It was all very amusing; war seemed to
be the finest of excuses for an outburst of high spirits.
Next morning, when we came on deck for a breath of air the vessel was
under way; all hands were hard at work disguising her with paint of a
sombre colour. Here and there you saw an officer in uniform, who had
not yet had time to unpack his mufti. The next night, and for the rest
of the voyage, all port-holes were darkened and we ran without
lights. An atmosphere of suspense became omnipresent. Rumours spread
like wild-fire of sinkings, victories, defeats, marching and
countermarchings, engagements on land and water. With the uncanny and
unaccustomed sense of danger we began to realise that we, as
individuals, were involved in a European war.
As we got about among the passengers we found that the usual spirit of
comradeship which marks an Atlantic voyage, was noticeably lacking.
Every person regarded every other person with distrust, as though he
might be a spy. People were secretive as to their calling and the
purpose of their voyage; little by little we discovered that many of
them were government officials, but that most were professional
soldiers rushing back in the hope that they might be in time to join
the British Expeditionary Force. Long before we had guessed that a
world tragedy was impending, they had judged war's advent certain from
its shadow, and had come from the most distant parts of Canada that
they might be ready to embark the moment the cloud burst.
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