*CHAPTER I*
*Ordered to Santa Cruz*
_Written by Sub-Lieutenant William Wilson, R.N._
Only eight months ago Ginger Hood and I had been midshipmen aboard the
old _Vengeance_, and of course had spent most of our time, in her,
trying to get to windward of her sub, pull his leg, and dodge any job of
work which came along. Now the boot was on the other leg, for we were
sub-lieutenants ourselves--he in the _Hercules_, I in the _Hector_, with
gun-rooms of our own to boss, and as we'd only been at the job for a
month, you can guess that we hadn't quite settled down yet, and felt
jolly much like fish out of water.
The _Hector_ and _Hercules_ were two big armoured cruisers, as like as
two peas, and they had come straight out from England to Gibraltar to
work up for their first gunnery practices. For the last ten days they
had been lying inside the New Mole waiting for a strong south-easter to
blow itself out, and we had taken the opportunity of trying to make our
two gun-rooms friendly; for, as a matter of fact, they hated each other
like poison, his mids. taking every opportunity of being rude to mine,
and mine to his. These rows were always reported to us, and if we
hadn't been such chums, I do believe that we, too, should have fallen
out. If a _Hercules_ mid. came aboard the _Hector_ on duty, my chaps
would let him wear his legs out on the quarterdeck for hours sooner than
ask him down below, and you can guess that they were just as kind aboard
the _Hercules_ if any of my mids. had to go aboard her. I had sixteen
of the beauties in my gun-room to look after, and Ginger had fifteen; if
his were more bother to him than mine were to me, I don't wonder he
thought that his hair was turning grey. Never did they meet ashore
without a free fight or some trouble or another cropping up. The row
had started on board the _Cornwall_, where they had all been together as
cadets, over some wretched boat-race. The winning crew had used racing
oars, which the second boat's crew either hadn't had the savvy to get,
or didn't find out till too late that they might have used. However it
was, there had been a glorious row at the time, and as some of my mids.
had pulled in the losing boat and some of Ginger's in the winning one,
both gun-rooms still kept the feud going.
Ginger and I thought that the best way to patch up their quarrel was to
make them play matches against each other, and this we had
done--'soccer,' hockey, and cricket on the dockyard ground, and a
'rugger' game on the North Front.
There wasn't the slightest improvement. I had jawed my chaps till I was
tired, and Ginger had jawed his, without the least effect; and now
they'd just spoilt what might have been a grand game of hockey by
squabbling all the time, claiming fouls, and 'sticks,' and nonsense like
that, every other minute.
The game had been so unpleasant that Ginger and I were thankful when it
was finished, slipped on our coats and watched our two teams quarrelling
and taunting each other as they left the ground in two separate groups.
'Look at the young fools, Billums!' Ginger said angrily. 'Did you ever
see anything so perfectly idiotic?'
'Come along up to the Club,' I said savagely. 'We'll have some tea. It
makes one feel perfectly hopeless. I'd like to cane the whole crowd of
them.'
Up we went together, and found the Captains and a number of the
ward-room fellows from the two ships lying back in the wicker chairs on
the verandah, basking in the sun and waiting for afternoon tea. As we
came up the steps, they sang out to know which gun-room had won.
'_Hercules_ won, sir,' I told our Skipper, Captain Grattan. 'Won by
four to two.'
'Tut, tut, boy! What's that now? Still one game ahead, ain't you?'
'No, sir, we're all square.'
'Well, beat 'em next time, lad.'
A jolly chap our Skipper was--short and plump and untidy, with a merry
twinkle spreading over his funny old face, all wrinkled up with the
strain of keeping his eyeglass in place. Everybody knew him as 'Old Tin
Eye,' and he was so jolly unaffected that nobody could help liking him.
As we leant our hockey sticks up against the railings and sat down in
the corner, we could hear him chaffing Captain Roger Hill, the tall,
thin, beautifully dressed Skipper of the _Hercules_, and could jolly
well see by the way he fidgeted in his chair that he didn't like it a
little bit. Old Tin Eye would call him 'Spats,' and he didn't like it
in public, and squirmed lest we inferior mortals should hear of it. I
don't suppose he knew that nobody ever did call him anything but
'Spats.' You see, he never went ashore without white canvas spats over
his boots, and they were very conspicuous.
Our Fleet Surgeon, Watson--a morose kind of chap--and Molineux, the
Fleet Surgeon of the _Hercules_, stopped talking 'shop' to ask Ginger
how many goals he'd scored (Ginger was the terror of his team); and
Montague, our Gunnery Lieutenant, and Barton, their gunnery-man, left
off talking about the coming gun-layers' 'test' to ask us if the
gun-rooms had made up their row.
'No such luck, sir,' we said. 'They're worse, if anything.'
Whilst we were having our tea, one of the Club 'boys' brought along the
little Gib. paper, and of course our Skipper had first turn.
'Cheer up, Spats, old boy!' he sang out loudly enough for every one to
hear--he loved tormenting Captain Roger Hill; 'there's trouble in Santa
Cruz again. Old Canilla, the President, has collared half-a-dozen
Englishmen belonging to the Yucan Rubber Company, and won't give 'em up.
If you've got any shares in it you'd better sell them.'
'Hello,' I sang out to Ginger. 'I've got a brother out there. He's
supposed to be rubber-planting, but I'll bet he spends most of his time
teaching his natives to bowl leg breaks at him. Hope they haven't
collared him--I'm sorry for them if they have.'
We saw the telegrams ourselves later on, but there wasn't any more
information. Old Gerald, my brother, didn't belong to the Yucan
Company, and we forgot all about it because there was a much more
exciting telegram above this one. The United Services had beaten
Blackheath by fifteen points to five--a jolly sight more exciting that
was, especially as I had played for the U.S. this season before we left
England, and knew all the chaps playing on our side.
Well, that night I had the middle watch, and whilst the Angel and Cousin
Bob (you don't know who they are yet, but you precious soon will) were
making my cocoa, the light at the Europa Signal Station began flashing
our number. I telephoned to the fore-bridge to smarten up the
signalman, and ask what the dickens he meant by being asleep; and then,
just for practice, and for something to do, leant up against the
quarterdeck rails and took in the signal. 'Admiral Superintendent to
Captain Grattan. Coal lighters will come alongside at daybreak. (Full
stop.) Both _Hector_ and _Hercules_ will fill up with coal and water as
soon as possible, and will complete with ten days' fresh provisions.
(Full stop.)'
A second or two later the signalman came running up with his signal-pad,
and, not having the faintest idea what was in the wind, I took it down
to the Skipper. I had to shake him before he would wake; and when he
sat up in his bunk, found his eyeglass, tucked it into his eye, and read
the signal, he chuckled, 'Tut, tut, boy; we're off somewhere--finish
gunnery. Won't old Montague be sick of life? Show it to the Commander,
and repeat it to old "Spats"--I mean Captain Roger Hill.'
As I was tapping at the Commander's door, Cousin Bob and the Angel came
along, and I knew they were up to some dodge, for I could see them
grinning in the light of the gangway lantern.
'Couldn't you let us off watch, as we've got to coal early to-morrow?
Your cocoa's just inside the battery door,' they asked me as I went in.
The Commander was out of bed like a redshank, read the signal, and gave
me his orders for the morning. 'Can I let Temple and Sparks turn in,
sir, as we're coaling early?'
'Confound them! I suppose they'd better, the young rascals. Turn the
light off as you go out, and for heaven's sake make that lumbering ox of
a sentry outside my cabin take his boots off.'
I looked round to find the two mids., but they'd taken the leave for
granted and gone below, so I drank my cocoa and finished my watch by
myself.
I may as well tell you about the two young beauties. Bob Temple was,
unfortunately for me, my cousin--a scraggy, freckled, untidy midshipman,
who hadn't the brains to get into mischief, or to get out of it again,
but for his pal the Angel. What had made them chum together I don't
know, for the Angel (Tommy Sparks) was the exact opposite of Bob--as
spruce and ladylike a chap as you ever saw, always beautifully neat and
clean, with a face like a girl's, light hair, and blue eyes. He looked
as though butter couldn't possibly melt in his mouth, and devoted every
moment when he wasn't asleep or eating to getting himself and my _dear_
young cousin into a scrape. It was one of his latest efforts which had
cost them watch and watch for three days, and that was why they were
keeping the 'middle' with me that night; so you can guess why they were
so keen on the coaling signal, and had streaked down below. It didn't
matter to me a tinker's curse how many watches the Angel kept, but with
Cousin Bob it mattered a good deal. His people looked on me as his
bear-leader, and every time he got into a row sooner or later I heard
about it from them, or from his sister Daisy. I'm hanged if you are
going to hear any more about her, except that she used to think me a
brute whenever his leave was stopped, or he had 'watch and watch,' and
put it all down to me. I hadn't had to cane him yet, but I knew that
would have to happen sooner or later, and I guessed that when it did
happen, she'd write me a pretty good 'snorter.'
Don't think that Bob would peach--not he, intentionally--but I knew
exactly what he'd write home--something like this:
'The Angel sends his love--he and I cheeked the Padre at school
yesterday--we had awful fun--old Billums (that was I) caned the two of
us after evening quarters. This morning we both pretended we couldn't
sit down, and groaned when we tried to, till the Padre went for old
Billums for laying it on so hard. We've got our leave stopped for
trying to catch rats on the booms with a new trap which the Angel has
invented. The Commander caught his foot in it. You should have heard
him curse.'
That was the kind of thing that used to go home, and his father and
mother, and my mother too, to say nothing of Daisy, put it all down to
me.
I had to turn the hands 'out' at seven bells, to rig coaling screens,
the whips, and all the other gear for coaling, turned over my watch to
the fat marine subaltern who relieved me, and got a couple of hours'
sleep before the coal lighters bumped alongside.
It was a case of being as nippy as fleas after that, because we _had_ to
beat the _Hercules_. You should have seen the Angel and Cousin Bob in
blue overalls, with white cap covers pulled down over their heads,
digging out for daylight down in my coal lighter among the foretopmen,
all of them as black as niggers, shovelling coal into baskets, passing
them up the side, dodging the lumps of coal which fell out of them and
the empty baskets thrown back from the ship. There wasn't much of the
Angel left about either of them then.
At the end of the first hour we'd got in 215 tons, and as the little
numeral pendants 2-0-7 ran up to the _Hercules_ foreyard-arm to show how
many tons she had taken in, our chaps cheered. We'd beaten her by eight
tons.
'I bet she cheated even then,' I heard Bob tell his chum.
We were still a ton or two to the good after the second hour, and then
the 'still' was sounded in both ships, and every one went to breakfast.
You should have been there to have seen us in our coaling rigs--simply a
mass of coal dust and looking like a lot of Christy Minstrels--squatting
on the deck outside the gun-room, and stuffing down sardines with our
dirty hands, every one talking and shouting and as merry as pigs in a
sty. Even young Marchant, the new clerk, had got into a coaling rig of
sorts and worked like a horse--he was so keen to beat the hated
_Hercules_.
I gave them all a quarter of an hour to stuff themselves, and then down
we clambered into the lighters again and began filling baskets--nobody,
not even the Angel, shirking a job like this, when there was the chance
of getting even with the _Hercules_.
The men came struggling down after us, long before the breakfast
half-hour was finished, and we could see the _Hercules'_ people swarming
down into her lighters as well.
In all the lighters we must have had sixty tons or more in baskets
before the bugler sounded the commence, the ship's band upon the booms
banged out 'I'm afraid to go home in the dark,' the drum doing most of
it; the men began cheering and singing the chorus, and the baskets began
streaming on board again.
By the end of the fourth hour we were as hard at it as ever, but then
Commander Robinson--we didn't care for him much, as he was such a
bully--began bellowing at us, because the _Hercules_ was fifteen tons
ahead. We could hear her chaps cheering. The band banged out again
'Yip-i-addy,' and the Skipper, with his eyeglass tucked in his eye and
his long hair straggling over his neck, walked round the upper deck
singing down to the lighters, 'Go it, lads, we must beat 'em.'
Down in my lighter the men were working like demons. They looked like
demons too, got up in all sorts of queer rigs, and only stopping to take
a drink from the mess tins of oatmeal water which the 'Scorp'[#]
lighterman ladled out for them.
[#] Natives of Gibraltar are often called 'Scorps' (Rock Scorpions).
'Look out how you're trimming your lighter, Wilson,' the Commander had
bellowed.
'Aye, aye, sir,' I shouted back, but never thought what he really
meant--thought he meant we weren't working hard enough.
'We can't do no more 'ardly,' Pat O'Leary, the captain of the foretop,
panted. 'The foretop men be pulling their pound--anyway, sir,' and he
seized basket after basket and hove them on the platform rigged half-way
up the ship's side, doing the work of three men.
'Keep it up, foretop,' I shouted, shovelling for all I was worth, Bob
and the Angel keeping me busy with empty baskets. Then there was a
warning shout from up above, a lot of chaps cried, 'Look out, sir!' and,
before I knew what had happened, I was in the water, all my chaps were
in the water, the lighter had turned turtle, and twenty or more tons of
good coal was sinking to the bottom of the harbour.
The first thing I thought was, 'We can't beat them now,' knew it was my
fault, and felt a fool. The Commander was bellowing for me to come
aboard, and Bob and the Angel, with their faces rather cleaner and
bursting with laughter, were bobbing alongside me. Then O'Leary
spluttered out that the 'Scorp' lighterman was missing, and we both up
with our feet and dived down to find him.
The water was so thick with coal dust that we couldn't see a foot away
from us, but O'Leary touched him as he was coming up for breath and
brought him to the surface, pretty well full of water and frightened out
of his wits, though otherwise none the worse.
I did feel a fool if you like. What had happened was that we had dug
away all the coal on one side, and I had never noticed--I was so
excited--that the lighter was gradually heeling over, till over she
went--upside down. The band had stopped, the whole of the coaling had
stopped, the men looking over the side to see if any of us had been
drowned, till the Commander, hoarse with shouting, shrieked for them to
carry on again, whilst we clambered up the ship's side like drowned
rats, O'Leary helping the lighterman. Well, there wasn't the faintest
chance of our beating the _Hercules_ now. Every one knew it, everyone
slacked off, and there was no more cheering and shouting of choruses.
It was my stupidity that had spoilt everything.
The only thing that I could give as an excuse was that I'd never been in
charge of a coal lighter before, but I jolly well knew that the
Commander would say, 'And I'll take care you never have charge again,'
so I kept quiet whilst he stormed at me, shouting that he'd make me pay
for the twenty tons. When he was out of breath, he took me, dripping
with coal water, to the Captain, who was very angry and very
disappointed about the _Hercules_ part of it, but he hated the Commander
bellowing at people, so wasn't as severe as he might have been. He sent
me away to right the lighter, and it took us--me and the foretop men--a
couple of hours to do it, fixing ropes round her under water. We
shouldn't have done it even then hadn't Stevens--one of the Engineer
Lieutenants and a chum of mine--switched on the current to the electric
fore capstan, and we hauled her round with this.
Another loaded lighter had been brought off from the shore to make up
for the coal I'd tipped into the harbour, and then we were sent to empty
her, whilst the rest of the ship's company sat with their feet dangling
over the side, jeering at us.
By the time we had finished we were all in a pretty bad temper, all
except O'Leary, who kept up his 'pecker' till the last basket had been
filled and hauled up the side. 'I ought to have told you--anyway, sir;
I've coaled from lighters time enough to have known better,' he said,
trying to buck me up.
I reported myself to the Commander, had another burst of angry bellowing
from him, and then every one had to clean ship.
Bob and the Angel were shivering close to me, so I sent them down below
to get out of their wet things, but they were up again in a couple of
seconds, and could hardly speak for excitement.
'We're off to Santa Cruz. They've collared a steamer as well as those
Englishmen, and we're off to give 'em beans. Isn't that ripping?'
It jolly well was, but the youngsters had had just about enough of
working in their wet clothes, and were shaking with cold, so I sent them
down again and went on with my job--it didn't make any difference
whether hoses were turned on me or not, I was so wet. Presently, old
Bill Perkins, our First Lieutenant, came limping along, his jolly old
red face beaming all over. 'Never mind, Wilson, we'll beat 'em another
time; lucky none of you were hurt or drowned.' He saw that I too was
about blue with cold, and took my job whilst I changed into dry things.
Old Ginger came over after dinner from the _Hercules_. 'They're having a
sing-song in the gun-room, but I thought I'd give you a look up,' he
told me--'awfully sorry about the lighter business.' Of course he'd
come across to cheer me, and he did too, both of us talking twenty to
the dozen about Santa Cruz and the chances of our having a 'scrap.'
My chaps presently started a bit of a jamberee, old Ginger singing a
couple of songs and joining in the choruses. We were just beginning to
forget all about the coaling, when a signalman came down and handed
Barton, the senior mid., a signal. 'Senior Midshipman, _Hercules_, to
Ditto, _Hector_.--Hope none of you are any the worse for your nice
little swim.'
The mids. were too angry to speak for a minute, and then the storm
burst, and they called the _Hercules_ gun-room all the names they could
lay hold of, old Ginger looking very uncomfortable, and very angry too.
'Never mind, Billums,' he said. 'We've done our best to make 'em
friends, and they won't be,' and then sang out, 'Gentlemen, I apologise
for that signal--don't answer it--its beastly rude, and I'll cane the
senior midshipman to-morrow morning.'
There was no more sing-song after that, old Ginger went back to his ship
as angry as we were, and I turned in, knowing jolly well that my chaps
would hate Ginger's all the more, and that Ginger beating the senior
mid. would only make things worse.
'Let's hope we get mixed up in a 'scrap' or two out in Santa Cruz,'
Ginger had said as he went away, and I knew that that was about the only
thing that would do the trick and make them friends.
That was a bad day's work for me. I'd shown myself a fool, the
Commander wouldn't forget my carelessness for months, and the Skipper
would feel he couldn't trust me. That made me want to kick myself.
*CHAPTER II*
*A Revolution Imminent*
_Written by Sub-Lieutenant William Wilson, R.N._
Early next morning, just as the sun was lighting up the signal station
at the top of the Rock, we and the _Hercules_ slipped from our buoys and
shoved off into the Atlantic, the _Hercules_ two cables astern of us.
We rounded Tarifa Lighthouse; the jolly old Rock, sticking up like an
old tooth, was hidden by the Spanish mountains; we saw the white walls
of Tangier under the snow-capped Atlas mountains, on the African side,
and then we began to tumble about merrily in the open Atlantic. The
_Hector_ wasn't still for a minute at a time, and my mids. had something
else to think about than the latest _Hercules_ gun-room insult. Most of
them felt pretty 'chippy,' _though of course_ it had nothing to do with
us rolling and pitching. Rather not! None of them were seasick,
perfectly absurd! They were only a little out of sorts; didn't want any
breakfast, or got rid of what they did eat pretty rapidly; much
preferred lying down in a corner inside the battery screen, out of the
wind, and took a deal of 'rousting' out of it before they'd do their
job. For all that, they'd have been awfully angry if any one had
suggested that they were seasick. The gun-room messman had given us the
strongest of kippers for breakfast that morning--this was his idea of a
joke--and as we couldn't keep a single scuttle open, and there was
practically no ventilation in the gun-room, you can imagine that you
could almost cut the atmosphere with a knife.
[Illustration: The Hector and the Hercules]
Pearson, the A.P., the engineer sub, Raynor, and I were alone in our
glory when we began tackling the messman's kippers; but soon the mids.
came along, and it was worth a fortune to watch them put their heads
inside the gun-room, take a 'sniff,' and go away again. Presently Bob
and the Angel came dashing down, and we three chuckled as they rushed
in, got a breath of it, stopped dead in their tracks, pretended they
didn't mind, and sat down as near the door as they could get. We
watched them 'peck' a bit, Bob's freckles showed up more than ever, the
Angel looked perfectly green, and they were both as silent as mummies.
The ship gave a big roll to starboard, a green sea slapped over the
glass scuttles and darkened the whole gun-room; there was a crash of
crockery smashing in the pantry; Bob and the Angel grabbed their plates,
back the old _Hector_ tumbled to port; Bob's coffee-cup slid gracefully
into his lap--he could stick to it no longer--and rushed away.
The Angel lasted another lurch, but that finished him.
'Afraid I--caught--cold--in the water--yesterday--afraid Bob did
too--I'm not--very hungry--I'll see what's the matter with Bob,' he
gulped, swallowing every word; and, clapping his hand over his mouth, he
disappeared after his chum.
More than half the mids. never ventured further than the gun-room flat,
where they caught the first whiff of kipper, and those who did, didn't
stay long.
'We'd get a fine mess surplus if they'd only keep like it,' the A.P.
grinned; 'but, confound them, they won't.'
'They'd enjoy an hour down in the engine-room now. Wouldn't they?'
Raynor chuckled.
Of course they were as right as a trivet in a couple of days, and you
may bet that they made up for those lost meals.
Every one on board expected that there might be a bit of a scrap when we
got across to Santa Cruz, and you can guess how we got hold of Brassey's
_Naval Annual_ and Jane's _Fighting Ships_ to see if Santa Cruz had any
ships good enough to give us a show.
They hadn't; that was the worst of it. Three or four miserable
out-of-date cruisers, half-a-dozen gunboats, and a couple of torpedo
boats built in the year one. There certainly was a cruiser building for
them at Newcastle, a ship named _La Buena Presidente_, a big monster
like our latest cruisers, and even bigger and more powerful than the
_Hector_ herself; but Raynor had seen her in the Tyne since she was
launched, knew all about her, and was certain that she couldn't be ready
inside six months.
'What a pity they didn't wait till they'd got her!' Bob said, with his
mouth open. And that was about what we all thought.
Still, though there wasn't likely to be any sport with their wretched
Navy, we might have to bombard a fort or two, which would be good enough
business; and, more exciting even than that, we might have to send a
landing-party ashore.
We didn't waste much time all these eight days we were at sea, the
Commander, Bill Perkins, and Montague, the Gunnery Lieutenant, slapping
round, from morning to night for all they were worth. The marines,
three companies of seamen, two field-guns' and two maxim-guns' crews,
and a stretcher party of stokers were told off to land. Their leather
gear, haversacks, water-bottles, and rolled-up blankets were all got
ready, hung over their rifles in the racks, and, morning and evening, we
made an evolution of 'falling in' on the quarterdeck and fo'c'stle, and
getting on our gear in double quick time.
Ten of my sixteen mids. were told off to land, and were as happy as
fleas in a blanket, fitting their leather gear and sharpening their
dirks all day long, and thinking about what they'd do when they got
ashore half the night.
Marchant, the young clerk--he'd only just joined the Navy, and this was
his first ship--was told off to land as 'Old Tin Eye's' secretary.
He was being pretty well bullied and knocked into shape by the mids.,
and made to feel what a hopeless worm he was; but now there were six of
them who'd have given their heads to change places with him, and he
absolutely swelled with pride and importance.
Three days after leaving Gib. the weather became gloriously warm, the
sea simply like a sheet of glittering glass, the sun glaring on it all
day long. It was grand to be alive, and we all--officers and men
alike--went into training, and were doubled round and round, morning and
evening, till the sweat rolled off us. Every evening, too, the parallel
bars and the horizontal bar were rigged on the quarterdeck, and the
ward-room fellows and we gun-room people did gymnastics for an hour or
so, finishing up with a follow-my-leader round the battery till we
nearly dropped. On board the _Hercules_ they were doing gymnastics and
the new Swedish drill, on the fo'c'stle, the whole day long. But the
sight of all was the fat blue marine subaltern--the Forlorn Hope, we
called him--doubling up and down the quarterdeck, on his own, to work
off his fat, so that he could march properly when he landed--his cheeks
flopping from side to side, and running with perspiration. I'm sure you
would have died of laughing, especially when his opposite number--the
Shadow--the awfully thin red marine subaltern, doubled round after him,
trying to work up an appetite, and put on more weight. It was the
terribly earnest faces they shipped that made one laugh. When you come
to think of it, the whole thing was really jolly odd. Here were these
two great grey ships, with their long grim 9.2's and 7.5's, and their
twelve hundred odd men, pounding steadily along for eight days and
nights, to a country hardly any one of us had heard of before, and every
one on board both of them was digging out to make himself and them as
fit as 'paint,' in case there was a job for us when we did get there.
The Commander even stopped bellowing at people, and brimmed over with
good temper.
We had two great heroes on board--at any rate the mids. thought they
were--one of the lieutenants--Bigge--who had been with Sir Edward
Seymour in the Relief of Pekin force, and Mr. Bostock, the Gunner, who
had been through the siege of Ladysmith during the Boer War.
Some one told the story how five Chinamen had attacked Bigge whilst he
was trying to blow in a gate or something like that, and how he settled
the whole lot of them with his revolver. Whether it was true or
not--and I believe it was--the mids. simply hung round him now, and
tried to get him to tell them some of his experiences. They looked at
the little bit of yellow and red ribbon on his monkey-jacket, and simply
longed for a chance to earn something like it, and have a bit of ribbon
to stick on their chests. Although they never could get _him_ to talk
about his show, Mr. Bostock would talk about the siege of Ladysmith, and
how the naval brigade helped the sappers, that awful morning on the
crest of Wagon Hill--would talk as long as they'd like to listen.
He'd sit smoking ship's tobacco in his cabin--it hadn't any scuttle or
ventilation whatever of any account, so you can have an idea what the
smell was like--and the mids. would crowd in, those who couldn't do so
squeezing into the doorway, and listen by the hour. Nothing else but
war was talked about from morning to night.
Well, on the ninth day out from Gibraltar, we sighted Prince Rupert's
Island, ran in through the northern channel, and anchored two miles off
Princes Town in a great wide bay, with the dark mountains of Santa Cruz
just showing up on the horizon away to the west. Somewhere up among
them old Gerald was teaching his natives to play cricket.
The Skipper went ashore immediately in the picketboat, to call on the
Governor and get news and fresh orders; so you can guess how excited we
all were when she was seen coming tearing off again, and the Skipper ran
up the accommodation ladder. I believe every officer in the ship was up
on the quarterdeck to hear the news, and you can just imagine what we
felt like when we saw that the Skipper had shipped a long face, and when
he shook his head at us and went down below.
In three minutes we knew the worst--it was all over the ship. The
Englishmen and the English steamer had been released; old Canilla, the
President, had apologised handsomely, and all was peace. Wasn't it
sickening?
'Ain't it a bally shame,' Montague, the Gunnery Lieutenant, said,
'stoppin' our gun-layers' test at Gib., just as we were in the thick of
it; bringin' us lolloppin' along here, and nothin' for us to do when we
get here--no landin' party, no nothin'.' And he sent word down to Mr.
Bostock to re-stow and pack up all the leather gear and water-bottles.
'It do take the 'eart out of one,' Mr. Bostock told the sympathising
mids., 'not a blooming chawnce to let off so much as a single ball
cartridge,' and he went below to see that none of his landing party gear
was missing.
The Governor himself came off to return the Skipper's call, and brought
off some of the shore chaps with a challenge to play us at football,
hockey, tennis, cricket, polo, or anything and everything we jolly well
liked.
That bucked us all up a bit, and Clegg, our Surgeon--a great, tall chap
and a grand cricketer--who ran the sports on board, sent for me to fix
up things. Between us we fixed enough matches to last the first ten
days.
'Can't play you at polo,' we told them, 'we've only got one chap who's
ever played in his life.'
'Well, I'll tell you what we'll do,' one of them said, 'we'll lend you
ponies to practise for the match, and if you'll lend us one of your
boats, we'll practise in her, and pull a race against you in ten days'
time. What d'you say to that? That'll even up matters a bit.'
'Let's get this little lot finished first,' we said, laughing.
They were a sporting crowd. This was a Tuesday. On Wednesday we were to
play Princes' Town at rugby--it made me sweat only to think of it,
although this was what they called their winter--whilst the _Hercules_
was to play the Country Club. On Thursday we were to change rounds, and
on Friday the two ships were to play the whole of Prince Rupert's
Island.
On Saturday they thought we might have a cricket match--if it wasn't too
_cold_! 'Right you are,' we said, 'if there's anything left of
us--though we shall probably be melted by that time.'
There were dances every night, and picnics and tennis parties for those
who weren't playing anything else.
'We're going to have a fizzing time, Wilson, after all,' Dr. Clegg said,
as we watched them go ashore, after having had no end of a job to get
their boat alongside, because there was such a crowd of native boats
swarming round the foot of the ladder, loaded down to the gunwales with
bananas, oranges, melons, and things like that, the buck niggers on
board them quarrelling, and squealing, and laughing, dodging the lumps
of coal the side boys threw to make them keep their boats away from the
gangway.
Most of the boats had their stern-sheets weighted down with black
ladies, dressed in white calico skirts and coloured blouses, trying to
look dignified and squealing all the time, holding up bits of paper
whenever they caught sight of an officer, and singing out, 'Mister
Officah, I vash your clo's--I hab de letter from naval officah--I good
vasher-lady, you tell quatamasta, let me aboard--all de rest only black
trash.'
They were allowed on board presently, and down into the gun-room flat
they swarmed--old ones, young ones, fat ones, and thin ones, all trying
to get our washing to take ashore. 'Me Betsy Jones, me vash for Prince
George, sah! I know Prince George when he so high, sah! Betsy good
vasher-lady, you give me your vashing.' They were all round the 'Angel.'
'Ah! bless your pretty heart, my deah, you give your vashing to Matilda
Ann; I vash for Prince George and for Admiral Keppel--verrah nice man
Admiral Keppel.' He was pulled from one to the other, and when he
escaped into the gun-room they followed him. He was jolly glad to hear
the picketboat called away and escape.
It was all very well to arrange matches; but a wretched collier came
creeping into the bay that very afternoon with three thousand tons of
Welsh coal for the _Hercules_ and ourselves, and, instead of playing
football, we jolly well had to empty her between us. There was no going
ashore for any one except the paymasters, and for two whole days we were
busy. The heat of it and the dirt of it were positively beastly. It took
us twenty-two solid hours to get in 1400 tons, because the men couldn't
work well in that heat. It was bad enough on deck, but down in the
collier and down below in our own bunkers the heat was simply terrific.
We felt like bits of chewed string when we did go ashore on the third
day to play the combined match, and chewed string wasn't in it after
we'd been playing ten minutes. I don't think that we could have
possibly held our own, but that game never ended. We were waiting for
the 'Angel' to get back his breath after being 'winded,' and were wiping
the sweat out of our eyes, when a marine orderly came running on to the
ground with orders from the Skipper for us to return on board at once.
We stuck the 'Angel' on his feet, told the other chaps what had
happened, bolted for our coats, and were off through the town to the
Governor's steps as fast as we could go, the marine orderly puffing
behind us and the nigger boys, thinking we were running away from the
Prince Rupert's team, shouting rude things after us.
Boats were waiting there, the ward-room and gun-room messmen came along,
followed by strings of niggers carrying fruit and live fowls and
turkeys--everything was bundled down into the stern-sheets--there was no
time for ceremony--and we were only waiting for Perkins, the First
Lieutenant, who was lame and couldn't run. He'd being doing touch
judge.
Cousin Bob was the midshipman of the boat--the second barge. 'What's
up?' I asked him. 'Somebody's died--over in Santa Cruz--and we're
ordered off to Los Angelos at once. We're to attend the funeral or
something like that.'
'Funeral!' we groaned; 'fancy spoiling a football match for a funeral,'
and the 'Angel,' who'd recovered by now, squeaked out that he'd already
engaged most of his partners for the dances--'ripping fine girls, too,
you chaps.'
Perkins came hobbling along, his red face redder than ever, hustled his
way through the laughing, jostling crowd of niggers at the top of the
steps, and jumped down among us, mopping his face. 'All in the day's
work, lads; shove off, I'm in the boat.'
'Hi, Bill!' some of the ward-room people sang out, 'some one wants you,'
and they pointed to where an enormously stout black lady was elbowing
her way to the front.
'Hi, Massa Perkins! Hi, Massa Perkins! How d'ye do, Massa Perkins--me
Arabella de Montmorency--you sabby Arabella--Arabella see your deah red
face--vash for you in de flagship--de _Cleopatra_--you owe Arabella
three shillin' and tuppence--you pay Arabella--vat for you no pay
Arabella--Arabella vash for you when you midshipman in de _Cleopatra_.'
'All right, old girl,' Perkins sang out, waving his stick cheerily at
her, 'I sabby you, you come aboard, by an' by, when we come back--give
you some ship's baccy--come aboard the _Hector_.'
'Shove off,' he told Bob, and off we pulled, the crew grinning from ear
to ear, and the niggers all cackling with laughter, dancing about and
singing out, 'Three cheers for the red, white, and blue,' 'Old England
for ebber,' and Mrs. Arabella's voice following us, 'I mak' de prayer to
de good Lo'd for Massa Perkins--Him keepa Massa Perkins from
harm--Arabella want de three shillin' and tuppence.'
'You've got some nice friends, Bill,' the ward-room officers chaffed
him.
The cable was already clanking in through the hawse-pipe as we got
aboard, and in half an hour the _Hercules_ was following us out through
the eastern passage, and we headed across for the mainland and Santa
Cruz.
It was my morning watch next morning (from four to eight), and it was a
grand sight to see the sun rise behind us, flooding the calm sea with
red and orange colours, whilst the little wisps of clouds which hung
about the sides of the fierce-looking mountains of Santa Cruz, in front
of us, kept on changing from gold to pink and from pink to orange.
O'Leary was the quarter-master of the watch, and I saw the old chap
looking at them. He shook his head at me, 'Better than an
"oleo"--that--sir. That's God's own picture.'
Even the stokers who'd just come off watch and were cooling themselves,
down on the fo'c'stle below us, stood watching the grand sight, and
then, down at the foot of the mountains, a long white line showed up.
'That's the breakwater at Los Angelos,' fat little Carlton, our
navigator, told me.
As we forged along through the oily, glistening sea, and got closer, we
could see the masts and funnels and fighting-tops of the little Navy of
Santa Cruz sheltering behind it, all tinged with the sunrise; and the
hundreds of windows in the lighthouse and the houses clustered at the
foot of the mountains were all glowing as if they were on fire. If old
Gerald had heard we were coming, it was quite likely that he'd come down
from the estate and might be snoring on his back behind one of them,
snoring like a good 'un and dreaming about the last football match he'd
played in.
Then high up the side of the dark mountains a ball of white smoke shot
out, hung there in the still air for a second or two, and melted away,
changing colour as it disappeared.
'That's the sunrise gun, sir, from one of their forts, sir. Them Dagos
be half an hour adrift, I'm blowed if they ain't,' O'Leary said.
The bridge was crowding up now, for the Skipper and the Commander and a
host of mids. had come along to bring the ships to anchor.
'Pretty sight that,' the Skipper grunted, squinting through his
eyeglass.
'Like pink icing on a wedding cake, sir,' the Commander added, thinking
he'd said something funny.
'Yes, sir; beautiful, sir,' chipped in the navigator, really wondering
what the Skipper was referring to, but very eager to agree with him--he
would have licked his boots if he thought the Skipper would like it.
'Bring ship to an anchor,' snapped out the Skipper, and the boat's'n's
mates piped, 'Watch, bring ship to an anchor--duty-men to their
stations--away second barges.'
The anchoring pendants were run up to our masthead--the answering
pendant on board the _Hercules_ got to her masthead almost as soon--and
we moved slower and slower in towards the breakwater.
The navigator reported, 'On our bearings, sir;' the Skipper nodded to
the Commander, who bellowed down to the fo'c'stle, 'Let go;' the
signalman hauled down the pendants; the starboard anchor splashed into
the sea, and the cable began rattling out through the hawse-pipes.
Down went the pendant aboard the _Hercules_, and her anchor splashed
behind us.
'Full speed astern both,' snapped the Skipper to the man at the
engine-room telegraph and the water churned up under our stern.
'Going astern, sir,' sang out the leadsman, with an eye on the water.
'Stop engines,' the Skipper snapped again, and the old _Hector_ was once
more at anchor.
At eight o'clock we saluted the Santa Cruz flag; the fort, up in the
clouds, which had fired the sunrise gun, returned it after a while, and
the swarthy little port doctor came out from behind the breakwater, in a
fussy little steam-launch, to see if we had any infectious diseases on
board, and as we hadn't, to give us 'pratigue'--take us out of
quarantine.
After a lot of silly rot, he bowed and scraped himself on board, said
'bueno, bueno,' about a hundred times, bowed and scraped himself down
the ladder into his boat, and went fussing back behind the breakwater
again.
He'd brought some letters from our Minister at Santa Cruz, and it turned
out that it was the President's wife who had died. She was to be buried
next day, so we were a trifle early.
'We might have finished that "footer" match after all,' I heard the
Angel grumble to Cousin Bob.
I rather hoped that Gerald would have written, but he hadn't--he was a
terrible hand at writing letters.
The Skipper--Old Tin Eye--went ashore to call on the Military Governor,
who returned his call almost before he could get back.
He was a long, lean, hollow-cheeked Spanish kind of a chap, in a white
uniform and marvellous hat with green and yellow plumes, his chest
covered with medals and orders--a grand-looking old fighting-cock. He
brought with him his two A.D.C.'s--one of them as black as your hat, and
the other fat and short, with an enormous curved sabre ten sizes too big
for him and gilt spurs so long that he could hardly get down the
ladders, even by walking sideways. He looked just like a pantomime
soldier.
He brought his black pal down to the gun-room to leave the Governor's
cards, and, as he could speak a little English, we got on all right.
I noticed him looking at me rather curiously, and at last he said, 'You
know Senor Geraldio Wilson?'
'Old Gerald! he's my brother. Why?' I asked.
'You have the same,' and he pointed to his face and hair. Old Gerald
has the same yellowish hair and grey eyes that I have.
Funny that he'd spotted me, wasn't it, for we never thought each other
much alike?
'You know Gerald?' I asked him.
'All peoples know Senor Geraldio,' he replied, very courteously, but
with an expression on his face as if he wasn't going to say any more.
We took them on deck, and whilst their boat was being brought alongside,
and they were waiting for the Governor to come up from the Captain's
cabin, they were awfully keen on the after 9.2 gun.
'Make shoot many kilometres?' the fat chap asked.
'About thirty,' I told him, doing a rough calculation in my head, and he
told his black pal, and they jerked their thumbs towards the mountains.
It didn't take much brains to guess that they were wondering whether we
could shell the city of Santa Cruz itself. They looked at that gun jolly
respectfully after that.
Later on that day, we learnt a lot about local politics from two English
merchants, who came off to call and feel English 'ground'--as they
expressed it--under their feet again. They looked jolly cool in their
white clothes and pith sun-helmets.
'It's a mighty change from a week ago,' they said. 'All the Europeans
and Americans here at Los Angelos and up in Santa Cruz were practically
prisoners, some had actually been thrown into San Sebastian--the old
fort of Santa Cruz--and we were all expecting notice to quit the
country, when they heard that you were coming along, apologised to the
chaps in San Sebastian, and let the rest of us along. We're glad to see
you, you bet we are, for there's trouble coming.'
'What? Where?' we asked, frightfully keen to know, all the mids.
crowding round and keeping as silent as mice.
'Revolution! that's what's coming. It's as certain as we're sitting
here. Old Canilla, the President, is hated everywhere, except in his
own province of Santa Cruz and the city itself. The country will revolt
directly the Vice-President--de Costa--gives the word. It's been coming
for years, but Mrs. President, the old lady who's to be buried
to-morrow, was the Vice-President's sister, and, though they hate each
other like poison, she kept the peace between her husband and her
brother. 'Every one called her _La Buena Presidente_, and now she's
gone'--they shrugged their shoulders--'we don't know what will happen.
The very day _La Buena Presidente_, poor old lady, died, General
Angostina was shot in the back--he was the most popular general in the
country and backed the de Costas--and no attempt has been made to arrest
his assassins, who boast about it at the Military Club. In fact, the
paper this morning says that one has been promoted for "services to his
country."'
'_La Buena Presidente_?' the A.P. sang out; 'that's the name of the new
cruiser building for them at Newcastle.'
'Named after her,' one of them said. 'She's big enough to sink the
whole of the rest of their fleet, and that's where the trouble comes in.
The fleet is loyal to the President just now, but he's in a terrible
funk lest the crew he is sending to England to bring her here alter
their minds. If they do, they can make cat's-meat of the rest, and then
old Canilla's up a tree, for he can't scotch a revolution in the
provinces to north and south of him, unless he holds command of the sea
and prevents them joining forces.
'When's this revolution to start?' we asked rather chaffingly.
'To-morrow at 1.25 sharp. That's the official time for the funeral
service to end, and till then Canilla and de Costa will be friends.
To-morrow night there won't be a single friend of the Vice-President in
Santa Cruz, unless he's shot or in San Sebastian. De Costa himself
won't be in Santa Cruz either, unless he's shot or arrested as he leaves
the cathedral. He'll be off to his own province of Leon. Now you can
guess why we're glad to see you.'
'I'm jolly glad we didn't stay to finish that footer match,' the Angel
sang out, as they took their leave. 'We're going to have some jolly fun,
ain't we, Bob?'
'D'you know a chap called Gerald Wilson, a brother of mine?' I asked one
of them, a very fat chap, whose name was Macdonald. 'A chap with yellow
hair something like mine and a jaw like an ox.'
'Know him!' he answered quickly; ''pon my word, I've been looking at you
and wondering whom you were like. Why, you're as like as two peas,
though he's a bit broader and taller.'
'Do we know Gerald Wilson? Don Geraldio? Why, my dear chap, every one
knows your brother,' the other Englishman joined in. 'He's the maddest
chap in the country, and if our Minister doesn't get him out of it
pretty quickly, he'll get his throat cut.'
'Or be a general in the revolutionary army,' Macdonald added. 'He's
right "in" with the de Costas.'
Well, that was exciting if you like--to me, but the mater would be
awfully upset if she knew--poor old mater.
'Where's he now?' I asked excitedly. 'I've not seen him for five
years.'
'Up in Santa Cruz, he lives at the European Club,' Macdonald answered.
Then an idea struck him, and he continued, 'Some of your people are
going up to the funeral. If you like to go, I'll take you; get ashore
to-morrow morning by 6.30. I'm driving up. The funeral will be worth
seeing, even if you hadn't your brother up there. I'll find him for
you.'
'Thank you very much, I'll try and get leave,' I told him, as he went
down into his boat.
'You can bring a couple of your midshipmen if you like,' he shouted up.
I was so excited I hardly knew what to think or do, it was so worrying
about Gerald, from the mater's point of view, and so splendid from mine.
To-morrow was my day 'off,' the Commander gave me leave, the two mids.
were, of course, the Angel and Cousin Bob, and they were too excited to
do anything else but walk up and down the quarterdeck with their eyes
glued on the mountains, where Santa Cruz lay, in the clouds, five
thousand feet above them.
*CHAPTER III*
*The Revolution breaks out*
_Written by Sub-Lieutenant William Wilson, R.N._
A whole crowd of us from the _Hector_ and the _Hercules_, all bound for
Santa Cruz, went ashore at six o'clock next morning. On our way
inshore, after we'd pulled round the head of the breakwater, we had a
good view of the Santa Cruz ships. Rotters they all looked, slovenly
kept, nothing seamanlike or shipshape about them, with their 'wash
clothes' hung about the rigging and even over the quarterdeck
railings--anyhow.
And a funny-looking crowd of soldiers they had too, falling in on the
wharf where we landed, ready to receive the two Skippers when they came
ashore--in uniform--to attend the funeral on duty. They were all South
American natives or full-blooded niggers, half of them bare-footed, none
of them dressed alike. Some had hats like the French army _kepi_,
others, broad-brimmed felt or straw hats; their shirts were of every
colour under the sun, and a pair of loose dirty cotton trousers seemed
to be about the only uniform they had. They all had rifles--of sorts--a
bayonet, and a leathern belt hanging loose over their hips to support a
cartridge pouch, but many had lost their bayonet frogs and scabbards,
and simply stuck the naked bayonet inside the belt.
My chum with the gilt spurs and enormous sabre seemed to be bossing the
show, and was too busy trying to get the men into something like order
to notice me.
We all pushed our way along through a not at all friendly mob of people,
Bob and the Angel sticking to me like leeches. Then we lost the rest of
our people, and felt pretty lost ourselves till a grinning native caught
hold of my sleeve.
'_Buenos_! _Senor_! You _Senor Wilson_? _Senor_ Macdonald send me. I
his boy.'
We were jolly glad to find any one who would take us to him.
'How did you find me in the crowd?' I asked him.
'_Senor_ Macdonald say you like _Senor Geraldio_. All peoples know Senor
Geraldio.'
'Blowed for a yarn,' I thought. 'Old Gerald wouldn't be very
flattered.'
We stepped out briskly enough then, and you ought to have seen the Angel
strutting along in the middle of the road, in a blue suit and straw hat,
the trousers beautifully creased, the latest thing in ties round his
neck, the most startling thing in socks showing under his turned-up
trousers, looking as if he was off to a tea-party in Southsea. Even the
niggers smiled at him and got out of his way. We came upon Macdonald in
a minute or two, waiting for us at a corner, with a carriage and six
grand-looking mules--the carriage was like a big two-wheeled governess
cart with an awning over it, and he was so enormous that he almost
filled it.
In we jumped, the two mids. managed to squeeze themselves alongside the
native driver, our guide kicked the mules in the stomach, one after the
other, just to wake them up; the driver cracked his whip, and away we
went bump-terappity along the bumpy road, the bells on the harness
jingling like fun.
We clattered along past rows and rows of red mud cottages, dogs flying
out at us from every door, and giving the two mids. a grand time with
the whip, pack mules tied up to the door-posts frisking about and
kicking up their heels as we went past, and long-legged fowls scattering
like smoke in front of us.
'You're extraordinarily like your brother, now you're in plain clothes,'
Mr. Macdonald muttered, with his mouth full--for he'd started on the
hampers already.
'Jolly proud of it,' I answered, but he only made a face and shrugged
his shoulders.
We started climbing soon after, and the mules had a pretty hard time of
it for the next three hours, zigzagging up the most appalling road,
panting and grunting. The mids. and I walked the steepest parts, but
neither the driver nor Mr. Macdonald budged from their seats. The
higher we got the more cheerful we were. It was grand looking down at
Puerta and the sea, with the _Hector_ and _Hercules_ like toy ships
lying inside the breakwater, but Mr. Macdonald did not let us stop
anywhere for more than a minute at a time, because there was a whole
line of jangling mule carriages coming up after us, and he didn't want
to be overtaken. The mids. didn't either, for there were four
_Hercules_ mids. in the one next behind us, and they were not going to
be beaten by them if they could help it.
Every now and again, at the corners where the road zig-zagged, we came
across thirty or forty native soldiers, evidently guarding the way.
'That looks as if they were expecting trouble,' Mr. Macdonald told me.
'It's most unusual. D'you see the colours they have in their hats?'
Nearly all of them had a patch of yellow and green stripes sewn on.
'I've never seen the regular troops wearing them,' he said. 'Did you
notice that the stripes were _vertical_! That means that they are
President's men. The de Costa's colours are black and green, but the
stripes are worn _horizontally_, and of course they aren't allowed to
wear them.'
He shook his head very ominously.
'Things are going to hum to-day. You'd have been wiser to stay on
board. You're too like your brother.'
You can guess that this only made it more jolly exciting.
Every now and then we met long trains of mules or donkeys, with huge
bundles on their backs, pacing wearily down the road.
'They're carrying rubber or cocoa down to Los Angelos,' Mr. Macdonald
said. 'The President makes them bring all their rubber through Los
Angelos; that's one of the grievances they have against him.'
Jolly interesting everything was, and once the men with one long mule
train took off their big hats, bowing and saying, '_buenos_.'
'They're doing it to you, not to me,' Mr. Macdonald said. 'They're from
Paquintos, close to your brother's estate, and think you are he.'
It was a jolly funny feeling to land at this out-of-the-way spot and
find so many people appear to know me; don't you think it was?
By this time we had left the shade of the tropical trees below us, and
the road and the side of the mountain were simply bare rock--the heat
terrific. At half-past ten we were at the top, and got our first glimpse
of Santa Cruz spread out in a hollow beneath us, with mountain ridges
all round it. Our mules roused themselves into a trot, and we slung
along at a good rate, kicking up a cloud of dust. The _Hercules_ mids.
had been gradually drawing closer, and now they came along at a gallop,
and would have passed us, singing out rude remarks, but the Angel seized
the whip and beat our poor brutes into a gallop too, and the teams
simply tore along, side by side, the drivers having all they could do to
keep on the road. The two carriages bounced along close together, I
thought the wheels would lock every other second, and the mids. were
hitting at each other with their sticks and shouting.
Luckily we didn't meet anything, but I saw that, just ahead, the road
narrowed, and that we couldn't possibly get through there side by side.
'Let them go ahead,' I shouted, and leant over to help the driver pull
in the team, but then one of the _Hercules_ mids. sang out, 'Who upset
the coal lighter?' the others shouted, 'The rotten _Hectors_!'--and that
made me as mad as a hatter. I didn't care whether we all went to glory
or not so long as we beat them--after that.
'Pull up, you fools!' Mr. Macdonald shouted, but the mules were quite
out of hand.
We came to the narrow part, the leading mules bumped into each other,
then the others, till the wheelers were touching; our axles bumped once
or twice, there was a lurch and a crash, the other carriage toppled over
on to the bank, the wheeler mules were on their backs, and the mids.
shot out head over heels as we flew past, the Angel and Bob cheering
wildly.
Before we were out of sight we saw the four mids. and the driver on
their feet again, trying to right the carriage, so I knew they weren't
hurt.
Mr. Macdonald simply wagged his head from side to side. 'It was my
weight brought us through--you'd have upset but for me.'