“Re-mount!”
Every boy to his feet; the parts of the carriage seized; wheels held in place and fixed; the heavy gun lifted and slung, carriage pushed forward to catch it in position. Robert’s detachment, to their great annoyance and confusion, find all their quick efforts retarded by the clumsiness of Number Eight, who, having mistaken his duties, has come into collision with another boy, and seems inclined to argue the matter out and prove himself thoroughly in the wrong before anything further is done. At least six seconds lost by this action on the part of Number Eight in Robert Lancaster’s gun, so that the other five guns are all perfect and their boys standing cool and serene, whilst the final struggle is being concluded on the starboard side.
“I rather want that movement concluded to-day,” says the old captain, leaning over and speaking ironically.
“What’s your number?” asks the instructor of the offending boy.
“Eight, sir.”
“Ah,” remarks the instructor, “it might as well be nought. Isn’t your place there? Very well, then.”
“Try that again, boys,” cries the chief officer. “Do it sharper this time. Think what you’re about.”
Thought and celerity and earnestness are all brought to bear on the next dismounting, and Number Eight of Robert’s set, reserving justification for his previous conduct, proves himself as able a seaman as the rest. The remounting is performed with similar swiftness, and the old captain lets the case of his watch close with a snap and says, leaning over the rails again and addressing the boys on deck, “Very good, very good indeed. Eh, Mr. Waltham?” “Very good indeed, sir,” agrees the chief officer.
Fierce business coming now! The white-headed mops go down the nozzles of the guns, come out again, the gunners stand clear, one lad jerks a string, and—bang! White mop down again head first and withdrawn, gun sighted, and again—bang! It being unusual for an attacking force to do this dangerous work without casualty, half a dozen boys affect to receive the fire of the unseen enemy and fall on deck screaming with great anguish, “Oh, oh, oh!” and “’Elp, ’elp, ’elp!” to the great consternation of one mother up near the foc’sle, who is with difficulty restrained from rushing down the steps. Ambulance corps hurries forward; one wounded boy has his trousers pulled up, his bared leg set between two pieces of wood and tied up, a stretcher brought, and he is taken, now giving agonizing groans, which have a fine suggestion of pathos, to the port side deck. Other boys who have fallen victims to the non-existent enemy have their arms placed in slings or their heads bandaged, and are led away by sympathetic ambulance men.