DESCRIBES A STIRRING FIGHT

It was late when I folded this letter, about the surprising effects of which I have yet to speak.

Having been very much overwrought in the hospitals that day, I flung myself on my bed and fell into a sound sleep, having previously cautioned my assistant, who occupied a couch opposite mine, not to disturb me except in a case of necessity.

It could not have been long afterwards when I was awakened by him violently, and told that a telegram had just arrived summoning me home!  I sprang up and read it anxiously.  There was no explanation.  The telegram was simple but urgent.  My mother, my sister, Nicholas, illness, death, disaster of some sort, filled my mind as I huddled on my clothes and made hurried preparations to obey the summons.  Of course no inquiries could be made.  The telegram was peremptory.  I crushed a few things into a portmanteau, and, obtaining permission, left the hospital without a moment’s delay.

The distance to the coast was considerable, but I had ample means, and found no difficulties in the way.  It is always so in this life ­at least in regard to ordinary things ­when one possesses unlimited means.

Now I must pause at this point, and beg the reader to bear with me while I relate a few things that may appear at first sight overdrawn.  Let judgment be suspended until all has been told.

There was no difficulty whatever, I repeat, in reaching Varna.  From thence to Constantinople was merely a matter of a few hours’ in an ordinary steamer.  My personal acquaintance with several European ambassadors enabled me to pass the lines and travel in the enemy’s country without obstruction or delay.  My position as occasional war-correspondent of the Scottish Bawbee would have procured me interviews with many celebrities, but anxiety prevented my taking advantage of this.

In process of time I arrived at Besika Bay, and here I found the British fleet at anchor.  Of course I had been aware of its presence there, and felt some pleasure in contemplating a visit to some of the ships, in several of which I had friends.  It was with great surprise that I found the Thunderer among the war-ships assembled in the Bay.  I had never heard of her having left England, though I had been told that her sister-ship the Devastation was at Besika.

Remembering the injunction of my friend Biquitous, I went on board the Thunderer, and was hospitably received by the captain.  He had only time, however, to shake hands and beg me to make myself at home.  There was obviously something of importance about to happen, for great activity prevailed among officers and men.  It seemed to my untutored eye as if they were getting up steam and preparing for some sort of expedition.  The captain did not invite me to accompany them; nevertheless I went.  It was not long before the object of the expedition was revealed.  A monster Russian ironclad, it was said, lay somewhere “outside.”  We were sent to observe her.  In the evening we sighted her.  There was another Russian war-ship ­a frigate ­close to her.  The ironclad was similar to ourselves:  a long low hull ­a couple of turrets with a central “flying” structure or “hurricane-deck.”  We made straight towards her.  The bugle sounded and the crew was called to quarters.

“My dear sir,” said I to the captain, “has war been declared between England and Russia?”

The captain made no reply.  On repeating the question anxiously he merely said ­

“Never mind!”

I was surprised, almost hurt, and greatly perplexed, for the captain was noted for politeness and urbanity, but of course I retired at once.

Next moment I saw a puff of smoke burst from the side of the Russian ironclad, and a shot leaped towards us.  Its size was such that we could trace it from the muzzle of the gun.  Describing, as I thought (for strange is the power of thought), a rather high trajectory, it passed over us and plunged into the sea with a swish that sent hundreds of tons of water like an inverted cascade into the air.  A gush of indignation filled my breast.  That the warship of a nation with which we were at peace should fire at us without provocation was more than I could endure.

“Are you going to stand that, captain?” I asked, with an uncontrollable gush of indignation at the Russian’s audacity.

The captain gave one sardonic laugh, and a shrug of his shoulders, but vouchsafed no reply.

Hearing one of the officers give some order about Whitehead torpedoes, I ran to the room where these monsters were kept.  I was just in time to see one lifted on to a species of carriage and wheeled to the side of the ship.  Here a powerful air-pump was set to work, and the torpedo’s lungs were filled almost to the bursting point.  Its deadly head ­ brought from the magazine ­was at the same time attached to its body.  Another instant and a port was thrown open in the Thunderer’s side, through which the Whitehead was launched.  It went with a sluggish plunge into the sea.  While it was in the act of passing out a trigger was touched which set the pneumatic engines agoing.  The screw-propelling tail twirled, and the monster, descending ten feet below the surface, sped on its mission.  I rushed on deck.  The air-bubbles showed me that the engine of destruction had been aimed at the Russian frigate.  In a few seconds it had closed with it.  I could see that there was terrible consternation on board.  Next moment a fountain of foam shot from the deep and partially obscured the frigate.  I saw men leaping overboard and spars falling for a few moments, then the frigate lurched heavily to port and went head foremost to the bottom.

I stood gazing in a species of horrified abstraction, from which I was recalled by some of our men running to the side of the vessel.  They were about to lower the steam-launch.  It was to be sent out as a torpedo-boat, and young Firebrand, whom I now observed for the first time, took command.

Just then a torpedo-boat was seen to quit the side of the Russian.  We were ready for her.  Our largest Gatling gun had been hoisted to that platform on our mast which is styled the “top.”

When within range this weapon commenced firing.  It was absolutely horrible.  One man turned a handle at the breech, another kept supplying the self-acting cartridge-box.  As the handle was turned the cartridges dropped into their places and exploded.  Six or nine tubes, I forget which, were thus made to rain bullets without intermission.  They fell on the screen of the advancing torpedo-boat like hail, but quite harmlessly.  Then I heard a voice within the fore-turret give a command which sounded like “Extreme depression.”  It was quickly followed by “Fire!” and the Thunderer quivered from keel to truck under the mighty explosion.  The great 38-ton gun had been splendidly served, for the monster ball hit the boat amidships and crushed the bow under water, at the same instant the stern leaped into the air, and she went down with a dive like a Greenland whale.

Hearty cheers burst from the men in the “top.”  These were echoed with a muffled sound from the men shut up in the armoured hull below ­for it must be remembered that not a soul had been visible all this time on the Thunderer except the men in the “top” and those who had been sent to lower the steam-launch.

Apparently rendered savage by this event, the Russians let fly a volley from their four great-guns, but without serious result.  They had been admirably pointed, however, for the two outer shots hit our turrets, deeply indented them, and glanced off, while the inner shots went slap through the flying structure as if it had been made of pasteboard, leaving clean-cut holes, which, of course, only made the place more airy.

Night had now fallen.  The danger of attack by torpedo-boats having been recognised, both ironclads had let down their crinolines.  But the captain of the Thunderer had resolved on a ­a ­what shall I call it? ­ a “dodge,” which would probably deceive the enemy.  He had an electric light on board.  Every one knows nowadays that this is an intense light, which, being thrown on a given point, illuminates it with a glare equal, almost, to that of day.  After dark the captain shot this light from his mast-head straight at the enemy, and in the full glare of it our steam-launch or torpedo-boat was sent out!

I was amazed beyond measure.  Forgetting myself for a moment, I exclaimed, “Captain, you are mad!”

As might have been expected, the captain made no reply.

The steam-launch carried two torpedoes, each containing 100 pounds of powder.

“Be careful to sheer off quickly after exploding,” said the captain to Firebrand quietly.

Firebrand replied, “Yes, sir,” respectfully, but I heard him distinctly add, in a low tone, to himself, “I’ll run slap into her and blow her to atoms as well as myself. Somebody must fail in every action.  It’s a forlorn hope at sea, that’s all. ­Full steam!” he added aloud to the engineer.

As the boat rushed away in the blaze of the electric light, the captain’s ruse suddenly dawned on my mind.  The Russian at once saw the boat, and, with naturally nervous haste, knowing the terrible nature of such boats, made preparations to thwart her.  Close in the wake of the boat the Thunderer followed with the intent to run the Russian down with her ram, which is a tremendous iron beak projecting, below water, from her bow.  The “dodge” was to dazzle the enemy with the electric light, and, while her attention was concentrated on the torpedo-boat, to “ram” her!

“Steady!” said Firebrand, in a deep voice.

Something else was replied by somebody in a deeper voice.

The boat ploughed on its way like a furious hornet.

“Fire!” shouted the Russians.

Instantly, from turret, bulwark, and mast-head leaped livid flames of fire, and the sea was torn up by bullets, while fearful spouts were here and there raised by shots from the heavy guns.  Everything was concentrated on the torpedo-boat.  It was obvious that the dazzling light at the mast-head of the Thunderer had blinded her adversary as to her own movements.

“Let drive!”

I heard the order of the Russian captain as distinctly as if I had been on board his own ship, and was somewhat surprised at its being given in slang English.

The result was a rain of musketry, which rattled on the iron armour of the launch’s protecting screen as the sticks rattle on a kettle-drum.

“Ready!” said Firebrand, with suppressed intensity.

As the boat drew near the Russian small shot was tearing up the sea like a wintry storm.  The order having been given, the torpedo-spars were lowered, so that each torpedo sank ten feet under water.

“Fire!” yelled Firebrand.

Electricity was applied, both torpedoes exploded, and the launch sheered off gallantly in cataracts of foam.

At the same moment the Russians observed us not ten yards distant, coming stem on at full speed.  Her turret guns were concentrated and fired; so were ours.  The crash was indescribably hideous, yet it was as nothing compared with that which followed a few seconds later.  Our ram, entering the Russian fairly amidships, cut her almost in two.  We backed out instantly, intending to repeat the operation.  Well was it for us that we did so.  We had just backed a few hundred yards astern, and given the order to go ahead full steam, when the Russian’s magazine exploded.  Our charge had somehow fired it.  Instantly there was a crashing roar as if heaven and earth had met in chaotic conflict.  The air was darkened with bursting clouds of blackest smoke, in the midst of which beams, guns, pistons, boilers, armour-plates, human limbs and heads were seen hurling about like the debris of a wrecked universe.  Much of this came down upon our iron deck.  The clatter was appalling.  It was a supreme moment!  I was standing on the flying structure beside one of the officers.  “Glorious!” he muttered, while a pleasant smile played upon his lips.  Just then I chanced to look up, and saw one of the Russian fore-turret 85-ton guns falling towards me.  It knocked me off the flying structure, and I fell with an agonising yell on the deck below.

“Hallo!” exclaimed a familiar voice, as a man stooped to raise me.

I looked up.  It was my hospital-assistant.  I had fallen out of bed!

“You seem to have had a night of it, sir ­cheering and shouting to such an extent that I thought of awaking you once or twice, but refrained because of your strict orders to the contrary.  Not hurt, I hope?”

“So, then,” I said, with a sigh of intense relief, as I proceeded to dress, “the whole affair has been ­A DREAM!”

“Ah!” thought I, on passing through the hospital for the last time before quitting it, and gazing sadly on the ghastly rows of sick and wounded, “well were it for this unfortunate world if war and all its horrors were but the phantasmagoria of a similar dream.”