Chapter XII How We Fought the Four Point Sevens
Written by Midshipman Bob Temple
You must hear about that lark we had at San Fernando—the day the Santa Cruz fleet steamed up from El Castellar with the transports.
The Angel and I were perched on top of the for’ard fire-control position, watching the ships shelling Cousin Gerald’s troops at the entrance, near the fort, but though we could hear the guns plainly enough, and sometimes see their flashes, the ships themselves only looked like black specks under a cloud of smoke.
Mr. Montague, the Gunnery Lieutenant, who was in the control position beneath us, kept on craning his neck round the edge of the sloping iron plate we were squatting on and singing out, ‘Don’t you two midshipmen fall off! You’d probably kill the Captain and make a nasty mess on the deck, so be careful.’
‘Right, sir,’ we sang out, and jammed our feet against one of the foremast backstays, and made ourselves as snug as sparrows on a water-spout.
‘I think we should land on the shelter deck and bounce off on top of the for’ard turret, don’t you?’ I said, as my chum and I looked down.
‘Wouldn’t old “Bellows” (the Commander) be in a rage if we splodged his best enamel paint!’ he said, and we jolly well knew that he’d roar out for Billums, curse him, and tell him he didn’t know how to boss the ‘Pigstye’ (our name for the gun-room) and keep discipline.
‘Try one of their caps,’ the ‘Angel’ whispered, ‘and see where it falls,’ so I crouched over the edge just under which several of the mids. in the control position were crowded together, watching the ships, and whanged off two of their caps, sending them whizzing down on deck.
One fell right at old Bellows’s feet.
I hadn’t time to scramble back before he spotted who’d done it, and roared for me to come down at once. He was going to make me take them up again when the Captain sang out that we could all go ashore, and you should have seen all those chaps swarming down the mast to get into plain clothes.
Young Marchant wanted awfully badly to stick to the ‘Angel’ and me when we did get on shore, and we told him he could if he didn’t talk. It was jolly kind of us, and he was awfully grateful.
There weren’t any of Cousin Gerald’s troops left in the town by this time, we only saw a few frightened-looking old men and women about, and not a horse or a cart was to be had—not even a mule—for love or money, so we had to start footing it, on our flat feet, out along the sea road, towards the fighting. On our way we passed the stable where General Zorilla’s black horse—the one Billums had captured—was kept, and popped our heads in to see how he was going on. He hadn’t been sent back to Zorilla, because that foot was still too lame to do any work.
But long before we got to Marina and the Casino, where Billums had fought that battle from the top of the roof, we saw the fleet coming along the coast towards us, and some of the insurgents coming back, too, as fast as they could.
We guessed at once what would happen, and that the regulars would be able to land long before enough insurgents gathered to prevent them doing so. We were jolly frightened.
‘I wonder what’s become of those two 4.7’s we helped put together?’ the ‘Angel’ said, and we both wondered, because they were the only guns Cousin Gerald had which might be of any use in driving off the fleet. We were hurrying back to the town with Marchant and a lot more mids., when an Englishman overtook us, so we called out and asked him. He pointed to the ridge behind San Fernando and galloped on.
It was awfully hot, and by the time we did get into the streets and across the square we were sweating like pigs, the leading ship was hardly a mile behind us, and though we tried to hurry along those lanes leading to the ridge, they were so crowded with women and children carrying things and looking back over their shoulders at the cruisers, that we only pushed our way along very slowly. Then a mule-cart came rattling along, the driver yelling out and driving straight through the crowd as if he were on a fire-engine.
‘Come on! Let’s run!’ we shouted, and doubled along behind the cart. At the top of the ridge it stopped, half-a-dozen chaps, who were waiting there, pounced on it, opened the back, and lugged out some 4.7 shells. Then we knew the guns couldn’t be far off.
‘Come on!’ we shouted. ‘Here’s a go!’ and each got hold of a shell and tramped along after the grinning natives. We found the guns just behind the top of the ridge, dumped down our shells, and doubled back for more, meeting young Marchant staggering along with one under each arm.
We burst out laughing, because he’d shipped such a funny, excited ‘death or glory’ look on his face. ‘Go it, young Inkslinger!’ we yelled, and rushed along to the cart. Two fresh wagons had come along with some more shells and cartridge-boxes, more men too, and it was as good as a gun-room ‘scrap.’ Officers were shouting and yelling, the soldiers were panting and running backwards and forwards, and the Hector’s gun-room jolly well took a leading part, unlocking the cartridge-boxes, slinging out the brass cylinders of cordite—the beauties—and keeping things humming. Even some of the women chipped in, dropping their bundles and children, and carrying shells to the guns.
The ships were passing the town now—we could just see them by popping our heads over the top of the ridge—and they fired off a few rounds. We heard the shells bursting in the town, not anywhere near us, but the noise was enough for most of the native soldiers, who dropped whatever they were carrying and grovelled on the ground.
The rest of them were more plucky, and carried on unloading the wagons, but by the time they were empty, and all the ammunition had been carried across to the guns, the fleet had anchored two miles below us and past the town. Almost immediately the troops began coming ashore from the transports, and the insurgent officers worked themselves into a tremendous state of excitement, gesticulating and pointing down to the cruisers, and getting their two guns’ crews round the guns. We thought that they would open fire in a minute, so climbed up the slope between them, and lay there to watch what would happen. What did happen was that a shell came along and burst in some trees close by, making a most beastly noise, and when we looked round, both the guns’ crews were squirming on their bellies. ‘Why the dickens don’t you open fire?’ we yelled, and Barton and Sarah Jane jumped down and began kicking them. They pulled an officer out from under one of the guns and shook him, singing out, ‘Fire! Fire! Bang! Bang!’
‘Mucho malo! mucho malo!’ was all he could jolly well say, he was shaking all over, and when another shell came lolloping along over our heads, he bolted under the gun again like a rabbit.
‘On the word “action,” officers hide under their guns,’ the ‘Angel’ laughed.
The troops were simply pouring ashore all this time, and though we couldn’t actually see them land, on account of the trees near the sea, we were in an awful funk, because hardly any of Cousin Gerald’s men had got back to the town yet.
We tried to make those cowardly brutes fire, but they wouldn’t; they were afraid of the ships spotting them, I suppose, or perhaps they were afraid of the guns bursting or doing something like that.
‘Come on, you chaps,’ the ‘Angel’ sang out, ‘let’s show ’em the way. We’ll do it ourselves.’
We tumbled down from the slope, threw off our coats, Barton rushed away to the second gun, with Blotchy Smith, Sarah Jane, Young Lawson, and four more, singing out that he bet us a sardine supper in the gun-room that his gun made first hit, and the ‘Angel’ and I, the Inkslinger and the rest, rolled up our sleeves, pushed the natives out of the way, and fell in behind the gun.
Oh! it was a lark if you like.
The ‘Angel’ stood on the trail and squinted through the telescopic sight, I lugged open the breech, somebody jammed in a shell, the Inkslinger pushed in a brass cylinder after it, I whanged the breech-block back with a bang, hung on to the firing lanyard, and shouted out ‘ready!’ whilst the rest of them tried to train the gun, the ‘Angel’ singing out all the time, ‘right,’ ‘right a little,’ ‘stop, you idiots,’ ‘left.’
‘Do let me fire the first shot,’ the Clerk squeaked.
‘Get out of it, Inkslinger!’ I yelled. ‘Get another cylinder.’ The ‘Angel’ sang out, ‘stand by!’ and then ‘Fire!’ I gave the lanyard a tug, and off she went, and off went Barton’s gun as well. We cheered; the grass and stuff flew up in front of the muzzle; the gun jumped back and slid forward again, and we dashed up the slope to see where the shots had gone. We were just in time to see the water shoot up in two great splashes, just short of their biggest ship, and then we dashed at the gun again, slung the breech open, hauled out the smoking cylinder, one of the mids. shoved in another shell, and the Ink-slinger, white with excitement, shoved in the cylinder. I shut the breech too quickly, and caught his hand.
‘Pull it out,’ we yelled, and he did, just giving a yelp, and wrapping his handkerchief round it. Then I locked the breech and we fired again, ‘Missed ’em—both of you,’ a gruff voice sounded behind us, and there was Mr. Bostock, the Gunner, standing with his hands in his pockets, and looking vexed.
We jolly well thought that we’d have shells coming all round us, but they didn’t, though the ships started easing off quickly enough, and their shells banged about all over the town. The native gun-crews had cleared out altogether—they were so terrified.
‘You ain’t doin’ no credit to the Royal Navy,’ Mr. Bostock snorted, lighting his old pipe, when we’d fired twice more and not hit anything; ‘maybe you never learned the drill.’ This of course was meant nastily.
‘Come and help,’ we sang out, and he did, showing us where we were muddling things. It was the training gear which bothered us, and he showed us that we hadn’t slacked it away enough.
‘You can’t do nothing afore you number off,’ he snorted again, and then took his pipe out of his mouth, and roared, ‘Gun’s crew, fall out!’ We jumped back. ‘Gun’s crew, at’shun!’ Then he gave us our proper numbers. ‘Gun’s crew, number off! ’Ere, fall out, Mr. Marchant. Yer ’and’s bleeding; what ’ave yer bin and done with yer ’and?’
‘It don’t hurt, I can manage all right,’ the ass sang out.
‘Who closed the breech?’ he yelled.
‘I did,’ I said; ‘I closed it too quickly.’
‘Silly ass, don’t meddle; you takes too much on yerself. Just give Mr. Marchant the firing lanyard, and take on ’is job—and be nippy with ’em cylinders.’
So I had to do the hard work, and wasn’t the Ink-slinger proud to do the actual firing!
‘Gun’s crew, fall in!’ Mr. Bostock roared again.
We jumped to the gun and took up our proper stations, and fired twice whilst he watched the result.
‘You ain’t ‘it nothin’ yet,’ he growled. ‘Cease firin’; you’re a disgrace. Fall out.’
He went for the ‘Angel’ like anything about his telescopic sight, put it right for him, and then stalked off to Barton’s gun, but he’d done everything properly, so back he came. ‘’Ere! get down off there—I’ll take a shot,’ and the ‘Angel’ didn’t like it a little bit when he slung him off the trail. We rather wished he hadn’t come and spoilt our fun.
Well, that shot got the biggest cruiser amidships somewhere, and we were so jolly pleased that we didn’t mind anything. The ships had found out now that we were perched on top of the ridge, but I’m certain they never spotted us, because nothing came really close, and most of the shots went overhead, and we heard them bursting amongst the trees in the forest beyond the stream.
You bet your life we were full of buck when the cruisers began to get under way, and then Mr. Bostock told us to aim at the nearest transport, and, after a few misses, we both hit her together and that did the trick—it jolly well saved Cousin Gerald, and San Fernando too—because the troops began embarking again, though the ships went off so quickly that a lot of the boats had to pull after them.
We saw the Hector’s picket-boat dashing to where the little gunboat sank, and then you know exactly what happened, the whole fleet cleared off, and we followed them as best we could, till they got out of range, or, rather, till we had no more ammunition left. But long before that the proper guns’ crews and their officers came doubling back, and wanted to carry on with the job, though we wouldn’t let them, and they stood behind us grinning and capering, shouting ‘Viva los Inglesas!’ whenever we nearly hit a ship. Mr. Bostock didn’t worry his head any more after the transports had begun to move off, coiled up close to Barton’s gun and had a snooze.
‘It’s done me a power of good,’ he said—‘just like Ladysmith, only them Boers was always firin’ back.’
You can guess how dirty we were by this time, and we were sweating like anything—our tongues feeling as if they didn’t belong to us, and we would have given anything for a drink.
One of the natives was sucking at a bottle of kola, and it looked so jolly appetising that the ‘Angel’ bagged it, drank it, and then had a grand idea.
He tapped the bottle—opened his mouth—pointed to all of us (we all opened our mouths)—sang out ‘mucho bueno’—and then pointed down to the town.
The officer whom we had hauled from under the gun—he was brave enough now, and stood with his feet wide apart, twirling his moustaches and scowling fiercely—understood what my chum meant, and sent all his men down to the town, whilst we went on with their job, and in twenty minutes or so, just after we’d fired the last shot, they came back with dozens of bottles of kola and trays of buns and cakes of all sorts.
‘’Aving a stand easy?’ Mr. Bostock sang out, waking because the guns weren’t firing, and he chipped in, and we all had a grand feed.
Wasn’t that kola bitters good, that’s all! and in the middle of it along came the Captain, the First Lieutenant, the New President and his boss men and fairly nabbed us. What made the Captain so angry was that we’d fired once or twice right across the Hector. It was the ‘Angel’s’ fault—he was so excited.
We were jolly frightened, because he glared at us from the eyeglass eye, although he couldn’t keep the other from twinkling, and he ordered us back to the ship at once and stopped our leave for ever.
The New President was smiling all over; I don’t think he’d smiled very often lately—he didn’t look as if he had—and then we tramped back down the lane, giving young ‘Inkslinger’ a bit of help, because his hand was awfully painful and he was as pale as a ghost. They caught us up in their carriages, and the Captain gave him a lift and took him aboard in his own galley, a very great honour.
‘He introduced me to the President—he called me his Secretary,’ he told us, full of buck, when we got on board.
The ‘Angel’ and I rushed off to find Billums and tell him what we’d done.
‘That makes up for that silly ass newspaper “business” at Princes’ Town,’ he said, and was jolly pleased. It made a lot of difference to the gun-room when he was in a good temper, and he’d been beastly ever since that forty-eight hours’ leave.
The ‘Angel’ and I didn’t dine with the Captain that night, because we were so junior, and only the five senior mids. and the Inkslinger were asked. We were rather glad because we always felt terrified in his cabin.
Next day we heard that the transports had gone off in such a hurry that more than three hundred troops were left behind, and had, of course, surrendered to Cousin Gerald. The rest were landed down at El Castellar, brought General Zorilla’s army up to nearly four thousand men, and in a couple of days he began marching along the coast towards us again, the fleet steaming along with him.
Cousin Gerald had to fall back, because he had very little ammunition left and his men couldn’t stand the shells from the ships.
It was fearfully worrying, because every day we saw the cruisers and those two rotten torpedo-boats getting nearer and nearer to Marina and that Casino place which Billums had defended. With our telescopes we could still see the black and green flag on it very clearly if there was any breeze to blow it out.
Then one horrid evening we saw that the ships were shelling the Casino itself, and we were all frightfully worried and afraid that, even now, after all we’d done, General Zorilla would win.
The Captain wouldn’t let anybody go on shore, so we got very little news; but that day two of the Englishmen came off from the Club, and made us more miserable than ever. They told us that Cousin Gerald had hardly any ammunition left at all, and that the New President and the Provisional Government were packing up and standing by, to fly into the forest again. They thought that the town would be captured in a day or two, and wanted to be taken on board of us, if that happened. They’d helped the insurgents too much to stay there in safety when once the Government troops came along. Everything was just as bad as it could be, and we were awfully miserable.
I do believe that the fat little A.D.C. in the Captain’s spare cabin was sorry for Cousin Gerald. We often went in to talk to him and cheer him up, and he always had Billums’s cigarette case near him, and was awfully grateful for anything we did for him.
‘When the revolution finish, you two come and stay with me—at Santa Cruz—I will show you the bull-fight,’ he often said, and, you bet, we promised to go.
One morning the cruisers were only four miles away, and a great yellow and green flag hung over the Casino, so we knew that things were pretty black for Cousin Gerald, who, for all that, must have been hanging on like grim death, because all that day and throughout the night rifle firing went on, and in the dark we could see the shells bursting among the trees.
We hardly slept at all, fearing that Cousin Gerald would have to fall back on the town, and feeling horrid because we’d used up all his 4.7 ammunition, and he wouldn’t be able to prevent the fleet shelling him out of it.
The ‘Angel’ and I went up to the bridge before daylight and found Billums there—he hadn’t turned in at all.
‘There’s been a great deal of firing for the last hour,’ he said, his face all drawn and tired-looking, ‘but it died away all of a sudden. I don’t know what to make of it—it didn’t seem to get any nearer—I’m very much afraid Gerald has surrendered or taken his chaps inland.’
He groaned, and we waited and waited—not a sound coming from shore—till it became light enough to see the land.
Our eyes ached with trying to look farther than we could. Still there was no firing. This was strange, because generally at daybreak there’d been any amount of firing, as, in the dark, the people often got very close to each other, or lost themselves, without knowing it, and then fired point-blank at each other when the light showed them up.
‘What has happened?’ Billums groaned again.
Then it was light enough for us to see where Cousin Gerald’s men had been last night—but there weren’t any ships near there—then presently, as we saw farther and farther along, the Casino showed up under the trees—still no ships near the shore.
‘Look, sir! Look!’ a Yeoman of Signals, who was using the big telescope, sung out, and pulled Billums across to it.
‘Hurrah!’ he shouted; ‘there’s a black and green flag flying over it.’ In a minute we could see it with our own telescopes, and knew that Cousin Gerald must have recaptured it during the night. Every one ‘started cheering and shouting, and woke up the Commander, who was furious, but then joined in because the Captain came up with his greatcoat over his pyjamas, and chuckled and cheered too.
Well, we all stood there watching, seeing farther and farther along the shore every minute—not a sign of the ships—till we could actually see the high land at the entrance, near El Castellar, with a great cloud of smoke beyond it, out to sea.
‘They’ve chucked it,’ the Captain chuckled, and we all burst out cheering. You should have seen us all there—fat Dr. Watson in his pyjamas, the Forlorn Hope and the Shadow in theirs—the Shadow shivering and his teeth chattering,—Mr. Perkins as red as a lobster, and even the Padré had come up in a nightgown, and had been in such a hurry that he’d forgotten his wig, and stood there as bald as a coot, all except a little tuft of hair that stood up by itself, and made him look like that advertisement of a hair-restorer. Nearly every one was up on the bridge. Then the church bells in San Fernando began ringing like mad, and we could hear the people, ashore, cheering.
Wasn’t it grand? though nobody could imagine why the fleet had gone away.
‘I expect the Provisional Government are unpacking their bags,’ the Captain said to Dr. Watson, as they went below. ‘They’ll be asking for Recognition again. They ought to get it this time.’
We rushed off and told Billums what we had heard, because we knew that if the Government at home did recognise the Insurgent Government, Cousin Gerald wouldn’t be punished for chipping in.
We did so hope they would.