ANICE NIGHT AT SEA
(Extracts from the Travel Diary of Toby, M.P.)
Gulf of Lyons, Friday.—The casual traveller on Continental railways, especially in France, is familiar with the official attitude towards the hapless wayfarer. The leading idea is to make the journey as difficult and as uncomfortable as possible. The plan is based on treatment of parcels or baggage. The passenger is bundled about, shunted, locked up in waiting-rooms, and finally delivered in a limp state at whatever hour and whatsoever place may suit the convenience of the railway people. Discover the same spirit dominant in management and arrangements of the sea service. Steamer from Marseilles to Tunis advertised to sail to-day at noon. On taking tickets, ordered to be on board at ten o'clock.
Why two hours before starting? Gentleman behind counter shrugs his shoulders, hugs his ribs with his elbows, holds out his hands with deprecatory gesture and repeats, "À dix heures, Monsieur."
Gestures even more eloquent than speech. Plainly mean that unless we are alongside punctually at ten o'clock our blood, or rather our passage, will be on our own heads. Spoils a morning; might have gone about town till eleven o'clock; breakfasted at leisure; sauntered on board a few minutes before noon. However, when in Marseilles chant the "Marseillaise."
Down punctually at ten; found boat in course of loading; decks full of dirt and noise, the shouting of men, the creaking of the winch, the rattling of the chains. Best thing to do is to find our cabin, stow away our baggage, and walk on the quay, always keeping our eye on the boat lest she should suddenly slip her moorings and get off to sea without us. Look out for steward. Like the Spanish fleet, steward is not yet in sight. Roaming about below, come upon an elderly lady, with a lame leg, an alarming squint, and a waist like a ship's. (Never saw a ship's waist, but fancy no mortal man could get his arm round it.) The elderly lady, who displayed signs of asthma, tells me she is the stewardess. Ask her where is our cabin. "Voilà," she says. Following the direction of her glance, I make for a berth close by. Discover I had not made allowance for the squint; she is really looking in another direction. Carefully taking my bearings by this new light, I make for another passage; find it blocked up; stewardess explains that they are loading the ship—apparently through the floor of our cabin. "Tout à l'heure," she says, with comprehensive wave of the hand.
Nothing to be done but leave our baggage lying about, go on deck, and watch the loading. Better not leave the ship. If the laborious Frenchmen in blouses and perspiration see our trunks, they will certainly pop them into the hold, where all kinds of miscellaneous parcels, cases and bales are being chucked without the slightest attempt at fitting in.
A quarter to twelve; only fifteen minutes now; getting hungry; had coffee and bread and butter early so as not to miss the boat. Watch a man below in the hold trying to fit in a bicycle with a four-hundredweight bale, a quarter-ton case, and a barrel of cement. Evidently piqued at resistance offered by the apparently frail, defenceless contrivance. Tries to bend the fore wheel so as to accommodate the cask; that failing, endeavours to wind the hind wheel round the case; failing in both efforts, he just lays the bicycle loose on the top of the miscellaneous baggage and the hatch is battened down. In the dead unhappy night that followed, when the sea was on the deck, I often thought of the bicycle cavorting to and fro over the serrated ridge of the cargo.