"I can't find the tortoise, sir," the old man said. "I did not want to leave him behind if anything happened."
"He can swim, can't he? You'll be able to hold on to him, and he'll tow you ashore!" Uncle Podger laughed, and tried to help find "Kaiser Bill", waiting for "Glaring Gertrude" to come back again and throw a little light into the corners the "savage" beast most frequented. He left Fletcher still looking for him, and on his way for'ard to pass the time with the Orphan, collided with the Pimple stumbling along from the bridge.
"She's safe—she's only got her fore compartment flooded—-the bulkhead's holding. Our wounded are coming across in the cutter. The Captain's sent me to tell the Fleet-Surgeon," and away the Pimple dashed.
A few minutes later the cutter with the wounded splashed alongside. They were hoisted in and taken to the sick-bay. Two of these—Cookey, the chief cook, and the leading stoker—both of whom had had their legs smashed, were very big men indeed; and no one who has not had to do it can imagine the difficulty of handling helpless men of that great size and weight, and lowering them into, or hoisting them out of small boats even in daylight. In darkness it is much more tedious and awkward; yet, abandoned by their crew, and with the ship apparently sinking under them, the first thing the officers of the Aennie Rickmers and the French and English flying officers and men did, after they had been thrown out of their bunks by the force of the explosion, was to get the wounded ready to be lowered over the side, and, directly the Achates' cutter had come alongside, to lower them safely into it. This was an incident of quiet, unostentatious coolness and courage which deserves recording. It is, perhaps, easy to be courageous at 2 p.m.; at 2 a.m. it is a very different matter.
And another thing must be put down. As the first of those two helpless men was being carried for'ard, an officer—the first he met, and it was not the Fleet-Surgeon—took off his own swimming-collar, pushed it into his hands, and disappeared in the dark before he could give it back.
Shortly afterwards the miserable "dago" crew came screaming alongside and begged to be taken on board. They were; and they'll never forget the "feel" of the ammunition boots of the tender-hearted marines who shepherded them that night into a casemate and locked them up inside. Then off went the Achates to get out of the limit of "Glaring Gertrude's" range of vision, and to lose herself in the pitch-black night, where neither torpedo-boat nor submarine could find her.
The Sub had been left behind in the damaged ship, to shore up that fore bulkhead and to keep an eye on it all night. He was as happy as a "fiddler" to be able to make a good job of it and "wash out" the recollection of his bad luck and judgment two nights previously.
The remainder of the Honourable Mess crowded down into the gun-room with the joyous relief of danger past, demanding sardines, onions, and beer. They got them, too, at that unearthly hour of half-past three in the morning, for the purple-faced Barnes and the miserable little messman knew from long experience what would be wanted, and had spent the last half-hour preparing for them. It all went down as "extras", so the messman didn't mind.
The Pimple brought the news that it was a torpedo-boat that had attacked the Aennie Rickmers. "A signalman saw her dropping astern directly after the noise—the Navigator says he saw it too," he told them.
"Have an onion, Pimple?" they jeered.