THE ROMANCE OF TORPEDO BOATS.

New Zealand Times, Volume LXVI, Issue 3265, 23 October 1897, Page 2 (Supplement)

THE ROMANCE OF TORPEDO BOATS.

There is one class cf steam vessel (says a writer to tho Pall Mall Magazine ) which is calculated to fire the imagination of the veriest dullard if only he will take the trouble to step upon her deck. That vessel is a first-class torpedo-boat. In outward appearance she is as ugly a thing as ever man placed upon the water. Bluck from stem to stern, with not a vestige of color or bright work along the whole length of her upper deck, aud covered with black .dust and salt grime, she presents a picture as devoid of beauty as a coal bag. But go on board when she is under way, and feel her rushing through the water, throbbing and straining with all the frantic forces acting within her, and you will find that there is more there to quicken tho pulse and exilarate tho mind than will ever be found in the peaceful contemplation of bending spars or listening to the sough of the wind as it rushes out at the foot of tho -mainsail. Look along her crowded deck, and see what is there; right forward, that little round tower is the spot where her captain will stand when he brings her through a hail of steel and load to her quarry. Look, too, at that pair of long black tubes in which lie hidden the Whitehead torpedoes ready for a message to be flashed to them from the coming tower to speed on their course of overwhelming destruction. That mirror of glass which lies just under the lee of the glowing funnel is the projector. whence, springing from the whirring dynamos below, a dazzling ray of electric light will shoot forth to turn night into day. With all its dirt aud ugliness, the hampored-up deck of a torpedo-boat is a far more interesting place than the tidy snow-white deck of a frigate. A first-class torpedo-beat is the smallest typo of vessel in Her Majesty’s Navy that is granted the honour of flying a pennant at the masthead, which signifies being placed properly “in commission.” Even the most modern type of boat is only about 90 tons displacement, with a length of 140 ft, and 15ft beam. So insignificant in size are these little vessels that they are not even considered worthy of a name; a mere number is all they have given them to hand down to posterity. But although puny in size, a torpedo-boat is a giant in strength and speed. The best British boats are fitted with triple-expansion engines, which are capable of developing no less than 2000-horse power, equal to that of a powerful ocean liner and a speed of 24 knots. Can it be wondered at that when one of these wonderful little craft is running at full speed it almost appears as it she must be rent asunder with the awful energies acting within her ? The boat seems like some frantic living thing. As she plunges and threshes through the heading seas, not deigning to ride them, but cleaving and dashing them back like a frenzied swimmer, her decks are covered with spume and swirling water. Her glowing funnels are the only dry part of her upper works, and even they show traces of their buffeting with the angry seas by the layer of white salt grime which encrusts them from head to foot. Unless the crew are in the act of preparing for a torpedo attack, there is little sign of their presence on deck when the boat is travelling under such circumstances as those ; three or four figures only will be seen there.

Eight forward, and partly sheltered under the lee of the little conning tower, stands the officer of the watch and the helmsman ; while perchance an able seaman will be seen moving cautiously along her deck, securing and lashing anything which shows a tendency to dance overboard. There is nothing to tell the outsider who is the officer and who is his men —all are dressed alike in some sombre oilskin from head to foot. The crew of a torpedo-boat are like their vessel—not for show, but for stern utility. In the after-bulkhead, which divides the engine-room from the stokehold, are two tightly-clamped port scuttles. Book through them, an! you will behold a miniature “ Inferno.’’ Looked inside, there are the slekers, working under a pressure of air drivin in by the whirring steam fans overhead. As the furnace doors are flung open, a dazzling, blazing light shoots forth- from their mouths, and illuminates the murky chamber. The half-naked men, standing ankle-deep in coal-black water, which has found its way down through the ventilators above, hardly cease for a moment from the work of feeding the furnaces, and keeping up the enormous supply of steam required for the engine. , A noisy, busy place is the stokehold of a torpedo under forced draught. The roar of the steam and water in the boilers, the hum of the fans, the clanging and scraping of furnace rakes and shovels, and the awful and ceaseless motion and vibration of the boat herself go to make up a noise that might waken the dead. Yet, for all that, the work in that stokehold goes on w-ith perfect and regular order, as if the conditions which reigned there wore the

smoothest and pleasantest to be found anywhere afloat. It is well that such is the case ; for let the men slacken in their care of the furnace fires for one brief minute, and a tell-tale flame will stream out from the funnels, and proclaim the boat's presence to the enemy in a manner which will be utterly fatal to all on board of her. The officers sleep in their “ duffle ” suits on the cushioned lockers in the tiny aftercabin ; while the men, who are similarly attired, rest their weary limbs on plain cork mattresses, stretched on the bare lower deck. There are no warm cots or snug hammocks to lie in, for the very good reason that there ia no room for such luxuries. And, indeed, no one wants them. The healthful sleep which comes to men who have toiled and watched, perhaps for twenty-four hours at a stretch, and drunk deeply of pure salt-laden air, wants no courting with soft mattresses and downy pillows.