had killed most of my men as they stood on the upperdeck, and the
_Quickmatch_ was nowhere to be seen.
A couple of hundred yards away, still keeping up an aimless fire,
was the Frenchman; a terrible outcry rising from her decks; the men
already breaking away from the restraints of discipline and leaping
headlong over the side.
[Illustration: "THE 'POLYPHEMUS' HAD RAMMED HER."]
The _Polyphemus_ had rammed her!
As we gazed we saw the great vessel vomiting flames and men, heel
slowly over, and gradually go down into the unknown depths; a fearful
hissing noise, followed by a terrible explosion, telling of the dire
conflict of fire and water as her furnaces met their natural enemy.
The air was thick with lurid smoke, filled with the shrieks of the
dying and the fierce oaths of men who were vainly attempting to catch
some passing spar, or clutching at some more favoured individual
at the imminent risk of dragging both down to destruction in their
frenzy.
We strained our eyes in the direction of the _Polyphemus_, and had the
heartfelt satisfaction of seeing her lowering all her available boats.
And then the reaction overcame me and I fainted dead away, and would
inevitably have drowned but for the strong right arm of Bates.
* * * * *
When I came to myself I was in a bunk on board the _Polyphemus_, with
a group of anxious faces round me.
There was a strong odour of iodoform in the cabin, and a lavish
display of lint and bandages, for which I vainly tried to account. I
felt at once for the despatches, and had the satisfaction of feeling
their bulky outline against my skin.
"All right now?" cheerily asked the little Welsh doctor who had been
busily engaged in bringing me to life again.
"Yes, thanks," I replied, trying to sit upright in the bunk, a
movement which gave me excruciating pain, and was promptly prevented
by the sick bay steward and the doctor.
"Come, come!" he said, with a smile, "none of your nonsense, now. You
won't be able to move for a while yet."
Then I remembered the strange numbness of my right leg when I fell
into the water.
"What has happened?" I asked. "What have I done--what----"
"Well, if you insist," he said, unwillingly, "you've broken your
thigh. It's nothing much, just a simple fracture," he continued,
quickly. "Soon be well again, and none the worse for it. Now, don't
worry; you'll probably be able to walk as well as if nothing had
happened."
I lay still and groaned. This, then, was to be the end of all my
vain-glorious imaginings. I began to pity myself with an exceeding
pity. Instead of dramatically delivering my despatches, I was to lie
on a sick bed. I was deformed, disfigured--what would Bertha think
when she saw me! In spite of the doctor's assurance, I felt sure that
I should go through life with a limp. A graceful figure I should make!
The Captain of the _Polyphemus_ here suddenly recalled my wandering
mind.
[Illustration: "'YOU HAVE DONE A VERY PLUCKY THING, SIR,' SAID THE
CAPTAIN."]
[Illustration: "MY DEAR WIFE LOOKS OVER MY SHOULDER."]
"We shall be very glad to have an account of your adventures,
Lieutenant Ralph," he said, courteously, "and how you came to be
chased by that brute of a cruiser."
In as few words as possible I told them all that had occurred since
the declaration of war, finally inquiring for Bates, to whom I owed
my life, and had the happiness of hearing that he was safe and sound
aboard.
"You have done a very plucky thing, sir," said the Captain, at the
close of my recital. "You fought a splendid fight, and I am sure your
country will not forget your brave and valuable services. I am sorry
to say that only four of your ship's company have been recovered, and
a few Frenchmen."
We were by this time nearly at Gibraltar; and the Captain, having
received the despatches from me and assured me they should go at once
to the Governor, left me to fall into a deep, refreshing sleep, from
which I awoke calm and content. The despatches were delivered in time,
though not by my hand. But their safe delivery was the chief matter.
That night, in spite of the doctor's protestations, I was taken from
the ship and sent ashore, where I was received at the comfortable
little Gibraltar hospital.
My thigh was indeed badly fractured, but a sound constitution, aided
by the unremitting care bestowed upon me in Gibraltar, soon brought me
round again, but a slight limp is always with me.
* * * * *
When my dear wife, who looks over my shoulder as I write these words,
says that my infirmity is no less glorious than the Victoria Cross
which rests so proudly on my breast, I feel amply repaid for anything
I may have done or risked in the service of my country; and the day
when I shall attain flag-rank looms larger upon the satisfactory
horizon of my life.
THE SAD FATE OF MISTRESS PRUE.
Mistress Prue was gay and sweet,
And fair as maid could be;
From dainty head to twinkling feet,
A source of joy was she.
But Mistress Prue was hard to please,
And full of whims and airs;
Her beaux she'd torment, flout, and tease,
Unheeding all their prayers.
At length one day _she_ loved a swain,
And changed her ways at last;
But "Mistress Prue" she did remain,
For wooing days were past.
[Illustration: _Illustration by Sauber._]
A GIRL'S BALLOON JOURNEY OVER LONDON.
THE STORY OF AN ADVENTURE IN THE AIR AT FORTY MILES AN HOUR.
BY GERTRUDE BACON.
[Illustration: MISS GERTRUDE BACON.]
A few weeks ago a telegram was put into my hands containing two words
only, "Come along."
The message was short, but eminently satisfactory, for it signified
that the negotiations which had been in progress for a lofty balloon
ascent from the Crystal Palace had been completed.
I scanned the weather with interest, for on this occasion I was to
accompany my father skywards, and with him and the aeronaut to make
an ascent which should not only be my first, but should be noteworthy
from the height it was hoped to attain, we being a light party and the
balloon a specially large one.
A talismanic card bearing Mr. Spencer's name, and the magic words
"Private ascent," gained us free and instant admission to the Palace.
On our way to the balloon enclosure we fell in with our captain, Mr.
Stanley Spencer, the youngest member of that firm of distinguished
aeronauts who may be said to possess almost the monopoly of the upper
regions, and the right of way in the skyey realms.
He was dressed in nautical fashion, as befits the man who sails
his own craft through that vastest of all oceans--the ocean of the
air--and with his gold-laced cap and blue jacket looked every inch the
sailor that he is. He has steered his ship all over the world, being
only just returned from India and China, while he wears on his coat
the gold medal that the grateful people of Cuba presented him with in
the days before the war.
Mr. Spencer's genial face was wreathed in smiles. He said the day was
cut out for our ascent, that everything was in readiness, that the sky
was clear, and that the wind would carry us directly over London, only
he wished there was not quite so much of it.
[Illustration: "THE BALLOON WAS A FLAT, LIMP MASS OF RED AND YELLOW
SILK AND CORD NETTING."]
It was hard to believe that the flat, limp mass of red and yellow
silk and cord netting that lay so inert and shapeless on the grass
was shortly to bear us among the fleecy clouds that now flecked the
heavens.
In the car we carefully stowed the cameras, the horns and tuning-forks
and other acoustic instruments, the big exhausted glass bulb in which
we were to bottle up a portion of the higher atmosphere for subsequent
analysis, the coats and sandwiches that we might be very glad of
later. The balloon was a beauty, of 40,000 odd cubic feet capacity,
and had only been used twice before.
At four o'clock the patient company sitting on the grass, at a
distance rigidly enforced by a stony-hearted policeman, sent a
delegate to ask how much longer we should be. We could not say, but we
sat and sadly regarded the swaying silk, and contemplated the ignominy
of a return home. At length our captain, in whose mind feelings of
prudence were plainly battling with a desire to be off, had the ring
and car attached, just to see how things stood. The sand-bags all drew
up together, and the balloon rose up higher into the air and began
to roll, slowly and majestically, first to one side and then to the
other, like a mighty pendulum.
Just at that moment came a lull in the breeze; the angry little
squall-demons had whisked themselves off elsewhere; the sun came
out from behind a cloud. Things looked brighter in every sense, and
Captain Spencer, casting an admiring glance at his stately craft,
quivering to be free, came up with a smile.
"I think we'll be off now."
There was a rustle of satisfaction among the onlookers as we sprang
into the car, more especially as, the moment the sandbags were
removed, the balloon became lively, and gave promise of some fun.
Strong arms were holding us down, and up in the ring sat Jack, a
weather-beaten old sailor, familiarly known as the "commodore," a
tried and trusted servant of the Spencer family, and partner in many
an adventure.
"Look here," said our captain; "the wind is stiff, and we may have a
roughish descent and need help. Would it not be wiser to abandon
the high ascent, part with more ballast-bags, and take up old Jack
instead?"
Clearly prudence was on the captain's side, though it was with real
sorrow we relinquished our pet scheme of reaching 20,000 feet. So old
Jack remained in the ring, our aeronaut commenced throwing bags till
we began to rise--but not far. "Hold on!" he cried to the men holding
the last rope, and "Look out!" to us, as with a jarring shock the car
dashed down on the grass again. Another bag, another rise, and another
bump. The squall demons were coming back again, and the people were
getting excited.
"Can you spare any of this?" said the captain, looking down at the
instruments; "There are not many more sandbags."
So, with another pang, two cameras and other sundries were handed out.
[Illustration: PHOTOGRAPHS OF SOUTH LONDON SUBURBS TAKEN FROM A
BALLOON.]
Another bump, a swaying straining of the ropes, while the balloon
seemed rapidly losing both patience and temper. One more bag out, a
rush upwards, a momentary hesitation, a cheer from the spectators,
"She's off! Let go!" and forthwith the tossing car was at peace and
still. But the people and the trees, the water-towers and the Palace,
took a sudden headlong plunge downwards, and ere I could struggle up
from the bottom of the car were hundreds of feet below.
[Illustration:
THE CAR OF THE BALLOON CONTAINS CAMERAS, ACOUSTIC INSTRUMENTS,
AND A GLASS BULB FOR BOTTLING SOME AIR.
]
From this moment until we again touched the earth the balloon never
moved. Of this I can be sure, for I was in it; but a strange motion
caused the earth beneath us to recede rapidly, and at the same time to
move backwards; so that trees, fields, houses, gardens, streets, and
rivers were rushing madly by under our gaze. Not a breeze disturbed
us; not a breath came nigh us. Quickly we rose 1,000 feet, 2,000,
3,000, and very shortly we had attained our greatest altitude, almost
6,000 feet--rather over a mile--high.
And now what a glorious panorama spread itself before our delighted
gaze! Above, our view was mainly confined to old Jack's boots, for the
commodore maintained his position in the ring. Above him spread the
gaudy red and yellow silk, with a vista of the valve through the open
mouth of the balloon. The sun, now sinking towards the west, beamed
hotly upon us, and directly under it was a fleecy white cloud, but
unlike any cloud I had ever seen before, because we were looking at it
"end on," from a height as great as its own.
But below was a prospect indescribable in its loveliness and weird
in its unfamiliarity. Every house, tree, road, garden and field was
outlined with startling distinctness and sharpness of detail, but of
Liliputian size and in preposterous perspective.
Swiftly we sped along, bearing northwards at some forty miles an hour.
Dulwich, Camberwell, Peckham Rye, Bermondsey, swept by, their parks
and gardens and ever-thickening streets almost unnoticed, for now all
eyes were turned on the shining river, and the great dark mass of the
Metropolis we were so quickly approaching, and whose faint murmur
was even now striking our ears. It was as we had foreseen--we were
to cross London, and at its densest point. Fortune was favouring us
indeed, for not twice in thirty ascents from the Palace does such an
event occur.
And now we were actually over Southwark, and about to cross the
gleaming Thames that wound so sinuously through the maze and tangle of
streets, lost in haze as it crept towards the sea, and dazzling in its
brilliance where it reflected the waning sunlight. Dotted about
upon its surface were a fleet of the sweetest possible little toy
ships--tiny models, such as children would sail in their baths at
bedtime. Across it we could trace each teeming thoroughfare, Tower
Bridge in particular standing out as a beautiful little miniature.
Every block and square, the great arteries of traffic and the
less-trodden by-lanes, were delineated as in a huge map. There was St.
Paul's looking as Sir Christopher Wren surely never dreamed of, there
the great square of the Tower and the shimmering water of the Docks.
Conspicuous among the wilderness of roofs eastward shone out an
enclosure of little white objects, puzzling at first, but which we
presently decided to be the gravestones of some large cemetery--Tower
Hamlets probably.
We crossed the river between London and Tower bridges and kept our
course north with just a dash of east in it; and all the while the air
was full of a strange loud noise, a deep continuous hum, not so much
that of bees in the limes or at swarming time, as the ceaseless roar
of vast machinery, the booming drone of a mighty dynamo, suggesting
sleepless activity, endless motion, and infinite strength and power.
It was the voice of the toiling millions, the whirr of the engines of
nations, the throb of the heart of the world.
Northward yet, and the streets thinned out and the fields and trees
appeared again, and the roar gave place to an almost deathlike
silence, for we were above the height to which the sounds of country
life could penetrate. We seemed to cross a region of market-gardeners,
and at one place all the country appeared covered with hot-houses,
whose glass roofs glittered like diamonds. Anon and all the lovely
plain was studded with stately mansions and rich men's country seats.
On and on over park and field and wood. Presently our balloon began
dropping, and we noted that at 3,200 feet elevation the first sounds
reached us, the crowing of a cock, a dog's bark, and the shrill voices
of children. Above that height all had been absolute silence, except
for the occasional report of a gun, which, however, sounded sharp and
short, and different from what it was at lesser elevation.
Down we swooped until we could see the rabbits in a field scuttling to
their holes and the ducks on a pond flapping with consternation at our
approach. All the neighbourhood turned out to look at us and cheer.
We hailed one farmstead and inquired our whereabouts, but we could not
catch the reply, though we heard one old woman plainly protesting we
were knocking the tiles off her roof with our trail rope.
For half an hour longer we floated on, over fields and hedges that
gave one no impression so much as that of irregular patchwork.
We could trace the lanes and main roads, and presently we noticed
what seemed to be a well marked "non-slipping" pneumatic bicycle track
running through the land. There were ridiculous little white sticks
beside it, and we knew it for a railway line. The sight of it began to
remind us of certain considerations we would fain have forgotten.
To quit these realms for earthly cares and earthly limitations, to
exchange our steady car, open to the pure, unbreathed air, for a
stuffy, jolting train, was a hard thing to do. But the evening was
approaching, the balloon once more dropping, and quickly too, and we
had but one more bag of ballast. "This looks a good place for landing,
Jack," said the captain, and so it did.
[Illustration: WHAT THE CRYSTAL PALACE GROUNDS LOOKED LIKE AS I LEFT
THEM.]
A broad stretch of level fields, some grass and some with the corn
just cut, no trees and not even a hedge, only a long way ahead a high
road with telegraph posts, and beyond that again the railway running
north. So we made ready for the end. Jack came down from the ring, the
captain took the end of the valve rope ready to pull, I was placed in
the centre with orders to stand with my knees bent, to hold on fast to
a rope on each side, and to prepare for a big bump. Nearer and nearer
the earth we swooped, and as we bore down we could perceive that the
wind we had been perfectly unconscious of above, and which we fondly
hoped had abated, was blowing as stiffly as ever, and sweeping over
the open plain fresh and strong.
We left a young plantation behind us, just shaved a patch of growing
wheat, and then hovered over a field where the corn was reaped, and
the sheaves, piled in shocks, stretched in neat rows to the high road
far ahead. It was the very spot.
"Now!" cried our aeronaut, as he tugged the valve rope with all his
force and held it taut. Over went the anchor, and instantly the earth
made a sudden violent rush upwards and hit the car with a stunning
crash that shook every bone in one's body. We actually landed on
a corn shock, scattering the sheaves right and left, and the great
floundering balloon pulled us over flat on one side, so that for a
moment the wheat ears brushed our faces as we lay, all in a heap,
holding on with might and main, till in a moment we lifted again.
[Illustration: HERTFORDSHIRE WOODS AS SEEN FROM A BALLOON.]
But then an untoward event occurred. Under ordinary circumstances, the
many-pronged anchor, let fall from a height, buries itself deeply in
the ground, and thus moored, after two or three rebounds, the
balloon subsides. But no rain had fallen for many a day, and in that
iron-baked soil the grapnel hooks could penetrate scarce half an inch.
The balloon rose, plunging and straining, and in a moment the wind
had caught the fast emptying silk and carried it madly forward, the
useless anchor dragging vainly along the impenetrable ground, and
the unfortunate car, all on its side, bumping, banging, leaping, and
tearing in its wake. Along we trailed, the wind flapping and roaring
in the silk, every stick in the wicker basket creaking and straining
as it skipped and bounded from one corn shock to another, while its
four inhabitants, bruised and breathless, gripped the sides, set their
teeth, and wondered what was coming next.
We could do nothing but hold on for dear life and hope for the best,
and all the while the telegraph posts and wires drew nearer and
nearer.
In the end those telegraph wires proved our salvation. Only a field
beyond them ran the Great Northern, and to have caught our anchor in
its boundary fence and fallen on the rails, as we assuredly might have
done, would have been a far from pleasant or safe proceeding. As it
was, the tight wires caught the netting, so that the great silk bag
fell over one side while the car remained the other, and although
the dying monster struggled hard, aided by the sweeping wind, to rise
again, it had not life enough, so fast its vital force was ebbing, to
lift us above the obstacle.
Then, as we lay heaving and straining yet with every gust, came shouts
and hurrying feet, and half a dozen lusty harvesters, panting and
excited, tore down to the rescue, and brawny sunburnt arms took tight
hold on the ropes, and red jovial faces peered over the side of the
basket on the four storm-tossed voyagers within. And by the time we
had all scrambled out on to the grass, glad to stretch our limbs
and find that none were broken, the whole countryside was alive
and rushing up, on foot, on horseback, on bicycles, in carts and
carriages, to where the huge balloon lay prostrate in the road,
blocking the way and quivering yet in its mortal throes.
All was interest and excitement--no, not all. Within ten yards of our
resting place browsed placidly an apathetic donkey. When the gaudy,
flapping, unknown giant fell down from the heavens at his very hoofs,
this intelligent animal went on grazing. The idea that something
unusual was occurring presently penetrated his asinine brain, and he
raised his head and looked. Half an hour later, when the balloon
was packed up and loaded on the cart that took it to the station, he
raised his tail also and brayed long and loud. He was beginning to be
astonished at last!
We quickly learnt that we had fallen between Ashwell and Baldock on
the borders of the shires of Hertford and Cambridge, and soon we had
proof of the proverbial hospitality of the Cambridgeshire folk.
One word in extenuation of my photographs taken from the balloon.
Balloon pictures are very often apt to be hazy on account of the
diffusion of light from the particles of matter in suspension, when
viewed from above, and mine were taken late in the day on an occasion
when weeks of drought had heavily laden the air with dust and
impurities. The rapid motion of the balloon, moreover, forbade
anything but snapshot exposures being attempted.
THE EDITOR'S ESCAPADE.
THE STORY OF A MAN AND A MANUSCRIPT.
BY ARCHIBALD EYRE.
[Illustration]
One sometimes wonders what becomes of those meteoric young men
who flash through University firmaments trailing behind them an
accumulating tail of honours and other academic distinctions. Do
they continue to dazzle onlookers throughout their career, or do they
"fizzle out" at an early age?
If the fates had been less kind, it is conceivable that Hubert Didcott
might have "fizzled out." That he did not do so may have been due to
a piece of luck. While the laurels that crowned his brows were still
freshly green, he met a very respectable middle-aged gentleman,
who had made an enormous fortune and was turning his attention to
literature.
He had recently purchased the _Didactic Weekly_ from the eminent firm
of Sholman and Company, publishers, and was understood to be looking
out for an editor. Someone introduced him to Hubert Didcott, and they
came to terms.
While the new editor and the recent proprietor were gaining experience
in lines entirely novel, the position of the paper was parlous in the
extreme. The circulation sank to so low an ebb that it was only by a
generous courtesy that it could be considered to have a circulation at
all.
But when things were at their worst, they began to mend. Hubert
Didcott settled himself firmly in his editorial chair, used the
intelligence which survived his education, and, shaking himself free
from academic trammels, began to grope for the heart of the public.
In the end, he found it. When ten years had elapsed, the _Didactic
Weekly_ had made for itself a distinct position.
One day, while Didcott sat at his desk, Mr. William Winder, M.P., the
proprietor, was announced.
"Good morning, good morning," he began, with great cordiality.
Didcott responded politely.
"Things all right?"
The editor nodded. "Quite a rush for our last number," he said,
thawing as he always did when alluding to a success of his beloved
paper. "The Bishop of Brighton's article on 'Reunion' has made quite a
stir in some circles."
"So I've heard," replied Mr. Winder. "The Prime Minister spoke to me
about it. I hadn't read it. Of course," he smiled genially, "I didn't
say so."
"The Prime Minister?" echoed the editor. "I wonder if----"
"I asked him," replied Mr. Winder, promptly. "But he couldn't. Too
busy. Besides his public works, he's bringing out a new edition of
Homer, or the Psalms, or something. He talked to me about it." He
smiled again. "I hope he thought my silence betokened intelligence. It
didn't."
The editor smiled. "How goes the political world?"
Mr. Winder leant back in his chair. His face assumed an expression
of mysterious significance. "The New Year's Honours, I'm told----" he
whispered.