PART ONE

Dear old Thing,

You must be wondering what has become of me in this unholy mix-up. How far it seems to our Fourteenth of July in New Orleans when we said good-bye at the Dollar Bar after a cake-walk to the sound of the gramophone! Here goes for my tale of woe.

Well, the Pamir was loading her cotton—five thousand bales—up to the twenty-fifth of July. It was hottish and we were in a hurry to clear for Liverpool and find cooler weather. The news, too, seemed a bit inflammable. American papers were getting up stunts in big headlines over Serbia and the rest, but we thought it a “try-on” of the pro-German press and the Hearst crowd. You guess we were glad to be[6] going to see what was happening in France and what the old things thought about it.

We got under way at 2 a.m. At the start a d—— great sea-elephant just missed ramming us, but the Old Man steered like a wizard. I took the watch at three o’clock for Blangy, who was having a touch of fever and had been loading up with quinine for two days.

The ship nearly had sunstroke in the Gulf! Ninety-five on the bridge, one hundred and four in the cabin—not a breath of wind! In the Atlantic it freshened up a bit and Blangy reported fit again.

The boat was doing ten knots and a bittock, but at the end of three days our engine started racing like the very devil. The propeller shaft broke off short about a yard from the thrust block. We must have run into a submerged spar which had fouled the screw. It wouldn’t surprise me if a chunk of the propeller had gone to the bottom.

No good trying the S.O.S. stunt, as we have no wireless! Muriac, the engineer, was a wonder. He found some way of forging on our wretched anvil a couple of steel collars which he fixed on to the two broken ends of the shaft[7] with eight bolts. That took two days. You can imagine how Old Man Fourgues cursed to see himself a-floatin’ like a bloomin’ buoy in the middle of the sea. You figure him, with his slant eyes and his goatee, shouting down the engine-room hatch every five minutes:

“Hullo there! Muriac! Will your turnspit be ready to turn by the time the grapes are ripe?”

“Another hour—maybe two!” yells Muriac. “But for God’s sake leave us alone!”

We got under way again after having drifted fifty miles to the west. Fourgues was afraid the engines would not run to more than ten knots, but the shaft was stronger than ever.

This delayed us considerably. On the night of the seventh of August we entered the Irish Channel and looked for lights. Search me! I had the watch and for three hours Fourgues blackguarded me like the expert he is, because I could not see a lighthouse or any other kind of light!

“What have I done to have a blind man like this? Get a new set of eyes! Run her aground! Shove her up against it! Get nice and close! You may see the lighthouses then.[8] You’ll have made us lose three hours. This trip will never end!”

He couldn’t see the lighthouses any more than I and that was why he was making such a row about it. We had got almost near enough to touch land; you could see it, like a wharf—but devil a light anywhere!—when, all of a sudden, a craft going at full speed over-hauled us! It only showed lights at intervals. It kept its position as we could see it to port. I kept on my course. Bang! Bang! The ship fired twice with blank.

“The devil!” said Fourgues. “We have struck destroyers at practice. There must be others. Keep your weather eye skinned, my boy.”

I did! Bang! A shell fell ten yards ahead of us. The destroyer came up and yelled through the megaphone:

“Stop! Or we’ll sink you!”

Sir, we stopped! The destroyer came closer still. We could see nothing except a red hot cinder or so now and then.

“Who are you?”

“Pamir, French cargo-boat with cotton from America for Liverpool. Why do you stop us?”

[9]

“Oh! You’re French, are you?”

“Yes!”

“Right-oh! War’s declared!”

“By G——!” cried Fourgues and I at the same time and he fell on me and hugged me.

“Ça y est, my boy! We are having it out with the Boches!”

“What are you going to do?” yelled the destroyer.

“Go back to France!” answered Fourgues immediately, and added:

“Is England with us?”

“You bet!”

“Hurrah!” cried Fourgues. “Hard a-starboard and full speed for H——. We’ll report to the Admiralty.”

The destroyer accompanied us a little way and finally left us, calling:

“Good-bye and good luck!”

“Thanks. Same to you!”

You can’t deny it, Fourgues is a brick! No hesitation about his turning back to France! He slapped me on the back, offered me a cigar, and joked on the bridge.

“No wonder there weren’t any lights! It’s likely we’d show the Huns the way! Tumble[10] down, my boy, and tell Muriac and Blangy. Rout them out if they are asleep. My word, won’t they stare! Send them to the bridge and bring up a bottle of fizz. My treat!”

Blangy and Muriac didn’t faint; the guns had awakened them, but they supposed it was manœuvres.

“Not pulling our legs?” they both said.

“No, to H—— with pull-legs. The Old Man will tell you.”

Every one embraced every one else. No one thought of sleep. On the bridge Fourgues tried to pour the champagne, but he spilled it on our hands in the dark, he was trembling so with excitement. We drank what was left.

“With all this,” he said, “we don’t know when the thing started. Pretty fools we look without wireless or anything! We might have butted into the Boches! However, all’s well. Decent chaps, the English, to be on our side. What should we have done if they had left us in the lurch?”

“What about the Russians?” queried Muriac.

“They’re all right!” said Fourgues. “We are all going in together.”

[11]

“And the Italians?” said Blangy.

“Um! We must get some information. Could you hit it up a bit, Muriac?”

“We ought to manage eleven knots. The coal is good and the shaft will hold.”

“All right. Let her rip! We must get to H—— to-morrow.”

We put on all the speed we could. As for me, I didn’t sleep. I had been counting on a leave in August while the boilers were being cleaned, and was going home, to La Rochelle. You know why, old man. I told you about it in New Orleans; it was to have been this year. What will she say, poor little thing? I had to put to sea again without seeing her!

The Pamir reached H—— at nine in the morning. Fourgues went to the Naval Préfecture and returned at noon with the daily papers and the news.

“No one knows what is to be done with the Pamir. We have to wait for orders. I wired to the owner; I asked the Admiral to unload the cotton. They told me to keep it pending further instructions. We are forbidden to touch anything. No examination of our engine or boilers! Muriac, your shaft will be looked[12] after later! This afternoon a Naval officer will come aboard to settle the destination of officers and crew.”

If we had not been at war Fourgues would have exploded. To leave us with five thousand bales of cotton in the hold, the boilers and shaft unrepaired and without a notion of what we were going to do the next day! But he took it very well, even not being allowed to go ashore and the order to keep up steam.

The Naval officer, one of the Tin Hat sort, came on board about three o’clock. He mustered the crew, looked at the Service certificates, and in half an hour had fixed everything up. Muriac went, Blangy also. Half the deck crew and three-quarters of the engine-room artificers packed up and landed. The officer said that it was to man the war-vessels and coast-defences. He told us to leave that very evening for the port of —— in Morocco, where we should receive further orders. Fourgues became a bit restive.

“See here! You want me to run over to Morocco with two officers missing and half the crew?”

“We need the officers. Ships of war come[13] first. Those registered for active service afloat serve in the Fleet, officers or men. As for men, we will send you at five o’clock a contingent of reservists, five seamen and ten engine-room ratings.”

“Might just as well leave me mine, who know the ship! My shaft is broken, my boilers are falling to bits!”

“Pooh! You’ll get on all right!”

“But coal? And provisions?”

“Go ahead; you can provision on the way if necessary. You are needed in Morocco.”

“To do what?”

“You will receive orders.”

“Can you let me have charts for Morocco? I have only those of America and Europe.”

“We’ll see. I don’t believe there are any left. We gave them all to the battleships.”

“I haven’t any wireless.”

“What’s the need? Are you afraid of meeting the Germans. We are guarding the routes.”

“And my five thousand bales of cotton?”

“No use to us! Please hold yourself in readiness to get under way at six o’clock, as soon as you have received your reservists. Do you understand?”

[14]

“All right.”

“Send all going ashore into my launch smartly. I still have three ships to deal with.”

Muriac, Blangy, and the men packed in five secs., believe me. They were in such a hurry that they hadn’t time to shake hands. What can have become of the beggars?

“This is a nice game,” says Fourgues to me when we were alone again. “You can take charge of the engines and we will take the watch by turns—the two of us—unless they send us some one who knows starboard from port. Hurry up! Go and write home—I’m going to do the same. It’s two years since I’ve seen my wife and the children at Orange. And you, poor devil of an engaged man! Oh, well, it doesn’t matter! I’m quite happy. They’ll find the old Pamir can account for herself.”

He shook hands. We both wanted to weep. To start like that, with a damned dislocated ship! We went below; he wrote to Orange, I wrote to La Rochelle—not much, you know; just to say that we were there and to address letters c/o the Admiralty with “Please forward” in large letters on the envelope.[15] And then the reservists arrived. What in Fortune’s name had they sent us!

I can see now why they keep the “active service” reservists in the Navy. The others are too much of a good thing! For the deck, there was a croupier from Deauville, a tram-driver, a newsvendor, a shopman, a cabby; for the engine-room, a hotel lift-boy, a cinema man, three carriers, a bill-poster, a cattle-dealer, and three others of the same sort. What do they remember about the sea? They arrived, stupid, fat, and full of questions. We shoved ’em along proper! The lift-boy and the movie-man are to take duty in the boiler-room, the driver will steer, the movie-man also runs the dynamo. I forgot a chef of the Hotel Romantic at Monte Carlo! We bagged him for the officers’ table. If he can do anything with beans and bully beef he’s a wonder! As to Fabrice, whom you may remember—little Fafa who made such good cocktails at Galveston—he went forward again.

The Pamir left H—— at exactly six o’clock. No need to add that Fourgues and I did not shut an eye during the trip. Twelve hours’ watch apiece out of the twenty-four and filthy[16] weather. The rest of the time I spent in the engine-room in overalls trying to see to overheating and leaks. At the Training School one learns little about mechanics—I am the more aware of this, having forgotten everything! The first day we had a lot of bother with condensation and the hammering on the cylinder cover was so great that we were obliged to reduce speed and drain the cylinder. The engine-room filled with steam. All the reservists ran off, squealing like pigs. With the old Pamir men we patched it all up and the next day it was the tubes of boiler 3 which began to blow. That’s the old one which was in urgent need of repair. The cattle-dealer, who was on duty at the feed pump, did not know where the cocks of the tanks were. When one had emptied itself he simply let it go. The gauge fell to zero and you can imagine the explosion. We drew the fire under one boiler

and after that could barely make seven knots. In the Bay of Biscay we caught it proper. Two of the carriers and the bill-poster came out of the bunkers half dead, spitting blood and coal-dust by the quart, so now there was no way of getting the coal on the fire. Fourgues slowed[17] to five knots. Our firemen were simply unable to stoke. It was more than they could manage, and at every shovelful they fell down, sending the fuel everywhere except into the mouth of the furnace.

With such a crew Fourgues was afraid the trip would take a month, and that we should run short of provisions and coal. So he put in at the port of —— and had a pretty cold reception. In the first place, it was Sunday and they wanted to know why he came bothering people then instead of on a week-day. He must have talked to them like a father, but I was unfortunately not there to hear. They gave him permission to get the provisions, but as for coal, search me!

“What!” says he, “you have heaps there! Can’t you give me half of one heap?”

“Impossible. What you see there is not to be touched. It is the mobilization reserve.”

“Great Scott! We are not merely mobilized, we are at war!”

“Possibly, but this is stock belonging to the mobilization—which means that it can’t be touched.”

There was no way out of it. But of what use[18] is coal which is there for war, but which cannot be given out in time of war? The Pamir sailed after eight hours in port. We got provisions. Fourgues telegraphed to the office for money to be sent to Morocco. We were stony-broke, and would have to eat down there and pay for coal and get water and everything.

The rest of the passage was completed somehow or other at between five and six knots. The grease ran short, the bearings got hot, the bilgepump got out of order, and there were three feet of water under the planks of the stoke-hole. You can imagine the stink! Really, Muriac had points; he would never let any one put a nose into his shop, but he made things work! As for me, I give it up. Between bridge and engine-room—it was enough to drive a man crazy! Blangy was a lucky devil! By this time he must be on a really-and-truly ship with a full complement, officers and men. I wonder why it was he instead of me who went. We belong to the same year; only he gave his certificate to the officer at H—— first and was already packed up when I handed in mine. We’re in for a nice time, my boy, but much water will pass under the Pamir before they give us any officers.

[19]

We reached Morocco the day before yesterday. How did we get into the harbour? Ask Fourgues! We didn’t get the charts at H—— after all, and had nothing but the track-chart of the Atlantic, where the coast of Morocco occupies about half an inch. The bottom is bad, the coast is flat. We spent a day and a night wandering around in sight of beaches with three cacti and a palm-tree. Fourgues didn’t want to make the wrong port and at a distance they all looked alike. Quite impossible to get our bearings—clouds or fog all the time. Fortunately we came upon an American who signalled our position to us and the route to follow. And that’s how the Pamir got in.

In port everybody had skipped to France by the last boat. There was one shore officer, one chief petty officer, and no one else. They asked us what the deuce we had come for and if we had any munitions.

“Munitions!” cried Fourgues. “Five thousand bales of cotton, boilers shaken to pieces, nothing more to eat, some scrapings of coal, and no cash in the locker.”

“What the devil are you doing in Morocco then?”

[20]

“I was sent here from H—— and they said there would be orders here for the Pamir.”

“First we’ve heard of it. Never mind! Wait a bit and we’ll find something for you to do.”

And that’s why, old fellow, I write you from Morocco. We are waiting for the orders which have been requested from Paris, Rabat, and Tangier. Nothing comes. Fourgues will never recover his temper again. Our cotton had begun to heat, for it is warm here. Half the reservists are on their backs—diarrhœa, gastric troubles, general breakdown. You ought to hear them. Impossible to go anywhere or to unload, for we were told to be ready to start at two hours’ notice. As for me, I slept for nearly thirty-six—I had had my share! Fourgues is very nice to me. He takes it out on the reservists, and lor’! he does talk to them! At bottom he is right. All those fellows thought they were going to have an easy time and they need to be jacked up.

Consider yourself in luck, my son, to get such an epistle from me. Fact is, I’m Fed Up and I want to know what has become of you and the fellows. A ship from the south is passing to-morrow[21] and I shall send this at a venture. I address it c/o your people, hoping they will see that it reaches you. Shall we write to each other once a month as before? I will try to. Shake, old man!

Dear old Thing,

And so you too were taken from your ship, like Blangy! (By the way, I have received nothing from him, not even a card. I suppose his laziness has got the better of him again.) All the same, I wish I might see you on your battleship, in a double-turret, on the lookout for twelve hours out of the twenty-four—How fed up you must be, poor old dear. I remember you telling me in New Orleans how you were soon going to command a Chilian sailing-vessel—“And tack about here and let out the sheets there!” I can still hear you. And now you are a gunner! They must need excellent observers on your battleships and I remember that with the sextant and the table of logarithms you used to beat us all to a frazzle. Position found within half-a-mile in twelve minutes—that was your style! Tut, tut, and[22] so you mayn’t smoke your pipe. Never mind! As a hooker, the battleship Auvergne is right there—the very latest thing! I saw her launched. You ought to have nothing to complain of, and one of these fine days you will drop a few of the best “eggs” on the Austro-Boches

at Pola or Cattaro. You won’t miss them, will you, like the Goeben and the Breslau? Taking it all in all, I’ve no sympathy for you.

As to the Pamir, they let her play bumpety-bump on the bottom for ten days there in Morocco. We rolled from one side to the other, notwithstanding our five thousand bales of cotton. I wouldn’t have believed there could be so much swell on that damned coast. It’s a nice place for loading! Try it! You have to look smart or bang goes your tackle, your derrick, and the whole caboodle, and get your load in your face. The most annoying part of it is that when there isn’t a cloud nor so much as a breath of breeze, you still get rollers and rollers, high as houses, from the sea. Furniture, dishes, books—down comes everything. In dead calms you would think you were in a Malay Straits monsoon.

[23]

They had no idea what to do with us down there. Fourgues would not set foot on land again, he was so riled at being “to Hell and gone” with a lot of blacks while others were working in France. And what a song they made about letting us have coal! There was a German ship, a great hulk of the Woermann line, in the roads, which had been stuck ever since the mobilization, hold and bunkers full of coal. All that was necessary was to take it! Oh, dear, no! Mustn’t touch the Boche even for a painter or a tarpaulin! The Boche is sacrosanct! This ship carried bananas and peanuts. All had rotted on the spot and you could smell them two miles away.

All the same, Fourgues kicked up such a row about the coal that they gave him some. We hadn’t enough to get as far as Gib.! We took some from the dock, from a heap intended for the Expeditionary Corps. You can imagine all the forms we had to fill up, and besides, they counted the sacks—just enough to get us to our destination. If the Pamir had taken one more day, it would have stopped dead like a sailing ship on the Equator.