Merchantmen-at-arms : the British merchants' service in the war Part 18

Other officers are pus.h.i.+ng 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 ma.s.s, the s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+p lists heavily, every plate and frame of her ringing out in clamour with the impact of a vicious sudden blow. She vibrates in pa.s.sionate convulsion on recovery, masts oscillate like the spring of a whip-shaft, the rigging jars and rattles at the bolts, a crash of broken gla.s.s showers from the bridge to the deck below!

The murmur among the troops swells to a higher note, there is a crowding ma.s.s-movement towards the boats. The guard is turned to face inboard.

The colonel is impa.s.sive; 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 s.h.i.+p, not less in violence and shattering impact than the first. A high hurtling column of water shoots up skyward close astern of the s.h.i.+p. 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p, a collision is inevitably a.s.sured, 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 bra.s.s 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 antic.i.p.ation of a wrecking blow. On the other s.h.i.+p, 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 ma.s.s of men amids.h.i.+ps. All eyes are centred on the narrowing s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.ses 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 ma.s.s 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 s.h.i.+p still floats, though with a dangerous list and her stern low in the water. A sloop is taking her in tow, and we gather a.s.surance 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 pa.s.ses, 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 sc.r.a.p 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!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: EVENING: THE MERSEY FROM THE LANDING-STAGE]

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 s.h.i.+ps in the dark to take up station offers another hara.s.sing night out! Still, it might be worse--much worse! We think of the torpedoed s.h.i.+p 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE STEERSMAN]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE WORK OF A TORPEDO]

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 Ches.h.i.+re sh.o.r.e as though their bases were set in the peninsula. Seaward the channel buoys and the nearer lights.h.i.+ps are sharply distinct, cutting the distant sea-line like the topmast spars of s.h.i.+ps 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: TRANSPORTS DISCHARGING IN LIVERPOOL DOCKS]

On such a day a convoy bears in from the sea, rounding the lights.h.i.+ps under columns of drifting smoke. Heading the merchantmen, the destroyers and sloops of the escort steam quickly between the channel buoys and pa.s.s 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 att.i.tudes of ease and comfort. They are a happy crowd, and roar jest and catchword to the pa.s.sengers 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 s.h.i.+p missing in the fleet--their s.h.i.+p.

The sloop hauls alongside the stage and a gangway is pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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 s.h.i.+p comes ash.o.r.e 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 bra.s.ses. "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 pa.s.sing 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 s.h.i.+pping, seems now narrowed to the breadth of a ca.n.a.l 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 Ches.h.i.+re sh.o.r.e. It is not easy to disentangle the lines of the s.h.i.+ps in the ma.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+ps, br.i.m.m.i.n.g at the bulwarks with a packed ma.s.s 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 s.h.i.+ps and closes in towards the sh.o.r.e.

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 pa.s.s 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 insh.o.r.e rails give tongue to excited gaiety. A milkgirl (slouch hat, trousers and gaiters complete) pa.s.ses 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 tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. What's th'

secret sign, anyway!" An embarra.s.sed 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, p.r.o.nounced in war! 'G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+ps cast off in time to dock before high water has pa.s.sed.

[Ill.u.s.tration: TROOP TRANSPORTS DISEMBARKING AT THE LANDING-STAGE, LIVERPOOL]

Viewed from the low tidal stage, almost at a level with the water, the s.h.i.+p--that had appeared so delicate of line in the river--a.s.sumes a new and stronger character at close hand. The ma.s.sive 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 pa.s.ses over the gangways.

They move rapidly from the s.h.i.+p to the sh.o.r.e. 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 a.s.sortment 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 s.h.i.+p, and the two s.h.i.+ps' complements are mixed in a fellows.h.i.+p that makes a tangle of the 'nominal rolls' and drives the hara.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ps 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 'M N']

CONCLUSION

'M N'

s.h.i.+MMERING 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 vanis.h.i.+ng, in the wisps of fickle vapour. A breathless dawn. Sun, the silver moon, the grey flat sea bearing motionless s.h.i.+ps, were witness to the drama--the giving up of the murder craft, the end of piracy.