Merchantmen-at-arms : the British merchants' service in the war Part 14

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, insh.o.r.e 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 Sh.e.l.l_ report arrival"--or the semaph.o.r.e 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 'gates.h.i.+ps' 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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.e.l.l 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 c.o.xswain'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 'gates.h.i.+ps' 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 a.s.sistants trim and index and arrange the s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+p 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-s.h.i.+p 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 Sh.e.l.l_, three stokehold hands short."

"_Trident_ only nine! That be d.a.m.ned 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 s.h.i.+p, 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. pa.s.ses 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 s.h.i.+p. . . . I'll 'phone _Pearl Sh.e.l.l'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 pa.s.sive interest in the varying troubles of the s.h.i.+ps 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. Fis.h.i.+ng-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 _Dieudonne_, 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 pa.s.s.

[Ill.u.s.tration: DAWN: CONVOY PREPARING TO PUT TO SEA]

And now the Roads, windless and misty, the anch.o.r.ed 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 mids.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+pyard embellishment--"Good old Jeemy Quin," or "Tae h.e.l.l 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+p 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 makes.h.i.+ft. 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 ash.o.r.e since he lost his last s.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+p,' 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 pa.s.sage 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 s.e.xtant 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 s.h.i.+p 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 bra.s.s 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. "h.e.l.l! This bunch of hair-springs can't keep out of her own way! Speed? The d.a.m.ned 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 s.h.i.+p 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 Sh.e.l.l_ came in with us. She hasn't a kick above nine. When I was in the old _Collonia_, we. . . ."

"The _Collonia_? A fine s.h.i.+p, 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 h.e.l.l 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p, not a d.a.m.ned 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 d.a.m.ned! Didn't have the chance. Why, that s.h.i.+p of his isn't in the same cla.s.s at all. The _Trident_ can steer, anyway, and when we get things fixed up. . . . She has the hull of a fine s.h.i.+p. 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 s.h.i.+p.'

[Ill.u.s.tration: EVENING: PLYMOUTH HOE]

XIX

CONFERENCE

"A LAUNCH will be sent off at 3 p.m., S.T., to bring masters on sh.o.r.e for conference. You are requested to bring"--etc. So reads the notice, and p.m. finds the c.o.xswain of the convoy office picket-boat steaming and backing from s.h.i.+p to s.h.i.+p, and making no secret of his disapproval of a scheme of things that keeps him waiting (tootling, perhaps, an impatient blast), while leisurely s.h.i.+pmasters give final orders to their mates at the gangways. ("That d.a.m.ned s.h.i.+p's cat in the chart-room again, sir!")

More s.h.i.+ps have come in since the clearing of the morning mist, and calm weather and vagaries of the tide have combined to crowd the s.h.i.+ps 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, d.a.m.n him!"), than the insanitary ways of the s.h.i.+p's cat that kept the captain, one leg over the rail, so long in talk with his mate.

Never, since the days of sailing s.h.i.+ps and the leisurely deep-sea parliaments in the s.h.i.+p-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 d.a.m.n 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 longsh.o.r.e 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+p. The c.o.xswain 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 insh.o.r.e. "A job o' work," he says. "Like 'unt th' slipper, this 'ere! 'Ow can I tell wot s.h.i.+ps they is, names all painted hover; an' them as does show their names is only d.a.m.n 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 longsh.o.r.e 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 bra.s.s b.u.t.tons 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 eyegla.s.ses, 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 pa.s.sing well--but guns could not, at that date, deflect torpedoes, and s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 cla.s.s, forgotten since sail went out, who had now no prototype in His Majesty's Service; there was no guide to the standard of a.s.sociation. Having little, if any, knowledge of merchant-s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ps, 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 s.h.i.+ps 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!

[Ill.u.s.tration: A CONVOY CONFERENCE]

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 j.a.panese, 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 exact.i.tude of zigzag, and the necessity of ready answer to signals. We are old stagers now, _we_ know all these drills, _we_-- d.a.m.n! 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 c.h.i.n.k 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 s.h.i.+pping 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 'cl.u.s.ter' to s.h.i.+ne 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 ash.o.r.e!"

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 c.o.xswain 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 s.h.i.+ps on the sea draws our attention and we read, with difficulty, for the stone is old and the lines faint and worn.