Eight boatloads of Dublin Fusiliers towed by steam pinnaces make a dash for the shore. Every kind of missile is hurled at them, and the men suffer horribly. Some few manage to gain the beach and take refuge under the sandbank already mentioned. None of the boats, however, push off again. They and their crews are destroyed. Now comes the moment for the _River Clyde_, like the horse of Troy, to pour forth its living freight; but there is grievous delay, for the current runs strongly, and there is grave difficulty in keeping the lighters in position. The splendid pluck and tenacity of the naval working-party are tried to the utmost, and many splendid deeds of heroism are accomplished before the bridge of boats holds fast. Now a company of the Munster Fusiliers, followed by a second company, issues from the ship and strives to cross the shifting and swaying bridge. The lighters give way in the current; the end one nearest the shore drifts into deep water, and many men striving to swim from it to the beach are drowned. All the time a perfect tornado of fire sweeps down upon them. A third company essays the task: the lighters are filled with dead and wounded. A thousand men have striven to land, but barely five hundred have got ashore. So hot is the Turkish fire that the remaining men in the _River Clyde_ dare not emerge. A man has only to show his head to be instantly picked off. * * * * * Twenty-four hours after the _River Clyde_ runs ashore there are but the survivors of the Dublin and the Munster Fusiliers and two companies of the Hampshire Regiment on the beach, and they are still crouching beneath the shelter of the sandy ridge. Early in the morning the _Cornwallis_, _Albion_, and _Queen Elizabeth_ come to the rescue and begin a heavy bombardment of the enemy. Under cover of this bombardment the men on the beach push up the slopes on the bluff under a most galling fire, and capture the village, a fort, and a hill. The landing can now go forward. By the evening of Tuesday, the 27th, Beach V is in working order. The whole scene on the beach reminds you of a gigantic shipwreck. It looks as if the whole army with its stores had been washed ashore after a great gale, or had saved themselves on rafts. All this work is carried on under an incessant shrapnel fire which sweeps the trenches and hills. The shells are frequently bursting ten or twelve at the same moment, making a deafening noise, and plastering the foreshore with bullets. The only safe place is close under the cliff, but every one is rapidly becoming accustomed to the shriek of the shells and the splash of bullets in the water, and the work goes on as if there was not a gun within miles. * * * * *