Then taking on board the residuum of war, arms needing repair, wounded men, they would begin their return trip.
These cargoes quietly transported through the darkness in spite of bad times and the submarine threats, were preparing the ultimate victory.
Many of these steamers were formerly luxurious vessels, but now commandeered by military necessity, were dirty and greasy and used as cargo boats.

Lined up, drowsing along the docks, ready to begin their work, were new hospital ships, the more fortunate transatlantic liners that still retained a certain trace of their former condition, quite clean with a red cross painted on their sides and another on their smokestacks.
Some of the transports had reached Salonica most miraculously.

Their crews would relate with the fatalistic serenity of men of the sea how the torpedo had passed at a short distance from their hulls.

A damaged steamer lay on its side, with only the keel submerged, all its red exterior exposed to the air; on its water-line there had opened a breach, angular in outline.

Upon looking from the deck into the depths of its hold filled with water, there might be seen a great gash in its side like the mouth of a luminous cavern.
Ferragut, while his boat was discharging its cargo under Toni's supervision, passed his days ashore, visiting the city.
From the very first moment he was attracted by the narrow lanes of the Turkish quarters--their white houses with protruding balconies covered with latticed blinds like cages painted red; the little mosques with their patios of cypresses and fountains of melancholy tinkling; the tombs of Mohammedan dervishes in kiosks which block the streets under the pale reflection of a lamp; the women veiled with their black _firadjes_; and the old men who, silent and thoughtful under their scarlet caps, pass along swaying to the staggering of the ass on which they are mounted.
The great Roman way between Rome and Byzantium, the ancient road of the blue flagstones, passed through a street of modern Salonica.