hant
seamen are grouped together at the stern, and a small body of Uncle
Sam's coloured troops line the bulwarks in attitudes of ease and
comfort. They are a happy crowd, and roar jest and catchword to the
passengers on the crossing ferries. The merchantmen are less boisterous.
They watch the preparations of the bluejackets for mooring at the stage
with a detached professional interest; some of them gaze out to the
nor'ard where the transports of the convoy are approaching. Doubtless
their thoughts are with the one ship missing in the fleet--their ship.
The sloop hauls alongside the stage and a gangway is passed aboard.
Naval transport officers and a major of the U.S. Army staff are waiting,
and engage the commander of the man-of-war in short conversation. The
men are disembarked and stand about in straggling groups. There is
little to be said by the sloop's commander. "A horse transport torpedoed
yesterday. No! No losses. Tried to tow her for a bit, but had to cast
off. She went down by the stern."

The trooper horse-tenders are marshalled in some order and pass over to
the waiting-rooms under charge of the American officer. With a word or
two and a firm handshake to the sloop's commander, the master of the
torpedoed ship comes ashore and joins his men. No word of command! He
jerks his head in the direction of the Liver Buildings and strides off.
The seamen pick up their few bundles of sodden clothing and make after
him, walking in independent and disordered groups. As they straggle
along the planking of the stage, a military band--in full array--comes
marching down from the street-way. They step out in fine swing, carrying
their glittering brasses. "Here, Bill," says one of the seamen, hitching
his shoulder towards the burdened drummers, "who said we was too late
for th' music!"

The transports have come into the river. Every passing tug and
ferry-boat gives _rrr--oot_ on her steam-whistle to welcome them as they
round-to off the docks and landing-stage. Loud bursts of cheer and
answering cheer sound over the water. The wide river, so lately clear of
shipping, seems now narrowed to the breadth of a canal by the huge
proportions of the liners bringing up in the tideway. The bizarre
stripes and curves and the contrasted colours of their dazzle schemes
stand out oddly against the background of the Cheshire shore. It is not
easy to disentangle the lines of the ships in the massed grouping of
funnel and spar and high top