Class _^_514^ Book__^W3L/j^ S" COP^'RIGHT BEPCSn! VAGABONDS OF THE SEA VAGABONDS OF THE SEA The Campaign of a French Cruiser BY RENE MILAN Translated by RANDOLPH BOURNE New York E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY 681 Fifth Avenue COPTBIQHT, 1919 By E. p. button & COMPANY AU Rights Reserved Printed in the United States of America ©CI.A525480 MAY 14 19/9 /t^^ o \ CONTENTS PART I The Awakening of the Cruiser ... 1 PART II In the Adriatic Sea 17 PART III In the Ionian Sea 144 VAGABONDS OF THE SEA PAET I THE AWAKENING OF THE CRUISER From Paris to Toulon, end of July, 1914, FROM the corridor I watch through the win- dows the swift receding of Paris. In this express-train, the last to run according to the normal schedule, are numerous naval officers en route for Toulon. Some have broken their brief vacations ; almost all are returning on leaves of absence from their studies. The call of our country sends us towards the sea, that field of battle which we have chosen. To the French Navy belongs the ** honor ^' of the Mediterranean, and our fleet is at its summit of preparedness. We know that the decisive duel will be fought in the fields of Flanders or on the slopes of the Vosges. But our effort will not be useless. We have only one fear — that we shall arrive too late, and miss that battle which our iinaginations have pictured without actually believing. Dijon, Lyons, Valence, Marseilles. I have just left a Paris full of excitement, where life is of so poignant a sweetness that the people are eager to defend the happiness they possess in such abundance. I am traveling through our smiling 2 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA France. How many times, as I have passed from one seaport to another, on my way from a Chinese to an Atlantic cruise, have I not under- stood the envy which is directed towards her! How could our neighbors help casting towards this delightful land the glances of beasts of prey ! Now they have spread out their claws, and hurled at her a cry of war. France has drawn herself erect. Ever^^vhere squads of sentinels are guarding the roadways, the crossings, the sta- tions, all the nerve-centers of mobilization. Into the eyes of the French people these last few days has come a magnificent expression; a new visage, which our race has put on as if for a fete, gives a family likeness to all its members. The foster-mother of children like these is no mori- bund being such as the Germans think they will succeed in doing away with. She has just felt again the vivid sense of her duty, and the heirs of her wonderful past draw from her strength attitudes so natural that they are not even aston- ished at them. This astonishment they leave to the rest of the world. Dijon, Lyons, Valence, Marseilles, Naguere. I amuse myself with observing the various types and accents of the provinces. To-day everyone speaks the same language, has the same expres- sion; in every breast is the same heart. I know that in the West, in the regions I have not traveled through, Gascons, Normans, and Picards THE AWAKENING OF THE CRUISER 3 are feeling and acting alike. Among these troops assembled on the platforms of the stations, in the sleeping cottages of remote countrysides, in the towns past which glides our flashing train, there is only one dream. This dream I know, for it is my own : '*What post does France give me for the great combat? Wherever it may be, w^hether I fall, or whether I survive, it will be well." Toulon, 1 August. Alas! Several hours have passed, and I find that all is not well. The vessels of the ** naval army'' have their staffs of officers completed, and from hour to hour await the order to put to sea. I was assigned to the Waldech-Rousseau. At an- other time I should have been proud to be a part of this splendid vessel. But she is not prepared to leave port. In an accident at sea some months ago, she ripped herself open on the shoals of the Gulf of Juan. The healing of great ships is a tedious affair, and in a repair basin the engineers are still treating her gaping wounds. In reply to my anxious questions, I am told : **The workmen are busy on her day and night. In six weeks she will take the water again." Six weeks! And the other night on the train I saw myself already at sea, my vessel en route for her assigned zone. And now I must be satis- fied with a cruiser that will not stir for six weeks ! 4 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA 2 August. We lived in an atmosphere heated by the sun of Provence. Arriving from Paris as I did, I was questioned. Circles formed, strangers con- sulted me. In vain did I relate what I had seen in the North, describe my journey on the railway ; these listeners only half believed me. In the climate of Provence care disappears; my ques- tioners shook their heads. One regretted his ruined vacation ; another doubted my testimony ; some of them invoked the prudence of the Powers, and concluded: ** Everything will end in a * Congress of Al- geciras.* " Far removed from the vivid Parisian energy, I felt myself overcome by the enervation of Provence. The whole drama of the week took on the guise of nightmare. I was annoyed that the great convulsion, ordered by Fate, seemed once more delayed by man. I reproached my prudent friends for not taking their part in it. Before them the curtain of an epic drama was already rising, and they were not hailing with enthusiastic acclaim the opening of the spectacle. Their mediocre souls were merely taking up again the thread of their daily preoccupations I Towards two o'clock I cross the threshold of the arsenal gate, to pay the WaldecJc-Roiisseau my visit of embarkation. The sky is pouring THE AWAKENING OF THE CRUISER 5 down an avalanche of dusty heat. In such an oven no one can think vigorously. Sprawled against the walls, the arsenal workers are mop- ping their faces and chests, and, at the end of their tether, are drinking greedily at the road- side bars. Several officers, handkerchiefs in hand, are walking along the rows of plane-trees. The commander of the Waldeck-Rousseau re- ceives me: **You are in luck,'' he says. **A11 the officers who arrive at the port ask for the Waldeck- Rousseau/' He guesses the question I dare not utter. * ^ The engineers are counting on six weeks. . . . Let us hope nothing decisive happens at sea . . . in case events are so precipitate. ..." Thinking over these words, I return to the gate of the arsenal. It is getting on towards five o'clock. The flame and shimmer of the afternoon light are marvelous. The Pharon, a mirror of stone, reflects the dazzling violet rays. It is the hottest part of the day. After this will follow cooling breezes. In front of the Missiessy gate mothers and wives crouch on the sidewalk, await- ing their sailors, who come out of the arsenal raising clouds of dust. A beverage-vender calls his wares in a nasal voice ; several barkers offer for ten centimes a hundred attractions in the way of cafe-concerts; the tramcars, caparisoned in dust, go by in a torrid blast. It is so warm, the 6 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA boulevard is so torpid, that I cannot think, and have but one swift desire — to change my stifling uniform for a more comfortable suit, and on a terrace to sip some cooling drink. Suddenly, smothered by the distance and the heavy air, a dull cannon shot strikes into the fringe of my reverie. I fear I have heard amiss. I wait motionless, my whole body concentrated in my hearing. The boulevard seems petrified. With a brusque jamming on of brakes, the tram- cars grind along the track; the windows bristle with anxious faces. The women squatting on the sidewalk silently rise; barkers and passers-by forget to live; everyone, in the posture in which the vague shot has surprised him, listens to the dramatic silence. All the noises of the city, the deepest as well as the shrillest, vanish into noth- ingness to leave room for the one sound that has significance. In a sort of religious atmosphere the second shot booms and rolls, sonorous, the master of Space. ... At length the third dies away, the third voice of a France who is placing herself on guard. At the same time, over the deserted roadway, the trumpets sound from the barracks. Listen to those majestic singing tones, v/hich bring tears to the driest eyelids! It is the call of France! Drawn up under the great trees a whole wan city salutes two little soldiers who swell their cheeks upon the shining trumpets. They are much THE AWAKENING OF THE CRUISER 7 affected, these two little soldiers in fatigue uni- form; their step is hesitant, and their breath breaks. But their eyes are sparkling, each measure brings new vigor to their step, they find the theme again, and without taking breath they sound the ^^generale'' out to the suburbs, to the slopes of the Pharon, to the roads of the country- side roundabout. They are the heralds of their country. At this instant all over this land the same trumpet is being blown. It has found me in a warm and fragrant province, but everywhere millions of reapers, mth suspended sickles, are listening to the same notes flung out over oceans of grain. Mountains and valleys give back its echo to the huts of cattlemen and shepherds, and the silent waters of the rivers quiver as they receive its melody. For the first time in the course of the centuries the race of France is listening at the same instant to a voice which orders her to face towards a common point. Stirred by a great hope, her hearts are celebrating together this first communion of heroism. Fortune compels me to wait six weeks before playing my role. My weapon of war is not yet ready. I can only admire, as a spectator, deeds in which I have no share. In the streets leading to the harbor, the heart of Toulon, swarm crowds of people. I am not acquainted with these figures that slip along be- 8 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA side me, but I recognize them all. Marines from Brittany, blue-eyed, with swinging step, white- coiifed wives on their arms ; sailors of Provence, brown and eloquent; thick-set Basques and fair Flemings — all these men whom I have com- manded, managed, loved, hasten along their way. A kind of enchantment dilates their e^^es, a sort of innocent ecstasy. They go gaily towards the sea and the combat, towards their constant mis- tress and their unknown bride. Already the squadrons have steam up ; a forest of stacks vomit streamers of smoke which portend adventurous cruises. They get under weigh to-night ; perhaps to-morrow the great adventure will occur. The sides of the ironclads and cruisers in the road- stead let loose a flock of boats and launches to seek on the quay their loads of brave marines. Around the approaches to the wharves it is im- possible to move. There is a suppressed shuffling of feet ; only jackets and uniforms can get through to the boats. I slip in. On the sidewalk a Breton woman is weeping softly into the corner of her apron; her four little children, lost in the forest of legs, press round her skirt, clutching the cloth with their fingers; heads turned upward, they watch through great limpid eyes the endless flow of people. Each step reveals a similar scene; women clasp for the last time their beloved son, lover, or husband; their frail arms cannot let him THE AWAKENING OF THE CRUISER 9 go, and their tong^ies are stammering inexpres- sible things. Yet, as I listen, I hear in all this chorus of despair not a single word of revolt. These women comprehend everything. They nod their heads approvingly at the words of those who are leaving them. Their last kiss holds even a smile, a heavenly smile, which the fighting man is to carry with him on the sea, and recall at the instant of death. But when the sailor has disappeared toward the boats, the smile slowly fades ; the women bite their lips, their faces grow distorted, and the tears, more -sublime for having been held back so long, trickle through lids which for many months will not cease to weep. As becomes naval tragedies, the farewell took place in a splendid setting. The twilight was glorious with an incomparable splendor of sky, and the purple evening seemed to vibrate in unison with the city. On the edge of the quay, between the boats and the crowd, I could watch the faces, both of those who had to stay behind, and of those who were leaving. As long as the sailors were forcing their Avay along between those parting embraces and the boats, they were pale beneath their tan, and only with difficulty restrained their sobs. But hardly had they jumped to the benches of the launches, hardly had theii comrades greeted them with hearty blows on shoulders and hips, when their color returned, their mouths let forth sonorous pleasantries, and 10 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA they thought no more of anything but the sea and the adventure. At my feet hundreds of sailors are laughing and singing; they intoxicate themselves with an- ticipation in order not to betray their tenderness and their grief. On the quay, overshadowing this gayety, stands a forlorn crowd; those in front smile vaguely, but those behind are silently chok- ing back their tears. And over there in the gold- flaked roadstead, the gray ships sparkle in the setting sun. All faces turn towards them. They are the geniuses of the moment. Entrusted with a portion of the honor of France, they await their orders. Before their prows, the country has s\^^lng open the gates of glory. Their guns and their sailors are made of the same steel. 3 August. In the morning I went with some friends to the top of Cape Capet to se^ the departure of the *^ naval army." On the Courhet, flagship of the commander-in- chief, the admirals had assembled in a night coun- cil of war. A few hours later, in the deep silence of the blue morning, the squadrons began to move. One after another, they took position and formed before our eyes; we heard the faint sound of orders. On the heavy water the ships moved with- out an eddy; squat, slender, or graceful, battle- ships, cruisers, or torpedo-boats fell into well- THE AWAKENING OF THE CEUISER 11 ordered formations, and quietly took their proper distances and intervals. They reminded one of ancient gladiators .stripped naked for the combat. During these last days they had sent back to the land-stores all the superfluities of peace; they had kept only the bare necessities in rigging and boats, -and the paint on their steel -sides had dis- appeared uoider the hand of the scraper. Their only ornament is the curling smoke which rises through the still air and mingles -on high in an immense cloud modeled by the faint breeze. Their only paint is the light flashing on port-holes and brass. Their only finery, the guns, well- cleared, with mouths pointing out to -sea. They are beautiful and they are invincible. Designed for battle and the chase, they push their bows through the Avater they know so well, on their way to carry to enemy shores the frontier of France. At the hour when human beings are still asleep, they go to take possession of the field of battle. Their task is various and hard, and without any doubt destined to remain unappreciated. On the sea the paths are innumerable, and the legends of the sea tell of many a patient cruiser that has rarely been rewarded by a battle. The transports have to carry to France our troops from North Africa. To the ** naval army'' belongs the duty of protecting these lives. No one can tell whether or not this enterprise will 12 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA be successful. Let a single transport fail the sum- mons, and a deluge of sarcasm will fall upon the fleet of war! Let «sharp-shooters and Algerian cavalry within fifteen days show their mettle in the valleys of the Vosges, and who will give thanks to those who had protected' their dangerous voyage 1 No matter ! France has distributed the tasks among her children. To the fighters on the frontier falls the honor of crushing the Germans ; to the sailors, the silent guard of the sea. Perhaps, however, these too will not be denied the glory of battle. At the foot of the Adriatic, Austria maintains a fleet that without doubt will try to rob us of our empire of the Mediterranean. To release her shores she will offer us a naval engagement. The fleet of France will prove it- self no less worthy than the army; and its deeds, less decisive than those of Alsace and of Flanders, will yet prove that the flag which flaps at the stern of her ships is without stain. Au Eevoir! Eve of departure, 5 September, The crew and staff of the Waldeck-Rousseaii are stirring to snatch a day, an hour, from the delay of her departure; already we have gained two weeks. Stretched on its granite rests, the cruiser resembles some metal giant harnessed with machinery. With a great pounding of hammers, THE AWAKENING OF THE CRUISER 13 the cohorts of expert workmen are putting life into the great hull. Each day the Depot sends us marine reservists, with instructions as to the posts and offices where they are k> labor and to fight. A thousand men are assembled now, and the engineers have given the ship over to us. Shining and new she floats. Like a thorough- bred that after a sickness breaks her own record, the good cruiser has gained some tenths of a mile on her old speed. The steam runs freely in her arteries, the electricity through her nerves. From bow to stern a hundred and fifty meters of steel are aquiver. Off the Hyeres Islands, on a fine August day, the voice of her guns, so many months silenced, resounds again in celebration of her recovery. Woe to any one who passes within ten kilometers of our cannon ! From hour to hour, little by little, officers and men extend their control of the vessel, and get better acquainted with her mazes. As their skill becomes surer, they adapt themselves to the particular moods of the ship, and to her caprices, which can only be mastered with prudence and with affection. Our crew, an amorphous crowd collected at random from the four quarters of France, had lost that sense of discipline and responsibility which the humblest of sailors should have. We have had to drill them, direct their discordant forces, and make them a living being animated 14 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA by a will. Each one in his place now applies his intelligence and his strength to his special task, and tries to get himself into trim. Time presses. In a few days Ave have put new life into the great torpid cruiser. After a few hours we shall depart, nor shall we cut the figure of poor relations or of cripples in the '^ naval army.'' Thank heaven, the decisive action has held off. We dread the telegram announcing an encounter of the fleets; but it has not yet come. Opening the chapter of Mediterranean events, the Breslau and the Go eh en, German cruiser.s, have attacked Algerian ports, and fled towards the Dardanelles, where a miracle has turned them into Turks. Here is game for a later time. In the middle of August the French navy has sunk the Zepta, a small Aus- trian cruiser. But that's a minor affair. We shall arrive in time. On certain evenings we go to sleep on land. Friend of those who frequent her, the sea is execrated by the women who live on her shores; their mourning i« harsh and bitter. War adds tenfold to their anxieties. Our comrades who left at the beginning of August suffered an uprooting that was short and sharp. We, who have re- mained too long, run the gamut of anxious con- cern. For those men from my cruiser who meet feminine affection on shore, each moment holds an unknown torture. Between a sob and a caress THE AWAKENING OF THE CRUISER 15 passes the phantom of naval hecatombs. Beneath his lowered eyelids the sailor sees his future glory, but the arms clasped about his breast are an embrace of despair. A sunset, a walk between dusty hedges or over fragrant grass — everything suggests agitation and dread. Eye and ear ac- quire a mysterious perceptivity. One longs to retain, like a viaticum, the voices of loved ones in their most inconsequential inflections. We can bid farewell to France, for the treasures of our hearts have been wrung dry. To this feeling the sadness of the news from the front adds poignancy. When in tlie morning the officers study the map of operations, brought up to date according to the communique, a pro- found silence falls over the salon of the Waldeck- RousseaiL We cannot believe this sweep over Belgium, this tidal wave over the French provinces. We wish to depart, to do no matter what, to work, to die. Under our feet the cruiser trembles, our own child, our friend, our master. Each hour of delay irritates us. We are indif- ferent about the road to victory. Painful and tragic as it is, all Frenchmen accept it, and the sailors about to leave cherish no other thought. The other day, while a creAV of gunners were loading shells charged with melinite, I overheard this exclamation from a man whose brawny arms held a yellow projectile : 16 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA *^Gawd ! Wliy don't they just use shells stuffed with sawdust? It wouldn't talve any more than that to give them theirs!" I doubt if this war will be won in so childish a manner. But it is pleasant for an officer to com- mand such children. PART II IN THE ADEIATIC Adriatic Sea, 25 September. THE ships keep shelter in Pola and Cattaro, and will not come out! There is nothing Austrian in sight except the names on the maps and the silent coasts. We continue, how- ever, to sail along the shore, we brave their sub- marines, their mines, their torpedo-boats. Like the knights of the Crusades challenging their ad- versaries, we go to offer ourselves to their attack. But they do not issue forth. Like a great -army corps that waits the engage- ment, the armored squadrons run the barrage of Otranto. They are the lions of our naval menagerie. Claws sheathed, jaws closed, they strain their ears for the call of the cruisers. . . . In small groups the torpedo-destroyers circle round them, sweeping the road where the great beasts of battle are about to pass, and watching to see that no submarine is prowling on the path. Further north on the skirts of the Adriatic great-lunged battleships are holding the jungle. The cruisers know no rest; they pursue their anxious watch along the outposts, traversing the 17 18 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA waves and piercing the sky. Upon their observa- tions, in sun and shadow, depends the safety of the great battleships. Theirs is the joy of spying the enemy upon the horizon, of rushing forward, of receiving the first shots and launching the first shells, of so calculating the retreat as to draw the enemy within range of the battleships' guns. We are three brothers — the Ernest Reuan, the Edgar Quinet, are as beautiful and majestic as the Waldeck-Rousseau. Their six stacks belch forth the same clouds. Engaged in the same work, all are acquainted with the same fatigue. Older and less sturdy, the Gamhetta, the Ferry, the Hugo, and the Miclielet have the same tasks. Their family is known by its four smokestacks. From Otranto to Fano, and along its whole shadowy line, the seven cruisers blockade the Adriatic at the end of which the Austrians are entrenched. From the summit of the bridge one can see for ten miles; that is why we navigate at twenty miles' distance, on circuits of short cir- cumference, ever the same. The cruisers never sight each other, but each knows that below the horizon a brother ship is within reach and on guard. Sometimes the ceaseless rhythm of their march brings them to the confines of their *^beat," and they sight each others' masts glistening on the horizon like the bayonets of a double sentry. Then both tack about, and go their opposite directions ; the masts sink out of sight, the smoke IN THE ADRIATIC 19 drifts away, and nothing is left but a solitary vigil on a deserted sea. Since our departure from Toulon the WaldecJc- Rousseau has been in constant motion. In the waste of waters the clamors of the world are stilled. We have commenced the pilgrimage known to so many generations of sailors. At a venture we halt some small game — packet-boats, three-masted schooners, or steamers, which sub- mit to our examination. They bring us a faint echo of human affairs — Italians, Greeks, or Spaniards — and are fraught with I know not what continental aroma. We send these timid travelers on their voyage; their examination is but play; the important affair lies up there at Pola or Cat- taro. Every week after coaling — which we do at sea — we go and shake our fists at the enemy, cry- ing shame upon him in his retreat and challenging him to an encounter. Many times already we have gone up there in the night; in the da3i:ime we have circled about Lissa, the Dalmatian Isles, and even further still. Far behind us the battle- ships follow, alert for the signal — ^* Enemy in sight ! ' ' But our guns are leveled in vain ; in vain our eyes face the tracery of sun and shadow. Nothing appears mthin our range except the motionless shores, the slumbering isles — never a quarry. This disappointment does not slacken our vigilance. In times of peace a single lieutenant, 20 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA aided by an ensign, suffices for the many duties involved in managing a ship. Whether it has to do with observing the heavens, avoiding collisions, or coordinating the movements of many hundreds of sailors, during his four hours ' command he can easily attend to and handle it all. Those times are no more. War puts a tenfold burden upon the cruiser without adding to its staff of officers. For now the ship is at once an organ of navigation and an instrument of battle. This duality of function demands at every mo- ment two directing heads; the first continues to direct the watch, the second assumes responsibil- ity for the lookout, defense, and battle. On the Waldeck we have only six lieutenants ; so we form three crews of two each, who relieve one another on the bridge in an endless round, by day and night, in all weathers. One of them looks after the route, the crew and the signals from the shores ; the other keeps his eye upon the sea and is ready at any moment to let loose the guns. My rank of seniority gives me the second role. Throughout the rest of the war, whether it be short or long, my mate and I are destined to the same changes of fortune. He must have my con- fidence, and I his. These things are not uttered. But they are implicit in our handshake at the moment when we take the watch and assume the precious charge of the ship for our four-hour period. IN THE ADRIATIC 21 He is a Fleming, I am Latin. This difference extends even to our ways of thinking, and lends piquancy to our two daily meetings. As we lean on the bridge rail, he at port and I at starboard, we watch the sea witl^ equal vigilance. But in our secret souls move thoughts which have noth- ing to do A\dth our profession. This is one of the privileges of men of action. They can surrender themselves wholly to their task without ceasing to dream of a thousand things. My comrade and I talk in low voices. The war, Germany, the future, everything comes up in these murmured conversa- tions. We do not believe in keeping silent, for our motionless position is likely to bury us in a dangerous torpor. As our eyes search space, we passionately discuss the great drama, and we never agree. But if, in the treacherous night, a shadow appears, or a suspicious shape, suddenly we are one. Each performs instantly the neces- sary rites; one commands the helm and the m'achinery, the other directs the primers and gunners. The two of us in the darkness cooperate perfectly. And then a few minutes later the scare is oven The gunners resume their posts, the primers un- prime the guns. We two officers — one on the port, the other on the starboard — continue our vigil and our whispered talk. 22 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA Adriatic Sea, 27 September. Three Engiisli cruisers — the Cressy, the Rogue and the Ahoukir — have just found their la^t rest- ing-place in the North Sea. Still intact, but bear- ing in their sides torpedo-wounds, they have slipped into their T\inding- sheet of sea-weed, where the skeletons of vessels sunk in ancient wars Qwait them. The sea-water, that patient embalmer, will reclotlie their keels with a shroud of rust and lime. On bright days, when the sun shines on the still sea, they will see the shadows of living vessels pass overhead. They will be caressed by the ripple from those screws, and their petrified hulks will quiver with pleasure. During the tedious hours of the lookout, I have been meditating upon the wireless messages which announced the death of the Cressy, the Hogue, and the AhouJcir, That same tragedy may cut short the very phrases which I am commencing to unite. I imagine the whole scene, I recreate it. I have sailed the North Sea, I have lived two years in a submarine, and I am at war now on a cruiser. I see three ships, somber and silent like our- selves, following the course laid down by the Admiral. North and south, other patrol vessels are traversing the appointed routes. 'VAHiile the soldiers of France and the children of England sleep, the sailors are keeping watch on the sea, that no one may force the barriers of their -joun- IN THE ADRIATIC 23 tries. But tlie sea is illimitable, tlie cruisers are few and far between, and cannot lend each other aid. For this the sailor must make up in toil and weariness; he takes less sleep, he watches unceasingly, he is always cold, he never touches land. Up there, just as in the Adriatic, he mounts his guard, longing with all his heart for an adventure. Thus sailed the Gressyy the Hogue, and the Ahoukir, how many days I do not know. But I do know the vigilance, the labor, the self-sacrifice of their crews. More than all the others, they offered their souls to tli^e service of victory — these sailors whose ships are decorated with the famous names of English victories. These three noble names, did they not foretell a new harvest of laurels 1 Did they not symbolize a return to more fraternal policies, which dedicated to the service of France these namesakes of French defeats! English officers and sailors, with the clear instinct of men participating in great deeds, should offer France, in a single victory over our common enemies, a recompense for these three disasters England had inflicted upon her! This night passed like all the others. Along the horizon were trails of gray light. The rolling sea emerged from the chaos of dawn, and the lookouts, with heavy heads and quivering eyelids, scanned for the thousandth time the troubled awakening of the North Sea. They saw nothing. 24 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA Perhaps one of them had descried a streak of foam whiter and clearer than the rest, and quickly raised his glass to his eyes. But the streak of foam had already been covered again, and he dropped the glass which had not revealed the periscope. The three cruisers pursued their way amid the ridges of foam, one of which, though they were unaware of it, meant death to them. A shock went tiirough the first ship. The sailors on deck thought there had occurred an accident to the machinery; those below thought that a gun had been fired. . . . Everyone Ustened. Under the brave fellows' feet the ship turned, lazily at first, while the waves boiled impatiently about her. Then they understood, all of them ; they knew that death was near. Before they sank into the sailors' grave, they looked again for the enemy who had destroyed them without granting them the joy of battle. Their staring eyes fell upon their comrade of the patrol, and filled with fear, for the Aboukir was lurching too. Both had been stung to death by the stealthy advance of the submarine vipers. Generous still in their very death-agony, the two wounded ships hoisted warning signals, that their comrade might evade the deadly track. But she, as generous in her pity, raced to save the lives of the sailors in the engulfing waters. She too received her mortal wound, without being able to fire a single gun, although, clearer-sighted in the IN THE ADRIATIC 25 face of death, she was able to discern the sub- marine under its white streak of water. As the chill of the hemlock poison rises to the heart, the water rose in the three ships. The boilers choked with it, the machinery was drowned; one by one the watertight compart- ments, exploded by the pressure of the waves, burst with the noise of thunder. The electricity failed everywhere at once, and the sea became a tomb where men struggled and were buffeted by the waves. On the deck, drawn up in line, the crews gazed straight into their doom. The triple choir raised a hjmn which they had learned on their English Sabbaths, and they sank to meet their God. Farewell, sailors of the three cruisers, fallen perhaps through the same fate that is in store for our Adriatic cruisers! Your anguish, your vigils, your last thoughts, we feel here on the Waldech-Rousseaii. Your end was noble, even if no one around me envies it. For we pray the God of Battles, if he sends us death, that we may at least exact a heavy toll from our enemies ! Strait of Otranto, 8 October, How can one describe the atmosphere of the Adriatic? For that marvel our most delicate adjectives are inadequate. It is more than diaphanous, better than translucent; it dreams. It seems to exist only to contain pure color. 26 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA How many times has this immaterial air de- ceived the officer of the watch ! How many miles away is a certain steamer! In how many hours shall we skirt the island that rises amid the clouds? Formerly we solved these problems without thought, for our eyes had learned to gauge the density of the air and its deceptions. The Ad- riatic atmosphere has lowered our conceit. Skies or sails, lighthouse or shore, each object is always further off than we suppose. Prudent now, we hesitate to say whether Corfu is thirty miles away, or that this pale line of the Otranto coast is not a cloud resting on the water. We are not wrong to mistrust ourselves. Corfu is fifty miles away, and this imagined cloud is the coast of Italy. The officers on the bridge struggle with these illusions. The se^ itself multiplies their difficul- ties. Formerly the sailor dreaded only what moved above the surface of the sea. He noticed at almost any distance traces of smoke, indistinct masts, and all the signs by which a ship reveals her presence. But the sailors of to-day level their gaze upon that surface which was once so in- nocent. . . . Between two crests floats a dark speck. ... Is it not a mine charged with ex- plosives? Those shining lines, like the trail of a snail, are they not the oily tracks of a sub- marine lying in wait for us? IN THE ADRIATIC 27 But sailors learn secrets. Formerly, they con- templated the waves and ripples carelessly, as queer old comrades whose every mood one par- doned. But now they keep them under a st-ern in- flexible eye. The play of a wave, the alternate strips of light, the shadows of a cloud — we grapple with everything, and never relax our vigilance. For everything is illusion. The lookout wavers between a fear of being ridiculed and a fear of having seen amiss. There is never a day that some wireless message does not come from one of our sentinels of the sea, telling the ^^ naval army'^ that a submarine is in sight. From Saint Maure to Lissa, from Tarento to Corfu, all the French ships are "anxious about the outcome of this encounter, and hope that the comrade engaged will be victorious. Minutes slip away, we imagine the whole drama ; a noble envy stirs every heart. And then the second message comes over the .sea. **It was not a submarine!'' it declares. Then the Adriatic and the Ionian Sea resoimd with .a burst of mocking laughter, one of those bursts of laughter which only the descendants of the Gauls know how to give. Tragedy, nevertheless, comes close on laughter. From the bridge the officer of the watch has seen something, two or three miles away, that is not quite the color of its surroundings. He fastens his glass on this dark or light speck, which moves slowly like a periscope on the lookout. . . . The 28 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA thing disappears and reappears, like a periscope which is taking its bearings, ordering its course, and waiting. . , . The officer *s heart leaps. His orders start the engines, direct the pilot, send the gunners to their guns. His body is tense with joy, his eyes shine; on the bridge, at the port- holes, officers and sailors follow the alarm with excited interest, and gaze out at the suspicious speck in the distance. Everyone envies the com- rades who have charge of the ship at this brave moment, the gunners and steersmen who will pit their wits against the submarine. A sort of joyful anguish grips their hearts, for it is war to the death, and perhaps the torpedo is already launched and making straight for the keel. We fairly suffocate with excitement. But some more experienced eye has made out the shape. **It's a bit of wood!" murmurs a top-man. . . . **No, it's a bottle !'* whispers a gunner. Each one gives his opinion. ^* It's a sea- gull!'' **It's the branch of a tree!" **It's a broom-handle!" **It's a box of preserves!" The uproar increases and rises to the officer on the bridge, who wipes his glass in order to see better. He is still expectant; he curses this en- counter a thousand times. He is responsible for the boat and for all these laughing sailors. Torn between derision and danger, he remains prudent, and makes for the dangerous object, with the order to open fire still on the tip of his tongue. IN THE ADRIATIC 29 Suddenly, when we are eight hundred or a thou- sand meters away, he takes a few nervous steps, countermands the alarm, orders the engines to slow down, and turns his eyes away from the preserve-box, the branch, the bottle, whatever it may be. The ship shoots by at a short distance. The jokers in the crew salute the innocent waif that floats past and disappears. . . . Unless it be a gull, busy with its bath ; in which case it dives, preens its feathers, dives again, without bother- ing about the ship, or her officer on the bridge. Between its plunges, sunk up to its breast in the water, it rides past the flying steel monster with a mocking ^ ^ Kwang ! Kwang ! ' * At the end of his watch, the officer goes below to the wardroom where he is received with mock- ing laughter. These sorry jokes he scorns as a stoic should. He knows that the next night or to-morrow, at any moment, his comrades are as likely to make a mistake as he. We had all rather see a periscope than seagulls or branches. In the North Sea the Cressy, the Rogue and the Ahoukir had seen gulls and branches a thousand times. The day they sighted nothing they went to their doom. Adriatic Sea, 15 October, The Adriatic is our private estate. The cruisers make use of it as if Austria did not exist. They ascend it, circle about, stop in front 30 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA of tlie islands, challenge the coasts, without a single visible enemy ^s attacking them. Doubtless the submarines come out daily from Cattaro in quest of the prize booty that our vessels would make. But either chance or our vigilance has prevented the disaster. We watch, we are worn out; nothing happens. Sometimes in the West, low on the water, trails the Italian coast; smoke floats over Otranto or Brindisi; for forty days this is all we have known of human activity. The lighthouse of Santa Marin of Leuca marks the uttermost point of Latin soil; it is a desolate object, like a pale needle stuck into the blue air. By night, its light falls on the veils of the horizon. It is one of the lonely friends of our solitude. Towards the eastern coasts other friends watch our passage — the gaunt peaks of Albania or Epirus, or even the Ionian Archipelago, that delicate 'jewel of stonCo Albania and Epirus! Famous but sinister names! AAHierever Islam rules dwells devastation. The bases of the moun- tains are buried in the sea, and they look colossal ; death lives on their gray slopes^ A warm sun, however, shines on them, and busy hands may be tending vineyards and olive orchards^ Yet one sees only masses of rocks, and the scars of moun- tain-streams. Here and there a bald yellowish circle stains the mass of stone. In that spot flourished in former times an Albanian or Epirote village. Fire destroyed it, and the fury of men IN THE ADRIATIC* 31 has left it only a charred waste. A dizzy siknce comes from these mountains. It falls and rolls over the blue water, so hard a blue one thinks a hammer might strike sparks from it. No one lives in these somber regions. Along the bays and inlets barks with Levantine sails scud before the wind, passing by in all possible haste. These barks carry mountaineers crowded in their holds like sheep in a pen. In these brigand realms life is so unsafe that even the brigands themselves prefer the hazards of the sea to journeys by land. Our cruiser halts these tiny boats. Then the human cargo bursts out from the hold, and their distress shows that they think their last hour has come. Clothed in sheepskins, armed with daggers and pistols, these rascals conceal in their hearts a world of unknown crime; every time they find it profitable they are ready to massacre and be- tray. Their dark minds do not know who we are nor why we have come. We can only be executioners, equipped with irresistible weapons. The visiting officer reassures them, of course, with his gestures. The passengers remain sus- picious; their keen eyes watch him as he points to the holds and orders their contents turned out. The bullies understand; we are robbers and will let their lives go in exchange for their mer- chandise. Pell-mell they throw out their figs, their bundles of dried fish, their little sacks of corn — ^wretched food of wretched 32 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA beings. They spread them out at the foot of this plunderer in a lace-covered uniform. Their broken language and raised hands call Christ to witness, or Allah, or even the Demons of the caves, that nothing further of value is left in the hold. The officer turns the sacks over, opens some, for fear that cans of essence or cases of explosives have been the object of this furtive journey to Cattaro or Pola. His foraging fingers encounter nothing but figs or herrings, which leave on his finger-nails a faint spicy smell. Care- lessly he wdpes off with his handkerchief the mixed fragments of fruit sugar. With a severe glance he makes a last inspection of the boat. The good bandits relapse into disquietude. They don't understand; what does he want of them? One of them speaks, and at once their faces clear up. It is gold he demands, good sterling coin, an easy ransom to carry. The richer ones extract from their belts some pieces from the Balkan States, much worn and effaced; the poor ones spread out on their palms some sous and centimes, so bent and filed they are good only for jacket- buttons for our sailors. An old bashi-bazouk, white around the temples and at the ends of his mustache, has not a single good coin; crouched on the deck, he tells over a blackened rosary and from his god begs absolution for past sins. The others plead ; the women kiss the hands and knees of the uniformed stranger; the children cry bit- IN THE ADRIATIC 33 terly. The visiting officer embarks majestically in his longboat, and makes a gesture of disdain that sends all this misery on its way again. The pilot hoists the sail, the rich man pockets his piasters and the beggar his coppers, the bashi- bazonk his prayers, the women their kisses, and the children their tears. The sheet swells, and the bark passes below the cruiser, whose crew smile indulgently, while our Albanians and Epirotes, seated on their hatches, understand nothing whatever. On other days our police duty takes us further south. Steamers and sailing vessels frequent the approaches to Corfu, and our visits are more careful and more profitable. The shores have lost their gloomy appearance; black herds are pasturing on the hills ; each slope is checkered in squares of olive orchards and clusters of vine- yard; in little well-sheltered coves four white houses are grouped round a ruined mosque. On the edge of the water, overhanging a harbor, rises the castle of some erstwhile pasha. This castle is round, copper-colored, classic in design, beautifully situated. The blue water reflects its pale image, and we often slow down for the mere pleasure of admiring it. Victor Hugo would have loved this stronghold, whence pirates used to surge forth, and the village where the booty was brought together ; his lines would have celebrated the pasha-corsair, the beauty of his odalisks. 34 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA and the romance of their jeweled retreat. These lovely walls, however, conceal tragedies of Islam. They brood over the sea paths, and their silence is that of a beaten vultnre. I prefer to forget that sinister grandeur. I prefer this empty sil- houette, artistically placed here in a happy set- ting for the brief delectation of a few passing sailors. These are empty pleasures, perhaps, but we have no others. Perfect hours await us at sea, off Corfu, Paxo and Cephalonia. When the twilight unfolds its pageant of air and light, we get a sense of joy and confidence that sustains us in our exile. The sun sinks in a procession of purple clouds, shad- ing away to a faint heliotrope in the sky overhead. From mid-heaven hang sheafs of eglantine and geranium, beneath which blossom red carnations, tulips and poppies. The sun feeds all this floral fire. Under the iridescent play of color the sea has disappeared. Its liquid surface has merged with the luminous air, and the cruiser, rose- colored, moves through myriad rainbows. Everything about the suspended ship is changed to silence and fantasy. The shadows of twilight succeed the colors that glow and disappear. Air and sun create marvels that are not of our world. The light falls on us like a blessing which pene- trates our hearts and thoughts with an inexpres- sible ecstasy. At last the sun rests on the horizon, which IN THE ADRIATIC 35 slowly swallows it. Our sad thoughts are drawn toward the West, towards France. For some of us that sun is gilding the faces of loved ones and caressing the windows of our homes; for others it is glimmering in the tearful eyes of a sweet- heart. From our lips, like a messenger of feelings that cannot be written, its beams carry our kisses to lay on other lips. . . . But it also sweeps over fields bathed in the pure blood of our soldiers — and the thoughts of these ** vagabonds'' it bears onward toward their spoil. Certain evenings, while the glorious sun is thus bearing away our dreams, the moon, languorous and discolored, rises laboriously over the Ionian Isles, and offers us her pale rays. But we do not look at her. For her sickly light, her capricious form, her pilgrimage among the shadows — all serve to remind us too painfully of the obscurity of our own labor, the uncertainty of our thoughts and the memory which our work will leave behind us to the ages. Strait of OtrantOy 18 October, Day before yesterday the ** naval army'' gathered at the rendezvous appointed by the Admiral off Fano. It was a warm, clear day. The sea seemed asleep; light clouds came and went in the sky. From all directions gathered the squadrons, the divisions, and the separate vessels. Slow and thickset, the ironclads rose over the 36 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA horizon and moved down upon us. Round about them destroyers performed evolutions like grey- hounds frolicking round a hunter. From Italy, from the Ionian Isles, raced black-striped cruisers, swift and graceful, plowing up the foam; they had left their monotonous patrol guard to join the French cohorts about to ascend the Adriatic. At the rendezvous, crouching like a beautiful tiger in repose, and covered with flags and pennants, the Courhet, the Admiral's vessel, awaited the others. Breathless they paused be- neath her gaze, and received their final orders. From the bridges of the Courhet, the signalmen, mth movements of their arms, sent preliminary instructions to each ship; the many-colored signals ascended and descended the halyards. Boats and launches left the ships and hurried to the Admiral from whom the officers received long closed envelopes which they quickly carried back to their ships. The commanders opened them, bent over maps and plans, and divined the wishes of their chief. . . . Every week since we left Toulon this has been the episode which interrupts our tedious voyages. After it is over, our ^^ naval arm}^'' numerous and impressive, again breaks up. One after another, the ships begin to churn the purple water, taking their proper posts and lines, and dispersing towards their regular night routes. The Admirals lead their squadrons and divisions; long dim streaks in the sky, far apart, IN THE ADRIATIC 37 indicate the tracks of our departure, but the fickle sea effaces all its lines. Towards the North, los- ing itself in the distance, the immense procession moves on to offer a tournament of battle. It stretches out the length of a province. Behind, and at a great distance from each other, the armored squadrons move at a slow and steady pace. At the head, offering their breasts, deploy the cruisers, sweeping the Adriatic. Ahead of them there is nothing but emptiness. The Waldeck-Rousseau advances in the night. Tense with watching, she trembles in the darkness. All the ports, all the scuttles are closed, and not a particle of light betrays us. The fires are con- trolled, so that they throw off no sparks or cinders. Absolute silence prevails. Our invisible progress makes no more sound than the flight of a night- bird. It is my detachment which has the first watch. There is a certain powerful excitement in con- centrating all one's energy in ear and eye, in restraining the desire of the blood for sudden action. My comrade to port, I to starboard, do not stir. If our fingers mechanically touch our eyelids or scratch our itching neck, our intent eyes never waver. They see nothing but blackness. The light of the stars is veiled in a thin mist, and there are no reflections on the water. We move in a darkness as of the tomb. Thus, in the forest, animals creep along on guard, bending the weeds 38 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA and crawling through the brush they do not even rustle. Our engines and screws drive us along, supple and furtive like groups of cats. Our prow cuts the water without stirring it. Of this cautious being, my comrade and I are the temporary brain. Around us' perhaps lurk Austrian destroyers, also invisible and silent, which may be launching at us, as they pass, their pointed torpedoes. Before we have suspected that death prowls there, they mil have perceived a gigantic hulk making a spot in the darkness. Let the two officers on watch, safeguarding the ship, have a second of forgetfulness or fatigue, and a thousand men may be lost in the abyss whence none returns. In us these thousand sailors place implicit confidence. If disaster should happen, they would forgive us in their last agony, because they know that no human power could have prevented it. Presently, when we lie down on our bunks, worn out with the strain, we shall deliver our lives over to our successors with- out a thought. The two Avatchers on the bridge are the guardian angels of the crew. That is the greatness of our vocation. Nowhere in this war, in which the battlefields will have seen so much heroism, will there be a heavier task imposed on leaders of men. No general or ser- geant could commit a mistake which would an- nihilate his army or his squad in a single instant. The ball kills only one man, the shell carries off IN THE ADRIATIC 39 only a file; and the mine spares those at a dis- tance. Every fighter on land has his chance of surviving the worst disaster, and the most care- less officer will never have upon his conscience the death of all the men he has commanded. But a boat is a prison, more confining than stones and bars and chains; we are suspended over the abyss. Naval catastrophes are like a vomit from hell; no other catastrophe crushes so many lives at a single stroke. Lives and goods lost together! Terrible words, which cannot be said of cataclysms on land. Earthquakes, fires leave reminders, ruins, witnesses of that which was. . . . But the ocean tears from her surface a handful of metal and men, and sends them to rot in her bowels. And the next day the un- changeable deeps smile their eternal smile. Long ago the sea knew the whole art of murder. Our diabolical genius had to add tenfold to the horror. Human ingenuity has invented the mine, more remorseless than a hundred reefs; the torpedo, more destructive than a hurricane, and those explosives which tear to pieces still living tissue into projectiles of flesh. The slow night ebbs away. These forebodings of the fate of sailors invade the souls of the watchers, and make them long to vanquish the specters of the shadow. For to die is nothing if one has been able to save others. From the in- terior of the sliip, from the hammocks and the 40 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA posts of the watch, rises the voice of a hundred trusting hearts. That unity of appeal creates this thing which has neither form nor law, but which draws its strength from the very depths of the soul, in that affection, that complete devotion of oneself : Duty. Tedious as are the hours filled mth such dis- tressing thoughts, the night, nevertheless, finally begins to fade. The East pales and the mists disappear and unveil the depths of the sky, where a few faint stars go out one after the other before the approach of the sun. The light slowly con- quers the limits of space, and sea and ships take on form and substance. From the South a cruiser emerges, gray as the waves through which it comes, the dawni strips it of its veil, moulds its shape, reveals the masts and the smoke from its stacks. Farther away there is a row of motion- less points on the surface of the water ; these are the masts of the ironclads that have followed on our track. Others still farther South are entirely invisible. The mountains of Austria and Montenegro take possession of a segment of the sky; their white peaks have a scarlet hem. They form a wall stretching from North to South, of which the ravines, the escarpments and the summits are still buried in mist. Our Cruiser gets orders to bear farther northward, while the other cruisers de- IN THE ADRIATIC 41 ploy between it and the ironclads. It puts on speed, its whole bulk quivering under its armor. When it has taken position, it can still see its neighbor in the South, and the stacks of the ship behind it. But only puffs of smoke reveal the presence of the other ships, of which the most distant is opposite Antivari or St. John of Medua, fifty kilometers away. The entire ** naval army'* bears off to the right and moves toward the enemy coast, which every moment renders clearer. I take the watch, which has been resigned before midnight. A few hours of uneasy sleep have left me with the taste of ashes in my mouth, and a painful fluttering in my eyelids. But have we not all lived in this way for I know not how many weeks? And should one not whip up his blood in the face of approach- ing danger? And can one stay drowsy in the marvel of tliis dawn? Here is light in all its purity and perfection. The blue of a young girPs eyes, or the delicate green of April meadows, seem gross and hard in comparison with this light. It is quiet, yet alive with beauty. It enchants like a perfume ; it evokes a solemn rapture. Surely the robes of angels must be woven from rays of such light. But from behind the moimtains the sun rises. Objects appear more clearly and lose their delicacy of line. Far to the North over the Dal- matian Isles a few clouds stain the sky. The haze 42 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA is lifting from the bay of Cattaro, tlie details of which we study through our glasses — gray spots of forts, white streaks of light-houses, smoke of Austrian ships sheltered in the roadstead. Above the town, which is still invisible, slowly rises a black point like a dark bubble ; I watch this sus- picious ascension, but cannot yet make out what it means. On the other side the sun hangs on the summit of a mountain. All the air seems to vibrate. One's eyes are dazzled at such refulgence, such clearness. The sun frees himself from the mountain peaks, and as he rises pours down a triumphal torrent of light. The Dalmatian Isles, the Austrian coast rise suddenly, imposing and menacing. The cruisers to the South reflect a radiance from their hulls, the sheet of sea over which our cruiser advances alone is covered with a glassy surface which the eye cannot penetrate. With their hands on the mortar, the gunners stand stiller than ever. In the bow of the ship the sailors who do not belong to the watch keep their eyes on the ap- proaching land and the gliding sea. The ascend- ing black point has stopped, and seems held at the end of a line. Now I recognize it for a captive balloon. Its casing, its cording, looks as tran- sparent as a spider's web. But from its height a human eye has observed us ; the submarines and destroyers have been warned by telephone; and all is astir, in this inaccessible arsenal, with the IN THE ADRIATIC 43 effort to attack, without danger to themselves, the cruiser that offers them battle. In the splendor of the still morning, this captive balloon symbolizes the troubled passions of men — ^murder and destruction. But it is delightful to approach the enemy through all this enchantment. Under the sunlight the sea has become blue and seductive again, and the death of the cruiser, should it occur, will take on a sort of divine beauty in this brightness. Things begin to happen. Out of the last bank of mist which stretches along the coast there mount in spiral flights two almost imperceptible insects. At so great a distance they resemble two animated bits of dust. They are Austrian aero- planes seeking the height and the currents of air favorable for attack. They see the Waldeck- Rousseau^ lost in the sea-mist, and instantly separate, one drawing northward, the other south- ward. In a few minutes their outlines are hidden in the clouds, and we no longer know what has become of them. Soon the Montenegrin post of Lovcen signals us by wireless that the harbor of Cattaro is astir. A squadron of torpedo-destroyers is getting up steam. Some ironclads are moving, submarines are making for the channel outlet. Forewarned, the watchers on the bridge, sailors and officers, gaze at the narrows, and soon discern on the sur- face of the water some fine bluish tufts like the 44 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA smoking butts of cigarettes. It takes the acute vision of seamen to distinguish them, for we are sailing more than twenty miles from shore. They are two submarines coming out of Cattaro and preparing to submerge. The brightness of the air is enough to dazzle us. And then we see nothing more. These metal fish are buried under the waves, taking unknown paths, and moving mys- teriously towards us who are their prey. All eyes on the bridge are fixed upon the scene. We approach danger with clear vision and mind and with a quiet pleasure. On the forward deck the marines not on duty scrutinize alternately the horizon and the faces of the officers on watch to make out what adventures they hold in store. . . . Among the winding straits of Cattaro glide masts as fine as hairs; these are the destroyers which in their turn are issuing forth to attack us. The Waldech-Roiisseau keeps on toward the hostile coast. At last the first destroyers appear, gray, and plumed with smoke ; the moment has come to prepare ourselves for battle, and the commander orders the trumpets sounded to clear the decks for action. At the first notes of this music which they have heard so many times for mere drill, the sailors prick up their ears and cast questioning glances at the bridge. Voices are raised asking nervously : **Is it in earnest this timeT' With an affirmative nod I reassure them. A joyous clamor rises from IN THE ADRIATIC 45 all their hearts, the clamor of children who are at last going to play. In an instant evei-yone has rushed to his post of battle. The decks are de- serted, the ship is abandoned. But in its bosom a hidden life goes forward. The port stanchions are closed; the pow^erful bolts, which the men hastily shoot, make out of the enormous hull a hive partitioned by steel. In every cell of the hive groups of men, sometimes a single man, look after the apparatus, set it work- ing, and wait. They see nothing, and will see nothing. If the ship is conquered, they will not know how or why. Everyone is silent. Where soldiers in the great moment of battle translate their joy of action into shouting, sailors, on the contrary, must keep absolute silence. .Only the rattle of the engines, the telephone orders, and the trumpet calls may be heard. In the turrets and the casemates, behind the guns, the gunners and pointers hold themselves motionless, ready for the swift, precise movements, repeated so many times in innumerable drills, which will send straight to their mark the rain of well-^imed shells. From the guns, the engines, the helm, the mute tension of a thousand men flows back to the turret, the brain of a cruiser. In this armored enclosure are stationed the commander, his two officers in charge of the firing, his navigating officer. They know that the safety of the ship depends on the 46 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA clearness of tlieir judgment. With lowered voices, as if they were conversing on matters of no im- portance, they address sailors who transmit their orders. Crouching before the artillery keyboard, a few men manipulate the fly-wheels, the bells and signals which tell the orchestra of guns their dis- tances, correct their aim, give them orders to fire. Behind the three dials which direct the en- gines three sailors quickly write the orders. To right and left, mouth and ear to a line of tele- phones and speaking trumpets, two sailors listen to the word from below and reply. With his hand on the lever of the steering-gear, and his eyes on the compass of the route, an impassive petty- officer executes the orders of m.aneuver. There is no noise except the slight grating of the rudder indicating each degree to starboard or port. Through the horizontal embrasures of the turret, like the narrow iron-barred slits in the helmets of knights, the four officers survey the horizon. They make out the churning of foam from a periscope which is moving toward the cruiser's starboard at top speed. Instantly the whole vol- ley of light guns opens fire on this enemy; the rudder is turned to starboard to change the course of the cruiser, deceive the submarine, and attempt to ram it. . . . Almost at the same moment there appears from the clouds to the northward an aero- plane, which descends towards us like a water- spout, and wheels about, trying to get a long- IN THE ADRIATIC 47 distance aim. Our sharpsliooters cover this enemy of the air, and their shots crackle above us like drums. As soon as we are close enough to fight the charging destroyers effectively, our heavy guns open a steady fire on them. Our cruiser be- comes a mass of smoke and noise as it confronts the triple peril of air, surface and deep. Every man works with the precision of a clock. I cannot begin to enumerate all the episodes of these ex- citing moments. . . . Three hundred meters above us, the aviator lets loose his bombs. Their fall makes a noise like the rending of a sheet of iron. But the turn of the cruiser to starboard has defeated the preci- sion of his aim. Near our hull, fore and aft, they burst with an uproar which deadens the voice of the guns; bits of them rebound to the decks and turrets, and around the spot where they have ex- ploded the sea quivers as if it had been peppered with a hail of pebbles. The aviator mounts higher, pursued by our sharpshooters, who, however, soon abandon him. Despite the turn to starboard, the cruiser misses the submarine by a few feet, and it dis- appears beneath the water. The sailors below hear a rippling and lapping of water pass along the hull; they even think they feel the impact of a solid object which scrapes the keel without being able to penetrate it. There is very little doubt but that the submarine did torpedo us, but the / 48 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA quick maneuver of the ship saved us. Instead of hitting us squarely, and damaging our sides, the torpedo — perhaps there were several — ^merely- grazed us and passed on without effect. In order to see whether it has touched us and to get another aim at us, the submarine comes to the surface again ; as it rises we see its periscope and turret athwart us, and without delay the light guns cover it a second time. The water boils about it, the shells burst and envelop it in yel- lowish smoke. Had it been struck? Is it de- stroyed? One never knows the fate of these enemies, which, whether victor or vanquished, im- mediately submerge. The course of the cruiser sweeps us far ahead; we no longer concern our- selves with the submarine, which is no menace to us now. Only our heavy guns speak. At a great distance the Austrian torpedo- destroyers are encircled by our falling shells. But, like the snipes they are, they twist and zig- zag on the water. We rush along at a speed of eleven meters a second; and if our fire halts the destroyers, it does not seem to touch them. Their prudence triumphs over their boldness. Per- suaded that our fire will never admit them within torpedoing distance, they describe a half-circle and flee. In succession, like rabbits regaining their burrow, they take shelter in the channel of Cattaro, until we distinguish only the tips of their masts, which recede, and disappear. IN THE ADRIATIC 49 Our heavy guns next engage the coast-works, light-houses, or batteries, which are now in range. Since the explosions on rocks and earth enable us to regulate our fire, we should shortly be doing great damage to the shore, except for a wireless from the commander-in-chief ordering us to cease our solitary combat. Doubtless the land forts are waiting for us to come nearer, and their guns, more powerful than ours, mil do us more harm than the aviator, the submarine and the destroyers together. Eegretful but obedient, the W aldech-Eousseau turns her back on the shore and moves southward toward the waiting cruisers. In a few seconds their distant outlines, as well as the squadrons of ironclads, grow large and stand out in relief against the sky. They would all have come to our rescue if our challenge had succeeded in draw- ing out the powerful armament sheltered in Cat- taro. But once more the Austrians fail to offer battle, having attempted only to send the Waldeck- Rousseau to her death, with the smallest possible loss to themselves. Wliile our cruiser regains her own division at top speed, the periscope of a second submarine, on watch in the offing, reveals its furrow of foam on our port side. Eegardless of whether it has launched its torpedoes, we rain upon it a steady fire from our lighter guns, not pausing to pursue it, for the order to return is imperative. Half 50 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA an hour later the WaldecJc-Roiisseait slows down and again takes her place in the line of cruisers. Their crews look with envy upon this vessel, the first in the naval war to have the triple honor of facing the triple enemies of the ships. Two signals are raised. We take new positions for descending the Adriatic. In a few days we shall come back to insult Austria, and perhaps we shall be more fortunate. It is now the end of a white, translucent morning. On board, the battle organization is abandoned, the ordinary watch resumed. While the officers and sailors on the bridges continue to study the sea, we meet again in the ward-room. Meal-time approaches, no one mentions the moments through which the cruiser has just lived. A certain officer of en- gineers comes out of the boiler-room and tries to beat his record at cup and ball, playing with a steady hand. Four others, their ears still filled with the roar of the guns, plunge into the peaceful subtleties of ^* bridge." Others examine maps of Flanders and Poland. In a profound calm, a kind of oblivion, we talk of things remote from war. And when, after the meal, the commander assembles the officers in the saloon to celebrate in a glass of champagne their baptism of fire, his speech already seems to call up an event from the far past. IN THE ADRIATIC 51 Adriatic Sea, 25 October, Something dark brushes the horizon. A spot on the sky? A storm cloud? The mirage of an island? Our eyes do not hesitate for long; the thing lives and breathes; it is the smoke of a vessel. The officer on watch speeds up the en- gines, changes the rudder, and points the bow toward this smoke. Since our departure from France not a ship, not a sail, has evaded investiga- tion by our cruisers and destroyers, the Argus and Cerberus of the ocean paths. Above the horizon rise the masts, the stacks, the hull of the ship. Innocent or guilty, it knows it cannot escape our speed, and does not attempt to flee. At fifteen thousand meters, its outline indicates whether it is a liner, or a freighter; at ten thousand, its displacement shows us whether it is loaded or carries no cargo ; at five thousand, its flag reveals its nationality. If it be English or French, it is allowed to pass. If neutral, we show it the signal of the international code : **Halt immediately!'' It has to stop. If it shows any inclination to pursue its way, the first blank shot warns it not to play with fire. If it pretends not to hear this reprimand, a shell falls in its path to inform it that we are not joking. If it insists upon proceed- ing, a few shots straight at its hull assure it that the matter is becoming serious. It always stops in time. 52 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA The cruiser halts within range of the suspect. In an instant one of our long-boats has been lowered and its crew seizes the oars. An officer, armed with sword and revolver and carrying a big record-book, jumps into the boat, which puts off from our vessel. A sailor accompanies him. When the wind is rough and the sea choppy, the boat bounds, plunges and rolls on this passage which seems interminable; the seven sailors struggle with all their might at the oars ; buckets of water drench the heads of officer and men; in a few minutes they are soaked through. The long-boat accosts the steamer, from the rail of which hangs a rope ladder, sometimes merely a knotted rope. Why are they always too short? I don't know. An^^vay the officer, hampered by his sword and his register, and strangled in a uniform which was never meant for jumping, stretches out his arms and tries to grasp the lad- der. But the swell rolls back and forth and tips the boat. As he approaches the ship, there is the ladder swaying two meters above him; as soon as he is high enough to seize it, the ship lurches off. It is like a skittish horse that refuses the mount. At these gymnastics the passengers and crew of the ship smile maliciously. The officer rages. He puts his sword between his teeth, his register between coat and shirt, waits for the least unfavorable moment, launches himself head- long — and grasps the ladder. For a few seconds IN THE ADRIATIC 53 he performs on this fljdng trapeze. A playful wave laps his knees, his hips, his chest. Recover- ing himself, he makes a few rungs, hoists himself up the slippery ropes, throws his leg over the rail, and at last puts his foot on the deck. This adventure, thank heaven, is not always so unpleasant! Some visits seem like pleasant duties. But what has the bad winter weather in store for us ? It would be demanding superhuman virtue from the captains to expect them to like these .visits on the high seas. We delay them, we bore them, and sometimes we turn them away 'from their route. Ordinarily they show us a very surly face ; too polite a mien, on the other hand, is to be dis- trusted. The officer readjusts his disordered uni- form, controls his ill-humor, assumes an impassive air, and gives a military salute. ** Captain," he says, **have tke kindness to show me your papers." This formula is pronounced in English, Spanish, Italian or French. Grammar«sometimes suffers, but not all the world is polyglot. When the visiting officer has exhausted all his vocab- ularies without anyone's understanding him, he contents himself with a gesture, reinforced by a contraction of his brows in the direction of his revolver. Thereupon intelligence comes to the most obtuse. A little procession forms. The cap- tain looking important, the officer severe^ the com- 54 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA missary obsequious, tlie sailor escort bringing up the rear ; by means of the passage and stairs these four actors in the little drama reach the naviga- tion room, where are kept the regulation papers. The more luxurious liners sometimes set a table with cigars and liqueurs in the first cabin. Such an attention arouses double suspicion. The passengers line up along the deck. This episode makes a pleasant interruption in the monotony of the voyage, and gives their pacific minds a slight shuddering taste of the great war. Every man begins to feel like a hero, and to invent a tale which mil astonish his future hearers. The men search the face of the French officer, but read little on this cold mask. The women, bolder, solicit his glances, his smile, press themselves on his attention. * * Vive la France ! ' ' cries one. * ^ He has a real revolver ! ' ' whispers another, shudder- ing. ' * Stop, officer, and let me photograph you ! ' ' begs a third. The visiting officer does not reply, does not stop, but hastens on his mission. In his register he consults the original of all the documents he has warrant to verify; text, stamps, signatures are exactly reproduced, and not one word of the ship's papers must differ from the original. If they are in Arabic, Norwegian or Japanese, the officer's pencil compares them line by line. In curt phrases he approves or objects. The civil status of the ship seems correct; its IN THE ADRIATIC 55 name, its country, its record, reveal nothing am- biguous. The captain is then questioned. Whence has he come, where is he going, and where has he stopped? What are the owners' orders? The chart and the log, the dates and hours of calls at ports, certified by the official authorities, are all verified. The slightest in- accuracy requires explanations, proofs. In such times as these, all movements at sea must be above suspicion, and the least evasion renders one suspect. To help his captain the ship's com- missary bustles about, pours a glass of liqueur, un- corks a bottle of champagne, introduces a foaming glass between two incisive questions. But the French officer courteously waves aside these seductions. The commissary in his turn goes on the stand; he spreads out and explains the bills of mer- chandise, illegible scrawls in every language, dotted with strange abbreviations, with obsolete weights and measures in the jargon of grocer and manufacturer. Every line has them, and twenty special dictionaries could not disclose their traps. Like an archaeologist poring over a worn stone, the visiting officer weighs, unravels, interprets these hieroglyphics; from a pocket-book he ex- tracts lists of shippers and consignees friendly to our enemies, and inspects the ship 's papers to see that their names do not figure on them. Every bill of merchandise raises a question. 56 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA Certain cargoes always go through, others under certain conditions, some, officially contraband, are fair booty. The texts of the treaties of The Hague and of London pretend to solve all these prob- lems. The officer consults these texts, looking for helpful suggestions. But these treaties, dra^\Ti up in times of peace for the despair of sailors in war, are full of ambiguities, over which the crafty neutrals slide. How many enigmas does not the officer have to solve in a few minutes under the dull gaze of his two colleagues ! According to such and such a paragraph the ease appears clear, but a footnote throws every- thing into confusion again. There are neither precedents nor regulations. Upon our decision rests a fraction of our country's honor. Too much good nature runs us the risk of providing our enemies with valuable materials; too much rigor will bring vigorous complaints from injured neutrals. Let our decision leave a loophole in the dispute, and learned jurists will deliberate over it in the prize-courts for weeks and months ; then will consume endless hours and heaps of paper before discovering Avhat ought to be the judgment actually rendered in the interval between a drenching in a long-boat and a submarine scare. Bah! We have our privileges of State. Our conscience is clear, our intentions are pure, and little remorse accompanies our verdicts. Yester- day, as well as to-morrow, we make a seizure or IN THE ADRIATIC 57 release, according to the simple dictates of com- mon sense. The smiles and grimaces of the com- missary do not warp our judgments; even when the captain, at a critical moment, presses on ns a whole box of choice Havana cigars this seduc- tion adds not a grain to our weighing-scale. The officer politely declines, ends his examination, makes his decision, and demands the passenger list. * * Captain, have the kindness to draw up on deck all the persons on board. Let each one hold his identification papers in his hand. In five minutes I shall make my inspection." Women, stewards and waiters scatter through the cabins, which suddenly fill with commotion. In the midst of a chorus of exclamations, of mur- murs and laughs, feverish fingers ransack writing cases and bags; travelers with good consciences easily discover what they need ; the women adjust their hair, hastily powder a suspicion of tan on their faces, and with a turn of their hand put all the details of their toilette in order. They are tremendously entertained. It's like a real play! For a very little more they would put on their prettiest gowns. . . . But the officer is in a hurry, and the captain excuses himself: one passenger cannot lay his hand on his passports, which he has certainly shut up in a trunk. Exactly ! The story is well-known! That bird from Germany must be held. 58 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA Everyone lines up in two or more rows. Irre- sistibly, an order rises to the lips of the visiting officer — ' ' Right dress ! Eyes front ! ' ' But no, these passengers are not soldiers. And now the task is to keep in line this fat lady in a rather short skirt, who inserts herself between an asthmatic youth and a rugged American. Let us stifle our laughter ! The lines sway, somewhere at the back a boy sneezes, two Brazilians or Argentinians burst into shameless laughter, a huge negro trembles with fear. The officer passes on his inspection. Like a row of blind people holding out their wooden bowls, everyone carries his passport in his hand. The men are extremely grave, almost indignant, and one can imagine the silent per- turbation behind their brows. They lie in wait for an imprudent word in order that they may at once invoke their counsel, their ambassador, and the unwritten laws of neutrals. Vain hope! The officer looks them over swiftly, and opens their papers with a scrupulous touch. Stamps and signatures are correct, the descriptions too; the passports, the certificate of nationality, have no taint of fraud. But no touchstone is worth so much as that of speech : to expert ears a few words, a few phrases, reveal many secrets, and a hesi- tating manner accuses where the documents acquit. ''Kindly tell me where you come from. . . . IN THE ADRIATIC 59 Kindly tell me your name and the date of your birth. . . . Did you leave your country some time ago? Kindly answer me in your own language. . . . What is your profession T' One has to question closely and in various ways, and keep oneself from getting into dialogues. There is never a discussion; an immediate judg- ment, and we go on. Compatriots, Russians, English, undergo the questioning. They are cheerful and anxious to chat. ^^In too much of a hurry, my friend! ... A handshake and bon voyage! . . . The last news from the wireless? . . . Everything goes well, very well ! ' ' Click! Click! Right and left, the kodaks are at work. Who will ever count the albums in which playful passengers have put their naval inspec- tion! They imagine they have not been seen, but their faces, suddenly serious, and their air of hav- ing touched nothing, betray their crime. **And you, mademoiselle? What signatures on your passport? What journey are you making?" *^I am from Valparaiso, and I am on my way to my family in Moscow!" Ye gods! What are all these women doing wandering about the vast world? Half the soldiers in Europe have thrown themselves on the other half, but travelers come and go like doves, without thought of trouble. 60 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA The passports of the men are comprehensible — functionaries, manufacturers going from port to port, mobilized men, producers from the Far East; all avow intentions which are definite and easy to deal with. But the origin and destination of the women are puzzling enigmas. In America, in Asia, in Africa, all the chancelleries of remote consulates have written ove;r and scratched out the most bewildering itineraries. These papers are fantastic. The mystery is increased by the contradictions of the passengers' appearance. The visiting officer examines a modest passenger in tennis shoes, flannel suit and traveling cap, who blushes like a boarding-school miss, and answers very timidly. And what does he see on the photograph of the passport she shows him? A smiling doll, buried under a hat as large as a millstone, adorned with aigrettes and feathers; a very elaborate arrangement of the hair which hides half her face, and three rows of pearls on her bare throat. Is there anything in common be- tween this luxurious figure and the timid person wringing her hands in the line, whose inward mirth appears in her sparkling eyes and an im- perceptible trembling of her elbows? He would be a perjurer who would swear to it. It is even a relief when they know their o^vn nationality exactly. I never suspected that one's native country could be mislaid, lost and found IN THE ADRIATIC 61 like a pair of gloves. But in these latitudes one learns something every day. Wars, treaties, and revolts, have so confused the map of the East that it seems as if every passenger were provided with two or three spare countries. **Now, Madam, will you explain for your hus- band, whom I do not understand! What is his nationality? And you yourself, are you Turkish, Egyptian, Greek or EussianT' ^^It is very simple, Mr. Officer. My husband was Armenian, that is to say, a Turkish subject. At the time of the massacres he fled to the Caucasus and found it wise to put himself under Eussian protection. His business called him to Crete, which became Greek while he was living there. I was born in Macedonia, a Turkish sub- ject, but the last war has made me a Serb. We went to Alexandria because it was quieter there, for since the English are suzerains of Egypt, we intended. . . /' So goes the story. Adventuresses, spies, or wanderers tossed about in Levantine eddies, their talk is as picturesque as their papers. It would be absurd to persecute them in this maze where they are astray. To what end, moreover? The real prize, the choice booty, is recognized by infallible signs: German faces, Teutonic accents, insolent or honeyed replies, stammered explanations. How- ever much they may have garbled their names and 62 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA submitted to us false ones in writing, the race of these Germans oozes from every pore. They are on their way to foment rebellion in Egypt or m Tripoli ; they are going to work the Balkans, to pursue in India or China their secret intrigues. Invariably their passports derive from Switzer- land or Holland, but their certificates of national- ity, very new, just off the press, remind one of coins that are counterfeit and too bright. Sus- pects ! . . . The officer goes down to their cabins ; everything he finds in the valises, the steamer trunks, denotes innocence and sincerity. But he is nauseated by a strange odor. It cannot be defined, but whoever has smelt it recognizes un- erringly the kind of flesh it comes from. With handkerchief to nose; he turns over the bed and ransacks the furniture. Under the mattress, be- hind the wash-basin, in the folds of a blanket, lies the fatal paper, the envelope or the packet. . . . Enemies! . . . Now the affair must be ended decisively, elegantly, in the French style. Invested with dis- cretionary powers on a neutral boat, the visiting ofiScer conforms to courtesies which would satisfy the most exacting. His attitude, the tone of his voice, his words, affirm, in surroundings often hos- tile, always excited, the sovereign will of his coun- try. The staff-officer of the boat, the crew and the passengers form a hostile jury of free witnesses who would jeer to the ends of the earth IN THE ADRIATIC 63 the slightest clumsiness. But we are at any rate V£iin enough not to imitate the ruffianly manners of our enemies. The visiting officer stops before the German, callis him by name, lays a finger lightly on his sleeve or shoulder, and says, without raising his voice : ^'I take you prisoner. Follow my sailor, who will carry your baggage and conduct you to the ship's boat.'' Cries, bursts of rage, insults, are of no avail. One adds nothing. What is said is said. At the worst, if the scene becomes painful, the officer turns to the captain. * * Commandant, I direct you to use your author- ity to compel Monsieur to follow me. Otherwise I shall be obliged to use force. I take the respon- sibility for the order I give you, and I will draw up tor you a report of the proceedings." That is enough. Protected by the owners and his government, the captain abandons the prisoner to his fate, and speeds the removal of his baggage. The German taken in the snare protests, sheepish and mortified. But the faithful sailor has already seized him and is hurrying him mthout much ado to the long-boat. The audience makes comments. The kodaks work their fastest. A few hands applaud, a few malcontents murmur. The circle opens deferentially before the officer, who copies on the log the formulas appropriate 64 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA to the visit, recounts the incident, exonerates the captain, and signs the deposition wliich will go the round of the chancelleries. Then, and only then, when the business is all settled, will he accept perhaps a cigarette, or a file of newspapers, or a cup of coffee. While the prisoner ^s baggage is being somehow tumbled into the bottom of the long-boat, the officer takes a few steps along the deck. The crowd of pas- sengers precipitate themselves upon his suddenly humanized person. **News! News!^' implore all the voices. He repeats the mreless messages re- ceived from the Eiffel Tower, from Poldhu, and is careful to make no comments. As if by magic, the misses, the donnas and senoras of all the na- tions and of every type of beauty slide under his hand a pencil, albums, post-cards. He defends himself. They beg with alluring glances. Must he not yield? Feverishly he scrawls, signs, dates the cards and albums. He is promised photo- graphs — ^wliich he never receives. Sly scissors clip from his coat a button to mount on a hatpin. Families invite him to the Ukraine, to California, to Buenos Aires, after the war is over. Finally the sailor escort returns: *^ Ready!" he says, saluting. The officer pushes his way through the crowd, throws his leg over the rail, commences his tumb- ling descent. On the seat of the boat the prisoner, quite still, takes up the least possible room. IN THE ADRIATIC 65 **You may continue your voyage !'' cries the visitor to tiie captain, who is awaiting his release. More questions, and farewells; a waving of scarfs and handkerchiefs. But he is already in the hollow of the waves; he wipes the spray from his face, and, raising his cap, makes a fine salute of farewell to all these passengers whom he will never see again. Ten minutes later the boat with its prisoner is hoisted on board. The of&cer reports to his commandant, and at once draws up his statement. The cruiser begins to move, heading west; the liner recedes to the south, and soon Ave see nothing but her smoke. For several hours we prowl about, expecting the same ceremony to recommence. Five or six times a day we stop, make a visit, permit them to go on, or show our teeth. There are some amusing and some dramatic adventures, but for a few profitable visits how many futile ones there are! Yesterday in battle; always on the watch ; a beast hunting for prey ; tlie customs officer of the high sea; traveling ceaselessly; never in port — such is the lot of the cruiser. Who of us reckoned on this as v/ar? No one, I swear. North of Corfu, 30 October. Was it not a dream from which we have just emerged? For several days — no, I must be mis- taken — for a few hours tlie JValdecJc-Rousseau has been lying in the harbor of Malta, and our feet 66 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA have trod the ground, the shore, the sidewalks. Fifty-three days at sea had persuaded us that everything in the world is in motion. One has to be a sailor to appreciate the delights of the shore. It was in fact a dream. To-night finds us again on our patrol, between the coasts of Epirus and Corfu. Our rest is brief, we move very slowly, the screws seem almost asleep, and during my watch, from ten in the evening until two in the morning, the cruiser has slipped through magni- ficent shadows. This sea is too lovely. Anxious to solace our exile with her feminine caresses, she shows us from hour to hour a delicious and ever-changing countenance. In moments of alarm and trial she succeeds in pervading us with her gentle consola- tion. But to-day, far from the Austrian coast, everything seems kindly, and the sailor can abandon himself to the magic of the shadows. Not a sound, not a breath, in these happy moments. Nature never slumbers so softly as on the sleep- ing waves, and the most smothered words are too noisy to express this silence. The sea opens languorously at our prow, and receives us amorously, so to speak, in her watery arms, which embrace us tenderly along our hull. The reflec- tions of the stars, which ordinarily rock without ceasing up and down the ridges of water, stand motionless in it like nails of light. The coast is IN THE ADRIATIC 67 mirrored in tlie black element, reversed so per- fectly that the land and Us image seem cut from the same block. Epirus, Corfu and Merlera sur- round us in an immense circle, enclosing us al- most as in a lake. But this lake is filled with a limpid water that extends from the shores of yesterday to the cliffs of to-morrow. Enlarged in the transparent air, the stars seem to have come down nearer to us; the moon does not disturb the happy shadow. The star Sirius rises in the heavens, detached suddenly from the mountains like a slow rocket. She is round like some heavenly fruit, and the beacons on the coast are dim before this queen of our heaven. On the Balkan cliif, halfway up the side of the mountain, flames a red light. Evidently it is a conflagration ; in some little valley a wretched vil- lage is burning and expiring. Is it Albanian, Greek or Epirote? Some bandits with torches have set on fire the first barn on their path; the thatch, the mud walls, the dim huts, are con- sumed in whirlwinds, and the starlight is stained with streaks of smoke. The herds up there bleat and bellow in the flames; disheveled mothers carry off their nurslings ; the men load their guns and unloose the dogs. To-morrow, in reprisal, another hamlet will be burned. We are so far away, so lost in the night, that this sinister fire does not affect us at all. Why pity or curse, when distance smothers all sound? 68 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA Yet how can we help being carried back to the obsession of the war, which the sea, the sky, and the stars, had banished from the present moment? Have not these distant flames been lighted by the incendiary of Berlin, and do they not portend the track of murder that will soon soak the East in blood? But on this night I do not wish to abandon myself to sorrow. I wish to let my whole being slip into the rich blackness, and to ask of it the serenity demanded for the coming danger. Be- fore da'SATi a velvety freshness creeps up, and banishes my insidious fatigue. This freshness of the end of night seems to make still smoother the surface of the sea, in which are sunk the reflec- tions of the stars, clear, numberless, white as wax. Sparkling above each taper, every star recalls the flame which trembles on Christian altars at dusk, when the tardy penitent cannot distinguish the dim Avick between the wax and the flre. Among the unreal columns of this Adriatic temple glides the cruiser. This temple has neither nave, organ, nor pave- ment. The chandeliers have burned there since the first breath of things. The tabernacle is the immensity wherein swing the divine planets. The nameless architect is God, who has soAvn the stars near His throne in order that the humble regard of men shall be lifted to Him. IN THE ADRIATIC 69 Among the Austrian Islands, 2 November, It is dawn. We are moving in a long file to- wards the Austrian islands. From cruiser to cruiser the cocks are calling and answering each other. As their clear call salutes the dawn, it is accompanied by the cackling of our poultry-yard. In the fresh air the melancholy cattle are low- ing, and the restless sheep are bleating; each of our dinners diminishes their number. To the officers on watch there rises the country smell from the henhouses, the cattle manure, and the hay, their fodder ; and the air is filled with all the sounds of an awakening farm. Into the preoc- cupations of the watch creep precious memories and nostalgia ; one would like to be in some coun- try place, surrounded by meadows and woods, and one wants to close one's eyes so that nothing may destroy the dream. But it is the green sea that forms our meadows ; and the Dalmatian Isles, which emerge from the mist, are the groves of our horizon. The three big cruisers with six stacks are in the upper Adriatic, at the approaches to Lissa, a bastion of the Austrians on that sea, over which we sail with- out opposition. Further south, toward the isles of Lagosta or Pelagosa, the armored squadrons move at reduced speed. Once again, the tenth or twentieth time — we have lost count — the French *^ naval army'' emerges from the dawn and offers the challenge they will not accept. 70 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA Only a short distance away, Lissa wakens under our eyes. Pleasant wooded slopes clothe this island ; a tiny town, the principal place, surrounds a quiet harbor. We do not need our glasses to count the houses or even the windows ; the people who come into the streets raise their hands to Heaven at sight of us and retreat behind their doors, which they barricade. The ribbon of water separating us from the shore is hardly broader than a river, and without taking aim our guns could pulverize houses and people. The Ger- mans, in our place, would assure themselves a tremendous triumph, which their journals would celebrate in the list of German victories. But the French are incorrigible; they will never learn these illustrious methods, and will never destroy defenseless cities and men. Think what you will, our gospel contains no such precept. Our division is accompanied by two squadrons of destroyers; they make their presence known by doing legitimate damage. The lighthouse of Lissa might assist the movement of Austrian ships at night; the cable can transmit to the ar- senals news of the movements of the French fleet. Our destroyers do not hesitate to destroy these tools of war. Their guns thunder against the lighthouse; their dredges search for the cable at the bottom of the sea. To emphasize the ease with which we approach the enemy, small French vessels enter the harbor of Lissa with a haughty IN THE ADRIATIC 71 air. The fislierfolk and other people on tlie coast are terrified ; no one expects mercy ; everyone com- mends his soul to God. From the bridge the officers of the cruiser observe all this excitement; they see swarms of people fleeing into the country, where our guns could nail them like flies against the wall. It all makes us smile. Our sailors are quietly washing their linen, or gaily chattering. Like their officers, they are savoring the delicious- ness of this quiet morning, in front of this island filled with sunlight and with terror. Their gener- ous souls do not desire the destruction of this defenseless town. But at the bottom of their hearts and their talk lies a question which three months of naval warfare had not solved — *^What must be done to these Austrians to make them revenge themselves ? Will they make us no return for our insults r' An officer and some sailors from the destroyers set foot on land. The population is humble and suppliant. We ask them the names and addresses of the two principal notables of the island, and immediately the notables are made known to us. No threats or revolvers! Everything goes off admirably. The two notables are brought before the chief of the French detachment ; they tremble at first, but the courteous firmness of the all- powerful sailor reassures and conquers them. When it is announced to them that the Navy will hold them as hostages, they are not afraid to 72 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA deliver themselves over to the good faith of men who do not abuse the rules of war. When we demand from Lissa a contribution of twenty-five thousand francs, they give it themselves, in hard cash of full weight, convinced that this gold is not passing into the pockets of highwajnuen. When they are asked to deliver themselves up on board the torpedo-destroyers, they are given time to dress in their best clothes, to embrace their wives and children, and to assure the city that the enemy cruisers will not bombard it. In this little corner of the world where fate confers upon us these extraordinary powers, a few hours are sufficient to make the people our friends. If by any chance French victory should mean that the tricolor is planted on this island, it will float on friendly soil there. Morning passes. Halted before the harbor of Lissa, the three cruisers wait while the destroyers finish their task at leisure. Midday sounds. Be- yond doubt, the Austrian bases of Cattaro, Pola, and Sebenico have been notified of our action. The early hours of the afternoon pass. No enemy squadron appears to take up the challenge. Will our armed forces below the horizon have to wait in vain for the wireless announcing that our enemy will avenge the insult offered their terri- tory? Is France really at war with Austria? The commander of the squadrons comes to make his report to the rear-admiral of the Waldeck-Rous- IN THE ADRIATIC 73 seaii. He tells of the terror of the inhabitants of Lissa, their meekness, the taking of two hostages on board his destroyer. Our wireless requests supplementary orders from the Commander-in- Chief. Suddenly, emerging from the maze of the Austrian islands, appear at last two columns of smoke. All the glasses and telescopes are turned towards these longed-for shadows. Our hearts leap; our eyes fear they are mistaken. But no! The enemy is replying to the insult. Numerous masts are graven on the horizon. Everyone sees them rise, and whenever a new one appears utters a cry of joy. Five! Ten! Fifteen! Eighteen! The great Day has come. The sun shines brightly. Not a ripple breaks the sea. Our rear-admiral hoists signals of chase and combat, the division of cruisers and two squadrons of destroyers advance with all speed toward the hostile smoke. As yet we do not know the strength, the number, the armament, of this enemy who offers battle. What matter! The tops of its stacks cover the northwest sky. We must hasten to the fray. If our first engagement is not victorious, the wireless calls we send to the battleships will bring them hurriedly to the vic- tory we have led up to with our first attack. Joy- ous trumpets sound to clear the decks for action; the ships of France hoist the shield of battle, the national flag, perfectly new, at the junction of two masts. In a few minutes all the men are 74 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA running to their posts. They laugh, they sing, they are crazy with excitement. But hardly have they reached their apparatus than they have re- gained the silence of duty. Firemen at the fires, engineers at the engines, gunners at the guns, have prompt arms, steady spirits, and alert eyes. Along the hull the spray leaps and glides, like the road beside an automobile. In the turret the commandant, the firing officers, and the maneuver officer, await anxiously the moment when they will recognize the enemy as he presents himself to us. They w^ant to increase the speed of the ship, but our screws are already turning madly ; they cannot add a millimeter to our speed. At last, on the curve of the sea, are clearly drawn the outlines of our enemy. Alas ! They are nothing but destroyers ! Rapid and powerful destroyers, indeed; but Austria could have afforded to offer us antagonists equal to ourselves. Let us be content with the windfall. Too many days have been squandered against in- visible enemies. These are real, living, and full of fight. They gallop towards us, with torpedoes leveled. We point our guns, which cannot yet reach them. The match is even. Like us, they have hoisted the flag of battle ; and the Waldech- Ttoiisseau, springing over the water like a full- blooded steed, leads the cruisers and the two squadrons to the adventure where death awaits. A few minutes of anxious silence pass. Shut IN THE ADRIATIC 75 in the cells below, the men listen, trying to catch the heavy sound of the first broadside ; they would be killed in an instant if a well-aimed torpedo should touch the cruiser, but they devote their stalwart souls to the machinery and the engines, that no one may be wanting in this crisis. Through their telescopes the gun-pointers watch the distance vanishing as if by miracle. Twenty thousand meters. . . . Eighteen thousand. . . . Fifteen thousand. . . . Fourteen thousand. . . . Only .two thousand more, and the rattle of our artillery will rain upon the enemy. In three parallel lines the Austrian destroyers throw out torrents of smoke, which seem to merge ; each line glides over the blue water like a shining serpent. Around us our own destroyers have closed up, and are plowing up clods of spray silvered by the sunlight. But what is this! The Austrian lines swerve, deflect; their head makes a great curve! Is it possible? They would retreat! They would re- fuse an engagement! We are so angry that our eyes refuse to believe the retreat. It is an illusion of the light; a jest of the wind that makes the smoke bend. Not at all. They complete the circle, turn their backs on us, and fly off at top speed like three trains along their rails of foam. Oh I To have this revenge in sight for so many futile weeks, and then to see it escape just at the point where our guns cannot reach! To feel 76 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA that the great engines under our feet, strong as they are, are unable to catch the prey, because its legs are too long! To measure the distance, and feel it increase a little with every second, like an elastic band of air stretched between us ! Four- teen thousand meters ! Fourteen thousand one hundred. . . . Fourteen thousand two hundred. Ah! we should like to be able to control the waves, to throw into the air a sudden squall, to chop up a sea of billows and swells. Our o\\ai powerful keels would not be slowed down, but the destroyers would run foul of each crest of the waves, would slacken, become exhausted, and our mettle would triumph over their cowardice. They make speed towards the labyrinth of the Dalmatian Isles, which loom before us as a family of marine monsters might emerge from the water. We continue the pursuit. Sixteen thousand meters. . . . Seventeen thousand meters. . . . Perhaps remorse or faintness will seize the cowards. But no, their confusion is a premedi- tated ruse. Up in the slr^'', gliding and descending through the transparent clouds, an aviator drops toward the French ships, enfilades them, and lets fall on us bombs which only the cleverest tacking evades; they burst against the hulls. One of the cruisers catches the wake of a periscope on the surface of the water. It may be that some prow- ling submarine has already fired its torpedoes, IN THE ADRIATIC 77 and our speed has deluded it; no one is affected. We shell the path of this streak of foam, which immediately vanishes. The submarine flees below the water, the aeroplane is already out of sight, the destroyers are nearing the entrance to the islands. Eighteen thousand meters. . . . Nineteen thousand. . . . Each second of pursuit increases the danger, the useless danger which has no chance of reward. It is becoming evident that this Parthian flight leads us into the zone where other submarines are prowling, and other aviators lurking, w^here slumber dangerous mines, which can inflict slaughter without stirring from their position. Why excite ourselves? We are rush- ing towards a death that will bring no glory to the Navy, no benefit to France. Austria will have a victory which will not even have acJietee son courage. The rear-admiral has the signals hoisted. While the Austrian destroyers are hidden in the straits into which they hope to draw us, our cruisers and destroyers make a wide detour in the offing; our engines carry us disdainfully away from these coasts Yviiich shelter no gallant enemy. One by one, from the depths of the ship, the men who have been enclosed during the combat come out again. They have seen and heard nothing, and they eagerly ask the news. The sailors on deck talk to them in a low voice. Their cheeks turn pale, they clench their hands, their eyes flash with 78 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA rage. The dejected crew moves silently up and down. Their faces are melancholy, their hearts sore, their nerves seem to have lost their spring. At twilight, a few hours later, we call together the ** naval army.^' By means of the mreless messages sent during our chase, the ships have followed with passionate interest the enthusiasm, effort, dangers, and disappointments we have been through. Ready enough to help us, and to give the Austrian fleet a good reception had it come out, they are awaiting us for still another descent of the Adriatic, also to be unfruitful, like so many others. For half an hour, under the golden beams of the setting sun, the squadrons go through the usual maneuvers and get their sail- ing orders for the night. The majestic, supple lines cross one another, approach and recede upon the parade ground of the sea. Every movement is perfect; the scene resembles a procession of moving cathedrals. In the evening light the hulls take on all the colors of stained endows. The water is strewn with azure and purple flowers. The signals run up and do^\ii the masts. Into the sky rise curls of smoke. A religious silence prevails. The night falls. Up among the islands, en- veloped in mist, the Austrians can observe our contemptuous evolutions and our dignified de- parture. Not one of our movements displays any disquietude. Let this sorry enemy dare to rouse IN THE ADRIATIC 79 us, and they will find, at any hour of day and night, something to talk about ! But we are learn- ing to know them. Lazily the battleships and destroyers spread over the broad surface of the Adriatic and begin their majestic descent. This morning the cruisers were to northwards, in the vanguard. This evening they are deployed to the south, wliere their vigilance will win them some consolation for the afternoon. Off Bari, 3 November; four o'clock in the morning. Thank God, I was on watch during the dark hours of the night. I should never have been able to abandon myself to sleep. For the disappoint- ment of yesterday left me full of an exaltation there was no real battle to exhaust, and a thou- sand disconnected ideas raced through my brain. Even yet, after four hours of watching disturbed by alarms, I cannot find an instant of repose on my bed. I rise and come to talk with the con- fidante who is always ready, this notebook, which has received the confession of all my moods. Per- haps after this one-sided conversation my mind will become calmer and forget itself in sleep. But I am not sure. For we do not really know how to put ourselves to sleep. I envy the soldiers on the solid land, confront- ing an enemy present before them. Whether he hides or reveals himself, the conflict is not slow 80 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA in coming. They rush forward, they sing and shout; they thrust out their bayonets, they bite, and trample with their feet. At the moment of killing it is delicious to become a beast, to think no longer, to dry with a single gesture the sweat from one's brow, and the blood from one's wounds. But the sailors spend their energies in a long silent waiting. The more active they are, the more profound is their silence. The nearness of death makes them machines of precision. I envy the soldiers who salute while charging their fallen enemy. They have seen him coming. Their short duel ends either in the intoxication of victory or the repose of death. Our long jour- neys are furtive steps in a temple of phantoms. Those who want to slay us crawl in the heart of liquid shadows. Those who defy us refuse an encounter, and entice us into the snares of the sea. Night lags on the Adriatic. Nothing seems to live except our dreams. With elbows on the rail, eyes lost in the vastness, the officers of the cruisers keep somber and silent. Near their guns, motion- less as statues sculptured out of shadow, the gunners watch in vain, and reflect on the disap- pointments of yesterday. In the distance there is a splendid thunderstorm. Forks of light leap from Italy to Austria ; not a thunder peal echoes, but the air is alternately vivid and dark. The IN THE ADRIATIC 81 lightning comes and goes ceaselessly, like the winking of an electric giant. Black and white, white and black, the V/aldeclc-Rousseaii glides through a gleaming sea. Are there enemies about us? Is the sea safe? How can our eyes tell, as they pass from an illumination whiter than the sun into an opaqueness blacker than nothingness? Every electric shock jangles the strings of our taut nerves. A reflection on the water takes the form of a destroyer; the straight path of the lightning shoots like a rocket of the enemy; the shadow has the thickness, the consistency, and almost the odor of smoke from a hostile ship. demons of the atmosphere, how you play with the sailors! Over there, towards the north, the watchers on the battleships have felt their hearts expand and contract with each of your shining caprices. But even greater is the disquietude of the cruisers who precede and protect the squad- rons. Yesterday Austria saw us. In a grand ges- ture she refused us battle. To-night we feel it coming, we are sure of it. She has despatched her atrocious submarines. They blockade the Adriatic and watch for us. When shall Ave fall into their claws? In a minute, an hour, a day? We are illuminated like specters by every flash, but they are buried in the black waves. Both the cruisers and the battleships who trust themselves to our vigilance are lost in an ocean of illusion. 82 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA Early in the morning an ensign translates a wireless from Malta. By way of numberless cables this message brings news from the Pacific. Under the massive shadows of the Cordilleras of the Andes, three English cruisers were swal- lowed up in the Chilean twilight. They fought against stronger vessels, but the German guns a eu raison de leur valeur. Twelve years ago, from the height of the American peaks, I had looked over the infinite expanse where this passage at arms took place. A few years ago, during a cruise to China, I had visited these same British vessels. I remember their appearance ; faces that smiled at me then are now, no doubt, sleeping over there on the threshold of the madrepores; fingers which pressed mine are twisting the dark sea-weed, the sailor's shroud. I envy those ships. I envy the dead of the battle of Coronel. A few weeks later, v/e shall know the details of their glorious end, but from now on I shall envj^ them, for they have fulfilled their destiny. It was not vainly that their torn flag shone in the sun. They struck, they perished, their eyes have carried mth them into the deep the vision of battle ; their death transmits a heritage of vengeance to which all British sailors are the heirs. Why does fate give us in the Adriatic a felon enemy that only runs away I Certainly I hate the Germans; but at least you find them when you look for them. Whereas to draw from the IN THE ADRIATIC 83 depths of the sea the only adversaries that Aus- tria sends against us we should need picks and rakes. Our magazines are full, our engines are quivering, our guns thrust out their jaws, but all that crawls in the Adriatic desert is the sub- marine. Silent lightning flashes, alternate shafts and shadows burn our eyelids. The four hours of the watch pass. My eyes are fixed on the blackness; my dreams encircle the earth every moment. A procession of memories has accompanied the storm. Perfumes from Indo-China, the theaters of Paris, negresses of Guadeloupe, Madagascar cyclones, idylls of the West and tragedies of the East, tropic homesickness, and the English coun- tryside — the whole procession of the past glides through my watch. Smiling, mystical, dim, it hastens to respond to my mood of nervous fatigue. It leaps upon the bridge to companion my soli- tude. About all my comrades, about the officers, who like me have become hermits of the deep, there crowds in the same way the phantoms of the past. We do not summon them. They run to us, form in line, yield place to otliers ; the train of our dreams is more mobile than the sea. Mean- while duty does not suffer. The round of memories never deflects our eyes or our ears from the surface of the waters. When necessary, we can scatter the memories with a single gesture, and do whatever is needful. 84 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA In the freshness of the early dawn the breath 01 the breeze calms all this fever. My mind pauses on the last rung of the ladder of memory. There it rests, and at the end of my watch I find myself back again in a garden of Malta. Ac- cording to the calendar this episode dates only eight days back, but it seems to me that our life has thrown it into the remote past. In the midst of the arid rocks of Malta there is a garden, enclosed with high walls. The parterres of black soil, imported from Sicily, are cut by alleys of gravel. On the terrace bloom the rarest flowers under the sun. They are not European, they are choice specimens from America and Asia. The corollas which grow in this garden come only from certain Southern archipelagoes, but human skill has made them live in Malta. Arbors shelter benches of ancient stone. Here and there arches of perfume brush the dreamer's head. Since it is a place of quiet and sovereign beauty, human beings do not frequent it. Every evening, before returning to the noisy streets of Malta, I spend a few solitary hours in the com- pany of the flowers. Only the gardeners disturb my revery, but they early become acquainted with me. The third evening one offered me the bouquet that still perfumes my cabin, and refused my grateful reward. That evening I was walking at the end of the garden, by a fountain with a brim of stone and IN THE ADRIATIC 85 two basins of green water. In it the twilight reflections dissolve. The fragrance that lingers there is enchanting. On this little lake float two white swans. They know that their prison will never be larger ; the paddles of their feet are still ; their dazzling wings, rose-tinted in the setting sun, open like a sail to the breaths of the breeze, and they glide very gently, bending their necks as if to breathe in the exquisite sweetness of the evening. A little dog, tawny and silken, ran around the fountain, barking at the swans when they skirted the rim, at their disdain when they moved towards the center of the pool. On a bench a woman dressed in mauve was reading a book, turning the page slowly. The air held only the last vestiges of light. When this woman raised her attentive eyes towards the dog, she revealed a sorrowful face and eyes heavy with passion. I am slightly disturbed by these neighbors, but I sit down and abandon myself to the witchery of the colors and odors of the dying day. Sorrow is solaced by an excess of sorrow, and the exile finds joy only in an excess of exile. Solitary, be- tween the past and the future, I am at peace. There in the fragrance of the garden, the sea, the war, the how and why of things, all disappear. My thoughts float, mthout support, like the ex- halations of flowers which hasten to give out a sweet odor before falling asleep. But the little 86 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA tawny dog, excited by the play of the swans, leaps towards the nearest ones, and falls into the water. He keeps himself np, paddling ronnd in the same place; he scratches at the slippery rim of the fountain. Unable to climb out, he whines pite- ously. I fish him out by his silky ears. He shakes himself, shakes water on my shoes, and the lady in mauve rises to thank me. Who ever remembers words spoken at twilight? She spoke the soft Italian tongue, and I replied in kind. Why, as I came from the shores of Malta, should I forget French in favor of the tongue of Dante and d'Annunzio? The little tawny dog followed us. I learned that he is called Jimmino. Deep eyes, a face which was not pretty but which I thought to be more beautiful than beauty, was sometimes raised to mine. We walked along together, both weary. Our words were vague, and yet each one found its mark. I understood my own fatigue ; but what was this woman 's with the tragic face? We had not told each other our secrets, and yet it seemed that for each other we had no more secrets. She was beautifully dressed, in rare and simple material. Her jewels were real. Night had enveloped us when we reached the gates of the town. You wish to know what we said to each other on the way? I do not remember. Under an electric light in the street, we pressed each other's hands; her eyes dominated her pale face, and I thought her fingers trembled. Wlio is this IN THE ADRIATIC 87 passer-by whom perhaps I shall never see again, and will she take her place in the company of the shadows who people the life of the sailor? I do not even know her name. On the bridge my successor in the watch comes to replace me. ** Speed, twelve knots,'' I say to him. ^* Route, to the south. We have passed the light at Bari. Range of the guns, fifteen hundred meters. De- flection, forty-four and fifty-six. Light wind from southwest. Storm continues on the whole horizon. Nothing in sight. A good watch to you!" And I go down to my cabin. Perhaps after two hours of confession on paper, I shall find oblivion for this chaos in which my dreams are tossed. But I must sleep, for in six hours I stand watch again, and the folly of the mind must not be allowed to weaken the body. 3 November, four o'clock in the afternoon. Well, no! Sleep did not come this morning, and all these dreams came near ending in a fatal nightmare. After a few hours of unquiet rest, I had to rise, make a hasty toilet, and swallow what food I could before resuming the look-out. In the middle of the day I found myself on the bridge I had left in darkness a few hours before. The sea was silvery in a bright sun. In a spreading line the 88 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA three cruisers continued tlieir course towards the southern end of the Adriatic. Behind us, almost invisible on the horizon, the smoke of the ** naval army'' made a black smudge. On board, every- one not on watch was taking a feiesta, getting con- solation in sleep for the disappointments of the preceding day. But dozens of eyes were watch- ing this calmest of seas. Light mists, idle as the feathers of birds, moved here and there on the blue sea. A few thousand meters away the Ernest Renan followed a parallel course. Suddenly in the streaks of foam appeared some- thing whiter. My glass at once followed this wrinkle on the water ; one would have said it was a jet of steam, glistening in the sunlight. I hesi- tated a few moments. Perhaps I had been deceived by the fin of a porpoise swimming at the surface. But the memory of drills during peace-times set before my eyes the wake of a periscope, and I hesitated no longer. **0n watch! To port! Eange, eight hundred meters ! Deflection, forty ! The three engines ahead full ahead! Close the port stanchions! Open fire!" The cruiser leaps. Below, the men on watch close the port stanchions. The volley of guns goes off, and the shells fall round that white mov- ing spot. They burst like balls of snow on a blue wall. All the men wake from their siesta, the ofi&cers come on deck. At several meters from m THE ADRIATIC 89 our hull passes tlie flaky line of a launched tor- pedo. It has missed us, but a big 194 shell, fired from one of our turrets, bursts just above the periscope, which rises, sinks, rises and sinks again, like a wounded animal which lifts itself and falls back. And then we see nothing more. The blue water shows only its usual indolence. Prom the Ernest Renan comes to us a burst of hurrahs across the air; they have seen the shell tear up the water, and have decided that the explosion destroyed the submarine. We move rapidly, so rapidly that in a very few moments the cruiser is far away from the deadly spot. The guns turn and follow, ready to fire again, but nothing more appears. '* Cease fire! Watch ended! Open the port stanchions ! Eeturn to course ! The tliree engines at sixty revolutions!" In a few seconds the cruiser resumes its watch. It has just proved that it cannot be caught nap- ping, and everything falls back into what appears to be somnolence, but a somnolence with eyes wide open. Have I sunk an Austrian submarine I I shall never know. This deceitful enemy that hides itself to strike, and hides itself to die! One at least will not attack the precious battleships which follow us. Towards the east a few minutes later the Jules Ferry, a cruiser with four stacks, which has been reconnoitering on the other side of the horizon, 90 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA signals that a torpedo from an invisible submarine has passed a few meters from its hull. So there were at least two of these invisible enemies, and it was the cruisers that baffled their attempt. The Commander-in-Chief can descend fearlessly the path which we have just swept clear. What does one feel on learning in the space of less than a minute that a cruiser worth fifty- millions and carrying a thousand men has been dependent for life on the promptness of an order or the intelligence of a maneuver 1 I know noth- ing about it, and all those who have knowTi great responsibility in this war will understand what I mean. A little later on, it seems to me, one feels afraid of the peril that is now past. It presents itself under terrifying colors which in the moment of action one did not see at all. Courage is easy enough; you need only get out of yourself, think of others, and everything be- comes simple. Afterwards you are much fatigued. After yesterday's disillusionment, I doubted my being able to sleep. To-day, after this danger, I am sure to escape insomnia. The phantoms of the past will not knock at the door of my memory, for I have lived through a great moment of my life. I may have saved the Waldech-Rousseau! Otranto Canal, 11 November. Outside or near the shore, in a peaceful harbor or in a roadstead whipped by the winds, a naval IN THE ADRIATIC 91 collier speaks the WaldecJc-Rousseau. For several hours coal by the hundreds of tons passes from the collier to the ship. After so many days of watching and weariness, and of stoking the fires, this is the rest which our crews taste. We coal in front of Corfu or Paxo, or in some cove of Epirus. Each week our insatiable furnaces de- mand a thousand tons of coal ; each week we burn them up in our futile promenades across the Adriatic sea. From dawn to dusk our sailors fill sacks in the bottom of the collier's hold; their shovels and picks labor in the bosom of the black stuff; windlasses raise the clumps of sacks, and cast them on the deck. There other gangs take charge, lower the sacks by chutes into the bowels of the WaldecJc, dragging them by hand through the labyrinth of passageways, and into the gaping jaws of the stores ; at the edge of the store-room two men with powerful muscles turn out with one stroke a hundred kilos of coal which fall down into the darkness amid a cloud of blinding dust. Crouched at the bottom of the store-room, other sailors receive this dark avalanche, pouring minute after minute; they direct it, pile it up in empty corners, and, stumbling on the piles, their eyes burned by the tar, their mouths poisoned with soot, prepare the way for the new torrents which are coming. You would imagine yourself in a cavern of the 92 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA infernal regions. Around the cruiser and the collier a thick halo sullies the atmosphere. Bound together by heavy hawsers, the two boats roll on the waves or in the wind like two black swans. On the decks and broadsides you see only dark forms which move with sluggish gestures; bare feet travel furtively the carpet of coal spread over the steel; electric lights under a black film throw a strange and somew^hat sinister light ; human be- ings pass, loaded with heavy sacks, knees bowed, eyes and teeth white in a perspiring negro mask; they pant and blow and suffer. Their muscles are aching with this work fit only for horses, and beg for mercy. Yet they sing. At the moment when the cloud is heaviest, the odor most acrid, and the light most livid, a hoarse young voice rises out of the gloom. It attempts the first verses of some gay song : * ^ The Young Girls of Eochelle ! ' ' *' Queen Pomare!'^ ^^The Gray Lark!'' Eight and left, high and low, invisible singers respond. The coalholes become alive ; behind the partitions of steel a smothered baritone joins its raucous tones to those of a tenor armed wdth a pick. And in the immense maze of the holds, the broadsides and corridors, flows a harmony, at once sad and joyous, a memory of France in days of peace. There is no conductor and no metronome, but the singing is in good time and tune. The cruiser vibrates in unison with it. When the song is ended, one hears for several IN THE ADRIATIC 93 minutes only indistinct breathings and stampings. Sack by sack the tons of coal stock the holds, and the monotonous rain accompanies the intermin- able labor. For Nature begins to grow somber. The worst weather has not come yet, but the sky suggests the melancholy of winter; the South Wind some- times gives place to the North Wind, and we have bitter hours. Then the coalings are unspeakably dismal ; our beautiful cruiser is clothed in a dusty cloak which trails over her hull like a mourning mantle; the smoke from the stacks mingles with the gusts of coal dust which the w^ind and rain plaster over the guns, the cordage, and one's own skin. Floods of despair seem to descend from the clouds. To chase away these evil impressions we go to talk with the Captain and the officers of the collier. They come from Cardiff or from New- castle, are familiar with the ports of England and France, have seen our French comrades and the British fleets ; they bring us news of the vast world. We listen to them eagerly. They too belong to the great fraternity of navigators, and the tales they tell us are like the Odyssey we live. Up there, far up, between Norway and Scotland, the English cruisers are keeping inde- fatigable watch, and they are less fortunate than we. For there the sea is sinister. Around Eng- land, without pause or respite, in terrible storms, 94 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA the Allied destroyers prowl everywhere. Covered with spray, laboring through the fog, they con- tend with the sea mthout meeting any other enemy; and the fleet of Admiral Jellicoe dances attendance like our own *^ naval army!'' Igno- minious and cowardly, the German enemy hides himself, just as here the Austrian burrows away. The proud descendants of Nelson await a new Trafalgar, and to them the prudence of the Ger- mans opposes only hidden enemies, the sub- marines. As for our French brothers, the de- stroyers and Atlantic cruisers, they journey from Calais to Brest without adventure; convoyers of transports, policemen of the waves — customs- officers of contraband, they do not experience the excitements of the Adriatic hunts. Their task, more obscure than ours, is also more ungrateful. And since the happiness of man is measured by the unhappiness of others, we are happy in the Adriatic in spite of our disillusion and our exile. But the day passes. The Captain of the collier offers us the latest papers, \ve give him the last wireless messages, and we must separate. Whether or not the coaling is ended, the cruiser never stands still during the night. We cast off the hawser, the screw^s turn ; the crew, black with coaldust, go to rest their weary limbs after the crushing toil of the boilers, the engines, and the watch. And during the rest of the night the cruiser makes a hundred or a hundred and fifty IN THE ADRIATIC 95 miles. It matters not whether the sea is calm or disturbed, the sky clear or rainy. Men and officers observe the same vigilance as they did yesterday and will to-morrow ; every boat that is sighted is chased, stopped, visited; one takes no account of weariness or sleep. One goes steadily on, always steadily on. And if the thousand or twelve hundred tons necessary are not taken on in a single day, we return next day to the collier. The rendezvous is not at the same place, but in quite a distant roadstead or bay, for fear that the enemy, fore- warned, will send us a submarine while we are practically helpless. In all haste we finish empty- ing the coal; the holds are full to the jaws, the sailors take courage and forget their weariness in a supreme effort. We fortify ourselves again for eight or ten days, for the excitements of the Adriatic, the dangers of the sea and the torpedoes. Everything is impregnated with coal. There is no barrier or filter against this microbe. Bath- ing in floods of water, brushing and scraping does not chase it from its lairs. In our food our teeth encounter crunching lumps ; our hair is tarnished with a black cosmetic ; and the folds of our whitest linen conceal little hoards of soot. Our whitest linen! Is there a world where they know the pleasure of immaculate shirts'? Of handkerchiefs pure as snow? When we set out, each one of us took along only what was strictly necessary. Our 96 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA boxes are few, and in a day we soil more than in a week of peace. "Where are the washes of other days? where the polite laundresses of the ports, who washed the linen and cambric in twenty-four hours? Our cruises last eight or nine w^eeks. How many times already I have washed in my basin two handkerchiefs and a shirt so covered with coal dust that the white places spotted it! Like all my comrades I have a sailor at my service. But he is a good gunner, who only looks after me when his duties do not call him elsewhere. Every day he has ten hours of lookout and three or four of preparation of materials. Must he not sleep and eat? When he is free, I try to take a few hours of broken rest on my bunk, and he respects my sleep. When my cabin is empty, he is watching behind his gun. Each one of us washes what he can. The soft water we use does not come from clear fountains, but from the boiler tubes which distil the sea- water ; it stands in great metal casks, it is filled with rust and retains the color of it. In vain we throw in soap and borax; the washed linen turns yellow as if powdered with mustard, and it is never quite dry. The falling rains, the smoke which sweeps the deck, do not permit hanging it outdoors. In my cabin my gunner has stretched two strings between the port hole and the moulding above my bunk, and up there the linen dries as well as it can. Sometimes, while I sleep or work, an idle drop falls on my IN THE ADRIATIC 97 face or my paper ; other times the constant vibra- tion of the cruiser throws the linen to the coal- stained linoleum, and the whole thing has to be done over again. In the ^* naval army/' as in the trenches, nothing is clean but the wind. As in the trenches, too, we try to kill time, which lags so terribly. The study of the military map is misleading; we are accustomed, as each communique is received by wireless, to stick flags on the Western and Eastern fronts. The pins change every day by a quarter or a tenth of a millimeter ; they have made so many holes in the paper that one can no longer read the names, and we have given up taking them out. Bundles of papers arrive in each mail, are quickly read and thrown aside ; they feed neither our conversation nor our reveries. We brought no books from France because we thought them superfluous in a short war, and those we have ordered for these interminable cruises have not yet come. Letters are quickly written when one has nothing much to say and the censor forbids details. What have we to do except play? Some spend their hours off in Patience; it is all one to them whether the combinations come out or not. Others bend over the chessboard, or become absorbed in bridge. But these are unusual kinds of chess and bridge; no one ever has time to finish a game. The service, the watch, meals, the time for sleep- ing, interrupt you; you leave the chess game or 98 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA the rubber where it is, and another officer takes your place. A game commenced mth certain partners ends with a completely new set. Winning or losing does not matter; one has time only to kill, and must think of nothing else. Adriatic Sea, 16 November, For several weeks now the monotony of our vagabondage has been broken by a pleasing dis- traction — divine service celebrated every Sunday. For the duration of the war the Government has appointed on every admiral's ship and every hospital ship a volunteer chaplain. Ours arrived the middle of October. His name is Mgr. Bolo. Without regret he has left his care of feminine souls, his delightful home in Touraine, and has sought the hard life of the sailors. After a long voyage he appeared at some bay in the Ionian Isles where we were coaling, and climbed the iron ladder of our ship in the thick of the rain and soot. For several days, while he was bewildered by the mazes of the cruiser, or breathless in his stifling cabin, he might have wondered into what world he had got. But a serene soul dwelt in his athletic body; he quickly got over his confusion, and in order to preach better to the sailors, he wanted to learn their trade. He is constantly asking questions; our jargon, the complicated machinery, its mechanism and control, do not repel him. His talk is enlivened IN THE ADRIATIC 99 with racy words; in him the sailors recognize a brother. He is one of the crowd. Although his hands are accustomed to priestly gestures, he takes part in the embarkations. Each time we put the gig or longboat in the water, he takes his place beside the coxswain and tries to direct the crew. He soon learned the usual orders, hoAV to manage the sail and the oar, and how to make a difficult landing or tack. In a few weeks he could safely be entrusted with the direction of a ship's boat in all the difficulties of current, wind and waves ; he directed it with confident voice and hand. Then we made him undergo the same ex- amination as the able seamen, and if it would please him to have the title in partihiis, we will deliver to him the certificate which will make him a real priest-sailor. During the cruises he tries to pierce to the soul of that mysterious race, the sailors. For those who have preached to country and city folk the task is not easy. The sailors, artless and at the same time instructed by their travels, used to danger and to duty, do not take to specious rhet- oric or childish advice. Hyperbole and platitude displease them equally. They have minds like the fishermen and workingmen whom of old John the Baptist or Jesus persuaded. One must search their heart rather than their reason, their im- agination rather than their intelligence. In this way the preaching may bring them some simple 100 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA truths, admonisli their rather loose impulses, and give them resignation for their fatiguing tasks. Every Sunday religious service is held on board; it is a simple and dignified ceremony. Around the portable altar, the flags make stained windows; the arch of the church is replaced by the low whitewashed ceiling between decks; to right and left the partitions of the cabins, the white bodies of the stacks form the metallic walls of our temple; variegated funnels, valves, well- polished faucets, throw out sparkling reds and yellows; chairs for the officers, benches for the crew, cover eight or ten meters of the space. Any- one who wishes attends. A bugle call announces the Mass, and anyone not on duty may be present or may excuse himself. While the priest recites, one hears the respiration of the engines below, the snorting of the ventilators ; over head on deck tramp the sailors of the watch; the great waves of the Adriatic slap against the hull, and the quiver of the moving ship makes the altar tremble. Now and then there is music, old liturgic airs and modern themes. The priest addresses the sailors. He does not need to teach them heroism, to make fine phrases. The instinct of the sailors is surer. They are con- vinced by eternal truths, discussed with sincerity. Our Bretons, our Provencals, listen receptively to the gospel of the day. When they hear simple words, like those the Galilean used two thousand IN THE ADRIATIC |01 years ago, their lips are parted, tlieir deep eyes become absorbed, tlieir souls grow better. But if they hear argument, they make an effort to understand, they knit their brows, they discuss within their o^\ti minds. They reflect what is good and clear and simple ; one is sure to touch them when one seeks their hearts. The Domino, salvam fac rempuhlicam is played. The priest passes between the rows on his way to his cabin, and the congregation disperses. Five minutes later, benches and flags have disappeared, the place has recovered its solitude and its calm. The sailors before the engines or behind the guns remember with pleasure what they have just heard. Believers or not, they know that sincere words have been spoken and yield themselves to their influence. Thus, in early ages, in the clearings or the fields, the apostles must have preached to rude peoples. They sowed the seed that ripened throughout the centuries; their temples were no more splendid than this steel vessel which spends every Sunday traversing the sea. Near Santa Maria de Leuca, 17 November, We have on board an eye which never sleeps; it is the wireless. Its apparatus is buried in the depths of the ship ; a cabin hung with mattresses isolates the operators from the noise of the en- 102 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA gines, and the general confusion. Tli3 teleg- raphers listen to messages from every direction; the lowest murmurs of the electric voice do not escape their ears. The air vibrates continually. From stations far and near, from ships sailing the Atlantic or nearer waters, the calls and messages find their way; the air carries them instantaneously. The power- ful poles of the Eiffel Tower, Ireland, Germany, Italy, Constantinople, overcome the fainter mes- sages. They send out to any distance, with all their force, the official news of the conflict. If someone else is speaking too loud five hundred or a thousand kilometers away, they increase their current, swell their voices, until these interlopers are silent. There is a certain tacit agreement about their transmission. Germany does not interrupt France ; the Turk waits until Malta has finished ; Madrid, talking with Berlin, ceases when London speaks. For these great stations, controlled by the Governments, send out only the more im- portant messages, those which the entire world ought to hear; they wish neither to be confused nor to confuse others. Communiques from the front, events at sea, diplomatic or financial trans- actions, apologias or recriminations, circulate in all languages. One can be sure the papers will not publish them. If by chance the reader finds them in his daily newspaper, it will be a week or IN THE ADRIATIC 103 two later, under some disconnected, unrecogniz- able form. The sailors, however, get all the news. While the censor limits the rest of the world to meager and belated information, we know it all already. We can rejoice or mourn in ad- vance of the rejoicings and grief of millions. Ireland announces a simple strategic movement of the Russians, but Norddeich — the German sta- tion—echoes everywhere the claim of a German victory, with an advance and the taking of thou- sands of prisoners. Norddeich relates briefly some happening at sea, but Eiffel makes her most powerful sparks crackle as she sends to Moscow, to Terra Nueva, to the Soudan and the Red Sea, the news of a naval disaster to some German ships. How soon and in what distorted form will the public read this news? At every hour of day and night we receive the messages, brutal and imperious. We cannot be deceived. Even our enemies take no pains to prevaricate in these messages to am- bassadors, consuls, and their innumerable agents who uphold German prestige throughout the world. It is of the utmost importance for Ger- many that these men receive honest information with which to make a case for their negotiations. There is nothing in common between the rhap- sodies of the papers or the Wolff Agency, and its wireless information. At the most, in the case of 104- THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA defeats, it carefully renders a vague account. But this vagueness makes us prick up our ears, and in a few hours London or Paris confirms the Eng- lish or French victory. Outside of chancelleries and Government offices there are no maps kept up to date except those on ships of war. In the wardroom we argue over the flags that are placed at the precise spot where they should be ; our predictions and our hopes are rarely deceived. And if secrecy did not bind us to silence, we could tell our friends much news. But underneath these important voices of the wireless are whispers of many lesser tones, just as in the tropical forest the roaring of the lions does not silence the sounds of insects and rodents ; this undertone of smaller voices is what gives the jungle its deep voice. The thin voices of the ships that speak to us give the sea air a mys- terious animation. A great liner on its way from tropic seas announces its passage by some frequented cape. A torpedo-boat on patrol near Gibraltar tells Port Said of the ships it has sighted. This torpedo-boat's apparatus is not powerful enough to call the other end of the Mediterranean; it signals Bizerta or Toulon, which answer it, take its message, and send it like a ball rebounding on the stations at Malta, on the masts of a French cruiser in the Ionian, on the wires of a Eussian ship in the M^qslh Sea, IN THE ADRIATIC 105 until it finally reaches the station at Port Said. A mail-boat gives information about its position ; a squadron asks for orders; a naval attache or ambassador sends word about espionage; the Resident General at Morocco is sending grain to Montenegro; the patrols warn of a submarine in sight ; colliers ask us to tell them where they will find certain battleships : the whole Mediterranean knocks at the wireless station of the Commander- in-Chief, like a crowd of subalterns at the door of the officer who is giving out orders. And the Commander-in-Chief on his splendid battleship — a moving office — decides, orders, di- rects ; the sonorous rays shoot out from the mast where floats his flag that represents France, and through space, far and near, through the stations which relay them farther on, travels their echo to the ear of the recipients. There is no disorder, no discord, in these mes- sages. Just as with the players in a well directed orchestra, all the speakers speak on the minute, at the very instant they should; watch in hand, the telegraphers wait for their moment, and at the highest speed send their dashes, short and long ; at the end of their period whether they have finished or not, they stop and wait, for imme- diately a distant voice begins to play its tune, and would complain violently if some one pre- vented its talking. The Mediterranean is divided 106 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA into sectors, and the time distributed between them, so that no one is allowed to speak if the schedule requires him to be silent. Offenders, moreover, are soon recognized. Just as the finger of a blind man acquires surprising sensibility, the telegraphers come to know the timber, sharpness of tone and musical richness of these babblers they have never seen. For the initiated the electric radiations have a person- ality like human talk. Two stations, two ships, have distinct voices and deliveries. This one sputters, that one speaks slowly and gravely; the sound of one resembles a match struck on sand paper, another buzzes like a fly, another sings sharply like a mosquito. It is a magic concert. In his padded cabin the receiver hears and makes out the whisperings of the grasshopper, the scrap- ings of violins, the rattle of beetles, the frying of boiling oil, all the sounds which the fantastic electricity reproduces hundreds of miles away. It jumps, stops, recommences; one would call it a symphony of goblins in a boundless land. And yet the least of these vibrations is a messenger of war, of life, or of death. They are careful to use secret languages. There is not a word or phrase in this continual inter- change which anyone could interpret without the keys upon which depends the safety of the ships. Nothing but cipher circulates through the air. All the combinations which the human mind could IN THE ADRIATIC 107 invent, all the ingenuities devised by specialists, have been prepared beforehand. We improve on the arrangements of ciphers; for fear that the enemy, after receiving pages and pages of ciphered texts, will succeed in forcing the lock, the ** naval army" does not long maintain the same keys. It modifies them, turns them about, rubs them down ; and the officers in charge of the translation are like travelers who change languages at every frontier. Furthermore, everyone does not speak the same language; sometimes they address one another without anyone 's being able to understand. From Englishman to Englishman, Frenchman to Frenchman, minister to admiral, admiral to cruiser, commander-in-chief to the least of his satellites, ambassador to battleship, consulate to shore station — between these leap dialogues in unknown patois. The curious can listen, but they will learn nothing. "As worthy descendants of the Gauls, whom Caesar describes as stopping travelers en route to get news from them, we are all eager to know the message of the ciphers which we read without our codes ^ being able to interpret them. Labor lost! Perhaps one of us has patience, enough, or works long enough, to de- cipher a secret not meant for him. He is happy. He acts important. He thinks he is very superior to have known how to listen at the keyholes. But 108 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA some fine day the key whose secret he has learned becomes useless in his hand; it gives him only words without order, nonsense. The two talkers have amused themselves with changing the lock, and everything has to be done again. The naval allies dread enemies with ears that are too wide open as much as indiscreet friends with too long tongues. And it is a good thing they do. Besides, we have enough to do in translating the intelligible messages. In addition to the lieutenant of the chief vessel of the patrol and the chief of the watch and his second, there is a fourth officer who spends his whole time looking over files of texts received by the wireless. At his side are codes and dictionaries containing every word, phrase or signal which he needs to know. He spends four hours translating the num- bers into French. English, Russians, French, Montenegrins, Serbs, all have something im- portant, something vital, to say. During the day a hundred or even two hundred telegrams arrive, and are transcribed in blankbooks; the sender, the destination, the number, the hour of transmis- sion, are all carefully noted. These are the archives of our naval Odyssey. A wireless is often addressed to the Waldech- Rousseau, The station that is calling sends out into space the name of our cruiser. We respond. From shore and from the ships come unexpected instructions and questions. In the dark night we IN THE ADRIATIC 109 transmit to the Commander-in-Cliief whatever message demands a reply. The Commander con- siders, weighs carefully the words which he will send back ; the officer in charge of the translating writes it out clearly and concisely in cipher. And a few minutes later the masts of tae ship flash out their long and short dashes into the midst of the darkness. It is the answer that we are sending. The wires stretched between the masts become phosphoresjcent, the sparks crackle drily, and instantaneously, at no matter what distance, the one who is calling us hears the faint echo of our voice. Thus pass the days, vibrant with this invisible busines.s. Everyone tells w^hat he knows, listens to what he ought to hear, responds when he is called. From the ocean to the Eed Sea, all the wandering ships are held together by these bands^ and the magical electric current effaces distance. But there are times when one is silent. When, on the trail of adventure, the bold vessels go up the Adriatic to the threshold of their enemy, their voices are as hidden as their path is dark. However imperious the calls, they do not reply. All about them, at Cattaro, at Lissa, in the islands and arsenals, the telegraphic spies w^ould hear their voices as they approached. Dark and silent, they move without speaking. All chinks are stopped up in the cabin where the men listen. All along the route, in these furtive hours, they no THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA catch mysterious conversations. Some Austrian spy in Italy or tlie Greek Islands has seen in the twilight the departure of the French fleet towards the north. In a chimney, or cellar or well, this spy has concealed a transmitting station of which the neutrals are ignorant ; he sends brief messages which sound like a whistle. We do not under- stand the numbers, but we guess what they mean. *^The French are about to leave," ''they are leav- ing, '* *'they are in the Adriatic,'^ ''they are ap- proaching Cattaro." No French mouth is respon- sible for this hostile voice; we know it by its singing timber like a flute or a mosquito's buzz. It is the Telefunken apparatus w^hich produces this sound, which one would recognize among a thousand. All night its vibration follows us. Whence come these whispers in the darkness? By what miracle, from moment to moment, do we hear these sonorous flashes w^hicli talk about noth- ing but us? "The French are passing Brindisi;" "they are passing Bari;'' "they are turning to- wards the northeast;'* "about two o'clock they will be near Pelagosa." In the distance vibra^te the responses, which become more and more dis- tinct. It is Cattaro, Pola, the Dalmatian Isles, awaiting us. Yes, we move in a circle of sinister spirits, and these Germans have prodigious ears. Their high shrill murmur, undecipherable yet very clear, darts round us as we advance through the dark- IN THE ADRIATIC 111 ness. Perhaps destroyers and submarines are lurking on our course. Those that have missed us in our too rapid progress telegraph the next een- tinel, and he rushes toward us with his torpedo ready. Where is he? Behind or in front? Gunners, do not sleep at your guns ! Officers, bend over the empty blackness ! Cruiser, enveloped in shadow, move faster and ever faster ! These evil specters of the Adriatic are lying in wait for you ; the whistling of their ghostly lips prepares your destruction ! But do not be afraid. They will wear themselves out in the pursuit, and to-morrow you will be at the post where France desires you. But what cruiser, which battleship, is destined to receive the fatal wound from these singing demons ? TV est of Corfu, 26 November. The naval struggle in which the Germans pre- tended to imitate the great corsairs of France has ended with the destruction of the E widen by an Australian cruiser in the Bay of Bengal. The armed liners — the Kaiser Wilhelm, Cecilie, Cape Trafalgar, and many others — ^have already paid the penalty for their futile audacity. They thought they could terrorize sailors and starve out nations ; but in fact the resources of life are going to flow more abundantly than ever into the markets of the Allies. The navy is the guardian of the granaries. We 112 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA already knew it who frequented the important routes in times of peace, but five months of labor have proved to us that we never realized its full significance. We have seen pass us, and have protected, in- numerable freighters loaded with grain for bread, with animals for meat, and steel for the manu- facture of shells. The warships have freed the routes which supply our champions with food, and have closed up the routes of the enemy. How many months longer will this enterprise take? The lips of the future are sealed. But the cruisers and torpedo-boats, from Norway to the ^gean Sea, do not shrink from their task. A nation at war requires some of its defenders to labor in assuring a living to those who fight. The deeds of sailors are not brilliant and showy; and men are not grateful to them for their fatigue. What matter? If this obscure work of the ships keeps the tears of famine from being added to the grief of mourning, it will not have been without a glory of its own ; the smiles of happy little children will be our reward. But I am forgetting the Emden and the corsair liners. Like the sea my imagination is somewhat capricious. These restless corsairs are of a piece with the general parody which German Kultur offers us. What would the Jean Barts and the Duquesnes say to the bandits that are spewed forth from Kiel and Hamburg? In the great IN THE ADRIATIC 113 period of Dunkirk and Saint Male, pirates at- tacked magnificent galleys, sailing before the wind to Spain and the Thames. Like the brave foxes they were, they reveled in bold and clever combat. They were the prodigal sons of the sea. They played an honorable game, and never took pride in mere blind massacre. One can imagine how the terrors of the sea would have been increased if a few years more of peace had permitted Germany to forge new weapons. Of her liners and cruisers she has picked the most powerful and rapid, and has said to them: *'Kill, sink, and run away!'' Nothing is sacred to the barbarians of Rheims and Lou- vain, neither cathedrals nor the routes of the sea. What would not have been the horrors of this privateering war if William II himself or one of his lieutenants had had control of these mari- time massacres? Before them the grisly imagina- tion of the Middle Ages would have paled. What crimes will the Germans not commit when they realize that they are conquered? Honor to the officers of the Emden! They have destroyed ships, but they nobly refused to commit the crimes commanded by their master. They generously spared the lives of the sailors who were at their mercy, and blood does not dishonor the tale of their exploits. Doubtless the praise of blood has disgraced them at Berlin, but the fraternity of sailors does not condemn them. 114 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA England accepted the cliallenge. Over the vast expanse of ocean she deployed her cruisers, launched them forth on the path of the marauders, and ordered: *^ Suppress them!'* No pardon, no weakness! The Emperor at Berlin had revived the law of blood; so one took vengeance on his satellites. They all disappeared. The last victim, the Emden, suffered the doom which it had so often inflicted. It had hunted down twenty harmless steamers, and was then in pursuit of a British convoy. To-day, broken, ly- ing on an Indian reef, it serves as a reminder to wandering sailors. First they will salute this heroic prow, which knew how to die and how to redeem its enterprise from ignominy. Then they will give thanks to the fate that had them born of another race than the German. Strait of Itliaca, 30 November, The Commander-in-Chief has ordered the Wal- dech-Rousseau to leave its Adriatic station — Otranto, Fano, Albania — for an anchorage in the Ionian Isles at Arkudi. We go a short distance out to sea before ap- proaching the maze of islands. To the north dis- appear Corfu, Paxo, and Anti-Paxo ; to the south rise Saint Maure and Cephalonia; the great wall of the Orient covers the east; all the landmarks of our course are slowly displaced, giving way to others. IN THE ADRIATIC 115 The officers of the watch pore over the chart. This great white sheet with its fine print indicates the contours, the data, the dangers, the routes. To those who do not know how to read it, it is nonsense; but its marks are our gospel. By its fine and intricate lines we can foretell how easy our voyage will be and where the dangers lurk. We sometimes think of the mariners of old who had no other guide than Providence. Eeading these charts we wonder whether these regions were loved or feared, and whether, before risking his life there, the pilot invoked Neptune or the Virgin of the Waves. We to-day are not so uneasy. Sky and sea are smiling. There is something treacherous in those blandishments of Nature, which recall the delights of autumn and yet suggest the coming of winter frosts. Their last tenderness is fragile. Here we are in the strait of Dukato, between Saint Maure and Cephalonia. It is a splendid boulevard. To the right, Ithaca, Ulysses' native land, lies reddish bro^\Ti under the sun ; to the left, lie jewels of rocks and liquid paths more delicate and beautiful than remote trails in the depths of woods ; before us a cluster of islands with names from the musical language of the rhapsodists — Arkudi, Meganisi, Astoko. And like a highly polished tapestry, the marvelous mountains tower above the water, blue and crowned with light. The sea has the hue of mother-of-pearl; the sky is 116 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA pale, the islands are veiled in faint color; the gods have composed these tints, outlines and places into a perfect fairyland. Space seems to have a divine soul, of unknown substance. The eyes are ravished, the blood ex- hilarated. When Homer sang the return of Ulysses, the Ionian gods gave him a flexible and sonorous language. That secret the men of our times have lost, they must pause feebly on the threshold of the inexpressible. Surely Ionia was the garden of the gods. The cruiser, slender and swift, glides between these historic shores, which have seen the barques of the Achaeans, the triremes of Rome, the Vene- tian galleys, the ships of the Crusaders and the feluccas of Barbary. In our wake have passed generations of pilots, who came from regions where the sea is evil, and who laughed with de- light in this sailors' paradise. Why should they not all — poets or merchants, pirates or soldiers — celebrate these delights and long to remain here! Blundering through schoolbooks, I have hated the very name of Ithaca; I have cursed Olympia — when it was assembled in a detestable book. Since then I have seen all the most perfect skies; my eyes have exhausted the miracle of light. And yet it is here that I place the cradle of the gods. When the fancy came to them to descend to earth, where else should they have lighted but on ma- jestic islet, like Juno on a steep bank made by IN THE ADRIATIC 117 Vulcan? Was it not in this fair atmosphere that Apollo shook out his radiant locks? And is it not this sea that gave birth to Venus? How happy he would be who could catch the secret of the outline and color play on this sea? Her fish are more beautiful in tint and form than the loveliest animals. Her plants have a rich metallic luster, with lines and curves that no land plants approach. The men who frequent her, the cities she laves, are fortunate. All beauty comes from the sea ; every vital germ has floated in her depths. And the subtle intuition of the race of Homer, who gave divine form to symbols, made the god- dess of life and beauty spring from the Ionian waves. Aphrodite! Triumphant, naked, I see you emerging from the transparent blue sea: you stretch your soft limbs under the caress of light. You open your enchanted eyes upon an earth where men, harassed by the ugliness of their souls and the futility of their labors, stretch their hands madly toward your eternal beauty! You go to meet them. It was here you made your first ap- pearance on our earth. Blessed be the Greeks, your sponsors, who chose this cradle for you ! And at this moment, when yonder on the field of murder the German ruffians are trying to de- stroy everything that is beautiful, everything to which you have given birth, I understand more clearly the patrimony which the French are called 118 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA upon to defend. Aphrodite, you extend across the ages your protection to France, your child. From this spot have come that clear thought, that delicate feeling, that fertile vision, which you loved in the people who nourished you. As a humble defender of that beauty, born of the bridal of sea and sun, a Frenchman thanks you for what you have given him, for all that which is now in danger of destruction; he salutes you in passing, Ionian Aphrodite, and wishes he could see the very circle of gold where the Greeks have placed your birth. Do not think it is the force of antique memory alone that has produced this adoration of mine. From the bridge where I am carefully guiding the cruiser through the windings Ulysses loved, I see on deck a thousand sailors, silent and attentive. They have stopped talking and laughing, and no longer turn their backs to the too familiar sea. To-day a great silence hovers over these Bretons, these Flemings and Provengals. In what naive way are they absorbing the beauty before their eyes? They are not acquainted with the poetry and the prose which have endowed me with this ancient heritage. There they are, however, with wide eyes, lost in admiration. Beauty could not be celebrated more significantly than in this stupor of theirs. Their souls, I imagine, im- prisoned in dark dungeons, unconsciously regret the speed of our passage. Their emotions are IN THE ADRIATIC 119 profounder than mine; theirs rise from depths where are no words to translate the mystery. When you do not understand a thing, you discuss it; but you are silent when it is revealed. All the sailors are silent. Beauty has just made itself one of their souls' memories. 'At sea off the Peloponnesus , 2 December. After so many weeks of cruising, without con- tact with the world, we had hoped to enjoy a few days of rest at Malta, a favor which the Com- mander-in-Chief grants to weary ships. We cherished the illusion that he had had us come so that he might deliver his communications to us and send us quickly on our mission. But in the navy one must never hope unless one wishes to be deceived. Hardly had we arrived at the anchor- age of Arkudi when the WaldecJc-Roiisseau was charged vdth an urgent mission on the other side of the Balkan peninsula, to Saloniki. Regretfully she takes the southern route, winds around Greece and the Peloponnesus, turns towards the north, and through the mazes of the ^gean Sea seeks the road to Thessaly. Our faces and eyes begin to show their weari- ness. It is not without betraying the strain that the stokers before their furnaces, the engineers before their pistons, the gunner lookouts before their guns, have lived this interminable length of days and nights, alternating between heavy labor 120 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA and broken rest. The air between decks becomes heavier and more stifling with each passing day; dust and heat lie over everything, and one is as weary after a heavy sleep as at night on a rail- road train with all the windows closed. Everyone wonders whether we shall ever have the pleasure of engaging these Austrians or Turks, who hide in corners out of reach and send only submarines against us. The submarines are there ; they are everywhere, they are nowhere. We stretch out our arms in the empty air; we strain our eyes in looking for the hiding enemy ; and sud- denly into the side of the vessel passes the wound that has no mercy. And it all happens in silence, for the naval warfare of this age is dumb. I should only be tedious if I told in detail all the vain pursuits of our chases in the upper Ad- riatic, of patrols by night, of the sunrise, the light, the dusk. The days stretch hand in hand in a gray undulating vista across the w^ater, at the end of which vanish the last hours w^e passed in France. The Commander-in-Chief has cheered our de- jection. The mission which takes us to Saloniki will take us later to Marseilles. That at least is the hope contained in our instructions. And we mil be allowed to take a rest while w^e are in France. Everyone builds visions, calculates the time, and persuades himself that the Christmas holidays will find him again with his family. Al- IN THE ADRIATIC 121 ready fathers seem to be caressing the fair heads of their children before the fireplace, husbands and lovers are trembling with a grave joy at the thought of this homeward voyage, a simple enough episode in our vagabond career, but charged with emotion because of the suffering of yesterday and the dangers of to-morrow. No one, however, dares complete these castles in Spain; too many miscalculations have marked our existence, as it is. As for me, who for eleven years have passed no single Christmas Eve in France, can I believe that a freak of war will grant me this happiness denied me by peace? While we wait, each turn of the screws takes us further from France. Sparta, Cythera, the Cy- clades, Corinth and the Pirajus; these are the names which the officer of the watch gives to the lands that in turn come to salute us from the horizon. At the end of the map are marked the Dardanelles and Constantinople, other boundaries of this world war. Our cruiser has left the re- gions of danger in the Adriatic, and advances as fast as possible towards the waspish Turk. We move among beautiful scenery. Our eyes seek out a lighthouse on some island of celebrated name ; our lips pronounce the name of some cape which the poets have made famous ; we maneuver our engines and helm in an archipelago of taber- nacles : Cythera, the temple of Venus, and Deios, the homeland of Apollo; Sparta, with austere 122 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA countenance, and Athens, the rose of antiquity. Why cannot the sailor enjoy this dry, pure December weather? Under his feet the noble cruiser quivers. During his lookout, he smokes a light fragrant cigaret, and his thoughts, fluid like these pale curls of smoke, in happier times would have drifted back to the legendary epochs of old. But no human evil darkens the shining skies. For Austrian or Turk we must not cease to watch. I do not dream of complaining of that, for undoubtedly these hours portend violent home- sickness for me. Gulf of Salonihiy 7 December. According to the schedule of watches I am in charge of the entry into the Gulf of Saloniki. From two to six o'clock in the morning I have directed the ship in this funnel of water, without lighthouses, with treacherous currents, at the end of which lies the much coveted city, that apple of discord between the Eastern peoples. A treacherous fog sleeps on the surface of the water and shrouds the shores. Above it the moon dominates the keights and sheds its idle sparkling rays on the snows of Mount Olympus, Pelion and Ossa. Between the mists on land and the starry mantle of the sky, these peaks, whitened by the snow and by the decay of their own glory, keep watch in the deep silence. They are the only guide of the sailor lost in the fog; the officer of IN THE ADRIATIC 123 the watch and the young midshipman who assists him do not take their eyes off these tutelary presences. It is very cold. Towards four o'clock a freezing wind blows from Thessaly, and sharpens the edges of the snow to shining razors. My hands freeze on the glasses, and my eyes shed tears under the north wind. But one must forget such miseries. A faint paleness lingers in the East, and spreads over the sky to our right. Straight ahead appear low plains, dotted mth fires. The dawn comes, a moment full of difficulty and danger. My mid- shipman and I steer the course among the shoals. At the moment when the last tack opens before us the roadstead of Saloniki, my successor comes to relieve me. The sunrise has taken possession of our world; the marvel of an Eastern morning emerges from the shadows of the night. I go quickly and drink a steaming cup of coffee, and come on deck again, to admire as simple spectator the panorama which I approached as pilot. A stretch of frozen water, girdled with sands and marshes, reflects an uncertain light. Our prow breaks a way through the film of ice and broken splinters fall back on either side, like the crackling of frying cakes. Towards the mouth of the Vardar, legions of birds are skating and tumbling on this crust in which their claws can get no hold — the tumult of their voices disturbs the peaceful morning: fluttering moorhens, 124 THE VAGABONDS OF THE SEA raucous herons, ducks in triangular flocks, wake and swarm about; rose-colored flamingoes poise themselves, motionless and pensive, on their needle-like legs, only a few meters from our course. As our cruiser, sparkling with dew and glisten- ing in the cold, penetrates farther into the white fog, a town emerges from the vagueness. It is still swathed in its morning gauze, its base is plunged in the fog, but its minarets offer their heads to the tints of the sunrise. One by one they show their slender outlines; soon they can no longer be counted for they form a forest of columns over the city. Surrounded by massive towers, the walls of the fortified castle on the summit of the hill are bathed in light; and be- 5^ond, stretching to the horizon, a desolate plain without trees or houses carries the eye towards Serbia, Bulgaria, Greece, or the steppes of Turkey. Our anchor falls, and tears the parchment of ice. At length, after so many miles and journeys, the cruiser halts. All Saloniki is smiling under the kiss of the sun. Close to the water, as along all the Mediterranean shores, the buildings on the quay show their black commercial signs, gold fagades of moving-picture palaces, and the white stucco and marble of hotels and banks. The streets, like dark tunnels through the mass of houses, rise from the harbor and plunge into the IN THE ADRIATIC 125 tiers of Christian and Jewish walls, up to the heights of the great amphitheater, where are massed the light blue Turkish cottages, sur- rounded by cypresses and clusters of plane trees. An Orthodox basili