sonable that we should so lie idle after the past days of strenuous
exertion in preparing for sea. The flood in the North River, dancing
under the waterside lights, invites us out to begin the homeward voyage.
Why wait?

We are not yet ready. In our lading we have store of necessities to
carry across the sea. Food, munitions and furniture of war, copper,
arms, are packed tightly in the holds: power-fuel for our warships lies
in our tanks. There is still a further burthen to be embarked--we wait a
cargo of clear-headed, strong-limbed, young citizens bound east to bear
arms in the Crusade.

They come after midnight. There are no shouts and hurrahs and
flag-waving. A high ferry-boat crosses from the west shore and cants
into the berth alongside of us. The dock shed, now clear of goods, is
used for a final muster. Encumbered by their heavy packs, they line out
to the gangways and march purposely on board. The high-strung mimicry of
jest and light heart that one would have looked for is absent. There is
no boyish call and counter-call to cloak the tension of the moment.
Stolidly they hitch their burdens to an easier posture, say '_yep_' to
the call of their company officer, and embark.

The troops on board, we lose no time in getting under way. Orders are
definite that we should pass through the booms of the Narrows at
daybreak, and join convoy in the Lower Bay with the utmost dispatch. We
back out into the North River, turn to meet the flood-tide, and steer
past the high crown of Manhattan.

[Illustration: A CONVOY IN THE ATLANTIC]

XXII

HOMEWARDS

THE ARGONAUTS

THE boat guard (one post, section A) stir and grow restive as the hour
of their relief draws on. Till now they have accepted wet quarters, the
reeling ship, black dark night with fierce squalls of rain and sleet, as
all a part of the unalterable purgatory of an oversea voyage. With a
prospect of an end to two hours' spell of acute discomfort, of hot
'kawfee,' dry clothes, and a snug warm bunk, their spirits rise, and
they show some liveliness. Muffled to the ear-tips in woollens and heavy
sodden greatcoats, their rifles slung awkwardly across the bulge of
ill-fitting cork life-belts, they shift in lumbering movement from foot
to foot, or pace--two steps and a turn--between the boat-chocks of their
post. A thunder of shattering salt spray lashes over from break of a sea
on the foredeck, and they dodge and dive for such poor shelter as the
wing of