Blown far away from her base port in France, the Corsair was thankful to find shelter in the Spanish harbor of Vigo as a brief respite. She could not be called crippled, as a matter of fact, for in a rough sea she picked up speed to twelve knots and so made a landfall. Her condition was that of a pugilist with a broken nose, blackened eyes, and a few teeth missing, who still “packs a punch” and has no idea of taking the count. The Corsair no longer resembled a trim, taut, and orderly ship of the American Navy, nor would her weary crew have cared to line up for an admiral’s inspection. They wore whatever clothes they could lay hands on, and might have spilled out of the fo’castle of a Cardiff collier. All that really concerned them was the hope of getting dry and eating a few regular meals.
There were obvious reasons why Commander Kittinger preferred to seek some other port than Vigo in which to repair and refit for several weeks. The American Consul warned him that the Spanish authorities were bound by the laws of neutrality to intern the ship until the end of the war, a fact of which he was well aware. On the other hand, the senior Spanish naval officer of the port waived such formalities aside and most courteously assured the Corsair that she would not be meddled with and was at liberty to remain for necessary repairs and to depart when they were completed.
CLEANING UP AT LISBON, AFTER THE HURRICANE
Without doubting his word in the least, it was common knowledge that pro-German sentiment was strong in the Spanish ports and the enemy’s espionage system extremely well organized. Lisbon was near at hand and Portugal was an active ally of the United States. The Corsair, therefore, went to sea, after a few hours at Vigo, and steamed into the wide bay of the Tagus next morning and so found a friendly destination and a people who welcomed her with warmest hospitality to one of the most beautiful cities of the world.
The war had touched it lightly. The contrast with France, so tragic and worn and imperilled, was singularly impressive. Brilliant with sunshine, Lisbon smiled from her seven hills and her tropical gardens, and the seafarers of the Corsair thought of Brest, gloomy and rain-swept, given over to the business of war, the gateway of the thronging transports which were hurrying the manhood of America by the million, to the blood and misery of the trenches.
CHAPTER VIII
THE PLEASANT INTERLUDE AT LISBON
I like the look of khaki and the cut of army wear,
And the men of mettle sporting it, at home and over there;
But there’s something at the heart-strings that tautens when meet