“Then we retreated aft and looked about us.  The deck was a tangle of planks on edge, of planks on end, of splinters, of ruined woodwork.  The masts rose from that chaos like big trees above a matted undergrowth.  The interstices of that mass of wreckage were full of something whitish, sluggish, stirring—­of something that was like a greasy fog.  The smoke of the invisible fire was coming up again, was trailing, like a poisonous thick mist in some valley choked with dead wood.  Already lazy wisps were beginning to curl upwards amongst the mass of splinters.  Here and there a piece of timber, stuck upright, resembled a post.  Half of a fife-rail had been shot through the foresail, and the sky made a patch of glorious blue in the ignobly soiled canvas.  A portion of several boards holding together had fallen across the rail, and one end protruded overboard, like a gangway leading upon nothing, like a gangway leading over the deep sea, leading to death—­as if inviting us to walk the plank at once and be done with our ridiculous troubles.  And still the air, the sky—­a ghost, something invisible was hailing the ship.

“Someone had the sense to look over, and there was the helmsman, who had impulsively jumped overboard, anxious to come back.  He yelled and swam lustily like a merman, keeping up with the ship.  We threw him a rope, and presently he stood amongst us streaming with water and very crestfallen.  The captain had surrendered the wheel, and apart, elbow on rail and chin in hand, gazed at the sea wistfully.  We asked ourselves, What next?  I thought, Now, this is something like.  This is great.  I wonder what will happen.  O youth!

“Suddenly Mahon sighted a steamer far astern.  Captain Beard said, ’We may do something with her yet.’  We hoisted two flags, which said in the international language of the sea, ‘On fire.  Want immediate assistance.’  The steamer grew bigger rapidly, and by-and-by spoke with two flags on her foremast, ‘I am coming to your assistance.’

“In half an hour she was abreast, to windward, within hail, and rolling slightly, with her engines stopped.  We lost our composure, and yelled all together with excitement, ‘We’ve been blown up.’  A man in a white helmet, on the bridge, cried, ‘Yes!  All right! all right!’ and he nodded his head, and smiled, and made soothing motions with his hand as though at a lot of frightened children.  One of the boats dropped in the water, and walked towards us upon the sea with her long oars.  Four Calashes pulled a swinging stroke.  This was my first sight of Malay seamen.  I’ve known them since, but what struck me then was their unconcern:  they came alongside, and even the bowman standing up and holding to our main-chains with the boat-hook did not deign to lift his head for a glance.  I thought people who had been blown up deserved more attention.

“A little man, dry like a chip and agile like a monkey, clambered up.  It was the mate of the steamer.  He gave one look, and cried, ’O boys—­you had better quit.’