He could see nothing but an expanse of sunlit sea and sky. Out there lay the hostile fleet, but still below the horizon, although no doubt visible from the fore-top and fire-control platform.
"We'll be firing by direction, sir," supplemented the turret-trainer.
Even as he looked, Cavendish's range of vision was obscured by a white wall of spray. The enemy's opening salvo had fallen short.
"Train fifteen red!"
The turret turned smoothly—so smoothly that Cavendish was hardly conscious of the pivotal movement. The breeches of both weapons sank gently as the muzzles reared themselves almost to extreme elevation.
The lieutenant moved away from the sighting-hood and watched the massive steel monsters for the recoil that would announce that the master-hand well outside the turret had completed the circuit that would send the mighty projectiles on their pre-ordained flight.
There was a breathless silence, broken only by subdued noises down in the working-chamber and the crash of a salvo that had passed handsomely over the ship.
"Train twenty-five green!"
Back rolled the turret until the still silent weapons were trained on the bearing ordered.
A suspense of a few long-drawn seconds, then with a roar the guns of A and B turrets spoke simultaneously and with no uncertain voice.