Part 10 (1/2)

CHAPTER X--Battered but Unconquered

Almost as in a dream Sefton realized that he was still alive. His hearing was practically done for, owing to the terrific detonation of the guns. His eyes were red and smarting from the effects of numerous particles of soot and dust that had drifted in through the sighting apertures of the fire-control station. He could scarcely speak, his throat was parched and gripped by a terrible thirst. His borrowed uniform was rent in several places, while the right leg of his trousers was warm and moist. Unknown to him, a splinter of metal had cut a clean gash just above the knee. In the excitement of the action he had not felt the wound. Now it was beginning to throb painfully.

”The stick will go by the board before long,” remarked an officer, as the crippled foremast gave a sickening jerk with the roll of the s.h.i.+p to starboard. ”The sooner we get out of this the better, I fancy.”

It was easier said than done. Even if the attention of the men on deck--and they were busily engaged with hoses in quelling the numerous small outbreaks of fire amids.h.i.+ps--could be attracted, it was wellnigh impossible to form a means of communication with the elevated masthead platform.

”Worth risking it?” queried Sefton's chum, indicating the solitary shroud on either side of the mast.

The sub shook his head.

”A tall order,” he replied. ”I don't seem to have the strength of a steerage rat for a swarm-down from this height. No thanks, I'm not taking any.”

”If we had only a coil of signal halyard,” remarked the range-finding officer tentatively, ”we might---- But there isn't a couple of fathoms of line left aloft.”

He thrust his head and shoulders through a hole in the steel plating, and surveyed the scene 100 feet below. Viewed from that dizzy height, the prospect of descending by means of a wire stay was not inviting.

”Hallo!” he exclaimed. ”There's a bluejacket swarming aloft.”

”Bluejacket” was hardly a strictly correct description, for climbing hand over hand was a man clad only in a pair of canvas trousers. From his waist upwards he was stripped. His feet, too, were bare. His bronzed face, neck, and hands stood out in vivid contrast to the whiteness of the rest of the skin. His muscles, like whipcord, rippled as he ascended with a steady, even movement towards the isolated foretop. From his belt trailed a line the coils of which were being carefully ”paid out” by a seaman standing on the extremity of the badly-damaged fore-bridge.

Half-way up the shroud the climber paused to regain his breath. As he threw back his head to gauge the remaining distance, his face was revealed to the group on the swaying platform.

”By George!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Sefton's chum. ”It's the man you went into the ditch after.”

It was Able Seaman Brown. Having lost touch with his officer during the engagement, his first thoughts after the _Warrior_ had ceased fire were for the sub who had risked his life on his behalf. Enquiries elicited the information that Sefton had been last seen while ascending to the fire-control platform.

”Blow me if they ain't properly cut off,” muttered the man, as he eyed the precarious perch. ”Here goes.”

Obtaining the consent of one of the officers to attempt his perilous ascent, A.B. Brown was now well on his way to establish communication with the deck.

Perspiring from every pore, his muscles creaking under the strain, the h.o.r.n.y palms of his hands lacerated by the frayed strands of the wire, the seaman at length gained one of the angle-girders upon which the platform was bolted. Here he remained for fully five minutes before essaying the last part of his journey.

Hanging from the metal structure was a block, from which the running-gear had long since ”rendered through”. The man examined it critically. To all outward appearance it seemed to be sound.

Jockeying himself along the sharp-edged angle-plate, Brown rove the end of the rope through the block, and ”paid out” until the line touched the deck. Fortunately there was enough to spare. Three or four of the _Warrior's_ crew were standing by to give a.s.sistance, and quickly bent a ”bos'n's chair” to one end of the rope.

”Come along, sir,” exclaimed the A.B. encouragingly. ”We'll have the lot of you down in a jiffy.”

He held out his hand to steady Sefton on his dizzy journey along the metal ”bracket”, until a sudden thought flashed across his mind. What if the rope carried away or the pulley-block was defective?

”Hold on, sir,” he said. ”I'll show you the way down.”

He signalled for the bos'n's chair to be sent aloft, reflecting that if the appliance were strong enough to bear his weight--he could give Sefton nearly a couple of stones--the sub would run very little risk.

If, on the other hand, the gear carried away, he reflected grimly, his ”number would be up”.

Sliding into the wooden seat, the A.B. motioned to his comrades to lower. Handsomely the men paid out the comparatively frail rope until Brown's bare feet came in contact with the bridge planking.

Five minutes later, the three seamen who had been attending to the voice-tubes in the fire-control station were lowered into safety, in spite of the fact that one was in a semi-conscious condition owing to a shrapnel wound in his head.

Sefton was the next to descend, after a spirited argument with his brother sub on the etiquette of seniority, until the lieutenant settled his subordinate's dispute by declaring that Sefton was a guest, and that the question of precedence did not hold good in present circ.u.mstances.