[Illustration: TRANSPORTS DISCHARGING IN LIVERPOOL DOCKS] On such a day a convoy bears in from the sea, rounding the lightships under columns of drifting smoke. Heading the merchantmen, the destroyers and sloops of the escort steam quickly between the channel buoys and pass in by New Brighton at a clip that shows their eagerness to complete the voyage. A sloop detaches from the flotilla and rounds-to off the landing-stage. Her decks are crowded by men not of her crew. Merchant 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!"