_Cleared for sea._
_s.s. Benvenuto, for S. Africa._
It is ten-thirty this clear, cold December day; the sun shines on the
turquoise patch of open Channel which I can see from the bridge where
I am testing the whistle; the tide is rising; the last cases of
general cargo are being lowered into Number Two Hold, and from all
along the deck rise little jets of steam, for the Mate is already
trying the windlass. Once more we are "cleared for sea." In an hour's
time the tug _Implacable_, mingling her frenzied little yelp with our
deeper note, will pull us out into the middle of the dock, then round,
and slowly through the big gates, into the locks. The hatches are
already on the after combings, and sailors are spreading the tarpaulin
covers over them and battening down with the big wood wedges.
"Steam for eleven o'clock," said the Chief last night. Right! The
gauges are trembling over the 150 mark now--enough to get away with.
"Open everything out, Mr. McAlnwick," says the Second as he strolls
round for a last look before going on deck. I carry out the order,
glance at the water-level in the boilers, and then go for'ard to see
how many of my firemen are missing. They should all be here by now.
No, two short still. Old Androwsky rears himself up and points with
the stem of his pipe at the quay. The ship has moved away, and the two
men with sailors' bags and mattresses are watching us. They will get
aboard in the locks.
The Skipper is in uniform on the bridge, and the Mate is, as usual,
in a hurry. The mooring winch is groaning horribly as she hauls on a
cable running from the stern to the quay while the tug pulls our head
slowly round. Right down to the centre of the loading disc now. The
Second Mate rushes to the fiddle-top, and shouts for "more steam"--the
winch has stuck--and a howl from below tells him that the donkeyman is
doing his best. As I go below again the sharp clang of the telegraph
strikes my ear--"_Stand by._"
The steam is warming the engine-room, and there is, in the atmosphere
down here, a peculiar pungent smell, always present when getting away.
It is, I suppose, the smell of steam, if steam has any smell. "Give
'er a turn, Mr. McAlnwick." The Chief looks down from the deck-door,
and I answer "All right, sir." We are moving into the locks now, and
as I start the little high-speed reversing engine the telegraph
pointer moves round to "Slow ahead" with a sharp clang. "Ash-pit
dampers off!" cries George the Fourth, and runs to close the
drain-cocks. There is a sudden loud hammering as I open the throttle,
and she moves away under her own steam. Then she sticks on a
dead-centre, _a point du mort_, as the French _mecaniciens_ say, and
George rushes to open the intermediate valve, kicking open the
water-service cock as he goes past it. At last she goes away, slow,
solemn, and steamy, three pairs of eyes watching every link and bar
for "trouble." "All right?" asks the Chief from above, and the Second,
standing by the staircase, answers "All right, sir." Then "clang" goes
the telegraph round to "Stop," and I close the throttle. "We're in the
locks," says George, fiddling with an oil-cup which is loose on the
intermediate pressure rod. "We're in the locks, and we soon shall
cross the bar." And as he busies himself with one thing and another he
hums the tune which has swept over Swansea like some contagious
disease of late:
"_When there isn't a girl about,
You do feel lonely!
When there isn't a girl about
To call your only!
You're absolutely on the shelf,
Don't know what to do with yourself,
When there isn't a girl about!_"
"Said good-bye to her, Mac?" he asks. I nod evasively. He has been
home to Sunderland since we got in, and I found him asleep on the
gallery floor, with his head in the ash-pit, the night of his return.
He is better now, and since I know he has brought back a photograph
from the north, I am in hopes of his having fallen in love. (_Clang!
Slow ahead._) It is high time, I think. His constitution won't stand
everything, you know. And it seems such a pity for a fine young chap
to----(_Clang! Stop._) George is recording the bridge orders on the
black-board on the bunker bulkhead, and I wonder----(_Clang! Slow
ahead._) A pause; then--_Clang! FULL AHEAD._
"Let her go away gradually, mister," says the Second as he goes round
to have a look at the pumps. Cautiously the stop-valve is opened out,
and the engines get into their sixty-two per-minute stride. The
firemen are at it now, trimmers are flogging away the wedges from the
bunker doors, and the funnel damper is full open. And then, and
then--how shall I describe the sensation of that first delicate rise
and fall of the plates. I experience a feeling of buoyant life under
my feet! It means we are out at sea, that we have crossed the bar. The
Chief and Second have gone to get washed for dinner, George is on deck
shutting off steam and watching the steering engine for defects, and I
am left alone below with a greaser. I experience a feeling of
exultation as I watch my engines settle down for their seven-day run
to the Canary Islands. How can I explain how beautiful they are?
"_All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all!_"
Yes, that is how I feel just now as I pace round and round, alert for
a leaky joint or a slackened nut. The solemn music of the plunging
rods is all the sweeter for that I have not heard it for six weeks. We
are out at sea!
And now George comes down again, and I go on deck to get my dinner. We
are crossing Swansea Bay, among the brown-sailed trawlers and the
incoming steamships. The sun shines brightly on us as we bear away
southward towards Lundy, and I stare out silently across the broad
Channel, thinking. Oh, my friend, stand by me now, in this my hour of
need! How foolish! I am alone at sea, and my friend is in London,
puzzling over my behaviour to him.
The cool breeze against my face arouses me. The mood of exultation in
my engines, the mood of blank despair, both have passed, and I am, I
hope, myself again. Once more "the kick o' the screw beneath us and
the round blue seas outside." Once more the wandering fever is in my
blood, and, as the winter's day fades away, I stand against the rail
looking eastward at the flashing lights, calmer than I have been since
that night--a month ago. I am an ocean tramp once more, and count it
life indeed.
"_And out at sea, behold the dock-lights die,
And meet my mate, the wind that tramps the world._"