Chapter XIV La Buena Presidente Fights
Written by Midshipman Bob Temple
After we had had that ripping lark with those two 4.7’s on shore, the insurgent President sent off a great basket of fruit—oranges, grape-fruit, melons, and bananas—every day whilst we remained off San Fernando, so we were jolly sorry to get up anchor and steam down to El Castellar.
Of course we were very sorry for Cousin Gerald’s sake that we had to collar La Buena Presidente, but thought it would be splendid fun if she showed fight, and we all hoped that she’d come our way and not give those beastly Hercules’ mids. a chance. Then we heard what Cousin Gerald had told Billums about her Captain being such a fine chap, and Raynor, the Engineer Sub, told us so much about her, her armour and her big guns, that though we didn’t get exactly frightened, we rather felt that we’d like the Hercules’ mids. to chip in with us after all.
A lot of our chaps thought that she’d simply haul down her flag directly we signalled to her to do so, but Mr. Bostock the Gunner shook his head. He’d seen a revolution out in these parts, years and years ago, and said we were wrong: ‘She’ll not ‘aul her flag down whilst she’s got men to fight the guns and shovel coal in the bunkers.’
He told us the story of the fight between the Shah and the Huascar, which was just about the same kind of show. There had been a revolution and the Huascar had joined the insurgents down the coast. She ran short of coal, and not being able to buy any, took it by force out of an English steamer, so the Shah—she was our flagship out there then—was sent after her and they had a stand-up fight. The Shah was a wooden ship with thin armour-plates along the side, and the Huascar was an iron one with turrets and very thick armour, so the English ship found herself up against too big a mouthful and got the worst of it.
‘I was Captain’s coxswain aboard ’er,’ Mr. Bostock told us, but we sang out that he couldn’t have been more than twelve years old at the time. ‘Believe me or believe me not, young gen’l’men, I was Captain’s coxswain, and a nice kind gen’l’man he was too. In the middle of the haction ’e sees a big round shot from the turret-ship come bobbin’ along towards us—straight as a die. “Full speed astern,” ’e says to me—“Full speed astern, Bostock,”—just like that—not turnin’ a ’air—and full speed astern we went, and that shot just ‘it the water under our bows. Another time, about ’arf a ‘our arterwards, we was gettin’ pretty tired of shootin’ against ’er thick sides and seein’ our shot bouncing off ’er armour like peas, ’e sees another round shot comin’ along. “That’ll just about ’it the Admiral’s cabin,” ’e says, “and aggravate ’im,” ’e says, “if we don’t ’urry along a bit. Full speed ahead, Bostock.”
‘Well, ’e was a wonder, was the Captain, but the leadin’ seaman, who passed the order down to the engine-room, wasn’t very smart about it, and though we did go full speed a-’ead, we didn’t do it quick enough, and that shot just took off the life-buoy a-‘angin’ under our stern. Took it off without even a-damagin’ the gilt scroll we’ ad there, but that ’ere leadin’ seaman ’ad ’is pay stopped till ’e’d paid for it—an’ serve ’im right.
‘Of course that was in the days of muzzle-loaders, when the shot didn’t go along as smartly as they do now; but that Captain was a smart ’un—’e ’ad judgment, ’e ’ad.’
‘They must have been pretty sick of life at your dodging their shots like that,’ we said, laughing.
‘Believe me or believe me not, but as true as I’m a-sittin’ in my cabin ’ere at this moment, they started a-‘easin’ off two at a time, ‘oping to catch us with one of them.’
‘What did the Skipper do then?’ we asked.
‘What d’you think?’ he snorted. ‘There was those two great black shell comin’ racin’ along towards us, side by side, and ’e turns to me, as quiet as a babe unborn, and ’e says: “’Ard a starb’ard”—that’s all, and our old tub turns round on ’er ‘eel, just faces them two shell and ’e shoved ’er nose in between them an’ they just splashed the men in the batteries a bit. We can’t do nothin’ like that nowadays, young gen’l’men—nothin’ like that.’
‘We shouldn’t think we could,’ we shouted, as he seized his cap and ran up on deck, for the Commander wanted him.
We cleared for action that afternoon and just before dark got under way and stood out into the open sea, past El Castellan.
This clearing for action made it certain that the Captain was doubtful whether she’d surrender without fighting, and of course made us all more excited than ever.
‘If she does fight, I hope the Hercules will come and help; she’ll be a bit of a handful to tackle single-handed,’ Barton sang out, and Billums laughed sarcastically and said, ‘I thought you’d rather die than let them help you,’ which made us rather angry.
The ‘Angel’ and I went in to have a yarn with the fat little A.D.C. and hear what he thought about it. He was very excited, and said that Captain Pelayo would die sooner than surrender—he seemed to know him very well. That night the Captain had him taken down below in the ‘tiller flat,’10 so that he would be out of danger if anything did happen, and his being taken down there made us all feel a bit creepy.
Well, nothing happened all night; we simply ‘mooned’ about, backwards and forwards, near the entrance, and La Buena Presidente must have been hovering round, too, waiting till it was light enough to see her way into La Laguna, for, as it grew light enough, she was sighted not five miles away, steaming leisurely in towards the entrance. Although she was painted white she looked enormous.
The Captain was called, and ran up on the fore bridge in a twinkling, and sent ‘Blotchy’ Smith down with a wireless message to the Hercules. He showed it to me as he passed along the upper deck, ‘La Buena Presidente is eight miles off El Castellar steaming towards it. Shall prevent her entering. Come south and prevent her escaping to sea.’
‘She’ll be here in three hours and a half,’ ‘Blotchy’ shouted, as he ran aft, and I felt jolly glad, but rather wished it was minutes instead of hours.
Then ‘General Quarters’ was sounded, and we all rushed to our stations. Mr. Bigge and I got through the back of our 9.2 turret—the for’ard starboard one just under the projecting end of the fore bridge—and when we’d reported everything ‘cleared away’ and had filled our ‘ready’ rack with more shells, we climbed out of the sighting-hood and squatted on top of the turret, whilst they trained it for’ard and aft as far as it would go and raised and lowered the long gun, to test the hydraulic machinery. It was a perfectly lovely morning, the sea like glass, and the Hector’s bows seemed just to push the water aside, not even breaking the surface. It was so jolly clear that we could see thousands of jelly-fish—all the colours of the rainbow—floating past under our sponson. It really was grand, and we sat there and watched the big ship coming slowly towards us with the sun rising just behind her.
‘That’s bad for shooting, if it comes to a fight,’ Mr. Bigge said; ‘it will dazzle the “Gunlayer’s” eyes.’
‘I don’t expect it will; do you, sir?’ I asked nervously, because she was so huge, and I knew that she had so much more powerful guns than we had, that, now it came to the pinch, I was in a funk.
‘Don’t know,’ he answered; ‘we’ll know in ten minutes.’
The signalmen began running about the bridge above us, we heard the Chief Yeoman’s voice saying ‘Hoist,’ and up went three flags and the white international code pendant.
‘What’s that mean, sir?’ I asked, as the halyards were jerked to shake out the flags.
‘“Stop engines,” I think,’ Mr. Bigge said, squinting through his telescope to see if she took any notice.
Something did go fluttering to her masthead—she only had one mast, a tripod one, amidships—but it was the black and green flag, and a huge one at that.
‘She’s not going to stop,’ Mr. Bigge muttered. ‘The Sub was right after all. We’ll have to fight her.’
I did feel so uncomfortable and horrid ‘inside,’ and looked to see that the sighting-hood was open so that I could crawl down into the turret again—quickly.
Every one was simply gazing at the big ship, wondering what she would do, and you couldn’t hear a sound, except the hissing noise of some steam, escaping from a leaky joint near the syren fog-horn up on the foremost funnel. Just aft of our turret was the first 7.5 turret, and the ‘Forlorn Hope’—just a little pale—was leaning against the side of it looking at the ship—I was jolly glad that I wasn’t so fat, I felt much too big already—and the ‘Shadow’ slipped out of the next 7.5 turret to yarn with him and then ran back again and shut the door.
Dr. Clegg came cheerily along from under the fo’c’stle, and stopped near our turret to look at her too.
He sang out asking if we had our ‘first aid’ bag, and I put my head down the sighting-hood to find out.
‘Yes, sir!’ I shouted down—it did me good to shout.
‘Just seeing that all our things are rigged,’ he said, smiling at Mr. Bigge, looking along at the sunrise for a moment with a funny expression in his face before he dived down below.
‘He may not see it again,’ Mr. Bigge said, and I understood and felt shivery all over.
Inside my turret I could hear the Gunlayer, who had his eye to the telescopic sight, talking to the Sight Setter. ‘Now don’t you go a-playing none of your tricks, Bill. Tie a bit of spun yarn round your right thumb and you’ll know it from your left, and won’t be playing the ass with the deflection as you did at the battle practice—a-spoiling the whole ship’s shooting.’
Raynor, the Engineer Sub, came along too, and went down into our turret to see if the hydraulic machinery was all right. He climbed out of the sighting-hood in a few minutes, borrowed Mr. Bigge’s telescope to have a look at the white ship, told us that everything was working well, and climbed down on deck.
Then, up in the for’ard fire-control position—high up the mast—I heard the ‘Angel’s’ voice reading off the ranges on the long range finder, ‘eight thousand nine fifty—eight thousand nine hundred—eight thousand eight fifty’—and I popped my head down inside to see if our range indicator was working properly. It was, and the figures were slipping round all right. I looked up again, but he had his eyes glued to the range finder and didn’t see me.
Marchant, the Inkslinger, leaned out of the ‘control’ position, caught sight of me, and waved his bandaged hand—he was beaming all over.
Mr. Montague, too, looked down and sang out to the fore bridge for some of the signal halyards to be hauled aside as they were fouling the range finder, and I could just see the feet of Pearson, the Assistant Paymaster, who was sitting, straddle-legs, on the top of it, doing ‘spotting officer’—to spot whether shots fell short or over. I was jolly glad that I wasn’t up there, and that, if it did come to a fight, I had six inches of armour to get behind.
The ship was so close now that we could see her huge guns, but she didn’t seem to have cleared for action.
‘Fire a port twelve-pounder!’ we heard the Captain say; ‘they may not have seen the signal.’
Men began running about, the Commander bellowed at them, and the little gun fired almost immediately—to leeward—away from La Buena Presidente—and we watched to see if that would have any effect.
It had. A long string of flags went jerking up the tripod mast and the international code pendant was hoisted to her yard-arm. We heard the Chief Yeoman scurrying into the chart-house to find the signal-book, and in a minute the Captain called out to the Commander, ‘They refuse to stop. Keep my signal flying and fire the foremost 9.2 across her bows.’ Billums was in charge of that turret.
All this time the ‘Angel’ had been singing out the range. It had got down to 7250 yards, and we were turning a little in towards the entrance, to prevent the ship closing too rapidly. Then round slewed Billums’s long gun over the starboard bow, pointing up in the air.
The Captain sang down to him to fire as soon as he liked, and almost before he’d said it, off went the gun with a roar—back it flew—my cap went flying overboard, and the brown cordite smoke came stinging into my eyes.
‘Why the dickens don’t you stick your cap on properly?’ Mr. Bigge snarled. ‘You aren’t a blooming infant,’ and we watched to see where the shell would fall.
It seemed an awfully long time, and then there was a shout of ‘There it is!’ all along the ship, and up spouted the water a couple of cables ahead of the white ship.
Mr. Montague shouted down to know what range Billums actually had on his sights, so as to see whether the range finder was working properly or not, and then there was another shout of ‘She’s turning!’ and I was never so relieved in my life as to see her put her helm over and run away.
The Captain roared for the Engineer Commander, and sang out, ‘Tell the Hercules she’s steaming seaward.’
The morning seemed to be quite lovely again, and we headed after her, smoke pouring out of all our funnels, and that leaky steam joint hissing more and more. Our bows began to break the water now, and the jelly-fish streamed past like a flash.
La Buena Presidente was covered with smoke too, and seemed to be in a jolly hurry to escape.
‘She isn’t going to fight after all,’ I laughed, feeling awfully pleased.
‘Don’t know—they’re getting down her rails and awnings,’ Mr. Bigge said, looking through his glass.
So they were. We could see the men swarming on her quarterdeck and the awning coming off her.
I felt all shivery again, and heard the Gunlayer sing out from inside the turret, ‘The longer they take about it the farther the sun’ll be up, and it won’t get in my bloomin’ eyes so much.’
‘It seems a shame to go killing people a morning like this, doesn’t it?’ Mr. Bigge muttered to himself, and I jolly well agreed with him.
We were buzzing along finely now, and could feel the ship shaking and throbbing.
The ‘Angel’ was still at the range finder, and our indicator showed 6250, when suddenly the big ship turned again—she was going at a tremendous speed—and—oh, it made my backbone feel cold—made straight for the entrance and El Castellan.
We still had our signal ‘Stop Engines’ flying, but there wasn’t the least doubt now that she was simply going to rush past us. Clatter, clatter, came the signalmen down from the fore bridge to take shelter, everybody disappeared into their turrets, popping down the sighting-hoods like rabbits, the Captain and the Navigator came down and clambered through the top of the conning-tower, the ‘Forlorn Hope,’ with a grimace at me, squeezed himself into his turret and closed the armoured door, and, with my heart in my mouth, I wriggled down into mine.
‘Aren’t you coming, sir?’ I asked Mr. Bigge, but he shook his head. I felt a little safer inside there, and stood watching the range indicator. It was simply altering every few seconds—5400—5300—5200—there was no time to show the fifties.
Mr. Bigge sang out for me—he wanted to know something—and I popped my head out again and couldn’t see the ship—she had slanted away a little, to pass along our port side—but I just caught sight of Billums sitting on the back part of the top of his turret, on the fo’c’stle, with his knees drawn up to his chin, resting his field-glasses on them.
You couldn’t hear a sound anywhere—except that escaping steam—and then the gong inside the turret began sounding the ‘stand by’—the next time it sounded it would mean we had to fire. The able seaman at the telephone sang out, ‘The port battery’s just got the order to fire, sir,’ I almost fell down inside the turret again, and then the whole of our guns that could bear on the port beam fired, and some of them had time to fire again before we heard the roaring ‘clap’ and the crash of the shells bursting against the big ship’s side. The range indicator showed 3200 yards, and we couldn’t miss her very easily at so short a distance.
She was passing down our port side and going in the opposite direction, so that we had to circle round to follow her, and I knew that the starboard turrets would then come into action.
Mr. Bigge shouted down that we were turning to starboard, the bell at the telephone from the conning-tower rang, the able seaman jammed his ear against it, sang out, ‘Starboard guns, stand by, sir!’ and the gun’s crew jumped to their proper stations.
‘Remember your right hand, Bill!’ the Gunlayer called out, and wedged his eye into the indiarubber sleeve of the telescopic sight.
‘Train aft,’ Mr. Bigge shouted down through the sighting-hood, and round we slewed.
The gun’s crew was ready, the gun loaded, and the next shell lying in the loading tray, so I had nothing to do except to see that the Sight Setter kept the same range on his sights as the indicator showed, and that everything was done properly.
‘We’re coming “on,”’ Mr. Bigge sang down. ‘Stand by!’
The Gunlayer jerked out, ‘I’ve got her, sir’—he’d spotted her through his telescope—and I just had the pluck to pop my head out for a second and caught sight of the big white ship tearing across our stern as we swung round, and then the fire-gong clanged loudly and I slipped back again.
There was a roar and a shake, men jumped about, banging and clattering—I heard the ammunition hoist rattle-rattle up to the gun, and the breech-block snap ‘to,’ and off she went again.
‘We’re hitting her!’ Mr. Bigge sang out. ‘Aim under her mast and bridge.’
‘She’s going to fire,’ he shouted, a second later, and almost before he’d said it, there was a most awful roar, like a thunder-clap, and then the most appalling noise and hot glare—the whole ship shook and seemed to be tearing in pieces. The Gunlayer was cursing that he couldn’t see out of his telescope, and wedged his arm along it to wipe the glass.
‘That’s better,’ he growled, and fired again.
The range indicator, all this time, had been showing bigger ranges, and it had just showed—3650—when that same awful thunder-clap sounded a second time, and then the noise and the hot glare; the ship seemed to be breaking in pieces again, things came crashing down on deck, and she trembled as if she’d run aground. Something had struck her, somewhere close below us; a huge flame shot up just in front of the gun port, I was banged against the side, the Gunlayer came tumbling down from his sighting platform, and we could hardly breathe. I felt quite silly, too.
The Gunlayer scrambled up again and fired, but we didn’t know whether he was hitting her, because she was covered with smoke and almost hidden by the spray and the smoke of shells which burst short. I began to get my breath back.
‘The range indicator ain’t working, sir!’ the Sight Setter called out. ‘It ain’t altered for the last three minutes.’
I jumped across. It still showed—3650—and I tapped it to see if it had jammed, but it didn’t move. Just as I was going to tell Mr. Bigge, La Buena Presidente fired again, there were those awful noises, and something came crashing down on top of our turret, bulging in the roof.
‘Can’t move her, sir, the turret’s jammed,’ the Gunlayer yelled. He sprang up through the sighting-hood—something red and slippery was dripping down through the holes in the top of the turret—and I followed him. Mr. Bigge wasn’t there, but the top was covered with the twisted rails and smoking burning planks of the projecting end of the bridge—I knew it was the bridge because the stump of the semaphore was still fixed to a rail.
I didn’t really realise anything or know quite what I was doing. I burnt my hands trying to pull the wreckage away, but we couldn’t move it, and I had to keep my eyes down so as not to see the big ship firing—I couldn’t have stayed there if I had. I knew that Mr. Bigge must have been killed, and that I was now in charge.
Then that awful thunder-clap sounded again, there was a terrific crash behind us, a huge mass of iron crashed down on the deck, and one of the men said quite calmly, ‘The foremost funnel’s gone, sir,’ but I dare not look—I was too terrified.
We couldn’t move that wreckage off the fore bridge, so I ordered the men inside the turret, and then tried to ring up the conning-tower, but couldn’t make the telephone work. I tried the telephone to the transmitting station, the room below the water-line, at the foot of the foremast, which passed all messages to us from the fire-control position, on the mast above it, and I heard the Fleet Paymaster’s voice at the other end. ‘Please tell the Captain——’ I’d just got as far as that when the ship shook and trembled again, and we could feel something crashing and bursting inside her.
I tried the telephone once more, but it wouldn’t work at all. I knew that I ought to tell the Captain and ask what should be done, so I bit my lips and crept out of the turret, down the rails at the back, and jumped down on deck, but it was all covered with burning bits of wood and twisted and torn, almost red-hot, iron plates. Smoke and steam was pouring up from where the foremost funnel had been, and flames from the boiler furnaces were licking the grey paint off, but the rest of our guns, on the starboard side, were still firing very fast.
I kept my eyes down and dashed through the smoke to try and get under the fo’c’stle and nearly fell through a hole in the deck. The gangway was blocked up with wreckage. Several bodies lay underneath it, and I saw one arm sticking out, a signalman’s badge on the sleeve. I ran back and had to crawl under the fallen funnel, through a gap where it had crumpled up, wondering when that next thunder-clap would come and kill me. I crawled under it, noticed that the 7.5 turret next to ours seemed out of place and the deck very uneven, saw the Shadow’s face in the sighting-hood of the second 7.5 turret just as his gun fired, and darted between the funnel casings to the port side. I had to go quickly because the paint was burning on the iron plates on each side of me. That thunder-clap seemed to be awfully long in coming, and I thought that perhaps, after all, we’d beaten the huge ship and scrambled for’ard, over more smoking wreckage, towards the fo’c’stle, ‘Blotchy’ Smith looking out from the port for’ard 9.2 turret, very white in the face, and yelling to know how things were going.
I couldn’t stop to speak to him because of the smoke pouring up from the foremost funnel hatchway, and I just put my sleeve in front of my eyes and my mouth and darted through it, under the fo’c’stle. Even then I couldn’t get to the conning-tower, where the Captain was, because the whole of the shelter deck was crumpled up like paper, but the port door leading on to the fo’c’stle had been blown off, and just as I looked through it, the for’ard 9.2 fo’c’stle gun fired. I heard Billums shout, ‘Hit!’ and there he was still perched on top of the turret, his head bare, and his yellow hair showing.
‘We’re jammed! Mr. Bigge’s killed! I want to tell the Captain,’ I shouted, but he couldn’t hear what I’d said, and only pointed over the starboard quarter. He put his hands to his mouth and shouted, ‘The Hercules!’
Oh! wasn’t I glad, and was just going to try and climb up to the conning-tower, when I saw O’Leary put his head out of the sighting-hood and speak to Billums. I heard Billums shout, ‘Cease fire.’ Then the Commander came scrambling along past me with some men, a bugler sounded ‘Collision Quarters,’ and I noticed, for the first time, that we had a tremendous list to starboard. The Commander bellowed at me to make myself useful, and sent me down below with a message to the First Lieutenant, so I hadn’t time to ask any one what was the matter.
I could hardly find my way along the lower deck. Everything was wrecked, the mess tables and lockers were burning furiously, and I could hardly see for smoke, which poured out through great gaps in the port side. I managed to find one of the hatchways open—the cover must have been blown off—and got down into the ‘bag flats,’11 but it was worse here, pitch-dark, and water, up to my knees, was rolling from side to side. There was a sickening smell there too. As I groped my way along to try and find the for’ard hatchway leading down to the ammunition passages, where the First Lieutenant was, I saw a light and heard the Fleet Paymaster’s voice. He was looking out of the fore transmitting room, and some candles were burning inside it. ‘We haven’t been able to make any one hear for the last quarter of an hour,’ he said. ‘What’s gone wrong?’
‘I don’t know, sir. The ship has escaped, I think; Mr. Bigge’s killed.’ Mr. Perkins came along, splashing through the water, so I gave him the message and climbed up on deck again. I met Billums under the shelter deck—or rather what had been the shelter deck—and he told me that some armour-plates had been smashed in below the water-line—that was why we were heeling over so badly.
‘Two shell struck almost together, drove a plate clean through the side, and killed every one in the after bag flats—Dr. Clegg, the Padré, and the whole of the ‘stretcher party’ aft there.’ He was very sad.
‘Is the “Angel” all right?’ I asked, feeling perfectly miserable. He put his hand on my shoulder and led me back out on the fo’c’stle again. I knew at once that my chum was killed.
‘Be brave, Bob; look up!’ he said.
I looked; oh! it was awful, the topmast and the control-position had disappeared, and there wasn’t anything left there, except a few bits of wire hanging down, and a copper voice-pipe sticking out by itself.
‘One shell in that second broadside burst against it, Bob,’ and Billums put his hand on my shoulder, very gently, to steady me; ‘it must have been all over in a second. They felt no pain.’
I simply buried my face in his monkey-jacket and sobbed and sobbed.
‘Pull yourself together, Bob,’ he whispered, ‘remember that you are an officer. They felt no pain.’
I heard the Commander bellow at Billums; he roared my name too and cursed me, sending me down to the Engineer Commander for as many stokers as he could spare.
I was too absolutely frozen to care about anything, and when I met ‘Blotchy’ Smith, half blubbing, and he told me that Barton had been killed in the after turret and the Forlorn Hope in his, I hardly heard what he said—I felt quite silly and ‘wobbly’ in my head.
I really could not tell you what happened for the next five hours—I was so dazed and numbed—but I found myself going down into a boat with a lot more of our mids., and we crawled up a ladder on board the Hercules. We huddled up in a corner of her gun-room, and they brought us something to eat, but it nearly made me sick to look at it. The Hercules mids. let us alone and didn’t ask any questions, and for hours we sat there, covered with dirt and smoke, till some one led us away and made us clean ourselves. Some one lent me a pair of pyjamas, and I crawled into a hammock, but daren’t shut my eyes, and had to get out and sit close to a light. I don’t know how long I sat there, but one of the Hercules’ doctors found me, and lifted me back into my hammock. He injected something into my arm, and was going away, but I clutched his sleeve—I couldn’t be left alone—and then cried till I thought I should die.
Notes
10 A space right aft, below the water-line, where the steering engine and emergency hand-steering mechanism are situated.
11 Narrow spaces, below the water-line and behind the upper coal-bunkers, where the men’s bags are stowed.