For the freedom of the seas

by Ralph Henry Barbour

The Gyandotte, flags fluttering, siren shrieking once or twice, sped along the edge of the crowd and wheeled into position far back on the starboard, almost touching elbows with a still smaller cruiser, whose graceful, yacht-like lines brought memories of Guantanamo. Twelve transports and six convoys had been the story until the new escort arrived. Now there were but four of the original convoys left, for two were already showing their propellers and hiking back to the west: “Straight for Broadway,” as one yearning voice on the Gyandotte phrased it. Altogether the convoy now consisted of three cruisers—one an armored craft—and five destroyers. The “Big Lady” was saturnine looking and forbidding, like a great gray bulldog, and had four ridiculously high funnels and a basket mast forward and a military mast aft and was all broken out with search lights like a child with measles. She was the flagship, and didn’t she know it? She signaled orders so fast that the signalmen dripped perspiration in the teeth of a southeast wind, and she gave the impression of being short-tempered and dangerous to fool with, and the result was that in an incredibly short time everyone was in the right place and on the very best possible behavior and the twelve adventurers were plowing on again at standard speed, every nose set straight for the port of Bordeaux.

It was well worth seeing, that little armada, and so Nelson thought. He couldn’t see it all at once, for the two destroyers plowing ahead were so far away that he caught only occasional frisky glimpses of their rolling sticks or the fluttering ribbons of their oily smoke, and one ship had a mean way of hiding another. But he could see enough to get a fine proud thrill. The convoys encompassed the transports as collies herd a flock of sheep. In the lead were the two destroyers, while along the flanks were the four cruisers. Two other destroyers plunged along behind. So they steamed until darkness, when, obeying the good night instructions of the flagship, the convoys quartered off toward the rim of the world and the liners increased their intervals. But in the morning the destroyers came scampering back and the cruisers closed in again. That was a blustery, pitch-and-toss day, and Nelson, gazing across after gun drill, felt a bit sorry for those landsmen cooped up on the rolling top-heavy troopships. In such weather, he reflected grimly, there must be many absent from roll-call!

There were few excitements that day, and only once was a gun fired. Then what the target really was Nelson never knew, for the destroyer was far away and seemed to be firing at the horizon. By afternoon staring across the water at the nearest transport palled and even the lookouts slouched despondently at their stations and the watch officers yawned behind their hands and seemed to be asking of the gray skies if it was for this that they had left their cosy firesides! Another night and they were looking for the landfall. More than once on that voyage Nelson’s thoughts had dwelt on the events of that tragic night, now almost eleven months ago when the Jonas Clinton had met her fate and he had last seen his father. Doubtless the Gyandotte, since leaving Queenstown, had passed within a hundred miles of the spot, and for all he knew some of the wreckage they had sighted might have been from the schooner. Wind and current play strange tricks with flotsam. Doubtless his nearness to the Clinton’s grave accounted for the fact that his father was a great deal in his mind just then. He still managed to cling to the conviction that Captain Troy was alive, although as time passed and no word nor sign reached him the conviction grew weaker. But he had not yet given up hope. Perhaps so long as positive proof was wanting he never would.

The dim, blue shore-line of France crept up above the misty edge of the sea about mid-day and that evening they were anchored in the broad estuary of the Gironde. It was early morning before the tide favored and the transports and one convoy rattled their winches and steamed up the river. The other ships slept at their anchors until daylight and then turned their bows seaward once more. When Nelson looked through a port in the morning he found the Gyandotte lying in sight of the picturesque, red-roofed city of Bordeaux.

CHAPTER XVIII
TIP, OF THE “SANS SOUCI”

The next day Nelson went sight-seeing. He started out with a liberty party that filled several boats, but lost them somewhere ashore and presently found himself wandering along the river street alone. There was so much to see, however, that he failed to notice the absence of his companions for some time. It was a revelation to find that his country had built docks and ways, coal yards and cranes and great storehouses in which to pile the tons and tons of supplies that were landed almost every day from the big cargo boats. He found the transports which they had accompanied through the submarine zone empty of troops, lying along the river and preparing to speed back for a new load. Many were coaling, others were awaiting their turns. He learned that the boys in khaki had debarked the day before and had marched out of town to the big camp which had been built for them. In fact, at times yesterday he had heard the bugles and the strains of the regimental bands as the men had formed on the docks and gone marching away across the bridge and over the hill.

A United States uniform, army or navy, was sufficient voucher to carry its wearer almost anywhere, he found. The French folk smiled and murmured “Bon jour!” and every face seemed to hold a welcome. Nelson wished he knew more French; wished, too, that he was more courageous with the little he did know! The coalyards and dockyards were guarded by United States Marines, and with several of these Nelson conversed. They weren’t exactly enthusiastic about their work, for they all wanted something more exciting, or, at least, more diversified, than standing guard over piers. But they spoke hopefully of better times. “We aren’t worrying,” said one chap, a tow-headed youth who showed more curiosity about the standing of the Chicago American baseball team than anything else. “Pershing’ll have us out of here pretty quick. Anyone can do this job. We’re fighters and we’ll be needed at the front before long. Meanwhile we’re doing pretty well for ourselves. This is a nice old burg and the folks are mighty decent to us.”

Further along beyond the big locks a huge transport that had been a German liner a few months ago was taking on coal. Nelson’s uniform gained him admittance at the gate and he looked on for some time. Coaling ship by machinery was, he decided, a pretty easy proposition compared to doing it by hand. Presently his attention was attracted by a squad of workers in gray uniforms who appeared on the scene. There were about forty of them in all and a half-dozen picturesque French soldiers, carrying guns with extremely long bayonets, were in charge. For an instant Nelson was puzzled. Then it dawned on him that he was looking on his first batch of German prisoners, and he moved nearer. A great pile of coal-blackened planks which had been used on some ship to form temporary bunkers was to be moved away from the front of the dock to a storage place beyond, and at this the prisoners were set. As they passed Nelson, two men to a plank, they looked dirty but cheerful. Evidently they preferred such a task to holding down a muddy trench somewhere on the Front. And, doubtless, they were getting enough to eat, which, if the tales one heard were true, would not have been the case had they been back in their own country. Nelson couldn’t manage to work up much enmity against them: they looked too commonplace and dull. Many of them viewed him with mild curiosity as they passed, and one or two grinned. The guards leaned on their rifles and merely watched. Escape would probably have been impossible, since a marine was stationed at every outlet, and, for that matter, it was extremely doubtful, Nelson thought, whether they wanted to escape!