A NAVAL VENTURE (continued 7)

The Orphan and Bubbles were sent away in pulling-cutters to shepherd them in the right direction, and had the time of their lives chasing silly, obstinate mules who wanted to swim out to sea. Eventually they headed them off, and they made a "bee-line" for a battleship, lying with her torpedo-nets "out". It was the funniest sight in the world to see half a dozen mules with their heads looking over the edge of the torpedo-nets, "digging out for daylight", and really quite happy. After a lot of shouting and laughing they were all induced to swim shorewards, and soon scrambled on the beach, shaking themselves like big dogs, rolling in the sand, and looking for the nearest eating-place.

During these few days the ten midshipmen heard hundreds of yarns about the preparations for evacuation—how the front trenches had been mined, and many of the reserve and communicating trenches as well; that the only guns to be left behind, if all went well, were a few condemned 18-pounders and 6-inch howitzers. To deceive the Turks on the Sunday night, many rifles were being fixed up in the front trenches with tins lashed to their triggers, and, above these empty tins, others with a hole in the bottom of each. When the last of the troops left the firing-trenches, they would load the rifles, fill the top tins full of water; the water would drip slowly or fast—according to the size of the holes—into the other tins fixed to the triggers, and when these became full, off would go the rifles—at different times. The few motor-lorries and ambulances still remaining kept dashing about in full view of the Turks, to make them think that they were just as numerous as ever; and the few troops in reserve, instead of hiding behind Lala Baba or Chocolate Hill, made themselves more conspicuous in the open.

You can understand, as the week went by and that fateful Saturday approached, how tense the excitement grew, and how eagerly everyone watched the barometer and the sky for any change from the gorgeous calm days which succeeded each other. Such a spell of fine weather could not possibly last much longer, and the fate of perhaps fifty thousand men depended much upon it lasting until early Monday morning.

The Turks had not yet given any sign that they realized what had been happening or what was about to happen. They still shelled the ships, the beaches, the old empty gun positions just as they used to do, and generally at the same old times; but no one, knowing the ease with which they had previously seemed able to obtain information of our doings, thought it possible that they could actually still be in ignorance.

In the middle watch, on Friday night, a huge fire broke out at Anzac. Actually some of the most inflammatory stores prepared for burning on the Sunday night had been set alight accidentally, and made a tremendous blaze.

On board the Achates Mr. Meredith, whose watch it was, stood, with the Quartermaster, watching the glare—ten miles away across the sea—and knew that something had gone wrong.

"That will give the show away," the Quartermaster muttered sadly.

"I'm afraid it will," Mr. Meredith answered, desperately anxious.

That fire burnt all night, but in the morning the Turks never showed the least sign of activity beyond the usual normal sniping and shelling.

Saturday dawned absolutely calm—a few flaky, almost stationary clouds showed against the blue sky.

"Can it hold until Monday morning?"—that was what everyone thought and hoped and prayed.

Again the ten midshipmen "fell in" outside the little wooden hut—this time all in their proper blue uniform—and received their orders in writing, each order beginning with the well-known formula: "Being in all respects ready for sea, you will proceed forthwith..." Then followed long detailed orders for every eventuality.

Drawing two days' provisions for his own crew and the twenty-four men in his four pulling-boats occupied the rest of the Orphan's morning.

At half-past four he shoved off from the Achates—the Hun, looking wistfully after him, waved "good luck"—and he towed his four boats to the trawler told off to tow him to Suvla. Bubbles, coming along with his boats, made fast to another. Before dusk all the trawlers left Kephalo, each with its picket-boat and string of pulling-boats behind it; four headed for Suvla, and the other six towards Anzac.

The sea was calm, and the sky gave not the slightest indication of any change in the weather, so that the Orphan and his coxswain—a wiry, active petty officer named Marchant, belonging to the Swiftsure—were in the highest spirits.

"If it only keeps like this, sir!" the coxswain kept on saying.

Before it grew too dark to see properly, they both inspected all the boat's gear to make certain that nothing was out of its place. Down in the cabin the Orphan found some green leaves—cabbage leaves.

"Heave them overboard," he said. "Whatever are they doing down here?"

"I thought they were for you, sir. An old stoker brought 'em down; told me to hand 'em over to you, very carefully, and he brought this box too." He picked up a small wooden box about a foot square, with a lot of holes bored in the top and the sides; and the Orphan burst out laughing, for he knew he would find "Kaiser Bill" inside it.

"That's 'Kaiser Bill'," he said, as he raised the lid and saw the tortoise lying there. "He brings good luck. He came in our boat when the Lancashire Fusiliers landed, so I suppose old Fletcher thinks he ought to take a hand in this job as well—the funny old man!"

"He's a rum-looking beast for a mascot, isn't he!" Marchant grinned, holding up "Kaiser Bill" with his legs sprawling beneath his shell, and his head peeping slyly out as though he knew all about everything.

The Orphan put him and his box down below the water-line, where no bullets could reach him.

A nearly full moon rose and gave sufficient light to avoid any other craft on their way across, and in a little over an hour and a half they had almost reached the nets outside Suvla.

The Orphan slipped his tow-rope, and so did Bubbles, and both of them steamed round to a little pier which had been constructed on the north side of Suvla Point—a pier called Saunders Pier.

They reported themselves to the naval Pier-master; and the Orphan, leaving his two big boats—a launch and pinnace—alongside this pier, towed the other two—two cutters—along the left-flank coast, and anchored them close inshore. Their crews knew the countersign and password, and if any men hailed them properly from shore, they were ordered to pull in and take them off.

For the next three hours the Orphan was employed taking off officers and their baggage from "'A' West", going in through the gap between the sunken Fieramosca and Pina, and steaming out again, dodging empty motor-lighters being warped in through the gap, and full motor-lighters being warped out. He took them to the Redbreast, lying out near the nets, and then returned to Saunders Pier and found his two big boats loaded with rifles and baggage of all sorts.

These he towed off to two trawlers anchored close by, waited for them to be emptied, and brought them back again to Saunders Pier. After that he lay off the pier for nearly an hour, and had some food and a smoke. The men boiled some water and made cocoa over a bogey, and he had a jolly, happy, exciting time yarning with Marchant, and listening to occasional rifle-shots which came from farther away towards the left flank—Jephson's Post way. Bubbles came back from patrolling the coast, and lay alongside him. "It's all quiet there along the coast, just a rifle-shot every now and then; no one along the beach. Isn't it a perfect night?"

It was actually the most perfect night imaginable; hardly a breath of wind, hardly a ripple on the water, and the moon lighted up the cliffs and Suvla Point as distinctly as in day-time. Hardly a sound reached them, and the rocks of Suvla Point prevented them seeing anything going on inside the bay. It was all as peaceful as a picnic.

But about half-past one those two trawlers, to which the Orphan had taken his boats with the baggage, went aground; and the Orphan was sent round to "'A' West", inside the bay, to bring out the Senior Beach-master. For nearly four hours he worked, laying out anchors and taking wires across to a big tug.

Some time after six o'clock, just before the moon actually disappeared, and before the two trawlers floated off, he had to go along the coast, pick up his two cutters—they had seen or heard nothing—then pick up the big launch and pinnace, and tow them back to Kephalo. It was only when he went back to Saunders Pier for those two big boats that the Orphan heard that everything had "gone off" without a single hitch, and without the Turks having shown the least sign that their suspicions had been aroused.

Hearing this, you can imagine how joyfully he and Marchant, the coxswain, started on their twelve-mile journey back to Kephalo. Those tows of boats must be away, out of sight, before daylight; so they put their "best leg foremost", and steamed in through the harbour just after seven o'clock, finding a large captured German steamer anchored there, and simply packed with troops from Suvla.

Most of the other ten picket-boats had arrived back previously, because the night's job at Anzac had been successfully completed by half-past one in the morning, and the six boats on duty there had started back not very long afterwards.

The excitement and the enthusiasm of everyone, due to the successful accomplishment of the first night's work, kept the midshipmen awake. Most of the picket-boats gathered close together under the lee of the sunken Oruba. The crews cooked their breakfasts, ate them—jolly good rations of army bacon, any amount of bread and jam—yarned, and laughed, and smoked. They fetched "Kaiser Bill" out of his box and tempted him with a cabbage leaf, but he turned up his nose at it. Then Bubbles and the Orphan went alongside the Achates to coal and water; rushed inboard to get a wash and a bit more breakfast, to tell everyone down in the gun-room—the Hun, the China Doll, Uncle Podger, and the Pimple—everything that had happened, and go back to their boats again.

"You didn't mind me sending you 'Kaiser Bill'?" Fletcher, waiting outside the gun-room, asked the Orphan.

"Rather not; it was jolly good of you to lend him to us. He brought us good luck the first night, at any rate."

"I'm sure he'll bring you luck to-night as well, sir."

Precious little "stand easy" did the Orphan and his crew get that day. The Swiftsure's picket-boat was about the best-steaming boat of the ten, and the Fierce One used her all day, going about the harbour and supervising everything that went on. He and his crew managed to get a meal in the middle of the day, and then were employed disembarking and clearing the transport of all the troops she had brought across the previous night.

At half-past four on that Sunday afternoon, the 19th December, all ten picket-boats, towed by as many trawlers, and their pulling-boats behind them, started off again for Anzac and Suvla.

The weather showed not a sign of changing, and before they reached Suvla the darkness disappeared under a moon almost more perfect than the night before. It really was more perfect, because a few thin clouds floated slowly across it; and though they hardly lessened the light it gave, they prevented shadows.

When they neared Suvla the picket-boat slipped, and did just as she had done the night before: anchored her two cutters along the cliffs beyond Suvla Point, and left the two big boats alongside Saunders Pier. The Orphan then patrolled very slowly along the coast, but everything was quiet except for a very few solitary rifle-shots; and these, he thought, were probably the rifles with the tin cans tied to their triggers going "off" when their tins filled. No stragglers showed on top of the cliffs nor down on the beach, and it was almost impossible to realize that up above him the trenches were being silently evacuated, and that the soldiers had already commenced, sections at a time, to file down that sandy, steep path which he and the Lamp-post had followed, on their way back from the Naval Observation Post, that ripping afternoon in September.

At about ten o'clock Bubbles, almost incoherent with excitement, came along in the old Majestic's picket-boat and relieved him.

"You have to go back to Saunders Pier," he stuttered and burbled, "and take back your cutters. I've to do a bit of patrolling."

The Orphan, picking up his anchored cutters and their crews, towed them to this pier, found his two big boats already crowded with troops, and took them off to two trawlers lying outside (those two which had run aground the previous night had been refloated shortly after daylight). For the next three hours he went backwards and forwards between trawlers and pier, and then, leaving his boats for Bubbles to carry on the good work, was ordered round to "'A' West", inside the Bay. On the way, he and the coxswain and the crew had some food—bread and meat sandwiches, water to wash them down. No food could be cooked and no cocoa made this night, because strict orders had been given that not a light had to be shown—not even the cooking bogey could be lighted.

Here, at "'A' West", he was in the thick of everything, jostling and nosing his way in and out among the picket-boats and motor-lighters struggling to get in or out by that gap between the Fieramosca and the Pina.

On the pier they told him that everything was "going all right", and that the Turks showed no signs of leaving their trenches. The excitement as boatloads of men, horses, and stores went off to the ships, and as he helped with officers and their baggage, kept him oblivious of time or fatigue.

By four o'clock that morning the evacuation had been successfully accomplished. He happened to have gone to the Beach-master's office at about that time with a message. As he entered, the Beach-master put down his telephone and smiled grimly to a military officer there. "They've just telephoned from 'C' beach to say they are finished, and the naval beach-party is now embarking. Not a soldier left behind."

"I expected to be on my way to Constantinople by this time—a prisoner," the weary officer replied.

"It's about time we packed up too. There's only a little more big baggage, and perhaps a hundred and fifty men of the beach parties, military landing-officers, and your people to go off from here, and that finishes the bag of tricks. Haven't we pulled their legs? Listen! they're sniping just as usual, up there. I'm just going round to get those stores properly started burning, and then pack up. I'm really sorry to leave, for some reasons," he said, glancing round his tiny little office "dug-out", with the bare rock on one side and the sand-bag walls.

He sent the Orphan, with one of the Pier-masters, to make a last search of the left flank. Off they went, rounded Suvla Point, and worked slowly along under the foot of the cliffs again, the Pier-master hailing the shore occasionally through a megaphone. Not a sound came back, except the echo from the face of the cliffs. They went some two miles along the coast, turned, and steamed back quickly, because they saw the glare of the burning fires, and thought that now, at any rate, the Turks would realize what had happened, and would come tearing down. Suvla Point and Saunders Pier were lighted up by the crackling, leaping flames, and in his four boats, still lying alongside the pier, the last of the people to leave Suvla had crowded. Four or five army officers came across to the less crowded picket-boat, and then, with an extraordinary feeling of exhilaration, he towed them off to the waiting trawlers, and stood off whilst those last people crowded into them.

This accomplished, he received orders to anchor his boats, and, with that same Pier-master, to make another last search along the cliffs on the left flank.

Away he went, and perhaps not more than half a mile—certainly not a mile—from the end of Suvla Point they saw a small group of dark figures on top of the cliffs. The Pier-master, a lusty naval lieutenant, hailed them through his megaphone; and a voice shouted back: "We're English! We're English!"

"That's funny," said the Pier-master. "Edge in a little closer; get your maxim ready."

The coxswain steered in towards the shore, and again the Pier-master hailed, and again a single voice called back: "We're English! We're English!"

"Well, if they were English, they would all shout," he said. "Keep her out! They are Turks, those chaps; probably a patrol which has pushed along the edge of the cliffs and does not know what to make of things. They would make a 'hullabaloo', right enough, if they were our chaps left behind."

The picket-boat steamed along under the cliffs, hailing every now and then, until they had passed the place where the left-flank trenches, coming down from Jephson's Post, touched the shore. Not a man could be seen, nor did any answer come back in response to the hails through the megaphone.

"That's finish!" the Pier-master told the Orphan. "Turn her round." Over went the wheel, round twisted the picket-boat, back she steamed to where the four boats lay, out beyond Suvla Point; and although the moon had disappeared by this time, there was not the slightest difficulty in finding them, for the whole water reflected the flames of the burning stores, and the boats and the men's faces showed up plainly.

The picket-boat took them in tow, and commenced to steam across to Kephalo. Behind her the flames leapt fiercely along the sweep of the bay, and every now and again explosions took place, hurling masses of flame and sparks high in the air. Silhouetted black against these fires was the Cornwallis battleship, left behind to keep the fires burning with her shells—if necessary—and to destroy in the morning the few wooden lighters which had been left behind.

Down along the coast at Anzac the sea was ruddy with the huge fires burning there.

"Well, if they've only been as successful down there, it's been a mighty good show," the Pier-master said as they watched them. "We've only left four condemned guns—blown them up, too—and not a single man, horse, or mule; and we've even taken off the goats belonging to the Indian Transport Column. My hat! it's simply wonderful; I'm going to coil up and do a little 'shut eye' down in the cabin. I have not slept for nearly four days."

"'Kaiser Bill' is down there. I do believe he has brought luck," the Orphan burst out; and then had to explain who "Kaiser Bill" was.

The coxswain, sweeping his hand astern towards Anafarta, called down: "Look, sir, there comes the dawn. We wondered if the weather would hold till Monday, and, thank God! it has."

The Orphan looked, and, hardly noticeable behind the bright glare of the fires, saw the pale light of dawn behind the Anafarta hills.

There was no longer any need for precautions. The "bogey" on the engine-room casings soon burnt brightly, and soon he and Marchant were sharing a big bowl of cocoa, and ravenously eating some more clumsy sandwiches which the men cut for them. Neither of them as yet felt sleepy, because the excitement of success kept them wide awake, though neither had slept for two whole days and nights.

By seven-thirty it became light enough for them to see, ahead of them, on their way from Suvla or Anzac, ten or twelve "water-beetles", a dozen or more trawlers, with long strings of transports' boats, pontoons, and lighters towing behind them; some twenty steamboats, also with their "tows", and several small tugs. The Suvla distilling steamer—the Bacchus—which for four months had been constantly shelled, was steaming on her way to Mudros; and patrolling destroyers, trawlers, and drifters swept the sea just as they always had done, and just as though nothing had happened.

Boom! Boom! came the rumble and thud of the firing of two big guns.

"The Cornwallis, sir, at Suvla," the coxswain said, turning to look, and making the Orphan turn to watch Turkish shells bursting down by the water's edge—just as usual. They had commenced their early morning "hate"—on empty beaches.

"By all that is wonderful, sir!" said the coxswain.

At half-past eight the picket-boat entered Kephalo harbour; and the Orphan knew, by the cheering which greeted him from the troops packed together aboard two large transports anchored inside, that the evacuation of Anzac had been completed as successfully as that at Suvla.

He turned over his four boats to a battleship, and threaded his way through the throng of steamboats, trawlers, and motor-lighters which jostled each other in the harbour, eventually reached the shore, and landed to report himself.

He found the Fierce One, who had only just returned from Suvla, and the Not So Fierce One at breakfast in their little wooden hut.

"Hum! You've come back, have you?" growled the Fierce One. "A very good two nights' work; very good, indeed!"

The Not So Fierce One, looking at the Orphan, said: "You look pretty well fagged out; have a cup of tea, or something."

CHAPTER XXII

A Terrible Night

The Orphan had returned to Kephalo at nine o'clock in the morning—that Monday morning after the evacuation of Suvla. He had had no sleep for forty-eight hours, and was allowed none now. In the afternoon the largest tug received orders to tow four picket-boats and a steam pinnace to Mudros—the two picket-boats belonging to the Lord Nelson, the boat belonging to the Swiftsure, another, and the steam pinnace.

The Orphan thought this would be rather a "spree", and did not notice that the north-easterly breeze which had held all that past week had backed to the south-west.

At half-past four in the afternoon, he and the other boats followed the tug out of harbour under their own steam. Beyond the "nets" the tug waited for them to come along and make fast, one behind the other.

"This is just the time when it's best to be last," Marchant, his coxswain, suggested. "I don't feel quite certain of the weather, and if we are the last boat we can slip whenever we want to."

The Orphan agreed, and wasted a good deal of time—on purpose—going out of harbour, and found the other boats all secured to each other, in one long line, by the time he joined them. The captain of the tug was not very polite to him, but he did not worry about that, and made fast his tow-rope to the last boat—the Lord Nelson's No. 1 picket-boat.

The Cheese-mite shouted across: "I say, Orphan, you've cut me out of the stern billet—I wanted that."

"So did I," the Orphan laughed.

Away they all went, one after another, the tug steaming very slowly; and outside Suvla Point they found quite a fresh breeze, blowing straight in their faces, and the sea which had been so calm had already begun to cover itself with little "white horses".

Four "water-beetles" joined company, puffing along with them as fast as they could.

Fires were allowed to die out gradually in all the steamboats, and there was nothing to do but steer them.

The crew now lighted the bogey, made tea, and fried some bacon. Everyone had a good meal; and after it the Orphan felt much too comfortable and sleepy to chaff the Cheese-mite ahead of him through his megaphone. "I'm going to have a bit of sleep," he told Marchant, and snuggled down below in the little cabin, with a rolled-up overcoat as pillow.

It was bright moonlight when he woke up, and he felt the picket-boat bumping into waves every other second. He rubbed his eyes, and jumped on deck to the wheel.

"Hullo, what's that?" he said, noticing smoke coming up out of the funnel.

"I didn't wake you, sir; there's nothing to worry about—not yet; but I don't like the look of the weather, so I'm raising steam in case anything happens. You'd better get an oilskin on, sir," he added, as the bows bumped into a wave and the spray came over them.

But the Orphan had not one, so he took the wheel whilst Marchant went for his.

The breeze had indeed risen, and the sea too. The picket-boats ahead of him were going up and down like the boats at a circus roundabout; and behind him those motor-lighters, looking more like "water-beetles" than ever, in the moonlight, were slowly falling astern, yawing from side to side and covered with spray.

He saw Kephalo South Point light and the fires over at Anzac, which still burnt furiously, and knew that the boats had only just got past Aliki Bay. He could not have been asleep for long.

The wind and sea increased every minute, and made the steering of the picket-boat quite a hard job. Marchant came back and took the wheel from him. "I've known this boat for nearly three years, sir," he said; and the Orphan, knowing how he hated letting anyone steer his own old picket-boat, knew what he meant.

"What extraordinary luck, sir!" Marchant said presently. "Fancy if it had blown like this last night! Right on shore it would have been, and not a boat could have gone near it. We could not possibly have taken the soldiers off, to say nothing about their guns."

In half an hour the motor-lighters were evidently in difficulties. In order to keep their screws in the water they had to be much ballasted down by the stern. This made their bluff bows come right out of the water; and every sea hitting them, besides almost stopping their way, tended to throw them off their course. They could not steer properly, yawing this way, yawing that; and it was impossible for them to keep up with the five and a half knots of the tug, which was then about the speed she was towing the picket-boats.

She stopped and, as the motor-lighters struggled towards her, hailed them, and made two come alongside, abreast each other, on each side of her. She made them fast, and with them working their motors and doing their best to steer, she went on again. But you can imagine what a terribly clumsy "tow" they made, bumping into each other, bumping into the tug, simply covered with spray minute after minute.

"Look here, sir," said Marchant presently, as the weather rapidly grew worse; "if those lighters break adrift, they'll come down on us and finish us."

"What d'you want to do?"

"I'd like to slip, and try and get along by ourselves. We can do it, sir; she's a very good steamer."

The Orphan didn't know quite what to do. He realized the danger, but he didn't relish the idea of steaming nearly fifty miles to wind'ard, in the teeth of the rapidly rising wind.

However, he realized that Marchant probably knew, better than he did, what the boat could or could not do; so he agreed.

He seized the megaphone and yelled to the Cheese-mite to slip his tow-rope. The Cheese-mite, who also had raised steam, wanted to know where he was going.

"Make for Mudros!" yelled the Orphan.

"D'you know the way?"

"The coxswain does."

"I'll follow you," the Cheese-mite shouted, as the tow-rope fell into the water.

The two of them swerved outside the clumsy motor-lighters and gradually forged ahead, lost sight of them, and went plunging into the head seas, steering by compass and by the glow of the fires of Anzac. In a very short time they had to batten down everything—the forepeak hatch, the engine-room, and the stokehold hatches. The Orphan and Marchant (who had taken off his boots and oilskin) were wet through, waves washed a foot deep over the picket-boat, and she made very little progress.

For two hours they struggled on; but by that time a regular gale was blowing, driving a short steep sea in front of it so fiercely that the picket-boat not only made scarcely any way, but could hardly keep her bows to it.

"We can't do it, sir," Marchant at last said, when, at one extra lurch, two of the spare water-barricoes (full they were) tore themselves from their lashings round the engine-room casings and went overboard. "We haven't enough water now—to say nothing of coal."

"We'll have to go back, sir!" he shouted.

"Right-o!" yelled the Orphan, clinging to the rail round the cabin, and not at all liking the idea of turning the boat round in such a sea.

Very gently Marchant edged her round; a wave buried her bows and threw her over; she righted herself, and the next wave, catching her almost broadside on, simply flung her on her beam-ends. For a moment the Orphan thought she would never right herself; then she did with a jerk, a wave came green almost over the wheel, the picket-boat lurched more heavily than before. The Orphan, swept off his feet, clung to the rail, and by the time he had gained his feet again she was round, and going ahead with the waves roaring after her, lifting her stern, foaming over the counter and trying to fling it round. He groped his way aft, clinging to the cabin rail, and found that already there were two feet of water in the stern-sheets.

He suddenly remembered "Kaiser Bill", jumped down into the water, went into the cabin, and found his box floating about. He took it out into the moonlight, and was much relieved when the tortoise peeped out of his shell to see what all the "bobbery" was about. He jammed the box in a rack inside the cabin, near the top of it, and went back to the wheel.

"Much, sir?" Marchant asked anxiously.

"Two feet!" the Orphan shouted, and told him about rescuing "Kaiser Bill".

"I'd forgotten all about him, sir. We're all right now, he'll bring us through. We must get that water out of her."

The Orphan knew that the ejector was choked, so he made his way for'ard, clinging to the wire round the engine-room casings, the funnel-stays, and the gun-mounting, to call two of the men, huddled down under the forepeak, to come aft and bale the water out with buckets.

They came and worked hard, but the waves constantly lopped in, and the amount of water diminished very slowly. He knew that if her stern swung round and she "broached to", the seas would fill the big stern-sheets completely, and as he could not trust to the engine-room bulkhead being watertight, she would probably sink. He understood then why Marchant had taken off his boots and oilskin.

He went back to the steering-wheel.

Just then the stokehold hatch opened, the stoker drew himself out, and scrambled cautiously aft. He began unlashing one of the two remaining barricoes of water, when a sudden lurch of the boat threw him off his feet, and he slid overboard.

Like lightning Marchant, shouting "Take the wheel, sir!" jumped in front of the protecting shield, flung himself down, gripping the wire round the engine-room casing with one hand, leant over the gunwale, and seized the stoker almost before he had fallen completely over the side. There was the crash of something being overturned, the sizzle of red-hot cinders falling in the water, and Marchant, with a jerk, wrenched the man against the boat's side. He gripped the life-line; Marchant gave a heave, and he climbed on board again. It all happened in the twinkling of an eye.

Marchant came back and took the wheel.

"Pretty quick work, that!" the Orphan said. "He'd have been drowned; we couldn't have turned round to pick him up."

"No; it wouldn't have been safe," Marchant shouted back, meeting a vicious swerve of the stern with a touch of helm.

"Look at my hands and face, sir," he said, when the picket-boat had quieted herself. "I knocked over that bogey; it hadn't gone out, and the cinders burnt me or scalded me when they fell into the water."

By the moonlight the Orphan saw that his face and hands were very red.

"I can't see that Lord Nelson's boat, sir," Marchant shouted in a minute or two. "She ought to have seen us turn and followed. I can't see her now."

The Orphan looked astern and could see nothing. In ordinary circumstances he would have gone back to look for her; but with that raging, roaring, steep sea racing after them, both he and Marchant knew this was now out of the question.

The only thing they could do they did; Marchant going aft, lighting a lantern, and lashing it to show astern.

He left the wheel to the Orphan.

By the time Marchant came back the tug hove in sight, tossing and tumbling in the white foaming seas, evidently standing by two motor-lighters which had broken adrift and were almost hidden in spray, broadside-on to the waves. They saw nothing of the other two.

They passed them, and caught up with one of the other picket-boats. Marchant roared through his megaphone for her to keep Kephalo Light well clear to port because of the "submarine detector" nets. He knew where they were, and this steamboat seemed to be steering for them.

"There's one caught in them, over there, sir!" Marchant shouted, pointing far away to port. "She'll probably drift on to the rocks."

"Can't we go and help?" the Orphan shouted, knowing full well that this was impossible, for once the propeller fouled those nets his picket-boat would be helpless, and drift on the rocks herself when the waves tore her out of the nets.

Marchant shook his head.

In half an hour they had Kephalo Light a couple of miles on their port beam; half an hour later they had edged the picket-boat into comparatively smooth water, and by eleven o'clock that night they went in through the gate in the submarine net at Kephalo, and ran alongside the Achates.

By this time Marchant's face and hands had begun to swell and blister from that scald or burn, and were very painful.

The Orphan sent him inboard to Dr. Gordon, and took his steamboat round the sunken breakwater ships alongside the landing-place. Then he stumbled, wet through and fearfully tired, up to the wooden hut, woke the Fierce One, and reported himself.

He became horribly unpopular, and was ordered to report in the morning. So back he went to the picket-boat, tied her up alongside the sunken Oruba; and he and his crew went to sleep, and would have slept for ever, if the crew of another picket-boat, tied up close to them, had not given them a "shake" next morning.

In the forenoon the Orphan was sent outside the harbour to search for the other picket-boats which had not arrived. He saw the Cheese-mite's boat hard and fast on shore, and another breaking up not far from her. He expected that the crews had swum or scrambled ashore (they had done so); but the seas ran much too high for him to go in and give assistance, so back he came into harbour and reported this.

"Hum!" growled the Fierce One. "You don't belong to me any more; go back to your ship."

The tired midshipman, thinking that he had disgraced himself, went back.

Bubbles met him at the top of the gangway—his face redder, and his chuckling, snorting noises louder than ever. "Orphan! Orphan!" he blurted out; "you and I are off to 'W' beach. The Sub went there yesterday, and we're going to-night. Really—honour bright!" as he saw that the Orphan thought that his leg was being "pulled".

"Phew! That's grand! My word, what luck!" the Orphan burst out, his tired eyes lighting up as he realized that Bubbles meant it.

Marchant, with his left hand bandaged up and his face all oily and red, was waiting to go down into the boat.

"Good-bye!" the Orphan said. "We've had a splendid time together, haven't we? Good luck to you!" and darted away to see the Commander and get his orders; but then, remembering "Kaiser Bill", ran back again.

"He's all right; they're bringing him up along with your gear," Bubbles told him. "I'll look after everything. You do look a prize burglar!"

He found the Commander. "Yes, you are to go across in a trawler—about five o'clock. The Captain wishes to see you."

So aft he went, and found Captain Macfarlane in his cabin smoking a cigarette, as usual.

"Hum!" he said, smiling when he saw how unkempt the Orphan looked, his face dirty, and his clothes hardly dry from last night's soaking. "Hum, Mr. Orpen! We don't seem to be able to carry on this war without you, do we? You have to go across to 'W' beach to-night, and you'll probably be there for some time."

"Are they going to evacuate Helles, sir?" the Orphan asked.

"I expect you will be able to tell me that, when you've been there a few days. You were out in that gale last night, I hear, and the only one of those five boats to get back. Hum! You seem lucky."

"We had 'Kaiser Bill' on board. Old Fletcher, the stoker, made me take him."

"Oh! was that it?" smiled the Captain, tugging his beard. "Well, off you go, and good luck to you! You'll have plenty of shells to dodge—over there. You'd better take 'Kaiser Bill' with you."

"I will, sir, if Fletcher lets me." And the Orphan, hugely happy and delighted, went away to the gun-room to tell all his adventures.

At four o'clock that afternoon Bubbles and the Orphan stood at the top of the accommodation ladder, with all the clothes and gear they wanted in two ordinary sailor's kit-bags, and their bedding made up in two bundles. On top of the bundles rested "Kaiser Bill's" wooden box, with the tortoise inside. Old Fletcher had come aft, and was "fussing" round him.

"We'll look after him all right. Thank you for lending him!" they called out as they went down into the Hun's steam pinnace. "Kaiser Bill" and their gear were carried down after them, and the Hun took them across to the waiting trawler.

By five o'clock the Achates was once more out of sight, and the trawler was steaming towards Cape Helles with the remnants of last night's gale on her starboard beam. The two midshipmen both wore once again the khaki which the Fierce One had forbidden, the same clothes they had worn when they left "W" beach at the end of May, six months and a half ago; and they felt supremely happy, crouching in the lee of the trawler's galley, and watching the island of Kephalo gradually fading out of sight till darkness hid it altogether.

At half-past six the trawler ran alongside a sunken steamer—the outer hulk of Pier No. 1; a steamboat came for them, and landed them and their gear at No. 3 Pier—the pier they had watched being commenced by the Sappers the very day of the landing. By the light of a single lantern they found the Pier-master—a Sub-lieutenant, R.N.R.—and were ordered to report themselves to the Naval Transport Officer.

"You'd better go up to the Mess," the R.N.R. Sub told them. "You'll probably find him up there."

He gave them two men to carry their gear, and with "Kaiser Bill" under the Orphan's arm they stumbled along the pier in the dark till their feet scrunched into the sand on "W" beach.

"What a time since we were here!" Bubbles blurted out; and: "Isn't it grand to get back again?" the Orphan chuckled.

There were no flares now, the shore was absolutely dark.

They started off along the beach towards where the main gully road used to be; but everything had so changed, and it was so dark, that they soon had to let the two seamen with their bundles lead the way—off that beach, up a broad, firm road, turning to the left along a narrow path, then down some wooden steps, and so to a dark "cutting" in the side of the slope, at the end of which a glow of light showed through half-opened folding-doors.

"Here's the Officers' Mess, sir. Glad to see you on shore, sir," said one of the seamen; and the Orphan recognized Plunky Bill's voice.

"Hello! You here? How are things going?"

"Pretty quiet, sir; nothing much doing."

"Are they going to evacuate the place?"

"I ain't 'eard nothing. We've been landing a good many of the soldiers round from Suvla—a good show—down there, sir. I ain't 'eard nothing about nobody going off."

Bubbles, looking in through the doors and seeing no one inside, asked him where the Sub was.

"Don't see much of him, sir. I works down at No. 1 Pier—mostly. Well, we'll stick your gear 'ere. Some of the officers will be a-coming up soon."

"'Kaiser Bill' has come along—for luck," the Orphan said; and Plunky Bill stepped into the lamp-light from the half-open door to have a look at him in his box.

"'E will bring luck all right, sir. I wish we'd 'ad 'im at that there Ajano place."

Then they were left alone, went inside through the door—evidently the folding-doors from the saloon of one of the sunken steamers—into a pantry sort of place, through it into a long room some 9 feet high, 20 feet long, and 12 feet broad, with a wooden floor and a wooden ceiling, from which an oil-lamp hung—the lamp which had glowed through the doorway—over a long wooden table littered with newspapers, and with a wooden bench on either side of it. At the far end was a fire-place—alight and burning cosily—some deck chairs round it, a packing-case full of coal in the corner, and a very dilapidated card-table.

"Look how they make cupboards!" said Bubbles excitedly, and pointed to two shell-boxes let into the clay walls. "Isn't that 'cute'?"

Then from outside came a loud voice. "My jumping Jimmy! D'you think I'm going to land a hundred tons of hay a night like this? Not if I know it. It would all get soaked. Tell him to wait till the morning; the sea will have gone down by then."

The Sub came in, calling out: "Outside! Outside! Pantry! Pantry! Bring me a bottle of beer!" And seeing the two midshipmen, burst out with: "Yoicks, my merry kippers! My bubbling Bubbles! My perishing Orphan! Pantry! Pantry! Bring three bottles!"

"They've sent you two here, have they? Good egg! Well, you'll have lots to do, and a lot of shell-dodging. They've got a better brand in stock now—burst every time. Hello! There goes one!" he said, as the roaring thud of a bursting shell came from somewhere up the ridge, and some bits of dried clay broke away from the walls and rattled down on the wooden floor. "That fell in the Ordnance Stores. They've had a lot there lately."

"Where's it from? Achi Baba?" asked the Orphan.

"Old 'Asiatic Annie'—a 6-inch. She's a confounded nuisance. What d'you think of my 'dug-out'? Come and see where I 'pig' it;" and the Sub took them past the fire-place into a little room beyond, and, flashing his electric torch, showed them two beds, a small table, cupboard places in the mud walls, a stove, and two little wash-stands—evidently taken out of a ship. "We've got lots of stuff from these sunken hulks. Snug little place, isn't it?—especially when we light the stove in the corner."

"Are we going to live here?" the midshipmen asked.

"Good heavens, no, my wriggling worms! You won't live with the aristocracy. Come along, and I'll show you your 'pigsty'—another 'dug-out', which we call the dormitory."

A fine-looking old Leading Seaman, an old Naval Reserve man named Richards—he may have been fifty, he may have been sixty—came in with the three glasses of beer, just as another tremendous roar shook the wooden beams overhead and made the tin lamp-shade rattle—it sounded not twenty yards away.

"In the Sappers' place, that one, sir; they're starting early to-night," the old chap said, putting the tray on the table.

"Send these officers' gear round to the dormitory; you'll find it outside," the Sub told him.

"They've gone already, sir," Richards said.

"What's on top of those beams?" the Orphan asked, a little anxiously, as another roaring explosion thudded the air, not quite so near as the last.

"A new tarpaulin, my Orphan! I stole it yesterday. It's waterproof, too!"

"Can those things come in here?"

"There's nothing to prevent 'em," grinned the Sub. "Come along, and we'll peg out a claim for you two in the dormitory. Hello! what the devil have you got there?" he said, seeing "Kaiser Bill's" box on the table, and opening it, roared with laughter. "Old Fletcher made you bring him?"

"He made me take him for Suvla evacuation—for luck—and the Captain told me I'd better bring him here, as he'd brought luck there."

"Are they going to evacuate this place?" they both asked at the same time.

The Sub shook his head. "I don't think so. So you were at Suvla? Of course you were; you'll have to tell me all about it. What a splendid show that was! Our chaps here made a pretence of advancing that same day—lost a lot of people."

By now he had taken them through the cutting. "That's the kitchen," he said, as he took them out of the mess and they passed a place with a light in it; "old Richards looks after it, and us, like a mother." He led them through another deep cutting, and through an opening closed by a door—evidently a door taken from the cabin of one of the sunken hulks. "More loot," the Sub said, switching on his torch and leading the way into a long place with a few planks laid over the clayey earth, with earth walls and a timber roof. Six beds were already there, with bags between them, and their own bundles lay, lonely, in the middle.

He showed them a corner where they could spread out their beds. "I'll get some planks put there in the morning," he told them. "You'd better come along and see the Captain now; he'll be up in his 'dug-out' by this time, I expect."

As they went out on to the open slope, climbed up to a road which ran immediately at the back of the dormitory, another high-explosive shell burst high up the ridge, lighting up a few white tents.

The Orphan winced and Bubbles chuckled.

Then it was all dark again. "Mind those steps; keep close to me; here we are," and the Sub took them along another cutting to the Naval Transport Officer's "dug-out".

They found this naval Captain there, washing the sand off his face.

"Two of our midshipmen, sir; the two we expected."

He turned round—a short, thick-set man with a bullet-shaped, closely cropped head—and he wiped the soap-suds off his mahogany-coloured face.

"All right; the Sub will show you where to go; glad to have you," and he waved them away.

They went back towards the Mess.

"You'll have to take charge of a picket-boat," the Sub told Bubbles; "and you, Orphan, will have to do odd jobs under me—all sorts of things: cleaning up the camp, fetching coal, any old thing. Ah! look out! here comes another!"

They heard the whistling swish of a shell, and then another glare, and another tremendous explosion burst, just the other side of the Naval Mess.

Instinctively they had thrown themselves down on the ground; something hurtled past and buried itself in the sand close by; and as they scrambled to their feet the Sub said angrily: "Confound them! Come along back to the Mess; you can have a wash in my basin, and then it will be time for dinner."

Two soldiers—a Major and a subaltern, the Military Landing Officers—a R.N.R. lieutenant, and two R.N.R. sub-lieutenants came in at odd times for dinner. The Sub hurried through his meal, put on a thick coat, and warmed himself in front of the fire before going down to the beach.

"Is there much to do to-night?" asked one of the soldier officers—the subaltern.

"Absolutely nothing, old chap, except to get off a tug, two steamboats, something like half a dozen lighters driven ashore last night; try and repair about twenty feet of No. 1 Pier washed away by the other gale, and see what can be done with the 'Inner Hulk'—she broke her back when the pier 'went', and we'll have to try and get a gangway across the gap; otherwise I can't think of anything."

Two of the R.N.R. officers went with him, but he sent the two midshipmen to turn in. Neither of them had had any proper sleep for three days, and they both had been nodding and yawning, and looking stupidly tired all through that meal.

So they turned in, put "Kaiser Bill" between them for luck, and slept like "tops".

CHAPTER XXIII

"In 'Dug-outs' at Cape Helles"

Richards, that splendid old Leading Seaman who "ran" the Mess, brought them both a cup of tea in the morning. "Four bells just struck, sirs; breeze gone round to the north-east, pretty nippy outside it is, but fine. Hands 'fall in' at half-past six." He lighted an oil-lamp and left them.

Bubbles snuggled down under the blankets and would have gone to sleep again, had not the Orphan pulled them off him and made him turn out.

They dressed hurriedly, saw that "Kaiser Bill" was safe in his corner; and by seven o'clock, just before the dawn commenced, Bubbles had taken charge of a very much battered, old picket-boat lying alongside No. 3 Pier; and the Orphan, with a party of five stokers, was sent up behind the Mess to deepen a shallow gutter-way between it and the road, to prevent rain washing off the road on to the top of the dormitory and that new tarpaulin which the Sub had stolen.

He met the Sub coming back from his night's work on the beach, wet through and very fagged. "I got some of those lighters off, but there's another week's work down there at that job," he said.

When daylight came, the Orphan found that "W" beach had altered very much since he had been there, six months and a half ago. The cliffs beyond were crowned by a vast number of hospital tents and marquees; where, previously, the horse and mule "lines" had been, tents and marquees, and huge masses of stores, protected by tarpaulins, now occupied these spaces, and the irregular sandy track up the gully to the ridge had become a wide well-made road with well-metalled roads branching away to left and right. Everywhere there were "dug-outs", not open ones as in those early days, but covered with wooden or galvanized-iron roofs, over which at least one protecting layer of sand-bags had been laid. Motor-lorries dashed along the roads continuously, and seemed to have taken the place of horses and mules almost entirely.

Along the face of the steep cliff, on the far side of the gully from where those one-inch Nordenfeldts and maxims had played such havoc among the Lancashire Fusiliers on the day of the landing, a steep road had been cut in the face of it, and the Orphan saw hundreds of "dug-outs" up there.

Fifty yards below him was the beach itself, with its four little piers—No. 1 Pier to his right, with a gap in it made by the first of the south-west gales; beyond it the "Inner Hulk", a sunken steamer with her back broken; and beyond her, at right angles, another sunken steamer, the "Outer Hulk". At his feet was No. 2 Pier, the first pier the Sappers had begun on the 25th April; and beyond this the longer No. 3 Pier, with its end curving towards the "Outer Hulk", so that a small harbour[#] had been formed in which now lay two little "coaster" steamers, several lighters, and a trawler.

[#] This harbour was called Port Talbot after the Captain of the poor old Majestic.

Beyond and to the left, under the high cliff, was No. 4 Pier, more of a mole or jetty than a pier, protected a little from the east by a reef of rocks. It was on this pier that the Orphan, later on, had so much work to do. Farther along still, several lighters had stranded, and one or two were already broken up.

Out towards Tenedos and over against the Asiatic shore the usual trawlers and drifters and a couple of destroyers patrolled for submarines.

But what struck the Orphan most vividly was the emptiness of the Straits between him and the Asiatic shore. In May they had been almost crowded with battleships, transports, hospital ships, ships of all sorts and sizes; now a solitary hospital ship lay off Helles, and only two or three small craft and tugs were anchored inshore.

The Turks fired no shells that morning until the breakfast hour, when two fell among the Sappers' stores and tents, without, however, doing any damage.

After breakfast the Orphan and his stokers had more digging to do, extending the beach party's "dug-outs" at the foot of the low cliff, below the Mess "dug-out", and commencing others. Shells came over every now and then all the morning, but none burst near the Orphan's party. When they knocked off work and started dinner, the Turks over on the Asiatic shore fired many big 6-inch high explosives, which did very little material damage, though they racked his nerves exceedingly.

The Orphan never even pretended that he did not hate those shells; and when, that afternoon, he received orders to take twenty men, embark in a tug, and go down to Rabbit Island to draw coal, he felt extremely pleased to get away from them. Rabbit Island is a tiny little island at the mouth of the Straits, and when he arrived there he found two small monitors with long-range guns busily bombarding the Asiatic guns. The Turks were firing back, and when he went alongside the collier to get his filled coal-bags, one of their wretched shells fell so close to the tug as to splash the bows. The Orphan loaded his coal-bags and started back to "W" beach, realizing that the only thing to do, if he meant to enjoy himself, was simply not to think of shells at all. Of course, in twenty-four hours he had made friends with Richards, that Leading Seaman; and the old man could not help noticing that he flinched whenever a big shell moaned through the air, and burst with its horrid, rending roar. "Look here, sir," he said; "it's just like this: don't you worry about them—it's no use worrying. If you're meant to be killed, killed you will be, wherever you go or whatever you do; so just pay no attention to them."

It is difficult for a youngster to take comfort from such a fatalistic conviction; but by the end of the week the Orphan was able to tell Bubbles that he had not "ducked" once during the last twenty-four hours. "That shows I'm not such a duffer, doesn't it, old chap?" he said proudly.

During those first few days a good deal of mysterious landing and embarking of troops went on, which nobody seemed able to explain—though, as far as anyone in the Naval Mess knew, many more were coming than going. Also, it became known that the new-comers were taking over—gradually—the French section of the line, and that French troops and guns embarked every night. The Turks naturally knew that our men were occupying the French trenches immediately opposite them, so that there was no need for secrecy, and many of the French guns were towed away from "V" beach in broad daylight. A tug would take away a heavily loaded lighter at the end of a very long tow-rope, and "Asiatic Annie" and her sisters often made "towing-target" practice at this lighter and its guns—though without ever hitting them.

The Orphan himself never went to "V" beach, but Bubbles often did so, and found quite a good harbour there, made by a big Messageries Maritimes steamer sunk this side of the River Clyde (apparently none the worse for her seven months of being shelled), and an obsolete old French battleship hulk—the Massena—sunk almost to close the gap between them. Whenever the French happened to have a slack night, most of the British nightly reinforcements (from the 9th Corps, which had been at Suvla) landed there.

Christmas Day arrived, and the Turks greeted it with a more than usually heavy shelling of both beaches, the Sappers' and Ordnance Store Depots suffering considerably. This, and an extra good dinner that night—when Richards produced two turkeys, obtained from one of the Greek islands, and several officers contributed Christmas puddings and mince-pies, sent from home by the Christmas mail—marked the day. Otherwise all work went on as usual.

Every now and again the French battleship Suffren came along up the Straits, with her protecting destroyers and trawlers and her "spotting" aeroplane, and bombarded the Asiatic guns for a couple of hours or so. At other times a British battleship repeated the performance with even greater zest; but though those annoying guns remained quiet whilst they were being bombarded, they always opened a very vigorous fire on the beaches directly the battleships had left.

On the other side of the Peninsula, round the "left flank" coast, assisting destroyers very frequently harassed the Turkish trenches on the Achi Baba right flank, and a big monitor almost daily bombarded Achi Baba or Chanak Fort with her big 14-inch guns.

Everything went on as usual, and as though we intended to hold the end of the Peninsula for ever.

Everyone in the Naval Mess was far too busy embarking and disembarking troops and stores by night, preparing for the winter, strengthening their "dug-outs", repairing piers, and patching damaged boats by day, to know exactly what was happening up in the front-line trenches. Intermittent artillery duels, at all hours of every day, went on in the usual manner, and without any apparent especial military object. At night, when working on the piers, they often heard furious bursts of rifle and machine-gun firing, sometimes the bursting of trench bombs; at times field-guns also used to "chip in" at night; but everyone had become so accustomed to all this that no one paid any attention to it or remarked about it.

Shells fell on the beaches and above them just as usual; 6-inch high explosives came from the Asiatic side—two or three an hour—from daylight until two o'clock next morning, at which time the Turkish gunners "packed up". During the men's "stand easy", in the middle of the day, perhaps twenty would come along; and again, at nine o'clock at night, they would start fairly brisk firing for three-quarters of an hour.

The Naval Camp, lying as it did just below the R.E. "Park", and not far from the Ordnance Stores—both favourite targets of "Asiatic Annie "—received a good many of her misses, and most of the "shorts" fell on the beach itself. By this time the men working within this shell area had become so accustomed and hardened to these intermittent noises of shells shrieking towards them and bursting, that work was seldom interrupted. At night, sentries along the beach would watch for the glare made by the flash of the Asiatic howitzers, and would call out "Take cover!" Eighteen seconds afterwards the shell, if fired at "V" beach, would burst there; but if fired at "W" beach twenty seconds elapsed, after the warning shout, before the shell could be heard rushing through the night air with a rapidly increasing "swishing" noise. In twenty-five seconds it arrived, burst with a very vivid flash and that nerve-shaking, rending roar, and did whatever damage it had found to do.

Sometimes, in the silence which followed, would be heard the melancholy call, "Stretcher! Stretcher!" but most frequently a hole in the ground, or a few scattered boxes of stores or bundles of fodder, alone marked where it had fallen and burst.

From Achi Baba came the little 4.1-inch shells at all hours of the day.

People told the Orphan that some ten days after the Belgrade-Nish-Constantinople railway had been reopened through conquered Serbia, it became evident that the Turks were much more lavish with their ammunition.

They must have received ample additional supplies, and, what was still more noticeable, the new shells nearly always burst.

The Orphan gradually grew accustomed to these shells, but he was always "mighty" glad when the two big "hates" of the day were finished.

Everyone had marvellous escapes; in fact, marvellous escapes were so common that the recounting of them soon failed to interest others.

One morning the Orphan was sleeping soundly in the dormitory, and at about ten o'clock Bubbles, who had somehow or other fallen overboard from his picket-boat, ran up to shift his wet clothes, and could not resist the temptation of waking up the Orphan. He had just commenced to get some sense into him and make him take an interest in his accident, when in through the roof smashed a shell, passed between the Orphan sitting on his bed and Bubbles standing over him, buried itself in the ground, and burst. Bubbles was thrown to the other side of the dormitory, the Orphan found himself on top of an awakened and angry R.N.R. Lieutenant, and all three, covered with dust, dashed through the smoke out into the open air.

"Kaiser Bill!" the Orphan cried, darted back again, and brought out the tortoise.

"He was under my bed, he wasn't quite buried; he doesn't seem to have been hit."

They tried anxiously to make him put out his head, but he wouldn't. Bubbles, seizing him, looked inside the shell. "He's all right," he said, much relieved; "I saw his mouth move."

"I bet that he got the fright of his life,", Bubbles gurgled; and then noticed that the Orphan's wrist, the right one, was bleeding, and that blood was coming through his own soaked trousers. They found a small cut on the Orphan's right wrist, and that Bubbles had a little gash behind the left knee—quite trivial things, only requiring a bandage round each. Actually, that was all the damage done to those two midshipmen, although the shell had burst immediately behind and between them.

"Fancy what might have happened if 'Kaiser Bill' had not been there," the superstitious Orphan, a little "shaken", kept saying.

The R.N.R. Lieutenant, having fixed them up with bandages, took them inside the dormitory to dig their things out again and get the place tidied up. They shook the sand and clay from their bedding; dug out the clothes which had been lying on the floor; found some of the fragments of the shell, probably a 4.1-inch from Achi Baba; looked at the jagged hole in the wooden roof; and when Bubbles, having changed his wet clothes, went away, limping a little, to take charge of his picket-boat again, the other two turned in and slept until midday. Directly the Orphan woke he hunted round for the tortoise, and felt greatly relieved when he saw "Kaiser Bill's" cunning old head peeping out.

On the next night it blew hard from the north-east—away from the end of the Peninsula. Unfortunately for Bubbles, he had the job, that night, of towing a big Malta lighter, full of mules, out to a transport, and when away from the shelter of the land something went wrong with the tow-rope, and it fouled the screw of his picket-boat. Both lighter and picket-boat drifted helplessly out to sea, and eventually became separated. It was a bitterly cold night—so dark that you could not see fifty yards in front of you, and two miles from the end of the Peninsula a very unpleasant sea was running. The lighter full of mules drifted away, but by some lucky chance stranded on Rabbit Island, and Bubbles in his helpless, waterlogged picket-boat had the luck to be found and picked up by a patrolling trawler, which towed him into safety.

He did not get back to "W" beach until long after daylight, and was then sent up to get his breakfast and some sleep. For some reason or other, his bed had been moved into the small "sleeping 'dug-out'" at the side of the Mess opposite to the dormitory, and almost at the same hour as the day before, a big shell from "Asiatic Annie" came in and completely wrecked it. No one else slept there that morning, and he had a most marvellous escape. The three empty beds, the wash-stands, and little stove were destroyed, and a macintosh which he had pulled over his blankets had several gashes torn in it, but he himself had not a scratch. Old Richards, running in through the Mess, and unable to see owing to the dust and smoke, switched on an electric torch and called out "Are you all right, sir?" never thinking that he could possibly be alive.

"I woke up," said Bubbles afterwards, bubbling over with excitement, "and found the whole place blooming dark; everything seemed to be tumbling down on top of me, and my hair was full of sand and stuff. I couldn't think what was the matter, and the smell of the place was simply beastly. It wasn't till old Richards came in, flashed his torch, wanted to know whether I was alive or not, and told me a shell had come in, that I knew what had happened. It spoilt that new macintosh I paid one pound ten for yesterday up at the Ordnance, confound it!"

The rest of the morning Bubbles and Richards spent digging out his "gear". They found his watch some two feet under the sand, still going, but the glass cracked. The "dug-out" was completely wrecked and quite uninhabitable.

He shifted back again into the dormitory, but had no more time for sleep. "I'll stick nearer to old 'Kaiser Bill' another time," he told the Orphan, poking fun at him and his superstitions.

The very next day, when on his way to the Mess for a hasty lunch, he stopped to speak to Richards, the Leading Seaman, who had just come out of the kitchen. At that moment a shell came past them, fell through the open kitchen door, and burst inside. Richards calmly put down the tureen of pea soup which he was carrying, and together they went in through the smoke to see if anyone had been injured. One man lay dead, and another had been badly cut about the shoulder by a splinter. He was carried away immediately to the Casualty Clearing-station beyond the gully, and the dead man covered up and removed. "Poor chap!" Richards muttered, "he only landed two hours ago for the first time. It's a strange thing how some get picked off, sir, isn't it?"

"Well, that's the third close shave for me—in three days too. I'll tell the Orphan that. He'll think it tremendously lucky," Bubbles said.

"I shouldn't like to say that it isn't, sir," Richards replied thoughtfully.

These three "experiences" seemed to have absolutely no effect on this midshipman's nerves, and the Orphan marvelled at him, and despised himself for hating and dreading shells so much.

By now they had made themselves quite cosy in their corner of the dormitory; a sand-bag was placed over the shell hole in the roof; their beds were raised from the ground on some planks; they looted a washstand and a looking-glass from one of the hulks, and had much fun digging "cupboards" for themselves in the clay walls.

"Kaiser Bill", too, seemed quite at home, and enjoyed his occasional exercises on the slope below the Mess, waking up, sprinting gaily for three or four yards, and then sulking because nothing green grew there. However, they managed to get him green stuff occasionally, and in the evenings, whenever they were off duty, they took him into the Mess after dinner, and he became quite frisky in the warmth of the fire. Those evenings were very jolly after a hard day's work and a good dinner, sitting in "deck" chairs in front of the cheerful fire, yarning, and not worrying much about the shells which, every now and then, burst along the ridge and made the dry "clayey" walls shake bits down on the wooden floor—not worrying about them, in spite of the fact that if one fell on top of the Mess the Sub's tarpaulin and the timber roof would not keep it out, nor would the long skylight hatchway, taken bodily out of one of the hulks and now fitted into the roof of the Mess.

It was one of their amusements to see "Kaiser Bill" "duck" when he heard a shell burst. He might be scampering over the floor—or the table—at the rate of two feet a minute, with his head and neck stretched out, or be nibbling enthusiastically at a piece of fresh cabbage leaf or onion stalk; but directly he heard the thud and roar of a shell bursting, however far away, in would go his head and legs, and nothing would entice him to put them out again for at least half an hour.

Bubbles and the Orphan always placed him down between their bunks when they turned in—for luck.

Food was good and plentiful—the army cheese simply grand; water was fairly plentiful from wells and springs; as for the Ordnance stores, they could supply everything from an electric torch to a stove, from a wheelbarrow to a motor bicycle, from a pair of trench gloves to a pair of india-rubber trench boots coming half-way up your thigh.

In fact, everything went on comfortably, and a week after the two midshipmen had landed they had entirely forgotten about "evacuation", and only thought it a joke when a Turkish aeroplane dropped the message: "Good-bye, British soldiers; we know you are going, and are sorry to lose you".

Flies had of course disappeared with the cold weather—disappeared long ago, and the only bothering live things were rats—great, fat, sleek fellows, who ran hurdle races round the dormitory at night to keep themselves in good condition, jumping over the sleeping midshipmen and the other officers there.

One night the Orphan met Bubbles, and saw by his face that something unusual had occurred.

"What is it? Any news?"

"They're sending every one of those Greek labourers[#] away to-night. They've given them two hours to pack up, and you and I have to embark them. What does that mean, I wonder?"

[#] Some two hundred Greek labourers had been employed ever since the landing, and had, for the most part, worked well; constantly under fire.

"Perhaps they've caught them spying; making signals or getting information across to the Turks,' the Orphan suggested.

"I don't know; it's jolly rummy."

"There's a lot of ammunition to be landed to-night, some time after ten o'clock," the Sub said, joining them. "You'll have to go out in the lighter, Orphan, so you'll have a busy time."

Well, just before ten o'clock, when the Orphan had started to warp the empty lighter away from No. 4 Pier, a messenger came down from the N.T.O. to tell him that this ammunition was not to be landed, and he heard afterwards that it went back to Mudros immediately.

This roused their curiosity; and when, next night, three lieutenants and many more bluejackets arrived, and half a dozen of those motor-lighters (the "water-beetles") and many more picket-boats came across from Kephalo, everyone guessed that the final evacuation had been determined upon.

And, on the last day of the year, Captain Macfarlane came to take charge of the elaborate organization required to embark all the troops, guns, horses, and stores without the knowledge of the Turks. He became Senior Naval Transport Officer, and lived in his big "dug-out" along a path cut in the cliff beyond the Naval Mess, and known as "Park Lane" because all the senior officers had their "dug-outs" there.

The Sub, Bubbles, and the Orphan were immensely pleased that he had come—he had such a kind, good-humoured way of giving orders, and nothing ever flustered him.

From now onward, there were no more troops or stores to disembark; but the work of sending away the enormous accumulation of stores, and of gradually withdrawing troops, guns, horses, and mules, went on at high pressure. This took place at night. After dark, transports and store ships would come across from Kephalo or Mudros, anchor off "W" beach or "V" beach (which now had been handed over by the French to the British), and all through the dark hours large "soldier" working parties and the Naval beach parties would toil, carrying down the most valuable of the Ordnance and Sappers' and Commissariat stores, and loading them in lighters (wooden lighters, which had to be towed, or motor-lighters). When full, these would be sent off to the store ships, unloaded, and sent back again. Every night a troop-carrier would come slowly alongside the "Outer Hulk", make fast, and battalions of infantry, with their baggage and their maxims, would be taken across to her in motor-lighters from No. 3 Pier. Every night, too, many horses and many mules went off to the big transports anchored farther out, and were hoisted on board.

An hour and a half before dawn, every steamship, transport, and troop-carrier had to be away and out of sight; and if, as the time for departure arrived, any still had half-emptied lighters alongside, tugs would dash out and bring them back. Nothing whatever was allowed to delay these big ships, because upon their arrival and departure being absolutely hidden from the Turks the whole success of the operation depended.

At one time, before the first of those south-west gales had broken a gap in No. 1 Pier, it had been possible to walk along it, then up a gangway on board the "Inner Hulk", and from her to the "Outer Hulk", and so on board anything lying alongside her. This had made the embarking and disembarking of troops a very simple and rapid process; and as simplicity and rapidity would be so necessary on the last night of the evacuation, attempts were made to bridge the gap. The Orphan took part in this, working in the day-time under the orders of the Pier-master, a Naval lieutenant named Armstrong, a great solid man who always spoke extremely deliberately, weighing every syllable, and never appearing to get even mildly excited.

First of all a big pontoon was wedged in the gap, but did not quite fill it; the vacant intervals were then closed by means of barrels lashed stoutly together and held in place by wires and hawsers. If anything did go wrong, Mr. Armstrong would fill his pipe and say: "I say—my—blooming—oath—you—blokes— will—have—to—reeve—another—pretty—big—wire—there"; or, "I—say—Orpen—we—shall—have—to— lay—out—another—anchor—go—round—and—find— a—thundering—big—chap".

When at last these were all fixed to his liking, a broad wooden gangway platform was laid over all, between the broken-away ends of the gap.

This business occupied two whole days, during which time the Orphan had generally more wet clothes than dry. "If—you—don't—take—care—you'll—get —your—feet—wet," Mr. Armstrong told him one day, after he had been wading up to his waist in the shallow water, on and off for an hour.

Troops now could march straight on board the "Inner Hulk", then across to the "Outer Hulk", and so to whatever troop-carrier happened to be alongside her. This naturally relieved the congestion at No. 2 and No. 3 Piers, from which horses and stores were embarked.

But the job which the Orphan liked best was down at No. 4 Pier, working with the Sub and a very energetic warrant officer, getting off guns, motor-lorries, motor field-workshops, "caterpillar" traction engines, and motor ambulances.

Before dark they would get a couple of lighters alongside this pier, make them fast to the wall, then dash up to the Mess for a rapid dinner, and down again about an hour after dark, when the guns would commence to come rumbling down the ridge to the beach—field-guns, stumpy howitzers, and long 60-pounders.

Horse teams or "caterpillar" tractors dragged them through the sand to just above No. 4 Pier, unhitched, and left them there with their "crews". Then the beach party on the pier would make "fast" hook-ropes, and hauling on them, whilst the artillerymen man-handled the spokes of gun and limber wheels, along would come the gun and its limber, jolting aboard the lighter.

One after the other the guns would be coaxed aboard until the lighter could hold no more. Then the artillerymen, picking up their rifles and kits, would scramble on board, squat down between the gun wheels, cling on to the spokes, stow themselves away anywhere so long as they did not get in the way of the lighter's crew, who now hauled on a warp-rope, made "fast" to the end of No. 3 Pier, and warped the heavily laden lighter away from the wall of No. 4 Pier.

A picket-boat, waiting there, would get hold of her, and tow her out to the plucky and beautifully handled little tug T1. Then away she would be towed by that tug to search for the transport which had anchored off Cape Helles after dark. Presently the big ship would loom up, the lighter would be towed alongside, made "fast" under a derrick, and left there to unload. If any very heavy guns, or heavy, cumbrous things such as motor-lorries or "caterpillar" tractors, went off, the Sub or the Gunner always took charge of the lighter; but if the load consisted of field-guns, or such things as "general service" wagons, he sent the Orphan.

This was just the job the Orphan enjoyed—the taking charge of the soldier officers and their artillerymen, the warping off from No. 4 Pier, the tow-out in the darkness of those very dark nights, the job of getting his lighter safely secured to the big ship, and the delicate business of safely slinging each gun and limber or wagon to the ship's derrick "purchase". The purchase would be lowered with its great hook, the slings of one gun slipped over it, the Orphan would shout "Hoist away!" and whilst that gun dangled overhead in the dark, would busily secure the slings to the next, so that time should not be wasted when the purchase-hook came down again. It sometimes took a couple of hours to unload a lighter, but this depended entirely upon the officers and crew of the transport ship. One ship—the Queen Louise—would do the work in half the time which some others occupied.

The Orphan always felt so happy when the last wagon or the last gun of any particular load had been hoisted out of the lighter. It was so grand to know that "that little lot" would not fall into the hands of the Turks. Best of all, it was such fun to be hoodwinking "the old Turk" all this while.

Generally, from the time a loaded lighter shoved off from No. 4 Pier until she returned alongside, empty, at least two hours had elapsed, and as it often took an hour—sometimes a good deal more—to load up again, each lighter seldom made more than two trips a night.

Practically all this work went on in complete darkness. There was no moonlight, and the only lights allowed to be shown were small oil-lamps, one on each pier, and one on the far end of the "Outer Hulk". Fortunately, what breeze blew during the first nine nights came from the north-east, and did not interfere with the work; on most of these nights the air was absolutely still and the sea absolutely calm.

Before leaving off work in the morning, they would see that any guns remaining on the beach or in the lighters were carefully covered up with tarpaulins, so that the Turks could not see them from their inquisitive aeroplanes, which constantly came circling over, trying to find out what the British really intended to do.

Then, perhaps at half-past seven in the morning, thoroughly worn out, probably nearly wet through, back they would drag themselves up to the Mess, find Richards always ready for them with cocoa or coffee, bacon, sometimes eggs, and have their breakfast. Afterwards they would "turn in".

"My perishing Orphan!" the Sub would say, as he threw himself on his bed. "That's not a bad night's work—twelve guns, and any number of wagons and things. But I'm pretty well fagged out, and you look 'done to a turn'."

They would sleep till the middle of the day, get up, wash, have lunch, and probably go to sleep again till four or half-past. Then a good "high tea" Richards would provide for them; and, after that, all those who were on night duty—nearly all in fact—gathered in the Mess, smoked and yarned, and told how things were "going"—how many troops, how many guns, how many horses and mules, and how much stores had been safely sent away the night before.

Everyone knew and felt that every man, every gun, horse or mule, every motor-lorry, every ton of stores and ammunition sent off was so much to the good; and everyone—especially as the day for the final evacuation drew nearer—grew anxious lest the Turks should find out what was happening, and lest the gentle north-east breeze should give place to a south-westerly wind, which would drive seas against the different beaches, and delay—perhaps fatally delay—the final embarkation.

There was always the chance of this, and of the two or three thousand last troops to come marching back from the empty trenches being hotly pressed by the Turks, and of them and the whole of the beach parties finding it impossible to get off. To the Orphan, and to many more; it also seemed so absolutely unbelievable that the Turks could be deceived again; and they thought that they must really know about what was going on, and were only waiting until the trenches were so weakly held that they could make a successful assault, drive all that remained down to the sea, and capture them.

CHAPTER XXIV

The Evacuation of Cape Helles

Friday morning, the 7th January, came, and the Turks had given no sign whatever that they guessed what was going on. Shells burst as usual, and "Cuthbert", the aeroplane, circled overhead, saw what he could, dropped a few bombs on the ridge above "W" beach and near the old River Clyde, and went home again before our own pursuing aeroplanes could catch him.

At two o'clock that afternoon the Turks commenced a fierce bombardment of the whole front-line trenches. The Asiatic guns tried to enfilade them, too, and for nearly three hours every gun they possessed blazed away for all it was worth.

The few guns we had remaining did their utmost to conceal the smallness of their numbers by the rapidity of their fire, though, naturally, everyone imagined that the Turks must realize how few they were.

At five o'clock the Turks evidently intended to storm the front which they had battered so severely, but, except on our extreme left, their men could not be induced to leave their trenches.

But here some five or six hundred did advance, and, unfortunately for them, came in full view of a battleship which had but lately come out from England, fearfully keen to fire her guns, and now happened to be zigzagging along the coast, attracted by the continual roar of the Turkish artillery. Eagerly looking for something to fire at, she saw, all at once, these poor devils of Turks streaming out of their trenches across open ground, and let go salvo after salvo into the middle of them. Not two hundred came anywhere near our thinly held trenches; some twenty reached them, and were promptly bayoneted; perhaps a dozen got back to their own. After this no further attack was made, and all firing died down at dusk.

The "last night but one" commenced.

All night long the work went on; more troops (after their nerve-shaking experience of that afternoon's three hours' bombardment) marched down with their baggage and their maxims, filed along No. 1 Pier across the "hulks" into the Ermine and other troop-carriers, and were taken away. Many of the still remaining guns came back and were sent off from No. 4 Pier; very many horses were embarked from No. 3 Pier; and soldiers, like ants, streamed backwards and forwards between the beach and those store depots, bringing down stores and hurrying back for more.

All night long the Orphan listened with tingling ears for the sound of anything more than the customary sniping and passing bursts of nervous rifle-firing. But the Turks had had a sufficiently severe handling in the afternoon; they made no attempt to attack, and the night passed absolutely quietly, daylight on Saturday morning coming with everything going on just as usual. The troop-carriers, horse-transports, and store ships were long since hidden in Kephalo, or below the horizon on their way to Mudros; and though the aeroplane came over to reconnoitre and be driven home again, there was nothing unusual for it to report.

Exactly how many troops remained or how many guns, neither Bubbles nor the Orphan knew; but they did know that the very scantiest number of troops held the first-line trenches, and that the guns could almost be counted on fingers and toes. All these troops had to be got off that night, and almost all the guns.

"Would the weather hold for the last night?" That was what everyone asked himself. The sun rose behind Achi Baba not quite so clearly as it had done throughout the past week, but the breeze still blew gently from the north-east, and hardly a cloud flecked the blue sky.

Captain Macfarlane, tugging at his pointed beard, looked satisfied, and went up to his "dug-out" for breakfast and to turn in, after his all-night's work, and sleep for a few hours.

Bubbles, who had spent the night at "V" beach in his picket-boat, pulled the sleepy Orphan along the path to the Mess. "What d'you think I had last night? A bath—a hot bath—aboard the River Clyde! It was the last drop of hot water she had aboard her, for a shell came in half an hour before and cut a steam-pipe or something. Wasn't I lucky?"

They had this their last breakfast in Gallipoli, and then lay down on their beds and slept.

At midday they were called, turned out—horribly sleepy—and began to roll up their bedding and pack up the rest of their "gear", ready to be taken down to the beach. Most of the officers spent the morning doing the same.

The barometer had now begun to fall—ever so slightly—-and some clouds to gather in the west, low down in the horizon, behind the island of Tenedos.

Everyone felt a little anxious.

At three o'clock in the afternoon the breeze definitely shifted round to the south-west—the dangerous quarter—and all knew that if it increased much it would drive seas right on to the beaches, and add tremendously to the difficulties of this last night's work.

At five o'clock that afternoon many of the officers gathered in the Mess, which they were leaving for ever, and drank to the success of the evacuation. "Kaiser Bill" was taken out of his box, placed on the table, and drank a little milk out of a saucer for "good luck"; then Bubbles took him away to his picket-boat to make certain that he would not be left behind, whatever happened; and everybody went down to the beach and their different jobs, looking doubtfully and anxiously at the sun setting behind a gloomy bank of clouds, and the little "white horses" which already ruffled the surface of the sea.

"It will be all right," the Orphan told the Sub confidently as they walked down to No. 4 Pier. "If "Kaiser Bill" hadn't drunk his milk we might have been rather miserable."

"You are a silly ass," the Sub laughed.

Night fell. The breeze freshened steadily, and the two lighters alongside No. 4 Pier already banged up against the stone wall in a very uncomfortable manner.

Presently some of those remaining guns began rumbling over the ridge to the beach, and their teams went round to No. 3 Pier, or cantered back over the ridge, with a jangle of harness and thudding of hoofs, to fetch more.

When the first lighter had been loaded—with field-guns mostly—her crew hauled her off by the warps, the south-west breeze blowing freshly in their faces, and the little waves already splashing against her bows. A picket-boat took hold of her and handed her over to tug T1, which towed her away to sea.

The Orphan went with this first load, and found it a very different matter to-night. Though the breeze had not yet attained any great strength, a slight, lumpy sea and swell ran, outside, and when he at last reached the transport's huge side he had much difficulty in bringing the clumsy, heavily loaded lighter alongside and making her "fast". As it was, she bumped and rose and fell so much that it took nearly two hours to hoist out all those guns, and their "crews", laden with their heavy kits, and most of them sea-sick, could hardly climb the awkward Jacob's ladders dangling down the ship's dark side.

At last the lighter was cleared, and the tug, lurching out of the darkness, brought off the Gunner with another heavily laden lighter, left him alongside, and towed the Orphan back.

It was now nearly eleven o'clock; the breeze had become a strong wind, and meeting the current flowing out of the Dardanelles, raised an angry, steep sea. This immensely increased the difficulties of handling the motor-lighters, steamboats, and small tugs which simply swarmed off "W" beach and its piers. The clumsy motor-lighters were a danger to themselves and a terror to others, for they often refused to answer their helms when they left the lee of the sunken hulks and their bows first met the seas. It required much skilful seamanship for the steamboats to get hold of them in the pitchy darkness and turn them in the right way.

The Orphan found more guns waiting to be taken off, and he was about to commence to haul them on board his lighter when an order came that they were to be destroyed where they stood. Some Sappers arrived, and began fixing gun-cotton charges in them.

"They are the last of the guns to be sent off," said the officer in charge of them. "It does seem rough luck, doesn't it?"

"What was it like when you left?" asked the Orphan.

"Perfectly quiet; that was an hour ago," he told him.

The Orphan had nothing to do now but wait for further orders.

There was so much wind blowing inshore, towards the trenches, that though he strained his ears he could not hear the sound of the usual sniping, rifle-firing—in fact he could hear nothing from the direction of the trenches. Every now and then a momentary flash showed out behind the ridge on the Asiatic shore, and one of "Asiatic Annie's" shells came along; to-night they nearly all burst on the ridge close to Cape Helles lighthouse, and absolutely harmlessly. Occasionally a big monitor, half-way across the Straits, fired a 12-inch gun, and then everything round "W" beach, and the white tents above it, were lighted up momentarily—like the click of a camera shutter—and the Orphan would catch a sudden glimpse of motor-lighters and picket-boats, horses and men, on No. 3 Pier, perhaps long lines of troops coming down the road from the ridge, or a motor-lorry or motor-ambulance coming down to the beach. Then the blackness shut down again, except for the tiny flicker of the oil-lamp tied to a post at one corner of the pier.

The Orphan passed this time of waiting talking to the disappointed Gunner officer, who told him yarns of yesterday's fierce bombardment, and said how annoyed they had been when that battleship had wiped out their beautiful "target" of advancing Turks. "You'll hear, all right, if the Turks do get into our trenches to-night, after our chaps have left them," he said. "They are all mined, and most of the communication trenches too. There will be the most infernal noise."

Then out of the darkness came Captain Macfarlane and the Sub. The Orphan heard the Captain say: "All right, you can try and take those guns off. If you can't manage it, blow them up in the lighter."

Then he was sent round to No. 1 Pier to find out why two motor-lighters could not get off. He scrambled along the beach, past the end of No. 3 Pier, where a large number of gun- and limber-teams were waiting to embark in lighters—the horses waiting much more patiently and quietly than "humans" would have done—and then past a regiment which had just marched in from the trenches, most of the men lying down to relieve the weight of their heavy packs. The Orphan guessed correctly that most of these packs had a Turkish shell—or two—in them as "curios".

By the time he reached No. 1 Pier and found Mr. Armstrong, things were in a bad way. Two crowded motor-lighters lay there, lashed side by side, bumping uneasily, and the new platform over the pontoon and those barrels which filled the gap in it was swaying and creaking in a most unpleasant manner, waves thudding against it every moment.

"Curse—the—lighters—curse—everything!" swore the Lieutenant, pronouncing each syllable very deliberately, and without the faintest trace of excitement. "The—whole—show—will—go—in—a—minute— barrels—pontoon—and—lighters—as—well. One— of—the—con-founded—lighters—can't—start—her— engines—and—the—other—one—has—smashed—hers."

"The Captain is sending a tug in to help," the Orphan shouted loudly—one had to shout because of the creaking and grinding of the pontoon and barrels, the noise of the wind and waves, and the bumping of the motor-lighters.

Then a tug did back gingerly in, passed a tow-rope aboard the lighters, and started to tow them out; but the rope "parted" as it took the strain, and the two crowded motor-lighters, catching an eddy of the strong wind and current, began drifting helplessly back again on to the damaged pier. In another half-minute they would have been hopelessly crushed against it; but, in the nick of time, the engine of one of them took it into its head to start, and just managed to move the two of them sufficiently to give the tug a chance of getting hold of them and towing them out to sea and safety.

"My—blooming—oath!" said Mr. Armstrong; "that—was—a—near—thing," and he sucked hard at his pipe.

A man, coming from the "Inner Hulk" over the straining pontoon, shouted to him: "A destroyer has just made 'fast' inside the 'Outer Hulk', sir."