He went up on the bridge, and the Achates' engines rumbled slowly ahead.
It was now a quarter to five on Sunday morning, the 25th April, the greyest of shadowy dawns—the formless clouds were grey—a darker streak of grey, where grey sea and sky met, was the Gallipoli Peninsula; and three grey patches, darker still, were the Swiftsure, Cornwallis, and Albion, close inshore, waiting for the moment to commence bombarding.
Behind the Achates, like a shoal of minnows, followed the steamboats and their twenty-four transports' boats; behind them were fleet sweepers, and looming indistinctly in the distance, as wide as the eye could pierce, came transports and store-ships in great numbers, the River Clyde among them.
On board the Achates the fo'c'sle and after shelter deck were crowded with officers and men anxiously gazing ahead.
"You know that R.H.A. officer," the China Doll kept on telling anyone who would listen to him—"that cheery chap who's going in with them to make signals. He promised to send me off a Turk's rifle. Wasn't that decent of him?"
On the bridge Captain Macfarlane, tugging nervously at his pointed beard, and standing next to the Commander, muttered to himself: "Thank God! they had a good breakfast."
"Every one of them, sir," the Commander jerked out, in the most matter-of-fact way.
"There's nothing like having your stomach full to keep up your pluck, Commander. It makes all the difference."
"I expect it does, sir. The books say so, at any rate."
"I know it does," the Captain said, thinking of what he had been through himself, and turning to speak to the Navigator, busy taking bearings.