By this time the whole of the big guns of the ships are barking away, all under the careful eye of the little group of officers perched up aloft. "Salvo firing[94] on signal" is now the order, and the range, elevation, and direction of the guns are given. Once more the silence is tense. Suddenly the indicating needle of every big gun on the ship begins to move in unison. Fire! Then there is a mighty roar, and the ship shudders and pauses on its onward course. "Nasty one for somebody," says a bluejacket as he wipes the perspiration from his face and bare chest. "Hope they liked it," chimes in another as the guns are loaded again.
Now there is a loud report, followed by a crash of bent and battered metal not far off. "Pretty near one that," says a gunner. "Wonder if it has done any damage." There is no time for further inquiry; damage has been done. A large shell from the enemy has hit another barbette, and has exploded. The lieutenant in charge has been glancing through the sighting-hood; he drops like a log, and two other men have fallen beside him. A few bolt-heads have been crisply shorn off by the immense jerk of the impact, and they have fled across the steel chamber like rifle bullets; one poor fellow is killed, and a second has a leg broken. It is the price of Admiralty, and without pause a midshipman takes the lieutenant's place and "carries on."
Still the firing continues, and the air in the turret by this time is almost stifling. The electric fans have failed owing to some damage below. Presently, however, comes the welcome order, "Enemy's ship out of action. Out of the barbette, and muster on deck." A loud roar of cheering goes up; the great doors are pushed back, and the men take up their stations and watch the last throes of the enemy's ship as it lurches and sinks beneath the waves. Nothing but the work of rescue now remains. All undamaged boats are manned and hoisted out, and away they go on their errand of mercy. The battle is over and won.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE TURN OF THE TIDE.
When the army of von Kluck was sweeping through Northern France like a roaring flood, most people thought that he was aiming at Paris, the heart and centre of the country. In Chapter X. of our first volume I told you that after the great surrender at Sedan the Germans swooped down upon the beautiful capital, and began to besiege it. I also told you how, after four months of hunger and misery, it yielded, and the hosts of Germany marched through its streets in triumph.
Was Paris again to be besieged?—that was the question. The Parisians were quite sure that they would soon be ringed round by the Germans. They knew that von Kluck was rapidly approaching, and on the afternoon of 30th August they saw the first of his war hawks come swooping over the city. It dropped five bombs; but only one person was killed, and the damage done to property was slight. Attached to a sandbag which was dropped from the aeroplane was the following message: "The German army is at the gates of Paris; there is nothing left to you but to surrender." This was not quite true, but a few days later German cavalry actually were within cannon shot of the northern forts; they were as near to the towers of Notre Dame[95] as the battlements of Windsor are to the dome of St. Paul's. Scouts in motor cars were reported only nine miles from Paris itself, and it is said that German officers who had American lady friends in the city sent them notes arranging to come to tea with them!
