Alone on the deep, the boats' crews became boisterous. They sang, cheered, and yelled, confident in the assurance that they would shortly find themselves on board a British warship. Their Old Man allowed them to "work off steam". It was a natural outlet for their pent-up feelings, after days and nights of ceaseless watch and ward, followed by a glorious climax of self-sacrifice.
It was not long before two trailing clouds of smoke appeared over the eastern horizon.
"Hurrah! here come the destroyers, lads," exclaimed Captain Meredith. "Give them a cheer as they pass and then sit tight for the old Basilikon to roll up. You'll be sleeping in hammocks to-night all right."
Quickly the approaching vessels materialized into two very business-looking destroyers, each armed with five guns—four 4.7-inch, one 3-inch—and six 21-inch torpedo tubes, and credited with a speed of 35 knots. At the present moment they were doing a good 5 knots more than their designed speed, flinging showers of spray on both sides of their pronounced flare and emitting flame-tinged smoke from their glowing funnels.
Then an unexpected manoeuvre took place. The men in the boats, fully prepared to have a terrific dusting from the swell of the swiftly-moving destroyers, had resumed their oars and were heading so as to meet the curling bow waves end on.
Instead of holding on their course, which would have taken them not less than half a mile from the nearest boat, the destroyers altered helm, one passing on either side of the little flotilla. Losing way under the reverse action of their quadruple propellers, the destroyers came to a standstill.
"On board, every mother's son of you!" shouted an officer from the bridge of the Messines.
The survivors of the Complex could hardly realize their good fortune. They were to be in at the death after all. They were to witness, and perhaps take an active part in, the smashing up of the so-called Holton Heath, otherwise the Rioguayan light cruiser Cerro Algarrobo.
Quickly the work of taking off the boats' crews was accomplished, the majority finding a temporary home on board the Armentières, the rest on the Messines.
Sub-lieutenant Cavendish was amongst the latter. He had barely time to exchange greetings with a short, bull-necked brother-officer—one Slade, who was on the same term with him at Dartmouth—when the Messines forged ahead again, leaving three deserted boats bobbing forlornly in her foaming wake.