaries of the tide have combined to crowd the ships in the

anchorage into uncomfortably close quarters; perhaps, after all, it

would be rather the counter-swing of that River Plate boat, anchoring

close abeam ("Given me a foul berth, damn him!"), than the insanitary

ways of the ship's cat that kept the captain, one leg over the rail, so

long in talk with his mate.

Never, since the days of sailing ships and the leisurely deep-sea

parliaments in the ship-chandler's back room, have we been brought so

much together. The bustle and dispatch of steamer work, in pre-war days,

kept us apart from our sea-fellows; there were few forgatherings where

we could exchange views and experiences and abuse 'square-heads' and

damn the Board of Trade. Now, the run of German torpedoes has banded us

together again, and in convoy and their conferences, we are coming to

know one another as never before. At first we were rather reserved, shy

perhaps, and diffident, one to another. Careless, in a way, of longshore

criticism and opinion, we were somewhat concerned that conduct among our

peers should be dignified and seaworthy; then, the fine shades of

precedence--largely a matter of the relative speeds of our commands--had

to average out before the 'master' of an east-coast tramp and the

'captain' of an R.M.S. found joint and proper equality. In this again,

the enemy torpedo served a turn, and we are not now surprised to learn

that the 'captain' of a modest nine-knot freighter had been (till she

went down with the colours apeak) 'master' of His Majesty's Transport of

16,000 tons.

So we crowd up together in the convoy launch, and introduce ourselves,

and talk a while of our ships and crews till stoppage of the engines and

clatter of hardwood side-ladders mark another recruit, sprawling his way

down the high wall-side of a ballasted ship. The coxswain sighs relief

as he pockets his list--the names all now ticked off in order of their

boarding--and puts his helm over to swing inshore. "A job o' work," he

says. "Like 'unt th' slipper, this 'ere! 'Ow can I tell wot ships they

is, names all painted hover; an' them as does show their names is only

damn numbers!"

In pairs, colloguing as we go, we mount the jetty steps and find a way

to the conference-room. We make a varied gathering. Some few are in

their company's service uniform, but most of us, misliking an array but

grudgingly tolerated in naval company, wear longshore clothes and, in

our style, affect soft felt hats and rainproof overcoats. Not very

gallant raiment, it is true, but since brave tall hats and plain brass

buttons and fancy waistcoats and Wellingtons went out with the lowering

of the last single topsail, we have had no convention in our attire. In

conference we come by better looks--bareheaded, and in stout blue serge,

we sit a-row facing the blackboard on which our 'drills' are chalked.

Many find a need for eyeglasses, the better to read the small typescript

(uniformly bad) handed round to us, that sets forth our stations and

the order of our sailing, and one wonders if the new look-out has

brought us at last to the hands of the opticians; certainly, our eyes

are 'giving' under the strain.

Of all the novel routine that war has brought to seafaring, convoy work

is, perhaps, the most apart from our normal practice. We have now to

think of concerted action, outboard the limits of our own bulwark; we

have become subject to restriction in our sailing; we conform to

movements whose purpose may not, perhaps, be plainly apparent. Trained

and accustomed to single and undisputed command, it was not easy to

alter the habits of a lifetime at sea. We were autocrats in our small

sea-world, bound only by our owner's instruction to proceed with

prudence and dispatch. We had no super-captain on the sea to rule our

lines and set our courses and define our speeds. We made 'eight bells!'

But the 'bells' we made and the courses we steered and the rate we sped

could not bring all of us safely to port. They gave us guns--and we used

them passing well--but guns could not, at that date, deflect torpedoes,

and ships went down. Then came convoy and its success, and we had to

pocket our declarations of independence, and steer in fleets and

company; and gladly enough, too, we availed ourselves of a union in

strength, though it took time to custom us to a new order at sea.

At first we were resentful of what, ill-judging, we deemed interference.

Were we not master mariners, skilled seamen, able to trim and handle our

ships in any state or case? And if, on our side, the great new machine

revolved a turn or two uneasily, it is true that the naval spur-wheel

was not itself entirely free of grit. The naval officers, who drilled us

down, were at first distant and superior; masters were a class,

forgotten since sail went out, who had now no prototype in His Majesty's

Service; there was no guide to the standard of association. Having

little, if any, knowledge of merchant-ship practice, naval officers

expected the same many-handed efficiency as in their own service. Crew

troubles were practically unknown in their experience; all coal was

'Best Welsh Navigation'; all ships, whatever their lading, turned, under

helm, apace! Gradually we learned--as they did. We saw, in practice,

that team work and not individual smartness was what counted in convoy;

that, be our understanding of a signal as definite and clear as the loom

of the Craig, it was imperative, for our own safety, that the reading of

out-wing and more distant ships should be as ready and accurate. In

this, our convoy education, the chief among our teachers were the

commodores, R.N. and R.N.R., who came to sea with us, blest, by a happy

star, with TACT!

[Illustration: A CONVOY CONFERENCE]

So, we learned, and now sit to listen, attentively and with respect, to

what the King's Harbour Master has to say about our due and timely

movements in forming up in convoy. On him, also, the happy star has

shone, and we are conscious of an undernote that admits we are all good

men and true and know our work. One among us, a junior by his looks,

dissents on a movement, and not all-friendly eyes we turn on him; but he

is right, all the same, and the point he raises is worthy the discussion

that clears it. Our ranks are evidence of a world-wide league of

seafarers against German brutality. While his frightfulness has barred

the enemy for ever from sea-brotherhood, it has had effect in banding

the world's seamen in a closer union. We are not alone belligerents

devising measures of warfare; in our international gathering we

represent a greater movement than a council of arms. British in

majority, with Americans, Frenchmen, a Japanese, a Brazilian--we are at

war and ruling our conduct to the sea-menace, but among us there are

neutrals come to join our convoy; peaceful seamen seeking a place with

us in fair trade on the free seas. Two Scandinavian masters and a

Spaniard listen with intent preoccupation to the lecture--a recital in

English, familiar to them as the Esperanto of the sea.

The K.H.M.'s careful and detailed routine has a significance not

entirely connected with our sailing of the morrow; in a way it impresses

one with the extent of our sea-empire. Most of us have taken station as

he orders, have all the manoeuvres by rote, but even at this late

date, there are those among us, called from distant seas, to whom the

instructions are novel. For them, we say, the emphasis on clearing hawse

overnight, the definition of G.M.T., the exactitude of zigzag, and the

necessity of ready answer to signals. We are old stagers now, _we_ know

all these drills, _we_-- Damn! We, too, are becoming superior! In turn,

the commodore who is to sail with us has his say. Signals and look-out,

the cables of our distance, wireless calls, action guns and

smoke-screen, the rubbish-heap, darkening ship, fog-buoys and

hydroplanes, he deals with in a fine, confident, deep sea-voice. Only on

question of the hearing of sound-signals in fog do we throw our weight

about, and we make reminiscent tangents not wholly connected with the

point at issue. Yarn-spinners, courteously recalled from their

digressions, wind up somewhat lamely, and commodore goes on to deal with

late encounters with the enemy in which a chink in our armour was bared.

Methods approved to meet such emergencies are explained, and his part is

closed by attention to orders detailed for convoy dispersal. The

commander of the destroyer escort has a few words for us; a brief detail

of the power of his under-water armament, a request for a 'fair field in

action.' Conference comes to an end when the shipping intelligence

officer has explained his routes and given us our sailing orders.

Till now we have been actually an hour and a half without smoking, and

our need is great. As one man we fumble for pipes and tobacco (a few

lordly East-Indiamen flaunt cheroots), and in the fumes and at our ease

arrange, in unofficial ways, the small brotherly measures that may help

us at sea.

"Oh yes, _Chelmsford_, you're my next ahead. Well, say, old man, if it

comes fog, give me your brightest cargo 'cluster' to shine

astern--daytime, too--found it a good----" "Fog, egad! What about fog

when we are forming up? Looked none too clear t' the south'ard as we

came ashore!"

Somewhat late, we realize that not a great deal has been said about

weather conditions for the start-off. The port convoy officer is still

about, but all he can offer is a pious hope and the promise that he will

have tugs on hand to help us out. "No use 'making almanacks' till the

time comes," says our Nestor (a stout old greybeard who has been twice

torpedoed). "We shall snake into column all right, and, anyhow, we're

all bound the same way!" "What about towing one another out?" suggests a

junior, and, the matter having been brought to jest, we leave it at

that.

The caretaker jangles his keys and, collecting our 'pictures,' we go out

to the quayside, where thin rain and a mist shroud the harbour basin,

and the dock warehouses loom up like tall clippers under sail. The

coxswain comes, clamping in heavy sea-boots and an oilskin, to tell that

the launch is at the steps, ready to take us off. Two of us have

business to conclude with our agent, and remain on the jetty to see our

fellows crowd into shelter of the hood and the launch back out. We call

cheerfully, one to another, that we shall meet at Bahia or New York or

Calcutta or Miramichi, and the mist takes them.

Up the ancient cobbled street we come on an old church and, the rain

increasing to a torrent, we shelter at the porch. Who knows, curiosity

perhaps, urges us farther and we step quietly down-level to the old

stone-flagged nave. The light is failing, and the tombs and monuments

are dim and austere, the inscriptions faint and difficult to read. A

line of Drakes lie buried here, and tablets to the memory of old

sea-captains (whose bones may lie where tide is) are on the walls. A

sculptured medallion of ships on the sea draws our attention and we

read, with difficulty, for the stone is old and the lines faint and

worn.

". . . INTERRED YE BODY OF EDMOND LEC----, FORMERLY

COMMANDER OF HER MAJ---- SHIP YE _LINN FRIGOT_,

17-- . . . A FRENCH CORVAT FROM WHOM HE PROTECTED A

LARGE FLEET OF MERCHANT SHIPS ALL INTO SAFETY. . .

. AND BRAVELY HE GAVE YE ENEMY BATTEL AND FORCED

HIM TO BEAR AWAY WITH MUCH DAMMAGE. . . ."

We looked at one another. A good charge to take to sea in 1918! Quietly

we closed the door and came away.

[Illustration: THE OLD HARBOUR, PLYMOUTH]

XX

THE SAILING

FOG, AND THE TURN OF THE TIDE

RAINY weather overnight has turned to fog, and the lighthouse on the

Point greets breaking dawn with raucous half-minute bellows. Less

regular and insistent, comes a jangle of anchor-bells, breaking in from

time to time, ship after ship repeating, then subsiding a while until

the syren of a moving tugboat--as if giving time and chorus to the

din--sounds a blast, and sets the look-outs on the anchored ships to

their clangour again. From the open sea distant reedy notes tell that

the minesweeping flotilla is out and at work, clearing the course for

draught of the out-bound convoy, and searching the misty sea-channels

for all the enemy may have moored there. The 'gateships' of the boom

defences rasp out jarring discords to warn mariners of their bobbling

floats and nets. Inshore the one sustained and solemn toll of bell at

the pier-head measures out time to the sum of a dismal dayspring.

By all the sound of it, it is ill weather for the sailing of a convoy.

In time of peace there would not be a keel moving within harbour limits

through such a pall. "Call me when the weather clears," would be the

easy order, and we would turn the more cosily to blanket-bay, while the

anchor-watch would pace athwart overhead, in good content, to await the

raising of the curtain. Still and all, it is yet early to assess the

rigour of the fog. Sound-signals, started late in the coming of it,

became routine and mechanical, and persist--through clearing--till their

need is more than over. The half-light of breaking day has still to

brighten and diffuse; who knows; perhaps, after all, this may be only

that dear and fond premise of hopeful sailormen--the pride o' the

morning!

The elder fishermen (the lads are out after the mines) have no such

optimism. Roused by the habits of half a century, they turn out for a

pipe and, from window and doorway, assure one another that their idle

'stand-by' decreed by harbour-master for outgoing of the convoy, is

little hardship on a morning like this. "'Ark t' them bells," they say,

thumb over shoulder. "All 'ung up. Thick as an 'edge out there, an' no

room t' back an' fill. There won't be no move i' th' Bay till 'arf-ebb,

my oath!"

But they are wrong in that, if right in their estimation of the weather

and congestion in the roads, for we are at war, and the port convoy

officer, hurrying to his launch, is already sniffing for the bearings of

the leader of the line. Prudently he has mapped their berths as they

came in to anchor, and has, at least, a serviceable, if rough, chart to

guide him on his rounds.

[Illustration: CONVOY SAILING FROM PLYMOUTH SOUND]

So far there are no reports from the sea-patrols that would call for an

instant alteration of the routes, and for that the P.C.O. has a thankful

heart. A 'hurrah's nest,' a panic on Exchange, a block at the Bank

crossing, would be feeble comparison to the confusion he might look for

in a combination of dense fog, counter-mandates, and a congested

roadstead, for, even now, the ships to form up the next convoy are

thrashing their way down the coast and (Article XVI of the Rule of the

Road being lightly held by in war-time) may be expected off the

'gateships' before long. To them, as yet, the port is 'closed,' but

every distant wail from seaward sets him anxiously wondering whether it

be a minesweeper signalling a turn to his twin or a distant

deep-waterman, early on the tide, standing in for the land. The sailor's

morning litany--"Who wouldn't sell a farm and go to sea"--is near to him

as he turns up the collar of his oilskin and gives a rough course to

his coxswain. "South, s'west, and ease her when you hear th' Bell buoy.

_British Standard_ first--she's lying close south of it." Turning out,

the picket-boat sets her bows to the grey wall of mist and her wash and

roundel of the screws (that on a clear busy day would scarce be noted)

sound loud and important in the silence of the bay. The coxswain,

cunning tidesman, steers a good course and reduces speed with the first

toll of the buoy. The clamour of its iron tongue seems out of all

relation to the calm sea and the cause is soon revealed. Silently,

closely in line ahead, four grey destroyers break the mist, fleet

swiftly across the arc of vision ahead, and disappear. "Near it," says

the coxswain (and now sounds a blast of _his_ whistle). "Them fellers

ain't 'arf goin' it!" Cautiously he rounds the buoy, noting the gaslight

crown shining yet, though pale and sickly in the growing day. Out now,

in seven fathoms, the lingering inshore fog has given place to a mist,

through which the ships loom up in sombre grey silhouette. Full speed

for a turn or two brings the launch abeam of a huge oil-tanker that,

sharp to the tick of Greenwich Mean Time, already has her Convoy

Distinguishing Flags hoisted and the windlass panting white steam to

raise anchor. A small flag in the rigging assures the P.C.O. that the

pilots have boarded in good time, and it is with somewhat of growing

satisfaction that he hails the bridge and asks the captain to 'carry

on!'

Doubts and hesitancies that may have lingered in the prudent captain's

mind are dispelled by the P.C.O.'s appearance. "It is decided, then,

that the orders stand," and there is at least a certain relief in his

tone as he orders, "Weigh anchor!"

The _British Standard_ is deep-loaded, in contrast to the usual empty

war-time outward bound, but her lading is clean salt water, no less, run

into her compartments on the sound theory that Fritz, by a strafe, may

only 'change the water in the tanks.' Homeward, from the west, there

will be no such fine assurance, for a torpedo may well set her ablaze

from stem to stern, and the enemy takes keen and peculiar delight in

such _Schrecklichkeit_. Still, there is little thought to that; _British

Standard_ is to lead the line, and her anchor comes to the hawse and she

backs, then comes ahead again, swinging slowly under helm towards the

sound of 'gateships'' hand-horns. High on the stern emplacement her men

are uncovering her gun and clearing the ranges, and the long grey barrel

is trained out to what will be the sun-glare side of the first tangent

of her sea-course. Close astern of her comes _War Ordnance_, her pushful

young captain having taken heed of the sounds of _Standard's_ weighing.

"Good work," says the P.C.O. cheerfully, and cons his rough chart for

the whereabouts of Number Three.

As though the devil in the wind had heard him, down comes the fog

again, dense this time, a thick blanket-curtain of it that shuts off

the misty stage on which the prompter had hoped, passably, to complete

his dispatch of the fleet.

The compass again. "East 'll do," and the launch slips through the grey

of it. All around in the roadstead the clank of cable linking over the

spurs, and hiss and thrust of power windlasses are indication that

_British Standard's_ movement has given signal to weigh, that it is

plain to the others--"Convoy will proceed in execution of previous

orders." A propellor, thrashing awash in trial, looms up through the fog

ahead, but 'East' has brought the launch wide of her mark, and

_Massilia_ is answer to the P.C.O.'s hail. _Massilia_ is Number Four,

but needs must when the fog drives, so he advises the captain to get

under way and head out.

Number Three has stalled badly and is hot in a burst of graceless

profanity from bridge to forecastle-head, and (increasing in volume and

blood-red emphasis) from there to the chain-locker. There is a foul

stow. Her nip-cheese builders have pared the locker-space to the

mathematical limit (to swell her carrying tonnage), and the small crew

that her nip-cheese owners have put on her are unable to range the

tiers. Twenty fathoms of chain remain yet under water, the locker is

jammed, and the mate, roughed (and through a megaphone, too), from the

bridge, is calling on strange deities to take note that, 'of all the

damn ships he ever sailed in. . . .' The pilot calls out from the bridge

that they are going to pay out and restow, and the convoy officer,

blessing the forethought that had bade him send off Number Four, swings

off to speed the succession.

High water has made and the tide ebbs, swinging the ships yet anchored

till they head inshore, and adding to the pilots' worry of narrowed

vision the need to turn short round in crowded waters. For this the tugs

have been sent out in readiness, and the convoy launch has a busy

mission in casting about to find and set them to the task of towing the

laggards round. It is nothing easy, in the fog and confusion of moving

ships, to back the _Seahorse_ in and harness her by warp and hawser, but

with every vessel, canted, that straightens to her course, the press is

lightened by so much sea-room cleared. Gradually the hail and

counter-hail, hoarse order and repeat, whistle-signals, protest of

straining tow-ropes, die away with the lessening note of each sea-going

propeller.

To Number Three again, last of the line and out of her station, the

convoy officer seeks to return. The fog is denser than ever, and the

echoes of the bay, now transferred to seaward, augment the uneasy

short-blast mutterings where the ships, closed up at the narrow

'gateway,' are slowing and backing to drop their pilots. In his traverse

of the anchorage the coxswain has lost bearing of the _Cinderella_ and

steers a zigzag course through the murk. The sun has risen, brightening

the overhead but proving (in sea glare and misty daze) an ally to the

veil. No sound of heaving cable or thunder of escaping steam that would

mark a vessel hurrying to get her anchor and make up for time lost is to

be heard. Frankly puzzled, the coxswain stops his engines. "Must 'a

sailed, sir," he says at length. "There ain't nothin' movin' this end o'

th' bay."

The convoy officer nods. "_Mmm!_ She may have gone on, while we were

dragging _Marmion_ clear of th' stern of that 'blue funnel' boat. A good

job. Well, carry on! Head in--think that was th' pier-head bell we heard

abeam!"

At easy speed the launch turns and coxswain bends to peer at the

swinging compass-card. As one who has held out to a job o' work

completed, the P.C.O. stretches his arms and yawns audibly and

whole-hearted. "A good bath now and a bite o' breakfast and-- Oh, hell!

What's that astern?"

The turn in the wake has drawn his eye to a grey blur in the glare of

the mist. An anchored ship!

Keeping the helm over, the coxswain swings a wide circle and steadies on

the mark. "Damn if it ain't her!" he says, as the launch draws on.

The _Cinderella_ lies quiet with easy harbour smoke rising straight up

from her funnel and no windlass party grouped on the forecastle-head;

quiet, as if fog and convoy and the distant reverberations of her sister

ships held no concern for her. To the P.C.O.'s surprised and somewhat

indignant hail there is returned a short-phrased assurance that the

ruddy anchor is down--and is going to remain down! "Think I'm going out

in this to hunt my place in the pack? No damn fear!" says the captain.

"Why, I can scarce see who's hailing me, less a line o' ships barging

along!"

The pilot, in a tone that suggests he has already 'put out an oar'--with

little effect--joins in to reassure. "Clearin' outside now, captain. I

haven't heard th' lighthouse syren for twenty minutes or more! The

fog'll be hangin' here in harbour a bit."

"Aye, aye! But it's here we are, pilot--not outside yet. A clearing out

there doesn't show us th' leading marks, and I'll not risk it. I've no

fancy for nosing into th' nets and booms. I know where I am here, and I

won't stir a turn--unless"--bending over the light screen towards the

launch--"unless you lead ahead!"

The convoy officer is somewhat embarrassed. Certainly the weather is as

thick as a hedge; there is no 'drill' of convoy practice that empowers

him to order risks to be taken--navigation of the ships is not his

province. It is enough for him to arrange and advise and assist. If he

leads out and anything _does_ happen?

Still, it is maddening to think of one hitch in a good

programme--'almost a record, too!' He looks at his watch and notes that

only fifty minutes have elapsed since _British Standard_ weighed.

"Oh, hell! Right, captain," he says. "Heave up and I'll give you a lead

out to clear weather!"

'IN EXECUTION OF PREVIOUS ORDERS'

WE are Number Four in the line; _Vick--beer--code_ is our address, and

we steam somewhat faster than the fog warrants to keep touch with our

next ahead. She, in turn, is packing close up on the leader, and if, in

the strict ruling of a 'line ahead,' we are stepping out a trifle wide,

at least we keep in company. The farthest we can see is the thrash of

foam, white in the grey, of _War Ordnance's_ propeller--a good moving

mark, that, though faint, draws the eye by the lead of broken water.

Nearer, we have a steering-guide in her hydroplane, cutting and dancing

under the bows and throwing a sightly feather of spray. The sea is flat

calm, save for our leader's wake--a broad ribbon of troubled water

through which we steer. Our eyes, now limited in range by the fog, seem

to focus readily on trifles; for want of major objects, roving glances

take in driftwood and ship-litter, and turn on minute patches of seaweed

with an interest that a wider range would dissipate. Spurring,

black-crested puffins come at us from under the misty pall, floating

still, as if set in glass, till our bow wash plays out and sets them,

squawking in distress, to an ungainly splutter on the surface, or

dipping swiftly to show white under-feathers and the widening rings of

their dive.

Astern of us, a medley of sound and steering-signals marks the gateway

of the harbour where our followers are striving to drop their pilots and

join in convoy; one loud trumpeter is drawing up at speed and showing,

by the frequency of her whistle-blasts, anxiety to sight our wake. The

lighthouse syren roars a warning of shoal-water out on the landward

beam, a raucous discord of two weird notes. These, with the rare

mournful wail of our leader, are our guiding sounds, but we have sight

now and then of the destroyer escort passing and turning mistily on the

rim of our narrowed vision, like swift sheep-dogs folding the stragglers

of a scattered flock.

The fog, that settled dense and deep as we got under way, shows a little

sign and promise of thinning, a small portent that draws our eyes to the

lift above the funnel. There is no wind, but our smoke-wrack, after

curving with our speed to masthead height, seems turned by light upper

draughts to the eastward. The sun has risen and peers mistily over the

top of the grey curtain that surrounds us. The day is warming up. Pray

fortune, a stout west wind may come out of it all, to clear the muck and

give us one good honest look at one another, when we are due for that

'six-point' turn to the south'ard!

To keep in station on our pacemaker, we call for constant alterations in

the speed--a range of revolutions that rattles up scale and down, like

first lessons on the piano, and sets the engineers below to a plaintive

verge of tears. The junior officer at the voice-pipe looks reflective,

after each order he passes, as though comparing the quality of the reply

with the last sulphurous rejoinder. The fog has added to our starting

vagaries and postponed a happy understanding, but we shall do better

later on when we have gauged and discovered--and pitied--the tiresome

vacillations of the _other_ ships!

Meantime, as best we can, we chase the sheering hydroplane ahead that

seems endowed with every chameleon gift of the classic gods. It

vanishes, invisible, in a drift of fog, and though we con a course as

steady as a cat on eggs, a clearing comes to show us its white feather

broad on the bows and edging off at an angle to dip under the thick of

the mist! It drops down to us; we sheer aside and slow a pace, and it

lingers and dallies sportively abeam. It slips suddenly ahead, with a

rush and a rip, as though, like a child among the daisies, it recalls a

parent in advance.

The trumpeter astern has come up and sighted our wake and fog-buoy, and

the clamour of her questing syren is stilled. She looms up close on our

quarter, a huge menacing bulk of sheering steel with the foam thundering

under her bows and curling and shattering on her grey hull. _They_ have

great difficulty in adjusting to our speed. She slows and fades back

into the mist, grows again from gloomy shadow to threatening detail,

steadies at a point for a few minutes, and resumes the round of her

previous motions in irritating cycle. "Whatever can be the matter with

them?" (We take the stout point of a position as steady as the Rock, and

grow scornful of their clumsy efforts to keep station.) "_Huh!_ These

gold-laced London men! Why can't they steady up a bit? Why can't

they----" We note that our steering-mark and the wash of _War

Ordnance's_ propeller are no longer in sight ahead, and set in to count

the beats of the screw. ". . . t'-one, t'-two, t'-three, t'-- _Hell!_

Didn't we order seventy? Go full speed!" Jumping to the tube, the junior

attends. "_I_ said seven-owe, sir, but he thought I said six-four! Says

th' bl--, th' engines working, sir--can't hear properly!"

Grudgingly, as though loath to give us our sight again, the fog clears.

The first of the tantalizing rift in the curtain is signalled by the

high look-out, who calls that he can see the topmasts of our near

neighbours piercing the low-lying vapours. The sun shines through,

showing now and then a clear-cut limb in place of the luminous misshapen

brightening that has been with us since sunrise. In fits and starts the

fog thins, and thickens again, at the will of wandering airs.

A west wind comes away, freshens, and stirs the vapour till it whips

close overhead in wraiths and streamers, raises here and there a fold on

the distant horizon, then dies again. Growing in vigour, the breeze

returns; a gallant breath that ruffles the smooth of the sea and sweeps

the round of it, routing the lingering flurries that settle, dust-like,

when the mass is cleared.

The clearing of our outlook produces a curious confusion to the eye. We

have become accustomed to a limited range in sight, and the sudden

change to distant vision, in which there is no standard of position, no

mark to judge by, effects an illusion as of a photographer's plate

developing. Fragments, wisps, and sections of the sea-rim appear,

breaking through as the fog lifts, and seeming strangely high and

foreign in position. Topmasts and a funnel-wreath of black smoke loom up

almost in mid-air; the water-line of a ship's hull grows to sight, low

in the plane as though dangerously close. Distant, obscure, and blurred

formations sharpen suddenly to detail and show our destroyer escort as

almost suspended in mirage, floating in air. Piece by piece, the plate

develops in sensible gradation, fitting and joining with exactitude; the

ships ahead take up their true proportions, the sea-horizon runs to a

definite hard line. Mast and funnel and spar stand out against the piled

and shattered fog-bank, whose rear-guard lingers, sinking but slowly and

sullenly, on the rim of the eastern horizon.

The fog cleared, and a busy seascape in sight, we shake ourselves

together and take heed of appearances. Our convoy signal hangs damp and

twisted on the halyards, and needs to be cleared to blow out for

recognition; the mirrored arc-lamp that we turned astern to aid the

trumpeter is switched out. With the fog-buoy we are less urgent; it will

be time enough to haul it aboard when we are assured the new-born breeze

is healthy and likely to remain with us. The press of work about the

decks has lessened with the hawsers and docking gear stowed away.

Sea-trim is the order now--a war sea-trim, in which the boats, swung

outboard and ready for instant use, rafts tilted to a launching angle,

hoses rigged to lead water, and crew at the guns, form a constant

reminder (if that be needed) of lurking under-water peril. In marked

contrast to less exciting days, when we could afford to disregard

whatever might go on behind us, we place look-outs to face all ways. The

enemy may gamble on our occupation with the view ahead, but, with a new

war wariness, we have grown eyes to search the sea astern.

In the clearing weather we become sensitive to the strict and proper

reading of our sailing orders. There must be no more faults in the

voice-tube to let us down from confidence in our right to a sudden

sense of guilt. We adjust our station in the line by sextant angles of

the leader, measuring his height to fractions, and set an ear to the

note of our engine-beats to ensure a steady gait.

Clearing our motes, we turn a purged and critical eye on our fellows,

now all clear of the mist, and steaming in sight. To far astern, where

the land lies and the sun plays on wet roof and flashing window-pane, a

long line of ships snakes out in procession, their smoke blowing and

curling merrily alee to join the cumulus of the foundering fog-banks.

There are gaps and kinks in our formation that would, perhaps, call for

angry signals in a line of battle, but the laggards are closing up in

hasty order to right the wayward tricks of sound and distance in the

fog. If not quite ruled and ordered to figures of our text, at least we

conform to the spirit, and are all at sea together, steering out on our

ventures.

Our distance run, _British Standard_ puts her helm over and turns out.

Forewarned, all eyes have been focused on the line of her masts, and her

sheer gives signal for a general cut and shuffle. We change partners.

Curtsying to full rudder pressure, we join the dance, and swing to her

measure, adjusting speed to mark time while other important leaders of

columns draw up abeam. The flat bright sea is cut and curved by

thrashing wakes as the convoy turns south. Ahead and abeam, round and

about, the destroyers wheel and turn, fan in graceful formation and

swerve quickly on their patrolling courses.

We are less expert in the figures of our cotillion. It cannot be

pretended that we slip into our convoy stations with anything

approaching their speed and precision. We are too varied in our types,

in turning periods, in the range of our dead-weight, to manoeuvre

alike. Most of us have but a slender margin of speed to draw on, and,

'all bound the same way,' the spurt to an assigned position proves the

stern a long chase. The fog, at starting, has thrown many of us out of

our proper turn, and we zigzag, unofficially, this way and that, to gain

our stations without reduction of speed. In the confusion to our surface

eyes, there is this consoling thought--that the same perplexing

evolutions (calling for frequent appeals to the high gods for

enlightenment as to the 'capers' of the _other_ fellows) have, at least,

no better meaning in the reflected angles of a periscope.

Now the hum and drone that has puzzled us in the fog reveals itself as

the note of a covey of seaplanes searching the waters ahead. They have

come out at first sign of a clearing, and now fly low, trimming and

banking in their flight like gannets at the fishing. A winking electric

helio on one of them spits out a message to the leader of the

destroyers, and she flashes answer and acknowledgment as readily as

though the seaplane were a sister craft. A huge coastal airship thunders

out across the land to join our forces. She grows to the eye as though

expanding visibly, and noses down to almost masthead height in a sharp

and steady-governed decline; abeam, she turns broad on, manoeuvring

with ease and grace, and the sunlight on her silvered sides glints and

sparkles purely, as though to shame the motley camouflage of the ships

below.

The commodore poises the baton as his ship draws up to her station. Till

now we have steamed and steered 'in execution of previous orders' and,

considering the dense fog and the press of ships at the anchorage and

pilot-grounds, we have not been idle or neglectful. Now we are in sea

order, and, with the ships closing up in formation, we attend our senior

officer's signals as to course and speed. A string of flags goes up,

fluttering to the yard of his ship, and we fret at the clumsy fingers

that cannot get a similar hoist as quickly to ours. Anon, on all the

ships, a gay setting of flags repeats the message, and we stand by to

take measure and sheer of a tricky zigzag, at tap of the baton.

The line of colour droops and fades quickly to the signalman's

gathering; the convoy turns and swings into the silver-foil of the

sun-ray.

[Illustration: INWARD BOUND]

XXI

THE NORTH RIVER

THE broad surface of the Hudson is scored by passage of craft of all

trades and industries. Tugs and barges crowd the waterway in unending

succession, threading their courses in a maze of harbour traffic;

high-sided ferry-boats surge out from their slips and angle across the

tide--crab-wise--towards the New Jersey shore; laden ocean steamers hold

to the deeps of the fairway on their passage to the sea. Up stream and

down, back and across, sheering in to the piers and wharves, the harbour

traffic seems constantly to be scourged and hurried by the lash of an

unseen taskmaster. The swift outrunning current adds a movement to the

busy plying of the small craft--a hastening sweep to their progress,

that suggests a driving power below the yellow tide. The stir of it! The

thrash of screw and lapping of discoloured water, the shriek of

impatient whistle-blasts, the thunder of escaping steam!

As we approach from seaward, there is need for caution. The railway

tugmen--who live by claims for damages from ocean steamers--are alert

and determined that we shall not pass without a suitable parting of

their hawsers, damage to barges, strain to engines and towing

appliances. Off the Battery, they sidle to us in coy appeal, but we

carry bare steerageway. As the pilot says: "Thar ain't nothin' doin'!"

We disengage their ardent approach, and make a slow progress against the

tide to our loading-berth. There, we drop in towards the pier-head and

angle our bows alongside the guarding fenders. A flotilla of panting

tugboats takes up station on our inshore side and 'punches' into

us--head on--to shove our stern round against the full pressure of the

strong ebb tide. The little vessels seem absurdly small for their task.

They 'gittagoin',' as instructed by the pilot, and wake the dockside

echoes with the strain of their energy. White steam spurts from the

exhausts with every thrust of their power. The ferry-boats turning in to

their slips come through the run of a combined stern wash that sets them

on the boarding with a heavy impact. Power tells. Our stern wavers, then

we commence to bear up-stream in a perceptible measure. The Hudson

throws a curl of eddying water to bar our progress, but we pass

up--marking our progress by the water-side of the west shore. Anon, the

thunder of the tugs' pulsations eases, then stops: they back away, turn,

and speed off on a quest for other employment--while we move ahead, out

of the run of the tide, and make fast at the pier.

Our ship is keenly in demand. The dockers are there, ready with gear and

tackle to board and commence work. The wharf superintendent hails us

from the dockside before the warps are fast. He is anxious to know the

amount of ballast coal to be shifted from the holds before he can

commence loading. "Toosday morning, capt'n," he adds, as reason for his

anxiety--"Toosday morning--an' she's gotta go!" Tuesday, eh! And this is

Saturday morning! They will have to hustle to do it.

[Illustration: A TRANSPORT LOADING]

'Hustle'--as once he told us--is the superintendent's maiden name.

Already the narrow water-space between us and our neighbour is jammed

tight by laden barges, brought in to await our coming. Billets of steel,

rough-cast shells, copper ingots, bars of lead and zinc are piled ready

for acceptance. The shed on our inshore tide is packed by lighter and

more perishable cargo, all standing to hand for shipment. Preparation

for our rapid dispatch is manifest and complete. Before the pilot is off

the ship with his docket signed, the blocks of our derricks are rattling

and the stevedores are setting up their gear for an immediate start.

Barred, on the sea-passage, from communication by wireless, we have been

unable to give a timely advice of our condition to the dock. The factor

of the coal to be shifted--till now unknown to them--is the first of

many difficulties. We have no cargo to discharge (having crossed in

ballast trim), but--the storms of the North Atlantic calling for a

weight to make us seaworthy--we have a lading of coal sufficient to

steam us back to our home port. This has all to be raised from the holds

and stowed in the bunker spaces: the holds must be cleaned for

food-stuffs: for grain in bulk there is carpenter-work in fitting the

midship boards to ensure that our cargo shall not shift. Tuesday morning

seems absurdly near!

With a thud and jar to clear the stiffening of a voyage's inaction, our

deck winches start in to their long heave that shall only end with the

closing of the hatches on a laden cargo. The barges haul alongside at

the holds that are ready for stowage and loading begins. The slings of

heavy billets pass regularly across the deck and disappear into the void

of the open hatchways. In the swing and steady progression there seems

an assurance that we shall keep the sailing date, but our energy is

measured by the capacity of the larger holds. In them there is the bulk

of fuel to be handled. The superintendent concentrates the efforts of

his gangs on this main issue: the loading of the smaller compartments is

only useful in relieving the congestion of the barges overside.

Under his direction the coalmen set to work at their hoists and stages

and soon have the baskets swinging with loads from the open hatchways.

The coal thunders down the chutes to the waiting barges, and raises a

smother of choking dust. The language of South Italy rings out in the

din and clatter. "Veera, veera," roars the stageman (not knowing that he

is passing an ancient order on a British ship). It is a fine start.

Antonio and Pasquali and their mates are fresh: they curse and praise

one another alternately and impartially: they seem in a fair way to earn

their tonnage bonus by having the holds cleared before the morning.

It is almost like an engagement in arms. Good leadership is needed.

There are grades and classes in the army of dockers; groups as clearly

specialized in their work as the varied units that form an army corps.

Italian labourers handle the coal; coloured men are employed for the

heavy and rough cargo work; the Irish are set to fine stowage. There is

little infringement of the others' work. Artillery and infantry are not

more set apart in their special duties than the grades of the dockers.

Certainly there is a rivalry between the coloured men and the Irish--the

line that divides the cargo is perhaps lightly drawn. "Hey! You nigger!

You gitta hell out o' this," says Mike. The coloured man bides his time.

The thunder of the winches pauses for an instant--he shouts down the

hatchway: "Mike! Ho, Mike!" An answering bellow sounds from below. "Ah

say, Mike! When yo' gwine back hom' t' fight fo' King Gawge?"

Sunday morning, the 'macaroni' gangs knock off work for a term. The

holds are cleared, but our fuel has again to be hove up from the barges

and stowed in the bunkers. That can be done while loading is in

progress. Meantime--red-eyed and exhausted--the coalmen troop ashore and

leave the ship to one solitary hour of Sunday quiet. At seven the

turmoil of what the superintendent calls a 'fair start' begins.

Overnight a floating-tower barge for grain elevation has joined the

waiting list of our attendant lighters. She warps alongside and turns

her long-beaked delivery-pipes on board; yellow grain pours through and

spreads evenly over the floor-space of our gaping holds. Fore and aft we

break into a full measure of activity. The loading of the cargo is not

our only preparation for the voyage. The fittings of the 'tween-decks,

thrown about in disorder by the coal-gangs, have to be reconstructed and

the decks made ready for troops. Cleaning and refitting operations go on

in the confusion of cargo work: conflicting interests have to be

reconciled--the more important issues expedited--the fret of interfering

actions turned to other channels. At the shore end of the gangways there

is riot among the workers. Stores and provisions are delivered by the

truckmen with an utter disregard for any convenience but their own. The

narrow roadway through the shed is blocked and jammed by horse and motor

wagons that, their load delivered, can find no way of egress. Cargo work

on the quayside comes to a halt for want of service. The dockers roar

abuse at the truckmen, the truckmen--in intervals of argument with their

fellows--return the dockers' obloquy with added embellishment. The

'house-that-Jack-built' situation is cleared by the harassed

pier-foreman. The shed gates are drawn across: outside the waiting

charioteers stand by, their line extended to a block on the Twenty-Third

Street cars.

* * * * *

The roar and thrust and rattle of the straining winches ceases on Monday

evening. We are fully stowed: even our double-bottom tanks--intended for

water-ballast alone--carry a load of fuel oil to help out the

difficulties of transport. The superintendent goes around with his chest

thrown out and draws our attention to the state of affairs--the ship

drawing but eighteen inches short of her maximum draught, and the

'tween-decks cleared and fitted. "Fifty-four working hours, capt'n," he

says proudly. It is no mean work!

The silence of the ship, after the din and uproar of our busy week-end,

seems uncanny. The dock is cleared of all our attendant craft, and the

still backwater is markedly in contrast to the churned and troubled

basin that we had known. From outside the dock a distant subdued murmur

of traffic on the streets comes to us. Cross-river ferries cant into a

neighbouring slip, and the glow of their brilliant lights sets a

reflection on the high facades of the water-front buildings. Overhead,

the sky is alight with the warm irradiance of the great city. Ship-life

has become quiescent since the seamen bundled and put away their gear

after washing decks. Only the dynamos purr steadily, and an occasional

tattoo on the stokehold plates tells of the firemen on duty to raise

steam. In the unfamiliar quiet of the night and absence of movement in

the dock there is countenance to a mood of expectancy. It seems

unreasonable that we should so lie idle after the past days of strenuous

exertion in preparing for sea. The flood in the North River, dancing

under the waterside lights, invites us out to begin the homeward voyage.

Why wait?

We are not yet ready. In our lading we have store of necessities to

carry across the sea. Food, munitions and furniture of war, copper,

arms, are packed tightly in the holds: power-fuel for our warships lies

in our tanks. There is still a further burthen to be embarked--we wait a

cargo of clear-headed, strong-limbed, young citizens bound east to bear

arms in the Crusade.

They come after midnight. There are no shouts and hurrahs and

flag-waving. A high ferry-boat crosses from the west shore and cants

into the berth alongside of us. The dock shed, now clear of goods, is

used for a final muster. Encumbered by their heavy packs, they line out

to the gangways and march purposely on board. The high-strung mimicry of

jest and light heart that one would have looked for is absent. There is

no boyish call and counter-call to cloak the tension of the moment.

Stolidly they hitch their burdens to an easier posture, say '_yep_' to

the call of their company officer, and embark.

The troops on board, we lose no time in getting under way. Orders are

definite that we should pass through the booms of the Narrows at

daybreak, and join convoy in the Lower Bay with the utmost dispatch. We

back out into the North River, turn to meet the flood-tide, and steer

past the high crown of Manhattan.

[Illustration: A CONVOY IN THE ATLANTIC]

XXII

HOMEWARDS

THE ARGONAUTS

THE boat guard (one post, section A) stir and grow restive as the hour

of their relief draws on. Till now they have accepted wet quarters, the

reeling ship, black dark night with fierce squalls of rain and sleet, as

all a part of the unalterable purgatory of an oversea voyage. With a

prospect of an end to two hours' spell of acute discomfort, of hot

'kawfee,' dry clothes, and a snug warm bunk, their spirits rise, and

they show some liveliness. Muffled to the ear-tips in woollens and heavy

sodden greatcoats, their rifles slung awkwardly across the bulge of

ill-fitting cork life-belts, they shift in lumbering movement from foot

to foot, or pace--two steps and a turn--between the boat-chocks of their

post. A thunder of shattering salt spray lashes over from break of a sea

on the foredeck, and they dodge and dive for such poor shelter as the

wing of the bridge affords.

Scraps of their protest to the fates carry to our post in breaks of the

wind "Aw, you guys! Say! Wisha was back 'n li'l old N'yok, ringin' th'

dial 'n a Twanny-Thoid Street car!" "Whaddya mean--a Scotch highball?

Gee! I gotta thoist f'r all th' wet we soak!" "Bettcha Heinie's goin'a

pay _me_ cents an' dallers f'r this!" ". . . an' a job claenin' me

roifle. . . . th' sargint, be damn but, he . . . ."

"Cut it! Less talk 'round there!" orders their duty officer from

somewhere in the darkness; the talk ceases, though stamp and bustle of

expectant relief persist, and we are recalled to survey and reflection

on the gloom ahead.

Midnight now, and no sign of a change! Anxiously we scan sea and sky for

hope or a promise--not a token! A squall of driving sleet has passed

over, and has left the outlook moderately clear, but a quick-rising bank

of hard clouds in the nor'east threatens another, and a heavier, by the

look, soon to follow. A moonless night, not a star shines through the

sullen upper clouds to mark even a flying break in the lift of it. A

hopeless turn for midnight, showing no relief, no prospect!

Ahead, the dark bulk of our column leader sways and thrashes through the

spiteful easterly sea, throwing the wash broad out and taking the spray

high over bow and funnel. In turn, we lurch and drive at the same sea

that has stirred her, and find it with strength enough to lash over and

fill the fore-deck abrim. Weighed down forward, we throw our stern high,

and the mad propeller thrashes in air, jarring every bolt and rivet in

her. We cant to windward, joggling in an uneasy lurch, then throw

swiftly on a sudden list that frees the decks of the encumbering water.

We ease a pace or two as the propeller finds solid sea to churn, steady,

then gather way to meet the next green wall. With it the squall breaks

and lashes furiously over us, driving the icy slants of hard sleet to

our face, cutting at our eyes in vicious persistence. Joined to the

wind-burst, a heavy sea shatters on fore-end of the bridge, and ring of

the steel bulkhead sounds in with the crash of broken water that floods

on us.

In this succession the day and half the night have passed. No 'let-up'

in the round of it. Furious wind-bursts marking time on the face of a

steady gale. Rain--and now sleet. Sleet! Who ever heard of icy sleet in

North Atlantic, this time of the year? Gad! Every cursed thing seems to

weigh in against us on this voyage! The weather seems in league with the

enemy to baulk our passage. Every cursed thing! Head winds and heavy

seas all the way. Fog! These horse transports having to heave-to, and

forcing the rest of the convoy to head up and mark their damned time!

And now this, just when we were looking for a 'slant' to make the land!

Maddening!

The bridge is astir with the change of the watch. A fine job they make

of it! Like a burst of damned schoolboys! Oilskin-clad clumsy ruffians

barging up the ladders, trampling and stumbling in their heavy

sea-boots, across and about, peering to find their mates! Are they all

blind? Why can't they arrange set posts for eight bells? Why can't they

look where--"Th' light, damn you! Dowse that light! _Huh!_ Some blasted

idiot foul of that binnacle-screen again! Th' way things are done on

this ship! Egad! Would think we were safe in th' Ship Canal, instead of

dodging submar----" A slat of driving spray cuts over and we dip quickly

under edge of the weather-screen.

The second officer arrives to stand his watch, and the Third, who goes

below, is as damnably cheerful and annoying as the other is dour.

"North, --ty-four east, th' course. She's turning seven-six just now,

but you'll have to reduce shortly--drawing up on our next ahead.

Seven-three or four sh'd keep her in station. _Neleus_ ahead there, two

cables. Rotten weather all th' watch. Squalls, my hat! There's another

big 'un making up now! Th' Old Man over there--like a bear with a

sore--raisin' hell 'bout----"

"Oh, a--ll right! Needn't make a song and dance of it! North, --ty-four

east? Right!" Picking up binoculars, the Second scans the black of it

ahead, as though now definitely set for business.

The watch is taken over and all seems settled, but the Third is not yet

completely happy. He gloats a while over the Second's gloomy outlook,

and yawns in that irritating _arpeggio_, the foretaste of a good sound

sleep. "Oh, d'ya read in orders 'bout th' zigzag for th' morning

watch?--a new stunt, fours and sixes; start in at----"

"Oh, g'rr out! How can a man keep a watch, you chewin' th' rag? Yes,

I--read--the orders!" _S-snap!_

"_Huh!_ A pair of them!" It comes to us that something will have to be

said about the way the damned bridge is relieved in this ship!

Into the chart-room, to fumble awkwardly for light ('_T'tt!_ That switch

out of order again!') and search for a portent in the jeering glassy

face of the aneroid. _Tip, tip, whap!_ The cursed thing is falling

still. 'Twenty-nine owe two--half an inch since ten o'clock! Whatever

can be behind all this? That damn glass was never right, anyway!'

[Illustration: THE BOWS OF THE _KASHMIR_ DAMAGED BY COLLISION]

Drumming of the wireless-cabin telephone sounds out, and we listen to a

brief account of Poldhu's war warning. An S.O.S. has been heard, but a

shore station has accepted it. (They can identify the ship--might be the

harping of a Fritz.) There is a long code message through, and the

quartermaster brings it--a jumble of helplessly ugly consonants that

looks as though the German Fleet, at last, is out--but resolves (after a

wearisome cryptic wrestle) to back-chat that has little of interest for

us. Poldhu has the reports of the day--mines and derelicts, wreckage,

the patrols, and enemy submarines in the channels. Chart work for a

while. The wrecks and the derelicts are figured and placed, and we dally

with the subs, plotting and measuring to find a clue to their movements.

'Fifteen hours at six, and ten to come or go! _Mmm!_ That 'll be the

same swine working to the nor'east. Hope he makes a good course into the

minefield! This one is solo--and that! A ghastly bunch, anyway!' We

project a line of our course, but hesitate at position. 'Not one decent

observation in the last three days. Only a muggy guess at a horizon.

Dead-reckoning? Of course, there is our dead-reckoning, but--but--wonder

where the commodore got his position from? Must have added on th' day of

th' month, or fingers and toes or something! Damned if we can see how,

at twelve knots, we could be where----'

The outspread chart, glaring white under the electric light, with a maze

of heights and soundings, grows strangely indistinct, and it calls for

an effort to set the counts and figures in their places. We realize that

wandering thought and a warm chart-room are not the combination for

wakefulness. So, on deck again, to steady up at the doorway and wonder

why the night has become suddenly as hellish black as the pit!

The second officer has found his composure at the bottom of a cup of

steaming coffee, and seems mildly astonished that we are unable to pick

up _Neleus_ in the darkness ahead. "Quite plain, sir, when these squalls

pass. A bit murky while they blow over, but--see her clear enough, sir.

Reduced two revolutions, and keeping good station on her at that!"

Somewhat slowly (for we have been afoot since six yesterday morning) our

eyes focus to the gloom and line out the sea and sky in their shaded

proportions. _Neleus_ grows out of the sombre opacous curtain--a

definite guide with the sea breaking white in her wake. Dark patches of

smoke-wrack, around and about, mark bearings on the sea-line where our

sisters of the convoy are forging through. The next astern has dropped

badly in cleaning fires, and is now throwing a whirl of green smoke in

the effort to regain her station. The sea seems to have lessened since

last we viewed it. Our hot coffee may have had effect in producing a

more impressionable frame of mind, but certainly the weather is no

worse. The rain and sleet have beaten out a measure of the toppling

sea-crests. We see the forecastle-head, black and upstanding, for longer

periods, and only broken spray flies over, where, but a little ago, were

green whelming seas. A sign of modest content comes from the boat-deck,

where the guards are humming, "_Over there, over there, over there! Th'

Yanks are coming!_"

The duty officer (troops) comes to us to pass the time of the morning.

He salutes with punctilio. (He has not yet learned that we are only a

damn civilian, camouflaged, and not entitled to such respect.) It is

reported to him that one of the ship's boats had been badly damaged by a

sea during the night. "In event of--of an accident, is it in orders that

the troops allocated [his word] to that boat shall not go in any other?"

Good lad! For all that darkness and the gale, he looks very fine and

bold, standing stiffly, if somewhat unsteadily, demanding detail of the

Birkenhead Drill! We assure him that there will be no immediate need for

regrouping the men, that measures have already been taken to repair the

damaged planking, that half an hour of daylight will serve us--and turn

the talk to less disquieting affairs. He is very keen. Till now he has

never been farther out to sea than the Iron Steamboat Company would take

him--to Coney Island or the more subdued delights of the Hook. A

New-Yorker, he tempers quite natural vaunts to be the more in keeping

with the great and impending trial that awaits. For all that, he is

gravely concerned that we should recognize his men as good and

true--"the best ever, yessa!" With a good experience of their conduct,

under trying conditions, we assent.

". . . They kin number us up all they wanna, but we're the--th N' Yok

National Guard--a right good team! Down there on th' Mexican barder, we

sure got trimmed, good and planny! Hot! My! Saay, cap'n, I guess-- Ah

well, a' course you've been through some heat, too--but it was sure some

warm hell down there! Yes--sir!" A bright lad!

His words recall to us a windy afternoon on Fifth Avenue, in the days

when our Uncle Sam was dispassionate and neutral. Flags whipping noisily

in the high breeze, the crowds, the bands, and the long khaki column in

fours winding towards the North River ferries to embark for Mexico, on a

task that called for inhuman restraint. Newsboys were shouting aloud the

peril of Verdun, and the thought came to us then--"Will that stream of

manhood ever march east?" And now, under our feet and in our charge,

fourteen hundred--"the best ever, yessa!"--are bound east by every

thrust of the screw, and out on the heaving waste of water around us are

fifteen thousand more; and the source is sure, and the stream, as yet,

is but trickling.

ON OCEAN PASSAGE

THE weather has certainly moderated. In but an hour the sea has gone

down considerably. There is no longer height enough in the tumble of it

to throw us about like a Deal lugger. We steam on a more even keel; the

jar and racket of the racing propeller has altered to a steady rhythmic

pulse-beat that thrusts our length steadily through the water. At times

the rain lashes over and shuts out sight of our neighbours, but we have

opportunity to regulate our station in the lengthening intervals between

the squalls. Improvement in the wind and sea has brought our somewhat

scattered fleet into better and closer order. The rear horse-transports

have come up astern and seem to have got over the steering difficulties

that their high topsides and small rudder-immersion effected in the

heavier sea. Only the barometer shows no inclination to move, in keeping

with the better conditions--the rain, perhaps, is keeping the mercury

low.

It seems plain sailing for a while. The Second can look out for her; no

use having too many good men on the bridge. We are only in the way out

here, stamping and turning on the wet foot-spars, or throwing bowlines

in the 'dodger' stops to pass the night. Four bells--two a.m.--the time

goes slowly! We are somewhat footsore. Perhaps, sea-boots off, a seat

for a minute or two in the chart-room may ease our limbs for the long

day that lies before us.

A long day, and the best part of another long day before we reach port!

A wearisome stretch of it! We ought to have some system of relief. Why

not? Why not take a relief? The chief officer is as good a man as the

master. Why not let him run the bus for a spell? Oh, just--just--just a

rotten way we have of doing! In the Navy they make no bones about

turning over to their juniors; why should we make it so hard for our--

"_Says it is hazy, sir! Told me to let you know he hasn't seen any of

the ships for over an hour!_"

Whatever is the man talking about! "_Ships?_" What ships? "_An hour?_"

The quartermaster, in storm-rig of dripping oilskin, stands sheepish in

the doorway. "Aff-past-three, sir," he says.

"_Htt!_" In drowsy mood we don oilskin and sea-boots. Overhead the rain

is drumming, heavy and persistent, on the deck. A glance at the

barometer shows an upward spring. _Tip, tip, tip_--a good glass, that!

Well-balanced! The Second is apologetic, almost as though his was the

hand that had accidentally turned the tap. "Been like this for over an

hour, sir! Was always hoping it would pass off, but there has been no

sign of clearing. Would have called you sooner, but thought it would

lift. I've kept her steady at average revolutions for the last eight

hours' run--seven-three. Haven't seen a thing since shortly after you

went below." A query brings answer that the fog-buoy has been streamed

and gun's crew cautioned to a sharp look-out astern. Not that there is

great need; our sailing experience has been that A---- will drop astern

when 'the gas is turned down!'