The English Channel was left behind two days later, the battleship beginning once more her strife with the broad Atlantic. The skies were gray and the water of that dull leaden hue which to the experienced eyes of the sailor means trouble.
Before that afternoon had come to a close huge seas were breaking over the forecastle, sending the spray over the bridge and high up on the military masts.
"The glass is falling, sir," announced the navigating officer.
"Yes; we are in for a rough night," answered the captain. "Is all secure, Mr. Coates?" he asked, turning to the executive officer.
"All is secure, sir."
The quarter-deck, long since, had begun shipping seas, so that now it was wholly awash, the deck being buried beneath tons of water, save now and then when it would rise, dripping, from the sea, only to bury itself again a few minutes later, the after flag staff disappearing beneath the green seas that swept over it.
Sea after sea would rise over the forecastle, leap the forward turret, striking the weather cloths of the bridge with a swish and a thud, then go hissing past the officers on the bridge with terrific speed.
Watches had been set as if the hour were late, for it was becoming more and more difficult to see ahead, in the blinding salt spray that hung over the ship like a fog.
As far as the eye could reach the sea was a mass of angry, swirling waters, here and there rising into great white-capped mountains.
All at once the voice of the lookout in the tops sang out a new call.