Part 1

[Illustration: “I'll brain the first man o’ youse that tries to get out o’ this fire hole!”]

Strange Waters

By Kingsbury Scott

Old Tim Donahue demonstrates that all sea-fighters aren't in the Navy.

There was nothing much in common between Captain Daniel Sullivan and little Tim Donahue. In the fifty or more years they had been on earth together their life currents had never touched, as far as they knew, until that day on board the Aurora, and then only for the brief flash of a moment.

While there is no record that the extremely short contact had any direct bearing on Captain Sullivan’s career, it surely did bring a decided change into Tim’s existence--a change which swept him out of the ranks of everyday men into the pages of history itself.

In fact, it is doubtful if Captain Sullivan in that instant was even subconsciously aware of Tim Donahue’s existence.

When Captain Sullivan hurried down the iron ladder into the stokehold of the lake freighter Aurora, lying at her dock in Buffalo, he saw nothing to attract his attention especially to the stubby man in overalls and a grimy undershirt scooping coal from the plates into the open furnace. Neither did he particularly notice that the glare was throwing a red glow over the sweaty shoulders and iron-gray head of the smallest man in the stokehold.

But Tim, confined within the limits of a much smaller world, noticed Captain Sullivan with a touch of curiosity as to his business there.

Of course there was no real reason why Tim Donahue should know that Captain Daniel Sullivan was representing the United States Government, nor that Captain Sullivan had made a rather important decision a few hours before when he had watched the Aurora come foaming into Buffalo harbor with a cargo of grain from Duluth under her hatches.

The Superior Navigation Company had been notified that their steamer Aurora had been commandeered by the government, and the ship was on her way to the yards at Lorain before Tim Donahue discovered the turn which life had taken. Tommy Jackson, his partner, whispered the news to him as they came on watch and the information hit little Tim with something of a thud.

He worked out his trick below with an all-gone feeling in the pit of his stomach, and every scoop of fuel he shoveled into the Aurora’s furnaces seemed to mock him.

When his watch ended he climbed the iron ladder out of the stoke hold with lagging steps. The steady thrum of the Aurora’s big compound engines seemed to be singing a farewell song to him. He lingeringly sniffed the odors of steam and grease as though he were anxious to preserve the memories of them forever.

Tim did not climb clear to the upper deck. Half way he swung to the narrow steel-sheathed passage over the boilers leading to the small door which opened through the heavy bulkhead to the engine room.

As he stepped through upon the gratings around the big cylinders he could see the oilers below him in the electric-lighted regions. The hum of the dynamos, the whir of the fans, and the drum of the big crank shafts plunging almost under his feet mingled in an orderly symphony.

The Aurora carried three engineers and Kelly, the second assistant, was on duty. Across the shining engine room Tim saw Andy McLaren, the chief, sitting in his hot little office. Tim pointed a grimy forefinger toward the chief’s sanctum and Kelly nodded permission.

* * * * *

The chief engineer looked up suddenly from his log book as little Tim Donahue stepped timidly through the doorway. It was not the custom for firemen on board the Aurora to walk into the chief’s office unless they were invited or summoned, and a summons usually meant something unpleasant. Tim had never been further than the doorway.

“What’s the rip?” the chief asked.

“Is it true, chief, that the old Aurora’s goin’ to salt water?” the little fireman asked, standing with his greasy cap in his hands and his gray head bowed as though he were expecting a blow. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, streaked with coal dust.

“It looks that way, Tim,” the chief informed him. “We’re sailing under orders now from the Shipping Board to deliver the ship at Lorain.

“They’ll hack her in two with torches there and send her through the Welland canal in sections.”

“An’ that’s the end of her,” sighed the little man.

“Far’s the lakes are concerned, I suppose it is,” answered the chief engineer. “It’s not likely they’ll ever send her back.”

“Well, thin, I suppose we’ll all be gettin’ off her now?” ventured the fireman.

“Nearly everybody but me, I guess, Tim, and maybe the cook,” the chief told him. “With my salt water papers, I’ve been commandeered, too, for ocean service and they’ve offered me the Aurora.

“I’m used to her, and I may as well be here as anywhere else. I know what she’ll do, and I’ll be more at home in her than in some of the tubs they are puttin’ into service on the seaboard.”

“Sure, you brought her out just ten years ago, chief,” little Tim mused.

“Yes, and she’s in better shape today than when she was launched,” the chief agreed.

“An’ I was in her the first trip wit’ you, chief,” the little man said, looking down at the floor.

“That you were, Tim.”

“An’ I’ve been wit’ you every season since, sir.”

“So you have, Tim, me lad.”

“Sure, she’s like a home to me, sir,” declared the stubby man. “It’s been me pride that you were never widout steam when you needed it, sir--an’ plenty of it, too, chief, wit’ me on watch. I’ve been hopin’ that I could spend all me sailin’ days in her.

“I’ve me failin’, I know,” he continued. “There’s been times when pay days near ruined me. I’m not denyin’ that. There’s been times when you’ve had to be huntin’ me up on both ends o’ the run, an’ I’m sorry for the trouble I caused, chief. But it’s me weakness, that’s all, an’ I’ve thought sometimes ’twas a curse put on me. Anyway, it never took long to get the whisky out o’ me once I was aboard, did it, now?”

“Right again, Tim,” the chief laughed. “I always knew, once I had you aboard, you’d be ready for duty when your watch was called.”

“Maybe I’m slowin’ up a bit wit’ age, sir,” the little fireman rambled on. “I’m gettin’ along well past sixty, I’ll admit, but-- Be the saints, sir, I can make a lot o’ younger min break their back over the scoops yet!”

“I’d say you’ve improved with age,” the chief remarked. “You’re the best fireman on the lakes, Tim. I’ll say that for you. I wish I could always be sure of a man like you below.”

Tim moved closer to the chief’s desk, fumbling his cap nervously.

“Av you please, Mr. McLaren,” he mumbled. “I’m hatin’ to leave the old ship. I can’t think o’ her out there in the Atlantic an’ me not aboard. I’d like to be shippin’ wit’ you, Chief.”

There was an appeal in old Tim’s eyes, which was far more eloquent than any words he could have spoken and McLaren saw it.

“I may not have the say, Tim,” he explained. “I’m working for a new boss myself. But if there’s a chance I’ll take you with me. You’ll have to run the risk of torpedoes, when we’re sent across.”

“Darn the torpedoes!” Tim fairly shouted, unconscious of his quotation. “Av I can stay in the old Aurora wit’ you I’ll ride thim torpedoes av I have to, sir.”

“You may have to do that then, Tim. There’s not many ships gettin’ through, they tell me, and the subs seem to be getting thicker.”

“The dirty pirates,” mumbled the stubby man. “Av I could get a good paste at one o’ thim, I’d give ’em a taste of a real Irish fight.”

“They don’t give you a chance to fight ’em that way, me lad,” the chief laughed. “We won’t get such an even break. I’ll let you know in a day or two what your chances for living to be an old man will be.”

* * * * *

It was an odd fate which awaited the Aurora at Lorain. Within thirty-six hours of her arrival there the torch-bearers were at work on the steel sides with their “fire knives.” They cut her through just forward of her midship deck-house. New bulkheads were fitted at the forward end of the after section and at the after end of the forward section and the caulkers made them as tight as the hull itself.

A temporary wheel house was built on the deck house and the rudder chains were connected up to her helm at that point, permitting the after section of the craft to proceed under its own steam. Then the odd-looking contrivance started down Lake Erie, with the forward section coming along under the convoy of two tugs.

Up to the entry of the United States into the great war, neither the American shipping interests nor the Canadian government had been very farseeing. As a result the submarine assault on allied merchant ships created a situation which was anything but promising.

Many fine cargo boats, badly needed in the emergency, were locked in fresh water by the small locks of the Welland canal. Nothing over 260 feet in length could then get through.

Only one thing could be done. There was not time to enlarge the locks, but the steel hulls of the lake freighters could be reduced to sections in a hurry with the torches. Great craft were cut into sections and floated through the canal. In Lake Ontario ports many of them were put together again. Others went through in sections to Montreal before they were again restored to their original form.

Down in the stokehold of the Aurora, Tim helped keep steam on what was left of his ship. While he was on watch below there was little to remind him of the change which had taken place. When he climbed to the upper deck to view the chubby chunks of what had been one of the trimmest freighters on the lakes, his heart gave many a sad thump.

“An’ to think I’d live to see thim do this to you,” he said. “Wit’ the rest of us trailing like the second piece of an angleworm. Who’d think this was the old Aurora, an’ the finest ship on the whole chain o’ lakes? Will they ever be able to do the right thing by you, I wonder?”

At Montreal the Aurora was held for her surface condensers and her saltwater fittings. Ingenuity born of necessity had found the way to button steel craft together, and the Aurora, once more her old self, surprised the stubby old man who had spent ten years of his life in her stokehold.

When she was ready for sea, Andy McLaren called little Tim into his office.

“We’re paying off the crew tomorrow, Tim,” he said. “The boys’ll get their wages and transportation back home.”

“Yes, sir,” Tim replied, with a lump in his throat. “Most o’ thim have places they can call home, no doubt.”

“The salt water crew’ll be aboard to sign up in the morning,” the chief went on. “They do that on the seaboard, you know. Everybody’ll have to sign articles.”

Tim nodded, with his cap crunched in his hands, but made no reply.

“There’s a big risk going to sea in these ships now, Tim,” the chief warned him. “And it’s not all torpedoes. The lake boats haven’t been the biggest sort of success in the transatlantic trade. They’re just as good sea boats, no doubt, but they’re hardly built right for the ocean seas. Then there’s the subs, too.

“I hear we’re going right across to Liverpool. They need wheat over there and we’re fitted to get it to ’em in chunks that count, if we can get through. But the chances are all against us. If you want to take the chance, Tim, me lad, I’ll fix it for you. You’ll have to sign on for the voyage, though, and it’s about like enlisting in the navy without the chance of fighting back.”

“I’ll risk me ol’ bones in the Aurora in anythin’ that blows,” Tim declared.

“Av she’ll stand up in Lake Superior wit’ the wind blowin’ a gale clear through from Hudson Bay, she’ll take care o’ herself just runnin’ across the little Atlantic.

“I’ll stack her agin thim rusty ol’ tramps that are in service now, sir. I’m that grateful to you for the chance, and you’ll not regret it. I’ll break the backs o’ thim salt water huskies, Chief.”

“Oh, I believe that, all right,” the chief agreed. “I sailed salt water before I came to the lakes and from what samples I’ve seen, I’ll hand it to the lake firemen every time. But the old Atlantic’s pretty cold, Tim, if you have to get over the side, and that’s liable to happen, you know.”

“I’ll not be gettin’ over the side until I have to,” Tim asserted. “I’ve been in the fire hole so long that I’m spoilt, entirely. I’m afraid o’ the cold, Chief.”

“I’m just telling you, Tim, you can back out if you want to and there’s nobody to say a word to you about it. We’ll be pulling out in the morning, though, and I’m advising you to remember your failing if you go ashore! This Canadian whisky’s a quick actor.”

“Sure it’s not me that’ll be backin’ out, sir, nor takin’ any chances ashore, either,” Tim assured him. “I’ve been worryin’ too much for fear the old Aurora’d be sailin’ widout me!

“I may not have much back o’ me, an’ little I know about the Donahues or the Cullens, either, that came before me. I’ve never been anythin’ but a fireman, an’ I never will be, Chief. But I ain’t yellow. Nobody can say that o’ Tim Donahue. He may be an ol’ booze hound on occasions, but that’s the worst o’ him, sir.”

* * * * *

The stubby little man stared straight ahead of him at the chief’s license on the wall and rambled on musingly as though he were talking to himself.

“I was a bit of a lad on Torry Hill in Milwaukee but I can remimber thim takin’ me mother away in a black cart up to St. Andrews an’ me an’ the ol’ man follerin’ along in a hack. After the mass, the ol’ man left me in care o’ the Doherties, that kept a saloon on the corner, an’ he lit out. Glad to git away, I guess.

“Whin I was old enough to work I ran away from Doherty an’ his wife, but I guess it didn’t make much difference to thim because I’ve never heard from thim to this day. As far as I know, sir, I’ve neither kith ner kin to be carin’ whether ’r no, if I’m blown up. In that case, Chief, I’ll have the pleasure o’ finishin’ up wit’ the ship that’s been me home for ten years. Sure, I’m feelin’ like I was ol’ John Paul Jones, himself, like he must ’a’ felt whin he set sail in the ol’ Bonum Richard.”

To Tim Donahue, odd as it may seem, John Paul Jones stood out in clear relief. Although old Tim had been only a fireman all of his life, and although he seemed illiterate, he was a reader of history. The life and the deeds of America’s first naval hero were the little man’s special hobby. Somewhere back in Tim’s Celtic past there must have been a student ancestor, who had left this bit of a bequest to an odd offspring.

With the somewhat primitive ability to read which a few years in St. Andrew’s parochial school had given him, Tim Donahue had been stumbling through the pages of history.

His fanciful Celtic mind was able to visualize what he read. It served to people his brain with living beings who had long since played their parts upon the earth and passed on. With the magic power of his retentive memory, he could call back out of the dim ages the great and the near great, from the Roman Cæsars to Mad Anthony Wayne.

The comfort of his life was John Paul Jones and his rotting old frigate, the Bon Homme Richard. The story of her battle with the Serapis was his great page in history. It is doubtful if any learned lecturer could have given a more graphic story of that encounter than little Tim Donahue.

In his secret mind, Tim had always hoped for a chance to repeat the deeds of the long-dead sea master. Half in childish fancy, he had often served the guns for his naval hero. When he was certain, at last, that he was about to sail out upon the same old sea which had lapped the sides of the Bon Homme Richard--a sea again infested by enemies to the same old flag, Tim’s thoughts very naturally turned quickly to his hero of heroes, his shipmate of years of fancy.

“Av he could lick ’em in a rottin’ hulk like the Bonum Richard, smokin’ an’ burnin’ and witherin’ up under his feet, Tim Donahue needn’t be losin’ his nerve wit’ a craft like the Aurora under him,” he mumbled, when he was alone with his thoughts.

* * * * *

Ten days out with a cargo of grain under her hatches, the Aurora was plunging along at ten knots.

Ten days and nights of the perfect weather which the Atlantic can exhibit when she is inclined to be agreeable had greeted the lake steamer on her maiden run through the salt seas.

Captain James McGraw, survivor of two previous submarine encounters, had kept well out of the beaten track of ships, and consequently away from lurking periscopes. During all of this time he had grudgingly given the Aurora her due as an able ship, which sparing praise would have aroused the everlasting hate of Tim Donahue had he been in position to hear the remarks on the bridge. But Captain McGraw had never before sailed anything but a long-legged salt water craft and it was rather to be expected that he might be slightly prejudiced.

Captain McGraw, cautious from experience and uncertain as to his ship, could not expect to go on dodging submarines indefinitely unless he expected to fetch up somewhere in the Arctic ocean. It was necessary for him to pull at last and bear for the coast of England if he hoped to make Liverpool with the cargo so badly needed there. He could only head the Aurora into the danger zone, trusting to luck to meet a destroyer convoy before the submarines discovered him.

At the same time the German submarine U-X-8, a supercraft for that period of the war, was cruising far from its base, waiting for a chance to pick up a fat victim before returning to its nest. Its supplies were running low and its crew was beginning to feel the pinch and nervous strain of the long cruise. With the increasing fleets of destroyers the sea was becoming less free for the pirate craft.

For several days there had not been a sign of a victim and Captain Froebel was beginning to believe his country had cleared the sea of merchant ships. Then suddenly far away to the starboard one morning, he spied a faint smudge on the horizon.

All day the ship hunter stalked his prey, still far out of range. As the strange ship came nearer Froebel studied her carefully through his powerful glasses. At first he feared she might be some new type of destroyer, which was being sprung on him, or a disguised war vessel--she lay so low in the water. Her funnel was far aft and her deck houses were farther apart than those of any other ship he had encountered. He could not quite make her out.

When he felt safe in drawing nearer, however, he saw the American flag flying at her peak.

“Yankee in a crazy craft,” he muttered. “He’ll be easy. He won’t fight and that ship should be worth picking.”

The commander left the conning tower and closed the steel hatch after him with a bang. Slowly the U-X-8 began to submerge until only her periscope cut the surface. During the remainder of the afternoon the submarine cruised within easy range of the odd ship until the light began to fade and the twilight settled down in a dusky murk over the sea.

* * * * *

It must be admitted that the crew of the Aurora was a bit jumpy, from Captain McGraw down. It is not a comfortable thing to slip out of comparative safety into a zone which is known to bristle with periscopes.

The darkening of the ship, the frequent lifeboat drills, the ever-present cork jackets and the noticeably increased tension on the bridge did not tend to steady the nerves of the men who were taking a chance on the Aurora. Sailing his first voyage through the torpedo zone, Tim Donahue was less affected than those who had passed through the experience before.

For two days and two nights the thing had been going on. The smallest unusual event, even the clang of the engine room telegraph sent the stokers jumping for the safety ladders in a mad scramble. Whenever such a stampede happened on Tim’s watch he could not disguise his disgust. His watch partner, August Schultz, a big husky German, under suspicion by the whole crew, was the worst offender.

“What the divil’s got into youse?” Tim asked angrily as the crew grew worse instead of better. “You, Schultz, you big Dutchman, runnin’ every time somebody stubs his toe on a slice bar! Why don’t you bend your back like a man an’ help keep some steam in thim kittles?”

“Ja!” Schultz cried in broken English. “You want me to drown like a rat in a trap or get captured aboard a German boat, yes? I know what they do mit me on these submarines. I been in the German navy three years. I know these officers, damn ’em! They don’t care for a man’s life. I run away from it. I can’t stand it. I know what they are, these officers. They are devils without any feelings. Gott!”

“It ain’t goin’ to help none to run up on deck and jump overboard before ye’re hit, is it?” Tim challenged. “You’ll never make a good Yankee, Schultzie. Y’ ain’t got the in’ards in you. You’re just like the rest o’ thim Heinies. You’d ought to be aboard o’ one o’ thim tin fish. Ain’t you got any fight in you, man?”

“Ain’t I?” cried Schultz, in anger. “Ain’t I? If I get a chance I’ll show you. I say I know what we get from them. I was in a submarine three years ago, already, with a captain that was a brute. One morning I stood on deck, when he wasn’t feeling good and he hit me in the face and knocked me overboard, because I was in his way. Gott! If I could see him once with equal chances!

“We was in the Nord Sea and a Danish fish smack picked me up. Then I go to America and I make up my mind never to go back again to Germany alive.”

“What the divil are you doin’ aboard a Yankee ship out here, thin?” inquired Tim suspiciously.