Free Guns to the Far East by V. A. Stuart Page B

empty but he shared his slender stock of cigars with those who could smoke and tried to talk to some of the others. Sleep was out of the question, as his earlier apathy was succeeded by anxiety for the safety of the ship, his mind and ears tuned to the shouted orders of Lieutenant Goodenough and the pilot, and to the laboured clanking of the pumps. He was aware from his interpretation of these sounds, that the little steamer was frequently in difficulties and, at times, in actual danger of foundering but, with the coming of dawn, the pumps finally got the better of the inrushing water. More repairs were made, as soon as it was light enough to see where patching was required and, by sunrise, to his infinite relief, the pumps were operating to a more normal rhythm and the ship proceeding steadily on her way.
    A strange silence fell over the crowded deck, as death or merciful unconsciousness brought peace to many whose suffering had become unendurable. Josiah Thompson, the Raleigh ’s chaplain, who had worked indefatigably throughout the night, found time to pause for a cheerful word with the less seriously injured, and the off-duty officers and men of the watch below, relieved of anxiety for the ship, came on deck with drinking water and flasks of whisky or brandy for the wounded. The Hong Kong did not carry provisions for the number of men now crowded on board and her cooking fires— extinguished when she had cleared for action—had not been relighted, but her hard-worked crew did the best they could in the circumstances. Pipe tobacco and cigars were handed out and a welcome issue of grog was made, which raised flagging spirits and started the men talking. Wry, foul-mouthed jokes were exchanged, as those who had survived the long ordeal of the night found renewed cause for optimism in the fact that they were still alive and the ordeal almost over, with the whitepainted houses and landscaped gardens of Hong Kong’s British residents in sight on the tree-clad hills.
    Phillip, his own supply long since exhausted, gratefully inhaled smoke from a black cheroot of doubtful origin, pressed on him by one of Raleigh ’s midshipmen, and broke his long fast with a handful of ship’s biscuit, which young Lightfoot had thoughtfully soaked in cold coffee, left over from the previous morning’s brew.
    â€œYou must eat, sir,” the youngster advised earnestly. “To keep up your strength.” He eyed Phillip’s arm, swollen and throbbing unpleasantly under its blood-caked dressing, and added, full of concern, “I hope the surgeons can save your arm for you, sir. If you remember, my right leg was broken in two places when I fell from the Huntress ’s rigging off Sebastopol in the winter of ’fifty-five. Surgeon Fraser told me it might have to come off but he set it—and my arm, too—and look at me now, sir!”
    â€œYou look a pretty healthy specimen, Mr Lightfoot,” Phillip agreed.
    â€œYes, sir, I am. Some more biscuit, sir?” The boy offered the bowl of sodden mush, smiling. “Of course I owe it to Surgeon Fraser—he made a wonderful job of setting the bones—but I owe a lot to that steward of yours, sir. He was Irish and he’d lost most of his teeth … I don’t remember his name but he was quite a character.”
    â€œO’Leary,” Phillip supplied. “Joseph Aloysius O’Leary.” Memories came flooding back. O’Leary had always had the name of a “Queen’s Hard Bargain” and, when he had come to the Trojan, under Captain North’s taut command, it had been as an able-seaman with eighteen years’ service, whose punishment sheet and crime record ran into several pages and effectively debarred him from promotion. But like many of his kind, O’Leary was a fine seaman, at his best when in a tight corner or when there was fighting to be done and the end of the Huntress ’s commission with the Black