In Eastern Seas. J. J. Smith
seen our homes and families by daylight for some considerable period. Imagine, then, our feelings when a signal was thrown out at Mount-Wise that we were to perform some evolution, which would consume all the remaining hours of light. But the little cherub on the royal truck, which, according to Dibdin, is perched at that commanding altitude, especially to look out that squalls don't happen to Jack, came to console us in the—at other times unwelcome—shape of a deluge of rain. Thus we got ashore earlier, though, as a set-off against so much happiness, wetter men.
On July 26th orders came that we were to proceed to Portsmouth, to take in our armament of torpedoes, and in a few hours the Start was growing small astern as we took our way up channel. We were only a night at sea, but that a dirty one—not rough, but foggy—such as one usually encounters in this great commercial highway. Early on the following morning the Isle of Wight lay abeam, and the view from the sea was most lovely: the white cliffs of the island, packed in layers like slices of cake, presenting a learned page out of the book of nature to the curious. In passing Sandown Bay we caught a distant view of the operations for raising the "Eurydice." Our thoughts naturally took a melancholy turn, for many of us had lost comrades—some few, friends—in that ill-fated ship. But I think one of the leading characteristics of the sailor is the ease with which he throws off melancholy at will. The fact is, he encounters danger so frequently, and in so many varied shapes and forms, that if he put on depressing thoughts every time he is brought face to face with it, then he would be for ever clothed in that garb.
With a pausing tribute to the dead, and many a silent prayer, perhaps—for sailors can and do pray—we steamed into Spithead, forgetting, in all probability, the Eurydice and all connected with her.
As our torpedoes were all ready for us, it was not long before they were on board and fitted in their places. Our ship was not originally intended to carry these murderous weapons, so it was necessary to pierce ports in her sides, two forward and two aft, that they may be discharged. The staff of the torpedo school brought with them twelve of these novel fighting machines, at a cost of about £300 each, though £500 is the price paid to Whitehead's firm at Fiume; but as the English Government has the authority, with certain limitations, themselves to manufacture the torpedo, they cost England the former price.
After a short trial of the discharging gear outside the circular forts we shook hands with the land of smoked haddock and sour bread, and trimmed sails for the west, reaching the Sound by the following morning, when coaling lighters attached themselves to us before you could say Jack Robinson.
Work is again the order of the day; for coaling a large iron-clad over all means some exertion I can assure you. It is most unpleasant work, nevertheless it has to be done, so we set to work with a will. Dirty as the ship was, and dirty as we all were, from the copious showers of diamond dust falling everywhere, yet nothing could daunt our friends from paying us the usual dinner-hour visit.
It was a curious spectacle to witness that farewell visit, to see coal begrimed men coming up from below, reeking with sweat, to clasp the fair hand of a mother, to snatch a kiss from the soft cheek of a sister or sweetheart, or to feel the lingering embrace of a wife.
"Then the rough seamen's hands they wring;
And some, o'erpowered with bursting feeling,
Their arms around them wildly fling,
While tears down many a cheek are stealing."
CHAPTER II.
| "Now we must leave our fatherland, And wander far o'er ocean's foam." |
GOOD BYE TO ALBION! SOUTHWARD HO! GIBRALTAR.
Farewell, farewell! The last words have been said! How we would have put off that last hour; how we would have blotted it out, if, by so doing, we might have avoided that farewell. I never before realised how impressive a sailor's parting is. Was it really but a few hours since that loving, clinging hands rested within our own, that we heard the scarcely breathed words which still linger in our ears? How like a dream it all seems, and how like a dream it must continue to be, until we shall once more hear those voices and feel those hands.
Thus felt we as on the morn of August, 4th, 1878, just one month from the hoisting of the pennant, we rounded the western end of Plymouth Breakwater, en route for the land of the Celestials. It was Sunday, and never Sabbath broke fairer than that one, or sun shone more auspiciously on the commencement of a voyage.
Our friends, I doubt not, are casting longing and tear-bedimmed eyes after us; and many a handkerchief flutters its good bye long after objects on the shore have ceased to be distinguishable. Let us leave them to their tears; for us the sterner realities of life. We are not going away for ever, I trust; and England's sailors are patriots enough to feel that their own land, and mothers, wives, and sisters are the dearest and best in the world. With a short silent prayer, commending them to God's protection, we take a last look for good and all, at old Rame Head, and endeavour if we can to banish melancholy.
But are we really at sea? for the ship is so steady, and the water so smooth, that, without the sense of sight, we have no perception of motion. Sea voyages are, as a rule, uneventful and monotonous—to the seaman, at any rate, and ours was no exception.
A few days after leaving Plymouth we were fairly in the bay so dreaded by ancient mariners, and which is popularly supposed to be for ever
"Upheaving, downrolling tumultuously."
Many a yarn have I heard old salts spin of this special and favourite abode of the god of storms: how that the seas were so high that in the valleys between the wind was taken completely out of a ship's sails; then, fearful lest each successive wave would engulf her, her trembling crew see her up-borne with terrible force, and once more subject to the full fury of the blast: how that no bottom was to be reached by the heaviest of leads and the longest of lines—and such-like awe-inspiring wonders; or, as that most observant of naval poets, old Falconer, graphically puts it—
"Now quivering o'er the topmast wave she rides,
Whilst beneath the enormous gulf divides.
Now launching headlong down the horrid vale,
Becalmed, she hears no more the howling gale;
Till up the dreadful height again she flies,
Trembling beneath the current of the skies."
We probably crossed Biscay during the time the presiding restless spirit was taking holiday or sleeping; for a lake could not possibly have presented a smoother surface. Shoals of porpoises, trying their rate of speed under our bows; the dull flop of a solitary sea-bird astern, seeking sundry bits of biscuit or other waste; and the everlasting rythm of the engines were the only occurrences to mar the sameness of this part of our voyage.
Internally all the activity usually displayed on board a British man-of-war was being carried on incessantly; nothing was neglected, and the captain soon led us to see that "thorough" was his motto, and that for him there were to be no half measures. Nor did he, during the time he was with us, ever require of us more than he was ready to undertake himself. He set us such an example of zeal and activity, that though we might not altogether have approved, yet we were bound to admire it.
It is the fourth day of our voyage, and we are in sight of the high land of the Torres Vedras, at the mouth of the Tagus. Far, far away in the background, like a magnificent panorama, rise the high, time-worn summits of the Sierras of Spain. On approaching near enough to distinguish objects we discovered several large baronial castles, or convents, perched high up on bold pinnacled crags, in positions most inaccessible and impregnable. One goes back, in fancy, to the feudal days, and recalls those heroes of our boyish imaginations to the times when
"Knights were bold and barons held their sway,"
with all the consequent ills of that system of government.
Our sails are filled