too hot, verifying her position and the position of
the minefield, but always taking notes of every ship
in sight, till towards teatime she saw our Navy off
the entrance and “rose to the surface abeam
of a French battleship who gave us a rousing cheer.”
She had been away, as nearly as possible, three weeks,
and a kind destroyer escorted her to the base, where
we will leave her for the moment while we consider
the performance of E11 (Lieutenant-Commander M.E.
Nasmith) in the same waters at about the same season.
E11 “proceeded” in the usual way, to the
usual accompaniments of hostile destroyers, up the
Straits, and meets the usual difficulties about charging-up
when she gets through. Her wireless naturally
takes this opportunity to give trouble, and E11 is
left, deaf and dumb, somewhere in the middle of the
Sea of Marmara, diving to avoid hostile destroyers
in the intervals of trying to come at the fault in
her aerial. (Yet it is noteworthy that the language
of the Trade, though technical, is no more emphatic
or incandescent than that of top-side ships.)
Then she goes towards Constantinople, finds a Turkish
torpedo-gunboat off the port, sinks her, has her periscope
smashed by a six-pounder, retires, fits a new top
on the periscope, and at 10.30 A.M.—they
must have needed it—pipes “All hands
to bathe.” Much refreshed, she gets her
wireless linked up at last, and is able to tell the
authorities where she is and what she is after.
At this point—it was off Rodosto—enter
a small steamer which does not halt when requested,
and so is fired at with “several rounds”
from a rifle. The crew, on being told to abandon
her, tumble into their boats with such haste that
they capsize two out of three. “Fortunately,”
says E11, “they are able to pick up everybody.”
You can imagine to yourself the confusion alongside,
the raffle of odds and ends floating out of the boats,
and the general parti-coloured hurrah’s-nest
all over the bright broken water. What you cannot
imagine is this: “An American gentleman
then appeared on the upper deck who informed us that
his name was Silas Q. Swing, of the Chicago Sun,
and that he was pleased to make our acquaintance.
He then informed us that the steamer was proceeding
to Chanak and he wasn’t sure if there were any
stores aboard.” If anything could astonish
the Trade at this late date, one would almost fancy
that the apparition of Silas Q. Swing ("very happy
to meet you, gentlemen”) might have started
a rivet or two on E11’s placid skin. But
she never even quivered. She kept a lieutenant
of the name of D’Oyley Hughes, an expert in
demolition parties; and he went aboard the tramp and
reported any quantity of stores—a six-inch
gun, for instance, lashed across the top of the forehatch
(Silas Q. Swing must have been an unobservant journalist),
a six-inch gun-mounting in the forehold, pedestals
for twelve-pounders thrown in as dunnage, the afterhold
full of six-inch projectiles, and a scattering of
other commodities. They put the demolition charge
well in among the six-inch stuff, and she took it
all to the bottom in a few minutes, after being touched
off.
