"Train seventeen degrees on the port beam," the China Doll repeated.
As solemn as a judge, the Orphan sang out, "Tame seven clean fleas in
the cream;" and as the poor Assistant Clerk squeaked, "Don't be silly!"
there were yells of "He called you silly, Orphan; you aren't going to
stand that. Go for him, Orphan. We'll hold him; he shan't hurt you."
But Uncle Podger told them all to stop fooling and smooth out the
table-cloth. "We can't get things washed properly on board," he said.
*CHAPTER V*
*The "Achates" is Shelled*
Next morning, the 6th March--a glorious sunny morning it was--the three
ships and the trawlers again moved in towards battered Yeni Kali. The
trawlers went ahead to sweep through the mine-field under the protection
of the _Triumph_, whilst the _Achates_ and _Swiftsure_ followed astern.
Breakfast was at seven o'clock--a hurried meal--and everyone bolted down
his food in order to get on deck quickly and see the fun.
"Rotten bad form of 'em not to fire at us yesterday," Uncle Podger
remarked, emptying half the sugar basin on his porridge. "In all the
wars I've been in, we've fired first, then the enemy fired back; we
spotted their guns and knocked them out."
"And landed for a picnic afterwards," suggested his neighbour, skilfully
bagging the sugar basin.
"Generally," replied the Clerk.
"In the last war I was in," began the China Doll, "we generally asked
the enemy to lunch. The Captain said that made them so happy."
"If we're to have breakfast at this silly time," Bubbles chuckled, "I
call it a rotten war."
They heard shouts on deck. The half-deck sweeper put his head in to
tell them that the Turks were firing, and they all stampeded on deck.
Right ahead, the little trawlers could be seen, in pairs, close in to
the old fort and the low-lying land to the right of it. Right on top of
the mine-field they were, and spurts of water were splashing up, every
other second, among them. Flashes twinkled out from the scrub on the
low-lying ground, three, four, five at a time, and the splashes of their
shells sprang up, one after the other, between the trawlers.
Everyone held his breath and expected to see a trawler hit, directly.
There was a shout of "The _Triumph's_ started!" A yellowish cloud shot
out from her, then another; they shot out all along her broadside, and,
right in among the scrub, where the Turkish guns had been firing, burst
her 7.5 lyddite shells.
Then splashes began falling close to the _Triumph_
herself--short--short--far over her--right under her stern. "Hit under
the fore bridge!" someone shouted. The "Action" bugle blared out in the
_Achates_; officers and men rushed to their stations; and the last thing
Uncle Podger and the Lamp-post saw was the trawlers turning round and
scuttling back, followed by columns of water leaping up close to them.
Uncle Podger, sedately excited, and the long, thin Lamp-post made their
way along the mess deck, pushing through the crowds of men scurrying to
and fro; guns' crews squeezing into the casemates and closing the
armoured doors behind them; the stoker fire-parties bustling along with
their hoses, and the lamp trimmers coming round and lighting the candle
lanterns in case the electric light failed.
To get to the "transmitting-room", which was their station, they had to
go down the ammunition hoist of "B2" casemate--the for'ard one on the
port side of the main deck,--and so many men of the ammunition supply
parties had to go down it that there was a squash of men squeezing
through the casemate door.
"Early doors, sixpence extra," Uncle Podger grinned, as they waited
whilst man after man climbed down the rope-ladder in the hoist. This
hoist was simply a steel tube some fifteen feet long, big enough for a
broad-shouldered man to crawl through, and the rope ladder dangled down
inside it. When the bottom rung of the ladder was reached, there was a
jump down of some five feet or so into the "fore cross passage"--a broad
space, from side to side across the ship, under the dome of the armoured
deck. The magazines were below this fore cross passage, and men
standing in them handed up the six-inch cordite charges through open
hatches.
Into this space ran the ammunition passages, running aft along each side
under the slope of the armoured deck, with the boiler-room bulkheads on
the inner sides, and the bulkheads of the lower wing bunkers on the
outer. When, as was now the case, the shells in their red canvas bags
hung in rows along both these bulkheads, there was precious little room
for two people to pass side by side.
The ammunition hoists from all the 6-inch guns, farther aft, opened into
these passages, and under each hoist an electric motor and winding drum
was placed to run the charges and shells up to the casemate which it
"fed". All these spaces and passages were very dimly lighted by
electric lights and candle lanterns.
As Uncle Podger and the Lamp-post crawled down the tube and dropped into
the "fore cross passage", they were hustled by men dashing out of the
ammunition passages, seizing charges and shells from the men standing in
the magazine hatches, and dashing back again to their own hoists. These
were the "powder-monkeys" of the old days, most of them, now, big
bearded men; one, the biggest down there, a man nearly fifty years of
age, had been earning five pounds a week, as a diver, before the
outbreak of war brought him back to the Navy. And no one was more
cheery than he, as he dashed backwards and forwards from his hoist to
the magazine, laughing and joking, and wiping the sweat off his face.
It was very warm down there, and the smell of sweating men soon made the
air heavy.
A bearded ship's corporal came down with the key of the
transmitting-room, opened the thick padded wooden door in the bulkhead,
and went in. The Fleet-Paymaster and the tall, depressed Fleet-Surgeon
followed him down the tube. They scuttled out of the way of the
trampling men.
"A nice little place for you to work in, P.M.O.," chuckled the Pay as
they wormed themselves into a corner.
"Rats in a trap!" grunted the P.M.O., and drew in his feet and cursed as
a seaman trod on them.
The chief sick-berth steward and his assistants had already come down,
but vainly looked for a place to stow their surgical dressings. They
had to hang them from hooks in the bulkheads.
Uncle Podger and the Lamp-post stood waiting for the Chaplain, the Rev.
Horace Gibbons; and when they saw his shoes and scarlet socks dangling
from the lower end of the ammunition hoist from "B2" casemate in a
helpless, pathetic way, they dashed to his assistance; each seized a
foot and guided it to safety on top of a convenient motor-hoist, and as
the Padre let go the ladder and jumped feebly, they softened his fall.
This was always their first job, for he hated that rope-ladder and that
hoist with a deadly hatred, and, most of all, hated falling those last
few feet, suddenly dropping, as it were, from heaven, and appearing in
an undignified manner among all the men there.
The Lamp-post and Uncle Podger dusted down the little pasty-faced Padre
and put his hat on straight.
"Thank you so much! I'm afraid I've broken my pipe in that hoist."
"Hallo, Angel Gabriel!" grinned the Pay, as the three of them passed
into the transmitting-room. "Paying a call in the infernal region?"
As they shut the felted door they shut out all the noise.
This transmitting-room was a tiny little place, perhaps fifteen feet
long and five wide, with four camp-stools, and rows of telephones and
brass indicator boxes with their little red and white figures showing
through the slits in them. Voice-pipes, too, everywhere, and in one
corner, over a camp-stool--Uncle Podger's camp-stool--projected an
enormous brass voice-pipe with a gramophone-shaped end.
Every instrument had its label above it: Conning-tower--After
Turret--Starboard 6-inch--Y group--X group--scores of them; and in front
of the Padre's camp-stool was a little table, like a school table, with
paper lying on it and a pencil chained to it.
"Nothing happened yet, sir," the ship's corporal sang out, as they
closed the door and seated themselves on their camp-stools with their
backs against the after bulkhead and the door.
Uncle Podger, sitting with his head in his gramophone trumpet, could
hear people talking in the conning-tower. "Signal to the _Swiftsure_ to
stop engines"--that was Captain Macfarlane's clear, incisive voice; then
the Navigator's infectious laugh, "The trawlers are safe, sir; out of
range, sir. They've had the fright of their lives, sir."--"Port it is,
sir," came the gruff voice of the quartermaster at the wheel. "Steady it
is, sir."
He rang up the fore-control top, where the China Doll was perched, and a
bell at his side tinkled. "What's going on, China Doll?" he called into
his loud-speaking navyphone, giving the mouthpiece a shake.
"Stop that confounded ringing!" it bleated out, in the peculiar nasal
tone these navyphones always have. That was the Gunnery-Lieutenant's
irritated voice, so Uncle Podger kept silent.
Then he heard, loud and clear through the trumpet mouth:
"Transmitting-room! Transmitting-room! Tell the Major and Mr.
Meiklejohn" (one of the Lieutenants) "that the port 6-inch will fire
first."
"Aye, aye, sir! Port guns will fire first."
He passed on the message to the Lamp-post, and the Lamp-post, who was in
charge of the port broadside gun instruments, commenced telephoning to
the Major, aft, and Mr. Meiklejohn, up in B1 casemate, above them.
Then more orders came down, rapidly, one after the other; ranges, worked
from the foretop, ticked themselves off in the slits of the little brass
boxes, were verified, and passed on to the port guns and the turrets.
"Commence with common shell," sounded the trumpet mouth. Uncle Podger
repeated it.
"It's showing all right on my dial," the Lamp-post said, a little
bothered with so many telephones asking him questions.
"All right, Lampy. Don't lose your wool. Pass it on to the guns."
"What range is showing?" called the trumpet.
"One--two--nine--five--o." "One--two--nine--five--o."
"One--two--nine--five--o," the Lamp-post, the Padre, and the ship's
corporal told Uncle Podger.
"One--two--nine--five--o," he spoke into his navyphone.
"What range are the guns showing?" asked the trumpet. It was the
Gunnery-Lieutenant, anxious to know, at the last moment, whether all the
instruments were recording properly.
This meant ringing up each gun, and took time. Presently all the replies
were received.
"Y3 shows One--two--nine--o--o, sir," Uncle Podger telephoned. "The
others are correct."
"Confound Y3!" he heard the Gunnery-Lieutenant say angrily.
Then the figures in the slits in the brass boxes began to move--the
"five" gave way to "o", the "nine" disappeared and "eight" took its
place; the range was decreasing. The little labels bearing the types of
shell to be used--armour-piercing, common, lyddite--revolved, and came
to a standstill with "common" showing.
All these changes down in the transmitting-room repeated themselves in
similar instruments at the different guns, but to make doubly sure that
they were correctly known there, the order "Common shell" was also
passed by telephone. "Tell B1 to stand by to fire," bawled the big
trumpet, and the Lamp-post calmly passed on the order.
"Fire!" yelled the trumpet mouth. The Lamp-post pressed the key which
rang the fire-gong in B1 casemate. There was a dull thud from above,
and B1 had fired.
Then orders came down one after the other; the whole battery began
firing. The two turrets started, the fore-turret gun making the
transmitting-room rattle, whilst the after 9.2 only made it wriggle.
The Padre was busy jotting down times and ranges, the ship's corporal
was helping the Lamp-post with his instruments, and Uncle Podger was
taking in and passing orders to them all. They had no time to think of
what was going on elsewhere.
Outside, in the "fore cross passage", the noise of the for'ard guns, B1
and B2, coming straight down their hoists was very loud. The breeze,
too, blew the cordite smoke down the hoists when the breeches of the
guns were opened to reload, and made the air and stench more
disagreeable than ever. The ammunition supply parties were busy; empty
red shell-bags were brought back and flung into the magazines; filled
ones were handed up, and the men ran away with them.
The Fleet-Surgeon and the Fleet-Paymaster flattened themselves out of
the way.
"Cheer up, P.M.O.! We'll all be dead soon," the Pay chuckled.
"Indeed and we shall," snarled the P.M.O. "Listen to those beastly
engines--they've been going ahead for the last hour--we'll be hitting
the mines in a minute."
"Well, we shan't know much about that, old chap; we're right on top of
the magazines. You'd be an angel before you could say 'knife'."
"Rats in a trap! Dry up!" growled the P.M.O. "Rats in a trap! That's
what we are."
"A-climbing up de golden stairs," hummed the Pay, pointing to the end of
the rope-ladder dangling from the hoist above them. "Hullo! That's
something new," the Paymaster broke in cheerfully, as there was a noise
just behind them--on the outer side of the coal bunker--a different
noise to any they had heard before.
"Do you hear the coal jumping about?"
"That's summat 'it the harmour," men shouted gleefully.
"Two more!" Called out a gunner's mate as two more crashes came, a
little farther aft, and the coal jumped and rattled behind the bulkhead.
A cloud of black smoke poured down one of the hoists. "Black powder,"
said the men, sniffing, as it drifted along the passage and made them
cough. "A shell's burst somewhere."
A man from B3 slid down the rope of his hoist, and sang out that one had
just burst against the side of the gun port. "No one hurt," he added,
with a little tinge of regret.
A few seconds later a very cheery voice bawled down one of the starboard
hoists to say that shells had come into the mess deck and burst there.
The men were genuinely pleased that their old ship had at last been hit.
"Anyone killed?" they shouted up.
"Don't know yet. The whole blooming place is on fire; port side, half a
dozen knocked out. Old Cooky got one in his leg. No one badly hurt."
Rumours flew up and down these hoists. No one knew what had actually
happened. A lot more smoke came down the hoists. The Fleet-Surgeon
fidgeted lest he ought to go up, but he had to wait for orders, and stay
there until he was sent for.
"They're giving it 'em back, a fair treat," the men sang out, as the
guns up above fired very rapidly and the whole ship shook.
The engines had stopped their rumbling during this time, but now they
started again. No more crashes came against the armoured side, the guns
ceased firing, and presently a message came down: "The Captain wants the
Fleet-Surgeon."
"Now for it," growled the Fleet-Surgeon, and swung himself awkwardly up
the dangling ladder through the hoist up into the casemate, and so out
to the wrecked mess deck.
Two shells--5.9-inch shells--had come in through the ship's side and
made a terrible mess of things. The first one had burst in the stokers'
mess deck, smashing mess tables and stools and setting fire to them.
Flying fragments had wounded the chief cook, who, against all orders,
was in the galley, and five men belonging to the "fire" and "repair"
parties. The rest had dashed along with their hoses, and, whilst they
were putting out this fire, the second shell had burst in the next mess
aft on the other side of a bulkhead, and without fuss or worry they had
dragged their hoses along and put this out too.
Both messes were now ankle-deep in black water, the blackened and
smashed wooden tables and benches lying higgledy-piggledy all over the
deck; pipes and stanchions were torn and twisted; the iron cap and
ditty-box racks hung down fantastically from the blackened beams and
plates overhead, and the whole place was littered with the men's
crockery smashed into the tiniest pieces.
"I'll give you an hour and a half for the wounded, and then we're going
in again," the Fleet-Surgeon was told, when he found the Captain and
Commander wading about among the wreckage.
Off went the Fleet-Surgeon to find his wounded; they had already been
dragged into cosy corners and roughly bandaged.
Dr. Gordon came along, from his station aft, to help him.
By this time all the ships had withdrawn out of range. The "Secure" and
the "Disperse" were sounded, and everyone hurriedly dashed down to see
the damage and hunt for bits of shell.
"And there's another on the boat deck," the Pimple, absolutely off his
head with excitement, screamed to the Lamp-post and Uncle Podger as they
came out of B2 casemate, up the hoist of which they had just climbed.
He dragged them up to see the damage done, and even Uncle Podger went
into raptures when he saw the beautiful hole in the wooden deck, and the
fifty or more small holes which fragments of shell had made in the
engine-room uptakes and in one of the funnels.
"It doesn't matter if the _Bacchante_ does find out about the sea-gulls,
now," he said, and gloated at the lovely sight.
The Orphan came up, anxious lest any of the flying pieces had hit his
beloved picket boat; Bubbles came along, chuckling and laughing, and
they all craned their necks over the side to see the holes where two
shells had come in, and where those that had struck the armour had
knocked off the wood sheathing and the paint.
"Come along or we'll miss lunch," Bubbles gurgled; and they romped aft,
passing old Fletcher, the stoker, coming up, grimy and unwashed, from
his watch below.
"I've just brought 'Kaiser Bill' up for an airing, sir," he said, as the
Orphan stopped to speak to him. "I took him down out of mischief," and
he carefully placed the idiotic tortoise down on the iron plates, and
tried to tempt him with a piece of cabbage leaf to put out his ugly
head.
Lunch in the gun-room was a very rowdy meal. If the Sub hadn't been
pretty severe, precious little more crockery would have been left there
than in those two stokers' mess decks.
"Just fancy! Six times hit--no, eight times--I counted them--all right,
eight times--so much the better--and six wounded. Fancy old Cooky being
knocked out--jolly hard luck; he oughtn't to have been there. You
should have been in B3 when the shell hit the gun port, it did make a
noise. They did make a funny noise all round (this from the China
Doll). I had my cap blown off--one went between my turret and the
shelter deck (this from Rawlinson).
"We're going back again," the Pimple, who had had to go back to the
bridge and now came down, shouted. "I've just heard the Skipper tell
the Navigator. Give me some soup, Barnes, quick--I say, you chaps,
leave me a bit of pudding. We did get it hot. You should have been on
the bridge."
"Bet you were safe and sound in the conning-tower," the others cried.
"I was only there part of the time. They kicked me out--it was too
crowded. When that shell burst on the boat deck, bits came right over
me. A bit hit a signal locker and dropped quite close to me. I've got
it here," and the Pimple produced a bit of scrap iron out of his pocket
and held it up.
"That isn't a bit of shell," they laughed, as they handed it round;
"it's a bit of a deck plate."
"Well, it was jolly hot when I picked it up," said the Pimple, rather
distressed. "I say, Barnes, do hurry up with some grub."
"Oh, you chaps, did you hear?" and the Pimple brightened again. "That
shell which hit the _Triumph_ killed a snotty."
At first they thought, and rather hoped, he might be someone they knew;
but the Pimple, who got all his news from the talkative Navigator, told
them he was an R.N.R. midshipman, so they were a little disappointed,
because they could not possibly have known him.
That afternoon the ships again steamed in almost to the edge of the
mine-field, and all of them opened a very heavy fire on the Turkish
guns; but these were so widely dispersed, and so cleverly hidden in the
scrub of the low-lying ground, that hitting them was a matter of pure
luck.
Two trawlers also made another plucky attempt to sweep through the
mine-field, but had to retire when more guns fired at them--guns which
it was impossible to locate from the ship.
It was evidently hopeless to clear the mine-field during daylight, so
ships and trawlers retired again.
A small steamer--the _Aennie Rickmers_--(she had been captured from the
Germans) met them outside. She carried some scouting hydroplanes, and as
she turned out suitable to accommodate the wounded, these were sent
across to her.
On the Sunday and Monday the ships bombarded Yeni Kali and also a
battery on a ridge, without doing much damage. The hydroplanes went up
on both these days, and circled over the low ground where the batteries
lay hidden, and also over the bay inside. No one in the _Achates_ had as
yet seen air-craft reconnoitring an enemy position, so everybody came up
to have a look when the first one left the water with its pilot and
observer and commenced to climb higher and higher in huge spirals.
When it had risen sufficiently high, it flew away towards Yeni Kali with
its hydroplane floats beneath it, looking, for all the world, like a big
bluebottle which had stuck its feet in something sticky and could not
fly well for the weight of it.
As they eagerly watched it, suddenly a puff-ball of white smoke showed
against the blue sky--below it--then another nearer, two more a long way
behind; field-guns were firing shrapnel at it.
Not a soul on board had seen anything like this; everyone simply stood
and held his breath, and watched the hydroplane and the white puff-balls
following it.
"Gosh! I'd like to be those chaps, young Orphan," the Sub roared. "My
jumping Jimmy! There's excitement for you! Ten minutes of it worth a
life-time. Eh, you jam-stuffing sybarite?"
"Very pretty to watch, but give me dry land," Uncle Podger declared
solemnly.
The little Padre, sucking a big pipe, his face twitching with
excitement, muttered "bother"--a fearful swear-word for him--and spat
out the end of his mouthpiece. He had bitten it off in his agitation.
The China Doll stood with his pink-and-white face gazing upwards, his
mouth wide open, and his big eyes opening and shutting.
"My jumping Jimmy! Life! Life! We're seeing life, my jumping Doll,"
and the Sub lifted the Assistant Clerk off the deck and dropped him
again.
"Do you want to go back to the North Sea patrol--my young Blot on the
Landscape?"
"No, sir;" and the China Doll curtseyed disrespectfully, and bolted
behind the stolid figure of Uncle Podger.
"By the King's Regulations and Gun-room instructions, disrespect to
superior officers is punishable by death or such other punishment as is
hereinafter--" began the Clerk, but was interrupted by a shout of "Look!
She's coming down now!"
The hydroplane was coming back, the puff-balls had ceased, and with long
spiral swoops she slid down on the water and spun along the surface to
the _Aennie Rickmers_.
"Old Yellow Beard wants you, sir," a young A.B.--it was Plunky
Bill--interrupted, saluting the Sub.
"What! Who?" roared the Sub, glaring at him.
"Beg pardon, sir; I forgot myself, sir. I means the Captain, sir.
Wants you in his cabin, he does."
The Sub, with a glare which froze poor Plunky Bill, stalked aft.
Some half-hour later, the half-deck sentry put his head into the
gun-room: "The Sub-lootenant wants Mr. Orphan--in his cabin."
That young gentleman had wagered that he could drink a bottle of soda
water more quickly than Bubbles could, and happened to be employed in
the process of deciding this. The first trial had resulted in a dead
heat, but the second had ended rather disastrously for both; and though
the others patted him on the back with any heavy, unsuitable article
they could find, he had not quite recovered himself when he burst into
the Sub's cabin.
The Sub was excited again. When he was excited his eyes burnt like
coals and his mouth was a slit, tightly shut--shut like a rat-trap.
"Orphan! my jumping Orphan! we've got it--you and I and your rotten old
picket-boat. Guess what we've got to do, my 'JJ.'! It's simply too
grand!"
He lighted his pipe. The cabin was already so full of smoke that the
Orphan was coughing.
"What is it?" he gasped--the soda water inside him still busy.
"Have a cigarette?" the Sub said, shoving a box towards him.
"I'm not eighteen yet!" the Orphan said, thinking that the Sub perhaps
had forgotten and might beat him afterwards.
"You'll have to be twenty-eight to-night, my jumping Son--thirty-eight;
you've got the chance of a lifetime. Squat down on the wash-stand."
"Jumping Moses!--you and I have to go in to-night and stick a light on a
mark-buoy--a Turkish mark-buoy they've fixed in the wrong place, close
inshore it is, under the old fort. What do you think of that?"
"What mark-buoy?" asked the Orphan. "How ripping!"
The Sub drew a few rough outlines on a piece of paper. "There's the
fort, and that's the line of the low bit of land sweeping away to the
right. It sticks out a bit farther along, and just off the 'stick out'
place the mark-buoy should mark a shoal, but the Turks have shifted it
farther in--just about there"--and he marked a cross on the paper--"to
bother us. And we've got to find it to-night, and stick a red light on
it. How's that for 'good'?"
"They'll see us, won't they?" the Orphan said, catching his breath
again, for he knew that at least three search-lights swept the approach
and the minefield--a big one on Yeni Kali itself, "Glaring Gertrude",
and two this side of the mine-field, from somewhere down by the water's
edge--"Peeping Tom" and "Squinting Susan"; two much less powerful lights
these were.
"I bet they'll see us. If they don't before, they will after we've
fixed up that red light. The trawlers are going to sweep through behind
us, and that light's to guide 'em," and the Sub smote the table with his
great clenched fist. "What price that for a good night's work? Better
than boarding ships in the North Sea, eh?"
"Right in under the fort we'll have to go?" asked the Orphan, his breath
still rather short; "and right in under all those guns along the beach?"
"Right in, my jumping Orphan! Rifle range! pistol range! biscuit range!
The _Swiftsure's_ coming in to have a bang at "Peeping Tom" and his pal.
My jumping O.! what a job!"
"When d'we shove off?" asked the Orphan, his eyes blazing.
"Seven o'clock--seven sharp. You bring the grub--shark sandwiches--and
a couple bottles of beer. You're not rattled, my young Orphan?" he said,
springing up and clutching the midshipman's shoulders.
As a matter of fact the Orphan was rather taken aback, and though he did
his best to look frightfully happy, it was not an absolute success.
The Sub altered his voice. "Look here. Those confounded trawler
fellows have done their job two days running, under heavy shell-fire,
whilst we've been behind armour. It's time we showed them the
way--understand? It's our turn to-night, yours and mine."
"I'm all right," the Orphan said. "It was rather a startler, that's
all. I'd been getting up a sing-song, and we were going to court
martial the China Doll."
"Warn your boat's crew," the Sub continued, perfectly satisfied and
absolutely happy. "Tell 'em to take some grub."
"How about old Fletcher?" the Orphan asked. "He's rather old for the
job."
"You know him best. Sound him. Off you go!"
So Fletcher was sent for and told all that was going to happen.
"If you'd rather a younger man----" the Orphan began, not knowing how to
best say what he meant.
"Me, sir! Don't leave me behind. I'm as strong as a horse," the old
stoker broke in.
"Right oh! The boat will be 'turned out' about six-thirty. Don't
forget to bring some grub."
"I won't, sir, thank you," and Fletcher went for'ard.
"I don't think we'll court-martial the China Doll after all," the Orphan
said when he went back to the gun-room.
"Oh! Rather! What rot! Of course we will! Mustn't we, China Doll?"
the others cried.
"Well, I'm not going to be there, anyway. You'll have to find someone
else for prisoner's friend."
"What's up?" they asked. "Got the blight?"
"Oh, I've got a bit of a job on this evening, you chaps!" And the
Orphan did his best to look unconcerned, but they saw that he was
bubbling over with excitement, and dragged the news out of him.
"He might be captured, if they don't kill the poor little chap first,"
Bubbles gurgled. "Fancy the Orphan being a prisoner," the others
shouted. "Poor old Turks--hard luck on them--you'll have to wear a
fez--and be able to smoke all day--a nubbly-bubbly--won't that be
nice?--and have a dozen wives--and get sixpence a day to keep them"
(this was from Uncle Podger).
And when it was time for him to prepare the picket-boat, they called
after him: "If you don't come back we'll finish your ginger nuts--oh,
you pig, you're taking them with you--that's not playing the game--we'll
write such a nice letter home--how we all loved you--with all our names
to it--p'raps your daddy will send us a present--wouldn't a barrel of
beer be nice--good-bye, Orphan, we'll never forget you--if he does send
us one--not till it's finished."
Then they settled down to revise the list of officials at the China
Doll's coming court martial. Bubbles would have to do prisoner's
friend, although he was not much good at it, because when he did think
of something funny to say, he couldn't say it for laughing at what
somebody else had just said.
*CHAPTER VI*
*A Night's Adventure*
The Orphan went up on the "booms" and found Jarvis, the bearded
coxswain, and Plunky Bill busy touching up with black paint any bits of
brasswork on the picket-boat which might show in the searchlights. They
had already done this once, and were making certain, by the aid of a
lantern, that no shiny place had been missed.
As he climbed into her he heard Plunky Bill say saucily: "'Ow about the
missus and the six kids? Ain't you going to back out of this 'ere lark
in the dark?"
"'Ere, get on with yer black paint," growled Jarvis. "'Ow about yer
sweet'earts--five of 'em as I knows on. You ain't going to get yerself
killed, are you, and break five bleeding 'earts? Eh, young
feller-my-lad?"
They were so cheery that the Orphan lost that funny feeling in his
inside that had been so uncomfortable. He climbed on board and went
for'ard to have a yarn with old Fletcher, who was busy in the stokehold
getting up steam.
"No sparks out of the funnels to-night," he said, stooping down.
"I'll take good care of that, sir," Fletcher answered.
It was a very dark night, with a gentle breeze blowing in towards
Smyrna, and as the Orphan straightened himself he saw the glare of the
search-lights over the mine-field, and that unpleasant sensation in his
stomach would come back. He tried to pretend it was only indigestion,
but knew it wasn't.
"Peeping Tom", the nearest, was flickering here, there, and everywhere,
but it was a very poor light, and he didn't mind that one; "Squinting
Susan" shone, twice as brightly as her brother, right across where the
picket-boat must pass; occasionally she swept round to help him, as if
she knew he wasn't of much use.
Then right behind these two was that beastly "Glaring Gertrude"--a
splendid light. She was lighting up the salt-heaps on the opposite
shore most of the time; but when she did turn to have a look out
seawards, her beam lighted up the _Achates_, although the ship was at
least five miles away, making the men's faces quite plain to see, and
outlining the masts and funnels and rigging in a most unpleasant manner.
A signalman came along with the lantern and some "cod" line. "That will
be strong enough, sir, to lash it to the buoy," and he held out the cod
line in the dark for the Orphan to feel.
Everything being ready, the picket-boat was lifted out of her crutches,
dangled over the side of the ship, and lowered into the water. At seven
o'clock she was alongside the darkened ship, and the Sub, in
monkey-jacket, blue trousers, and sea boots, climbed down and gave the
order to "shove off".
"What ho! my Explorer of Mine-fields--my Lighter of Beacons--this beats
the band!" the Sub shouted, as the picket-boat left the shadow of the
ship's side, cleared her bow, and headed for the glare of the
search-lights and the mine-field.
Close to the _Achates_ lay two trawlers and the _Swiftsure's_
picket-boat--the Orphan could just make out their obscure shadows.
"They're going in to sweep," the Sub told him. "The _Swiftsure's_
picket-boat is going to show them the way. My jumping Jimmy!" he
roared, unable to suppress his boisterous excitement. "Isn't this a
grand show?"
The steamboat pushed her way along, and soon the dark mass of the
_Triumph_ loomed up against the blackness of the high hills behind her.
On she went towards where they knew the _Swiftsure_ herself was lying,
and as the Orphan strained his eyes to pierce the darkness in towards
the land to find her, a match was struck in the bows, and a splutter of
tobacco sparks trailed down over the side. Jarvis shouted angrily: "Put
out that pipe!"
"No smoking, you fools!" barked the Sub to the men crouching in the
bows; and Jarvis growled: "It's that 'ere Plunky Bill, 'e's a fair
terror. 'E's been an' gone an' blacked 'Kaiser Bill'," he added after a
pause. "'E said 'e was that shiny 'e'd give the show away. 'E's a
comic, that Plunky Bill."
"You haven't brought the tortoise?" the Orphan asked incredulously.
"Grandpa 'as; 'e's got'im down in the stoke'old, the old 'umbug; 'e's
fair wild with Plunky Bill; 'arf an 'our it took 'im to get the paint
off 'im with a drop of turps and a sweat-rag."
"Hullo! There's the _Swiftsure_, sir," and the Orphan saw her masts and
funnels and cranes ahead of him lighted up for a moment by a quick flash
from "Peeping Tom". Almost immediately a flame shot out from her
side--a roar--and a shell burst with another splash of flame close to
the shore end of that search-light.
"Peeping Tom" disappeared at once.
Then "Squinting Susan" twisted round to see what had fired at her little
brother; waggle waggle went her beam trying to find the battleship.
Bang! Flash! Another gun--another shell blazed up somewhere near her,
and she too disappeared. "They've doused their glim for 'em," Jarvis
grunted.
"My jumping Jimmy! that's good work," the Sub muttered joyously.
But in a second or two out shot "Peeping Tom" and hunted about
nervously, to switch off again as another shell burst somewhere near
him.
As he switched off, "Sister Susan" switched on again, only to vanish as
still another shell came along her way.
"What a jest, my Galloping Orphan! We'll get past them both and not be
seen."
And so they did. "Peeping Tom's" beam flashed on them once, and they
held their breath, but it swept astern and left them in darkness, and
before it worked back the _Swiftsure's_ gun had blazed out, and it was
switched off even before the shell burst.
"Squinting Susan" was much too anxious to help her brother to find the
_Swiftsure_, and didn't bother her head about anything else; her crew,
too, had nerves--very badly.
"We're past them both," the Sub said, chuckling quietly, shaking his
huge fist at them, and guffawing loudly as he watched first one and then
the other switching on and then switching off--out would shoot one light
from shore--bang would go a gun--off switched the light--darkness--the
other light would try--and disappear again. "Peeping Tom's" crew were
even more flustered than "Squinting Susan's"; they hardly waited to be
fired on before switching off.
It was the funniest sight in the world.
"Bet Bubbles is nearly choking himself," the Sub said, "and Uncle Podger
making funny remarks."
"They're 'court-martialling' the China Doll in the gun-room," the Orphan
told him.
"Oh, of course; I forgot that."
The picket-boat was now steaming in darkness, made more intense by the
glare, two miles ahead of her, of "Glaring Gertrude's" huge beam. This
light, by a lucky chance that night, never seemed to leave the white
salt-heaps on the opposite shore.
"We're right on top of the mines now, sonny. Feeling gay?"
"Ra--ther!" answered the Orphan, the uncomfortable feeling in his
stomach entirely forgotten.
"Worth a guinea a minute! My jumping Jimmy, it is!" the Sub kept saying
to himself. "Starboard a little! That's the ticket. Keep her as you
go. We're nearly past the mines now."
Presently the Orphan could see a dark line to starboard--perhaps a
thousand yards away--and knew that this was the low-lying ground which
swept along to the right of Yeni Kali fort, the land from which the guns
had fired on the trawlers last Saturday.
If only "Glaring Gertrude" would stay where she was and amuse herself
counting the salt-heaps all would be well. Once or twice she swept away
from them, and the Orphan caught his breath lest she would swing right
round on the picket-boat; but every time, just at the critical moment,
back she would go to see if the salt-heaps were still there.
The picket-boat throbbed along; hardly any smoke was coming out of her
funnel, and only very seldom a spark; old Fletcher might be a humbug, as
Jarvis said, but he _could_ stoke.
Then the Sub pointed out, right ahead, the square dark shape of Yeni
Kali itself, its upper edge--broken and jagged where shells had crumbled
it--silhouetted against "Glaring Gertrude's" beam.
"They're working it from somewhere in the fort itself," he said,
speaking very quietly, "and the fort gives us a shadow. Splendid!"
"We've come too far; port your helm and ease her a bit, Orphan. Get
that lantern ready--stand by to light it," he told the signalman.
The picket-boat turned in towards the darkness of the land, and moved
through the black water with just a little rippling gurgle under her
bows, whilst the crew, for'ard, strained their eyes to find the
mark-buoy--the mark-buoy which the Turks had shifted.
"We ought to see it--it's white," muttered the Sub impatiently, but
their eyes were rather blinded by looking at "Glaring Gertrude", and
they could not pick it up.
The Sub kept his eyes shut for a minute, and then looked again.
No result.
The line of shore was very close now, and it was inconceivable that the
Turkish look-outs at their guns, all along it, could not see the
picket-boat. Round and round, first this way and then that, she
steamed, hunting everywhere for that mark-buoy--without success.
To seaward the _Swiftsure_, "Peeping Tom" and his sister were still
keeping up their noisy game of "Peep Bo", I spot you!--Bang! No, you
don't!
But for that, and the gurgling under the bows, and the soft grating of
the engines, there wasn't a sound. Not a sound came from the shore close
to them, not even a dog barked.
The Sub grew restless. He knew that the two trawlers and the
_Swiftsure's_ picket-boat must already be sweeping through the
mine-field and expecting to see the red light to guide them.
He swore at the Turks, cursed himself, and above all he cursed "Glaring
Gertrude" and the fort for making the darkness so pitch black round the
picket-boat.
He steered out towards the opposite shore until he almost ran into the
big search-light's beam, swung her round, and made another "cast", but
the blackness away from the glare and in the shadow of the fort was
absolutely inky.
No buoy could he find.
He looked at the luminous face of his wrist watch. "It's getting on for
eleven," he said bitterly. "The trawlers must have nearly finished."
"There's a light, sir! Look, sir! To seaward!" a man called excitedly.
"Keep quiet, you fool," growled Jarvis, "or you'll wake them Turks."
They all looked back towards the mine-field, and saw a small white
light--like a small star twinkling low down on the water--between them
and the _Swiftsure_.
"The trawlers have finished--that's the signal," the Sub swore angrily,
"and we've not helped them. Go back to the ship, Orphan. Curse it
all!"
And then at last the Turks woke up. Flash! Bang! Flash! Bang! Guns
began firing one after the other, and the Orphan ducked as he heard
shells whistling through the darkness.
He could have kicked himself for ducking, because the shells were not
really coming his way, but bursting hundreds of yards beyond the little
white light. It was that the Turks had seen, not the picket-boat. She
had, however, to pass it on her way back.
"Which side shall I pass the light?" he asked nervously.
"Keep inside; they won't see us, and they won't hit us if they do--I
almost wish they would," the Sub growled miserably. "Shove her along!"
As the picket-boat increased speed and approached the light the noise of
shells came much nearer. One especially seemed to be very close, and
burst in the water not a hundred yards ahead.
"Confound you! Keep your head still; you aren't a jumping marionette,"
swore the Sub as the Orphan ducked again.
"Sorry!" he stuttered. "I try, but I can't help it."
"Shove her along! Open her out! Let her rip!" roared the Sub. He was
more happy now that there was some danger.
The picket-boat dashed through the water. She came abreast the white
light, swinging from a pole on a buoy quite unconcernedly.
"That marks the end of the channel they've swept," the Sub bellowed; but
the Sub was much too interested in the shells which were humming and
shrieking, right over the boat now, some of them bursting as they struck
the sea, others falling in with a "flomp". Another moment and the white
light was left behind, wriggling excitedly as the wash of the steamboat
made the buoy dance. Another hundred yards and they were out of the
line of fire.
There was a sudden shout from the bows: "Something ahead, sir!" and out
of the darkness came cries and shouts for help. They steered towards
them, stopping engines, and found two men in an almost sinking dinghy--a
trawler's dinghy--one of them trying to paddle with bits of bottom
board.
They hauled them in and left the boat behind.
The men were numbed and half dazed. One, a signalman, had a cut on his
head and was bleeding freely.
"285's blown up, sir; we're the only ones left."
Neither knew anything, except that there had been a great heave under
their trawler and they'd found themselves in the water, swum about,
found the dinghy, and got into her. One man had started feebly baling
her out with his hands, whilst the other had ripped up one of her bottom
boards and tried to paddle to the ships.
"She was only a-goin' round in circles and a-drifting inshore," he said.
They hadn't seen any more of the crew, but the Sub stopped engines and
halloed into the darkness. No answer coming back, he returned to the
_Achates_ at full speed. "Squinting Susan" and "Peeping Tom" had to be
passed, but they and the _Swiftsure_ were still busy with their little
game, and so no one bothered about them.
Until the Sub brought the news, no one knew of the disaster to trawler
No. 285--not even the second trawler, which had already returned. Some
of the crew of the _Swiftsure's_ picket-boat had seen a sudden glare on
the water---like a flash running along the surface--which they thought
was a shell bursting. Nobody had heard any explosion.
In case there were any more survivors, the _Swiftsure's_ picket-boat
went back to search the mine-field, and luckily found the skipper of the
trawler and two more men drifting about on wreckage. Even they could
give no definite account of what happened. One thought he heard a
noise; another that he'd seen a flash; they all remembered a great heave
under them and finding themselves in the water.
And so, in this sad way, the night's adventure ended; and the
picket-boat having been hoisted in, the Orphan, very miserable,
undressed and turned in to his hammock.
The Sub was wretched. He had not found the mark-buoy, and had done
nothing to help in any way, and he cursed himself for not searching the
mine-field area thoroughly, and for leaving the trawler skipper and
those two men.
He wished someone would kick him very hard.
Next forenoon the Orphan was busy in his picket-boat collecting the
crews of the other trawlers--some men from each--and bringing them
aboard the _Achates_. He also had to fetch from the _Aennie Rickmers_
her captain--a positively enormous man--and the flying officers, one of
whom was a jovial burly Frenchman with a red beard, very proud of being
called "Ginger".
On the quarter-deck, officers and men fell in, bare-headed, whilst the
little pale-faced Padre read the burial service for those missing from
the blown-up trawler.
Nothing more happened that day, but on the Wednesday the wind rose, and
by nightfall was blowing hard--a very black night it was--and at about
two o'clock in the morning an explosion occurred under the bows of the
_Aennie Rickmers_.
She made signals of distress, and began to sink rapidly by the head.
There had been rumours for some days that two Austrian submarines had
escaped from the Adriatic; it might be a torpedo from one of them, or
perhaps from some Turkish torpedo-boat. Some suggested floating mines;
others that an explosion had occurred inside the _Aennie Rickmers_
herself. No one knew exactly what had happened. All that anyone did
know, when Captain Macfarlane took the _Achates_ close to her, was that
she was sinking; that her "dago" crew of Levantine nondescripts had
deserted in all her boats; and that her English officers, the flying
officers, their men, and the four wounded from the _Achates_ were left
without any means of saving themselves.
A most unpleasant hour-and-a-half followed.
The first the China Doll knew of it was being roughly punched in the
ribs and shaken. He woke to hear men passing from hammock to hammock,
singing out: "Turn out, sir, turn out; submarines about; all hands on
deck, sir!"
He didn't lie long after that. He was down, had pulled on his trousers,
found a coat and cap, fumbled in his chest until he found his
swimming-collar, and was blowing it up round his neck before he was
really awake.
Bubbles, whose hammock was slung next to his, had gone to sleep again.
He prodded him feverishly. "Submarines, Bubbles! All hands on deck!
Get your swimming-collar!" he squeaked.
"Oh, bother! Curse you!" grunted Bubbles. "You aren't pulling my leg?
Oh, hang it!" he grumbled, as he saw all the other snotties tumbling
into their clothes, officers coming out of their cabins into the dark,
crowded "half-deck", and heard the banging down of armoured hatches. "I
do hate this beastly war. Breakfast at seven; then a cold bath at two
in the morning. Beastly!"
The China Doll went up on the dark quarter-deck and hunted round for
someone to talk to. His teeth were chattering and his knees were
trembling--it was so dark and cold.
"What's happened?" he asked, stumbling across Uncle Podger.
"Something blown a hole in the _Aennie Rickmers_, and the Sub's gone
across in the cutter to bring back our wounded."
"What did it? Was it a submarine?"
"Don't bother; no one knows. Come and have a look at her."
He took him round to the other side of the turret, into the wind, and
out in the pitch-black night they could just make out the darker mass of
the hydroplane ship, apparently tipped up by the stern, and a
signal-lamp flashing on board her. They heard shrieks coming from her,
and the China Doll's heart beat fearfully fast.
Near them, on the quarter-deck, the querulous voice of Dr. O'Neill, the
Fleet-Surgeon, was lamenting that he had ever come to sea. "Mother of
Moses!" he groaned, as "Glaring Gertrude" turned her light towards the
_Achates_ and everybody's face showed up, and the turret and the
superstructure, the masts and the funnels, stood out clearly against it.
"Mother of Moses, they'll torpedo us next if we wait here much longer!
They _must_ see the ship every time that beastly thing passes across
us."
As "Glaring Gertrude" swept away, and everybody and everything was left
in darkness again, the Fleet-Paymaster's loud, cheery voice bellowed:
"Cheer up, old 'C.D.'; if you have to take to the water, you won't find
any whisky in it!"
The officers and men standing by tittered, for they well knew that Dr.
O'Neill was a rabid teetotaler, and that "C.D." stood for "Converted
Drunkard".
"I've never tasted the beastly stuff in my life, and know it you do!"
snapped the Doctor furiously.
"Sadly lacking in the sense of humour you are, old C.D. What could be
funnier than the whole seven hundred and fifty of us to go drifting
ashore, under those salt-heaps, with swimming-collars round our necks?"