It was now somewhere about 3.30 a.m., and, as I did not feel
inclined to sleep any more, they gave me some hot cocoa and some
bread-and-cheese. I drank the former, but the bread-and-cheese was
more than I felt equal to just then. About 6 o'clock the Lieutenant
was transferred to another ship for medical treatment, as his back was
badly bruised by drifting wreckage; and half-an-hour later the rest of
the survivors were re-embarked in H.M.S. _Lord Nelson's_ cutter, the
same that had picked us up; and leaving the trawler she took us to the
_Lord Nelson_.
When we got on board I was at once taken down to the gun-room, where I
found four more of our "snotties" who had also been rescued. One more
was reported as having safely swum ashore; but there was no news of the
other three, and subsequently it transpired that they had been lost.
The survivors were mostly sleeping--the sleep of exhaustion. We had all
had a pretty tough fight for it, and I realised then how uncommonly
lucky we had been in escaping not only alive, but for the most part
uninjured. Cunninghame had a nasty cut on his head, but the rest of
us were only suffering from minor bruises, and of course to a certain
extent from shock.
One of the _Lord Nelson's_ middies kindly lent me some old uniform, and
after I had dressed I made a parcel of the clothes I had been lent on
the trawler and took them to the ship's corporal, and asked him to see
that they were returned to their owner.
I remembered, with an odd sense of unreality, that the last time I had
been in the _Lord Nelson_ was at the manoeuvres the previous July!
On my way up to the deck I met three more of our lieutenants, and we
exchanged accounts of our experiences. From them I learned that our
Commander had been saved, and was also on board; but there was no news
of the Captain. Some days later I heard that his body had been picked
up, and it was thought that he had been killed by the falling of the
pinnace when the ship turned over just before she sank.
At 7.30 we put to sea and proceeded to Port Mudros. On the way,
and after divisions, the lower deck was cleared, the whole ship's
company, together with the survivors from our ship, mustered on the
quarter-deck, and then took place a mournful ceremony, which poignantly
brought home to us the fate we had so narrowly escaped.
Through the battery--very softly--came the sound of muffled drums,
growing gradually louder as the band advanced. Then appeared a
procession of seamen from our lost ship, headed by the _Lord Nelson's_
chaplain, and carrying three stretchers, on each of which lay a body
covered with the Union Jack. The first was that of our Fleet paymaster,
and the other two those of a seaman and marine respectively. The bodies
were lifted from the stretchers and laid reverently on a platform
slanting towards the water, which had been erected on the port side.
Clearly and solemnly the chaplain recited the beautiful Burial
Service, and as he uttered the words "we therefore commit their bodies
to the deep," the staging was tilted and the weighted corpses slid feet
foremost into the sea.
The service ended with three volleys fired over the side and then the
long sobbing wail of the "Last Post" rang out across the still waters
in final farewell.
When we were dismissed we went below in silence, awed by the solemnity
of this last committal to the deep of those with whom we had lived and
worked side by side for ten long months.
(The midshipman here describes his voyage home, closing with this
expostulation from his mother: "I had not seen him since he left
Dartmouth nearly fourteen months before. Then he was a round-faced,
rosy boy. Up the steps, dragging a seaman's canvas kit bag came
a tall, thin figure, white of face, drawn, haggard--incredibly
old. I had not quite realized this. For a second my heart stood
still--where was my boy? Then he saw me waiting in the hall and his
face lit with half credulous joyous wonder, 'Mother! you here!' My
boy was gone forever--but my son had come home.")