Southward ho! With the threat of a north-easterly gale on the quarter to speed their heels: south and west for a night and a day, pricking off the familiar names of light vessels amid the steep yellow waves off the east coast; overtaking Channel traffic creeping out to seas where once more no fear was; red ensigns and white dipping in salute and acknowledgment; with the land like a grey shadow on the starboard hand; with war a grey shadow on the memory, fading fast.... Then, at daybreak, chequered forts ahead: cranes and sheerlegs rising out of the mist about the dockyard, distant spires catching the first of the sun. Home! The Light Cruiser came slowly up harbour in tow of her attendant tugs, like a victor being escorted to his dressing-room by seconds. On all sides syrens hooted vociferously, ships in harbour manned and cheered, and all about the old weather-beaten brick houses by the water's edge was the flutter of flags and handkerchiefs: the welcoming cries of women came faintly across the stream. By the afternoon the ship was in dock, and neither in the Wardroom nor on the mess deck did men stand upon the order of their going. "Leave!" was in the air: it was echoed in hammer blows on packing-cases, in the bumping of portmanteaux as they were dragged from store-rooms: epitomised perhaps by the Engineer Commander, who danced mid plaudits, solemnly and without grace, on the Wardroom hearthrug. Entered the Lieutenant, Royal Naval Reserve, and laid his suit case, rug, and gloves upon the settee. "Weel," he observed, "I'm awa'." The revolving figure stopped in the midst of a gyration; the onlookers stared: smiles somehow evaporated. "Going, Jock?" said one blankly. "Going!" echoed the rest. It sounded absurd. The Mess without Jock! The Navy without Jock! "Aye." The speaker shook hands gravely with the First Lieutenant. "The war's over.... Ye'll no' want the R.N.R. any longer...." His smile was a forced one, and a chorus of protests and farewells drowned his next words. They crowded round him, wringing his hand, buffeting his shoulders, recalling in allusions and catchwords the familiar intimacy of all these years of war. By comparison the emotions of yesterday's farewells in the North seemed superficial. They would all meet again, somewhere under the White Ensign.... But Jock was going; their Jock: dour, tough seaman: incomparable messmate. This was the parting of the ways. "Back to the Mer-r-chant Service--coals an' bananas.... Maybe we'll meet again, though." He made for the door, and there turned as if to survey the mess for the last time. "Eh! But I've had a guid time!" He appeared to search his vocabulary for adequate emphasis. "A bluidy guid time," he said, and was gone. XI UNTO THE HILLS (1913)