heavy continuous downpour of rain. The air is milder, and the sea around
has a glow of luminous milky patches. So, it is to be southerly
weatherly for making the land! It might be worse! At least, this thrash
of heavy rain will 'batten hatches' on a rise of the sea, and make a
good parade-ground for our destroyer escort when they join company. We
should be able to shove along at better speed when daylight comes. The
mist or the haze or whatever combination it may be, is puzzling. From
the outlook it is not easy to gauge the range of our vision. Near us the
wash from our bows is sharply defined by phosphorescence in the broken
water, a white scum churns and curls alongside, brightening suddenly in
patches as though our passage had set spark to the fringe. Outboard the
open sea merges away into the gloomy sky with no horizon, no ruling of a
division. We seem to be steaming into a vertical face of vapour. There
is no sound from the ships around us, not a light glimmers in the
darkness. The eerie atmosphere through which we pass has effect on the
night-life of the ship. On deck there is an inclination to move quietly,
to preserve a silence in keeping with the weird spell that seems to
environ us. There is no longer chatter and small talk among the duty
troops; they sit about, huddled in glistening _ponchos_, peering out at
the ghostly glow on the water. From far down in the bowels of the ship
the rattle of a stoker's shovel on the plates rings out in startling
clamour, and rouses an instant desire to suppress the jarring note. It
seems impossible that there can be ships in our company--vessels moving
with us through mystic seas. We peer around, on all the bearings, but
see nothing on our encircling wall. Smell? We nose at the air, seeking a
waft of coal-smoke, but the rain is beating straight down, basting the
funnel-wraiths on the flat of the sea.
An average of eight hours' steaming, seven-three revolutions, may be no
good guide, considering the racing and the plunging we have gone
through. In proper station we ought to see the loom of _Neleus_ ahead,
or, at least, the wash of her fog-buoy. It is important that we should
be in good touch at daybreak. We go full speed for a turn or two and
post an officer in the bows to scan for our leader.
New and vexing problems come at us as time draws on. We are due to start
a zigzag, 'in execution of previous orders,' before the day breaks. We
see a royal 'hurrah's nest'--a rough house--before us if we lay off
without a proper sight of our fellows. So far there has come no negative
to our orders; we are somewhat concerned. A message cannot have been
missed, surely! "Nothing through yet, sir," is the wakeful assurance
from the wireless operator. "X's fierce with this rain, but should get
any near message all right."
At eight bells we come in sight of one unit of the convoy. She shows
up, broad off on our lee bow, in a position we had hardly looked for.
There is little to see. A darkling patch, a blurred shadow, in the face
of sea and sky, with a luminous curl of broken water astern. We cannot
identify her in the darkness; flashing signals are barred in the
submarine areas; we must wait daylight for recognition. She should be
_Neleus_, but a hair-line on our steering-card may have brought us to
the leader of the outside column. In any case we are in touch, and it is
with some relief we ease speed to a close approximation of hers. Anon,
our anxiety about the zigzag is dispelled by a message from the
commodore, cancelling former orders. He has sat tight on it to nearly
the last minute, hoping for a clearance.
[Illustration: THE MAYFLOWER QUAY, THE BARBICAN, PLYMOUTH]
With the coming of the chief officer's watch we feel that the 'day' is
beginning. Twelve to four are unholy hours that belong to no proper
order of our reckoning. They are past the night, and have no kinship
with the day: bitter, tedious, helpless spaces of time that ought only
to be passed in slumber and oblivion. By five, and the lift greying,
there is something in the movement about the decks that suggests an
awakening of the ship to busy life and action, after the sullen torpor
of an uneasy night. The troop 'fatigue men' turn out to their duties,
and traffic to the cooking-galleys goes on, even under the unceasing
downpour that falls on us. The guard get busy on their rounds,
challenging the men as they step out of the companionways, to show their
life-belts in order and properly adjusted. Complaint and discussion are
frequent, but the guard are firm in their insistence. "I should worry!"
is the strange request, appeal, exhortation, demand, reply, aside, that
punctuates each meeting on the decks below. In nowise influenced by the
sinister import of the questioning, the duty troops on the boat-deck
waken up. The spirit of matutinal expression descends on them, despite
the rain, and they whistle cheerful 'harmonic discords,' till barked to
silence by Sergeant 'Jawn.'
The watch on deck trail hoses and deck-scrubbers from the racks and set
about preparations for washing down, bent earnestly on their standard
rites though the heavens fall! The carpenter and his mate are assembling
their gear and tools, awaiting better daylight to get on with their
repairs to the damaged lifeboats. On the bridge we seem congested. Extra
'day' look-outs obstruct our confined gangways and the bulk of their
weather harness, plus life-belts and megaphones, restricts a ready
movement. In preparation for busy daylight, the signalmen put out their
bunting on the lettered hooks, and ease off the halyards that are set
'bar-tight' by the soaking rain. There is, withal, an air of freshness
in the morning bustle that comes in company with the dawn.
With gloom sufficient for our signal needs (and light enough for
protection) we flash a message to our consort. She is _Neleus_, and
answers that she has other vessels of the convoy in sight to leeward. We
sheer into our proper position astern of her and find the outer column
showing through the mist in good station. On our report that we had no
others in sight, _Neleus_ alters course perceptibly to converge on the
commodore, and daylight coming in finds us steaming in misty but visible
touch with the other columns. The horse transports have dropped astern,
and one is bellowing for position. She gets a word or two on the
'buzzer,' comes ahead, and lets go the whistle lanyard.
If commodore's reckoning is right, we should now be on the destroyer
rendezvous, but our wireless operator, who has been listening to the
twitter of the birds, assures us that they are yet some distance off. We
hope for a clearing to enable them to meet us without undue search; it
will not be a simple matter to join company in the prevailing weather
conditions, particularly as we are working on four days of
dead-reckoning. By seven o'clock there is no sign of the small craft,
and we note our ocean escort closing in to engage the commodore with
signals. The rain lessens and turns to a deep Scotch mist, our range of
vision is narrowed to a length or two. Anon, our advance guardship sets
her syren sounding dismal wails at long intervals, as she swings over
from wing to wing of the convoy.
By what mysterious channel does information get about a ship? Is there a
voice in the aerials? Are ears tuned to the many-tongued whisperings of
rivet and shell-plate, that all hands have an inkling of events? The
rendezvous is an official secret; the coming of the destroyers is
supposedly unknown to all but the master, the navigators, and the
wireless operator, but it is not difficult to see a knowing expectancy
in the ranks of our company. Despite the wet and clammy mist, ignoring
the dry comforts of the ''tween-decks,' the troops crowd the upper
passages and hang long over the rails and bulwarks, pointing and
shouting surmise and conjecture to their mates. The crew are equally
sensitive. Never were engine-room and stokehold ventilators so
tirelessly trimmed to the wind. At frequent intervals, one or other of
the grimy firemen ascends to the upper gratings, cranks the cowls an
inch or two this way or that, then stands around peering out through the
mist for first sight of a welcome addition to our numbers. The official
ship look-outs are infected by a new keenness, and every vagary in the
wind that exposes a glimpse of our neighbours is greeted by instant
hails from the crow's nest.
Eight bells again! The watch is changed and, with new faces on the
bridge, the length of our long spell is painfully recalled. With
something of envy we note the posts relieved and the men gone below to
their hours of rest. "What a life!" The wail of the guardship's syren
fits in to our mood--_Wh-o-o-owe!_
Quick on the dying note a new syren throws out a powerful reedy blast,
sounding from astern. Thus far on the voyage, with fog so long our
portion, we have come to know the exact whistle-notes of our neighbours,
down to the cough and steam splutter of the older ships. This is new--a
stranger--a musical chime that recalls the powerful tug-boats on the
Hudson. Our New-Yorker troops are quick to recognize the homely note.
"Aw! Saay!" is the chorus. "Lissen! Th' _Robert E. Lee_!"
The rear ships of the convoy now give tongue--a medley of confused
reverberations. No reply comes to their tumult, but a line of American
destroyers emerges from the mist astern and steams swiftly between the
centre columns. There is still a long swell on the sea and they lie over
to it, showing a broad strake of composition. They are bedizened in
gaudy dazzle schemes, and the mist adds to the weird effect. The Stars
and Stripes flies at each peak, standing out, board-like, from the speed
of their carriers. As they pass, in line ahead, a wild tumult of
enthusiasm breaks out among the troops. They join in a full-voiced
anthem, carried on from ship to ship, "The Star-spangled Banner!"
'ONE LIGHT ON ALL FACES'
A SLIGHT lift in the mist, edging from sou'west in a freshening of the
wind, extends our horizon to include all ships of the convoy. With this
modest clearing, the shield of vapour that has cloaked us from
observation since early morning is withdrawn. Although still hazy, there
is sight enough for torpedo range through a periscope, and the
long-delayed zigzag is signalled by the commodore.
There is no time lost in settling to the crazy courses. At rise of the
mist we are steaming through the flat grey sea in parallel columns, our
lines ruled for us by the wakes of our leaders. The contrasts of build
and tonnage, the variegations of our camouflage, are dulled to a drab
uniformity by the lingering mist, and we make a formal set-piece in the
seascape, spaced and ordered and defined. The angle of the zigzag
disturbs our symmetry. As one movement, on the tick of time, we swing
over into an apparent confusion, like the flush of a startled covey. We
make a pattern on the smooth sea with our stern wash. Wave counters wave
and sets up a running break on the surface that draws the eye by its
similarity to a sheering periscope; not for the first time we turn our
glasses on the ripples, and scan the spurt of broken water in
apprehension.
Our escort is now joined by British sloops returning from their deep-sea
patrols. The faster American destroyers spur out on the wings and far
ahead, leaving the less active warships to trudge and turn in rear of
the convoy. With our new additions, ship by ship steering to the east,
we make a formidable international gathering on the high seas, a
powerful fleet bringing the Pilgrim sons back over the weary sea-route
of their fathers' _Mayflower_!
Having far-flung scouts to safeguard our passage, there seems no reason
for concern about our navigation, but the habits of a sea-routine urge
us to establish a position--to right the uncertainty of four days'
dead-reckoning. The mist still hangs persistently about us, but there is
a prospect that the sun may break through. The strength of the wind
keeps the upper vapours moving, but ever there are new banks to close up
where a glimpse of clear vision shows a 'pocket' in the clouds. The
westering sun brightens the lift and plays hide-and-seek behind the
filmy strata. Time and again we stand by for an observation, but, should
a nebulous limb of the sun shine through, the horizon is obscured--when
the sea-line clears to a passable mark, the sun has gone! A vexing round
of trial after trial! We put away the sextant, vowing that no
tantalizing promise shall tempt us. "Bother the sun! 'We should worry!'
We have got an approximation by soundings, we can do without--we-- _Look
out, there!_"--we are hurrying for the instrument again and tapping
'stand by' to the marksman at the chronometer!
At length a useful combination of a clean lower limb and a definite
horizon gives opportunity for contact, and it is with a measure of
satisfaction we figure the result on the chart, and work back to earlier
soundings for a clue to the latitude. Busied with pencil and dividers,
our findings are disturbed by gunfire--the whine of a slow-travelling
shell is stifled by a dull explosion that jars the ship!
On deck again; the men on the bridge have eyes turned to the inner
column. The rearmost transport of that line has a high upheaval of
debris and broken water suspended over her; it settles as we watch, and
leaves only a wreath of lingering dust over the after part of the ship;
she falls out of line, listing heavily; puffs of steam on her whistle
preface the signal-blasts that indicate the direction from which the
blow was struck. From a point astern of us a ruled line of disturbed
water extends to the torpedoed ship--the settling wake of the missile!
The smack and whine of our bomb-thrower speaks out a second time, joined
by other vessels opening fire.
Events have brought our ship's company quickly to their stations. The
chief officer stands, step on the ladder, awaiting orders. "Right! Lay
aft! Cease fire, unless you have a sure target! Look out for the
destroyers blanking the range!" He runs along, struggling through the
mass of troops. The men are strangely quiet; perhaps the steady beat of
our engines measures out assurance to them--as it does to us. Their
white-haired colonel has come to the bridge, and stands about quietly.
Other officers are pushing along to their stations. There is not more
than subdued and controlled excitement in a low murmur. The men below
crowd up the companionways from the troop-decks. In group and mass, the
ship seems packed to overflowing by a drab khaki swarm; the light on all
faces turned on the one cant, arms pointing in one direction, rouses a
haunting disquiet. However gallant and high of heart, they are standing
on unfamiliar ground--at sea, in a ship, caged! If--
Two destroyers converge on us at frantic speed, tearing through the flat
sea with a froth in their teeth. As the nearest thunders past, her
commander yells a message through his megaphone. We cannot understand.
Busied with manoeuvres of the convoy, with the commodore's signal for
a four-point turn, we miss the hail, and can only take the swing and
wave of his arms as a signal to get ahead--"Go full speed!" The jangle
of the telegraph is still sounding, when we reel to a violent shock. The
ship lists heavily, every plate and frame of her ringing out in clamour
with the impact of a vicious sudden blow. She vibrates in passionate
convulsion on recovery, masts oscillate like the spring of a
whip-shaft, the rigging jars and rattles at the bolts, a crash of broken
glass showers from the bridge to the deck below!
The murmur among the troops swells to a higher note, there is a crowding
mass-movement towards the boats. The guard is turned to face inboard.
The colonel is impassive; only his eyes wander over the restless men and
note the post of his officers. He turns towards us, inquiringly. What is
it to be? His orderly bugler is standing by with arm crooked and trumpet
half raised.
Our lips are framing an order, when a second thundering shock jars the
ship, not less in violence and shattering impact than the first. A high
hurtling column of water shoots up skyward close astern of the ship. We
suppress the order that is all but spoken, stifle the words in our
throat. We are not torpedoed! Depth-charges! The destroyers' work! At a
sign, the bugler sounds out "_Still!_" and slowly the tumult on deck is
arrested.
The commodore's _half-right_ has been instantly acted on, and we are
steadied on a new course, bearing away at full speed, with the torpedoed
horse transport and the racing, circling destroyers astern. Suddenly our
bows begin to swing off to port, falling over towards the outer column.
The helmsman has the wheel hard over against the sheer; we realize that
our steering-gear has gone; the second depth-charge has put us out of
control. We swing on the curve of a gathering impetus--it is evident
that the rudder is held to port; converging on us at full speed, the
rear ship of the outer column steams into the arc of our disorder!
The signalman is instant with his 'not under command' hoist, the crew
are scattered to throw in emergency gear, but there is no time to arrest
the sheer. The first impulse is to stop and go astern. If we arrest the
way of the ship, a collision is inevitably assured, but the impact may
be lessened to a side boarding, to damage that would not be vital; if we
swing as now, we may clear--our eye insists we should clear. If our
tired eyes prove false, if the strain of a long look-out has dulled
perception, our stem will go clean into her--we shall cut her down!
Reason and impulse make a riot of our brain. The instinct to haul back
on the reins, to go full astern on the engines, is maddening. Our hand
curves over the brass hood of the telegraph, fingers tighten vice-like
on the lever; with every nerve in tension, we fight the insane desire to
ring up and end the torturing conflict in our mind!
A confusion of minor issues comes crowding for settlement, small stabs
to jar and goad in their trifling. There is a call to carry on
side-actions. Every bell on the bridge clamours for attention. The
engine-room rings up, the chief officer telephones from aft that the
starboard chain has parted, the rudder jammed hard to port. From the
upper spars, the signalman calls out a message from an approaching
destroyer--"What is the matter? Are you torpedoed?" Through all, we
swing out--swiftly, inexorably!
Troops and look-outs scurry off the forecastle-head, in anticipation of
a wrecking blow. On the other ship, there is outcry and excitement. She
has altered course and her stern throws round towards us, further
encroaching on the arc of our manoeuvre. So near we are, we look
almost into the eyes of her captain as we head for the bridge. Troops,
the boat-guard, are scrambling aboard from the out-swung lifeboats,
their rifles held high. On her gun-platform the gunners slam open their
breech, withdraw the charge, and hurry forward to join the mass of men
amidships. All eyes are centred on the narrowing space of clear water
that separates us, on our high sheering stem that cuts through her
out-flung side-wash.
Strangely the movement seems to be all in our sweeping bow. The other
vessel appears stationary, inert--set motionless against the flat
background of misty cloud; our swinging head passes point upon point of
the chequered camouflage on her broadside; subconsciously we mark the
colours of her scheme--red and green and grey. We clear her line of
boats, and sway through the length of her after-deck--waver at the
stern-house, then cover the grey mounting of her gun-emplacement. In
inches we measure the rails and stanchions on her quarter, as our
upstanding bow drives on. Tensely expectant, our mind trembles on the
crash that seems inevitable.
It does not come. Our eye was right--we clear her counter! With some
fathoms to spare we sheer over the thrash of her propellers, the horizon
runs a line across our stem, we have clear yielding blue water under the
bows!
The illusion of our sole movement is reversed as the mass of the other
vessel bears away from us. The unbroken sea-line offers no further mark
to judge our swing; we seem to have become suddenly as immobile as a
pier-head, while our neighbour starts from our forefoot in an apparent
outrush, closing and opening the line of her masts and funnels like
shutting and throwing wide the panels of a door.
With no indecision now we pull the lever over hood of the telegraph. One
case is cleared; there still remains the peril of the lurking submarine.
The destroyers are busy on the chase, manoeuvring at utmost speed and
exploding depth-charges in the area. We are now some distance from them
but the crash of their explosion sends an under-running shock to us
still. Our sheer has brought us broadside on to the position from which
the enemy loosed off his torpedo. At full astern we bring up and swing
over towards the receding convoy. If we are barred from carrying on a
zigzag by the mishap to our helm, we can still put a crazy gait on her
by using the engines. Backing and coming ahead, we make little progress,
but at least we present no sitting target.
Reports come through from aft that the broken chain, springing from a
fractured link, has jammed hard under the quadrant; the engineers are at
work, jacking up to release the links; they will be cleared in ten
minutes! The chief asks for the engines to be stopped; sternway is
putting purchase on the binding pressure of the rudder. Reluctantly we
bring up and lie-to. In no mood to advertise our distress, we lower the
'not under command' signals, and summon what patience may be left to us
to await completion of repairs.
A long 'ten minutes!' Every second's tick seems fraught with a new
anxiety. Fearfully we scan the sea around, probing the line of each
chance ripple for sight of an upstanding pin-point. Anon, steam pressure
rises and thunders through the exhaust, throwing a battery of spurting
white vapour to the sky, and letting even the sea-birds know we are
crippled and helpless.
The torpedoed ship still floats, though with a dangerous list and her
stern low in the water. A sloop is taking her in tow, and we gather
assurance of her state in the transport's boats still hanging from the
davits; they have not abandoned. She falters at the end of the long
tow-rope and sheers wildly in the wake of her salvor. The convoy has
vanished into the grey of the east, and only a lingering smoke-wreath
marks the bearing where they have entered the mist. The sun has gone,
leaving but little afterglow to lengthen twilight; it will soon be dark.
Apparently satisfied with their work the destroyers cease fire; whether
there is oil on their troubled waters we cannot see. They linger a
while, turning, then go on in the wake of the convoy. One turns north
towards us, with a busy windmiller of a signalman a-top the
bridge-house. "_What is the matter? Do you wish to be towed?_" We
explain our case, and receive an answer that she will stand by, "_but
use utmost dispatch effect repair_."
'Use utmost dispatch'! With every minute, as the time passes, goes our
chance of regaining our station in the convoy; we are in ill content to
linger! We have a liking for our chief engineer--a respect, an
admiration--but never such a love as when he comes to the bridge-ladder,
grimy, and handling his scrap of waste. "They're coupling up now! A job
we had! Chain jammed and packed under th' quadrant, like it had been set
by a hydraulic ram! If that one landed near Fritz, he'll trouble us no
more!"
[Illustration: EVENING: THE MERSEY FROM THE LANDING-STAGE]
With the engines turning merrily, and helm governance under our hand, we
regain composure. Our task is yet none too easy. Even at our utmost
speed we cannot now rejoin the convoy before nightfall; snaking through
the ships in the dark to take up station offers another harassing night
out! Still, it might be worse--much worse! We think of the torpedoed
ship towing so slowly abeam--of the khaki swarm on our decks, 'the
light on all faces turned on one cant.' Surely our luck is in! The
infection of the measured beat in our progress recalls a job unfinished;
we step into the chart-room and take up pencil and dividers.
[Illustration: THE STEERSMAN]
[Illustration: THE WORK OF A TORPEDO]
XXIII
'DELIVERING THE GOODS'
OCTOBER on the Mersey is properly a month of hazy autumn weather, but
the few clear days seem to gain an added brilliance from their rarity,
and present the wide estuary in a vivid, clear-cut definition. The
distant hills of North Wales draw nearer to the city, and stand over the
slated roofs of the Cheshire shore as though their bases were set in the
peninsula. Seaward the channel buoys and the nearer lightships are
sharply distinct, cutting the distant sea-line like the topmast spars of
ships hull down. Every ripple and swirl of the tide is exaggerated by
the lens of a rare atmosphere; the bow wash of incoming vessels is
thrown upward as by mirage.
[Illustration: TRANSPORTS DISCHARGING IN LIVERPOOL DOCKS]
On such a day a convoy bears in from the sea, rounding the lightships
under columns of drifting smoke. Heading the merchantmen, the destroyers
and sloops of the escort steam quickly between the channel buoys and
pass in by New Brighton at a clip that shows their eagerness to complete
the voyage. A sloop detaches from the flotilla and rounds-to off the
landing-stage. Her decks are crowded by men not of her crew. Merchant
seamen are grouped together at the stern, and a small body of Uncle
Sam's coloured troops line the bulwarks in attitudes of ease and
comfort. They are a happy crowd, and roar jest and catchword to the
passengers on the crossing ferries. The merchantmen are less boisterous.
They watch the preparations of the bluejackets for mooring at the stage
with a detached professional interest; some of them gaze out to the
nor'ard where the transports of the convoy are approaching. Doubtless
their thoughts are with the one ship missing in the fleet--their ship.
The sloop hauls alongside the stage and a gangway is passed aboard.
Naval transport officers and a major of the U.S. Army staff are waiting,
and engage the commander of the man-of-war in short conversation. The
men are disembarked and stand about in straggling groups. There is
little to be said by the sloop's commander. "A horse transport torpedoed
yesterday. No! No losses. Tried to tow her for a bit, but had to cast
off. She went down by the stern."
The trooper horse-tenders are marshalled in some order and pass over to
the waiting-rooms under charge of the American officer. With a word or
two and a firm handshake to the sloop's commander, the master of the
torpedoed ship comes ashore and joins his men. No word of command! He
jerks his head in the direction of the Liver Buildings and strides off.
The seamen pick up their few bundles of sodden clothing and make after
him, walking in independent and disordered groups. As they straggle
along the planking of the stage, a military band--in full array--comes
marching down from the street-way. They step out in fine swing, carrying
their glittering brasses. "Here, Bill," says one of the seamen, hitching
his shoulder towards the burdened drummers, "who said we was too late
for th' music!"
The transports have come into the river. Every passing tug and
ferry-boat gives _rrr--oot_ on her steam-whistle to welcome them as they
round-to off the docks and landing-stage. Loud bursts of cheer and
answering cheer sound over the water. The wide river, so lately clear of
shipping, seems now narrowed to the breadth of a canal by the huge
proportions of the liners bringing up in the tideway. The bizarre
stripes and curves and the contrasted colours of their dazzle schemes
stand out oddly against the background of the Cheshire shore. It is not
easy to disentangle the lines of the ships in the massed grouping of
funnel and spar and high topsides. They are merged into a bewildering
composition with only the mastheads and the flags flying at the trucks
to guide the eye in attempting a count. Fifteen large ships, brimming at
the bulwarks with a packed mass of troops, all at a deep draught that
marks their load below decks of food and stores and munitions.
The landing-stage becomes rapidly crowded by disembarkation officers and
their staffs. Transport wagons and cars arrive at the south end and run
quietly on the smooth boarding to their allotted stands. A medical unit,
gagged with fearsome disinfectant pads, musters outside their temporary
quarters. Most prominent of all, tall men in their silver and blue, a
sergeant and two constables of the City police stand by--the official
embodiment of law and order.
A flag is posted by the stage-men at the north end, and its flutter
calls an answering whistle-blast from the nearest transport. Steadily
she disengages from the press of ships and closes in towards the shore.
The tugs guiding her sheer strain at the hawsers and lie over in a cant
that shows the tremendous weight of their charge. A row-boat dances in
the wash of their screws as it is backed in to the liner's bows to pass
a hawser to the stage. Sharp, short blasts indicate the pilot's orders
from the bridge: the stage-master keeps up a commentary on the
manoeuvres through a huge megaphone. Stir and bustle and high-spirited
movement! The troops that pack the liner's inshore rails give tongue to
excited gaiety. A milkgirl (slouch hat, trousers and gaiters complete)
passes along the stage on her way to the restaurant and is greeted with
acclaim, "Thatta gel--thatta goil--oh, you kid!" The policemen come in
for it: "Aw, say! Looka th' guys 'n tha lodge trimmings. What's th'
secret sign, anyway!" An embarrassed and red-faced junior of the
Transport Service is forced to tip it and accept three cheers for "th'
Brissh Navy!"
The opening bars of 'The Star-spangled Banner' brings an instant stop to
their clamour. The troops spring to attention in a way that we had not
observed before in their own land. The spirit of patriotism, pronounced
in war! 'God Save the King' keeps them still at attention. As strong as
war and patriotism--the spirit of a new brotherhood in arms!
The transport makes fast and high gantries are linked to a position on
the stage and their extensions passed on board. The stage-men make up
their heaving-lines and move off to berth a second vessel at the south
end. The tide is making swiftly in the river, and there must be no delay
if the troops are to be disembarked and the ships cast off in time to
dock before high water has passed.
[Illustration: TROOP TRANSPORTS DISEMBARKING AT THE LANDING-STAGE,
LIVERPOOL]
Viewed from the low tidal stage, almost at a level with the water, the
ship--that had appeared so delicate of line in the river--assumes a new
and stronger character at close hand. The massive bulk of her, towering
almost overhead, dwarfs the surrounding structures. The shear that gave
her beauty at a distance is lost in the rapid foreshortening of her
length: her weathered plating, strake upon strake bound by a pattern
of close rivet-work, attracts the eye and imposes an instant impression
of strength and seaworthiness. On her high superstructure the figures of
men seem absurdly diminished. The sense of their control of such a
vessel is difficult of realization. Pouring from her in an apparently
endless stream of khaki, her living cargason passes over the gangways.
They move rapidly from the ship to the shore. Waiting-sheds and the
upper platforms are soon littered by their packs and equipment, and the
troops squat on the roadway to await formation of their group. Large
bodies are marched directly to the riverside station to entrain for
camp, but the assortment and enumeration of most of the companies and
detachments is carried through on the broad planking of the stage. In
and out the mustered files of men, transport cars make a noisy
trumpeting progress, piled high with baggage and stores, and each
crowned by a waving party of high-spirited soldiers. A second transport
is brought in at the other end of the stage, and adds her men to the
throng of troops at the water-side. The disembarkation staff have work
with the sheep and the goats. There is the natural desire to learn how
'th' fellers' got on in the other ship, and the two ships' complements
are mixed in a fellowship that makes a tangle of the 'nominal rolls' and
drives the harassed officers to an outburst of profanity. Ever and on, a
block occurs on the gangways where the inevitable 'forgetters' are
struggling back through the press of landing men, to search for the
trifles of their kit.
A prolonged blast of her siren warns the military officers that the
first transport is about to cast off, and the movement of the troops is
accelerated to a hurried rush and the withdrawal of the gangways. The
waiting tugs drag the ship from the stage, and she moves slowly
down-stream to dock at the Sandon entrance, there to discharge the
burden of her packed holds. Another huge vessel takes her place, canting
in at the north end, and shortly sending out more men to the already
congested landing. She carries two full battalions, and they are
disembarked with less confusion than the former varied details. Forming
fours, and headed by their own band, they march off up the long
bridgeway to the city streets.
The tide is approaching high water and the pilots are growing anxious
lest they should lose opportunity of docking on the tide. Already the
dock gates are open, and the smaller vessels of the convoy have dropped
out of the river into the basins. With three ships disembarked and a
fourth drawing alongside, the Naval Transport officers decide that they
can handle no more men on the stage, and send the remaining steamers to
land their men in dock. There, with the troops away, an army of dockers
can get to work to unload the store of their carriage from overseas.
[Illustration: 'M N']
CONCLUSION
'M N'
SHIMMERING in gilt sunlit threads, the grey North Sea lay calm and
placid, at peace with the whip of the winds after days of storm and
heavy weather. The sun had come up to peer over a low curtain of vapour
that hung in the east. Past the meridian, the moon stood clear-cut in
the motionless upper sky. The ring of quiet sea accepted the presence of
the waiting ships as of friendly incomers, familiar to the round of the
misty horizon. Two British destroyers, a flotilla of motor-vessels,
drifters--the brown sails of Thames barges appearing, then vanishing, in
the wisps of fickle vapour. A breathless dawn. Sun, the silver moon, the
grey flat sea bearing motionless ships, were witness to the drama--the
giving up of the murder craft, the end of piracy.
Growing out of the mist, a squadron of British light cruisers and their
convoy approached the rendezvous where the destroyers lay in readiness
to take over charge of the German submarines. Two enemy transports under
their commercial flags, headed the line of the water-snakes. Aircraft
circled overhead and turned and returned on the line of progress. The
leading ships swung out on approaching the destroyers and engaged them
by signal. The destroyers weighed anchor and proceeded to carry out
their orders. Each carried a number of officers and men to be placed
aboard the submarines, to accept their surrender, to direct their
further passage to within the booms at Harwich.
The commander of _Melampus_ focused his glasses on the eleventh
submarine of the long straggling line. The U-boat had a wash over his
screws and was apparently steaming ahead to overtake his fellows, now
fading into the mist in the direction of their prison gates.
"Our group," he said: then, to the signalman, "Tell him to stop
instantly!"
The bluejacket stood out on the sparring of the bridge and signalled
with his hand-flags. The submarine still moved ahead at speed, his
exhaust panting at pressure. The German commander could not (or would
not) understand, and it was necessary to hoist 'M N' of the
International Code. The two flags were sufficient: he threw his engines
astern and brought up to await further orders. His followers arrived on
the station. Some cast anchor, others slowed and stopped. All took note
of the flags--St. Andrew's cross over blue and white checquers, hoisted
at the destroyer's yard-arm--and obeyed the summary signal.
'M N!' International Code! The old flags of the days when there was
peace on the sea, when the German commercial ensign was known and
familiar and respected in the seaports of the world!
How many of the Germans would understand the full significance of the
hoist that brought them to a standstill--the import of the flags
drooping in the windless air--the beckoning of the coloured fabric that
ended their murder trade. The day had long passed since they had used
this warning signal for a procedure in law and order. No 'M N' to
_Lusitania_ before littering the Irish Sea with wreckage and the pitiful
bodies of women and small children: no signal to _Arabic_ or _Persia_:
no warning to _Belgian Prince_, to _California_, to all the long and
ghastly list: no summons to the hospital ships--alight and blazoned to
advertise their humane mission. And now--their ensign dishonoured, their
name as seamen condemned to the everlasting tale of infamy, their proud
commercial seafaring destroyed--to come in with the blood on their
hands, and render and submit to the mandate of a two-flag hoist!
'M N!' The Code of the Nations! The summons to peaceful seafarers! 'Stop
instantly!' Disobey at your peril! At last, at long last, the Freedom of
the Seas--the security of the ships--the safety of all who pass on their
lawful occasions--completely re-established by the flaunt of the old
flags!
APPENDIX
COMPELLED by the nature of their work to be long absent from home ports,
seamen are frequently in ignorance of the current of longshore opinion.
Newspapers do not reach out to the sea-routes (as yet), and the media of
Guild Gazettes and Association Reporters come somewhat late on the tide
of an appreciation. The tremendous historical importance of the Nation's
Thanks to its Fighting Forces (in which the Merchants' Service was
included) has not adequately been realized by the merchantmen. Some do
not even know of it. For these reasons--not in a spirit of 'pride above
desert'--the writer quotes the following:
The Resolution of Parliament of October 29, 1917, placed upon record--
"That the thanks of this House be accorded to the
officers and men of the Mercantile Marine for the
devotion to duty with which they have continued to
carry the vital supplies to the Allies through
seas infested with deadly perils."
A year later, an equally generous appreciation of the work of the
Merchants' Service was issued by the Board of Admiralty.
"On the occasion of the first Meeting of the Board
of Admiralty after the signing of the German
Armistice, their Lordships desire, on behalf of
the Royal Navy, to express their admiration and
thanks to the Owners, Masters, Officers, and Crews
of the British Mercantile Marine, and to those
engaged in the Fishing Industry, for the
incomparable services which they have rendered
during the War, making possible and complete the
Victory which is now being celebrated.
"The work of the Mercantile Marine has been
inseparably connected with that of the Royal Navy,
and without the loyal co-operation of the former,
the enemy's Submarine Campaign must inevitably
have achieved its object. The Mercantile Marine
from the beginning met this unprecedented form of
warfare with indomitable courage, magnificent
endurance, and a total disregard of danger and
death, factors which the enemy had failed to take
into account and which went far towards defeating
his object.
"In no small measure also has the success achieved
against the submarine been due to the interest
taken by Owners in the defensive equipment of
their ships, and to the ability, loyalty, and
technical skill displayed by Masters and Officers
in carrying out Admiralty regulations which,
though tending to the safety of the vessels from
submarine risks, enormously increased the strain
and anxiety of navigation. The loyal observance of
these precautions has been the more commendable
since the need for absolute secrecy, on which
safety largely depended, has prevented the reasons
for their adoption being in all cases disclosed.
"Further, the Convoy System, which has played such
an important part in frustrating the designs of
the enemy and securing the safe passage of the
United States Army, could never have attained its
success but for the ability and endurance
displayed by Masters, Officers, and crews of the
Merchant Service forming these Convoys. This
system has called for the learning and practising
of a new science--that of station-keeping--the
accuracy of which has depended in no small measure
on the adaptability and skill of the Engineers and
their Departments.
"Their Lordships also desire to acknowledge the
ready response of Owners to the heavy calls made
on the Merchant Service for Officers and men to
meet the increasing requirement of the Navy. On
board our ships of every type, from the largest
Dreadnought down to the smallest Patrol Boat are
to be found Officers and men of the Merchant Navy
who have combined with those of the Royal Navy in
fighting the enemy and defeating his nefarious
methods of warfare at sea.
"The Merchant Service and the Royal Navy have
never been so closely brought together as during
this War. In the interests of our glorious Empire
this connection must prove a lasting one."
The Resolution of Parliament of August 6, 1919, placed upon record--
"That the thanks of this House be accorded to the
officers and men of the Mercantile Marine for the
fine and fearless seamanship by which our people
have been preserved from want and our cause from
disaster."
INDEX
ABERDEEN, 82
Admiralty, xiii, 11, 32, 35-37, 41, 42, 64, 110, 113, 144, 178, 195,
255
Adriatic, 25, 99
_Agnes Whitwell_, 192
Aleppo, 4
"Allo," 118, 119
Amadas, 6
_Anglo-Californian_, 18
Antwerp, 45, 78
_Aquitania_, 13, 100
_Arabic_, 253
Arctic Ocean, 25
Arklow, 82
Arlington, 108
Armada, The Great, 4, 6
_Atalanta_, 82
Atlantic, 107, 117, 128, 178, 218, 224, 225
Atlantic City, 104, 109
_Augustine_, 62, 63, 66
Australia, 126
Austrian Navy, 99
_Avocet_, 85
BABYLON, 4
Backhouse, John, 5
Baffin, 6
Bahia, 191, 204
Balsara, 4
Barlow, 6
Barnegat Lighthouse, 109
Beaumaris, 78
Beaverbrook, Lord, xiii
_Belgian Prince_, 173, 253
Bell, Captain, 79
Bengal, 9
Bennett, Arnold, xiii
Bermuda, 107, 108
Berry, 11
Biggatt, William, 5
_Birchgrove_, 85
Black Middens, 78
Blake, 10
Board of Trade, 61-66, 121, 131, 185
Boer War, 22
Boom defences, 100, 191, 206
Bordeaux, 55
Boston, 108
_Boy Ernie_, 101
_Boy Jacob_, 78
Bremen Hansa Line, 31
Brennell, Captain, 85
Bridgwater, 10
Bristol Channel, 80, 116
_Britannic_, 78
_British Standard_, 209, 210, 211, 215
Brixham, 101
_Brother Fred_, 192
Brownrigg, Rear-Admiral Sir Douglas, xiii
_Brussels_, 79
_Cabotia_, 114
Cagliari, 181
Calcutta, 204
_Calgarian_, 178
_California_, 253
_Cameronia_, 140
Canada, 126, 128
Canute, 141, 142
Cape Cod, 108
Cardiff, 181
Caspian Sea, 4
Cats, 198-99
Cavendish, Thomas, 6
Cerigo Channel, 114, 132
Channel, The, 88, 89, 95, 96, 131, 147
Charles II, 57
Chaucer, 55
_Chelmsford_, 204
Cheshire, 244, 247
China, 22, 165
_Cinderella_, 210, 211
Clyde, xi, 100, 116
Cochrane, Lord, 181
Collins, Captain Greenville, 57, 58, 64
_Collonia_, 196
_Commissioner_, 82
Coney Island, 230
Constantinople, 4
Contalmaison, 51
Cook, James, 10
Copenhagen, 11
_Coquet_, 173
Cork, 85
Cornford, L. Cope, xiii
Costello (boatswain of _Gull_, trawler), 99
_Cottingham_, 80, 81
Coverley, Captain, 114
_Crane_, 99
Crimea, 22
Crystal Palace, 122
Cunard Line, 118, 119
Custom House, 184, 185
DAEDALUS Light, 170
Dampier, 10
Davis, 6
Deal, 77, 89, 230
Deptford, 56, 58
_Deutschland_, 104
_Devonshire_ (East Indiaman), 9
Dieppe, 31
_Dieudonne_, 192
Dixon, W. Macneile, xiii
Dogger Bank, 99
Doiran, 133
Downs, The, 9, 88-90, 96
Drake, 6
_Drei Geschwister_, 85
Dublin, 15
EAST India Company, 9
Eddystone Lighthouse, 91
Egypt, 22, 126
Elbow Buoy, 97
_Emden_, 164
_Empress of Fort William_, 95
Esperanto, 169, 203
FAIR Head, 117
_Falaba_, 164
_Fermo_, 101
Fishermen, 98-102, 206, 255
Flanders, 51, 79, 126
_Floandi_, 99
Foley, 11
Forbes, Captain, 63
Foreign consuls, 185
_Formidable_, 101
_Fortuna_, 192
France, 125, 126
_Franz Fischer_, 85
Frobisher, 6
Fryatt, Captain, 79
_Fuerst_, 27, 28
GALATZ, 170
Gallipoli, 127
"Gamecock" Fleet, 99
Garron Head, 116
German Navy, 17, 24, 26, 28, 41, 253
Crimes on the sea, 170-74, 253
Fishing-boats, 79, 100, 101
Hospital ships, 92, 173, 253
Lightships, 92
Merchantmen, 17, 81, 82, 85, 114, 164, 173
Mines, 92, 95
Rafts and open boats, 92
Submarine minelayers, 80, 92
_See under_ Merchants' Service: German _Schrecklichkeit_, and
Submarine piracy
Submarines, 17-20, 37, 41-43, 79-86, 95, 96, 107-9, 113-15, 118-19,
173, 177, 181, 182, 237-40, 252-53, 255-56
Gibbs, Richard, 5
Gibraltar, 126, 183
Glasgow, 33, 39, 78, 116
Goodwin Sands, 89, 96
_Gowan Lea_, 99, 100
Grand Banks, 103
Gravesend, 3, 59
Greece, King of, 63
Greenwich Mean Time, 191
_Gulflight_, 109
_Gull_ (trawler), 99
HAKLUYT, Richard, 4, 5, 9
Halifax, 108
Hardy, 11
Harwich, xi, 90, 253
Hawkins, Sir John, 6
Henderson, Algernon C. F., v
Henry VIII, 6
Hohenzollern, 174
Hollesay Bay, 90
Holy Land, 54
Horn, Cape, 77
Hudson, 6
Hudson Bay, 86
Hudson River, 217, 218
Hull, 90
ICELAND, 170
Imperial War Museum, xiii
India, 22, 126
International Code of Signals, 169
Islay, 117
Isle of Man, 32
Istria, 55
_Jane Williamson_, 82
Japan, 178
Java, 13
Johnson, Dr., 47-48
_Justitia_, 78
_Karlsruhe_, 104
_Kashmir_, 227
Keith, Captain, 131
Kiel, 24
King John, 55
Kingsdown, 89
King's Harbour Master, 203
Kingsway, 124
_Koelnische Zeitung_, 81
_Kronprinz Wilhelm_, 104
_Lady of the Lake_, 79
Lamport and Holt Line, 109
Langton, Stephen, Archbishop of Canterbury, 55
Leggatt (of _Crane_), 99
Leghorn, 181
_Leviathan_, 135
Leyland Line, 117, 118, 119
Liege, 27
Lightships, 57, 91-96
Gull Lightship, 53, 89, 93, 96
Ostend Lightship, 92
Royal Sovereign Lightship, 95
Shambles Lightship, 95
South Goodwin Lightship, 95
_Linn_ ("frigot"), 204
Liver Buildings, 49, 247
Liverpool, 62, 69, 78, 103, 116, 135, 245, 249
_Lobelia_, 100
London, 89, 213
Louis XIV, of France, 91
Lowestoft, 90
_Lusitania_, 164, 173, 253
MALAY pirates, 165
_Maloja_, 95
Malta, 126, 128, 132, 182
Manchester, 124
_Manchester Commerce_, 164
Manhattan, 223
"Manual on Seamanship," 144
Marconi, 123
Marconi Company, 110
_Marechal de Villars_, 82
_Margaret_, 15
_Mariston_, 173
Maritime Code, 54 _seq._
_Marmion_, 191, 192, 211
Marseilles, 128, 131, 132
_Mary Rose_, 178
_Massilia_, 186, 210
_Mayflower_, 236
Mayo, Walter H., xiii
Meadowside, 140
Mediterranean, 30, 114, 127, 128, 178, 182, 196
_Melampus_, 253
Merchant Adventurers, 4, 5
Merchants' Service:
Growth, 3-5;
parent of Navy, 6, 18;
Imperial significance, xii, 10, 12, 14, 15, 126;
unrecognized work, 10, 46 _seq._;
educational function, 11;
introduction of steamships, 11, 12, 13;
international supremacy, 12, 13;
outbreak of Great War, 14, 24, 163;
submarine piracy, 17, 18 _seq._, 51, 177, _passim_;
arming of, 19, 37 _seq._, 113-5;
differences with Navy, 7, 21-25;
reconciliation, 25 _seq._;
liaison with Navy, 14, 18-19, 21-43, 120-3, 134, 191, 197, 199-203,
255-6 _passim_;
commerce-raiders, 28, 51;
Naval War Staff, 30 _seq._;
transporting of troops, 14, 30 _seq._, 44, 45, 125-40, 223, 224-51;
popular recognition of, and the longshore view, 46 _seq._, 254;
discipline, 64, 68-71;
wanted, a Ministry of Marine, 66;
manning, 68-73;
German _Schrecklichkeit_, 72, 73, 80-85, 92, 173, 203, 209;
coastal Services, 77-86;
war-time navigation, 85-6, 87-95;
traditions, 4, 5, 9-13, 23, 98, 99-100;
signals and wireless, 110-3, 120-4, 169-70, 191;
destroyer escort, 29-30, 126-8, 178, 203, 235;
torpedoing of a transport, 137-40, 237-40;
camouflage and dazzle, 163-7;
naming of standard ships, 168;
owners' customs clerks, 184, 185;
clearing for sea, 184-9;
convoy conference, 198-204;
putting to sea, 205-16;
unloading and loading, 217-23, 247-51. _See under_ Navy
Merchant Shipping Act, 67
Mersey, 49, 80, 107, 241, 244
Mexico, 230
Middleton, 6
Minesweeping, 25, 88, 89, 91, 95, 97-99, 102, 205
Ministry of Information, xiii
Ministry of Shipping, 178, 181
Miramichi, 204
'M N', 252-53
Mobbs, Engineman, 99
Mons, 126
Monson, 6
Muscovy Company, 5
NANTUCKET Lightship, 104, 107, 109
_Nautical Magazine_, xiii
Navesink, 109
Navy:
Offshoot from Merchants' Service, 6, 18;
press-gangs, 9;
naval science, 11;
arming of merchantmen, 19, 37;
War Staff, 30 _seq._, 128;
Naval Transport Officer, 32 _seq._, 131, 247, 251;
Shipping Intelligence Officer, 36 _seq._, 185;
D.A.M.S., 37-8, 185;
'Otters,' 38, 185;
convoys, 41, 110, 121, 178-83, 189-97, 198-204, 205-12, 255;
anti-submarine measures, 41-3, 95-6, 110, 113, 203, 255;
'Q. ships,' 42;
gunnery, 43;
wireless on sea-going merchantmen, 110-3;
Transport Department, 126, 127;
Salvage Section, 144-7;
Examination Service, 190. _See under_ Merchants' Service
_Nebraskan_, 109
_Neleus_, 226, 229, 232, 233, 234
Nelson, 11, 22
_Nelson_, 79
_Nemesis_, 139
Neutral shipping, 17, 91, 177, 203
New Brighton, 247
Newhaven, 31
New Jersey, 217
Newport, U.S.A., 107
New York, 27, 103, 109, 204
_New York Herald_, 109
Nichols, Skipper, 99
Nile, 11
Nore, 97
Norfolk, Va., 104, 191
North River, 217-23, 230
North Sea, 85, 88, 252
_Olympic_, 131
'Otters,' 38, 80, 166
Oversay, 117
PADRIG Flats, 148
_Palermo_, 81
_Palm Branch_, 18, 19, 20
Patrols, 28, 114, 117, 128, 150, 189, 190, 236
_Pearl Shell_, 191, 192
_Persia_, 253
Philanthropic Seamen's Societies, 65
Pilots, 59, 87-91, 98, 149, 187, 189, 210, 218, 251
Plymouth, 205, 233
Hoe, 198
Sound, 207
Poldhu, 226
Portliskey, 81
_Present Help_, 97, 98
Prince Line, 109
_Provident_, 101
Prussian Guard, 51
Psiloriti, 132
Purchas, 5
_Queen Alexandra_, 131
Quetta Staff College, 30
RAMSGATE, 56, 98
Rate of Exchange, 103, 109
Rathbone, Master John, 11
Rathlin Island, 116
Rathlin Sound, 116
Rea (of _Crane_), 99
_Redcap_, 82
Richard Coeur de Lion, 54, 55
_Rifleman_, 139
River Plate, 4, 13, 181, 199
Roles d'Oleron, 54 _seq._
Rowlatt, Mr. Justice, 62
_Royal Edward_, 127
Royal Naval Reserve, 23-25, 36-37, 41, 64, 122, 197
Royal Naval Reserve (_Temporary_), 18, 25, 26
Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, 122
Rozhdestvensky, 98
Rue Point, 117
ST. HELENS, 131
_St. Paul_, 108
Salonika, 128, 132, 133, 183
Salvage, 141-62
Salving a merchantman, 147-56
Repairing in dry dock, 156-62
Sandon, 251
Sandy Hook, 230
San Miguel, 170
_Sarah Pritchard_, 78
_Seahorse_, 210
Seaplanes, 85, 92, 150, 182, 215
Sea-slang, 26
Selsey Bill, 95
_Serapis_, 173
Shanghai, 42
Sir Ralph the Rover, 91
Skullmartin, 116
Smeaton, 91
Smith (of _Crane_), 99
South Africa, 126
Southampton, 65, 67, 129, 131
Southampton Water, 131
_Speedy_, 181
Stevedores, 185, 186, 218
Straits of Dover, 85
Strand, 124
_Strongbow_, 178
Suda Bay, 128, 132
Suez Canal, 137
Sutherland, 132
THAMES, 78, 79, 86, 184, 252
_Thordis_, 79
_Thracia_, 173
_Titan_, 149-55
_Titanic_, 123
Tor Point, 116
Trafalgar, 11
Trinity Bay, 89
Trinity House, 56-61, 88, 95, 149
Tripolis, 4
Turkey Company, 9
_Tuscania_, 15
Tyne, 78, 86
_Umaria_, 173
United States, 72, 89, 103, 128, 178
United States Seamen's Act, 72
U 53, 109
VALENCIA, 13
Valparaiso, 42
_Vanilla_, 101
Verdun, 230
Virginia, 104
_Virginia_, 114
Volapuek, 169
_Volturno_, 123
_Vosges_, 17, 18
WALMER, 89
_Wandle_, 79
'War Channel,' 86, 88
_War Ordnance_, 209, 211, 213
War Risks Associations, 36
_War Trident_, 191, 192, 195-97
Waterford, 30
Watt, Skipper Joseph, 99
Westmark Shoal, 149, 150
White Star Line, 109
Whymper, F., xiii
Wilhelmshaven, 24, 100
_William_, 82
_William_ (East Indiaman), 9
Wood, Walter, xiii
YARMOUTH, 90
Yarmouth, I. of W., 141
ZEPPELINS, 85, 92
PRINTED AT
THE COMPLETE PRESS
WEST NORWOOD
LONDON
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Text uses both propeller and propellor.
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Page 47, "hard" changed to "herd" (herd with his high-heeled)
Page 56, "Brethern" changed to "Brethren" (Brethren of Trinity held
their)
Page 78, "vayage" changed to "voyage" (a coasting voyage could not)
Page 86, "upChannel" changed to "up Channel" (that passes up Channel)
Page 92, "Ostende" changed to "Ostend" (they shelled the Ostend
Lightship)
Page 153, "mess-kids" changed to "mess-kits" (of pots and mess-kits)
Page 178, "warcraft" changed to "war craft" to match rest of usage (of
strange war craft)
Page 196, "knoters" changed to "knotters" (bunch of the eight-knotters)
Page 226, "slatt" changed to "slat" (A slat of driving spray)
Page 257, "5 ," changed to "57," (Collins, Captain Greenville, 57,)
Page 258, "254-55" changed to "255-56" (252-53, 255-56)
Page 259, "254" changed to "255" (Fishermen, 98-102, 206, 255)
Page 259, "8" changed to "9" (traditions, 4, 5, 9-13)
Page 259, the reference to page 136 was removed as this is a blank page
following an illustration. The original read (coastal Services, 77-86,
136;)