The illusion of our sole movement is reversed as the mass of the other vessel bears away from us. The unbroken sea-line offers no further mark to judge our swing; we seem to have become suddenly as immobile as a pier-head, while our neighbour starts from our forefoot in an apparent outrush, closing and opening the line of her masts and funnels like shutting and throwing wide the panels of a door.
With no indecision now we pull the lever over hood of the telegraph. One case is cleared; there still remains the peril of the lurking submarine. The destroyers are busy on the chase, manœuvring at utmost speed and exploding depth-charges in the area. We are now some distance from them but the crash of their explosion sends an under-running shock to us still. Our sheer has brought us broadside on to the position from which the enemy loosed off his torpedo. At full astern we bring up and swing over towards the receding convoy. If we are barred from carrying on a zigzag by the mishap to our helm, we can still put a crazy gait on her by using the engines. Backing and coming ahead, we make little progress, but at least we present no sitting target.
Reports come through from aft that the broken chain, springing from a fractured link, has jammed hard under the quadrant; the engineers are at work, jacking up to release the links; they will be cleared in ten minutes! The chief asks for the engines to be stopped; sternway is putting purchase on the binding pressure of the rudder. Reluctantly we bring up and lie-to. In no mood to advertise our distress, we lower the 'not under command' signals, and summon what patience may be left to us to await completion of repairs.
A long 'ten minutes!' Every second's tick seems fraught with a new anxiety. Fearfully we scan the sea around, probing the line of each chance ripple for sight of an upstanding pin-point. Anon, steam pressure rises and thunders through the exhaust, throwing a battery of spurting white vapour to the sky, and letting even the sea-birds know we are crippled and helpless.
The torpedoed ship still floats, though with a dangerous list and her stern low in the water. A sloop is taking her in tow, and we gather assurance of her state in the transport's boats still hanging from the davits; they have not abandoned. She falters at the end of the long tow-rope and sheers wildly in the wake of her salvor. The convoy has vanished into the grey of the east, and only a lingering smoke-wreath marks the bearing where they have entered the mist. The sun has gone, leaving but little afterglow to lengthen twilight; it will soon be dark. Apparently satisfied with their work the destroyers cease fire; whether there is oil on their troubled waters we cannot see. They linger a while, turning, then go on in the wake of the convoy. One turns north towards us, with a busy windmiller of a signalman a-top the bridge-house. "What is the matter? Do you wish to be towed?" We explain our case, and receive an answer that she will stand by, "but use utmost dispatch effect repair."
'Use utmost dispatch'! With every minute, as the time passes, goes our chance of regaining our station in the convoy; we are in ill content to linger! We have a liking for our chief engineer—a respect, an admiration—but never such a love as when he comes to the bridge-ladder, grimy, and handling his scrap of waste. "They're coupling up now! A job we had! Chain jammed and packed under th' quadrant, like it had been set by a hydraulic ram! If that one landed near Fritz, he'll trouble us no more!"
EVENING: THE MERSEY FROM THE LANDING-STAGE
With the engines turning merrily, and helm governance under our hand, we regain composure. Our task is yet none too easy. Even at our utmost speed we cannot now rejoin the convoy before nightfall; snaking through the ships in the dark to take up station offers another harassing night out! Still, it might be worse—much worse! We think of the torpedoed ship towing so slowly abeam—of the khaki swarm on our decks, 'the light on all faces turned on one cant.' Surely our luck is in! The infection of the measured beat in our progress recalls a job unfinished; we step into the chart-room and take up pencil and dividers.