Two hours after the shelling of Portsmouth by a Rioguayan submersible cruiser, Southampton was heavily bombarded, presumably by the same craft. Here, the firing was of a more concentrated nature, practically all the projectiles falling in the docks, although an obvious but unsuccessful attempt was made to destroy the Naval Ordnance Magazines at Marchwood. Southampton, however, escaped comparatively lightly—few of its prominent buildings were even damaged, and the toll of human life in the town itself was small. At the docks, too, the loss of life was not great, owing to most of the workers quickly finding cover which proved useful against anything but a direct hit.
Within thirty minutes of this bombardment came telegraphic reports that Plymouth and Devonport were under hostile fire.
The news had barely reached the Admiralty, when telegrams were pouring in from Manchester and Liverpool, reporting that both places had been shelled from an unknown type of craft that had appearedsixteen miles west by north of the Bar Lightship. In this case, the firing lasted only a couple of minutes or so, for on the appearance of an Isle of Man packet-boat the submarine hastily dived. That pointed to the fact that the crew of the submarine were evidently "jumpy", otherwise they would not have dived simply because of a small and unarmed steamer.
. . . . . . . . .
True to his promise, Brian Strong had a complete apparatus ready in the specified time. In the presence of a number of naval experts, the device was submitted for trials.
For the sake of secrecy, the apparatus was placed on the light cruiserCariad, the vessel with the experts on board being ordered to proceed to a position twenty miles south-east of the Nab tower.
Four modern-type seaplanes from Calshot were detailed to play the part of hostile aircraft. At the time specified, two of them were observed approaching from the nor'-east at an altitude of 2000 feet.
The inventor, feeling far from cool and collected, peered through the telescopic sights. In spite of the fact that the rays had been proved, he was assailed by doubts. Supposing something—a minute adjustment—was in error and the device failed? Or if the current should prove too strong or too weak for the sensitive instrument? He feared failure, not because the apparatus might be defective, but by reason of the ridicule that would be hurled at him.
Slowly, Uncle Brian trained the projector, stillhesitating. The nearest seaplane was now a bare two miles away, flying serenely, almost defiantly, in the cloudless sky.
"Three thousand yards," chaunted the range-finding officer.
Some of the experts shrugged their shoulders. The rays were to be released at nine thousand yards. For all they knew, the inventor had done so, but without effect.
At last, with a nervous jerk, Brian Strong depressed the lever actuating the mysterious current. The leading seaplane held on for perhaps five seconds, then like a wounded partridge, it began to dive towards the water. The pilot, retaining his presence of mind, righted his 'bus and allowed her to volplane, until the inventor trained the projector upon the second sea-plane.
At the first sign of the ignition being cut out, the pilot banked steeply. The sudden swerve brought the seaplane outside the invisible beam. The twin motors picked up again.
By this time Brian had recovered his composure. He was again an inventor, sure of himself, and tasting in full measure the joy of achievement, when not a moment before his sensations had been much like those of a nervous schoolboy faced by a tough "paper", and by no means confident of the result. The slightest deflection made it possible for the ray to hold the machine as surely as the spider's web does the enmeshed fly.
Vainly did the accomplished airman attempt to extricate his machine from the numbing influence. Looping, banking, attempting a spinning nose dive, he tried ineffectually to dodge the invisible but none the less paralysing beam, employing all the artifices of a flying man who had won experience in that perilous school—the Great War.
It was a gallant struggle. The seaplane—a mere glider encumbered by the dead weight of a useless pair of engines—was beaten.
The third and fourth shared the same fate, and whilst the four were resting on the water, the inventor demonstrated the effect of playing the ray fanwise. The moment one seaplane "started up" she was rendered powerless by the swift swing of the electric beam. Another and yet another attempted to rise, but hardly had the engines fired when they were reduced to a state of silent impotency.
"That gadget will clip the wings of the Rioguayan air fleet," exclaimed Sir John Pilrig enthusiastically.
"And the Rioguayans will clip ours," added another Admiralty official.
"Precisely," agreed the Deputy Chief of Staff. "That wipes the air menace off the board. Now there are the submarines to be taken into account. Conditions somewhat different from those during the last war. S'pose your rays aren't applicable to underwater craft, Mr. Strong, or have you managed to solve still another problem of modern warfare?"
Brian shook his head.
"'Fraid not, sir," he replied. "But there's no insurmountable difficulty, I take it. A submarine's electrical engines ought to be 'shorted' by the rays. The difficulty appears to me to be the non-adaptability of water to the conditions of a concentrated current."
"Meanwhile, we just carry on," rejoined Sir John. "After all, we didn't do so badly with depth-charges and hydrophones.... That will do, Captain Parr," he continued, addressing the Commanding-Officer of the cruiser. "There is no need for further trials. Will you please have a signal sent to the seaplanes to that effect? They can part company and return to Calshot."
The four aircraft began "taxi-ing" into the wind, prior to "taking off". To do so, they had to pass to wind'ard of theCariad, and, when at a sufficient altitude, turn and retrace their course.
"Wireless telephone message, sir!" reported the Yeoman of Signals to the Captain of theCariad. "Sea-plane reports submarine approaching within one thousand yards of ship. Request instructions."
"Port eight," ordered the owner, with the idea of turning the cruiser so that her stern, instead of her broadside, should present itself to a possible foe. "Any of our submarines out?" he demanded of the Officer of the Watch.
"None, sir," was the prompt reply. "All submarines of the Portsmouth Division were to use the Needles Channel."
"Then heaven help me if she's one of ours," exclaimed the Captain grimly. "By Jove, won't it make 'em jump!"
He indicated a group of Admiralty experts, both naval and civilian, gathered round Brian Strong's gadget on the quarter-deck.
Sir John smiled.
"They'd jump still more if a tinfish got us," he added.
The seaplane had already been given orders to attack. It was indeed a lucky chance that she had left Calshot under active service conditions. In addition to two torpedoes designed for use against surface craft, she was equipped with four delayed-action bombs, each capable of being set to explode at any depth between four and twenty-four fathoms.
It was with weapons of the latter type that the seaplane was about to deal drastically with her submerged foe.
The latter was the submersible cruiser that had recently bombed Portsmouth and Southampton. She was now proceeding up-channel intent upon causing a little annoyance at Dover.
Unfortunately for her, she was unaware of the presence of the seaplanes; but she had spotted the slowly movingCariadand had marked her down for an easy prey.
The light cruiser had swung gently through eight points of the compass. Captain Parr had purposely refrained from ordering increased speed lest the submarine might "smell a rat". On her part, theRioguayan craft was not able to gain on the cruiser, but was hanging on in the hope that theCariadwould again alter helm and thus present a target that was almost impossible to be missed by the deadly torpedo. During the conversation between Sir John Pilrig and the Captain of theCariad, Brian Strong had rejoined Peter, who had been closely questioned by the experts concerning the anti-aircraft device.
In complete ignorance of the presence of the Rioguayan submarine, the group of experts transferred their attention to the seaplane that had detached herself from her consorts and was now hovering in wide circles over the clearly-defined hull of her lawful prey.
A dark object dropped from the fuselage, quickly followed by another, their impact with the water throwing up a tall column of spray.
"What is that fellow doing?" began Uncle Brian, but before he could complete the sentence a muffled roar shook the air. A thick cloud of greasy black smoke shot up, mushroom-shaped... the rush of subsiding water hurled high above the normal surface deadened the long-drawn-out reverberations of the explosion.... TheCariadrolled lazily to the wash caused by the violent displacement of hundreds of tons of water.
It seemed an interminable time before the straight snout and the net-cutting device of the Rioguayan submersible rose for a brief interval above the pool of oil—sufficient for theCariadto establish the certainty that the craft was not a British one.
The submarine had been hit right aft, the explosioncompletely shattering the hull abaft the Diesel-engine room. The for'ard portion was, however, still practically intact.
TheCariad'sengines were stopped. Captain Parr was seemingly in no hurry to take his ship from that forbidding spot. Nor did he close in order to drop a mark-buoy over the wreckage.
A quarter of an hour had passed. The seaplanes, their work accomplished, were out of sight. The light cruiser still lingered. At the microphone apparatus a grave-faced watch-keeping lieutenant was listening, and not listening in vain, for auricular evidences of what was taking place within the as yet water-tight sections of the submersible.
Suddenly the muffled roar of a second explosion, of lesser magnitude than that of the first, was borne to the ears of the watchers on the cruiser's deck and superstructure. A thin cloud of vile-smelling smoke filtered through the agitated waves and drifted athwart theCariad.
The Deputy Chief of Staff turned inquiringly to Captain Parr. His hands were trembling perceptibly and his tanned features had assumed a greyish hue.
"Well?" he inquired laconically.
"Done themselves in, poor wretches," replied the owner. "They've detonated the warhead of one of their torpedoes.... Either that or a lingering death."
The Captain turned to order speed for fifteen knots. Sir John left the bridge and made his way to the quarter-deck to rejoin his colleagues.
"That apparatus of yours, Mr. Strong," he observed in level tones, "is perfectly satisfactory. How many can you guarantee within a fortnight?"
He paused and laid his hand upon Brian's masterpiece.
"If only you could adapt it for submarine work," he continued, "you would become the greatest humanitarian of the decade—of the century. There would be none of that brutal business we've just witnessed.... Fifty in a fortnight, Mr. Strong? Excellent! Carry on, and let's have the goods."
During the next fortnight, Brian Strong kept his augmented staff hard at work. Ninety men were employed in turning out numbers of the apparatus that was to knock the Rioguayan air fleet out of the running. In three shifts the enthusiastic men toiled, Brian personally superintending two shifts a day, while Peter was in charge of the third.
Meanwhile the personnel of the Royal Navy was being strongly increased. Ex-officers and men volunteered and were gladly accepted. The fleet reserve was called up, the R.N.R. and R.N.V.R. veterans of the Great War offering their services in shoals.
The existing ships, even including those hastily brought forward for commission, were in danger of being over-manned. Owing to the wholesale scrapping of serviceable warships, there were available roughly three times the number of trained men actually required to put every existing ship into commission.
Amongst the ex-officers regranted a commission was Peter Corbold. Without identifying himself as a relative of the inventor of the mysterious ray, he hadmade an application through the usual channel for service afloat. Now that the apparatus was tested and adopted by the British Government, he felt that he was no longer bound to remain an assistant experimenter. But he rather dreaded breaking the news to Uncle Brian. Peter had a lurking suspicion that it was hardly fair to his relative.
During a brief spell in the workshops, Peter found an opportunity of broaching the news.
Uncle Brian listened quietly. Hardly a muscle of his face moved during the announcement.
"That's all right, Peter," he said, when his nephew had unburdened himself. "Quite all right, my boy. As a matter of fact, I knew how keen you were to volunteer for sea service, so I approached Sir John Pilrig on the subject. You'll find that you'll be appointed to theReboundas lieutenant borne for wireless duties."
"Wireless duties!" exclaimed Peter. "Precious little I know about that."
Uncle Brian winked.
"Camouflage," he rejoined. "You're in charge of the anti-aircraft apparatus to be installed on board the flagship. It wouldn't do to let everybody know. In war-time, one must not call a spade a spade. It must be described by some other name and be disguised to resemble something that it is not."
Two days later, Peter Corbold's appointment to H.M.S.Reboundwas announced.
TheReboundwas a post-war battleship, of 40,000tons, armed with eight 15-inch guns, and embodying many details of construction that bitter experience at Jutland had taught the naval constructor. At present, she was at Bermuda with the rest of the small, but efficient, squadron that represented the total available force at the Empire's disposal without seriously impairing her naval resources elsewhere.
Diplomacy backed up by the guns of the British Navy had all but settled the Near Eastern question. British warships on the East Indian station were an invaluable asset in keeping a vast section of a fanatical India under control, even though the seat of incipient disorder was eight hundred miles from the Arabian Sea. A squadron lying off Suakin and Port Sudan had a salutary effect upon the fractious dervishes of Darfur and Kordofan; while by the same token the Egyptian Nationalists were gently but firmly called to order.
The withdrawal of any of these vessels would inevitably result in wide-spread trouble that would with certainty lead to a world-wide war. Almost too late came the realization that the drastic curtailment of the British Navy left the Empire in desperate straits, with no margin for emergencies.
Meanwhile, the squadron detailed for South American waters had been held up at Bermuda, pending the arrival of the anti-aircraft apparatus, which was now being turned out in sufficient numbers to render the ships invulnerable to the attacks of the Rioguayan flying-boats.
At length, the initial supply of Brian Strong's device was ready. The destroyerGreyhoundwas ordered to proceed with the sets of apparatus to Bermuda and to take supernumeraries to the fleet.
Amongst the latter was Peter Corbold, with the rank of full lieutenant.
The voyage out was uneventful. At Bermuda, Peter reported on board the flagship, which, with theRepulse,Royal Oak, andRetrench, comprised the capital ships of the small but efficient fleet that was to try conclusions with the numerically superior battleships of Rioguay.
Having reported himself to the officer of the watch and been introduced to the Captain, Peter was escorted to the ward-room. Here he looked for familiar faces, and he did not look in vain. Amongst the officers were several who had been in his term at Dartmouth.
According to the custom of the service, newly joined officers are given twenty-four hours to "shake down". During that period they are excused duty in order to allow them to become acquainted with the internal arrangements of the ship.
Peter, with his usual keenness, was making a tour round, under the guidance of the "gunnery jack", when he was "barged into" by a burly "two striper", who dealt him a hearty whack on the shoulders.
In the dim light, for the meeting took place in the electrically-lighted passage between the engine-rooms, Peter was at a loss to establish the identity of the officer with the boisterous greeting.
"Mouldy blighter," exclaimed the lieutenant. Then Peter knew.
"Weeds, old son," he ejaculated. "I didn't expect to find you here."
"But I did," replied Cavendish; "heard you were appointed. Saw you coming up over the side, in point of fact, only I couldn't hail you. My watch—still on it," he added hurriedly. "See you later, old thing."
Cavendish, with several of the other survivors of theComplex, had been "turned over" to the flagship on her arrival at Bermuda a week previously, so that her normal complement was now exceeded. It was the same with the rest of the fleet. Trained officers and men were plentiful. The deficiency lay in the number of ships available.
After "seven-bell" tea the chums met again.
"So you're the new gadget expert, I hear," said Cavendish. "Something that's going to make the Rioguayans feel the breeze, eh? What sort of 'ujah' is it?"
Peter explained.
"That sounds all right," remarked the sceptical Cavendish. "It's been tested and all that; but will it stand concussion when we're in action?"
"It will stand up to it as well as any searchlight," declared Peter. "While we were testing the gadget an enemy submarine was depth-charged about three hundred yards off. That was some concussion! and I examined the apparatus afterwards. It was O.K."
"Nothing like our principal armament firing salvoes,"said Cavendish. "My action station is 13 turret. Where's yours?"
"Fore-top, I believe," replied Peter. "Not sure, though. It depends, so the Commander informs me, upon the disposition of the little stunt I'm supposed to be in charge of. When are we going south, do you know?"
Cavendish shook his head.
"Waiting for the oil-tankers, I believe. And there's trouble with theRepulse'sunder-water fittings. We can't go without her. Dockyard divers might fix up the damage. Wonder if the Rioguayan navy will come out, or will it act like the Hun High Seas Fleet? Hello, what's that? General signal."
The two officers were pacing that side of the quarter-deck which was theirs by custom. The other side was by the same tradition the owner's.
From the signal yard and almost immediately above their heads a hoist of gaily-coloured bunting fluttered in the breeze.
It was the signal to "weigh and proceed".
Cavendish gave a low whistle. "What's up now?" he asked.
A messenger from the decoding officer came hurrying aft. The lieutenant stopped him, and repeated his question.
"They're out, sir," replied the man, saluting. "Enemy have appeared in force off Barbadoes and Barbuda."
"Good business, Peter," ejaculated Cavendish."They're raiding. Will try to bust up Jamaica before they've done. We'll give it to 'em in the neck."
For the next half-hour a scene of bustling activity took place. Steam pinnaces were scurrying between the ships and the dockyard, picking up liberty men, who had been hastily recalled to duty. The final consignments of urgent stores were being hurriedly unloaded from lighters alongside the warships. Cruisers and destroyers not lying at moorings were already shortening cable. Derricks were swinging in and out as they hoisted the heavy boom-boats. The signal halliard blocks werecheepingas hoist after hoist of bunting rose and fell from the ship's upper-bridges; the semaphores waved their arms with bewildering rapidity as if mutually bewailing their inability to join in the din. Above all other sounds came the hiss of escaping steam.
It was a chance—a chance at long odds—but the Admiral was throwing away no opportunity.
The Rioguayan fleet was out. Possibly in ignorance of the presence of the British warships concentrated at Bermuda, the Republicans thought it a propitious moment to carry out a "sweep" amongst the Windward Islands. At a moderate estimate, they might reach a point some eight hundred miles from their base at San Antonio. Bermuda was approximately 1200 miles away from the estuary of the Rio Guaya. The proposition that confronted the British admiral was the chance of being able to intercept the enemy before the latter gained the shelter afforded by the neutralwaters of the Republics of San Valodar and San Benito.
"Do you think they'll fight, sir?" inquired a midshipman, as he passed Cavendish on his way to the fire-bridge. Cavendish, by virtue of his having been in action with theCerro Algarrobo, was regarded by the members of the gun-room as an unimpeachable authority on Rioguayan matters.
"They probably will," was the non-committal reply.
"Hurrah!" exclaimed the "snottie". "Won't it be something to write home about!"
Poldene, the Paymaster-Commander, who happened to overhear the conversation, stopped to speak to the two lieutenants.
"That youngster," he remarked, nodding in the direction of the receding midshipman, "that youngster is a bit too optimistic. I wonder whether he'll sing the same tune after the show's over?"
"It'll be a pretty stiff business," declared Cavendish. "Those fellows fight when they're cornered—fight like a cargo of mad devils—'specially if they think they're going to win. Spanish blood, you know."
"They want teaching a lesson," continued Poldene, "and we'll do it. But, by Jove, I don't mind admitting that I funk going into action."
The Paymaster-Commander wore the ribbon of the D.S.O., awarded him for a particularly gallant deed at Jutland. He had seen the real thing, shorn of all the ornamental trappings of glory. A vision of a shell-shattered battery, tenanted only by mangled humanbeings and illuminated by the vivid white glare from a pile of burning cordite cartridges only three yards distant from the open ammunition hoist—that was his sole clear recollection of the greatest naval battle that the world had seen.
No, Poldene did not hanker after another similar experience. One was enough, more than enough, for a lifetime. Almost without exception, the older officers and men who had been under fire during the Great War held similar views. But as the present jobhadto be done, they jolly well meant to do it thoroughly.
The British ships had a stupendous task in front of them. Apart from the disadvantage of numerical inferiority, they were fighting thousands of miles from home waters. There was no docking accommodation for the battleships within a few hours' steaming. The smaller "lame ducks" might be patched up in the neglected dockyard at Kingston, Jamaica, and also at Bermuda. In either case, it was a long distance for a shell-torn vessel to go. The wavering neutrality of San Valodar and San Benito had also to be taken into account. A slight success of the Rioguayan arms might turn the scale and induce those two Republics to declare war.
But one thing the Rioguayans had grossly under-estimated—the character of the man behind the gun.
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-savingwaistcoat, 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 theReboundlooked 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-finderwas 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 withhis 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 theCadoganthat 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 cominghisway. Instinctively he ducked behind the thin steelplating 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.
TheReboundhad 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 concussionwas 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 theRoyal Oakand 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 theheat. 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 theQueen Marystunt," 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 theReboundwould 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 theReboundwas 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 nolarger 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-readytourniquet. 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 inthe 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, wasbecoming 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.