Merchantmen-at-arms : the British merchants' service in the war Part 15

". . . INTERRED YE BODY OF EDMOND LEC----, FORMERLY COMMANDER OF HER MAJ---- s.h.i.+P YE _LINN FRIGOT_, 17-- . . . A FRENCH CORVAT FROM WHOM HE PROTECTED A LARGE FLEET OF MERCHANT s.h.i.+PS 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE OLD HARBOUR, PLYMOUTH]

XX

THE SAILING

FOG, AND THE TURN OF THE TIDE

RAINY weather overnight has turned to fog, and the lighthouse on the Point greets breaking dawn with raucous half-minute bellows. Less regular and insistent, comes a jangle of anchor-bells, breaking in from time to time, s.h.i.+p after s.h.i.+p 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 anch.o.r.ed s.h.i.+ps 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 'gates.h.i.+ps' of the boom defences rasp out jarring discords to warn mariners of their bobbling floats and nets. Insh.o.r.e 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 a.s.sess 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, a.s.sure one another that their idle 'stand-by' decreed by harbour-master for outgoing of the convoy, is little hards.h.i.+p 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CONVOY SAILING FROM PLYMOUTH SOUND]

So far there are no reports from the sea-patrols that would call for an instant alteration of the routes, and for that the P.C.O. has a thankful heart. A 'hurrah's nest,' a panic on Exchange, a block at the Bank crossing, would be feeble comparison to the confusion he might look for in a combination of dense fog, counter-mandates, and a congested roadstead, for, even now, the s.h.i.+ps to form up the next convoy are thras.h.i.+ng 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 'gates.h.i.+ps' 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 c.o.xswain. "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 c.o.xswain, 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 c.o.xswain (and now sounds a blast of _his_ whistle). "Them fellers ain't 'arf goin' it!" Cautiously he rounds the buoy, noting the gaslight crown s.h.i.+ning yet, though pale and sickly in the growing day. Out now, in seven fathoms, the lingering insh.o.r.e fog has given place to a mist, through which the s.h.i.+ps 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 Distinguis.h.i.+ng Flags hoisted and the windla.s.s panting white steam to raise anchor. A small flag in the rigging a.s.sures 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 a.s.surance, 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 'gates.h.i.+ps'' 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, pa.s.sably, to complete his dispatch of the fleet.

The compa.s.s 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 windla.s.ses 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, thras.h.i.+ng awash in trial, looms up through the fog ahead, but 'East' has brought the launch wide of her mark, and _Ma.s.silia_ is answer to the P.C.O.'s hail. _Ma.s.silia_ 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-s.p.a.ce 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 d.a.m.n s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+ps yet anch.o.r.ed till they head insh.o.r.e, 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 s.h.i.+ps, 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, hoa.r.s.e 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 s.h.i.+ps, closed up at the narrow 'gateway,' are slowing and backing to drop their pilots. In his traverse of the anchorage the c.o.xswain 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 c.o.xswain 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 c.o.xswain bends to peer at the swinging compa.s.s-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, h.e.l.l!

What's that astern?"

The turn in the wake has drawn his eye to a grey blur in the glare of the mist. An anch.o.r.ed s.h.i.+p!

Keeping the helm over, the c.o.xswain swings a wide circle and steadies on the mark. "d.a.m.n 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 windla.s.s party grouped on the forecastle-head; quiet, as if fog and convoy and the distant reverberations of her sister s.h.i.+ps held no concern for her. To the P.C.O.'s surprised and somewhat indignant hail there is returned a short-phrased a.s.surance 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 d.a.m.n fear!" says the captain.

"Why, I can scarce see who's hailing me, less a line o' s.h.i.+ps barging along!"

The pilot, in a tone that suggests he has already 'put out an oar'--with little effect--joins in to rea.s.sure. "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 embarra.s.sed. 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 s.h.i.+ps is not his province. It is enough for him to arrange and advise and a.s.sist. 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, h.e.l.l! 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 s.h.i.+p-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 gla.s.s, 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.ses, 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_ s.h.i.+ps!

Meantime, as best we can, we chase the sheering hydroplane ahead that seems endowed with every chameleon gift of the cla.s.sic G.o.ds. 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'-- _h.e.l.l!_ 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 s.h.i.+nes 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 ma.s.s 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 s.h.i.+p'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 exact.i.tude; the s.h.i.+ps 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 a.s.sured 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 s.e.xtant 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 flas.h.i.+ng window-pane, a long line of s.h.i.+ps snakes out in procession, their smoke blowing and curling merrily alee to join the c.u.mulus 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.