The Shellback's Progress / In the Nineteenth Century

by Baron Walter Runciman Runciman

The following night the wind had fallen away to a gentle breeze. The vessel was sailed close past San Stephano, and soon came within range of that weird sepulchral cry of the Turk for the return of their prophet Mahomet. I know what it is like, for I have often stood on deck and listened to the melancholy wailing call of scores of voices appealing to their God, and filling the air with thrilling pathos, until I have been stricken with a sense of sadness myself, which caused me to envy the devotion of the people whom we, who call ourselves Christians, deride. Macvie was greatly touched by the sombre wail that was wafted over the glassy waters, and for a brief moment it took his thoughts to the old home of prayer and saintly song, and made him wonder whether the God to whom these people were calling could also be his. But he had no time to ponder over eternal things. His vessel was slipping towards the anchorage at Scutari. A suitable berth was picked, the anchor dropped, sails furled, and then the captain's gig was made ready by her crew, who were ordered to wash and dress themselves in white ducks and blue jerseys, the latter having the name of the vessel in front. All being ready, the master stepped into the boat and was rowed in regal style to a landing in the Golden Horn. He was met there by an agent, who informed him that he knew the stores were much needed in the Crimea, but no official instructions having been given, he would have to remain at anchor until they came.

"But don't you think," said the captain, "it would be as well for me to proceed off Sevastopol or Kertch, and see if they really are in need of the supplies I have on board?"

"My dear fellow," replied the agent, "you must never think of doing such a thing. It would be deemed a breach of the rules of the service, and you might be court-martialled and lose a splendid charter for doing so. Take my advice: lie where you are until red-tapeism finds out that the wares you are carrying for Government account are needed. You can make use of the time by putting your vessel in good order. It may be months before they come to your turn, and until they precisely come to it, you may rely on hearing nothing from them. Departmental methods are very exact. You must never be donkey enough to interfere with an ancient order of things: it might throw the machinery of uniformity into chaos. Of course I know you will say, 'That is all very excellent: but what about the poor, ill-fed, ill-clad, fever-stricken soldiers? Is it right that I should be an accomplice in this dreadful crime?' For God's sake, captain, leave off thinking like that, or it will harrow your soul out of its casing; look at things from the broad, brainless point of view of your mechanical employers who do everything by routine. Go on board and order your sails to be unbent and put into the sail cabin, for as sure as I am talking to you now, they will not be needed for months."

"Will they not have heard at home of the distress in the army?" interjected Captain Macvie.

"Why, yes, captain," said the versatile agent; "but, my dear fellow, do try to get it into your head that these things have to go through many intricate stages. First, the trouble which ought to have been foreseen takes place; then weeks are occupied in transfixed amazement without doing anything; then a council is held to consider why these breakdowns should happen; and the conclusion arrived at is that they should never have happened, therefore they have not taken place, and it is resolved to await further developments before doing anything more. How is it possible for the British army to have sickness in its ranks when we have thought of sending out medicine? And how can they be without food and clothes when we have given orders to our contractors to have these supplied? It is a malicious libel to assert such things, to say nothing of the lack of commonsense in supposing that the commissariat department does not know its own business."

"Well," said the captain, "I must admit you seem to know the inner workings of these Government concerns."

"I should just think I do," said the agent; "but of course we have to speak with some regard to discretion. I am only giving you a tip or two to keep you right. You will be going off aboard, so I will say 'good-day.' Come ashore to-morrow."

The captain had many opportunities of hearing from this voluble person of the magnificent mismanagement shown by the way the transports were kicking about in different parts of the Bosphorus and in the Black Sea. Many of them would sail to Kertch or Sevastopol and come straight back without their cargoes being broached. They anchored in a snug spot where the shore was easy of access, and would remain for months in peaceful indolence. The Boadicea had been dismantled, and her anchor was never seen for six months. How the men were to be kept employed became a tax on the resources of the officers. Her sails, ropes and rigging had been thoroughly overhauled, repaired and made equal to new, and the hull showed indications of great taste and care. Not a speck of dirt or disorder could be seen anywhere; and notwithstanding the jolly entertainments, vocal and otherwise, they had on board each others' vessels almost every night, the life of inactivity became so dreary that they longed for the time when orders would be given to proceed to the Crimea. It was not mere change they longed for, but they craved to see the fighting on shore, and, better still, the bombardment of towns and ports by the warships from the sea. Many of the merchant sailors would have enjoyed taking part in the struggle.

Although the life at the Scutari anchorage had become a weary monotony, it was not without incidents of excitement. Constantinople at that time was overrun with the most daring brigands, who paid irregular visits to the different roadsteads between midnight and the early hours of the morning. They were armed with the most deadly weapons, and their secret movements frequently evaded every precaution of watchfulness. The sneaking caique, manned by accomplished emissaries handling muffled oars, was rowed through the anchorage in advance, and for the purpose of finding out the most vulnerable object of attack. Occasionally they selected the wrong ship, and met with a sudden determined resistance from the crew, who were eager for an opportunity of wreaking vengeance on a gang of murderous ruffians who kept the men of the whole mercantile fleet in these waters in a state of perpetual expectancy. Most ingenious methods were planned for their destruction. An anchor, for instance, would be hanging to the rail of the topgallant forecastle, or the cathead, and, as the caique came dropping down with the current, if they drifted her under the bow, the stopper and shankpainter was let go simultaneously, and the anchor landed on their heads and then through the bottom of the boat. Nothing more was ever seen of that batch! Another plan was to drop large stones or pieces of heavy iron into the frail craft; and in that case also no more was ever heard from them. These chances seldom came, however, as they were a wily lot, who nearly always made sure of their ground before embarking on a hazardous expedition. The crews of vessels were warned to keep a vigilant lookout, and sometimes the anchor watch succeeded in giving the alarm in time to frustrate a boarding.

But even this, and the open encounters that occurred, became a very monotonous business to a large number of crews. They were itching for some other sensation to be put into their lives, and they had moods of gloomy forebodings that the great war would be ended without their being able to say that they had seen anything of it; and, in fact, many of them never did, and it is fair to say some never wanted to. Poor Captain Wilkins of the Seaflower and his crew were among the latter. The captain was a highly religious person who had imbued his men with anti-war proclivities. He had a simple faith in the righteousness of making large profits in consequence of the war, but never failed to proclaim the originators of it as a gang of unholy rascals. His faith had become strong in the belief that the robber was destined never to set foot on the Seaflower's decks. She had been lying there for several months without ever having been interfered with. Captain Wilkins was not unduly sympathetic when he heard of any neighbouring vessel being pillaged during the night. In fact, he became so impressed with his own virtue that he frequently fell into the error of speaking contemptuously of his less fortunate brethren. Captain Macvie had warned him against indulging in self-righteousness, and never to pin his faith on immunity from attack.