“Altogether fifty-two were buried in this parish:  other bodies were washed ashore or picked up from time to time, some at great distances up and down the Channel.  In the end the list of those unaccounted for came to forty, or by other accounts thirty-six.  That was my first experience of what Menawhidden could do.  I have had many since:  but to this day our little church—­yes, even when we decorate it for harvest-festival and pile the sheaves within the Communion rails—­remains for me the dark little building where the bodies lay in rows waiting to be identified, and where I and half-a-dozen volunteers took turns in keeping watch day and night while the windows shook and the damp oozed down the walls.

“The cause of the wreck was never made clear.  The helmsman had gone, and the captain (his body was among the missing), and the first, second, and third officers.  But two seamen who had been successively relieved at the wheel in the early hours of the night agreed on the course set by the captain.  It was a course which must finally bring them straight on Menawhidden.  Yet there was no evidence to show that the captain changed it.  The men knew nothing of Channel navigation, and had simply obeyed orders.  She had struck during the first mate’s watch.  The fourth officer (survivor) had also been on deck.  He gave evidence that his superior, Mr. Rands, had said nothing about the course.  For his own part he had supposed the ship to be a good fifteen miles from the coast.  They had sighted no shore-lights to warn them:  but the weather was hazy.  Five minutes before the catastrophe Mr. Rands had remarked that the wind was increasing, but had deferred shortening sail.  The ship was an old one, but newly rigged throughout.  Her compasses had been adjusted and the ship swung at Greenhithe, just before the voyage.  Mr. Murchison, the captain, was a trusted commander of the H.E.I.C.:  he came originally from Liverpool, and had worked his way up in the company’s service:  a positive man and something of a disciplinarian, almost a martinet—­not a man who would bear crossing easily.  He was in his cabin, but came on deck at once, ready dressed; and had, with Colonel Stanhope’s assistance, kept admirable order, getting out the three boats as promptly as possible.  A fourth had actually been launched, and was being manned when the vessel plunged and stove her in as she went down.

“That is as much as needs be told about the Nerbuddha.  Let me get on to the happier part of the story, that which concerns Dick Hobart and the small girl whom by Heaven’s mercy he helped to save.  Her name was Felicia—­Felicia Rose Derwent Stanhope in full.  Her uncle and guardian, Sir John Derwent, came down and fetched her home, with the bodies of her father and mother.  I have told you that Dick was just then waiting for his commission, which, by the way, his family could poorly afford to purchase.  Well, in recognition of his ‘gallantry’ (as the old gentleman was good enough to term it) Sir John, who possessed a good deal of influence, had him gazetted within six weeks, and to the 2-th Regiment—­ ‘for which,’ so ran the gracious letter bringing the news, ’you have performed the first of what I hope will be a long list of distinguished services.’