In another moment the enemy's fleet had hove in sight. Our movements in the
ten minutes preceding the fatal conflict will be best understood by
consulting the annexed diagram:--
[Illustration]
We advanced in this imposing order for five minutes. Then came a puff of
smoke, and, in less time than it takes to tell it, two thousand men had
been literally blown into thin air, their sole remnant being the left shoe
of my trusty second in command, Captain GLIMDOWSE. I trained the two
turret-guns until I had got them into perfect condition, and gave the word.
The crash that followed was terrific. One of the massive missiles went
home, and stayed there, no amount of inducement availing to bring it out
again to face the battle. The other, however, behaved as a British missile
should, and exploded in the heart of the hostile fleet. The result was
terrific. French, German and Russian Admirals by the thousand were
destroyed, their scattered fragments literally darkening the face of the
sun, and a mixed shower of iron, steel, stanchions, bollards, monster guns,
Admirals, sailors, stewards, cocked-hats, and Post Captains fell for ten
minutes without intermission from the clouds into which they had been
driven by the awful force of the explosion. I turned to my Lieutenant, who
was standing beside me, to give a necessary order. As I was about to
address him, the machine-guns in the enemy's tops belched forth a myriad
projectiles, and the unfortunate Lieutenant was swept into eternity. All
that was left of him was his right hand, which, curiously enough, remained
for a minute suspended in the air in its proper relative position to what
had been the Lieutenant's body. I mastered my emotion with an effort, as I
reverently grasped and shook the melancholy relic. Then, shedding a silent
tear, I dropped it over the side, and with an aching heart, watched it
disappear beneath the wave on which many of its former owner's happiest
hours had been spent.