Chapter 6

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.

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?'"

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 _visé_ 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.

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.

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 _Dieudonné_, 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.

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.'

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

'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.

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!'

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!'

The wind has fallen and has hauled to south. It is black dark, with a 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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

DÆDALUS Light, 170

Dampier, 10

Davis, 6

Deal, 77, 89, 230

Deptford, 56, 58

_Deutschland_, 104

_Devonshire_ (East Indiaman), 9

Dieppe, 31

_Dieudonné_, 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

_Fürst_, 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

_Kölnische 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

Liége, 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

_Maréchal 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

Rôles d'Oléron, 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

Volapük, 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;)