A NAVAL VENTURE (continued 2)

"I'm not eighteen yet!" the Orphan said, thinking that the Sub perhaps had forgotten and might beat him afterwards.

"You'll have to be twenty-eight to-night, my jumping Son—thirty-eight; you've got the chance of a lifetime. Squat down on the wash-stand."

"Jumping Moses!—you and I have to go in to-night and stick a light on a mark-buoy—a Turkish mark-buoy they've fixed in the wrong place, close inshore it is, under the old fort. What do you think of that?"

"What mark-buoy?" asked the Orphan. "How ripping!"

The Sub drew a few rough outlines on a piece of paper. "There's the fort, and that's the line of the low bit of land sweeping away to the right. It sticks out a bit farther along, and just off the 'stick out' place the mark-buoy should mark a shoal, but the Turks have shifted it farther in—just about there"—and he marked a cross on the paper—"to bother us. And we've got to find it to-night, and stick a red light on it. How's that for 'good'?"

"They'll see us, won't they?" the Orphan said, catching his breath again, for he knew that at least three search-lights swept the approach and the minefield—a big one on Yeni Kali itself, "Glaring Gertrude", and two this side of the mine-field, from somewhere down by the water's edge—"Peeping Tom" and "Squinting Susan"; two much less powerful lights these were.

"I bet they'll see us. If they don't before, they will after we've fixed up that red light. The trawlers are going to sweep through behind us, and that light's to guide 'em," and the Sub smote the table with his great clenched fist. "What price that for a good night's work? Better than boarding ships in the North Sea, eh?"

"Right in under the fort we'll have to go?" asked the Orphan, his breath still rather short; "and right in under all those guns along the beach?"

"Right in, my jumping Orphan! Rifle range! pistol range! biscuit range! The Swiftsure's coming in to have a bang at "Peeping Tom" and his pal. My jumping O.! what a job!"

"When d'we shove off?" asked the Orphan, his eyes blazing.

"Seven o'clock—seven sharp. You bring the grub—shark sandwiches—and a couple bottles of beer. You're not rattled, my young Orphan?" he said, springing up and clutching the midshipman's shoulders.

As a matter of fact the Orphan was rather taken aback, and though he did his best to look frightfully happy, it was not an absolute success.

The Sub altered his voice. "Look here. Those confounded trawler fellows have done their job two days running, under heavy shell-fire, whilst we've been behind armour. It's time we showed them the way—understand? It's our turn to-night, yours and mine."

"I'm all right," the Orphan said. "It was rather a startler, that's all. I'd been getting up a sing-song, and we were going to court martial the China Doll."

"Warn your boat's crew," the Sub continued, perfectly satisfied and absolutely happy. "Tell 'em to take some grub."

"How about old Fletcher?" the Orphan asked. "He's rather old for the job."

"You know him best. Sound him. Off you go!"

So Fletcher was sent for and told all that was going to happen.

"If you'd rather a younger man——" the Orphan began, not knowing how to best say what he meant.

"Me, sir! Don't leave me behind. I'm as strong as a horse," the old stoker broke in.

"Right oh! The boat will be 'turned out' about six-thirty. Don't forget to bring some grub."

"I won't, sir, thank you," and Fletcher went for'ard.

"I don't think we'll court-martial the China Doll after all," the Orphan said when he went back to the gun-room.

"Oh! Rather! What rot! Of course we will! Mustn't we, China Doll?" the others cried.

"Well, I'm not going to be there, anyway. You'll have to find someone else for prisoner's friend."

"What's up?" they asked. "Got the blight?"

"Oh, I've got a bit of a job on this evening, you chaps!" And the Orphan did his best to look unconcerned, but they saw that he was bubbling over with excitement, and dragged the news out of him.

"He might be captured, if they don't kill the poor little chap first," Bubbles gurgled. "Fancy the Orphan being a prisoner," the others shouted. "Poor old Turks—hard luck on them—you'll have to wear a fez—and be able to smoke all day—a nubbly-bubbly—won't that be nice?—and have a dozen wives—and get sixpence a day to keep them" (this was from Uncle Podger).

And when it was time for him to prepare the picket-boat, they called after him: "If you don't come back we'll finish your ginger nuts—oh, you pig, you're taking them with you—that's not playing the game—we'll write such a nice letter home—how we all loved you—with all our names to it—p'raps your daddy will send us a present—wouldn't a barrel of beer be nice—good-bye, Orphan, we'll never forget you—if he does send us one—not till it's finished."

Then they settled down to revise the list of officials at the China Doll's coming court martial. Bubbles would have to do prisoner's friend, although he was not much good at it, because when he did think of something funny to say, he couldn't say it for laughing at what somebody else had just said.

CHAPTER VI

A Night's Adventure

The Orphan went up on the "booms" and found Jarvis, the bearded coxswain, and Plunky Bill busy touching up with black paint any bits of brasswork on the picket-boat which might show in the searchlights. They had already done this once, and were making certain, by the aid of a lantern, that no shiny place had been missed.

As he climbed into her he heard Plunky Bill say saucily: "'Ow about the missus and the six kids? Ain't you going to back out of this 'ere lark in the dark?"

"'Ere, get on with yer black paint," growled Jarvis. "'Ow about yer sweet'earts—five of 'em as I knows on. You ain't going to get yerself killed, are you, and break five bleeding 'earts? Eh, young feller-my-lad?"

They were so cheery that the Orphan lost that funny feeling in his inside that had been so uncomfortable. He climbed on board and went for'ard to have a yarn with old Fletcher, who was busy in the stokehold getting up steam.

"No sparks out of the funnels to-night," he said, stooping down.

"I'll take good care of that, sir," Fletcher answered.

It was a very dark night, with a gentle breeze blowing in towards Smyrna, and as the Orphan straightened himself he saw the glare of the search-lights over the mine-field, and that unpleasant sensation in his stomach would come back. He tried to pretend it was only indigestion, but knew it wasn't.

"Peeping Tom", the nearest, was flickering here, there, and everywhere, but it was a very poor light, and he didn't mind that one; "Squinting Susan" shone, twice as brightly as her brother, right across where the picket-boat must pass; occasionally she swept round to help him, as if she knew he wasn't of much use.

Then right behind these two was that beastly "Glaring Gertrude"—a splendid light. She was lighting up the salt-heaps on the opposite shore most of the time; but when she did turn to have a look out seawards, her beam lighted up the Achates, although the ship was at least five miles away, making the men's faces quite plain to see, and outlining the masts and funnels and rigging in a most unpleasant manner.

A signalman came along with the lantern and some "cod" line. "That will be strong enough, sir, to lash it to the buoy," and he held out the cod line in the dark for the Orphan to feel.

Everything being ready, the picket-boat was lifted out of her crutches, dangled over the side of the ship, and lowered into the water. At seven o'clock she was alongside the darkened ship, and the Sub, in monkey-jacket, blue trousers, and sea boots, climbed down and gave the order to "shove off".

"What ho! my Explorer of Mine-fields—my Lighter of Beacons—this beats the band!" the Sub shouted, as the picket-boat left the shadow of the ship's side, cleared her bow, and headed for the glare of the search-lights and the mine-field.

Close to the Achates lay two trawlers and the Swiftsure's picket-boat—the Orphan could just make out their obscure shadows.

"They're going in to sweep," the Sub told him. "The Swiftsure's picket-boat is going to show them the way. My jumping Jimmy!" he roared, unable to suppress his boisterous excitement. "Isn't this a grand show?"

The steamboat pushed her way along, and soon the dark mass of the Triumph loomed up against the blackness of the high hills behind her.

On she went towards where they knew the Swiftsure herself was lying, and as the Orphan strained his eyes to pierce the darkness in towards the land to find her, a match was struck in the bows, and a splutter of tobacco sparks trailed down over the side. Jarvis shouted angrily: "Put out that pipe!"

"No smoking, you fools!" barked the Sub to the men crouching in the bows; and Jarvis growled: "It's that 'ere Plunky Bill, 'e's a fair terror. 'E's been an' gone an' blacked 'Kaiser Bill'," he added after a pause. "'E said 'e was that shiny 'e'd give the show away. 'E's a comic, that Plunky Bill."

"You haven't brought the tortoise?" the Orphan asked incredulously.

"Grandpa 'as; 'e's got'im down in the stoke'old, the old 'umbug; 'e's fair wild with Plunky Bill; 'arf an 'our it took 'im to get the paint off 'im with a drop of turps and a sweat-rag."

"Hullo! There's the Swiftsure, sir," and the Orphan saw her masts and funnels and cranes ahead of him lighted up for a moment by a quick flash from "Peeping Tom". Almost immediately a flame shot out from her side—a roar—and a shell burst with another splash of flame close to the shore end of that search-light.

"Peeping Tom" disappeared at once.

Then "Squinting Susan" twisted round to see what had fired at her little brother; waggle waggle went her beam trying to find the battleship.

Bang! Flash! Another gun—another shell blazed up somewhere near her, and she too disappeared. "They've doused their glim for 'em," Jarvis grunted.

"My jumping Jimmy! that's good work," the Sub muttered joyously.

But in a second or two out shot "Peeping Tom" and hunted about nervously, to switch off again as another shell burst somewhere near him.

As he switched off, "Sister Susan" switched on again, only to vanish as still another shell came along her way.

"What a jest, my Galloping Orphan! We'll get past them both and not be seen."

And so they did. "Peeping Tom's" beam flashed on them once, and they held their breath, but it swept astern and left them in darkness, and before it worked back the Swiftsure's gun had blazed out, and it was switched off even before the shell burst.

"Squinting Susan" was much too anxious to help her brother to find the Swiftsure, and didn't bother her head about anything else; her crew, too, had nerves—very badly.

"We're past them both," the Sub said, chuckling quietly, shaking his huge fist at them, and guffawing loudly as he watched first one and then the other switching on and then switching off—out would shoot one light from shore—bang would go a gun—off switched the light—darkness—the other light would try—and disappear again. "Peeping Tom's" crew were even more flustered than "Squinting Susan's"; they hardly waited to be fired on before switching off.

It was the funniest sight in the world.

"Bet Bubbles is nearly choking himself," the Sub said, "and Uncle Podger making funny remarks."

"They're 'court-martialling' the China Doll in the gun-room," the Orphan told him.

"Oh, of course; I forgot that."

The picket-boat was now steaming in darkness, made more intense by the glare, two miles ahead of her, of "Glaring Gertrude's" huge beam. This light, by a lucky chance that night, never seemed to leave the white salt-heaps on the opposite shore.

"We're right on top of the mines now, sonny. Feeling gay?"

"Ra—ther!" answered the Orphan, the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach entirely forgotten.

"Worth a guinea a minute! My jumping Jimmy, it is!" the Sub kept saying to himself. "Starboard a little! That's the ticket. Keep her as you go. We're nearly past the mines now."

Presently the Orphan could see a dark line to starboard—perhaps a thousand yards away—and knew that this was the low-lying ground which swept along to the right of Yeni Kali fort, the land from which the guns had fired on the trawlers last Saturday.

If only "Glaring Gertrude" would stay where she was and amuse herself counting the salt-heaps all would be well. Once or twice she swept away from them, and the Orphan caught his breath lest she would swing right round on the picket-boat; but every time, just at the critical moment, back she would go to see if the salt-heaps were still there.

The picket-boat throbbed along; hardly any smoke was coming out of her funnel, and only very seldom a spark; old Fletcher might be a humbug, as Jarvis said, but he could stoke.

Then the Sub pointed out, right ahead, the square dark shape of Yeni Kali itself, its upper edge—broken and jagged where shells had crumbled it—silhouetted against "Glaring Gertrude's" beam.

"They're working it from somewhere in the fort itself," he said, speaking very quietly, "and the fort gives us a shadow. Splendid!"

"We've come too far; port your helm and ease her a bit, Orphan. Get that lantern ready—stand by to light it," he told the signalman.

The picket-boat turned in towards the darkness of the land, and moved through the black water with just a little rippling gurgle under her bows, whilst the crew, for'ard, strained their eyes to find the mark-buoy—the mark-buoy which the Turks had shifted.

"We ought to see it—it's white," muttered the Sub impatiently, but their eyes were rather blinded by looking at "Glaring Gertrude", and they could not pick it up.

The Sub kept his eyes shut for a minute, and then looked again.

No result.

The line of shore was very close now, and it was inconceivable that the Turkish look-outs at their guns, all along it, could not see the picket-boat. Round and round, first this way and then that, she steamed, hunting everywhere for that mark-buoy—without success.

To seaward the Swiftsure, "Peeping Tom" and his sister were still keeping up their noisy game of "Peep Bo", I spot you!—Bang! No, you don't!

But for that, and the gurgling under the bows, and the soft grating of the engines, there wasn't a sound. Not a sound came from the shore close to them, not even a dog barked.

The Sub grew restless. He knew that the two trawlers and the Swiftsure's picket-boat must already be sweeping through the mine-field and expecting to see the red light to guide them.

He swore at the Turks, cursed himself, and above all he cursed "Glaring Gertrude" and the fort for making the darkness so pitch black round the picket-boat.

He steered out towards the opposite shore until he almost ran into the big search-light's beam, swung her round, and made another "cast", but the blackness away from the glare and in the shadow of the fort was absolutely inky.

No buoy could he find.

He looked at the luminous face of his wrist watch. "It's getting on for eleven," he said bitterly. "The trawlers must have nearly finished."

"There's a light, sir! Look, sir! To seaward!" a man called excitedly.

"Keep quiet, you fool," growled Jarvis, "or you'll wake them Turks."

They all looked back towards the mine-field, and saw a small white light—like a small star twinkling low down on the water—between them and the Swiftsure.

"The trawlers have finished—that's the signal," the Sub swore angrily, "and we've not helped them. Go back to the ship, Orphan. Curse it all!"

And then at last the Turks woke up. Flash! Bang! Flash! Bang! Guns began firing one after the other, and the Orphan ducked as he heard shells whistling through the darkness.

He could have kicked himself for ducking, because the shells were not really coming his way, but bursting hundreds of yards beyond the little white light. It was that the Turks had seen, not the picket-boat. She had, however, to pass it on her way back.

"Which side shall I pass the light?" he asked nervously.

"Keep inside; they won't see us, and they won't hit us if they do—I almost wish they would," the Sub growled miserably. "Shove her along!"

As the picket-boat increased speed and approached the light the noise of shells came much nearer. One especially seemed to be very close, and burst in the water not a hundred yards ahead.

"Confound you! Keep your head still; you aren't a jumping marionette," swore the Sub as the Orphan ducked again.

"Sorry!" he stuttered. "I try, but I can't help it."

"Shove her along! Open her out! Let her rip!" roared the Sub. He was more happy now that there was some danger.

The picket-boat dashed through the water. She came abreast the white light, swinging from a pole on a buoy quite unconcernedly.

"That marks the end of the channel they've swept," the Sub bellowed; but the Sub was much too interested in the shells which were humming and shrieking, right over the boat now, some of them bursting as they struck the sea, others falling in with a "flomp". Another moment and the white light was left behind, wriggling excitedly as the wash of the steamboat made the buoy dance. Another hundred yards and they were out of the line of fire.

There was a sudden shout from the bows: "Something ahead, sir!" and out of the darkness came cries and shouts for help. They steered towards them, stopping engines, and found two men in an almost sinking dinghy—a trawler's dinghy—one of them trying to paddle with bits of bottom board.

They hauled them in and left the boat behind.

The men were numbed and half dazed. One, a signalman, had a cut on his head and was bleeding freely.

"285's blown up, sir; we're the only ones left."

Neither knew anything, except that there had been a great heave under their trawler and they'd found themselves in the water, swum about, found the dinghy, and got into her. One man had started feebly baling her out with his hands, whilst the other had ripped up one of her bottom boards and tried to paddle to the ships.

"She was only a-goin' round in circles and a-drifting inshore," he said.

They hadn't seen any more of the crew, but the Sub stopped engines and halloed into the darkness. No answer coming back, he returned to the Achates at full speed. "Squinting Susan" and "Peeping Tom" had to be passed, but they and the Swiftsure were still busy with their little game, and so no one bothered about them.

Until the Sub brought the news, no one knew of the disaster to trawler No. 285—not even the second trawler, which had already returned. Some of the crew of the Swiftsure's picket-boat had seen a sudden glare on the water—-like a flash running along the surface—which they thought was a shell bursting. Nobody had heard any explosion.

In case there were any more survivors, the Swiftsure's picket-boat went back to search the mine-field, and luckily found the skipper of the trawler and two more men drifting about on wreckage. Even they could give no definite account of what happened. One thought he heard a noise; another that he'd seen a flash; they all remembered a great heave under them and finding themselves in the water.

And so, in this sad way, the night's adventure ended; and the picket-boat having been hoisted in, the Orphan, very miserable, undressed and turned in to his hammock.

The Sub was wretched. He had not found the mark-buoy, and had done nothing to help in any way, and he cursed himself for not searching the mine-field area thoroughly, and for leaving the trawler skipper and those two men.

He wished someone would kick him very hard.

Next forenoon the Orphan was busy in his picket-boat collecting the crews of the other trawlers—some men from each—and bringing them aboard the Achates. He also had to fetch from the Aennie Rickmers her captain—a positively enormous man—and the flying officers, one of whom was a jovial burly Frenchman with a red beard, very proud of being called "Ginger".

On the quarter-deck, officers and men fell in, bare-headed, whilst the little pale-faced Padre read the burial service for those missing from the blown-up trawler.

Nothing more happened that day, but on the Wednesday the wind rose, and by nightfall was blowing hard—a very black night it was—and at about two o'clock in the morning an explosion occurred under the bows of the Aennie Rickmers.

She made signals of distress, and began to sink rapidly by the head. There had been rumours for some days that two Austrian submarines had escaped from the Adriatic; it might be a torpedo from one of them, or perhaps from some Turkish torpedo-boat. Some suggested floating mines; others that an explosion had occurred inside the Aennie Rickmers herself. No one knew exactly what had happened. All that anyone did know, when Captain Macfarlane took the Achates close to her, was that she was sinking; that her "dago" crew of Levantine nondescripts had deserted in all her boats; and that her English officers, the flying officers, their men, and the four wounded from the Achates were left without any means of saving themselves.

A most unpleasant hour-and-a-half followed.

The first the China Doll knew of it was being roughly punched in the ribs and shaken. He woke to hear men passing from hammock to hammock, singing out: "Turn out, sir, turn out; submarines about; all hands on deck, sir!"

He didn't lie long after that. He was down, had pulled on his trousers, found a coat and cap, fumbled in his chest until he found his swimming-collar, and was blowing it up round his neck before he was really awake.

Bubbles, whose hammock was slung next to his, had gone to sleep again. He prodded him feverishly. "Submarines, Bubbles! All hands on deck! Get your swimming-collar!" he squeaked.

"Oh, bother! Curse you!" grunted Bubbles. "You aren't pulling my leg? Oh, hang it!" he grumbled, as he saw all the other snotties tumbling into their clothes, officers coming out of their cabins into the dark, crowded "half-deck", and heard the banging down of armoured hatches. "I do hate this beastly war. Breakfast at seven; then a cold bath at two in the morning. Beastly!"

The China Doll went up on the dark quarter-deck and hunted round for someone to talk to. His teeth were chattering and his knees were trembling—it was so dark and cold.

"What's happened?" he asked, stumbling across Uncle Podger.

"Something blown a hole in the Aennie Rickmers, and the Sub's gone across in the cutter to bring back our wounded."

"What did it? Was it a submarine?"

"Don't bother; no one knows. Come and have a look at her."

He took him round to the other side of the turret, into the wind, and out in the pitch-black night they could just make out the darker mass of the hydroplane ship, apparently tipped up by the stern, and a signal-lamp flashing on board her. They heard shrieks coming from her, and the China Doll's heart beat fearfully fast.

Near them, on the quarter-deck, the querulous voice of Dr. O'Neill, the Fleet-Surgeon, was lamenting that he had ever come to sea. "Mother of Moses!" he groaned, as "Glaring Gertrude" turned her light towards the Achates and everybody's face showed up, and the turret and the superstructure, the masts and the funnels, stood out clearly against it. "Mother of Moses, they'll torpedo us next if we wait here much longer! They must see the ship every time that beastly thing passes across us."

As "Glaring Gertrude" swept away, and everybody and everything was left in darkness again, the Fleet-Paymaster's loud, cheery voice bellowed: "Cheer up, old 'C.D.'; if you have to take to the water, you won't find any whisky in it!"

The officers and men standing by tittered, for they well knew that Dr. O'Neill was a rabid teetotaler, and that "C.D." stood for "Converted Drunkard".

"I've never tasted the beastly stuff in my life, and know it you do!" snapped the Doctor furiously.

"Sadly lacking in the sense of humour you are, old C.D. What could be funnier than the whole seven hundred and fifty of us to go drifting ashore, under those salt-heaps, with swimming-collars round our necks?"

The Fleet-Surgeon stalked away, muttering angrily: "I hate fools."

By this time everything that could be done to make the Achates safe, in case she was attacked, had been done; water-tight doors and hatches were all closed; the Orphan was under the fore-bridge with his 6-pounder guns' crews; Bubbles was on the after-shelter deck with his; look-out men, all round the quarter-deck and fo'c'sle, peered into the darkness; the Sub had gone across to rescue the wounded men and, if need be, bring back everybody from the Aennie Rickmers, and all the officers and men who had no jobs to do stood waiting for whatever was going to happen.

To those who realized what might happen, and who thought it more than probable that whatever had fired a torpedo at the hydroplane ship—and by now everybody said it was a torpedo which had blown a hole in her—would come back out of the darkness, wait for that search-light to show up the Achates, and then take a pot-shot at her;—to those, that next hour-and-a-half was probably the most trying, and longest, in their lives. The wind blew so fiercely, and the water was so cold and dark, that there was very little chance of anyone being picked up once the Achates did sink, as there was every prospect of her doing—the poor old ship—once a torpedo got home.

Fortunately most people have not vivid imaginations, and to go into the battery during this time no one would have imagined that anything at all out of the way was happening. The men crowded there, just discernible by the blue-stained fighting-lights, walked up and down or stood in knots, smoking, and talking quietly about everything under the sun except what was going on. It was only when that hateful search-light passed along the ship, and one saw that practically all these men had their swimming-collars blown up round their necks, that one realized that they did know what the next few moments might bring them, and that, knowing this, they did not worry about it.

All had been done that could be done; of course, the Aennie Rickmers and their own wounded messmates aboard her could not be left in danger, and old "Yellow Beard", as they called Captain Macfarlane, was on the bridge up there above them.

So why bother?—and they didn't.

Uncle Podger, going up on the boat deck—really to get away from the China Doll, who would worry him with questions—stumbled against someone crawling on his hands and knees. The search-light sweeping round just then, he saw that it was Fletcher. "What are you hunting about there for?" he asked him.

"I can't find the tortoise, sir," the old man said. "I did not want to leave him behind if anything happened."

"He can swim, can't he? You'll be able to hold on to him, and he'll tow you ashore!" Uncle Podger laughed, and tried to help find "Kaiser Bill", waiting for "Glaring Gertrude" to come back again and throw a little light into the corners the "savage" beast most frequented. He left Fletcher still looking for him, and on his way for'ard to pass the time with the Orphan, collided with the Pimple stumbling along from the bridge.

"She's safe—she's only got her fore compartment flooded—-the bulkhead's holding. Our wounded are coming across in the cutter. The Captain's sent me to tell the Fleet-Surgeon," and away the Pimple dashed.

A few minutes later the cutter with the wounded splashed alongside. They were hoisted in and taken to the sick-bay. Two of these—Cookey, the chief cook, and the leading stoker—both of whom had had their legs smashed, were very big men indeed; and no one who has not had to do it can imagine the difficulty of handling helpless men of that great size and weight, and lowering them into, or hoisting them out of small boats even in daylight. In darkness it is much more tedious and awkward; yet, abandoned by their crew, and with the ship apparently sinking under them, the first thing the officers of the Aennie Rickmers and the French and English flying officers and men did, after they had been thrown out of their bunks by the force of the explosion, was to get the wounded ready to be lowered over the side, and, directly the Achates' cutter had come alongside, to lower them safely into it. This was an incident of quiet, unostentatious coolness and courage which deserves recording. It is, perhaps, easy to be courageous at 2 p.m.; at 2 a.m. it is a very different matter.

And another thing must be put down. As the first of those two helpless men was being carried for'ard, an officer—the first he met, and it was not the Fleet-Surgeon—took off his own swimming-collar, pushed it into his hands, and disappeared in the dark before he could give it back.

Shortly afterwards the miserable "dago" crew came screaming alongside and begged to be taken on board. They were; and they'll never forget the "feel" of the ammunition boots of the tender-hearted marines who shepherded them that night into a casemate and locked them up inside. Then off went the Achates to get out of the limit of "Glaring Gertrude's" range of vision, and to lose herself in the pitch-black night, where neither torpedo-boat nor submarine could find her.

The Sub had been left behind in the damaged ship, to shore up that fore bulkhead and to keep an eye on it all night. He was as happy as a "fiddler" to be able to make a good job of it and "wash out" the recollection of his bad luck and judgment two nights previously.

The remainder of the Honourable Mess crowded down into the gun-room with the joyous relief of danger past, demanding sardines, onions, and beer. They got them, too, at that unearthly hour of half-past three in the morning, for the purple-faced Barnes and the miserable little messman knew from long experience what would be wanted, and had spent the last half-hour preparing for them. It all went down as "extras", so the messman didn't mind.

The Pimple brought the news that it was a torpedo-boat that had attacked the Aennie Rickmers. "A signalman saw her dropping astern directly after the noise—the Navigator says he saw it too," he told them.

"Have an onion, Pimple?" they jeered.

The China Doll, at the first rumour of "sharks and onions", had dashed down from the quarter-deck, entirely forgetting that his swimming-collar was still round his neck; and they made him keep it there—blown up, too—so that he had the very greatest difficulty to swallow his fair share of the food—as for his glass of beer, Rawlinson drank half that—before the Commander sent the sentry to tell the Pink Rat to "'out lights' in the gun-room and stop that confounded noise!"

Then they crept noisily to their hammocks in the half-deck, and, marvellous to relate, slept like tops.

This finally concluded the operations off Smyrna—they were only intended temporarily to divert the Turks' attention—and a few days later the Swiftsure and Triumph, with the trawlers, were recalled to the Dardanelles, and the Achates ordered to Port Said to repair her small damages, leaving "Peeping Tom" and "Squinting Susan" to play "I spy you" by themselves, and "Glaring Gertrude" to go on counting her salt-heaps on the opposite shore or not, just as she pleased.

CHAPTER VII

Off to the Dardanelles

The Achates arrived at Port Said on the 18th March and made fast, head and stern, to the Senior Naval Officer's buoys, off Navy House.

It was on this date that the combined French and British fleet made the attack on The Narrows—the attack which ended so disastrously with the loss of the Ocean, Irresistible, and Bouvet, and the crippling of the Inflexible and Gaulois.

A very bad day it was, only relieved by some daring acts of bravery, of which none so roused the admiration of the whole fleet as the courage displayed by those destroyers which went alongside the mortally wounded Ocean and Irresistible, and removed their crews under a concentrated fire from many heavy guns.

It was magnificent.

But the Achates lay comfortably at Port Said all that tragic day, making preparations for repairing the damage caused by the Smyrna shells, and talking by wireless to her chummy ship the Bacchante, anchored off Suez, at the other end of the Canal.

Barely six weeks ago the Turks had made their feeble attack on the Suez Canal, and of course the first thing that the Honourable Mess decided to do was to visit Kantara and Tussum, where the fighting had taken place. The Lamp-post had an elder brother on the staff at Ismailia, the Pimple had a long-lost cousin in an Indian regiment at Kantara, and by dint of much worrying of these two unfortunate young soldiers, everyone had the opportunity of visiting these places and picking up a few bullets.

Anyhow, they had a very joyous three weeks, only slightly damped by the almost entire disappearance of the damage done by the Smyrna shells; but a few holes remained in one funnel, and they looked forward intensely to showing these to their chums in the Bacchante. Eventually that ship came back through the Canal, the Achates followed her outside, and both of them steamed away to join the Eastern Mediterranean Squadron at its base at Mudros, the harbour in the island of Lemnos, sixty miles or so from the end of the Gallipoli Peninsula and the commencement of the Dardanelles. At last they were to take a hand in "The Great Adventure".

At two o'clock in the afternoon of the 12th April they both slipped through the "gate" in the submarine net, and anchored in that great land-locked harbour.

It was extraordinarily impressive to see the enormous assemblage of ships there—both French and British ships of every kind—battleships, cruisers, destroyers, submarines, huge transports, store ships, colliers, auxiliaries of all sorts, two white-painted hospital ships, trawlers, and tugs.

At the top of the harbour lay the little white town of Mudros, with its white twin-towered Greek church, and its row of spidery windmills on the ridge behind it; though the Honourable Mess had not much time to gaze open-mouthed at all these things, and to grin with pleasure when the Bacchante anchored in the wrong place and was obliged to shift billet; because a collier came alongside almost immediately, and down they had to go, get into "coaling rig", and, for the rest of that bright sunny afternoon, "coal ship".

Everybody knew that the next attack on the Dardanelles would be a combined naval and military operation, and as transport after transport came steaming into Mudros harbour, the enthusiasm and excitement increased.

Also the Honourable Mess dined their pals of the Bacchante, and proudly showed them the few traces still remaining of the damage done to the ship at Smyrna. This was a beautiful occasion, because it washed out all memory of the incident of the "sea-gulls"—not one of them mentioned it—and also because the Bacchante snotties introduced a delightful new form of "drag" hunt round the "half-deck", the "drag" being a piece of decomposed cheese (which they brought with them) and some Tabasco sauce and Chile vinegar dropped discreetly at intervals. As a special privilege, the "War Baby" was invited to the "meet", and the "Youngest Thing in Marine Subalterns" joyfully left the exalted atmosphere of the ward-room, unbuttoned the trouser-straps under the soles of his boots—the straps which kept his trousers and their broad scarlet stripes so beautifully straight—and prepared for the fray.

Blindfolded, and on hands and knees, these young gentlemen enjoyed a famous "run"; and though the Padre did object to the "drag" being placed on the pillow in his cabin bunk, even that did not seriously diminish their enjoyment. As a matter of fact, it slightly added to it.

Exactly what part the Navy would take in the approaching "landing" on the Gallipoli Peninsula no one exactly knew; but when the news came that men were being told off for "beach parties", and then when the Pink Rat, Bubbles, and the Lamp-post were ordered to be prepared to land with them and provide themselves with some sort of khaki uniform, excitement rose to fever pitch.

Within half an hour the Pink Rat appeared in the mess in proper soldiers' kit—beautifully fitting—which, he explained, "he'd brought out with him in case of accident".

"If you went to Heaven you'd turn up at the gate, and sign your name in old Peter's book with a pair of wings on and a mouth-organ!" the Sub snorted when he saw him; and Uncle Podger suggested that "he probably had a tail, with a sting on it, and a brand-new shovel, stowed away somewhere on board, lest, "in case of accident", he found himself in the other place."

The whole Honourable Mess concerned themselves with the fitting out of Bubbles and the Lamp-post. Proper khaki was unobtainable—at that time—so they dyed their white uniform in Condy's fluid, and as it shrunk in the process, and the resulting colour was a dirty yellow, streaked with brown, the effect was not good.

"Most unsatisfactory!" said Uncle Podger, when they first tried it on and he saw the Lamp-post's ankles and wrists sticking out far beyond the ends of trousers and sleeves, and Bubbles hardly able to breathe in his. "Most unsatisfactory! It will be an insult to the Honourable Mess if either of you are found 'corpsed'."

"You mustn't tell them you belong to the Achates when they come to bury you," the others shouted. "You must promise that!"

"You're perfect scarecrows," roared the Sub when he saw them—"a pair of confounded convicts!"

Everybody laughed at them and devoutly envied them—and they laughed at each other.

Rawlinson, who prided himself on being a really great poet, burst out with:

"Two little convicts going out to fight,

One had his clothes too short, the other much too tight!"

There was a roar of laughter as the Honourable Mess lifted up their voices, chanting this, and dancing round the quaint pair, whilst Rawlinson, exhausted with the production of this exquisite couplet, retired to a corner to think out something which would rhyme with khaki.

The Lamp-post, grimacing, and trying to twist himself so that he could get a back view, didn't know or care what he looked like, but said he felt "like a prize idiot".

"How nice to feel natural for once, Lampy!" that insubordinate officer, the China Doll, squeaked.

This was simply asking for trouble. The two convicts chased him round the table, just missing him as he dashed out into the half-deck. Piercing shrieks for help followed, and the others rushed out to rescue him.

A glorious scrap followed.

"At any rate," said the Sub, when they'd come back again to repair damages, and the Hun had apologized for tearing the Pink Rat's coat-collar, "you'll both frighten the old Turks. That's one comfort."

There were so many things to keep up the excitement during those days of preparation. The transports, with their cheering loads of British, Australians, New Zealanders, French, and Algerian troops; the quaint old battleships from home, the dear old "mine bursters", with their clumsy, projecting spars and tackle, over the bow, for booming off mines; the balloon ship practising its funny, yellow gas-bag at the outer anchorage, and the enemy aeroplanes and their bombs. These last were, at first, a source of immense delight to the Honourable Mess, but eventually they became a little sorry for them—they flew so high and dropped their bombs so very unsuccessfully.

"How very disappointing!" said the Lamp-post one day. "Just fancy having brought along those bombs, to drop 'em harmlessly, and then have to fly back, all that way, without having done any damage."

He was quite serious about it, and, as a matter of fact, one could not but feel sorry for the poor chap, up there in his Taube, who, having expended all his four bombs uselessly, found he had to fly back some sixty miles to wind'ard, before he could go and "turn in" and try to forget about it.

Then, one day, they heard that their old friend the torpedo-boat, down at Smyrna, had come out to sea and fired three torpedoes at a crowded transport without hitting her; and by nightfall came the news that she had been chased, driven ashore, and destroyed by gun-fire. That was very good "business".

Next came the order that steel plates were to be built round the steering-wheels of the steam pinnace and the picket-boat, to protect the midshipmen and coxswains from rifle-fire. Almost at the same time the Orphan and the Hun (who was in charge of the steam pinnace) had been ordered to provide themselves with khaki, and told that their boats would be required to tow the soldiers to the beaches, on the day of the grand attack.

It was a great moment for both of them; and what a mess they made of their hands and clothes with Condy's fluid, and what prize burglars they looked when at last they showed themselves arrayed for war!

Every ship had to supply one or more steamboats, and each ship devised its own rifle protection. The Achates' boats had a steel plate about five feet high bolted to the deck, in front of their steering-wheels, with a narrow, horizontal slit just below the upper edge, so that when those behind it stooped down under cover they could steer through this. The ends of the plates curved back a couple of feet, so as to give side protection.

Some ships built regular steel boxes with "all round" protection, others carried the side plates so far aft that they protected men standing in the stern-sheets; and the snotties in the boats with the least protection made great fun of those who had more. Probably, among the hundred thousand men in that harbour, during the days prior to the landing, the twenty or thirty snotties in charge of these steamboats were the most supremely happy of all.

The Hun and the Orphan went away, several times, and practised towing the transports' boats. Each steamboat had to tow four of these, one behind the other. On one day the 1st Lancashire Fusiliers came on board the Achates, and practised climbing down into the boats, down specially constructed wooden ladders, and were then towed ashore in twenty-four packed boats, each four being towed by a steamboat, and all six steamboats steaming in line abreast.

On another day all the snotties and men "told off" to land as beach parties, or as crews of boats, were fallen in on the quarter-deck, and Dr. Crayshaw Gordon, mounting the after capstan, gave them a few words of advice and instruction in case any of them were hit.

"Don't frighten them, Doc," the Commander had hinted previously—and he didn't. He had such a funny way of "putting" things that he had the men laughing in no time.

He explained how the little first-aid dressing should be used, tearing open the cover, showing them the pads to go next the wounds, the pieces of waterproof to cover the pads, and the bandage to wrap round all. He held up the safety-pin which is in every packet—held it so that all could see—and finished up with: "You men will probably come under heavy fire; some of you will get bullets through you; but if any of you come back wounded without your safety-pins, there will be the devil's own row." He had such a quaint, nervous, amusing way of talking, and was so kind-hearted and so popular with the men, that they grinned and guffawed with amusement.

Of those men who stood there that afternoon, fifteen were killed on the day of landing, and some twenty-five or thirty wounded.

"Thank God, they have no imagination," Dr. Gordon told the Commander, "and can't realize what is in front of them!"

"They simply don't bother to think about it, Doc."

On the 23rd April the first move began. Transports crammed with cheering troops, cruisers, and battleships slipped out through the "gate" in the net. The Achates spent the night at sea, and anchored off Tenedos Island next morning. Here were gathered the men-of-war, transports, fleet sweepers, and trawlers told off for the landings at the end of the Peninsula. It was a dull, grey-looking day, and a fresh breeze rising in the morning made the sea choppy, and must have caused intense anxiety to those in command, because the great landing was to take place next morning, and unless the sea was absolutely smooth, boat-work would be much more difficult.

That afternoon the Sub was ordered to go in the Orphan's picket-boat as "second in command" of the six steamboats which were to tow the battalion ashore. He was dumb with delight, and the Orphan almost as pleased.

In the afternoon the breeze did die down, and the Turks sent an aeroplane to see what was going on. It dropped a few bombs from a great height into the water between the ships, and flew back again.

Later on, the River Clyde came along and anchored close to the Achates. Poor old River Clyde! She was to make her last voyage that night, with 2000 troops on board, to run herself aground under the mediæval castle of Sedd-el-Bahr early next morning, and make her name famous in the annals of the British Navy and Army for many ages.

Large square openings had been cut in her side, and under these ran plank gangways, meeting at the bows, where a hinged platform was all ready to be lowered into the hopper and the lighters which were to fill the gap between her stem and the shore.

Her soldiers were intended to pour out of these openings, along the planks, down into the hopper and lighters, and so ashore.

At dusk the 1st Battalion Lancashire Fusiliers came on board—old soldiers all of them. Very silently and quietly they "fell in" on the quarter-deck and in the batteries, unslung their packs, laid their rifles alongside them, and were dismissed.

This was the moment for which the bluejackets were waiting. They had a great feast prepared on the mess deck, and hustled them down to it.

Five of the subalterns were grabbed by the Honourable Mess and brought down to the gun-room; the remaining officers were entertained in the ward-room.

"Thank God!" roared the Sub, "I'm coming in with you chaps to-morrow, or I couldn't face you. Buy up the place—beat the China Doll—break the blooming furniture—chuck your gear on the deck outside. Bless you, we'll give you a better dinner than you had in that old transport of yours. And there's my cabin for two of you—the bunk for one, and a shake-down for another. Barnes! Barnes! Bring round the sherry, and tell 'em to hurry up with the dinner."

Every delicacy the gun-room store possessed appeared on the table. The soldiers swore it was the best dinner they'd had since they left England; and the Honourable Mess spun them yarns about Smyrna—by order of the Sub, who had forbidden them to mention the morrow.

Dinner over, Uncle Podger took charge or the five subalterns, and piloted them into the crowded ward-room, where a "sing-song" had already been started. The Sub, the Pink Rat, Bubbles, the Lamp-post, the Orphan, and the Hun changed quietly into their war gear. The Sub, the Orphan, and the Hun climbed down into the two steamboats, went across and made fast to the trawler which was to tow them and their eight transport boats (empty) across to the Peninsula during the night. The other three snotties, laden with leather gear, water-bottles, field-glasses, revolvers, ammunition-pouches, haversacks with food for twenty-four hours, and blankets rolled up in their straps, were taken across to the Newmarket—fleet sweeper—along with all the men of the beach parties.

The sing-song in the ward-room was in full swing as the last crowded boat pushed off, and up through the open ward-room skylights came the rousing, roaring chorus of "John Peel", following them in the darkness until they were almost alongside the Newmarket. Many of those who sang it were singing it for the last time.

At ten o'clock the Achates weighed anchor.

The sing-song went on until nearly eleven, but breakfast had been ordered at a quarter to four, so older heads suggested sleep. The "Lancashire" officers were stowed away in cabins, beds were made up for them on the deck; the ward-room cushions and arm-chairs all helped, and the men of the battalion lay down on the upper deck, with their heads on their packs.

At 3.15 everyone turned out, and half an hour later breakfast was ready for the soldiers—eggs and a good helping of bacon, bread and jam and butter to fill up corners, and as much coffee, tea, or cocoa as they wanted to wash it down.

This was all the Achates could do for them, and, little though it was, everyone felt happy that each officer and man of that grand battalion started on The Great Adventure with a good breakfast under his belt.

The little Padre, whose gentle soul had been in anguish all that night, was not the only one who wished that their mothers and wives could know this.

At half-past four the Achates stopped engines; the Lancashire Fusiliers "fell in", and out of the darkness covering an absolute calm, almost unruffled sea, came the six steamboats and the twenty-four transports' boats, each with its crew of five bluejackets.

Into these the soldiers filed, down the long ladders, and in twenty minutes the last boats had been filled and towed away.

There are no words which will properly and soberly describe the admiration felt by the officers and men of the Achates for that battalion. When the last boat had shoved off, and the transports' boats and their six steamboats had taken up their stations in line abreast and began to move slowly away, Captain Macfarlane turned to the Commander and said gravely: "I've seen, Commander, a good deal of war on shore, but I have never seen anything which has stirred me so greatly as the quietness and discipline of those fellows—as the majesty of their bearing."

He went up on the bridge, and the Achates' engines rumbled slowly ahead.

It was now a quarter to five on Sunday morning, the 25th April, the greyest of shadowy dawns—the formless clouds were grey—a darker streak of grey, where grey sea and sky met, was the Gallipoli Peninsula; and three grey patches, darker still, were the Swiftsure, Cornwallis, and Albion, close inshore, waiting for the moment to commence bombarding.

Behind the Achates, like a shoal of minnows, followed the steamboats and their twenty-four transports' boats; behind them were fleet sweepers, and looming indistinctly in the distance, as wide as the eye could pierce, came transports and store-ships in great numbers, the River Clyde among them.

On board the Achates the fo'c'sle and after shelter deck were crowded with officers and men anxiously gazing ahead.

"You know that R.H.A. officer," the China Doll kept on telling anyone who would listen to him—"that cheery chap who's going in with them to make signals. He promised to send me off a Turk's rifle. Wasn't that decent of him?"

On the bridge Captain Macfarlane, tugging nervously at his pointed beard, and standing next to the Commander, muttered to himself: "Thank God! they had a good breakfast."

"Every one of them, sir," the Commander jerked out, in the most matter-of-fact way.

"There's nothing like having your stomach full to keep up your pluck, Commander. It makes all the difference."

"I expect it does, sir. The books say so, at any rate."

"I know it does," the Captain said, thinking of what he had been through himself, and turning to speak to the Navigator, busy taking bearings.

The thudding of heavy guns broke the stillness, and splashes of flames lighted up the greyness of the daybreak.

"Hullo! they've started!" said the Commander. "They're three minutes late by my watch. I expect the blessed thing is losing again. I'm hanged if I know what's wrong with it."

The Great Adventure[#] had commenced.

[#] The Australian and New Zealand Army Corps had already effected a landing beyond Gaba Tepe, 15 miles to the north-east.

CHAPTER VIII

The Landing on Gallipoli

For half an hour there was one constant rumbling of guns fired by the Swiftsure, Cornwallis, Albion, Prince George, Lord Nelson, and Agamemnon; and shells from the first two of these, bursting in scores on the last half-mile of the Peninsula, hid it almost continuously under a cloud of lyddite smoke.

The six picket-boats steamed in steadily towards this smoke cloud with the Lancashire Fusiliers behind them, not advancing very rapidly because the current, flowing out of the Dardanelles, was against them, and the transports' boats were so heavily laden.

The crews of these boats had already tossed their oars—four in each boat—in readiness to pull in to the land when the steamboats should cast them off.

The Orphan steered his picket-boat—the fifth boat from the left—with one hand; in the other he held a half-eaten sandwich. Jarvis stood one side of him, the Sub the other, all three behind the bullet-proof protecting shield. Jarvis had slept a little through the night; the other two had not.

"Practise stooping and steering through the slit," the Sub ordered. "If you keep standing up and looking over the top, you'll get a bullet in your head when the time comes."

"But there can't possibly be anyone left alive there," the Orphan protested, as he watched the shells bursting.

"Just wait! You'll soon find out!" the Sub answered grimly, and noticing that the picket-boat was forging ahead of the line, sung out to the stoker petty officer to "ease her". This man was looking out of the engine-room hatch, just in front of the bullet-proof screen, and popped his head down to give another twist to the steam-valve. Old Fletcher, peering out of the stokehold hatch, farther for'ard, thought he, too, had been told to do so, and also bobbed his head down.

"Has the tortoise come along with us this time?" the Sub asked. The Orphan did not know; but Jarvis snorted: "Yes, 'Kaiser Bill's' 'ere all right; the old 'umbug!"—though whether he meant the tortoise was a humbug, or the old stoker, he didn't say.

The picket-boat fell back into line, and the Hun, standing behind his bullet-proof screen in the pinnace on the right, waved cheerfully across to the Orphan.

It was now clear daylight—about a quarter-past five.

The battleships still pounded the end of the Peninsula, and the six steamboats drew ahead of the Achates, which had now stopped engines. Behind them followed the trawlers, and the Newmarket, fleet sweeper, with the Pink Rat, Bubbles, the Lamp-post, and their beach parties, and behind her—far behind—came many transports.

"There's the River Clyde," called the Orphan, pointing away over the starboard quarter to where she was coming along, very slowly, towing the hopper and lighters which were presently to bridge the gap between her bows and the shore. After her, and with difficulty keeping pace with her, more ships' steamboats towed half a battalion of the Dublin Fusiliers.

"That's Cape Tekke—that high end bit, and that's Cape Helles—the higher cliff to the right, with the white lighthouse 'affair' on top," the Sub explained. "We've to land in between them. There's a bay there—'W' beach—underneath that smoke."

The sun itself had not yet been visible, but now it shot up from behind a distant ridge, humped like the back of a huge pig, and blazed straight in their faces.

"Old Achi Baba," said the Sub, shielding his eyes. "If they get as far as that to-night, they'll be able to look down on the Narrows and on the forts there."

"The Navigator told the Pimple that the soldiers expect to have dinner at Achi Baba," the Orphan said. "I jolly well hope they will. Isn't this sun beastly? I can't see where I'm going."

"Well, don't get too far ahead, and don't look into it," the Sub growled. "This isn't a race; ease down and give the pinnace a chance."

They were now about a thousand yards off the smoke cloud which concealed "W" beach, and the incessant crash of high-explosive shells bursting there, and on the high ground above it, made the most infernal din. At this point the two left-hand steamboats diverged from the other four and steamed towards the rocks under the actual end of the Peninsula; the Sub, with the remainder, maintained the original course. But "W" beach, and the scooped-out gully which led upwards to the high ground, and the cliffs at each side of it were hidden in dense clouds of lyddite smoke and by a thick morning haze which lay on the water. Unfortunately the sun, shining over Achi Baba, shone full on this smoke and mist, and lighted it up to such a dazzling extent that from the boats one could see nothing whatever of the shore, and judging distances was impossible.

The boats were now drawing very near their destination, and the Sub had all the responsibility on his shoulders of judging the moment when to slip them. A blast from his steam-whistle was to be the signal for all to be cast off, and Jarvis picked up the whistle lanyard and only waited the order to tug it. Plunky Bill, in the bows, kept a sharp look-out for'ard, and every now and then dipped the boat-hook in the water to find its depth.

The Sub, his face set and anxious, seized a megaphone and shouted: "Out oars!"

The transports' boats' crews immediately dropped their tossed oars into the rowlocks, and the soldiers in these boats turned round to have a look where they were going. They had, until then, been sitting stolidly in the boats with only their packs and the backs of their caps visible, and this sudden swinging round of heads as the oars dropped, and the almost simultaneous appearance of five hundred faces, made an unforgettable sight. Nothing could be seen through the dazzling smoke and mist.

"It's twenty to six," the Sub jerked out, looking at his wrist watch. "We're a few minutes late. We ought to be right there now."

Not a shot had been fired from shore, and the ship's shells were still bursting—very close the explosions seemed to be. "They must be able to see us," the Orphan whispered, nervously peering through the steering slit.

Then there was a yell from Plunky Bill: "Stakes right ahead, sir! Only four foot of water, sir!" Others took up the cry—the crew of the Hun's steam pinnace had seen them and were shouting and pointing.

The Sub looked under the bows and saw them himself.

"We're there!" he roared. "Pull, Jarvis; one long blast! Let go aft! Full speed astern! Hard a-starboard!"

The steam spluttered out for a moment—the Orphan thought the whistle would never clear itself—then it shrieked—the echo came back from the shore almost immediately, proving how close they must be—splash went the tow-rope into the water—the other steamboats slipped their tow-ropes—the stern of the picket-boat swerved to port and trembled as the screw went full speed astern, and the oars of the transports' boats splashed madly in the water.

Not a rifle-shot came from the shore.

As the picket-boat gathered stern-way, the crowded transports' boats splashed past on either side; their coxswains, perched in the sterns, yelling: "Go it: give way! Pull hard! Shove your backs into it!"

"Good luck to you all!" the picket-boat's crew shouted.

The soldiers turned round with grim, set faces, their hands on the gunwales gripping very tightly, ready for the moment when they would have to jump out. The leading boat wavered; she had come up against the stakes and the barbed-wire netting stretched between them. These checked her for a moment, but her weight carried her through, and she almost disappeared in the very thick and dazzling haze. The other boats dashed after her.

In the bows of one—with his machine-gun—was a very cheery subaltern who had dined in the gun-room the night before, and also his equally cheery chum the subaltern of Royal Horse Artillery—the brigade signaller. The latter, as he passed, called out: "Tell your China Doll I won't forget his rifle." "Good luck!" shouted the Sub, "I'll tell the little beggar."

"Turn her round! Take her out to the trawlers!" he roared to the Orphan. Round the picket-boat swung, and just as she commenced to steam out there was a shout of "The first one's beached herself, sir! The soldiers are scrambling out, sir!" And then from behind the haze and smoke clouds, from both sides and above, there burst out the most terrific rattle of maxims, and rifles and the bark of something heavier than either.[#]

[#] One-inch Nordenfeldts.

The picket-boat steamed out at full speed, whilst stray bullets hit the water near her and others pinged overhead. The Orphan and the Sub looked back. They could only see indistinctly through the haze with the sun on it; they could not see what was happening, but neither of them—down inside them—could imagine that any men in those crowded boats could pass through that fire and live. The Orphan held his breath and gripped the steering-wheel. His heart seemed to stop beating: the Sub's face was set, and he had bitten his lip. "They're getting it in the neck—my God, they are!" Jarvis said, as the awful rattling and banging went on without a moment's pause.

The steamboats reached the trawlers, a thousand yards or more from that glare of mist and smoke which hid "W" beach and its tragedy, and there they waited until, suddenly, first one and then another, then half a dozen—a dozen transports' boats, some with three oars working, others with only two, one with only one, scarcely any had all four, came into view, emerging from the mist, and bullet splashes leapt up in hundreds around and among them.

For one horrible second they thought that the boats had been beaten off, but then they saw that they had no soldiers in them, and knew that, at any rate, the soldiers had managed to land; the haze still made it impossible to see what had happened to them.

Breathlessly the crews of the steamboats, clustering round the two trawlers, watched these boats struggling off. The boat with only one oar working, and no coxswain, was turning circles, but drifting slowly out with the current. The man himself was evidently sitting on the bottom boards, because only his hands appeared above the gunwales, and he kept changing the oar from side to side.

Another boat near this one had two oars working, and they watched the coxswain in the stern crouching down and trying with his free hand to make these two keep time.

Just picture to yourself a stream with a tin floating some ten yards from the bank, and half a dozen boys, with their caps full of stones, throwing stones at it as fast as they can. Picture to yourself that tin with the splashes round it, and you will be able to realize something of what the Sub and the Orphan saw; only, instead of one tin, there were sixteen crippled boats—some of them already half filled with dead and wounded—and the bullet splashes leapt six feet and more out of the water.

Then imagine that, instead of a tin, it was a struggling cat the boys were trying to drown with their stones, and that you were making up your mind to slip off your clothes, swim in, and rescue it, knowing that the boys on the banks would throw stones faster than ever, and bigger ones too, which would really hurt.

Well, at this moment the Sub decided to steam into the hail of bullets and rescue those boats.

He roared out: "We can't sit here doing nothing. Go in and help them!"

The Orphan, pale and staring, rang "full speed ahead", turned the picket-boat's bows round, and dashed back towards the boats. The Hun, yelling and half mad with excitement, followed in the pinnace, and so did some of the other steamboats. The Orphan hardly knew what happened. Bullets hit the protecting screen, a chip of wood from the gunwale hit his cap; splashes leapt up all round him; his ears hummed with the whistling noise. He remembered hearing the Sub roar: "Go for those two over there!" and feeling him grip his hand on the steering-wheel to turn towards the two most crippled boats. He got alongside one—saw Plunky Bill and another hand get hold of her—had a picture of grey faces looking up at him from the bottom of her, and a muddle of khaki lying there across her thwarts; towed her across to the boat with only one man; saw the Sub get hold of her painter, and then found himself, dazed and horribly shaky and sick, back again at the trawler. Plunky Bill came aft, grinning: "There's a 'ole in the funnel, sir, slap-bang through!" and proudly showed a bullet which he had found lying on the deck.

No one who looked into those transports' boats as they were towed alongside the trawlers will ever forget what he saw: men dead, dying, and wounded, all huddled and jumbled together on the thwarts of the boats and on the bottom boards, with legs and arms twisted strangely; wounded unable to free themselves from the weight of dead bodies on top of them—those grey, placid faces and sightless eyes which, ten minutes before, had glowed with excitement as they turned them to the sun; the blood-stained, torn khaki; the blood-stained water lapping round them, and the one, two, and in some boats three bluejackets, in their Condy's-fluid-dyed jumpers, sitting among them, flopping, exhausted, over their oars.

In one boat there was a Scotsman, in gold spectacles—not unlike Fletcher the stoker—a St. John's Ambulance man, and now a Territorial ambulance orderly. He had already dressed all the wounded in his boat, and now stepped into another, working away quietly, as if he was doing it in the accident-room of a hospital.

"We must get a doctor," he told the Sub; and as the trawlers had not one, the boats requiring most urgent assistance were towed across to the Newmarket anchored near. Here the wounded—most of them—received further treatment.

There was no time for sentiment. The boats were all urgently required to take more men ashore; three of them, those with the most dead and wounded, were told off to take on board the wounded from the others; bluejackets were told off to take the places of those of the crews who had been killed and wounded; and then the beach parties, Bubbles, the Pink Rat, and the Lamp-post, tumbled down into them. Bullets began flying round them and the Newmarket, but no one was hit. "Shove off!" was shouted; "land them under the rocks to the left of the beach;" and the Sub and the Orphan towed them inshore.

There was much less rifle-firing now, but many bullets came over and splashed round the picket-boat. The mist and smoke had cleared away, and the Swiftsure was still firing very rapidly at the Turks' trenches on the edge of the cliff, to the right of the beach, the Achates assisting with her small guns. Their shells burst along it one after the other, all along the dark line which marked the trenches, and scarcely a Turk dare expose himself to fire down at the beach.

The Sub, as he approached, saw through his glasses two Turks close together, leaning over and pointing their rifles down at the beach, and saw spurts of sand fly up where the bullets struck among a line of men lying prone, half in and half out of the water, in front of lines of barbed wire. One of the shells from the Achates burst close to them, and when the smoke had drifted away the two Turks were still there—motionless—in exactly the same attitude, but their rifles were sliding down the rocks. He cast off the boats with the beach parties, and waved to them as they pulled past him inshore. The three snotties crowded in the stern, and looking up at the cliffs with eyes wide open, were, however, too excited to take any notice of the Orphan's shout of "Good luck, you chaps!"

Back he went to the Newmarket, meeting steamboats towing in boats packed with more troops. Another trip ashore with sappers and "details", and then he towed those three boats with the wounded to the Achates, where they were taken on board.

It was exactly half-past seven when he got alongside her, busy firing her small guns in the port battery, and her for'ard 9.2 turret-gun.

The Captain wanted to see the Sub, so he climbed up and went for'ard to the bridge.

The Orphan, left to himself, was sent off to a transport to tow more soldiers ashore; and on the way to her he saw, over against the Asiatic shore and the fort of Kum Kali, the French fleet, the Jeanne d'Arc with her six quaint, squat funnels, and the Russian Askold with her five thin, tall ones, and two battleships, all firing very rapidly.

Behind them lay big transports, and dozens of boats loaded with dark-coated infantry on their way ashore.

He reached the transport, got his orders, and steamed back to "W" beach with a long string of crowded boats behind him.

It was then, whilst he waited for them to be emptied, that he had the first clear view of "W" beach and the broad gully leading up to the green ridge above it.

No bullets—or only very few—came near him, and he could look on undisturbed. On the right, where the barbed wire was thickest, a row of dead Lancashire Fusiliers lay as if they had all been swept by the same torrent of maxim bullets. He knew that they were dead, because other men, springing into the water and wading ashore, stepped over them, looked down at them, and left them.

Higher up the beach, men were hanging on the barbed wire itself. At first he thought it was only clothes hanging there; then he saw that they had been men. Fresh troops were scaling the cliffs; soldiers advanced up the green slope above, singly and in little groups. Away to the left, under the rocks, more men clustered; and as some of them limped along to the boats, some with bandages, some without, he knew that these were wounded waiting to be dressed. They crowded into the boats he had just brought ashore, and many were carried down—among these being a wounded Brigadier shot through the leg. He saw nothing of Bubbles, the Pink Rat, or the tall, lanky Lamp-post; but he did feel certain that the landing had been made good.

Trawlers, loaded with stores, approached as close inshore as they could get; boats of every description were flocking in, and already the sappers were lashing pontoons together on the left, under the rocks, to make a temporary pier.

Then the boats he had towed in came out to him, and he towed them and their wounded back to the Achates. For the remainder of that morning the Orphan was employed taking Staff Officers backwards and forwards between the ship and "W" beach.

The beach parties had laid down six buoys at about ten yards apart and some fifty yards from the beach, and had led ropes from these to the same number of stakes driven into the beach opposite to them. The intervals between these ropes made waterways into which the big lighters could haul themselves ashore without colliding with each other. But there was a certain amount of jostling just beyond the buoys, and the Orphan had his work cut out, whenever he went near the beach, to prevent his boat being damaged by the crowds of steamboats "mothering" the big lighters into position. She had a big rope fender projecting across her bows, another lashed across her stern, and two lengths of six-inch "grass" hawser secured all round her side to protect her from bumps; but, in spite of these, she soon had one corner of her stern crushed, and her steering gear was jammed. The Orphan managed to take her back to the Achates safely, and, very sad about it, reported the damage to the Commander.

The Commander, at his wits' end for boats, was very angry.

"I'll take you out of her, Mr. Orpen, if you can't manage her," he said angrily, but then sent him away to get his boat coaled and watered whilst the repairs were being made. "You and your crew can come in-board and get some food," he called after the miserable Orphan.

So presently he was able to dash down to the gun-room, where Barnes had some cold meat and pickles waiting for him. He had had nothing to eat, except a couple of sandwiches, since the previous night, and the sight of food made him realize that he was ravenously hungry. It was now half-past one. The China Doll—the only one there—lay fast asleep on one of the cushioned benches; and he ate his food in peace, with the burly Barnes waiting on him. He was nearly as hungry for news as he was for food; but the old marine would not talk or tell him anything. "Just you go on with your food; there ain't no time for talking," and he gave him a cup of strong coffee afterwards. "That'll keep you awake," he said, as he cleared away.

The Orphan looked at the China Doll and longed to throw himself down on a cushion and sleep; but heavy firing broke out again, and, too excited to think of doing so, he went up on the quarter-deck to see what was going on.

"Your boat will be ready in half an hour," the officer of the watch told him.

The Cornwallis, Swiftsure, and Albion were now firing at a small knoll which showed up above Cape Helles, the big cliff half-way between "W" beach and Sedd-el-Bahr. This knoll was known as Hill 138, and barbed-wire entanglements round its slopes were plainly visible through the Orphan's telescope.

He asked the Fleet-Paymaster and the Navigator, standing on the quarter-deck and looking through their glasses, what was happening.

"The Turks still hold it," the Navigator said. "Our chaps are preparing to rush it when the ships have finished their bit of work."

"How are they going on down in the River Clyde?" he asked.

"Badly; they've been terribly cut up; haven't landed a man since nine this morning; something went wrong when they tried to get the lighters in position under her bows. Look through your glass! You see those chaps there under the little bank on top of the beach, this side of her; those are all who are left of some six or seven hundred who tried to get ashore early this morning. They can't budge; they have been there all the time. And those are their dead, those brownish lumps scattered along the beach. Those two transports' boats, stranded under Cape Helles, drifted there. Every man aboard them was killed before they got near the shore. They've been drifting about all the morning, and fetched up on the rocks. Look at that splash jumping up close to the River Clyde—that's another 8-inch shell from the Asiatic shore. They hit her three times before she took the ground, but have missed her ever since. Ah! There goes a salvo from the Prince George—she's looking after the Asiatic guns—that'll quiet 'em."

"Any news from the Australians, sir?" the Orphan asked, feeling horribly miserable.

"They and the New Zealanders have done grandly," the Fleet-Paymaster answered cheerily. "Pushed inland a devil of a way. They'll be across the Peninsula in no time—with luck."

No news had come from the French on the Asiatic side. "They seem to be doing all right," the Navigator said; "but it's precious difficult to make out what's happening there."

Some men came through the battery door carrying a stretcher with a man on it, his face covered with a cloth. They bore it right aft on the quarter-deck, lifted back a tarpaulin, which the Orphan then noticed for the first time, laid the body on the deck, drew the tarpaulin over it, and went for'ard.

"That's the seventeenth," the Navigator told him; "most of them soldiers."

Dr. O'Neill, capless and haggard, came up the after hatchway. "By the powers that be, but the General has a bad leg!" he said as he hurried past them on his way to the sick-bay.

"That's the General you brought off this morning," the Fleet-Paymaster explained.

The Sub and the China Doll came up from below, the China Doll just wakened by the heavy firing.

"That R.H.A. chap promised to send you off your rifle, China Doll; he called out to us just before he landed," the Orphan said; but the Assistant Clerk shook his head sorrowfully. "No, he's dead; he died as they brought him on board; he and that chum of his are both there," and he pointed to the tarpaulin.

"Someone told me," said the Sub, "that the R.H.A. chap got ashore all right, fixed up his signal things, and sent off one or two messages before he was knocked over. He was more lucky than a good many of those there; they never got out of the boats."

"Why did the Captain want you?" asked the Orphan.

The Sub took him aside, his eyes very bright. "He'd forgotten why he sent for me, but then wanted to know if we'd had orders to go after those crippled boats that time. I told him that we hadn't, but that I couldn't stand by and do nothing. I thought he was angry; he said that if the steamboats had been disabled it would have meant a serious delay. I told him we'd only had a bullet through the funnel and a bit chipped out of the gunwale. He looked me up and down, tugged at his beard, and I saw that he was smiling. So that's all right, my jumping Orphan!"

"Did he know that the Hun went in too?"

"I told him."

"What did he say?"

"Oh, you know that funny, slow way he has of talking when he's trying to be humorous. He just tugged his beard and said: 'I thought I noticed that young officer's boat'. Gosh! what a morning it's been!"

The picket-boat's steering gear having been reported repaired, the Orphan was sent away again, and kept busy until nightfall, backwards and forwards between "W" beach and the ships. Once he took Captain Macfarlane on board the Queen Elisabeth, now anchored off the River Clyde, and waited for him whilst the big ship fired salvoes of 6-inch shell into Sedd-el-Bahr village and the earthwork on Hill 141 above it. Another time he went alongside the sappers' pontoons, and Bubbles dashed down to speak to him. "My dear chap, it's a great game; we're having a ripping time!" he gurgled and snorted, looking a terrible brigand in his clothes—already very dirty. "Oh, that's nothing!" he laughed, as he saw the Orphan smile. "We lay in the old Turks' trenches for two blessed hours this morning. It was a great time. If you get a chance, bring us in some butter and some sausages—and, my hat! old chap, I'm dry—dry as a lime-kiln, and my water-bottle's been empty for the last three hours."

The Orphan had some water in the boat and gave it to him. The next time he went back to the ship he got a barricoe filled and took it inshore; but there was too much of a crush for him to go alongside, so the Lamp-post waded in up to his waist and fetched it. "We've almost run out of it; all our people gave their water to the wounded, and there are any amount more coming down now. We've just heard that the Worcesters have rushed Hill 138, and they and the Lancashires are going to try and take Hill 141. Yes, there they come," and he pointed up the gully, down which many stretchers were being carried. He shouted to a couple of the beach party, and seizing the barricoe of water, they ran it up the beach towards a little tent under the rocks to the left, with a Red Cross flag flying near it, and crowds of men in every attitude of weariness gathered round it. These were all wounded men.

At this time, about a quarter to five, there was a period of comparative quiet. The Worcesters had cleared the Turks out of Hill 138, so that "W" beach was practically free from rifle-fire; and now they and the Lancashire Fusiliers were forming up to attack the earthwork on Hill 141. This dominated both Hill 138 and "V" beach, where the River Clyde lay, so that, until it was captured, it was impossible to join hands with the remnants of the Dublins on "V" beach. A very brave attempt was made about half-past five to take this earthwork; but the two gallant regiments were almost exhausted after their hard day's fighting under a hot sun, and they met more wire entanglements, so thickly laid, and commanded by such a heavy fire, that they were unable to advance farther. At nightfall the Turks still held Hill 141, and separated the troops who had landed on "W" beach from those who had landed on "V" beach.

These poor chaps had suffered terribly all day, and still remained crouched under the low cliff or bank there, unable to move.

During the fighting for this last hill, the Orphan towed in two horse-boats with two field-guns and their limbers. They were covered up with tarpaulins, and he was not certain whether they were English 18-pounders or French 75's. At any rate, the beach parties soon got hold of them with hook-ropes and drag-ropes, hauled them ashore, and "man-handled" them up the gully. The Orphan knew, in a general sort of way, that things were not "going" as well as had been hoped, but he was kept so busy, and was so fatigued, that by sunset he could hardly keep his eyes open. Several times he had to hand over the wheel to Jarvis; but at last, after having spent nearly an hour hunting in the dark for an important transport which had anchored in the wrong place, he found himself at nine o'clock back again alongside the Achates.

The Sub, on watch, told him that he would not be wanted for some time. "Go and get something to eat, and a rest," he said; "you've had a pretty hard day of it."

He stumbled down into the gun-room, where he found the Hun fast asleep with his head on the table. Barnes brought him a glass of beer, and he swallowed it in one draught. "Give me a biscuit—anything—I'm too sleepy to eat."

But Barnes had some sandwiches ready. "Plenty of mustard on 'em—made 'em myself—mustard'll ginger you up. Just you lie down on the cushions, and I'll stick the plate alongside you."

The Pimple found him, and wanted to tell him the latest news. The Orphan told him to "chuck it". The China Doll came in and would have asked him questions, but the Orphan pretended to be asleep, so he tiptoed out again like a mouse. Uncle Podger strolled in, smoking his pipe, and began to play patience. He watched him shuffling and dealing the cards, and then fell asleep.

He woke. The corporal of the gangway was shaking him.

"The Commander wants you, sir."

He dragged himself up. The gun-room was empty. The alarum-clock on the notice-board showed a quarter to eleven, and he went up to the dark quarter-deck, where he found the Commander and reported himself.

"Oh! there you are, are you? I've been sending all over the ship for you. The 'wounded' launch is going down to the River Clyde; I've no one else to send with her; Rawlinson has gone away in a cutter and I can't trust anyone else; the steam pinnace will tow you down, and the doctors are going with you. I've sent four hands into the launch already, and she's at the starboard boom; drop her astern and alongside the port gangway. Hurry up!"

Still half asleep, the Orphan found this big pulling boat (fitted to transport wounded, she had been), dropped into her, and five minutes later brought her alongside.

The Hun, in the pinnace, came along out of the dark, bumped into her, and got her painter made fast to the towing-cleat. "They're having a jolly lively time down at the River Clyde!" the Hun called across.

The Orphan, turning his sleepy head in that direction, listened, and heard a good deal of rifle-firing, and occasionally the spluttering of a maxim.

"Right into it," he thought, and forgot his tiredness.

Dr. O'Neill and Dr. Gordon scrambled down the ship's side into the launch; the big chief sick-berth steward came down after them. Bags of dressings were passed down; and Dr. O'Neill cursed irritably when a bag, fumbled owing to the darkness, slipped through the hands of the people on the gangway above, fell into the boat, and only just missed falling overboard.

The Commander called down to the Doctor: "Keep the steam pinnace if you want her." The Sub roared out orders to the Hun, and he started his engines and towed the launch away from the ship's dark side.

Six bells struck on board her—it was just eleven o'clock.

CHAPTER IX

The "River Clyde"

The night was not very dark, a pale moon—past the quarter—appeared occasionally between slowly drifting clouds, and the sea was still quite smooth. The Peninsula showed as a dark wall rising gradually from Cape Tekke to the high cliffs at Cape Helles, beyond and under which the River Clyde lay.

The Orphan—wide awake now—steered the big clumsy launch, and listened to the two weary doctors talking of their day's work and the job in front of them. Dr. O'Neill, the Fleet-Surgeon, had a grievance—he generally had. This time it was with the Padre and the Fleet-Paymaster. They had tried to make out a list of the men killed and wounded—the men who had been brought on board the Achates—but the sights and sounds in that crowded sick-bay, with the for'ard turret-gun firing directly over it, every two or three minutes, had been too much for them. Their stomachs would not "stick it".

"The only job they have, and they can't do it," he growled. "It took me another two hours getting in all the names and the official numbers on their identity disks."

"It was pretty beastly in there, P.M.O., and they've never seen anything like it," Dr. Gordon said soothingly. "They did their best; the Padre fainted outside, and the Fleet-Paymaster was sick."

"Never seen anything like it before! Nonsense! Nor have I! Did you get them all safely to the hospital ship?"

Dr. Gordon told him that he had only just returned from doing so. "The whole thing's silly, confoundedly silly, and this is the stupidest of all—this trip of ours," the Fleet-Surgeon snapped.

"It's not much of a joy ride, is it? You must be awfully tired," Dr. Gordon said in his nervous, self-disparaging manner, as if he too had not been hard at work the whole day.

Silence followed for some time, until the steam pinnace, swerving suddenly to port to pass two trawlers, indistinct in the darkness, jerked the launch after her and waked the Fleet-Surgeon. "Why the devil can't that young imp in the pinnace steer properly?"

The noise of furious rifle-firing coming from Sedd-el-Bahr stopped him for a moment, but then he went on again with his dismal groan. "A nice little job at this time of night. Running straight into it we are."

As the boats had altered course so much to port, they presently found themselves close under the high cliffs, and whilst being towed along in front of them, the moon, peeping out for a few moments, made them conspicuous.

Dr. O'Neill had just asked angrily: "Why the devil they wanted to go in so close! Didn't they know the Turks still held the end of them!" when ping! went a bullet over the stern of the boat and plunked into the water.

Another came, and another.

"Keep down, under cover!" growled Dr. O'Neill, more savagely than ever, and he and Dr. Gordon, the chief sick-berth steward and the four men of the crew, sat themselves down in the bottom of the boat. The Orphan, sitting exposed in the stern-sheets, wished he was ten sizes smaller.

They were close to the River Clyde now; its dark shape loomed just ahead of them, and the noise of firing crackled fiercely, tiny spurts of flame from hundreds of rifles lighting up the water's edge.

They ran under the starboard quarter and gained shelter; the launch scraped against a rough wooden ladder and stopped; the doctors scrambled up it, followed by the chief sick-berth steward; their surgical dressings and lantern were handed up to them, and they disappeared through the dark gangway port in the ship's side—one of those ports which had been cut to allow her troops to pour out quickly. The Orphan and his crew in the launch, and the Hun in his steam pinnace, were left to themselves.

A maxim rattled—fired somewhere from the River Clyde herself; and when it stopped, Dr. O'Neill's harsh voice could be heard asking: "Where the wounded were; what he could be expected to do in that damnable darkness! and calling for a match to light the lantern." A head peeped out from the gangway port, and a voice called down: "That's not a very 'ealthy spot, mate. The trawlers, what comed for the wounded, were sniped something 'orrid down there. They 'ad to shove off out of it."

"We've come for the wounded," the Orphan sang out.

"Well, you bally well won't get 'em. All that are left are hup on the hupper deck, and can't be got down whilst this 'ere shooting's going on—they're quite all right up there—be'ind the bulwarks they are."

From inside the ship came shouts of: "Put out that light! Curse you! We don't want any light here!" Evidently Dr. O'Neill had managed to light it, and was looking round for wounded.

"They'll begin sniping again—they starts directly they sees a light—better keep down in those boats. Off they go—I'm 'opping it!" sang out the man above.

Ping! Ping! Ping! Three twinkles from somewhere to the right—a bullet hit the water, another clanged against the pinnace's steel wheel-screen, another hit the side of the ship just under the ladder, slid down and fell into the water.

The Hun, from behind his shield, sang out to the Orphan to know if he was enjoying himself. The shouts from inside grew louder; then there was silence. Evidently the lamp had been extinguished.

The voice from the gangway called down: "'Ave they stopped? Hany one got a souvenir in 'im?"

"Where are they firing from?" asked the Orphan.

"That old castle sticks hout in the sea, this 'ere side," called back the voice, "and them there snipers 'ave been doin' themselves something proud."

The Orphan strained his eyes and could just distinguish, about two hundred yards away—ahead of the River Clyde—the battlemented outline of the castle walls and, farther to the right, a much more indistinct and blurred mass sticking out into the sea. This was actually the sea walls of Sedd-el-Bahr castle, jutting out on a reef.

No more shots came from there, and there was quietness everywhere for a few minutes. He began to feel sleepy, but then one or two solitary rifles rang out on the cliff side of the ship, five or six followed, thirty or forty seemed to chip in, and, almost before he knew it, a perfect pandemonium of rifle-fire burst out, making a ruddy glow against which the stern of the ship and the masts stood out quite plainly. Presently maxims started on shore, whether English or Turkish he could not know; and then, up above, from the foc's'le of the ship herself, several maxims added their voices to the din. The snipers from the sea walls did not take part in this "show". It died down after a while; a few crashes of musketry, then a few scattered shots apparently answering each other, and silence—silence which seemed absolutely extraordinary—as if it was something tangible.

What had happened, the Orphan had not the faintest idea. He could only stay where he was, and hope that Dr. O'Neill would decide something shortly.

Presently he heard the Doctor's voice in the darkness: "Steam pinnace! Steam pinnace!" and the Hun calling back "Aye, aye, sir!" "Go back to the ship and ask the Commander to send for me half an hour after the next attack ceases."

"Right, sir!" and jeering at his pal, the Hun, shoved off and disappeared back to the Achates, drawing a solitary twinkle from the sea wall of the castle and a solitary bullet which hit the ship's side, above the Orphan's head.

In a few minutes a voice called down: "You've got to make fast and come along inside 'ere—you and your crew," so he clambered up the wooden steps with his four men. Very willingly he did this, for he was anxious to be able to say that he had been aboard the River Clyde, and he felt lonely and very exposed, waiting alongside.

Inside her was absolutely pitch dark; a man who bumped against him could not be seen. The Orphan heard Dr. O'Neill's voice, and elbowed his way towards him, stumbling across something which he knew was a stretcher, but evidently not waking the man asleep on it.

"Sit down, and keep out of the gangway," Dr. O'Neill snapped, "unless you want a bullet in you. There's nothing any of us can do. There they go again, curse them!" as more rifle-firing started, just as it had done before—one or two shots, then more, then apparently a whole line blazing away as if they had millions of rounds of ammunition to spare. This time he heard hundreds of bullets pattering against the opposite side of the ship, and the glare showed him another gangway port opposite the one by which he had just entered.