Cleared for sea.
s.s. Benvenuto, for S. Africa.

It is ten-thirty this clear, cold December day; the sun shines on the turquoise patch of open Channel which I can see from the bridge where I am testing the whistle; the tide is rising; the last cases of general cargo are being lowered into Number Two Hold, and from all along the deck rise little jets of steam, for the Mate is already trying the windlass. Once more we are “cleared for sea.” In an hour’s time the tug Implacable, mingling her frenzied little yelp with our deeper note, will pull us out into the middle of the dock, then round, and slowly through the big gates, into the locks. The hatches are already on the after combings, and sailors are spreading the tarpaulin covers over them and battening down with the big wood wedges.

“Steam for eleven o’clock,” said the Chief last night. Right! The gauges are trembling over the 150 mark now—enough to get away with. “Open everything out, Mr. McAlnwick,” says the Second as he strolls round for a last look before going on deck. I carry out the order, glance at the water-level in the boilers, and then go for’ard to see how many of my firemen are missing. They should all be here by now. No, two short still. Old Androwsky rears himself up and points with the stem of his pipe at the quay. The ship has moved away, and the two men with sailors’ bags and mattresses are watching us. They will get aboard in the locks.

The Skipper is in uniform on the bridge, and the Mate is, as usual, in a hurry. The mooring winch is groaning horribly as she hauls on a cable running from the stern to the quay while the tug pulls our head slowly round. Right down to the centre of the loading disc now. The Second Mate rushes to the fiddle-top, and shouts for “more steam”—the winch has stuck—and a howl from below tells him that the donkeyman is doing his best. As I go below again the sharp clang of the telegraph strikes my ear—“Stand by.”

The steam is warming the engine-room, and there is, in the atmosphere down here, a peculiar pungent smell, always present when getting away. It is, I suppose, the smell of steam, if steam has any smell. “Give ’er a turn, Mr. McAlnwick.” The Chief looks down from the deck-door, and I answer “All right, sir.” We are moving into the locks now, and as I start the little high-speed reversing engine the telegraph pointer moves round to “Slow ahead” with a sharp clang. “Ash-pit dampers off!” cries George the Fourth, and runs to close the drain-cocks. There is a sudden loud hammering as I open the throttle, and she moves away under her own steam. Then she sticks on a dead-centre, À point du mort, as the French mÉcaniciens say, and George rushes to open the intermediate valve, kicking open the water-service cock as he goes past it. At last she goes away, slow, solemn, and steamy, three pairs of eyes watching every link and bar for “trouble.” “All right?” asks the Chief from above, and the Second, standing by the staircase, answers “All right, sir.” Then “clang” goes the telegraph round to “Stop,” and I close the throttle. “We’re in the locks,” says George, fiddling with an oil-cup which is loose on the intermediate pressure rod. “We’re in the locks, and we soon shall cross the bar.” And as he busies himself with one thing and another he hums the tune which has swept over Swansea like some contagious disease of late:

“When there isn’t a girl about,
You do feel lonely!
When there isn’t a girl about
To call your only!
You’re absolutely on the shelf,
Don’t know what to do with yourself,
When there isn’t a girl about!”