It was perhaps the most singular message that had ever been sent from a sea force to a land force, but it was as well understood as it was welcome, and soon the answering signals flashed back:
"Well done, Ithuriel. Heard news. Go ahead!"
Then came the turn of the destroyers. The Ithuriel rose out of the water till her forward ram showed its point six feet above the waves. Erskine ordered full speed, and within another twenty-five minutes the tragedy of Spithead had been repeated on a smaller scale. The destroying monster rushed round the transports, hunting the torpilleurs de haute mer down one after the other as a greyhound might run rabbits down, smashed them up and sank them almost before their officers and crew had time to learn what had happened to them—and then with his searchlight Erskine signalled to the transports in the International Code, which is universally understood at sea:
"Transports steam quarter speed into harbour and surrender. If a shot is fired shall sink you as others."
Five of the six flags came down with a run and all save one of the transports made slowly for the harbour. Their commanders were wise enough to know that a demon of the deep which could sink cruisers before they could fire a shot and smash destroyers as if they were pleasure boats could make very short work of liners and cargo steamers, so they bowed to the inevitable and accepted with what grace they could defeat and capture instead of what an hour or so ago looked like certain victory. But the captain of the sixth, the one that was farthest out to sea, made a dash for liberty—or Dover.
Erskine took down the receiver and said quietly:
"Centre forward gun. Train: fire!"
The next moment a brilliant blaze of flame leapt up between the transport's funnels. They crumpled up like scorched parchment. Her whole super-structure seemed to take fire at once and she stopped.
Again flashed the signal:
"Surrender or I'll ram."