GOOD-BYE.
PORT Melbourne pier was a scene of hurry and bustle.
Along every yard of its great length lay mighty ocean-going steamers: mail-boats, Orient and P. & O., big White Star cargo-ships, French liners, and all the miscellaneous collection of ships that ply from up and down the world to Australia. Trains were coming and going along the railway lines running down the centre of the pier, piercing the air with their shrieks of warning, while people moved hastily out of their way, stumbling over the intricate network of rails. A motley crowd they were: passengers from the steamers; officers—sunburned men in blue uniforms; wharf labourers; sailors in blue jerseys, bearing the name of their ship across their breasts; dark-skinned Lascars from the P. & O. ships; Chinese; well-dressed city people tempted out by bright sunshine and blue sea; and the never-failing throng of children to be found on every great wharf, drawn to “the beauty and mystery of the ships.” Amidst the crowd dock hands worked at loading and unloading cargoes; the shrieks of steam-cranes sounded as great wooden cases were lifted from the trucks, to be poised perilously in mid air over the pier before being swung in-board and lowered into the gaping holds. Each ship bore on its mooring-ropes wide discs of tin, to discourage the rats which would otherwise have found the rope an easy track into the steamer.
It was the usual Australian wharf scene; but there was another factor in it, by no means so familiar. Among the crowded ships were several painted in neutral colours, bearing no name, but only the letter A and a number. They were alongside the wharf, and on their decks men in uniform were working with a feverish activity quite unlike the ordinary movements of the dock-hand in Australia. At each gangway stood a sentry; and other men in khaki went up and down swiftly, some of them receiving salutes from the men who worked—not always, because the new Australian soldier was a free-and-easy person, and, having much to learn, did not easily see that saluting is a mark of respect to the King’s uniform, more than to the man who wears it. The privates did not mean any disrespect to the uniform—they only knew they were busy, and that it seemed to them foolish to stop and salute a man whom they had perhaps known for years as “Bill” or “Dick,” who might have been the fag of one of them at school, or perhaps worked for another for wages on a farm. There are all sorts of queer ups and downs in the composition of a Colonial volunteer force, and social distinctions are apt to collapse altogether before military ability; so that the man with a big property and more money than he knows what to do with may find himself a mere private working under a martinet of a captain who possibly delivered his meat in the piping times of peace. Moreover, he will do it cheerfully. But he will find the saluting hard.
There was a steady hum of preparation on all the grey troopships with the white numbers. Stores and kit were being loaded into them rapidly, each item checked by an officer; on some, the decks of which were boarded up, soldiers, stripped to shirt and breeches, were working with great bundles of compressed hay and straw, emptying truck after truck in readiness for the horses that were to be the chief passengers. From within these could be heard the sound of hammering; they had been stripped of all their inside fittings, and every available inch of space was being turned into stalls and loose-boxes, made with due regard to the comfort of the puzzled four-footed occupants whose homes they would be for so many weary weeks.
All the quay-room was taken up; and besides, out in Port Phillip Bay, the ships lay thick: troopships; cargo-boats waiting their chance to unload, or busy discharging their goods into lighters; sailing vessels, tramps from every harbour in the world, with towering masts and rusty sides; and a host of smaller craft that nosed in and out among the big ships. Near some steps leading to the water a motor-launch tossed in the wash of a paddle-steamer leaving for some Bay port.
A large party, variously laden with hand-baggage, came rapidly along the wharf from the railway-station, and down the steps. At sight of their leader one of the men in the launch steadied her, while the other busied himself with the engine.
“We’ve sent all our heavy things on board, and this is quite the most comfortable way to get over to Williamstown,” David Linton was saying. “No, it’s quite unusual, of course, to be sailing from there; but war has upset everything, and there’s simply no room for any more big ships at this pier. Williamstown is a fearsome place to embark from; it’s bad enough to get there, to begin with, and when you have done so, the pier is miles from anywhere, and you traverse appalling tracks in finding your ship. Much simpler to run across the Bay from Port Melbourne by launch.”
Edward Meadows, a tall, lean man, very like Wally, nodded assent.
“I’ve never seen the fascination of travel,” he said lazily. “To me it’s only bearable with the maximum of comfort—especially when you go to sea.”
“Well, there’s not much maximum of comfort about your back-country trips in Queensland,” said Wally, rather amazed. “And you have plenty of those, Edward.”
“Oh, yes, but that’s different! You don’t expect comfort, and you’d be rather surprised if you got it. And the Bush is different, too,” replied his brother, a trifle vaguely, yet conscious that his hearers understood. “You can live on corned-beef, damper and milkless tea for weeks in the Bush, and sleep in the open, with your saddle for a pillow, and on the whole you quite enjoy it; but you’d feel quite injured if you had to do it on board ship. Possibly it’s the clothes you wear—I don’t know.” He looked round, as if expecting to find enlightenment. “Let me help you in, Miss Norah.”
The launch held them all comfortably, though they were a large party: the travellers themselves, various relatives who had come to see them off, and a sprinkling of school friends who were openly envying Norah and the boys. They included a couple of lads in khaki, fresh from the camp of the Expeditionary Force at Broadmeadows.
“Well, you’re lucky to be getting straight to the middle of things,” said one of these. “Here we are, tied up week after week, waiting to get away, and nobody quite knows why we don’t start—they talk about German cruisers, of course, and there are stories of warships not being ready to convoy us, and a dozen other yarns. Every now and then comes a rumour that we’re just off, and we say good-bye wildly—and then we don’t go. I’ve made all my fond farewells four times, and I believe my people are beginning to feel a little less enthusiastic about it than they did. It must be jolly hard to keep on regarding one as a departing hero!”
“And when we do start, it’s going to be slow enough,” put in his companion. “There will be such a crowd of us—and we’ve got to make the pace by the slowest ship.” He jerked his hand towards a troopship round the stern of which the motor-launch was chug-chugging slowly. “That’s one of them. She was a German tramp steamer that strolled in here after war broke out and was collared; she didn’t know a thing about the war, and her captain said most unseemly things to the pilot who had gone out to bring them through the Heads and held his tongue about war until he had the ship covered by our guns at Queenscliff.” The soldier grinned with huge enjoyment. “I wish I’d seen him! But she’s not much of a tub, anyhow; I expect the Orient boat that has been turned into the Staff troopship has just about twice her pace, but she will have to accommodate herself to the slowest.”
“Yes, it will be a deliberate sort of voyage,” said the other. “No ports; no news; just dawdling along for weeks, packed like herrings. Hope they’ll keep us busy with drill; it will be something to pass the time away.”
“And you don’t know when you are to sail? Edward Meadows asked.
“For all we know it may be a case of strike camp to-night. There are too many German warships in the way—it wouldn’t be healthy to let the news leak out. Wouldn’t the Emden like a chance of meeting a crowd like ours!—a lot of transports like helpless old sheep, with a few men-o’-war to protect the whole mob. The Emden would not mind going down herself if she sank some of us.”
“Well, at least you’ll have the men-o’-war” Norah put in. “We won’t have anything at all to protect us.”
“You don’t seem very troubled about it, either,” grinned the soldier lad.
“Why, it would be an experience. I don’t suppose they would hurt us, even if they sank the ship. And our luggage is insured,” said Norah, practically.
“The danger of a hostile cruiser does not seem to weigh heavily on the minds of the insurance companies,” remarked her father. “It cost me a good deal more to insure against pilfering than against war risks!”
“You don’t say so!” said Edward Meadows, staring.
“I do, though. It’s a queer state of affairs, but I suppose they know their business. There’s the old ship.”
They had nearly crossed the narrow portion of the Bay that lies between Port Melbourne and Williamstown, and the docks were coming into view. Everywhere the wharves were crowded with shipping, mostly of a smaller character than the vessels they had seen; but towering above everything else, larger than even the Orient liner, lay a great ship. She had but one funnel, painted a vivid blue; it loomed vast above them, a mighty cylinder—large enough, if it lay on its side, to drive a coach-and-four through it.
“Whew-w! She’s a big one!” ejaculated the young soldier.
“Yes; there’s only one larger ship in the Australian trade,” Jim answered.
“Many passengers?”
“Hardly any, I believe. But she’s enormously valuable; she’s carrying a huge cargo—the richest, with the exception of gold, that ever left Australia. And it’s just what they want in England—frozen meat, wool, tallow, and things like that, and a huge consignment of food the Queensland people are sending to the troops at the Front. They say she’s worth a million and a half!”
“By Jove, what a prize she’d make!” said the soldier. “I should think the German cruisers will be keeping a pretty sharp look-out for her.”
“Yes—and I believe the Emden is particularly anxious to get a Blue Funnel ship before she goes under. The Perseus would make a pretty good scalp, wouldn’t she?”
The engineer shut off the motor, and the little launch came to rest beside a gangway under the lee of the Perseus—whose bulk, seen close above them, seemed like that of a mountain. A sailor ran down the steps to steady the launch and offer a helping hand as its passengers climbed out. In a moment Norah stood for the first time upon the deck of a ship.
It gave her a queer little thrill of exultation. Everything about her was new and unfamiliar: the long lines of the deck, the hurrying officers and sailors, the creak of machinery, punctuated with crisp commands; and over all, the smell of the ship and the salt air blowing up from the wider spaces of the Bay. It seemed to mount to her head. Instinctively she put out her hand to her father.
“Well, my girl,” he said. “It’s a bit different to the old wind-jammer that I came out in.”
“It’s—it’s lovely, Daddy!”
He laughed. “I hope you’ll continue to think so,” he said. “Come and we’ll find our cabins.”
A passing steward, to whom they gave their numbers, took them in charge and piloted them below. They went down a winding oak staircase with rubber treads that were soft to the feet, and passed through an open space invitingly furnished with lounge-chairs. Thence a passage led a little way until their guide turned sharply to the right.
“This is yours, sir,” said the steward. “The young lady’s is opposite.”
The cabins were alike—roomy ones, each containing three berths, and lit by wide port-holes. The Perseus had accommodation for over three hundred passengers, and at an ordinary time went out with every berth taken; but war had made people disinclined to travel, and on this voyage her passenger-list held only about thirty names. Therefore there was room and to spare, and each passenger could have had two or three cabins had he been so disposed.
Already Norah’s luggage was placed in readiness; and scattered on one of the berths were a number of parcels and letters, to which so many were immediately added that the bunk looked like a jumble-stall, but very interesting.
“No, you mustn’t open them now,” said her special school-chum, Jean Yorke; “they will keep, and you’ll have loads of time going down the Bay. Come and explore the ship.”
At the entrance to their alley-way they met Jim and Wally, returning from inspecting their cabin, which was near-by and “very jolly,” said its owners; and then they all trooped off to find their way about the steamer, discovering big drawing-rooms and lounges, a splendid smoking-room panelled in oak, with a frieze of quaint carvings running round it, and the dining-saloon—a roomy place, furnished with swing-chairs and small round tables, on which ferns and tall palms nodded a friendly greeting. Everything was big and spacious and airy. Smart stewards, white-jacketed, darted hither and thither. They passed the galley, catching a glimpse of rows of bright cooking-ranges, gleaming copper saucepans, and busy cooks, with snowy aprons and flat caps—all so spotlessly clean that Norah wished audibly that Brownie could see it—Brownie having expressed dark doubts as to whether her belongings would be decently fed on board, coupled with unpleasant allusions to cockroaches. Then they came out on the decks, of which there were three—roomy enough for a regiment to drill, and with pleasant nooks sheltered from the wind, no matter from what quarter it might come. In one of these the deck steward had already set up their long chairs—made of Australian blackwood and dark green canvas, with “Linton” painted on each of the four.
“I ran you in as one of the family, Wally,” said the squatter.
“Thanks awfully, sir,” said Wally, gratefully.
People were coming aboard quickly; though there were so few passengers, the Perseus was a popular ship, and many came to see her off. The first of the three warning bells clanged out sharply above the din.
“Come and have tea,” said David Linton. “I told them to have it ready at first bell.”
They crowded round the biggest table in the saloon, while the stewards brought tea. Every one was becoming a little silent; there seemed suddenly a great many things to say, but no one could remember any of them. No one wanted tea at all, except the soldier boys, who drank immense quantities, and did their best to keep the conversation going. Aunts and cousins heaped on Norah good advice about the journey. Edward Meadows stared at his young brother’s bright face—a sudden fear at his heart lest he should be looking at it for the last time.
“He’s such a kid,” he said inwardly. “I wonder if we ought to be letting him go.”
On the deck, after the second bell had brought them up from the saloon, he drew David Linton aside.
“You’ll take care of him, if you get a chance, won’t you, sir? He’s only a kid.”
“To the utmost of my ability,” said Mr. Linton, gravely. “He is like my own son to me.”
Then came the final bell, and with it a sudden gust of good-byes. Telegraph-boys came racing up the gangway with belated messages. Every one was trying to say twenty farewells at once.
“Good-bye, you chaps,” said the soldier lads. “Expect you’ll be in Flanders before we are—but we’ll meet you there. Keep Australia going!”
“Hope we’ll get a chance,” Jim said, “and not mess it up if we get it. We’ll try, anyhow. Good voyage. Don’t be sea-sick!”
“Same to you. Write to us if you can.”
“You too. Say good-bye to all the chaps we knew at school.”
“Good-bye, Norah, dear,” from an aunt. “Remember you’re growing up—you can’t be a Bush girl in England.”
“I’ll try,” said Norah meekly. “I expect every one will be too busy with the war to notice me.”
“I’m sure you’ll be a credit to us,” cried the aunt, inflicting a damp embrace. “If only you have a safe voyage!” She kissed Jim with fervour, and showed such signs of beginning on Wally that that timid youth retired precipitately into the crowd.
“All visitors ashore!” sang out a stentorian voice. People flocked down the gangway.
“You’ll write, won’t you, Norah?” asked Jean Yorke, a little shakily. Jean was a silent person, but Norah was very dear to her.
“Of course I will,” said Norah, hugging her. “And you—lots! Oh, won’t we want letters when we’re right away over there!”
“It’s awful at school without you,” said Jean. “Oh, and everybody sent you their love—even Miss Winter! And they say, ‘Come back soon.’ So do I.”
“Just as soon as ever we can. Oh, I don’t want to go a bit!” said poor Norah. “There can’t be any place as good as Australia.”
“Of course there isn’t. But you’ll come back.”
“Any more for the shore?”
“Oh, I must go!” cried Jean, and fled, after a final hug. Edward Meadows wrung Wally’s hand hard, and went slowly down the gangway—in his mind a helpless feeling that perhaps they had not done as much as they might for the little brother who had known neither mother nor father. On the last step he hesitated, turned, and went back.
“Remember you needn’t ever go short of money,” he said. It seemed such a foolish thing; and yet it was all he could find to say.
“Thanks, ever so much, Edward. I’m sure I’ll have plenty.”
“And—come back safe,” said his brother. He gripped his hand again, and went down. Already sailors were busy with the gangway ropes.
At the last moment, just as the cumbrous ladder began to be drawn up, a figure came racing down the wharf, uttering shouts that were incoherent through breathlessness. Behind him puffed a couple of porters, staggering under a leather suit-case and a Gladstone bag. The sailors above the gangway hesitated, and the newcomer sprang upon it.
“What are you up to, sir?” came the sharp voice of an officer. “Are you a passenger?”
“Certainly I am,” responded the breathless one—a short, stout individual by no means fitted for violent exercise. “Kindly send some one for my baggage.”
A couple of sailors ran down the gangway and took the burdens from the panting porters. The late arrival puffed up the steps.
“You cut it pretty fine,” was the comment of the officer.
“Who ever heard of a ship being punctual before?” was the reply. “Extraordinary—almost ridiculous!”
The officer laughed in spite of himself.
“It’s never safe to bank on the Perseus being unpunctual,” he remarked. “Lucky you caught us. Haul away!”
The gangway came up slowly. Three piercing whistles shrilled from the siren. Down on the wharf, the people who had seemed so many on the ship now appeared dwindled to a little huddled crowd, with faces upturned; it was hard to pick out individuals.
Norah leaned on the rail, looking down—suddenly realising that it was indeed “good-bye.” The ship was drawing out slowly—foot by foot the water appeared between her side and the pier—unpleasant, dirty water, full of floating rubbish. A little way out it sparkled to meet them, a dancing mass of foam-flecked blue. But Norah could not see that side now—only the little widening strip of brown water, and the wharf with its wistful faces. Her own, as she looked, was very wistful. Beyond, sea and sky might be blue, calling to her—but on this side lay Australia.
“At each gangway stood a sentry.”
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