Mr. Lang had brought "No. 2" close in abreast of the wreck of the Chinese torpedo-boats, and ordered Mr. Parker to recover his two Berthon boats.
As you know, our whaler had been smashed by the same shell that had killed poor Rogers, so she was useless, and suddenly I heard Mr. Parker singing out to me to clear away the dinghy and get her into the water.
"Take four hands with you; put one in each of the Berthon boats, and then tow them back," were his orders, "and take care you don't capsize this time, or back you go to the Laird."
We pulled in towards the nearest boat—close inshore she was—and just beyond her, right under the towering cliffs, were the two battered torpedo-boats, with some dead Chinamen washing about among the wreckage—a nasty sight, I can tell you.
We hauled in the moorings of the first boat, one of my four men jumping into her, and we had just commenced to tow her across to where the second bobbed up and down in the water, when ping! ping! came something past my head. A bullet took a splinter out of an oar, and we heard the noise of a rifle high up on the cliffs above us.
Then came a regular hail-storm of them—whip! crack! whip! crack! they went singing past, and throwing up little spurts of water all round us.
You may bet that we pulled hard and tried to make ourselves small.
Suddenly I saw Tomlinson, an A.B., who was pulling stroke oar, get white in the face and drop his oar.
Pat Jones, who had come with me, seized it before it could fall overboard, and Tomlinson tumbled down into the bottom of the boat with both his arms shot through, and helpless.
Then there was a loud boom from "No. 2" or "No. 3", and one of our 12-pounder shells burst against the cliff just below where they were firing at us; another and another followed, the noise rolling from cliff to cliff and making a hideous roar, whilst stones and rock came rolling down and splashing into the sea.