For nearly half a mile the _Nomad_ carried way, until she came to a stop between the lines. The last Crosthwaite saw of her was the destroyer, still afloat, maintaining a desultory fire, although a stationary target for an overwhelming number of hostile guns.

Suddenly Crosthwaite staggered, hurled sideways by an invisible force.

The guard-rail, which he was still gripping, was no longer supported by the stanchions. Falling heavily upon the bridge, he was within an ace of dropping overboard when a signalman gripped him by the ankles.

The lieutenant-commander regained his feet in an instant, barely conscious of his narrow escape, for a 4-inch sh.e.l.l had pa.s.sed so close to him that the windage had capsized him. Crashing aft, the projectile demolished the short mast supporting the wireless, hurling the fragments upon the deck. The White Ensign, which had fluttered from this masthead during the action, had blown against the mounting of the after 4-inch gun. Although little more than a riddled piece of bunting, it was secured by one of the men and lashed to the stump of the mast.

Hardly had the dauntless man completed his self-imposed task when another sh.e.l.l struck the _Calder_ obliquely on the port bow.

Penetrating the fo'c'sle, it burst with a m.u.f.fled report, but, instead of shattering the for'ard part of the destroyer, it emitted dense clouds of greenish-yellow smoke that eddied through the shattered plating on the fore-deck and drifted sullenly aft.

In a second Crosthwaite realized the danger. The sh.e.l.l had been filled with poisonous gas, and just at the time when the ship was getting within torpedo-range, and the men had to direct all their energies upon loosing the 21-inch weapons, the asphyxiating fumes threatened to put them, at least temporarily, out of action.

With his hands clasped to his mouth and nostrils Crosthwaite awaited the noxious vapour, hoping that the head wind caused by the rush of the destroyer through the water would quickly disperse the poison; but with horrible persistence the deadly smoke hovered betwixt the various projections on deck.

He was conscious of the quartermaster and the others on the bridge staggering, with their fingers frantically gripping their throats. The signalman who had previously saved his commanding officer from falling overboard was writhing in agony, clawing at whatever came to hand, until in a frenzy he took a flying leap over the side and sank like a stone.

Left to herself, the _Calder_ began a broad sweep to starboard. As she did so, the fumes drifted to leeward, yet not before the men standing by the pair of torpedo-tubes were temporarily overcome by the diabolical product of German _Kultur_.

In vain Crosthwaite attempted to rally the men. It was either now or never, for, unless the torpedoes were fired, the opportunity would be gone. He tried to shout, but no sound came from his tortured throat.

Between the eddying clouds of steam and smoke he could discern the torpedo-men moving like stupefied bees.

With an effort the lieutenant-commander regained his voice. He turned to the quartermaster, who, although still gasping for breath, had come through the terrible ordeal with comparatively slight ill-effects.

"Keep her steady on her helm," exclaimed Crosthwaite, and, literally tumbling down the bridge ladder, he made his way aft to the torpedo-tubes.

Pushing aside two victims of the poison-gas, one of them the L.T.O., who lay athwart the racer, the lieutenant-commander gripped the training-wheel and slewed the pair of tubes until they were nearly broad on the beam. At 2000 yards distance three large battle-cruisers over-lapped, presenting a target nearly 1800 feet in length. To miss such an objective seemed almost impossible.

With a wrench Crosthwaite dropped the firing-lever of the right-hand tube. Through the thin haze that emerged from the metal cylinder, he caught a glimpse of the gleaming, steel, cigar-shaped missile as it leapt clear and disappeared with a mighty splash beneath the water.

Then, changing over to the left-hand tube, he sent the second weapon on its errand of destruction.

A sudden and a totally unexpected swerve of the ship prevented Crosthwaite from observing the result of his single-handed efforts.

Instinctively he realized that his presence was again required on the bridge. As he hastened for'ard he almost collided with Surgeon Stirling, who, in his shirt-sleeves, had come up from below to aid the sufferers.

Seeing Crosthwaite stagger along with his features contorted and his complexion showing a sickly yellow in spite of the tan, the doctor hurried after him.

"Not this time, Doc," protested the lieutenant-commander with a wan smile, as he lurched forward. His brain was whirling under the strain of the awful ordeal, yet he was dimly conscious that something was amiss, and that at all costs he must return to his post.

He was barely in time. The quartermaster was huddled in a heap at the base of the steam steering-gear column with a ghastly wound in his thigh. The destroyer, left to her own devices, once more was bearing down upon one of her helpless consorts.

Thrusting the wheel hard over, Crosthwaite found that the vessel was still under control. Almost by a hairbreadth she sc.r.a.ped the port quarter of the crippled destroyer, whose decks were literally swept by the enemy's fire, and resembled a charnel-house. Nothing could be done to save her, for she was already on the point of foundering. Of her crew not one visible remained alive. She had fought to the death--a typical example of British pluck and endurance against overwhelming odds.

Her last torpedoes fired, the _Calder_ was free to make good her escape--if she could. Receiving a couple of glancing hits as she sped towards the shelter, she slid past the foremost of the British battle-cruisers, receiving three hearty cheers from the crew.

The second phase of the destroyer operations was over. Although not so successful as had been expected, owing to the formation having been disturbed by the encounter with the German torpedo flotillas, the dash was not without definite material gains. _Nomad_ and _Nestor_ had not returned, and were presumed to be sunk, a surmise that subsequently proved to be correct, since a portion of their crews were rescued by the German torpedo-craft.

Having brought the _Calder_ safely out of the inferno, Crosthwaite's next step was to take stock of damages and report to the commander of his flotilla.

The wireless was by this time again made serviceable, several of the crew having worked while under fire on setting up the aerials which had been carried away with the demolition of the after-mast.

Others were busily engaged in putting patches on the gaping rents in the funnel casings and stopping the sh.e.l.l-holes in the thin plating.

Fortunately the engine-room had escaped serious damage, only two casualties occurring owing to an auxiliary steam-pipe being severed by a sliver of sh.e.l.l.

On the whole the _Calder_ had come off lightly. The worst damage to personnel had been caused by the gas-sh.e.l.l, for, before the fumes had dispersed, six men had lost their lives and ten others had been incapacitated by the poisonous fumes.

"She's as fit as ever she was in my department," reported Engineer-Lieutenant Boxspanner. "Hope to goodness we shan't be ordered to haul out of it."

"I trust not," replied Crosthwaite. "Must turn a blind eye to some of the defects, I suppose. What did it feel like down below?"

Boxspanner shrugged his broad shoulders. It was the first time he had been in action, his appointment to the _Calder_ being of recent date.

"It was all right after the first half-minute or so," replied the engineer-lieutenant. "The racket at first was enough to stun a fellow.

I suppose in this job one can get used to anything. Where's Stirling, by the by?"

"Busy," replied Crosthwaite gravely. "Come and see him at work--if you can stick it."

Well it was that the Admiralty, with their customary prompt.i.tude to promote the welfare of the fighting fleet, had lost no time in appointing scores of probationary a.s.sistant surgeons to the destroyers immediately after the outbreak of hostilities. Previously no medical staff had been carried on these small craft. A casualty occurring on board, and accidents in the engine-rooms, were not of unfrequent occurrence; the patients had to rely upon the well-meant attentions of their comrades until they were transferred either to a parent ship or to one of the sh.o.r.e hospitals.

Dr. "Jimmy" Stirling was a man who took life seriously. At times he was almost pessimistic, although there were occasions when a sudden spirit of youthful exuberance would take complete possession of him.

In his shirt-sleeves, and with a blood-stained ap.r.o.n that an hour previously had been spotlessly white tied closely under his armpits, the surgeon was working with deliberate haste, performing a serious operation at a speed that would have turned a hospital probationer pale with apprehension.

The confined s.p.a.ce which had been turned into a sick-bay reeked with chloroform and iodoform. Wounded men were vying with each other in their efforts to make light of their injuries, whilst those who were able to smoke aroused the envy of their less fortunate comrades. It was considered "good form" for a patient to utter a rough-and-ready jest at his own case, while grim, but none the less sympathetic, words were bestowed upon their nearest fellow-sufferers. It was a curious physiological fact that a man who would have raved at a careless comrade for having accidentally dropped some gear, narrowly missing his head, greeted the information that he would lose his right arm with the nonchalant remark: "Anyhow, when I get home on leaf my missus can't make me dig the bloomin' allotment."

"Let's get out of this, sir," whispered the engineer-lieutenant.

"Thought it would take a lot to capsize me, but, by Jove----!"

He backed abruptly, followed by the lieutenant-commander. Stirling, deep in his task, had not noticed their presence.

A barefooted signalman, his blackened face and scorched and torn singlet bearing testimony to his part in the "sc.r.a.p", pattered along the sh.e.l.l-pitted deck, and, saluting, tendered a signal-pad to his commanding officer.

Crosthwaite took the paper and read the message scrawled thereon in violet pencil.

"H'm!" he muttered. "S'pose they want us out of it."

It was an order to the effect that the _Calder_ was to steam to a certain rendezvous, fall in with one of the parent ships, transfer wounded, and await further orders. There seemed very little possibility of the destroyer partic.i.p.ating in the night attack upon the German fleet--an operation in which the swiftly-moving British vessels might achieve greater results, even if they failed to surpa.s.s the glory they had already acquired by their wild, tempestuous dash in broad daylight.

"Almost wish I'd let the damaged wireless go for a bit," mused Crosthwaite as he made his way to the badly-shattered bridge.

CHAPTER IX--The "Warrior's" Gallant Stand

"What do you think we are up against?" asked Sefton, taking advantage of a lull in the firing to put the question to his companion in the fire-control station.

"Something big," replied the other, wiping a thin layer of coal dust and particles of burnt cordite from the lenses of his binoculars. "With this rotten mist hanging around, one has to be jolly careful not to pitch a salvo into one of our own craft. Wish to goodness I'd remembered to bring my camera along. By Jove! Wouldn't the old _Defence_ make a fine picture when she opened fire?"

"I'll fetch it for you," volunteered Sefton.