I think, too, that in the darkness they mistook us for another of the same sort, for, although we almost collided with two of them, they neither fired on us nor challenged.
We steamed straight past them, beginning to gain speed as the last one fell away behind.
Does the sahib remember whether the passage from Stamboul into the Sea of Marmora runs south or east or west?
Neither could I remember, although at another time I could have drawn a map of it, having studied such things.

But memory plays us strange tricks, and cavalrymen were never intended to maneuver in a ship! Ranjoor Singh, up in the wheel-house, had a map--a good map, that he had stolen from the German officers--but I did not know that until later.

I stood with both hands holding the rails of the bridge ladder wondering whether gunfire or submarine would sink us and urging the men to keep their heads below the bulwark lest a search-light find us and the number of heads cause suspicion.
I have often tried to remember just how many hours we steamed from Stamboul, yet I have no idea to this day beyond that the voyage was ended before dawn.

It was all unexpected--we were too excited, and too fearful for our skins to recall the passage of hours.

It was darker than I have ever known night to be, and the short waves that made our ship pitch unevenly were growing steeper every minute, when Ranjoor Singh came at last to the head of the ladder and shouted for me.