Merchantmen-at-arms : the British merchants' service in the war Part 16

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 thras.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.signed 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 G.o.ds 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, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g and banking in their flight like gannets at the fis.h.i.+ng. 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 airs.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ps below.

The commodore poises the baton as his s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ps at the anchorage and pilot-grounds, we have not been idle or neglectful. Now we are in sea order, and, with the s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+p, and we fret at the clumsy fingers that cannot get a similar hoist as quickly to ours. Anon, on all the s.h.i.+ps, 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: INWARD BOUND]

XXI

THE NORTH RIVER

THE broad surface of the Hudson is scored by pa.s.sage 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 sh.o.r.e; laden ocean steamers hold to the deeps of the fairway on their pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.s 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 insh.o.r.e 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 pa.s.s up--marking our progress by the water-side of the west sh.o.r.e. 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 Sat.u.r.day morning! They will have to hustle to do it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A TRANSPORT LOADING]

'Hustle'--as once he told us--is the superintendent's maiden name.

Already the narrow water-s.p.a.ce between us and our neighbour is jammed tight by laden barges, brought in to await our coming. Billets of steel, rough-cast sh.e.l.ls, copper ingots, bars of lead and zinc are piled ready for acceptance. The shed on our insh.o.r.e tide is packed by lighter and more perishable cargo, all standing to hand for s.h.i.+pment. Preparation for our rapid dispatch is manifest and complete. Before the pilot is off the s.h.i.+p 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-pa.s.sage, 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 s.h.i.+fted--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 s.p.a.ces: the holds must be cleaned for food-stuffs: for grain in bulk there is carpenter-work in fitting the mids.h.i.+p boards to ensure that our cargo shall not s.h.i.+ft. 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 pa.s.s regularly across the deck and disappear into the void of the open hatchways. In the swing and steady progression there seems an a.s.surance 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 pa.s.sing an ancient order on a British s.h.i.+p). 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 leaders.h.i.+p is needed.

There are grades and cla.s.ses 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 n.i.g.g.e.r!

You gitta h.e.l.l 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 ash.o.r.e and leave the s.h.i.+p 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-s.p.a.ce 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 sh.o.r.e 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 hara.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p, 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. s.h.i.+p-life has become quiescent since the seamen bundled and put away their gear after was.h.i.+ng 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 wars.h.i.+ps 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 sh.o.r.e and cants into the berth alongside of us. The dock shed, now clear of goods, is used for a final muster. Enc.u.mbered 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 pa.s.s 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A CONVOY IN THE ATLANTIC]

XXII

HOMEWARDS

THE ARGONAUTS

THE boat guard (one post, section A) stir and grow restive as the hour of their relief draws on. Till now they have accepted wet quarters, the reeling s.h.i.+p, 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. m.u.f.fled to the ear-tips in woollens and heavy sodden greatcoats, their rifles slung awkwardly across the bulge of ill-fitting cork life-belts, they s.h.i.+ft 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.

Sc.r.a.ps 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 d.a.m.n 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+nes 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 enc.u.mbering 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 pa.s.sed. 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 pa.s.sage. 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 d.a.m.ned 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 d.a.m.ned 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, d.a.m.n you! Dowse that light! _Huh!_ Some blasted idiot foul of that binnacle-screen again! Th' way things are done on this s.h.i.+p! Egad! Would think we were safe in th' s.h.i.+p Ca.n.a.l, 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 d.a.m.nably cheerful and annoying as the other is dour.