"He said so?"
"Yes. 'Let him come and die, if he wishes it,' he said."
"Then I just will go—and chance it!" I said boldly.
"All right. He is waiting. Good luck to you."
CHAPTER XVIII
ON BOARD THE TORPEDO-BOAT—BREAKING OF THE
BOOM—CAPTURE OF WEI-HAI-WEI—CONCLUSION
My first impressions regarding a torpedo-boat were, firstly, that the deck rests dangerously near the water; and secondly, that the craft itself is unsafe—at least, unsteady. Then the vessel,—or "ship," as I believe it is called,—is, if cabined, certainly "cribbed and confined." There is not much space to live in; perhaps the sailors who man her are not expected to live—much. Where they usually sleep, unless in the coal-bunkers or in the engine-room, I do not exactly know. They did not sleep at all while I was on board, and I understand that they never change nor wash (or "hardly ever"), under service conditions. So far as my rather limited experience goes, existence on board this ship is by no means enjoyable, save when in harbour, and then it is useless. When at sea in roughish weather, and on service particularly, the "pleasure" must be deadly-lively.
The torpedo-boat is about one hundred and twenty-five feet long, and perhaps twelve feet at beam. There are larger craft than this, I think, but these dimensions will suffice for the usual limits. The torpedoes are fixed from the tubes, which, in my "ship," extended one on each bow and astern. There is a steering-tower, or "conning-tower," fore and aft, and very small space for living in. There are no bulwarks to prevent one sliding away into the sea in a calm, only a rail with stanchions, upon which a wire rope is stretched as a protection. But in bad weather the sea does not wait for the sailor, it invades him, and washes everything overboard which may be loose, carrying the men off if they do not go below or lash themselves. The rolling is absolutely fearful, and I am informed that when the officers eat they must feed each other like infants, one holding the cup, or plate, while the other drinks, or eats, from it. All the services are tinware, and the food is also tinned, and water is plentiful inside and out, and leaks.
To this kind of experience I was quite new, and the haggard spectre of mal-de-mer presented itself all the time. How the sailors usually manage I do not know; they must suffer, I imagine, at sea. But a dozen sick men in that boat! Well—curtain!