Merchantmen-at-arms : the British merchants' service in the war Part 17

"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' h.e.l.l '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 d.a.m.ned bridge is relieved in this s.h.i.+p!

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 gla.s.sy 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 d.a.m.n gla.s.s was never right, anyway!'

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE BOWS OF THE _KASHMIR_ DAMAGED BY COLLISION]

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 sh.o.r.e station has accepted it. (They can identify the s.h.i.+p--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! d.a.m.ned 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 h.e.l.lish 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 pa.s.s. 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 pa.s.s the time of the morning.

He salutes with punctilio. (He has not yet learned that we are only a d.a.m.n civilian, camouflaged, and not ent.i.tled to such respect.) It is reported to him that one of the s.h.i.+p'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 a.s.sure 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 a.s.sent.

". . . 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 h.e.l.l 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 dispa.s.sionate 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 Pa.s.sAGE

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 pa.s.s 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 s.h.i.+ps for over an hour!_"

Whatever is the man talking about! "_s.h.i.+ps?_" What s.h.i.+ps? "_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 gla.s.s, 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 pa.s.s 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 phosph.o.r.escence in the broken water, a white sc.u.m churns and curls alongside, brightening suddenly in patches as though our pa.s.sage 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 s.h.i.+ps around us, not a light glimmers in the darkness. The eerie atmosphere through which we pa.s.s has effect on the night-life of the s.h.i.+p. 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 a.s.surance 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; flas.h.i.+ng 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE MAYFLOWER QUAY, THE BARBICAN, PLYMOUTH]

With the coming of the chief officer's watch we feel that the 'day' is beginning. Twelve to four are unholy hours that belong to no proper order of our reckoning. They are past the night, and have no kins.h.i.+p with the day: bitter, tedious, helpless s.p.a.ces of time that ought only to be pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+p 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 was.h.i.+ng down, bent earnestly on their standard rites though the heavens fall! The carpenter and his mate are a.s.sembling 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, a.s.sures 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 guards.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p? Is there a voice in the aerials? Are ears tuned to the many-tongued whisperings of rivet and sh.e.l.l-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 pa.s.sages 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 s.h.i.+p 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 guards.h.i.+p'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 s.h.i.+ps. 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 pa.s.s, in line ahead, a wild tumult of enthusiasm breaks out among the troops. They join in a full-voiced anthem, carried on from s.h.i.+p to s.h.i.+p, "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 s.h.i.+ps of the convoy. With this modest clearing, the s.h.i.+eld 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, s.p.a.ced 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 gla.s.ses 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 wars.h.i.+ps to trudge and turn in rear of the convoy. With our new additions, s.h.i.+p by s.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sage, 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 s.h.i.+ne through, the horizon is obscured--when the sea-line clears to a pa.s.sable mark, the sun has gone! A vexing round of trial after trial! We put away the s.e.xtant, 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 lat.i.tude. Busied with pencil and dividers, our findings are disturbed by gunfire--the whine of a slow-travelling sh.e.l.l is stifled by a dull explosion that jars the s.h.i.+p!

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 s.h.i.+p; 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 s.h.i.+p--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 s.h.i.+p'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 ma.s.s of troops. The men are strangely quiet; perhaps the steady beat of our engines measures out a.s.surance to them--as it does to us. Their white-haired colonel has come to the bridge, and stands about quietly.