Chapter IX The “River Clyde”
The night was not very dark, a pale moon—past the quarter—appeared occasionally between slowly drifting clouds, and the sea was still quite smooth. The Peninsula showed as a dark wall rising gradually from Cape Tekke to the high cliffs at Cape Helles, beyond and under which the River Clyde lay.
The Orphan—wide awake now—steered the big clumsy launch, and listened to the two weary doctors talking of their day’s work and the job in front of them. Dr. O’Neill, the Fleet-Surgeon, had a grievance—he generally had. This time it was with the Padre and the Fleet-Paymaster. They had tried to make out a list of the men killed and wounded—the men who had been brought on board the Achates—but the sights and sounds in that crowded sick-bay, with the for’ard turret-gun firing directly over it, every two or three minutes, had been too much for them. Their stomachs would not “stick it”.
“The only job they have, and they can’t do it,” he growled. “It took me another two hours getting in all the names and the official numbers on their identity disks.”
“It was pretty beastly in there, P.M.O., and they’ve never seen anything like it,” Dr. Gordon said soothingly. “They did their best; the Padre fainted outside, and the Fleet-Paymaster was sick.”
“Never seen anything like it before! Nonsense! Nor have I! Did you get them all safely to the hospital ship?”
Dr. Gordon told him that he had only just returned from doing so. “The whole thing’s silly, confoundedly silly, and this is the stupidest of all—this trip of ours,” the Fleet-Surgeon snapped.
“It’s not much of a joy ride, is it? You must be awfully tired,” Dr. Gordon said in his nervous, self-disparaging manner, as if he too had not been hard at work the whole day.
Silence followed for some time, until the steam pinnace, swerving suddenly to port to pass two trawlers, indistinct in the darkness, jerked the launch after her and waked the Fleet-Surgeon. “Why the devil can’t that young imp in the pinnace steer properly?”
The noise of furious rifle-firing coming from Sedd-el-Bahr stopped him for a moment, but then he went on again with his dismal groan. “A nice little job at this time of night. Running straight into it we are.”
As the boats had altered course so much to port, they presently found themselves close under the high cliffs, and whilst being towed along in front of them, the moon, peeping out for a few moments, made them conspicuous.
Dr. O’Neill had just asked angrily: “Why the devil they wanted to go in so close! Didn’t they know the Turks still held the end of them!” when ping! went a bullet over the stern of the boat and plunked into the water.
Another came, and another.
“Keep down, under cover!” growled Dr. O’Neill, more savagely than ever, and he and Dr. Gordon, the chief sick-berth steward and the four men of the crew, sat themselves down in the bottom of the boat. The Orphan, sitting exposed in the stern-sheets, wished he was ten sizes smaller.
They were close to the River Clyde now; its dark shape loomed just ahead of them, and the noise of firing crackled fiercely, tiny spurts of flame from hundreds of rifles lighting up the water’s edge.
They ran under the starboard quarter and gained shelter; the launch scraped against a rough wooden ladder and stopped; the doctors scrambled up it, followed by the chief sick-berth steward; their surgical dressings and lantern were handed up to them, and they disappeared through the dark gangway port in the ship’s side—one of those ports which had been cut to allow her troops to pour out quickly. The Orphan and his crew in the launch, and the Hun in his steam pinnace, were left to themselves.
A maxim rattled—fired somewhere from the River Clyde herself; and when it stopped, Dr. O’Neill’s harsh voice could be heard asking: “Where the wounded were; what he could be expected to do in that damnable darkness! and calling for a match to light the lantern.” A head peeped out from the gangway port, and a voice called down: “That’s not a very ’ealthy spot, mate. The trawlers, what comed for the wounded, were sniped something ’orrid down there. They ’ad to shove off out of it.”
“We’ve come for the wounded,” the Orphan sang out.
“Well, you bally well won’t get ’em. All that are left are hup on the hupper deck, and can’t be got down whilst this ’ere shooting’s going on—they’re quite all right up there—be’ind the bulwarks they are.”
From inside the ship came shouts of: “Put out that light! Curse you! We don’t want any light here!” Evidently Dr. O’Neill had managed to light it, and was looking round for wounded.
“They’ll begin sniping again—they starts directly they sees a light—better keep down in those boats. Off they go—I’m ’opping it!” sang out the man above.
Ping! Ping! Ping! Three twinkles from somewhere to the right—a bullet hit the water, another clanged against the pinnace’s steel wheel-screen, another hit the side of the ship just under the ladder, slid down and fell into the water.
The Hun, from behind his shield, sang out to the Orphan to know if he was enjoying himself. The shouts from inside grew louder; then there was silence. Evidently the lamp had been extinguished.
The voice from the gangway called down: “’Ave they stopped? Hany one got a souvenir in ’im?”
“Where are they firing from?” asked the Orphan.
“That old castle sticks hout in the sea, this ’ere side,” called back the voice, “and them there snipers ’ave been doin’ themselves something proud.”
The Orphan strained his eyes and could just distinguish, about two hundred yards away—ahead of the River Clyde—the battlemented outline of the castle walls and, farther to the right, a much more indistinct and blurred mass sticking out into the sea. This was actually the sea walls of Sedd-el-Bahr castle, jutting out on a reef.
No more shots came from there, and there was quietness everywhere for a few minutes. He began to feel sleepy, but then one or two solitary rifles rang out on the cliff side of the ship, five or six followed, thirty or forty seemed to chip in, and, almost before he knew it, a perfect pandemonium of rifle-fire burst out, making a ruddy glow against which the stern of the ship and the masts stood out quite plainly. Presently maxims started on shore, whether English or Turkish he could not know; and then, up above, from the foc’s’le of the ship herself, several maxims added their voices to the din. The snipers from the sea walls did not take part in this “show”. It died down after a while; a few crashes of musketry, then a few scattered shots apparently answering each other, and silence—silence which seemed absolutely extraordinary—as if it was something tangible.
What had happened, the Orphan had not the faintest idea. He could only stay where he was, and hope that Dr. O’Neill would decide something shortly.
Presently he heard the Doctor’s voice in the darkness: “Steam pinnace! Steam pinnace!” and the Hun calling back “Aye, aye, sir!” “Go back to the ship and ask the Commander to send for me half an hour after the next attack ceases.”
“Right, sir!” and jeering at his pal, the Hun, shoved off and disappeared back to the Achates, drawing a solitary twinkle from the sea wall of the castle and a solitary bullet which hit the ship’s side, above the Orphan’s head.
In a few minutes a voice called down: “You’ve got to make fast and come along inside ’ere—you and your crew,” so he clambered up the wooden steps with his four men. Very willingly he did this, for he was anxious to be able to say that he had been aboard the River Clyde, and he felt lonely and very exposed, waiting alongside.
Inside her was absolutely pitch dark; a man who bumped against him could not be seen. The Orphan heard Dr. O’Neill’s voice, and elbowed his way towards him, stumbling across something which he knew was a stretcher, but evidently not waking the man asleep on it.
“Sit down, and keep out of the gangway,” Dr. O’Neill snapped, “unless you want a bullet in you. There’s nothing any of us can do. There they go again, curse them!” as more rifle-firing started, just as it had done before—one or two shots, then more, then apparently a whole line blazing away as if they had millions of rounds of ammunition to spare. This time he heard hundreds of bullets pattering against the opposite side of the ship, and the glare showed him another gangway port opposite the one by which he had just entered.
“It’s blocked up with boards, and you can see the light between them,” someone sitting next him said; “and those blighted Turks can see a light inside here, through them, too.”
This burst of firing died away very rapidly; and as he sat there, jammed among a lot of soldiers, his eyes gradually became accustomed to the darkness, and he made out that he was close to a big hatch leading down into absolute blackness—the hold probably—and that above him was another hatchway, with a coaming round it, the edges of which stood out quite clearly against the clouds. A broad wooden ladder—the foot of it quite close to him—led up to this and, as he knew it must, to the upper deck, where the remaining wounded lay. The gangway port through which he had come, showed as a lighter patch than the ship’s side, and anybody moving across it could be just distinguished; but people did not move across it more than they could help, because a lot of bullets had already come through it from the sea wall. Under this, his launch lay—at the foot of the ladder he had just climbed up. Dr. Gordon kept on talking, evidently trying to pacify Dr. O’Neill, and a man near him kept rattling something—a ship’s lantern it sounded like—so he guessed that the chief sick-berth steward sat quite near. People conversed all round him, in a drowsy sort of way, as if to prevent themselves being nervous or of going to sleep; farther away, hundreds of people seemed to be snoring. A soldier leant against his back; he knew it was a soldier because a bayonet kept pressing against his thigh; someone slid down across his legs, snoring loudly; he pulled up his knees, and the man went on snoring peacefully; out from a distant corner came the sound of a man in pain, in his sleep.
Some men were sitting at the foot of the ladder, and, because he heard Dr. O’Neill talking to them, he guessed that they were officers. He was evidently suggesting the possibility of getting down the wounded now that the firing had died away, but they kept on saying: “They’ll start off again in a minute! It can’t be done.” Every now and then came the noise of heavy boots trampling hurriedly across the deck above; a figure would appear over the coaming, silhouetted against the clouds for a moment, and then someone would come hastily clattering down the ladder as if he were glad to get away from there. The whistle of an occasional bullet over that hatch explained this.
Another burst of firing broke out, swelled to a perfect fury of noise, and then subsided just as the others had done.
During a comparatively quiet interval which followed, several men scrambled down the ladders. They called out: “Worcesters to go ashore at once!” and then went back again, screwing themselves over the coaming and disappearing along the deck. The group of officers stirred themselves and stood up wearily—a tired, lackadaisical voice kept repeating “Sergeant-Major! Sergeant-Major!” then seemed to wake properly, and yelled it out.
Men began to stir. ‘“Ere, wake up, Major! You’re wanted,” came out of the dark; the sound of a man waking irritably from his sleep, scrambling to his feet, a long yawn, and then a sharp, decisive “Yes, sir! Sergeant-Major, sir!”
“Fall in, the Worcesters! Worcesters! The Worcesters have to go ashore,” the officer shouted.
“Fall in, Worcesters! Fall in, Worcesters! Fall in! Fall in round the ladder!” Men all round took up the cry, waking those asleep. Men cursed and yawned, and yawned and cursed again.
“Who are you a-shaking of? I ain’t a ruddy Worcester,” growled someone. The darkness was full of bustle and noise as the Worcesters dragged themselves to their feet and groped round for their packs and rifles. Rifles clattered to the deck; men jostled, cursing, against each other, and the Sergeant-Major’s voice kept calling out: “Come along, lads! We’ve got to go ashore! Hurry up, Worcesters! This way, Worcesters! Fall in near the ladder!”
Men began humping on their packs. The Orphan—by this time on his feet, to keep out of the way—had a rifle shoved into his hands. “’Old on to it, mate, while I shoves my blooming pack on.” He helped the man whilst he secured the webbing-straps. Then a plaintive voice came out of the dark: “I cawn’t find me pack! Where’s me pack?”
There was a titter of amusement as the Sergeant-Major yelled for the men to help him find it.
“‘Ere it is, you blighted idiot!” someone shouted. “You was a-sittin’ on it.”
“’Elp me on! ’Elp me on!” the idiot pleaded.
“You’ll ’ave to ’ave a lady’s maid, that’s what you’ll ’ave to ’ave. We cawn’t go waiting for you, Bill ’Awkins,” bawled the Sergeant-Major; and to judge by the silly cries of Bill Hawkins, they were strapping him up too tightly.
“Where’s me rifle? I ’ad it in me ’ands, and now I cawn’t find ’e,” the company idiot stammered helplessly; and the man whom the Orphan was helping chuckled: “’E’s a fair treat, that ’ere ’Awkins; ’e can never find nothink.”
The rifle had to be found. The Captain with the lackadaisical voice was getting impatient. Matches were struck to look for it.
“Come along, Worcesters! Get up on deck!” shouted the Captain; and they began clattering up the wooden ladder, actually bandying jokes as they disappeared over the coaming, and went pattering along the deck. The company idiot, who was in a pitiable state of terror lest he should be left behind, found his rifle at last, and, clutching it, he rushed up the ladder after them.
“Now ’old on to it, and don’t let it out o’ yer ’ands. You’ll ’ave to look arter yerself now,” said the Sergeant-Major kindly, as he followed him.
Whilst these men had been getting ready, another outburst of firing had commenced, and the fusillade on shore sputtered furiously.
“I shouldn’t care to have to go ashore, out into that,” Dr. Gordon said; and Dr. O’Neill answered: “I wouldn’t go as cheerfully as they seemed to. Grand chaps those!”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard him praise anyone,” thought the Orphan.
Firing died away again, until only an occasional shot broke the silence; and with that company of Worcesters gone, there was much more room.
The two doctors talked in a low voice. The Orphan heard Dr. O’Neill say cynically: “You can’t get a night like this in Harley Street;” and the volunteer reserve doctor laughed, in his funny, nervous manner: “No, I can’t. I expect my old butler wouldn’t sleep much if he knew how I was spending my night. He looks after me as though I were a baby.”
Someone came down the ladder—the Orphan thought he had on a naval cap—sat with his back against a stanchion, and went to sleep. A man coming down presently, knocked against him and woke him—a perfect torrent of oaths, in a very childish voice, following.
“Why, that’s old Piggy Carter from the Queen Elizabeth,” thought the Orphan. “I’d know his voice anywhere.” He went across and shook him, for he had fallen fast asleep again. “Carter! You are Piggy Carter, ar’n’t you? I’m Orpen; you remember me?”
He did; and listened sleepily to the Orphan telling him all about the shell and splinter holes in the Achates deck and funnel, until Dr. O’Neill called out irritably: “Stop chattering!”
“Look here, Piggy, I want to go up on deck and have a look round,” the Orphan whispered; but Piggy said he’d spent all day there, and in the water, with the lighters, and if the Orphan wanted to go along, more fool he, and he could go by himself. He—Carter—wanted to sleep, and didn’t want to hear any more of “W” beach, or “X”, or “Y”, or “A”, “B”, or “C”, or the whole tomfool alphabet of beaches.
And he went to sleep, with his back against the stanchion; and the Orphan, left to himself, sat on some sacks, watched the clouds moving across the open hatchway, and listened to the firing ashore, the pattering of bullets against the ship’s side, and the snoring of tired men.
He went to sleep, and woke in the midst of a tremendous din. There was a perfect scream of rifle- and maxim-firing. He longed to go on deck, and wondered whether Dr. O’Neill would see him. Perhaps he was asleep too.
There was a new noise now—a much louder boom following a glare which lighted up the clouds, and then a smaller glare and a lesser sound; nearer they were, much nearer. “Those are field-guns,” he said to himself; and after listening to them for some minutes, judging the distances of the different sounds, realized that they were our own guns. They began firing two shots, one after the other. “Two guns,” he thought; and then felt certain that these were the very same guns which he had towed ashore that afternoon at “W” beach. He must see what was going on.
He wriggled cautiously to the foot of the ladder—Dr. O’Neill’s voice didn’t call out to him—he went up it on hands and feet. As he reached the top a bullet whistled by; he ducked, and threw himself over the coaming, clung there, found himself on deck—the noise seemed louder there—and doubled himself up as he ran across to the shelter of the bulwark. He waited for half a minute to pull himself together, and then drew himself up and peered over.
Right in front of him was the dark mass of the cliffs—they seemed to be not 200 yards away—and twinkles of flame sparkled out all along the tops of them. As he looked, there was the glare of a field-gun flash which outlined the whole cliffs—the crash—and then a glare farther inland, and a fainter report of a shrapnel bursting. For an instant he saw before him a narrow strip of beach with a dark shadow above it. Then it was dark again; but all along it, all the time, spurts of rifle-flame, ten times as distinct and large as those twinkles of the Turks’ rifles on the cliff, marked an irregular, uneven line, where he knew our own troops must be—those Worcesters, who had just landed, probably among them.
A little to the right, down in the centre of that spluttering line of flashes, there was a regular spout of flame—a maxim was rattling; farther away inland, twinkles darted out everywhere—the whole air seemed full of noises. Then he jumped nervously, for suddenly two or three maxims at the other end—from the bows of the River Clyde—opened fire at something or other, just as they had done before. He could see nothing moving; it was all very uncanny, and fearfully exciting. He forgot that bullets occasionally pinged overhead or splattered against the side of the ship, and waited there until that attack had been beaten off—or perhaps, after all, it had been a false alarm—and gradually first the maxims, then the volleys, then the individual firing died down, and left only a few snipers trying to find each other.
Then he had time to look round the deck. Close to him he saw something—some queer shape—moving in the shadow of the bulwark, and he put out his hand and felt the rough hair and the long, smooth ears which could only have belonged to a donkey. There were two of them, both tied up behind a little deck-house. They were glad for anyone to touch them; they nosed at him, as if he gave them comfort, and stamped their little feet on the deck to show their pleasure, and to make him understand how they wanted to be taken on shore.
He gave them each a friendly pat and scratched their ears, wondering what they were doing there.
But what he wanted to see were those maxims, away at the other end of the ship; to be actually behind them when they next opened fire, and to find out what was happening, and what they were firing at. So he crept along the deck, along a row of stretchers, with shapeless forms on them, lying close under the bulwark. One or two groaned, but they all seemed to be asleep, and then he gained the entrance to the dark passage or alley-way under the superstructure. In it a man was smoking—he saw the glowing end of his cigarette.
“Can I get along here?” the Orphan asked. “I want to get to the maxims.”
A rough Yorkshire voice told him the passage was full of people asleep. “You’d be doing better to go up along; keep away t’other side, it’s safer so.”
So the Orphan retreated, crossed the open deck in front of the mast and cargo winch, found the ladder leading to the superstructure, and was just going up it, to the shelter of the starboard side of the deck-house, when he saw a stooping figure bending over a stretcher, and Dr. O’Neill’s harsh voice growled out: “Here, you! come and lend a hand. Lift that corner of the stretcher.”
A wounded man lay on it, very heavily asleep; and as the Orphan lifted, the Doctor pulled free a blanket which had caught under the stretcher, and spread it over him.
He had not recognized the Orphan, who promptly darted up the ladder lest he should do so, and stop him going to find those maxims. He groped his way to the ladder, which he knew must lead down to the for’ard “well” deck; found it, climbed down, and then the fo’c’sle itself was in front of him, and an iron ladder to climb up. He was up it like a redshank, and at last found himself right in the bows of the River Clyde.
Two almost simultaneous glares from the field-guns lighted the clouds and showed up, for a moment, the high battlemented curtain-walls and the bastions of Sedd-el-Bahr castle, and showed the fo’c’sle he stood on, the cables, the capstan winch, some sand-bags piled up in the bows, some men standing behind them, and three box-shaped structures—two on the port side and one on the starboard.
He did not know what these were.