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 theirunions, 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 inthe 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. Wrigglinglike 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 thirtycases, 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 Idoknow," 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 thiscompartment.
image: 06_weeds.jpg[Illustration: "WEEDS! BEAR A HAND!"Page275]
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.
TheReboundhad 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. TheNumancia, 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 destroyerAudax. TheAudaxherself was in a sinking condition, so her commander promptly turned overhis crew to the prize, secured the survivors of the Rioguayan under hatches, and compelled the republican engine-room ratings to carry on. TheNumanciawas 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 theReboundwas 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 theRoyal Oakand 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 noticedthat 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 wereon 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 nearlytime 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."
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 bulkheadseparating the ward-roomfrom 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 andplates, 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 fightingman 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 shellhad 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 theRebound. 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. Butbefore 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.
TheReboundwas 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 fightat 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, themoralof 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 theattack 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. TheReboundhad been seriously damaged; theRoyal Oakhad received three big shells just above the waterline, but, although listing to starboard, was able to maintain her station. TheRetrenchhad practically all the guns in her battery on the port side put out of action, but her turret guns were undamaged. TheRepulse, 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 theReboundaccounted 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 missilesfailing 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?
Grey dawn revealed the batteredRebound, still steaming stern-foremost, within the wide estuary of the Rio Guaya. Four miles to the west'ard lay her three sister-battleships, with their attendant light cruisers and destroyers, awaiting daybreak before pushing on up the broad river as far as they could without violating the territorial waters of San Valodar and San Benito.
There was a widely expressed hope amongst the officers and crew of the British fleet, that one of these republics would throw in her lot with the enemy. That would leave the admiral a comparatively free hand, since he would no longer be obliged to respect the zone over which either San Valodar or San Benito claimed jurisdiction. As things stood, there was a curious anomaly. The Rioguayan fleet had the right to the free use of the river below Sambrombon Island, although both passages were controlled by neutral states. Until the British fleet could contrive to obtain sanction, they were unable to proceed muchfarther without causing an international affair which might call for protests from the Powers.
The British air squadron attached to the fleet was also unable to approach Rioguayan territory, owing to the republic's possession of Brian Strong's anti-aircraft rays. On their part the Rioguayan flying-boats were useless against the British fleet, armed as it was with the ray-projecting apparatus.
The only course open, apparently, was to blockade Rioguay by sea, but this promised to be a most unsatisfactory operation. The republic was practically self-supporting; it could still maintain trade with the neighbouring republics despite any active interference on the part of the British navy.
The defeat at sea hardly troubled President Jaime Samuda. It was a regrettable occurrence, from a national point of view, but he still hoped for great things from the powerful aerial armada of the republic. Even if air-power failed, he could still hope that the ineffectual blockade would be maintained until either the British got tired of "watching the mouse-hole", or else became involved in embarrassing complications elsewhere. His own position seemed so secure that never for one moment did President Jaime Samuda think seriously upon the possibility of a revolution.
Corbold and Cavendish had completed their "trick", Their reliefs had taken over and they were on their way below to enjoy a well-earned sleep.
Just as they were about to enter the battery door, there was a shout of "periscope one point on thestarboard bow!" For the present, the stern of the ship was considered to be the bows for manoeuvring purposes, consequently the starboard side became the port and vice versa.
The two chums ran to the rail and, leaning out, could discern the object in question at a distance of about two hundred yards from the ship.
There was no time to be lost. The Captain on the bridge had to decide quickly. Checking his first impulse to ram the submarine—he remembered the possibility of having the propeller blades smashed and the rudder buckled—he bore away a couple of points, at the same time ordering the Q.F. guns to open fire.
A moment later he countermanded the order, for a destroyer, observing the pole-like object in the slanting rays of the early morning sun, starboarded helm and charged straight for the periscope.
Her youthful lieutenant-commander, in his zeal, had but one thought—to smash the submarine's hull with the destroyer's knife-like stem before the former could fire her torpedo at the increasingly favourable target that theReboundwas momentarily presenting.
In vain the battleship signalled to her to stand clear and destroy the periscope by means of gunfire and then finish off the blinded submarine with depth-charges. All on the destroyer's bridge had eyes for nothing but the hostile periscope.
TheReboundcould do nothing, Already the destroyer was masking her quick-firers. A warningblast from the syren did attract attention, but only when it was too late.
The destroyer's bows hit the periscope fairly and squarely. There was no rending of steel, no release of air and oil from the submarine, for the simple reason that there was no submarine there. The periscope was a dummy, but to it were attached two mines by means of long spans of wire.
Five seconds later, the mines, swung inwards by the strain upon the spans, exploded simultaneously on either side of the destroyer. Before the upheaval of smoke and spray had dispersed, the luckless destroyer had vanished, leaving half a dozen men swimming aimlessly in an ever increasing pool of oil.
Up dashed another destroyer, the survivors were picked up, and the little craft hurried on ahead of the battleship, with paravanes towing in order to detonate any other mines that might be in the vicinity.
The lesson, obtained at a price, was not thrown away. It proved that the Rioguayans had not resolved to defend the river by means of submarines, otherwise they would not have indiscriminately sown mines which would prove a menace not only to the British surface craft but to their own submarines.
"Ain't ours a nappy 'ome?" inquired Cavendish, as the two lieutenants surveyed the remains of their cabins, which before the action had adjoined each other. Now they were knocked into one. That saved the trouble of Cavendish having to open two doors when he wanted to "kag" with his chum; but theremoval of the bulkhead did not end the damage. Both cabins had been completely gutted. Although the blackened débris had been cleared away, the nauseating smell of burnt corticene hung about persistently. Scuttles and dead-lights had disappeared, and although the ragged apertures where they had been were covered with iron plates bolted to the side, there was a distressing lack of light and fresh air. Neither officer possessed any clothes other than those he stood up in, and they were showing considerable evidence of the ordeal through which their wearers had passed. Until theReboundput into port, the chums would have to depend upon the generosity of their brother-officers for the replacement of deficiencies in their wardrobe; and as almost every officer on board had suffered loss of personal gear, there looked like being a stupendous famine in the clothing line before very long.
A visit to the bathroom revealed an equally unsatisfactory state of affairs, no other washing arrangements being available than a metal hand-basin and a meagre supply of cold water.
But in less than ten minutes, Corbold and Cavendish, with most of the dirt and grime removed, were sound asleep on strips of canvas laid upon the floor of their respective cabins.
They were awakened at eight bells (noon) by tremendous rounds of cheering. Officers and crew had fallen in by divisions on the quarter-deck, where a wireless message from the Admiralty was read out,congratulating the fleet on its brilliant achievement.
My Lords had lost no time in broadcasting the news of the victory. There was no halting, beating-about-the-bush wording. The victory was claimed, our losses and those of the enemy given, together with the information that the remnants of the Rioguayan ships were in full flight.
The moral effect of thiscommuniquéwas tremendous. It helped materially to settle certain Eastern problems, and that so quickly that the Admiralty were able to order five capital ships with light cruisers and destroyers to leave the Mediterranean for South American waters.
Peter and his chum were too late to hear the Admiralty order read out, but on the cheering dying away the Captain raised his hand for silence.
It was indeed momentous news that followed.
Hondo, a powerful Asiatic State, had suddenly made war on the Associated Republic of America. The navy of the latter had been concentrated on the Pacific coast, but the points raised in the dispute seemed to have been satisfactorily settled. Then the wily Asiatics struck suddenly and struck hard. The Associated Republic's combined squadrons ran full tilt into a mine-field laid off the Mexican coast, Eight of their battleships, four battle-cruisers, and numerous smaller craft were destroyed, and in the confusion that ensued the Hondese submarines followed up the blow by torpedoing another half-dozen big ships. The remainder scattered, some running for the Panama Canal,others making for San Paulo. The latter place was bombarded by Hondese battleships and aircraft, while other aircraft had played havoc with the Pacific ports of the Republic.
Already the Associated Republican Government had applied to Great Britain for aid.
The latest report stated that Great Britain was unable to render assistance, owing to the pressing claims upon her limited navy; but she suggested a conference—a conference, when the Hondese were actively hammering upon the Pacific gate of the Associated Republic!
Having communicated this startling information, the Captain ordered "Pipe down" and the crew dispersed to their various stations to discuss and argue further about the matter.
The general opinion amongst the officers was that the Associated Republic's predicament was Britain's opportunity, as far as Rioguay was concerned. The Monroe Doctrine would become a "wash out". There was nothing to prevent the British admiral sending an ultimatum to the Republic of San Benito demanding right of way through her territorial waters to precisely the same extent as the Rioguayan Republic enjoyed it.
This demand was sent. San Benito acquiesced in a very chastened mood. She had read and accepted the lesson of the Writing on the Wall.
Meanwhile, oil-tankers had replenished the fuel supply of the British warships. TheEgmontandEdgcumbe, battle-cruisers, had arrived hot-foot from Malta, and the fleet was now ready to bring President Jaime Samuda to heel.
On the evening before the day fixed for the fleet to ascend the river and attack the batteries and naval port of San Antonio, Peter was keeping middle watch.
All around, in steadily increasing numbers, lay the fleet, silent and vigilant. Not a light was visible, save when a masthead signal lamp winked its message either to or from the "flag". Even the searchlights were screened, since the navigable channel well above the anchorage had been heavily mined against the chance of a surprise attack by hostile submarines. As for the Rioguayan destroyers, these were ruled out of count. Their experience during the battle had so shaken themoralof both officers and men, that they absolutely refused to come out, and had in consequence been ordered by President Jaime Samuda to form a shore-defence corps.
Pacing alertly up and down the bridge, Peter was approached by a yeoman of signals.
"Message from Flag, sir," he reported.
The lieutenant took the signal pad into the chartroom. Then he gave a low whistle.
The sensitive microphones on board theRoyal Oakhad detected the approach of a large number of aircraft, bearing north-west by north. That meant that, assuming the aircraft were the Rioguayan flying-boats, the hostile forces had made a wide detour and were approaching over San Valodarian territory.
"Now we're going to see something," commented Peter, as he passed the message to a side-boy to convey it to the Skipper.
The rest of the fleet had been simultaneously warned by General Signal. Every searchlight was "running", although carefully screened; and in conjunction with each searchlight was a "Strong" anti-aircraft projector.
As a precautionary measure, the crews of the quick-firers were called to action stations, but already there was sufficient confidence in the rays to warrant the assumption that the forthcoming task would not require the aid of gunnery.
Throughout the darkened fleet an uncanny silence prevailed. The night was starless. There was a flat calm. The conditions for microphone detector work were excellent.
Nearer and nearer came the hostile flying-boats, their direction and distance being so accurately recorded that they derived no advantage by delivering a night attack.
At length the dull rumble of their propellers became faintly audible. In spite of devices calculated to muffle the noise, it was impossible to smother the beats of fifty or sixty aerial propellers working in unison.
"Bearing 55 degrees; elevation 22 degrees," announced the range-finding, officer at the searchlight director station.
Then, fifteen seconds later: "bearing 60 degrees; elevation 25 degrees."