CHAPTER XXVII
In Action—Fore-top
Eight bells had just sounded off. Cavendish, the officer of the forenoon watch, had been relieved and was descending the bridge-ladder, when he ran against Peter Corbold, who, having completed the daily examination of the anti-aircraft gadgets on board the flagship, was about to report to the Commander.
"Hello, Weeds," exclaimed Peter. "Nothing through, I suppose?"
Cavendish shook his head.
"Absolutely nothing," he replied. "Patrolling destroyers twenty-five miles ahead of us haven't reported even a single sail. It's my belief the blighters have given us the slip and are back in the Rio Guaya. As for——"
The sentence remained unfinished. A shrill bugle-call rent the air, its meaning as clear as its note.
"Action stations at the double," exclaimed Peter. "That's business. S'long, old bird."
The two chums parted company, Cavendish making for B turret, while Peter, having paid a hurried visit to his cabin for his gas mask, binoculars, life-saving waistcoat, and emergency ration, began the ascent to the fore-top.
Here he found two other officers and three ratings; a midshipman followed, so that seven people were occupying rather cramped quarters in a steel, roofed-in box, 120 feet above the water-line.
Peter's duties were chiefly confined to taking notes of the impending action. He was also to keep a lookout for hostile aircraft. Should any Rioguayan flying-boat appear in sight, he was to immediately warn the party told off to man the new anti-aircraft devices. The apparatus, until actually required, was kept below the armoured deck, whence it could be whipped up into position and connected with the dynamos supplying the necessary electric current.
It was a weird experience. Viewed from aloft, the fore-deck and superimposed turrets of the Rebound looked like a model. Even the enormous beam of the ship—slightly over a hundred feet—was dwarfed to such an extent that it seemed possible to jump clear of the sides.
The guns of A and B turrets were being turned with a view to testing the training gear. Smoothly and easily the enormous weapons, looking no bigger than twin pairs of lead pencils projecting from an oval-shaped inverted dish, swung first on one beam and then on the other; at one moment trained to full elevation, at another depressed until the line of fire hardly cleared the slightly up-curved fo'c'sle.
Ten feet above Peter's head the huge range-finder was being adjusted by a gunnery lieutenant, his assistant standing by with telephones and voice-tubes ready to communicate with the transmitting station for "direction" firing.
The wind shrieked through the wire stays and shrouds and whistled past the now unemployed signal halliards, for the battleships had worked up to a speed of twenty-two knots. Each ship had hoisted two battle-ensigns, the wind-stretched bunting presenting the only dash of colour amidst a general tone of grey.
The four battleships were still in line ahead, the following craft being almost hidden in the dense cloud of smoke from the flagship's funnels.
Three miles to port and starboard were the light cruisers, standing out clearly in the tropical sunshine. Farther away, ahead, astern, and on both beams, were the destroyers detailed for anti-submarine work, while two separate flotillas, held in reserve for a torpedo attack upon the Rioguayan fleet, were almost invisible in the waste of sun-flecked water.
Broad on the port beam could be discerned the land, San Valodaran territory. Farther astern the coast-line dipped. The gap was the broad estuary of the Rio Guaya. The British admiral had got between the enemy and their sole means of regaining port. Provided he could head the Rioguayan fleet away from neutral territorial waters, he knew that there was nothing to prevent his bringing them to an engagement.
Again and again Peter swept the horizon ahead with his binoculars. Nothing—not even a blur of smoke—obscured the clearly defined line which cut sea and sky. But far away out yonder wireless messages were being sent by the scouting destroyers, announcing with ever increasing certainty that the enemy was still coming south.
Two bells of the afternoon watch sounded off. Peter could hardly realize that fifty minutes had elapsed since he ascended to his eyrie. Surely it was about time, with the rival fleets approaching at an aggregate rate of from forty to fifty-five knots, that something was seen of the enemy?
A few seconds later and a triple hoist of bunting crept past the fore-top. Fifty answering pennants were almost immediately hoisted on fifty different ships, large and small. Then a burst of cheering—a huge volume of sound—came from the invisible crews of the battleships, to be taken up by their comrades in the cruisers and on until the furthermost destroyer within signalling distance joined in the roar of appreciation.
It was the Admiral's battle signal:
"Strike hard, strike straight for England."
"There they are, by smoke!" exclaimed one of Peter's companions in the fore-top.
Peter raised his glasses. With uncanny suddenness, the hitherto unbroken skyline was dotted with the masts, funnels, and superstructures of a host of vessels, their hulls still below the horizon. Approaching each other at the rate of an express train, the rival fleets were now within visual distance or, roughly, fifteen miles.
The destroyers that had been on ahead of the battleships, their mission for the time being accomplished, had turned tail and were taking station astern. The chance of getting to work with the deadly torpedo was not yet. Until gun-fire had demoralized the half-tried gunners of the Rioguayan battleships, it was a purposeless, futile business to dispatch thinly-plated destroyers against armoured ships bristling with quick-firers.
Suddenly Peter caught a glimpse of a couple of flying-boats hovering well in advance of the British ships. Apparently they were engaged upon reconnoitring duties—for they made no attempt to take up a position favourable for bomb-dropping.
As a matter for precaution, Peter turned out one of the anti-aircraft apparatus with its crew, but it was neither the time nor the occasion to make use of the rays. Had the hostile aircraft been bombing machines intent upon scoring a hit, the case would have been different; but they were spotting machines, up to record the results of salvoes and to acquaint the Rioguayan admiral of the disposition of the British ships. The light cruisers would deal with them.
It was the Cadogan that brought her rays into action. Both flying-boats dropped like shot partridges, recovering in time to enable them to volplane to the water. Here they drifted helplessly until a destroyer ranged alongside each in succession, removed the crews, who did not offer the slightest resistance, and sent the abandoned aircraft to the bottom.
"Neat work that," thought Peter. "It proves that friend Ramon Diaz hasn't found an antidote for the rays. Apparently he's satisfied with stealing Uncle Brian's secret."
Meanwhile the four battleships had deployed into single line abreast, each with the object of getting its four 15-inch guns of A and B turrets to bear upon the enemy.
So engrossed was Peter with the little episode of the flying-boats, that the distant rumble of heavy gunfire—sounding like a subdued thudding upon a bass drum—failed to attract his attention.
A few seconds later a veritable cauldron of foam, a dozen separate pillars of spray, announced to him and to a favoured few who could see what was going on outside the ship, that the action had commenced by the enemy opening fire. As a gratifying corollary was the knowledge that the salvo had fallen short.
"Sixteen thousand five hundred," chaunted the range-finding lieutenant, the moment the battleship had emerged from the slowly dispersing wall of spray.
"Train fifteen red," sang out another voice in a lower key.
The two for'ard turrets swung a few degrees to the left. The long lean guns rose slowly, as if roused from slumber.
Again the distant rumble. This time Peter could see the massive hostile projectiles approaching. The air seemed stiff with them,... and they were coming his way. Instinctively he ducked behind the thin steel plating of the fore-top—a protection hardly more serviceable than brown paper. The beastly shells seemed in no great hurry.... He could see the bright copper rifling bands on the dark grey bodies of the projectiles.
"Train twenty-five green," came the clear level tones again.
The Rebound had starboarded helm, and the enemy, instead of being on her port, were now well on her starboard bow.
With an infernal screech, the salvo trundled past the flagship's foremast, falling within a radius of fifty yards, a good three cables' lengths astern.
"Straddled, by Jove!" ejaculated a midshipman with Peter in the fore-top. "Why the——?"
His question was interrupted by a deafening crash that shook the tripod mast like a bamboo in a hurricane. The steel platform seemed to jump bodily. A whiff of acrid-smelling cordite flicked over the edge of the steel breastwork.
Peter gave a sidelong glance at the midshipman. It was the youngster who, but a short while before, was gloating over the prospect of being in action. The boy's face was pale underneath the tan. He laughed—it was a forced laugh without any ring of sincerity about it. His heart was doubtless in his boots, but he was making a gallant effort to get it back into its right place.
Retrieving his binoculars, Corbold brought them to bear upon the distant target. The terrific concussion was the simultaneous discharge of the four 15-inch guns of A and B turrets. Already the salvo was on its way towards a target unseen by the fifty odd men cooped up within the two turrets. Eight miles away those shells, by the latest workings of the science of gunnery, were calculated to fall—and they did.
Through his glasses, Peter watched the receding flight of the huge missiles, each weighing more than a ton. The impact came. At first there was little to indicate to the observer's eye that they had done their work—just a few dark splashes on the light grey hull of a Rioguayan battleship—no more. But the next instant the scene had changed considerably. The projectiles had burst, not on impact, but after they had eaten into the vitals of the enemy ship. Lurid flashes leapt from her superstructure and from different parts of her lofty hull. One of her funnels sagged, hung irresolute, and then crashed across her port battery. Then flame-tinged smoke poured through a dozen unauthorized outlets. Reeling like a drunken man, the Rioguayan battleship hauled out of line and disappeared behind the ship next astern.
By this time the firing had become general. The four British battleships were letting rip as fast as the loading-trays could deliver shells and ammunition into the rapacious breeches of the enormous weapons. The din was terrific, while the vibration was so intense that the fore-top was shaking and rattling like a high-pressure engine on a faulty bed.
"Goodness only knows what we're here for," thought Peter, wiping the cordite dust from his eyes and shaking the beads of salt spray from the peak of his cap. "Can't see a blessed thing."
He continued to peer out automatically. There was little to be seen, save when an occasional lifting of the pall of spray and smoke enabled him to see the flashes of the guns of the Royal Oak and her consorts. His senses were benumbed by the continuous crashes. He was no longer afraid. A sort of stolid indifference seemed to take possession of the fragments of thought left in his brain. The whole business seemed a ghastly, bewildering nightmare.
A terrific crash, outvoicing every other noise in the pandemonium, shook the fore-top like a rattle. The occupants, hurled violently, subsided in a confused struggling heap upon the steel floor. For some moments they remained prostrate, making no effort to sort themselves out.
Peter opened his eyes, to close them quickly again. Someone's heel was beating a tattoo within an inch or so of his nose.
He wriggled clear and sat up. One of the bluejackets, wedged in an angle of the walls, was mopping the claret that welled from his nose. The two officers and the midshipman were sorting themselves out, looking too dazed to understand how they got there and what they were doing. The second bluejacket was muttering to himself as he fumbled in his jumper for some article that he had prized and lost.
"Anyone hit?" bawled Peter.
His words were inaudible, but no one showed any signs of serious injury. The fore-top was shaking badly—not only through the continuous concussion, but as if it were no longer firmly secured to the head of the tripod mast. The small oval aperture that opened into the principal leg of the tripod, and formed an alternative means of gaining the deck, was open. Wisps of smoke issued from it.
A man with a bandaged head appeared, squeezing with an obvious effort through the door. Peter recognized him as a petty-officer belonging to the range-finding party.
"Fair kippered that way, sir," he shouted. "A perishin' eel couldn't wriggle through. No, mast ain't carried away quite. 'S got a bulge in 'er. Lootenant, 'e told me to report verbally that our range-finder's knocked out, an' all controls smashed up."
Having explained his presence, the P.O. spat on his hands, hitched up his trousers, and lowered himself over the edge of the fore-top.
Peter, leaning over, watched him grip the rungs on the outside of the tripod and commence his eighty-odd feet descent. Then something else attracted the young officer's attention.
All was not well with A and B turrets. They had ceased firing. The smoke had cleared considerably, but from the riven roof of A turret a column of white flame was leaping almost as high as the platform on which Peter stood. He was unpleasantly aware of the heat. The updraught was like that of a blast-furnace. Someone touched him on the shoulder. Turning, he saw Ambrose, one of the officers with him on the top.
"Looks like the Queen Mary stunt," said Ambrose grimly. "We'll be blown sky high in half a shake."
Peter replied that that possibility was by no means remote. That white flame came from burning cordite. Once the fire got to the magazine the Rebound would be blown to smithereens.
"We shan't have to go as far as some of those poor blighters," continued Ambrose, with a wry smile. He came of a stock of fighting men, many of whom had met death with a jest on their lips.
It was indeed a desperate situation. The occupants of the fore-top were craning their necks over the sizzling flame. Projectiles were still hurtling through the air. Although the for'ard guns of the flagship had ceased fire, Q and X turrets were still hard at it, trained abeam to starboard. Smoke was pouring from the funnels and enveloping the fore-top. Either the wind had changed, or else the ship had swung round sixteen points and was retracing her course. At least, Peter imagined so, until a partial clearing of the smoke showed that the Rebound was going astern, but still towards the enemy line. Battered and bruised for'ard, and with her bows well down, she was still holding her place in the line.
Even as he watched, Peter fancied that the column of white flame was diminishing. Men, looking no larger than flies, were swarming round the turret with hoses directing powerful jets of water into the raging inferno. Steam mingled with the flame. The pillar of fire wavered, died down, flared up again, and finally went out like a guttered candle.
Losing all account of time, Peter "carried on"—doing absolutely nothing. His range of vision was limited, owing to dense clouds of smoke, steam, and spray. The turret sighters and men at the rangefinders on the "Argo" towers, could see much better than he, since the atmosphere was less obscured closer to the waterline and the opposing fleets had drawn to within torpedo range. As far as Corbold was concerned, existence seemed to be composed of a continual roar and vibration, punctuated by deeper concussions that indicated direct hits from Rioguayan guns. How the battle was progressing, he knew not. That it was being fiercely contested, he had no doubt, nor had he that ultimate victory would be with the ships flying the glorious White Ensign. He was beginning to feel horribly sick, for in addition to the distracting vibration, a whiff of poison gas-shell had wafted over the fore-top.
A flash of orange-coloured flame rent the billowing clouds of acrid-smelling smoke. The light seemed to spring from a source within a few feet of the tripod mast-head. Actually a 5.9-inch had glanced obliquely from the hood of B turret and had burst outside the massive steel walls of the conning-tower.
Again Peter was hurled against the side of the fore-top. How long he remained there, he had not the faintest recollection. At length he raised his head. His companions were strangely quiet, except the midshipman, who was vainly attempting to stifle his groans. There were jagged rents in the floor and in the sides of the fore-top; there were also holes punched as neatly as if done by a pneumatic drill. There were pools, too, of dark sticky liquid....
Peter struggled to his feet, somewhat surprised that he was able to do so. As far as he knew, he had not been hit. He turned his attention to his companions. Ambrose was lying on his side, his face pillowed on his left arm. There was the same grim smile on his face. He looked to be sleeping peacefully, but it was the sleep that knows no wakening on this earth. The other lieutenant and the two bluejackets were simply shattered lumps of clay. Only Peter and the midshipman were left alive out of the seven, since there was no trace of the third able seaman.
The snottie looked Peter in the face with eyes that resembled those of a sheep on the slaughter-block.
"I've stopped one," he exclaimed feebly. "'Fraid it's the last fielding I'll ever do."
His left leg was completely severed just below the knee, yet Peter noticed the stump was only bleeding very slightly. The shock had evidently contracted the torn arteries, but there was every possibility of a rush of life-blood before very long.
Fumbling with unsteady fingers at his first-aid outfit, Peter contrived to rig up a rough-and-ready tourniquet. His next step was to get the wounded lad down to the dressing-station. As far as he, personally, was concerned, there was not the slightest reason why he should remain in the wreck of the fore-top. The question was, how was he to get the midshipman down?
Even had the passage down and within the centre leg of the tripod been available (which it was not), the small diameter of the shaft would not have permitted the descent of one man with another clinging to his back. To lower the snottie was also out of the question, since the signal halliard nearest the mast had been shot away and no other rope was available. The only likely way was to descend on the outside of the mast by means of the rungs provided for that purpose.
"Can you hang on, do you think?" inquired Peter anxiously.
"I'll have a good shot at it, anyway," was the reply. As a matter of precaution, the young lieutenant knotted his scarf round the midshipman's body and his own. Then, heavily burdened, he let himself down through the jagged gap in the floor of the fore-top that had once been a trap-door.
Rung by rung he made his way, never once looking down and religiously adhering to the old sea maxim: "Never let go with more than one hand or foot at a time."
The eighty-odd feet descent seemed interminable. Momentarily, Peter's burden grew heavier. The lad's grip, at first so strong as to threaten to choke him, was becoming feebler. His own leg-muscles were giving indications of cramp, or else, perhaps, he had received an injury of which at the time he was unaware. Presently his left foot, groping for the next rung, failed to find a temporary resting-place. For the first time in the descent, Peter looked down. Where a series of rungs should have been, was a gaping void, encompassed by a saw-like edge of riven steel. In ordinary circumstances, he could have dropped without risk, since he was only about eight feet above the boat-deck. But where the leg of the tripod passed through the boat- and flying-decks was an abyss, out of which acrid fumes were wafting. A shell that had penetrated the side had burst on the upper-deck and had blown upwards, completely isolating the stricken leg of the tripod from the other two decks by a gap at least fifteen feet across.
"If I cast you adrift, can you hang on for a couple of minutes?" asked Peter, shouting at the top of his voice above the discordant din.
There was no response.
The midshipman had lost consciousness.
CHAPTER XXVIII
In Action—'Tween Decks
On parting with Peter Corbold, Cavendish made his way for'ard, through the battery and out by the armoured door of the screen. Throughout his progress, he could not help remarking upon the enthusiasm of the crews of the quick-firers as they cleared away and triced up the mess-tables and closed up round their guns.
They were the pick of Britain's manhood, for the most part men under twenty-five, tall, deep-chested, clean-shaven fellows, looking in their singlets and trousers like zealously-trained athletes.
The battery was in semi-darkness, save for the yellow gleam of the candles in the battle-lanterns. Oil lamps, for obvious reasons, were not lighted, while the electric lamps were disconnected from their holders and stowed away. The lesson of Jutland had shown how dangerous an electric-light globe can be. The concussion of gunfire alone will shatter it into a thousand jagged little fragments with disastrous results as far as the bare feet of the guns' crews are concerned.
Fire-hoses, sending their jets of water from their unions, lay along the deck like healthy serpents, ready to trip the unwary. "Present use" ammunition was stacked in the rear of the guns, ready to feed their rapacious maws when the order to open fire with the secondary armament was received. Above the chatter of men's voices came the rattle of the ammunition cages and the steady purr of the engines far below the waterline.
"Close up round your guns, my lads," the bronzed and bearded gunner kept on shouting, "close up and give the greasy swine socks when the time comes."
Arriving at his action station, Cavendish climbed the short iron ladder and passed through the narrow doorway in the rear of the turret. Blades, the officer in charge, gave him a delighted grin.
"No blessed mist this time, Weeds," he observed. "It'll be an almighty hammering... what's that, Petty-officer?"
"Crew numbered off, sir; all present and correct, sir."
"Very good—test loading-gear. Then stand by."
Blades turned away to watch operations. Cavendish, his work not yet begun, stood behind the turret-trainer under the sighting-hood.
"Anything in sight yet?" inquired Cavendish.
"Nothing yet, sir," was the reply, as the P.O. stepped aside to allow his officer to peep out.
Cavendish placed his eyes to the rubber-rimmed periscope. As he did so, he heard the order given, "load all cages!" The show was about to open.
He could see nothing but an expanse of sunlit sea and sky. Out there lay the hostile fleet, but still below the horizon, although no doubt visible from the fore-top and fire-control platform.
"We'll be firing by direction, sir," supplemented the turret-trainer.
Even as he looked, Cavendish's range of vision was obscured by a white wall of spray. The enemy's opening salvo had fallen short.
"Train fifteen red!"
The turret turned smoothly—so smoothly that Cavendish was hardly conscious of the pivotal movement. The breeches of both weapons sank gently as the muzzles reared themselves almost to extreme elevation.
The lieutenant moved away from the sighting-hood and watched the massive steel monsters for the recoil that would announce that the master-hand well outside the turret had completed the circuit that would send the mighty projectiles on their pre-ordained flight.
There was a breathless silence, broken only by subdued noises down in the working-chamber and the crash of a salvo that had passed handsomely over the ship.
"Train twenty-five green!"
Back rolled the turret until the still silent weapons were trained on the bearing ordered.
A suspense of a few long-drawn seconds, then with a roar the guns of A and B turrets spoke simultaneously and with no uncertain voice.
The period of inaction was over.
Recoiling to the full extent of their hydraulic buffers, the huge weapons jumped forward again into loading-position. Men sprang to the breech-blocks; a strong whiff of burnt cordite wafted back into the confined space of the turret. The huge 15-inch projectiles were rammed home by the mechanically operated rammer; followed the bag containing the propelling charge; and again the breech-blocks closed with a deep metallic clang.
A brief pause, and again the pair of guns recoiled.
Apart from watching the turret crew "carrying on" as rapidly and as smoothly as a well-ordered machine, Cavendish began to feel decidedly bored. There was a most terrific clamour going on without—probably the "five-point-fives" of the starboard battery were getting to work. In that case, he decided, there might be something to be seen.
He touched the turret-trainer on the shoulder. The man stepped aside. Cavendish applied his eyes to the periscope. He could see nothing. Even if the enemy ships had closed to within a few thousand yards, they were still invisible, for the front glass of the periscope was blackened and smudged with smoke, oil, and water. The continuous concussion was positively painful. The noise and rattle of a dozen pneumatic hammers in a double bottom was nothing to it.
Cavendish had lost all idea of time. He glanced at his wristlet watch. It told him that he had been in the turret only five minutes. A second look showed that the watch had stopped.
Just then, Blades, the lieutenant of the turret, caught sight of him.
"Hello, old thing!" he exclaimed. "You haven't been sent for yet?"
"No," shouted Cavendish in reply. "And don't want to be sent for. Shows everything's going on all right. I'll——"
A jet of greasy oil forced through a broken gland struck Cavendish in the face and interrupted his words.
"Faugh!" he ejaculated. "Your beastly turret again."
"Sorry, old man!" replied Blades, apologizing for the misbehaviour of his beloved "box o' tricks". "'Tany rate, if that's all you get, you're lucky."
One of the turret guns' crew appeared and put his face close to Cavendish's ear.
"Message through from Captain, sir," he reported. "'E wants you to go aft and report, seein' as 'ow the ship's been badly 'it."
The two officers exchanged glances.
"Good old Weeds!" exclaimed Blades. "'England expects', and all that sort of thing, you know."
"Yes, I know," agreed Cavendish, with a wry grimace.
Turning up his coat-collar, although it was not until afterwards that he recognized the futility of the action, Cavendish scrambled out of the turret. Wriggling like an eel and feeling very forlorn and unhappy out in the open, he slid over and gained the port superstructure ladder. Cordite-laden clouds were sweeping past him as the guns of B turret fired simultaneously. He could feel the blast and the back-draught much too close to be pleasant. A murderer making for one of the Jewish cities of refuge couldn't have sprinted in quicker time or in greater funk than he did in his mad rush for the door of the superstructure—only to find that aperture barred and bolted.
Hardly knowing how he did it, Cavendish found himself clambering over the remains of the cutter, his progress hastened by a shell that burst against the horizontal leg of the tripod mast, fortunately without carrying it away or bowling the lieutenant over by the shower of splinters.
Right along the deserted mess deck Cavendish hurried. Here and there were fairly round holes where projectiles had passed through the thin steel plating. Soon he located the serious damage; a 14-inch shell had completely penetrated the armour at the water-line and had exploded between decks.
The shell had played havoc. The compartment was so full of smoke that it was impossible to enter without a respirator. A fire had broken out, the corticine and shattered teak planking allowing it to get a good hold until the water, pouring in through the shell-hole every time the ship rolled to starboard, put most of it out. Right beneath was the after dressing station, already occupied by twenty or thirty cases, most of them suffering from burns. Through a hole in the deck, water was liberally flowing in upon the medical staff and their patients.
Shouting for a fire-party, Cavendish soon had the rest of the flames under control, the badly damaged hoses notwithstanding. Then came the task of plugging the shell-hole in the armour plate. This was accomplished by means of a number of rolled hammocks shored up with timber.
The lieutenant, finding that nothing more could be done, dismissed the party and went below the armoured deck to reassure the Surgeon Commander.
"How goes it?" demanded the Medical Officer.
"Dashed if I do know," replied Cavendish. "I was in too tearing a hurry. Couldn't see anything if I wanted to. But I know we're keeping our end up."
"And the enemy?"
"No use asking me," persisted the lieutenant. "I've heard nothing, seen nothing. You've had a busy time, Doc."
The Surgeon Commander gave a quick glance round the crowded dressing-station.
"Twenty-eight," he replied, "and every man-jack a perfect brick. Not a whine amongst the crowd. And some of them are—well—thank God for morphia!"
He picked up an instrument from the sterilizing bowl and turned away. Already he had performed five amputations by the light of a few candle lamps, with the place shaking like a house during an earthquake, and stuffy with fumes from the shell that had burst on the deck immediately overhead.
At the head of the ladder, Cavendish was intercepted by one of the carpenter's crew.
"I've been sent to fetch you, sir," explained the man. "There's a nasty mess up for'ard."
The lieutenant hurried along the mess-deck, negotiating various obstacles and passing groups of men "standing easy". Many inquiries they made of how things were going, but Cavendish, beyond reassuring them, could give no definite news.
When at length he arrived upon the scene of the damage for'ard, he looked grave.
A 15-inch shell had penetrated the unarmoured end, twenty feet abaft the stem, blowing jagged rents in the plating and in places starting whole sheets of metal from their frames. The cable stowed in the manger had been flung about like string. A fire had been started, but had been already got under control by the fire-party, who, under the orders of the chief carpenter, were endeavouring to plug the rents with canvas and bedding.
It was a useless task. The sea was pouring in like a mill race, washing men and gear away like corks. The sunlight was streaming through the gaps into the smoke-laden compartment, giving Cavendish the impression that he was in a train about to emerge from a tunnel—only that the din was a hundred times greater.
The only thing to be done was to abandon this compartment.
The water-tight doors and bulkhead were shored up with kit-bags, hammocks, and balks of timber. Cavendish stood by and watched as the bow compartment filled. The barricade bulged slightly. Streams of water oozed through the started rivet holes in the bulkhead. The steelwork groaned—but it stood the strain. So far so good.
Telling off a hand to keep watch over the bulkhead and dismissing the rest of the party, Cavendish made his way to the trunk of the conning-tower, whence by means of a ladder and a manhole he could gain the conning-tower itself.
Here he found the Captain and reported the damage. "All right; carry on," was the response.
The Rebound had stopped and was already losing way. She was so deep down by the bows that it would have been imprudent to continue to steam ahead. A destroyer, in obedience to a signal, was alongside for the purpose of transferring the admiral and his staff to another ship.
From one of the officers in the conning-tower, Cavendish learnt something definite. The enemy were in flight. Three, possibly four, of their capital ships had been sunk. The rest had been badly mauled. The Numancia, which under a different name was at one time a crack ship of the Brazilian navy, and had recently been acquired by Rioguay, had been so severely punished that she had surrendered to the British destroyer Audax. The Audax herself was in a sinking condition, so her commander promptly turned over his crew to the prize, secured the survivors of the Rioguayan under hatches, and compelled the republican engine-room ratings to carry on. The Numancia was thus able to render considerable service to her new masters by finishing off a pair of hostile cruisers that, although disabled, were still capable of discharging their torpedoes.
"And you're deucedly lucky, old top," continued Cavendish's informant.
"I don't see how," rejoined the lieutenant.
"Then have a look at B turret," suggested the other. "That was your action station, I believe."
By this time the admiral's flag had been transferred.
The Captain and the rest of the conning-tower staff were making their way to the after citadel, for the ship was gathering sternway. Although unable to keep her place in the line, she could still render good service with the guns of Q and X turrets.
As far as the Rebound was concerned, there was a decided lull in the action. In turning through sixteen points, she had of necessity lost a considerable distance and was a good five miles astern of the Royal Oak and the three other battleships.
Cavendish went to the front of the badly damaged fire-bridge in order to see the damage to B turret. Clouds of smoke, pouring from both funnels and from a huge rent in the base of the foremost funnel, were sweeping for'ard. It was impossible to see with any distinctness.
Descending to the boat deck, the lieutenant noticed that the inclined leg of the tripod mast was wreathed in smoke, and that the boat deck all around it had been torn away. A party of marines and stokers were playing hoses on the smouldering débris, and in answer to Cavendish's inquiries, replied that the fire was almost out.
"Weeds! Bear a hand, there's a good sort!"
Hearing his nickname shouted, Cavendish glanced aloft. Clinging to the lowermost intact rungs of the badly damaged tripod was Peter Corbold, with something looking like a scarecrow lashed across his shoulders.
"Right-o!" bawled Cavendish. "Hang on a bit. I'll get you down."
"I can hang on for two minutes," rejoined Peter.
Realizing that there was no time to be lost, Cavendish turned out a party of bluejackets. A block was not to be had, but a length of two-inch rope was soon forthcoming. A hurried test proved it to be serviceable. One of the men swarmed up the jagged leg of the tripod like a cat, regardless of lacerated fingers and ankles. In a few seconds the rope with a "bowline on the bight" at one end was rove through one of the rungs above Peter's head. His burden was transferred to the bowline and lowered away until the unconscious midshipman was level with the shell-torn boat-deck and dangling in the centre of the jagged hole.
By the aid of a short length of rope, the snottie was drawn within arm's reach of three or four bluejackets, and before Peter gained the deck the lad he had rescued was well on his way to the dressing station.
"Hit, Peter?" inquired Cavendish laconically, as he noticed the smoke begrimed, blood-stained face of his chum.
"Don't think so," replied Peter, stretching his arms to relieve the cramped muscles. "How are things going?"
Except for the funnel smoke and wisps of steam and smoke from a dozen different sources, the air for some miles around was comparatively clear. In the distance could be discerned the four battleships still firing heavily. The hostile fleet, or, rather, those still flying the Rioguayan ensign, were invisible in the haze of gunfire.
Away on the port hand was a British light cruiser with a heavy list. Flames and smoke, were pouring between her funnels. A destroyer was standing by to rescue her crew. Astern were a couple of enemy destroyers, badly damaged, but displaying the White Ensign over the Republican colours. Close to them were the bows of another destroyer sticking up vertically to a height of about thirty feet above the surface. Everywhere were large patches of black oil and débris of all descriptions.
"We've whacked 'em," replied Cavendish. "Come along, old thing, if you're fit. I've got to look at B turret."
The ship was now making about twelve knots, going astern the whole time. Most of the crew were on deck to get a well-earned breather and to watch the progress of the running fight.
Cavendish stood stock still when he caught sight of what had been his action station. B turret was completely out of action. Only a few minutes after he had been sent aft, a 15-inch projectile had landed squarely on the face of the turret below the sighting-hood. Penetrating the 11-inch armour, it had burst with devastating effect in the confined space of the turret. Several massive steel plates had been dislodged from the roof of the hood; the two 15-inch guns had been displaced from their mountings, with their muzzles resting on the deck. Those of the crew who had escaped from the direct explosion of the shell were killed by the ignition of a couple of cordite charges. The resulting fire was the one Corbold had seen from the top. Fortunately the men filling the trays at the foot of the ammunition trunk realized the danger of the down-blast and, acting on their own initiative, flooded the magazine.
When Peter and Cavendish arrived upon the scene, smoke was still issuing from the roof of the turret. Fire parties were at work with hoses, pouring volumes of water into the shell-wrecked charnel-house that had not long since been tenanted by thirty officers and men.
For the present nothing more could be done.
Suddenly Peter gave a glance to the west'ard. The sun was on the point of setting.
"By Jove," he exclaimed, "I thought it was nearly time for seven-bell tea, and it's close on four bells in the first dog. Let's get some grub."
"Right-o!" agreed Cavendish soberly, for he was still thinking of his late comrades of B turret. "Let's. We mayn't have another chance, 'specially if we go into action during the night."
CHAPTER XXIX
After the Battle
A buzz of voices greeted the ears of the two chums as they "blew into" the ward-room. The first lieutenant, the engineer-commander, three or four watch-keeping officers, the padre, and the surgeon had foregathered to partake of a "stand-up" meal. The commander, having swallowed a cup of cocoa, was making for the bridge, with the remains of a half-consumed bully-beef sandwich in his bandaged hand.
"Hardly knew we were in action," declared the engineer-commander. "Once or twice, perhaps, when we were hit by shells; otherwise, we might have been on steam trials for all we knew."
"Gave the blighters a bellyful, anyway," observed one of the junior lieutenants. "My gun was out of action five minutes after the battery opened fire. Not half a mess. Looked out and saw an enemy battleship blow up. Seemed slow work, but it really didn't last fifteen seconds."
"I saw her, too," added another. "The wreck of her standard compass landed on our quarter-deck. Hanged if some marines didn't clear out of the battery and start picking up the bits for souvenirs. Hello, Weeds, back to your little grey home again, I see. What were your impressions, old lad?"
"Noise," replied Cavendish. "Had enough to last me a lifetime, so I came down here for quietude and find none."
Which went to show that Cavendish, usually a jovial soul, was decidedly "mouldy". Now that this phase of the action was over, his nerves were very much on edge.
As for Peter Corbold, he was as yet hardly able to realize his surroundings. He could hear people talking, but their voices seemed far away. His head was buzzing like a top. His throat was dry and parched. He was hungry. Yet, somehow, now that food and drink were available, he made no immediate effort to satisfy the inner man.
The ward-room had come off lightly. There was one hole in the side, apparently made by a 6-inch. The missile had glanced off the fore transverse bulkhead and had brought up against the fore-and-aft bulkhead separating the ward-room from the half-deck lobby. In its course the shell, which luckily did not explode, had completely gutted the piano, although the front of the already sorely-tried instrument showed no signs of internal disarrangement.
There were no settees or chairs. Down the centre of the room was a trestle table hastily rigged up by the mess-room servants. On it were enamel cups and plates, open tins of bully beef, bread and butter, and two iron kettles filled with hot cocoa, The ward-room crockery was no more.
"You'll have to buck up, Soldier, and replenish our mess traps," remarked the doctor to the captain of the marines, who held the honorary yet responsible position of Mess President.
"We'll have to wait till we go home for that, M.O.," replied the marine officer, "unless we loot the official residence of the President of Rioguay."
"When are we going home, anyway?" inquired the Chaplain. "We can't barge about here, drawing thirty-eight feet of water for'ard, and there are no docks available out here."
"If you don't know, Padre, who does?" rejoined the First Lieutenant grimly. In other circumstances, the jest would have raised a general laugh, but no one even smiled.
The Senior Medical Officer pushed aside his plate. As he moved, the smell of iodine followed him.
"Must see the Owner," he announced. "He wants a list of casualties."
"What is the butcher's bill, M.O.?" asked the Engineer-commander.
The surgeon shrugged his shoulders. Of all the ship's company he was perhaps the best able to estimate war at its true value. Without providing the excitement of combat his work brought clearly before him just those nerve-racking details which the fighting man himself is too busy to realize until such time as they cannot influence his conduct.
"Heavy," he replied. "Very heavy. Some people are fond of telling you that war is one remedy for over-population. It is: only it starts at the wrong end. The weakling and the man who has enjoyed life go scot-free, or nearly always, while youth and strength pay the toll."
"S'pose it's the same with t'other side," observed "Jimmy the One", after the M.O. had gone. "That pot-bellied bald-headed president of theirs tells 'em to go and get killed, and they do. Dash the Washington Conference, say I. If we'd a navy—an incontestably strong navy—President Jaime Samuda wouldn't have dared to declare war. We're winning, but look at the price we've paid—our ship alone."
"Sooner we get back to a Two or even a Three Power standard, the better for everybody," added the Chaplain. "'Defence, not defiance', you know. A big navy is synonymous with security; a small navy—well—a big casualty list, and I've seen enough of a dressing-station to-day to make me plump for an Umpteen Power Standard."
"And what's your opinion, Padre, about disarmament?" inquired the Engineer-commander. "Only the other day, when we were lying at Bermuda—after ye with the butter, Weeds, old son—at Bermuda, you remarked—hello! there's action stations!"
The shrill notes of a bugle had the effect of clearing the ward-room almost as quickly as if a hostile shell had made a sudden and unexpected entry. In double quick time the already battle-worn officers raced off to their respective posts.
"It's 'hands to night defence'," corrected Cavendish, as the two chums gained the quarter-deck. "Well, thank goodness we're in the same watch-bill. It's going to be a sticky night."
Their station was on the fore-bridge, which, since the ship was going astern, corresponded to the after-bridge. Here, Cavendish was in charge of the searchlight party and the light quick-firers. Corbold's task was to take charge of the hands told off to work the anti-aircraft ray apparatus, since it was quite possible that the Rioguayan air fleet would attempt to make good the disaster to their surface ships.
But nothing of the kind happened. No hostile flying-boat was reported. Neither were the enemy submarines in evidence, although several of the crippled British light cruisers and destroyers offered an easy target in the bright starlight of the tropical night.
Away to the north-west flashes of gunfire were still visible, while now and again far-flung bursts of flame indicated the business-like activities of the British torpedo craft in the same quarter.
Nevertheless, it was not all watch on board the Rebound. Work was the principal order of the night. Certain repairs had to be put in hand forthwith; others less urgent had to wait, while much of the damage was beyond the resources of the ship and would have to be deferred until she was in dockyard hands. But before dawn, the débris had been dumped overboard. A turret, which had been jammed at the same time that B turret was knocked out, was again in fighting trim. The rents in the two funnels were patched, thereby freeing the ship from the danger and inconvenience of spark-laden smoke sweeping for'ard along the boat deck. The damaged tripod mast was strengthened by means of steel rods and booms "woolded" with fathoms of flexible steel wire and light chain. Electric-light circuits and pipes belonging to the Downton pump system had been repaired and the wireless aerials renewed.
The Rebound was no longer cut off from the rest of the world and the fleet in particular. It was now possible to receive a fairly accurate account of the battle. The remnants of the Rioguayan fleet had gained Venezuelan territorial waters, and were creeping within the three-mile limit towards their base. Every vessel flying the Republican colours was carefully watched over by the British light cruisers and destroyers, ready, should the enemy vessels incautiously go outside the limit of neutral waters, to "slap in a mouldy" (torpedo) or to open fire. Throughout the night, the course of the demoralized Rioguayan ships was carefully checked by scores of British sextants, while gunlayers stood by with fingers itching to press firing trigger, and leading torpedo-men lingered longingly over the "bar" by which the deadly Whitehead was dispatched on its errand of death and destruction. The Rioguayan battleships had put up a good fight at the commencement of the action. Confident in their superior numbers, they fired salvo after salvo with commendable accuracy; but when the British shells began to find their target with a skill and rapidity that was an eye-opener to the Republican crews, the moral of the Rioguayans simply vanished.
Of their capital ships, two were blown up by gunfire, three were torpedoed and sunk, two were captured, although of these one was in a sinking state and had to be abandoned by her prize crew during the night.
Their light cruisers had come off lightly, for directly the Rioguayan battleships turned sixteen points and fell back, they played for safety, steaming off at full speed to the nor'ard. Nevertheless, three had been overhauled and sunk by five light cruisers of the D class.
Amongst the hostile destroyers the losses were also slight, for they, too, were broken reeds. One flotilla did, however, attempt a night attack upon the severely-punished British battleships, but was driven off by the supporting light cruisers and destroyers with a loss of six out of the fourteen craft originally comprising the flotilla. It was already perfectly clear that President Samuda's plans for the future greatness of Rioguaya—and incidentally of himself—stood a particularly poor chance of ever being realized if they depended for success on naval supremacy.
On the British side the losses were heavy, but confined chiefly, as far as ships were concerned, to the light cruisers and destroyers, which pushed home the attack with a dash and daring worthy of the traditions of the senior service. All the battleships had survived the action and were still capable of dealing hard knocks. The Rebound had been seriously damaged; the Royal Oak had received three big shells just above the waterline, but, although listing to starboard, was able to maintain her station. The Retrench had practically all the guns in her battery on the port side put out of action, but her turret guns were undamaged. The Repulse, on which the dockyard staff at Bermuda had set right her defects in time for her to take her place in the line, had both her bows and stern blown away as far as the 4-inch armoured belt. Her mainmast had gone by the board. Altogether, she looked a wreck, but the damage hardly impaired her fighting qualities, the ship being quite tight below the water-line and her armament intact.
The losses in personnel were great: 1015 killed and 622 wounded. Of these, the casualties on board the Rebound accounted for 125 killed and 82 wounded. The excess of fatalities was a clear indication of the destructive power of guns. Wherever a heavy shell burst it killed everyone within the battery or turret. The wounded were mostly hit by fragments of flying metal at a considerable distance from the point of impact, or were severely burnt by fires that broke out simultaneously in different parts of the ship. Only a very small percentage received slight wounds. Except on board the destroyers and light cruisers, there were no casualties from the enemy quick-firers, the missiles failing to penetrate the armoured parts of the ship. It was a stiff price to pay, and the task of subduing the Republic of Rioguay was not yet accomplished. There were still the Rioguayan flying-boats and submarines to be taken into consideration. Britain's capital ships, though few in number, had vindicated themselves against superior numbers of hostile surface ships. Would they be able to confound the enemy and the critics who so loudly declared that the day of the big battleship was over, and that air-power would overwhelm the long-standing might of Britannia's trident?