The boy went. His pa.s.sion had long pa.s.sed. He was sick and weary.

Head and heart ached.

With shaking knees, he tottered below. Had a party of jabbering Frenchmen met him, he wouldn't have minded. He was too spent.

But no.

All below was calm now and silence; smoke-drift and dying men.

The Gunner was standing at an open port, directing operations.

His pa.s.sion too had pa.s.sed. The giant-hero of a few minutes' back seemed almost small now. And a strange figure he made.

The sweat had coursed through the rouge on his cheeks; and the dye on his whiskers had run, dripping on to neck and shoulders. He was naked still, save for his trousers, but wearing his c.o.c.ked hat a-rake.

The man at his side heaved a French corpse through the port.

"That's the lot," said the Gunner, picking his teeth, and turned with black and grinning face to the boy.

"Well, sir, what d'ye think? me?--earty fighter, ain't I?"

CHAPTER XIII

AFTER THE FIGHT

I

All was very still on the deck of the _Tremendous_; and those quiet men lolling in the sun added to the hush.

They sprawled about in all att.i.tudes--on their faces, on their backs, in each other's arms, as though snoozing. And the snoring noise that came from one or two of them enhanced the illusion. Only the blank unwinking eyes of those upon their backs, the expression of the upturned faces, and the wet red stuff smeared everywhere, showed that they were not holiday picnickers.

Aft by the binnacle a man sat up against the side watching with appalling solemnity the blood pat-pat-patting down from a wound in his side.

He dabbed a finger in the mess, and scrawled his name on the deck,

Tom Bleach. R.I.P._

"Tom Bleach--Remember Im Please," he repeated, nodding his head with portentous gravity.

A white and crimson huddle beside him groaned.

The man of letters frowned at it.

"How d'ye feel, cookie?" he asked.

"Mortal queer," whispered the dying man.

"It do feel queer, dyin," admitted the other solemnly.

A French officer close by opened glazed eyes.

"I too I die," he announced. "What then will I do?"

"Why, pray G.o.d forgive you bein French," growled old Ding-dong, propped against the wheel. "That's your worst crime."

II

The boy came up from below, deathly pale, the wind lifting his hair.

He crossed to the old Commander, reeling faintly among the dead as he came.

"Lanyon alive?"

"Yes, sir. All well below," in thin and ghostly voice.

The old man nodded satisfaction.

"Starry fighter, ain't he?--Wonderful gift that way. Don't know as I ever saw his ekal at a pinch."

He looked up at the lad, swaying above him.

"Feel funny?"

The boy did not reply, leaning against the side, a far-away look in his eyes.

Then he burst into tears.

"There, there!" said the old man soothingly. "Sure to come a bit okkud-like first start-off. It's been a nasty beginning for you too--messy fightin, I call it. Look at my quarter-deck! More like a slaughter-house nor a King's ship."

He mopped at his leg.

"And all the sh.o.r.e-goin folk on their knees in Church all the time!--Funny to think on, ain't it?"

III

The Gunner came up the ladder.

A sack was cast about his naked shoulders; his c.o.c.ked hat was on the back of his head; and a tooth-pick between his lips.

He strolled to the side.